Push and Pull (Sirius Black X Reader)

Chapter 9

When Remus says those six words, my mind starts racing.

"I haven't been honest with you."

He says it over breakfast, a bland bowl of oatmeal with a small sprinkle of brown sugar and some unripe raspberries he picked from the brambles that climb the side of the cottage. They're tough and seedy, not quite juicy, and his fingers are flecked with tiny scratches from the thorny vines from which they grow, fingers that are fidgeting against his mismatched spoon.

I immediately begin to hypothesize about his dishonesty. Has he met someone else while he's been away? Did he not lose his job and this has all been some sick joke? Has his lycanthropy been worse than usual even when he's assured me that he's fine and he doesn't need my help?

"About what?" I ask him, stirring the gluey oatmeal absently as I stare at him. The bags under his eyes, the unhealthy paleness of his skin, the chewed-down fingernails.

"About a lot," he says, and then I can see that his hands are trembling, and he presses his palms against his eyes, letting his spoon drop against the porcelain bowl with a loud clatter. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly, each breath loud as his breathing escalates into hyperventilation.

"Rem?"

"You haven't been honest either," he says, his tone coming out sharper than I think he intends. I don't like when anyone raises their voice, but especially not Rem, who is usually gentle with me, both physically and emotionally. I can feel my throat go dry with nerves.

"I don't lie to you, Rem. You know I don't—"

"I know you're not happy."

His words are like a bombshell. They obliterate my composure, shatter my heart, and cause my words to combust, imploding in my throat, morphing into a quiet choking sob. I snap my mouth shut and look away from him because what else am I supposed to do? I can't look at him, especially when he pulls his hands away from his face, his eyes dull with pain, rimmed with red.

"Tell me I'm wrong," he whispers. "Tell me I make you happy. Tell me this life is enough for you."

"I don't know why you're saying all this."

"Tell me you're happy, Y/N."

It would be so easy to say it. I could force the words out and let him kiss me and do whatever else he wants to with me. We could pretend that everything is okay and that I don't think about how easy an escape death could be. But I was honest with him when I said that I don't lie to him. Never to his face.

So I say nothing and he fills in the blanks.

"You've been like this for months," he says, moving to grab my hand. He seems to think better of it and snatches his hand away like my skin will burn him. "For months, I've known you weren't happy, and I've been selfish enough to let you live this way. I can't make you happy."

"It's not your responsibility—"

"And it's not your burden to care for me. To stay. I know that you want to stay together because of everything that happened after we graduated, but you're not obligated to stay just because we lost everything but each other. I can't do this. I can't watch you wither away in this cottage."

I don't say anything even when his eyes beg me to, even when he shoves his chair backward and stands to pace along one the length of one dust-streaked window. His fingers instinctively burrow into his pocket, nimbly extracting one of his poorly rolled cigarettes, wider in the middle with nearly no tobacco at each end. A couple of stray shreds of tobacco reach out from the paper like wiry hairs, and they're the first to shrivel when he lights the end with a shaking hand.