Fics like the kubler-ross model for cohabitating with your felon ex

It is funny, Sirius thinks, how a breakfast can so succinctly be a form of denial, mostly in that it is an entire rejection of every minute of history they’ve shared but too because Remus closed the door in his face when Sirius first knocked. That was two days ago, and now Sirius is sitting at the kitchen table, being plastered with serving after serving of buttered bread and eggs congealed with old swiss, all of it so rich he cannot so much as breathe without his stomach turning violently over. Remus is still looking at him, bone-dry. Brutal in a blank sort of way, brutal in the way of unused parchment. Sirius cannot meet his eyes. Sirius used to make a sport of meeting awkward Remus’s young eyes, plain milky brown with green at the edges, Sirius would crane and crouch to meet those eyes, and now he cannot manage it. It is a stomach rush, he’s sure, akin to cliff-jumping. It might be why Remus smacks his cup down too hard on the tabletop, coffee sloshing over the edges. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he says.

Fics like the kubler-ross model for cohabitating with your felon ex

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