The Healing Process

The Healing Process

Cuts and bruises were not lost on Remus Lupin. Sure, he had the same initial reaction to pain that everyone else had: shock, at first, being jolted by the mere thought of your skin being torn, ripped actually...But for Remus, it was different. It seemed to soothe him and fade into a melodious rhythmic pattern, something like a drum beat that throbbed reliably, something to count on to keep you grounded and remind you of your once torn flesh.

Pain was his friend, the bothersome neighbor who rang your doorbell constantly and badgered you to come out and play. Or perhaps it was the mother down the block, the one who laid out lemonade and cookies and was generally well liked by all the children in the neighborhood.

Whatever the case may be, whatever familiar form it seemed to take, Pain and Remus Lupin were on a first name basis.

He was standing in the bathroom, with Muggle medical supplies splayed out on the sink and a washcloth and basin, which was filled with cool water. It was funny, Remus mused, looking at the cut, this wasn't even the worse one he'd ever sustained...Hard to believe, that was, when it was fierce and deep, and raw around the edges--angry. It prickled when touched and burned for the hell of it. He placed the washcloth down on it and liked the fizzy sound it made when it bubbled underneath the water.

He caught himself in the bathroom mirror, and for the first time, noticed how tired his eyes truly were. "You don't look so good," his reflection stated, bluntly.

Remus stared it down, as an attempt to intimidate it, but the reflection looked merely bored and replied, "Only telling you the truth, sir."

Rolling his eyes and wringing out the washcloth of its excess water, he was met with a soft voice from behind the other side of the door. "L-Lupin?" it asked. Confident yet insecure, manly yet childish. Harry, definitely. "Are-are you in there?" Not waiting for an answer, the teenage boy barged through the threshold--"Oh. Sorry." He said, noticing all the supplies that Remus had out, and obviously seeing him in a private situation. He peered over the sink. "Hang on...Are you hurt?"

Wincing, Remus pulled away from the inquisitive boy. "Just a scratch, is all," he muttered, trying to turn his arm away. He threw the washcloth back into the sink, to soak it some more.

Harry leaned in over the edge of the porcelain sink. "More then a scratch, that is," he pointed to elongated gash on Remus's arm. "That'll leave a scar. How did you get it?"

The former Defense-Against-the-Dark-Arts professor frowned. "Did it myself." Noting Harry's horrified look, he quickly continued, "...During my transformation, I mean. Scratched myself silly. No one else for me to harm, is there? Only got myself." Forcing a half smile, he said, "Truth be told...I kind of like the pain."

Harry's eyes wandered from the offending wound to Remus's face, etched with exhaustion and frustration. "Are you a masochist, Lupin?"

"No, no, Harry. I'm afraid you've been misinformed. A sadist is someone who likes to cause pain to others, a masochist is someone who likes to receive pain and a sadomasochist is someone who likes to cause pain to themselves."

A pregnant pause. "Well, thanks for the impromptu lesson on people with mental issues, at any rate," Harry said lightly. Voice dropping, he said, "Does Sirius know about this?"

Remus shot him a look so stern that it sent goosebumps up Harry's spine instantly. "Dear boy, what would that help? Nothing, none at all...No, no...Sirius has enough on his mind as it is...And anyway," he said, as an afterthought, "What's the big fuss? Werewolves do this sort of thing all the time. It's their--our--nature."

"Not too many werewolves feed off of the pain," Harry said, quietly. The hum of the bathroom light was all that could be heard for moments, which ticked away like hours. Harry looked up at Remus, not wanting to be the first one to speak.

He wasn't.

"Do you know what the best part of the pain is, Harry?" Remus asked. The Boy-Who-Lived opened up his mouth to answer, not knowing if it was a rhetorical question or not, but determined to answer--was met with the older man's lips crushing his own.

He felt like falling, but had a strange feeling that he was still upright. Now Remus's tongue was slipping inside, sliding through the hot, wet crevices and hitting against the hard, ivory teeth.

Remus kept his eyes closed, but Harry kept his open and found that they were moving at a rapid rate--from the mirror to the floor to the sink to the ceiling to Remus's arms--the wound was staring him right in the face when Remus pried his lips off of Harry's.

"The healing process, lad." Lupin nodded. "The best part of the pain is the healing process."

He handed Harry the washcloth, who took it reluctantly, and slowly pressed it over the wound.

***

Sirius Black was bitter. Bitter like unsweetened chocolate, with warnings that it lacked sugar all over it's label, bitter like liquid vanilla that some people baked with. Bitter like the baseball legend who sustained an injury so serious that his career was lost.

Not that he minded being that way, no, not really. It was his foundation; his excuse. His excuse to be short with everyone and irritable; his excuse to speak only when spoken to, and walk with his shoulder perpetually slumped, instead of walking straight.

It gave people understanding for the way he was, the way they would roll their eyes and say, "Oh, that's just Sirius Black. Don't mind him, he's an old geezer." No one ever regarded him with concern, as if to say, "Gee, I wonder what's wrong with Sirius today. Why is he so angry?" Not that he cared.

That never happened because it was a given truth, one of those facts you were fed when you were little and never bothered to argue it's meaning; it was there, it was tangible, it was true--Who needs proof? No...As long as the skies were blue and the grass green, Sirius Black would be bitter.

He was sitting in his room, now, on the edge of the bed that was cattycorner to the dresser that was home to moving photographs. Moving photographs of himself, Remus, James and Lily. Peter's pictures had long been since removed, burned, in fact. He could still remember the screams of agony that Peter's photos had emitted...

The silence engulfed him and his beating heart, no matter how broken he argued it was, was the only noise made whatsoever.

It was like a knife, Sirius reasoned, only this was a special knife. A knife that, no matter how hard you tried to wriggle it out, was only plunged deeper and deeper into your soul...It was almost as if--

What it almost was, he never got the chance to think, because the knock on his normally locked door was loud and angry. Harry. Remus never, ever knocked. "Come in," he grunted. "It's open."

The boy entered the room, hair tousled more then usual and an expression of pure bewilderment. "Something's wrong with Remus," he said, in lieu of 'hello.' He paused for a second to scratch the back of his neck. "He-he...attacks himself. And...and he enjoys it." He felt like he forgot something. "Oh yeah," he said dully. "He attacks himself as a werewolf."

Sirius laughed.

"Who wouldn't?" Her asked. "All the shit he's been through...In fact, I'd be surprised if he didn't enjoy it, quite frankly." He motioned for his godson to sit on the edge of the bed with him. He obliged. "Scars and cuts and bruises are not the only symbols of pain, Harry."

Harry stared at his legs. "Why do people do it? Well, I guess you can't speak for other people, but I'm sure you can vouch for Remus." At the mentioning of their mutual friend, his jade eyes emblazoned Sirius's gray ones.

Sirius gave a slight chuckle. "Cuts are a story, see, an open book in which you fill the pages. Just like an author rereads and revises their pieces to work out the bugs, Remus...He, he analyzes his markings. To see...To see how damaged he really is. Remember, Harry, the best part of the pain is--"

"--The Healing Process." Harry finished.

Sirius nodded slowly and tapped his nose. "Been spending some time with him, have you?" He asked, slightly amused. Harry really didn't see the humor in any of this, but he forced out a laugh. He leaned up to look at Sirius's face, the way the freckles on his face almost depicted a picture, but instead--

He kissed him.

Where Remus's mouth was skilled and his tongue passive-aggressive, Sirius was all aggressiveness and it was clear that his heart ruled his head. It was forceful and Harry couldn't breathe, let alone think. His hands grabbed Sirius's hair as his tongue slid over the lining of his mouth.

When the kiss was broken, the two men--after that, Sirius had resolved to not thinking of Harry as anything less--sat side by side, silent.

***

Later that night, Remus had securely bandaged the wound and was watching Sirius. He watched Sirius pace the room, watched Sirius stare out the window, watched Sirius stare up at the ceiling. "You are getting rather boring, you know," he stated, flipping through a magazine after Sirius had zoned out for the second time.

"He..." Sirius said, obviously talking about Harry, "...he's so...Mature about things, yet naïve about people? I...Does that make sense?" He asked. Remus shook his head to show his support of the negative, but did not look up from his reading. "...He's had so much pain in his life, yet he doesn't know the first thing about it."

Remus shrugged, turning the page. "He'll learn. He has to, sooner or later...I mean, doesn't he? Don't we all?"

Sirius's eyes rolled to the back of his head and sighed. "Don't lecture me about learning about pain...Not only have I learned, I've earned my PHD in it." He paused, finally collapsing onto the bed. "Why are we trapped in our misery?" He inquired sullenly, stroking the back of Remus's neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

They both tasted like Harry, but that was something they did not want to bring up at the moment--Harry and his credulously outlook on life and misery did not concern them right now. Now, all that mattered was the rough touch and hot mouth of the other man, the forsaken man, too proud to cry out and too lonely to dare.

"I think we've grown used to it...Why bother weaseling out of a comfort zone?" Remus muttered, from the corner of his mouth after they had managed to separate. They held each other for a while, their fingers caressing, holding the other's flaws and failures in their palms, virtually washing away the sins...

Because, after all, the best part of the pain was the healing process.