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[atrumcanis]

________

It was not like they said. You did not go home to where you had just been. Perhaps it was different for everyone, but you came out and the war was already beginning, with you up to your neck in it. It’s jarring, but not so jarring that you can’t manage.

When you lay down to sleep at night, your legs feel stretched out, as if you’ve been actually running, physically running, trying to catch up with what you missed. The memories are there, in the back of your head: seventh year (a riot of colors and noise and classes), graduating (James’ arm around your shoulders; the hot smell of sunlight on grass; the last time you stood in the common room), joining the Order (Dumbledore smiling at you, but his eyes are dark and serious behind his spectacles), James and Lily holding hands (and the way James smiles now, quieter; the way he looked when he told you they were going to be married, and the way you smiled at him, though it felt as if you’d been punched), a joke Peter told you last year (terrible enough that you were nearly expected to dump your beer on him), a girl you dated for two months (little snub nose, bright eyes, a gap between her front teeth)--all of it is there, but distantly, as if someone whispered it in your ear.

You thought at first that you would forget everything, and so you wrote it down, you fixed it in your head, you tried, desperately, to keep sounds in your ears and smells in your nose and feelings in the tips of your fingers. You thought you would forget everything, the way they said you would, but they were wrong about that, too. You did not forget. Everything remained vivid, stuck fast in your head, years of living crammed too quickly into your memory.

But the war is good; the war helps you put everything else out of your mind. And still, there are some mornings where you wake up and you find yourself listening for him in the kitchen, the sound of his whistling - singing, sometimes, if he thought you were definitely asleep. Laying in bed with that echo in your ear, you start to count the years between you, working backwards. It’s over a hundred.

There are some mornings where you find yourself thinking that this is not your life, that you left your life somewhere behind you, somewhere in Canada, lost somewhere between the roil of fear and anger and utter blind happiness. There are some mornings where you think that maybe it didn’t happen, maybe it wasn’t real, maybe you fell asleep one night and dreamed that years had passed by in a place that never existed. And then you roll over and it’s almost as if you can see him again, the way the sunlight would soften his face, the lazy crawl of his smile, the creases just beneath his eyes, tired creases--and you know it was real, you know it from the way your chest tightens and your breathing cramps, and you shut your eyes again.

You live this life anyway.

And when they give you a mission, you only hear the where. You don’t want to go to New York out of selfishness - though, Merlin, you think about going, and that’s selfish enough. There is a war and the war distracts you, but somewhere at the back of your mind is always New York, like some stupid beacon, like being there would matter at all.

But one day along the line is the perfect excuse: reconnaisse, easy work that usually bores you. Except it’s the where of it that catches you this time, and you volunteer too quickly, and everyone looks at you. You smile at them - and, later, you smile more directly at your friends, full of bravado. The center of your chest feels tight and drawn all through the meeting, all through the walk to your flat - even when you shut the door, even when you climb into bed and stare numbly at the ceiling.

New York.

In New York, it is dark and cold, and the streets are blanketed with the white amnesia of fresh snowfall. All the buildings look softer than they are. The city is echoing and empty. Only the footprints dotted on the sidewalk hint that there is anyone living here at all.

It’s two to a mission, but you split from Shacklebolt as soon as you can on the pretense of solo work - dangerous, but you’re Sirius Black, you love danger and risk and all of it, and Shacklebolt is too preoccupied with his own thoughts to insist otherwise. His mother was killed by Death Eaters last year. Maybe he’s out for revenge, or maybe he simply wants to get the work of this done - and you should ask, you should talk to him, he was two years ahead of you in school and you know him -

You leave him on a streetcorner, with a promise to check in after midnight.

So it’s you, alone, and none of the footprints are right. This is his city, the city he told you about, and he isn’t in it, he’s a hundred years back, his streets cut with the wheels of carts and carriages, and you’re ankle-deep in grey slush, looking for him in places he never was.

You can’t find what you’re looking for; you don’t know what you’re looking for; you get lost in some back alley and you sit down right there, right in the snow, staring up at the fire escape, scaled against the wall like a bare black spine.

And you start to think - with the slush now soaking through your trousers, with your hair wet from the thick-falling snow, with your hands cold and red and numb - you start to think about time-turners, you start to work out in your head just how many turns it would take to get back to him. You clench your stiff fingers against your stiff fingers and you stare at the wall opposite of you.

Somewhere, here, somewhere in between crooked cobblestones and the granite monuments and all the glittering breadth of the skyscrapers - here, in some gray graveyard, there is a stone with his name carved upon it: JACK KELLY, stark letters that don’t do a thing to hint at the person that is laid out beneath. There will be dates, and an epitaph, maybe, and none of it matters.

Because he is not there. He’s brilliant in your mind, he’s at the corner of your eye, waiting to show you the city he always promised you would see. It is the city itself that is his tombstone, the narrow streets and alleys, streets that he knows better than anything at all.

You can see his face, then, as clearly as if it were there in front of you - smiling, eyes shut, sunlight on his cheek.

Sitting in the snow, you touch your own cheek. It’s cold.


________

It wasn’t that bacon was offensive. Granted, there were cultures and even entire countries that considered bacon to be offensive, and Franziska von Karma was well aware of these dietary preferences. She wasn’t, as a rule, particularly interested in these preferences--such a global focus was little more than a waste of time when one was dealing with such a general and foolish matter--but it was at least important to mention that she knew of them. A mental footnote.

But, an addendum, with the proper focus this time: It wasn’t that Franziska von Karma considered bacon offensive. Not particularly enjoyable beyond nine in the morning, yes. Not appetizing in any of its other forms--sandwiches, casseroles, pastas, and, most disgustingly of all, sweets--yes, she would certain concede to that. Not worthy of such focus and reverence, yes; not worth the pedestal that some foolish individuals chose to place it upon.

So it was with this thought souring in her mind that Franziska considered her wedding cake. The two thoughts, wedding cakes and bacon, should never have been in close proximity to one another, and yet here she was, at her own wedding, staring at a five-tiered wedding cake made entirely out of bacon.

Made entirely out of bacon.

Franziksa’s hand curled around an invisible whip. She had considered having one designed to carry at her side--white, very tasteful--but had ultimately decided that she would be unable to bear the smirk Sirius would give her upon seeing a whip in her hand. No doubt he would say something foolish, something about saving that for later--and it really wouldn’t do to have the groom beaten before the wedding, as satisfying an experience as it would be.

But she was losing focus. Franziska narrowed her eyes at the hideous bacon wedding cake instead. There was a way to make this Sirius’ fault, of course. But in the end, there was one person to blame for the monstrosity of a cake--those grease stains on the white linen tablecloths--the gross, disgusting, meaty mess. There was one person only. And he was standing across the room, casually leaning against a pillar, as if doom did not await him.

In lieu of an actual whip, Franziksa let her voice do the whipping: “Jack Kelly!”

Jack was incredibly aware that he would be caught at what he’d done. That of course had little to nothing to do with his decision in the first place-if anything, it only encouraged him to do it. And it wasn’t as if he had done a subtle job of it. Jack Kelly: organize catering. Catering arrives. Catering is entirely bacon. Logical assumption: Jack Kelly ordered bacon for catering.

So he certainly wasn’t surprised when Franziska’s voice cut across the room. He dropped his cigarette, yes, but that was only because he hadn’t expected her quite so early. She was meant to be getting ready, doing some--some vague girl things in some room somewhere, adjusting veils or straightening stockings. Jack was, happily, clueless to the inner workings of a woman’s pre-wedding sanctum. But here she was, the blushing bride herself, striding towards him, her face twisted with fury.

He almost laughed.

People liked to laugh on happy occasions, didn’t they? People liked to be entertained. And Jack knew Sirius very well, knew him enough to know what entertained him (most things), and what didn’t (a much sparser category). And he also knew his best friend’s stomach. After acting as the apartment’s chef for some time, Jack had no choice but to know what Sirius liked and didn’t like, but even a deaf mute with a bag over his head would have been able to tell you Sirius Black’s favorite food: bacon.

Through various complaints and tales of failed dates, Jack also knew where bacon fell on the list of Franziska’s preferred foods: very low. All the more reason for bacon to be featured highly, the dietary guest of honor, at the wedding--or at least, that was what he had told himself while making catering arrangements.

And now Franziska was bearing down on him like some avenging ghost in a wedding dress, and it was all Jack could do to keep a straight face.

“Nice dress,” he said, smirking.

“I’m going to kill you, Jack Kelly.” Franziska spoke with surprising crispness as she pointed straight at his face. Her low and level tone likely indicated some level of danger that he ought to pay attention to, but Jack found himself far too amused to care.

“You can’t, not at your weddin’,” he told her merrily, putting his hands behind his head. “You’d get blood all over that dress--which I complimented, too, you’re welcome--and anyways, you’s a lawyer, you can’t kill someone!”

“I will make an exception.” When Franziska drew in a threatening breath, you knew. It was a whole body experience, with her, her shoulders rising sharply. Jack considered the bride-to-be, her drawn face and lips were white with barely-restrained fury--all a sign of a job well done. “I will make an exception, and I will have my dress thoroughly washed beforehand.”

“Your weddin’ is in half an hour,” he started helpfully, ready to point out the reality of laundering clothes, but she cut him off. Her hands were clenched so tightly they were shaking.

“My cake is made of bacon!”

Jack took a step back from her with a wince. “Oye, pipe down, wouldja, you’s makin’ sounds only dogs can hear. What’s wrong with a bacon cake?”

“What’s wrong with it?” She advanced on him, spitting out the words from between her teeth. “What’s wrong with it is that cakes are not made of bacon, you foolish oaf! What’s wrong with it is that this is my wedding day and I am looking at a cake made entirely--“

“It isn’t just the cake,” Jack threw in, interrupting her flow. He bent to pick up his cigarette, considering the smoldering tip. When he looked up, Franziska’s face nearly resembled a gargoyle’s.

“What,” she whispered. It was a deadly sound.

“It isn’t just the cake. It’s the rest of it, too. Do you think this is still good?” He frowned at the cigarette, shrugged, and stuck it in his mouth.

Franziska jerked it straight out again, throwing it across the room. It landed in one of the empty champagne glasses. Jack would have commented on her aim, but he couldn’t, as she had taken him by the lapels and begun to shake him.

“The rest of it? The rest of it? Do you mean to tell me-“

“That kitchen is full of bacon, and soon, all your guests is gonna be full of bacon too. Oye, lay off, would you-“ He frowned at her, brushing at her hands. “My tuxedo will be all wrinkled. Can’t have a best man with a wrinkled-“

He ducked when she raised her hand to slap him.

“What’s all this?”

Franziska started. Her hands left the lapels of Jack's suit coat, and she whirled around, horrified. Sirius was standing in the doorway, his brow knitted in an expression of bemused delight. He looked from Jack to Franziska to the bacon wedding cake. One eyebrow raised. “Is that bacon?”

Jack turned a triumphant grin on her. Franziska could have slit his throat with her fingernail, and she wouldn’t have regretted it for a second.

“He,” she started, throwing a finger in Jack’s face, “he--“

“It is bacon,” Sirius said. He sounded pleased, if not a little confused. “Did you do this?”

“I wouldn’t,” Franziska started.

“Yeah!” Jack interrupted, stepping in front of her. Really, his neck was right there; if she killed him, no one would blame her. If she could uncurl her fists long enough to kill him. “Yeah, she did! It’s great, isn’t it, I told her you’d love it. And the rest of it is bacon, too, all of the food-but oye, oye, what are you doing, you ain’t supposed to be here!”

“What, are you mental! I’m supposed to be anywhere there’s a bacon cake, mate.” Sirius stopped in front of the table, reverentially. Franziksa rolled her eyes. Predictable as ever, Sirius Black, you foolish-- But the thought was interrupted when he grabbed up her hand.

"It's brilliant," he told her, grinning, "it's brilliant. And the rest of it is bacon as well?"

"'Course it is," Jack said, leaning around Sirius to grin at her as well. His had more of a smirk to it, of course. Franziska couldn't decide if she wanted to lunge at him again or not. "She's all right, I guess."

"More than." Sirius squeezed her hand, though he was looking over at Jack again. Franziska bit her lip. "Only I thought you were doing catering, you nonce, that was your one bloody duty, and you couldn't even manage that?"

"I'm a failure," Jack said mournfully, putting on a long face, "I'm a failure, can you forgive me."

"'Course not, you're now forever indebted to me."

"I planned your party, you can't--"

"Shut up, mate, she's right here, she's not supposed to know about that," Sirius said out of the corner of his mouth, shooting Franziska a mock-fearful look.

She rolled her eyes in response, huffing a little. "You are both idiots. You deserve each other."

"Yeah, but he's gettin' you," Jack said, with a lecherous grin, and ducked away from Sirius, shoving at his shoulder. He fell against Franziksa, laughing, and wrapped his arms around her for a brief minute. "Only he ain't gettin' you yet--oye, this is bad luck!"

"I love bad luck," Sirius said, pleased, and kissed the top of Franziska's head. She scowled and shoved at him, brushing at her hair.

"You're ruining it. The wedding is in twenty minutes, and you aren't even wearing a jacket," she informed him haughtily, brushing at the front of her dress. "It has nothing to do with luck."

"Yeah, all right, all right, I see when I'm not wanted." Sirius kissed the top of her head once more, gave Jack a punch on the shoulder, and ducked out of the room again, gone as quickly as he'd arrived.

Franziska stared after him. She didn't look at Jack--though she had to eventually.

And when she did, well. His smirk made it impossible to tell whether or not he was in earnest. Was this a joke--a joke on her, a joke for Sirius’ benefit--or had he actually planned this, and given her credit? Franziska’s cheeks flushed slightly, and she turned her nose up in the air, trying to maintain an air of haughty superiority.

“I find you foolish, Jack Kelly.”

“I like you, too.” He winked at her. “You’re welcome.”

And when Franziska smiled at him, she actually meant it.


________
ostentatiously called O CHILDREN.

It’s when he’s crushed up against Jack in the dark that Sirius realizes it

“Your elbow,” says Jack thickly. His voice is heavy with sleep - he doesn’t sleep well, no, and he jerks out of it whiplash fast - but it still clings to him as it does anyone else. The confused moment, when Jack is fighting against things that aren’t there, when his eyes are half shut, when there are still bits of nightmare - and Sirius will be there, to wake him up.

He can’t place when waking Jack up turned into sleeping in Jack’s bed. It was a Padfoot thing, maybe - no better comfort than a dog, after all, a warm thing lying next to you. He had done it for Remus in the past, a comfort born of the self-same desire: to fix something unfixable, to make an impossible situation better, in some very small way.

“Nngh,” says Jack, and he pushes at Sirius’ chest, his hands pawing blindly. “Don’t - ”

“Shut up,” Sirius orders, firmly, tightening his arms.

But then it wasn’t a Padfoot thing, it was a Sirius thing (a serious thing, ha ha), and it was all right. Sirius had slept under such arrangements before - at home, with James, usually, especially over summer holidays when camping - he’d even slept under such arrangements with Jack from time to time, when his nightmares were their worst. It seemed to help, and Sirius would do anything to help.

Usually they lay back to back, and that made it easier. They had been able to shrug it off and pretended that it didn’t happen, or at least that it didn’t matter, the way that they shrugged off so many things. It wasn’t anything, after all, it was just to help Jack. And it was, that was true; Sirius wasn’t lying to himself. To help Jack.
But that hadn’t helped for long; he could still hear Jack, whipping around in his sleep, muttering to himself. He could still feel Jack’s fear, as present a presence in the room as the press of Jack against him.

So now there was this: his arms tight around Jack, pulling him close; Jack’s nose pressed against his collarbone, his breath ragged and hot against Sirius’ neck. Sirius’ chin, tucked against the top of Jack’s head, his jaw clenched, their legs tangled in the blankets, tangled against one another.

And it’s dark, so Jack can’t see his face. And that’s good, Sirius thinks, his hands tightening; that’s good, because otherwise Jack might be able to read what’s written there. They know each other so well by now, he’s surprised that Jack hasn’t already worked it out in times like this. Although Sirius wouldn’t be able to say what it was, if he were asked - he wouldn’t want to say, because saying would be admitting it, or acknowledging it, or even knowing what it is.

It, it, it. He swallows hard against Jack, and tightens his arms. The fact of the matter is, he doesn’t know what it is, he can’t define it, he can’t even say what makes him think this way. And it’s the thinking that comes at the worst possible times: when Jack’s saying something stupid, his mouth twisted in that smirk; when he turns to look over his shoulder in the kitchen, frowning over some recipe; when he’s working on homework, ink smudged on his forehead, his teeth closed around the cap of his pen. It’s stupid, it’s entirely stupid, but he can’t help it.

“Sirius,” Jack says, choked, and Sirius smiles slightly, despite himself.

“Shut up,” he says against the top of Jack’s head, “shut up, just shut up, you git - ”

“Let go,” Jack orders, “your elbow, it’s - ”

“Shut up,” Sirius repeats with more force, “you don’t have to make excuses, you don’t have to - ”

“Let go,” Jack says, “it’s you, it’s - this, it’s - don’t have to - ”

“Shut up,” Sirius says again, and then all at once, he decides; he kisses Jack.

Kissing Jack is nothing like kissing a girl - it’s all teeth and sharp angles and roughness. His elbow is still digging against Jack’s stomach, and his hand is clutched in Jack’s hair, pressed against the back of his head. He can’t think too hard about this, because if he thinks about, he’ll stop, he’ll pull away, he’ll regret it -

Jack makes a sound, something muffled, or maybe he’s trying to say something - and his hands are pushing at Sirius again - but it isn’t pushing, his fingers are clutched around the front of Sirius’ t-shirt. And it seems impossible, or improbable, but he’s pushing back against the kiss, answering, maybe. That only makes it rougher, messier; their mouths are crushed together and he can smell Jack more completely than he ever has before, and it isn't bad, it's like being surrounded by him, that's all.

Sirius holds the kiss a second longer, and when he pulls away it’s just as he thought - his face feels warm, flushed, but whether it’s with embarrassment or shame or something else, something he doesn’t want to think about -

His hand is still pressed against the back of Jack’s head, and impossibly he realizes that he can feel the thrum of Jack’s heartbeat through his fingertips - or is it his own heartbeat that he’s feeling, the quick and insistent pace of it, frantic and uncertain. But he can’t concentrate on that right now, he can only think of the warmth that’s here, between him and Jack, his chest pressed against Jack’s, the bones of their ankles grinding uncomfortably against one another beneath the shared blanket.

“Mate,” he chokes out.

“Don’t,” Jack says, his voice low. He doesn’t sound panicked any longer, he sounds dazed, if anything, and Sirius swallows hard. He’s fucked this up, he knows it, and there won’t be any fixing it. His stupid decision, all based on the clenching of his gut and the tightness in his chest - and it’s always going to stand between them.

“Sorry,” he mutters, letting Jack go, “sorry, I didn’t - ”

Jack’s hands close into fists around the front of his shirt, pulling himself close against Sirius, all in a rush. His hair is short; he’s recently had it cut, and it prickles against Sirius’ chin.

“Don’t,” he repeats again. The sound of the word presses against Sirius’ throat, warm, and he feels all his muscles seize, his fingers clenching on nothing. “Just - it’s all right.”

“All right,” Sirius repeats. It sounds hollow, so he swallows hard and tries again: “All right.”

The two of them fall still, and the only sound is heartbeats - breathing - the occasional shift of skin against sheets and clothes. Sirius can hear the blood rushing past his ears; he can feel that same tightness in his chest; he can feel Jack, crushed against him, and Jack’s breath against the soft tender skin of his throat. And that’s something that he can’t ignore, and something that he won’t be able to forget, even after tonight, even after the sun comes up and they’ve left this room and everything here behind.

He tries to untangle his hand from Jack, but it’s half-trapped behind his head, and he can’t. And he’s still tangled against Jack, and he doesn’t know where he would go even if he did untangle. So he stays where he is, hating that he enjoys the warmth of this, hating that he finds himself comforted - he isn’t supposed to be comforted, this is about Jack - hating that he feels a happy swooping clench in the pit of his stomach. No, not hating - maybe it’s shame, or maybe it’s just uncertainty, or maybe -

“It doesn’t matter.”

Sirius starts at the sound of Jack’s voice, and looks down at him, surprised. Jack is staring at his neck, intently, as if there’s something written there. Sirius almost tries to crane down to see what it could be, but he knows there’s nothing, really - and he wonders, wildly, what Jack is thinking right now, if Jack is thinking the same thing that he is, if Jack is feeling the same clenching in his stomach, the same needling - well, what is it? Call it what it is, Black, admit to it, this is your best friend and you’ve just kissed him and now -

Jack looks up, then, and it’s awkward - not awkward in terms of feelings, but awkward in terms of positioning, because they’re in such close quarters, wrapped around one another, sharing breath and space and blankets, their arms and legs and bodies all tangled. Jack looks up, and his nose bumps against Sirius’ chin, and Sirius tries to draw back, sorry, sorry, but he isn’t very sorry, because now he and Jack are staring at one another in the dark, and before very long, in that second, they’ve started to kiss again, and it’s just as strange and as foreign and as hard as before, teeth and clumsy mouths. But there’s something right about it, too, something that’s being answered.

And maybe it’s only for comfort, Sirius thinks, as his hands relax, as one of them closes around Jack’s shirt collar. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s confusion and misplaced emotions and being too close in the dark. But if it isn’t - and Jack is kissing back, or else Sirius is kissing back; it’s difficult to say who initiated the kiss this time around, or who is prolonging it, but Sirius knows that his fingers are around Jack’s shirt collar, touching against the surprisingly tender skin beneath it, brushing against his throat, and he can feel Jack’s heartbeat and Jack’s breath, and they’re both so fast, they’re matching his own - and if it isn’t nothing, if it isn’t stupid, then what is it, Black?

But that doesn’t matter, either; for now, they’re tangled against one another, elbows against ribs and knees against knees and breath against breath, mouths against mouths, and Jack’s hands are splayed flat against his chest, and Sirius finds that he likes it, and he likes it when his own hands bunch at Jack’s shirt. And he likes it when he presses his hand against Jack’s bare skin, too; he likes that even more - and he likes to feel the speed of Jack’s heart when he presses his mouth, hot, against Jack’s neck, and feels Jack’s fingers tighten in his hair, and maybe that’s all that really matters.


A Truant Cat

Canada Shore!