Tea:
It is dark outside, and it is raining. It always seems to be raining these days, and the world is grey and old, with random flashes of green light and heavy bodies of people he used to know thudding to the ground with weighty finality. It's cold as well, Remus notices, dully, putting the cup of tea up to his lips and not taking a sip. He can't be bothered to light a fire.
The steam, with a light fragrance of tealeaves seeped in sugar, that could once make Remus smile even the night before the full moon, now seems heavy, heady, nauseating. It's slightly disorienting, the fact that he hasn't had a shot of firewhiskey for almost months now, hasn't felt the need. It's numbing him, this war-inertia, and Remus recalls feeling vaguely worried about the fact that all this has become normal, the only steady, constant thing in his daft life.
It doesn't bother him now, the empty fireplace, the suspicion and doubt and fear hidden behind words unsaid, the soft dark grey coat not hanging near the door, the nights spent busy with no soft, breathy sighs and low, beautiful moans but harsh, loud gasps that leave his heart raw and hurting- but that isn't true. It's just that he's grown used to it, and the thought that this might be the rest of his life terrifies him and comforts him at the same time. Because if it all stays the same, then there will never have to be any accusations, any pointed fingers, any known (loved) eyes closed for all eternity, shut up in thick wooden boxes, any faces that once laughed and grimaced and kissed and sighed buried underneath soil the colour of rotten fruit.
He's grown used to seeing the desperate plea in his friend's eyes, begging him to deny it, to tell them that it isn't him- he answers it with a steady look manufactured over long days spent sitting at the order headquarters all alone, poking at the table with his wand and quelling memories that, he constantly reminds himself, will not help any of them in any way. The look is shuttered, and hard; he knows it all too well, practices it in front of the mirror. He knows how it breaks Sirius to hear him mutter something about banging into a ladder when Sirius asks about the purple bruise blossoming on his shoulder; He knows how it makes James frown and sigh when Remus can't babysit Harry because Order business, Sorry. He sees how Peter starts and blinks tears away when Remus asks him, accusatory, why he didn't make it to Harry's first birthday; he sees Lily bite her lip and close her own eyes when Remus looks at her again, blank, Sorry, what were you saying? Remus tries not to care.
Remus has had his heart broken before, as he had told Lily on another stormy night similar to this one, a few weeks ago, when James and Sirius were off fighting death-eaters and Peter was off doing 'Order business', and Harry, just a week and a day shy of one year and four months old, was sleeping softly on the sofa behind them. He doesn't plan to let it break again. There's no point, he had said, fiercely, and almost shocked himself out of his deadened stupor. "There's always a point, Remus," she had said, her voice sweet and cool, like new linen sheets. "Remember that. There's always something worth fighting for."
Remus tries not to remember. It makes him hurt, and he doesn't like that. It makes him want to talk to them, those three blokes he once knew better than himself. He can't afford to do that, with Dumbledore sending him off on missions and Sirius and James stopping by at pubs to catch up with their old mate, Death, and Peter quiet and talking about spies in a low, worried voice. He can't afford to snap out of this self-induced numbness. He is no stranger to pain- every month his bones expand and bend and shift and shrink and thick, heavy fur erupts from his skin- but he has a sinking suspicion that this pain, this every-day feeling of hopeless despair and sneaking suspicion of betrayal would be much worse.
"Whatever happens, it will be worth it, as long as you are at peace with the ones you love," Lily had added. Lily is their anchor, their lighthouse, keeping them sane and safe and far from the treacherous rocks of terror and nightmares. She had glanced at Remus, raising an eyebrow pointedly. Lily had always been an observant girl, thoughtful and caring, with a barely-repressed motherliness for her boys that hadn't faded the slightest once Harry had come along. "Talk to him," she had said, and Remus had nodded absently, filing the advice away for some later date when he wasn't worried sick because Sirius and James could be dead on the street and Peter was just not there.
Remus gets a lot of advice these days, from Mad-Eye Moody, Constant Vigilance!; from Dumbledore, try to look enthusiastic when they talk about a new target; From Peter, I wouldn't trust anyone, if I were you. He's learnt to ignore it, until it's white noise, and if Peter's advice rings louder and clearer than other things- hopeful smiles and claps on the shoulder and I trust you guys with my life, then, well, this is war.
He muses over Lily's words as the steam wafts over his face, seeming, not gentle and calming, but unforgivingly hot and sharp against his raw, aching skin that is riddled with scars, more new than old.
Rain splatters over the window with a sudden gust of wind, and the drops glow faintly orange in the light of the candle on the windowsill. Remus can see outside through the rain-light, a chilly street with tiny figures hurrying along, grey against an even darker background.
These are the boys who risked Azkaban just to make your moons easier, he reminds himself. These are the boys who stood by you through thick and thin. These are the boys who hexed the professor who called you mudblood, and who slipped you the Felix Felices they won when you were having a bad day. He ignores the mean little voice that says These are the boys who almost made you a murderer. Except that the fact that he ignores it makes it stand out painfully, cold and silver against a warm reddish glow.
And they are still boys, Remus thinks hurriedly, before any more black thoughts could trod over Lily's voice, white and pure (There is always a point, Remus.) They are twenty-two. They are twenty-two, and they are boys- afraid and lonely and with eyes used to (but still afraid of) Death, forced to hide it behind tall ideals, strong words, false bravado, and broad shoulders. They are just as timid and vulnerable as they were when they first met, eleven and nervous and innocent and not exactly shy.
Remus doesn't want to remember the first day, the first kiss, the first time- Whatever happens, it will be worth it, as long as you are at peace with the ones you love
He doesn't want to think that it is Sirius' fault that Fabian and Gideon Prewett were ambushed on their way back from the ministry, he doesn't want to think that it is Sirius' fault that Lily and James have to go into hiding, he doesn't want to think that Sirius never really had been good at keeping other people's secrets- Talk to him.
He has a feeling that the inertia has gone on long enough, and there is going to be an explosion soon. He's learnt to trust these instincts, a mixture of werewolf intuition and living with the three craziest boys in Gryffindor tower for seven years.
Talk to him.
"Damn you, Lily." He winces at his low, scratchy voice- at least there is no one else to hear it.
Remus makes up his mind. He will talk to Sirius, but maybe tomorrow, when Sirius gets back from work, because tomorrow, tomorrow is Halloween, and tomorrow is clean and fresh and new.
Remus gulps down his tea- he doesn't notice how it sears the back of his throat; foreshadowing, perhaps, when tea, once warm and comforting, is now scalding hot and hurtful and makes him slightly queasy. He makes his way to bed and pretends to be asleep when Sirius gets back and drapes a tired arm over his waist, pulling him closer. He pretends not to hear Sirius' sobs, muffled wetly against his neck.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes, and at ten twenty-three pm, he receives an owl. Brown and shabby and standing out painfully amongst flocks of purple and green laughter, he makes his way to a bar and drowns himself in firewhiskey.
A/N: I seem to be unable to write anything but angst/crazy stuff these days. The tea? It's supposed to be symbolic. [I hope you got it before I told you.] Reviews are for telling me whether or not you thought it was complete crap!