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He wakes up, gasping for air.
It's not the first time he dreams he dies, but he wonders why this one felt so… so… well, he'd like to say, like death, but you can't really know death until you actually die, right?
Damn, but it's chilly, too.
Fucking Reg left the window open again, is what happened, and as he stands up to close it, effectively shutting the November chill outside, his joints creak in a way in which they totally shouldn't, considering he's youthfully 37, plays football three (sometimes four) times a week, and very competently coaches Harry's rugby team in the weekends (allright, allright, he'll concede, he's not that young that he wants to play rugby himself any more, but… but he was a damn fine player, when he did, and it's not that he can't, or he shouldn't, it's just… he doesn't feel like being routinely crushed by careless sturdy players is all, and…) He kills that train of thought, because pursuing 3am trains of thought is never a smart thing to do.
Especially after you just woke up from a disturbing dream in which you died, just like that. Falling through drapery, his mind ridiculously supplies.
While he microwaves some tea he found leftover inside Reg's posh teapot, the droll sound of the appliance gets woven into dark, creepy images that are flashes from the dream. Stone floors, stone walls. Ominous blasts of light and people running around, screams, chaos…. Well, he doesn't really remember the particulars, but there's a feeling in his chest, a tightening just-so that almost tastes of dispute, bad blood, despair.
A nightmare, then.
Adding honey to the tea doesn't really do much for the weird buzzing sensation you get when you die in your dreams, so he resorts to his trusted stash of whiskey to fix it.
Ah, right, this is exactly how you should drink tea, when woken like this in the dead of night, he thinks, not in the mood for sniggering at the pun, and waiting for the warmth to spread and calm him so he can actually go back to sleep… (on his bed, this time, though, he adds with an unrepentant mental-smirk) while he turns off the tv, which he'd muted at some point before completely falling asleep before, and gives the sofa (the sole cause of his sore joints, mind you) the evil eye.
Walking back to his room, after persuading himself of the silliness of dawdling at 3am glaring at furniture when he's got to get up for work the following morning, a stray thought comes from nowhere- just how thankful he is that he can hear his brother's steady, rhythmic breathing coming from the guest room, which is very odd.
Because ever since Reg's been boarding with him while his fancy flat is renovated to become even fancier, there haven't been many moments in which Sirius has been honestly, bro-level thrilled to have him around. They mostly happen when/if Reg forgets he's this uptown stockbroker with more money than he can count and actually acts like they're brothers.
…aAlso when they are in cahoots to make their cousin's husband Lucio miserable. But that's almost about it.
Oh well.
Sirius chalks this curious feeling of gratefulness at his brother's existence down to the fact that he feels way better after stealing Reg's posh tea. (…and, uh… spiking it…) And he falls asleep, still busy thinking of Reg, somewhen when he's considering ways to sway him to the benefits of getting a dog, any lingering bad feeling from the nightmare long forgotten.
The next morning he wakes up with a scar on his chest that he didn't have before, but, amidst his tattoos, he never notices it.
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