That am Rudely Stamp'd, And Want Love's Majesty (blanketforts Day 01)
Title: That am Rudely Stamp'd, And Want Love's Majesty
Rating: PG for language
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm just borrowing them because I like them.
Wordcount: 1223
Prompt: New Year's Day hangovers.
Notes: You still can't see this. Because I'm still not writing these. No, I'm not. Honest. Title from Richard III. This is what happens when I drink 16 cups of tea in seven hours and write all night.
1 2 3 4
Thump, thump, thump.
That wasn’t just his head. That was his door.
Oh, fuck
He was not answering it. Because, frankly, if he moved he was going to throw up over everything and then he’d probably cry and throw up some more and beg to die and the person he was cuddling would hate him for ever.
The very prickly person he was cuddling. His cheek felt like it was full of pins.
Thump, thump, thump.
Prickly person meant male which might just, possibly, maybe mean Remus. An extremely unshaven Remus. Though it didn’t smell like Remus. Back when they actually did things like this Remus had smelt of chocolate and ink and dirty socks. He had never smelt of pine.
Sirius opened his eyes.
He was cuddling the Christmas tree.
There was a red bauble in front of his eyes and he blinked at his reflection. Even distorted and pink, he looked terrible. He closed his eyes again.
Thump, thump, thump. “Oy! Black! Open up! I’ve got something important to tell you!”
Potter. The evil, sober, hearty, thumping bastard. The party-deserter. The traitor. Sirius summoned the energy to tell him where to get off. All that came out was a whimper of, “Furg uff.”
“Is that Prongs?” Peter said cheerfully.
Sirius opened his eyes and peered up at him. He had a plate of bacon in his hand and there was tomato sauce smeared across his cheek. He looked bleary-eyed but he was standing. Not fair.
“Shall I get the door?”
Sirius wanted to say, Yes, and then tell the smug wanker to stick his own antlers down his throat and go away. What came out was, “Yeurgh.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Sirius blinked painfully. He hadn’t just heard that. He was hallucinating. With a moan, he tried to sink back into unconciousness. Unconciousness didn’t like him anymore, though. Like Remus. Which was why he’d pulled the Christmas tree.
“Morning, Wormtail,” James boomed. “Black, you drunken sot, wake up. Where’s Moo- who the fuck are all these people?”
Sirius cracked his eyes open. There did seem to be an unusually large number of people passed out on his floor. He tried to remember last night.
“Sirius found them,” Peter said helpfully. “After you and Lily left.”
“Where?” James demanded.
He could remember that so he mumbled, “Lessur Squh.”
“Leicester Square,” translated Peter.
James blinked and ran his hand through his hair. “Do you know any of them?”
“Nuhbay.”
“That was either a no or a maybe. Possibly a don’t know.”
Peter had always been too bloody good at Runes.
“Right,” James said and drew breath. Sirius winced and tried to bury his ears in the tree.
“Alright, you lousy lot of freeloading wankers! Up! Up! Up! Party’s over! Time to fuck off! Out! Out! OUT!”
It hurt. He was going to cry. And the tree was trying to stick a branch into his belly. Even his Christmas tree hated him.
“Piss off somewhere while I sort this out, Pads,” James said, lowering his voice slightly.
“Guh buh sih.”
“He’s going to be sick.”
“Then go and stick his head down the bog.”
Peter bent down and muttered a spell before pulling Sirius away. If any of the random Muggles on his floor were watching they’d think Pete was helping him. They wouldn’t realise he was floating. Him and his tree.
“Let the Christmas tree go, Pads.”
“Muh Cissmus Tea.”
“I know. It’s a very nice tree. It won’t be nearly so nice if you throw up on it.”
“Somun alreadeh hes.”
“I noticed,” Peter muttered. “C’mon, Pads. Put the tree down.”
He relinquished it reluctantly. Peter sped up, dragging him towards the bathroom at what must have seemed superhuman speed. Thankfully, nobody had beaten him to the loo. Peter propped him up against the bowl and said, “Morning, Moony. Happy New Year.”
“Morning. Padfoot alive?”
“Almost.”
He was too alive. All too fucking alive. He was in pain and they were mocking him. He dragged himself up and blinked down at the bowl. Bloody house elves hadn’t cleaned it.
He didn’t have a house elf. How did you clean a loo without a house-elf? Remus would know. He opened his mouth to ask and promptly threw up. By the time he’d finished Peter had gone. He rested his cheek on the cool porcelain and peered sideways. Remus was slumped in the shower. He had pulled the screen closed and was eyeing Sirius warily.
“Happy New Year,” Sirius croaked.
“Happy Nineteen Seventy-Nine,” Remus said solemnly. “Again. Are you sober?”
“Uh. Bad. Wanna be drunk again.”
Remus slid the screen back and crawled out. “Poor old Padfoot.”
He needed to throw up again. This time Remus came and held his head and gave him a cold flannel afterwards. Sirius pressed it against his forehead and nudged Remus’ knee in what he hoped translated as gratitude. “Why you in the shower?”
“It seemed safe.”
“From what?”
“Ah. Do you remember Auld Lang Syne?”
“Song. Know the words. Some of them. Did we sing it?”
“Yes.”
He could remember it, a blur of noise and colour and beer spilling down his chin and his hands - fuck. He dropped his head into the bowl again. If he contorted himself enough he could drown down here. He wasn’t meant to do that. He promised himself he wouldn’t.
“I wasn’t sure if you remembered,” Remus said hesitantly.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Stupid fucking drunk.” He tried to bang his head against the bowl and Remus grabbed his hair and dragged him out.
“If you die like that your family will laugh at you.”
Sirius glared up at him. That was underhand. “Didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Remus said soothingly. “You were drunk. It was just a bit of a shock.”
“Fucking awful drunk.” He wasn’t allowed to touch. He wasn’t allowed to let Remus know he wanted to.
Peter stuck his head round the door. “Pads, have you got any salamander blood for a hungover cure?”
“Powdered. Cupboard above sink. With the tea.”
“Have the Muggles gone?” Remus asked.
“Nearly. Prongs just rolled a couple downstairs and that seemed to speed them up.”
Remus winced.
“Do you want potion, Moony?”
“No, but if you’re making tea…”
“No problem. I’ll put some more bacon on as well.”
Sirius’ stomach rebelled again.
By the time the Muggles were gone and the potion was brewed enough for Peter and Remus to pour it down his throat it was beginning to get dark. Sirius stumbled to his kitchen table, trying to ignore the wreckage of his flat. He sank down into his chair and dropped his aching head into his hands.
“We’ll stay to help with the clearing up,” Peter said.
“Thanks,” Sirius muttered. “And, yeah, thanks for earlier, all of you.”
James waved his hand in the air. “All in a day’s work, Pads, my man. Now, are you wankers finally ready to hear my news?”
Remus rolled his eyes. “Speak, o, mighty one. We await your pearls of wisdom with baited breath.”
James punched him and Remus flicked a salted peanut at him. Why were there so many peanuts left? Weren’t people meant to have eaten them?
“What’s your news?” Peter asked, nose twitching.
James sat back in his chair, grinning. “I,” he said grandly, “have bought a house.”
Rating: PG for language
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I'm just borrowing them because I like them.
Wordcount: 1223
Prompt: New Year's Day hangovers.
Notes: You still can't see this. Because I'm still not writing these. No, I'm not. Honest. Title from Richard III. This is what happens when I drink 16 cups of tea in seven hours and write all night.
1 2 3 4
Thump, thump, thump.
That wasn’t just his head. That was his door.
Oh, fuck
He was not answering it. Because, frankly, if he moved he was going to throw up over everything and then he’d probably cry and throw up some more and beg to die and the person he was cuddling would hate him for ever.
The very prickly person he was cuddling. His cheek felt like it was full of pins.
Thump, thump, thump.
Prickly person meant male which might just, possibly, maybe mean Remus. An extremely unshaven Remus. Though it didn’t smell like Remus. Back when they actually did things like this Remus had smelt of chocolate and ink and dirty socks. He had never smelt of pine.
Sirius opened his eyes.
He was cuddling the Christmas tree.
There was a red bauble in front of his eyes and he blinked at his reflection. Even distorted and pink, he looked terrible. He closed his eyes again.
Thump, thump, thump. “Oy! Black! Open up! I’ve got something important to tell you!”
Potter. The evil, sober, hearty, thumping bastard. The party-deserter. The traitor. Sirius summoned the energy to tell him where to get off. All that came out was a whimper of, “Furg uff.”
“Is that Prongs?” Peter said cheerfully.
Sirius opened his eyes and peered up at him. He had a plate of bacon in his hand and there was tomato sauce smeared across his cheek. He looked bleary-eyed but he was standing. Not fair.
“Shall I get the door?”
Sirius wanted to say, Yes, and then tell the smug wanker to stick his own antlers down his throat and go away. What came out was, “Yeurgh.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Sirius blinked painfully. He hadn’t just heard that. He was hallucinating. With a moan, he tried to sink back into unconciousness. Unconciousness didn’t like him anymore, though. Like Remus. Which was why he’d pulled the Christmas tree.
“Morning, Wormtail,” James boomed. “Black, you drunken sot, wake up. Where’s Moo- who the fuck are all these people?”
Sirius cracked his eyes open. There did seem to be an unusually large number of people passed out on his floor. He tried to remember last night.
“Sirius found them,” Peter said helpfully. “After you and Lily left.”
“Where?” James demanded.
He could remember that so he mumbled, “Lessur Squh.”
“Leicester Square,” translated Peter.
James blinked and ran his hand through his hair. “Do you know any of them?”
“Nuhbay.”
“That was either a no or a maybe. Possibly a don’t know.”
Peter had always been too bloody good at Runes.
“Right,” James said and drew breath. Sirius winced and tried to bury his ears in the tree.
“Alright, you lousy lot of freeloading wankers! Up! Up! Up! Party’s over! Time to fuck off! Out! Out! OUT!”
It hurt. He was going to cry. And the tree was trying to stick a branch into his belly. Even his Christmas tree hated him.
“Piss off somewhere while I sort this out, Pads,” James said, lowering his voice slightly.
“Guh buh sih.”
“He’s going to be sick.”
“Then go and stick his head down the bog.”
Peter bent down and muttered a spell before pulling Sirius away. If any of the random Muggles on his floor were watching they’d think Pete was helping him. They wouldn’t realise he was floating. Him and his tree.
“Let the Christmas tree go, Pads.”
“Muh Cissmus Tea.”
“I know. It’s a very nice tree. It won’t be nearly so nice if you throw up on it.”
“Somun alreadeh hes.”
“I noticed,” Peter muttered. “C’mon, Pads. Put the tree down.”
He relinquished it reluctantly. Peter sped up, dragging him towards the bathroom at what must have seemed superhuman speed. Thankfully, nobody had beaten him to the loo. Peter propped him up against the bowl and said, “Morning, Moony. Happy New Year.”
“Morning. Padfoot alive?”
“Almost.”
He was too alive. All too fucking alive. He was in pain and they were mocking him. He dragged himself up and blinked down at the bowl. Bloody house elves hadn’t cleaned it.
He didn’t have a house elf. How did you clean a loo without a house-elf? Remus would know. He opened his mouth to ask and promptly threw up. By the time he’d finished Peter had gone. He rested his cheek on the cool porcelain and peered sideways. Remus was slumped in the shower. He had pulled the screen closed and was eyeing Sirius warily.
“Happy New Year,” Sirius croaked.
“Happy Nineteen Seventy-Nine,” Remus said solemnly. “Again. Are you sober?”
“Uh. Bad. Wanna be drunk again.”
Remus slid the screen back and crawled out. “Poor old Padfoot.”
He needed to throw up again. This time Remus came and held his head and gave him a cold flannel afterwards. Sirius pressed it against his forehead and nudged Remus’ knee in what he hoped translated as gratitude. “Why you in the shower?”
“It seemed safe.”
“From what?”
“Ah. Do you remember Auld Lang Syne?”
“Song. Know the words. Some of them. Did we sing it?”
“Yes.”
He could remember it, a blur of noise and colour and beer spilling down his chin and his hands - fuck. He dropped his head into the bowl again. If he contorted himself enough he could drown down here. He wasn’t meant to do that. He promised himself he wouldn’t.
“I wasn’t sure if you remembered,” Remus said hesitantly.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Stupid fucking drunk.” He tried to bang his head against the bowl and Remus grabbed his hair and dragged him out.
“If you die like that your family will laugh at you.”
Sirius glared up at him. That was underhand. “Didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Remus said soothingly. “You were drunk. It was just a bit of a shock.”
“Fucking awful drunk.” He wasn’t allowed to touch. He wasn’t allowed to let Remus know he wanted to.
Peter stuck his head round the door. “Pads, have you got any salamander blood for a hungover cure?”
“Powdered. Cupboard above sink. With the tea.”
“Have the Muggles gone?” Remus asked.
“Nearly. Prongs just rolled a couple downstairs and that seemed to speed them up.”
Remus winced.
“Do you want potion, Moony?”
“No, but if you’re making tea…”
“No problem. I’ll put some more bacon on as well.”
Sirius’ stomach rebelled again.
By the time the Muggles were gone and the potion was brewed enough for Peter and Remus to pour it down his throat it was beginning to get dark. Sirius stumbled to his kitchen table, trying to ignore the wreckage of his flat. He sank down into his chair and dropped his aching head into his hands.
“We’ll stay to help with the clearing up,” Peter said.
“Thanks,” Sirius muttered. “And, yeah, thanks for earlier, all of you.”
James waved his hand in the air. “All in a day’s work, Pads, my man. Now, are you wankers finally ready to hear my news?”
Remus rolled his eyes. “Speak, o, mighty one. We await your pearls of wisdom with baited breath.”
James punched him and Remus flicked a salted peanut at him. Why were there so many peanuts left? Weren’t people meant to have eaten them?
“What’s your news?” Peter asked, nose twitching.
James sat back in his chair, grinning. “I,” he said grandly, “have bought a house.”