#a scribble

He's drunk.

"James--"

Sober enough to know he's drunk. But drunk enough not to care.

"James please--"

Sober enough to hear the crack in Remus's voice. But drunk enough not to stop.

"I want to call him," he says, defiant. Childish. It feels good to say those words. He doesn't know why he didn't do this before. It seems so simple now. "I want to call him."

Sirius is across the room. A few seconds ago he'd been on James's other side, holding his arm, helping Remus pull him to his feet. He isn't touching James anymore.

"Where's my phone?" his words are a little thick. A little slurred. The world around him blurry in a way that makes his stomach squirm.

"I don't know," Remus mutters, struggling to support James all on his own. "Here, will you just sit down please? Sirius, maybe get him some water?"

"Sirius where's my fucking phone?" because he knows Sirius knows. Because he wants Sirius to look at him. Because he wants Sirius to feel this too.

Predictably, Sirius doesn't answer either of them. All James can see is his best friend's back, his vision splitting him in two. Sirius has always been good at blocking out the things he doesn't want to hear. Which might be the most unkind thing James has ever thought about him.

"James please sit down," Remus tries to guide him towards the nearest chair but he's not going. They found him on the floor, and he'd been happy to stay there. But now. Now he has a mission.

"I want to call him, get me my phone!"

"Christ James," Remus hisses under his breath, pleading. He wants James to stop. But the whiskey in his blood has other plans. "What's going on with you tonight? I mean, should we be--should we be worried? Were you trying to hurt yourself or--"

"Oh fuck off!"

He sees the surprise on Remus's face, thinks about apologizing, but his thoughts are watery and hard to hold.

"I want to call him," he repeats instead. It's the one thing keeping him standing.

"Yeah we heard you," Sirius says finally, his voice is thin, cold. It's enough to get James's attention, even in his current state. "But you can't call him."

Something pointy and sharp pricksJames's chest but he shakes his head, ignoring it. "I know the number by heart," his drunken mind supplies helpfully.

"James," his name sounds so sad in Remus's voice.

"I'm sure you do," he thinks Sirius laughs. It's not a pleasant noise.

"Just give--give me my phone? He'll pick up. He always picks up when it's me. I want to call him. Let me c-call. I want--"

"You. Can't."

Sirius finally turns back around, he is so still and so stiff and James is so wobbly. He stumbles even though he's standing still, Remus fumbling to keep him upright.

"He'll pick up Sirius, he will. If it's me--"

"No."

"--he always--always--I need him. I need to tell him. I need to ta-talk. Please? Please I need--"

"You know why you can't call him."

"Sirius," Remus says warningly, but James doesn't think either of them are paying him any attention.

"I--don't have my phone." That makes Sirius frown harder but James doesn't care right now. "Just give me a phone. Any phone. I know his number. I--"

"You know why you can't call," Sirius repeats.

The pricking in his chest is getting worse. A stab. A slice. A tear. The sensation burns right through the alcohol. It demands to be felt. Demands to be heard.

"No," James repeats. "No I--no. No. no."

"He's--"

"Sirius!"

"--dead. He died."

"No!" James's voice is a terror. "I--no. I just need to call. Just let me have--the--cause I--and he'll pick up--he always--for me," he can't get them out, the words, the thoughts, his breath. He's choking on his own memories. His own grief. Shaking so bad he's surprised Remus is able to keep a hold of him.

"Regulus is dead. You can't call him. He won't pick up," Sirius sounds cold and distant. But then, he's always been like that about Regulus. James is on the ground again. The world in front of him blurry as Remus wraps his arms around him.

"You're a sloppy drunk James," is the last thing Sirius says before James hears the door closing.

The pain is deep and all consuming. It's been months. It's been years. It never stops. It never gets better. The minute the world gets still or quiet the grief is there. He feels like he spends every second of his life trying to outrun it. He's so tired. So fucking tired.

"I need to t-talk to him," he sobs, as Remus holds him tighter. "I can't never talk to him again. I can't. I have so much to say. I have so much--what am I supposed to do with this? What am I supposed to do with all this? I need to call him. Please. Please. I need him. I can't sleep. I can't eat. They're taking up all the space in me Remus. All these fucking--these fucking words. I need to call him. I need to. I need to. I can't bear this. I don't understand how I'm supposed to bear this?"

Remus kisses the top of his head. "Just breathe okay?" James doesn't think he's imagining the tremor in Remus's voice. "I just need you to breathe okay?"

But he can't.

He hasn't.

Not in months.

Not in years.

I’ve had old OC’s and new universes on my mind lately 🔮🐇