:D Yay. I wrote this today, shortly after reading i.write.fic.not.tragedies' latest Remus/Sirius.

DISCLAIMER: Though the feelings and the rant may not be hers, the characters are. JK Rowling, the genius who created Harry Potter and all things attached, is not me. No matter how much I wish she were.

I was supposed to be cleaning the dishes. Which I still haven't done yet because then we had dinner and then we watched the Olympics. Exciting.

But maybe I shouldn't be saying yay. Because some of this actually comes from a heart that really does beat outside of the pages of a book and in the minds of readers. Some of these feelings are actually true.

Definition of a T rating: Not suitable for children. Swearing is not suitable for children. Nor is the one brief reference to sex. Hence the T rating. (Though there is no actually sex. Just a reference to a certain organ. I'm grinning immaturely right now.)

A serious rant, really. Sirius style. No smut, no citrus, no slash unless you really want it to exist even behind denial. I wrote it without slash, but I don't really know what's going on with them, so, you know, think what you want.

Sirius is a little bit insecure. And hella-jealous. This is NOT about love. This about hate. And the definition of perfection. In the eyes of a Gryffindor raised by Slytherins.

--moi. (my name is still Inconsequential.)

Oh, shout out to mysterylegend! This isn't about you, but you're bored and want to read some fanfiction. Guess this one's for your entertainment. THIS is how to make an angry character. (If you're not mysterylegend, you'll have no idea what I'm referring too, so just read.)

A Sirius Rant

To put it shortly, I, Sirius Black, am capable of some serious (pun vaguely intended), ass-whooping jealousy.

When I first met and befriended James, Remus, and Peter, and those ever-growing, impeccably strong roots of jealousy were planted, I felt guilty. With every malicious wish, hopeful thought, came a pang just as strong beating me back, beating me down. They're my friends. No matter what they do or who they are, they don't deserve whatever I've thought up, my faulty conscience told me.

Nowadays, the guilt just makes me angrier. Faulty conscience? Ehh, it's probably dead by now.

Firstly, no matter how entertaining he is, James can be such an ass. He kind of (well, more than kind of) thinks he's better than everyone—purebloods and muggles alike. But whenever the purebloods start off a lecture of their own, he preaches equality. If I were on their side, I'd immediately call him on it. But I'm not. Even if I were to overflow with the pure-blood already swishing through my veins, I'm on James' side. Everyone magical, whatever their heritage, should get a chance. Of course, somehow, when James says it, he also manages to point out that all purebloods are festering turds. At which point I'm back to square one, with the annoyance.

But James isn't even the problem. He's bright, cunning, talented, "quite the catch"—both at Quidditch and with the ladies, but he's nothing compared to Remus. N-o-thing. Not a thing.

Quiet, sweet, simple, yet brilliant Remus Lupin.

Best friends till the end, that's Remus and me. And, on the whole, our friendship is smooth and special, and perhaps a little bit private, but not like some girls want to think. Hah, sorry, but no. What do muggles say? Something about bats? Anyway, you know what I mean. That's not the point.

The point is that Remus drives me crazy. In a bad sense. Wait a minute. Why does everything sound like a really idiotic sex comment? NO. Remus is my friend. And he pisses me off. Get it? Continuing.

He's smart—smarter than James, and certainly smarter than me…No comment about Peter. But Remus is quiet. I mentioned that already, I know, but he is. He's not overtly smart, doesn't wave it around in people's faces like James and, sometimes, I admit, I do. In fact, he's always grumbling about how hard everything is, how crushing the homework is, how he's going to fail. The only thing he gloats about is Defense Against the Dark Arts, mostly because werewolves show up for a large period of time in lessons, a time during which he's even smarter than usual. Witty and sarcastic too—the knowledge he has allows him to joke. And the teachers can never say a thing.

But on the whole, that's not how he is. Sure, he's pleasant, mostly self-assured. From afar, he's a bit like James and me. (Still no comment on Peter, sorry.) Level headed, confident. Perhaps he never partakes in any of our antics, but he watches from the sidelines with a smirk to match ours. However, the minute we turn away, he's busily and worriedly asking us why the hell (pardon his language) we'd done such a thing.

Most everyone likes him, even the people who hate me. People who don't know him admire him because he's a good student, and the least troublesome of us four. People look up to me because I'm perhaps the most troublesome. A difference I don't mind, but we're all poster boys for our little group, and I'm the ass. James is the dick with the swollen head, Peter is the whimpering vagina, Remus is the smooth, succulent, favored breasts, and I'm the asshole.

So maybe it's because that's how everyone in my Slytherin-sick family was (is), but that doesn't make me feel any better. I don't have to be an ass; it's a matter of choice. Remus chooses not to, and finds some sort of peace that I don't have. When people do bitch at him, it's hard, he says, but I'm so used to it, I don't have to flinch; I've got my Snivellus sneer down. James fronts, and when he's stumped, I'm there, backing him up because it's almost my job—even though James acts like it's some sort of right. Remus warns against my comebacks, but laughs when they shoot from my mouth.

Another faulty conscience, except this is one with flesh and blood and lots of self-inflicted scars.

Those scars on that conscience convinced us that Remus needed help, which was true. And somehow, we decided Animagi were the smartest answer. The best way to keep him from tearing himself up into red ribbons of blood tied loosely around his werewolf paws.

James, the git, chose a stag. To go gallivanting about with a wolf. I'm still surprised Remus hasn't tried to eat him yet. But then again, Remus would never do that. Remus is too gentle, even as the bloodthirsty creature he becomes under the bright full moon. And I guess I hate that too, shitty friend that I am.

Remus is selfless and wondrous. When he rants and raves, he always apologizes—ever the worry-wart. Did his ten second semi-complaint ruin my day? Oh, he's such a downer, so self-centered, so sorry. It's these comments to which I ought to reply with a punch in the gut because he's so so sorry and so so so wrong.

But see, that's the thing. That's where the guilt comes back. I'm the self-centered one. And with every little comment about how self-centered Remus is, I want to yell at him and tell him that if he's so fucking obnoxious then I must be at least a billion times worse. Which, even if he isn't obnoxious or self-centered at all, I still am. And the fact that I'm angry with Remus for indirectly pointing it out just goes to show how self-centered I really happen to be. Man, there is so much Slytherin in me.

As for Remus, ever the cheerful Gryffindor? He's perfect.

But he's not. He's a werewolf. He has his own problems that I can see only because we're friends. I have to be there for him. The guilt waves over me, flipping me over so I can see the sun through the water just to realize it's the moon—Remus' moon. And then I'm crashing into the sand face down, sopping wet and partially drowned in self-loathing.

He may not be perfect, but he's so much closer to it than I am.

And because I'm nowhere near perfect, I hate myself for being so egocentric. For hating so strongly. But if he were to know it (of my hate that is), all he'd say is you're wrong; you're amazing. You're always there for me, Sirius, when I'm down, when I'm being stupid and self-pitying. On the bad days and the good.

Which is completely untrue. Because on the bad days, I'm not with him. I'm in my own head screaming at him from behind lying eyes telling him to shut up because Transfiguration really was hard—and you're the one who managed to turn your porcupine into a cushion with a few pins and quills. You're not the one whose porcupine nearly died when all its quills turned into pins jabbing at its flesh. Oh, the cruel thoughts I think.

Although Remus is the one who jabs at his own flesh. And that's not perfect either.

And the fact that I still think he's perfect, still think he has everything to gain and nothing to lose, still think he's got no problems even though I know he does, the fact that I think all those damn-ass things makes me an even bigger asshole-dick-whatever than James and a worse wimp than Peter (ah, there's the comment).

'Cause see, when Remus finds all this out, he'll ask me why the fuck (don't pardon his language) I think that. His life is nowhere close to perfect, nowhere close to where he wants it to be. He's got more troubles than I do, really, even though you're the one who spends six hours yelling about one thing that pissed you off. And he'll tell me that, and point out just how right I am. About me. Not about him. About me being an ass.

Which is completely true. And I'm jealous that he'll see how much it's going to hurt me, and actually have the heart to say it anyway—have the heart not to hide away in his head and scream silently.

And, see, I'll be too much of a fucking coward to say anything back.

xfin.

Which is completely true.

Thoughts?

peace
and
flying.

--Sawlt (to your Suger.)