onewizardwolfpack | (no subject)

Remus wasn't drunk, but he would have liked to have been. His house wasn't the spacious luxury abode that Sirius' was, but whoever had built it had done so very carefully. The breeze moved through it wonderfully, and the floors were always cool and smooth, despite grooves left from what he knew were the claws of a large canine. Possibly more than one. It was like a charming tropical version of the shack, in that way, which he probably should have found more off putting.

What little furniture he'd bothered acquiring subsisted of a bed and some chairs and a low bench with thick woven palm fronds in place of hard seats. He hadn't bothered for a coffee table. Single lamp on, casting a warm orange glow over the hut's primary room, Remus sat with one knee drawn up and his back against the sofa's front, turning the pages of a book he wasn't really reading and drinking a beer he'd pilfered from the Winchester. It wasn't cold any longer, but beggars couldn't, he had frequently been told, be choosers.

It ought to have sunk in by now, he figured, but some lessons were harder to take to heart than others.

Threaded | Flat

Sirius stands on the porch of the little hut a very long time. His body brought him here practically of its own volition, feet placing him instinctively on a path to Remus' door once he'd sobered up and the full weight of things had settled down upon him.

He hasn't spoken to Harry yet. He isn't certain he can, even if he felt it was welcomed.

Leaving is still an option. If Remus heard the soft scrape of his bare feet over the sounds of the jungle settling in for the night, he's not given any sign of it. Sirius could turn around right now and save them both what he's certain will be a world of grief.

But his hand lifts and raps on the door anyway.