[And Sirius, without further subjecting himself to awful torturous conversation with C M cunty O, sets his teeth (a legacy in of themselves; good, clean, white, well-cared for despite familial eschewing of muggle dentistry and all things muggle) in as dissimilar a way as possible, and puts real steel behind his braced legs and locked knees and pushes, even as William pulls, disgusting teamwork that does the job of getting him up.
Standing, that is.
Mostly, that is. Ch-r-ist on Merlin's fucking magic fucking carpet. The TQ swims around him for one glassy-eyed moment and he remembers abruptly what it feels like to try to stand with a concussion incurred from a tricky bit of broomwork and bludgering (awful, it feels absolutely awful, everything all stirred up in your head like a particular chunky stew and every sense and thought reduced to a thin trickle of cranial activity that cannot hope to break through sheer seismic crawly feelings of shaky brains, all of that plus a little as if someone has set your head on fire). He sways, dangerously, for a moment, feeling pitched deep in his guts. Any gross fantasies of Remus, any truths about Remus, or lies, anything about William up to and including how much he detests him--all of it flits away as for a moment the world narrows down to Sirius and his remaining phalanges and also this warm leaning post upon which he is lucky enough to be able to, well, lean, a lean which is really more of a sag, his weight committed sideways for a dizzy moment.]
Fff.
[One syllable. He's half-hugging William for a moment, crushed against him, pale and blind. Then it all rights itself in him, and all nerves sort themselves out; vision clears, pain recedes before it proceeds on back--and he remembers how disgusting his leaning post is and shoves away from William, as thoroughly and dramatically as if he might conduct some dreadful disease.]
There. Now bugger off.
[Or, you know. He will. He tries, furiously, to turn all thoughts awful from William, and all of William's thoughts away from him.]
no subject
Standing, that is.
Mostly, that is. Ch-r-ist on Merlin's fucking magic fucking carpet. The TQ swims around him for one glassy-eyed moment and he remembers abruptly what it feels like to try to stand with a concussion incurred from a tricky bit of broomwork and bludgering (awful, it feels absolutely awful, everything all stirred up in your head like a particular chunky stew and every sense and thought reduced to a thin trickle of cranial activity that cannot hope to break through sheer seismic crawly feelings of shaky brains, all of that plus a little as if someone has set your head on fire). He sways, dangerously, for a moment, feeling pitched deep in his guts. Any gross fantasies of Remus, any truths about Remus, or lies, anything about William up to and including how much he detests him--all of it flits away as for a moment the world narrows down to Sirius and his remaining phalanges and also this warm leaning post upon which he is lucky enough to be able to, well, lean, a lean which is really more of a sag, his weight committed sideways for a dizzy moment.]
Fff.
[One syllable. He's half-hugging William for a moment, crushed against him, pale and blind. Then it all rights itself in him, and all nerves sort themselves out; vision clears, pain recedes before it proceeds on back--and he remembers how disgusting his leaning post is and shoves away from William, as thoroughly and dramatically as if he might conduct some dreadful disease.]
There. Now bugger off.
[Or, you know. He will. He tries, furiously, to turn all thoughts awful from William, and all of William's thoughts away from him.]