The air was heavy around him, as if it was polluted, as if bacteria would invade his lungs if he stood there any longer. He wouldn’t budge, though, he refused to move an inch. He wasn’t sure he could. He was standing in the doorframe of that house, that old house. Perhaps the first one he had ever called home, besides Monty and Effie’s.
“You’re not responsible for us, Sirius. You don’t even need to be secret keeper. We’ll ask Peter, yeah? We’ll be all good, don’t you worry.”
James had said, and Sirius, blindly, had believed him. Just look at what that had gotten him.
James was dead. The very manifestation of the Sun diminished to nothing but a fragile little flame, a tiny spark being all that was left of him and Lily, a dark haired kid sleeping peacefully in Sirius’ arms.
Lily, dazzling Lily, full of love as she once had been, spinning in flowy dresses in flower-filled meadows, growing strawberries in the back of her garden, always overflowing with life and laughter, now lay on the cold stone floor. Lily, with whom he had shared so many midnight talks, despite their friendship being an unlikely one, with whom he had bonded over their similarly… complicated - to say the least - family bonds and …geez, don’t get him started on his family bonds.
James had been his family more than anyone else. James had been the only person to ever know and love every part of Sirius. Sure, others had gotten close enough - Remus, Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Peter - but James had always been his safest bet. His bird in hand. His penny thrown in a well. If everyone else got to look behind the curtain, James got to climb on stage. James had been his right choice, his safe Heaven and his bravest soldier. James had fought for him, had talked for him when he couldn’t talk, had walked with him when he was scared to go alone. Sirius thinks James would have breathed for him if he’d asked him to. He’d written about this once, back when he was a silly teenager with his head full of dung…
He still meant every line, of course, as naive as they were:
When the treasure has no loot
When your shoes are full of soot
When the fire burns too low
When the stars forget to glow
When they spit you in the face
When they call you a disgrace
When you’re thrown out with the trash
When you scratch at every gash
When you dig into the scars
When they find you in the bars
When you fill your glass of wine
When you wanna cross the line
Who walks the path alongside you?
Who talks it high and is still true?
Who holds you tight in gentle grip?
Your guiding star along this trip?
James had been there every time. Every damn time. That had always been true for them. Like an axiom. When Sirius needed James, he was always there. And when James needed Sirius, he would come running. When James had broken his glasses, Sirius had whispered in his ear all day to keep him aware of any and everything happening around him. When James had had his first real fight with Monty, Sirius had held him until he stopped sobbing. When it was time to go apologise, Sirius had helped him figure out each step of it. If James needed someone to simply look at him work - because for some reason, it helped him stay focused - Sirius had been happy to oblige. When James wanted someone to just be with, Sirius had sat with him and just existed together, like they did most things. Anything one of them needed, or just wanted, the other knew, almost instinctively, and provided. Like an axiom. So to imagine, even for a moment, that James could be gone, that Sirius now lived in a world without his best friend…
Maybe the air in this house really wasn’t so good for him.
It was pressing on his lungs, preventing him from breathing.
He was trying, he was, and all he could think of was that maybe he really did need James to breathe for him.
Oh, and he would have.
James.
If only he’d been here.
If only he’d been here, maybe it would all be okay.
Maybe it would all be okay, but James wasn’t there.
James wasn’t there.
James.
Wasn’t.
There.
He never would be again.
His best friend.
His brother.
Oh God, his brother.
His first real family, now breathless, and how could that be, if Sirius was still breathing?
Or was he still breathing?
He couldn’t tell.
He couldn’t tell.
He couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
It made sense, his breathing should stop at the same time as James’ and Sirius wasn’t breathing.
Sirius wasn’t breathing.
Sirius.
Wasn’t—
“Hi.”
Oh, Remus.
Remus, hi.
So Remus was here.
“Sirius, I came as soon as I heard—“
Remus was here, not dead.
Oh good.
“Sirius, are you having a panic attack?”
But oh, God.
God, James was.
James was dead.
So was Lily.
Was he still holding Harry?
“Sirius, let me take Harry.”
So he was, then.
Great, take Harry.
Take Harry, keep him safe.
Wait. Wait, Remus was here.
“Sirius, breathe with me.”
Nope. Nope. He’ll breathe when James is back.
“Look at me, Sirius.”
He looked at Remus. Remus was holding Harry, tiny Harry, still asleep without a care in the world.
Remus was asking him to breathe. Maybe that was enough. Maybe that could be enough.
He breathed along with Remus, who was taking controlled and regular breaths. Okay, not so hard. It wasn’t so hard with Remus here. And Harry. Harry was a reason to keep breathing. Harry was definitely counting on him now - he was the kid’s godfather afterall. That helped ground him. Harry. The realisation that this kid has no one now, no one but him, and he needs Sirius.
That had always been a motivator for Sirius, someone needing him. Like Reggie had been.
“Sirius, let’s… let’s go home.”
And he could do that, for now. He could follow Remus “home”, and where was home now?