Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

And a Happy New Year!

Remind me again – together we trace our strange journey,
find each other, come on laughing.
Sometime we'll cross where life ends.
We'll both look back as far as forever, that first day.
I'll touch you – a new world then.
Stars will move a different way.
We'll both end. We'll both begin.
Remind me again.

-via William Stafford, Our Story

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Manchester, December 1977

Remus had never seen Sirius like this before. He'd seen him red in the face with laughter or rage, crying of joy or brokenness, screaming and bleeding, lit up by the light of dawn and showered with the darkness of night. He'd memorized every last inch and detail from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, the inflection in every phrase he'd ever said, every tic and mannerism he could never shake.

But he'd never seen him this anxious. Remus wasn't even sure if worried could cover the distress written over Sirius' face and body. Sirius fretting over decorations he'd perfected hours ago, checking the party snacks over and over just in case a draft might've toppled them over, flattening his pants in the front even though they were bone straight. He would stop in the mirror every now and then, scowling at his appearance or a speck of lint on his top, and he would go to his room to change.

Distraught could've been a good description, but Remus considered frantic the breadwinner.

It was New Year's Eve, and someone had to throw the get-together. James and Lily threw in the towel after the mess left in her flat on Christmas; Remus didn't blame them. Parties were a hassle – fun, for sure, but most definitely a pain in the neck. How Sirius thought he could manage this feat alone was beyond Remus, and when he'd gotten an owl from Sirius earlier that morning begging for help, he didn't hesitate before throwing on his clothes and heading over.

Remus had seen Sirius nervous before. In the hospital, back in July, he'd shuffle over cautiously, avoid eye contact, and mutter beneath his breath like a scolded child. The bridge of his nose would grow dark red and those long lashes would flutter against his cheeks as he looked anywhere but into Remus' eyes. However, this wasn't just nerves. This entire episode was on an entirely different spectrum of panic, and Sirius refused to tell him why.

It wasn't as if they hadn't throw parties before; the Marauders were infamous for their Quidditch afterparties back in school. Of course, James and Sirius had orchestrated it all. The only thing Remus was good enough for was to be on the lookout for professors making their rounds. Peter managed to sneak all the foods in from the kitchen, and Lily managed the music.

What made this occasion any different was beyond Remus, and if Sirius wouldn't tell him what on earth was going on that made him so frenetic, then he'd do his best to ease the nerves. It might have been the several owls earlier that afternoon canceling on him, or maybe it was the weight of being a perfectionist that made him so high strung.

He pulled himself up from the sitting chair by the window, silently pardoning himself from the magnificent view of the skyline, and entered the kitchen. Sirius was nearly breaking his arm in hopes of mashing a few more potatoes for his casserole, red in the face and sweat breaking on his forehead.

"Here, let me," Remus offered gently, reaching out to take the utensil.

Sirius recoiled silently, however, and continued mashing as if Remus had never spoken. Despite having invited him over, Sirius had done his darndest to avoid contact with Remus all day. From sending him on errands to cleaning duty upstairs, it had been some sort of complex dance that allowed Sirius to be near Remus, but not with Remus. And Remus supposed this was for some moral support.