Melodrama

James never anticipated the break. And he never thought that the fall would be in his hands. He never thought he’d have to hold the glass, glue the shards back together.

But he knew that he’d do it if it was asked of him. Because he’d do anything for him. For both of them. For all of them.

It scared him sometimes. How much he cared. He’d bleed and make others bleed. He’d kill for them. And maybe that wasn’t a good thing. For him or for anyone else.

Right before sunset, there’s a silent burning period where the air feels a little still and even the birds stop to watch. When the sun falls to the horizon and the blue skies alter into a fiery peach.

Somewhere in a small seaside town, four boys sit on a grassy field during this small, quiet burning period.

Four boys so drastically different. But they grew together. They became men together. And though they’re drastically different, they’re even more so drastically the same. So it all cancels out in the end, doesn’t it?

James digs his fingers into the soil, tugging at roots, grounding him to this moment. It’s the end of something. James has never been a big fan of endings. He’s always much preferred beginnings and climaxes. The start of the movie, nothing but gripping excitement and untold stories and scrapbooks to be filled. The climax, where the excitement reaches a peak and everyone’s on their toes and James can feel his heart thump with the thrill of it.

Endings however are…bittersweet. He assumes they’re supposed to be that way. James could do without the bitter, but he supposes this can all be seen as a beginning too.

The first day of the rest of their lives.

He looks over at these people that have been a part of him since the beginning. A part of him since he knew that someone could truly take up that much space in oneself. Half of his body is not his own; it’s theirs.

It’s not the same as family. He’d call them his brothers but it still doesn’t seem to fit.

You’re born into family. But friends are chosen. They’re built on something more than blood and lineage. To know another person to such an extent. A development over time and words and study sessions and dorm sleepovers and mischievous pranks. To be known. Isn’t that beautiful?

So James looks over at these boys, these men, that he’s grown to know. They all look at the sunset while James looks at them.

Peter with a honey sweet laugh to match his hair and his knack for baking. Peter who is unexpectedly aware, absurdly resourceful, and honest to a flaw. Peter who can’t hold a secret but can hold a hand with such devotion that melancholy practically spills out of you.

Remus whose smirk drips with sarcasm while his eyes wrinkle in kindness. Remus who is timid with trust, but so giving once you’ve proven loyal to him. Remus who goes on a harangue about his current book and stops abruptly when he fears he’s embarrassed himself, even though he can attract the attention of an entire room with merely his clear intellect and devotion to a topic.

Sirius and his proud grin and gleaming grey eyes. Sirius who can get up in front of a crowd and sing sloppy karaoke. Sirius who despite his dramatic antics, struggles with expressing emotion more than anyone. Sirius who can be overprotective, but it’s so obviously out of the purest kind of love that not a single bone in your body can manage to be bothered by it.

James thinks if his soul was to be split into three, that philosophers would find that each third is merely a reflection of each of these boys, their truths and their flaws and their beauties all combined.

The air smells of lawn clippings and jasmine, and distantly of Sirius’ cologne (because he’s never been good about moderation). As James inhales the scent of reality, he knows he is not alone with this thought. They’re all thinking about it.

Hours prior they had officially graduated from Hogwarts: the boarding school which had occupied them for the past 7 years. They had thrown their caps into the sky and took group pictures with smiles that were forlorn and anxious and ecstatic all in one. How interesting that is, for a smile to show so many different things.

Hogwarts; with demanding professors and ancient dorms and uncanny rules. But it was also Hogwarts; with warm common rooms and eccentric architecture and exhilarating Friday night football games.

From the 6th grade to senior year. The forging of life long friendships were not done overnight. Unbelievable patience and the stupid childish want of a brotherhood established such things.

Each of them had fallen into it at different points even if they had all met at the same point in time. James had been in it from the beginning, the first to plant his feet in the soil. Pete nudged his way in slowly from there, trustful of James and craving the same things. Sirius had been on the edge of it, a tether keeping him at arm's length. They reached and reached, but Sirius would cower from cutting it. Until he did, and James caught him as he fell.

Remus had taken the longest. Unbelievably hesitant. Kind at once and then cruel. It was fear that built that. Fear that pulled him away from the others. The boy with scars on his skin and his heart. They hadn’t known how he had gotten them, then. All they had known was that somebody, something, had hurt him in unimaginable ways. All they had known was that the moment he handed them his trust, they had to hold it close, cradle it with care, because Remus didn’t need additional scars.

Looking at Remus now, you’d hardly recognize him. The content smile on his face, void of fear or stress. Still cautious, still diffident. That sort of stuff never goes away, not really. But the strain in his shoulders is gone. He lays in the grass, arms stretched out and eyes on the sky. Lax and limber and heedless in a beautiful kind of way.

It seems Sirius has noticed him too, smiling his own content smile. James wonders if he’s thinking of a younger, more fragile version of their friend as well.

“Hey Moony, what’s that one Whitman poem? Sunset song?” Sirius says, nudging Remus’s calf with his shoe. They’ve been silent for a while, but the break in the stillness is not unwelcome.

Remus closes his eyes and cracks a smirk, shoving away Sirius’ foot. “Song at sunset,” he corrects. Sirius only smiles, like he expected it, or maybe was hoping Remus would correct him. He hums in thought, “I like the last few lines. How does it go? I don’t see one imperfection in the universe… something like that.”

“Yeah Padfoot, something like that.”

Peter rests back on his elbows, head tilted towards Remus and eyes smiling where his mouth isn’t, “you should say it for us, Remus.”

Remus scoffs, mostly affectionate, “I am not reciting Walt Whitman to you lot.”

“Not even to me?” Sirius says, leaning over and batting his eyelashes.

Remus smiles, eyes still closed, “not falling for that.” Sirius frowns.

“Oh c'mon Moony, just the last few lines!” James says, eyes flickering between the falling sun and Remus’ soft smile.

“No.”

Sirius groans dramatically, “Moony, don’t be so tiresome. I know you’ve got Whitman's entire works memorized in that big head of yours!”

Remus cracks an eye open, glaring at Sirius, menacing even with only the one eye.

But Sirius is relentless, unfazed by Remus’ looks of disdain after years of enduring them, “Please Moony.” James pushes on with a grin, “cmon Moony! For us?”

“Yeah, please Moony!” Peter drags out the y, and Remus sighs. It’s the kind of sigh that can be translated to “fine.”

The sun dips lower and lower, only minutes from disappearing completely, as Remus begins in a soft lull.

“I sing to the last equalities modern or old, I sing the endless finalés of things, I say nature continues, glory continues, I praise with electric voice.” They all watch the sky, listening intently. Maybe it’s silly, cliche, but James finds it comforting. And fitting, if anything. Finales and sunsets and glory.

“For I do not see one imperfection in the universe, and I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last in the universe.” Sirius grins at his own accuracy, turning to watch Remus instead of the sky. His eyes soften, almost out of reflex, and James wonders if Sirius knows how transparent that gaze is.

“You’ve got to make the last bit animated, Moony, or it won’t feel right,” James whispers in quick interruption.

After a moment of deliberation, Remus stands up and throws his arms into the sky dramatically, voice loud over the other boys surprised laughs, “O setting sun! Though the time has come, I still warble under you, if none else does, unmitigated adoration!”

He turns around and does a slight bow, and James’ cheeks hurt from grinning. “And scene,” he says, before flopping back onto the grass with a huff.

“You’re a star, Remus,” Peter comments warmly, and Sirius turns to him with an exaggerated look of shock.

“No, I’m a star!”

After so many years, you’d think the joke would be overdone. And it is. And yet they still laugh. They just laugh.

Summer comes slowly. The first few days are filled with graduation parties, James wandering around and talking to family members he didn't even know he had who tell him they're proud of him, and how they can’t believe he has turned out to be such an incredible young man! Every time an elderly woman grips his cheeks or an elderly man slaps him on the back, James has to remind himself that they have most likely given James’ parents a large sum of money to help pay for James’ college funds—so he takes each grab and slap with a polished grin.

Nights are filled with long phone calls about summer plans. “It’s the summer after graduation,” Sirius would say, “we have to go big!” Peter would agree instantly, before considering Sirius’ idea of ‘going big’ and then backtracking slightly. Remus would hum along, sometimes asking how much money ‘going big’ entails. James was uncharacteristically quiet during these calls, which only led to Sirius barging into his room to pester him. 

Once the dinners and the lunches ceased, James found himself in a strange state. A limbo, perhaps. A portion of him feels hopeful and excited for the summer, and then starting University after that. Another part of him, the louder part, is terrified. 

Three days into the summer, James finds himself in his room cleaning because Fleamont Potter, James’ father, insisted on it. James is usually quick to argue (a trait he inherited from his mother), and his father probably had expected a “but dad it’s not even a week into summer!” But it never came. James had felt strange all day, so with a nod he trudged up to his room and started cleaning. 

Digging under his bed, he finds a journal hidden under an old jumper. After a solid look at the brown hand knit sweater, he comes to the conclusion it’s Moony’s and not his own (how it got there he has no idea.) He folds it and sets it on his bed. The journal is pulled out soon after, and James sits on his floor with intrigue. 

The journal was given to him by Euphemia Potter, his mother. She insisted, to quote, “a teenage boy needs to write out his thoughts and feelings, James! A growing mind needs to prioritize and sort itself out.” His mother being a psychologist was not always something James was fond of. 

His mum had given it to him sophomore year. He hadn’t written in it since December, much to Euphemeia’s disappointment. Shuffling through the pages, he quickly finds the familiar entry. The final one, unanswered to no one's surprise. 

James had asked himself one question. Am I still the same person I always have been?

After writing the question, James scribbled it out. And then he wrote it again, (but proceeded to scribble it out). Because how could he answer a question such as that: one with so much magnitude? 

Maturity is supposed to come with age, and age is supposed to come with growth. Yet James graduated highschool, and thus far he feels neither mature nor grown. If he’s being honest, he barely feels aged. 

For a long moment he looks at it. Contemplating. And then he stands, shuffling his feet over to the old wooden desk near his window. He sits on the spinny chair, whirls around for good measure, and then grabs his closest pen. 

He stares at the words again, and then feels a strange pang in his chest. He still doesn’t seem to have any answers. He clicks the pen repeatedly, taps his foot absently against the hardwood. He thinks, ink hovering over parchment, and he thinks, the pen meets the paper, and he thinks. 

After several moments he lifts the pen, the only intel of him actually thinking of writing something at all being a black dot on the page. 

Nothing. He’s got nothing. 

Am I still the same person I always have been? Yes, but also no. I am not who I was when I was 8 or 10 or 13, but maybe I am. Maybe it’s because I’m still 17. Maybe at 18 I’ll feel mature and grown and aged. Or maybe 18 isn’t as different and life changing as everyone claims it to be. With a grumble, James sets the pen down on the paper once more and makes an attempt. 

I know I have changed. For the better, I hope. I’ve come to understand things I hadn’t when I was younger. I’ve learned to judge less harshly, I’ve learned to think before I speak (sometimes.) I’ve learned to be more considerate of others, before doing something drastic and selfish. I’ve learned to be less pompous, as Remus would say. 

However, sometimes I wonder if I really am any different. Sometimes I think I’m grasping at an image of myself that doesn't exist. Maybe I will always be the same boy I was at 13—egotistical and privileged and inconsiderate. Maybe I will always be too much and simultaneously not enough. 

I want to think I have changed. Graduating makes me feel different. But I still feel stuck between something. I’m terrified of everything but I never let that show. Maybe I need something to change me. 

James frowns at the paper. It’s too emotional of a response, too revealing. His mothers words echo in his head, “A growing mind needs to prioritize and sort itself out.” Sighing, James adds;

Well, at least I have an entire summer to change. Maybe I’ll feel differently when September rolls around. 

Sirius is on the phone again.

James can barely ever get Sirius to reply to a text, let alone answer a phone call. 

The four of them had been sitting in James' basement, discussing whether they should call up the girls and see a movie or perhaps bike down to the beach and pretend the weather was warm enough to do so. In the middle of Sirius' second attempt at convincing the lot to throw a beach bonfire party, he had gotten a call. Without a word he stood, walked up the stairs, and began speaking in harsh whispers. 

From his spot on the carpet, Remus watched Sirius go with a curious look in his eye. "He's been taking a lot of calls recently, have either of you noticed?" James stretches his legs out, propping his feet in Peter's lap. "Yes, yes I have." 

Remus turns his head to James, "do you not find that a little...odd? I mean, he barely uses his phone. When it's not dead it's lost, and he doesn't even care to find it." 

James shrugs, "I know, mate. I find it weird too. I mean, who would he even be talking to, if not us?" 

"Maybe Padfoot found himself a secret girlfriend?" Peter proposes. James turns to see Remus' face, but he has gone stoney. An emotionless expression that he has mastered. Peter does not seem to notice, as he continues, "you don't think he's started things up with Mary again, do you?"

"Why Pete, you jealous?" James teases, and Peter frowns. "No, I'm just throwing ideas out!"

James smiles, waving a hand, "Mary and Sirius are ancient history. So they hooked up a few times junior year? It was never serious between them, you know that." 

Peter shrugs, "I don't know, I always thought Sirius had really liked her." 

"Really?" Remus asks, and James is surprised to hear his input, "I never got that impression at all." His face is still tight, and it doesn't seem like he really believes what he's saying. Peter shrugs a little helplessly, and James tries to get the conversation back on course. "Okay, if not a secret girlfriend, then who?" 

Before anyone can try and answer that question, Sirius comes back down the stairs. There is a familiar look in his eye, and James wishes (not for the first time) that he could read Sirius' mind. Sometimes it almost feels like he can. Sometimes, it feels like he knows Sirius so well that he could predict the next facial expression he'll make, the next words he'll utter. Other times, it feels like Sirius is a stranger. He supposes he will always feel this way. 

"Everything okay, Padfoot?" Remus asks, assertive yet soft in a way only Remus can be. Sirius blinks, then smiles. "All is well, Moony-moons. Don't you worry your pretty little head." And then he's ruffling Remus' hair and Remus is slapping at his wrist and James thinks, for a moment, that maybe everything is fine. 

The air is warming, and James finds himself at a book shop in the shopping center near his house.

"Lils invited us to hers for poker night," Remus say's absently, wandering through aisle after aisle of books. James keeps up as much as he can, skimming titles aimlessly. Sirius groans from behind James, "nuh uh, no way! I am not getting scammed out of all my money again. I'm telling you, that girls a dirty cheat!" James gives him a light slap to the back of his head, "she is not. You're just mad because she's far better than you at reading people. You've got a terrible poker face." 

Remus chuckles in agreement, and Sirius pouts before glaring at James. "Defending your girlfriend, Prongs?"

James rolls his eyes at the familiar comment, grabbing a book from Remus' hands and looking through it idly, "not my girlfriend. Lily and I are friends, Sirius. Just friends." Sirius smirks, "but you still wish you were more, don't you?" James closes the book resolutely, "no, I don't. I quite enjoy being Lily's friend, thank you. We're better off that way."

Though he says this like it's simple, it hadn't always been an easy pill to swallow. It's not as if he was still pining after Lily as he had when they were young. But at 13, he had convinced himself (foolishly) that he would marry that girl. That's a hard thing to unlearn. However, over time it became easier. Him and Lily had given it a try, after all. But Lily had never been all in, anyway. And James had spent so long chasing her that a part of him had forgotten what outcome he had wanted, exactly. 

"Stop stirring, Sirius," Remus says, relatively lighthearted, and Sirius raises his hands in surrender. Down the aisle, James watches a small boy try and reach a book on a too high shelf. Remus strides over, plucks the book with ease and hands it to him with a smile. Remus can be so level and cool, that sometimes they'll see him do things like that and remember how kind he can be. Turning back to them, Remus asks, "so, Lily's tonight?" For some reason, Sirius goes quiet. When James raises an eyebrow at him, Sirius clears his throat and shrugs, "yeah, alright. Pete is away at his dad's this weekend after all, and poker is about the only thing we can do that he won't regret missing out on." James laughs, "god, remember how much he lost last time?" Sirius nods solemnly, "Marls damn near cleared him out."

Remus smiles gently, "friday night poker it is, then?" James and Sirius nod, and Remus sends Lily a confirmation text. 

Three sets of feet stumble out onto Lily’s porch, laughter lingering and beers still in hand. Lily is rolling her eyes as Sirius waves a small yet impressive wad of cash in her face, practically shoving him out the door. “You, Sirius Black, are so not invited next time,” she remarks, resting against the door frame. Her dark red hair is pulled up into a pony-tail, and she angles her mouth to blow a stray bang from her face. Sirius puts a hand to his chest, “you don’t mean that, Evans. You mustn't. Poker is my passion.” Lily sighs before wrapping an arm around Sirius’ neck fondly, “no, I don’t mean that. You’re the only one who can compete with me, anyway. What fun would it be, wiping the floor with this lot?” 

“I heard that!” Marlene calls from inside, “and for the record, Lils, Sirius totally stole a glance at your cards.” Sirius gasps, “did not! You hear that moony, she’s slandering my name in there?” Remus takes a swig of his bear and scoffs, “good on her.” 

Lily lets go of Sirius and gives him another shove for good measure, “alright, get the hell out of here. I’m sick of your faces.” 

James grins, “Evans always gives such sweet farewells.” 

“Shove off, Potter.”

James leans past Lily to yell into the house, “goodbye Marls, my love.” 

“Suck my dick!” he hears faintly, and laughs. 

The three boys mosey off of Lily’s porch and onto her lawn, mumbling goodbyes and laughing when Remus makes some witty remark under his breath. Sirius says he’s going to throw his bottle across the street and Remus snatches it along with James’. He finishes his off before dropping all three in Lily’s recycling bin, all while lecturing Sirius on littering and the importance of recycling. 

They walk Remus home, and then James and Sirius wander down side streets, talking about nothing of importance. When they near James’ house, he finally gains the courage to ask;

“So, uh, who have you been phoning so much recently?” 

He wonders if he’s made a mistake by asking. Sirius tenses slightly, but then he glances at James, must see the sincereness of his features, and sighs. He kicks a pebble and then mumbles, “it’s just—it’s Regulus.” 

Their steps slow, and James can’t help the curiosity bubbling in his chest at the mention of Sirius’ younger brother. An enigma is what James used to call him—or call him in his head, when he walked by Regulus in the halls or said hello to him when he’d come up to talk to Sirius. It occurred very rarely, Regulus approaching Sirius. Always when no one was around, usually only when Sirius was alone. But Sirius is seldom away from James, so on rare occasions James would get to see Regulus in front of him. This was always confusing for James, having to look at Regulus and remind himself that he is real. 

“You’ve been…calling Regulus?”

Sirius nods. 

James isn't sure where the question comes from, but he finds himself asking, “is he okay?”

They stop when they get to James’ door. Sirius looks to the door, James looks to Sirius.

“It’s getting bad, isn’t it?”

Sirius merely nods again. Then he sighs, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I just- I wish that I could do something, you know? But he’s not like me, James. He doesn't enjoy it there, by any means—but he’ll never leave. They’ve brainwashed him, fucking stockholm syndrome or something.”

“He called you, Sirius,” James says, and Sirius turns to him with a confused look. James rests a hand on Sirius’ shoulder, “he called you. That’s got to count for something.”

They exchange a long look, before Sirius softens visibly. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does.” James pats Sirius’ cheek affectionately, and they walk inside a little lighter, racing up the stairs and getting scolded by James’ mum.

It’s almost cliche, the way it all happens. 

The thrashing of the trees, the aggressive poor of rain, the persistent knocking at the front door. 

James might not have heard it if he had been in bed. If he had been sleeping like he was supposed to be. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter are fast asleep, but their teenage son on the other hand is sitting cross legged on the kitchen counter, phone in one hand, a spoonful of peanut butter in the other. 

Insomnia is a long time friend to James. He can never seem to sleep when he’s supposed to. He’s always had difficulties controlling the little things in his life, sleep being amongst one of those little things. Though in retrospect, it’s not very little. 

It’s some time past 2am, and the rain has been continuous since noon the previous day. It’s an early July storm, one that James hopes doesn’t last long. While he loves the rain, he misses blue skies and sun on his face. 

James taps his socked feet against the counter, watching two raindrops race down the window. One breaks off to the right, joining a larger droplet, and he frowns. He had been betting on that one.

That’s when he hears it. 

At first it’s a few soft taps, and James thinks about his mother saying the house is “settling” whatever that means. But then he hears it again. And it’s quite obviously a knock at the door. 

At that moment, there are only two different (absurd) scenarios James can think of. One, he opens the door and a deranged person comes inside and kills him as well as his entire family. Or two, he decides not to open the door and waiting outside is actually a baby and when his mom wakes up in the morning and goes out to get the paper she’ll find a dead baby on their front porch. 

And though James absolutely hates being wrong, he hopes and prays it’s none of the above. 

The tile is cold on his feet, even through his socks, and James makes his way to the door very hesitantly. He tugs at the drawstring of his sweatpants and then realizes he is without a shirt the same time a desperate “hello?” rolls in from the other side of the door. 

The voice nags at James' brain, something familiar about it, and so he strides to the door—unlocking it and turning the knob. 

The very last thing James had been expecting to see that night was Regulus Black at his doorstep. He is a ghost under the porchlight, a steady stream of rainwater sliding down his pale skin. 

A fresh bruise is beginning to purple at his jaw, and there’s a gash on his forehead. It is raw and bleeding and the rainwater turns a murky red as it slips down the left side of his face. There are no tears in his eyes, but James doesn’t need to see tears to see the sorrow. Sadness has always seemed to accompany Regulus—it hugs him like an old friend. 

When the ghost speaks, it’s a whisper, “I didn’t know where else to go.” And that’s all he needs to say, really. 

James takes a step forward—Regulus flinches—and grabs gently at his wrist to pull him inside. Regulus fumbles on his way in but doesn’t complain as he’s led to the Potter couch. 

He sits, shivering, and James looks around the room desperately for a blanket. He spots one of his mothers old patchwork quilts and drapes it quickly over Regulus’ shoulders. When he takes a step back, he gets pummeled with an awful sense of déjà vu. For a minute he stares helplessly, his mind an old slideshow projector. One moment he’s seeing Regulus and the next Sirius—bruised and bloody and battered and more helpless than he’s ever seen them. 

And maybe it’s a little different, because he doesn’t know Regulus. Not the way he knows Sirius. But Regulus has always held himself so high. A model student, an exemplary head boy, an immovable force. No one misspoke in front of him. Teachers sang him praises constantly. First years cowered when he walked down the halls. 

But now—now Regulus Black is sitting on his couch and he looks defeated ten times over. James suddenly feels ill. 

“I’m—,” James chokes on his words, voice raspy from panic and disuse. Regulus blinks up at him from the couch, looking just as confused on what to do as James. He tries again, “I’m going to get my mum. And—and Sirius.” 

Regulus nods minutely, and James starts stumbling backwards. “Don’t— don’t go anywhere,” he adds for good measure. “I’ve got nowhere else to go,” Regulus reminds him quietly. James gives a shaky nod and books it up the stairs. 

Thankfully his parents bedroom light is already on when James opens their door. His mum is putting on her slippers when James comes flying in. 

She looks up at him in surprise, “what is with all the commotion down there, James? You’ve woken me and your father with all your door slamming and running about. Don’t tell me you and Sirius have gotten into the liquor cabinet again or so help me god—.” 

“Mum, please,” James pleads, “you need to come downstairs.” 

All James hears is a frustrated mutter of his name as he rushes out, turning the corner and running down the hall to Sirius’ room. 

He doesn’t knock, just swings open the door carelessly and flips on Sirius’ light. An upset groan comes from under the covers. “Jesus, James. Just because your hyperactive ass can’t sleep that doesn't give you the right to go and bother everyone else.” 

“Sirius,” James says sternly, and the covers come down instantly when Sirius catches the tone of his voice. 

“What is it?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed. 

James doesn’t know how to say it. He doesn’t know what to do in a situation like this one. No one taught him how to go about these things. 

“It’s your brother,” James whispers, and Sirius's face falls. “It’s Regulus.”