Can’t Help (Someone Who Doesn’t Want It)

by SaltedPapercuts

Summary:

Sirius decides he has to recover, whether he likes it or not, for the sake of his loved ones. That doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy.

Notes:

Self harm is a big thing in this one! Mind the warnings and take care of yourself!

---

Fifteen years. That’s how long Sirius has been dealing with his… coping mechanism.

 

Addiction, James calls it. He’s right, Sirius knows, but it’s easier to call it a coping mechanism. If he calls it a coping mechanism, it sounds like he can stop whenever he wants, like it’s healthy, like he isn’t slowly killing himself. He’s lying when he says it, of course, because he can’t stop. He’s not even sure that he wants to (he doesn’t tell James that, though).

 

He’s accidentally scared his brother half to death over and over again because of it. It’s the only thing that makes him feel like he should stop.

 

According to James, there’s few things as terrifying as being called by your best friend because he’s got cuts on his arms and legs that go right down to the hypodermis layer of his skin. Hell, sometimes they’re deeper. Sometimes he cuts to the muscle. A few times (seven, if we’re being specific) he’s even gone down to bone. That’s always scary for both of them. James because he’s worried about Sirius, and Sirius because he likes it enough that it concerns him.

 

Sirius tells James that he’s trying to quit.

 

Sirius is lying whenever he says it.

 

Sirius wonders, sometimes, if James knows it’s not the truth. He hopes not. It’ll hurt his brother even more if he finds out that Sirius doesn’t want to stop and isn’t even trying to. He hasn’t acknowledged the fact that he has to quit at some point, he doubts he ever will, and doesn’t believe that he ever has to. There’s methods to continue for the rest of his life.

 

It might make “the rest of his life” refer to far less than it should, but there’s still methods. He doesn’t particularly care that it’ll cut his time on earth short. Sirius isn’t suicidal (he claims), but he’s not scared of death in the slightest and doesn’t think he’d mind everything ending. He wouldn’t go so far as to try to do it, himself (again), but he also wouldn’t call emergency services if he realized he was bleeding out.

 

Now, though, at the age of twenty four, Sirius has to wonder how much longer he’ll live with his current habits. He cuts himself almost every day. The longest he’s gone between sessions in the past seven years was eight days. By the end of it, he’d been a strange mixture of proud and absolutely miserable. He’d been incredibly uncomfortable, skin itching as though ants were crawling under it; subconsciously running his fingers over any sharp object within reach; incessantly picking at the scars on his wrists, thighs, and biceps; digging his nails into his arm the second he sees any sort of blood or injury anywhere; and zoned out during classes as he fantasized about cutting himself.

 

Sirius has a partner. He has a friend group. He has a godson. He’s working at a mechanic shop for his internship. He’s well on his way to getting a PhD in mechanical engineering and getting his dream job. He’s getting married later this year. He’s got a small commission-based painting business for the fun of it. He has everything he needs. Life is good. Life is happy.

 

Sirius is not happy, even though he should be.

 

Remus, his dearest fiancé, knows. Of course he knows. But he doesn’t know just how far Sirius takes it. He’s only ever called James to help when he goes past the hypodermis. Last time he cut down to bone was before he and Remus got engaged half a year back, anyways, so it’s nothing the younger man needs to concern himself with.

 

Their friend group is, generally, distantly aware that he has this dependency. They know he cuts from time to time, but, from what he’s gathered based on their occasional comments (mostly when they realize he’s injured himself recently), they think it’s a few-and-far-between sort of thing that is never a threat to his physical well-being. He wonders what Dorcas, working on their medical degree to become a surgeon, or Alice, training to become a therapist, would think of how deep he’s gone.

 

He’s sure that Alice would have plenty to say about how much he likes his cuts and scars, as well. His scars mean more to him than any of his material possessions. They prove that he’s suffered, that he’s been hurt. They prove that he’s not crazy or making up all of his pain. They punish him when he fucks up and give him an escape when he needs to calm down or ground himself. He also just likes how they look in general.

 

Sirius keeps a blade of some sort on him at all times. He lies to everyone about it— everyone except for James, who has been aware of his little habit for long enough to know all of his hiding spots. A razor in his phone case, a switchblade in his trouser pockets, a multi-tool in his bag. Sometimes there’s blades from pencil sharpeners or broken bits of metal in little cases on his person. James hates the broken metal the most. He claims it’s “unsafe” and that Sirius “could get sick from it.” Sirius doesn’t care. There’s at least a hundred other things about his addiction that could hurt him, so why should this specific consequence dissuade him?

 

Remus has found his blades before. The man has done sweet things as discovered them a few times. Getting Sirius’ cracked phone screen fixed only to be handed blades by the worker at the store; cleaning out the garbage in his bag and stumbling across a stained tool; and finding a case in the pocket of his pants while doing the laundry. He’d been so worried when he found them that Sirius had needed to get creative to make sure he didn’t find anything. That was the only couple of weeks in which he ever cut his chest instead of his favoured spots and kept blades wrapped in tissues, stuffed into inner pockets he stitched into his jeans (he ended up keeping those pockets and utilizing them instead of the usual ones, as they’d served incredibly useful).

 

Though, it hasn’t convinced Remus that he’s stopped, it’s just made it impossible to prevent him. If Remus can’t find Sirius’ blades, then there’s no way for Remus to stop it. He’s seen the bandages that have become a near-constant presence on his arms, the scars and scabbed wounds whenever they come off, and they’ve had plenty of conversations about it, but Remus can’t do anything about it. The closest Sirius ever comes to quitting is when his boyfriend and best friend look at him with terrified, teary eyes and beg him to stop.

 

It’s not enough to get sober.

 

Nothing is ever enough to get sober.

 

Not tears streaming down James’ face as he gently bandages Sirius’ wounds. Not Remus sniffling miserably as he holds a stained razor in one hand and bloody tissues in the other. Not even Harry’s high-pitched toddler voice asking why he always has boo-boos on his arms and legs— though, that one hurt him in a way he didn’t think he could ever be hurt. Something about a two year old asking about self harm injuries is more painful than the injuries, themselves.

 

Admittedly, moving in with Remus just before their engagement made hiding the extent of his problems more difficult. Sirius has to imagine that his partner knows more than he wants, but Remus hasn’t brought up potential dangers, so he’s deftly avoiding the topic whenever he tries to bring it up.

 

He’s doing everything he can to hide it. He shuts the lights off whenever they have sex; always wears long sleeves and trousers regardless of the fact that he runs hot; and has never let Remus join him in the shower. That probably makes Remus even more suspicious, but he hopes that that comes off as Sirius just being insecure about his healed scars, not fresh cuts.

 

Now, though, he has a feeling that something is off.

 

~~~~~

 

When Sirius comes to in the hospital for a fourth time in the past week and a half, Remus is there. He shouldn’t be, he’s supposed to be in Wales for two weeks to visit family. Sirius wasn’t able to come, he still needs to go to his internship, so he’s been home alone. This has given him a perfect opportunity to tear himself apart to his hearts content have fun.

 

James is there, too, but that’s normal. James is always there when his mind clears up in the hospital, mostly because James is always the person that brings him to the hospital. Seeing James in the chair beside him, surrounded by bright white hospital lighting, is far from a foreign sight, but Remus in the same environment if off-putting. It feels like the two sides of his life have crashed together in a disorienting, strange way.

 

The other weird thing is that he woke up this time. Usually, he’s just put under with some laughing gas so he can’t feel anything, but is still conscious. He hasn’t genuinely awoken in the hospital since he was nineteen, the last time he actually made an attempt at his own life, and was comatose for four days straight.

 

Once the nurses checked Sirius over and ensured he’s in good enough shape, he learns that he’s been out cold for two days. He also learns that James, after some pressure, explained the extent of Sirius’ self harm addiction and all of the potential dangers it comes with at the level of severity he’s gotten to. The two of them have taken it upon themselves to give him a talk about it, for what must be the millionth time.

 

Injured tendons, nerves, blood vessels, and muscles, permanent weakness or numbness, septicaemia, loss of limbs, and death are all possible outcomes for him. Sirius already knows this. He still doesn’t care. He’s already caused damage to the flesh in his arms and legs and is developing numb spots on the inside of his right arm and left leg (he hasn’t shared this with anyone just yet), so what more could he do?

 

He doesn’t care if he loses a limb or dies. He doesn’t genuinely want to live, anyways. If he has to, he can just end it all. Sure, he has things to live for in theory, but in practice? In practice, he’s not sure if what he has is enough to outweigh how much he craves the finality and comfort of the release death offers.

 

~~~~~

 

When he gets home the next day, Remus has more words for him. Apparently, all of his stashes have been discovered and disposed of, including the blades in his phone case, secret pockets, and bag. Even the bathroom has been cleared out, and the knives in the kitchen are in a locked drawer. That’s when Sirius breaks. Nothing that’s happened thus far has been distressing, but god damn, now that he knows he doesn’t have quick access to his blades, he’s fucking terrified.

 

“What did you do with my blades?” Sirius demands, heart pounding in his chest. Fuck anything else he’s ever said, he’s absolutely an addict, and he absolutely needs his blades. There’s no way in hell he can survive without them. They’re his only escape from the horrible thoughts constantly running through his head.

 

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Remus says smoothly, walking further into their house after toeing his shoes off with the aid of a shoehorn. His cane clicking against the floor sounds louder than Sirius knows it is, and he has a sudden temptation to grab it and snap it over his knee.

 

“Honest to god, Remus, what did you fucking do with them?” Sirius snaps, kicking his shoe against the wall. It makes Remus jump and turn around quickly. Sirius has never gotten aggressive: not with him, not with their friends, not with the kids, not with strangers, not even with people who get rude. Sirius is a kind person. Sirius is also an addict who just lost the means to access his main vice. That takes priority over kindness.

 

“I’m not watching you self destruct without intervening,” Remus replies, eyes narrowed, thick brows drawn, frown on his lips. The words probably would’ve hit much harder if he were paying any semblance of attention to anything other than his desperate need to hurt. He doesn’t care that he’s just gotten out of the hospital for cutting too deep, he wants to do it again so badly that he might have to lock himself in the bathroom and punch the mirror until he can use the shards.

 

“Who gives a fuck?” Sirius asks, heat in his tone. “It’s not like I’m hurting anyone, so why does it matter? Why should I quit?” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He digs his nails into his arms, into the stitches in his biceps, through the shirt and bandages on them. It’s not what he needs, but the pain of his nails dragging over the wounds is just enough to prevent him from losing his shit and screaming.

 

Remus stares at him, eyes wide, shock written all over his face. “What do you mean, Sirius? What do you mean ‘not hurting anyone’?” he asks, voice thin and wavering. Before Sirius can open his mouth, Remus continues. “You are someone. You are hurting someone. It doesn’t matter if the someone you’re hurting is you, it’s still someone! It matters because you’re hurting yourself and everyone who loves you!” he starts at a pretty normal volume, but, by the end, he’s yelling, waving the hand that’s not on his cane in the air like it’ll help illustrate his point. Sirius pauses.

 

“Who?” he asks after a moment. “Who in the world is so distraught over me being a cutter?” Sirius growls, stalking closer and glowering down at Remus, whose smaller frame looks even smaller as he towers over him. Remus, who looks like Sirius has just physically struck him. Remus, whose eyes well up with tears and thin lips press together, quivering. Remus, who seems to be seconds away from crying.

 

Big, amber eyes peer up at him, pained and miserable. His free hand falls and he grabs the hem of his cardigan. All of his frustration has melted away in the span of seconds. “What?” he asks, voice nearly inaudible.

 

“What?” Sirius shoots back, venomous. Remus sniffles, and Sirius feels guilty all of a sudden. He didn’t mean to make his partner feel bad. He just needs a blade and some privacy before he loses it.

 

“I am,” Remus whispers. “I am distraught about you hurting yourself,” his voice cracks, and he covers his mouth. That hits Sirius like a fucking truck. He takes a boulder right to the chest and feels his stomach do some sort of horrible backflip when Remus barely manages to stifle a sob.

 

Oh.

 

Oh, he fucked up.

 

“Huh?” Sirius says dumbly, cocking his head to the side. Remus’ cane hits the floor and his other hand comes up to cover his face, as well. He looks down, scrubs his arms over his eyes. Sirius presses his lips together firmly and rocks awkwardly on his heels, wringing his hands together in front of his stomach. He feels like a prick for his oversight. He’s never imagined that hurting himself would have this effect on anyone, never considered that anyone would be upset by his pain.

 

“Sirius, I agreed to marry you,” Remus whimpers, staring at him with wide eyes and quivering lips. “I love you, and I would be fucking miserable without you. I need you. I’m so, so sorry I haven’t done well enough as a partner to make you know that,” he reaches out, hesitant, and, when Sirius doesn’t move away, puts his hand on Sirius’ and curls his fingers around it.

 

“You’re perfect,” Sirius mumbles, because it’s all his jumbled, overwhelmed brain can string together. Remus is easier to talk about than himself. Remus is good, kind, and everything good in the world. Sirius is broken and suffering and hurts the people around him just because he’s too selfish to quit cutting himself and refuses any help. He hates help. He’s never once asked for it, digs his heels in and kicks and screams and claws the whole time, then keeps track of who’s helped him so he can pay them back. Not having anything that could be considered a debt to anyone (other than James, but that’s an entirely different story— James doesn’t keep track of that, and, even if he did, he wouldn’t ask for anything in return).

 

“So are you,” Remus replies. His free hand cups Sirius’ cheek. Sirius wants to grab Remus’ cane for him so he’ll be able to put his weight on it, be more comfortable. “I love you so, so much,” he whimpers.

 

Suddenly, Sirius wonders if it’s time to quit.

 

Maybe he should get sober. Fifteen years is a long time. That’s how old he was when he met Remus.

 

Remus, who he’s hurting. Who he’s actively breaking as he continues to self destruct and kill himself, one cut at a time. Who deserves so much better than all of this stress and pain. Sirius is hurting his fiancé and that feels worse than any wound he’s ever given himself. He feels like more of a monster than he’s ever thought himself to be, which is something, because he, generally, believes that he is a piece of shit that doesn’t deserve any love or kindness.

 

Sirius reaches out and gathers Remus into his arms. Remus goes willingly and melts into his broad chest, sniffling and sobbing like the world is ending. Sirius thinks about how he would feel if Remus was the one slicing open his arms and legs, hospitalizing himself, nearly dying over and over again, and he understands. Maybe the world isn’t ending, but Remus’ might be. Sirius knows he would shatter inside if Remus had this kind of addiction.

 

“I…” he trails off, unsure of how to proceed. “I’m sorry,” Sirius mumbles, guilt and shame and pain a whirlwind in his mind, exhausted and overwhelmed, he has no idea how else to comfort the younger man.

 

“God, Sirius, don’t be sorry,” Remus sobs, hands tightening in Sirius’ shirt and hiccuping. He’s clearly miserable. “I just— I really, really wish you would stop. I want you to be okay. I know you don’t want to quit— or won’t quit— but I really want you to. I need you, I need you so bad. You’re my favourite person. I love you so, so fucking much,” he breaks down, crying into Sirius and sounding all too dejected, like he’s sure it’ll never happen.

 

“I’ll try,” Sirius blurts out, even though he’s not sure he wants to just yet. “I’ll start trying to quit, I promise,” he forces out, feeling sick to his stomach. Remus pulls back and looks up at him, eyes wide and full of so much love it makes Sirius’ head spin.

 

“You will?” Remus queries, hopeful yet hesitant.

 

“Yeah,” Sirius nods, chewing on the inside of his cheeks. “I love you, and… and I’m willing to try to quit. I don’t really… want to… yet, but I will. I’ll find a way to want to stop for you. I’ll get better, I swear,” he sniffles, wiping his eyes. He doesn’t even know if he’s making promises he’s capable of keeping, but he hopes he is. He hopes he’ll want to get clean, soon. He hopes he’ll be okay, eventually. For Remus’ sake. He still doesn’t care about himself, but he loves Remus so much that he’s willing to learn how to.

 

“Oh, holy shit,” Remus sobs, lunging forwards to wrap his arms around Sirius shoulders and start bawling into his neck, shaking like he’s about to collapse. Sirius gasps, then whimpers, tightens his grip, and hiccups. “Baby, I love you so much,” Remus cries, relief flooding his tone.

 

“I love you, too,” Sirius whispers, swallowing. Remus starts coughing, probably due to his asthma and the amount of sobbing he’s done, and his knees buckle. Sirius quickly drops his hands to Remus’ bottom and picks him up, slinging his legs around his waist. Remus makes an unintelligible noise through his coughing that sounds like it might be an attempt at thanking Sirius, which is when he decides he should fetch an inhaler.

 

Sirius turns on his heel and carries Remus to the kitchen, where his fiancé’s bag is, containing one of his inhalers (the other is in the bedroom). It’s on the table, which makes it easy to sift through and find what he’s looking for. He sets Remus on the counter and presses it into his hands to use.

 

Once Remus’ breathing is evened out, he sets the inhaler on the counter and looks up at Sirius, eyes still watering and lips quivering.

 

“Why are you crying?” Sirius asks, nervous. “I thought that would help,” he mumbles, feeling a little dizzy and a lot overwhelmed. Everything is a lot right now, and he’d really like to sit down, maybe take a nap, or cut himself. That makes things easier. That makes things make more sense.

 

No, wait, he’s not allowed to right now.

 

“I’m happy, Sirius,” Remus breathes, sniffling. “I’m happy that you’re willing to try to get better,” he explains, carding his fingers through Sirius’ hair with a watery smile. Sirius melts into his touch, feeling warm inside.

 

“Oh,” Sirius mumbles. Part of his mind seems to have been pulled right back into the past, where love and care were never offered and not a single nice word ever came from his parents’ mouths. He chocks up the words that come out of his mouth, more instinctively than purposefully, to that. “I did good?” he checks, feeling weirdly vulnerable, like a little kid.

 

“Oh, Sweetheart, you did so good. You always do so good,” Remus says, pressing his face into Sirius’ shoulder. “I’m so fucking proud of you. I love you,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around Sirius’ torso. Sirius whimpers and leans into him, nosing into Remus’ hair. Something breaks inside of him.

 

“I wanna cut already, Moony,” Sirius hiccups, shaking. “I’m never gonna be able to do this,” he whines, fists balling up against Remus’ back, suddenly feeling like a complete and utter failure and like he’s undeserving of the work being put in to help him by so many people. Sirius sobs again, wondering where his previous naïvety had gone so fast.

 

“You can do this, Love,” Remus rubs his back, kisses his shoulder and up his neck. Sirius whimpers loudly. “It’s hard, I know, but I also know you can do this. Telling me is already an amazing step one. You’re doing so well, Honey,” he coos at Sirius as though Sirius is a broken child, young and fragile, about to fall apart.

 

“I don’t wanna do it,” Sirius moans, completely despondent. Remus sighs, kisses Sirius’ head, and it’s his turn to almost collapse.

 

“I know, I know,” Remus murmurs, petting Sirius’ hair and slowly swaying them side to side. “It’s so hard, I can only imagine, but I know you can do this, Sweetheart,” he speaks so gently, so lovingly. He’s kind and perfect, and Sirius knows he doesn’t deserve it, but it feels good enough that he doesn’t care, just so desperately craves it. He wants it more than anything, needs it to live, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it and completely shatters whenever he’s given the kindness he desires.

 

“I’m tired,” Sirius sobs, shoulders shaking. “Moony, Moony, I’m so tired,” he cries, strangely whiny and high-pitched for his deep, husky voice. Sirius feels shaky, like he needs to sit down, and knows he’d have sat down on the floor right about now if it didn’t mean having to pull away from Remus.

 

“How about we go to the bed? Or maybe the couch, if that’s easier,” Remus suggests, and that makes sense. More sense than anything Sirius is capable of stringing together at the moment. Remus is wonderful, so it makes sense that he would come up with such a brilliant idea. Yes, of course, they should just go to the bed or the couch. This is why he proposed to Remus, because Remus is so smart, so kind, so perfect. That’s an amazing idea.

 

“Yes, please,” Sirius agrees. He pulls his focus away from his pain and entirely onto his new job: moving himself and Remus to the bed or couch. “Where’d you wanna go?” he asks, sniffling and scrubbing his tears off of his face, onto Remus’ shirt. He can do this. He can take care of Remus. The hard surface of the countertop is probably making his hips and back ache. He’s has done so much for Sirius, who knows he can repay him.

 

“The couch,” Remus says. Sirius stands up straighter and scoops Remus up, into his arms, walking him to the living room and dropping him on the love seat.

 

Instead of sitting next to him, Sirius gets on his knees on the floor, gazing up at his fiancé with wet eyes, folding his hands on his lap and waiting. He’s not entirely sure what he’s waiting for, but he’s waiting nonetheless. Remus is watching him, curious. Sirius just watches back, silent, trying to keep his breathing even and light, a strange sensation creeping in. Like a child waiting for his parents to react, Sirius watches, teary eyed and nervous.

 

“Sirius?” Remus presses, a look of hesitant, anxious questioning on his face. Sirius knows when he learned exactly which twitches of the eyebrow, movements of the lip, and speed of breathing correlates to which emotions. He’s tired of thinking about it, tired of existing with that weight on his shoulders, tired of feeling that pain. God, he’s exhausted.

 

Sirius doesn’t respond to Remus’ prodding. Instead, he continues staring up at Remus, quiet and waiting. He can be good. He can be so good. He’ll make Remus proud. He knows how to bend himself into knots for people, and there’s no one in the world he’s more willing to break for than Remus Lupin. For once in his life, he could twist himself, completely willingly, for someone he genuinely loves. He may have loved his parents for a time, but breaking himself for them was never optional. It always hurt. For Remus, he’s willing to go through anything.

 

“Are you alright?” Remus asks, reaching out to cup Sirius’ cheek. Sirius, who, despite himself, flinches like it’s his mother raising her hand at him, not his partner. He bites his lip and straightens up— “sit properly, chin up, back straight”— echoes through his mind, a motto beaten into his head by his parents. “Sirius,” Remus says, voice soft and wounded.

 

“I am sorry,” Sirius says, tone even and calm. He’s careful to pronounce all of the words properly, not using and contractions, and to employ the proper posh accent. He has to make sure that everything is perfect so Remus doesn’t get angry at him. He has to be perfect for Remus. That’s what Remus deserves.

 

“I’m not upset, Baby. I never have been,” Remus says quickly, slowly reaching out to cup Sirius’ face in his hands and tilt his head up. Sirius bites his lip, then remembers that that is improper and sufficient reason to hit him, so he quickly corrects that behaviour and digs his nails into the bandages on his thigh. It doesn’t feel like much. He’s killed the feeling in that part of his body due to nerve damage caused by his self harm.

 

“How do I make it up to you?” Sirius asks. It’s a risk, he knows. Getting into trouble for asking instead of just figuring it out is a strong possibility, but Remus is so kind, maybe he can get away with it. Maybe he’ll just be yelled at, not beaten. Maybe he can figure out what to do, then let himself be hurt, and then, finally, fix it all.

 

“What for, Annwyl?” Remus asks, running one thumb over Sirius’ high cheekbone.

 

“Making you sad. Annoying you. Being a bad person,” Sirius lists, aware that there’s about a million more reasons he should be on his knees, begging for forgiveness, doing any and everything Remus asks of him or could ever want. He could probably do that. Live on his knees, exist as nothing more than a slave in every regard, dedicate his life to catering to Remus’ every whim. He has the money, the physical strength, the love. He would take that deal in seconds.

 

“You’re perfect, though,” Remus frowns, thick brows furrowing. “You don’t need to make it up to me. You’ve never annoyed me, and you’re the best, kindest, most wonderful person I know. I have no idea what everyone else on the planet is if you’re bad— I don’t think I’ve got a word awful enough for that. Sure, you make me sad when you cut yourself, but that’s because I love you and I can see how hurt you are. Plus, you made me happy today when you said you’d start working on getting clean, and you make me happy every day whenever I get to see you, because you’re absolutely amazing.”

 

“But…” Sirius blinks up at him, vision blurred with what he takes a moment to realize are tears. He digs his nails harder into his legs. It hurts a little, now, thank god. He knows he’s meant to be quitting self harm, but he needs something to get through this conversation, and, if Remus isn’t going to hurt him, he needs to do it, himself.

 

“I love you,” Remus says, running his fingers through Sirius’ hair, careful not to get caught on any curls. The movement makes him melt a little— well, it usually does, but he’s careful to keep it all inside, lest he ruin everything and make Remus hate him for being too weak, too soft.

 

“I love you, too,” Sirius says evenly. He wishes he could put more passion into it, but that’s would make him imperfect, and he already trailed off earlier. He’s lucky Remus didn’t notice that.

 

“Sweet Boy, you’re allowed to act like yourself,” Remus coos at him, miserable. Sirius doesn’t buy it. “I like it when you’re you more than when you try to be what people tried to make you into,” he whispers, leaning close. Close enough that Sirius, who may as well have open wounds on his body; may as well have bruises on his face; may as well be two, five, nine, fifteen, eighteen; is scared he’s going to get hurt. But he stays still. He sits nicely, perfectly, just like he was taught. He can be good.

 

“It is okay, Moony,” Sirius says, forcing a small smile. “I will take care of you. I am fine,” he promises, lying to both himself and Remus. The syllables feel weird in his mouth, too robotic and stale, but they’re correct and proper and Remus will appreciate his clarity. Except for the fact that Remus looks very unhappy and uncomfortable with the current events.

 

“Yeah, I know you’ll take care of me, Sirius,” Remus says sceptically, nodding. “I started to have an asthma attack earlier and you got me my inhaler really fast. You carry me around constantly to keep my weight off my legs and back. You get me tea and chocolate whenever you can. You take care of me on my bad days. You’re so good to me all the time. I’ve never been confused or concerned about that part. I just don’t believe that you’re fine,” he elaborates. His gentle words are foreign and painful, but make him warm just as much as they make his eyes sting.

 

“I want to be fine,” Sirius whispers. “I’m tryna be fine,” he mumbles, looking down at the floor. His composure breaks. He just wants to curl up on the ground at Remus’ feet and take a nap like a dog. It’s all he deserves if he really needs to take one. He glances up at Remus. His lover probably wouldn’t mind if he did that, right?

 

“I know you’re trying,” Remus says softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re trying so hard, and I can see that. I’m so proud of you,” he rubs Sirius’ cheeks with both thumbs, holding him in the warmth of his palms like a beautiful secret all and only for Remus too see, hear, and love. Remus cradles him like he’s something special, a precious gemstone or a perfect flower, something that matters, something that should be cared for deeply.

 

“I don’t wanna quit,” Sirius huffs like a petulant child. He hunches over and crosses his arms over his chest. The floor still looks quite tempting, and he wishes he could turn into a dog or something so he could cuddle up like that in a way that doesn’t make him look weird.

 

“But you’re trying to want to quit, yeah?” Remus asks, tilting his head to the side sweetly. Sirius adjusts so he’s sitting on his arse instead of his knees. He should sit properly, should speak correctly, but he’s so, so tired. He wants to lay down somewhere so badly. Literally anywhere would suffice. Or he wants to cut. That would also be great, if he could see blood on tile floors and carve his body up until there’s nothing left, until he’s bled himself dry, until nothing hurts anymore.

 

“I wanna cut,” Sirius blurts out before he can stop himself. Remus’ expression crumbles.

 

“Are you…” Remus swallows. “Please tell me you’re not going to,” he almost begs, sounding a lot like Sirius just punched him. He might actually puke if he can’t fix Remus’ pain in less than a minute. His fiancé doesn’t deserve that. He should kill himself if he can’t fix it. Remus is perfect and he doesn’t deserve to live if he can’t help him, or he’s even worse than that.

 

“No, no, I won’t,” Sirius jumps to reassure him. He gets back on his knees and moves as close as possible, holding both of Remus’ hands in his own. His head is in at least thirty different places at the moment and it’s very difficult to keep track of it all. Remus wraps his arms around Sirius and pulls him to his body. Sirius nestles his face into Remus’ belly, secures his arms around his waist, inhales his scent like it’s oxygen, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

 

“You can do this, Cariad,” Remus encourages, kissing his head repeatedly and holding him so close that they may as well be merging into one human being at this point. “Just stay with me, okay?” he asks. Sirius knows he’s not just talking about his location or their relationship, he’s talking about where Sirius’ mind is and asking him to pay attention to reality and not completely dissociate. Sirius curls closer, closer, closer. He wants to breathe Remus in and keep him in his lungs forever.

 

“I’m trying,” Sirius mutters. He decides that this simply isn’t close enough for him, no, not at all, so he forces his face further into Remus until his partner is pressed flat against the couch and Sirius’ upper half is practically in his lap. He wants to open up Remus’ rib cage and crawl into it, exist inside of his lover for the rest of eternity. He wants to be part of Remus forever.

 

“You’re doing really well,” Remus reassures. “You can do this. My beautiful, perfect love. I love you so much, Honey,” he says gently, lovingly.

 

“I love you, too,” Sirius says quietly. He likes the current position more than he thinks he would’ve liked the floor. This is much, much better. This puts his face right in Remus’ body and completely removes any and all personal space between them, which is exactly how they’re supposed to be, Sirius thinks. They fit together so perfectly that they’re clearly made to be like this.

 

Sirius notices the lack of tension in his future husband’s body, and realizes just how much pain he caused with his addiction. It makes him think about James, who probably has PTSD rivalling Sirius’ own due to the amount of times he’s discovered his best friend bleeding out and half dead by his own hand. Sirius should call him. He would be so relieved to hear that he doesn’t need to constantly worry about it.

 

“I gotta phone Jamie,” Sirius says into Remus’ shirt. “Tell him he can stop always worrying about me. And apologize. I should definitely say I’m sorry. He’s had to get me to the hospital and all that so many times. He deserves an apology,” he thinks aloud. Remus continues carding his fingers through his hair and detangling some knots that have formed since the hospital. He should shower sooner than later. He’s gross after so long in a hospital.

 

“That’s a good idea,” Remus agrees thoughtfully, twirling a probably-greasy strand around his finger. “I think that James would appreciate that a lot. He worries about you more than anyone else in the group— even me, seeing as I only just learned how bad things were getting.”

 

Sirius sits, completely still, for a moment, then nuzzles against Remus’ belly. “I’ll do that in a little. I want to shower, first,” he decides. He’s too tired to get up and talk to anyone other than Remus right now.

 

“Do you want to go do that right now, or…?” Remus queries when Sirius still hasn’t moved at all.

 

“I’d like to cuddle for a little bit, please,” that sounds childish to Sirius’ own ears, but Remus giggles warmly, kisses the top of his head, and runs his fingers over the top bone of his spine.

 

“That sounds good to me,” Remus hums, leaning back to get comfortable. “I love you.”

 

“I love you, too.”

 

This is the difference between helping someone who does and doesn’t want it, Sirius thinks.

Notes:

Comment if you wanna see more of my incoherent, mentally-ill blathering! Much love to all of you.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 19 of Marauders Oneshots