onewizardwolfpack | (no subject)

It said something that Remus noticed the lack of another person beside him when he awoke. What had been the status quo for going on six years had, as of late, changed drastically and, surprisingly, for the better. He stretched a little without moving much, ribs pulling apart with a deep breath in before he sank down again with a sigh. He was still a moment, listening for the sounds of Sirius shuffling about on bare feet, in search of or coming back from smoking a fag. He heard nothing.

Which just meant the bastard had skipped off home. That was all. Remus drew himself out of bed, shrugged into a threadbare collared shirt and lightweight, formless denim trousers, scrubbed a hand through his hair, which was getting rather shaggy, all told, and stood. He'd only three of five buttons done up when he noticed Sirius' clothes, still strewn haphazardly on the floor.

There was no chance he'd left without his pants.

The walk to Sirius' house passed in a brightly sunlit blur, and he didn't bother knocking before going in. Nothing looked particularly out of the ordinary, save that it was empty of his friend. On a strangely desperate hunch he took the stairs three at a time to get to the bedroom, which was also empty. He took a few steps in, feeling a slowly rising tide of panic, which hummed in his ears and brain like white noise. Static.

It wasn't that simple. This was paranoia. This was unfounded panic. Remus left the house at a brusque pace and didn't slow until he'd canvased all of the parts of the island he thought of as counting, including the Winchester. Possibly he had asked, in a halting, distant tone, if Neil had seen Sirius. The answer must have been no, because the next moment he was fully aware of was being back in Sirius's bedroom, looking at the mid-afternoon sky through the open window and knowing, knowing with a sharp, all encompassing, shuddering certainty that Sirius was gone.

Gone.

It was such a hollow sounding word.

He sank down the wall into a crouch, and pressed the knuckles of one hand over his mouth, eyes never leaving the unmade bed. It seemed impossibly empty. It would doubtless smell of stale cigarette smoke, but not only that, and Remus wanted very badly to go crawl into it, breathe it in, but felt as though doing so would, somehow, be a final, decisive act. So he stayed where he was.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For some reason, thinking of Cassie made the whole thing worse, and Remus drove the heel of his hand against his forehead before he covered his mouth with it. After another moment's silence, he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled over to the edge of the bed. He wondered if it would be removed, or just stripped down for the next tenant.

"So that's it, then," he said quietly.

It seems so depressing and final. An anti-climax, after years of the kind of drama Sirius Black always managed to stir up. An abrupt end to a friendship I was nowhere near ready to give up.

Death was no easier, but at least there were steps to be taken. Now there's just... nothing left to do.

That's it, then, pretty much sums it up.

I see Remus looking down at the bed, and I say, "If there's anything left here, we should take it now... Somebody new comes in to stay, they'll fuck it all up."

Somebody new would be coming in to stay. The Green Arrow Estates had some of the nicest homes on the island. Sirius' empty space would likely fill up fast. And Harry would have to walk past the house every day mindful of the fact that his godfather was no longer there.

He needed to get out of here and never see the place again.

"Clothes," Harry muttered, trying to think up all of Sirius' island possessions quickly. It felt awful. His stomach turned coldly at the thought of them divvying up his things, cutting up pieces of him for them each to keep. But what other option did they have? There was no will this time.

"His motorcycle. Bugger, the bird." Harry winced as he imagined how Hedwig might react to the snidget.

"I'll take the bird," Remus murmured.

Clothes. Books. Bedding. The furniture he'd constantly been sprawled on or had a foot kicked up against or had absently let cigarette ashes fall to. All of it. He'd leave it up to Harry, he supposed, what to do with the bulk of it, but at least he could take the bird.

"And whatever else," he added, tearing his gaze away from the sheets to look at Harry, "even just to store. My place is mostly empty."

My place is... just about the opposite of almost empty. We've collected so much stuff over the years, the house can go from clean to a fucking disaster area at warp speed.

"I got the ATV. I can help take whatever you need. So you... don't have to carry it or whatever."

It's all too similar to the day after Mike died. The little practical things that had to be taken care of before anybody could mourn. A knot lodges itself in the back of my throat and I let out a shutting sigh, my hands burying themselves in my hair.

Sometime between his last words leaving his lips and Neil finishing his sentence, Harry started shaking his head. He wasn't sure where it began or if there even was something said specifically that triggered it. But suddenly he could not take this.

Accept it. Move on. Act like an adult. That was what Harry had wanted of Sirius not too long ago. But standing here now, calmly accepting this felt wrong. He clenched his hands into fists and fought against the urge to fight reality.

"I can't," Harry started. He didn't want Sirius' things. He would take them and appreciate them later, but he did not want this.

"I- Later. I'll do this later," he muttered, backing up out the door.

Remus watched Harry withdraw, and felt a tug of impetus in the pit of his stomach to go after him, but to what end? He opened his mouth to say the boy's name, but didn't. After a moment of what felt like a slow creeping claustrophobia brought on, no doubt, by an overwhelming sense of uselessness, Remus sat on the edge of Sirius' bed and fisted one hand in the sheets.

"He's right," he said quietly to Neil.

"It can be dealt with later. When." When what, the hurt was less? Not likely.

"When everything's a bit less raw," he said, because it wasn't sinking in. Just like the last time, it was sinking in. It had been mere hours since dry fingertips were tracing up his spine and the taste of cigarettes had been pressed into his mouth and now that was gone. Again. And he hadn't ever even expected it back. Maybe seeing it in writing would drive it home.