Yes, I know, I should be writing At the Edge, but I got distracted a
bit by a Chinese story. >.> Next chapter of At the Edge will come
out soon, promise!
Title: He who gave advices
Pairing: Remus/Harry (unrequited)
Summary: All had come to Remus for advices.
Word count: 500 something
Disclaimer: Not mine, JKR's
A/N: corrected some mistakes by ishtarabastet, thank you!
It was hard; waiting and staring with a cup of Earl Grey in his hand, pretending that all was right in the world. But Remus had tried.
He had always tried being supportive and understanding when, one after another, his best friends had come to him with their problems -- James with his unrequited love for Lily Evans, Sirius with his rare occasions of bad hair day, or even Peter with his nightmares of not being able to pass his NEWTs. All had came to Remus for advices. And he hated himself for being so dependable.
He wondered if his friends even knew -- or considered -- that he also had his problems to tend to. Or that he also had a life.
He smiled -- a slight shift of a corner of his lips -- and watched his tea cool down even more. He did not, after all, really want to drink it. He had made a pot for Harry. And Harry's tea was becoming just as cold as his.
This was ridiculous. Whoever said tea was a comfort drink was obviously a clown.
Harry was talking, Remus realised, but the sound made no sense to him. He thought it might have been about Sirius, but he was not paying attention. Because thinking of Sirius was just too much of an effort these days.
He had difficulty remembering Sirius (or rather recalling a pale image of a black-haired, grey-eyed boy stored somewhere deep inside his memory), as a mischievous boy he had befriended at Hogwarts. Twelve years of painting Sirius black had tainted the memory even more. And worse of all, the two years they had tried to rebuild their friendship seemed to replace the old one with meaningless hopes and abandoned, fractured something; leaving all that was Sirius -- Padfoot -- to Remus shattered, detached.
And now, sitting opposite Harry, listening absently to his confession of fear and strange infatuation he had had for his godfather; all that Remus wanted to do was scream and demand to be left alone, to make all this nonsense stop. To shake Harry until his teeth shattered. To rape Harry's mouth with his, as he had been craving to do. To make Harry realise that Sirius fucking Black was gone. Gone. And all Harry had left was Remus. Only Remus. And he should have fucking realised already that Remus was slowly dying, falling apart piece by piece from this frustration.
Why had he not noticed? Did he not see the way Remus looked at him, silently asking him permission to get closer, to be -- pathetic, he admitted -- Harry's closest friend (if not lover, he hoped)?
But when Harry looked up and smiled at him shyly, Remus repressed his bitterness. There would be a time that he could dwell on that thought in his little world of misery; it just was not now.
The cup of cold tea still cradled in his hands, Remus gave his advice.
He always gave his advice. It was, after all, what they had always come to him for.