The house is quiet, everyone else long since gone to bed. There is no one to berate him for staying up drinking, no one to order him to bed, and the bottle of Firewhiskey is enough comfort anyway, each mouthful smooth on his tongue before burning his throat. (It's not the first time that he wishes he could believe his own lies.)
Typical, he supposes, for him to be drinking alone at the start of the New Year. An undoubted sign of things to come.
Soon, the house will be empty again - everyone gone back to school and those who aren't in school gone home. It'll just be him alone with his thoughts and Buckbeak for company. And even Buckbeak is asleep now, has been for a few hours, head tucked under wing.
He wishes Remus would come back, but he left hours ago, said it was essential. Midnight hadn't even tolled. Not even Remus can stomach being around him now, can't deal with this useless, broken, bitter shadow of a man who wears so many masks just to get through the day. The thought is worth another swig from the bottle, which is getting dangerously low.
The whiskey fills his head, making him woozy and he leans against the banister as he sits on the stairs. The drinking is a new habit, a new comfort, and, Merlin, but he hates himself for it, even though nothing else helps. Not anymore.
Remus comes back, two hours before dawn, and finds Sirius slumped over at the top of the stairs leading up to his room. The long dark hair hides his face from view, but Remus knows he's asleep. It's the only explanation for the slackness in his limbs as Remus pulls him into his arms and takes a swig from the almost-empty bottle of whiskey.
"I'm sorry, Sirius," he murmurs, kissing his forehead gently. "I'm so sorry." It fills him with self-loathing to think that he could have prevented this. There are so many little moments in the fourteen years which could have ensured that Sirius didn't end up like this, or at least, not as bad. If he'd had the faith in him back then and believed that he wasn't a traitor, then he could have saved him from Azkaban. If he'd taken his Wolfsbane that evening, then they could have kept Peter in their control. And surely there is some way that he can get out of this house every now and then, be it an invisibility cloak or Polyjuice Potion or Merlin knows what but there's bound to be a way. Anything to ease the depression which has been eating at him for the last several months. (Remus knows that Sirius thinks that he can't see, but he sees and it hurts because he knows that Sirius doesn't want to worry him. But he's worried anyway, terrified, actually, that this will bring out his old recklessness and he'll do something ridiculous. As if the drinking isn't reckless enough already. He tries to be here as much as possible, he really does, but with Order missions it's more and more difficult to take care of Sirius too. And that fills him with self-loathing. And though Sirius doesn't blame him, he knows that in no small way this is his fault too.)
Gently, he shakes Sirius awake. "Come on," he says softly. "You're better off in bed. You'll only hurt your neck if you sleep out here all night." Sirius doesn't protest, too fuzzy-headed and bleary-eyed and Remus doubts if he even knows where he is, but he leads him down the hall and puts him to bed anyway, crawling in beside him and enfolding him in his arms. Sirius smiles sleepily and presses a kiss to Remus' cheek, Remus kissing him back.
"Happy New Year, Padfoot," he says softly, and feels more than hears Sirius sigh against him.
"Happy New Year, Moony."