Disclaimer: I'm just writing a story… The book's not mine at ALL.
Bittersweet Moments of Decline
His breath made white puffs in the crisp night air. He snuggled farther into his black coat and resisted the urge to grab a cigarette. He fingered the box distractedly and finally clenched his hand to avoid the temptation. His eyes roamed the horizon of concrete and lights. Sure, inside was warm and nice, but he wasn't ready.
Sighing, he turned around and slowly ambled towards the door. Laughter and noise drifted towards him and stanzas of some crazy music wafted by. He stopped and gazed off nostalgically, remembering the times before all this… shit… happened. The world shifted as his mind went back to better times when he wasn't so god-damned invisible, when someone would have noticed the fucking guest of honor was gone.
He turned his back on the small sliver of light and walked back towards the steel railing. Okay, so he wasn't the only guest of honor and most of the people invited didn't even know he existed, but he had at least hoped that his godfather would have noticed his absence. The box of cigarettes felt heavy in his pocket and his hand unclenched to drift slowly back to the carton. His hand skimmed around the borders of the cardboard box and he gave in.
In an economy of movement, he had placed and lit a cigarette in his mouth. He inhaled contentedly and savored the sense of death. He was struck by the loneliness of it all, smoking on a dark balcony at his own birthday party. He smiled grimly and placed a hand on the rail. His mind wandered aimlessly, old memories flew by, jumbled and harsh. He shoved back, hoping to stop the humiliation he felt and forcefully returned his mind to the present. Anger restricted his movements and he jerkily lit another cigarette.
He hated it here, in London. He could never escape the notoriety of his reputation, unless he was far away with people who didn't care just who he was. He didn't have any real friends, just people who he vaguely cared about that didn't really exist. He pressed the lit end on his thumb and relished the pain it caused. He heard the doors slide open and he threw down and stomped on his cigarette. He hunched up, hoping to be ignored.
It was seldom true that he actually wanted to be alone, but tonight was different. He didn't want to have to explain his melancholy to some idiotic well-wisher who didn't understand jack-shit. Shoes clacked on the stone balcony and traveled closer. He resolutely kept his eyes on the horizon, refusing to look at the intruder. The acrid smell of tobacco cloaked him and a sense of embarrassment hung in the air.
A small, quiet voice broke the silence: "Why?"
He looked over and was startled to see Sirius gazing at him mournfully. Anger filled him at his pitiful accusation. He knew what the fucking problem was. He jerked away and settled for, "I'm going to break the habit, okay?"
His curt answer had obviously hurt him and he regretted his unnecessary cruelty. "Look, I know it's bad for me. Fuck. I'm addicted, okay? I can't… I need this."
He faced the horizon and collected his frazzled thoughts. "I'm just so tired of this whole fucking life. So what if I'm not like my dad. It doesn't fucking matter, I'm going to die anyway. It's all so pointless and muted. I'm underwater and I can't fucking break the surface."
He was shocked to hear a choked sob and was suddenly ambushed by a pair of arms squeezing the air out of his lungs. He awkwardly patted Sirius on the back, unsure of how to comfort him.
"Jesus, Harry, I love you. I don't want another James, I want you. I've wanted to be there for you this year, but I can't get out of this prison. I love you."
The world tilted and Harry clung to Sirius's robes, tears rolling down his cheeks. He mumbled out inane words, trying to express just what that meant to him. Sirius seemed to understand and pulled Harry in closer.
"I'll never leave you again."