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

Don't Ask Me When, But Ask Me Why

"Don't apologize," Sirius muttered. "I shouldn't have said that. I just... I can't believe you think so low of yourself. You go on and on about James and me all day, but have you ever looked in the mirror?"

"Yeah, and all I see is some ugly, scrawny kid covered in scars and bruises," Remus whined, covering his face in shame. "I'll never look like you or James, or even Peter! I've got all these –" he looked down at his arms with a look of revulsion – "constant reminders on me, and I'll never get rid of them. Salves don't help, potions don't work, and I can't tell you how many creams that have only made it worse."

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, and he did all he could to not look Sirius in the eyes. All his wears were laid bare in front of the one person who knew Remus. Not the pupil, not the timid brown-nose, not the book worm, not the know-it-all – no. Sirius knew the actual Remus, even the part he'd tried so hard to keep hidden.

"I don't think you're ugly," Sirius admitted casually. "Sure, the scars are a bit off-putting, but I think they make you look intimidating and tough."

"I am far from these things, and you know that."

"Still, it's a nice thought," Sirius snapped playfully before settling back into the serious mood. "I'm sorry that you went through that."

Remus quirked up the corner of his mouth in a rueful smile, "I'm sorry that I get flashbacks every time I go to the loo."

It wasn't a laughing moment, and the joke was poorly timed, but neither could resist the temptation of a lighthearted chuckle. There was truth in Remus's statement, but it could wait another day. Nevertheless, it was relieving to hear Sirius's laughter, almost like drinking cold water in the desert. Maybe he didn't despise Remus after all.

Sirius sighed, breaking Remus from his reverie. He stretched his knees out, propping his feet up next to Remus's arms. For a moment, they sat in silence, neither one saying a word but exchanging something they hadn't meant to.

"Take off my socks," Sirius quipped. Remus scoffed to himself.

"I'm not taking off your bloody socks," he chortled, clearly thinking this was some sort of attempt at comic relief.

In Remus's mind, Sirius was going to ask for a foot massage or for a toenail clipping of some sort. However, when his friend remained in all solemnity, he frowned.

"Take them off," he repeated, this time more firmly.

Remus was confused. It was a simple instruction—take off his socks—but what could it have anything to do with the conversation? Pinching the tips of the black cloth covering Sirius's foot, Remus tugged and tugged until a horrific image was burned into his eyes.

Discolored and swollen, scars traced along the bottom of Sirius's foot like hiking trails with abrupt ends. From the sole of his foot, all the way to his toes, barely healed wounds crusted over his skin. Some had been metallic, similar to the abrasions that had littered Remus's arms, while others were a shade of brownish-purple – fresh. This had been done recently, and Remus's skin crawled. There was even yellow, irritated bruising from all the walking they'd done since their return to classes.

These markings hadn't even gotten the chance to heal...

Some were only surface level, barely making a scratch. His mother had gone easy on Sirius at first. Others were deep and left his skin inflamed. Remus unconsciously ran his fingers over one. It was on his left foot, starting from his Achilles tendon and stopping just at the balls of his feet. It had been the most extensive, most distended wound to grace Sirius's feet; Remus could only imagine the pain. Actually, he needn't imagine too long. He wondered if it were similar to the wolf's claws, if, on some sick and twisted level, their pain was on an even playing field.

"When she's finished, she makes me stand on salt," Sirius commented indifferently as if this were routine for him. Remus could assume it was; he was the embodiment, apparently, of everything his mother hated. "Says it helps with scabbing or something."

"I hate her," Remus muttered absently, tenderly stroking Sirius's ankle. Heat rushed to Sirius's cheeks, but he ignored this, settling to look out the window instead.

"We share the same sentiments then," he retorted. "She's done much worse."

"What could be worse than this," Remus cried, wondering how Sirius could be so calm, so unbothered by this abuse.

He merely shrugged, "I don't care if she hits me or tears up my skin. It'll go away eventually, and I'll get over it."

"Will you," Remus whispered.

There had been times when Remus wondered if he'd ever been able to look at himself in the mirror without flinching, recoiling away from the boy who stared back at him. No matter how long he tried, how hard he tried, they'd always be there. The wolf would never go away; as soon as some started to heal, it'd be there once again to make fresh reminders. Eventually, Sirius would escape his parents, but Remus seriously doubted if it would be as easy as that. No matter how much Sirius downplayed this, those things, the images, and the pain, might not have been temporary.

"I deny my mother the pleasure of ruining my life," Sirius admonished lightly. "That implies I give a shit about her."

"Language."

"Shit, sorry," Sirius stuttered. A troubled frown was threatened by a smirk.

"Now you're just doing it on purpose," Remus chided him.

"That's a shitty thing to assume," Sirius gasped, easing back into his theatrics.

"You're foul."

"True," he revealed a devilish smile, "but I make up for it with my good looks and enthusiasm."

Remus shook his head, trying to keep his resolve, "Doesn't make you any less vulgar."

"But you'd never want me any other way."

Remus smirked, "Arse."

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I will repeat myself:

And so it begins }:‑)