breaking the bones of your heart like twigs [remus/sirius]
The flat is shit-small, a double bed that creaks incessantly under their weight, a moth-eaten sofa with a blanket on the side for appearance’s sake, rats in the walls that Padfoot itches to chase. Sirius had thought there would be some romance to it, growing up into this person no one expected him to be; he’d thought it would be like a holiday, danger dancing hot ‘round every corner, fingers scooping up greedy handfuls of Remus in the easy light of dawn. It’s filthy instead, a space they don’t take of because it won’t take care of them, sunshine filtering in sluggishly through the grime on the windows and the floor littered with empties, emptying.
Danger does dance hot ‘round every corner, but she’s a selfish partner, the rose between her lips dripping the blood of the undeserving and her eyes howling mad in the darkness. Sirius knows from howling, knows from mad, remembers like it was yesterday rolling four-legged in the dirt with Moony’s feral jaws poised above his jugular—he learns to dance with danger, but somewhere along the way he forgets how to like it. James is busy and Peter is vacant and it’s Sirius and Remus most moons, now, two bruised boys at the edge of the war. Sirius teaches himself haphazard healing spells and Remus smiles wanly in the grim light of his own reality, his bleeding fingers leaving little streaks on Sirius’s good shirts until there aren’t any left.