Author: Regala Electra
Pairings: Remus/Sirius, Remus/Others (many, many others)
Summary: He is submerging, and will drown if applicable. He still loves him, even after the fall.
Author’s Notes: Written to celebrate my lj’s two year anniversary. Tis a dark story, that is not a sequel to all fall down, but could be, if you squint your eyes. Thank you to leelee_cakes for the advice and the encouragement. And a year ago, I posted porntastic The O.C. Seth/Ryan banterfic, cowritten by the lovely torchthisnow, and now I post HP fic starring Remus Lupin, wherein it’s all about Sirius, tragedy, loss, and denial, and Remus even sex with a girl. *gasp* So a lot has changed, then.
Imagine this for your voyeuristic needs: the heady smell of bodies pressed together tighter and tighter, hot and firm and ready, the pulsing pounding gasp of that first intoxicating knowledge that fucking is on the menu, the way the booze flowed like it was going out of style, and the clacking of glasses across the loud roar of voices chattering and everyone, everyone toasting to the Boy.
And when he lifts his whiskey, he almost believes it.
But no, drinking to oblivion is a cliché - and he's past that, past caring, past breathing, past hurting, and his story's no more woeful than any other - what he lost is more pitiful; so more’s the reason why he’s downing forgetfulness in greedy draughts, maybe, but it was all so perfectly laid out. A canvas of pain and horror and regret, twisting there, just waiting to snap and all the threads came a-tumbling down, and it’s almost fucking poetry -
He may have said that part out loud, but there’s no one who hears it. They think it out of joy, out of drunkenness, out of painful realizations - this is the End - the end of an Era, the end of friendships. The end of life.
And he is here, with a mind that has shut down for self-preservation’s sake, a body falling apart more rapidly than usual, and the motor skills of a person far more sober (soberer?) than he actually is.
Then his glass is empty and for a moment he can breathe again and it’s almost as painful as forgetting.
When the bartender finally makes his way over, he empties his pockets with his measly amount of money and declares to have whatever it'll buy him. He does this with the inelegant, clumsy grace of someone who wishes to lose all of his motor skills very soon and slink to the floor, a beast always captured by gravity and other intangible elements beyond his control.
He's going to have to get drunk (more drunk, blitzed, hammered, knocked into the next bloody millennium if need be) very, very quickly.
Had he taken a fancy to experimenting with the more deadly of Muggle drugs (for there was a brief period in his youth – youth, as though he is old, as though a few grey hairs mean that he is set to whither away into obscurity, a pale memento of fragile times – a time in his youth, yes, there was a time (there once upon a time was time), when trying out Muggle ways of experiencing that soaring deadly bliss was all the rage and even he had to reach out and take hold of that intangible zenith -
- Merlin, he is bloody well on his way to a blackout, he is), he would indeed be out in the streets seeking his end.
But he’s arse with potions, for otherwise he'd be seeking a more 'normal' wizardly manner of forgetting for all bloody eternity. But potions too often have cures and poisons have antidotes (that’s why he’s such a failure, for he knows - only through someone’s own volition can they be forever stained and eternally damned and there’s nothing that is possible to change one’s damnation).
He’s never been granted a chance for a reversal of fortune, and he’s far too sure that with his luck (for fortune favors not the brave but the cruel, the mad, and the terrible), there’ll be a way and he shall awake with the knowledge that –
Another drink then, burning its way inside of him, as though it can burn out the monsters lurking beneath his skin. Unfortunately that battle was lost long ago.
Such reactions, he is sure, are due to the grief, shock, horror, and any other number of perplexing, difficult, and horrific emotions running through his system, effectively making him only effective for draining shot after shot until he forgets what's exactly in his hand and why the wet burns down his throat, and why his vision's gone mad and why he's there screaming - beyond some thick cloud, and then there's nothing, nothing, nothing.
Nothing and he whispers nox, but his wand isn’t at the ready, so when everything goes black, it is of someone else’s desire and not his. It’s never his choice, really.
He returns to life with nary a memory to explain his surrounds. Turns one bleary eye upwards to the ceiling, admiring the cracked plaster and tacky tinsel garland decorating the edge of wall-and-ceiling.
The door is open and a figure walks by and his eye rolls back, the motion of walking too much to view at the moment. He doesn’t quite close his eye, and realizes after a while, that his other eye won’t open, and when he manages to move his hand, which is caught in some tidal wave of sludgy water somewhere else, he finds that his eye is puffy, closed up, and is sensitive, and he winces when he prods too harshly. So he pokes a bit harder and wonders if he’ll be able to see some damned stars.
"Oh," a soft, if rather forced voice, says from the doorway, "you're up. Well, there's tea and, to be honest it tastes awful, but it's wonderful for hangovers, a sort of remedy that's been in my family for years and - The toilet’s to your left when you need it. I'll - check in bit."
The voice, and the body most likely attached to the voice, kindly leave him to his stupor and he rolls over, wondering when and where exactly his clothes have gone to, and were they indeed okay and not in some sort of troublesome situation?
He'd laugh, but he figures that comes later in the madness, and instead he sighs with relief when he sees a half-empty bottle of something next to the bed, which he drinks, wondering if he'll discover it is not indeed alcohol.
However for once fortune smiles on him, most likely in preparation for kicking him squarely between the legs at a later date, so he enjoys that first tingle of melting drunkenness and begins the long, slouching journey towards the bathroom.
He falls somewhere in the shower, body crumpling under him. Resting his head against the tiled surface, he closes his eyes.
The water rushes over him and he closes his mouth, refusing to let in a single drop, mindful that he will not be cleansed, he will not allow it.
Just a moment and then -
- Unfortunately, no. There was only one bit of Mr. Pettigrew that remained. Sources say that Black will be immediately put on trial for his crimes against the Wizarding World, not to mention his actions against the Muggle world; truly this is a sad day for all-
A faint tap and a click and someone’s turned off the radio, and soon the body of the voice enters his hideaway, probably her bedroom and certainly not his – and he sits before her, a tattered shirt barely doing its former job of covering his pale and faintly scarred skin, his trousers mercifully still in operation.
It’s a woman with a sad face and thick, dark hair, but her nose is rather proud and noble and even in a state of complete and utter intoxication, he still has a type. Though she is not particularly tall, she still holds herself well enough, and she leans into the doorway, as though she is the stranger here, instead of he.
"It's been-" She cuts herself off, looking down at her threadbare carpet instead of focusing on the remains of his shirt.
"A long bloody, ghastly, rude, inordinate, and inappropriate amount of time for your one night stand to stay in your home," he finally answers, strung between the haze of not being drunk and the desire to be very, very drunk. And the sooner he gets away with her hating him for all eternity, the better.
The woman raises her head, staring at him, with a mildly bemused, yet concerned expression. "Actually we didn't erm, not that I didn't want to, but-"
He nods slightly, and stands up, proud that he very nearly, barely, almost doesn’t sway with the force of the pounding against his skull, a rather cruel tap dance that reminds him of the infamous number ‘Get Out Now or You’re Going to Fall Apart and Beg for Help.’ "Ah, the problems of picking out a completely plastered pouf - we always turn away in fear when the breasts and other bits come into play."
"Actually," she answers a bit icily, crossing her arms over her (unfortunately not so-ample) chest, "You were, despite being quite 'plastered,' magnificently adept with your mouth, although you did mumble a bit. It was when my mouth was occupied that you broke away, after calling me a certainly unfeminine name - Black."
And then a smile creeps across her face like a tidal wave of darkly devised bits of gallows humor, sweeping over corpses and secrets and betrayals that he mustn’t think about or less he’ll be knocked over and drown in the weighty consequences. She knows the significance of the name, yet her eyes (brown, it was dark when he found the best warm body and he couldn’t match up everything, after all, he got the gender wrong) those eyes show mercy and he hates her for it. " I did want to offer you something beyond my liquor collection, which you put a bit of a dent into last night, so perhaps some harmless toast? Anything?"
"Cab fare," he says with sudden false-sober inspiration. "I rather need to go and start packing. My boyfriend-" and he stops, a high-pitched giggle escapes his throat, so unlike his usually hoarse and precise laughter, of course the only time he'd finally be able to say that would be now of all times, "he's gotten himself into a bit of a mess and it seems I'll have to start looking for a new place to stay."
He wants so desperately to live a lie for just a few moments. To be some stupid, drunken mess of a man, with an insipid little life, and never, ever have to contend with the death of two (three now, according to the radio) of his closest (only) friends and the betrayal of another friend. His boyfriend. His lover.
He has learned to hate titles and claiming and he is now just. Just a woman’s unfortunate one night stand. And he is apparently reverting back to the confusion of third year, for he remembers that he very clearly worked out which gender he preferred and has been mildly okay with the fact that once again, fortune took a special liking to making sure he remained a complete and utter outcast in as many ways as possible.
Especially since he’s learned the many ways in which to deal with it are focused around exceedingly debauched, though satisfying, skills that he’s become quite adept at over the years.
Besides, it’s not quite as horrifying when you’re not completely alone.
And he is back again, veering that caustic path towards truth and acceptance, and he’ll stay in reckless denial for just a wee bit longer, so he decides to repeat, “I rather need to go and start packing.”
"Well," the very feminine body of the voice of the person he almost shagged but didn't, although he engaged in other acts, "I'm sad to say that I cannot offer my flat, as I'm going to be expecting my boyfriend in a few days now that he's no longer assigned in Glasgow, so..."
So with that, he mutters a hasty goodbye, and stumbles off into the false promise of sobriety, turning over in his mind the strange sensation of a heterosexual encounter with a woman of whom he never bothered to inquire about the name attached to the body and voice, and with the whole of the present, past, and now, the doom of the future, crashing down on him.
It is a wonder he made it anywhere without sinking to the ground.
He is somewhere, and all the better for making sure he has no idea where he is.
This time, thankfully, it’s a boy.
Or rather, it’s a man, as he’s not that pervy, although his bottom aches with the force of past perversions. He tries to lie down on his stomach, but his hips are tender, and when he looks down, black and blue bruises, thick and concentrated, mark his hips and pelvis.
It’s disappointing, for beyond the weary pain, it does nothing to relieve the gnawing deep inside, waiting to be unleashed like a torrential rain and the metaphors haven’t been stopping since he’s drained most of his pathetic savings and lost the ability to dull annoyance of a troublesome mind.
When the man reenters the bedroom (disheveled with animalistic pride in the ritual of methodical and sadistically pointed rutting), his towel is low slung with a familiar arrogance, and he truly hopes that there is alcohol somewhere in this bloody flat.
Clean, slick body against him, pushing his raw skin into the vaguely coarse bed sheets, a terrycloth boundary rubbing against his arse, and there, that hard, jutting sensation of cock sliding and fuck it, no time to play coy, it’s time to play pretend, and he moans as if he himself is receiving any pleasure from this practiced seduction.
“Stay for a bit?” And there is a deeper accent there, but it is strangely untraceable, a mystery he has no desire to ever solve.
It’s so easy to say no, so he’s silent, letting himself get pushed deeper and deeper and knowing that bruises spread, that his skin is bursting, shrieking in horror, but he knows monthly torture and his limits have stretched and been broken, a bursting shout, and when that raw rub of cloth disappears between them and the man’s lips run too close to his ear, he finally speaks.
“Don’t,” he begins, with a false shudder, as though he is shivering in delight, “don’t say anything. Just do it. Now.”
There is hesitation, and he knows that hesitation is a very bad thing indeed.
So he says the magic word to make all his nightmares come true.
And the man pushes into him, cock stabbing and pressing and tearing and his body knows scars and torture, and the sounds of skin flaying and bones breaking and snapping, but this, oh this burning, horrific feeling, this is almost equal to what he deserves.
There’s a reason why this is exactly as horrific as promised and he clutches at nothing and lets himself get pushed against the mattress, bruises be damned.
He hisses out the word, the word that damns him, knowing it’ll incite ruthlessness, exactly what he deserves.
“Open your mouth wider,” he snaps; mentally wincing at the lecturing tone he’s using, “otherwise my prick’ll never fit.”
This one has stormy eyes, but they are not quite his - more a sweet ocean blue -and he’s doing everything within his power not to grab the insolent head and shove his cock in as deep as it’ll go.
He’s going to do everything in power instead to make sure that this young prat never again wonders what it’s like with men, because he’s just that kind of person. Truly concerned with saving the young from their mistakes.
“Push my pants down lower, there’s more than just your mouth you should be using,” and this he pronounces with careful, precise distain, trying not to allow that shadow of fear crossing the boy’s face incite him further, but his cock hardens even more and it’s enough with the talking, enough.
His exposed skin feels almost airy and when chilled fingers make their trembling way to his balls, he almost makes a sound of satisfaction, but he knows better and wards it off, instead now is the time - and he rocks forward and the boy, so foolish to think this is about pleasure, tries in vain not to choke.
Unfortunately pretty mouths don’t always lead to salvation, just as good intentions pave the way to hell, and he pumps into the mouth absentmindedly, focusing not on the sleek black locks his fingers are entangled into, but instead that the stars are full and vibrant out tonight.
When he comes, he pushes him away, not caring about the splat against the ground as the boy spits out his come, and he leans against the wall to hitch up his pants.
“Well,” he says, catching his breath, “you’d make a decent whore yet.” And he throws the last few knuts he has left, watching the youth hurry after them.
She recognizes him, but he only lets the first syllable of his name slip past her lips before he parts them with whiskey-covered tongue.
“Re-” But they’re drunk enough for it to be okay to engage in this sloppy, careless kiss.
Here’s a real fairytale, one kiss and then she leaves happily ever after, only she’s a fool, a damn fool and she allows him to embrace her, to wrap arms around someone he knows, and not just another body to test the limits of his cruelty.
After all, his likewise counterparts in the fairytales tend to have villagers chasing them with intent to burn, so there’s the reason for destroying anything before it comes to fruition and eventually falls apart.
He pushes her away in the end, not to save her, not to spare her, but to forget her.
She’ll leave happily ever after then, after all.
That makes one of them at least.
He’s never been one for dashing escapes, for wondrous acts that will be regarded as particularly notable, however is he quite sure that to leave in medias res of some rather protracted fucking by slamming his partner’s body against the kitchen table, pulling out without nary an explanation, and running into another room in order to use the fireplace (flooing into a flat that he knows is abandoned) is possibly one of his most interesting feats accomplished so far in his unremarkable and horrific life.
He does this so that when the night finally falls, and the moon is full and vibrant, he’s kept himself from an extraordinarily complicated disaster, while still leaving wreckage in his wake.
It grows disjointed after that, the aftereffects of the worst transformation of his life, perhaps, but it is in reality that even a monster may know sorrow and the pain of truly being alone in this world.
Tea and sympathy is a motif in his life and he fears one day he’ll be one dispensing the tea. Hmmph, he thinks as he tastes the watery tea, slightly bitter, he’ll take it upon himself to dispense butterbeer if need be.
He’s through ten bodies, seven of them with cocks, two with softer bits that he is sure he once decided he would never, ever touch, and one that he never quite figured out as he was incredibly drunk that night, when his mind catches up with him.
In the end, he was played a fool, he was betrayed, and all his fears were true, in the end. In the end. And he still loves Sirius despite this.
So he makes his way to somewhere to make not amends, for that time has passed, but to make peace, knowing he shall never quite be able to do such a thing.
He still loves him, even after the fall.
When he puts himself back together and gets on with the business of surviving, there is nothing he leaves behind that wasn’t in some way, directly his fault.
So instead, imagine this for your horror: a man still quite young aged beyond his years, lined face looking blankly out into space as though to even express any emotion would cause him to fall apart without nary a care in the world, and you, unable to do anything but kindly leave enough room for him to pass, and let him go along his own damned path, for he is untouched by the flood, and still breathing though haunted by the ghosts of the past.
heaven ain't close in a place like this - the Killers
Original Synopsis: After your best mate’s apparently responsible for the murder of your other best mate and her wife, and has slaughtered your other friend and many innocent bystanders, and the war’s over, but you’ve lost everything that ever mattered, well, to use the term ‘going on a bender’ is to be a little too generous with your possible reaction.
[n] a heavy rain
[n] an overwhelming number or amount; "a flood of requests"; "a torrent of abuse"