He’s in the flat. Sirius’ flat, that is, the one he went to last night with Sirius, the one he spent weeks cleaning up and getting ready for Sirius, then avoided once the man had started living there again. He groans again, trying to adjust his leg into a more comfortable position, despite the pain. He hadn’t given himself enough time to rest and recover after the moon, deciding to stake out the Dursleys instead, and although it’s not the worst thing Remus has ever slept on, Sirius’ couch is too small and lumpy to lead to the proper rest his body needs. Plus, there’s his hangover-crying headache, a result of the firewhiskey Sirius had broken out halfway through a story about Prongs, ostensibly to cheers to friends lost, until they weren’t toasting to memories of James and Lily and all the rest of them so much as crying into the drinks they were tossing back like shots. The memories had been mostly good ones, of course, but if they were too good Sirius often didn’t remember them (another shot) or else they had Peter in them (drink instead of swearing his name) or someone would mention how full of life they had been (clink your glasses together and take a drink). The last thing Remus remembers is Padfoot asking plaintively, "we were happy once, right? The two of us? We had some good times? I think I remember some, but even they’re sort of sad when the dementors come." (Remus finished the bottle.)