#8.5.15

“Hey, it’s Sirius.” There’s a pause with a shuddering breath muffled by distance from the phone. “Why the fuck am I calling your voicemail. Can’t be that desperate for your voice, can I?” Another pause. “But fuck, I am.” 

Gulping sounds over the line, then the sound of a cup against wood. 

“I almost want to just think they’re saying it to make themselves look like they accomplished something. That you’ve gone missing--some other country--and they just want people to be afraid of them.” 

It’s becoming more difficult to disguise the sound of dry, helpless sobs allowed to escape by the pressure of alcohol behind his throat. 

“But they didn’t did they. They fucking killed you. Fucking bastards. Bloody fucking cowardly pieces of shit.” 

There’s a sigh, shaky and painful while Sirius tries to calm himself down. He’s tempted to throw the phone against the wall, but what then? The silences stretches over a few more quiet, muffled sobs, a few more breaths. 

“Little bird...”