Harry Potter - "Le Tourbillon" - Part 2 - James/Lily/Sirius/Remus - NC-17
Title: Le Tourbillon
Author: marseverlasting
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: James/Lily, Sirius/Lily, Sirius/James, Sirius/Remus, implied Sirius/Regulus
Word Count: 35,260 words
Summary: Who doesn't want to be loved by everyone? A summer away; a time grow and fall apart.
Warnings: voyeurism, fingering, drug use, boys being assholes, femdom, poetry, angst, unrealistic portrayals of achieving orgasm, extensive foreshadowing, exhibitionism, excessive length, wall sex, (constant) alcohol use, incest, occasional breach of the fourth wall, over-indulgent discussion of a car, fluff, the French.
Author's notes: Written for krystal_moon for hp_summersmut. A big, big, big, big thank you to my Dylan Thomas who held my hand through the madness -- you are a total goddess. I've got tons of inspiration for this story, but the principle thre were Truffaut's Jules et Jim, Godard's Pierrot le fou, and Cuarón's Y tu mamá también.
Part 1
*
"Rise up, Lazarus."
Remus snorts and turns over, nuzzling into the warm pillow. He is poked again, in the side.
"Come on, Remus, it's almost time to go."
Remus' eyes flutter open and he turns around, bedclothes all a-tangle around his arms and legs, tentacles of sleep keeping him pinioned to the bed. He's shirtless now (cast off in the heat of the night) and his penis is uncomfortably hard, pressed in against the twisted folds of his boxers. Sirius is standing before him, nude, one hand half-heartedly cupping his dick, the other holding a lit cigarette which he sucks on thoughtfully.
"There's some hot water left, I think, if you want a shower, and Lily is making breakfast." Remus nods and leans up on his elbows. "I brought you up some coffee," he gestures to the mug on the bedside table, "one milk, two sugars, right?" ("Yeah.") "Better get ready quick though, it's twenty to nine."
Remus nods again before flopping back into the bed.
"Is everything all right?" Sirius asks, narrowing his eyes.
"Yeah," Remus says, yawning and stretching. "Slept bad, that's all."
"Oh," Sirius says, smiling sympathetically. "I'm sorry." Remus shrugs. "Well, you can sleep in the car if you want. I'm driving first, you can have shotgun if you'd like." Remus shrugs again, which makes Sirius smile, puzzled. "All right, well, see you." He grabs a T-shirt and shorts from the chair near the door and leaves the room.
Miraculously, they're in the car by nine, on the dot. James checks and double-checks the locks on the front door (Lily has to restrain him from running back inside to check the stove - "James, hon, we haven't used the stove,") and after a few false starts (running back in for books, pens, et cetera) they're off.
The morning is cold, and the fivesome wear their coats, Sirius looking wonderfully cool in his red leather jacket (à la Rebel Without a Cause,) kicking the car from first into third and taking off from Tutshill, direction Gloucester road, and out they go.
Sirius has the top of the car down despite the cold, and the chilling wind roars past them as he more than doubles the speed limit. Remus, like a puppy in a car, grins brightly as they cruise through scattered trees and villages, while James, Lily, and Peter snooze absently in the back seat.
"Are you excited?" Sirius asks after a bit, yanking down into third as they pass a school zone.
"Yeah." Remus smooths his hair back, which does nothing but make it flop once more in his eyes. "Definitely."
"I'm glad." Sirius looks glad, too. "I was wondering - did you maybe want to sleep in my bedroom this time? I mean, at the cottage."
Remus nods. "Sure." This is the first time he has. Usually he sleeps with Peter, James and Sirius taking the same bed to do whatever it is they do (Remus' stomach lurches, remembering the previous night; James, oh God, if James found out.)
"Je t'aime, tu sais?"
"What?" Remus asks, smiling.
"Je t'aime. I like you."
Remus scratches the back of his neck. "Er, joo tam too."
Sirius laughs, says nothing.
They drive over a big bridge, the one that crosses the brown filth of the Bristol channel. The rattling of the metal is enough to wake the boys and girl up, who yawn and stretch and smile happily as the sun reflects gold on the water, inking them all with Aztec patterns of sunlight.
The conversation is loud and hollow; jokes and banter that make everyone smile happily, the perfect kind of summer stupidity, rooted grandly in the ancient tradition of deprecation and shoulder-punching and jokes about sex. Peter gets hungry and his bookbag seems to be filled entirely with sweets, which he shares happily with the rest of his companions. Remus unearths the coke (which had been warming up in the over-sized glove compartment) passing the glass bottles back to the other three, gladly accepted by James (for digestion, he says, suckling on the lip of the bottle childishly while Lily rubs his stomach, a bit jokingly.)
"Mum used to live there, as a girl," James says, suddenly, pointing at a sign that reads CHIPPING SODBURY STAY LEFT. "Didn't make it very far," he says with a loud smile.
"We're on the road to London," Sirius explains later, yelling over the rush of the wind. "Two hours and we'll be on the ring road. About four until Dover. And then off to France."
The conversation into the London area is sparsely populated, tiredness still reigning so that the four passengers fall asleep at shifting intervals, often leaving Sirius to his thoughts and the curls and coils of wind (warming as they day grows old.) The route is boring, littered as it is with trees and low-lying British houses with nice British gardens and things that never really made Sirius feel like he was home; propriety, stiffness, position, appearance - things that might make Remus or Lily feel at home, but makes Sirius feel like he's trapped, restrained maybe. France (la destination) is his home; the wildness, the extravagance, the wine, the uncontainable quality of it all. Why his parents moved to England - and London, of all places - is beyond him, but even in questioning that, he realizes all the good it has brought him: Remus, Peter, Lily, and James. France means Beauxbâtons, which means no Animagi, no practical jokes, no making fun of Snivellus, no summer trips with the Marauders (it means no Marauders at all actually) and suddenly he's very happy he lives in England, in London (though now in Tutshill, with his only real brother,) because he has all he really ever needs.
Sirius turns to Remus: "Would you help me bury a body?"
"Wh - what?"
"Would you help me bury a body?"
"What do you mean? What have you done?"
"I haven't done anything, I'm just asking if you'd help me bury a body. Hypothetically."
"You haven't killed anyone?" Remus looks at him, askance.
"Not yet." He grins. "I'm just asking, would you -" he swerves to miss a pothole, "- help me, or turn me in?"
"I'd help you, obviously," Remus says. "We all would." Remus turns to look at James, Peter, and Lily, but the three weren't paying attention. "Just make sure it's someone we don't like."
"Same here." His shoulders fall back, a bit more relaxed than the awkward-start morning.
They stop in Dover for food, finally undone by James' incessant complaining. It's a small little pub, specializing in small little pub food; ploughman's and meat pies and fish and chips and hot pots and pasties and the like. Remus and Sirius share an over-sized steak and kidney pie while the rest of them get steaming, violently yellow Cornish pasties. James volunteers to get the round, and Peter buys a second. An hour passes, and Lily voices their lateness.
"No worries," Sirius replies. "We'll get the 1:15 ferry, we'll be in by three."
They finish their meals (getting another few pasties to go) and get into the car, which Sirius maneuvers to where the ferry is moored. He gets out and makes talk with the ferry operators milling around the dock like lost sheep, and he gets them all tickets, and a car pass for the Jensen. They drive into the yawning belly of the ferry, rolling into their assigned place and chaining the tires.
"All right," Sirius says, brushing off his hands. "Let's go on deck." They gather their things from the car, Lily grabbing her Jackie-O's and book, Remus taking the same battered copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and James and Peter dragging the chess board from the boot. They set themselves up near the back of the boat, around a cluster of three tables and five chairs, each collapsing into their own pastimes: Peter challenging James to a game of chess, Lily and Remus sat near each other reading, Sirius doodling absently on a notepad, occasionally looking up to watch Peter trounce James.
Sirius falls asleep quickly, only minutes into the cruise, and James (sharp-eyed) gets a blanket from one of the ferry operators and covers his boy's legs (Sirius curls into it, smacking his lips like a child as he grasps it in his hands.)
"Sirius," Lily tests, an hour and a half later. "Sirius?" She nudges him, rocking his arms so he wakes up slowly, blinking into light. They're well into the trip now, nearing the French shore; the ferry rocks gently, creaking as it steers through the cold water, the smell of salt and foam bursts against the side of the boat as it goes. "We're almost there. We got you a tea." She offers him a steaming mug, which he takes gratefully. Sirius feels lightheaded, hungover from the thick, metallic taste of the sea air, sick from the rocking and irritated by his nap. Drinking the tea quickly, he realizes he feels a bit feverish, sweating and cold at the same time, and he lets James and Lily touch their hands to his forehead (a nice comfort.)
"You feel hot," James decides.
Lily presses her lips to Sirius' forehead, a thing she explains her mum did for her when she was a child. "You're very hot," she agrees, wiping the sweat from Sirius' forehead. "Peter will take the rest of the drive, at least until you feel better." Sirius nods, feeling his eyes wet because of the wind (or so he tells himself.) "Did we pack any wine?" Sirius nods, blinking rapidly. "It's good for a fever," she explains, "so we'll give you a bit of that." It's nice when Lily makes all the decision; quick, efficient, intelligent - things only a girl could do right now, not so much motherly as simply compassionate, an inclination that boys just don't have. She knows exactly what to say: "Remus will take the front seat, you can sleep in the back with James and I, we'll take good care of you."
The boat docks with little incident, and the five (James wrapping an unnecessary arm around Sirius shoulders) go below deck. Peter, with a sympathetic pat on Sirius' shoulder, gets in the driver's seat, Remus reluctantly getting in beside him. In the back, Sirius (wearing Lily's large white-plastic sunglasses) is bookended by James and Lily, still wrapped in the blanket they've stolen from the ferry. He falls asleep against James' shoulder, curled up on the bench-long backseat while his best friend strokes his hair absently. Lily holds his hand. They drive in silence.
Calais is a sooty little town, grey and old with that strange combination of old and new buildings that personify Metropolis France. The waves still break in salty steel, and the clouds billow and cover like so much smoke.
It's easy to tell that Peter is a good driver, though he doesn't have the natural skill that Sirius does; the car jerks and shivers as he changes gear, but he has a better love of the road; he doesn't speed, he doesn't cut off, he behaves appropriately, the perfect defensive driver. Sirius would have cried.
A half hour into the drive and distant from the slate of the sea, the clouds finally burst and the sun floods the landscape like a river breaking a dam. Thick, layered suburbia gives way to thick fields and farm plots, small wooden houses and stone villas; windmills and farmhouses. The air takes on a summery smell; sweet from flowers and grapes and tomato, earthy and raw, like freshly ground wheat or handfuls of wet dirt.
Sirius stirs occasionally, sometimes after a particularly rocky piece of road, or a sharp turn, and he snuffles and mumbles, eyes only opening in squints to look up at James, smiling down.
"Kiss me," Sirius says, shifting closer to James. "Please?" It's easy to understand what he wants; if James is there, right there, right beside him, always.
James looks to Lily, who smiles and shrugs. He lean down and kisses Sirius on the cheek.
"Nuh-uh," Sirius moans, rolling about in half-sleep. "Like you mean it."
Lily looks at James, curious, thought not offended. "It's complicated," is James' reply, and he leans down, kissing Sirius lightly on the lips for a handful of seconds.
"Thanks," he mumbles and goes back to sleep.
"He's a demanding boy," Lily says, a bit coldly.
"Yeah," James replies, distantly. "He is."
"You have an odd relationship," Lily says, touching his arm gently.
"Yeah." James doesn't smile; cold. "We do." It's clear, and Lily remains silent: he doesn't want to talk about.
*
They stop in Arlay, eleven o'clock at night. Sirius has slept through the day, though his fever still holds sway, delirious and irate, pouting and sniffling when he isn't sleeping. They stop in a family restaurant, somewhere off the A39; an Italian-French place where they order family dishes of pasta and caviar d'aubergine (kind of a mushed-up eggplant with olive oil and herbs on bread, James explains.) Sirius is curled up asleep on the long-bench next to James, head on his lap, where he sleeps restlessly, taking in gulps of mulled wine that James holds for him at the ready.
"How's he doing?" Remus asks, pushing his pasta around his plate.
"He's okay," James says, stroking Sirius' sweaty hair like that of a dog's. "I'm sure once he has a bath and a good sleep he'll be fine."
Peter is nodding off where he sits, leaning in to press his head against Remus' shoulder. They're entering almost into a second night now, twelve hours of driving pushing them through cloud and sun, traveling so far they feel like they've gone over the curve of the earth, passing into the aching dawn that waits ahead. Lily offers to take over driving (how hard can it be? she asks - James laughs) but Peter waves her off, so focused on the task that it would be disappointing to give up now.
The drive through the night is taken in utter silence, populated only by the squeaking of crickets and the buzz of locusts; caterwauls of animals and the hollow echo of night. Peter drives with a steely determination, knuckles cold and white because he hasn't yet figured out how to lift the top of the convertible. Sirius snores quietly in Lily's lap, and Lily and James hold hands. Remus reads the map, bored.
The clock reads 12:54 when they crawl in the front drive of the summer house, rolling to a stop with a satisfying gravel crunch. The road is lined with perfect privet hedges and wide, fanning evergreens; thick (though neatly kept) flower gardens erupt in intervals as the headlights of the car flash over their colour. It's difficult to judge the size of the place; there are no lights, only the beams of the Jensen to illuminate the front yard - here, tall white columns with peeling paint, white sideboards and heavy-shuttered windows, a large double front door (over which a sign read MAISON SERPANTARD - Toujours Pur) and an open-air garage, just a weathered covering of shingle and wood. Peter pulls into there (uncertain, as Sirius is asleep) and turns of the car, which cools quickly and putts and creaks its pleasure.
They get out of the car sleepily, ambling, James half-dragging Sirius into the house. James has the keys, luckily, and opens the doors. It's harder still to the judge the interior - dark, furniture ghostly with thick canvas dust-covers, and they can't find the light switch despite all their blind wall-fumbling. Giving up, James lights his wand and they make their way upstairs.
"That," James says, pointing to the large double-doors at the end of the upstairs hallway, "is the parents' bedroom, and that," he points his wand to the next door down, illuminating old picture frames lining the hall as he does, "is the bathroom," and the next, "and Sirius and Regulus' old room," and the next, "and the spare room." The company nod and divide amongst themselves, Peter taking the spare room, James (supporting a snuffling Sirius in his strong arms) and Lily and Remus continuing down the hall.
Sirius wakes by the time they reach his bedroom door: "We're here?"
"We're here," Remus says, touching his hair softly. James lets him down and Sirius wobbles on his feet. He isn't very hot anymore, but still sweaty. "I'm glad." His eyes are bloodshot, but his skin seems to glow a bit healthier.
"Goodnight, Sirius," Lily says, kissing his sweaty forehead quickly. "Feel better."
James gives him a hug and starts away, but is stopped by a hand to his arm: "Wait, Jamie," Sirius says, reverting to old, childish names, "come sleep with me." It's less a request.
James tilts his head questioningly, but Lily gets there first: "No, Sirius, you just go to bed, Remus will take care of you."
Sirius ignores her, flushed and red and delirious: "Jamie, please. Let's go." It's like there's no one else there. "Please?"
James doesn't speak, he looks torn, mostly, and quietly upset. Lily speaks again: "No, Sirius," she says firmly, "it's out of the question. Just go to bed, you'll see James tomorrow."
Sirius, without a word, opens the door and flops down on the bed, releasing a cloud of dust as he does. Remus flicks on the bedroom light (illuminating a bare white room, a variety of magical and non-magical portraits lining the walls, all of their subjects sleeping soundly; with them old posters of cars and girls and - most prominently - the movie Easy Rider - as well as family photos and such) and the three of them watch Sirius - there he is, lying on his stomach, fully clothed, boots on and everything, facing the far corner of the room.
"Uh, goodnight then, Sirius," James says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.
Silence.
"Sirius?" Silence. "G'night, man." Silence, still. "Goodnight?"
Lily sighs impatiently. "If he's pissed off, he's pissed off." Sirius is like this a lot, and she knows it: hot-blooded and brilliant shifting seamlessly into cold anger and isolation, hatred into desperation, sweetness into cruelty; what James affectionately calls his PMS - pissy man syndrome. Anything can turn Sirius from extraversion inwards - a touch, a kiss, the wrong word, the wrong thought, the wrong name (just try talking about Regulus.) It makes their relationship as exciting as it is frustrating; or at least with Lily, the boys know that when Sirius gets moody, if they just back off for a couple hours he'll be right as rain, shaking the anger off like water from a duck's back.
Lily takes a leaf from their book and leads James by the hand (with one last look, despondent) to their own bedroom, leaving poor Remus to fend against this prickly-minded foe stuck in Sirius' skin.
Remus closes the door behind him, his back flat against it, looking at his friend. Sighing, he begins to undress his friend, tugging off the heavy boots and dropping them with a clatter to the ground.
"How are you feeling?" Remus asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Sirius doesn't reply.
"Sirius, are you asleep?" He isn't; Sirius turns to look at Remus steadily, though still silent. "How are you feeling?" Sirius makes no reply, just continues his blank stare, a stare so steady it seems hateful. "Why are you angry at me?" Remus says, pointedly. "I haven't done anything." Sirius turns around, still stomach-flat against the bed. "You know what - fine." Remus gets off the bed and leaves, parting with: "We're your friends, Sirius, it'd be nice if you remembered that sometimes." He closes the door quietly behind him.
*
Sirius wakes up, early and hideously hot, curled in a whirlpool of dust and sunlight. He's still fully dressed and sitting on top of the covers, his bedroom light fighting feebly to be seen against the flood of morning sun - Remus clearly didn't return.
Sirius feels hungover, a bad taste in his mouth and he's weak all over, arms and legs feeling like the joints of puppet. His hair is oily and messed in every direction, his eyes red and swollen, face itchy with stubble. Sirius peels off his sweat-stiff clothes and drops them on his bed, dragging himself the short distance to the bathroom, slow-footed like drunkard. The shower is cold and refreshing; he jerks off with soap-slick hands and examines his pearl-white come like a fragile spider web caught between his fingers, or the draped links of a finely-wrought gold necklace (finally letting it wash away in the cold stream.) Getting out he doesn't much care to dry off, patting his slick hair absently with a towel and wrapping it around his waist.
James is the only one awake when Sirius pads into the kitchen. They're silent, just looking at each other, blinking rapidly. Sirius looks better, that's for sure; his colour has returned to that well-cared-for glow and tan, as smooth and even as a polished stone or maybe the rind of a hard cheese; his cheeks are flushed, and his ears, too, behind that thick weedy tangle of wet hair; his muscles bulge and relax as he shifts his weight from foot to foot and he can see the short bramble of hair that creeps above the lip of the towel, sweet and hot and speaking of fresh sex.
The moment breaks and they smile: "I'm sorry," they say in unison, breaking into grins again, the issue satisfyingly dealt with.
Breakfast is a stupid affair; bright green mint sodas they picked up in Arlay and cheese-flavoured crisps bought way back in Dover. The two boys sit on the back porch, a large screen-covered wooden platform that connects from the kitchen, decked with old, rickety chairs and tables, wrought-iron side-tables and footstools and the jetsam of dozens of years of use (tools, toys, broken highballs and old wine bottles; aged family detritus.)
They chat and eat casually, Sirius sitting back, naked, and toweling off his hair, James scratching at new bug bites and telling a story Sirius has already heard before ("so, I already had ten shots of rum, and then my cousin says we should do a keg stand -") The sun is still low in the sky and the air is cool in the shadows of the veranda, thick with the sounds of crows and the low warble of insects. They smoke James' Benson & Hedges (chick fags, Sirius teases) before Sirius goes out to the car (holding his cock and sneaking around like the world's worst spy - James roars with laughter) and returns with a large plastic bag filled with neatly-rolled joints, the fruits of a past day's labour. They light one each and suck on them silently, thoughtfully.
"Cool, early bird special," Peter says, stepping out onto the veranda. He's wearing a vibrant Hawaiian shirt and a blue bathing suit; a broad, stretching smile and his hair badly parted. He sits in next to James and pushes his teashade glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Sirius offers Peter the joint (gladly taken) and drops the towel from around his shoulders and over his naked waist, crossing his legs under him as he does, leaning forward, chin on hands.
"I like that," James says, taking a deep draw the smoke coming out in thin wisps as he talks. "The way your skin folds when you lean forward." He touches one hand to the warm skin of Sirius' tummy, patting it lightly. "See, the way it curls there, like a ribbon or something." James' hands linger there for a moment, possessively, fingers sliding in against hot muscle, the tips just probing the dry coil of hair that nestles beyond the towel.
Sirius grins and rubs his own stomach. "I guess. I haven't really thought about it." He tucks his hands under his armpits and sighs. "See, I've always kind of liked this," he says, nodding to his underarms, withdrawing his hands and touching the thin fold of flesh that pinches between chest and shoulder. "That little fold of skin there," and pokes it absently, drawing the same finger to the dark flesh of his nipple. "I always thought it was weirdly sexy."
James nods: "And collarbo -"
"Did you guys have a fight last night?" Peter interrupts.
"What? - er, no," Sirius says, blushing. He looks at James, who shrugs. "We're fine."
"No - I mean Remus," Peter replies, sucking on the joint, "he came and slept with me last night."
"Oh," Sirius says, "that was, uh, nothing. Just a misunderstanding."
"He looked pretty upset," Peter continues, cheerfully.
"Yeah, we just had a minor fight." Sirius grits his teeth. "It was nothing. Really."
Peter takes another drag: "I mean, he cried pretty much until he fell asleep."
James winces, but Sirius stares straight ahead, deadly cold: "Thank you, Peter."
"I mean, really sobbing. It was awful." He says it conversationally, casually, as if commenting on the weather.
"Shut up, Peter."
Peter either doesn't hear him, or ignores him: "I mean, I held his shoulder but I really didn't know what to do -"
"SHUT UP, PETER."
They're silent, and Peter pouts. A cool wind rolls through and Sirius shivers, naked, skin bristling with goose pimples, laps paling and going chapped. It's hard to see the lake from the veranda (wide-boughed trees set in a line, forming a shield, rustling and swaying in the wind) but the three try hard, staring through the brush like they have X-ray vision, imagining the lake because they're unwilling to look at each other.
"I'm going to get changed," Sirius says, getting up and throwing the damp towel over his shoulders again, scratching his side thoughtfully. "Then we can go to the market, get some food." James nods lazily and Peter looks away as if he hasn't heard. "Should I wake Lily up?"
"She's probably up already."
"Mm-kay." Sirius turns to the door but is pre-empted as Remus steps out onto the veranda. They stare at each other blankly, deer caught in the same headlight. Remus blinks rapidly and Sirius just stares. It's almost funny, the two of them; Sirius naked and Remus in a nice shirt and shorts; Sirius still a bit wet and chilled from the morning, Remus clean and warm; Sirius' lip trembling, Remus stiff and solid.
"Oh, Christ, Remus," Sirius moans, throwing his arms around Remus' shoulders, kissing his neck and holding him like he's drowning. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry." Remus smiles naturally, a smile so full and warm that it makes obvious the hollowness of his frown.
"It's really not that big a deal," Remus says, patting Sirius' naked back awkwardly, but it's too late now; too much talk with Peter, too much reflection, and Sirius thinks he has ruined everything (histrionic bastard, Remus thinks, you know I love you.)
Sirius grabs Remus' cheeks roughly and kisses him on the lips - once, twice, three times - wet, stupid things like the kisses of a dog, beauty in the meaning rather than the action. James grins (it amuses him) and looks over to Peter to let him in on the joke, but finds his friend's face lacking, blinking slowly and staring vacantly at the scene, almost unbelieving. Peter's joint dangles from his lower lip, which James tugs away to startle him out of his reverie ("Don't Bogart, Pete.")
"I'm going to get changed," Sirius says, cheerfully. "Then we're going out."
"Go for it," Remus smiles. Sirius nods, touches Remus' shoulder, and retreats into the house. Remus watches him go, the white beacon of his arse shining in the still-dark house as Sirius bounds up the staircase (Remus chuckles, scratching his neck bashfully.) He takes Sirius' vacated seat.
"Hola," James says, slapping hands with Remus. "Ça va?" Remus nods, taking James' proffered joint. "Have you seen Lily?"
"Showering," Remus coughs, breathing deeply and picking a seed from his tongue. "Or, last I saw."
"Are you dating Sirius?" Peter asks suddenly.
"Am I - what? Dating?"
Peter frowns: "Going out. Together."
"Uh… huh… no." Remus narrows his eyes. "Why would you ask?"
"I don't really care if you're, like, a poof. Or if you bugger him or whatever." Peter grimaces, but thinks better of it and lets a weird smile fill his face. "I mean, I don't care if you're a gay. I just want to know."
"What does it matter, Pete?" James intervenes warningly.
"Because people don't tell me things!" Peter says, his voice rising. "I don't even know what's up with you guys!"
"Chill, Peter," James replies, like soothing a startled colt. "They just had a fight, that's all." James glances to Remus, who nods his consent. "Sirius wanted - uh - my company. Last night, when he was sick. He took out his anger on Remus. That's it. It's okay now."
Peter frowns. "And you couldn't tell me that before?" he asks, turning to Remus.
"It was none of your business," James says.
"Apparently nothing is." Peter sits back down and frowns. James sighs angrily and shakes his head. They're silent for a long time, and Peter eventually speaks, clearly not done with the subject: "Why did you kiss him then?" James glares at him, unbelieving, but Remus waves him down with a hand.
"We love each other, but we're not - um, in love," Remus says thoughtfully. "That's just what Sirius is like; you should know that by now. We're just friends."
"So, what, Sirius is a poof?"
"Peter! for fuck's sake -" James rounds on him furiously, "- he's not gay, none of us are. Now shut up or I'm leaving. Jesus Christ." Peter shuts up because Peter is Peter and when James says jump, Peter gets out the burning hoops.
Sirius pokes his head out to the veranda: "We're going now."
"We're going now," James repeats, almost thankfully. They extinguish their joints and leave.
*
The market is like something from a novel; cluttered with stalls and people, bursting with many-coloured tapestries and jewelry (some hand-made and fine, others plastic day-glo); stands piled high with jars and urns and clay pots of every kind, from Ming to mason; ancient toys and memorabilia from les trente glorieuses, the roaring twenties, even some Napoleonic treasures that Sirius shrugs off saying the attic is full of them. The company wanders through these stalls, dazed, like they're walking through a vivid dream, hot and high and startled by the foreign people, following Sirius' white-clad figure like some guiding seraph.
The air is warm and heady as they pass through stalls of fresh spice, ashy bellows of cumin and cinnamon, mustard and other dry powders that drift thickly in the air. Sirius points and laughs at the enormous hanging phalluses of root ginger, dipping his hands in gargantuan bags of dried beans and lentils as he walks through, trailing his ducklings behind.
They reach the stalls of food at last, Sirius spreading his arms like Moses, leading his Jews to the land of milk and honey. Mountains of food line their path like a lush forest of polished gems; bundles and baskets of tomatoes and aubergines, spears of haricot verts and asparagus; fruit of the kind they had never seen before (jackfruit and quince and granadilla and persimmon) and all manners of fresh pastry, bread, even a few stalls selling wine. The air is thick with sweet smells and thick, rapid French that babbles around them like a flowing river. Sirius winds through the thing like a Frenchman, a countryman, easy and smooth compared to his dazed and pasty Englishmen (marveling with the starry gaze of tourists, stumbling around as if high or drunk.) Sirius buys some pastries with impressive French, and passes them out: "Petit déjeuner," he says, taking a big bite out of his cheese pastry. "Let's walk."
Sirius takes command as they walk and eat, their newfound Frenchman giving them a running commentary as they stroll (this is an old jail, he says, pointing to a stone triangle in the middle of the river, it's nine-hundred years old.) Following breakfast, Sirius starts shopping, Lily his second in command: aubergines and oyster mushrooms and potatoes and tomatoes; Peter, James, and Remus watch, impressed; apples and limes and pears, turnips and courgettes, and fat, stubbly cucumbers; olive oil and butter and big jugs of milk; fresh bread and sour plum tarts and pains-au-chocolat; big fresh fish (trout and sea bream) and smoked salmon in a wide pine box and little tins of caviar and escargot; and finally, two full cases of red wine some 1950s Chateaux something that costs a whole wad of Francs, which Sirius assures them is top notch (for that much, it better be, James says.) Peter, Remus, and James hold all the groceries like the patient husbands they are; Sirius pays for everything, waving off his friends' money (our sugar daddy, James says, a constant laugh track.)
"I'm bored," Peter says after two hours of shopping, plastic bags hanging from his arms like fat, white bats. "Can we go now?" He's sweating, little tunnels of heat running down his cheeks, soft blond hair made dark and slick, glasses slipping down his nose.
Sirius consults with Lily, leaning in and whispering in her ear, neat white teeth scraping the lobe, warm breath strange and intimate, blowing gently the soft hair at her temple; she giggles and nods. (James either doesn't care or doesn't notice.)
"All right," Sirius says, "let's drop these and get lunch."
They leave the groceries into the Jensen's enormous boot, sighing happily now they're finally unburdened. They make the walk back into the city, meandering down the riverbank in the city enter, admiring the Spanish-looking buildings (big, square things in rusty reds and yellows, orange and brown and pale rose, the whole spread coloured as if a sunset exploded over the town.)
"It's beautiful," Lily says, smiling into the river breeze, her red hair fluttering all around. "I love it here." She catches James' hand and they swing about childishly. Sirius makes a big show of rolling his eyes at Remus, who chuckles at his little clown.
Peter walks in next to Sirius: "Look at them, eh. Think they're in love?"
Sirius cocks and eyebrow. "Uh, maybe, Pete," he says, not bothering to hide his bemusement. "Could be a ruse."
Peter shrugs. "They've only been going out for, like, six months." He ponders it for a moment, watching James' back almost reverently. In an undertone he asks: "Think they've - er, done it yet?"
"I don't know," Sirius replies in a loud whisper, "let's check - Oi, James!" ("Yeah?") "Have you and Lily done it yet?" ("Fuck off you fat cunt.") Sirius smiles at Peter: "Nope."
There's a large park at the tip of the city, a broad stone semi-circle that extends into the lake, crass-covered and shaded by enormous weeping willows, punctuated by lamp posts and park benches, little vendors selling crepes. A sign reads Jardin de l'Europe. It smells of flowers here and the deep, pungent smell of lake water and weeds, cooking crepes, tainted by the diesel fumes of the nearby dock. The fivesome sit on the lip of the stone wall, legs dangling over the water and kicking like a toddler in a high chair. They admire the view, the choppy surface of the lake rising into the growing Alps, mountains so big and so close they look like islands in the sea, towering and isolated.
"So, lunch?"
They have a casual meal at a very, very expensive restaurant near the lakeside. They drink beer (Grolsch; another tradition, Lily discovers) and have a cold lunch; roasted vegetables served over ice; smoked salmon with cream cheese and capers; fresh bread with whipped butter and even more beer; a plate of aged cheeses only Sirius and Lily like; and even more beer (except for Sirius, responsible little driver, he is.)
Finished and full and flushed with booze, they sit back in their chairs and sigh. Lily asks for a kiss, which James supplies before asking one from the other three boys (only Sirius kisses her on the lips, which makes the two of them grin, united through their shared shopping experience, and other such things.)
"I wanna swim," Peter says languidly, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt. He looks for support from the others, which he gets.
"What, here?" Lily asks. "I don't have my bathing suit."
"No, no, the house has a beach," Sirius explains.
"It has a beach?" she stares at him in disbelief, the cost of the place finally becoming clear to her. "Is it private?"
"Yeah. You know those trees in the back?" she nods. "Well, it's right beyond those. It's pretty nice. Not a pebble beach like the Riviera. This one is sand."
"Well," she says, all smile, "let's go."
They do.
*
While the rest of them get changed, James and Sirius officially open the house; that is, uncover the furniture and open the storm windows and get the spare tables and chairs from storage, little things like this that truly makes the house theirs.
Hands on his hips, Sirius takes a beloved breath of winter-bread mould and dust and furniture polish, a familiar smell, the first real indication of summer, pulled out from the moth-eaten memories of his childhood.
"I'm glad you invited Lily," James says, sliding an arm around Sirius' waist, getting in right close. Sirius shrugs. "I know you don't really care for her."
Sirius narrows his eyes, curious. "I never said that…"
"I know, but I can tell."
"You're wrong," Sirius says. "I like her."
"Well, you really don't seem to - not at school, anyways."
"We're done school," Sirius says pointedly.
"I know. Maybe I'm wrong. It just looks to me like you never really liked her company -"
"Well that's only when you -" Sirius pauses, considering his words. "I don't know. I like her, though. I always have."
"That's good." James smiles. "I like her too."
"So, have you had sex with her?"
"Don't be an ass," James slings cheerfully.
"I'm actually asking, not teasing."
"Of course we have, I just don't like talking about it." Sirius can feel James' fingers tighten against the fabric of his muscle shirt.
"What do you mean? I always tell you about - uh - my conquests."
James looks at him warningly, and Sirius gives a Who, me? expression. "It's private, Sirius." Sirius chuckles. "I don't want to kiss and tell."
"God," Sirius says, slapping James' back. "You're fucking adorable" James gives him a look. "In a good way, I mean. You wouldn't be James is you weren't."
"Well, have you done it with Remus?"
Sirius narrows his eyes: "What?"
"It's just a question."
"Don't ask about it," Sirius says with finality. "Christ. I asked you not to talk about that, James."
"But why?" James asks, a bit pleadingly. "You know I don't mind at all! You know I think it's sweet - and Lily too. We're suppor -"
"Lily knows too?" Sirius glares at James. "Fucking Christ, we're not even together. I've never done anything with him - I don't even like him like that - I'm not a - you saw us sleeping together. Once. We sleep together all the fucking time."
"Not naked," James says pointedly.
"Hey, fuck off, man. This conversation is over." He starts tugging the white canvas dust-covers from the furniture, a little more aggressively than required.
"I don't get you," James says in exasperation. "What do you have against -"
"Nothing!" Sirius yells, shifting immediately to a deadly whisper. "I'm just not gay. I fucking told you that before. I'm just -"
"Affectionate, I know," James finishes, wearily. "I just want you to be happy, and if you keep lying to yourself -"
Sirius spins at him, furiously: "What do you want me to say?!"
James shrugs. "That what we do, what you do - it's maybe a little -"
"That's not - that's not gay, man. That's you and me. That's Siriusnjames. You're like a fucking brother to me; I only do that stuff because I feel totally comfortably with you."
"Well," James winces, "I just want you to be happy."
"Thanks a lot, James. Really. See how happy you've made me?" James stares, frozen, opening and closing his mouth trying to say something, but Sirius just brushes him off: "Yeah, fine, whatever."
"What?"
"Whatever," Sirius says again, turning his back to James. "I don't give a fuck."
"A fuck about what?"
"Anything." Sirius pauses, then drops into a big plush chair, steepling his fingers and looking steadily at James. He wants to say it - 'I'm fucking Lily' - so badly, wants to just show him up; fucking James, always trying to look out for him (why is that such a bad thing?) and trying to be the better man, and trying to sort everything out so nicely and live in a fantasy world where everyone gets along and everyone loves everybody and can't he just understand things don't work that way? Love isn't that simple: he knows that, because he's sitting in stupid, fucking Regulus' chair.
"Are you angry with me?"
Sirius sighs. God, if it were only that easy: he could be angry with James and they'd punch each other and everything would be okay. He wouldn't have to deal with the fact that, yeah, he's guilty for fucking Lily every chance he gets; that he's terrified that James will find out; that he's in love with Remus but let's not think about that; that he wants to fuck around with James so much that he jerks off to him more than he should and imagines the way James' fingers would feel inside him, and that's plain wrong because that's like wanting to fuck your brother - and that's a whole new set of problems Sirius hasn't faced since he was fifteen and drunk. Wouldn't anger just be fucking dandy. "No. I'm never angry with you."
And that's the goddamn truth.
They finish the room in silence, spreading wide the stormshutters and bundling the furniture covers in the closet. The room is all a-swirl with disturbed dust, the sun flooding Biblically into the house and giving everything a halo of bright light. James and Sirius collapse into opposite chairs and stare at each other, blankly. Neither is quite sure if they've actually had an argument or not; they're not angry, just confused, upset.
James looks at his feet and says: "I thought you just didn't trust me, that's all."
"I trust you with my life, Jamie. Don't be an idiot."
"I know." James examines his short nails, distantly hearing Lily and Remus murmur upstairs. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up. I just wish I knew what you were thinking sometimes. You're - not an easy person to read." Sirius shrugs. "But. Yeah. I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry."
"You should pry," Sirius nods. "You just shouldn't be an idiot."
James looks at him curious, not sure if he should smile or not, settling eventually on: "But, yeah, I'm just sorry, mate -"
"Sorry about what?" Lily asks, walking down the stairs, stunning in her striped blue bikini, dark red hair up in a loose bun, wand tucked behind her ear, freckles all a-gleam under the sun. Suddenly the whole tone of the room buckles and breaks, tension giving way to warmth. And really, it's like this every time James sees her: he falls in love again and again and everything seems so far away (and Sirius has got the same damn expression, James just doesn't notice.) She's like the Capitoline Venus, statuesque in every sense of the word; a classical beauty that isn't exactly slim, but curves and slides like her marble images, round and calm and tempered like the soft shell of pottery. She has a bit of a tummy, small and wider-set breasts, and large, soft hips - a distinctly Praxitelean beauty, refined rather than robust. There's an intense naturalness to her, the sway of her head, the curve of her calf to the sharp ball of her ankle, the way she walks like a sine wave, as if floating over the ground, willing her feet towards the earth.
"Mm. I forgot how good you look in a bathing suit," James says in that wonderfully awkward way he has.
"Cheers," she says, kissing him neatly on the mouth. "So what was all that yelling about?" She has red and freckled arms, and she hooks them on her hips, waiting expectantly for their story.
"Oh - uh - nothing," James says.
"I'm madly in love with you," Sirius says, off-hand. "We were dueling."
James gives a great roar of laughter, swinging one arm around Lily's waist and tugging her tight; Lily merely narrows her glance, watching Sirius with dark green eyes and chapped lips.
"Lily, relax," James says jocularly, nudging her a bit, "it's just a joke." He kisses her shoulder, and she manages a weak smile.
Sirius frowns: "Sorry, just a joke -"
"Letsgoletsgoletsgo -" Peter yells, hammering down the stairs like it's Christmas morning, Remus laughing silently behind him. Peter jogs up next to James and punches him jovially in the shoulder: "Let's goooo." James ruffles his hair like an older brother, mussing up the careful part. "C'mon, c'mon," Peter says, turning to Sirius, bouncing impatiently on his heels.
"Yeah, yeah, gimme a second," Sirius says. "We still need to get some stuff from the cellar."
"Oh, come on," James groans, his other arm going across Peter's shoulder, their two arms crossing and folding like the wings of a bird, self-same shit-eating grins shining out. "We can get it later."
"Fine, fine." Sirius fishes in his pockets for the keys - big, rustic skeleton keys, each handle engraved with the Black family seal. James and Peter clamour around him like impatient pups, rocking on their feet and pawing at Sirius' shoulder. With a jerk and a turn, Sirius opens the wide French doors that lead to the back lot, laughing as his two friends vault out of the house like greyhounds following a hare.
It's hard to see the back garden, blinded as they are by the overwhelming afternoon sun (hanging low in the sky, an hour or so from night.) Slowly as if through a fog, eyes adjust and scenery is revealed: they stand on a wide stone semi-circle of a patio, decked with chairs and tables and umbrellas and such, enough to suit a couple dozen people; to the right, the light wood of the veranda which extends from the kitchen like an enormous flowerbox. Beyond that, in the stretch of short grass, a half-dozen wrought-iron chairs sit around a dead fire pit, shallow with ash and covered with an iron grate. The short grass ends only a few meters further, developing suddenly into a thick stretch of waist-high yellow grass (with fuzzy little heads, like wheat,) scattered all around with tall Indian paintbrush (poppy-bursts of bristled red that James sometimes tucks behind Lily's ear,) Queen Anne's lace, and other nameless weeds that crawl and bloom in the thicket. Beyond that is a tall border of trees; oak or elm or beech, who knows? They're big trees though, large enough to block the view of the lake. The thick of the weedy grass drops off immediately beyond the trees, dissolving into the rough sand strip of the beach, which itself ends abruptly into the clean black water of the lake.
James and Peter tear across the grass wildly, leaping and whooping like Tom Sawyer, shucking their clothes as they go - fling; the shirt is on the lawn - buckle; the shorts are by the fire-pit - rip; socks leap into the air like little black cannonballs. Sirius, Remus, and Lily watch, amused, as the two boys vault off beyond the trees, boxer-clad and hollering as they go
Lily sighs. "Will they be naked when we get there?"
"Yep."
"You guys too?" she asks, fanning herself with a magazine, as cool as can be (she has spent far too much time with the Marauders.)
"Yep." Sirius leans against the doorway and gives her a winning grin. As he speaks, he peels off his black muscle shirt, dropping it onto the stone floor of the patio as if to prove his point.
"Remus?" She says, turning to him, her last bastion of sanity.
"Sorry, Lily," he says, unbuttoning his shirt and revealing pale, scar-rippled skin beneath, "it's tradition." It's like these traditions are holy commandments, and maybe if she were a boy she'd understand, but Lily just chuckles and shakes her head and adjusts the straps of her bikini.
When she turns back to Sirius, he's naked and stretching lazily, like a tired cat. It's surprising, she finds, that she's already accustomed to his body - the curves, the structure, the muscles thereof; it's all been under her hands, her lips, her body at one point or another. She likes the colour of his skin, Mediterranean and brown and splattered with ink-black freckles, though his arms are still darker than his chest (a T-shirt tan) which always makes her laugh. He's lean, only warm and young muscle bulging from his limbs; smooth and hard over his stomach, anchored by the round pucker of his bellybutton. The curve of his chest invites a hand, and his nipples are dusty and pink, almost brown - any lighter and they would blend into the colour of his skin. His shoulders are broad, the shoulders of a football player, or maybe a Chaser. The sharp angles of his bones (shallow V of his collar, wing-like shoulder-blades, small buttons of his wrist) play in mathematical contrast to the flesh of his muscle, like a balance of hard and soft, of strength and sweet. The flat plane of his pelvis is laced with the dark fuzz of puberty, leading down to dark curls and his circumsized penis, something her eyes linger over (even flaccid it's fat and pink; he has a beautiful penis, which makes Lily stifle a laugh.) He's so different from James; athletic where her boyfriend is skinny, blushed and brown where James is English and white, agile and flexible where James is awkward and a bit klutzy. Polar opposites, really.
Sirius sets off after his friends at a run, and it's startling to realize that she feels like he belongs to her too, at least as much as James does. Watching his thighs flex, his calves strain as he sprints through the grass - it pleases her, warms her, as much as James does. It's not a new thing that's for sure, it's a feeling she felt at Hogwarts - watching Sirius bend and move in the common room, changing from his T-shirt into a sweater - and the knowing glance he would give her, and the look she would give back. She shivers, and she's not really sure if it's guilt.
Remus is a bit more modest: he wraps his beach towel around his waist, and blushes as he does. He's got a slender build, smaller so than Sirius, but a bit broader in the shoulder than James. He's a bit gentler too; that is, not round by any means, for he seems to all be flat surfaces and bones, but simply underdeveloped, an athletic body that has been calmed by books and lessons and not really eating enough and being torn apart once a month. He's not as scarred as Lily would have thought - maybe it's a werewolf healing factor or some other comic-book-like quality - and the scars he does have are actually kind of attractive, lightning-shaped slashes that curl over his shoulders, around the sides of his body, and diagonally down his hips.
"You coming?" he asks, draping a few more towels over his shoulders for the rest of the boys.
"Yeah, sure." She smiles, and takes his hand as they walk. "It's really pretty down here. Sirius is really lucky."
Remus shrugs. "I don't know if I would say that."
"What do you mean?"
"It's all he's got left, isn't it?"
She looks at him curiously: "What do you mean?"
"His family. It's all he's got left from his family." Remus sighs, maybe more for Sirius' sake. "I think he misses them sometimes."
"But they were awful to him! - or, at least, that's what James told me." They pass the furniture and fire-pit, she can see MWPP FOREVER scratches into the peeling white paint of the table. "I mean, Sirius doesn't really talk about them a lot, does he?"
"No, not really. I think part of him still loves them, though."
"Oh." They walk on in silence, bowing under the trees and stepping foot onto the warm sand of the beach. James, Sirius, and Peter are already in the water, splashing about like infants, galloping about the shallows only to deliver a tackle to a midriff, roaring and laughing and falling into the surf with flailing limbs.
Remus, a bit braver in company, lets his towel drop. Out of respect, Lily averts her eyes, contenting instead to watch her James dunk Sirius under the water, wiry form all shiny and wet with water and evening sunlight. It's easy to tell the boys apart in the growing darkness; body types quite different, and (of course) Sirius' long hair.
This is the first she has seen of Peter naked, and he's fairly accurate to how she imagined - short, broad-shouldered, built like a rugby player, stocky and strong - though, a strength that doesn't really show itself except for the occasional play-fight. He's very, very white, though a bit red in the arms and face from their walks today. Normally carefully parted blond hair is now wet and slick, falling in front of his face like weeds, which he pushes back to make him look like an American greaser from the 50s. His front teeth are bit too big for his face and his eyes are a dark, beady brown, but on the whole he's not ugly, almost attractive in a thick-skulled athlete kind of way (despite being one of the worst athletes Lily has ever seen.)
"You coming in?" Remus asks, touching her shoulder.
"Oh, yeah, course." She drops her towel and walks towards the water (James cat-calls, but is dunked by Sirius, taking advantage of his friend's moment of weakness.)
"What, in your swim suit?" Remus asks bemusedly.
"Well - er - yeah. Hence the, uh, swim part."
"Just warning you - that's not going to go over well. I mean, with Sirius and James and all."
Lily snorts and rolls her eyes. "They can live."
"Oh, Lily, I used to be like you once," Remus says, mock-nostalgically, "so naïve, so naïve…"
"Come on, hot stuff, let's go."
The two of them, Remus starkers and Lily still in her bikini, sprint into the water, dashing over sand and surf and diving into the cold lake, splashing and kicking to emerge right in front of their boys, hair slick and wet, laughing and joining in on the games. Remus, as sweet and calm as he is, is a firecracker in their wrestling - he might not look it, but beneath that amiably warm skin and tenderness, he's a bundle of muscle and iron and fight (maybe it's a werewolf thing.) Leaping out of the water, he catches a surprised Sirius with a full-bodied grip, vicing his legs around Sirius' chest and sending them both crashing into the water - they emerge seconds later, Remus on his boy's back, arms around Sirius' neck, legs knotted around Sirius' ribs like some insane flesh-eating zombie or enormous parasite. Sirius staggers around with the added weight, screaming and laughing as Remus tries to flip them both back in the water.
Lily, not to be outdone by those muscle-flexing boys, attacks James. Even though he's ready for her (been watching out of the corner of his eye, expecting this kind of thing) she still takes him down, and quite easily at that. She runs at him and slams into his stomach, twists to pick him up over her shoulder, and drops him into the lake as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes. Sirius and Remus stop for a moment (Remus still grappling around Sirius' body, nearly sitting on the boy's shoulders) to watch the action, and laugh outrageously when James is deposited back into the water.
"Classic," Sirius says, wiping tears from his eyes. "James taken down by a girl."
"Don't underestimate her, James! - and that goes with you too," Remus says, tightening his grip around Sirius' shoulders, twisting, eventually pulling Sirius and himself back into the water with a great splash.
" Wait," Sirius says, upon surfacing, breathing heavily with exertion, "Lily, you're wearing a swim suit."
"Why yes, I am." She drops James once more into the water, and wades towards Sirius. "What of it?"
"I'm pretty sure there are laws against it," Sirius says, advancing on her too. They a foot apart, hands on their hips in stomach-deep water. "You are in direct violation of tradition. Remus can attest to the punishment."
"Told you," Remus says, drifting about peacefully.
"And what are you going to do?"
"Mm, dunno," James says, surfacing behind her, water-slick hair bobbing from the water. "We did warn you -"
"And - like I said - what are you going to do?" She's grinning, a little devious, a little mischievous, a if-you-want-me-come-and-get-me look.
"Are you tempting me, miss?" James says, rising out like some pale sea monster, stomach flexing, ribs stretching as he spreads his arms. Weeds cling to his sides, and his hair is flat on his head for maybe the first time in his life. "You wouldn't like me when I'm horny."
Like they've practiced this, James and Sirius step in at the same time, James around her back, hands threading beneath her underarms and linking below her breasts, while Sirius comes from the front, his arms wrapping around her back and gripping the clasp of her bikini top.
"Oh - oh no you don't -" she struggles, but it's half-hearted because she's all sticky and wet between these two boys; they stink of the lake and they're slippery and covered in seaweed and naked and warm and too strong for her, and she wouldn't have it any other way.
"Oh, yes we do," James says, kissing her neckline, nipping along the length of her clavicle, his hands sliding up to touch her breasts over the bikini top, squished between the fabric and Sirius' chest. "We're all naked here. I'm naked - you're naked."
"I'm not."
"You want to be - otherwise you wouldn't be here."
And that's when Sirius and his magic fingers undo the latch of her top causing the straps fall uselessly about her shoulders. Lily blushes, but it's all right because these are her boys, and it's only fair because they're all starkers, and enough with the excuses, let's be honest: she just likes showing off sometimes. This day, this trip, it's bringing out the worst in her - or is it the best? She feels electric, excited, impassioned - the solitude of the place and the language is enough to make her feel new, unique. It's somewhere between terror and joy, that they might be caught (naked, drinking, smoking pot, making love, whatever) and it just makes her heart beat rapid in her chest, a trembling tattoo of glee.
The tension of the boys' bodies keeps the wet fabric close to her skin, but James tugs at it, and tugs at it, and tugs it away, tossing it to shore, leaving it a dead blue jellyfish floating in the surf. Sirius slides in close once it's gone, her bare breasts pressing into his chest, and James does similar to her back so the three can hug - or, something weird and naked and similar to a hug. Lily laughs, and squirms a bit ("Guys, you're crushing me") but he'd be lying if she said she didn't love it. Peeling themselves away, Sirius and James drift away, leaving their beautiful creation standing, hands on her hips, blushing yet smiling, topless in the waist-high water: Venus rising from her half-shell, wet red hair draped around her neck and shoulders, breasts as smooth and white as porcelain, freckles like pepper. She pulls James in for an indulgent kiss, with tongue, with a kind of want that makes him hard under the water, with a kind of want that makes him frustrated that they're not alone. Sirius watches with narrowed eyes.
"Tray bell," a flustered James tries in embarrassing French.
"Awesome," Peter says, watching her brightly, scarcely looking away, "finally, she's one of the lads."
"Told you, Lily," Remus chimes in, adding: "didn't even last a day."
"Boob-tastic," is all Sirius says, bored and drifting lazily on his back.
They eventually cut their swim short to watch the sun set. It's fortunate, the beach faces west so they have a vividly clear portrait of the sun as it collapses beyond the distant mountains and ushering in their eager night. They sit on the hard sand of the beach, naked and drip-drying, knees brought up to their chests and all gold-wrought by sunlight, smoking a joint and chatting absently. Sirius has nipped into the house and returned with two bottles of wine; 1937 Chateaux Quincampoix, rusty red Cabernet Francs that cost enough to fund a revolution or two. They drink from the bottle, drink-drink-pass as the colour in the sky melts away.
Part 3
Part 4
Author: marseverlasting
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: James/Lily, Sirius/Lily, Sirius/James, Sirius/Remus, implied Sirius/Regulus
Word Count: 35,260 words
Summary: Who doesn't want to be loved by everyone? A summer away; a time grow and fall apart.
Warnings: voyeurism, fingering, drug use, boys being assholes, femdom, poetry, angst, unrealistic portrayals of achieving orgasm, extensive foreshadowing, exhibitionism, excessive length, wall sex, (constant) alcohol use, incest, occasional breach of the fourth wall, over-indulgent discussion of a car, fluff, the French.
Author's notes: Written for krystal_moon for hp_summersmut. A big, big, big, big thank you to my Dylan Thomas who held my hand through the madness -- you are a total goddess. I've got tons of inspiration for this story, but the principle thre were Truffaut's Jules et Jim, Godard's Pierrot le fou, and Cuarón's Y tu mamá también.
Part 1
*
"Rise up, Lazarus."
Remus snorts and turns over, nuzzling into the warm pillow. He is poked again, in the side.
"Come on, Remus, it's almost time to go."
Remus' eyes flutter open and he turns around, bedclothes all a-tangle around his arms and legs, tentacles of sleep keeping him pinioned to the bed. He's shirtless now (cast off in the heat of the night) and his penis is uncomfortably hard, pressed in against the twisted folds of his boxers. Sirius is standing before him, nude, one hand half-heartedly cupping his dick, the other holding a lit cigarette which he sucks on thoughtfully.
"There's some hot water left, I think, if you want a shower, and Lily is making breakfast." Remus nods and leans up on his elbows. "I brought you up some coffee," he gestures to the mug on the bedside table, "one milk, two sugars, right?" ("Yeah.") "Better get ready quick though, it's twenty to nine."
Remus nods again before flopping back into the bed.
"Is everything all right?" Sirius asks, narrowing his eyes.
"Yeah," Remus says, yawning and stretching. "Slept bad, that's all."
"Oh," Sirius says, smiling sympathetically. "I'm sorry." Remus shrugs. "Well, you can sleep in the car if you want. I'm driving first, you can have shotgun if you'd like." Remus shrugs again, which makes Sirius smile, puzzled. "All right, well, see you." He grabs a T-shirt and shorts from the chair near the door and leaves the room.
Miraculously, they're in the car by nine, on the dot. James checks and double-checks the locks on the front door (Lily has to restrain him from running back inside to check the stove - "James, hon, we haven't used the stove,") and after a few false starts (running back in for books, pens, et cetera) they're off.
The morning is cold, and the fivesome wear their coats, Sirius looking wonderfully cool in his red leather jacket (à la Rebel Without a Cause,) kicking the car from first into third and taking off from Tutshill, direction Gloucester road, and out they go.
Sirius has the top of the car down despite the cold, and the chilling wind roars past them as he more than doubles the speed limit. Remus, like a puppy in a car, grins brightly as they cruise through scattered trees and villages, while James, Lily, and Peter snooze absently in the back seat.
"Are you excited?" Sirius asks after a bit, yanking down into third as they pass a school zone.
"Yeah." Remus smooths his hair back, which does nothing but make it flop once more in his eyes. "Definitely."
"I'm glad." Sirius looks glad, too. "I was wondering - did you maybe want to sleep in my bedroom this time? I mean, at the cottage."
Remus nods. "Sure." This is the first time he has. Usually he sleeps with Peter, James and Sirius taking the same bed to do whatever it is they do (Remus' stomach lurches, remembering the previous night; James, oh God, if James found out.)
"Je t'aime, tu sais?"
"What?" Remus asks, smiling.
"Je t'aime. I like you."
Remus scratches the back of his neck. "Er, joo tam too."
Sirius laughs, says nothing.
They drive over a big bridge, the one that crosses the brown filth of the Bristol channel. The rattling of the metal is enough to wake the boys and girl up, who yawn and stretch and smile happily as the sun reflects gold on the water, inking them all with Aztec patterns of sunlight.
The conversation is loud and hollow; jokes and banter that make everyone smile happily, the perfect kind of summer stupidity, rooted grandly in the ancient tradition of deprecation and shoulder-punching and jokes about sex. Peter gets hungry and his bookbag seems to be filled entirely with sweets, which he shares happily with the rest of his companions. Remus unearths the coke (which had been warming up in the over-sized glove compartment) passing the glass bottles back to the other three, gladly accepted by James (for digestion, he says, suckling on the lip of the bottle childishly while Lily rubs his stomach, a bit jokingly.)
"Mum used to live there, as a girl," James says, suddenly, pointing at a sign that reads CHIPPING SODBURY STAY LEFT. "Didn't make it very far," he says with a loud smile.
"We're on the road to London," Sirius explains later, yelling over the rush of the wind. "Two hours and we'll be on the ring road. About four until Dover. And then off to France."
The conversation into the London area is sparsely populated, tiredness still reigning so that the four passengers fall asleep at shifting intervals, often leaving Sirius to his thoughts and the curls and coils of wind (warming as they day grows old.) The route is boring, littered as it is with trees and low-lying British houses with nice British gardens and things that never really made Sirius feel like he was home; propriety, stiffness, position, appearance - things that might make Remus or Lily feel at home, but makes Sirius feel like he's trapped, restrained maybe. France (la destination) is his home; the wildness, the extravagance, the wine, the uncontainable quality of it all. Why his parents moved to England - and London, of all places - is beyond him, but even in questioning that, he realizes all the good it has brought him: Remus, Peter, Lily, and James. France means Beauxbâtons, which means no Animagi, no practical jokes, no making fun of Snivellus, no summer trips with the Marauders (it means no Marauders at all actually) and suddenly he's very happy he lives in England, in London (though now in Tutshill, with his only real brother,) because he has all he really ever needs.
Sirius turns to Remus: "Would you help me bury a body?"
"Wh - what?"
"Would you help me bury a body?"
"What do you mean? What have you done?"
"I haven't done anything, I'm just asking if you'd help me bury a body. Hypothetically."
"You haven't killed anyone?" Remus looks at him, askance.
"Not yet." He grins. "I'm just asking, would you -" he swerves to miss a pothole, "- help me, or turn me in?"
"I'd help you, obviously," Remus says. "We all would." Remus turns to look at James, Peter, and Lily, but the three weren't paying attention. "Just make sure it's someone we don't like."
"Same here." His shoulders fall back, a bit more relaxed than the awkward-start morning.
They stop in Dover for food, finally undone by James' incessant complaining. It's a small little pub, specializing in small little pub food; ploughman's and meat pies and fish and chips and hot pots and pasties and the like. Remus and Sirius share an over-sized steak and kidney pie while the rest of them get steaming, violently yellow Cornish pasties. James volunteers to get the round, and Peter buys a second. An hour passes, and Lily voices their lateness.
"No worries," Sirius replies. "We'll get the 1:15 ferry, we'll be in by three."
They finish their meals (getting another few pasties to go) and get into the car, which Sirius maneuvers to where the ferry is moored. He gets out and makes talk with the ferry operators milling around the dock like lost sheep, and he gets them all tickets, and a car pass for the Jensen. They drive into the yawning belly of the ferry, rolling into their assigned place and chaining the tires.
"All right," Sirius says, brushing off his hands. "Let's go on deck." They gather their things from the car, Lily grabbing her Jackie-O's and book, Remus taking the same battered copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and James and Peter dragging the chess board from the boot. They set themselves up near the back of the boat, around a cluster of three tables and five chairs, each collapsing into their own pastimes: Peter challenging James to a game of chess, Lily and Remus sat near each other reading, Sirius doodling absently on a notepad, occasionally looking up to watch Peter trounce James.
Sirius falls asleep quickly, only minutes into the cruise, and James (sharp-eyed) gets a blanket from one of the ferry operators and covers his boy's legs (Sirius curls into it, smacking his lips like a child as he grasps it in his hands.)
"Sirius," Lily tests, an hour and a half later. "Sirius?" She nudges him, rocking his arms so he wakes up slowly, blinking into light. They're well into the trip now, nearing the French shore; the ferry rocks gently, creaking as it steers through the cold water, the smell of salt and foam bursts against the side of the boat as it goes. "We're almost there. We got you a tea." She offers him a steaming mug, which he takes gratefully. Sirius feels lightheaded, hungover from the thick, metallic taste of the sea air, sick from the rocking and irritated by his nap. Drinking the tea quickly, he realizes he feels a bit feverish, sweating and cold at the same time, and he lets James and Lily touch their hands to his forehead (a nice comfort.)
"You feel hot," James decides.
Lily presses her lips to Sirius' forehead, a thing she explains her mum did for her when she was a child. "You're very hot," she agrees, wiping the sweat from Sirius' forehead. "Peter will take the rest of the drive, at least until you feel better." Sirius nods, feeling his eyes wet because of the wind (or so he tells himself.) "Did we pack any wine?" Sirius nods, blinking rapidly. "It's good for a fever," she explains, "so we'll give you a bit of that." It's nice when Lily makes all the decision; quick, efficient, intelligent - things only a girl could do right now, not so much motherly as simply compassionate, an inclination that boys just don't have. She knows exactly what to say: "Remus will take the front seat, you can sleep in the back with James and I, we'll take good care of you."
The boat docks with little incident, and the five (James wrapping an unnecessary arm around Sirius shoulders) go below deck. Peter, with a sympathetic pat on Sirius' shoulder, gets in the driver's seat, Remus reluctantly getting in beside him. In the back, Sirius (wearing Lily's large white-plastic sunglasses) is bookended by James and Lily, still wrapped in the blanket they've stolen from the ferry. He falls asleep against James' shoulder, curled up on the bench-long backseat while his best friend strokes his hair absently. Lily holds his hand. They drive in silence.
Calais is a sooty little town, grey and old with that strange combination of old and new buildings that personify Metropolis France. The waves still break in salty steel, and the clouds billow and cover like so much smoke.
It's easy to tell that Peter is a good driver, though he doesn't have the natural skill that Sirius does; the car jerks and shivers as he changes gear, but he has a better love of the road; he doesn't speed, he doesn't cut off, he behaves appropriately, the perfect defensive driver. Sirius would have cried.
A half hour into the drive and distant from the slate of the sea, the clouds finally burst and the sun floods the landscape like a river breaking a dam. Thick, layered suburbia gives way to thick fields and farm plots, small wooden houses and stone villas; windmills and farmhouses. The air takes on a summery smell; sweet from flowers and grapes and tomato, earthy and raw, like freshly ground wheat or handfuls of wet dirt.
Sirius stirs occasionally, sometimes after a particularly rocky piece of road, or a sharp turn, and he snuffles and mumbles, eyes only opening in squints to look up at James, smiling down.
"Kiss me," Sirius says, shifting closer to James. "Please?" It's easy to understand what he wants; if James is there, right there, right beside him, always.
James looks to Lily, who smiles and shrugs. He lean down and kisses Sirius on the cheek.
"Nuh-uh," Sirius moans, rolling about in half-sleep. "Like you mean it."
Lily looks at James, curious, thought not offended. "It's complicated," is James' reply, and he leans down, kissing Sirius lightly on the lips for a handful of seconds.
"Thanks," he mumbles and goes back to sleep.
"He's a demanding boy," Lily says, a bit coldly.
"Yeah," James replies, distantly. "He is."
"You have an odd relationship," Lily says, touching his arm gently.
"Yeah." James doesn't smile; cold. "We do." It's clear, and Lily remains silent: he doesn't want to talk about.
*
They stop in Arlay, eleven o'clock at night. Sirius has slept through the day, though his fever still holds sway, delirious and irate, pouting and sniffling when he isn't sleeping. They stop in a family restaurant, somewhere off the A39; an Italian-French place where they order family dishes of pasta and caviar d'aubergine (kind of a mushed-up eggplant with olive oil and herbs on bread, James explains.) Sirius is curled up asleep on the long-bench next to James, head on his lap, where he sleeps restlessly, taking in gulps of mulled wine that James holds for him at the ready.
"How's he doing?" Remus asks, pushing his pasta around his plate.
"He's okay," James says, stroking Sirius' sweaty hair like that of a dog's. "I'm sure once he has a bath and a good sleep he'll be fine."
Peter is nodding off where he sits, leaning in to press his head against Remus' shoulder. They're entering almost into a second night now, twelve hours of driving pushing them through cloud and sun, traveling so far they feel like they've gone over the curve of the earth, passing into the aching dawn that waits ahead. Lily offers to take over driving (how hard can it be? she asks - James laughs) but Peter waves her off, so focused on the task that it would be disappointing to give up now.
The drive through the night is taken in utter silence, populated only by the squeaking of crickets and the buzz of locusts; caterwauls of animals and the hollow echo of night. Peter drives with a steely determination, knuckles cold and white because he hasn't yet figured out how to lift the top of the convertible. Sirius snores quietly in Lily's lap, and Lily and James hold hands. Remus reads the map, bored.
The clock reads 12:54 when they crawl in the front drive of the summer house, rolling to a stop with a satisfying gravel crunch. The road is lined with perfect privet hedges and wide, fanning evergreens; thick (though neatly kept) flower gardens erupt in intervals as the headlights of the car flash over their colour. It's difficult to judge the size of the place; there are no lights, only the beams of the Jensen to illuminate the front yard - here, tall white columns with peeling paint, white sideboards and heavy-shuttered windows, a large double front door (over which a sign read MAISON SERPANTARD - Toujours Pur) and an open-air garage, just a weathered covering of shingle and wood. Peter pulls into there (uncertain, as Sirius is asleep) and turns of the car, which cools quickly and putts and creaks its pleasure.
They get out of the car sleepily, ambling, James half-dragging Sirius into the house. James has the keys, luckily, and opens the doors. It's harder still to the judge the interior - dark, furniture ghostly with thick canvas dust-covers, and they can't find the light switch despite all their blind wall-fumbling. Giving up, James lights his wand and they make their way upstairs.
"That," James says, pointing to the large double-doors at the end of the upstairs hallway, "is the parents' bedroom, and that," he points his wand to the next door down, illuminating old picture frames lining the hall as he does, "is the bathroom," and the next, "and Sirius and Regulus' old room," and the next, "and the spare room." The company nod and divide amongst themselves, Peter taking the spare room, James (supporting a snuffling Sirius in his strong arms) and Lily and Remus continuing down the hall.
Sirius wakes by the time they reach his bedroom door: "We're here?"
"We're here," Remus says, touching his hair softly. James lets him down and Sirius wobbles on his feet. He isn't very hot anymore, but still sweaty. "I'm glad." His eyes are bloodshot, but his skin seems to glow a bit healthier.
"Goodnight, Sirius," Lily says, kissing his sweaty forehead quickly. "Feel better."
James gives him a hug and starts away, but is stopped by a hand to his arm: "Wait, Jamie," Sirius says, reverting to old, childish names, "come sleep with me." It's less a request.
James tilts his head questioningly, but Lily gets there first: "No, Sirius, you just go to bed, Remus will take care of you."
Sirius ignores her, flushed and red and delirious: "Jamie, please. Let's go." It's like there's no one else there. "Please?"
James doesn't speak, he looks torn, mostly, and quietly upset. Lily speaks again: "No, Sirius," she says firmly, "it's out of the question. Just go to bed, you'll see James tomorrow."
Sirius, without a word, opens the door and flops down on the bed, releasing a cloud of dust as he does. Remus flicks on the bedroom light (illuminating a bare white room, a variety of magical and non-magical portraits lining the walls, all of their subjects sleeping soundly; with them old posters of cars and girls and - most prominently - the movie Easy Rider - as well as family photos and such) and the three of them watch Sirius - there he is, lying on his stomach, fully clothed, boots on and everything, facing the far corner of the room.
"Uh, goodnight then, Sirius," James says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.
Silence.
"Sirius?" Silence. "G'night, man." Silence, still. "Goodnight?"
Lily sighs impatiently. "If he's pissed off, he's pissed off." Sirius is like this a lot, and she knows it: hot-blooded and brilliant shifting seamlessly into cold anger and isolation, hatred into desperation, sweetness into cruelty; what James affectionately calls his PMS - pissy man syndrome. Anything can turn Sirius from extraversion inwards - a touch, a kiss, the wrong word, the wrong thought, the wrong name (just try talking about Regulus.) It makes their relationship as exciting as it is frustrating; or at least with Lily, the boys know that when Sirius gets moody, if they just back off for a couple hours he'll be right as rain, shaking the anger off like water from a duck's back.
Lily takes a leaf from their book and leads James by the hand (with one last look, despondent) to their own bedroom, leaving poor Remus to fend against this prickly-minded foe stuck in Sirius' skin.
Remus closes the door behind him, his back flat against it, looking at his friend. Sighing, he begins to undress his friend, tugging off the heavy boots and dropping them with a clatter to the ground.
"How are you feeling?" Remus asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Sirius doesn't reply.
"Sirius, are you asleep?" He isn't; Sirius turns to look at Remus steadily, though still silent. "How are you feeling?" Sirius makes no reply, just continues his blank stare, a stare so steady it seems hateful. "Why are you angry at me?" Remus says, pointedly. "I haven't done anything." Sirius turns around, still stomach-flat against the bed. "You know what - fine." Remus gets off the bed and leaves, parting with: "We're your friends, Sirius, it'd be nice if you remembered that sometimes." He closes the door quietly behind him.
*
Sirius wakes up, early and hideously hot, curled in a whirlpool of dust and sunlight. He's still fully dressed and sitting on top of the covers, his bedroom light fighting feebly to be seen against the flood of morning sun - Remus clearly didn't return.
Sirius feels hungover, a bad taste in his mouth and he's weak all over, arms and legs feeling like the joints of puppet. His hair is oily and messed in every direction, his eyes red and swollen, face itchy with stubble. Sirius peels off his sweat-stiff clothes and drops them on his bed, dragging himself the short distance to the bathroom, slow-footed like drunkard. The shower is cold and refreshing; he jerks off with soap-slick hands and examines his pearl-white come like a fragile spider web caught between his fingers, or the draped links of a finely-wrought gold necklace (finally letting it wash away in the cold stream.) Getting out he doesn't much care to dry off, patting his slick hair absently with a towel and wrapping it around his waist.
James is the only one awake when Sirius pads into the kitchen. They're silent, just looking at each other, blinking rapidly. Sirius looks better, that's for sure; his colour has returned to that well-cared-for glow and tan, as smooth and even as a polished stone or maybe the rind of a hard cheese; his cheeks are flushed, and his ears, too, behind that thick weedy tangle of wet hair; his muscles bulge and relax as he shifts his weight from foot to foot and he can see the short bramble of hair that creeps above the lip of the towel, sweet and hot and speaking of fresh sex.
The moment breaks and they smile: "I'm sorry," they say in unison, breaking into grins again, the issue satisfyingly dealt with.
Breakfast is a stupid affair; bright green mint sodas they picked up in Arlay and cheese-flavoured crisps bought way back in Dover. The two boys sit on the back porch, a large screen-covered wooden platform that connects from the kitchen, decked with old, rickety chairs and tables, wrought-iron side-tables and footstools and the jetsam of dozens of years of use (tools, toys, broken highballs and old wine bottles; aged family detritus.)
They chat and eat casually, Sirius sitting back, naked, and toweling off his hair, James scratching at new bug bites and telling a story Sirius has already heard before ("so, I already had ten shots of rum, and then my cousin says we should do a keg stand -") The sun is still low in the sky and the air is cool in the shadows of the veranda, thick with the sounds of crows and the low warble of insects. They smoke James' Benson & Hedges (chick fags, Sirius teases) before Sirius goes out to the car (holding his cock and sneaking around like the world's worst spy - James roars with laughter) and returns with a large plastic bag filled with neatly-rolled joints, the fruits of a past day's labour. They light one each and suck on them silently, thoughtfully.
"Cool, early bird special," Peter says, stepping out onto the veranda. He's wearing a vibrant Hawaiian shirt and a blue bathing suit; a broad, stretching smile and his hair badly parted. He sits in next to James and pushes his teashade glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Sirius offers Peter the joint (gladly taken) and drops the towel from around his shoulders and over his naked waist, crossing his legs under him as he does, leaning forward, chin on hands.
"I like that," James says, taking a deep draw the smoke coming out in thin wisps as he talks. "The way your skin folds when you lean forward." He touches one hand to the warm skin of Sirius' tummy, patting it lightly. "See, the way it curls there, like a ribbon or something." James' hands linger there for a moment, possessively, fingers sliding in against hot muscle, the tips just probing the dry coil of hair that nestles beyond the towel.
Sirius grins and rubs his own stomach. "I guess. I haven't really thought about it." He tucks his hands under his armpits and sighs. "See, I've always kind of liked this," he says, nodding to his underarms, withdrawing his hands and touching the thin fold of flesh that pinches between chest and shoulder. "That little fold of skin there," and pokes it absently, drawing the same finger to the dark flesh of his nipple. "I always thought it was weirdly sexy."
James nods: "And collarbo -"
"Did you guys have a fight last night?" Peter interrupts.
"What? - er, no," Sirius says, blushing. He looks at James, who shrugs. "We're fine."
"No - I mean Remus," Peter replies, sucking on the joint, "he came and slept with me last night."
"Oh," Sirius says, "that was, uh, nothing. Just a misunderstanding."
"He looked pretty upset," Peter continues, cheerfully.
"Yeah, we just had a minor fight." Sirius grits his teeth. "It was nothing. Really."
Peter takes another drag: "I mean, he cried pretty much until he fell asleep."
James winces, but Sirius stares straight ahead, deadly cold: "Thank you, Peter."
"I mean, really sobbing. It was awful." He says it conversationally, casually, as if commenting on the weather.
"Shut up, Peter."
Peter either doesn't hear him, or ignores him: "I mean, I held his shoulder but I really didn't know what to do -"
"SHUT UP, PETER."
They're silent, and Peter pouts. A cool wind rolls through and Sirius shivers, naked, skin bristling with goose pimples, laps paling and going chapped. It's hard to see the lake from the veranda (wide-boughed trees set in a line, forming a shield, rustling and swaying in the wind) but the three try hard, staring through the brush like they have X-ray vision, imagining the lake because they're unwilling to look at each other.
"I'm going to get changed," Sirius says, getting up and throwing the damp towel over his shoulders again, scratching his side thoughtfully. "Then we can go to the market, get some food." James nods lazily and Peter looks away as if he hasn't heard. "Should I wake Lily up?"
"She's probably up already."
"Mm-kay." Sirius turns to the door but is pre-empted as Remus steps out onto the veranda. They stare at each other blankly, deer caught in the same headlight. Remus blinks rapidly and Sirius just stares. It's almost funny, the two of them; Sirius naked and Remus in a nice shirt and shorts; Sirius still a bit wet and chilled from the morning, Remus clean and warm; Sirius' lip trembling, Remus stiff and solid.
"Oh, Christ, Remus," Sirius moans, throwing his arms around Remus' shoulders, kissing his neck and holding him like he's drowning. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry." Remus smiles naturally, a smile so full and warm that it makes obvious the hollowness of his frown.
"It's really not that big a deal," Remus says, patting Sirius' naked back awkwardly, but it's too late now; too much talk with Peter, too much reflection, and Sirius thinks he has ruined everything (histrionic bastard, Remus thinks, you know I love you.)
Sirius grabs Remus' cheeks roughly and kisses him on the lips - once, twice, three times - wet, stupid things like the kisses of a dog, beauty in the meaning rather than the action. James grins (it amuses him) and looks over to Peter to let him in on the joke, but finds his friend's face lacking, blinking slowly and staring vacantly at the scene, almost unbelieving. Peter's joint dangles from his lower lip, which James tugs away to startle him out of his reverie ("Don't Bogart, Pete.")
"I'm going to get changed," Sirius says, cheerfully. "Then we're going out."
"Go for it," Remus smiles. Sirius nods, touches Remus' shoulder, and retreats into the house. Remus watches him go, the white beacon of his arse shining in the still-dark house as Sirius bounds up the staircase (Remus chuckles, scratching his neck bashfully.) He takes Sirius' vacated seat.
"Hola," James says, slapping hands with Remus. "Ça va?" Remus nods, taking James' proffered joint. "Have you seen Lily?"
"Showering," Remus coughs, breathing deeply and picking a seed from his tongue. "Or, last I saw."
"Are you dating Sirius?" Peter asks suddenly.
"Am I - what? Dating?"
Peter frowns: "Going out. Together."
"Uh… huh… no." Remus narrows his eyes. "Why would you ask?"
"I don't really care if you're, like, a poof. Or if you bugger him or whatever." Peter grimaces, but thinks better of it and lets a weird smile fill his face. "I mean, I don't care if you're a gay. I just want to know."
"What does it matter, Pete?" James intervenes warningly.
"Because people don't tell me things!" Peter says, his voice rising. "I don't even know what's up with you guys!"
"Chill, Peter," James replies, like soothing a startled colt. "They just had a fight, that's all." James glances to Remus, who nods his consent. "Sirius wanted - uh - my company. Last night, when he was sick. He took out his anger on Remus. That's it. It's okay now."
Peter frowns. "And you couldn't tell me that before?" he asks, turning to Remus.
"It was none of your business," James says.
"Apparently nothing is." Peter sits back down and frowns. James sighs angrily and shakes his head. They're silent for a long time, and Peter eventually speaks, clearly not done with the subject: "Why did you kiss him then?" James glares at him, unbelieving, but Remus waves him down with a hand.
"We love each other, but we're not - um, in love," Remus says thoughtfully. "That's just what Sirius is like; you should know that by now. We're just friends."
"So, what, Sirius is a poof?"
"Peter! for fuck's sake -" James rounds on him furiously, "- he's not gay, none of us are. Now shut up or I'm leaving. Jesus Christ." Peter shuts up because Peter is Peter and when James says jump, Peter gets out the burning hoops.
Sirius pokes his head out to the veranda: "We're going now."
"We're going now," James repeats, almost thankfully. They extinguish their joints and leave.
*
The market is like something from a novel; cluttered with stalls and people, bursting with many-coloured tapestries and jewelry (some hand-made and fine, others plastic day-glo); stands piled high with jars and urns and clay pots of every kind, from Ming to mason; ancient toys and memorabilia from les trente glorieuses, the roaring twenties, even some Napoleonic treasures that Sirius shrugs off saying the attic is full of them. The company wanders through these stalls, dazed, like they're walking through a vivid dream, hot and high and startled by the foreign people, following Sirius' white-clad figure like some guiding seraph.
The air is warm and heady as they pass through stalls of fresh spice, ashy bellows of cumin and cinnamon, mustard and other dry powders that drift thickly in the air. Sirius points and laughs at the enormous hanging phalluses of root ginger, dipping his hands in gargantuan bags of dried beans and lentils as he walks through, trailing his ducklings behind.
They reach the stalls of food at last, Sirius spreading his arms like Moses, leading his Jews to the land of milk and honey. Mountains of food line their path like a lush forest of polished gems; bundles and baskets of tomatoes and aubergines, spears of haricot verts and asparagus; fruit of the kind they had never seen before (jackfruit and quince and granadilla and persimmon) and all manners of fresh pastry, bread, even a few stalls selling wine. The air is thick with sweet smells and thick, rapid French that babbles around them like a flowing river. Sirius winds through the thing like a Frenchman, a countryman, easy and smooth compared to his dazed and pasty Englishmen (marveling with the starry gaze of tourists, stumbling around as if high or drunk.) Sirius buys some pastries with impressive French, and passes them out: "Petit déjeuner," he says, taking a big bite out of his cheese pastry. "Let's walk."
Sirius takes command as they walk and eat, their newfound Frenchman giving them a running commentary as they stroll (this is an old jail, he says, pointing to a stone triangle in the middle of the river, it's nine-hundred years old.) Following breakfast, Sirius starts shopping, Lily his second in command: aubergines and oyster mushrooms and potatoes and tomatoes; Peter, James, and Remus watch, impressed; apples and limes and pears, turnips and courgettes, and fat, stubbly cucumbers; olive oil and butter and big jugs of milk; fresh bread and sour plum tarts and pains-au-chocolat; big fresh fish (trout and sea bream) and smoked salmon in a wide pine box and little tins of caviar and escargot; and finally, two full cases of red wine some 1950s Chateaux something that costs a whole wad of Francs, which Sirius assures them is top notch (for that much, it better be, James says.) Peter, Remus, and James hold all the groceries like the patient husbands they are; Sirius pays for everything, waving off his friends' money (our sugar daddy, James says, a constant laugh track.)
"I'm bored," Peter says after two hours of shopping, plastic bags hanging from his arms like fat, white bats. "Can we go now?" He's sweating, little tunnels of heat running down his cheeks, soft blond hair made dark and slick, glasses slipping down his nose.
Sirius consults with Lily, leaning in and whispering in her ear, neat white teeth scraping the lobe, warm breath strange and intimate, blowing gently the soft hair at her temple; she giggles and nods. (James either doesn't care or doesn't notice.)
"All right," Sirius says, "let's drop these and get lunch."
They leave the groceries into the Jensen's enormous boot, sighing happily now they're finally unburdened. They make the walk back into the city, meandering down the riverbank in the city enter, admiring the Spanish-looking buildings (big, square things in rusty reds and yellows, orange and brown and pale rose, the whole spread coloured as if a sunset exploded over the town.)
"It's beautiful," Lily says, smiling into the river breeze, her red hair fluttering all around. "I love it here." She catches James' hand and they swing about childishly. Sirius makes a big show of rolling his eyes at Remus, who chuckles at his little clown.
Peter walks in next to Sirius: "Look at them, eh. Think they're in love?"
Sirius cocks and eyebrow. "Uh, maybe, Pete," he says, not bothering to hide his bemusement. "Could be a ruse."
Peter shrugs. "They've only been going out for, like, six months." He ponders it for a moment, watching James' back almost reverently. In an undertone he asks: "Think they've - er, done it yet?"
"I don't know," Sirius replies in a loud whisper, "let's check - Oi, James!" ("Yeah?") "Have you and Lily done it yet?" ("Fuck off you fat cunt.") Sirius smiles at Peter: "Nope."
There's a large park at the tip of the city, a broad stone semi-circle that extends into the lake, crass-covered and shaded by enormous weeping willows, punctuated by lamp posts and park benches, little vendors selling crepes. A sign reads Jardin de l'Europe. It smells of flowers here and the deep, pungent smell of lake water and weeds, cooking crepes, tainted by the diesel fumes of the nearby dock. The fivesome sit on the lip of the stone wall, legs dangling over the water and kicking like a toddler in a high chair. They admire the view, the choppy surface of the lake rising into the growing Alps, mountains so big and so close they look like islands in the sea, towering and isolated.
"So, lunch?"
They have a casual meal at a very, very expensive restaurant near the lakeside. They drink beer (Grolsch; another tradition, Lily discovers) and have a cold lunch; roasted vegetables served over ice; smoked salmon with cream cheese and capers; fresh bread with whipped butter and even more beer; a plate of aged cheeses only Sirius and Lily like; and even more beer (except for Sirius, responsible little driver, he is.)
Finished and full and flushed with booze, they sit back in their chairs and sigh. Lily asks for a kiss, which James supplies before asking one from the other three boys (only Sirius kisses her on the lips, which makes the two of them grin, united through their shared shopping experience, and other such things.)
"I wanna swim," Peter says languidly, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt. He looks for support from the others, which he gets.
"What, here?" Lily asks. "I don't have my bathing suit."
"No, no, the house has a beach," Sirius explains.
"It has a beach?" she stares at him in disbelief, the cost of the place finally becoming clear to her. "Is it private?"
"Yeah. You know those trees in the back?" she nods. "Well, it's right beyond those. It's pretty nice. Not a pebble beach like the Riviera. This one is sand."
"Well," she says, all smile, "let's go."
They do.
*
While the rest of them get changed, James and Sirius officially open the house; that is, uncover the furniture and open the storm windows and get the spare tables and chairs from storage, little things like this that truly makes the house theirs.
Hands on his hips, Sirius takes a beloved breath of winter-bread mould and dust and furniture polish, a familiar smell, the first real indication of summer, pulled out from the moth-eaten memories of his childhood.
"I'm glad you invited Lily," James says, sliding an arm around Sirius' waist, getting in right close. Sirius shrugs. "I know you don't really care for her."
Sirius narrows his eyes, curious. "I never said that…"
"I know, but I can tell."
"You're wrong," Sirius says. "I like her."
"Well, you really don't seem to - not at school, anyways."
"We're done school," Sirius says pointedly.
"I know. Maybe I'm wrong. It just looks to me like you never really liked her company -"
"Well that's only when you -" Sirius pauses, considering his words. "I don't know. I like her, though. I always have."
"That's good." James smiles. "I like her too."
"So, have you had sex with her?"
"Don't be an ass," James slings cheerfully.
"I'm actually asking, not teasing."
"Of course we have, I just don't like talking about it." Sirius can feel James' fingers tighten against the fabric of his muscle shirt.
"What do you mean? I always tell you about - uh - my conquests."
James looks at him warningly, and Sirius gives a Who, me? expression. "It's private, Sirius." Sirius chuckles. "I don't want to kiss and tell."
"God," Sirius says, slapping James' back. "You're fucking adorable" James gives him a look. "In a good way, I mean. You wouldn't be James is you weren't."
"Well, have you done it with Remus?"
Sirius narrows his eyes: "What?"
"It's just a question."
"Don't ask about it," Sirius says with finality. "Christ. I asked you not to talk about that, James."
"But why?" James asks, a bit pleadingly. "You know I don't mind at all! You know I think it's sweet - and Lily too. We're suppor -"
"Lily knows too?" Sirius glares at James. "Fucking Christ, we're not even together. I've never done anything with him - I don't even like him like that - I'm not a - you saw us sleeping together. Once. We sleep together all the fucking time."
"Not naked," James says pointedly.
"Hey, fuck off, man. This conversation is over." He starts tugging the white canvas dust-covers from the furniture, a little more aggressively than required.
"I don't get you," James says in exasperation. "What do you have against -"
"Nothing!" Sirius yells, shifting immediately to a deadly whisper. "I'm just not gay. I fucking told you that before. I'm just -"
"Affectionate, I know," James finishes, wearily. "I just want you to be happy, and if you keep lying to yourself -"
Sirius spins at him, furiously: "What do you want me to say?!"
James shrugs. "That what we do, what you do - it's maybe a little -"
"That's not - that's not gay, man. That's you and me. That's Siriusnjames. You're like a fucking brother to me; I only do that stuff because I feel totally comfortably with you."
"Well," James winces, "I just want you to be happy."
"Thanks a lot, James. Really. See how happy you've made me?" James stares, frozen, opening and closing his mouth trying to say something, but Sirius just brushes him off: "Yeah, fine, whatever."
"What?"
"Whatever," Sirius says again, turning his back to James. "I don't give a fuck."
"A fuck about what?"
"Anything." Sirius pauses, then drops into a big plush chair, steepling his fingers and looking steadily at James. He wants to say it - 'I'm fucking Lily' - so badly, wants to just show him up; fucking James, always trying to look out for him (why is that such a bad thing?) and trying to be the better man, and trying to sort everything out so nicely and live in a fantasy world where everyone gets along and everyone loves everybody and can't he just understand things don't work that way? Love isn't that simple: he knows that, because he's sitting in stupid, fucking Regulus' chair.
"Are you angry with me?"
Sirius sighs. God, if it were only that easy: he could be angry with James and they'd punch each other and everything would be okay. He wouldn't have to deal with the fact that, yeah, he's guilty for fucking Lily every chance he gets; that he's terrified that James will find out; that he's in love with Remus but let's not think about that; that he wants to fuck around with James so much that he jerks off to him more than he should and imagines the way James' fingers would feel inside him, and that's plain wrong because that's like wanting to fuck your brother - and that's a whole new set of problems Sirius hasn't faced since he was fifteen and drunk. Wouldn't anger just be fucking dandy. "No. I'm never angry with you."
And that's the goddamn truth.
They finish the room in silence, spreading wide the stormshutters and bundling the furniture covers in the closet. The room is all a-swirl with disturbed dust, the sun flooding Biblically into the house and giving everything a halo of bright light. James and Sirius collapse into opposite chairs and stare at each other, blankly. Neither is quite sure if they've actually had an argument or not; they're not angry, just confused, upset.
James looks at his feet and says: "I thought you just didn't trust me, that's all."
"I trust you with my life, Jamie. Don't be an idiot."
"I know." James examines his short nails, distantly hearing Lily and Remus murmur upstairs. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up. I just wish I knew what you were thinking sometimes. You're - not an easy person to read." Sirius shrugs. "But. Yeah. I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry."
"You should pry," Sirius nods. "You just shouldn't be an idiot."
James looks at him curious, not sure if he should smile or not, settling eventually on: "But, yeah, I'm just sorry, mate -"
"Sorry about what?" Lily asks, walking down the stairs, stunning in her striped blue bikini, dark red hair up in a loose bun, wand tucked behind her ear, freckles all a-gleam under the sun. Suddenly the whole tone of the room buckles and breaks, tension giving way to warmth. And really, it's like this every time James sees her: he falls in love again and again and everything seems so far away (and Sirius has got the same damn expression, James just doesn't notice.) She's like the Capitoline Venus, statuesque in every sense of the word; a classical beauty that isn't exactly slim, but curves and slides like her marble images, round and calm and tempered like the soft shell of pottery. She has a bit of a tummy, small and wider-set breasts, and large, soft hips - a distinctly Praxitelean beauty, refined rather than robust. There's an intense naturalness to her, the sway of her head, the curve of her calf to the sharp ball of her ankle, the way she walks like a sine wave, as if floating over the ground, willing her feet towards the earth.
"Mm. I forgot how good you look in a bathing suit," James says in that wonderfully awkward way he has.
"Cheers," she says, kissing him neatly on the mouth. "So what was all that yelling about?" She has red and freckled arms, and she hooks them on her hips, waiting expectantly for their story.
"Oh - uh - nothing," James says.
"I'm madly in love with you," Sirius says, off-hand. "We were dueling."
James gives a great roar of laughter, swinging one arm around Lily's waist and tugging her tight; Lily merely narrows her glance, watching Sirius with dark green eyes and chapped lips.
"Lily, relax," James says jocularly, nudging her a bit, "it's just a joke." He kisses her shoulder, and she manages a weak smile.
Sirius frowns: "Sorry, just a joke -"
"Letsgoletsgoletsgo -" Peter yells, hammering down the stairs like it's Christmas morning, Remus laughing silently behind him. Peter jogs up next to James and punches him jovially in the shoulder: "Let's goooo." James ruffles his hair like an older brother, mussing up the careful part. "C'mon, c'mon," Peter says, turning to Sirius, bouncing impatiently on his heels.
"Yeah, yeah, gimme a second," Sirius says. "We still need to get some stuff from the cellar."
"Oh, come on," James groans, his other arm going across Peter's shoulder, their two arms crossing and folding like the wings of a bird, self-same shit-eating grins shining out. "We can get it later."
"Fine, fine." Sirius fishes in his pockets for the keys - big, rustic skeleton keys, each handle engraved with the Black family seal. James and Peter clamour around him like impatient pups, rocking on their feet and pawing at Sirius' shoulder. With a jerk and a turn, Sirius opens the wide French doors that lead to the back lot, laughing as his two friends vault out of the house like greyhounds following a hare.
It's hard to see the back garden, blinded as they are by the overwhelming afternoon sun (hanging low in the sky, an hour or so from night.) Slowly as if through a fog, eyes adjust and scenery is revealed: they stand on a wide stone semi-circle of a patio, decked with chairs and tables and umbrellas and such, enough to suit a couple dozen people; to the right, the light wood of the veranda which extends from the kitchen like an enormous flowerbox. Beyond that, in the stretch of short grass, a half-dozen wrought-iron chairs sit around a dead fire pit, shallow with ash and covered with an iron grate. The short grass ends only a few meters further, developing suddenly into a thick stretch of waist-high yellow grass (with fuzzy little heads, like wheat,) scattered all around with tall Indian paintbrush (poppy-bursts of bristled red that James sometimes tucks behind Lily's ear,) Queen Anne's lace, and other nameless weeds that crawl and bloom in the thicket. Beyond that is a tall border of trees; oak or elm or beech, who knows? They're big trees though, large enough to block the view of the lake. The thick of the weedy grass drops off immediately beyond the trees, dissolving into the rough sand strip of the beach, which itself ends abruptly into the clean black water of the lake.
James and Peter tear across the grass wildly, leaping and whooping like Tom Sawyer, shucking their clothes as they go - fling; the shirt is on the lawn - buckle; the shorts are by the fire-pit - rip; socks leap into the air like little black cannonballs. Sirius, Remus, and Lily watch, amused, as the two boys vault off beyond the trees, boxer-clad and hollering as they go
Lily sighs. "Will they be naked when we get there?"
"Yep."
"You guys too?" she asks, fanning herself with a magazine, as cool as can be (she has spent far too much time with the Marauders.)
"Yep." Sirius leans against the doorway and gives her a winning grin. As he speaks, he peels off his black muscle shirt, dropping it onto the stone floor of the patio as if to prove his point.
"Remus?" She says, turning to him, her last bastion of sanity.
"Sorry, Lily," he says, unbuttoning his shirt and revealing pale, scar-rippled skin beneath, "it's tradition." It's like these traditions are holy commandments, and maybe if she were a boy she'd understand, but Lily just chuckles and shakes her head and adjusts the straps of her bikini.
When she turns back to Sirius, he's naked and stretching lazily, like a tired cat. It's surprising, she finds, that she's already accustomed to his body - the curves, the structure, the muscles thereof; it's all been under her hands, her lips, her body at one point or another. She likes the colour of his skin, Mediterranean and brown and splattered with ink-black freckles, though his arms are still darker than his chest (a T-shirt tan) which always makes her laugh. He's lean, only warm and young muscle bulging from his limbs; smooth and hard over his stomach, anchored by the round pucker of his bellybutton. The curve of his chest invites a hand, and his nipples are dusty and pink, almost brown - any lighter and they would blend into the colour of his skin. His shoulders are broad, the shoulders of a football player, or maybe a Chaser. The sharp angles of his bones (shallow V of his collar, wing-like shoulder-blades, small buttons of his wrist) play in mathematical contrast to the flesh of his muscle, like a balance of hard and soft, of strength and sweet. The flat plane of his pelvis is laced with the dark fuzz of puberty, leading down to dark curls and his circumsized penis, something her eyes linger over (even flaccid it's fat and pink; he has a beautiful penis, which makes Lily stifle a laugh.) He's so different from James; athletic where her boyfriend is skinny, blushed and brown where James is English and white, agile and flexible where James is awkward and a bit klutzy. Polar opposites, really.
Sirius sets off after his friends at a run, and it's startling to realize that she feels like he belongs to her too, at least as much as James does. Watching his thighs flex, his calves strain as he sprints through the grass - it pleases her, warms her, as much as James does. It's not a new thing that's for sure, it's a feeling she felt at Hogwarts - watching Sirius bend and move in the common room, changing from his T-shirt into a sweater - and the knowing glance he would give her, and the look she would give back. She shivers, and she's not really sure if it's guilt.
Remus is a bit more modest: he wraps his beach towel around his waist, and blushes as he does. He's got a slender build, smaller so than Sirius, but a bit broader in the shoulder than James. He's a bit gentler too; that is, not round by any means, for he seems to all be flat surfaces and bones, but simply underdeveloped, an athletic body that has been calmed by books and lessons and not really eating enough and being torn apart once a month. He's not as scarred as Lily would have thought - maybe it's a werewolf healing factor or some other comic-book-like quality - and the scars he does have are actually kind of attractive, lightning-shaped slashes that curl over his shoulders, around the sides of his body, and diagonally down his hips.
"You coming?" he asks, draping a few more towels over his shoulders for the rest of the boys.
"Yeah, sure." She smiles, and takes his hand as they walk. "It's really pretty down here. Sirius is really lucky."
Remus shrugs. "I don't know if I would say that."
"What do you mean?"
"It's all he's got left, isn't it?"
She looks at him curiously: "What do you mean?"
"His family. It's all he's got left from his family." Remus sighs, maybe more for Sirius' sake. "I think he misses them sometimes."
"But they were awful to him! - or, at least, that's what James told me." They pass the furniture and fire-pit, she can see MWPP FOREVER scratches into the peeling white paint of the table. "I mean, Sirius doesn't really talk about them a lot, does he?"
"No, not really. I think part of him still loves them, though."
"Oh." They walk on in silence, bowing under the trees and stepping foot onto the warm sand of the beach. James, Sirius, and Peter are already in the water, splashing about like infants, galloping about the shallows only to deliver a tackle to a midriff, roaring and laughing and falling into the surf with flailing limbs.
Remus, a bit braver in company, lets his towel drop. Out of respect, Lily averts her eyes, contenting instead to watch her James dunk Sirius under the water, wiry form all shiny and wet with water and evening sunlight. It's easy to tell the boys apart in the growing darkness; body types quite different, and (of course) Sirius' long hair.
This is the first she has seen of Peter naked, and he's fairly accurate to how she imagined - short, broad-shouldered, built like a rugby player, stocky and strong - though, a strength that doesn't really show itself except for the occasional play-fight. He's very, very white, though a bit red in the arms and face from their walks today. Normally carefully parted blond hair is now wet and slick, falling in front of his face like weeds, which he pushes back to make him look like an American greaser from the 50s. His front teeth are bit too big for his face and his eyes are a dark, beady brown, but on the whole he's not ugly, almost attractive in a thick-skulled athlete kind of way (despite being one of the worst athletes Lily has ever seen.)
"You coming in?" Remus asks, touching her shoulder.
"Oh, yeah, course." She drops her towel and walks towards the water (James cat-calls, but is dunked by Sirius, taking advantage of his friend's moment of weakness.)
"What, in your swim suit?" Remus asks bemusedly.
"Well - er - yeah. Hence the, uh, swim part."
"Just warning you - that's not going to go over well. I mean, with Sirius and James and all."
Lily snorts and rolls her eyes. "They can live."
"Oh, Lily, I used to be like you once," Remus says, mock-nostalgically, "so naïve, so naïve…"
"Come on, hot stuff, let's go."
The two of them, Remus starkers and Lily still in her bikini, sprint into the water, dashing over sand and surf and diving into the cold lake, splashing and kicking to emerge right in front of their boys, hair slick and wet, laughing and joining in on the games. Remus, as sweet and calm as he is, is a firecracker in their wrestling - he might not look it, but beneath that amiably warm skin and tenderness, he's a bundle of muscle and iron and fight (maybe it's a werewolf thing.) Leaping out of the water, he catches a surprised Sirius with a full-bodied grip, vicing his legs around Sirius' chest and sending them both crashing into the water - they emerge seconds later, Remus on his boy's back, arms around Sirius' neck, legs knotted around Sirius' ribs like some insane flesh-eating zombie or enormous parasite. Sirius staggers around with the added weight, screaming and laughing as Remus tries to flip them both back in the water.
Lily, not to be outdone by those muscle-flexing boys, attacks James. Even though he's ready for her (been watching out of the corner of his eye, expecting this kind of thing) she still takes him down, and quite easily at that. She runs at him and slams into his stomach, twists to pick him up over her shoulder, and drops him into the lake as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes. Sirius and Remus stop for a moment (Remus still grappling around Sirius' body, nearly sitting on the boy's shoulders) to watch the action, and laugh outrageously when James is deposited back into the water.
"Classic," Sirius says, wiping tears from his eyes. "James taken down by a girl."
"Don't underestimate her, James! - and that goes with you too," Remus says, tightening his grip around Sirius' shoulders, twisting, eventually pulling Sirius and himself back into the water with a great splash.
" Wait," Sirius says, upon surfacing, breathing heavily with exertion, "Lily, you're wearing a swim suit."
"Why yes, I am." She drops James once more into the water, and wades towards Sirius. "What of it?"
"I'm pretty sure there are laws against it," Sirius says, advancing on her too. They a foot apart, hands on their hips in stomach-deep water. "You are in direct violation of tradition. Remus can attest to the punishment."
"Told you," Remus says, drifting about peacefully.
"And what are you going to do?"
"Mm, dunno," James says, surfacing behind her, water-slick hair bobbing from the water. "We did warn you -"
"And - like I said - what are you going to do?" She's grinning, a little devious, a little mischievous, a if-you-want-me-come-and-get-me look.
"Are you tempting me, miss?" James says, rising out like some pale sea monster, stomach flexing, ribs stretching as he spreads his arms. Weeds cling to his sides, and his hair is flat on his head for maybe the first time in his life. "You wouldn't like me when I'm horny."
Like they've practiced this, James and Sirius step in at the same time, James around her back, hands threading beneath her underarms and linking below her breasts, while Sirius comes from the front, his arms wrapping around her back and gripping the clasp of her bikini top.
"Oh - oh no you don't -" she struggles, but it's half-hearted because she's all sticky and wet between these two boys; they stink of the lake and they're slippery and covered in seaweed and naked and warm and too strong for her, and she wouldn't have it any other way.
"Oh, yes we do," James says, kissing her neckline, nipping along the length of her clavicle, his hands sliding up to touch her breasts over the bikini top, squished between the fabric and Sirius' chest. "We're all naked here. I'm naked - you're naked."
"I'm not."
"You want to be - otherwise you wouldn't be here."
And that's when Sirius and his magic fingers undo the latch of her top causing the straps fall uselessly about her shoulders. Lily blushes, but it's all right because these are her boys, and it's only fair because they're all starkers, and enough with the excuses, let's be honest: she just likes showing off sometimes. This day, this trip, it's bringing out the worst in her - or is it the best? She feels electric, excited, impassioned - the solitude of the place and the language is enough to make her feel new, unique. It's somewhere between terror and joy, that they might be caught (naked, drinking, smoking pot, making love, whatever) and it just makes her heart beat rapid in her chest, a trembling tattoo of glee.
The tension of the boys' bodies keeps the wet fabric close to her skin, but James tugs at it, and tugs at it, and tugs it away, tossing it to shore, leaving it a dead blue jellyfish floating in the surf. Sirius slides in close once it's gone, her bare breasts pressing into his chest, and James does similar to her back so the three can hug - or, something weird and naked and similar to a hug. Lily laughs, and squirms a bit ("Guys, you're crushing me") but he'd be lying if she said she didn't love it. Peeling themselves away, Sirius and James drift away, leaving their beautiful creation standing, hands on her hips, blushing yet smiling, topless in the waist-high water: Venus rising from her half-shell, wet red hair draped around her neck and shoulders, breasts as smooth and white as porcelain, freckles like pepper. She pulls James in for an indulgent kiss, with tongue, with a kind of want that makes him hard under the water, with a kind of want that makes him frustrated that they're not alone. Sirius watches with narrowed eyes.
"Tray bell," a flustered James tries in embarrassing French.
"Awesome," Peter says, watching her brightly, scarcely looking away, "finally, she's one of the lads."
"Told you, Lily," Remus chimes in, adding: "didn't even last a day."
"Boob-tastic," is all Sirius says, bored and drifting lazily on his back.
They eventually cut their swim short to watch the sun set. It's fortunate, the beach faces west so they have a vividly clear portrait of the sun as it collapses beyond the distant mountains and ushering in their eager night. They sit on the hard sand of the beach, naked and drip-drying, knees brought up to their chests and all gold-wrought by sunlight, smoking a joint and chatting absently. Sirius has nipped into the house and returned with two bottles of wine; 1937 Chateaux Quincampoix, rusty red Cabernet Francs that cost enough to fund a revolution or two. They drink from the bottle, drink-drink-pass as the colour in the sky melts away.
Part 3
Part 4