Lullabies

[Archie Renner]

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Archie was a typical Gryffindor, exuding confidence that bordered on stupidity in the way he ran into everything head first, guns blazing, with nothing but his wits about him. Freedom had always been his weapon and seizing up every opportunity he could was his ammunition. But he felt unlike himself, vulnerable and disarmed as he stepped off a road, following a dirt path into a patch of unfamiliar trees, time of day verging onto twilight. It was a year after an accident no one expected and a year after a memorial that celebrated the life of someone taken far before their time. A year that Archie had avoided where he was walking in that moment, shoes sinking slightly into the mud and breath visible in the cold. But most importantly, it was a year too late. Orwell in all his consideration allowed Archie to avoid the memorial and wallow in his bed sheets alone, head buried in a pillow he always thought was too soft, eyes hiding away from the sun that peeked through his curtains on the day everyone else set aside to morn who was lost. Archie had been grateful for the escape, though not considerate to himself in failing to realize that avoiding the problem was only a state of denial that delayed the inevitable. Jean Snow was pushing daisies, six feet under, dead, and there was nothing Archie could do to change it.

The free hand that was buried in his jacket pocket squeezed into a fist, while his other hand that snaked around the neck of an unopened bottle of vodka tightened with each of his steps. If someone asked he would have told them he was cold; losing the feelings in his extremities when he did not feel near as cold as his hands made him out to be. Instead it was the nerves of facing the unknown, of dealing with death with intensity that he had not before that made his hands clammy and on the verge of shaking. Losing Avie was difficult, and though Archie was merely a sixth year at the time, the confrontation that was Avie's absence in brotherhood meetings as well as around the school weighed heavily on his shoulders. As did the memorial he organized for a 'brother' lost. But Avie was an acquaintance at best, someone who Archie only could miss seeing around. Losing Jean Snow, a friend, teammate, a fellow Gryffindor for many years that he shared many fond memories with and brethren by a more honest definition rather than through a school club was different. It was the most nauseating and heavy although hollow experience. An oxymoron of feelings and confusion that only worsened when his steps slowed to a stop at the sight of his friend's name carved into the trunk of a tree. Losing someone special before their time stung him to the core. The reality of seeing their name carved into wood; on a tree in some otherwise unassuming forested area instead of onto stone in a graveyard he couldn't reach was worse. He couldn't say goodbye like he wanted to and he wouldn't wish that experience on his worst enemies.

A cough to clear his throat broke the silence of his stare, leading into words that felt natural, yet out of place on his tongue given the circumstance. "Long time, no see." Then a heavy sigh, a step forward and to one side paired with the discard of his jacket to the grass allowed Archie to sit, leaning against the tree. Not the warm and familiar shoulder he wanted to lean on when the cold crept up on him, but enough of one. The name craved into the trunk being the closest thing he could get to the friend he wished could hear his words. "Figured we were due for another drink." In one languid movement Archie opened and bottle and in another he brought it to his lips. The notion he was talking to himself in the middle of nowhere, of all places wasn't lost on him. It would be easy to assume this was an unhealthy stage of denial, brought on and continued from a year of avoiding the place he was in that moment. Although rather this was Archie's acceptance, bidding adieu to someone he looked up to, relied on and shared memories with in the same way many memories of theirs had been made since school; underneath the influence of alcohol and with caution to the wind. Given that was a habit of Jean's, Archie felt obliged to remember it no matter the location, the heaviness in his heart and how bitter the liquid tasted and burned running down his throat. He winced at the feeling before tilting the bottle towards the tree in mock offering. "Want some? Bet you can't drink more than me." He waited for a response he knew he wouldn't get, feigned a chuckle, then returned the bottle to his lips, swallowing more of the contents. Jean never denied a challenge but in death a challenge was something he was unable to accept. It was a challenge Archie could only create to compensate for a loss neither he, nor Orwell, nor Jean's family deserved. Furthermore, it was a challenge posed that Archie accepted believing that he needed to stand in for Jean's absence. To drink enough for the two of them in lieu of them drinking together as he would have wanted.

Archie in all his dedication did exactly as he promised, swallowing the contents of the bottle sip by sip, laughing to himself and joking to the tree meant to represent his friend. For a while he found happiness in the escape. For a while he almost forgot that he was leaning on bark, talking to himself. For a while he even considered staying long enough to see the sun rise. A night with someone he cared about, although dead, seemed far better than fairing another night alone. It didn't take long after that for reality to set in and for him to start to think of Orwell. Orwell, who had been the one to carve the name in the tree after the memorial while at an absence of how else to commemorate their friend. It caused his shoulders to shudder and eyes to water at the thought that seeing one friend that night meant saying goodbye to another. He began to apologize profusely to Jean but stopped partway through his sentence when he stood up to leave, only to be met by nothing but a spinning head and impeded balance face to face in a mess of disorientation. The ultimate dose of consequence beginning show. Consequence quickly consigned to oblivion along with a discarded jacket and empty bottle aside the tree as Archie began to search for the only person he wanted to see while in such a state of inebriation.

Barely coherent, braving a cascade of bruises forming on his arms and side from falls to the ground and near misses where his body collided against trees from stumbling with knees like jelly that buckled underneath his weight, Archie navigated his way around to no avail, hoping that wherever he ended up was where Orwell would be. His body felt like it didn't belong to him and he had never, ever felt so unbalanced and out of place in his life. Something was amiss in his body and mind but much like his location he could not place a finger on exactly what it was, or where he was. He was unsure of what else to do other than clock it to his emotions over his lost friend and take a break to distract himself to cater to the exhaustion that washed over him in waves. He sat down on the damp ground, uncaring that he no longer had a jacket to sit on as he shuffled ungraciously to lean his back against a different tree. The cold air and muffled sounds from a distance convinced him he was still outside, though not far from where he was supposed to be. With unreason, he figured wherever he was, was close enough for Orwell to find him. Though he still held half a belief he was in a dream while his body turned in his sleep enough to convince him he was moving, he knew that even if he wasn't currently awake to the sad reality he lived in, Orwell would find him. He had to. Archie did not know what he would do after an emotional night without his soul mate to guide him.
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[Orwell Brocken]

Orwell had been understandably worried from the moment he'd found out about Jean's death. He'd been saddened by the loss, the loss that had come so soon after the loss of Avie. But, for Orwell the loss of Jean was no where comparable to the loss he knew that his best friend was feeling. So much so, that Orwell had left Archie to stay in bed rather than going to the memorial. He figure his attendance would be enough, be the two of them in one, and honestly he didn't think Archie could've handled the event. Orwell had never experienced much loss in his life prior to the loss of now two school friends, it had struck an odd chord with him, he realised it more with Jean than he had with Avie, the weirdness in his head, knowing that while he took a new breath, they would not. As he grew older, they would not. Orwell had spent a good amount of nights lying awake, pouring himself into his work as an organiser, getting himself in order and his mind sitting right. Allowing himself the time to meditate and think over the death. The former king of flowers did also realise that his best friend was not dealing with this loss well at all. He had only really gotten to know Jean in the last years of school, but Archie had grown exceedingly close to the boy in latter years. He could see the way the loss affected his friend, and it had been a growing point of concern to him. But there wasn't much Orwell could do, the feelings his friend had were not things he could fully comprehend and though he always tried his best to hug and just give him love, Archie needed more than that. He was still fulling grieving him, and grieving hard for the friend he had lost a year ago.

It was because of this anniversary that he was particularly concerned, some light skimming on books about death and loss had said that anniversaries were particularly hard days, they were focus points of feelings, a realisation of how much time had passed since then, how much life had just kept on going without them. He felt worried on so many levels because Orwell felt so out of his depth in dealing with it. He wanted to help his friend get better, but he didn't know what to do, what to say. He wanted to be there for him. Orwell wanted to help Archie but he didn't know how any more. Things had been somewhat simpler in school, when they could just sit in the flowers and watch the stars. However the later it got that evening the gradually more concerned that Orwell grew. They had arranged to meet, he was supposed to be here right now, and yet he hadn't turned up, though Orwell knew where Archie had planned to go before hand. Orwell sat nervously in the medley as the minutes steadily went on by. He had a drink in his hand but it had not yet been drunk from. The man eventually figured he had to find him, he had to. It wouldn't be so hard to find him, Archie had told him where he'd planned to, but he just had to hope that the boy hadn't strayed off somewhere else. It was a little of a relief, he could just easily leave the bar and head straight to where he was sure Archie would still be.

Orwell's nervousness drove him forward, breaking into a sprint just to find his friend and make sure he was okay, just something in his mind telling him he wouldn't be. But eventually Orwell got in eye line of the tree he spotted the figure laying on the ground before it, "ARCHIE," orwell ran forward even faster, eventually crashing down beside the other boy. He could smell the alcohol, he could see how it had affect it. Orwell knew this was too much, he knew that something really was indeed wrong with him. He could see it, even if Archie he didn't think could entire realise whom he was with. Orwell cupped Archie's face, "Archie! You alright there man?" the man asked he wasn't sure how bad Archie was, he couldn't entire tell, maybe the boy was just tired and that's why he was laying on the ground.
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[Archie Renner]

Archie's attempts to claw at the dirt around him and convince himself he was sitting on stable ground were in vain. Even knowing his back was firmly rested against a tree wasn't enough to convince himself he was no longer moving. The ground tilted whichever way he looked and even if he closed his eyes to gather a moment of peace, the horizon continued to move, revolving to the point of being upside down before swinging back again. It was a pendulum that churned his insides, making him want to cover his face with his hands and scream out loud in frustration, willing it all to stop. But he couldn't move his hands to his face no matter how much he wanted to, limbs feeling heavy and entire body feeling overwhelmed, too drained for him to do anything but slump in place as he tried to gather some sense of normality among the disorientation. Instead he kept his eyes shut, hoping to find sleep among the chaos in his head, or hoping that the chaos itself was some kind of night terror influenced by the anguish of his day that he would soon wake up from.

Archie's frustration rose again as his attempts to sleep failed, disturbed by the sound of crunching footsteps and a voice calling out. He tried to stand, to fight the heaviness in his limbs and heart and reach whatever was causing the noise. But the inevitability of the gravity he felt forced him to stay on the ground, causing him to shake his head, then frown with a deepened sense of confusion when a set of hands appeared around his face, radiating warmth against his cold skin. A moment to grasp what was happening and a few blinks to bring his eyes into focus allowed Archie to realize that the set of hands and their warmth didn't belong to him. Neither did the footsteps or voice calling his name. They instead belonged to the person he had been searching for. His rock in a world that felt foreign to him, his best friend. The same best friend that managed to remember where he was that night in time to find him curled on the ground, half leaning against a tree when he needed him the most. Archie wanted to move his hands to cover Orwell's and answer his words yet when he opened his mouth the ability to form an explanation left him. What he wanted to say dragged out in slurred, barely coherent syllables. "Don't... know. I don't know." He wasn't alright. He knew he wasn't alright and the nauseating feeling of the world turning around him only grew worse with every passing minute. But he couldn't articulate what was wrong, how powerless he felt in his own skin and how he wanted it all to go away.

He began to shake his head again, trying to will away the dizziness, nausea, and chill running down his spine. Forgetting that wanting it to go away wouldn't help, that he had tried, and tried again to will himself to feel better to no avail. He frowned, squeezing his eyes shut in a final attempt to wake himself from the nightmare he was in before speaking again when nothing changed. "Make it stop. I want it to stop." He said, tears welling in his eyes again as he begged Orwell to help him. To fix what was wrong. To cure the mess inside his mind and body that left him unable to do anything besides curl on the ground, begging to feel normal again but unable to articulate the problem at hand. Archie knew Orwell couldn't read his mind, that without the jacket and empty bottle discarded elsewhere in the tree line it was impossible to pinpoint the problem without a full explanation. But still he begged his friend to help in some way, in any way he could because he was unable to help himself.​

 

[Orwell Brocken]

Orwell was baffled by the sight that was meeting him. How much had Archie been drinking? This wasn't good at all. Orwell whose experience of alcohol was still rather limited wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, was this okay or was it not but he stayed at his best friend's side as the man uttered out a sentence. It was heavily slurred, it was difficult to understand. He could tell but the look on Archie's face that he probably didn't like it either, that he was trying to make it go away, that and he seemed to fighting against whatever was happening, but all he really succeed in doing was looking very nauseous, the boy was both pale and a little green. The former ravenclaw just stared helplessly at his friend, moving his arms around the other boy's face, moving him to his side since he knew that if he was to be sick it would be better to lay on his side, but he needed to do more, this wasn't enough. He had a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly to provide whatever comfort he could to his best friend. He listened to the man utter out another sentence and felt himself nodding, he was going to make it stop, he could make it stop, his best friend needed him. He needed to find help, he needed to get Archie to help. Orwell didn't know what he should do. He didn't know what had caused this, other than he could assume from the smell that he had just drank far too much, just the why puzzled him. But that was besides the point, Orwell needed to do something to help him not think about why. Clearly Archie needed a doctor, just someone who could help, someone who could make it stop.

"Hey Archie, Archie," Orwell spoke softly moving to Archie's line of vision, hoping to get the other boy to just focus on him. He clicked his fingers in front of his face as another attempt to have him focus, "I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay? I'm going to need to move you, and you're probably going to be sick," he wasn't sure what would happen, but he was sure that Archie would probably be sick, he was sure that the boy would probably pass out. He didn't know if this was the right thing to do, but he knew it was probably the only thing he could do. So Orwell put arm's around his shoulders and lifted the taller boy up. He was dead weight, unable to catch his feet under him, but Orwell, after shifting him around managed to squeeze the boy slightly against his body. Just to hold him closer. Apparating wouldn't be the best idea probably. Orwell knew where the hospital was and he was sure they could walk to it. He took a step forward but Orwell had never been particularly athletic, he had never bothered doing that, and Archie's weight when he was almost completely out of it wasn't helping at all, he couldn't carry him the entire way. So, despite his qualms about it, he knew he had to apparate. He reached into his pocket, shifting Archie's weight slightly and awkwardly managed to pull out his wand. He held it tightly, and then imagining the front of the hospital, turned on the spot, and with a pop he apparated there. As soon as he landed, and opened his eyes, Orwell watched Archie vomit, partially on him, but mostly just on the floor, "It's gonna be okay," he assured.
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