(no subject)
Remus is on his second cup of coffee.
It's foul and acidic and makes his empty stomach want to shrivel up and crawl out of his body--he's never even liked the smell of coffee--but it's hot and however bad it tastes, at least it tastes strongly of something. At least it doesn't taste like blood.
Nothing does, he thinks. It wasn't real, didn't count, shouldn't be so bloody hard to walk away from. Shouldn't require spending his night getting falling-down drunk with a sodding teenager, because he's not sixteen anymore and he's not
He's not even that person, he's not sick anymore. Well, not sick like that, he amends, holding his aching head up with one hand and leaning
He's hungover and hasn't slept, hasn't been home yet and his clothes are the same he threw on yesterday. A day earlier and he'd be one cigarette and one rumpled cardigan away from telling people he's decided to be Sirius for the holiday.
Thinking about Sirius doesn't do anything for the sour taste in his throat. He'd rather have the coffee.
Second cup down, and he'd really rather have anything but. Peeling himself away from the kitchen table, he rinses the cup out in the sink, leaning into the counter as he fills it with water instead.
[One tiny rumpled werewolf trying to survive his hangover in the kitchen, open to tags through Wednesday.]
It's foul and acidic and makes his empty stomach want to shrivel up and crawl out of his body--he's never even liked the smell of coffee--but it's hot and however bad it tastes, at least it tastes strongly of something. At least it doesn't taste like blood.
Nothing does, he thinks. It wasn't real, didn't count, shouldn't be so bloody hard to walk away from. Shouldn't require spending his night getting falling-down drunk with a sodding teenager, because he's not sixteen anymore and he's not
He's not even that person, he's not sick anymore. Well, not sick like that, he amends, holding his aching head up with one hand and leaning
He's hungover and hasn't slept, hasn't been home yet and his clothes are the same he threw on yesterday. A day earlier and he'd be one cigarette and one rumpled cardigan away from telling people he's decided to be Sirius for the holiday.
Thinking about Sirius doesn't do anything for the sour taste in his throat. He'd rather have the coffee.
Second cup down, and he'd really rather have anything but. Peeling himself away from the kitchen table, he rinses the cup out in the sink, leaning into the counter as he fills it with water instead.
[One tiny rumpled werewolf trying to survive his hangover in the kitchen, open to tags through Wednesday.]