Sometimes
Sometimes, Sirius thinks he’s happy.
He thinks that he’s finally managed it, finally managed to be happy. To set aside that awful part of him that gets too emotional, too engrossed in everything bad that it’s all he can see, or hear, or think about.
And some days, he does.
Some days, he hardly thinks about them, her. He hardly thinks about the house, and it’s closed windows. He hardly thinks about him.
Only some days.
Because sometimes there’s a day, and he just knows it’ll be a bad one. The air hangs just a bit too heavily, the clouds are leering above too ominously.
Sometimes there’s a day and his mind just feels foggy, trapped, condensed, like the room, where there was no windows, just dust and the clammy heat of August.
There’s a day, and his mind is polluted with everything she said, everything he doesn’t, and everything they do. His mind jumbles it all up, and the little things are so much more significant. He scrapes his fork against his plate, and it rings in his head for hours afterwards.
On those days, he really, truly, sincerely and genuinely
hates
Sirius Black.
Because his mind is so wrong, and so tense, and so stressed, and tired, and heavy feeling, and it just
weighs
on his chest,
and he feels it in his eyes when he blinks, and in his heart as it beats, and in his veins when they pump blood,
all of it.
And those days are hard, because then it’s like a test. An exam.
How much of that can Sirius Black hide?
The answer? All of it. Most of it. As much as he can.
Because if he shows it, it’s letting her win. It’s proving that he needs her, and that she affects him— that they affect him.
So it’s on those days that he whispers lewd jokes more, snickers louder, comments more brazenly than usual. He swings himself onto chairs and winks at girls who pass by.
On those days, he’s a caricature of himself. He annoys teachers. He’s loud, brash. He’s charming, and all this while his mind feels like it’s burning, hazy, a crumbling mess.
But he grins regardless. Makes people like him. Or hate him.
But who could love him if they knew how he was inside his head?
When he wakes up on the morning of Tueday, November 9th, he’s met with that loathsome feeling. That feeling of just…disappointment. With everything. With himself, and the world, and them, and him, and her, and it, and everything.
When he sits down next to Remus, he knocks over his glass of juice. Sirius winces. It’s a sign. A bad omen. Proof that today will be one of the bad days.
But Remus doesn’t really care. He’s tired, still hazy from sleep. Remus doesn’t really care about most things. He exists, unaffected.
Well, he cares about school, and full moons, and people, but not about little things like Sirius. When people say things to him, he just blinks, because it doesn’t affect him.
And Sirius, wishes, desperately, that he was like that. Because even though he blinks just the same, the words still stick in his mind for days afterwards.
Sirius stands up, stares down at the spilt orange juice, utters an apology
“Sorry, Moony.” He laughs. Maybe a bit manically. He can’t really tell. “Didn’t mean to—“
“No, it’s fine.” Remus yawns. “Just sit down.” He wraps his hand around Sirius’ forearm, and drags him back down to sit. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, he’s never been much of a morning person.
His hand lingers just a moment longer than Sirius was expecting, before Remus seems to realize the same thing, and pulls away.
Sirius likes Remus in the morning, when he’s still all hazy and softened edges and drowsy with sleep.
And for a moment, for a part of his day, Sirius starts to think it won’t be that bad, really. He just woke up a bit off. That’s all. He can’t shake off that feeling though.
It’s exactly 1 o’ clock when he realizes he was wrong. He did not just wake up a bit off.
It starts when McGonagall comes in. Him and James were in charms, taking turns stealing Snape’s textbook, and just when he would get up to ask where it was, they’d put it back.
McGonagall cleared her throat.
“I need Mr. Black.”
Sirius knew what it was for immediately.
James looked at him. He didn’t know what it was for. He frowned in confusion, stood up too.
“What did he do?”
Sirius shook his head at him.
James sat back down.
Remus looked over at him.
Sirius left the room with McGonagall.
“Mr. Black—“ she started.
“No.” He said. “What about Regulus?” He didn’t meet her eyes.
“Regulus is in Professor Dumbledore’s office.” She said.
When they got there, Regulus looked at him. It was strange, really, because all Regulus seemed to really do was avoid looking at him.
Then Regulus looked away, and it was all the same.
He sat down in the chair next to Regulus, in front of Dumbledore.
“Sirius.” he said. “Regulus.” He nodded at them both, eyes scanning them.
“I’m aware that you both know why you’re here.”
Sirius nodded. Just once. “He’s dead.” he said, brusquely. Regulus turned, furious. “Don’t just say it like that.”
Sirius ignored him. Regulus had been doing it for the past two years, he could too.
“The funeral is tommorrow.” interjected Dumbledore. “You will be going home shortly, before heading to the funeral tommorrow. You can return to school whenever you feel ready.”
Sirius scoffed.
Regulus glared at him. “Tu es une blague” he said.
“不要说她的语言” Sirius said.
“Oh s'il te plait, comme si tu avais le droit de parler le sien.” Regulus said, and he turned away.
“哦操你” He said, and he stood up. “Can we go?” he asked, “I’m grieving.”