In Love But Not At Peace

The walls are brick, he realizes, and he wonders what city he's in. London. Yes, London. That's where he lives, but he isn't in his flat, nor is he in his bed. Wow, he thinks, perhaps out loud, he doesn't appear to be wearing clothing. He was sure he put on clothing yesterday when he woke up and went about his day, but one can never be too sure about those things.

There's a buzzing outside of the room, a room he can't recognize. The walls are brick, and the ceiling is colorless, with some grey border made of a large, homemade rubber stamp. He wonders why someone would go through the trouble of standing on a ladder and in such and awkward position stamp a design around the ceiling. He sits up in the bed, the sheets an ugly flower print, the kind someone doesn't care is ugly, and scans the floor for his clothing. The carpet is more threadbare than his own, a dark blue with green, red and black designs that clash horribly with the sheets, but actually look fine against the brick.

He had no idea his mind could notice such things while he was hung over. He should drink more often, then.

That shouldn't be much of a problem.

Sitting up seems to make him feel more alert, and less hung over, and he realizes that he isn't completely naked, just missing his shirt. At least he hasn't done anything he might regret. He seems to have lost his shirt, and his sandals, but the room is warm anyway, so such items don't seem necessary. There's a fan on the dresser, as well as one in the corner, pushing the hot air around the room and in and out of the open window. Whose room is he in? Who does he know that hangs empty picture frames on the brick and has a bunch of bamboo sticks in the corner tied together with twine?

Oh dear God.

There's a wand resting on the nightstand, along with books on muggle criminology and basket weaving. He sees Shakespeare as well. There's a mirror on the door that he can see himself in, a shirtless man hunched over on a sagging bed, mouth slightly open. He looks down at his hands as if embarrassed, and looks in the mirror again. Something's missing, his necklace, and he shakes as he moves the sheets around to find it.

There's a creak, telling him something he can't understand, so he translates it to "You are a dead man, Lupin." The buzzing he hears becomes louder, and he realizes that it's music.

"Good morning, stranger," a voice says, a very feminine voice that he knows quite well. He looks up so fast that his neck hurts. He winces. One look matches the voice to a face, and suddenly the bamboo and empty picture frame make sense.

"Good morning, Tonks," he replied, voice actually cracking.

"I made coffee, but it isn't good, so you don't have to be polite."

"Thanks," is all he can say, and he straightens up when she approaches. Standing next to her, so close, makes him feel uncomfortable, although it shouldn't. Today is a day like any other, his sobering mind tells him. He just woke up in her bed. Nothing strange. They sleep together all the time, and share food and drinks. He wakes up some mornings, in his own bed, and finds her there, having let herself in at night without waking him. Nothing odd, so this shouldn't be any different.

But this time he's in her room, and it seems so much more personal than his own, and when she stands so close all he noticed is that her soap is different because it's her own, and she is very short. He wonders if it's her natural height.

They stand silent for a moment, and he continues to search her sheets for his necklace. She asks him what he's looking for, and she's holding his shirt for him, usual smile on her face. This whole room where they are standing seems too big for them, and too big for her, with the tall furniture and huge fan. The objects are so old, too old for her, and he suddenly remembers what it's like to be young and poor, when you thought you wouldn't be, and that life would be an easy ride, like you imagined it during school. But Tonks isn't poor; she has a job at the Ministry, and her parents are still alive, and well off. This room seems to cave in on itself, and the music coming from the open door makes the entire situation seem absurd. It sounds pissy and depressing, like the singer wants you to know it, quite clearly.

He stands in front of her, more than 10 years her senior, and she's looking up at him, holding his shirt. She's breathing and living like him, but those 10 years makes him feel uncomfortable, like he wants to believe he's better than her.

If she would just turn off that fucking music.

"Your music is terrible," he says, taking his shirt and putting it on. The sleeves were still rolled up. She glares at him for a moment, and leaves the room. He follows, putting on his necklace as he walks.

"You're just not used to it," is all she says, glancing back at him before she starts to spill coffee instead of pouring it. Her face is dead serious, like she's expecting him to understand, he who plays old folk songs on his acoustic guitar and doesn't like this new stuff. He is so typically old, and he feels like laughing.

He looks around this new room, narrow wood paneling on the kitchen floor which is rough against his feet and brick walls crumpling and aged. She could do better than this. He did better than this.

"The music won't save you," he says, taking the coffee mug she hands him. It's still damp from when she spilled it.

"What." It wasn't a question, but a sarcastic comment that went along with her face, the face of someone younger. He didn't belong here.

"Really," he murmurs, taking a sip of the coffee (worse than he imagined, but he said nothing) and placing it down, "I tried it years ago. See where it left me." As a fuck up, he thinks, a broken man who smokes too much and sleeps in a young woman's bed, unable to remember how he got there. That will probably remain a mystery too, because he would never embarrass himself by asking that. She could wander her way unknowingly into his, but it doesn't work the other way around.

"You're fucking nuts," she says, but the statement doesn't carry because there is no malice in her voice, just like his last shot at trying to tell her she won't be young forever, because he was unable to say it with force. He tells himself he doesn't care that much, why should he. Her weak retort tells him she cares too much.

It tells him why he feels uncomfortable for the first time in her flat, even though she's sleeping over there all the time. That is all they do: sleep. They don't have sex, there are no emotions. There is mostly silence, liquor and smoking.

And there's Tonks, clumsy in front of him, even though she just stands there, with her shitty music blasting in the background, banging around her crumbling apartment that costs less than it should because she could do better.

In front of her is Remus Lupin. He always hated himself for some things. He feels superior even though he shouldn't. He was once young and pathetic, thinking art could save him from things like war and poverty. Really, it just made it worse, and there was never any glory or dignity that she thinks she will find.

God, he really fucking thinks too much when he's hung over.

"Really, Remus," she says, walking past him and shoving him gently, but enough to knock him against the counter. He's afraid it might fall apart under his weight.

He laughs lightly, and she huffs once, glancing back at him. "You're so weak," she says, smirking.

So he was.