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Chapter Text

We love life not because we are used to living, but because we are used to loving.
- Thus spoke Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche

     MONDAY

These kinds of things happen, and Sirius would say they happen unexpectedly, sort of like a fire breaks out or a volcano erupts or the Titanic crashes into an iceberg, except it’s not really unexpected in the slightest. Just like a soft lumos comes out of his mouth and he knows the tip of his wand will light up, just like the sun rises from behind the hazy waves of the hills of Scotland, just like a river rushes down into the sea, intermingling sweet and salt and fishes that die in foreign territory – just like that does James Potter fall in love at least once a week, and just like that does Sirius have to know all about it, for what’s a friend meant to be if not a willing ear (albeit tired, ringing in the cusp of morning).

It’s not even eight in the morning and James Potter, who has been awake since six, at least (Sirius can never tell when it is that he leaves for practice, but every morning his bed is undone and James, nowhere to be seen), is not even in the sort of state Sirius is at – dazed and dizzy, eyes drooping unevenly, as if tied to different puppeteer strings, shirt half tucked in, half tucked out, tie long lost wherever the fuck a tie gets lost at – no, James is but in complete elation at being up, perky and cheerful and flushed cheeks full of food he’s, quite disgustingly, spitting out crumbs of as he talks animately. He sits in front of him, beside Peter, who is halfway through a yawn that sends a fat tear rolling down his face, and waves his hands in grand gestures, glasses crooked and hair as messy as if it is still rolling in bed, sticking out in every direction. James is an untamed hurricane, and Sirius loves him for it. He just doesn’t have the strength to put up with all of its fury so early in the morning.

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to come up with the smartest of answers, for even the laziest of “mhm”s and “oh, really?”s send James into a rant about whoever the hell he’s talking about right now.

Wait. Sirius stops munching on his toast and frowns. Just like that he’s fully awake and the sounds around him filter in: laughter and voices and cutlery clanking and gulps and winter-turning-into-spring-typical coughs.

“Prongs,” he interjects, voice cranky and breaking like a teenager’s. He breathes through his mouth when he sleeps, sue him.

James stops abruptly and swallows, mimics Sirius’ frown as if he’s his very mirror.

“Yes?”

“Who are you even talking about?” Sirius asks.

Then and only then does something shift in the air. A little thing, unnoticeable to anyone except to those that spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, hovering around their best friend, the earth around the sun, the moon around the earth, James around Sirius, Sirius around James. The latter shuffles on the space he occupies on the bench, Peter glances at him slyly and quirks his eyebrows, and Sirius squints his eyes.

“Stop scratching your arse on the bench, Potter,” he says. “Who...?”

Someone slumps heavily on the seat to his right and James deflates visibly, while Sirius’ shoulders jump in surprise and remain up to his ears, hyperaware.

“Moony,” James breathes. Sirius is still, very consciously, looking at him, though James doesn’t return his stare anymore. Though Sirius’ own field of vision is blurry, is stargazing through a light-polluted city, is James forgetting to fetch his glasses; is his heart beating faster, is his ribs slamming against one another from the force of it, is wooden chimes fluttering with a soft breeze. Sirius can’t see a thing, actually. “Good morning, what took you so long?”

A voice, low and grumbly, speaks to his right (and, really, Sirius wonders with something like envy burning at the pit of his stomach, is it fair for anyone to sound so good so early in the morning?),

“Lily,” is the only thing Remus offers as an explanation, voice coming out muffled from behind his arms, where he’s drowned his head in.

It is rather self-explanatory, and now Sirius is looking at him (he doesn’t remember how he got there, but his eyes seem to have a mind of their own, one that hates Sirius very much), for there are soft curls in front of him, waving around an ear and down to his nape, flattened there where he lied his head to sleep (the left side of his face, Sirius knows this. Remus is a humdrum creature). Remus’ hand wraps around his own elbow, long and slender fingers, freckled and scarred and stained with ink he never manages to wash away entirely (they cling to him, books and parchment all the same, like elongations of his limbs).

His plate has been pushed to the side to make space for his arms, and so Sirius grabs it wordlessly and begins to fill it up with Remus’ favourites: scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast topped with strawberry marmalade that he always complains about, because no one’s jam compares to Hope’s, but that he keeps spreading over his bread every morning because every reminder of home is bittersweet; and it’s not home but it’s the thought that lingers like coffee grounds (there’s a meaning there, somewhere, but Sirius never took Divination, so what the hell would he know). Remus loves Hogwarts like one loves an organ that was transplanted into one’s body, foreign and strange but enough to keep the body running, the blood flowing. Remus isn’t at home until he can be quiet in his lack of secrecy, so it’s no surprise that he walks down the halls with strained shoulders and stern glances thrown over them.

They’re so different and so similar at the same time, Sirius thinks every once in a while. Sirius, who carries bricks with him everywhere he goes and tries to build a roof over anything that’s stable enough to hold it; Remus, who is empty-handed unless his palms are warmed up by a docile fireplace in northern Wales, like he cups fire itself and lets it slide within the creaks of his fingers, through the hairs of his arms, under his skin.

“Cheers,” Remus says, and Sirius blinks back into reality – just a boy in front of him, head now tilted towards him. A gentle morning smile, full lips contorting into something sweet, something like a load-bearing wall, the skeleton of a house. Sirius blinks again and the illusion is gone, and Remus is just a seventeen-year-old boy who is smiling at him. His best friend. His best friend.

His best friend.

“Hey, you didn’t answer my question!” Sirius turns to James again, accusingly.

“What question?” Remus asks, straightening up and pulling his breakfast towards himself.

“James has fallen in love, again,” Peter fills in, taking a sip of his pitch black coffee and grimacing. He’s been trying to get used to the taste, since milk doesn’t settle nicely on his stomach. It’s not going well.

“I have not fallen in love,” James groans.

“You fall in love every single week,” Remus says as he digs into his eggs. He lets the bread of the toasts cool down, first.

“My week wouldn’t be the same if it didn’t start with a report on James’ new love interest,” Sirius says, and Peter nods solemnly, “who he does absolutely nothing about.”

“That’s the thing, though,” whines James. “I need advice.”

At this, Sirius perks up, smirking.

“Advice? Just who is this girl?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“What?!” Sirius shrieks, rather dramatically, gaining attention and glances from people around them who, at this point, should be used to his exuberance, so Sirius isn’t really to blame here. Remus kicks his achilles tendon under the table and Sirius barely winces. His foot stays there, almost enveloping ankle with ankle but not quite, tennis shoes that threaten to slip with any slightly hazardous step. “Why? You always tell us who you fancy.”

James frowns, “And you always make fun of me. I’m not telling you this time. You’ll know when the time comes. But,” he raises a finger, effectively shutting Sirius up, “I do need some sort of advice on how to talk to them. Get them interested.”

“...This jam tastes worse with each passing day.”

“I thought you just liked admiring them from afar,” Sirius points out.

And he did – he had had a crush on Margaret “Margo” Byrne, after seeing her protect a first year Hufflepuff that was being tormented by older Slytherins. He had developed ‘deep’ feelings – his words, not Sirius’ – for Emily Cox, who picked up his quill from his hand when he fell asleep over some parchment in the library and it began to stain. He had stared longingly after Cynthia Cole for at least three days (this emphasis is very important to James, since he tends to forget who it is that he fancies every morning) when she managed to send a Quaffle flying through the middle ring and knock Ravenclaw’s keeper off his broom in one single pitch. (Sirius was, as a retired Quidditch player – retired more like banished from the team – quite impressed by this too).

He had never spoken a word to any of them.

The only girl he had managed to strike conversation with was no other than Lily Evans, who just happens to be able to talk nineteen to the dozen, especially when she tries to avoid someone she dislikes – in this case, this person turned out to be James. They had, eventually, found middle ground, and the present places them on slow walks to class together, on leaning over History of Magic textbooks that they both share some sort of strange passion for, on doing rounds as Head Boy and Head Girl every night. It is the right kind of love for them, James had shrugged when Sirius asked. It was always supposed to be friendship, nothing else.

Remus keeps cursing under his breath even through a mouthful of toast when Sirius sees a flash of red, Lily Evans in the flesh walking past them on her way to sit by Mary, who stiffens. James turns and gives her a wave, Lily ruffles his hair affectionately. Each gesture is fond and comfortable, and Sirius’ achilles tendon is burning.

“I’m done with that,” James finally answers, turning back around. The shadow of a smile lingers in his face, strawberry-pink like Lily’s scent.

And Sirius wants to ask so badly, but then James clambers to his feet, claiming he’d like to take a shower before heading to class (he, disgustingly enough, goes straight to breakfast after morning practice, sweaty and exhausted to the bone) and shooting stares avidly over his shoulder, looking for something Sirius can’t decipher. He gives them one last smile before he spins on his heels to walk down the Great Hall, a spring in his step. Sirius watches him go, glowering, until he’s completely out of sight.

“Did that seem weird to you?” he asks, eyes still nailed to the doors like James is going to come back through it and run to reveal what he’s keeping secret.

“What do you mean?” Peter replies. Sirius’ head snaps back to him. He’s given up on the coffee, which sits still and cooling down in front of him, and has resorted to tea. Remus grabs the discarded mug and gives it a sip, then hums pleasingly.

“James? He always tells us who he likes, and he never, ever, under any circumstance, wants to do anything about it.”

“Maybe he’s just desperate,” Peter suggests.

“It’s James. I can’t imagine him being desperate. He could snap his fingers and girls would come rushing in.”

“We all know the others weren’t serious,” Remus dismisses. Sirius opens his mouth. “If you make that joke, Sirius, I’m spreading jam all over your hair. I’m not kidding.” He stops, sending daggers that fall right into Sirius’ open mouth. He closes it with a click.
“Thank you.”

“I don’t think they weren’t serious,” Peter argues. “I think James just falls in love easily.”

“I think it might be quite the opposite,” Remus hums, stretching his arms in front of him and curving his back until it pops once, twice. “I think this might be the first time he’s really falling in love, so he doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“He did like Lily, though,” Peter says, lowering his voice and looking around conspicuously, although Lily is well out of hearing range.

“It’s Lily. Of course he liked her.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, conceding that.

“We should help him,” suggests Sirius quietly, looking at the open doors again. “If he really means it.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees.

They let the silence stretch between them, contemplating. Sirius’ mind is running – granted, it’s been a while since he’s tried flirting, but he wants to give it his all, if it’s for James. Not that he ever needed to try too much, back when he was interested in those sorts of things; girls weren’t desperate per se, but if Sirius held his wand with his right hand he kept charm as an ace up the sleeve of his left arm. It came ridiculously easy to him, the smiles, the compliments, the act. The masquerade ball, the dance; a choreography of words, a poem of touches. The way to make knees quiver into submission. Sirius knows three unforgivable curses and one more.

He’s got better. Learned. Become kinder. It’s easier when he can think clearly, when he knows his thoughts aren’t being pried on. He ventures a glance towards the Slytherin table and there he is, alert and stoic, a shorter-haired version of him. He’s sixteen, fifteen and ten at the same time; the little boy Sirius left behind when he left for school, the wide-eyed teenager that couldn’t put a sentence together when Sirius left their house, the shadow he tries to avoid when their paths cross in the hallways. Hogwarts is big but not big enough. Hogwarts is kilometres of insolvable distance between two brothers.

Regulus doesn’t look at him – he never does, hasn’t for a long time – but Sirius feels the weight of his gaze where it lands on Barty. His brother doesn’t talk but words aren’t needed when you are already powerful. Wand sheathed and eyes tired, Regulus is the corpse of a soldier that never quite learned to let go of his fusil.

“Sirius,” Remus nudges him with his thigh, just a brush of the fabric. Sirius’ eyes tear from his brother. “Let’s go to class,” he tells him, the end of his words tilting up like a question.

“Yeah,” Sirius answers absentmindedly. Another glance that isn’t returned (Sirius keeps expecting, hoping, like he wasn’t the one to bomb all of their opportunities) and Sirius clears his throat. He smiles at Remus, whose forehead creases with concern. “Shall we?”

A brief pause. Peter finishes his tea hurriedly and Remus searches for something in Sirius’ eyes.

“Yeah,” he ends up saying. “Let’s go.”

Whether he’s found anything at all, Sirius doesn’t know.

⋆⋆⋆

Eleven in the morning finds Sirius Black drooling over a piece of parchment as Professor Binns slurs words that take at least five minutes to come to an end. Like walking through a labyrinth, that’s what listening to this class feels like. A very boring labyrinth, at that. A labyrinth that is just one straight passageway into its core and one straight passageway to its exit.

“Sirius,” Remus whispers. Sirius doesn’t know whether he’s looking at him, image blurred due to how heavily his lids droop, or if it’s rather that he’s looked at him for so long that his silhouette is engraved on the inside of his eyelids.

“Mmgh,” he answers smartly.

“Sirius,” he hisses insistently.

“Find someone else to entertain you, Moony, I’m napping.”

“James isn’t here.”

It takes him a moment. But then. The needle in a haystack. It nails its way into Sirius’ nape and pierces down his spine, straightening him like a bolt. He blows the hair out of his face and searches frantically, and indeed, Peter sits alone, bored out of his mind, watching ink drop from his quill and on top of his hand. He has a stain on his cheek that looks like snot.

He scans the rest of the room. James is nowhere to be seen.

“Do you have the map?” Sirius asks.

Remus shakes his head, “James borrowed it from Peter last Friday. I haven’t seen it since.”

“Shit.” Sirius bites down on his lip. “Has he been missing classes?”

“I don’t know,” shrugs Remus. “We only have a few together. You’re the one he shares most of them with.”

“I sleep my way through the majority.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“How have we not realized?”

Remus shrugs and keeps taking notes on whatever the fuck Binns rants about – something about 18th century witches being burned alive – and Sirius peeks over his shoulder. He finds Remus relaxing when he focuses like this. His handwriting is messy and dirty, almost, like he cannot grasp his quill comfortably. It’s tiny and his ‘m’s and ‘n’s are inverted, mixing with the ‘u’s and the ‘w’s. He underlines those terms he finds relevant and circles those he would like to read more on. Little scrabbles decorate the margins; the shape of the stakes, the general depiction of the witches, the symbols the churches went under. He’s not an artist by any means but they help to clear his head.

He used to do them on Sirius’ arm, too, back when his body was fussy and his brain antsy, right before the moons.

“Just draw whatever it is that you think about. Whatever’s on your mind. Whatever is keeping you awake,” Sirius had suggested one night, sat against the foot of Remus’ bed while its owner propped himself up on the window sill.

“I don’t have any parchment on me.”

Remus opened the window to lit a fag. He had just begun to smoke. It was early February of their fourth year and a cold breeze of air filtered into the room and in between Sirius’ clothes. He wrapped his duvet, which he had dragged from his own bed, tighter around himself.

“Sorry,” Remus had whispered, leaning over to pull the window closer towards himself, leaving it only slightly ajar, barely enough for the toxic fog to rush outside, as to not allow the wind to find Sirius.

“It’s okay,” Sirius had told him, willing his teeth to stop chattering, determined to make him feel better before heading to bed. “Draw them on my arm.”

“A quill won’t feel great against your skin.”

“I don’t mind,” he rushes to say. Then, a bit more gentle, eyes and mouth softer, “Really.”

Remus looked at him and exhaled burning smoke. He blinked when it got into his eyes. Sirius was ready for the argument, for Remus was nothing short of dyed-in-the-wool when it came to allowing others to help. It was easier when it was James, who helped even those that needn’t any help. It was harder when it was Sirius, who could be as much of helpful as he could be of destructive. It was harder when it was Sirius, in general. Sirius couldn’t really pinpoint why, or understand the reason behind it, but he was certain of that.

The blow never came.

“Okay,” Remus had said. Hopped down from the ledge, put out the unfinished cigarette against it and threw it out of the window, closed it behind him. Took the quill from his nightstand, closed the distance between them and crouched in front of Sirius, who just watched. “Make some space for me.”

And Sirius did, enveloping Remus in his sheets like they were inside of a cocoon. A bed on the floor.

And Remus did, Sirius’ forearm on his lap, pale skin whiter under the blue moonlight, shivering where Remus’ hand cupped Sirius’ elbow, although it was the warmest point of his body.

He drew seventeen dots, one thicker than the rest, connected by a thin, unsteady line. It formed the shape of a howling animal, head tilted upwards in a frozen call, a horse, a wolf. A dog, perhaps.

Sirius hadn’t inquired.

Nowadays Remus keeps himself in line, or perhaps he’s just more guarded, discreet, wary when it comes to sharing what he feels. How much he wants to share of himself, of the wolf. Sirius’ arm has been naked for almost two years.

But the problem at hand is more pressing, so Sirius shrugs those thoughts away, mutes them into a murmur at the back of his head (for they never truly leave him; thoughts are ghosts attached to a consciousness).

“James isn’t the type to miss classes for someone,” Sirius observes, at which Remus arches an eyebrow, amused.

“Is it okay only when it’s for a prank?”

“No,” Sirius bites back, “I’m merely pointing it out.”

Remus “aha”s one of his infuriating “aha”s, like he knows something about Sirius that even Sirius doesn’t know. It’s enraging because he turns out to be right most of the times. Not that Sirius will ever admit that.

“Who do you think it is?” Sirius asks.

“Weren’t you napping?”

“You woke me up.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“You couldn’t have been paying that much attention if you were taking fucking attendance, Remus.”

Remus thins his lips but doesn’t answer. Binns has gone off track, as he usually does, and is now talking bitterly about a witch he met back in 1893.

“Remus,” Sirius insists.

“Sirius,” Remus answers plainly.

“Either pay attention to me or I’ll get us both in trouble and out of class.”

“You’re seventeen years old, Sirius, I think you can manage to sit through a lesson…”

“…Professor Binns!”

“…All right, all fucking right, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Yes, Mr Black?”

“Remus over here was wondering whether this witch rejec–”

“–rejected magic out of fear of prosecution, Professor!” interjects Remus hurriedly.

“Oh,” drawls Binns. “Interesting question, Mr Lupin. This sick, twisted witch rejected magic not due to fear, but because of her own uselessness at it…”

“I’m going to choke you with my bare hands,” grits Remus through his teeth, nodding at Binns.

“Didn’t know you were into that, Moony, you dirty slag.”

“I am if it means I’ll get you to shut your fucking mouth–”

“Anyways. Who do you think it is?”

Sirius rests his head on his hand, facing Remus with his whole torso. He plays with the rings in his fingers and Remus’ eyes drop to watch them.

“I have no clue,” he murmurs. “I thought he liked that girl- what was her name? Sandy?”

“Sandra, yes. That was like, a month ago. I vividly recall talking about her during Christmas.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“It could be any girl,” Sirius says, sending suspicious glances around the class. “Are there any girls missing?”

Sirius looks back at him to find Remus already staring at him, a frown etched on his face. The room is quiet around them, save for Binns’ voice, cold and dark in the cusp of winter; the warming charm they threw at the beginning of the lesson is fading away, and ice creeps up Sirius’ nails. But Remus’ eyes are an eternal autumn, brown with flickers of green and gold under the right lightning, and they bore into Sirius’ with some sort of clarity, an open field illuminated by the moon, or the sun, or the stars – perhaps all of them, a fucking blinding eclipse.

“What,” he says slowly, stopping for a beat, and Sirius holds his own respiration like it can stop his heart from hammering, “makes you think it’s a girl?”

Oh.

Oh.

His heart sinks as if it’s swallowed by his own digestive system, torn into pieces and spread around his whole body. He hears it everywhere and Remus keeps looking at him.

He’s about to answer – what exactly, he isn’t certain, for there’s not a single thought running through his head, and at the same time there are hundreds – when Binns dismisses them and everyone begins to gather their things. Chairs slide and shriek and the world is loud again, obnoxiously so. Sirius’ ears ring.

Peter rushes to their desk and drops his books heavily. Remus doesn’t spare him a glance.

“James isn’t here today!”

⋆⋆⋆

What makes you think it’s a girl?

What makes you think it’s a girl?

What makes you think it’s a girl?

What makes you think it’s a girl?

The question echoes in Sirius’ mind all morning and remains there well into the afternoon like a bloody leech. It feels like it, too, like it’s sucking his blood and depriving him of energy. He got to the common room at four and slumped heavily on one of the armchairs, and he’s been sitting there ever since. People come in and out, some greet him and some don’t, some he greets back and some he just ignores. He feels as scattered as his limbs over the arms of the couch, like water spilt on concrete.

The fireplace is lit, all of a sudden, fluttering flames full and alive, creaking and licking at wood that never consumes.

“Hiya, Sirius.”

Sirius raises his head to find Mary, who offers a smile. Her hair is wild in her natural afro, messy like she’s been running, and she’s panting, breath coming in and out in short incomes through her parted lips, chapped and tainted pink. Gold glitter shines on her eyelids when she blinks. Sirius looks away.

“Mare,” he breathes. “You okay? You look…rushed.”

“I was flying with Marlene,” she says as she sits down beside him. It’s tight, not a sliver of space between them, but it fills Sirius with a warmth he didn’t know he was missing. She smells of flowers, what kind, Sirius can’t really tell. Perhaps a whole bouquet of them. “She’s nervous about Friday’s game against Slytherin.”

“Marlene’s great. She’s got it.”

“She is,” Mary nods and then sighs. “But it’s her first match since she broke her radius, so I reckon she’s a bit frightened.”

“Hm. Well, I’m sure it will be okay.”

“Are you okay?” Mary asks hesitatingly.

“Me? Yes, I’m peachy. Great. Having the time of my life, actually.”

“Sirius, it’s six p.m. and you’ve been staring at the wall for over two hours. You can barely sit still for five minutes straight on a good day.”

“That’s James.”

“That’s you, too.”

James. Game against Slytherin. Friday.

He gasps.

“Is Marlene also skipping lessons to practice?”

Mary scowls, “No, she’s not. What’s with the accusations?”

“It’s not an accusation. James just missed class today, that’s all.”

“I saw him in the dungeons, outside of Potions.”

“Potions?” Sirius repeats. “We don’t even have Potions today!”

“I know, it’s Slytherins today. I only went there because I needed to talk to Slughorn about an assignment.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Well, the dickhead told me that he couldn’t give me an extension because apparently period cramps aren’t a valid excuse to stay in bed, resting…”

“No, Mare, James!” Sirius pauses. “What an arse, though. You always get such painful periods.”

“Right?” Mary screeches. “Thank you!”

“Get Lily to talk to him. He has a soft spot for her and she’s Head Girl, he’ll have to listen.”

Mary’s eyes widen enough for Sirius to see the little brown mole beside her right iris, and she looks away quickly, playing with her hair.

“Lily and I…well…”

“What?”

Mary clears her throat and rubs her knees with her knuckles, scrunching her nose. The piercing on her left nostril, golden like the rest of her, reflects the flames, turning amber. Her brown skin glistens beautifully, blending in with their warmth.

“Nothing, don’t mind me. I don’t want to bother her. She already has too much on her plate.”

“You’re not a bother, Mare, especially when you’re struggling. She adores you.”

She smiles bitterly, “That she does, Lily.”

She says her name like a charm, like the flower itself will burst from her mouth at its mention. Sirius is almost surprised it doesn’t.

“James didn’t say anything, if that’s what you wanted to know. I could barely get a word in before Slughorn tried to sneak away. I had to chase after him. It was embarrassing.”

“What was he even doing there? Did he need to talk to Slughorn, too?”

“Not that I know of.” Mary shakes her head, curls bouncing around her face. “He might have been there to talk to someone from the team. He ran after the Slytherins when they came out.”

Sirius frowns.

“Oh!” Mary exclaims. “Your brother was there. Perhaps he wanted to have a word with him? He’s their seeker, after all.”

Regulus?

“I doubt it,” Sirius dismisses, “Regulus doesn’t do much talking.”

Shrugging, Mary says, “Then, I have no clue. Just telling you what I saw.”

Something across the room catches her eye, then, and she curses under her breath.

“I have to go. You didn’t see me, Black.”

“What?”

“See you later!”

She bends in half and rushes out of the common room through the portrait, almost bumping into Remus, who steadies her with both hands on the sides of her arms. They talk briefly and a moment later she’s gone, leaving behind her nothing but a trail of questions and sweetness. The room is a tad warmer, at least.

“Sirius.” Remus stands in front of him. He never says hello, like a normal person, just addresses whoever he’s speaking too. It’s sort of unnerving, today. “Where were you? I thought we were meeting in the library.”

Shit.

“Shit, sorry. It completely slipped my mind.”

Remus watches him weirdly for a second, in which Sirius refuses to meet his eye.

(What makes you think it’s a girl?)

He seems to struggle internally (to ask further or to remain quiet?), and then he drops it entirely. Disappointing, though Sirius doesn’t know why – this is what they do, in the end: they are all the conversations they never get to have, because Sirius doesn’t even know what they have to talk about, although he knows that they must. They are a concept without its definition in a dictionary, an equation that no one tries to solve. They’re Gryffindors who don’t have the courage to talk to each other. They’re boys. They are boys. Seventeen-year-olds with feelings spilling everywhere and a mop they refuse to use. A mess they don’t try to organize.

Unlike Mary, Remus sits in front of him, dropping a stack of thick books beside his legs.

“For Ancient Runes,” he says as an explanation.

Sirius nods, the fire picks at the wood that doesn’t falter, and nothing changes.

“I think you’re right,” Remus says quietly.

“What?” His head snaps up so hard his neck pops.

“I reckon we should help James. There must be something we can do.”

There must be something else and Sirius wonders what it is. Remus doesn’t do anything without a reason. He helped them with a prank in first year because they promised to leave him alone if he did (a promise they, evidently, didn’t fulfil); they had been trailing after their mysterious roommate, who sometimes crawled into bed wounded and patched up, for three months. He befriended Lily because he wanted to spite James (which, in turn, took a lot of convincing on her part that not all of James’ friends were as arrogant and airheaded as him; an honest friendship only began to bloom during forth year).

“Right,” Sirius nods, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and finger-pads pressed together, business-like, “what do you suggest?”

Remus blinks like he’s said something stupid, or like he’s failing to understand.

“Do I need to remind you that it’s you who barely has enough days in the week to shag all the girls you want to shag?”

This takes Sirius aback; his cheeks burn and he can only stare at Remus because surely Remus has noticed, hasn’t he? Surely he’s realized by now that he hasn’t slept with anyone in well over a year, that the moment a girl tries to talk to him he heads for the door, that he just doesn’t have the energy for it anymore. That he can smile and show kindness without it meaning anything else.

Surely Remus has noticed, because Sirius observes these things about Remus – knows that he is guarded and a secret romantic (he sneaks novels out of the library amongst the tons of textbooks he keeps checking in and out, he hides them under his mattress. Sirius knows this because he reads them when Remus isn’t in the room, and then makes sure to put them back in the exact same place). Sirius knows that Remus has kissed before, though not as much as he has, knows that he doesn’t need to flirt; meaning he doesn’t need to put up an act in order to be liked. Knows that he exudes confidence in spite of how rooted his insecurities are (his veins are just branches that pump sap of self-doubt); he lights up a cigarette and watches it burn until it reaches his forefinger and thumb. He doesn’t let the sear stop him.

So Remus can certainly tell the difference, right? The shift. Because Sirius Black is no longer who he used to be, back in fifth year, when he was reckless and uncaring and would step on an open tomb to get his way. He’s doing enough. He’s doing enough. He’s doing enough for Remus to see it. See him.

“I don’t do that anymore,” Sirius mumbles, hating himself for how vulnerable he sounds, how exposed. It’s like his chest has been stabbed and torn open, from his left shoulder to his right hipbone, a clean cut that smells rotten, that spits fire and blood and venom and chaos. A mess of organs and a mess of feelings, dead butterflies and contorting worms. He’s trying. He’s trying, for fuck’s sake.

Remus notices it too, but he doesn’t seem to see the wound like Sirius does (he can hardly breathe. He’s bleeding out and his heart won’t stop pounding, not even for a moment, to slow down the process). Various emotions flicker across his face, before settling on confusion.

The question never comes, of course. Remus is a man of affirmatives – whatever he cannot tell for certain he pushes aside to investigate later. He doesn’t ask until he knows the answer beforehand.

It will be the death of Sirius, yes, though he doesn’t yet know, not quite, what the spell for it will be or what the dagger will be made out of.

“You used to do it,” Remus says instead, and it’s careful. Walking on eggshells, albeit the truth of his statement doesn’t waver. There it is: the harsh truth. Remus is blindfolded justice holding a balance. A universal idea.

Sirius swallows the lump in his throat and throws his legs over the armrest in fake nonchalance.

“What about you?” he diverts. “You’re popular around here, you know?”

“Popular?” Remus arches a brow.

Maybe he’s just blind.

“Everyone kisses the floor you walk on, Moony. Licks it, in fact. Intently.”

The boy scrunches his nose, “Stop that, you’re being gross. I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

He is blind.

“You’re so oblivious,” Sirius says, dumbfounded. “You really don’t notice, do you?”

“Notice what, Sirius?”

“Half of this room is in love with you, you blind wanker.”

Remus sighs. “If you’re going to make fun of me when I’m trying to help, Sirius-”

“I’m not making fun of you! For Merlin’s sake, Moons!” Sirius chuckles, disbelieving.
“Does everyone need to drop down on one knee for you to know they’re into you?”

“You’re being an arse.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment longer, before Remus scoffs and looks away.

“That’s not the point, in any case. We’re here to help James.”

“Help me with what, exactly?”

Sirius feels him before he sees him: James Potter throws himself carelessly on top of Sirius, who groans as the armrest nails painfully into his back.

“Get off, Prongs! You’re heavy!” he screams as he shoves him. James barely moves an inch.

“Not until you tell me what it is that you’re helping me with,” he singsongs.

“Potions,” smirks Sirius, at the same time Remus says, “Flirting.”

James’ head moves between the two, squinting his eyes at Sirius. “So which one is it?”

“Flirting,” Remus says, sending a warning glare Sirius’ way. “We want to help you with this mystery person you like.”

Arms thrown around Sirius’ neck like they’re newlyweds, James and Remus have an unspoken conversation that Sirius cannot tag into.

“I don’t need help. I just wanted advice. There’s a difference there.”

“But you could use some!” argues Sirius.

James tilts his head up to look at him, just a few inches away from his face. His nose is red and runny from the biting cold outside, his eyes teary, and his fingers feel like icicles on his nape, but his cheeks are warming up fast. He is, overall, like a tornado to look at – tie a tad crooked, like one of his incisors, hair an untamed, raven field that sticks up in all directions, lips bubblegum pink on the middle and getting progressively browner on its surroundings, a beard that he never manages to shave correctly (always leaving a small section hairy, somehow).

“I have it under control, lads. I don’t want you messing with them.”

“We won’t go near them!” Sirius complains, feeling, against his will, a pang of childish betrayal in his chest. “We don’t even know who they are. We’ll just…give you some suggestions. That’s the advice you wanted!”

“Because you two are such good flirters.”

“Because we’re your best friends in the entire world,” Sirius corrects. “And your only friends, actually, aside from Peter. This is what we’re here for! Just give us a week. We won’t mess around anymore after that, if you don’t want.”

Red burns, incandescent, in James’ mahogany eyes. They watch Sirius, brown and grey, silver and lava. A question, and an answer. James always seems to have one of those.

“I could always ask my mum,” James whispers petulantly, but a smile tugs at his lips. Sirius grins.

“You do that,” Remus intervenes, but he’s smiling as well. “We’ll give you some suggestions, and if you don’t like them, you can always ignore them.”

“We’ll have a step-by-step list ready by tomorrow,” Sirius rushes to say, giving him no other choice.

“Do not make it sound like a fucking list, Sirius, it’s not a recipe.”

⋆⋆⋆

“Number one,” Sirius voices, watching his quill write down exactly what he commands it to. He learned the spell for a prank, back in fourth year, where they charmed everyone’s quills to write an article from A Witch’s Secret, an anonymous school gossip magazine, covering Slughorn’s rumoured romance with Filch, instead of the answers to a Transfiguration exam. Sirius had to duck under a table to avoid McGonagall’s piercing eyes as he recited the column word for word as quietly as he could.

“That’s all I’ve got, actually,” Sirius admits. Remus holds his head between his hands.

They’ve relocated to their bedroom: Peter is studying on his bed, as he tends to do, even though he knows he’ll fall asleep and wake up with words plastered on his cheek; James is still in the common room. Sirius and Remus are in front of each other, Remus cross-legged, Sirius lying on his stomach, heels kicking his own arse every so often, toes bumping against the floor. Remus has discarded his sweater and Sirius is trying not to stare at the way the muscles of his arms flex, white lightning surrounding honey skin.

“What have you done in the ten minutes we took to think about this?” he groans now.

“You go first, then, if you have such great ideas. Let’s hear it, go on, go on!”

Suddenly bashful, scratching behind his ear, Remus looks down at the notes he scribbled, tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

“Number one,” he clears his throat, “trick them into smelling Amortentia.”

“Amortentia? That’s your fucking idea?”

“It’s a classic!”

“A cliché, more like,” Sirius scoffs.

“At least I came up with something, you empty-headed arsehole.”

“Where would we even get Amortentia from?” Sirius goes on, before he stops dead in his tracks. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Mary had to do some sort of assignment for Slughorn, I think. I could ask her to brew us some, or help her with it.”

“Slughorn loves Amortentia.”

“I know.”

They stare at each other, and then,

“Scratch everything,” Sirius says. “Number one: Amortentia. Get them to take a good ol’ sniff.”

“Number two,” Remus reads. “Initiate some sort of casual physical contact, unless they seem to be uncomfortable with it. Enough to create some tension, but not too much to the point where it’s overwhelmingly obvious. Give them space to question your actions, think about you.”

“That’s a good one, actually,” Sirius says.

“Cheers.”

Remus nicks the quill from the air and sets down the parchment to write it down himself. Sirius watches, watches and watches, entranced by something he can’t put his finger on.

“Any suggestions at all for number three?”

His eyes, without reason or cause, out of chance or luck, fall upon the stack of books beside Remus’ bed.

“Find out what they like,” he says, “and gift it to them.”

Remus’ eyes follow his to the books, and then four eyes meet halfway. He gulps and Sirius gapes. (What makes you think it’s a girl?)

“Okay,” Remus says softly. Heat creeps up Sirius’ neck, settles in his cheeks. He writes it down, scratches his chin, pursing his lips. “Ask them to spend time together doing something you both like. Is that okay for number four?”

“Sure.”

“Great.”

“Okay.”

Peter snores behind Sirius’ back.

“One more, and it’s a wrap, I think.”

He thinks, inexplicably, of Regulus (or is there always a reason to?), somewhere in the same castle and yet miles away from him. Wonders where he is. The map is still with James. He avoids it, the map, like the plague, unless it’s absolutely necessary to use it. He doesn’t want to ask where he is. Doesn’t want to imagine. Back at home, Sirius knew – knew that Regulus hid in the kitchens when he wanted to be left alone, knew that he crawled into bed when he wanted company, knew that he fit into the tiniest of alcoves when he was afraid, when he tried to escape the screams, the heavy ring on their mother’s hand, only a bit sharper than her knuckles, the wand in her other palm. Sirius knew that he covered his ears so tight that he couldn’t hear Sirius approach him, and then Sirius had to crouch in front of him, cup the sides of his face, place his index over his lips. Help him breathe, distract him with anything else. Regulus closed his eyes and tried not to think of Sirius aiding him, in case this put his brother in danger later.

And then Sirius asked,

“Do you want to talk?”

Regulus would say yes, sometimes, no, others. The answer wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was the question itself – being asked a question at all. Being given a choice, a decision to take for himself. A chance to figure out what he really wanted, rather than what he should want, safely speaking, so it didn’t get him in trouble.

A question. Just a question.

This situation is entirely different, but Sirius can’t shake away the importance of it.

“Number five: James asks them what they want.”

His eyes snap to him, and Sirius holds his gaze carefully. Gently, as if it’s delicate. It is, perhaps, though he isn’t sure who its daintiness belongs to. Remus, who can’t ask. Sirius, who can’t find an answer.

What if it’s not a…?

This isn’t about him – about them – but Sirius holds Remus’ gaze like it is. Like it might be. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s a what.

“Okay,” Remus mumbles. “Okay. He asks.”

                 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)
2. casual physical contact (without making them feel uncomfortable!!!!!!!!)
3. gift them something they like
4. ask them to spend time together doing something you both like
5. ask. just ask

Chapter Text

I know the truth now–I know how good and correct it is to love–I’ve been given, somehow, permission to live.
- Reborn, Susan Sontag.

     TUESDAY

“Do not talk to me, Black, I’m warning you.”

Sirius’ mouth clanks closed. Mary holds his gaze for a second longer, brows arched in threat. Her make up is smudged around her eyes this morning, but only those who stare at her face regularly can tell. Sirius can. Yet he doesn’t say a word about it, because it’s mean and she’s–

“I’ll have your fucking potion ready this afternoon,” she continues.

–she’s helping them.

“Really?”

“But-”

“That’s great, Mary!”

“But,” she insists, “you need to ask Lily to help me.”

“Lily?” Sirius frowns. “You’re best friends with Lily.”

“I am.”

“Why not ask her yourself, then?”

“Your potion, your responsibility, Black,” she says. She holds a cup of cold coffee in her hands and takes a sip. She likes the cold, Mary. Purposeful coldness in cold weather in warm hands that never tremble. Her coffee is so full of milk that it leaves behind a trace of white above her cupid’s bow. Sirius leans forward over the table to rub it off with his thumb. “Slughorn won’t give me the ingredients if I ask, but he will give them to Lily. Pretty sure he would give the world to Lily, actually.”

“What am I even supposed to tell her?” Sirius whines.

“I don’t know, but think quick. She’s coming this way.”

And just like that, like a desperate breeze blown too late, too fast, Mary takes one big last gulp from her coffee (slash milk with a drop of caffeine) and gets up. She’s gone before Sirius can get another word in, sliding elegantly, like a flexible cat, between James and Lily. The ginger glances behind her shoulder to watch Mary pass her, opens her mouth, even stretches a hand-

But she lets it fall to her side.

Sirius releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Lily turns away from the girl, frowning at the ground, and James places a hand on her elbow. Smiles kindly even though she can’t see it. Sirius is somehow sure she can feel it, like a small flame that warms a heart.

“Morning, Sirius,” greets him James, taking Mary’s spot in front of him. Lily sits beside Peter, who is busy trying to complete today’s Magical Sudoku. It’s not going too well.

“Morning.”

“Where’s Remus?” Lily asks.

“I thought he’d be with you,” Sirius answers. “He wasn’t in bed when I woke up this morning.”

Lily warms her hands with the furious steam that crawls up from her coffee. She likes this sort of heat. Powerful and tongue-numbing. She’s eternally cold and looking- looking. Perhaps just that. Looking for some, any, source of warmth. Peter rubs a hand up and down her back trying to warm her up.

“Shite!” he yells, and he retreats his hand to write something down on the paper before the numbers change.

“I haven’t seen him yet,” Lily says. “He might be in the library, though.”

“The library?”

“He’s always in the library,” Peter mumbles. “Let a lad skip breakfast every once in a while.”

“Pete is always so mean when he’s filling his sudoku,” James observes cheerfully, taking a bite of his oatmeal.

“Shut up, James. You’re having oatmeal for breakfast. It’s sad as fuck.”

“Oatmeal is healthy!”

“Yeah, if you’re eighty-three and in a nursing home. Live a little, my boy.”

James frowns down at his oatmeal, looking genuinely concerned at the way he’s wasting his precious years of a good digestive system. Sirius takes a bite of his toast. Hope’s strawberry jam is much better, but Remus isn’t here to hear him say it, so he doesn’t.

The space to his right is so loudly empty Sirius struggles to hear himself breathe.

He forces himself to think of something else.

“Lily,” he calls. The girl turns to him as she takes a sip, hissing as she burns her upper lip. Sirius follows the direction her eyes had pointed at, finding Marlene under Dorcas’ arm, mouth agape and a trace of saliva falling on her shoulder. “Well, that’s disgusting.”

“I think it’s cute,” Lily mutters. Her eyes are on them again, in that strange dichotomy between hope and surrender. “Anyways, what is it, Sirius?”

“I need to ask a favour of you.”

She squints her eyes, “And what do I get in return?”

She’s been spending too much time with Mary, Sirius thinks. And the lightbulb flashes above his head.

“I’ll get you an opportunity to talk to Mary,” he offers.

Lily’s face – because she can do that, for whatever reason, it being the fact that she’s a woman or the fact that she has more magic in her blood than anyone else – shuts down entirely. Winter increases the contrast of colours in her features – her hair darkens, her skin pales, her lips become pinker, her freckles fade, her eyelashes shadow the green in her eyes. She wears two sweaters under her cloak and her mouth is constantly curled around a warming charm. She walks around like a fireplace incarnate, always cold herself.

Her fingers, because those she cannot control as well, flicker around the rim of her mug.

“I can speak with Mary whenever I want,” she says, lowering her voice. James is staring. Peter is listening. “What makes you think I need you for that? Last time I checked, you were the one having trouble talking to her after she broke up with you.”

“Lily-” James begins.

“That was ages ago,” Sirius cuts him off before he can try to pacify her. “And it seems to me like you’re the one struggling now. You don’t have to tell me what it’s about,” he says, and Lily’s eyes are as hard and impenetrable as steel, “but you can be sure I’ll get you some time alone, if you help me.”

The silence that follows is the longest Sirius has been subjected to, and Remus can be silent for a very long time when he wants to. Maybe that’s why he and Lily are such good friends. Sirius cannot handle a moment of quiet (his mind runs and screams, pulls at his hair, the moment it finds itself empty), while Remus and Lily seek it.

“What do you need?” she finally asks.

“You’ll help me?” Sirius exclaims, voice tilting up.

“Don’t make me regret it. What do you need?”

“Peppermint, ashwinder eggs, powdered moonstone, rose thorns-”

“Actually, we’ve got the roses-related ingredients covered,” a voice says.

The voice sits to his right, the world quiets down and Sirius’ mind begins to scream.

“Where were you?” he finds himself asking curiously.

Remus is holding seven roses in his hands, a newspaper sheet wrapped around them to keep them from poking him. He sits beside Sirius and sets them down on the space between them. Sirius’ thigh grazes the flowers, and so does Remus’.

“I was getting roses for the potion,” he answers. He looks up at Sirius through long eyelashes. His cheeks are red from being outside, around the greenhouse. He says, softer, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Sirius says in return, so low that he isn’t sure Remus gets to hear him.

“What potion?” James asks around a mouthful of cereal (he’s substituted the oatmeal with something only slightly less boring). He halts, spoon halfway down to his bowl. “Wait.”

Sirius smirks.

“No fucking way.”

It seems to sink down on Lily that same exact moment, for she groans.

“Amortentia? You’re brewing Amortentia?”

“We’re only helping our lover boy here,” Sirius shrugs, nodding his chin at James.

She doesn’t look at James, who is downing his breakfast like someone’s pointing a wand at him. She thins her lips.

“I’ll help you,” Lily says. “Get me a chance to talk to Mary today, Sirius. Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

“Then that’s settled.”

She blows on her coffee and takes a gulp, and from behind the mug, her eyes flicker to Dorcas and Marlene once more.

⋆⋆⋆

Mary hates potions, both the class and the craft in general; she grows frustrated quickly waiting for the liquid to boil, or the ingredients to melt, or the eggs to burst, or for anything to happen at all. Her hair gets frizzy with the steam and her eyebrows end up disheveled from running her fingers through them. Magic isn’t supposed to be like that, she thinks – it’s meant to be swift, a twist of the hand, a whisper, a blink of an eye. Magic should not be nurturing but natural, the smoke that comes out of her pores from the fire that burns inside of her.

Lily, on the other hand, adores potions. She hums through the process and finds herself at peace as she works around the table, juggling with several ingredients at once and somehow managing not to drop any, and still keeping an eye on the mix. It reminds her of her childhood, watching her mum and Petunia (and, eventually, although not for long, participating herself) cook and bake. That’s where her magic had first manifested – her arm had been tired from stirring some porridge in a pot and so she had simply commanded the ladle to keep spinning. Her mum had dropped the tangerine she was peeling for them to snack on, surprised by Petunia’s stunned exclamation.

She likes the slowness of the potion, its delicacy, the tenderness needed for it to come out exactly as it should. Her hands have to be careful and steady, her mind sharp and focused, her heart well-willed, for its an art that must be perfected. It’s complex and it’s daring. It doesn’t come easy to her, but Lily Evans is nothing if not excited by a challenge.

She frequents the dungeons more than any other student, save the Slytherins.

Mary doesn’t set a foot in that class unless it’s absolutely necessary.

So it’s safe to say that anyone would be surprised, shocked into place, actually, at the sight of Mary and Lily sharing the class, working in tandem around a steaming cauldron. They’re good friends, sure, but the spaces each of them tend to be found at aren’t habitually the same (Lily: the dungeons, the library, the halls, when she patrols; Mary: the lake, the common room, the owlery). But here’s the thing most people aren’t aware of, even as popular as both girls are: when they aren’t present in those spots, they can usually be spotted in the greenhouse. Mary doesn’t like potions, but she secretly appreciates the care of plants and flowers, and what is Lily, who she walks there with, arm in arm, if not a flower herself? Lily watches Mary as she waters, as she speaks comforting words into silent green ears, as she massages the exhausted leaves of those plants that grow abnormally big. And Mary doesn’t watch her back, but she feels her eyes on her the whole time, so every once in a while, when a plant is willing to give it up, she plucks a flower and brings it over to Lily, who places it behind her left ear (always the left). Mary’s fingers itch to do that herself, feel the heat of freckled ears under her touch and the soft brush of Lily’s hair on her fingernails.

But the look Lily gives her is, every single time, more than enough to send a shiver down her spine, to make her heart flutter in her chest.

However, this is no greenhouse, warm all year long and golden despite the clouds that swirl around a shy sun – this is a dungeon, beneath the lake, hidden and dark and cold, filled with shadows that appear even when there’s no light. Lily is wearing her two sweaters and Mary has discarded her cloak on a chair.

Anyone would be surprised to see the latter in the room on a Tuesday afternoon (ever since she went on vacation to Spain she’s grown rather fond of taking a nap after lunch), but Sirius isn’t, because he’s the one who brought them together. He had sent her a note during Transfiguration, setting an hour for them to meet up. She had given him a thumbs up. Lily had smiled at him with something like gratefulness in her eyes.

He gets there purposefully late, relieved to see neither of them (Mary) has stormed out after seeing the other (Lily) in the classroom. The silence is thick and the potion fumes furiously between them, but they’re there. Sharing a space and accidental touches that are quickly retreated from. Sirius wonders how long this – whatever this is supposed to be, this orbiting around each other without ever really crashing together, this gravity that pulls them close but never lets them land on one another, this magnetic relationship that’s both attraction and repulsion – has been going on, how he’s never noticed, not really. He hasn’t known what to look for, honestly, or whether he should have been looking for anything at all. No answer is found until a claim for it is arisen.

(What if it’s not a girl?)

(What if it is a girl?)

Sirius clears his throat and they both look up at him. Mary doesn’t look pleased in the slightest, and of course she doesn’t bother hiding it, but Lily smiles.

“Hello there,” she says. “You’re late, as usual.”

“Fashionably so,” he answers, striding in.

“We’ve already got started,” Lily tells him. Her hair is up in a ponytail. Her golden earrings glisten under the potion’s pink glimmer. “I reckon it’s going pretty well, don’t you think, Mare?”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing all the work,” Mary answers.

“Nonsense. Here, you pull the rose petals off.”

Mary picks one of the roses gently, smells it with her eyes closed, and then plucks a petal. She looks at Lily, and then looks away. Plucks another one, careful not to pinch herself with the rose’s thorns. One by one she drops them in the cauldron until the stem is naked. She smiles to herself, for some reason, as she pulls the last one off.

Lily takes the remanent of the flower and a small cutter, and begins to peel the thorns off, throwing them in as Mary works her way around another rose.

“That’s enough, Mare,” Lily says after a couple of minutes. “Sirius, can you reach me the Moonstone?”

“Sure.”

He picks up a small flask containing a shiny, pale powder and hands it to her. She opens it carefully and taps it in the cauldron, slowly but surely, as she stirs with a motion of her left hand.

“There we go,” she mutters under her breath.

From behind her back, Mary looks at Sirius. He mouths, “what?”, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and she runs her thumb across her throat. He stifles a bark of laughter.

The door opens and a head peeks in, a head full of black hair and clever looks. A head Sirius knows very well.

Regulus doesn’t talk. His face is open, taken aback for a second, lips parted and eyes wide as he looks at Sirius, then at Lily, then at Mary, then at Sirius, again, before settling on the cauldron.

It’s only a flicker. His expression is guarded, composed, without even a blink. Just like that, like he’s been charmed, the walls rise around him and he’s Regulus Black, spine stiff and jaw clenched, fingers curled around his wand. Defence, attack – there’s no difference when it comes to Black.

Regulus blinks and reaches for the doorknob.

“Reg-”

The door closes and Sirius inhales sharply.

No one says a word, for a moment.

“He looks exactly like you.”

It’s Lily. Of course it is. Her voice is warm and thick with emotion, because that person on the doorstep is her, too. Little sister, little brother. A connection that runs deeper than blood and an unsolvable distance that is simply that – blood.

They’ve had conversations about this many times. Lily sends letters, after them, but they go unanswered. More often than not they’re mailed back. When that happens, Lily gives them to Sirius and he burns them for her. She should burn them herself, let the chapter close, but she can’t. Not just yet. Because Lily Evans is nothing if not antinomic of surrender.

Sirius is selfish, but he tries to keep this certain string of egoism buried deep inside of him, hidden there where even he can’t reach it. Because he sometimes wishes – oh, how disgracefully, and how unspeakable, how unthankful – that Regulus was far away, too. So he didn’t have to see his face every day and be reminded of his own guilt, of his own mistakes. It’s as heavy as the entire world, when Regulus’ gaze falls on him. Sirius can’t stand it and yet, yet, he knows he ought to be grateful (and he is, he is, believe him), for this way he can take care of him, in some sort of estranged way. Regulus must know it too. Sirius can’t speak a word to him but he’d scream any (all of them, at once) unforgivable curse to protect him. Regulus probably wouldn’t do the same for him, but that’s all right. It’s what one deserves when they leave.

“What’s there left to do?” Sirius asks, surprising himself with his sudden question. The silence had hung heavy above, around them. He needed to break it off, and his mouth worked on automatic in those moments. Mary is looking at him, but she glances at Lily at the question.

“Nothing, really,” Lily says, peeking inside the cauldron and away when the steam warms her face. “We should give it a moment, but it’s ready.”

“I’ll get Remus and James,” Sirius announces, but he stays nailed to his place.

“Where are they, anyway?” Mary asks, stepping closer to Lily to watch the potion. She tilts the cauldron towards herself slightly.

“James wanted to watch the Ravenclaw’s training and dragged Peter and Remus along.”

“He always manages, somehow,” comments Lily distractedly. “He got me to watch three of his practices when we were together.”

“When you were…” Sirius splutters, feeling his cheeks warm up. “When you were together? When were you together?”

Lily turns to give him her undivided attention.

“Well, it wasn’t really dating, perhaps, I wouldn’t call it so – we saw each other and tried to shag. Didn’t take long to figure out that we weren’t exactly into that.”

“Let me tell you, James was really into you,” Sirius snorts.

Lily blinks and cranes her head, somehow looking very lost, like this is news to her. (Sirius relates to the feeling).

“Then let’s just say that I wasn’t into him,” and then, after a pondering breath, the kind that’s brave and stupid at the same time, “or into men at all, actually.”

“Fuck!” Mary screams as she fumbles with the cauldron, trying to keep it from falling. As soon as she manages to steady it, she clears her throat and takes a step back, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her curls just bounce back into place, covering her ears, which have turned into a furious red.

“You know what,” she says, agitated, walking backwards around the table, “I’ll go get Remus and James. I’ll be right back.”

She turns and rushes towards the door.

“Mare,” Lily calls, voice gentle and eyes warm when she looks over her shoulder. “Come back soon.”

Mary releases a breath, almost heaving, staring into her eyes without moving. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t look away, either.

“I will.”

Once again the door closes, and Lily looks at it for a second longer before checking the cauldron.

“So,” Sirius says, conversationally. “Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on now?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, but her face doesn’t close off like it did in the morning. Lily, as much of a sunshine and a great listener as she is, can be a very private person as well. They get along well because of how similar they are when it comes to that, Sirius thinks. They hadn’t bothered to get to know each other until well after she and James had grown closer – she always thought Sirius was too posh and he always thought Lily was too uptight – around a year and a half ago. She had cornered him at the beginning of their sixth year, after finding out he was living with James. She had told him she understood. It had taken him over a month to finally muster the courage to talk to her, although the idea had been orbiting his mind ever since she offered. She had understood, and so had he, when she, in turn, granted him with her own story. They know how to wait for each other. Because being able to talk to someone takes not only bravery, but also time. Time to learn all the words you need to know in order to explain yourself as you want. Time to get used to the feeling of them itching your throat. Time to let them bubble up like boiling water in your mouth, until they can finally come out of it. They wait and when the other becomes a waterfall, they’re there to let it pour over each other.

“I’m in love with Mary,” she tells him.

It doesn’t surprise him as much as it might have just the day before, but it still makes him fidget, play with his fingers nervously. He feels like he could run for miles on and at the same time he feels like he needs to sit down.

“Have you told her?” Sirius asks.

“No.” She shakes her head. Then she looks up at the blackboard. “Yes. Not directly. But she knows.”

“How long has she known?”

“I have no idea. For as long as I’ve been blatantly obvious about it, I suppose. Maybe for a bit over a month. She’s been avoiding me lately. It’s hard to talk to her, you know? Which is funny, because she never shuts up. She just talks and talks but she won’t let you talk about what you want to talk about unless she wants to talk about it. God, that sentence was confusing. But you know what I mean, don’t you?”

“I do,” Sirius replies softly. You do the same thing, he thinks, but he does not say it.

His heart breaks for Lily, because he sees it now – the bags under her eyes, darker now that her makeup is fading with the pass of the day, the chapped lips, the bit-down nails, the way her hair stands up slightly on top of her head.

“I think she loves me back,” Lily admits quietly.

“You do?”

“Yeah. But I think her mind is too…messy for feelings like that to make any sense. And I feel like the only way she manages to take her mind off things is to get other people hooked. She’s good at that. But I don’t think she really enjoys it.”

Sirius thinks back to all the boys, himself included. They’ve never had a conversation about this, but Sirius thinks it might have been something that went unspoken between them, some sort of understanding that bonded them together. They’re the same, Sirius and Mary – they know how to charm, how to have people hanging from their arms, following their shadows. It might have only not worked on each other, because they saw right through the other’s bullshit, though they never addressed it. Sirius just turned away when he saw her wrap a strand of hair around her index, bat her eyes or smile suggestively. Mary just shrugged when she saw him tower over someone, smirk or run a hand through his hair. They understood the immediate gratification, the surge of adrenaline, the power. They had control over being liked, though superficially, and that’s a dangerous but satisfactory card; addictive, too. Like a jerk off that feels good for a moment and washes you with guilt when the pleasure wears down.

“I don’t think she does either, actually,” Sirius agrees.

“I want to tell her. Am I crazy for that?”

Lily looks at him, then, green shimmering eyes, like melted grass, like a burning cottage, fixed on his own.

“You already know that you’re going to.”

She smiles.

“I do,” she nods. “But I don’t want to scare her away.”

“We’re talking about Mary Macdonald here, Lily,” Sirius smirks. “No one scares Mary Macdonald away.”

“She literally just ran off because I admitted to being a lesbian. Which she was aware of, by the way.”

“It’s not you that’s scaring her, Lily,” he says, softening his voice. “It’s herself. If what you’re saying is right, and you know her better than anyone, she’s just…dealing with it.”

Her red hair is duller in the dungeons, but she looks as fierce as always. Love can be as sharp as the roses’ thorns. They only need to be cradled with care, softened by a tender touch. They can be beautiful nonetheless. Lily’s love is thorns and petals.

“I know.”

Sirius smiles. Lily smiles back. They understand.

He smells it, then: yellow-ed pages of old books, dust-filled library corners, frayed threads of worn sweaters, the combination of woodgrasspinesilvermoon that Padfoot absorbs when Sirius becomes him during those full-moon-induced nights, of honey-scented hair and something more feral lying underneath.

His body reacts paradoxically: it tenses (shoulders stiffen, fingernails carve moons in his palms – in his name – and eyes widen) and relaxes (chest expands with a breath that finally feels complete, blood rushes everywhere he felt cold before and smile grows slowly).

“Remus is here,” Sirius announces. He glances at the door. It remains firmly shut, but he’s so certain.

“Remus?” Lily repeats. He hears the frown in her tone. “How do you know?”

“I can smell him. I guess it comes with being an animagus.”

They wait. A second goes by. Then five. Then ten. The scent is as persistent as it was a minute ago.

“I don’t think he’s coming,” Lily whispers.

“I can smell him,” he repeats.

Then Lily gasps.

She’s looking at him when Sirius’ eyes snap to her.

She glances at the cauldron. Sirius does too. It has stopped fuming.

“Sirius…”

He doesn’t look at her. He takes a deep breath. It’s there, still. He’s not imagining it. The fucking books, the fucking library corners, the fucking sweaters, the fucking forest, the fucking moon, the fucking hair.

He gazes at the door. Prays to god-knows-what.

Remus doesn’t come in.

“Fuck, Sirius.”

Lily looks bewildered. Sirius’ brain feels like scrambled eggs. It’s running, running, running, screaming so loud it’s only white noise. He can’t tell his own thoughts apart and he doesn’t know whether he wants to. The air isn’t reaching his head and he’s getting dizzy, but he refuses to breathe. His ears ring.

Lily places a hand on his knee. He doesn’t remember sitting down. The world must have ended a few minutes ago, because the cauldron is far away, discarded on a far away table.

“Sirius,” Lily says. He only realizes then that she’s been saying his name for a while now. It didn’t feel like it belonged to him. Everything feels foreign and unreal. Sirius cannot tell whether these are his hands or someone else’s. Only his knee, there where Lily touches it, feels like a part of him.

“What does this mean,” he asks, but it comes out linear and plain. An affirmation with no emotion behind it.

It’s not often that Lily Evans runs out of words, but this time she doesn’t seem to find anything to say.

“I don’t know,” is what she settles for. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Remus is your best friend.”

“James is my best friend.”

“James is like your brother.”

“And what does ‘best friend’ include, exactly?” he says bitterly. “Smelling them on a fucking love potion? Let me take another sniff, see if I can smell Peter’s bloody cheap deodorant.”

“Sirius,” Lily says again. As if she’s reminding him, through tender voice…what? That he doesn’t need to be harsh when he’s just been slapped in the fucking face? That he doesn’t need to panic when his heart is in the bottom of a fucking cauldron?

“I don’t-”

“Sirius,” she says, more firmly this time. She squeezes his knee. “This doesn’t have to mean anything, if you don’t want it to. Take the time to think about it, or don’t. It’s all right. You’re all right.”

Her eyes are dark green and her freckles dim, like they’re only shadows of what they are during the summer. Summer is Lily’s season and it’s the middle of winter, so she struggles, but she makes it out alive. She blooms with spring, bursts with summer, withers with autumn, rots with winter. Walks hand in hand with time, stubbornly aware of the way it affects her. Sirius can’t keep pretending like the seasons don’t brush past him.

Before he can answer, however, the door opens and James walks in, Remus and Mary in tow. Sirius can’t look at him directly, but he sees, out the corner of his eye, Remus inhale and stop dead in his tracks, if only for a moment.

“Hey, there,” James says cheerfully, wrapping an arm around Sirius’ shoulders. Its weight grounds him. His lungs fight against the lack of air, push his shoulders up under James’ touch. “Evans, you could’ve told me you were prepping the potion, I could’ve helped you.”

“I tried, but I couldn’t find you,” she replies, scowling at him. “You’ve been sneaky lately.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” James answers, but they share a secretive smile.

That reminds him.

“You dick!” He twists and smacks James on the stomach, who groans “What was that for?”. “You never told me you and Lily dated!”

James frowns and rubs his stomach, “That’s because we didn’t, you cunt! We didn’t even get to shag.”

“I’m right here, Potter. Don’t talk about shagging me in front of me.”

“Sorry, Lils. We didn’t even kiss properly, Pads. I would’ve told you.”

“You were obsessed with her,” Sirius claims, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you both were even planning on kissing.”

James glances at Lily through his glasses.

“That’s only because by the time we planned for it to happen, neither of us were excited about it,” he says, slowly and gently.

Something’s missing. Some puzzle piece that didn’t come with the box. Sirius doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“Enough of this,” Remus says, breaking the awkward silence. His arm is hooked with Mary’s. They’ve walked towards the cauldron together. Lily follows them. “This is ready, I presume.”

“Can’t you tell, Moony?” James grins. “You must be catching something, if you can’t smell it ready.”

“What if you tell us what you smell, Prongs? If you’re so willing to talk about it,” Remus retorts snarkily.

“Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Mary wiggles a flask between her fingers. “This should be enough for you, James. I’d give you more, but I have to submit as much as I can for Potions. Slughorn is a pain in the arse.”

“Why do you even have to submit anything extra at all?” Remus asks, peeking at the cauldron. His neck is long and he holds a red and yellow scarf under his arm. His hair is long, longer than usual, and messy with the wind.

Sirius closes his eyes forcefully for a moment, head spinning to think of something else. He’s still a tad bitter over James’ secrecy, so he focuses on that sting. It’s easier. His heart settles.

Mary opens the crystal flask and drowns it in the liquid without finesse. It comes out glowing and dripping pink, the tips of Mary’s fingers slick. Remus takes the vial carefully. Lily waves out a handkerchief out of nowhere and holds Mary’s hand tenderly, thumb pressed against the centre of her palm and forefinger on its back. She wipes each finger, one by one.

Suddenly, Remus is in front of him, and Sirius is looking at him. He can’t help it. Really, he wishes he could. His cheeks are still a bit flushed and the corners of his eyes are watery. He hasn’t shaved today so he’s been scratching his jaw, which is covered in pink lines.

“How do you plan on getting them to smell it?” Remus asks as James takes the jar.

“Leave that to me,” James says with a wink, only he can’t really wink so it’s just a blink. Sirius can tell the difference, somehow. “I have it all thought out.”

“When are you going to tell me who this is?” Sirius whines. “You almost kiss Lily and then you court someone I don’t even know. What’s next? Will I get a sudden invite to your wedding?”

James rolls his eyes and steps back. He folds so he’s right in front of Sirius, and he runs a hand through his hair affectionately.

“I’ll tell you as soon as I can,” he says. “The best part of having a secret is telling you, after all.”

He’s telling the truth, because James Potter doesn’t lie to Sirius Black. Never has.

“You’re so cheesy,” Sirius snorts, but it means I love you. James knows all the languages Sirius speaks, the layers of each word. Therefore, he smiles. Sirius smiles too.

“You love it,” James shrugs before straightening up. “I’m leaving, then. I can’t thank you enough, Mary, Lily. I’ll pay you back.”

“It’d better be worth it,” Lily shoves him playfully on the shoulder. “Good luck, Potter. I hope it goes better than it did with me.”

James chuckles, “That won’t be difficult.”

⋆⋆⋆

They’re walking back to the Gryffindor common room, Sirius to Remus’ left, Mary and Lily a few steps ahead of them. They don’t seem to be talking, but they don’t appear uncomfortable either. Lily is carrying Mary’s cauldron and Mary’s hands twiddle behind her back. It’s endearing.

And it’s easier to watch their shyness around each other – something he’d have never thought to link to Mary and Lily – than to let the voices in his head get loud enough to be heard. He’s running away but he’s panting, already; they’re catching up. Remus’ hand brushes against his cloak occasionally, and each time Sirius feels like fleeing. The silence between them hangs heavy.

“What did you smell?” Sirius asks, just to break it.

“I was wondering when you’d snap out of it,” Remus says, eyeing him curiously.

“Snap out of what?”

“That…quietness you’ve got going on. It’s odd. It’s not everyday that Sirius Black is silent for more than a minute. I didn’t know whether to celebrate or to worry.”

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t appreciate the silence. You ought to thank me.”

Remus snorts, “Sure.”

“Did you smell anything at all, then?”

Perhaps this is not the best way to distract himself, Sirius ponders. His heart pounds in his chest; how can it possibly grow any louder?

“I did,” Remus answers. “I smelled something.”

Sirius’ heart plummets. Drops to the ground. He steps on it as he keeps walking. Wait, no: someone’s hand breaks through the fine skin of his chest, through his ribs, and grabs his heart; the hand pulls it out of his ribcage, snaps his arteries and veins like cords, holds it between his fingers, bleeding and hammering, and then it squeezes it until it tears through tissue, until it doesn’t beat anymore. That’s what it feels like, because of fucking course Remus likes someone.

How is it that Sirius didn’t even think about that? Has he been so distracted by James that he’s forgotten that other people can have feelings, too? Why has he assumed that Remus has just been…waiting? Waiting for what, exactly?

“Did you?” Remus asks tentatively.

They glance at each other at the same time, and then they look away.

“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

Remus exhales through his nose, “All right.”

“All right,” Sirius replies.

And it’s silent again, everywhere except in Sirius’ mind.

⋆⋆⋆

James gets back to their room a bit after ten, clutching the invisibility cloak and the map and holding his wand in his other hand. He throws them on his bed, careful not to wake Peter, and begins to fumble with his cloak, his back to them. Remus and Sirius share a look.

“So? How did it go?” Sirius asks slowly.

“Great!” James answers excitedly.

“Did they…smell anything that reminded them of you?”

“Aha! Yeah! Sure! They did!”

His smile and eyes are slightly unhinged when he turns on his heels.

“Prongs…”

“I’m going to brush my teeth!” he announces.

“James.”

He stops on his way to the bathroom and turns around once more, slowly. His smile falls.

“I’ve got Amortentia on my hair, don’t I?”

“You’ve got Amortentia on your hair,” Sirius says in unison.

He nods frantically, pursing his lips. Sirius can barely keep his laughter at bay. Then Remus looks at him and he’s gone. Remus’ shoulders shake and he hides his face on his pillow.

“This was your idea!” James accuses, pointing a finger between them and trying to get the potion off his hair with the other hand, sticking strands in every direction.

“I thought you had a plan,” Sirius chuckles. “Did you blow it?”

“I didn’t blow it,” James shrieks. “I’m James Potter, I don’t blow plans – I create them. I just didn’t…take a few things into consideration.”

“Like their ability to spill the potion all over your hair?”

James pouts, “Shut up.”

Sirius opens his arms and James runs into his chest, throwing them back on the bed. His hair tickles Sirius’ chin and he tries very hard to breathe through his mouth.

“You did good, soldier. Whoever it is that you fancy seems like a proper mean cunt.”

Remus laughs. James groans in his chest, “They’re really not.” He pauses. “Well, maybe a little bit.”

Sirius coos and runs his hands up and down his back comfortingly. He’s broad, athletic, and he feels cold to the touch, like he’s just been outside.

“I gotta brush my teeth,” James mutters against the fabric of Sirius’ shirt. “Lily is worried some of it got in my mouth.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Sirius agrees. He drowns his nose in James’ hair, inhales – the scent from the Amortentia is there, faint, but it’s James overall – the perfect combination of fresh mint and grave, charged clouds about to burst into a summer rain.

“We wouldn’t,” James repeats. His voice is low and slow, slurred with sleep. “I don’t want to leave, but I need to go.”

“Round with Lily?”

“Mhm,” James answers. “She can wait a few minutes, though.”

He sneaks his arms around Sirius’ waist and holds him there. His head is heavy on his chest, but this weight isn’t unpleasant; it grounds Sirius. A heart learns to feel like itself only when James Potter leans an ear on top of it. It only began to exist, beat, when James first heard its rhythm.

“Yes,” Sirius mumbles, feeling sleep consume him in the form of James’ body. “She can wait.”

                 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!!!!!!!!)
3. gift them something they like
4. ask them to spend time together doing something you both like
5. ask. just ask

Chapter Text

     WEDNESDAY

It’s two in the morning when Sirius curses. Loudly. Then again. Louder.

“Shut up, Padfoot,” James groans.

“I lost the fucking list!”

“What list?”

“Both of you, shut up!” Remus pipes in.

“Your list! With the advice.”

“Why are you just now realizing that?”

“Please, let me sleep,” Peter mumbles groggily.

“Sorry, Pete,” they both say in tandem.

“It’s fine, Sirius,” James whispers. “You remember what’s on it, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Physical contact, gifting them something, quality time together.”

“Okay. I need to get some good hours of sleep to think of something great to get them.”

“You’re probably going to be up in an hour, anyway.”

Remus shushes them stridently – he is spending too much time in only Madame Pince’s company, it’s starting to rub off on him – and tuts to himself.

“Accio list.”

Utter silence.

“It was worth the try.”

A pillow hits him on the face.

⋆⋆⋆

“Alright,” Sirius claps. It echoes in the empty classroom. James and Remus, sat on a long table that’s been pushed against the furthest wall, blink at him. “Physical contact. Intimacy. It has to be low-key, Jamie, and we all know you’re not exactly subtle, so pay close attention. Remus.”

The boy blinks again, “Yes?”

“I can’t very well demonstrate it on my own, so if you’ll do me the honour…”

Remus hesitates for a second, glancing at James, who ushers him forward with a small smile. When he pushes himself off the desk, he clears his throat. He’s thrown his cloak on a chair and changed out of his uniform into casual clothes – a brown sweater whose sleeves don’t quite reach his wrists and a pair of corduroy pants in which it’s been tucked into. Dress shoes clank as he walks up one of the aisles towards Sirius, who shifts his weight from one foot to another. For the lack of a better thing to do, he’s narrowed his trail of thought to whatever can be helpful to James. No further thought of Remus, Amortentia, Remus or Remus will do. Or Remus.

Remus steps in front of him, much closer than he necessarily has to, and his determination goes down the drain. Their height difference isn’t all that – Remus only has half a head on him, if that – but it’s enough for Sirius to notice. It feels like an imposition, to have him look down at him, like he’s forcing the thoughts, the questions, in Sirius’ head. Rationally, he knows he’s not. It still chokes him.

“Well? We don’t have all day, lads. Go on, show me,” James calls from the end of the class.

“Yeah,” Sirius says, and then he shakes his head. “Yeah, let’s go, okay. So,” he begins, looking down at his hands, “you want to make it seem as natural as possible. It will be awkward as fuck if it’s noticeably forced. Touch them while you’re speaking, at first.”

He keeps talking gibberish, just for show, before landing a hand on Remus’ biceps casually, not breaking eye contact with him. Remus’ mouth quirks up, but he keeps nodding at what Sirius is saying like it’s making any sense.

“Don’t let the touch get too long,” Sirius goes on. “But linger a beat longer than what’s considered appropriate, or squeeze their arm slightly before letting go.” He drops his hand. His palm prickles. “You can touch yourself after that, as well. Mess up your hair, as you tend to do, or fix your glasses. It keeps their attention on you, on what your hand will do next, but keep making conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing ever. As if you’re not giving it any importance.”

Sirius glances at James. He’s taking notes, glasses sliding down his nose, parchment propped against his thigh.

“If they don’t seem uncomfortable by it-”

“How do I know whether they’re uncomfortable by it?”

“You’ll know,” Remus replies. “They’ll go stiff, they’ll get short with their answers. They’ll try to get away from you, basically.”

James’ lips thin and he looks down at the parchment again, eyebrows furrowed. The end of his quill tickles his chin.

“Keep doing that, but don’t push it,” Sirius picks up again, still looking at him. “You don’t want to seem clingy, either. You need to-”

His head snaps back to Remus, startled. With that, his whole world shifts on its axis. There’s a loud bang in the walls of his cranium, like it’s just short-circuited. Something’s burning in the classroom opposite this one. Something’s burning in his cheeks.

Remus’ fingers catch an astray lock of hair. Feathery, his knuckles graze the soft skin behind his ear as he tucks it there. His eyes travel between Sirius’ like they’re cape Finisterre, the limits of all known earth – he’s a sailor in his endeavours, approaching the waterfall-end of the world.

“You need to do something like that,” Remus says gently. His voice is low, and his eyes are so warm their irises might be melting onto his cheeks, down his jaw, down his arm, down his fingers, around Sirius’ ear. His whole body is warm in turn, and he seems to have forgotten English, because he doesn’t catch even one of the sad words falling from Remus’ mouth. Which he is, now, very conveniently looking at. Pink and full lips, pouting around the vowels and pressing together around the consonants. He’s always had a way with words, Remus; they bend at his will, although he has always demonstrated that better through his hands, rather than his mouth. It’s not entirely out of character, then, that his palm, still around Sirius’ ear, speaks poems into its core; whispers words that don’t belong to any language except theirs, for its only built right then and there, a hurried secret between them, courtesy of Remus’ fingers and Sirius’ quickening pulse. Just when Sirius thinks he might be starting to decipher it, Remus’ retrieves his hand.

“You do that,” Remus is saying. “Great reaction, Sirius. Very realistic.”

He must be making fun of him, because James chuckles heartily. At that, Sirius should answer equally as fast, snarky or dismissive, but his knowledge of English has only returned in understanding it, not in speaking it. Words are trapped in his throat like he’s swallowed water down his windpipe. There’s blood in his lungs, because there’s blood everywhere.

“Thanks,” he manages to croak.

The floor looks back at him, and only then does he realize he’s not staring at Remus anymore, as he probably should. Remus’ shoes are much easier to face, though, with the way his cheeks are burning and his mouth is dry.

“If you’re leaning against a wall,” Remus says, and he takes Sirius’ wrist, pulling them towards the blackboard. Sirius stumbles sideways, barely capable of stopping himself from tripping over his own feet. “You nudge their shoulder, first. If they seem okay with that, you can place yourself in front of them, instead, while you speak. It will widen the distance at first, but then…”

Remus, now in front of him, presses a hand up and to the side of Sirius’ head, leaning closer ever so carefully. His nose is thin, a small bump in the middle; a scar crosses it unevenly. They’re so close Sirius feels Remus’ breath fan his face. Sirius might have stopped breathing, he doesn’t really know. His ear hasn’t stopped tickling.

“Then what?” James says, suddenly beside them, holding his parchment like a journalist, and Sirius jumps.

“That’s it,” Remus shrugs, taking a step back. It feels like his whole weight has been lifted from Sirius’ chest. “Little touches, linger for a bit, be spontaneous overall. Anything else, Sirius?”

“Spontaneous, yes,” Sirius adds smartly. Remus and James share a look. “Be spontaneous.”

He peels himself off the blackboard, lightheaded. Remus spins him around, a hand cupping his elbow, and pats chalk dust off his cloak.

“Okay,” says James slowly, looking between them and scanning his notes next. “I’m off, then.”

“Practice?” Remus asks.

“Nope,” James answers, walking backwards and almost bumping into the doorframe. “See ya’ lads at dinner!”

There’s a moment of silence. His head is finally beginning to work again.

“Well,” Remus breaks the silence contemplatively, “that went well.”

“It can’t possibly go worse than the Amortentia.”

⋆⋆⋆

“Please, explain to me in detail what you did again,” Peter tells James during dinner.

Sirius almost can’t hear him over his own laughter. Remus leans his head on his shoulder as he shakes.

“I did what these dickheads told me to!” James whines, cradling his own face and pouting, waving a hand in their general direction. There’s a furious red mark on his cheek. Shaped like a hand. “Subtle touches! Spontaneousity!”

“I don’t think that’s a word,” Lily adds helpfully.

“Piss off, Evans!” groans James.

“Hey!”

“Sorry, Lily.”

“We told you-” Remus says between guffaws of laughter. “We told you to stop if they seemed uncomfortable, mate. That’s on you. Sirius-”

“They didn’t seem uncomfortable!”

“Sirius…”

“What?”

“Remember what you said? You said- You said-”

“I said that it couldn’t be worse than the Amortentia,” Sirius recalls, folding in half over his food. “And then it was. Oh my God.”

“I hate you,” James states, swallowing a mouthful of soup, cheeks burning. “This is your fault. I don’t even know why I kept listening to you, after yesterday.”

“Then don’t listen to them,” Peter suggests.

“No,” Sirius complains, “you have to listen to us. Just get through the rest of the steps, and if nothing works, do your own thing.”

“He might drive them away by the time he’s done,” mumbles Peter, shaking his head.

“Merlin, Pete,” says James. He rubs his eyes beneath his glasses. They tilt until they almost fall on the soup.

In the space between James and Peter’s head, Sirius sees him. He hasn’t thought about Regulus, surprisingly, since the dungeons. His mind has been elsewhere, understandably so, occupied with himself and with the boy pressed against his arm and with the ferrous determination not to linger on any of those thoughts for too long.

For the first time in God-knows-how-long, Regulus stares back. The sharpness in his eyes doesn’t falter, but his eyes aren’t as cold as they might have been any other day. Perhaps the upcoming beginning of spring is getting to him, warming frostbite off the tips of his toes. Already can Sirius feel the roots of the new season wrapping around his ankles.

Regulus blinks and his gaze is gone, but warmth settles in Sirius’ chest for the rest of the night.

⋆⋆⋆

     THURSDAY

Whispers and stares are the sort of thing that follow James Potter everywhere he goes, whether that’s to get on his broom at the beginning of a game or to the fucking loo. When you walk with him, you get used to that attention, as infrequently as it is focused on you. It’s not like Sirius is a stranger to the looks, either.

But the ones that chase after James this morning are different, somehow. Hungry. Horrified. Confused. Predatory.

Because it’s Thursday, a day before the game against Slytherin, and James Potter, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, is wearing a Slytherin tie. Unequivocally green and silver, it hangs from his neck, as loose and crooked as every other tie he displays.

Peter’s sudoku has changed so many times it’s probably unsolvable by now. Remus is looking down at his toast. Sirius hasn’t blinked in two minutes straight.

In the end, it’s Marlene who breaks the silence.

“James,” she starts, carefully. “Are you…feeling all right?”

Marlene, whose cheeks have been tainted red and gold since the beginning of the week, who once dyed her bleached-blonde hair crimson along with James, who collects, along with James, Gryffindor sweaters like they’re coins from different currencies. Let’s just say she has every right to be alarmed at her captain’s well-being.

“I am, ‘Lene, thank you,” he answers nonchalantly, staring at his bowl. He’s gone back to the oatmeal.

“Is this some sort of prank?” she insists, blinking at Sirius, at Peter, at Remus, who shakes his head and sinks further into his shoulders. “James.”

“Yes?” He isn’t meeting anyone’s eye.

“Why on earth are you wearing a Slytherin tie?” Sirius snarls, surprising himself with the question.

“What he said.”

James bites on his bottom lip so hard he might break skin.

“It’s…” he trails off. “It’s a present.”

“A present,” Sirius repeats slowly.

“…This jam isn’t even good enough to keep me here, I think I’m going to drop out…”

“Sirius, listen.”

“A fucking present.” And that’s when he realizes. His eyes go round. “That person you like is a Slytherin? Did they give you that?”

“The gifting plan backfired,” James mutters. He glances up at him and grimaces. “Listen, Sirius, I didn’t want to tell you…”

“A Slytherin,” Sirius says to himself. He’s not mad, honestly. It’s kind of funny to see James so concerned about it.

“They’re not half bad…”

“They’re a Slytherin!” he insists, almost chuckling.

“Your brother is a Slytherin!”

That wipes the smile right off his face. It’s the wrong thing to say, of course. Sirius knows this. Peter knows this. Remus knows this. Even Marlene knows this, for Merlin’s sake. But James– James is supposed to be the first to know. You don’t mention Sirius’ brother unless he’s mentioned beforehand. Unless it’s Sirius crawling into James’ bed, thirteen-year-old tears clutching at his chin. Sirius is the oddity – he’s carried that label on his back for as long as he can remember, then on his chest, proudly self-imposed. Rule and exception don’t talk to one another. They’ll only see what they didn’t get to be.

Remus is touching his arm faintly. He takes a steadying breath.

“I’m sorry,” James whispers.

Sirius just stares at him for a minute. Everything James says, it seems, has been whispered lately. Like it’s shameful. Like it’s a secret. A wave of uncertainty washes over Sirius at that, because how long has it been? Is he only now beginning to realize that James is drifting away? That he keeps secrets, a word they didn’t know within each other? Has it only now started, or, like a star dies and the world only knows of it millions of years later, has it been going on for some time now? When it comes to James, Sirius’ heart is a perpetual cuckoo bird bursting from a clock, open and exposed. Because time sort of stopped when he met James, in the way people say this is it and the world as they knew it begins and ends in unison.

“Did you hide them from me just because they’re a Slytherin?” Sirius asks; his voice doesn’t waver, but his heart is drowning.

James has his eyebrows scrunched up in a way that suggests that the worst is yet to come.

“You just…You just wouldn’t understand, Sirius. Not yet.”

“So why bring the fucking tie, James? What did you expect? ‘Morning, Prongs! Oh, hello to you too! Funny little tie you’ve got there, James, can I borrow it some other time?’,” Sirius mocks. Silence lingers between them. “What won’t I understand, James? My brother is a Slytherin, yes, but the difference between them and I is that I can separate prejudice and generalization from individual cases. So, enlighten me, please. What won’t I understand? Do you really think me so bigoted?”

“No, that’s not…That’s not it. It’s more complicated than that,” James rushes to say. It does little to appease Sirius’ humour.

“Complicated how, James? Can you please just tell me who it is?”

It’s deeper than this, and they both realize it. It’s Sirius begging for this. It’s their trust hanging by a thread, this fucking thread. It’s their friendship being over whoever the fuck James fancies. Who he chooses to hurt.

“I can’t.”

It’s Sirius, apparently.

“I’m sorry, Sirius, I can’t. I just- It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand. Not just yet.”

He keeps saying that, Sirius realizes, not yet. As if there’s something he knows about Sirius that he doesn’t even know himself. As if he’s keeping this secret for Sirius’ sake, rather than for himself. His head is swimming in confusion. Betrayal. Like a bubble of oxygen in his bloodstream.

Sirius stands up. Remus’ hand – because it had stayed there, apparently, ghostly enough that Sirius had stopped noticing it altogether – drops from his arm, falls on his thigh. He doesn’t look at anyone, but he feels the stares, equally on him and on James. Prying. Curious. Uncomfortable. They don’t do this. They don’t fight. They bicker, if anything. Normally, however, they don’t even do that. They work. A Vitruvian man cut in half, Plato’s original humans, two heads, four arms and four legs, divided, only to reencounter in the shape of two young men on a train to a magical castle. Two stars. They don’t do this, because if they do, all foundation in Sirius’ life crumbles. All the bricks fall from his hands, there’s no skeleton to hold a roof over. There’s nothing. Nothing.

And it might not be that big of a deal but it feels like everything.

Everyone keeps secrets. If only they were everyone else.

He wishes he had something to say. Something final. But he doesn’t, so he just turns and walks out.

⋆⋆⋆

Remus finds him a few hours later, goosebumps up and down his arms, up and down his torso, up and down his back, unwilling to leave his spot opposite the Great Lake, beneath the weeping willow. Some of its branches fall unceremoniously on the water, carried by the wind, sometimes, by the faint current, some others. Sirius has his arms wrapped around his legs, chin propped on his chin to keep his teeth from clattering. There’s a bag to his right. He hasn’t touched it since he got there.

“James gave me the map,” Remus says when he reaches him, nudging his hip with his foot. “I didn’t need it to find you, of course. I knew you’d be here.”

When it’s clear Sirius isn’t going to answer, Remus sighs and crouches to sit with him, facing the lake.

“Your clothes are going to get dirty. There’s mud everywhere and the grass is wet.”

Sirius hasn’t felt his arse in over an hour, so he isn’t that worried.

“And you’re going to catch a cold, it’s freezing out here.”

Tentatively, as if Sirius’ fingers could be dead-cold, frozen into place, about to break at the slightest touch, Remus stretches his hands and wraps Sirius’ right in both of his. Sirius lets him, but he looks away, eyes stinging.

“You’re so cold, Sirius,” he tells him, and it’s so tender that Sirius thinks he might crumble.

He wishes Remus was mean. Knocked sense into him, told him to stop acting like a little boy, because that’s what he feels like – a child throwing a tantrum over his favourite toy being revoked. He wishes he would scream. He wishes he wouldn’t understand. Sometimes, that’s easier to deal with. Not being understood. Not being known. It forms some shadow in which he can hide. When someone misinterprets you, when they deem you as something else, they leave the rest of the possibilities open for you to sneak into. You have the rest of the world to explore.

When you’re known, however– you’re just that. You’re just Sirius, finding his person an eternity ago and feeling like he’s losing him six years later. You’re just Sirius, not being chosen when the other is given the choice. The truth is hammered into him, and when someone’s right about someone else, that doesn’t falter. That doesn’t allow for anything else to birth. It’s the end to a whole infinite of realities.

He’d rather Remus be cruel. But he isn’t, because Remus knows him. He doesn’t want his carefulness, but he needs it, as disgusting as it makes him feel. He knows he isn’t being fair. He knows James has his reasons, whatever those might be. He knows it’ll be weighing on his shoulders, because James carries every burden in the world on his shoulders from the moment he was born. He wasn’t prophetised to. He just chose to.

If they’re all made out of bones then Sirius has taken all the mean bones that were due for James Potter. He walks and his tibia, his fibula, his kneecap, are made of the lava that buried Pompeii; the bile in his stomach, the fucking venom that crawls up his throat, might as well be the saltwater that swallowed Atlantis whole, drowned it in its depths; and the mouth that curls around the words he spits could quite perfectly be Saturn’s as he devours his son out of fear, out of envy, out of what’s prophesied and not set in stone. It’s in his bloodstream to be like this. He wishes he could peel it off his cells.

So he wishes Remus didn’t know him and still chose to be kind to him, because he’s well aware of how little he deserves this treatment. He wishes he was enough for it.

He isn’t.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I thought you liked the silence.”

“Not with you,” Remus answers. “I like hearing your voice. I like hearing you talk. And I like talking to you. It’s never good when you’re quiet.”

He wishes he could tell Remus that all he wants is a bit of quiet in his head.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

“Give me your other hand,” Remus says instead. Sirius lets his legs fall open until he’s cross-legged, his knee bumping with Remus’. He lets Remus take his hand. “You’re hurt.”

It’s a fact.

“I wasn’t fair.”

“Neither was James.”

“I just don’t understand it.”

“I think that’s the root of the problem, yes.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“Because he’s scared.”

“It’s James.”

“James is allowed to be scared every once in a while,” he reminds him. “I think he might be scared more often than anyone else, actually. He’s brave only because he faces his fears often. You’re fearless because you’ve already survived so much.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

Sirius clicks his tongue. Remus chuckles softly. He rubs Sirius’ left hand. It’s wet with cold, and his knuckles begin to hurt from how fast they’re warming up. His right hand is there were Remus dropped it, on top of his thigh. Sirius’ torso is half turned towards him.

“I’m going to apologize,” he says.

“I know.”

“But I don’t really want to,” he goes on. “I just don’t want to be mad at him.”

“That’s understandable. You don’t have to forgive him yet.”

“Is it a stupid thing to be mad about?”

“Maybe,” Remus shrugs. Sirius flushes. “But that’s not really the thing, is it?”

Sirius blinks, “What do you mean?”

Remus looks at him. He’s wearing his scarf around his neck, and his breath is vapour floating towards the lake.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a stupid thing to be mad about in general. What matters is that you felt hurt by it. Relationships are not…” he looks up, scavenging for the right words, “they’re not ideals. They’re specifics. Do you see where I’m going? You’re allowed to be sad over something that wouldn’t upset me, or anyone else. Relationships consist on learning those little things that bother the other person. Problems aren’t solved by claiming that what affected you wouldn’t affect anyone else. So it might be a stupid thing to get sad over, to others,” Remus muses, “but you’re allowed to be sad.”

Blinking, as if just realizing all that he’s said, Remus drops his hand and scratches the hair on his nape.

“At least, that’s what I think,” he rushes to say. “I just-” he falters for a second, before meeting Sirius’ eyes bravely. “I don’t want you to be sad. But if you are, I want you to know that it’s fair. I want you to have the space for it. I want you to not beat yourself up over it.”
He breathes, “And overall, I don’t want you to be alone through it.”

The air, albeit cold and clean, feels charged between them. Remus’ thigh is steadily warm under his cooling-down hands, and his gaze lingers like a question. Or an assurance. Or both. Gold, brown, green. Rich eyes. Earth eyes. Moony, he wants to say. Over and over, like a madman. Until the word warms Sirius’ eyes so that the moon is kinder to him.

“Those are a lot of things to want,” Sirius says lightheartedly.

“You’d be surprised by how much more I want,” Remus answers.

Sirius gulps, drifting from right to left eye uneasily. They’re so close that their noses are almost touching – Sirius’ a bit longer than Remus’, straighter. His chin tilts up a little, not defiantly, just- searching. Searching.

Remus’ eyes drop down to his lips. Sirius’ tongue pokes out to wet them automatically. Watches him watch it.

“Sirius,” Remus says, voice grave. It sounds like a warning.

“Yes?”

He’s breathless, he notices. Every inhale feels like breathing winter itself, or worse – swallowing Remus whole.

“Sirius,” he repeats. His eyes flicker back between his.

“Yes.”

Remus smiles, imperceptive to anyone but Sirius, who knows how to find smiles in the most inhospitable corners. A small thing, the faintest quirk of lips, almost a twitch – but there it is.

“Fancy a smoke?” Remus offers.

Sirius nods.

“Yes.”

⋆⋆⋆

There’s two boys lying sideways on the bed, there’s raven and auburn hair intermingling, there’s their sensitivity all the way down to where their pinkies almost brush against each other’s, there’s practiced breaths and there’s rushing heartbeats, there’s music playing and a wand to the raven-haired boy’s left so he can flip the record over. There’s a cigarette, half-burnt out already, in the auburn-haired boy’s right hand, between forefinger and thumb, and he flickers it towards the floor from time to time; the ash consumes before it hits the red carpet, a result of a spell he threw earlier.

There’s no one else in the room – James is at Quidditch practice and Peter is wherever Peter goes when he sneaks off to every Thursday afternoon, normally holding a map that Remus devised but can more often than not be found warmed up under Peter’s arm. Today he doesn’t have it – today it lies on the floor beneath them.

Today, like every Thursday afternoon, Remus and Sirius find their way to each other. They only just got here: Sirius dressed down to his briefs and wrapped himself up in one of Remus’ sweaters while Remus took his cloak off. He chose Zinc Alloy and the Hidden Riders of Tomorrow and there it spins, goin’ to see my baby in the afternoon, goin’ to take my baby on a Venus loon.

Remus passes Sirius the cig. Unlike him, he takes it between fore and middle finger. Elegantly. He claims it’s French.

“Oh,” he says after he inhales. His lungs burn pleasantly. “I’ve got you something.”

Without stepping down from the bed, he retrieves the bag at its foot. With a small ‘aha!’ of triumph, he brings out a book, old but not quite, halfway to the browning of its pages. Just like any other novel of muggle origins, it’s used but not as much as others from the ancient library are. Evidently read, but turned away by many others.

He hands it to Remus wordlessly, holding the fag between his lips as he relocates on the bed, one leg almost thrown behind him and his bare right heel touching his bare left knee. Bony legs, pale skin and dark hairs down to his ankles.

“A novel,” Remus comments, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t usually read novels,” Remus says as he scans through it, stopping on random pages to read a sentence or two.

“You do,” Sirius argues, signalling towards his mattress when Remus crooks his head to look at him. It has the desired effect: Remus’ eyes widen like plates. “I read them, sometimes. They’re entertaining. I don’t know why you keep it hidden.”

“They’re hidden for a reason, you obtrusive arsehole, not for you to go through them as if it’s your personal library.”

“I couldn’t help it, Moony.”

“How long have you been reading them?”

“Third year.”

“You can fuck right off, Sirius.”

Sirius chuckles and smoke comes pouring out of his mouth. As Remus reads the first page, holding the book from the top, Sirius leans over carefully, hovering above him. He brings the cigarette down until it’s pressed to Remus’ bottom lip, a finger that brushes the soft skin of his cupid bow. Remus purses his lips, takes a deep drag, his gaze firmly on Sirius. He twists his head to the side to exhale, but the smoke gets in Sirius’ lungs anyway.

“You tell me something, then,” Remus says.

“Something?”

“You know something about me I never shared with you. It’s your turn to share.”

Sirius plays with a page from the book on Remus’ hold, humming in thought. (And the vampires are right, and I want to lay my lips on your explosive mouth).

“I haven’t kissed anyone in almost two years.”

His eyes are on Sirius’ mouth when he stares at him, like he’s searching for some proof embedded into them.

“Why?”

“I stopped after fifth year, when…well, you know,” Sirius trails off awkwardly. “It didn’t feel right. After that it just…stuck, I guess.”

“You didn’t need to change that for me,” Remus answers gently, concern in his eyebrows, in the way his eyes flicker between Sirius’.

Yes, I did, Sirius thinks stupidly.

“I know,” he replies instead.

I did, he thinks again. And again. And again.

(But why did he?, and he has to open a parenthesis like this one in his own mind, stop the stream of thoughts he usually follows, for it will only deem this question as bad, as wrong; will condemn it and punish it because it’s not pure, it’s not something to even ponder, it’s something secretive and dark and obscene – obscene like the way Remus’ lips are pink and his arms exposed, that kind of obscene – and Sirius would be damned if these thoughts got to anyone else. Perhaps that’s why it’s so hard to access them – because they’ve been pried on time and time again. So he opens the fucking parenthesis and forces the watchful eye in his mind to look away for a second, causes a fire somewhere in the forest of his head as a distraction, because he’s sure that something is burning, something vital, and that something is being set on fire by his own hand. He’s the hand that started the fire, he’s the fire, he’s the forest that burns, he’s the eye that watches, and he’s the question he can’t consciously answer, because he’s scared. Fear is something that lingers even when there’s no immediate threat anymore. There’s no one listening to his thoughts except for him, he has to remind himself. He’s alone in his own head. But he still needs the parenthesis. There’s a fire and the question is the smoke that lingers: why did he stop for Remus? He doesn’t have the answer just yet, although he’s getting there, he is aware of that, but he has the question. That’s more than he had yesterday. The answer is within the question. He only needs to find it.)

“Do you want to?” Remus asks, snapping him out of his thoughts. Sirius blinks. “Do you want to do it again?”

“Kiss girls?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“No, not really,” Sirius says.

Remus doesn’t ask questions unless he knows the answer beforehand, so Sirius is surprised when he reaches further,

“Why not?”

Does Remus know the answer to that, or is he really waiting for Sirius to come up with it on his own?

“I don’t know,” Sirius replies. And it’s the truth, at least half of it. “It doesn’t feel right.”

That’s another truth. Discomfort sets at the pit of his stomach at the thought of it. He’s tried picturing it: lips against lips, tongue tied with tongue, hands at waists or at hairs, bodies pressed together until they’re a blurred silhouette. Then the inevitable lurch of his stomach, the dryness of his mouth, the numbing of his toes.

He thought it was normal, back when he did it. The sort of thing that’s heightened with metaphors in novels – those of Remus – and turns out to be disappointing in real life.

It was Peter who told him otherwise.

“Kissing girls isn’t that big of a deal,” Sirius had said. He had intended to brag but it had only come out plain, a sad little confession in drunken lips.

“Yes, it is,” Peter had argued, almost moaning. “Kissing girls is wonderful.”

“It’s really not.” Sirius had scrunched his nose, and because they were at the age in which they could still get away with those sorts of comments like they’re shy, arrogant kids, and also because they were still too young to be drinking as much alcohol as they were, people laughed.

Peter had let it go, because Peter knew how to read situations like that. How to tell when something could get awkward, when people could get violently shameful stares with the smallest of comments. So Peter let it go until he and Sirius were alone, head spinning just a bit but not too much anymore.

“Sirius,” he had called, hesitatingly.

They weren’t the closest, Peter and Sirius. They were hesitation at their best, low blows at their worst.

Sirius didn’t notice the doubt in his voice. He hummed in response as he undressed.

“What you said about kissing girls, earlier.”

“Yes?”

“Do you really not feel anything?”

Sirius stopped in his tracks, frowning. He couldn’t tell which hole he was supposed to put his head through, and which his arm. Perhaps he was drunker than he initially thought.

“I mean, I feel the touch itself. I feel the kissing.”

“And nothing…else?”

“And what else is there to feel, Pete?” he chuckled, turning to him.

“More,” Peter answered. “Just…more.”

“The thing is that I’m not fucking in love with them, now am I?”

For a reason that’s neither here nor there, there were tears rolling down his cheeks. He patted his face, surprised at the sudden wetness.

“Peter…”

He heard Peter sigh. His eyes were full of pity. Sirius turned his back to him, ashamed at the burst of emotion.

“This bloody shirt…”

Peter set a hand on his shoulder and Sirius flinched.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “Sit. I’ll help you.”

And so he did – Sirius sat, head hanging lowly. Rose his arms when Peter told him to. The recency of the shirt felt nice against his body, uncomfortably warm.

Peter stroke his thumbs under his eyes gently, wiping the tears away.

“Sleep,” he commanded, but it sounded like a question. Uncertainty tainted his words. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“Promise?” Sirius had asked, like a little kid. How childish he could be, for a boy who had no good recollection of his childhood. For a boy who was yet to have a childhood, actually, and would never get it.

“Promise.”

Peter was there to smile kindly at him in the morning, to hold his hair in a fist as Sirius heaved above the toilet, limbs shaky and sweaty and green. They weren’t the closest, Peter and Sirius. But they were close enough.

He wonders, years later, why Peter never brought that subject up again. How many of their secrets he carried like a hoarder, like a trader that doesn’t sell. They grew closer, after that, an unspoken thing. Knowing looks, accomplices. Secrets do that to people – bind them together. What secret Sirius gave away, he doesn’t really know. But there’s something.

“Kissing them is like kissing sandpaper,” he admits now. Remus is very, very quiet. His eyes, above all. “It’s not their fault. I think it’s me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with not liking it,” Remus answers. His voice is so quiescent that he might as well have spoken directly in Sirius’ mind. Perhaps he made up the words, just to make up for the impenetrable wall in his eyes. A moment so vulnerable and raw yet Sirius feels incredibly lost; this is foreign territory to him. It’s not that Remus is closed off, he realizes, it’s just that he doesn’t know this side of him. It’s frightening.

“I know,” he tells him, although he didn’t really. Not until Remus said so.

“And you don’t have to kiss anyone, unless you want to kiss them.”

I want to kiss you, is what his mind answers. Or maybe his heart. Or both. They don’t usually go together. His head spins. His heartbeat quickens.

Remus’ lips are pink, his mouth open just barely, just a sliver of teeth and tongue.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s aware of the flush in his cheeks – he feels them burning like a heart beats, the fucking forest, there it is.

He wants to lean forward and touch Remus’ pink lips, with fingers and lips and neck and forehead. He wants to have them everywhere. He doesn’t know what to do with that desire. He can’t store it away, but he can’t hold it in his hands in broad daylight.

He wants to kiss Remus. He wants Remus to kiss him.

It’s not a crashing realization. It’s a glass of water that’s been filling for years and has finally spilled, tilted over. It’s flooding everything, fast. This isn’t sudden. This isn’t lust. This is- This is-

Sirius gulps.

And then the door flies open.

He doesn’t move, and neither does Remus. He’s staring at him like he’s seen him for the first time.

Sirius doesn’t know what to do with any of that.

“I found your list,” Peter announces, waving it in front of them. His blond hair is freezing at the tips with frost. “Well, James found your list and told me to give it to you.”

It falls on Sirius’ lap like a feather. He reads it numbly, deaf to Remus and Peter’s conversation. Amortentia. Physical contact. Gifts. Spending time together. Asking. He inhales. Closes his eyes. Opens them. The same words in Remus’ shitty handwriting. They came up with them together, for fuck’s sake. Amortentia. Physical contact. Gifts. Spending time together. Asking.

Remus’ scent. Remus’ hands warming his. The bloody book he sneaked out of the library rather than checked-out, just so Remus could keep it indefinitely. Forever, he had hoped. Fucking forever. The vinyl that has stopped playing but keeps spinning, like it’s mocking him with the last verses it played (change is coming just like the sun, change is coming you better run).

How long have they been completing their own list without realizing?

Remus doesn’t ask unless he knows the answer beforehand.

Sirius wonders if he’s getting close.

⋆⋆⋆

He apologizes to James that night, when regret and guilt curl up on top of his chest and don’t allow him to take a single breath. They push him into the mattress until he’s sure he’s sinking in it. Not only this morning’s row, as much as he wishes he could give it his full attention, but every single mistake, every single sin; all of them mix together in a blur of blood and ash, bursting from Sirius’ skin like giant cysts. He’s tired. He’s so tired. He wishes he could tell his mind to stop, but nights like these are made of those memories one wishes to repress. Or thoughts about a certain boy in the bed next to him. That just makes him feel more guilty. His whole face pounds from an incoming headache when he sits up.

He tiptoes his way to James’ bed, curtains firmly shut around it like a defensive wall in a medieval village.

“James,” he whispers. It’s late, almost one. There’s shuffling from Peter’s bed, but no one says a thing.

Not even James.

“James,” he repeats, elongating the vowels pleadingly.

No answer.

Sirius sighs through his nose, looks down at his bare feet on the wooden floor, warmed up by a charm that the elves keep overnight.

“I’m sorry,” he tells the curtain. It’s a stone on his tongue, a punch that sends his teeth flying to his throat. He gets a hold of one of its folds like a kid grasping his mum’s skirts. “I shouldn’t have given you shit for not telling me. I don’t know what it is that I don’t understand yet, but…but I’ll do my best to understand, once you decide to tell me.”

He waits for a beat, just to see if James will say something. He remains silent. He must be very mad, or very hurt. The thought makes Sirius feel small.

“You’re allowed to keep your privacy. And your secrets. That’s not me giving you permission, that’s just the truth. I shouldn’t have- It was childish of me to think that it’d always be simple, you know? You and I. Sharing everything like little kids. Things get complicated. Life gets in the way. And you don’t have to tell me everything from the beginning. I can wait. I’ll always wait. After all, the best part of having a secret is having it be ours, right? Yours, and then mine too.” He tries for a weak smile. His cheeks feel like clay that he’s wetting and shaping into rounded apples.

“I’m really sorry I got so pissed. I don’t know what got into me. Well, I do. It’s the Black in me, I guess. We destroy everything and then we apologize. At least, I do. But that’s not an excuse. I shouldn’t have blown up in the first place. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Once he says it, it’s all his tongue can twist around. A pair of wrinkled hands going from one bead of the rosary to the next, whispering mantras under a breath, eyes glazed in divine bliss, mouth dry from exertion.

He sniffs and then he’s crying, pitifully, James’ drapes darker than ever. Blotches of water on his shirt as the tears fall onto it, expanding through the cotton like blood. The sight is fucking pathetic. He’s a seventeen-year-old crying at the edge of his best friend’s bed, begging. Begging to be listened to, looked at, forgiven.

Will someone fucking forgive Sirius Black?

“James,” he pleads, desperately, voice breaking. He’s so tired.

He grasps the fold more firmly, slides it to the side a tad, enough to take a peek.

James’ bed is empty.

He stumbles back, ashamed and astonished. He doesn’t think about the fact that he misses classes, that he’s seeing a Slytherin, that he’s seeing anyone at all. His mind turns on what it knows – Reg was always so hard to find, but he knew where to look, he always did – and just like that he acts on automatic. Finding Regulus in a house full of alcoves and dark shadows and screeching, mean portraits is hard. Finding James in a school inhabited by hundreds of students, which has as many permitted hallways as it does secrete passageways, should be harder.

Lucky for him, they have the whole place mapped out.

“Remus,” he calls as he opens the curtain to his bed. “Remus.”

Remus, who was obviously up and listening to Sirius pour his heart out in front of a bed devoid of Orpheus, blinks heavily.

“Sirius, it’s so fucking late. What…?”

“I need the map,” he says, apprehensively. He might spit his heart out if he keeps talking, but he does. “Where’s the map?”

Remus freezes momentarily. Then he looks away. It’s only a glance, but Sirius notices it. The map is folded neatly at the end of his bed. He dives for it. Remus catches his elbow.

“Sirius.” There’s a warning in his voice.

Sirius doesn’t care for it. His mind is chanting James James James.

He shoves Remus away, gentle but firm. He opens the map and drops it on the floor. Falls on his knees in front of it. Whispers the word. Watches the ink run through the parchment like a toothpick that pinches someone’s gums, bleeding all over their teeth.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

His eyes scan the paper frantically. Hogwarts is the safest place he knows, but it’s almost one in the morning and James isn’t in his fucking bed.

Remus curses behind him.

He finds the name. Astronomy tower. His shoulders slump as relief washes over him.

Time halts. There’s a name beside it, regal like it’s been written by the person itself.

Regulus Black.

He blinks. It’s there when he opens his eyes. He rubs his eyes. It’s there. It’s there. James Potter. Regulus Black. Astronomy fucking tower.

And then he bursts into laughter.

It’s hysterical. A moment of madness that frightens even him. His eyes scan the map again again again because he must be losing his fucking mind. It must be one of James’ pranks, the genius little devil. Because James doesn’t keep secrets. Because James doesn’t lie. Because it’s James; that encapsulates everything. Because it’s him who Sirius would trust blind, deaf, mute, hypoesthesic, anosmic, ageusic. He would trust him dead. He would trust him alive. He would trust him with a wand pointed at his heart and an Imperius curse thrown over him.

He’s laughing so hard that tears roll down his face, again, or maybe they’re tickling him so hard that that’s why he’s laughing. He wraps his arms around his middle and folds in half, forehead to the map, on top of the Astronomy tower.

“What…?” Peter says, stepping out of his bed. He freezes at the sight.

“James…and…Regulus,” Sirius exclaims, breathless. “Fuck, was he right. I don’t understand.”

When why how where why why why; why him why him why him; why not him. Why not him.

Someone runs a hand through his hair when his laughter dies down. He thinks it’s Remus, but it turns out to be Peter.

“Sirius,” he says, an apologetic crease between his brows.

And it downs on him. His hesitation.

He rounds on Remus.

“You knew,” affirms Sirius, no doubt in his voice. There’s nothing left of the past laughter.

Remus nods slowly. Just once.

“I did, too,” Peter adds. Not to make it worse, Sirius knows this. Just to come clear. It still doesn’t make him feel any less like shit.

He inhales, slowly. Lets the air fill his lungs. It will be the last calm breath he takes in a while.

He brushes Peter’s hand off his shoulder, where it has fallen.

He stands.

He’s not on automatic anymore, overflowing with concern. Or perhaps this is the most automatic thing he knows. The fury, white gold carving a mark in his back. Ushering him forward. He doesn’t care to think of it right now.

“Right,” he says.

He fetches his cloak and wraps it around himself. He forces his shoes into his boots. Neither Remus nor Peter try to stop him.

He walks out without a word. They follow him. He doesn’t bother going for the invisibility cloak. He doesn’t care who sees.

The way there is a blur – the halls are eerily quiet, light dimmed into nothingness. His hair flies behind him and Remus calls him once, twice, then just gives up.

They’re up the stairs and he pushes the door open.

Deer caught in the headlights. What a funny joke that would make for on any other occasion.

“Reggie. Jamie,” he greets cheerfully.

They’re sitting, frozen in position, knees against their chests, sides pressed together, against the wall that holds the railing. There’s parchment on the floor and a quill in Regulus’ hand.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he continues. “Quite a lovely night, don’t you think?”

“Sirius,” James whispers.

“Good, you know who I am. That’s going to make things so much easier for me.”

“Sirius, please, let me explain first…”

“No, James, I don’t think you get that right anymore. Any other fucking person? I’d willingly apologize for not giving you time and space, be it a girl or a boy. Which I did, by the way, and you’d have known that if you had been in your bloody bed. But my little brother, James? You should’ve told me about it the moment you felt even the slightest hint of anything.”

“Would that have changed the outcome?” James mutters bitterly.

“No, it wouldn’t have. But it’d have spared you this.”

“This.”

“Yes. This. Losing two people at the same fucking time.”

James’ eyes widen. Remus touches his elbow. Sirius withdraws his arm in a haste.

“Sirius.”

The entire tower freezes. Sirius isn’t sure how it doesn’t crumble, tilt over.

The voice isn’t James’. It’s Regulus’.

Regulus, who never mastered the art (if anything that comes out of fear, of survival, can be considered an art) of keeping his thoughts stored away, feelings at bay. Who was always overflowing in worry, in wanting, in suffering. Believe him, Sirius tried. Tried to teach him how to get their mum to hear only what they wanted her to hear. The rest, safe in a treasure chest, key gulped down. Sirius let his tongue run free because he knew his memories, his thoughts, his love, would be tucked away somewhere she couldn’t reach. Regulus stopped talking because his mouth was the only thing he could control. He vowed to silence because his mind was loud. Was their mother’s screeching voice. Was Regulus’ whimpers. Was the guilt that overcame him when Sirius stepped in front of him. Was the silence that followed, louder than anything. Sirius quieted down after the episodes and Regulus drowned him in apologies. Then the words stopped. If he couldn’t hold his conscience, he would hold his tongue. His own little rebellion. Sirius wonders how many times their mother has tried to slap words out of him, to no avail. Nothing was powerful enough to pull him out of his silence. Not even Sirius’ pleas to come with him the night he left.

“Reg,” Sirius whispers.

It serves to appease him. His brother’s voice. It has changed since the last time he heard it. It’s deeper, richer. Still low, not quite whispering – like he wants only those who’ll pay attention to listen. Like his words are meant for a few lucky listeners alone. Different from a kid’s voice, grown up, but still his brother’s.

He doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes, just like last night (which seems like ages ago, now), aren’t cold. They’re spring.

“Sirius,” Remus says. His hand wraps around his elbow once more. “Let’s go. We can talk about it in the morning.”

He finds himself nodding.

“You,” he says, reluctantly looking over at James. “I don’t care where you go as long as you don’t sleep anywhere near me.”

He gives Regulus one last glance and then rushes out.

Remus is at his side in an instant.

“I’m sorry I kept this from you,” he says as they bounce down the spiral stairs.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I should’ve told you, I just didn’t think it was my secret to tell.”

“It wasn’t. It’s okay.”

“Sirius-”

“Listen, Remus,” Sirius sighs, turning around when he reaches the base floor. Remus hovers over him, two or three steps above him. “I don’t have the energy to be angry at you, or Peter. Or anyone, for that matter. I want to go to bed. I really, really, want to sleep.”

Remus stays silent for a beat, like he’s having some sort of internal fight. He settles on agreement.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Thank you.”

They walk back in silence. Peter’s got the invisibility cloak, Remus informs him. They’ll walk Regulus back and then he’ll fetch James some blankets so he can sleep in the common room. Sirius doesn’t answer.

He throws his cloak on the bed and climbs in between the sheets. It’s impossibly wide. Remus watches him, standing beside his own. Sirius watches him back. Then he chokes on his pillow, and just like that he’s sobbing into it. Muffled broken things. Bones breaking inside him. All the mean bones. All the mean bones. All the nice ones, too. The few of them there were left.

“Shhh, shhh.”

The mattress dips as Remus sits on its edge. He can’t see him, but Sirius just wants. Wants so badly. Wants anything else.

“It’s okay, love,” Remus whispers. The name only makes him cry harder.

A hand on his shoulder, across his scapula, up his nape, into his hair. Remus rubs circles into his scalp.

Somehow, somewhen, his head ends up on Remus’ lap, and he’s breathing easier. Eyes puffy and nose runny, and brains scattered and heart nowhere to be found, but his hair is there where Remus touches it, and his left forearm exists where it wraps around Remus’ back, his right forearm feels like itself across Remus’ knees. His tummy, his hips. The rest of his body doesn’t feel his. Doesn’t belong to him. On the contrary, maybe: it’s too much of himself. He only feels right there where he is someone else’s. As long as Remus keeps touching him somewhere, he’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.

Peter walks in, at some point. Remus says something to him. His hand never stops. Then Peter walks out and doesn’t come in again.

Only then does Sirius realize how uncomfortable this position must be.

He begins to pull away, “Sorry, I’m-”

“Don’t,” Remus says firmly, pushing him back down. “Don’t do that.”

“It must be-”

“I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving you.”

It almost breaks him again. He inhales slowly. The books, the dust, the moon.

“Don’t do that,” Remus repeats. “You’re Sirius Black. You walk into a room and you take what you want.”

“I don’t want to do that anymore.”

“This time, you just need to take me. For as long as you need me.”

Sirius looks up at him. Through blurry gazes and dark rooms and new moons, Remus is worried and still smiles down at him. He’s so earnest.

“I’ll always need you.”

It might not be the truth, or at least the right way to say it. He might not always need him, not in the strict sense of the word. But he’ll want him forever. And what’s wanting if not the need to have?

Remus tells him, “Let’s sleep, okay?”

He asks. He knows the answers beforehand. He still asks. God, Remus never stops asking, does he?

                 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

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

Chapter Text

     SATURDAY

For the second time in a week Sirius Black wakes to the view of Remus Lupin in his bed.

This time, however, only a small ray of sunshine manages to sneak through the creaks of the curtain around his bed, above the dips of their heads on the pillow. It’s bright enough for him to discern Remus’ factions, close as he is: the freckles on his cheekbones, the pores in his nose, the scars that wander around his face – one cutting through his eyebrow, the other down his cheek and through his upper lip. His skin hardens and softens depending on where Sirius decides to let his eyes fall on. He’d never consider war a beautiful thing but Remus can’t be called anything else. He wishes, fervently, as always, for a better life for him, one he knows to be unattainable. He wishes for a full moon Remus could watch with him, lying on the grass and gazing up at the sky, watching grey clouds swim among the endless sea of stars like giant foggy whales. Remus, like the sun, hasn’t known a night like that. He stares at the scars and at the face that wears them, a heart of secrets that reveals them at the top of its lungs, plasters them where they can be seen in broad daylight. A chest of spilled-over relics, sought by all sorts of pirates only for them to discard it when it’s found.

Sirius blinks slowly and that’s when he feels it: the knocking in his mind, throbbing with every beat of his heart, crowning his head like a halo of pure pain. The alcohol blazes a hole through his stomach like acid, weighing on his lower belly. In front of him, the picture of peace, Remus sleeps with his hands tucked under his face, a kid that prays for pink dreams.

Sirius spares him one last long look before he slides out of bed, grimacing and squinting at the abrupt wave of sunlight that washes over him, the sudden contraction of his pupils borderline painful. He heads for the bathroom and sits down on the toilet to take a piss, not even bothering to shut the door. When he stares at himself in the mirror, his hair is greasy and frizzy like someone’s run an oil-covered balloon through it. His tongue is dry and pasty, impossibly heavy in his mouth. He takes a gulp of water and then spreads some across his forehead, relieved at its coolness as it tickles down his cheeks, dripping from his nose. He leans forward to dry his face on the towel, which smells faintly of lavender, and sighs when he straightens.

He opens his eyes to Remus’ reflection on the mirror, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his bare chest.

Sirius jumps.

“Merlin’s semen!” he exclaims. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Remus watches him, amused.

“Merlin’s semen?”

“Pete and I are on a competition to see who can get grosser with those.”

“Tough luck. Pete’s an ace at cursing.”

“So am I,” frowns Sirius, turning around to rest against the sink and wipe his hands on the towel.

“Just because you wear leather jackets now doesn’t mean we’ll forget how scandalized you were when you first heard Peter say ‘crap’. Crap, Sirius.”

Sirius rests his hands on the sink, clutching at the towel. His head pounds and the world is brighter than it should be, but Remus looks ethereal against the gold and perhaps no amount of pain is too bad.

“Yes, well,” he begins, wheels turning in his head to find a comeback. His cheeks flush when Remus’ smile grows. “Shut up.”

At that, Remus chuckles and Sirius drops his gaze only for his eyes to fall, appropriately, on the soft skin of his shoulders. Remus is slim and covered in moles and freckles, black or brown and voluminous or barely a grain of salt, a whole constellation map of its own, a whole astrological system. His collarbones peek out ever so slightly, surely due to his terrible posture – constantly hunched forward like gravity demands a closer view of his chin. Sirius’ fingers feel numb around the soft fabric of the towel and Merlin, how he longs. Once he’s finally addressed it, that knot of intermingled feelings that casts a light over him he’s never seen before, a whole new palette of colours he’s sure no one has been subjected to, it’s like his body has resurrected, awakened, from a death it wasn’t aware of. He can feel every single one of his cells, the bones clicking between the stretch of his muscles. Every blink of his eyes, he’s conscious of. Every moment he doesn’t spend staring. There’s this everlasting warmth that’s settled in his skin ever since he realized. A little bit closer to a flaming moon, floating in oxygen-less space.

There are many kinds of warmth in the world. Sirius thinks he might be experiencing all of them at once.

“Remus….”

His arms uncross and Sirius gapes.

“What’s that?”

Remus unglues himself from the doorframe, frowning, and looks down in the direction Sirius’ finger points to.

“A tattoo?”

Sirius stumbles forward without realizing, until he’s a palm away from him, and there it is, clear in the dim light that surrounds Remus from the window behind him. Seventeen dots, connected by a thin line, on his left side, under his pectoral, at the end of his ribs, like an extra lung or a hand that supports him gently forever.

He’s grazing the skin before he makes sense of his movements. Remus’ peach hairs stand up beneath his fingers. The ink isn’t rough to the touch but as warm and scarred as everything else in him, for the tattoo has been made in an obvious attempt to cover up one of his infinite healed wounds.

“I never knew you got a tattoo,” Sirius mutters.

“You wouldn’t,” Remus nods. “I got it done two years ago. After fifth year.”

Sirius inhales sharply through his nose and, because the line between braveness and immaturity has long faded, he looks up to meet Remus’ eye. Remus had stopped hurting himself the moment he could venture in the forest along with them. With him. When the wolf had been freed, it hadn’t needed to pick apart his own flesh.

The conclusion is evident, since Sirius doesn’t recognize this precise scar – he stopped watching when it became heart-lurching, for many reasons and many answers to questions he couldn’t ask back then.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Remus nods, “I know.”

“There’s no excuse for what I did,” Sirius goes on as if he hasn’t heard him, still tracing the tattoo as softly as he can (afraid it’ll move, somehow; blur the lines like the wound is fresh and blood streams out). “And no explanation could be good enough.”

“If there had been a good enough explanation, I wouldn’t have been so hurt,” Remus says.

Sirius thins his lips. The words are not comforting but they aren’t harsh either – perhaps the wound has finally begun to scar.

“It’s you,” Remus speaks again.

Sirius’ head tilts up to stare at him in surprise, feeling his heart jump.

“What…?”

“The tattoo. The drawing. What kept me awake. It was you. It’s you, still.”

Sirius frowns down at his chest and it’s like a veil has been lifted: the one dot that’s thicker than the rest, the brightest star to be watched, Sirius on his chest and Sirius’ forefinger shaking along with Remus’ heartbeat. He presses his nail into the skin, watching it curve into a moon, yellow, then pink.

“Me,”

“You.”

His hand slides up his chest and around his neck, fingers lost in his curls like wandering creatures in a shadow-filled forest. It’s almost like they dissolve in this strange matter in which space and time aren’t reality anymore – the world is filled with sounds and symphonies and each cell of his fingers is a tiny fairy that searches, curiously, through the warmth in Remus’ head. His worldview crumbles and nothing that the human brain has provided him with to make sense of what he’s seeing is enough.

Words don’t have colours in his tongue: they’re nonsensical and senseless, but Sirius still uses them,

“Ask me.”

Remus almost shivers, but there it is – he’s found it. There’s a golden glimmer in his eyes. An answer. A question. Whatever the fuck comes first for him, or for anyone. He’s never been more beautiful than right then, staring at Sirius as if he can’t bear looking anywhere else.

“Ask me,” Sirius repeats, gently. He tugs on his hair.

Remus’ hands fall on his waist, warm and certain. Certain, for God’s sake.

“What do you want?”

Sirius smiles. Remus smiles too. And then they’re laughing, first softly, then painfully. Their cheeks are carved into parenthesis and their sides ache as they hold onto each other, Sirius’ forehead on Remus’ shoulder and Remus’ on the crown of his head.

Eventually, their laughter dies down, and Sirius breathes before pulling away, enough so that he can stare into his eyes again through the blur in his own, watery in the sort of overflowing happiness that carries a melancholy sadness.

“Fuck,” Sirius says, bringing his hands up to cup his face, “you’re so beautiful.”

Remus grins and imitates his gesture. He leans forward and knocks their foreheads together. Closes his eyes. Remus doesn’t ask if he doesn’t know the answer beforehand. But he’s brave. God, is he brave.

“Answer,” he says.

Sirius doesn’t close his eyes, but he smiles again.

“You,” he tells him, lips curling around the word, and nothing’s ever tasted as fitting. “I want you.”

Remus chuckles and it’s warm against his face, an angel’s breath. He leans forward and then–

(And then that’s it. The silence. The feeling of absolute nothingness. Except it’s everything, all at once. Except it’s all the sounds in the universe. Except it’s the whole history of existence ringing in his ears. Except it’s a Big Bang in their lips, the birth of a star. Their lips are soft with sleep and dreams and fantasy and magic and consciousness, and they move against each other like the grass wavers beneath the wind and a sunflower chases the sun. It’s all that and nothing at all. Death and life at their lips. That’s it. That’s it.)

Surprisingly enough, the world is still there when Sirius opens his eyes again. It feels like something should have changed fundamentally around him: the colours should’ve inverted, all the sounds should’ve deafened. But all that’s new is encapsulated in the small curvature of Remus’ lips, pink and spit-shiny. Kissed through and through. His heart pounds where Remus’ hands hold it. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’m so blind,” he whispers, and Remus laughs. Sirius can only watch, his chest swelling up with wonder.

“That’s alright,” Remus shrugs. “Better later than never.”

“Please, I couldn’t have gotten through a whole life without you.”

“You’re stubborn enough.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re only proving my point.”

“I’m not,” Sirius shakes his head. “Because you,” he points at him, “are not the one who’s in love with Remus Lupin. I am in love with Remus Lupin. I know I wouldn’t have survived a life without kissing Remus Lupin.”

Remus’ eyes widen and soften in a second. Sirius traces the apples of his cheeks, feeling them warm underneath his finger pads.

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here, it’s weird,” Remus says.

“I’m in love with you,” Sirius replies with no hesitation. The words are so easy to say, he thinks. He understands the simplicity with which James said them.

“Shut up,” Remus chuckles.

“I am! I’m in love with you!”

“Sirius,”

“I love everything about you! What you like and what you don’t! Everything that makes you who you are! I’ve never not loved you. I love, love, love you–”

Remus is kissing him again, holding his jaw like he’s made of diamond, tilting his chin up. His lips part just enough for their tongues to brush together, warm and speaking words they aren’t fit for.

Their chests are flushed against each other and they breathe through mouths and noses and the touches of their skins. They take and they take and they give, all the time. Sirius’ ribcage creaks open.

“I thought,” Remus heaves when they part, knocking his forehead against Sirius’, “God, I love you. I thought I would always be the one who stared for a beat too long. I always thought I would be the one who would need to say goodbye, eventually. Just so it stopped hurting at some point. When I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

“You don’t have to stand anything anymore. It doesn’t need to hurt anymore.”

“Oh,” laughs Remus, “I think it’s always going to hurt a bit, one way or another. Loving always does, in the end.”

“Not when it’s about the present,” answers Sirius gently. He watches him as Remus keeps his eyes closed, so, so warm under his fingers, rough from the scars and the sleep-collected dust of his cheeks. “The present is kind to us.”

“The past hasn’t been,” Remus retorts. The sweetness lingers in his voice, but it wavers as well, somewhat hesitant.

Sirius breathes and it tastes like saltwater.

“It wasn’t only the past that wasn’t kind to us. It was me, as well.”

“Everyone knows how to be cruel.”

“Not everyone puts the thoughts into actions.”

Remus pulls away and there’s an immediate rush of coldness, despite the gentleness of his words.

“You were trying to protect me. Your intentions were good, despite your lack of a good reason.”

Sirius’ smile is bitter when he replies, “I was trying to hurt him,” he clarifies. “For hurting you, yes. But revenge and protection are very different things. Revenge hurts you, and not only him. Revenge hurt you. I shouldn’t have let that happen. Not to you. I should’ve been the last to hurt you.”

Remus presses his lips into a thin line, watching between Sirius’ eyes. It’s difficult to stare right back, like having a cigarette pressed against your palm, like ice burning your skin. He thinks he perhaps sees in Remus what he always feared to see – the final puzzle piece falling into place. The realization that Sirius is not good. The proof that, as much as he tries to run from it, he’s still a product of a family that only knew to cause pain, and only taught that in consequence. Sirius has spent his entire life being walking rejection – walking reject. And here he is anyway, standing in front of one the people he loves most, and the outcome is still the same. The pain he’s put him through is the same one Sirius has grown accustomed to, familiarized with. Desensitized from. It crawls inside your skin like venom, like a rancid leech. It won’t stop until it’s sucked it all out of you. Until you’re a blue-skinned corpse and the remnants of light are all but gone from your cheeks, swollen into a paper-thin layer of skin that rots, worm-eaten, on top of your bones.

“You made a mistake, then,” Remus answers slowly.

“I think ‘mistake’ falls short for what I did, Remus. I could’ve gotten you expelled. Arrested. Snape, killed.”

Remus hums, “But you see that now.”

“The fact that I learned from doing something that awful doesn’t owe up to your forgiveness, Moons.”

“I forgave you long ago.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe you should stop punishing yourself more than the person you’ve actually hurt, Pads.”

Sirius’ mouth clanks shut. Remus sighs.

“Guilt is something you carry with you like a fucking guardian angel, Sirius. It’s taught you many things, and protected you from many others. But when you hurt someone else, their response is entirely up to them. It’s out of your hands, and you ought to accept it, whatever it is. I decided to forgive you,” he nods. “Don’t think I made that decision lightly. I stayed up thinking about it for months. Long after we reconciled, even. But you- you gave me a home, Sirius. Not Hogwarts, and perhaps not on your own, but you were the first one to make my skin feel like home. You were the first one to tell me it was okay without batting an eye. It took a lot of effort on my part, don’t get me wrong. But the feeling would’ve come much later weren’t it,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “for you.” He taps his chest with his index. “Once I understood that, forgiving was easier. Not forgetting – the memory of it will live with me for longer, I’m afraid. But believe me, Sirius,” he says firmly, as his hands crawl up his cheeks. “Forgiving you isn’t hard. And it’s not something I regret either.”

And, because Sirius’ mind is in shambles and he’s lost all control over his gestures, Remus smiles.

“C’mon. Let’s fetch ourselves some breakfast from the kitchens, shall we? Then we can study in the library for a bit.”

⋆⋆⋆

There’s always some degree of pain in beauty, Sirius thinks, and that’s what it feels like to stare at James when he’s the sole image of happiness. Like gazing up at the sun and ignoring the way your eyes naturally squint. You wouldn’t appreciate beauty if it didn’t hurt a little bit.

So James Potter walks down the halls of Hogwarts, those same ones they’ve wandered through day and night both until their footprints have left a trace (one that won’t track back to them, because the Marauders are careful at their job). One can see a signature in every corner that claims the castle as theirs, if one looks close enough, but the ancient walls and their spider-filled creaks, the creaking doors and their golden knobs, the tall windows and the fog that clouds up on them humidly, all of those things belong a bit more to James than anyone else, even the rest of the Marauders. James is the beating heart of Hogwarts…scratch that: James is the beating, bloody heart of magic itself. Red dust wavers around him like his own magnetic field, and that’s his magic. He can be anything and everything. Whatever he thinks of he can turn into reality.

So it’s not a surprising sight, that of James lying on his back, arms under his head, talking animately as the little droplets of water in the grass crawl up his cloak, slowly drowning it into a darker shade of black, and that of Regulus Black sat against the trunk of the weeping willow that crowns the lake, eyes fixed on a book but a smile playing with his lips, indicating that he hasn’t gotten through a single page since James has started talking.

People stare, of course. Even more when James rises abruptly, like the thought has just occurred to him, and leans over Regulus’ shoulder to skim over a few sentences, mouth agape while the other boy tilts the book in his direction inadvertently. And definitely when he pecks Regulus’ cheek like it’s nothing, like it’s what everyone should be doing when in the presence of the most inapproachable boy Sirius has ever met.

People stare but they look away just as fast, because, well, it’s James Potter, and the unexpected is exactly what’s expected of him. Of course he’d be kissing Regulus Black.

No, it’s not on them their eyes linger on: it’s on Sirius’ hand when it fits into Remus’ like it always must have have but never has. It’s on the lips that have kissed enough people to lose count as their corners tilt upwards at the closeness of Remus.

Sirius wouldn’t consider himself a man of custom, let alone a coward, but this, this is different. This is the unspoken boundaries being crossed. Not by James, who kisses Regulus like the centre of his world has shifted to him, because he knows no limits, but by Sirius, who’s an expert in challenging and defying. Yeah, it would be him, but maybe the magic in Sirius is that every time he seems to settle down, he turmoils even more wildly.

Sirius and Remus walk, hand in hand, down the grounds of the castle, until they reach the pair, and Sirius kicks Regulus’ shoe.

“You fucking bore,” he calls. “Bookworm.”

Regulus gives him a look that roughly translates into ‘at least I know how to read’ (Sirius doesn’t need the notepad most of the times, all right, he’s had plenty of wordless conversations with Regulus and knows each quirk like they’re his own) and goes back to not reading his book but pretending to for the sake of his reputation. (Note: Sirius would prefer to be known as someone who’s gotten run over by a tram than as a bookworm, despite the fact that he is).

“At least he knows how to read,” says Remus then, before dropping his bag and crouching to sit, dragging Sirius along with him by the tug of his hand.

Regulus’ lip twitches.

“Oh, no,” Sirius groans. “Oh, fuck no.”

“What?” James chips in.

“They’re going to be friends, Prongs. They’re going to be the absolute worse.”

“You need someone to keep you both on your toes. You can’t be the most popular pair at school forever.”

“You think we’re the most popular pair at school?” James grins, rising and dropping his eyebrows repeatedly. Regulus rolls his eyes.

“Ah, come off it, Potter.”

“Just repeating what you said, Moony.”

Remus kicks him in the shin and James groans between barks of laughter, and then, to Sirius’ surprise, he lets go of his hand to fish a notepad from his pocket, crawls to Regulus’ side and begins to write. Regulus stops reading entirely and watches the words, snorting when he finishes. Instead of retrieving his own notepad, he takes Remus’ and writes his answer beneath his question.

“What the fuck,” breathes Sirius.

“Remus has wanted to talk to him since he saw him read (erotica novel) hidden between the pages of the Potions textbook.”

“What the fuck?!” screeches Sirius, gagging. “Erotica novels?!”

James watches him comically, “I’m terribly scared to tell you this, Sirius, but your brother knows what sex is.”

“No,” Sirius shakes his head, rushing to his feet. “Nope. No. Not going to have a conversation with you about my brother’s sex life.”

“…And mine…”

“Not going to happen! Goodbye!”

“We have a healthy…!”

“Goodbye!”

And so he’s off, a smile burning his cheeks as the uncomfortable knot in his chest at the thought of their relationship begins to loosen up. Without looking, he knows James is smiling as well.

He walks around with no fixed destination in mind. The sun is still too bright and his head feels like it’s grown twice its size, but he whistles and lets the wind take the notes somewhere far behind him. Despite the uncommon February light, however, the air is terribly cold – Sirius shuffles within his clothes like an animal in hiding, searching for warmth. But that doesn’t stop him either.

It’s not everyday that he’s alone: in fact, it takes him some courage to venture the halls with only his shadow as company. The ringing in his head gets loud when there’s a lack of someone’s voice to drown it. But today even the tips of his hair feel warm. Today, even the worst of rains would feel like relief. So he’s on his own and, for once in his life, he doesn’t fear it. Mind you, he won’t make a habit out of it. But he’s alone, Sirius Black with Sirius Black, Sirius with Black, and perhaps there can be peace in that too. The day might come where he’s okay with the war in his own name, in his own blood, in his own mind. The canyons might never stop firing, but perhaps, like a boggart, he can ridicule them into something else entirely. Something more manageable and quiet. Something that doesn’t tear holes through his brain tissue and rather lulls him to sleep. The thump of sheep jumping as he counts them.

Peace might be just that, for him: losing what’s always felt essential to his name – the cruelty, the anger, the mercilessness – and becoming his own individual away from those expectations. Sirius Black can be Sirius Black without being a Black and what it means to be one. Sirius Black doesn’t have to love the way he was supposed and raised to, with coldness and resentment; instead, he can run to Remus and cup his warm cheeks under his palms, kiss his nose and his forehead and breathe against his mouth as he whispers three words over and over. Shit, he can love in any way he wants to. He can crawl into James’ bed at night and rest his head on Peter’s shoulder; he can braid Lily’s hair and let Mary leave a trace of maroon lipstick on his cheek; he can listen to Marlene mock his hair every morning and sing Dorcas’ favourite song when she asks, and he can talk to Regulus and send owls to Andromeda as often as he wishes. He can even look at himself in the mirror and lift some of the guilt that nails him to the ground like an early death. He can relieve himself of past mistakes and prevent them from happening again. He can break the cycle and create a new, healthier one. He can hold this golden hope that filters through the creaks of greyish, cloudy skies, and tend to it like a child holds a ladybug with a broken wing.

And the hope stays there with resolution, in his chest like a second heart, one that’s his only, born from the scrape pieces of himself that wish to become something greater, something characteristic. His whole being. This heart he’s crafting himself, which he can be more proud of, aims to swallow whole the heart that was given to him. That putrid, rancid organ. And it’d be okay, he told himself. That heart had never felt like his anyway. Why do people give hearts to those they don’t love?

The clock outside the Great Hall tells him it’s five thirty, so he strolls to the library with his wand in his waistband and his hands burrowed in his front pockets. He leans against the wall and plays with the tips of his shoes until he sees another pair stop right in front of him. He’s smiling before he even looks up.

Remus is frowning.

“Where are your books?”

And Sirius’ smile is so big he can’t even form words, so he just shrugs and bites down on his lip.

“How do you plan on studying without any books?”

“Using yours.”

A nerve twitches in Remus’ eyebrow, but he chuckles, albeit exasperatedly.

“All right,” he sighs. He stops, for a second, and smiles after watching him. Something blossoms in Sirius’ belly. “Are you ready?”

That’s an easy question. Remus knows the answer to it. Sirius thinks every question seems a bit easier now.

“Yeah,” he replies, gently. “Let’s go.”

His mind is silent. His heart is loud within his ribcage.

                 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 - (: