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As his hands trembled as he brought out the crinkled, dusty shoebox from under the bed, Remus' breath hitched as it always did when he felt the familiar watering in his eyes.
He used to smile fondly at this shoebox, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he chuckled softly to himself when he looked through it. Because this was a box of memories. A box of happiness and warmth. A box that no matter how shaken he was after a full moon, it would make those hazel eyes warm just a little.
But now, it was a box of grief. Sure, the items inside were still warm and full of loving memories. But at least when he used to look through it, he could visit the people mentioned in it the next day. And he still technically could. But he wouldn't see their faces light up with laughter, or their sarcastic jibes. He wouldn't see their faces at all. He'd see their names on gravestones. And not everyone even had one.
The silver scars on his hand gleamed faintly as he opened the lid, and immediately, the first tear fell as his eyes flickered over the contents. There were a mix of things in here. Old photographs, letters, notes, trinkets that had been given and wildflowers Sirius had once picked for him, anything that reminded him of *them*.
He picked up a small pile of old photographs first. He laid his eyes upon the first one, a little creased, probably from when Sirius had snatched it off him all those years ago to make sure his hair looked okay. It was photo of the four marauders laughing under the whomping willow, Sirius with his arm slung around James, Peter doing something ridiculous, Remus mid-eye-roll, a tattered paperback clutched in his hand, which had a black star drawn in biro on it. A tear rolls down his gaunt cheek and onto James's bright grin, which he gently brushes off with the pad of his thumb and sniffs before moving on to the next photo, one which made his heart ache more than ever.
One of Sirius asleep with his head on Remus’s shoulder in the common room, Remus's cheeks bright red as he tries to nonchalantly read his book as usual, but he didn't stop his hand creeping round Sirius's shoulder to pull him a little closer. He remember when James took this, he'd given him the biggest, embarrassed glare right after, but James had only grinned and said 'Gotta have some for the future wedding moons' and strolled off to find Peter. His hands linger on the photograph, thumb brushing over a blurred Sirius, as though it would enable him to feel that overwhelming warmth of his body once again. He didn't even try to stop the tears at this point, wiping them away with his jumper sleeve, a little too roughly, something that he know Mary would have chastised him for, claiming it would give him 'early wrinkles'.
The next photo was a rare photo of all five: Lily sitting on the grass, James clearly in love, staring at her with a sappy smile as though she was the only thing on earth worth looking at, which to him, she was, Remus looking at Sirius like he doesn’t realise anyone’s watching, his eyes soft as he watches the raven haired boy wink at the camera with a grin, his hand ruffling the sandy haired Pete who's smiling placidly at the side. That particular photo was a little faded, as Remus could remember how he'd kept it on his bedside table in the gryffindor dorms in front of the window, just so he could see his happy place before he went to sleep every night. What he didn't realise then was that the photo truly would become the only way of seeing his happy place.
He roughly wiped away the tears off his cheeks again and turned the three photos over. The backs of the photos are annotated in different handwriting—Sirius’s bold scrawl, Lily’s loopy cursive, Peter’s messy script, James's blocked letters. There were comments like the date they was taken, and comments.
'Taken five minutes before Peter threw up on James’s shoes. Legendary.' – Padfoot
'My hair looks amazing here, actually.' – Prongs
'Correction: Peter threw up on my socks. I never got them back.' – Remus
'Its not like I could help it :(' – Peter
'Does moony think we can't see that blush?' -Prongs
'Its not a blush, I was sitting by the fire which is hot' - Remus
'You were sitting by me and I'm also hot so it still applies' - Padfoot
'I don't know what you did to my hair that day but it never looked the same again :(' - Peter
'Yeah we deserve a thank you for that one, no offense wormtail' - Pads
'Dont think we can't see those moony eyes there' - Lily <3
'Moony and padfoot, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g' - prongs
He let out a broken sort of chuckle as he set the photos back down, taking a moment for a couple of deep breaths. He could still remember their faces of course, every last detail. But seeing there photos...it always made him feel like something had lodged in his throat, and all he wanted was to choke.
He looked down at the shoebox again, and shakily brought out a few more slips of paper, treating them like glass, his last evidence of happiness. The first was a torn out page from Great Expectations, Remus's favourite book in seventh year—Sirius stole it once because Remus was too obsessed with that book and needed “a break.”
A little “Oi Moony, get a life. Love, Padfoot x” is scribbled across it.
The next piece of paper was a crumpled piece of parchment, folded probably about 12 times. A note folded 12 times from Lily, he remembered the sweet smile with which she slid it across the table to him once in transfiguration.
'Remus, they’ll never say it, but you keep us grounded. I know you think you're in the background, that you're not as important, but you’re the glue. Don’t let us fall apart. (Also: tell Sirius to stop stealing James’s socks.)'
And finally, a torn calendar page. October 31, 1975.
James had drawn a doodle in the corner: a messy stag and a dog chasing a tiny rat. Sirius added a full moon. Remus never threw it out, even though he told the others he had.
As Remus clutched the papers between his calloused fingertips, he gently whispered the words under his breath and closed his eyes, depicting it in their voices instead. Those melodic, warm voices that he hadn't appreciated enough at the time. Hadn't savoured.
He wiped his tears with his jumper sleeve again, getting rougher every time, as though if he did it hard enough, the tears would stop, the pain would stop.
But it didn't, and he set the papers down and went on to the next item. A gryffindor scarf. Not Remus’s, but James’s—he left it behind one winter. Still smells like the Quidditch pitch and treacle tart. Remus never gave it back, it's not like James cared, he was all smug cause he thought Lily had taken it cause it smelled like him, despite her indignant protests. But no, Remus had just had a feeling that morning, that he needed something to remember those 6am morning starts when James would wake up the whole dorm, blasting ABBA to 'get them hyped for exercise' before he went to those bloody quidditch practices. He'd hated it, they all had. But even then, he wouldn't have changed it for the world. He held the scarf up to his nose and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, wishing for nothing more than to be transported somehow back to those 6am starts with James's bright grin staring down at you as you woke up with a groan.
The next item was a pack of wizarding cards. One card is missing. Peter always cheated. Remus remembers them playing late into the night, arguing over rules and scoffing sweets from a stolen Honeydewks bag, the dorm filled with hushed, breathless giggles and protesting whispers of 'oi! It's my turn, piss off!' and James and Sirius after every single round of losing, turning to each other and nodding and saying in sync 'you got this' to each other, as though it were some grand duel.
But the last item especially got Remus. It was a muggle cassette tape, a mixtape Sirius made for Remus. It still plays. The songs are chaotic—Queen, Bowie, The Cure, Sex pistols.
The label: 'Moony’s Full Moon Mix – best played at 2AM or when feeling particularly down, there's nothing Bowie can't fix' in Sirius's obnoxious sprawl. He hesitates but shakily puts the cassette into a battered player he keeps by his bed, and lies on the floor as it begins to play, staring at the cracks in the ceiling paint, his hands absent mindedly shuffling the deck of cards.
He likes lying on the floor. It means there's nowhere else to go. No uncertainty that things can get lower. The tears fall silently down his cheeks as the notes of 'Heroes' by David Bowie ring through the room. They'd had their first kiss to this song. Him and Sirius. His padfoot. He lay there all night, playing that cassette on repeat, constantly looking over the items in the box, until he finally fell into a slumber clutching James's scarf.
The next morning, when his eyes flutter open, it takes a moment to come back to reality. The cassette had stopped and the items were laid out around him on the floor. He groaned quietly as he sat up, his hand automatically rubbing his stuff back. His bones weren't exactly in excellent working order at the best of times, and sleeping on floorboards definitely couldn't help. But he barely noticed it anymore. The pain. The physical kind at least. If anything, he was grateful. It could put the ache in his chest into some kind of categorised feeling of pain instead of that bittersweet longing and grief.
He carefully placed the items back in the tattered shoebox. He tries to put it all back, but his hands shake. He can’t close the lid. So he slides it back under his bed. He's going to look through it again tonight anyway, it's the only comfort he has. It was a bit like a rose, that box. It cuts so deep but it's so beautiful that he couldn't look. It reminds him of laughter, even though he hadn't smiled properly in years.
So he sighs and stands up with a small groan and makes his way towards the kitchen. When he makes his morning tea, he ponders whether he'll ever feel truly whole again. He's wondered this often, usually prompted by how he keeps setting the dinner table for two, as though Sirius will come home one day and they'll smile and kiss and he'll love again. He knows iTts irrational, a foolish hope, he saw the terrible scene himself. And yet, some days he swears he can hear his footsteps in the hallway. And he always turns to look.