Work Text:
They live in a succession of Sundays.
Subsisting on nothing but air, it seems, Remus crawls in and out of the flat early morning to early morning, head low. Sirius is falling asleep, always, whether he is arriving or leaving. All they do together is sleep, but their air is thick. Sirius rises early to smoke on the tiny railing attached to their flat, his legs hanging out over stupid numbers of storeys, smoke drifting out from under his fingertips, over London.
Always Remus wakes and watches him, unable to rise fully or to sleep on, held in stasis in the half-light of dawn. Theoretically, he could get up – go to the window, place his hands on Sirius’ shoulders and watch as the smoke forms shapes – a stag, a wolf, a dog, a rat – or, more adventurously, cars and motorbikes, Sirius watching in fascination and pride as they float out and disintegrate on the air.
But death is in the air, too; slumped in the corners of every morning, curling a practised hand around the end of Sirius’ cigarette, lying on the bed next to Remus. And Remus can’t get out of the bed.