PART I SIRIUS
Remus isn't home when Sirius gets back from the Ministry. Selfishly, Sirius is angry about that. Not really at Remus, mostly just at the universe. It's late afternoon and Sirius has an itch under his skin that won't go away. He paces around their flat—actually starts doing chores if you can believe it—anything to keep his hands busy. His mind. He doesn't finish any of them though—can't stick with one task for too long before the thoughts start crowding in.
When Sirius was kid, before Hogwarts, before he had a wand, his mother used to lock him in his room sometimes. When he misbehaved. When she had guests over. When she was tired of him. Now, really, all things considered, that wasn't so bad. His room was, like every room in Grimmauld Place, fairly large and decadent, in a creepy gothic kinda way. The problem was, sometimes she would leave him there for hours. He would try calling out for her. For his father. For Regulus—though he would have been too young to be of any help anyways. But no one would ever answer.
Not knowing when he would be let out again. Thinking he'd been left, abandoned, forgotten. That's what made the walls start to close in. What made his ribs strangle his lungs. Made his eyes sting. It's not that Sirius can't be alone. Of course he can. It's just that on his bad days the silence and the emptiness start to eat at him. And some childish voice screams inside his head;
They're never coming back.
They're never coming back.
They're never come back for me.
He wants to go out but he knows that if he does he'll end up doing something stupid. End up drunk or arrested or both. It's not that he minds really but then Remus will be angry with him and Sirius doesn't want that right now. Doesn't want to get his attention that way. He just wants him to be here. So he stands at the door, with his jacket and boots on, for a good ten minutes before growling and turning back into the flat.
The dishes are half-washed, the floor half-hoovered, the laundry half-dried. All his partial cleaning has left the place in a right state and none of it has bloody helped. Sirius feels like crawling up the goddamn walls—an army of ants living under his skin, driving him mad. Well, madder. He throws on some music, blasts it as loud as it will go. His fingers drum on every surface they can reach, feet tapping and legs bouncing.
It's ten o'clock at night before he starts getting really worried. Before he stops being able to rationalize this. Because Remus is an eighty-year-old man in a twenty-year-old's body and he never stays out this late. Hell, he barely stays awake this late, always falling asleep on Sirius's shoulder or in his lap.
Sirius has been putting off calling James and Lily because he didn't want to seem needy, or desperate or fucking controlling. As though he needs his boyfriend to be around all the time incase he has an emotional crisis. He was afraid that they would see in his eyes how much he's struggling today, how much Walburga got to him even though he didn't even fucking see her. Afraid they would take one look at him and go "yup, yeah, Moody was right, he can't handle this."
He doesn't give a fuck anymore though. They can see whatever they like. His moony is missing. And he's scared.
"Pads?" James answers. He looks tired.
"Hey, uh—is Rem there? With Lily or you or something?"
James blinks, waking up a little. "No, I haven't seen him since this morning."
Something icy drips down Sirius's spine. "Can you ask Lily if she's heard from him?"
James nods, turning his head over his shoulder; "Lily, can you c'mere?" James shouts before turning back to Sirius. "He didn't come back?"
