Because I felt compelled to have the other Amsterdamite check in
WHO: Sirius
WHAT: Sirius lounges in his flat, not realizing that his friends are currently in a tug-of-war between James and himself over weekend plans.
WHERE: London, Sirius's new and half-furnished flat
WHEN: August 11, 1977
RATING: PG
Sirius had spent most of his leisure buying things for his new flat. He was a notoriously picky shopper when it came to furnishings - while he was always willing to spontaneously pull a piece of clothing off a rack and pay for it, his pureblooded eye for aesthetics seemed to kick in when fashioning his own living quarters - and so his place was still merely half-finished. As it was, Sirius had yet to find a suitable couch and was perched on one of his bar stools, nursing a cigarette; his sporadic habit had become more prevalent thanks to Barty's influence and his eye-opening stay in Amsterdam. Every once in a while, his eyes would drift to the window and abruptly pull back to the stub and large bottles of alcohol, one of his first purchases.
And yet, despite his desire to forget everything, his stomach curled at the thought of drowning in the burning liquid.
When he had first arrived in Amsterdam, he thought he was crazy - thought he heard James's voice in the back of his head or thought he saw the lanky boy disappear out of the corner of his eyes. Then Barty came, which distracted Sirius or put him in such a state of mind that hallucinations weren't so out-of-place after all.
But now, it came again; a sneaking echo in his ears that Sirius knew was fabricated but couldn't help but strain his ears to listen for - a mischievous laugh, "why in Merlin's name did you pick such a swotty bedspread?"
Part of him wanted to go back to Amsterdam - he could feel the tug urging him to re-enter the smoke and haze of the unreal world, to just forget everything and live in some sort of glorified bliss - but he refused to move, because moving would just be running away, running from the mess he made of London and from the responsibility that came with the independence he spent his life trying to gain and the unwelcomed maturity of being 17 he fought to shun.
He took a last drag of his cigarette, extinguishing it in his already half-full ash tray before walking to the window, looking again for any sign of an owl and kicking the window irritably when he saw none. "Where the fuck is everyone?" He muttered.
He looked down at the streets, where Muggles roughly his age were carousing, getting ready to go out for a night of bars and clubs. Part of him wanted to join them, hide himself and his features in the sea of dirty blood that would not recognize him.
But instead, he turned away from the window and headed to bed.
WHAT: Sirius lounges in his flat, not realizing that his friends are currently in a tug-of-war between James and himself over weekend plans.
WHERE: London, Sirius's new and half-furnished flat
WHEN: August 11, 1977
RATING: PG
Sirius had spent most of his leisure buying things for his new flat. He was a notoriously picky shopper when it came to furnishings - while he was always willing to spontaneously pull a piece of clothing off a rack and pay for it, his pureblooded eye for aesthetics seemed to kick in when fashioning his own living quarters - and so his place was still merely half-finished. As it was, Sirius had yet to find a suitable couch and was perched on one of his bar stools, nursing a cigarette; his sporadic habit had become more prevalent thanks to Barty's influence and his eye-opening stay in Amsterdam. Every once in a while, his eyes would drift to the window and abruptly pull back to the stub and large bottles of alcohol, one of his first purchases.
And yet, despite his desire to forget everything, his stomach curled at the thought of drowning in the burning liquid.
When he had first arrived in Amsterdam, he thought he was crazy - thought he heard James's voice in the back of his head or thought he saw the lanky boy disappear out of the corner of his eyes. Then Barty came, which distracted Sirius or put him in such a state of mind that hallucinations weren't so out-of-place after all.
But now, it came again; a sneaking echo in his ears that Sirius knew was fabricated but couldn't help but strain his ears to listen for - a mischievous laugh, "why in Merlin's name did you pick such a swotty bedspread?"
Part of him wanted to go back to Amsterdam - he could feel the tug urging him to re-enter the smoke and haze of the unreal world, to just forget everything and live in some sort of glorified bliss - but he refused to move, because moving would just be running away, running from the mess he made of London and from the responsibility that came with the independence he spent his life trying to gain and the unwelcomed maturity of being 17 he fought to shun.
He took a last drag of his cigarette, extinguishing it in his already half-full ash tray before walking to the window, looking again for any sign of an owl and kicking the window irritably when he saw none. "Where the fuck is everyone?" He muttered.
He looked down at the streets, where Muggles roughly his age were carousing, getting ready to go out for a night of bars and clubs. Part of him wanted to join them, hide himself and his features in the sea of dirty blood that would not recognize him.
But instead, he turned away from the window and headed to bed.