Remus John Lupin stared blankly at the bottle of firewhiskey on the table next to him. He stared at it for a minute. Then another.
Two minutes became five minutes, became ten minutes became half an hour. The hollow feeling in his chest sat there, immovable and oppressive. It felt heavy and ached so numbingly that he could feel the tingling feeling of it in his fingers and his toes. Like fading pins and needles that would not leave him. He was so still, so perfectly frozen, that it would seem he believed that staying that way and letting the cavern take him over would allow it to leave. That if he let it consume him, he would be able to move on.
An hour. An hour and a half. Two. Still the feeling stuck to his insides and made his teeth hurt. The nerve endings in the elbow he had rested on the table quivered as if he had just hit his funny bone, though his joints felt as if they hadn't moved in days.
Two and a half hours. He sighed, breaking eye contact with the bottle and shifting slowly, convinced he could feel his bones creaking. His head swam from the sudden movement, small as it was.
He circled his hand around the bottle and lifted it to twist it open, filling the two glasses with a finger each. He set the bottle down again, not bothering to screw the cap on but placing it over the opening, then took one glass and tapped it to the other.
His hand paused on its way to his mouth and he lifted it slightly before bringing it to him and drinking it in one go.
I should've done this in the first place, he thought vaguely as the firewhiskey trailed a burning sensation down his throat and into his stomach, reaching warmth out into his chest and his extremities. The dull longing feeling eased a little, and he found it easier to breathe as he filled his glass with a further two fingers, pausing before sloshing more into the glass. His bones and muscles started to ease up, protesting less than they had the first time he lifted the glass to his mouth. Though this time, he didn't hesitate before the rim of the glass touched his lips.
He vaguely realised that he must have gotten cold, sitting there so still for so long. He moved his toes in his shoes, a few of them popping, and he pulled his legs together, putting a hand between his knees in an effort to keep it warm. As the firewhiskey spread through him again, he felt he didn't need to keep his hand there, but did anyway.
The air around him felt delicate and thick at the same time. Like the aching feeling had escaped his chest and filled the room, like it could all come crashing down on him if he disturbed it too much. He pushed this thought out of his mind with force as he filled his glass again, this time putting a little more in the second one on the table as well.
He tilted his glass slightly to the other and nodded at it. "Wouldn't want you to feel left out now, would we?"
He drained the firewhiskey in two parts, the second attempt leaking out of the corner of his mouth. He used the back of his hand to wipe at it lazily, feeling a different tingling in his hands than before.
After a few more glasses and a spillage down the front of his cardigan later, the last inkling of firewhiskey drained pathetically into his glass. Knowing full well there was none left, he shook the bottle in the hopes of getting everything he could from it. After draining his glass he looked at the untouched one on the table again.
Reaching forward over the table, his hands shook as he tipped the contents from the spare glass to his own, laughing at himself. "I'm sure you understand."
The last of the firewhiskey sitting pleasantly warm in his stomach, he slouched down in his chair, lacing his fingers and resting them just above his belt. His vision had become blurred around the edges and he knew that, though he had stopped drinking, he would continue to get drunk.
He dragged a hand down his face, the contact feeling strange and muffled, as though he was feeling it through a thin piece of scratchy fabric. The act of filling and draining the glass had distracted him a little, given him something to do. Now, with his hands idle, he felt the texture of the air again and felt he couldn't escape it.
Nevertheless, he tried to. Heaving himself out of his chair, he swayed on his feet for a moment as his head reeled. The firewhiskey was no longer warm and reassuring, but now sat uncomfortably in his stomach, burning his insides like bile.
He waited for things to settle before moving to the kettle on the bench next to the table and putting it on. He could use his wand to boil the water in it, but the Muggle way gave him something to do.
He opened a few cupboards before he found the right one, taking down a mug and teabags and closing it again. Repeating the process, he opened various drawers and found a teaspoon. Upon opening the fridge, he winced and held up a hand to shield his eyes from the stark, white light. Once he had adjusted, he found a bottle of milk just as the kettle came to a boil.
He stared again out of the window over the sink as he stirred his tea. There was no teabag in it anymore, though it had milk and he had put in his usual amount of sugar. He stood there, absently stirring long after the sugar dissolved, staring out into the street two stories below.
He froze suddenly has he was overcome by the feeling – the need – to fling himself out of that window. The window felt a lot bigger and the street a lot further away than they had before.
Remus was brought out of his horrified stupor by the sound of metal on china and hot tea spilling onto his hand resting on the bench. He took in a hiss of breath and wrung his hand before picking up his mug.
He trailed down the hallway to his room, trying not to think about windows. Trying not to think about a lot of things.
About James and Lily. About their bodies, their funerals – who would be organising them? Would they be cremated or buried? He had always felt that choice said a lot about a person, yet he had never had the discussion with James.
About poor Harry. About who had him right now. Would they take him to the funeral? Was it a friend or family member? James' or Lily's? It couldn't be a friend, not with …
The name died in his mind and he winced.
Not with the situation with him, and if Harry wasn't with Remus then what other friend was there?
Remus didn't know many of Lily's friends. There was Peter, one of his, one of James', one of … his. But he was gone now, too. And there again were more questions. Who was going to tell Peter's mother? Would there be a funeral for him as well?
And, finally, Remus allowed his thoughts to turn to Sirius. What about Sirius? What about the events of two nights ago, with firewhiskey on their lips just before they fell asleep? What did that mean now, after what happened at Godric's Hollow?
Remus gritted his teeth as he put his mug down on his bedside table. He made to unbutton his shirt, but every movement made his head swim.
The meaning of that night hadn't changed after the death of James and Lily. It hadn't changed since Harry was taken away from the scene of his parents' deaths. It hadn't changed since Remus found out one of his best friends was dead. It hadn't changed since he found out about the death of another earlier that day. It hadn't changed when he found out it was by Sirius' hands that Peter had died. It hadn't changed, because Sirius hadn't changed in that time, in those mere forty eight hours. Sirius hadn't changed, he was just never the person Remus thought he was.
And there it was, the leaded, sinking, aching, longing feeling in his chest. Taking up all the space in his torso and out into his arms, his legs. Even his head, already heavy and feeling full of lukewarm water was filled with that daunting feeling of emptiness. Remus was all on his own now. His friends either dead or just as good.
He lay down on the sheets, not bothering to get between them. He felt one tear disappear into his hair line while the other tickled his face as it slid down the edge of his nose, making him want to sneeze. He never got so far before the feeling devoured him and he fell asleep.