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he’s left him. he’s left him, for a whole year, all on his own. and he didn’t feel guilty of it, not one bit; at least, that’s what he told himself, as he boarded the train. (that’s what he needed to tell himself, he knew; because if he didn’t, there wasn’t much stopping him from jumping off that damned train and making sure the one person he cares about is safe for another year.)
he should’ve known, watching his mother hold his arm in a death grip, watching her cold stare follow the train out of the station. watching fear cross his face when he realizes that he is alone, that sirius isn’t there to protect him anymore. it felt like someone had taken his heart and ripped it out; his heart, that he’d been convinced his whole life was cold and dead and charcoal black; sirius’ heart, that up until this point only beat with one purpose, to protect him.
he couldn’t see him anymore, after a moment of an engine running far too quickly. he couldn’t see his mother, either, and he should’ve felt free- but he didn't. he could hear his blood rushing in his ears, his heartbeat that continued to spike even when a shaggy haired boy stumbled into his compartment, glasses askew, and made himself comfortable with striking up a conversation. sirius drowned himself in that conversation, because when he wasn’t focusing on what he left behind at that train station, he could breathe.
he didn’t know what colour tie was awaiting him at hogwarts, but he knew what was awaiting the other at home; he could hear it, hand meeting cheek echoing throughout the hallways of grimmauld place, shrill shrieks of disappointment or whatever had angered his mother this time. he could hear it, he could practically feel it, but he didn’t know what hurt more; the memory, or the knowledge that someone else would be taking those blows in his absence.
he’s left him. all alone, left him behind to rot in that house, left him to be submitted to his mother’s anger without sirius standing in between them. sirius was always first, sirius was the one walburga sought to take her anger out on; not him, never him, because sirius stood in front of him.
for a whole year, no one will be standing in front of him. he’s left him. he’s left him.
sirius black, trying to decide whether or not to curse his surname or the red tie hanging over the foot of four poster, shoots up in bed with a gasp. he clutches at his chest, and he can’t get the air inside his lungs fast enough, gripping the sheets so tightly that his knuckles turn white.
it takes him longer than it should to recognize the burgundy curtains and realize that for the first year in his life, he’s not to wake up fearing for his safety, he hasn't had to for the past two months. (he has to, a tiny voice in the back of his head whispers, and sirius nearly falls back into the terror that haunted his subconscious until he rubs his eyes and resolves to stay awake.) he collapses back against the pillows and sighs.
“sirius?”
remus’ face is barely visible from where he’s slightly pulling open the drapes, peering at sirius from his bed less than six feet away. sirius starts, scrambling to sit up properly, unsure of how to react; like he’s been caught red handed, like he’s somehow committed a crime by being vulnerable. he clears his throat. why was remus awake?
“uh, yeah?”
from what he can see, remus looks almost worried, and sirius’ mind is still rushing too fast to piece together why. “are you okay?”
“‘course i am.” sirius shifts, sitting up properly, leaning back against the headboard to try and seek out that constant coolness that will hopefully throw remus off his trail. “why?”
“you were talking.” remus replies, running his hands down his thighs from where he sat cross-legged in his four poster hideaway. “in your sleep, i mean. you sounded . . . distressed.”
scared. sirius knows what he didn’t want to say, and why he didn’t want to say it; because in these two months, remus has barely held a conversation with any of them, but he seemed to know them more than anyone else. because remus didn’t talk, but he listened. and he listened enough to know that what he would’ve said wouldn’t sit well with sirius. you sounded scared.
“did i wake you up?” sirius drags a hand down his face and sighs, tucking his hair behind his ear. “m’sorry. didn’t mean to.”
“that’s alright.” remus says, sliding out from where he was mostly hidden behind his curtains, and the moon lights up his scars in a way that can’t be comfortable. “everyone has a scream person.”
sirius’ eyebrows draw together- he stays exactly where he is, because he didn’t have the curtains drawn in the first place- and he tries his hardest not to stare too long at remus. he feels like he barely sees him, for a bunkmate. he’s always hiding behind the curtains. “a scream person?”
“yes. you know, the person who you call for when you-” remus trails off, waving his hand nonsensically, seeming to deflate when sirius’ bemused expression stays put. he folds his hands in his lap, and adds, “when you have night terrors.”
sirius stares at the floor. a scream person? was he really that loud? (james is still dead asleep. he doubts it.) he glances back up at remus, who seems to have moved on to picking at a string on his pyjama pants. “who’s yours?”
remus doesn’t answer for a long moment. he looks back up at sirius, and tilts his head. “who’s regulus?”
sirius goes quiet. he’s suddenly much more interested in a spot on the floor than the conversation, and remus seems to tell he’s hit a nerve, because he shrinks farther back behind the wine-coloured drapes once more.
“it’s no one.”
this time, remus doesn’t push.