Wolfstar One Shots (OPEN FOR REQUESTS)

Bad days

Author's Note

*Trigger warning for depression (nothing graphic)*

Context : it's the wizarding world, Remus and Sirius have finished Hogwarts and are living together. Remus is a werewolf-all the canon stuff basically, except they're not dead or in jail

This one's a lot different from the others so I'm not sure how you will like it. But it's what I wanted to write, so I've written it. Enjoy.

***

On some days, Remus thinks he's better.

But on the other days, he just can't get out of bed.

And today... Today is one of the latter, where he's been awake since Sirius left for work. That must've been at least two hours ago.

Remus heard him dress. Heard him try not to make a sound as he struggled to slip into his jeans, heard him be extra careful with the drawers as he reached for his things. Heard him try not to wake Remus, not knowing that Remus was already wide awake.

But Remus stayed curled up under the covers just where he was, facing the wall with his eyes closed so that he wouldn't have to look at the man he loves.

And just before Sirius left, he kissed Remus on the temple. A soft kiss where Remus' hair hung down, and Sirius had to move it away to kiss him.

But now he's left, and Remus doesn't know what to do.

So he curls up some more, pushing his knees into his chest and tucking his hands under his cheek. But it's so cold, always so cold when Sirius isn't in bed with him.

Remus stretches himself out and rolls over, then wraps himself around Sirius' pillow, tucking it in between his stomach and his legs. It smells like Sirius, and Remus starts crying.

Some days, Remus really feels fine. Some days he even feels good.

But today isn't one of them. And every time this happens, it feels like it's getting worse and worse and worse. And nothing frightens him more than being alone.

Remus sits up, wipes his face, crosses his legs and reaches for the journal under his pillow. Its spine is cracked, the brown leather creased and the pages sticking out, having loosened from the binding long, long ago. But Remus doesn't mind. His pen isn't looking that cheerful either. It's cap is long gone and long forgotten, probably trapped in some dusty corner of the house. The blue ink has left little spots and jagged lines on the underside of Remus' pillow from whenever the pen rubbed against it. Remus doesn't mind those things, either.

The journal is supposed to help. Supposed to being the key words in that sentence. It doesn't help, though. Nothing really does.

Remus tries to write it down.

He remembers what his therapist said. "Don't think about what to write," she smiled at him, "Just write about what you think."

Remus takes the pen.

And then stares at the blank page.

Stares and stares and stares until he can feel his heart start pounding, until he starts sweating at his neck and until the room goes dim. He takes a shaky breath. And then writes,

I don't know what to write.

The room stops spinning, and he can breathe again. But it's not enough. Can you call it progress if you only take a step forward after taking one back?

Remus flips to the first page. It's got his signature on it, and his phone number in case someone found it. The next pages are all full of his slanted letters.