On Axis

And now I'm nailed above you

Gushing from my side

It's with your sins that you have killed me

Thinking of your sins, I die

Thinking how you let them touch you

How you never realized

That I'm ripped and hang, forsaken

Knowing never will I rise

Again

--Franz Ferdinand, "Auf Achse"

This was not right, was all he could think. This was all very, very, wrong.

It had enough similarities to be eerie. Dumbledore still sat in the middle, in the highest chair, a chair that was too elaborate, even for 12 Grimmauld Place. Perhaps he stole it from the Great Hall, where the original meetings had been held. Snape still sat in a corner, greasy and surly as ever, though the far end of the table that he had always sought for its solitariness was now ruined by the imposing presence of Mundungus. Lily's familiar red hair was replaced by the fiery heads of many a Weasley.

However, there were enough differences to cause a deep hole of ache to burrow, every day, into Sirius's heart. Tonks and Kingsley sat where the Prewett brothers always had. The loving couple of the group, which the young Potters had always represented, was replaced by a completely different extreme, through Arthur and Molly Weasley. Sirius never dared to let his eyes rise to see who sat at the spot across from him, the spot which James had always occupied.

It made Sirius uneasy, made flashes of memories, which served no other purpose than digging the hole deeper, come to the forefront of his mind. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair every time, the tendrils of his nostalgia manifesting themselves in the listless fingertips he ran against the arm of the chair.

The hard oak beneath his touch was, strangely enough, the worst and most unexpected change. Indeed his hand always had brushed that same spot on his left during every Order meeting, old and present, no matter what chair he sat in. The coldness of the wood was a foreign and unwelcome sensation to his bony, blistered fingers, and though he hated the smooth armrest, something kept his fingers from moving elsewhere.

Perhaps it was the slight sliver of hope that, someday, Moony's hand would once again separate the polished oak from the heavy brush of his fingertips.

Not once, during any Order meeting, had Sirius's left hand not been in contact with Remus's right. Not once had his fingers, fuller then and with less nail, not traced that memorized path over Remus's wrist, the rise of his knuckles. Not been able to touch each digit and know that, yes, here was a deep blue ink stain that had never washed off, and here, and here, and then been able to look down at Moony's graceful hand and pull his fingers away and smile because yes, even without looking, he had been right.

Now Moony kept his hands to himself, clasped tightly against his own left arm chair, and his presence, which still throbbed and reverberated in Sirius's mind, was as cold and as hard as the slab of wood that Sirius forced himself to touch.

Remus on his left was the only true similarity, really, the only one that mattered, but he had removed himself so completely that he may as well have been amongst the dead.

He lived here, with Sirius, and the man had barely seen him, even on the rare occasion he was actually there.

It wasn't until this day, a day much later than Remus's arrival, much later than the reestablishment of the Order meetings, much later than the start of Sirius's familiar dance with the oak, that Remus put his hand on Sirius's.

And, upon encountering Sirius's unexpected touch, jerked himself away completely, entire body shifting far to the left of his chair, staring at Sirius with something not unlike horror in his eyes, it all happening so abruptly that the meeting was interrupted by everyone's shock.

Remus stood up and left, leaving Sirius to feel thick under all the eyes, and it was long moments before Dumbledore's rich voice echoed throughout the dining room again.

Sirius looked up. Mad-Eye sat across from him.

~ * ~

"Moony?"

Remus visibly cringed at the nickname, but he didn't turn away. "Yes, Sirius?"

Sirius wanted to sit down next to him, but he was afraid the couch cushions would be as hard as the meeting chair.

"Why won't you talk to me?"

Remus actually raised his eyes from his book and looked at him, and it sent a jolt through Sirius that caught at his throat and pulled, nearly jerking him forward, off his feet. "I am talking to you."

There was no smile, and Sirius missed it. "No," he whispered, and shook his head, and took a step, but didn't sit. He felt sixteen all over again. "Why... won't you talk to me, in general?"

Remus was still looking at him, and it was the first time in months that Sirius went from wishing to God that he would to wishing to God that he wouldn't. Sirius couldn't meet his gaze.

"Sirius, I'm so rarely here, and when I am, I'm tired."

Sirius could do nothing but nod and say, "Oh," and wondered what happened to the boy who couldn't shut up.

"I'm only home for the full moon, Sirius, which you don't spend with me."

He didn't have to elaborate on that thought, and Sirius definitely felt sixteen again, cowering under the stare of a battered young man who had spent a horrible night alone, without his friends, only to wake up to find that his lover had set him up for murder. It had been the worst moment of his life, and he couldn't believe he was living it again.

"I'm sorry."

Remus gave a half shrug and brought his elbows up on his knees, book raised to shroud his face again. "I've done it alone for fourteen years."

Sirius Black never cried. Before, during, and after leaving his family, losing his best friends, and living in Hell for twelve years, Sirius Black never cried. He left Remus's side that moment with a soft liquid film between his lashes, which wouldn't be blinked away.

~ * ~

The children arrived a week later, and only about a month later, did Harry.

And suddenly Remus was the picture of cordiality and good conversation.

Sirius knew his moon cycles. He kept track of them even in Azkaban; he could swear he almost felt them in his blood, the way Moony had always described to him on the rare nights he trembled and admitted his fears. Sirius would trace veins and scars with his tongue and try to convince a young lover that they could be good things.

Yes, Sirius knew his moon cycles, and the full was nigh. It made no sense for Remus to suddenly be so chipper. It made no sense for Remus to have spent the past four months emotionally inaccessible.

It was an act for Harry, and for one deep, horrible second, hatred bellowed in Sirius's stomach when he realized his feelings didn't matter.

He got over it, and he went along with it, joking with Remus at dinners, cleaning the house with the kids, sharing and swapping memories with smiles so fake Sirius half expected them to rot off their faces.

He called Sirius "Pads," once, and not only did he have to leave the room, Sirius did as well.

There were awkward moments, nearly tangible, that forced them to turn away from each other before they could meet eyes or see the sad, knowing gazes people around them shared.

Still, there were times.

There were times where Sirius could brush Remus's hand without him running away. There were times, when telling the twins about a successful prank, or Harry and Ron about one of James's great quidditch catches, that Sirius managed to meet a deep blue gaze which danced with silent laughter. There were times that Remus sat next to him willingly and didn't mind if Sirius bumped their shoulders, pressed their thighs together.

There were times that it felt like everything could maybe be right, that they could work things out, though Sirius didn't know what there was to work.

Then night came, and Sirius slept alone, and he knew he was wrong.

And he ran sleepless fingers through smooth, shorn hair that had been cut by hands so loving a mere year ago, and wondered how it had all gone straight to Hell.

~ * ~

When the full moon came that week, Remus spent the day in his room, and nobody bothered him.

This disgusted Sirius. Every full moon, since he was sixteen years old, was spent entirely by Remus's side.

Well, at least, it should have been every full moon.

Fourteen years....

He shook his head to clear it of that thought, but it did nothing else but bounce around the edges of his brain, echoing all the more.

Remus came down the stairs for a late lunch in nothing but a bathrobe and the never-invisible cloak of exhaustion that clung to him and made him limp.

Everyone greeted him as if there was nothing wrong.

Sirius, on instinct, went to him and let a hand rest on his feather-soft hair.

The children looked at each other, and the adults blinked, wondering only where the tension had gone.

A thick mound of scar tissue rose from just underneath the hollow of his throat, white and imposing, looking for all the world like it clung there of its own will, like a tumor, like a parasite. Sirius wanted to rip it off and throw it to the floor, stomp on it, killing it and every second's worth of the fourteen years of pain it represented.

The moment his free hand moved even an inch upwards, Remus, sensing Sirius's intention, pulled away, wincing, and went for the stairs. He couldn't run, and each thump of his slow, tired legs pressed themselves forever into Sirius's soul.

So many scars he hadn't been there to prevent. So many scars, and he had soothed so few of them.

His fingers felt heavy from the memory of Remus's thick, whiskey hair. It was the only soft thing he had touched in years.

He kicked over his chair at the dining room table, and to this day, those who were present do not know why.

Then he took Remus's forgotten lunch and followed the werewolf's barely retreated footsteps up the stairs.

He didn't knock, and when he entered the room, Remus was on his bed, huddled in on himself, tiny within the folds of Sirius's father's rich velvet robe.

Sirius went to him, a longer, thinner figure to compliment the crumple of a man amongst sheets and bedclothes, and pressed against the battered curves of his lover's back. When Sirius's arms came around him, Remus wept, a flood that lasted for hours, and it wasn't until he finally succumbed to the deep rhythm of sleep that Sirius allowed himself to slip as well.

It was the first shudderings of transformation that brought him back, and he bound the door with many charms before shifting into Padfoot and matching his former position as best he could. Lack of arms was his only disadvantage as he rode out Remus's violent spasms, nearly all his weight resting on the breaking spine.

When it was over, the wolf panted beneath him, and Sirius was assaulted with a dozen scents that brought on even more memories. All he wanted was to smell more.

He put his nose to the wolf's neck and snuffled, nipping gently before pulling away. He pawed at the grey belly until he drew a whimper, and when the wolf raised tired amber eyes, there was recognition in them.

Padfoot licked Moony's nose, just in case he couldn't quite smell him, and with a "whuff," settled into the familiar warmth of his mate's coat.

The next thing to disturb them was the sun that peeked through the heavy black drapes.

And Sirius's dog ears easily caught the sound of the shower that ran behind the shut door across from him.

Sirius merely changed back, sat on the bed, and waited.

Ten minutes later, Remus came in, in nothing but a towel, eyes lowered, and said nothing.

He didn't have to.

Dozens of scars, hundreds of scars, red and livid across his shoulders, tight on his chest, long on his nipples, distorting them. So wide along his stomach, Sirius wondered how they had sealed themselves at all. They had barely faded, though their smoothness betrayed their age, and they screamed at Sirius, every jagged bloody line shrieking rage and loss and loneliness and pain.

Fourteen years...

Before Sirius could get any of these thoughts out, before the tears could come, Remus turned to the bureau and said, "Thank you, Sirius."

Sirius was too occupied with the horrible lines that marred the sinews of Remus's back to notice the man's present nudity. "What?"

He turned to him, in boxers, pulling on a dress shirt. "Thank you, for staying with me. But don't do it again."

Sirius hadn't exactly been hopeful these past few weeks, even amongst Remus's timid, uneven surges of benevolence, but their shared night together had reacquainted him with the dog's optimism, and when he heard those words, he withered.

Remus had the grace to look sad as he turned away again, fiddling with a button on his stomach.

"What happened to us, Moony?"

Remus shut his eyes against those whispered words, and the button came off in his hand.

"Fourteen years, Sirius."

"Stop saying that!"

Remus did not look at him, and Sirius was forced to match gazes with the crescent eyes of a dozen, self-induced bite marks that flecked across Remus's calves like a constellation.

Sirius thought of stars and how long he'd been without them, and how long he'd been without the stars of Remus's eyes. He thought of the moon, and how he'd left him alone with Her, and how all he ever did was worry about Remus, and how Remus didn't care.

And Remus didn't want him, and Remus hated his touch, and Sirius crossed the room in anger and grabbed slender shoulders and kissed him on the mouth, with teeth and gum and with nothing beautiful, and took his wrists and forced those hands in his own hair, so Remus could think of a year ago and realize that nothing was different, and that there was no reason why it should be.

And Sirius thought of a year ago, too, about Moony's hands more on his hair than in it, and how that had been loving enough for him, at least at that point. And Sirius thought of Remus now, shaking and pulling and breathing in quick gasps, and both their faces wet, for entirely different reasons. And Sirius thought of the scissors and how maybe Remus hadn't just been cutting his hair, but cutting his power, completely Samson-esque, because their love was the only thing that had really ever given Sirius strength.

Maybe all this had started then, a year ago, and in his blind hope he hadn't seen. How could you see something if you refused to admit to yourself that it might be there to look for?

He didn't have to look now. It was written all over Remus's grey features, in the trembling of his lips, in the wide blue eyes that he hadn't shut once, even in fear. He wouldn't have to search for Remus's lack of love, not now that he finally realized how long it had been there.

And Sirius let him go.

Remus heaved and pressed against the wall, eyes wide, pulsing with the frantic beat of his heart. He clung to his shirt, pulled it around him as if to hide his still screaming skin, and slid to his knees, looking up at Sirius, with wet, wet cheeks.

Sirius turned away from Remus's terrified eyes and the hypocritical hard on that tented his boxers, but he couldn't leave the room. The walls echoed the sound of Remus's heartbeat, and he had been too long without this, as well.

"You killed me, Sirius."

The soothing race of Remus's pulse faded around the sound of those thick, dead words, and Sirius hated them immediately for stealing the only familiar sensation from the room, for his soul.

"You left me alone. You killed them all, you killed our love and the only people who had ever loved me. You left me alone with no money and no future. You betrayed the one thing I had ever allowed myself to believe in and made a lie of the only good years of my life. You hated me, and I hated you and I loved you, and you killed me, Sirius. You killed me...."

Sirius wasn't aware when cold, slick rage overtook him, but he was aware when his own furious heart took the place of Remus's, racing in his ears.

The doorknob was cool against his hand, his pulse throbbing in his fingertips. "We're all dead, Remus."

When he shut the door behind him, the silence in the long, hollow archway of the hall was stifling.