Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

Don't Ask Me When, But Ask Me Why

No word of what Sirius had seen or what Remus had felt left their lips. The topic of his condition was null. They could've ignored it and gone back to their everyday lives of cavorting and plotting, but Remus knew it wouldn't be long before another full moon plagued the sky. Another absence he couldn't explain, another barrage of questions left unanswered. Let's say that Sirius agreed to keep it a secret, then what? How would their newfound friendship fair under such a burden?

Ignoring it was the best-case scenario—optimal. Addressing it would reincarnate his worst fears.

Despite this, though, Sirius wasn't acting strange. While eye contact was minimal and trepid, he stared down at Remus with the same intensity and energy he always had. Without any discussion, Remus would never know how this aristocrat felt. Did he share the sentiments of his family? Though he wouldn't admit it, Remus was terrified of losing Sirius after the events of the previous night. Remus threatened to kill Sirius with his bare, hairy hands. With his bones breaking and reconstructing, his mind clouded with red nad black vision, stars speckling the scene, Remus threatened to kill Sirius. So who could blame Sirius for wanting to run?

But he hadn't yet. Why?

"Do you want to—" Remus began.

Sirius didn't hesitate to interrupt the tangent, eyes averting to the bedside table, "No."

Silence flooded the room, the hushed murmur of students audible over the swaying of the clock pendulum. With each agonizing second, the anxiety welled inside of Remus's chest. The mood shifted, and he felt oceans away from Sirius again. It hurt, and not in the way the transformation wounds hurt. Instead, this ache tremored deep in his chest, like a hand had reached in and was flicking at the chambers of his heart.

"I'm sorry," Remus whispered, flinching away from this so-called friend in shame.

Sirius refused to look over at his friend, and Remus was thankful. As if in a time machine, he was transported back to life in the shed, the mornings full of rage and degradation. The high of acceptance was ripped away, and Remus wanted nothing more than to disappear. He wondered if Sirius's fixation on the astronomy tower would prove fruitful?

"For what," Sirius asked, though he didn't seem too eager to hear the answer.

"For being a monster," Remus spoke, voice so low and humiliated that Sirius could just make out the words he said.

Sirius tore his eyes from the wooden table, letting them rest upon his friend with an unreadable look. Remus hated how he couldn't read Sirius, hated that the varied expressions and deadpan tone never let anything on. It was sometimes like speaking to the paintings lining the stairwell—rehearsed, dramatic, and repetitive. Sirius only let Remus know what he wanted him to know, yet all of Remus's dirty laundry was left out to dry in front of Sirius. It felt unfair, but he understood. If last Christmas was an indicator, Remus knew deep down that Sirius didn't mean to be that way.

So, he tried a different approach. If Sirius didn't want to talk, then he could listen.

"I wasn't born like this," Remus said, reaching up and tracing the tender skin on his neck. "My parents didn't give me all the details, but I'm pretty sure the guy who attacked me didn't get along with my father."

Sirius hadn't uttered a word, hadn't nodded in understanding. He sat unmoving and silent with no distinct mood or disposition.

"I was about five when he attacked our house," Remus continued. "My parents had been on edge for a while and wouldn't tell me why. So I wasn't allowed outside or to friends' houses. My dad even made my mum quit her job in the next town over so someone could watch me around the clock."