(no subject)
For glitterdemon, on the occasion of devkel's birthday challenge.
Beware of angst, angst, and then a bit more angst; this fic has jokingly been subtitled "www.kleenex.com."
James/Lily/Sirius, Sirius/Lily, Sirius/James, Lily/James. R. In which, James is gone a lot, Sirius forgets and remembers, a porch swing is oiled, someone sleeps on a couch, and somewhere, a dog catches a stick.
Run Away Soldiers
Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away?
Will time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
- W.H. Auden
The first time he kisses her, she tastes of artificial cherry flavoring and gin, in the middle of July, sitting on a creaky porch swing. He will remember three things about it, and they are, 1) that her feet don’t touch the ground, 2) that she drops the cherry ice lolly she’s been eating, and it melts in a sticky puddle on the porch, and 3) that artificial cherry flavoring tastes remarkably like guilt.
Sirius won’t remember why he does it, or five gin and tonics, or the curve of her mouth when she laughs, just like he won’t remember the dull, low ache alcohol lends to the conversation, until Lily can’t stop laughing and he can’t stop things spilling from his mouth, like pearls and diamonds in one of those wretched fairy tales. He won’t remember saying I’m lonely and the answering my marriage is falling apart and James is James is James and I love him, but - He won’t remember hating her, just a little, for it being Lily Potter instead of the theoretical potential of James Black, won’t remember I’ve kissed James and me too or leaning in, because it seems only natural to kiss your best mate’s wife if you’re kissing her because you want to pick up the taste of someone else on her mouth.
He won’t remember fucking her on the couch, or the slow, uncertain way his fingers catch in her hair, won’t remember forgetting to close the screen door, though he’ll be sorry in the morning because they’ll make themselves banish every mosquito by hand in penance or possibly guilt, or some strange combination of both.
He won’t remember the alcohol-sweet slide of her mouth over his skin, or the small golden buckles on her sandals, or knocking over the photographs on the mantle, somehow, though there’ll be broken glass come tomorrow.
Morning doesn’t bring regret, merely slow, careless sex with thrusts in time to the pounding of his head. Lily says oh, and Sirius thinks he should probably feel guilty but doesn’t. There’s a sharp, cold void where his conscience ought to be to match the dull ache in the back of his head, and they kiss even as they clean up the glass, but it’s only hard and unfeeling; there’s no joy in it.
Sirius suspects he’ll remember the spread of her hand around the doorframe when he goes to leave for as long as he lives. She looks pale and fragile; he feels hungover and disconnected. She says, are you coming for dinner on Sunday? And he says, I think so, and then, you’ll be all right? There’s a split second between stay and you should go that Sirius imagines the entire world could get lost in. The determined curl of her fingers only makes him want to lean in again.
It’s animal magnetism, and the curve of the earth, and her steady smile. He’ll be home soon, she says, and Sirius wishes he had her certainty, her husband, her life.
James holds the door open and claps him on the back when he comes for dinner, and Lily smiles at him over the chicken, and it’s funny, Sirius thinks, the facades everyone builds. He can only see the crumbling foundation when he looks for it, as if it’s secret keeping in reverse, in the tremble of Lily’s fingers around her glass of wine and the cold edges of James’s smile. They last through dessert before Sirius spills his scotch down her shirt and Lily says motherfucking god damned bloody hell and James tells her to shut the hell up and Sirius thinks that, just maybe, his scotch isn’t the only thing on the rocks.
He says I’m sorry, I’m sorry and follows her into the bedroom, and it’s twenty-six seconds of awkward silence before his hands are on the buttons, palms against her breasts, her mouth under his. Then James is at the door, and Sirius hears the long, sharp intake of breath. Then there’s Lily’s, “We’ve only been waiting for you, darling.”
Sirius can’t turn around, won’t turn around, but then Lily’s slipped away, and he has to. He’s never seen James’s eyes so dark, and he forgets, for a moment, about her small hand in his, and says, come here, rough and unsteady and somehow, oh god, somehow, James does, hurt and ashamed and quiet, certain steps across a bedroom floor.
They don’t say anything at all for a moment, and Lily’s already half-undressed, skirt down off hips that are now familiar to both of them, quick fingers undoing her blouse, and Sirius should watch, but then again, she’s not the common link anymore.
James puts his fingers to Sirius’s mouth. His smile is almost cruel until Sirius leans forward and kisses him, unexpected and off balance, hungry and demanding, and then James says, with something akin to wonder, you’re not punishing me, are you and Lily says, would you fucking come to bed already? She’s laughing.
James can’t stop touching him, hands all across his skin, insistent kisses that fall into one another, until Sirius can’t think, until it’s someone’s mouth on his cock and someone’s hand against his face and someone’s beating heart against his stomach. They blend together, black hair and green eyes, long fingers and a rough mouth. He’s caught in the push and pull of their rhythm, defined so long ago without him, and somehow, it’s not quite as terrible as he’d always imagined it would be, this utter consumption of being.
Lily falls asleep, after, and James strokes his stomach and won’t put his glasses on again, and they fuck, slow and grounding, until Sirius can’t remember where he ends and James begins, and he thinks, if he can never remember anything with Lily, he will remember every second of every moment of this, every neuron of this memory, no matter what else they take from him. James kisses him good night and good morning and hello and goodbye, and Lily doesn’t wake up.
They don’t stop after he leaves, lazy moments in the garden and her mouth on him in the shower, relearning the color of her hair in the afternoon sunlight, underwater happiness and sorrow and an aching absence somewhere close to his heart, everything muted as the seasons turn, turn, turn, spring to summer, summer to fall.
I’m right here, he says, every night before he falls asleep and every morning when he wakes up, and he buys the groceries and pays the bills and tries to sleep on the couch when James comes home, until he wakes up with James at his feet, and Lily against his chest, both of them asleep, holding hands over him. He gives up and moves back to the bed.
Then, one morning, somewhere between gone and back again, she’s on her knees on the bathroom floor, like she’s praying to some newfound, quiet porcelain idol. There’s a two second overdose of joy, straight in his blood like the only time he did heroin, in the sixth stall of the sixth floor girls lavatory, inauspicious omens in sixes and the slow slide of the needle into his vein, with James’s coaxing voice steady in his head. His hands shake. He opens his mouth and then, suddenly, she says it instead, like ventriloquism in fast-forward, like she knows what he’s going to say, anyway, like broken glass and contraceptive charms and afternoon tea - “James.”
Then it’s three-in-the-morning train station despair, and since his mouth is open anyway, it seems to say itself - just words, only words, no harm in words - “We can’t do this anymore.”
She cries and he says oh god and oh Lily and oh please and wonders if, as a child, he picked up one-too-many wrong side up sickles. He puts his arms around her, and it’s all right because he’s never been able to say no to her, anyway. She says, I’m scared and you can’t leave me alone here, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t. He’s not really sure where here is, anymore, but no, no, of course not, and it’s all right, maybe, because they’ve always had each other’s backs and each other’s secrets and each other’s hands in the middle of the night, and maybe having James’s wife is something like that, but then again, maybe not, not even a little bit, not at all.
The last time Sirius kisses him, he tastes of cider and bourbon, at the end of November, sitting on a well-oiled porch swing. Lily’s playing fetch with the neighbor’s dog, and Sirius watches the arch and fall of her wrist from the porch, James’s breath warm against his shoulder, wool jumper soft against his hands.
James says, “I love you,” the first time, the last time, the only time, then turns, mouth against Sirius’s jaw, “It was never about her. I only wanted -”
There is a moment - less time than it takes to inhale, to exhale, to inhale again, less time than it takes his heart to beat - where Sirius allows himself to imagine that he can have everything he’s ever wanted, that he can have this, that fairy tales do come true, and that there is such a thing as happily ever after.
“She’s pregnant,” Sirius says, finally, and in those words are everything he will never be able to give James Potter. Sirius can’t offer small kicks under large hands, or first steps, or quidditch matches. He can’t give first heartbreaks and first brooms and staying up all night with thermometers and chicken soup.
This, Sirius knows, is where he fails. So he watches James stand - there is half-an-instant of what might be an apology, somewhere between one glance and the next - and tells himself seventeen and a half times that it’ll be all right, watching the hesitant slide of James’s hand over Lily’s stomach, hearing low laughter, and then he goes in the kitchen and puts on his shoes and packs his suitcase - forgotten last spring in the front hall closet - with six shirts, one of which is really James’s, two razors, seven pairs of trousers, and a toothbrush he is nearly certain was Lily’s at one point.
He adds two thousand one hundred seventy-six happy memories, three broken hearts, and a pair of socks, and walks out the door.
Beware of angst, angst, and then a bit more angst; this fic has jokingly been subtitled "www.kleenex.com."
James/Lily/Sirius, Sirius/Lily, Sirius/James, Lily/James. R. In which, James is gone a lot, Sirius forgets and remembers, a porch swing is oiled, someone sleeps on a couch, and somewhere, a dog catches a stick.
Run Away Soldiers
Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away?
Will time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
- W.H. Auden
The first time he kisses her, she tastes of artificial cherry flavoring and gin, in the middle of July, sitting on a creaky porch swing. He will remember three things about it, and they are, 1) that her feet don’t touch the ground, 2) that she drops the cherry ice lolly she’s been eating, and it melts in a sticky puddle on the porch, and 3) that artificial cherry flavoring tastes remarkably like guilt.
Sirius won’t remember why he does it, or five gin and tonics, or the curve of her mouth when she laughs, just like he won’t remember the dull, low ache alcohol lends to the conversation, until Lily can’t stop laughing and he can’t stop things spilling from his mouth, like pearls and diamonds in one of those wretched fairy tales. He won’t remember saying I’m lonely and the answering my marriage is falling apart and James is James is James and I love him, but - He won’t remember hating her, just a little, for it being Lily Potter instead of the theoretical potential of James Black, won’t remember I’ve kissed James and me too or leaning in, because it seems only natural to kiss your best mate’s wife if you’re kissing her because you want to pick up the taste of someone else on her mouth.
He won’t remember fucking her on the couch, or the slow, uncertain way his fingers catch in her hair, won’t remember forgetting to close the screen door, though he’ll be sorry in the morning because they’ll make themselves banish every mosquito by hand in penance or possibly guilt, or some strange combination of both.
He won’t remember the alcohol-sweet slide of her mouth over his skin, or the small golden buckles on her sandals, or knocking over the photographs on the mantle, somehow, though there’ll be broken glass come tomorrow.
Morning doesn’t bring regret, merely slow, careless sex with thrusts in time to the pounding of his head. Lily says oh, and Sirius thinks he should probably feel guilty but doesn’t. There’s a sharp, cold void where his conscience ought to be to match the dull ache in the back of his head, and they kiss even as they clean up the glass, but it’s only hard and unfeeling; there’s no joy in it.
Sirius suspects he’ll remember the spread of her hand around the doorframe when he goes to leave for as long as he lives. She looks pale and fragile; he feels hungover and disconnected. She says, are you coming for dinner on Sunday? And he says, I think so, and then, you’ll be all right? There’s a split second between stay and you should go that Sirius imagines the entire world could get lost in. The determined curl of her fingers only makes him want to lean in again.
It’s animal magnetism, and the curve of the earth, and her steady smile. He’ll be home soon, she says, and Sirius wishes he had her certainty, her husband, her life.
James holds the door open and claps him on the back when he comes for dinner, and Lily smiles at him over the chicken, and it’s funny, Sirius thinks, the facades everyone builds. He can only see the crumbling foundation when he looks for it, as if it’s secret keeping in reverse, in the tremble of Lily’s fingers around her glass of wine and the cold edges of James’s smile. They last through dessert before Sirius spills his scotch down her shirt and Lily says motherfucking god damned bloody hell and James tells her to shut the hell up and Sirius thinks that, just maybe, his scotch isn’t the only thing on the rocks.
He says I’m sorry, I’m sorry and follows her into the bedroom, and it’s twenty-six seconds of awkward silence before his hands are on the buttons, palms against her breasts, her mouth under his. Then James is at the door, and Sirius hears the long, sharp intake of breath. Then there’s Lily’s, “We’ve only been waiting for you, darling.”
Sirius can’t turn around, won’t turn around, but then Lily’s slipped away, and he has to. He’s never seen James’s eyes so dark, and he forgets, for a moment, about her small hand in his, and says, come here, rough and unsteady and somehow, oh god, somehow, James does, hurt and ashamed and quiet, certain steps across a bedroom floor.
They don’t say anything at all for a moment, and Lily’s already half-undressed, skirt down off hips that are now familiar to both of them, quick fingers undoing her blouse, and Sirius should watch, but then again, she’s not the common link anymore.
James puts his fingers to Sirius’s mouth. His smile is almost cruel until Sirius leans forward and kisses him, unexpected and off balance, hungry and demanding, and then James says, with something akin to wonder, you’re not punishing me, are you and Lily says, would you fucking come to bed already? She’s laughing.
James can’t stop touching him, hands all across his skin, insistent kisses that fall into one another, until Sirius can’t think, until it’s someone’s mouth on his cock and someone’s hand against his face and someone’s beating heart against his stomach. They blend together, black hair and green eyes, long fingers and a rough mouth. He’s caught in the push and pull of their rhythm, defined so long ago without him, and somehow, it’s not quite as terrible as he’d always imagined it would be, this utter consumption of being.
Lily falls asleep, after, and James strokes his stomach and won’t put his glasses on again, and they fuck, slow and grounding, until Sirius can’t remember where he ends and James begins, and he thinks, if he can never remember anything with Lily, he will remember every second of every moment of this, every neuron of this memory, no matter what else they take from him. James kisses him good night and good morning and hello and goodbye, and Lily doesn’t wake up.
They don’t stop after he leaves, lazy moments in the garden and her mouth on him in the shower, relearning the color of her hair in the afternoon sunlight, underwater happiness and sorrow and an aching absence somewhere close to his heart, everything muted as the seasons turn, turn, turn, spring to summer, summer to fall.
I’m right here, he says, every night before he falls asleep and every morning when he wakes up, and he buys the groceries and pays the bills and tries to sleep on the couch when James comes home, until he wakes up with James at his feet, and Lily against his chest, both of them asleep, holding hands over him. He gives up and moves back to the bed.
Then, one morning, somewhere between gone and back again, she’s on her knees on the bathroom floor, like she’s praying to some newfound, quiet porcelain idol. There’s a two second overdose of joy, straight in his blood like the only time he did heroin, in the sixth stall of the sixth floor girls lavatory, inauspicious omens in sixes and the slow slide of the needle into his vein, with James’s coaxing voice steady in his head. His hands shake. He opens his mouth and then, suddenly, she says it instead, like ventriloquism in fast-forward, like she knows what he’s going to say, anyway, like broken glass and contraceptive charms and afternoon tea - “James.”
Then it’s three-in-the-morning train station despair, and since his mouth is open anyway, it seems to say itself - just words, only words, no harm in words - “We can’t do this anymore.”
She cries and he says oh god and oh Lily and oh please and wonders if, as a child, he picked up one-too-many wrong side up sickles. He puts his arms around her, and it’s all right because he’s never been able to say no to her, anyway. She says, I’m scared and you can’t leave me alone here, you can’t, you can’t, you can’t. He’s not really sure where here is, anymore, but no, no, of course not, and it’s all right, maybe, because they’ve always had each other’s backs and each other’s secrets and each other’s hands in the middle of the night, and maybe having James’s wife is something like that, but then again, maybe not, not even a little bit, not at all.
The last time Sirius kisses him, he tastes of cider and bourbon, at the end of November, sitting on a well-oiled porch swing. Lily’s playing fetch with the neighbor’s dog, and Sirius watches the arch and fall of her wrist from the porch, James’s breath warm against his shoulder, wool jumper soft against his hands.
James says, “I love you,” the first time, the last time, the only time, then turns, mouth against Sirius’s jaw, “It was never about her. I only wanted -”
There is a moment - less time than it takes to inhale, to exhale, to inhale again, less time than it takes his heart to beat - where Sirius allows himself to imagine that he can have everything he’s ever wanted, that he can have this, that fairy tales do come true, and that there is such a thing as happily ever after.
“She’s pregnant,” Sirius says, finally, and in those words are everything he will never be able to give James Potter. Sirius can’t offer small kicks under large hands, or first steps, or quidditch matches. He can’t give first heartbreaks and first brooms and staying up all night with thermometers and chicken soup.
This, Sirius knows, is where he fails. So he watches James stand - there is half-an-instant of what might be an apology, somewhere between one glance and the next - and tells himself seventeen and a half times that it’ll be all right, watching the hesitant slide of James’s hand over Lily’s stomach, hearing low laughter, and then he goes in the kitchen and puts on his shoes and packs his suitcase - forgotten last spring in the front hall closet - with six shirts, one of which is really James’s, two razors, seven pairs of trousers, and a toothbrush he is nearly certain was Lily’s at one point.
He adds two thousand one hundred seventy-six happy memories, three broken hearts, and a pair of socks, and walks out the door.