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Chapter Text

     FRIDAY

Sirius awakes to the cold sun of winter, golden but not burningly so, melting ice pouring over his face. He scrunches his face and goes to rub his eyes, leaning his head forward, but his forehead bumps into a nose. The impact is followed by a pair of groans. His knees knock into another set of knees.

“Stop moving!” commands Remus, taking his wrist and pining it to the mattress between their hips.

Only then does Sirius open his eyes. The sight is nothing short of marvellous: the light washes over Remus’ cheek, dust particles floating aimlessly around him; the rest of his face is shadowed from the sun, lips dry from thirst and eyelids dropping graciously in some sort of daze. And he’s close – close enough that Sirius feels the breath that comes out of his nose, close enough that Sirius would just have to tilt his chin up. For any kind of contact.

“Sorry,” he whispers instead.

Remus shakes his head imperceptibly.

“We missed breakfast,” Remus says.

“What time’s it?”

“Nine something, I think. It was eight thirty when I checked on my way to the loo.”

He came back to bed, Sirius thinks. His chest aches. His whole body aches. His cheeks hurt when he smiles, the corpses of yesterday’s tears solidifying over night in curved, salty trails. A headache is beginning to form above his eyebrows, pounding like an approaching marching band.

“How long have you been up?” he asks.

Remus shrugs and his lips quirk secretively,

“A while.”

And this. This, whatever it is. This hurts delightfully. It’s the strange satisfaction in tonguing at a loose tooth when you’re a kid. It’s the crashing realization (earth-shattering, really) that people out there care. That people have their own thought process, and sometimes, somewhere, somewhen, someone includes you there. Realizing that Remus cares shouldn’t come as a surprise – they’ve been friends for years – but Sirius finds himself in complete awe.

“You skipped marmalade on toast,” he whispers.

“It’s not as good as my mum’s anyway.”

“It really isn’t.”

He can taste it on the roof of his mouth, dark magenta and dripping down their fingers as they rushed to lick it up amongst snorts of laughter. Remus’ home wasn’t always easy – its walls were tainted with struggle and unspoken burdens, the beige wallpaper in the living room peeling slowly, slowly, time frozen like a glass dropping from a careless hand. It had taken time for it to burst. Even more for the pieces to fit back together, differently-shaped and reluctant to stay. Sirius knows the story in bits and pieces, in over-the-shoulder glances at the letters Remus read over and over, in the overheard answers that James gave him (because what advice could Sirius offer on a family that makes mistakes and tries to amend them?), in the little comments Remus felt capable of sharing with him. Sirius was hardly even there.

But it’s better now: the garden rings with high-pitched laughter for two weeks every summer, when they all come over to visit, and it settles into a comfortable silence during the school year. Remus steps into the train every September carrying accentuated words and the smell of grass between the neatly-folded clothes in his old suitcase. The spells come a tad stronger out of the end of his wand, like they belong in his tongue then more than ever. After coming back to his roots.

“We’re going to have to get up, eventually,” Remus says, snapping him out of his Wales-induced trance. “We’re already missing our first class.”

“Minnie won’t miss us,” Sirius dismisses. “She’ll probably be a bit relieved that we aren’t there, actually. She has enough stress with the game as it is.”

“Speak for yourself,” Remus scoffs. “I’m one of her best students.”

“So am I.”

Remus snorts and blinks down at him.

“Are you going? To the game?”

“Do you think I should?”

Maybe it’s easier to get the answer straight from Remus than to search for it himself. Because every time he thinks about yesterday, a wool ball of tangled emotions crawls up his oesophagus, and it’s impossible to discern them. It’s betrayal, and shame, and guilt, and sadness, and fury, and embarrassment, and the axis-tilting feeling that everything is changing, or has already changed. How is he even supposed to know how to act when he doesn’t even know how he’s supposed to feel?

His mind is so loud since he ran away, like all he kept hidden away decided to break out of its confinement, burst out of its designed boxes simultaneously, like he crashed a car and the radio kept playing over his dead body. His head is three million trails of thought at once, screaming over each other to be heard, and it’s judgment judgment judgment, like God herself (and Sirius is no believer) stands on top of his mind and brandishes Her mighty reason.

It’s easier for the thoughts to quiet down when he’s here, absorbing all of Remus’ body warmth and offering his in return, watching time pass as if it doesn’t exist, hearing the sounds of life outside their dorm like the world just isn’t beyond it, like it’s just them and he needn’t worry about anything else.

He knows one thing for certain: he hates getting angry. Because getting angry means opening a space for him to feel hurt, it means either expressing his feelings to others or swallowing them down until he’s grown branches of resentment around his lungs. And in those occasions in which he comes crashing down it’s never pretty – rather it is throwing himself off a building and gripping at someone else’s jacket so they fall with him. Anger never looks good on someone who was raised on it, fed on it, filled with it to the brim so that every time he is shown cruelty he can only pay back with the same. It’s his foundation, this anger. It’s his fight or flight, his survival, his instinct. Knowing this doesn’t appease it in the slightest – if anything, it increases it, points it at every single possible direction (himself, his family, James, Regulus, Remus, Peter, this fucking castle).

He wishes kindness came as easy to him as this red fury does. Comprehension. He’s trying to find it, now, attempting to pace his breath to the rhythm of Remus’ chest, up, halt, then down, up, halt, then down.

Only what’s hard to find is worth searching for, so Sirius looks for himself desperately.

For the Sirius he’s cultivated throughout these seven years, warmed by friendship and generosity and the many things he has got and has never deserved. This Sirius who has been lucky for all the past lives he lived at Grimmauld Place 12, somber and mourning all that didn’t happen and all that did.

“I don’t know,” Remus replies after a moment. “I really don’t.”

“I don’t, either.” He pauses. “You should’ve told me, you know.”

Something flashes in Remus’ eyes.

“Would you have liked to know it from me?”

“I would’ve liked to know from James.” He shifts until he’s on his back, and throws an arm over his forehead, another around his middle. “It’s only fair, don’t you think? You shag your best friend’s brother, repeatedly, at that, you tell your best friend.”

“It’s not just shagging,” Remus says, which makes Sirius crook his head to look at him. “James- I think he might actually like him.”

“How?” Sirius whines. “Not because it’s Reg, don’t get me wrong. Well, maybe a little because it’s Reg,” he grimaces. “Just…how? How did they even approach one another? How long have they been meeting behind my back? What about the girls?”

“The girls were probably poor excuses for his real feelings,” Remus answers, placating his questions. Sirius’ hands, which had been gesturing broadly as he spoke, fall on top of the covers. “It happens. I once told you I liked Mary when you were dating her just so you’d stop pestering me.”

“But…” Sirius’ brain scrambles, trying to ignore that and to focus on the matter at hand. “But Lily!”

“But Lily was precisely what gave him the first clue, wasn’t she?”

“Did you know about her and James’ attempt at shagging?”

“I did, yeah,” he replies. “But not through James.”

“Lily told you?”

“Lily told me because I had talked to her about a similar thing before. Not…being into who you’re supposed to be into.”

Sirius presses his lips into a line. He pushes back all the questions he wants to ask, all the selfish ones.

“So you think James doesn’t like girls?”

Once again, Remus shrugs, frowning. “All I know is he likes Regulus. He might like girls too, one thing does not go against the other.” They let it linger for a moment, there. Until it gets too heavy. “It’s not an easy thing to talk about.”

“I understand that,” Sirius nods. “But I’ve had…countless of hard conversations with him. More than I care to admit. I thought he’d come to me for this as well, like I have come to him time and time again.”

Remus doesn’t seem to have an answer to that. Sirius doesn’t think he’ll get one unless he talks to James.

“I am sorry,” Remus says. “I didn’t want to keep it from you.”

“I know. It hurts that you did it, but only because James did it first. You were at a crossroads.”

“I didn’t choose him over you,” Remus murmurs. “I just…this secret…revealing James’ sexuality seemed like a worse treason.”

“I know.”

It doesn’t restrain the wholeness of his bitterness, but it does help calm the rowdy waves overflowing his tummy. He looks at Remus and he sees nothing other than him.

“Thank you for being with me.”

Remus smiles.

“C’mon,” he urges him, nudging his shoulder. “We oughta’ get up.”

⋆⋆⋆

They end up getting ready in time for their third lesson, Muggle Studies, a class he takes with Peter and – he realizes as he walks there with a sickening churn to his stomach – James. But when he gets there, avoiding everyone’s eye as much as he can despite the fact that no one actually knows what happened between them, he startles at the sight of Peter on James’ usual seat, drabbling on the desk and watching the ink disappear almost instantaneously.

“Morning, Pete.” Sirius slides the chair and drops on it heavily.

Peter’s back straightens like a broomstick has been shoved up his arse.

“I really tried to talk him into telling you, Sirius!” he exclaims, gathering a few bothered glances from people around them.

Sirius doesn’t look in James’ direction, but he sees him sinking down further into his chair.

“It’s okay, Wormtail. I’m not mad at you. How long have you known?”

When he goes to answer, Professor Cussen walks in, clanking her tall leather boots and wearing extravagant eye makeup that Sirius has, more than once and in intense intimacy, tried to replicate. She carries a small bag from which odd objects pour carelessly.

“I’ve known for longer than I would’ve liked,” Peter whispers, only glancing at him.

“How long is that?”

“I caught them after Christmas. On the map, like you.”

“You’d think James, a cocreator of the map, would be a bit more careful with his wandering.”

Peter snorts, “James isn’t exactly known for being careful.”

Sirius beams against his will. Peter sighs.

“He really likes him, Sirius.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“He wants to talk to you. Before the game…”

“Trust James Potter to self-sabotage before one of the most important games this year.”

“…He won’t keep seeing him if he doesn’t have your approval. Just…I thought you should know that.”

“He’s been seeing him behind my back. I don’t think my approval matters to him so much.”

“He was just scared, Sirius. And the way you reacted yesterday…” he cuts himself off. Sirius glances at him.

“What? What about it?”

Peter clenches his jaw and looks down. He has the anxious habit of peeling the skin around his fingernails until it’s red. He never lets them heal completely.

“Well, you just proved him right. You proved him he was right to be scared of your reaction.”

It’s the ether. The dreaded silence. The fear in his bones at the sight of his house, every year until he was eleven, every July until he stopped coming back home. Time and space work differently between those thick concrete walls. The matter that floats in the air is not oxygen. It’s thicker than water, more like blood, and thinner than ice. Enough to let you live and strangle you in the process. He shushes his thoughts when he knows his mother is listening. Sweat swirls in his eyebrow, tickles his eyes.

Sirius doesn’t want to be someone people are scared of. Not like his mother is. Perhaps he isn’t as unlike her as he thought.

“Oh,” is all he says.

Peter fumbles with his fingers some more.

“I’m not saying you’re in the wrong for being pissed at him,” Peter mumbles defensively.

“Yeah.”

“Sirius.”

“I know.”

“Merlin’s balls.” He groans.

“Pettigrew. Black,” Professor Cussen calls, staring threateningly from above the object she holds.

“Sorry, Professor,” they murmur.

Then, just a moment later, Peter stifles a laugh behind his palm.

“What?”

“You were helping him court your brother.”

“Shut up. I would’ve boycotted it if I had known.”

“To be fair, your advice wasn’t really working in his favour.”

“Oh God,” he chuckles. “Reg slapped him.”

“Does that make you feel better?”

“No.” He pauses. “Maybe a little bit. He really doesn’t like physical contact from people he doesn’t know that much.”

“Oh, but that’s not what happened,” Peter says, and his eyes widen as if his brain has just caught on with his words.

“Well, Peter.”

“No.”

“You can’t just admit to knowing and then not tell me.”

“Pettigrew, Black,” Professor Cussen insists.

“Sorry, Professor.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m not looking forward to getting kicked out.”

“I’ll kick you out myself if you don’t tell me.”

“James tried to back hug him.”

“Oh my fucking-”

“Seems like Regulus’ immediate reaction was to slap him.”

“So what he told you at dinner…”

“Absolute bollocks,” Peter nods.

“He really went above and beyond to keep it from me.”

“I can’t say I blame him. Regulus is a boy, and your brother, on top of that.”

“Thank you, Pete. I didn’t realize. Glad to see you’re following.”

“All right, all right. I’m just saying. It’s not like James was unaware of what he was doing.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

He looks at him, then. James looks exhausted indeed, glasses crooked and hair standing up in the back, curly and wavy and straight like it cannot decide. His arms are crossed and he’s sliding down his chair slowly, staring at the front of the class absently and chewing on his bottom lip. He hasn’t shaved properly in a few days. He’s probably had to use the Head Boy’s bathroom this morning. His movements are slow and clumsy. It will be a miracle if they manage to win this game, Sirius knows this. James probably knows this too. It’s probably already downing on him.

Peter follows his eyes.

“Merlin’s balls,” he repeats.

“Pettigrew!”

⋆⋆⋆

Surprisingly, it’s not James who finds him first.

Regulus Black himself corners him after dinner, which he had with Remus earlier than usual in order to avoid his other best friend. He’s already wearing his equipment, green and silver, tight around his thighs and loose around his middle. His hair is pushed back with bobby pins to keep it clear from his face. His eyes will be the most important thing in the field, after all.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Sirius smiles.

Regulus hasn’t approached him in months. In fact, he’s been avoiding him like the fucking plague. That fact bubbles up in his stomach uncomfortably. This is what it took. James.

His brother glances at Remus, who inhales sharply. He squeezes Sirius’ elbow.

“I’ll wait for you in the dorm.”

Sirius nods and watches him go until his cloak is just a blur amongst the rest.

“Go on, then.”

Regulus walks the opposite way, until they’re in a desolated hallway. Then, he fetches a yellow memo pad from his grey trousers and summons a quill from somewhere up the sleeve of his cloak. He writes calmly, composedly. If this situation is as violent for him as it is for Sirius, he doesn’t let it show. Not a crack in his face from which Sirius can peek through.

Don’t be mad at him, the note reads. Sirius scoffs. Regulus scowls reprovingly and writes again. I was the one who asked him not to tell you.

“That’s not what he said yesterday. Or what Peter’s saying. He didn’t tell me because he didn’t think I’d understand. He didn’t tell me because he thought I would react like a Black.”

Regulus clicks his tongue. I told him you wouldn’t understand because you still needed time to figure yourself out.

“Figure what out?”

Regulus blinks and points a thumb over his shoulder, in the vague direction Remus left to only a few minutes ago, arching a brow that dares him to deny it. The fucking thoughts, spilling all over again, messy and painting the floor like a kid that’s fixed on destroying all of his toys, dismembering them. What would Walburga Black think of the questions running through his mind right now, of the little grip he’s got on them now?: How long have they known? Who knows? Does Remus know? Does Sirius know?

She’d probably laugh at how lax he’s become. Because a kid is raised to go to war. A kid is sharpened like a glass. A kid must face all of his fears before he’s able to develop more. A kid mustn’t check for monsters under his bed. A kid just lets it stay there, aware of it. A kid learns to sleep feeling its breath on his cheek. A kid learns to sleep wrapped around a weapon; if he wakes up with wounds on his chest from how tightly he holds onto the dagger, that just means it wasn’t the monster who hurt him. It was him.

That kid looks at his brother now and doesn’t recognize himself, like one is supposed to when you share not only blood but also history.

Knowing that Regulus has struggled with what he’s going through – knowing, too, that he knew Sirius would go through this process – should be bringing them together. It probably is, if it’s used the right way. But, God, does it hurt. Closeness, rapprochement, rips them from the inside when they walk towards each other with weights hanging from their ankles, carrying burdens they can’t get rid of. The answer is right there, the obvious conversation, but Sirius doesn’t know how to reach him. Hasn’t known for a long time.

He doesn’t know how to answer. Fortunately, Regulus doesn’t give him time to.

“I won,” Sirius reads out loud. “Won what?”

Regulus’ lip quirks as he writes, faster than before. He shows him the memo.

“Oh, fuck off, Reg,” Sirius groans, unable to keep a bubble of laughter from bursting out of him.

Mother said nothing could be worse than befriending a Potter.

“Does she…does she know?” Sirius asks, the question suddenly widening his eyes.

Regulus was there for Christmas, the first without Sirius. Granted, Sirius had been absent for longer, not physically but in presence, in attitude.

His shoulders sag in relief when Regulus shakes his head.

“How did you keep her from prying?”

Music, Regulus replies. Sirius smiles against his will. It was one of his techniques, one of the many he tried to teach Regulus. Play a song, over and over, in his head, until it’s basically screaming into their mother’s head. Until the bass pounds sets the tone for her headache.

“That won’t last long. You know that, right? She’ll find out.”

No, she won’t, Regulus writes carefully, because I’m not going back.

It’s like a punch to his sternum. Like a lung collapsing. His brain shutting down. His veins exploding in red ink, one by one. His eyes rolling out of their sockets. The ground at his feet disappears and opens into the middle of the ocean, and he can’t tell up from down, sand from surface, hell from heaven. His chest burns and he swallows a mouthful of water. And it’s relief washing over him but it’s green envy as well, it’s the Slytherin in his bloodline, it’s a fucking snake of jealousy wrapping around his left arm, ready to strike, to sink its fangs into his jugular.

Oh. There it is. Finally. Finally, the silence. The thoughts crawling back into their designed boxes, tired of fighting, beaten up and bruised. Everything picks itself up with some sort of strange finality. The curtain falls after they give their final bow. Great play, everyone says as they clap. They stand up to leave. The mess on stage was terrible and beautiful, as messes often tend to be. The crowd will sleep soundly tonight. Pleased. Sirius Black gave his all and it wasn’t enough. He packs his bags and he leaves through the backdoor, as messes often tend to do.

The only memory that lingers is the one from that night – Sirius, on the floor, head between his knees, not crying because the heaving of his sides hurts too much to handle it, but visibly shaking. His body, at its lowest, still trying to keep him warm. There’s some beauty in that. A single thought running through his mind: leave leave leave leave leave.

But he stays put for what feels like ages. And Regulus, at his side like a bloody…fuck, like a bloody brother. Like a brother that’s a year younger and has never learned how to act, because every single one of Sirius’ acts has bravery imprinted on them and yet those examples aren’t enough to teach him how to be brave, as well. Regulus doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t say anything, either, for words have long left his mouth.

So Sirius is brave for the both of them, one last time. He conjures the words out of nowhere, picks them out of thin air like a spell. Because Sirius is his big brother. He’s casted a shadow upon him from the moment the light hit him and formed one.

“I’m leaving to James’. Come with me.”

It’s not a question. Sirius knows better than to call his brother a coward. Perhaps his bravery lies in saying no to an affirmation. To a necessity. Or perhaps that’s just stupidity. Because Regulus says no.

And Sirius is a big brother, but he leaves.

“Sirius,” Regulus whispers now. Pleadingly. Knowing the blank expression in his face better than anyone – God, Sirius can’t feel his face. A year late. Only a word. It mends Sirius’ heart and breaks it altogether.

“You could’ve left with me,” he tells him.

Regulus closes his eyes for a moment. He writes:

It’s different now. You know that.

And doesn’t he know? James was the one who offered him a place to stay. James was the hand that held his. James was the knuckles that knocked on the door to his first home. James was the heart that took him in.

“Because of James?”

Yes. Because of him.

And it’s as simple as that. His brain doesn’t scramble for reasons anymore. The truth is ruthless like that. It’s analytical. It’s obvious. It leaves no room for debate. Sirius wasn’t enough to get Regulus to leave. James was. And it’s just that.

But Regulus keeps writing, somewhat desperately, rushed, like he senses Sirius slipping away.

I’ve been practicing your name in front of the mirror for months. It’s the only word I stand to say.

And he goes on, a beat later, when Sirius’ eyes have scanned through the words and the warmth is starting to wrap itself around his fingertips.

I couldn’t leave when I wasn’t brave enough to even mutter your name.

“Fucking hell, Reggie,” Sirius mumbles, and it’s funny – he isn’t brave enough to look him in the eye. Regulus’ hand is shaking.

It happens in slow motion. Sirius’ brain is like the first sliver of sun peeking from behind the moon. It explodes open again. There’s a flower blooming in every corner of his skin.

He takes the notepad. He grabs Regulus’ wrist. He pulls him in.

Their parents always thought Regulus would be taller than him when he grew up. Sirius is glad he isn’t, now. For his brother releases a sound that is incredibly close to a whine and drowns his face in the crook of his neck, and his eyelashes tickle the little mole they share as they flutter. And they embrace.

It doesn’t last long; their arms are tired in just a moment, because their limbs aren’t used to aligning to one another. But the beat stretches on forever.

Regulus’ lips are quivering when he parts. Sirius’ teeth are clattering.

He passes him the notepad soundlessly.

James was the first person to tell me I was enough to go with you. I felt like I needed to fight all the battles you had been through in order to deserve it. I’m sorry I couldn’t leave before.

“You’re leaving now,” Sirius tells him. And he tells him this, “That’s all that matters. All I wanted was for you to be safe, Reg.” And this, “And you’ve always been enough. You don’t have to deserve being safe. You don’t have to deserve to be loved.” And this, “You just are.”

The truth is ruthless. It’s analytical. It’s obvious. It leaves no room for debate.

It’s those short sentences. They’re hard to say, like a bee stung his tongue. But he says them.

Regulus nods curtly. His fist clenches around his quill, pinching his palm and dripping it black. The reaction is so like him that it almost makes Sirius cackle. He holds his gaze for a moment, earnest and open.

Forgive him, he writes. Or I’ll tell Mother you’re dating a werewolf.

Sirius gapes, “I’m not dating-” he begins. “He’s not-”

Regulus gives him a pointed look and turns around, waving a hand above his shoulder.

⋆⋆⋆

Sirius doesn’t find James before the game, so it’s six in the afternoon and the sun is setting, the crowd rowdy around him and red and gold flying everywhere. Remus is pressed to his side tightly. His hip hurts worse with the cold, so he sits. Peter is standing to his right, leading the cheers like he was born to do it.

“...And there’s Potter, whose loyalty to the Gryffindor team has been questioned due to recent events…” the commentator says.

The Gryffindors around him shout louder. James bows on top of his broom almost arrogantly. Sirius loves watching him play, faster than the wind, belonging in that floatation. James Potter makes himself at home everywhere he goes, but this, Quidditch, this was designed for him before he could make it his.

He’s good. Not as bright as always, perhaps. A bit slower, if that, but Sirius might be the only one who notices, since he’s the only one who knows the causes of it. He whooshes past them like damnation, and the Gryffindor pennant flutters behind him. He scores. Over and over again. His grin gets wider with every goal, proudly so. Their difference is almost laughable.

Then there’s a breeze of green and gold – a funny mix, that is – and Regulus Black holds the snitch in one hand and leans back on his broom with the other, seemingly unbothered. (James Potter is quick, but Regulus Black… “Merlin’s balls,” says Peter under his breath, “he’s fast”.)

And Sirius jumps from his seat,

“Way to go, Reggie!”

His brother gives no sign of having heard him, but he smiles at the pained groans, at the insults thrown his way. He basks in them like they’re triumph itself. His teammates clap him on the back as they fly down onto the ground.

And James’ grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it stretches even further.

So Gryffindor doesn’t win, but no one seems to really mind, because the party is still on and a loss just translates into not having to carry the entire team on their shoulders.

Sirius changes out of his uniform and slaps his leather jacket on, though it’s too hot to wear it for longer than five minutes.

“I told Lily I’d drink with her first. See you down there?” Remus asks. Sirius nods, pulling his waterline down to paint it black with the cheap liner Mary almost threw away last week.

“That looks good on you,” a voice says.

“Shit,” Sirius curses, jumping in surprise. The line goes beyond his eye and almost up to his temple. “Not anymore.”

“Sorry,” James says. “Here.”

He crosses the room in three long steps and stands in front of him. He licks his thumb and washes the excess with it carefully.

“There. Perfect once more.”

“Thanks.”

James takes a breath and Sirius braces himself.

“First of all, I’m sorry. I really, really wanted to tell you.”

“But I wouldn’t have understood.”

“It wasn’t the right time.”

“You don’t get to decide when I have realizations about myself, James.”

“I know,” he grimaces. “It’s just,” he scowls. “I was scared it would be too much.”

“It is entirely too much, James. And was everything else necessary? The conversations about girls, the playing along with the fucking list? That’s not- that’s not just omitting the truth. That’s actively lying.”

“I was scared.” James’ head hangs low.

“Scared of what? Scared I would freak out? Scared I would find you disgusting? Find me disgusting?”

“Scared you would make me choose!” James snaps, taking a step back. “Which you are, by the way, in some way or another. And it’s mean. You’re being mean.”

“You’re being mean, James. Not me.”

“I was just trying to take care of everyone.”

“You can’t take care of people without asking them what they want.”

James purses his lips and stares at him. His eyes manage to stay warm despite it all, while Sirius has been wearing his jacket for longer than ten minutes and has no desire to take it off.

“I’m sorry. Just…please, I know it’s selfish. I know it is. But don’t make me choose.”

This is not 1973 anymore, where James could get away with the white lies that would comfort Sirius for the time being, appease him into coming back home with the faintest of hopes tied around his fingers. It’s 1977 and Sirius hasn’t seen his parents in over a year. He’d gladly never see them again. James was supposed to be his family. James was supposed to choose him, unlike them. God, Sirius was never jealous of Regulus. Not really, not for being chosen by parents such as those. But he’d be lying if he said it wouldn’t feel good to come first for once, to those he’s supposed to come first for.

“Why?” Sirius says, in a bitter laugh that rings familiarly in his ears, “Because you’ll choose him?”

It’s his family tree reclaiming him, the enjoyment at seeing James squirm, suffer as his blood boils and his tongue spits fire.

“No,” James shakes his head, so obviously in pain that his face is almost unrecognizable. “Because I’ll choose you. And it will break my fucking heart.”

A moment goes by and James runs his hands through his hair, then breathes into them deeply. When he resurfaces, his eyes are tired and his eyebrows heavy, and he smiles at Sirius. It lies there, the apocryphal truth, what shouldn’t be said and still is. The truth, over and over again. Its analyticity. The cruelty of it. The cruelty of love. Sirius wishes he could take it back, swallow his words, but they’ve spilt all over the floor, a whole alphabet of regret. The knowledge weighs on their shoulders and they can’t shake it off. It doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would, being chosen like this. Sirius wonders whether James might share more of that guilt with him than he thought. Sirius wonders if this is what Regulus felt like for years.

“I’ll choose you. You’ve been my person for six, seven years, the reason my world keeps fucking spinning. Of course I’ll choose you.”

He breathes. Sirius isn’t so sure he can manage it.

“But it will be a kind of heartbreak I don’t think I can get myself to forgive you for. I love him,” he says, simple, with the same amount of oxygen he uses to articulate any other eight words, except these nail themselves into Sirius’ ribs. “And I love you. And you love Remus, or you’re getting there, or I don’t even fucking know, but if you do- if you do you’ll understand that to choose is to die. Some part of you dies and never recovers. I’d never wish that upon you. I’m begging you to do the same.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to get your forgiveness and your trust back. I’m sorry I ever deceived you. I don’t want to be unfair. You have the right to be angry. You can be angry all you want. And I also don’t want to lecture you on what to be mad about. Your reasons are valid, whatever they are.”

“James.”

“I just want you back. It’s been less than a day but I’ve missed you for longer and…”

“James.”

He stops.

“Yes?” he asks, small.

“I know what I’m angry about. I know some of those reasons are childish and unfair. Just…give me some time to adjust, yeah?”

James blinks. It’s not what he wants, for he deflates, but he picks himself up almost immediately.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, as long as you need.”

“I’m not going to make you choose. I’d- I’d never think to hurt you like that. I’m sorry if it came across that way.”

It’s not entirely the truth, and they know it, but they don’t acknowledge it. It’s synthetic. It’s not obvious. But they know each other. James sees through every single one of Sirius’ lies, straight into his upbringing. Straight into his core. If Sirius says this, it’s only because he intends on fulfilling the silent promise that’s implied in it. It’s a disposition of intentions. Not the truth. Not just yet.

“It’s okay,” James says, because he knows how to lie as well and because Sirius can see through those lies too.

“Well, don’t let me ruin your fun. Get down there and celebrate your big loss. My brother kicked your arse.”

James beams.

“That he did. Are you coming?”

“In a moment.”

James nods. He hesitates for a moment, before he steps forward again, closing the distance between them. He cups Sirius’ neck and presses a firm kiss to his temple, there where it frontiers with his hairline.

“I’ll see you down there.”

Once he’s gone, Sirius stares at his reflection in the mirror. Mirror-Sirius returns the look. He thinks he might be starting to recognize him.

The stray line out of his eye, that which James tried to erase, is faded but not entirely gone. He leaves it like that.

⋆⋆⋆

Remus dances when he’s drunk. He spins Lily around once and twice and thrice until they’re breathless with laughter. It always leaves Sirius wondering how she manages not to throw up. Then Lily takes his hand and turns him around too, on her tiptoes so he doesn’t have to bend over that much.

As for Sirius, well. He usually joins them and bangs his head to the music, but until the time is right he sticks to the drinks. The plain tequila burns down his throat like his oesophagus is one big open wound and his drink is the alcohol he pours in it, scorching cells and expecting it to heal – it’s a mouthful of water in the middle of the ocean, a wave sending him under the tide, as harsh as a punch. He throws back shot after shot. Listen, Gryffindor lost. Who cares?

There’s no Slytherins in the common room, but there are Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws in handfuls, talking animately and blending together now that they’re out of their differentiator uniforms.

Mary is watching them as well, Lily and Remus, but she does not drink.

Instead, she soberly says, “I’m in love with Lily.”

And Sirius drunkly says, “I’m in love with Remus.”

It’s neither here nor there. They nod to each other. Sirius’ heart hammers to the music and, probably, to Remus’ own pulse. Like a fucking compass.

Remus and Lily dance and spin and spin. Sirius’ head spins on and on and on.

Then Remus has an arm around his waist and is helping him up the stairs. Sirius is singing a song he doesn’t remember and the common room behind them is loud but not as loud as it was a while ago.

“What time is it?” Sirius asks, barely recognizing the syllables as they fall from his tongue.

“Two. That’s the fourth time you’ve asked.”

“Really? I don’t remember that.”

“Yes. That’s also what you’ve said the past three times.”

“Did I dance, Moony?” he asks as they come through the door, the dorm quiet and dark, only lit up by the moon outside.

“You did dance, Sirius,” answers Remus, untangling his arm from his back and taking out his sweater, head first.

“You danced too, Remus. You looked beautiful.”

Remus’ laugh is choked by the wool. Sirius smiles at the sound of it nonetheless. Some lovesickness in his cheeks.

“You’re drunk,” Remus observes when he resurfaces. “Go to bed and sleep.”

“Help me with my jacket?”

Sirius turns around and Remus walks until he’s behind him, fingers fluttering over his neckline for a brief moment before pulling from his sleeves, removing the clothe. He folds it over his arm and sets it on the iron end of his bed while Sirius sits and toes his boots off, then his socks, then his jeans. Remus takes them all and sets them next to the jacket.

“Thanks,” Sirius says. He drops down on his pillow and Remus watches him intently. Sirius wiggles his eyebrows. “Like what you see?”

Remus rolls his eyes. “I’m just making sure you don’t throw up all over yourself.”

“Sure,” Sirius hums. “Sleep with me tonight?”

It feels like Remus will say no, for a moment. Then all doubt is gone as he undresses down to his underwear and slips under the fresh covers. Sirius gets under them too. They’re close. Closer than in the morning. Lying on their sides. Sirius sneaks a leg between Remus’. The moon reflects on his eyes like a ballad. Sirius’ vision is a boat in the Pacific but he knows for certain that Remus will always be the most beautiful thing there is to see in the entire universe. So he keeps watching him. And eyes turn into wandering fingers, across his forehead, down his temple, down his cheek, down his jaw, up his lips, up his nose, one eyebrow, the other, one eye, the other. His thumb on Remus’ lower lip, tipping it open just slightly. Tiptoeing over the cliff, about to jump. Sirius is sure he can taste the moon in them. Remus breathes haltingly. Sirius leans forward and Remus leans forward in response. It’s just a centimetre, really, what difference does it make? Remus closes his eyes and the world loses all light. The moon reflects the sun and Remus reflects the moon but he’s all the light.

“No,” Sirius murmurs, as quietly as he can. Even an abrupt word will cause their lips to crash together.

Remus’ eyes open.

“No?”

“Not like this,” Sirius shakes his head. “I’ll kiss you tomorrow.”

It’s one of the answers.

Remus smiles and Sirius must give his name away because all the stars shine in his eyes right then.

Remus kisses his thumb and nods.

“I’ll take your word for that.”

Sirius smiles.

Here’s something Sirius knows: everyone has a heart of their own inside of them. Beating or not, beastly or not, the organ wants to be held by a fellow heart. It seeks companionship, rest from its tireless work. So when Sirius presses Remus’ head to his chest and his heart beats against his stomach just like Sirius’ does against his ear, this is what happens: their whole bodies lets go of themselves, as if their bones have crumbled, turned to dust, and their muscles have melted. His heart beats and it’s this – to be held like this, like Remus is the only thing keeping him from going adrift, like Sirius’ heart is just an echo of Remus’; it’s just following his steps blindly like a tired kid that walks behind his mum, hand in hand, scrubbing his eye with his knuckle. His heart settles like the universe after creation and his mind is, for once, content in its utter quiet chaos.

Somewhere, very far away, years and countless of causal relations after them, Sirius is sure, as he drifts off with Remus’ heartbeat in his stomach lulling him, that a galaxy borns.

                 a guide to flirtation (for james potter ?????????)

1. amortentia (get them to take a good ol' sniff ask them what they smell on it as naturally as possible) - FAIL
2. casual physical contact (without making them feel uncomfortable!!!!!!!!) - FAIL
3. gift them something they like - SUCCESS??? 
4. ask them to spend time together doing something you both like - ????!!!!!!!??????!!?
5. ask. just ask