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Notes: 100 words of post-OotP angst.

Revisionism
by

Grief is a strange creature. Pale, cool to the touch. Mist. He breathes it in and out with every moment--he sleep-walks through it, sleep-wakes through it, day and night circling in a blur of grey.

He should be used to it by now. He should be. He has lost enough. War. Lover. Mind.

But still the familiar mouth brushes against his neck at night, the familiar palm curves around his thigh--fall of warm black hair over his shoulder, press of warm, scarred skin against his back.

'Wake up, Remus,' says Sirius' voice. 'Wake up.'

And then he does.