James never thought much of it. It was something that happened naturally, viscerally. It certainly wasn’t a secret, but something about it felt like sharing one. Something just for the two of them, something that no one else got to have. So, no, it wasn’t a secret, despite the way it was held sacredly between careful hands and quiet whispers.
They never tried to hide it, this mutual infatuation they had for each other. Often described as being attached at the hip by their classmates and friends- no, they never tried to hide it. This obsession, adoration, needed no precursor. It needed no explanation or communication. It simply was.
Inherent in the way that thunder and lightning are. In the way that fire never crackles without producing smoke. Grass needs water to grow and stars need the sun to shine. No one ever questioned it, and neither did they.
There was no big dramatic realization. Not the way most people might have when they’ve realized they have stumbled across their soulmate. Their twin flame. No, it wasn’t dramatic. What came afterwards was dramatic.
James knows that what he and Sirius have is different. Too young to know what they had just found, eleven years old and scared. Now eighteen, and James is no longer scared. Today he is tired.
Long curls, ebony and damp and beautiful curling down his back, down each knob of his spine. James is gentle, raking the comb through Sirius’ hair meticulously. He’s careful never to tug too hard, and to take extra time and care to any specifically knotty part.
They don’t speak. They usually don’t when they’re both this tired. A quiet understanding between the two of them: clean, rest, then we can speak. They never really needed words. They know every quirk. Every slant of each other's eyebrows, every curve of each other's mouth.
He is plaiting his hair now, loose but tight enough to hold. Sirius takes extra care with his hair, so it’s important to James that he treat it just as well. Sirius had told him once that hair holds memories, and he holds all of theirs close to him.
Sprouting out of his head and resting against his spine, against his heartbeat. Memories that ease anxiety when twirled around lithe fingers, or cure boredom when being plaited and unplaited.
James is unsure how true that is, but Sirius believes it so he bundles it up and keeps it like a fire in his hands. Warming his body when he pulls them close to his chest and offering a semblance of light in dark times.
They’re laying in his bed now. Chest to chest. Sirius’ skin is warm against his own, eyelashes long against his cheeks. He presses his face forward, always forward, always into each other, never back. James can feel his heart beating. Always beating. Slow and steady. Rhythmic and cathartic. Red and alive.
He thinks that this can last forever. Sirius can never cut his hair and James can never let his hands go cold. He knows that what they have surpasses the mortal planes in which they are forced to exist. He knows somewhere, maybe far away, they share a kingdom that is covered in stars and sunlight.
A kingdom that is theirs to own, made up of each other. Yet they exist in a world where hair will be cut and hands will be cold. James thinks it isn’t fair. Though he supposes that this existence is enough, because one year or a million years with Sirius is the greatest gift he could receive. It will never be enough, and he knows that. He tells himself it has to be enough, and he pushes it out of his mind at times where his hands are warm and Sirius’ hair is long.
He holds on tighter and drifts to sleep, to a kingdom that lives inside his ribs, and he pulls Sirius with him.