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“Next time,” said Remus in a low, throaty voice, “remember me not to ever, ever trust you lot to know when enough is enough. Ever.”
The only response he got was a muffled groan coming from the poster bed by his left. Remus recognized the whining in it — Sirius. Some ruffled sounds and a heavy oof! later, he was gifted with the black-haired boy’s hoarse slur.
“No one forced you to down that last bottle of firewhisky all by yourself,” stated Sirius pointedly. “We were only joking about it being a bet. You were the one going ‘oh, I’m so wolfish, no amount of alcohol can ever get to me’--”
“I did not say that. Just because my metabolism is faster, it doesn’t mean it works miracles. I’m not even that used to drinking, you should know better,” Remus said in his best accusatory tone. “In fact, I should’ve known better. I should’ve just kept in pace with Peter, and now I wouldn’t be feeling like there’s an entire mandrake infestation inside my head.”
“You say it like Wormtail’s the poster boy for how to properly get drunk,” scoffed Sirius, nearly pouting. “What about me and Prongs?”
“Prongs can’t hold his liquor for the life of him, and you were dancing on tables around your fifth shot,” groaned Remus, scrubbing his forehead in a vain attempt to tear his brain out. “The worst Wormtail did was pass out behind a mouldy armchair, which at this point I believe to be a very harmless and smart way to handle one’s booze.”
“Right, right, whatever you say,” Sirius yawned. “We should fetch him downstairs later if he doesn’t return until dinner.”
Remus hummed his agreement and they fell into a comfortable, lazy silence.
It hadn’t been that bad of a night, if Remus was truly honest — at least, considering how much firewhisky he had ingested, and considering on top of this how unused he was to handling that much alcohol in his body. But Prongs and Padfoot had gotten the best of him somehow, convincing him to get really hammered after his second very modest butterbeer. And here is the thing — here's where he'd placed his bets and everything ended up going sideways: it's not like it's easy to get a werewolf drunk, so Remus wasn’t very concerned when he agreed to James and Sirius' challenge in the first place. And that was the main reason why he now felt like banging his head against the wall to help the impending process of shattering it open already. Boy oh boy, he must have drunk.
A series of loud snores alerted Remus that Prongs was still alive. He was vaguely aware of Sirius’ very creative stream of swearing until it increased in volume and proximity, and suddenly the curtains of his four-poster were snatched open, the afternoon clear light searing through his eyes as Remus attempted to distinguish Sirius' figure standing there at the feet of his bed.
“Merlin’s bloody knotted beard, Sirius, are you trying to kill me?” snapped Remus blinking wildly, tears filling his sore eyes from the sudden clarity, a sharp pain threatening to split his head in two.
“No, but Prongs is trying to kill me. His snoring is slicing my brain through my ears,” complained Sirius, sounding pained. Remus felt more than saw Sirius hopping up in his bed. “Move over,” he said, not unkindly, closing the curtains again to bring back what Remus considered to be pure, sacred, dark bliss.
“Is that really necessary?” Asked Remus, rubbing his eyes in a dull attempt to scratch the dancing green spots away from his sight.
“I would like to see you in my place, having your bed right next to James’,” muttered Sirius, scooting closer to Remus so the bed would fit them both properly. “It doesn’t sound that much like an earthquake from here.”
Indeed, Remus thought, once you got used to it, the sound was almost soothing.
“Whatever,” Remus stifled a yawn. “Just be quiet, will you? I’m truly determined to regain unconsciousness,” he fought back a smile once he felt Sirius’ nose tracing a slow path from his neck to his jaw, “and your inability to stay put is very distracting.”
“And yet, you’re the one babbling,” Sirius chuckled. Remus could not argue with that. Sirius took one of Remus’ hands and led it to his messy, soft hair. “Indulge me, will you? Then I’ll sleep faster and leave you alone.”
Knowing a lost battle when he saw one, Remus just sighed and, indeed, indulged in caressing Sirius’ hair, his fingers threading through the silky strands lazily. Sirius nearly purred with the touch — but very manly, though; a soft groan escaping his throat as he threw one arm around Remus, resting his head sleepily on his friend’s shoulder.
There were, Remus thought as he played with Sirius’ hair, almost drifting back to sleep, worst ways to cure a hangover, he supposed.