"Two?" Remus is grateful for the excuse of his hangover to keep his eyes closed; he doesn’t have to look at Sirius while they talk. Sirius’ voice has enough of that cold aristocratic air to it—despite his hangover—that without the familiar visual of Sirius Black after a rough night, Remus can stave off the memories, of negotiating which bed to sleep in, or fuck in, or lie across while telling stories in low voices, as if the covers would keep the war out.