Clueless. Idiotic. Thoughtless…
"Remus? Remus, what's wrong with you?"
Blind. Stupid. Hopeless…
"God damn it, Remus! How the hell am I supposed to help you if you won't talk to me?"
Stupid stupid stupid…
"FINE! STAY in there! You know, I'm really getting goddamn sick of this, Moony! Why can't you just…? FUCK!"
Stupid. Fucking. Moron.
"Why won't you just tell me… tell me what's wrong?"
Why can't you just leave me alone?
"Fuck it, Moony… Just fuck it fuck it fuck it…"
Sorry, Padfoot. Sorrier than you can know.
They lean against either side of a thin wooden door. One presses his forehead to it near the top, tracing nonsense patterns with his finger, feeling the grain of the wood. His face is passive, almost serene. The other sits heavily on the floor, his face damp with sweat, mind in turmoil.
So you can't keep a job. Well what the fuck do they know?
But he can't speak the words. He can picture the anger that would sizzle in Moony's throat, in his eyes…
It dawns on him: It isn't the situation but the injustice of it that upsets his friend.
He pictures those eyes, fixed on him, perpetually expectant, perpetually disappointed.
What do you want? What can I do?
And he knows what Moony would say: Nothing.
House him, clothe him, feed him, don't say a word when he's late with the rent, don't say a word to insist that he doesn't have to pay…
Assignments for the Order and he comes back looking tired, looking old…
We're barely twenty. Barely twenty…
"Come on, Moony. We never properly celebrated your birthday."
Remus stares at him in astonishment. Sirius doesn't give him a chance to argue.
An hour later, they are getting jolly drunk and James has joined them. Two hours later, Peter has been tracked down. A stop in every pub, James insists. He wants to get smashed.
"Something to announce," he slurs, peering into his firewhiskey. He then glances up and flashes all of them his snarkiest grin. "Lily's up the duff. We're getting married."
Peter gasps. Remus and Sirius stare, Sirius's jaw hanging open.
"You right bastard!"
And then they're all on him, Sirius especially, drinks and chairs overturned, whoops of congratulation and wallops on the back. The bartender wanders over at the commotion and when he deciphers it gives James a gallon-size stout, on the house; he'll need it. Sirius shouts to all who can hear that this round's on him. His best friend and blood brother about to get married, about to be a dad. Perfect strangers now smiling and joking and offering crude advice.
Remus stands aside and smiles gently, his head oddly clear.
James deserves this. He deserves the shouts and the attention and the love and the headaches and the diapers and the nagging and everything, everything he gets…
Remus reflects that none of this will ever be for him.
Sirius glances at him, his own wicked grin faltering a bit.
Not for either of them, he hopes.
He hopes.
He smirks and tips his glass to his flatmate, who hesitates before tipping his glass likewise.
"To the unborn Potter brat!"
Cheers.