[All this time, Sirius has been getting an edge of feeling, a soft push toward some depth that is, distinctly, not his. Once he got his nose stung by bees: not his, precisely, but Padfoot's, which makes that particular pain-numb all the more difficult to pin down. This is more pleasant than the memory of that incident anyways, and he tries gainfully to combat it, digs heels in, sets himself up against it, but when it comes down to it, he can't ignore the feeling, the urgent soft speed that makes everything go jelly and unfocused.
It does help, with not thinking. Takes his weird pain and puts it away somewhere, and all right, yeah, he lets a millimeter of the feeling snake up his senses, swarm into his head. It is good until it isn't, until it jars to a bright violent end and he's tasting rotten meat at the back of his throat, a dizzying spill into anger that he knows really well himself.
What the fuck is happening, down there at the other end of this strand that connects them.
Sirius is not interested in parties, thought over the brief mention of it and put it away, but here he is, outside it. Wandered in to the fringe, carried along by Kavinsky's particular mindless high and the pull of connection. Stood in the shadow of some other building, Sirius stares down the street toward the riot of light and jangled noise, all working hell on his nerves even at the distance.
He goes on standing here anyways. Picking out the thread of Kavinsky until he's twisted him free, it isn't hard; he pushes off in a quick deliberate tread.]
C. - post ilde encounter
It does help, with not thinking. Takes his weird pain and puts it away somewhere, and all right, yeah, he lets a millimeter of the feeling snake up his senses, swarm into his head. It is good until it isn't, until it jars to a bright violent end and he's tasting rotten meat at the back of his throat, a dizzying spill into anger that he knows really well himself.
What the fuck is happening, down there at the other end of this strand that connects them.
Sirius is not interested in parties, thought over the brief mention of it and put it away, but here he is, outside it. Wandered in to the fringe, carried along by Kavinsky's particular mindless high and the pull of connection. Stood in the shadow of some other building, Sirius stares down the street toward the riot of light and jangled noise, all working hell on his nerves even at the distance.
He goes on standing here anyways. Picking out the thread of Kavinsky until he's twisted him free, it isn't hard; he pushes off in a quick deliberate tread.]