Dirty Laundry
Remus was pretending to be asleep when Sirius stumbled in, but Sirius knew he was awake. He was holding himself too tensely and his breathing was too measured for sleep. Sirius pulled his clothes off and left them where they fell, pushing under the covers without washing off the lingering scent of Hester Ludlow's perfume or the reek of sex clinging to his body.
Remus rolled toward him on the inhale, and Sirius held his breath and waited, hoping for a reaction, but then Remus rolled away, still pretending to be asleep, and curled up with his back to Sirius.
Sirius wasn't sure how much longer they could go on like this. It had been weeks since the first night he'd stumbled home after fucking a stranger in the men's lav; he'd been ready to fight, ready to beg forgiveness, ready for anything that wasn't the two of them circling warily and never connecting. Remus had looked up from his book and after the first brief flash of hurt in his eyes -- which Sirius later wondered if he'd imagined -- had simply said, "I kept a plate warm for you."
Since then he'd started going out more frequently and coming home later and later; sometimes, he didn't come home at all. And through it all, Remus kept the flat clean, cooked him dinner and made sure his robes were immaculately pressed and hanging in the closet they ostensibly shared, but which mostly held his stuff, with Remus's worn robes and second-hand Muggle clothes shunted off to hang forlornly at the far end. When they'd first moved in together, Remus had joked that because he couldn't find a job (and not for lack of trying), he'd take care of all the household stuff, become a perfect little housewife. Sirius had even bought him an apron, which now hung on the back of the front door, a reminder of happier times. But Sirius hadn't expected it to actually happen. It made him sick to see Remus reduced to being his house-elf.
Sirius wasn't sure when things had changed, he only knew they had, and he hated it. He hated himself for doing this to Remus, and Remus for not making him stop.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, until he couldn't stand the smell of himself, of Hester, anymore. He rose and yanked at the sheets, hard, forcing Remus to turn over and acknowledge him.
Remus blinked. "Sirius? What--"
"It reeks in here."
Remus flinched. It was barely visible, but Sirius had been watching Remus for years now, had studied his smallest gestures, listened for the subtlest nuances in his voice, and Remus had definitely flinched.
Cold fear clutched at Sirius's heart, and he found it hard to breathe, still enveloped in the stench of illicit sex. He held the sheets up to his face, inhaling the combined scents of MoonyandPadfoot, himself and Remus, and felt the tightness in his chest ease slightly.
"I'm sorry?" Remus said, shaking his head in confusion.
"You're sorry? You're fucking sorry?" Sirius stared at him incredulously.
"I--" Remus looked down at his hands, as if they held an answer. "I haven't got to the laundry yet this week," he finally offered, head still bowed, as if he really were a house-elf, waiting tremulously for punishment. Even in the dim yellow light filtering through the flimsy curtains, Sirius could pick out the grey in his hair.
'Laundry? You're worried about the fucking laundry?
"I don't fucking care about the fucking laundry, Remus." He wanted to say, 'I care about the fact that you don't fucking care that I've been sleeping around for the past six weeks. You can't even be arsed to get angry about it.' But that smacked of desperation, and he was tired of it, tired of being the only one who seemed to care about anything any more.
"Oh. Well." Remus made a sound that might have been a cough, or a nervous laugh, and Sirius wondered for the first time if, instead of disliking fights, Remus just didn't care enough to have them. Sirius tossed the sheets at him and pulled his clothes back on. "Sod this. I'm going out. Don't wait up."
Remus finally looked up at him, face perfectly composed, perfectly neutral, and said, "Good night, then," as if he were talking to fucking McGonagall or something.
Sirius turned at the door, his mouth curled in a disdainful sneer. "Fuck you, Remus."
He didn't wait for a response, couldn't stand the idea of Remus backing down again, allowing himself be treated like shit for whatever stupid reason he had, letting Sirius get away with it.
He tore out of the flat, slamming the door behind him. He was shaking and his eyes burned with tears he refused to acknowledge, let alone shed. He climbed onto the motorbike and took off, unconcerned with where he was going or hiding his flight from Muggles. He needed to get out, get away, to think about how things between him and Moony had got so bad, and if they could be fixed. He didn't have many things in his life he could count on, and as this war with the Death Eaters heated up, he needed certainty, and the only thing certain about Moony right now was that he was pissing Sirius off.
Sirius ended up at the Leaky Cauldron, and he spent what was left of the night getting as drunk as he could.
Still, he was surprised the next morning when he came home to find the flat clean and empty. Remus was gone, and his meager belongings with him. There was no note, but the sheets had been washed, and were sitting, neatly folded, in the center of the bed.