A/N: Well, another angsty fic here. I can't ever seem to write a happy one, and even as I deleted all my previous angst in the hopes for something happy, I came out with this. Probably more twisted then all the others combined. It may go a little fast and be strange at some parts, but it's under the pretense that Remus has seemingly gone mad, even though he refuses to accept it. Harry is just sad, and they hate each other. Simple as that.

Attention: Let it be known here, that this is not a happy fic. There is minimal swearing (2 single words), but a general unhappy theme and sex between two guys, one who may be a minor depending where u come from. There is nothing intensely graphic, but if you're offended by slash (or yaoi depending on your fic comprehension abilities), I advise you don't read.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize here doesn't belong to me. If I owned Harry Potter I would have gotten a better movie for it and not made Harry such of a whiner in book 5.

~*~

Sirius is dead.

That is the truth, and I ponder it as I light another cigarette, lounging back on a moth eaten divan as the smoke crawls up into the ceiling. The truth is what it is, and I cannot change it, not matter how much I try to change it.

Smoke flows from my chapped lips, and my head lolls back onto the musty cushion as I allow myself to float away with it.

I have come to hate the truth. I don't even know what the truth is, and in a hysterical moment I find myself comparing my life to the truth. I have come to hate that too.

But, what is my truth? Painful. Sirius is dead. That is my truth. However, it is not the truth for all.

I shift my gaze from the ceiling across the room, and I see the other person to whom I am most alike in the world. His hair has grown long without two months of cutting, and it seems to lie flatter when it hangs past his ears. Those eyes are currently closed off, tearstains still trailing pale thin cheeks. A bottle of whisky lies in his fingers, almost slipping out of his hold to break onto the wooden floor.

Taking another drag, I study him closely for a moment. I have never been as close to him as Sirius, yet it seems that in the eternal absence of the roguish dog, him and I have become as close as two people can be. We are exactly alike, he says. We have endured the same torments, the same pains, and I stifle a snort as I picture the both of us clasped together in an embrace, faces buried against the others shoulder as the floor around us fills with tears.

I wonder, vaguely, what will happen to him after this night. Am I his last chance before depression overwhelms him? How long will his grief's last? You can see the scars already riddled over his body, at his wrists and across his head, and I know that these painful scars have already taken themselves to his heart, just as my scars have. I, however, don't believe myself to be depressed. They all say it though; behind my back and hidden in the shadows of the hall where they think I cant hear them. But they, aside from Moody and Snape, are idiots. I am not depressed. I'm just not repressed anymore either. I no longer feel this need to hide what I am feeling, because it seems as that with the passing of this last friend, I have lost all my "proper" emotions. I have been left alone once more, all on my own, once again with three friends dead and another a traitor, but it doesn't feel as bad as it used to. Just empty.

Before, he begged me to show remorse. Begged me with his eyes to show I cared, to show that I still felt. I laughed then, and even to my own ears I could hear how weary and rough I sounded. I told him I had emotions, but just that I didn't give a fuck about them anymore.

I can still remember it, how he suddenly crumpled, folding in on himself as his body shook, convulsions taking over as he sobbed against my feet, and I made no move to soothe his pains. I merely grabbed my whiskey from beside him, and with my own-scarred fingers I lifted his chin, offering it.

Even now, hours later, I can still feel his wet tears sliding over my hands, warm and intoxicating as he clasped at the drink, a last salvation. I just watched, watched him drink with trembling fingers as the amber liquid trickled over torn lips, settling myself back in my chair and lighting a cigarette. I just sat, watching the smoke drift into the ceiling as this young fragile thing destroyed himself at my feet, and all too soon I could hear the shattering of glass. The bottle has rolled away, marginally more empty then I left it, and I wonder if maybe I should stop it from pouring onto the floor, but suddenly he cries as if in pain, and my head was turned towards him again. His glasses are shattered, and he's clutching at the pieces even as they dig into his hand, red blood spilling and dripping onto my shoes. His thin shoulders are shaking even more, and as he looks up I can see. Those bright green eyes are red rimmed, filled and spilling with tears and pain and angriness and hatred, hatred for me, and hatred for himself. He knows, and I can tell. He knows how I hate him, how if he hadn't been born Lily and James wouldn't have died. How if it weren't for him, Sirius would never have fallen. He knows deep down how it's all his fault, and he hates himself for it.  Just how I hate him, how I once hated myself.

So really, it came as no surprise as he suddenly lurched forward, those bloody hands clutching at my shirt, and his torn lips whisper to me.

"Please."

Even as I started to push him away he clung on tighter, and I could tell as his face came closer to mine that this was a desperate act, those feverish eyes burning into my skull.

"Please," he repeated. "Let me hate you fairly."

I blinked. He was close enough now to let me feel his panted breath upon my own unshaven face, and I laughed. Those sad eyes clouded with anger briefly, and I could feel my own crinkle in twisted mirth. But even as he began to scramble away I pulled him back, tracing the scars and believing he deserved them all. I grin as I trace the lightening bolt hidden by bangs, and I think that was maybe all he needed, as I laughed and pulled him closer, mashing my lips onto his and biting them, letting him cry in my hold. I was brimming with giggles, and his eyes were brimming with tears, even as I pulled him up and laid him down on the divan, stripping him bare. He tasted horrible, salt and whiskey and blood mixing with my own of tobacco and unwashed teeth, and I groaned as I dug my tongue further into his mouth, cleaning out all traces of purity and happiness. As I made my way downwards he cries even harder, hysterically, and I grinned. His body was anything but yielding, but after minutes of my tongue running and biting at a bare chest, those moans have turned into a different kind of passion. He pulled my head, and I saw painful fire building behind those burning orbs.

"Don't," he whispered, and it's harsh, his lips bleeding from where I bit too hard. Even as he spoke I wanted to bite them again. "Don't," he repeated. "Want to hate you."

I slid back up to his face and tasted the crimson drops, his mouth opening in a gasp. "You'll hate me more if you enjoy it," I murmured against his lips, and that's the end of it. He lets his groans and sobs intertwine to become something more feral, and even as I remember the noises he made as I slid into him it makes my veins hum with something not quite place able. I tore into him with my hands, with my flesh, and I could hear as he hissed and arched how it stung him, and I was sickened how his body reacted pleasurably. Even then, I was glad that I was hurting him.

When it was over, and he was covered in blood and sweat he rolled off me, still trembling all over. I turned and watched as he bent over, blood trickling down his legs, to pick up the whiskey bottle. He's not looking at me, but I can tell by the tremors in his shoulders that he's still crying. Absently, I pulled another cigarette from my pocket, noting with little surprise that I am still fully dressed.

I turned, and he was piled onto my old and musty bed, his body turned away from me, but I could clearly hear him when he spoke.

"I hate you."

And I laughed. I continued to laugh, even as he continued to cry, me smoking and him drinking, until he feel asleep and I fell into the abyss of my own messed up thoughts and partial insanity. Not depression though. Not sad about it either. No remorse, no real joy, and now as I am drawn back into the present and he still sleeps, I am considering booting him out of my room and telling him to fuck off.

I just happen to hate him.

It's my truth.

And now it's his truth too.

…

……

Sirius would kill me if he weren't already dead.

~*~

A/N: Well, there it is. Remus was on a roller coaster (not a big one, more like a kiddy one) ride of strangeness, but hey, that's how it happened as I wrote it. The slash may seem outta place, but seeing as Remus has gone insane somewhat and Harry is depressed and drunk, the idea of screwing each other must have seemed plausible. In any case, despite the change of writing style half way through, I am rather happy with this fic. Oh, and if you want more like it, REVIEW, and I will of course be more obliged to write more. Hated it? Well, if you REVIEW, I will of course work harder at putting more effort into my stories based on your constructive criticism. Flames? They're funny.