A/N: Yup, here it is. I really like this one, so hopefully you guys will, too! Thanks so much to my beta-ish person, Sceltina.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, the references to the wizarding world, Firewhiskey, or anything that J. K. Rowling owns. Because we all know that she owns Harry Potter, so therefore, I don't. Anything else that seems to remind you of something else, I don't own. If this plot was accidentally like something else you read, this is just coincidence, because seriously, I just ranted this out and edited.
Lying Innocently
By Twilts
Some more murderous part of him was scheming a dreadful scheme, at the moment, and wondering how hard he'd have to glare at someone before said person was taken unawares by the explosion of his arteries, and was wondering if that person'd really be unawares, or if, as the blood seeped around him, he would wonder why oh why something like this would happen, and wonder whether his wedding day would have to be postponed a bit before the healers could put him to rights.
Sometimes Sirius hated the wizarding world.
He had to admit, though, that should his certain counterpart have been in the same room, that he might thank the wizarding world after imploding his best friend's arteries. As dreadful everything was, he really didn't wish death on anyone. That was his mother's job. It was as though that little pushing in every time his heart pushed out really wasn't the heart burn he'd written it off to be, but rather the steady fight of his will against the automatic functions of his body, and that perhaps with every push in, his will was gaining a bit and pushing the blood in the opposite direction so it might propel him a bit closer to the brink of danger that when he fell onto might be cushioned by a bit of insanity. Or, at least, so would (because they could) claim the courts and they'd shake their heads and wonder if he'd become a screaming lunatic in all his portraits as well, but then they really didn't have to worry, did they? Because the portraits were burnt in the House of Black, and all that remained was a scratch of his existence on a long tapestry. No one had ever really cared enough to paint the caricature he lived in any other place. It was ironic to think that those who "cared" enough were those who'd actually justify his previous murderous thoughts.
The letter from his mother was lying innocently on the coffee table next to the invitation, and Sirius' eyed slid lazily over to the mug of coffee he'd smuggled from the kitchen that was resting on the glass top of a only slightly cluttered table, reflecting its pale green color on the glass that he knew would soon bare the guilty ring of a coffee stain. His coffee stain. He felt strangely akin to it, at this moment, as they were both really just smudges of existence, right? And they were both intruding and both a little lonely and both a little up too late but why the hell did it matter anyway?
The letter from his mother was lying innocently on the coffee table next to the invitation, and Sirius wondered vaguely where all the wine he'd hidden in the boxes when he'd moved had gone and if his roommate had really had the gall to vanish it all like he'd said he would, but then Sirius had never taken anything seriously but maybe he should have so maybe then the pun-on-names wouldn't be so old because if Sirius really was serious, then who was to mock the siriusness of it all? He wanted for the wine, kind of, but felt that flame of guilt slowly eating up
The letter from his mother was lying innocently on the coffee table next to the invite. They were ashes and the orange glow he could picture so well in his mind was licking the paper enough to make it shiver and curl up and blush a deep black blush and he vaguely wondered when the last time he'd done that to someone was. It had been fame, really, from the first moment he'd walked in with his too-hot-to-touch black hair that was really a common color in this school, right, whether greasy or messy or serious, so what had made him so special. He wondered if Dumbledore had ever swaggered as much as he'd done but then banished the old twinkling fool from his mind and wondered if he'd see the pale reflection of his depression in the ring of guilty tan coffee when he'd get up the next morning to put on his cheery grin and waltz down to his messy friend and his blushing bride-to-be. He was allowed one night of gloom, right, but
The letter from his mother was lying innocently on the coffee table next to the invitation to his best friend's wedding who wouldn't be able to talk to him about the former when he was on his honeymoon to Alaska of Oahu or wherever the goddamn hell Sirius had bought them tickets to, because it was his fault, really, and who cared in the end because he'd never made anyone shiver and blush black in ages and who was to say he ever would when he was alone now. He wanted for the wine that his werewolf had had the gall to vanish, because Serious wasn't sirius enough, in the end.
When Sirius heard the slow creaking of the hinges of the door down the hall by the curtains that he'd sworn Moony had knitted when he was feeling particularly fruity, and wondered why he wasn't hearing soft padded feet but rather the heavy foot fall of those well polished shoes he'd seen his roommate shine in the middle of unpacking the boxes when he'd moved from where he'd been kicked out of for the blushing bride to be. Who would wear shoes at goddamn two in the morning anyhow, and Sirius didn't need to look down to the ends of his splayed out legs to know the answer to his questions. If he couldn't be hypocritical in his thoughts, then where else could he be when, after all, he'd had his fair share of in when he'd asked Prongs why a best friend wouldn't be happy when his counterpart was giving out invitations.
The invitation was lying next to the letter from his mother when Remus came down the hallway and plopped down next to Sirius on the sofa, after nudging the sprawled out leg off the couch and onto the carpeted floor where it'd been falling anyway. He looked at Sirius with a curious expression before lifting his previously hidden left hand with a bit of flare and a sad smile.
"You thought I'd vanished it, but really I think werewolves have good reason to steal a bit of whiskey and wine sometimes. It comes in handy when your best friend is getting married and going to the Bahamas and leaving his best mates behind," Remus said, handing Sirius a bottle and lifting his own to his lips and taking a swig.
"Right, Bahamas. I'd forgotten where the bloody place they were to consummate this stupid thing was." And he took a sip and they drowned together, losing their friend but not alone on the slippery downward fall.
They both had night to fall before putting on cheery grins and waltzing down to congratulate once again their messy friend and his blushing bride-to-be.