Chapter 2
Sirius woke up first, which was a blessing, really, because he was able to slip out of bed and to the loo before the panic set in properly. By the time James stirred next to him, he’d managed to shower (cold) and swish mouthwash around in his mouth, making him feel more or less human. Now it’s half-past eleven, and they’ve apparated from Hogsmeade Village to Diagon Alley. The hustle and bustle is a welcome distraction; there are people everywhere , kids weaving through the crowds away from shouting parents, gaggles of ladies wearing brightly colored robes, and shop employees taking their lunch breaks. James has a list in one hand, scrawled on a scrap of parchment, and with the other he reaches back and grabs Sirius’.
“What are you doing?” Sirius squawks, going rigid through his arm all the way to his shoulder. He and James have never been shy about touching, before. As kids, they fell over one another like puppies, it wasn’t so uncommon to find them in a tangled heap in the common room, or tucked into one another’s beds after a particularly difficult nightmare on his behalf, or a particularly difficult bout of anxiety on James’. But they’re not kids now, and sue him for being a little on edge after their apparently binding marriage .
“I’m holding your hand?” James says, as though Sirius is stupid for asking. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Why are you holding my hand?”
“Because,” James swings their hands jovially between them. “We’re married. Might as well play the part, I’ve never been married before.”
“Will you stop taking the piss?” Sirius frowns, hurrying after him – strung along by James’ hand in his. James is unbothered, peering through shop windows and carrying on about everything they’ll need for the evening. It’s nearly Remus’ birthday, and since his actual birthday will be taken up by the events around the full moon, they’re set to celebrate early.
“I’m not taking the piss – what do you think? Chocolate, obviously. We should have planned ahead.” James has stopped in front of a bakery and is squinting through the window. Sirius pushes him through the front door and snatches his hand back once they’re inside. The case is full of cakes and other confections that James spends a long time studying, the woman on the other side of the counter tapping her foot impatiently. Sirius tries hard not to study James’ backside, and just as hard trying not to curse James for being so casual about this whole ordeal.
“Sirius?”
Sirius snaps back to reality and finds James staring at him intently, smile lopsided and glasses askew on his nose. “Do you think he’d rather yellow sprinkles? Or blue?”
Sirius gives a great exasperated sigh and points at the cake decorated in yellow. Really, Remus isn’t going to give a rats arse what colour his bloody sprinkles are.
Sirius takes the cake box in his arms – it’s huge, he balances it with both of his hands, which means that James can’t lace their fingers together, so he thinks he’s safe. Only, as they step into a dusty old liquor store, James’ hand grazes the small of his back and Sirius’ stomach nearly plummets through the floor, countered by his heart, which threatens to leap out of his chest. “ James ,” Sirius warns, his voice small. This time, James looks him in the eyes and studies him for a long handful of seconds before he withdraws his hand and shrugs one shoulder, busying himself with picking out bottles that he stacks into a crate and pays for at the counter. It’s too much food and too much alcohol, but in times of war it feels important to find joy in the little things, and celebrating Remus is as good a reason as anything.
“Are we going to decorate?” Sirius asks, voice thin as they apparate to James’ cottage. Sirius doesn’t live there officially, but his own flat is lonely and sad, undecorated and located on the edge of Muggle London. He’d thought that it was safely out of the way, and that it would be nice to have some semblance of independence from the Marauders. As it turns out, Sirius hates living alone – so most nights he sleeps on James’ couch, ignoring James’ offers to just move in already . He’s being stubborn, he knows. He’s also maybe trying to stop relying on James for everything, become his own, whole human and the like.
James considers him, and then considers the living room, turning in slow circles. “I don’t have decorations.”
“Who are you? And what have you done with James Potter?”
“I know,” James throws himself backward onto the sofa, liquor and cake forgotten in the kitchen. With one hand, he pats the cushion next to him. Sirius swallows hard, but it would be exceptionally weird to sit on the stuffy armchair across from him, so he lowers himself down in James’ space and waits for James to drape himself over his lap.
He doesn’t. Instead, James looks at him curiously, but carries on. “I went on a cleaning rampage, you remember–”
“Ah yes, when you threw out all your pots and pans and then had to buy brand new ones.”
“Yes, exactly. I thought: Out with the old. But now we haven’t been in with the new .”
“Well, Remus won’t mind,” Sirius assures him, patting James gingerly on the knee. Their shoulders are brushing, so he feels more than sees James nod next to him.
“We are Wizards, you know,” Sirius says after some time has passed. It’s their usual, comfortable silence. Sirius is glad they at least have that, though he does wonder what James is thinking over there. If he’s as bothered as he is by the magical marriage, if he’s wondering if Aberforth will be able to undo it , if he’s curious about the legalities of it all. Will they have to split his inheritance? Will he get some of the Potter fortune? He doesn’t care much about money, but it seems like these are the sorts of things responsible adults should think about when contemplating divorce. Or would it be annulment? Merlin, he’s never considered the rules .
“Oh Sirius, you genius.” James shoves him bodily to the side and climbs up off the couch, walking circles around his own living room with his wand in hand. By the time he’s finished, he’s transfigured several throw blankets into bright red and gold garlands, and contained sparkling lights inside all of the jam jars he’s collected over the years, set up on the mantle and the coffee table and every other viable surface. The room is practically sparkling, lights dimmed, and it smells like rich cake by the time the first guests arrive. Sirius deems it the perfect time to start drinking, and slips into the kitchen to pour himself a generous cup of fire whiskey and Muggle coke.
“Trying to forget my birthday already?”
Sirius jumps. Remus smiles good naturedly at him and Sirius pours him a cup, too. It’s his birthday, after all, but he does narrow his eyes at him as he passes it over.
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Sirius accuses.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you know exactly what I mean.”
“I don’t,” Remus smirks at him over his cup, tapping it gently on his front teeth as he looks Sirius over. Remus looks good, healthy . In a week or so he’ll start to go a bit pale, start to get sore and irritable. Sirius is relieved to find him in good spirits now.
“The fucking marriage Remus,” Sirius groans, downing half of his drink in a few big sips.
“You really ought to be thanking me,” Remus shrugs.
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because,” Remus says cheerfully. “Now you two are going to have to work your shit out.”
“Work what out!?” Remus skirts by him toward the living room. Sirius drags him backward by the back of his shirt.
“Your shit , Sirius. Merlin, I think you’re the densest man I’ve ever met. You and James have some serious talking to do, and it’s not getting any safer out there.”
“It’s old shit, it doesn’t mean anything.” Sirius’ face contorts into a deep frown. Remus’ softens considerably.
“Then annul it, then. I’m sure Albus knows someone who can help you out.”
“We will,” Sirius says quickly. “On Monday, we’ll talk to Albus and get it figured out.”
Remus pats him on the shoulder, and Sirius can’t help but find it awfully patronizing.
The trouble with Marauders birthdays, and the trouble with war, is that they both set the stage quite nicely to get terribly drunk. The house is full of Order members by the time the party gets into full swing, and it’s equal parts odd and delightful to see the Witches and Wizards who he fights alongside tripping over themselves with drinks in their hands. Normally, Sirius would be right there alongside them. And he is, he is , he has a drink in his hand and he feels the buzz quite nicely, in fact, he’s straying dangerously far away from comfortably tipsy to a bit woozy and clumsy on his feet. He’s just having a harder time throwing himself into the fray properly. There’s a circle forming in the living room, gathered around the record player – people arm in arm and scream-singing a terrible rendition of the newest Weird Sisters Album. Sirius likes the Weird Sisters, and he thinks it his personal duty to sing the loudest, usually, but tonight he’s just too busy puzzling things out. The ring on his finger feels heavy and real and he swears it’s buzzing with some sort of kept magic, put there by that bastard Aberforth, dragging him like a magnet across the room to James. He’s able to ignore it for almost a full hour, until his fourth drink has slipped down his throat (terribly easily, compared to the first, second, and third) and it suddenly feels so very stupid that he’s spent the evening avoiding him.
James, on the edge of the boisterous circle of their friends, breaks away from it to throw an arm around his shoulders. “Alright, Pads?” He’s no less drunk than Sirius is. He can tell by the red flush in his cheeks. But he’s still James Potter , annoyingly perceptive. James pets him like he might a dog, hand smoothing over the back of his head until Sirius bats it away. “You’ve been trapped in the corner. Any reason for that?”
“You know the reason,” Sirius grumbles. James frowns at him, his entire face creases with it, and Sirius’ stomach flip-flops at the notion that he’s made him that sad. It’s there and then gone, James shaking it and squeezing him in close to his side.
“We’ll fix it,” he says. James’ eyes rove over him, from his eyes to his lips and back up again. Sirius can feel the shaking exhale, James’ fire whiskey breath in his face, before he turns abruptly away. Both of their attention is drawn to the center of the room, where Peter is standing precariously on the couch cushion brandishing a bottle. It spills over his hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Everyone!” Peter clanks a fork against the bottleneck. His face is even redder than James’, stark against his pale skin and hair. “We have an announcement to make!”
Several pairs of eyes turn toward him, and Sirius feels James tense against his side.
“Pete,” James starts, laughing, but Peter shushes him with a wide grin.
“I know it’s Moony’s birthday,” Peter says sagely. Remus raises his cup from where he’s hiding in the corner, pressed suspiciously close to Benjy’s side. “But!” Peter carries on, “we’re also celebrating the happy nuptials of two of our own.” He gestures with his arm toward Sirius and James, nearly toppling off of the couch as he does so. There’s a murmuring of confusion, eyes scanning the room, presumably looking for a bride. Peter gives an impatient huff. “Pads and Prongs,” he says, leaping off the couch and hoisting James’ hand into the air to show off Sirius’ ring, still proudly on his finger.
There’s a long period of time in which the only sound is the blood in Sirius’ ears, whooshing and whooshing. He thinks he must be swaying on his feet, at risk of toppling over, because James tightens his hold on him. And then the din of whoops and laughter breaks through, and he smiles weakly along with the joke.
“Finally,” someone says, rolling their eyes, as someone else snorts and says, “yeah right.”
There’s a great jostling, then, pats on the back and shoulders being shoved all about. He’s too drunk to decide whether they believe it or not, or whether they all think it’s some stupid joke.
“I need a smoke,” Sirius says under his breath, not loudly enough for anyone to hear it. Or at least, he thought it wasn’t. James catches the door just before it slams shut behind him, slipping out into the cool evening air with him.
James lives in a lovely little cottage inherited from his parents. Sirius ignores him as he arranges himself against the porch railing, elbows planted on worn wood and cigarette dangling from between his fingers.
“Am I that terrible a husband?” James asks when he settles next to him, sounding distantly amused.
“Sod off,” Sirius sighs, sliding the tin of cigarettes across the railing. James hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t slide one out. Instead, he waits until Sirius has finished a long inhale before plucking it from between his fingers. They’re standing close together, the din from the party muffled from the closed door. He can feel warmth radiating off James next to him, not quite close enough to touch.
“It’s just a joke,” James says through a long breath in. The smoke spills out of his mouth in a jumbled plume. Sirius watches it dissipate into the night air. “Anyway, I’d spend the rest of my life with you. It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to us.” James nudges him gently in the ribs, and Sirius finally looks at him. “Remember when Snape cursed us to hurl every time we touched?”
Sirius grimaces, but does snort quietly. “Fucking terrible,” he agrees. James seems to settle a little.
“See!” He says, “could be worse.”
Their hands are resting on the railing precariously close together. James’ pinky twitches and their fingers brush. Sirius would like to join them, which wouldn’t have seemed so absurd a few days ago, but which does now. James is the one who does it, after a long, weighted silence. Their fingers slot nicely around one another, James’ palm is warm and dry, his fingers strong. Sirius’ lion head ring is cool in contrast.
“I’m sorry,” James says.
Sirius quickly shakes his head, “Don’t be. I just – it isn’t so bad, you know. You. And me. I like it, I like –”
“You’re drunk, Sirius.” James’ voice cracks a little, and when Sirius levels his gaze on him he looks strange, face twisted up, brows pinched together.
“Am not.”
“Are too ,” James laughs. To prove his point he leans in close, and the weight of him is quick to make Sirius stumble. James, who is just as drunk, but who has always been painfully coordinated, catches them both before they fall. “See! Drunk.”
“So what,” Sirius scoffs.
“So nothing. Come on, pretend to be my husband for one more night and then we’ll get it all sorted, yeah?”
James takes a big step back toward the door, and Sirius is dragged with him on account of their joined hands. He considers for a long moment, looking at their fingers, at the cigarette still burning in James’ other hand, and decides fuck it .
They crush the last dregs of it on the porch, and when James pulls him inside he holds their joined hands over their heads to the tune of whoops and laughter from the rest of the room.
“Excuse us,” James says, weaving his way through the kitchen. He’s holding tightly to Sirius’ hand, but not the way they would when they were kids, bounding through the castle and dragging one another out of the way of trouble. No, this is intimate. When they stop in the kitchen to refill their cups, James brushes his thumb back and forth over the back of Sirius’ hand before he lets go, and he takes it again as soon as they have drinks in hand.
By the time they get in, there’s a riveting game of truth or dare happening in the living room. Their friends are taking up every livable surface except the floor, so James tugs him down with him and offers the spot between his legs. This time, Sirius only hesitates a second before he eases down with him. It’s more comfortable this way, he reasons, his back to James’ chest, James’ arm around his waist, and there’s something so lovely feeling the steady thrum of James’ heart through their clothes.
When Sirius wakes up, he’s still drunk. Which makes sense given he’s still on the floor, tucked up against a stack of pillows now instead of James. The cottage is quieter, music still playing. He can make out the sound of James saying goodbye to someone close to the front door. Carefully, he stretches out one leg and then the other, tossing off the throw blanket that has been tucked over his torso.
“Good morning,” James says cheerfully, stumbling in a way that indicates he, too, is not yet sober. Sirius glares at the clock and finds that it reads sometime after 3:30.
“I should go,” he sighs. It’s the same song and dance he usually does. He’ll say he should go home, and James will say he should sleep on the couch, that it isn’t safe to apparate in this state (never mind the fact that he’s just let the rest of their friends apparate away, intoxicated as they are).
“Absolutely not, it’s the middle of the night.” Sirius smiles fondly at how fucking predictable it is. The fondness swells to something all-consuming when James, coordinated, lovely, James stumbles over a bottle left on the floor and narrowly misses landing on the coffee table.
“Did you keep drinking after I knocked out?” He asks, picking up the throw blanket to wrap it around his shoulders. James drops to the couch face first, and Sirius tries to shove him out of the way enough to make up his bed for the night, to no avail.
“Just a little,” he mumbles.
“Right, and now that everyone else is gone you’re going to suddenly feel it and make it my problem, right?”
“Maybe.”
“James Potter,” Sirius pokes him in the side of the head, and opts instead to sit down on the small of his back. James grunts, but doesn’t move.
It’s dangerously comfortable, James is warm underneath him, Sirius can feel the rise and fall of his every breath in. He thinks James has fallen asleep, until his breath stalls and he turns his head and says, “this couch is shit, why don’t you just come to bed with me?”
Sirius frowns at the back of his head. It’s one thing to go to bed together in Hogsmeade post-drinks when they have no other choice.
“Come on,” James says, wiggling dramatically. It sends Sirius toppling sideways with a laugh, scooting forward to drop to the edge of the couch and let James turn over. He waggles his eyebrows up and down. “We’re married, we have to consummate.”
James yelps when Sirius thwaps him in the face with a pillow. “Oh fuck off, Potter. You’re being annoying.” Sirius’ chest seizes some, and he tries not to analyze it too much. The way it felt so pleasantly right to cuddle up to James all night, to hold his hand and let them pretend to be something they weren’t for a handful of hours. Maybe , if James had asked him some other way he would have.
“Get off the couch, I’m tired.” He pulls at James’ arm in an attempt to dislodge him. Eventually, James does sit up.
“Merlin you’re moody,” James says, which is a sure mark that James is drunk. He’s never really this snarky. Sirius considers hitting him again with the pillow. Instead, he whirls to face him with arms crossed over his chest.
“You keep joking about it! And it isn’t funny!” Sirius says. A distant part of him is aware that he’s blowing this up for no good reason. They always joke, it’s who they are, and there isn’t such a thing as boundaries or going too far because they’re Prongs and Padfoot.
“Maybe I’m not joking! Have you considered that?” James exclaims. “Maybe I want you to come to bed with me, maybe every time you sleep on this bloody couch I want to ask you to come to bed with me. Would that be so fucking bad?”
Sirius freezes halfway through taking a step back. Again, his heart is thundering in his ears, and not for the first time tonight he wishes he were a little more sober so he could think through this whole thing rationally. But he isn’t sober, and his brain is moving exceptionally slowly. It means he can’t force his mouth to form the words he wants it to.
James stares at him from where he’s sitting drunkenly on the couch, brows furrowed and lips pursed, and then all at once he’s up and across the room.
“Forget it!” He exclaims. Sirius jumps at the sudden outburst, and tries to make his feet follow him across the room and down the hall, but James’ bedroom door slams before he can make himself move.
He could go home. He should, probably, go home. But Sirius has never been particularly good at leaving well enough alone, and James’ closed door is less a boundary and more an easily slayed obstacle. He hasn’t even locked it, for Merlin’s sake.
James is in the attached bathroom when Sirius pokes his head in, the shower spilling steam through to the bedroom. Sirius tries not to think about James in the nude on the other side of the door – sure, he’s seen him stark naked countless times, but it all feels different now. And that’s when it hits him: It feels different because it is different. This whole marriage thing has put a fundamental kink in what he and James are . Sure, he loves him, and maybe James wants him to scratch some lonely itch he’s got now, but he doesn’t actually mean it. It’s the weight of Sirius’ ring on his finger, and Aberforth’s magic twisting between them, and it’s going to ruin everything.
Sirius is suddenly quite glad that James hasn’t heard him creep in, because it leaves him just enough time to make a quick escape. As the shower twists off, he picks himself up from where he’s perched at the edge of James’ bed, and scurries back toward the living room. The lights are still on, and the disastrous remnants of the party littered all over the cottage. He doesn’t stop to clean it up, only pauses long enough to pocket his wand and tug on his jacket before the sharp crack of apparition has his own shoddy flat spinning into view. It isn’t like James’ warm, cozy little cottage. It’s a desolate thing, new, sure, but without decorations or personal touches. His clothes shoved into drawers, and his pictures still in boxes. It’s fucking depressing, and he misses James’, but that’s all part of the problem.
Sirius scowls at his reflection in the hallway mirror and doesn’t bother to brush his teeth before throwing himself face down in bed.
The morning brings with it a terrible splintering in his skull for the second day in a row. Firewhiskey is not a forgiving lover. Sirius lays woozily in bed until the sun is high and the physiological woes of being human are too stark to ignore, and only then does he let himself climb to his feet. He knows that the second that he does it’s all going to come flooding back. As he twists the shower on, he’s reminded of the steam in James’ bedroom, and thus of James’ attempt to lure him into bed, and the desperation on his face, the bargaining on the porch. Afraid that he’ll be ill, he drops his forehead against cool tile with a dull thunk and stands there until his stupid Muggle faucet runs cold. After his shower, Sirius sets about pacing and thinking. He doesn’t actually know a thing about Magical Marriage. His parents were married, of course, he actually wouldn’t be surprised if they’d taken some sort of ancient blood oath binding them together for all of eternity in a horrifying loveless union. But he’d never gotten so far as to consider that he might, one day, be wed. It was never an option, progressive as the Magical world tends to be compared to their Muggle counterparts. And anyway, he always has thought he wasn’t the marriage type – he wasn’t lying in the pub.
Now, a pesky little voice at the back of his mind tells him that maybe he’s been the marriage type all along, provided the right bloke was willing to take him. That his refusal to acknowledge that he might be well-served by a long, happy, committed relationship had more to do with the fact that he couldn’t have James than with the fact that he didn’t want it at all.
“You’re an idiot,” he says to the mirror, glaring at himself. There are terrible dark circles under his eyes and his skin looks pale and drab. It’s all the drinking, the late nights, the deeply rooted stress that won’t, he knows, abate until all of this is over and done with.
Normally, he’d go to Remus with this type of problem. All of his reading has turned into something of a human encyclopedia. Remus, however, has proven himself to be woefully unhelpful in this particular predicament – in fact, Sirius is fairly confident that he might actively try to sabotage his efforts if he knew what he was up to. Next on his list of potentials is Albus, which makes him blanch and all of last night’s firewhiskey threaten to come back up. No, Albus Dumbledore does not need to know about his current marriage debacle.
With nobody else to turn to, Sirius sets out for the shops. He’s only marginally presentable, more harried than he’s been in a very long time. Half-washed and dressed in the first thing he can find at the top of his laundry pile. He apparates right into Diagon Alley first. The bookshop is at the top of his list, though he’s briefly derailed by a Daily Prophet stand at the mouth of the alley. There’s a stout man wearing an odd little cap, waving around today’s edition. Sirius drops a single knut into the tin on his stand and hurries into an alcove to unfold the paper. The last time James had a pest problem (nifflers sneaking in and stealing all of his loose change) they were able to find a wizard in pest control at the back of the paper. He flips through it hastily, eyes roving over pages and pages of classified ads before he reaches a section of magical legal aid. Right there on the final page is a small advertisement, easily missed if one wasn’t scouring the paper for it, a witch specializing in disentanglement spells for ‘all binding spells, legal and otherwise.’
“Oh thank fucking Merlin,” Sirius groans, ignoring the sharp glance he earns from a passing mother, dragging her young child behind her.
After learning about Muggle telephones, Sirius always thought that magical communication was a bit nutty. It would be awfully convenient if there were a telephone number at the bottom. But there isn’t even a floo connection, just directions for the owl post.
Sirius does his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he purchases a roll of parchment and a Muggle-style pen. It’ll be best to get this out of the way right away, send a letter off so this witch can fix them before the magic has a chance to really set in. Before he gets too used to the strange swirling warmth that seems to pull him to James like an invisible thread. Anyway, James will appreciate it. He’ll have to tell him, too, what he’s managed to find.
The sinking feeling gets harder to ignore as he trudges to the post office, a nauseating little stone that rests somewhere near his stomach. As the wizard behind the counter takes his letter and his money, Sirius has the ever-so-strange urge to snatch it back. He doesn’t. Instead he thrusts his hands deep in his pockets and says a polite thank you and hurries out of the post office back to the bustling street. He expects to feel a large weight lifted when he does, but the stone only manages to get heavier. Vaguely, he wonders if this is part of the magic. Maybe Aberforth cursed him with some anti-separation spell. Maybe this was an unbreakable sort of thing, and this threatening to put an end to this pseudo-marriage is going to, literally, be the death of him.
Sirius stands in the street for a long handful of moments, but nothing terrible happens. When he finds himself still alive, he breathes a sigh of something like relief and weighs his next course of action. He could go home, and wait to hear back before he brings the good news to James. But it doesn’t seem fair to leave him in the dark for so long. With one last sigh, Sirius apparates to the familiar cottage, right into the living room.
It’s still a disaster. There’s spilled firewhiskey on the kitchen floor, a sticky puddle that has the entire place smelling acrid, and the bottles from the night before still litter every viable surface. The sparkling lights have gone out, and the streamers have turned back to throw blankets, making the place look rather wrecked. James is nowhere to be found. He isn’t in the kitchen nor is he still tucked into bed. Sirius searches the entire little cottage before the smell of cigarette smoke wafts from the back garden.
“Bad habit,” Sirius tells him. James jumps, head flopping backward in the grass. The garden slopes downward toward a vegetable patch that used to be kept up by his mother, making for the perfect place to lie in the grass. It’s cold, just coming into March, but when Sirius gets closer he’s greeted by the welcoming warmth of James’ magic, so he shrugs out of his jacket and sets it down on the earth so he can lean back against it next to James, who offers the cigarette out silently. Sirius takes it, and finds something delightful about placing his lips where James’ were just a moment ago.
“I found someone to fix our problem,” Sirius says, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke deep in his lungs. James shoots him a sideways look and then returns his eyes to the sky.
“You must be awfully relieved.”
Sirius shrugs, plucking at the grass underneath him. “Don’t know if they’ll really be able to do it,” he says, trying to assess why James looks so put out. “You might end up stuck with me after all.”
“You mean you’ll wind up stuck with me?” James says flatly. The cigarette has burned out, he taps another one out of his case. It’s a little gold one, given to him by Sirius a handful of years ago when they picked up the muggle habit from Remus.
“I wouldn’t mind being stuck with you,” Sirius says slowly.
James scoffs.
“What?” Sirius says irritably. “I wouldn’t!”
“Sure,” James swats at his hand to get him to stop pulling up his grass. “That’s rich coming from the guy who couldn’t get this fixed fast enough.”
“What did you want me to do?” Sirius sighs, pressing both of his fists to his eyes until he sees stars. He’s tired. Generally, and tired of this. He doesn’t have the energy to make James understand.
“I don’t know!” James says, but his voice tapers off. He isn’t usually the type to shout. “I don’t know ,” he repeats. “I didn’t think you’d be beside yourself trying to fix it.”
“I don’t understand why you’re not .”
James is silent for a long time. Sirius lets him be, sometimes it takes time – he can see the cogs turning. “I’m lonely, aren’t you lonely, Pads?”
The stone in Sirius’ stomach grows considerably, twists and flops and burns red-hot. He thinks he might be ill.
“Of course I’m fucking lonely,” he snaps.
James opens his mouth, but Sirius cuts him off before he can speak. “But you don’t get married because you’re lonely , James.”
“Why not?”
“Do you hear yourself?” Sirius sits up. James makes to follow, but Sirius pushes him back. “I can’t be married to you. I cannot be fake married to you because you’re lonely .”
“Why?”
Sirius scoffs at him, but James is wearing an expression he recognizes. It’s the look he gets when he knows the answer, but wants you to say it out loud. An ache curls in his chest – James has never tried to hurt him before, it disorients him.
“You know why, James,” he says weakly.
“Tell me anyway.”
Sirius takes a slow breath in, lets it out, sucks in another. Anything to try and steady the jack rabbit beat of his own heart. “I like you. You know that I like you – I think I more than like you, Prongs. I think I love you, so I can’t do this. It was a stupid idea, I need out. Ok? It’s not enough to be lonely , to want to fix that loneliness.”
“How do you think I feel?” James has sat up properly now, they’re facing one another, cross-legged in the grass. Sirius frowns at him. He expects to feel the sting of tears, but he must be too tired to cry.
“I think you love me.”
“Exactly.”
“No, I think you love me. But I think I’m in love with you, James. Can you please stop playing daft?” He asks desperately.
“And you think I’m not?” Sirius meets James’ earnest eyes with furrowed brows of his own.
“Of course you’re not.”
“Sirius.”
“You’re not, James.”
“ Sirius .”
James can’t be in love with him. There are several reasons why: First, James is his best friend, and he loves him, but it never quite works to fall in love with your best friend, does it? Second, James – as far as Sirius knows – is quite enamored with women, of which he is not. And finally, and most importantly, James is, to his core, fundamentally good. Sirius is too rotten for him, too broken, too selfish, too scarred.
He thinks James must see all of these things play over his face, because he sees every one of his own emotions mirrored there.
“Sirius,” James says quietly, reaching out and pressing a hand to his chest. “Take a breath.”
Sirius does, and is startled to find that his lungs ache .
“You are?” He says weakly.
James nods, looking a bit green. “I visited Aberforth,” he says. “He said it wouldn’t have worked if we weren’t.”
“I’m sorry, can we back up just a little bit? You’re in love with me?”
“I am.”
The stone sinks all the way through the floor, and Sirius goes with it, toppling back into the grass and turning his eyes to the sky. It’s grey and gloomy, he watches the clouds and tries to contain the giddy laughter threatening to spill out of his mouth. “You’re nuts,” he accuses, shaking his head side to side. “Absolutely – Merlin, James. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Well hold on,” James argues, sounding offended on Sirius’ behalf. “I meant it when I said you were marriage material! I know you Sirius, I know exactly what I’m getting into.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.” James swats at him, and Sirius grabs his wrist in an attempt to… to, well, he isn’t sure. Play fight, maybe? Wrestle him away? Instead he just holds onto him, and James takes it as an invitation. He swings toward Sirius in the grass and lands with a grunt on top of him. He’s heavy, all muscle and bony knees and the smell of nicotine. Sirius’ eyes widen, and he finds himself very much pinned under the intensity of James’ dark eyes. “I do know you,” James repeats. This time his voice is much softer, and accompanied by a hand that comes to Sirius’ hairline, brushing it back and away from his face. The fingers don’t leave, instead they trace a burning trail down his cheek, across his jaw, James’ thumb presses gently to the plush pink skin of his bottom lip. Sirius thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe.
It takes James a long time to kiss him this time. They aren’t drunk, there’s nothing to fuel it – no dare, no laughter, just James studying him and Sirius trying to remember how to function, how to move and breathe and think. When he finally does, it’s the faintest brush of lips, so light that Sirius scoffs and presses up abruptly to kiss him properly.
It’s broken by the thwap of an owl’s wings, landing in the grass next to them and looking put out. It has a letter attached to its leg. Sirius recognizes the address as belonging to the witch he wrote to earlier.
“Do you want to get that?” James says, his voice carefully level. Sirius reaches out and unties it, but leaves the letter face down in the grass.
“I think it would be too much of a hassle,” Sirius says cautiously. James nods seriously above him.
“And the spell’s already done…”
The next thing out of Sirius’ mouth is said right up against James’ lips, a long-suffering sigh, “Moony is going to be absolutely insufferable about this.”