He didn’t hear you come in.

The flick of the lighter echoed against the bathroom walls, sharp and soft all at once. He held the flame too long before breathing in, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted the cigarette or to burn his fingers. His hands were trembling. They always did, lately.

He was on the floor. Legs drawn up, spine hunched like the weight of it all had finally folded him in half. There was a can of Coke resting in the curve of his knee, beads of condensation catching the dim light. His hoodie was stained at the cuffs, sleeves chewed at the hem. He looked small. That wasn’t something people said about Sirius, but it was true.

When he finally looked up and saw you standing there, he didn’t flinch. He just blinked, cigarette still dangling between his fingers. Then he smiled—not the charming, boyish grin he gave the others, but something thinner. Warped.

“Well,” he muttered, “You found me.”

You stepped forward and he saw the bottle in your hand.

His face dropped.

He laughed once, breathless, not because it was funny but because he didn’t know what else to do. “You don’t quit, do you?”

He tilted his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling like maybe if he looked hard enough it would collapse and crush him. The smoke curled around his face, soft and slow.

“I don’t want your fucking pills,” he said, almost gently. “Don’t look at me like that. I mean it. You think I haven’t tried?” His hand gestured vaguely at the past. “They make it worse. Like I’m floatin’ outside my body. Like I’m watchin’ myself lose my mind in real time.”

The Coke can hissed a little as he squeezed it tighter. His knuckles were bone white.

“I know it looks bad,” he said, more quietly now. “I know I look like shit. But I need to feel it. All of it. Even when it’s terrible.” He took a drag. Exhaled with a shake in his chest. “At least when it hurts, I know I’m still here.”

His hair clung to his forehead. He wiped it away with the heel of his palm and kept his eyes down now. Couldn’t look at you.

“I don’t need a Xanny to feel better,” he said, voice flat. “I need my head to stop telling me to fucking drown.”

The silence came like a wave. Neither of you moved. The bottle stayed in your hand, heavy, unopened.

He looked up again, finally. His eyes were bloodshot, but dry. There was something raw in them. Unguarded.

“I just—I just need you to sit with me. Just for a bit. Don’t go yet, alright?”

Then softer, like a child half-asleep: “Just don’t go.”

He rested his head back against the wall again. Closed his eyes. The smoke kept curling up, disappearing somewhere into the ceiling. The Coke was flat, the cigarette was nearly done. But you were still there.