adopt, be adopted by, marry

“I’d adopt Remus, if only ‘cause out of these three he seems like the most likely one to wash the dishes and do his own laundry. I’d let James adopt me. I heard he’s loaded. Lastly I’d marry Sirius. What can I say, boy’s got a great arse.”

@rascality, @caniislupin, @afterprcngs

strikhedonia - the pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.

     ‘What if I dare you,’ he says, and he sees Remus go pale.

     ‘Not good enough,’ Remus says, trying to turn the look of slight terror on his face into some sort of determined pride. 

     ‘What if I pay you.’

     ‘Keep your blood money, Potter,’ Peter piped up from behind them, a merciless teasing in his voice, at both of their expense. ‘No man can buy Remus Lupin.’

     ‘What if... I do all of your essays for a month.’

At this point, he was calling Remus’ bluff. If that didn’t work, nothing would, but even Remus would have to pause and consider the offer, no matter how much he didn’t want to.

     ‘Give up,’ Sirius said. ‘He’s not jumping in the bloody lake naked, it’s November. It’ll hurt his poor delicate constitution. Think of something better that he’ll actually do.’

But Remus hadn’t said no, yet. Still looked like he was considering. James Potter knew when he’d lost, was well familiar with that sensation, and he hadn’t lost yet. Not quite. He’d hold out until the absolute last moment, if he had to, hold out until he was entirely certain that he’d lost before he caved. 

     ‘Two months,’ Remus said, after a pause. ‘Through the end of term, finals and all.’

And he could tell from the look on Remus’ face as they shook in agreement that Remus was looking forward to jumping in the bloody lake naked in November just as much as he was looking forward to having all of his essays done for him. 

capernoited - slightly intoxicated or tipsy.

There’s something to be said for muggle alcohol.

It’s simpler, somehow; the burn of cheap rum isn’t the same as the smokey warmth of firewhiskey, but it gets the job done, all the same. 

He used to be a fun drunk, back in school. He remembers countless common room victory parties, Sirius sneaking in all the booze he could carry through one of the secret passages from Hogsmeade. He remembers smiling a lot, and laughing even more, remembers embracing Remus in excitement and having animated conversations where all he wanted to do was tell everyone he came across how much he liked them.

It’s not the same, these days. That’s why he’s mostly stopped drinking. Sure, he’s here at Remus’ bar more nights a week than he isn’t, but he mostly has a cola and enjoys being around people without being around people who know what he’s been through. 

Not tonight, though.

     ‘Can I have another?’ he asks, and his words don’t so much slur as they just mumble, hardly carrying the distance between himself and Remus on the other side of the counter. He’s not drunk yet, but he’s on his way there. But Sirius will be here, sooner or later, to help usher him home. 

It would’ve been their anniversary, today. Two years. They hadn’t even made it two bloody years. 

     ‘Better not, mate,’ Remus says, and then shoves a glass of water in his direction. ‘Here, ‘ve got something better.’

He doesn’t argue. He would’ve, once upon a time. Once upon a time, he would have been the once forcing water on Remus, trying to make sure none of them drank too much, trying to make sure he wouldn’t have to take care of any teenage boys with hangovers come the next morning. Once upon a time, being halfway to drunk would have been fun. But instead, he and Remus share a look of grim determination, and he takes the water. 

     ‘D’you think she’s thinking about it, too?’ he asks. He doesn’t explain what he means. He knows he doesn’t need to.

lalochezia - the use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.

     ‘Bloody shitting motherfucking cock.’

James heard a loud thunk as the top of Remus’ trunk banged shut, and from the sound of it, it was impossible to tell if that had been an accident and, thus, the cause of the excessive swearing, or if the same thing that had led to the swearing had also led to a frustrating shutting of the aforementioned trunk. 

     ‘You alright, mate?’ he asked, setting down his Transfiguration book and sitting forward, arms on his knees, to peek around the edge of his four-poster bed at where Remus and the offending trunk stood. 

It was just them, in the seventh-year boys’ dorm, that evening; Sirius and Peter were out making preparations for some prank or another, and James couldn’t be fucked to know where anyone else had gone off to, probably studying in the library for NEWTs like reasonably behaved students.

Remus only grumbled in response, and then sat down on top of the trunk, rubbing his socked foot. Ah, so he’d kicked the trunk, then, that must’ve been it – though, whether he’d accidentally stubbed his toe, or kicked it on purpose in frustration still remained to be seen. 

      ‘You’re right,’ he agreed, putting on his best sophisticated, discerning voice. A bit of his mum’s voice, that strange hybrid of the sing-songed Indian accent balanced with even-toned posh. ‘It’s a rubbish trunk. Twelve years in Azkaban for the offense, I’d say; d’you think that sounds fair, or have you got a better suggestion?’

     ‘ ‘s shit,’ Remus answered, but James could see a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as he said it.

      ‘And the cursing, young man? What ever do you have to say for yourself?’