There are no flowers, not this time. He remembers the flowers from before, the ones they sent to him in the weeks following that Halloween, the ones they left on the two graves, and the ones he himself laid among the ruins of the Potters' shattered home. He remembers especially though, the flowers he left for one who wasn't buried, but who was just as dead to him. Remus remembers the flowers, but he will not leave any this time.
There were flowers sent to him of course, flowers and gifts and cards expressing empty sympathy. People crowded him, asked after him, all in an effort to show him they cared. To show him he was not alone.
Remus threw the cards in the fire, ignored the gifts and left the flowers to wilt. He pushed his friends away, answered their questions with a forced smile and a monosyllabic answer, and spent his days skulking around the manor, wandering from one room to the next like a phantom, as though he was searching for something, but couldn't quite remember what. He knew they cared, but it meant nothing. They knew nothing of this pain, this crushing loneliness. They hadn't known Sirius as he had, so how could they possibly understand?
* * *
The flowers, of course, are present at the funeral. (Was it really a funeral? Didn't a funeral require a body?) Soft colored petals bloom in a sea of black, the sweet perfume surrounding him. The hall echoes now and then with whispers and quiet sobs. Remus is silent, making only the barest of muffled noises. These are not the sounds of a man holding back his grief. These are the sounds of a man holding back a far different emotion. The eulogies are laughable. Flowery speeches about a man whose good qualities far surpassed any of his shortcomings, a man elevated by his deeds to a level higher than these mere mortals gathered in his honour. They talk of bravery, of selflessness, of a kind and caring man whose courageous acts would be remembered throughout history. Remus wonders idly whether he's at the wrong funeral.
Another eulogy, another trembling figure delivering empty words to the gathering, another burst of hysterical laughter for Remus to disguise. He coughs loudly, hoping nobody notices the almost manic gleam in his eyes, or the bark of laughter that almost escapes again. Someone pats his back gently and Remus has to bite his lip to keep from further embarrassment. Even the blood he can taste in his mouth doesn't stop the barely disguised laughter from escaping.
It is his turn to speak now. He has tried to put it off as long as possible, but the time has come. There is no prepared speech, no flowery poetry or rambling words about a hero. He'll think of something, he's sure, provided he can keep from laughing. Besides, Sirius never prepared anything, the impulsive bastard. The corner of his lip twitches as he stands in silence, looking at the flowers, in particular the roses. Sirius hated roses. He got slapped by a girl while she was holding one in fourth year. He'd hidden up in their dormitory for hours, bemoaning the fate of his beautiful face. That was Sirius for you. Always so vain.
With that memory, the flimsy barriers crumble and Remus laughs. He laughs like a madman. No, not a madman, he laughs like Sirius laughed when they were young, always loud and without fear, like whatever he'd just seen or heard was the funniest thing in existence. Because that's how Sirius lived. Everything was either worthy of his undivided attention (however short that may be) or none at all.
The laughter serves as a eulogy in itself. Sirius had always laughed the longest, the loudest, and the most. Surely, Remus thinks, they'll remember this far more than the other pointless speeches. With a bow, he takes his leave of the crowd, and the hall, and makes his way outside to wait out the rest of the service away from their stares, their deluded speeches, and the stupid bloody flowers.
* * *
There are dozens of flowers arranged on the grass. The simple grey headstone marks the spot where a body should be, but the words carved into it are obscured by the pile of soft petals and foliage bound with ribbon and string. Remus wants to rip them away, toss them to the wind so he can read the words that are carved by uncaring hands into the cold stone. He doubts they will be the right words. It would take a thousand hands a thousand years to carve the right words, if ever Remus could think of any. That alone was an impossible task. What should he say in farewell to the one person who had come to mean the world to him? There were no words in any language known to man that could describe the pain, the grief, the loneliness, and the love that he felt for the man whose body should be lying beneath his feet. Flowers, Remus snorts, fall horribly short.
* * *
There are no flowers from him, not this time, or ever again. He has grieved that way once already. He has left flowers for a man who was, in all but the literal sense, dead. He has mourned when nobody else would. Now there are a hundred flowers, and Remus will remember these too. The sickening colours, and the smell that clouds his senses, making him retch. They are an insulting attempt at the right words, a pathetic farewell to a man about whom they thought they knew everything, when really they were all deluded. They knew nothing. So there were no flowers from Remus, because he knew more than they ever would. He knew everything there was to know about Sirius, everything that Sirius was willing to show. He knew every smile, every fear, every scar, every inch of him. So he said his farewell in the only way he saw fit.
As the afternoon waned, and the sky took on the dramatic red-gold of sunset, one man stood at the grave, his head thrown back, eyes closed, face wet with tears. Thin shoulders shook and his arms wrapped around his waist, fingers entwined in the fabric of his clothes. There would be a time when he would grieve, but for now Remus lost himself in this one beautiful moment of tears and wild laughter.
After all, what better way is there to farewell a man like Sirius Black?
A/N: Wrote this a while ago, in a rush, after re-reading OOTP. Am posting now because I'm bored. Not the best, but please no flames, because it's just a waste of your time and mine. They will be mocked and ignored.