Fic: Nothing Happens, Sirius/James, R/NC17
Spamming you with more fic. Started this one yonks ago, for beckaandzac's birthday, and it's finally got an ending. So, er, Happy Birthday! (three months ago...)
Title: Nothing Happens
Pairing: Sirius/James
Rating: R, I think, maybe more
Disclaimer: Not my characters.
Word count: Nearly 6,000
Summary: There's been too many of these moments recently, mixed in messily with the everyday things. If it was anyone else then Sirius would have given in and shagged them months ago. But this is James, and he can't, although he wants to so much more.
"I think there's things in here with me," Sirius complains, twitching uneasily. James turns to find his friend still stretched out on the sofa, but now with trousers unbuttoned and his hand shoved firmly down the front of them.
"Should that surprise you, really?" James asks, turning away so he won't be treated with that expression of Sirius', the familiar twist of amused anger.
"Shove it, dickhead," Sirius mumbles, scratching harder so James is forced to listen to the shuffle of material and the harsh grate of nails against coarse hair. He hopes that it's just leg hair. Really, it's only that Sirius' poor bollocks aren't used to the tight trousers he's taken to wearing.
"Pox again, is it?" James says, instead of resorting to an unwelcome joke about fleas. "Not that you've been trying very hard to catch anything of late," he adds.
"S'not that, it's me bloody leg. Summat's bit me," is all the reply Sirius gives.
James finds it desperately annoying, that Sirius could so easily get whatever, whoever, he wanted. But doesn't. Even though he'd hardly need to try.
He's quite aggravatingly beautiful, is James' best friend, and sometimes James just has to touch him, just the odd stroke of his palm, or like now when James is subtly leant back so that his head occasionally brushes Sirius' calf.
While James is sneaking his touches, Sirius is draped across the full length of the longest sofa in James' front room, the soft shine of his lush black hair fanned across James' mother's favourite embroidered velvet cushion. He also has one hand pushed into his open trousers, relieving the itch with his long fingers and showing far too much belly and thin underwear and white inner thigh.
James is trying desperately not to look at him, despite Sirius' narrow, wiggling toes frequently stretching round to tickle casually at James' chin, because even when quiet and distracted by itchy things Sirius has to be at least a little annoying. James wants to bite him each time a foot curls under his chin, the skin of Sirius' high instep curiously soft. But instead he returns, trembling, to his book, which he's been allowed to read because it's the sort of book that the borrowing of is heavily restricted, and because they have wine, plenty of it, and one bottle already drained.
"Just because I don't whine and pine and beg and drool, y'know, doesn't mean I'm not," Sirius says, after a lazy pause.
"Mmm," James mumbles, not really agreeing because he doesn't want any details. They're so close, the two of them, and James is still young enough to be jealous of anyone stealing Sirius from him.
There's that foot, Sirius' right, sliding along the underside of James' jaw again, and he wishes there was some stubble to scrape back at the too-smooth arch of it.
"Can seduce people with just your feet, can you?" James says, snickering gently, but with a hot hollow of quick feeling deep in his chest.
The foot is removed, if rather slowly and with a teasing flick of toes at the end. Sirius tilts his head, assaulting James with that fixed stare that forces him to turn and look. James keeps his face studiously blank, though the most likely emotion to burst through his expression is a bark of silly laughter.
"Of course I can," Sirius insists, his voice purposely gravelly and James hiccups his giggle back down his throat. "Would you like a demonstration?"
"You wish," James laughs, triumphant, and after a while returns to his book, lips hitched into a partial smile that he hopes is more of a smirk.
He senses Sirius rolling his head back, hears a few tiny clicks as buttons are re-fastened and a rubbery papery noise of slightly clammy skin as Sirius' palm slips to rest on his own belly, a frequent mannerism of his when they're being gloriously idle. Sirius shuffles, settling into the comfort of the sofa and James relaxes his own head back to touch Sirius' leg.
At length, Sirius speaks again. "I could have you, James Potter," he says quietly, confident but not arrogant, and definitely pleased.
James stares at his book and grins.
#
We're so alike, Sirius thinks, because they are; always black hair and wicked eyes. James is him; only more normal, and with bad eyesight.
For some reason, James' glasses are on the bedside table situated on Sirius' side of the bed, dawn light glinting through them. Sirius watches them, enjoying the comforting predictability of staying here and how consistent James is, how constant.
James has curled in during the night, as usual; hot palm pressed to Sirius' lower belly, fingers spread and the tip of a pinkie finger quietly nestled under the waist of Sirius' borrowed pyjamas. James' nose is pressed into the base of his skull, which also happens naturally, despite James' nose being too long to comfortably fit the hollow at the back of Sirius' head. Must be breathing great lungfuls of thick dark hair, Sirius realises with a warm smile.
But it's normal, and comfort, and Sirius has always liked it. Even when, like now, there's wetness that's more than just breath, it's tongue, or the inside corner of James' lip. James only does that when he's awake, maybe just half awake, but he has the sense to pretend he's still asleep.
Normal.
Sirius flutters his eyes closed, to share the illusion, that James is almost, not quite but nearly, kissing his neck. James is always, always hard in the mornings, and the old, soft mattress dips in and presses them together, chest to back. Sirius is too scared to push past what's normal - normal for them that is - and so he just takes what he can: this.
And James' blush last night.
#
Sirius laughs when James suggests a swim, that jealous and condescending flash in his eyes while he is clearly silently mocking James' cosy family and idyllic childhood. But James' intention wasn't a healthy, wholesome splash in the water, the secret corners of his subconscious point out, but enough of Sirius' naked skin to tide him over for a few days. He licks his lips nervously.
As soon as they reach the bank of the river, Sirius strips, t-shirt flung away and trousers and pants stepped out of. Luckily he shows off his bravery and plunges straight into the undoubtedly icy stream, which is enough time for James to throw his own clothing aside and slosh into the water to hide his shame.
A hand clamps firmly around James' ankle only seconds after his feet mush into the rocks and dirt of the riverbed and yanks him firmly under too, the surface swallowing up quickly over his head.
"Gotcha!" Sirius yells as they break back up, but James is trembling with the sudden chill and Sirius' proximity, frighteningly different from busy shower-rooms. In self defence, James spits his half-swallowed mouthful of river water neatly into his friend's face.
He makes a run for it before he's had time to think it through.
"You bastardly bastard's bastard!" Sirius is screaming behind him, accompanying the wet slurpy-sucking noises of water as it slops around their bodies, reaching up to their waists as they chase in slow motion. James hurls himself back under, attempting to double back even though this pool is too shallow to conceal him.
Sirius dives on top of him, and this was such a bad idea, James complains to himself - there's too much cold, and far too much warm skin and softness. "Mine now," Sirius tells him, voice breathless and unnaturally gentle as they stagger up to an awkward standing position. And the nearly-frozen water hasn't calmed Sirius any more than it did James, and James shivers against him in the blazing sunshine.
It's only one long second, and then Sirius has one foot hooked into a swift ankle-tap which propels James forwards even as he's digging an elbow a good way back into Sirius' ribs.
Sirius' next attack is pointedly less physical; a sharp wave of water pushed against the tide and up into James' face. James relaxes and sets his feet firmly in the dirt to prepare for a long, dirty water fight, with hopefully nothing more invasive than a stomach-full of water and the odd flying kick.
#
There's been too many of these moments recently, mixed in messily with the everyday things. If it was anyone else then Sirius would have given in and shagged them months ago. But this is James, and he can't, although he wants to so much more.
Even though it's barely six, they drink a large amount of wine while cooking the dinner, swigging heavily from James' father's crystal wine goblets while the potatoes dance around the kitchen surfaces, saucepans banging and clashing like drums and cymbals, different condiments mixing as they fly in arcs across the room. James has told Sirius off for this, but only half-heartedly, and there's too much sparkle in his eyes for Sirius to take him seriously, magical laws be damned.
Sirius hates red wine, it's too rich and pureblood-old-fashioned, but he loves the little pink-stained smile it causes above James' top lip, so he downs it anyway. James often licks his lips self-consciously and it's pretty to watch.
"And… voila!" James dollops bolognaise on top of a wet nest of spaghetti with a flourish that their pathetic culinary efforts really don't deserve.
"Mmm," Sirius agrees vaguely. "This'll taste like shit, won't it?"
"Yep," James says brightly. "Shall we try it first, or should I just floo for takeaway now?"
Sirius prods tentatively at the pasta. "I'd like Indian, I think."
"Again?"
"S'good. I like it. Spicy."
Sirius is aware from the way James' fork has stopped twirling idly through the spaghetti that he may have said the word 'spicy' in a slightly odd tone of voice.
"Y'know," he continues desperately, "spicy, all that-" Sirius sighs and gives up on managing to think of one ingredient that might be common in Indian cooking. "-stuff," he finishes lamely. It's bad, really bad, when you can't even have a normal conversation with your best friend because you're too busy imagining how it would feel to have their cock resting heavy in the palm of your hand, their tongue musky with expensive red wine.
Having nothing else to do, Sirius eats a forkful of bolognaise. It's actually not that bad.
"The mince is actually cooked this time," he says.
"It is?" James asks, finding his voice again.
"Yeah. And you can hardly taste the garlic as well." Which is a turn up for the books, because Sirius is sure it's taken the whole of the last week to get rid of the smell of the garlic bolognaise they'd cooked accidentally last week. "It's nice to think we spent the summer doing something productive."
James' body stiffens again, and Sirius shouldn't even think the word stiff right now. "What?" James splutters.
"Learning to cook spaghetti bolognaise."
James shovels some into his mouth. "So it's okay- crhugh! What is that-"
"The green shit, basil; I think there should be less of that too."
"Right." James sighs, the long, world-weary type of sigh. His head sags forward and his glasses slip a little down his nose. "Fish and chips, can we?"
Sirius can't bear to watch James eat chips - he likes to bite the crunchy bits off the ends and lick with little flicks of tongue at the ketchup - but he caves anyway. "Fine, if you want."
#
James has never slept well when drunk. So long as he hasn't been sick then he's twitchy and hyperactive - he's had some of his best ideas while extremely inebriated. Except all he can think about now is Sirius' wet skin in the river earlier. Maybe that's why they've both fallen into bed with all their clothes on.
There's four spare bedrooms in this house, and that's not including James' and his parents', so there's no need for Sirius to be sprawled out next to James every night. But he is; pretending to be sleeping, though James can always tell when he isn't. He hopes it's not a mutual talent.
"Can't sleep," James whines after a while, because he's finding the silence that irritating.
"How drunk are you?" Sirius asks, eyes still closed and it's casually spoken, though James' stomach tenses anyway.
"Quite a lot, I think," James admits.
Sirius rolls onto his side, facing James in the dull lamplight. "Because we just could, and, and pretend we didn't, in the morning."
James can't even pretend he doesn't know what they're discussing, being that he's at that stage of drunkenness when you can feel your own lack of control, and he has to press his lips together to stop confused, mad words from spilling out. He closes his eyes, though somehow he can still see that sombre, almost doomed expression on Sirius' face; pupils darkly dilated and a purple smear on his lower lip.
Eventually all he can say is one word, "can't."
His eyes open naturally to see Sirius nod and turn onto his back again, calmly.
Of course they can't, James thinks. If only he could sleep now and not think about it. He kicks angrily at the bedclothes and flumps onto his front, face down on the pillow. "We can't," he repeats for no good reason.
"But," Sirius says, "we are both very - very drunk and, and we've all done fucking ridiculous things when we're drunk before. And this time, there'd be no-one to tease us for it."
It's a good point. "You were sick," James says, feeling how forced his voice sounds, "in that vase on the plinth on the fifth floor that time. It was disgusting," he adds. It doesn't really work. They should be laughing, miming it out over-enthusiastically. Sirius should have shot back with that time James was sick on his bed and managed to convince poor drunk Sirius that it was his bed, and that James'd always slept in the one nearest the door.
"No-one would ever know," Sirius continues, and he isn't talking about throwing up.
"I might be sick," James warns.
Sirius scrambles up so that he's on his knees. "No you won't," he says, starting to undress.
James wouldn't have known how to start, probably neither does Sirius, and undressing is a good beginning, though James doesn't know what he said that Sirius took as him agreeing to this. But then there's Sirius' naked chest, angular and beautiful, and his arm muscles twisting as he pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth, graceful sweep. James has never fucked a girl before, and he doesn't think Sirius has either, not properly. Maybe it's for the best that they have nothing to compare it to.
James slowly undoes his own shirt, his shaking, drunken fingers constantly slipping on the overly small buttons. He shrugs a shoulder and the collar falls away, though his elbow keeps catching in the sleeve and it's a while before he finally manages to escape it.
And then they're both knelt there, facing each other, almost naked. James isn't even hard because he's too scared, though something burns low in his stomach that isn't just nerves. Sirius won't look at him, which makes it easier for James to watch him. He's got black boxer-shorts on and nearly nothing else, save for those little leather-strap wristbands that he wears and the one that's laced loosely around his neck.
"More wine," Sirius says eventually, unclenching his fists from the covers.
James nods, and feels his first real prickle of lust as Sirius slides gracefully to his feet, ducking his head a little as he leaves the room. There is something utterly feeble and pathetic about this; the two of them usually so fiery and full of energy, their fast talk and fast banter suddenly reduced to scared pockets of humbling awkwardness due to the stupidity of their teenage bodies.
This isn't happening, this isn't happening, James chants inwardly.
Sirius returns, still almost naked and still absurdly beautiful, with two large glasses of wine. He hands one over as he climbs back onto the bed and then holds his aloft in a toast. James raises his own glass, arm wobbly.
"To forgetfulness," Sirius says clearly, after a deep, shaky breath.
"Forgetfulness," James murmurs, and swallows half his glass in one gulp, in the hope that he might actually just bring it straight back up again.
He doesn't.
Sirius places his glass on the bedside table. "Right." James rests his drink on his own side of the bed and finally glances up.
"Look," James says, "if we're this nervous then it's quite obvious that we don't actually want to-to-so we shouldn't then, really."
"I want to," Sirius says, in that same determined voice, and that's what does it for James. His left arm suddenly reaches out, grabbing Sirius by the back of the head, fingers gripped into his hair as tight as they can. Their mouths meet in the middle and Sirius bites immediately, pushing their faces so firmly together that James' glasses are pressed into his skin and he can feel Sirius' nose digging in and the way his jaw clicks.
Sirius makes a strange grunting noise and then they're down on the bed, Sirius half on top, hands clutching James' upper arms, tongue moving clumsily between his lips. It's really not like kissing.
"Uhm-" James mumbles, wriggling and wondering what he's supposed to do with his own hands. It's very rough, with Sirius licking rather violently at his mouth, teeth grazing at his bottom lip, and James knows he should really do more than just lie there but he finds himself unable to relax enough to move.
"Sorry, right, yeah." Sirius is suddenly kneeling up over him, hands rubbing nervously over his own thighs. Naked thighs, James thinks, and now he's very hard. "Don't think it's working, really, is it, no."
James closes his eyes, thinking yes, yes it was. He wants to beg please but he's too embarrassed and he's only wearing a pair of flimsy pants which can't be hiding anything. "Okay," he whispers.
"Not drunk enough," Sirius insists, slapping his palms loudly to his thighs and the mattress heaves as James feels him move away and reach for his drink.
#
Sirius takes tiny, hurried sips of his wine, turned away from James so that his best friend doesn't see the pathetic way he's trembling.
"Need a fag," he mutters, when he realises he's drinking too fast and the wine is starting to burn as it runs down his throat. When there's no reply he glances briefly towards James, who is still flat on his back and still unmoving, though Sirius can't help but notice the way his underwear tents up between his legs.
Sirius bolts from the room, taking the wine with him.
By chance his cigarettes are downstairs on the kitchen counter. He grabs one and walks through to the dining room, only noticing his lack of clothes when he opens the patio doors into the warm, breezy night.
God knows why I decided to try that, he thinks. He's not even really panicking, because he knows that James keeps his promises. In the morning this really will never have happened, the only trace of it being the sexual tension that hangs heavy like a bloody lead balloon between them. Sirius has secretly been harbouring the hope that one hasty, uncomplicated shag will diffuse the problem, but all he's done tonight is prove that isn't true.
He lights his cigarette and leans on the doorframe, blowing hot smoke into the night. He doesn't even like smoking, but it seems like something he should do, and it's certainly a good way to escape when he needs to be alone.
Right now, James is trapped upstairs with nowhere to go to, but Sirius can't quite take his mind off him. James lying there; James' slim hips, James' long, bare legs and-
Right now, James is probably having a wank; underwear pushed down, fist moving swiftly so that he can be finished by the time Sirius gets back. Sirius knows he could sneak up there, quickly, catch him at it. But he knows he won't, and he flings his fag away half-smoked and lights another.
He stands there trying not to picture James. He'd hoped it would be simple; their bodies melding as effortlessly as their minds usually did. That's how it should have been, with kisses that felt natural and an easy rocking of excited, expectant bodies, an orgasm that was like wanking only more so; sharper and warm and desperately welcome. It should not have been stumbling, uncomfortable kissing and the tense stiffness in James' limbs, the overwhelming feeling of dirty, nervous sickness.
Wrong.
Well, he'd always known it was wrong: it had just been wrong in other ways, that he hadn't expected.
He spits his second partly-finished cigarette into the garden and spins sharply on his heel.
The stairs creak weightily, a long, slow groaning of wood as he tries to creep up them. When he slips into the bedroom James is lying on his bed, like he hasn't moved except to fling one arm dramatically over his eyes. The way his feet are curled, toes en pointe, shows how tense he is.
Sirius lies down, breathing carefully. "Seeing as we - we may as well just-"
"Yeah," James interrupts.
"Yeah." Sirius turns onto his side and presses his hand to James' belly. "Close your eyes and-"
"Yeah."
Pushing himself up, Sirius leans to kiss James. It's almost painfully weak, James half-heartedly moving his lips. Sirius reaches for the nearest wine glass and drains the last couple of mouthfuls. He takes courage from it and rests his body on top of James'. "I could have you," Sirius says, "and I bloody will."
James jerks a little and his palm drags down the side of Sirius' face. "Fucking bastard," he mumbles, but at least he's kissing back with slightly more effort.
James' skin is sticky, he smells of sweat and wine and his saliva is almost salty. Sirius shifts so his hip rests between James' legs, and when he twists and arches his body a little, James lets out a tiny cry of want and presses his tongue deeper. "There we go," Sirius mutters, and he begins to work his hand in between them.
They both forget the kissing as they start to rock together, their faces are merely touching at the mouth, and Sirius now understands why it is you're supposed to learn to hold yourself off. James says "Fuck" quietly, and Sirius shudders when James' hand presses flatly to the clammy small of his back, holding them closer. Sirius finds he's chewing on James' cheek, rutting roughly against James and his own hand. His thoughts are wild, wishing that James was naked, wishing James would try harder, kiss harder.
He comes suddenly, his whole body seizing up, and James whispers "fuck" again, lips on Sirius' cheek. "Fuck, Sirius," James says, finally beginning to thrust with small jolts of his hips.
"Shut up," Sirius gasps when he can, "shut up, you fucking-"
"Ah-" Sirius freezes in place again to watch James, his palm flat under James' chin, watching his friend's eyes scrunch up under skewed glasses. The expression on James' face takes Sirius by surprise, an unfamiliar twist of features on a familiar face, yet now he can’t imagine how he's never wondered what James looked like when he came.
James tilts his chin and Sirius reluctantly removes his hand. "Sorry."
"Didn't happen," James points out, his breathing still shaky.
"Right."
#
When he wakes in the morning, the first thing James does - after he's uncurled himself from around Sirius, attempting to calm the dark churn in his stomach and the hot throb lower down - is grab a dressing gown and stumble downstairs. The second thing is to take a bottle of hangover potion from the medical cupboard in the kitchen and dose himself liberally with the contents. He notices that the potion bottle is suspiciously full and easy to locate, but he pushes that to the back of his mind for now. It isn't like he didn't already know how little his mother trusts him.
He starts to make breakfast because he has to do something.
Nothing happened, nothing happened, he repeats to himself. He'd promised to forget, even though he knew at the time that there wasn't any amount of alcohol that could do that. He'd fallen asleep to the jarring smell of freshly smoked cigarettes, a scent that he finds arousing in a wicked kind of way. James' dreams had been bright and blurry and lurid, Sirius always there and the dream always shifting just as he almost found a rather pathetic kind of relief again.
James takes his breakfast into the front room and eats toast and drinks coffee sat on the rug, bare feet resting on the marble of the fireplace. The potion he's taken slowly works its magic, but it leaves behind his shame and dread and he'd almost prefer the headache because at least it was a distraction.
"Morning," Sirius says grimly, more a statement than a greeting.
James doesn't turn. "Mm."
Sirius steals a slice of toast and sits in front of James, on the marble, reaching for James' mug of coffee and taking a solemn sip. He looks tense, an air of general dread seeming to hover all around him.
"Hangover potion's in the kitchen," James says, because he can't really ask Sirius not to sit so close. He sighs. "You know," James says carefully, "I drank so much last night I can barely remember any of it."
Sirius just looks, a long cool stare which breaks very suddenly into a wide, wicked grin. "Me too," he claims, "must have been that expensive wine. No wonder your parents like it so much."
James narrows his eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean, about my parents?"
"Your mum, probably needs to forget stuff when she's lying back and thinking of-"
James clobbers Sirius in the head with the nearest cushion.
"Don't you even think about it?" Sirius continues. "Your dad, on top of-"
"Sick, dirty, dirty fucker," James is saying as he beats Sirius rhythmically over the head, while Sirius attempts to crawl away. "Just sick," James adds, before throwing himself onto his friend.
Struggling, Sirius laughs, writhing from side to side, pushing at James' shoulder with the heel of his palm and using his other hand to untwist James' fingers from where they're fastening around his throat. "Oh get off," he says, giggling. "You know you've wondered, y'pervert."
"You have, you mean. My parents let you into their beautiful home and you're just using them for your grubby, filthy fantasies, oh you are."
"Yeah?" Sirius taunts, and James finds that both his hands are being held now, and suddenly they're just lying there, staring into each others eyes.
"Oh fuck," James says, because he's completely sober.
#
Once they've caught their breath after the brief fight - and they're sitting a lot further apart - Sirius ventures to speak again.
"We should go out," he says, "no wonder we're going mad, stuck in here all the time."
"We aren't!" James protests. "We went swimming, and shopping and- and we went for a walk before my parents went away."
Sirius leans against the back of the sofa, suddenly realising that the reason James looks strange is that he's wearing a dressing gown. Since when did James wear a dressing gown? "We're turning into bloody old men," Sirius points out. "Are we really going to go back to school and tell them that over the summer we had some lovely walks in the countryside and pottered around some shops?"
"Yes," James agrees. "Right."
"So we'll… go to the pub this evening."
"Er…"
"Somewhere good. Don't worry, I'll find us somewhere nice and busy." Sirius jumps to his feet, full of purpose. Now they have a plan it's suddenly so much easier.
James doesn't seem to share his enthusiasm. "They'll never let us in anywhere."
"They will," Sirius insists. "I'm gorgeous, and you're as tall as me. I'll buy all the drinks, it'll be fine. Trust me."
James freezes, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He puts it down again and glances in Sirius' direction nervously.
"Yeah," Sirius says with rather less certainty.
#
James hates the pub immediately, humid, stuffy and smoke-filled as it is, jam-packed with people. It's busier than the Three Broomsticks on the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas, and they have to elbow their way through the crowds just to reach the bar.
"See, told you I'd find somewhere good!" Sirius hisses gleefully, dropping his head to speak directly into James' ear as they wait to be served.
"They'll chuck us out," James predicts.
"No way," Sirius says, shaking his hair forwards into his eyes.
Gorgeous, James thinks gloomily. Rather inopportunely, someone behind shoves him hard enough that he's suddenly pressed roughly to Sirius' back.
"Pint, James?" Sirius asks, and it takes a few seconds before James remembers that Muggles drink beer.
He hovers behind Sirius, close enough to smell his friend's hair. "Yeah, right."
Against all odds, the barmaid seems quite happy with Sirius' age and doesn't even ask, though probably Sirius licked at his teeth in that attractive way he does as he leaned in to make his order. The girl was likely feeling too dizzy to wonder if Sirius was eighteen yet.
Sirius turns and presses a pint of beer into James' hand, nudging him away from the bar. James peers distrustfully into his drink; it looks like muddy puddle-water with an inch of froth on. "We'll never get a table," James says, "and you could have bought me cider."
"Poofs drink cider," Sirius tells him, and James freezes up for a second, before realising that this is the sort of evening it’s going to be.
They rest their drinks on a convenient pot shelf. "Well, you'd know," James shoots back brightly. Sirius reaches over and ruffles James' carefully arranged hair. James slaps tetchily at Sirius' fingers, but they're both grinning.
#
It was a good night. "Go'night," Sirius explains as they fall out of the fireplace. James is still clinging to him around the waist. "Needed that."
"Mmm, yep," James says blearily, lips moving against Sirius' cheek.
"Strong stuff, ain't it, that Old Speckled Bastard Ale, or whatever it was. Them Muggles is sneaky." James has led him into the kitchen, walking behind him, hands on Sirius' hips, breath on his neck.
"So drunk," James giggles.
"But it's good though, needed that."
James has pulled away and is pouring a glass of water. "Thirsty," he says.
"But we did," Sirius continues insistently, "to get out a bit, didn't we? S'all normal now."
James is too busy swigging down water and doesn't answer.
"Normal," Sirius repeats.
"Yeah," James agrees, then turns and shoves Sirius against the kitchen counter and kisses him.
Sirius wants to protest that they don't need to, because everything's normal now, but this, this is what it should have been yesterday, hungry and intense, James' mouth keen and open and wet. "Fuck, damn," Sirius mumbles as they slide down the side of the counter and crumple to the floor. James places himself neatly in Sirius' lap, eager clenching hands holding Sirius' face while they kiss desperately.
"Fucking hell," James says, as if correcting him. "Oh, you're-"
James is already rubbing, hips grinding back and forth, causing rough twists of pleasure. Moaning, Sirius pushes at James, hands already under his clothes and touching hot skin at James' belly. They tangle themselves even closer, then tumble painfully onto the cold floor tiles. James just grins, shoving his arms up the back of Sirius' shirt, and continuing to kiss and lick. Sirius' shirt is tugged rather abruptly over his head, James making a pleased, content sort of noise as he wraps his arms around Sirius' bare back.
"More naked," he pleads, childlike in his drunkenness, and rolls them over to sit on top and pull hurriedly at Sirius' trousers. Sirius is a little breathless from the seeping-in cold of the stone flooring, but it doesn't stop him trying to take James' shirt off too.
#
James is pulling insistently at Sirius' clothes, because he wants to feel more skin and more heat. He sits on Sirius' legs and scrabbles impatiently at the buttons of his friend's trousers, the looseness that alcohol lends to his brain and body making it easier for him to enjoy gently palming the head of Sirius' cock where it strains heavily against his clothing. "Umm," James moans as he pushes the heel of his palm over again, feeling a soft twitch.
Sirius groans and James finds himself being pulled down and then it's all rutting and thrusting and fervent kisses, and James abandons his attempts to open Sirius' trousers in favour of a fast, rough orgasm that's already building.
"I'll do it," Sirius mumbles, long fingers feeling their way around the buttons of James' flies, and then the same cold fingers are wrapped around him, soft and icy against the skin of his prick. He chokes and thrusts a little, legs apart as he half lies on and half straddles Sirius. "There," Sirius says, and James kisses him as Sirius hurries to unbutton his own trousers.
Buttons and zips make it fairly uncomfortable, but James is drunk and absolutely frantic for this, the way Sirius' body feels both soft and hard beneath him and the way his cock pushes sharply up into James'. Jeans have a nice, if rough texture to them, and James likes the coarse way Sirius' are chafing gently at his balls while they wriggle and jerk and push their pricks together.
In between the blur of snatched kisses and tangled limbs, James tries to watch Sirius, his dark lashes fluttering as he grunts and groans. Every so often, Sirius says "Yes", and it builds quickly, the tone of Sirius' voice becoming more and more gruff as their sweaty thrusting drags skin over skin and it starts to feel sticky.
Sirius comes with an soft moan, deep and full as wet warmth washes over James' cock and belly, and James bends to kiss furiously as he begins to come himself. The pleasure aches as it spreads through him, the knowledge that he's coming on Sirius only making it worse, and he's left gasping, fingers trembling where they cling on to Sirius.
James is instantly terrified when they pull apart, his mind blank and white except for oh my god and Sirius.
"Thirsty," Sirius says, as if nothing's happened.
Nothing happened, James thinks. "Mm," he agrees, keeping his eyes down firmly on his own fingers as he buttons himself up. When he glances back, Sirius is watching him, his jeans still undone. "What?" James snaps.
"Oh, we needed that," Sirius says, half sitting and with one hand rubbing gently through the drying mess of come on his belly.
James tries to tear his eyes away, but can't. "Needed what?" he asks pointedly.
"That shag," Sirius answers, his smile crooked and drunken. James stares back at him, and tries to get his head around the idea of not having to pretend this didn't happen in the morning.
Title: Nothing Happens
Pairing: Sirius/James
Rating: R, I think, maybe more
Disclaimer: Not my characters.
Word count: Nearly 6,000
Summary: There's been too many of these moments recently, mixed in messily with the everyday things. If it was anyone else then Sirius would have given in and shagged them months ago. But this is James, and he can't, although he wants to so much more.
"I think there's things in here with me," Sirius complains, twitching uneasily. James turns to find his friend still stretched out on the sofa, but now with trousers unbuttoned and his hand shoved firmly down the front of them.
"Should that surprise you, really?" James asks, turning away so he won't be treated with that expression of Sirius', the familiar twist of amused anger.
"Shove it, dickhead," Sirius mumbles, scratching harder so James is forced to listen to the shuffle of material and the harsh grate of nails against coarse hair. He hopes that it's just leg hair. Really, it's only that Sirius' poor bollocks aren't used to the tight trousers he's taken to wearing.
"Pox again, is it?" James says, instead of resorting to an unwelcome joke about fleas. "Not that you've been trying very hard to catch anything of late," he adds.
"S'not that, it's me bloody leg. Summat's bit me," is all the reply Sirius gives.
James finds it desperately annoying, that Sirius could so easily get whatever, whoever, he wanted. But doesn't. Even though he'd hardly need to try.
He's quite aggravatingly beautiful, is James' best friend, and sometimes James just has to touch him, just the odd stroke of his palm, or like now when James is subtly leant back so that his head occasionally brushes Sirius' calf.
While James is sneaking his touches, Sirius is draped across the full length of the longest sofa in James' front room, the soft shine of his lush black hair fanned across James' mother's favourite embroidered velvet cushion. He also has one hand pushed into his open trousers, relieving the itch with his long fingers and showing far too much belly and thin underwear and white inner thigh.
James is trying desperately not to look at him, despite Sirius' narrow, wiggling toes frequently stretching round to tickle casually at James' chin, because even when quiet and distracted by itchy things Sirius has to be at least a little annoying. James wants to bite him each time a foot curls under his chin, the skin of Sirius' high instep curiously soft. But instead he returns, trembling, to his book, which he's been allowed to read because it's the sort of book that the borrowing of is heavily restricted, and because they have wine, plenty of it, and one bottle already drained.
"Just because I don't whine and pine and beg and drool, y'know, doesn't mean I'm not," Sirius says, after a lazy pause.
"Mmm," James mumbles, not really agreeing because he doesn't want any details. They're so close, the two of them, and James is still young enough to be jealous of anyone stealing Sirius from him.
There's that foot, Sirius' right, sliding along the underside of James' jaw again, and he wishes there was some stubble to scrape back at the too-smooth arch of it.
"Can seduce people with just your feet, can you?" James says, snickering gently, but with a hot hollow of quick feeling deep in his chest.
The foot is removed, if rather slowly and with a teasing flick of toes at the end. Sirius tilts his head, assaulting James with that fixed stare that forces him to turn and look. James keeps his face studiously blank, though the most likely emotion to burst through his expression is a bark of silly laughter.
"Of course I can," Sirius insists, his voice purposely gravelly and James hiccups his giggle back down his throat. "Would you like a demonstration?"
"You wish," James laughs, triumphant, and after a while returns to his book, lips hitched into a partial smile that he hopes is more of a smirk.
He senses Sirius rolling his head back, hears a few tiny clicks as buttons are re-fastened and a rubbery papery noise of slightly clammy skin as Sirius' palm slips to rest on his own belly, a frequent mannerism of his when they're being gloriously idle. Sirius shuffles, settling into the comfort of the sofa and James relaxes his own head back to touch Sirius' leg.
At length, Sirius speaks again. "I could have you, James Potter," he says quietly, confident but not arrogant, and definitely pleased.
James stares at his book and grins.
#
We're so alike, Sirius thinks, because they are; always black hair and wicked eyes. James is him; only more normal, and with bad eyesight.
For some reason, James' glasses are on the bedside table situated on Sirius' side of the bed, dawn light glinting through them. Sirius watches them, enjoying the comforting predictability of staying here and how consistent James is, how constant.
James has curled in during the night, as usual; hot palm pressed to Sirius' lower belly, fingers spread and the tip of a pinkie finger quietly nestled under the waist of Sirius' borrowed pyjamas. James' nose is pressed into the base of his skull, which also happens naturally, despite James' nose being too long to comfortably fit the hollow at the back of Sirius' head. Must be breathing great lungfuls of thick dark hair, Sirius realises with a warm smile.
But it's normal, and comfort, and Sirius has always liked it. Even when, like now, there's wetness that's more than just breath, it's tongue, or the inside corner of James' lip. James only does that when he's awake, maybe just half awake, but he has the sense to pretend he's still asleep.
Normal.
Sirius flutters his eyes closed, to share the illusion, that James is almost, not quite but nearly, kissing his neck. James is always, always hard in the mornings, and the old, soft mattress dips in and presses them together, chest to back. Sirius is too scared to push past what's normal - normal for them that is - and so he just takes what he can: this.
And James' blush last night.
#
Sirius laughs when James suggests a swim, that jealous and condescending flash in his eyes while he is clearly silently mocking James' cosy family and idyllic childhood. But James' intention wasn't a healthy, wholesome splash in the water, the secret corners of his subconscious point out, but enough of Sirius' naked skin to tide him over for a few days. He licks his lips nervously.
As soon as they reach the bank of the river, Sirius strips, t-shirt flung away and trousers and pants stepped out of. Luckily he shows off his bravery and plunges straight into the undoubtedly icy stream, which is enough time for James to throw his own clothing aside and slosh into the water to hide his shame.
A hand clamps firmly around James' ankle only seconds after his feet mush into the rocks and dirt of the riverbed and yanks him firmly under too, the surface swallowing up quickly over his head.
"Gotcha!" Sirius yells as they break back up, but James is trembling with the sudden chill and Sirius' proximity, frighteningly different from busy shower-rooms. In self defence, James spits his half-swallowed mouthful of river water neatly into his friend's face.
He makes a run for it before he's had time to think it through.
"You bastardly bastard's bastard!" Sirius is screaming behind him, accompanying the wet slurpy-sucking noises of water as it slops around their bodies, reaching up to their waists as they chase in slow motion. James hurls himself back under, attempting to double back even though this pool is too shallow to conceal him.
Sirius dives on top of him, and this was such a bad idea, James complains to himself - there's too much cold, and far too much warm skin and softness. "Mine now," Sirius tells him, voice breathless and unnaturally gentle as they stagger up to an awkward standing position. And the nearly-frozen water hasn't calmed Sirius any more than it did James, and James shivers against him in the blazing sunshine.
It's only one long second, and then Sirius has one foot hooked into a swift ankle-tap which propels James forwards even as he's digging an elbow a good way back into Sirius' ribs.
Sirius' next attack is pointedly less physical; a sharp wave of water pushed against the tide and up into James' face. James relaxes and sets his feet firmly in the dirt to prepare for a long, dirty water fight, with hopefully nothing more invasive than a stomach-full of water and the odd flying kick.
#
There's been too many of these moments recently, mixed in messily with the everyday things. If it was anyone else then Sirius would have given in and shagged them months ago. But this is James, and he can't, although he wants to so much more.
Even though it's barely six, they drink a large amount of wine while cooking the dinner, swigging heavily from James' father's crystal wine goblets while the potatoes dance around the kitchen surfaces, saucepans banging and clashing like drums and cymbals, different condiments mixing as they fly in arcs across the room. James has told Sirius off for this, but only half-heartedly, and there's too much sparkle in his eyes for Sirius to take him seriously, magical laws be damned.
Sirius hates red wine, it's too rich and pureblood-old-fashioned, but he loves the little pink-stained smile it causes above James' top lip, so he downs it anyway. James often licks his lips self-consciously and it's pretty to watch.
"And… voila!" James dollops bolognaise on top of a wet nest of spaghetti with a flourish that their pathetic culinary efforts really don't deserve.
"Mmm," Sirius agrees vaguely. "This'll taste like shit, won't it?"
"Yep," James says brightly. "Shall we try it first, or should I just floo for takeaway now?"
Sirius prods tentatively at the pasta. "I'd like Indian, I think."
"Again?"
"S'good. I like it. Spicy."
Sirius is aware from the way James' fork has stopped twirling idly through the spaghetti that he may have said the word 'spicy' in a slightly odd tone of voice.
"Y'know," he continues desperately, "spicy, all that-" Sirius sighs and gives up on managing to think of one ingredient that might be common in Indian cooking. "-stuff," he finishes lamely. It's bad, really bad, when you can't even have a normal conversation with your best friend because you're too busy imagining how it would feel to have their cock resting heavy in the palm of your hand, their tongue musky with expensive red wine.
Having nothing else to do, Sirius eats a forkful of bolognaise. It's actually not that bad.
"The mince is actually cooked this time," he says.
"It is?" James asks, finding his voice again.
"Yeah. And you can hardly taste the garlic as well." Which is a turn up for the books, because Sirius is sure it's taken the whole of the last week to get rid of the smell of the garlic bolognaise they'd cooked accidentally last week. "It's nice to think we spent the summer doing something productive."
James' body stiffens again, and Sirius shouldn't even think the word stiff right now. "What?" James splutters.
"Learning to cook spaghetti bolognaise."
James shovels some into his mouth. "So it's okay- crhugh! What is that-"
"The green shit, basil; I think there should be less of that too."
"Right." James sighs, the long, world-weary type of sigh. His head sags forward and his glasses slip a little down his nose. "Fish and chips, can we?"
Sirius can't bear to watch James eat chips - he likes to bite the crunchy bits off the ends and lick with little flicks of tongue at the ketchup - but he caves anyway. "Fine, if you want."
#
James has never slept well when drunk. So long as he hasn't been sick then he's twitchy and hyperactive - he's had some of his best ideas while extremely inebriated. Except all he can think about now is Sirius' wet skin in the river earlier. Maybe that's why they've both fallen into bed with all their clothes on.
There's four spare bedrooms in this house, and that's not including James' and his parents', so there's no need for Sirius to be sprawled out next to James every night. But he is; pretending to be sleeping, though James can always tell when he isn't. He hopes it's not a mutual talent.
"Can't sleep," James whines after a while, because he's finding the silence that irritating.
"How drunk are you?" Sirius asks, eyes still closed and it's casually spoken, though James' stomach tenses anyway.
"Quite a lot, I think," James admits.
Sirius rolls onto his side, facing James in the dull lamplight. "Because we just could, and, and pretend we didn't, in the morning."
James can't even pretend he doesn't know what they're discussing, being that he's at that stage of drunkenness when you can feel your own lack of control, and he has to press his lips together to stop confused, mad words from spilling out. He closes his eyes, though somehow he can still see that sombre, almost doomed expression on Sirius' face; pupils darkly dilated and a purple smear on his lower lip.
Eventually all he can say is one word, "can't."
His eyes open naturally to see Sirius nod and turn onto his back again, calmly.
Of course they can't, James thinks. If only he could sleep now and not think about it. He kicks angrily at the bedclothes and flumps onto his front, face down on the pillow. "We can't," he repeats for no good reason.
"But," Sirius says, "we are both very - very drunk and, and we've all done fucking ridiculous things when we're drunk before. And this time, there'd be no-one to tease us for it."
It's a good point. "You were sick," James says, feeling how forced his voice sounds, "in that vase on the plinth on the fifth floor that time. It was disgusting," he adds. It doesn't really work. They should be laughing, miming it out over-enthusiastically. Sirius should have shot back with that time James was sick on his bed and managed to convince poor drunk Sirius that it was his bed, and that James'd always slept in the one nearest the door.
"No-one would ever know," Sirius continues, and he isn't talking about throwing up.
"I might be sick," James warns.
Sirius scrambles up so that he's on his knees. "No you won't," he says, starting to undress.
James wouldn't have known how to start, probably neither does Sirius, and undressing is a good beginning, though James doesn't know what he said that Sirius took as him agreeing to this. But then there's Sirius' naked chest, angular and beautiful, and his arm muscles twisting as he pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth, graceful sweep. James has never fucked a girl before, and he doesn't think Sirius has either, not properly. Maybe it's for the best that they have nothing to compare it to.
James slowly undoes his own shirt, his shaking, drunken fingers constantly slipping on the overly small buttons. He shrugs a shoulder and the collar falls away, though his elbow keeps catching in the sleeve and it's a while before he finally manages to escape it.
And then they're both knelt there, facing each other, almost naked. James isn't even hard because he's too scared, though something burns low in his stomach that isn't just nerves. Sirius won't look at him, which makes it easier for James to watch him. He's got black boxer-shorts on and nearly nothing else, save for those little leather-strap wristbands that he wears and the one that's laced loosely around his neck.
"More wine," Sirius says eventually, unclenching his fists from the covers.
James nods, and feels his first real prickle of lust as Sirius slides gracefully to his feet, ducking his head a little as he leaves the room. There is something utterly feeble and pathetic about this; the two of them usually so fiery and full of energy, their fast talk and fast banter suddenly reduced to scared pockets of humbling awkwardness due to the stupidity of their teenage bodies.
This isn't happening, this isn't happening, James chants inwardly.
Sirius returns, still almost naked and still absurdly beautiful, with two large glasses of wine. He hands one over as he climbs back onto the bed and then holds his aloft in a toast. James raises his own glass, arm wobbly.
"To forgetfulness," Sirius says clearly, after a deep, shaky breath.
"Forgetfulness," James murmurs, and swallows half his glass in one gulp, in the hope that he might actually just bring it straight back up again.
He doesn't.
Sirius places his glass on the bedside table. "Right." James rests his drink on his own side of the bed and finally glances up.
"Look," James says, "if we're this nervous then it's quite obvious that we don't actually want to-to-so we shouldn't then, really."
"I want to," Sirius says, in that same determined voice, and that's what does it for James. His left arm suddenly reaches out, grabbing Sirius by the back of the head, fingers gripped into his hair as tight as they can. Their mouths meet in the middle and Sirius bites immediately, pushing their faces so firmly together that James' glasses are pressed into his skin and he can feel Sirius' nose digging in and the way his jaw clicks.
Sirius makes a strange grunting noise and then they're down on the bed, Sirius half on top, hands clutching James' upper arms, tongue moving clumsily between his lips. It's really not like kissing.
"Uhm-" James mumbles, wriggling and wondering what he's supposed to do with his own hands. It's very rough, with Sirius licking rather violently at his mouth, teeth grazing at his bottom lip, and James knows he should really do more than just lie there but he finds himself unable to relax enough to move.
"Sorry, right, yeah." Sirius is suddenly kneeling up over him, hands rubbing nervously over his own thighs. Naked thighs, James thinks, and now he's very hard. "Don't think it's working, really, is it, no."
James closes his eyes, thinking yes, yes it was. He wants to beg please but he's too embarrassed and he's only wearing a pair of flimsy pants which can't be hiding anything. "Okay," he whispers.
"Not drunk enough," Sirius insists, slapping his palms loudly to his thighs and the mattress heaves as James feels him move away and reach for his drink.
#
Sirius takes tiny, hurried sips of his wine, turned away from James so that his best friend doesn't see the pathetic way he's trembling.
"Need a fag," he mutters, when he realises he's drinking too fast and the wine is starting to burn as it runs down his throat. When there's no reply he glances briefly towards James, who is still flat on his back and still unmoving, though Sirius can't help but notice the way his underwear tents up between his legs.
Sirius bolts from the room, taking the wine with him.
By chance his cigarettes are downstairs on the kitchen counter. He grabs one and walks through to the dining room, only noticing his lack of clothes when he opens the patio doors into the warm, breezy night.
God knows why I decided to try that, he thinks. He's not even really panicking, because he knows that James keeps his promises. In the morning this really will never have happened, the only trace of it being the sexual tension that hangs heavy like a bloody lead balloon between them. Sirius has secretly been harbouring the hope that one hasty, uncomplicated shag will diffuse the problem, but all he's done tonight is prove that isn't true.
He lights his cigarette and leans on the doorframe, blowing hot smoke into the night. He doesn't even like smoking, but it seems like something he should do, and it's certainly a good way to escape when he needs to be alone.
Right now, James is trapped upstairs with nowhere to go to, but Sirius can't quite take his mind off him. James lying there; James' slim hips, James' long, bare legs and-
Right now, James is probably having a wank; underwear pushed down, fist moving swiftly so that he can be finished by the time Sirius gets back. Sirius knows he could sneak up there, quickly, catch him at it. But he knows he won't, and he flings his fag away half-smoked and lights another.
He stands there trying not to picture James. He'd hoped it would be simple; their bodies melding as effortlessly as their minds usually did. That's how it should have been, with kisses that felt natural and an easy rocking of excited, expectant bodies, an orgasm that was like wanking only more so; sharper and warm and desperately welcome. It should not have been stumbling, uncomfortable kissing and the tense stiffness in James' limbs, the overwhelming feeling of dirty, nervous sickness.
Wrong.
Well, he'd always known it was wrong: it had just been wrong in other ways, that he hadn't expected.
He spits his second partly-finished cigarette into the garden and spins sharply on his heel.
The stairs creak weightily, a long, slow groaning of wood as he tries to creep up them. When he slips into the bedroom James is lying on his bed, like he hasn't moved except to fling one arm dramatically over his eyes. The way his feet are curled, toes en pointe, shows how tense he is.
Sirius lies down, breathing carefully. "Seeing as we - we may as well just-"
"Yeah," James interrupts.
"Yeah." Sirius turns onto his side and presses his hand to James' belly. "Close your eyes and-"
"Yeah."
Pushing himself up, Sirius leans to kiss James. It's almost painfully weak, James half-heartedly moving his lips. Sirius reaches for the nearest wine glass and drains the last couple of mouthfuls. He takes courage from it and rests his body on top of James'. "I could have you," Sirius says, "and I bloody will."
James jerks a little and his palm drags down the side of Sirius' face. "Fucking bastard," he mumbles, but at least he's kissing back with slightly more effort.
James' skin is sticky, he smells of sweat and wine and his saliva is almost salty. Sirius shifts so his hip rests between James' legs, and when he twists and arches his body a little, James lets out a tiny cry of want and presses his tongue deeper. "There we go," Sirius mutters, and he begins to work his hand in between them.
They both forget the kissing as they start to rock together, their faces are merely touching at the mouth, and Sirius now understands why it is you're supposed to learn to hold yourself off. James says "Fuck" quietly, and Sirius shudders when James' hand presses flatly to the clammy small of his back, holding them closer. Sirius finds he's chewing on James' cheek, rutting roughly against James and his own hand. His thoughts are wild, wishing that James was naked, wishing James would try harder, kiss harder.
He comes suddenly, his whole body seizing up, and James whispers "fuck" again, lips on Sirius' cheek. "Fuck, Sirius," James says, finally beginning to thrust with small jolts of his hips.
"Shut up," Sirius gasps when he can, "shut up, you fucking-"
"Ah-" Sirius freezes in place again to watch James, his palm flat under James' chin, watching his friend's eyes scrunch up under skewed glasses. The expression on James' face takes Sirius by surprise, an unfamiliar twist of features on a familiar face, yet now he can’t imagine how he's never wondered what James looked like when he came.
James tilts his chin and Sirius reluctantly removes his hand. "Sorry."
"Didn't happen," James points out, his breathing still shaky.
"Right."
#
When he wakes in the morning, the first thing James does - after he's uncurled himself from around Sirius, attempting to calm the dark churn in his stomach and the hot throb lower down - is grab a dressing gown and stumble downstairs. The second thing is to take a bottle of hangover potion from the medical cupboard in the kitchen and dose himself liberally with the contents. He notices that the potion bottle is suspiciously full and easy to locate, but he pushes that to the back of his mind for now. It isn't like he didn't already know how little his mother trusts him.
He starts to make breakfast because he has to do something.
Nothing happened, nothing happened, he repeats to himself. He'd promised to forget, even though he knew at the time that there wasn't any amount of alcohol that could do that. He'd fallen asleep to the jarring smell of freshly smoked cigarettes, a scent that he finds arousing in a wicked kind of way. James' dreams had been bright and blurry and lurid, Sirius always there and the dream always shifting just as he almost found a rather pathetic kind of relief again.
James takes his breakfast into the front room and eats toast and drinks coffee sat on the rug, bare feet resting on the marble of the fireplace. The potion he's taken slowly works its magic, but it leaves behind his shame and dread and he'd almost prefer the headache because at least it was a distraction.
"Morning," Sirius says grimly, more a statement than a greeting.
James doesn't turn. "Mm."
Sirius steals a slice of toast and sits in front of James, on the marble, reaching for James' mug of coffee and taking a solemn sip. He looks tense, an air of general dread seeming to hover all around him.
"Hangover potion's in the kitchen," James says, because he can't really ask Sirius not to sit so close. He sighs. "You know," James says carefully, "I drank so much last night I can barely remember any of it."
Sirius just looks, a long cool stare which breaks very suddenly into a wide, wicked grin. "Me too," he claims, "must have been that expensive wine. No wonder your parents like it so much."
James narrows his eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean, about my parents?"
"Your mum, probably needs to forget stuff when she's lying back and thinking of-"
James clobbers Sirius in the head with the nearest cushion.
"Don't you even think about it?" Sirius continues. "Your dad, on top of-"
"Sick, dirty, dirty fucker," James is saying as he beats Sirius rhythmically over the head, while Sirius attempts to crawl away. "Just sick," James adds, before throwing himself onto his friend.
Struggling, Sirius laughs, writhing from side to side, pushing at James' shoulder with the heel of his palm and using his other hand to untwist James' fingers from where they're fastening around his throat. "Oh get off," he says, giggling. "You know you've wondered, y'pervert."
"You have, you mean. My parents let you into their beautiful home and you're just using them for your grubby, filthy fantasies, oh you are."
"Yeah?" Sirius taunts, and James finds that both his hands are being held now, and suddenly they're just lying there, staring into each others eyes.
"Oh fuck," James says, because he's completely sober.
#
Once they've caught their breath after the brief fight - and they're sitting a lot further apart - Sirius ventures to speak again.
"We should go out," he says, "no wonder we're going mad, stuck in here all the time."
"We aren't!" James protests. "We went swimming, and shopping and- and we went for a walk before my parents went away."
Sirius leans against the back of the sofa, suddenly realising that the reason James looks strange is that he's wearing a dressing gown. Since when did James wear a dressing gown? "We're turning into bloody old men," Sirius points out. "Are we really going to go back to school and tell them that over the summer we had some lovely walks in the countryside and pottered around some shops?"
"Yes," James agrees. "Right."
"So we'll… go to the pub this evening."
"Er…"
"Somewhere good. Don't worry, I'll find us somewhere nice and busy." Sirius jumps to his feet, full of purpose. Now they have a plan it's suddenly so much easier.
James doesn't seem to share his enthusiasm. "They'll never let us in anywhere."
"They will," Sirius insists. "I'm gorgeous, and you're as tall as me. I'll buy all the drinks, it'll be fine. Trust me."
James freezes, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He puts it down again and glances in Sirius' direction nervously.
"Yeah," Sirius says with rather less certainty.
#
James hates the pub immediately, humid, stuffy and smoke-filled as it is, jam-packed with people. It's busier than the Three Broomsticks on the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas, and they have to elbow their way through the crowds just to reach the bar.
"See, told you I'd find somewhere good!" Sirius hisses gleefully, dropping his head to speak directly into James' ear as they wait to be served.
"They'll chuck us out," James predicts.
"No way," Sirius says, shaking his hair forwards into his eyes.
Gorgeous, James thinks gloomily. Rather inopportunely, someone behind shoves him hard enough that he's suddenly pressed roughly to Sirius' back.
"Pint, James?" Sirius asks, and it takes a few seconds before James remembers that Muggles drink beer.
He hovers behind Sirius, close enough to smell his friend's hair. "Yeah, right."
Against all odds, the barmaid seems quite happy with Sirius' age and doesn't even ask, though probably Sirius licked at his teeth in that attractive way he does as he leaned in to make his order. The girl was likely feeling too dizzy to wonder if Sirius was eighteen yet.
Sirius turns and presses a pint of beer into James' hand, nudging him away from the bar. James peers distrustfully into his drink; it looks like muddy puddle-water with an inch of froth on. "We'll never get a table," James says, "and you could have bought me cider."
"Poofs drink cider," Sirius tells him, and James freezes up for a second, before realising that this is the sort of evening it’s going to be.
They rest their drinks on a convenient pot shelf. "Well, you'd know," James shoots back brightly. Sirius reaches over and ruffles James' carefully arranged hair. James slaps tetchily at Sirius' fingers, but they're both grinning.
#
It was a good night. "Go'night," Sirius explains as they fall out of the fireplace. James is still clinging to him around the waist. "Needed that."
"Mmm, yep," James says blearily, lips moving against Sirius' cheek.
"Strong stuff, ain't it, that Old Speckled Bastard Ale, or whatever it was. Them Muggles is sneaky." James has led him into the kitchen, walking behind him, hands on Sirius' hips, breath on his neck.
"So drunk," James giggles.
"But it's good though, needed that."
James has pulled away and is pouring a glass of water. "Thirsty," he says.
"But we did," Sirius continues insistently, "to get out a bit, didn't we? S'all normal now."
James is too busy swigging down water and doesn't answer.
"Normal," Sirius repeats.
"Yeah," James agrees, then turns and shoves Sirius against the kitchen counter and kisses him.
Sirius wants to protest that they don't need to, because everything's normal now, but this, this is what it should have been yesterday, hungry and intense, James' mouth keen and open and wet. "Fuck, damn," Sirius mumbles as they slide down the side of the counter and crumple to the floor. James places himself neatly in Sirius' lap, eager clenching hands holding Sirius' face while they kiss desperately.
"Fucking hell," James says, as if correcting him. "Oh, you're-"
James is already rubbing, hips grinding back and forth, causing rough twists of pleasure. Moaning, Sirius pushes at James, hands already under his clothes and touching hot skin at James' belly. They tangle themselves even closer, then tumble painfully onto the cold floor tiles. James just grins, shoving his arms up the back of Sirius' shirt, and continuing to kiss and lick. Sirius' shirt is tugged rather abruptly over his head, James making a pleased, content sort of noise as he wraps his arms around Sirius' bare back.
"More naked," he pleads, childlike in his drunkenness, and rolls them over to sit on top and pull hurriedly at Sirius' trousers. Sirius is a little breathless from the seeping-in cold of the stone flooring, but it doesn't stop him trying to take James' shirt off too.
#
James is pulling insistently at Sirius' clothes, because he wants to feel more skin and more heat. He sits on Sirius' legs and scrabbles impatiently at the buttons of his friend's trousers, the looseness that alcohol lends to his brain and body making it easier for him to enjoy gently palming the head of Sirius' cock where it strains heavily against his clothing. "Umm," James moans as he pushes the heel of his palm over again, feeling a soft twitch.
Sirius groans and James finds himself being pulled down and then it's all rutting and thrusting and fervent kisses, and James abandons his attempts to open Sirius' trousers in favour of a fast, rough orgasm that's already building.
"I'll do it," Sirius mumbles, long fingers feeling their way around the buttons of James' flies, and then the same cold fingers are wrapped around him, soft and icy against the skin of his prick. He chokes and thrusts a little, legs apart as he half lies on and half straddles Sirius. "There," Sirius says, and James kisses him as Sirius hurries to unbutton his own trousers.
Buttons and zips make it fairly uncomfortable, but James is drunk and absolutely frantic for this, the way Sirius' body feels both soft and hard beneath him and the way his cock pushes sharply up into James'. Jeans have a nice, if rough texture to them, and James likes the coarse way Sirius' are chafing gently at his balls while they wriggle and jerk and push their pricks together.
In between the blur of snatched kisses and tangled limbs, James tries to watch Sirius, his dark lashes fluttering as he grunts and groans. Every so often, Sirius says "Yes", and it builds quickly, the tone of Sirius' voice becoming more and more gruff as their sweaty thrusting drags skin over skin and it starts to feel sticky.
Sirius comes with an soft moan, deep and full as wet warmth washes over James' cock and belly, and James bends to kiss furiously as he begins to come himself. The pleasure aches as it spreads through him, the knowledge that he's coming on Sirius only making it worse, and he's left gasping, fingers trembling where they cling on to Sirius.
James is instantly terrified when they pull apart, his mind blank and white except for oh my god and Sirius.
"Thirsty," Sirius says, as if nothing's happened.
Nothing happened, James thinks. "Mm," he agrees, keeping his eyes down firmly on his own fingers as he buttons himself up. When he glances back, Sirius is watching him, his jeans still undone. "What?" James snaps.
"Oh, we needed that," Sirius says, half sitting and with one hand rubbing gently through the drying mess of come on his belly.
James tries to tear his eyes away, but can't. "Needed what?" he asks pointedly.
"That shag," Sirius answers, his smile crooked and drunken. James stares back at him, and tries to get his head around the idea of not having to pretend this didn't happen in the morning.