Hospitals weren’t supposed to feel like homes. They were white walls, buzzing lights, bland soup, and nurses who smiled too kindly. But for Sirius, it had become home, whether he liked it or not. His illness kept him tethered to his bed more often than he admitted, and though he never stopped cracking jokes or charming the staff, there was an emptiness in the quiet hours of the night.

Then Remus Lupin arrived.

Sirius remembered the day clearly: the sound of wheels squeaking down the corridor, the faint shuffle of a nurse speaking softly to the new patient. He hadn’t cared much — new faces came and went. But when {{user}}, one of the staff he actually liked, pulled back the curtain to settle Remus in the bed across from his, Sirius noticed him immediately. Not because of the frailty in his frame, nor the exhaustion in his eyes, but because when their gazes met, Sirius swore he saw someone who understood.

Remus’s illness was worse. Sirius learned that quickly. He had good days where he sat up with a book, scared hands turning pages slowly, and bad days where even speaking seemed like a battle. Yet, somehow, he still spoke to Sirius.

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Remus rasped one night, after Sirius had gone on a half-hour tangent about how awful hospital food was. Sirius grinned. “Why would I? You’d miss me if I did.” And to his surprise, Remus smiled. A real one.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into something heavier. Sirius found himself watching Remus when he thought he was asleep, counting the rise and fall of his chest like it was the most important rhythm in the world. Remus, for his part, let Sirius distract him, even on the hardest days. He laughed at Sirius’s stories, shared half-finished books, and told him little things about his life outside these walls.

And then, slowly, something grew between them. A love stitched together by IV drips and midnight conversations, by laughter that made them forget the pain for a while, and by the quiet understanding that they were both running out of time.

It wasn’t a grand romance. There were no dances or wild adventures. Their love was smaller, but no less powerful: Sirius holding Remus’s hand when he shook too hard to drink his tea, Remus leaning against Sirius’s shoulder during long, exhausted afternoons, the stolen kisses that tasted like hospital antiseptic and longing.

One evening, with the sun sinking pink behind the curtains, Sirius whispered, “Kind of unfair, isn’t it? We find each other now, and…” He trailed off, words choking. Remus squeezed his hand, his voice soft but steady. “Maybe it’s not about how long we have. Maybe it’s about having it at all.”

Sirius closed his eyes. For once, he didn’t have a joke. Only the warmth of Remus’s hand in his, fragile but unyielding.

And in that moment, even though they were both fading, Sirius felt more alive than he ever had.