Sirius sat up waiting for a response, but eventually he lost out to a combination of the alcohol concentration of his blood, depression, and sheer fatigue, passing out on his bed. He woke about three hours later, and only because of a sharp pain shooting down his forearm. He was still drunk, as evidenced by the way the room was spinning when he opened his eyes, but his mind was far less blurry. Which meant that he was now very cognisant of just how sandy dry his mouth and throat were and how his stomach was not feeling particularly fantastic.
For a good minute or so, he just lay there, trying to work out what had happened and where he was. The pain on his forearm was getting worse, and so he flailed the arm out, only to hit something warm and feathery, which immediately smacked him several times, sending heavy gusts of air at him. With a groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position and managed to spy an owl (not Al, but a different one - ah, Al!) gazing sternly at him before he dropped right back down, flat on his back. The room was moving way too fast, and he felt like he just might throw up if he sat up for much longer.
Slowly, he pulled his arm towards his head and held it just above his eyes. There was a series of peck marks running from his elbow to his wrist, and a couple of them were bleeding slightly.
"Bloody owl," he grumbled in a very hoarse voice. And that's when he remembered that this was an owl he had been waiting for. "Right. Fine. Give it to me." Blindly, he thrust a palm out in the general direction of the owl, which hopped over and thrust out its leg. Its talon was sharp and dry on the skin of his palm. Very messily, he scrambled his fingers at the note, ultimately (and after the owl clawed him a couple of times in irritation) managing to work it off the owl's leg.
Then, just as he had examined his arm, he held the parchment up in front of his eyes and squinted at the words.
She didn't trust him. She didn't forgive him. She wouldn't forget.
But she didn't say whether she still loved him.
After a few minutes during which he caught his breath and willed (unsuccessfully) the room to stop spinning, he pushed himself up and stumbled over to his desk. Now his stomach was feeling like a whole gaggle of Bowtruckles was running a marathon through it, and he struggled not to throw up, ultimately settling for spitting several times onto the floor. Whatever. At this point, he didn't care.
In a very sloppy hand, he wrote out another message to Lily. This one was very simple, and when he was done, he attached it to the owl's leg and then flopped back down on the bed. The room was still spinning. He felt like shit. The next owl could peck him awake, too. That was fine. If there even was a next owl.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-05-30 01:02 am (UTC)For a good minute or so, he just lay there, trying to work out what had happened and where he was. The pain on his forearm was getting worse, and so he flailed the arm out, only to hit something warm and feathery, which immediately smacked him several times, sending heavy gusts of air at him. With a groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position and managed to spy an owl (not Al, but a different one - ah, Al!) gazing sternly at him before he dropped right back down, flat on his back. The room was moving way too fast, and he felt like he just might throw up if he sat up for much longer.
Slowly, he pulled his arm towards his head and held it just above his eyes. There was a series of peck marks running from his elbow to his wrist, and a couple of them were bleeding slightly.
"Bloody owl," he grumbled in a very hoarse voice. And that's when he remembered that this was an owl he had been waiting for. "Right. Fine. Give it to me." Blindly, he thrust a palm out in the general direction of the owl, which hopped over and thrust out its leg. Its talon was sharp and dry on the skin of his palm. Very messily, he scrambled his fingers at the note, ultimately (and after the owl clawed him a couple of times in irritation) managing to work it off the owl's leg.
Then, just as he had examined his arm, he held the parchment up in front of his eyes and squinted at the words.
She didn't trust him. She didn't forgive him. She wouldn't forget.
But she didn't say whether she still loved him.
After a few minutes during which he caught his breath and willed (unsuccessfully) the room to stop spinning, he pushed himself up and stumbled over to his desk. Now his stomach was feeling like a whole gaggle of Bowtruckles was running a marathon through it, and he struggled not to throw up, ultimately settling for spitting several times onto the floor. Whatever. At this point, he didn't care.
In a very sloppy hand, he wrote out another message to Lily. This one was very simple, and when he was done, he attached it to the owl's leg and then flopped back down on the bed. The room was still spinning. He felt like shit. The next owl could peck him awake, too. That was fine. If there even was a next owl.
---
Lily
DO YOU STILL LOVE ME
Sirius