wanking_mods (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} wanking_mods) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} hp_wankfest,@ 2008-05-25 12:00:00 |
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Sirius Black in Azkaban with a Golden Snitch
Title: His Own Sun
Author:envinyatar15
Character: Sirius Black
Location: Azkaban
Object: golden snitch
Other Characters: James, Lily
Rating: R
Warnings: adultery, voyeurism, canon character deaths
Word Count: 3,328
Author's Notes: Canon-compliant James/Sirius fic. Um, a Wankfest does need its angst, yes? Inspired by Evanescence's "Like You" because I couldn't resist. Many thanks to S for the beta.
One (stay low, soft, dark and dreamless)
In Azkaban, they say, the nothingness resides. The handful of prisoners that were released tell stories of unknowable darkness within its walls: no windows to watch the moon's progress over the night sky, no torches in the narrow hallways that lead from one cell block to the next, only the sound of the Dementors' breathing as they glide along, taking your essence with them. The black is ultimate, scratching at you until you bleed, weakening your walls until all there is - inside and out - is death.
Two (far beneath my nightmares and loneliness)
Sirius Black, infamous murderer of James and Lily Potter, has been brought and buried in such a pitch-black cell in Azkaban. The walls barely give him space to walk but five steps in each direction, the cot has long since given up service, the ground is dingy. Once a day he is fed and watered, like the dog he changes into automatically these days as soon as the creeping coldness of a Dementor gnaws at him.
He is rotting away, Death watching him from a corner of the cell.
There is but one thing that keeps Sirius alive. It is not the knowledge that he is innocent like he later relates. He wouldn't know about that. Azkaban is nothingness, will become a twelve-year gap in his memory except for the feeling of having a hole at his feet that he could be pushed into momentarily, insanity a mere step away from where he stands.
Instead of the knowledge of his innocence, there's the remembrance of a light that couldn't have existed in the depth beyond hell. When he lies awake - night and day, in Azkaban it doesn't matter - curled in on himself and too weak to change one way or another, sometimes a sun will go up, mere inches from his face. It's impossible, but possibility doesn't much matter in Azkaban. The light of the small orb is blinding, but it doesn't hurt Sirius' eyes; it merely dispels the darkness until it's gone, Death leaving with it. Buried so deeply under the earth, this light soon becomes the only source of comfort and warmth he has: his very own sun. This sun will look him in the eye, shine at him, laugh at him - tell him to Be brave.
He tries.
Three (I don't want to feel anymore for you)
"Prongs?"
"In here!"
Sirius quickly pulls back the curtain around James' four-poster bed. "What're you doing up here?" he asks as he bounces down on his friend's bed. The bed squeaks a little when he shifts that way. Interesting. He tries it some more. "It's still warm outside! We gotta use the weather and prepare for the try-outs next week."
Looking up at James, Sirius sees a cloud fly over his face. Sirius groans inwardly. He knows what it means. "She shot you down again?"
"Yeah."
There's a silence after that. Sirius doesn't quite know how to fill it. Grief counsellor isn't really his role; that's always been Remus'. His is Best Friend In Arms, and he's not ready to switch careers any time soon without a good reason.
But James already shakes himself out of it - remembering that he, too, has something to do. "Alright, let's go." He tries a tentative smile at Sirius that doesn't reach his eyes, but Sirius doesn't mind. Too much.
James is trying, at least.
Four (I'm not grieving for you)
Sometimes the weight of the darkness crushes down on Sirius' chest, pressing down on his ribs and cutting off his air supply. He feels like he ought to be breaking, like maybe he's been worn down so much his bones have become like porcelain.
He truly wishes it were so when it becomes too much, too much, I can't, can'tcan'tcan't, too much.
And then the sun comes back and shines just for him, and everything is alright again.
Five (nothing real love can't undo)
"No. No, Padfoot, no. We can't do this."
Sirius tries to lean back in, but James' hand against his chest is insistent, pushing him back. "No. Padfoot. Sirius."
At the sound of his given name, Sirius finally backs down, leaning away from the hand over his heart. He runs a hand through his hair and over his eyes, anything to keep from looking at James' swollen mouth, the blush of arousal spreading over his cheeks. He's not sure how to handle James' refusal; sometimes with him "No" means "Yes", but sometimes it does actually mean "No". Rubbing at his eyes tiredly, he asks himself why he still wants this, why he still puts himself in this situation time and time again. He knows he shouldn't. James won't change from one moment to the next.
"I'm sorry," James whispers miserably, pulling Sirius from his thoughts. Sirius sighs.
"Me too." Offering a small smile he gets up from the floor, reaching a hand out toward James.
James takes it, his eyes guarded but an answering smile playing around his lips. Nothing broken that's visible, and who cares for cracks that can't be seen?
When James walks away (meeting up with Evans, Sirius is sure), Sirius looks after him, tracking James' every movement with hungry eyes that will memorise each of his friend's peculiarities. Those memories will remain black holes among a graveyard of blacker holes, so deep no new memory will ever succeed in filling up what has been lost to Azkaban.
Six (and though I may have lost my way all paths lead straight to you)
Your deepest sorrows are dragged to the surface the moment you set foot in Azkaban. The longer you remain there, the more lost you become in the guilt that maybe you would have pushed away eventually out there. It doesn't matter whether you've been forgiven. Anything that has ever caused you pain comes back to replay in your head, twisting and changing until the version you think you know is as far from truth as you are from sanity.
Sirius writhes in his sleep. He doesn't dream - dreaming is right up there with all the other things that are gone, like emotions and humanity, all of it sucked out through your helpless skin. No, he doesn't dream, but he doesn't sleep restfully either.
There's a face that shines in his mind, from time to time, when Sirius has seen his own sun and his will to live has returned. There's a face that shines in his mind sometimes, when he's stronger than on average days. He doesn't know what this face means - maybe he doesn't even knows it is a face - and it confuses him. But he's learnt that when the sun comes to him the face isn't far, so after a time, the two become connected.
A peaceful feeling washes over him when he sees either, and for the first time in days he will sleep.
Seven (halo - blinding wall between us)
"Hey! Remus, give it back!"
Sirius smiles. He watches James fight Remus for the golden snitch Remus just caught. James was playing with it, as is his custom, and Remus was trying to study; Sirius saw him grow increasingly annoyed with James' antics, a sign of restlessness that seemed common with him these days.
Remus' stern face and James' outraged one are just too funny. Sirius is already laughing on the inside, the sounds of his mirth fighting against the constriction of his throat. But it won't do if Sirius bursts out laughing. Who knows how James will react these days, and who knows what consequences that will have?
"Give it back!" James howls.
"Only when you promise to keep it in your pocket."
"No!"
"Prongs, she isn't even looking in your direction."
"This is not about her!"
"Oh? And what is it about then?"
James is silent after that, and Sirius' laughter prematurely dies in his throat.
No, these days nothing is about Evans.
Eight (I hate me for breathing without you)
Once a month pandemonium reigns in the kingdom of soul-destroying monotony. Once a month the Minister for Magic comes to visit.
The Dementors draw back a little, leaving space for ex-prisoners who don't fit into the world anymore to clean up the mess created over the last month. For the actual prisoners it's the only time of relief they get.
For Sirius, it's the time when he can remember the pieces of what is left to him, sanity yanking at his chain. The pain of loneliness, dulled underneath the blanket of ice the Dementors spread, is back full force.
When the Minister visits the worst of the scum of the wizarding world, he prefers to sit with Sirius. Sirius is calm and controlled - as much as he can be under the circumstances.
Two cells further down the sounds of Bella's screaming reverberate along the walls.
Nine (melt away and leave us alone again)
Sirius watches them from the shadows. He watches how James touches her (delicately, slowly, carefully). He watches how he kisses her (sweetly, intensely, quietly).
He watches how he fucks her (gently, cautiously, lovingly).
He hears him murmur "I love you" in between thrusts, feels him drift away, and the hand he touches himself with is but a hollow reminder of what used to be.
Ten (no matter what they told you you're not alone)
The Dementors don't suck your happiness out of you at once. It's a slow process, spread over many months or years, always depending on the amount of guilt a person feels; the less of it there is, the longer the torture goes on.
In those eternal moments Sirius wishes that he was guilty; that it would be over, now, because it already feels like he's suffered an eternity for nothing.
It's ironic, really, the way the innocent are punished. The voices in his head, the images are with him no matter what, inescapable until he's finally suffocated underneath the blanket spreading around him. Darkness is closing in on him, threatening to put out the last glimmer of hope in his mind.
(And then there's the sun and then there's the face, and everything is alright again.)
Eleven (and as we lay in silent bliss)
Sirius' hand travels down his chest and belly, following the ghosts of kisses fluttering along a downward trail. He lingers around his belly button, remembering the hot kisses and licks bestowed upon it, goes further south. Teasing himself, he plays with the trail of hair, closes in on where he wants to go, but not yet, not yet. Blood sings in his veins in the memory of once upon a time, but its song is melancholy, if intense. His finger circles his cock, half-hard and demanding attention.
He can feel a tongue on his thighs, drawing it out as long as possible. He can feel it lick along his length once, then returning upward, playing with his nipples while a finger ghosts along his cock. He plays with his nipples, circling, touching, pinching. He's always liked it a little rough, a little desperate.
He's had it all, for a while. Now all he has is memories.
Before the tightness in his chest can release in a sound that would belie his statement of I'm okay, don't you worry, Sirius grips his cock, slowly sliding along and feeling it thicken and lengthen. He flicks his thumb over the tip, his other hand trailing down to join in. He sets a slow, lazy rhythm, tries to think of wet heat enveloping him, a tongue teasing the underside of his cock, of hands fondling his balls, sliding lower, along the crack of his ass to the puckered hole.
He almost bucks into his own hand, sense memory removing him from reality. The slide into imagination is quick; it's not his hand that catches the pearls of pre-come and spreads them over a finger. It's not his hand that works himself, rougher, quicker than before. It's not his hand that slides down again, teases his hole and slowly slides in.
The ache is good, just what it would have been if. The stretch of the fingers burns. Sirius moans and rocks down a bit, impatient. Words spill out of his mouth, unintelligible, as his not-hands twist around him, in him. He joins in with a second finger. The slow slide of skin against skin is achingly good (could have been better), his muscles clamping down on not-himself, trying to lure the fingers in deeper. He complies, his not-hand around his cock stilling as he angles up, searching for the sweet point inside.
The world explodes in stars around him, nonsensical words flying around him. His back arches, rocking down on his not-fingers, searching for more, more, more.
Always more, but he never quite gets what he's seeking.
His cocks leaks more pre-come, the tension in his gut tightening. He's close now, feeling the ghost of kisses along his jaw, down his neck. His not-fingers tighten their grip on his cock, spreading the pre-come and slickening the movements on his skin. Rougher, quicker, more - he moans loudly when it's almost too much, his balls drawing up - one more push-pull-twist and then he comes, hard. Come stains his stomach and coats pubic hair as his fingers slacken.
Reality comes crashing down on him with the force of his orgasm. The ghost has evaporated, and he's alone again.
Twelve (I believe our love can see us through in death)
Sirius exists. He breathes. He dreams.
He will live.
Thirteen (there's room inside for two)
"Look, this can't go on. It's been fun, but... I'm with Evans now."
"I know," Sirius says. He turns away from James' naked form and gets up, finding his stray clothes.
"Pads -"
"Yeah, it's been real fun," Sirius is quick to reassure, but he can't quite bite down on the bitterness that accompanies the words.
Silence reigns after that, the rustling of his clothes resounding like bombs thrown into a mine field.
"You can't have thought it was more than that."
Sirius doesn't turn back around. "No, of course not."
"Pads -"
That's the last straw. "No," Sirius says, all the anger he's been harbouring since forever breaking out. "It was nothing, it is nothing and it will be nothing. I get that, alright?"
"Yeah," is James' response.
Sirius storms out of the dorm, seeking refuge in the vastness of Hogwarts' grounds.
Fourteen (I'm not grieving for you)
The Minister for Magic leaves Sirius the Daily Prophet at his request.
He has enough time from the moment the Minister leaves his cell until he's left Azkaban, and consequently the Dementors' come-back, to come up with enough rage to go through with this mad plan that's formed in his head. Run, is the mantra in his head, the sun shining down on him long after the torches have gone out again. Revenge. For them. Run!
He does. Free of guilt, free of pain, free of grief, he runs - and for the first time since, since, he is free.
Fifteen (I'm coming for you)
"Pads?" James asks from somewhere behind Sirius. Sirius doesn't react, just keeps leaning against the wall and staring out the window into the garden.
This is it, the end. The last time he will see James. Can anyone blame him that he doesn't want to face him like this?
A heavy hand lands on his shoulder. "Sirius," James whispers, close to Sirius' ear. Sirius shudders, an automatic reaction to James' proximity (so long since it's been let out). Then, louder: "C'mon, man. There isn't much time."
Sirius sighs softly, rubbing his eyebrow with the fingers of a stiff, still-bloody hand. It's been a long and difficult night already. He turns around, focusing away from James. Otherwise temptation might prove to be too much.
"Look at me, Pads," James murmurs, but if it's the last thing Sirius will do, it's not that. He won't do it, not under these circumstances. Sirius respects James' decision; has been best man and is godfather; but right now, anything might prove to be too much.
Just then James touches his knuckle under his chin, and with an exhalation Sirius breaks this promise to himself; looks at James, really looks, and it's then that the reality catches up with him.
This is the last time he will see James until the war is over.
James lets Sirius look his fill, doesn't even shift under his best friend's scrutiny like he's been doing since. James looks tired, weary, aged beyond his age. They all do, now, the war taking its toll on each of them.
"James -" Sirius begins, but before he can figure out what exactly it is he wants to say, James' finger comes up to his lips, effectively silencing him. Sirius keeps staring at him, mesmerised. He can't remember when they've last touched.
Then James leans forward, slowly, his eyes still locked with Sirius'; for all it seems asking for permission. As if he needed it. Sirius doesn't move, waiting for what it is James wants. The first touch of lips on lips is pure electricity, the air between them charged with tension as James draws back, ever-careful now that the war has become a personal vendetta to ensure his son will live safely. Sirius doesn't waste time, sees the invitation in James' eyes for what it is and surges forward, chasing James and pulling him close. A moan escapes him when he feels James so pliant under his ministrations, his tongue seeking what Sirius is sure might just be the last taste of James he's going to get. The kiss isn't earth-shattering, but for all it's worth it will be burnt into Sirius' memory, its imprint so deep it won't be lost like all the other things.
When James finally draws back, he leans his forehead against Sirius'. "I'm sorry it had to be like this," James sighs into Sirius' mouth, regret seeping into his voice.
"Me too," Sirius mouths back, a sad smile lingering around the corners of his eyes. "Me too."
Before any more can be said and done, Lily's voice rings through the house. "It's time! We have to go." But James doesn't break away guiltily like Sirius had expected. Instead he softly rubs a finger over Sirius' lower lip.
"Goodbye, my friend," he says.
Sirius nods, his throat too tight to answer. When James breaks away, he turns back to the window, trying to listen past the sounds of departure and failing miserably. He's seen James leave numerous times. He won't now. Too much of a goodbye.
Only when he turns to leave himself, minutes or maybe hours later, does he put his hand in his pocket and finds the golden snitch James had snuck in there. Sirius smiles, clutching it tightly in his hand.
He still has it with him when Peter changes the world as Sirius knows it, his heart exploding around him with an earth-shattering strength.
And he laughs.
Sixteen (I long to be like you)
In Azkaban, they say, the nothingness resides. The handful of prisoners that were released tell stories of unknowable darkness within its walls: no windows to watch the moon's progress over the night sky, no torches in the narrow hallways that lead from one cell block to the next, only the sound of the Dementors' breathing as they glide along, taking your essence with them. The black is ultimate, scratching at you until you bleed, weakening your walls until all there is - inside and out - is death.
Sirius' story would be different, if he could tell it. He would tell a story of blackness and hopelessness; but even among the darkness, hope shines eternally.
Maybe the story would have helped Harry, in the dark days he is facing himself.
Maybe, if Sirius could have told the story.
Title: His Own Sun
Author:
envinyatar15Character: Sirius Black
Location: Azkaban
Object: golden snitch
Other Characters: James, Lily
Rating: R
Warnings: adultery, voyeurism, canon character deaths
Word Count: 3,328
Author's Notes: Canon-compliant James/Sirius fic. Um, a Wankfest does need its angst, yes? Inspired by Evanescence's "Like You" because I couldn't resist. Many thanks to S for the beta.
One (stay low, soft, dark and dreamless)
In Azkaban, they say, the nothingness resides. The handful of prisoners that were released tell stories of unknowable darkness within its walls: no windows to watch the moon's progress over the night sky, no torches in the narrow hallways that lead from one cell block to the next, only the sound of the Dementors' breathing as they glide along, taking your essence with them. The black is ultimate, scratching at you until you bleed, weakening your walls until all there is - inside and out - is death.
Two (far beneath my nightmares and loneliness)
Sirius Black, infamous murderer of James and Lily Potter, has been brought and buried in such a pitch-black cell in Azkaban. The walls barely give him space to walk but five steps in each direction, the cot has long since given up service, the ground is dingy. Once a day he is fed and watered, like the dog he changes into automatically these days as soon as the creeping coldness of a Dementor gnaws at him.
He is rotting away, Death watching him from a corner of the cell.
There is but one thing that keeps Sirius alive. It is not the knowledge that he is innocent like he later relates. He wouldn't know about that. Azkaban is nothingness, will become a twelve-year gap in his memory except for the feeling of having a hole at his feet that he could be pushed into momentarily, insanity a mere step away from where he stands.
Instead of the knowledge of his innocence, there's the remembrance of a light that couldn't have existed in the depth beyond hell. When he lies awake - night and day, in Azkaban it doesn't matter - curled in on himself and too weak to change one way or another, sometimes a sun will go up, mere inches from his face. It's impossible, but possibility doesn't much matter in Azkaban. The light of the small orb is blinding, but it doesn't hurt Sirius' eyes; it merely dispels the darkness until it's gone, Death leaving with it. Buried so deeply under the earth, this light soon becomes the only source of comfort and warmth he has: his very own sun. This sun will look him in the eye, shine at him, laugh at him - tell him to Be brave.
He tries.
Three (I don't want to feel anymore for you)
"Prongs?"
"In here!"
Sirius quickly pulls back the curtain around James' four-poster bed. "What're you doing up here?" he asks as he bounces down on his friend's bed. The bed squeaks a little when he shifts that way. Interesting. He tries it some more. "It's still warm outside! We gotta use the weather and prepare for the try-outs next week."
Looking up at James, Sirius sees a cloud fly over his face. Sirius groans inwardly. He knows what it means. "She shot you down again?"
"Yeah."
There's a silence after that. Sirius doesn't quite know how to fill it. Grief counsellor isn't really his role; that's always been Remus'. His is Best Friend In Arms, and he's not ready to switch careers any time soon without a good reason.
But James already shakes himself out of it - remembering that he, too, has something to do. "Alright, let's go." He tries a tentative smile at Sirius that doesn't reach his eyes, but Sirius doesn't mind. Too much.
James is trying, at least.
Four (I'm not grieving for you)
Sometimes the weight of the darkness crushes down on Sirius' chest, pressing down on his ribs and cutting off his air supply. He feels like he ought to be breaking, like maybe he's been worn down so much his bones have become like porcelain.
He truly wishes it were so when it becomes too much, too much, I can't, can'tcan'tcan't, too much.
And then the sun comes back and shines just for him, and everything is alright again.
Five (nothing real love can't undo)
"No. No, Padfoot, no. We can't do this."
Sirius tries to lean back in, but James' hand against his chest is insistent, pushing him back. "No. Padfoot. Sirius."
At the sound of his given name, Sirius finally backs down, leaning away from the hand over his heart. He runs a hand through his hair and over his eyes, anything to keep from looking at James' swollen mouth, the blush of arousal spreading over his cheeks. He's not sure how to handle James' refusal; sometimes with him "No" means "Yes", but sometimes it does actually mean "No". Rubbing at his eyes tiredly, he asks himself why he still wants this, why he still puts himself in this situation time and time again. He knows he shouldn't. James won't change from one moment to the next.
"I'm sorry," James whispers miserably, pulling Sirius from his thoughts. Sirius sighs.
"Me too." Offering a small smile he gets up from the floor, reaching a hand out toward James.
James takes it, his eyes guarded but an answering smile playing around his lips. Nothing broken that's visible, and who cares for cracks that can't be seen?
When James walks away (meeting up with Evans, Sirius is sure), Sirius looks after him, tracking James' every movement with hungry eyes that will memorise each of his friend's peculiarities. Those memories will remain black holes among a graveyard of blacker holes, so deep no new memory will ever succeed in filling up what has been lost to Azkaban.
Six (and though I may have lost my way all paths lead straight to you)
Your deepest sorrows are dragged to the surface the moment you set foot in Azkaban. The longer you remain there, the more lost you become in the guilt that maybe you would have pushed away eventually out there. It doesn't matter whether you've been forgiven. Anything that has ever caused you pain comes back to replay in your head, twisting and changing until the version you think you know is as far from truth as you are from sanity.
Sirius writhes in his sleep. He doesn't dream - dreaming is right up there with all the other things that are gone, like emotions and humanity, all of it sucked out through your helpless skin. No, he doesn't dream, but he doesn't sleep restfully either.
There's a face that shines in his mind, from time to time, when Sirius has seen his own sun and his will to live has returned. There's a face that shines in his mind sometimes, when he's stronger than on average days. He doesn't know what this face means - maybe he doesn't even knows it is a face - and it confuses him. But he's learnt that when the sun comes to him the face isn't far, so after a time, the two become connected.
A peaceful feeling washes over him when he sees either, and for the first time in days he will sleep.
Seven (halo - blinding wall between us)
"Hey! Remus, give it back!"
Sirius smiles. He watches James fight Remus for the golden snitch Remus just caught. James was playing with it, as is his custom, and Remus was trying to study; Sirius saw him grow increasingly annoyed with James' antics, a sign of restlessness that seemed common with him these days.
Remus' stern face and James' outraged one are just too funny. Sirius is already laughing on the inside, the sounds of his mirth fighting against the constriction of his throat. But it won't do if Sirius bursts out laughing. Who knows how James will react these days, and who knows what consequences that will have?
"Give it back!" James howls.
"Only when you promise to keep it in your pocket."
"No!"
"Prongs, she isn't even looking in your direction."
"This is not about her!"
"Oh? And what is it about then?"
James is silent after that, and Sirius' laughter prematurely dies in his throat.
No, these days nothing is about Evans.
Eight (I hate me for breathing without you)
Once a month pandemonium reigns in the kingdom of soul-destroying monotony. Once a month the Minister for Magic comes to visit.
The Dementors draw back a little, leaving space for ex-prisoners who don't fit into the world anymore to clean up the mess created over the last month. For the actual prisoners it's the only time of relief they get.
For Sirius, it's the time when he can remember the pieces of what is left to him, sanity yanking at his chain. The pain of loneliness, dulled underneath the blanket of ice the Dementors spread, is back full force.
When the Minister visits the worst of the scum of the wizarding world, he prefers to sit with Sirius. Sirius is calm and controlled - as much as he can be under the circumstances.
Two cells further down the sounds of Bella's screaming reverberate along the walls.
Nine (melt away and leave us alone again)
Sirius watches them from the shadows. He watches how James touches her (delicately, slowly, carefully). He watches how he kisses her (sweetly, intensely, quietly).
He watches how he fucks her (gently, cautiously, lovingly).
He hears him murmur "I love you" in between thrusts, feels him drift away, and the hand he touches himself with is but a hollow reminder of what used to be.
Ten (no matter what they told you you're not alone)
The Dementors don't suck your happiness out of you at once. It's a slow process, spread over many months or years, always depending on the amount of guilt a person feels; the less of it there is, the longer the torture goes on.
In those eternal moments Sirius wishes that he was guilty; that it would be over, now, because it already feels like he's suffered an eternity for nothing.
It's ironic, really, the way the innocent are punished. The voices in his head, the images are with him no matter what, inescapable until he's finally suffocated underneath the blanket spreading around him. Darkness is closing in on him, threatening to put out the last glimmer of hope in his mind.
(And then there's the sun and then there's the face, and everything is alright again.)
Eleven (and as we lay in silent bliss)
Sirius' hand travels down his chest and belly, following the ghosts of kisses fluttering along a downward trail. He lingers around his belly button, remembering the hot kisses and licks bestowed upon it, goes further south. Teasing himself, he plays with the trail of hair, closes in on where he wants to go, but not yet, not yet. Blood sings in his veins in the memory of once upon a time, but its song is melancholy, if intense. His finger circles his cock, half-hard and demanding attention.
He can feel a tongue on his thighs, drawing it out as long as possible. He can feel it lick along his length once, then returning upward, playing with his nipples while a finger ghosts along his cock. He plays with his nipples, circling, touching, pinching. He's always liked it a little rough, a little desperate.
He's had it all, for a while. Now all he has is memories.
Before the tightness in his chest can release in a sound that would belie his statement of I'm okay, don't you worry, Sirius grips his cock, slowly sliding along and feeling it thicken and lengthen. He flicks his thumb over the tip, his other hand trailing down to join in. He sets a slow, lazy rhythm, tries to think of wet heat enveloping him, a tongue teasing the underside of his cock, of hands fondling his balls, sliding lower, along the crack of his ass to the puckered hole.
He almost bucks into his own hand, sense memory removing him from reality. The slide into imagination is quick; it's not his hand that catches the pearls of pre-come and spreads them over a finger. It's not his hand that works himself, rougher, quicker than before. It's not his hand that slides down again, teases his hole and slowly slides in.
The ache is good, just what it would have been if. The stretch of the fingers burns. Sirius moans and rocks down a bit, impatient. Words spill out of his mouth, unintelligible, as his not-hands twist around him, in him. He joins in with a second finger. The slow slide of skin against skin is achingly good (could have been better), his muscles clamping down on not-himself, trying to lure the fingers in deeper. He complies, his not-hand around his cock stilling as he angles up, searching for the sweet point inside.
The world explodes in stars around him, nonsensical words flying around him. His back arches, rocking down on his not-fingers, searching for more, more, more.
Always more, but he never quite gets what he's seeking.
His cocks leaks more pre-come, the tension in his gut tightening. He's close now, feeling the ghost of kisses along his jaw, down his neck. His not-fingers tighten their grip on his cock, spreading the pre-come and slickening the movements on his skin. Rougher, quicker, more - he moans loudly when it's almost too much, his balls drawing up - one more push-pull-twist and then he comes, hard. Come stains his stomach and coats pubic hair as his fingers slacken.
Reality comes crashing down on him with the force of his orgasm. The ghost has evaporated, and he's alone again.
Twelve (I believe our love can see us through in death)
Sirius exists. He breathes. He dreams.
He will live.
Thirteen (there's room inside for two)
"Look, this can't go on. It's been fun, but... I'm with Evans now."
"I know," Sirius says. He turns away from James' naked form and gets up, finding his stray clothes.
"Pads -"
"Yeah, it's been real fun," Sirius is quick to reassure, but he can't quite bite down on the bitterness that accompanies the words.
Silence reigns after that, the rustling of his clothes resounding like bombs thrown into a mine field.
"You can't have thought it was more than that."
Sirius doesn't turn back around. "No, of course not."
"Pads -"
That's the last straw. "No," Sirius says, all the anger he's been harbouring since forever breaking out. "It was nothing, it is nothing and it will be nothing. I get that, alright?"
"Yeah," is James' response.
Sirius storms out of the dorm, seeking refuge in the vastness of Hogwarts' grounds.
Fourteen (I'm not grieving for you)
The Minister for Magic leaves Sirius the Daily Prophet at his request.
He has enough time from the moment the Minister leaves his cell until he's left Azkaban, and consequently the Dementors' come-back, to come up with enough rage to go through with this mad plan that's formed in his head. Run, is the mantra in his head, the sun shining down on him long after the torches have gone out again. Revenge. For them. Run!
He does. Free of guilt, free of pain, free of grief, he runs - and for the first time since, since, he is free.
Fifteen (I'm coming for you)
"Pads?" James asks from somewhere behind Sirius. Sirius doesn't react, just keeps leaning against the wall and staring out the window into the garden.
This is it, the end. The last time he will see James. Can anyone blame him that he doesn't want to face him like this?
A heavy hand lands on his shoulder. "Sirius," James whispers, close to Sirius' ear. Sirius shudders, an automatic reaction to James' proximity (so long since it's been let out). Then, louder: "C'mon, man. There isn't much time."
Sirius sighs softly, rubbing his eyebrow with the fingers of a stiff, still-bloody hand. It's been a long and difficult night already. He turns around, focusing away from James. Otherwise temptation might prove to be too much.
"Look at me, Pads," James murmurs, but if it's the last thing Sirius will do, it's not that. He won't do it, not under these circumstances. Sirius respects James' decision; has been best man and is godfather; but right now, anything might prove to be too much.
Just then James touches his knuckle under his chin, and with an exhalation Sirius breaks this promise to himself; looks at James, really looks, and it's then that the reality catches up with him.
This is the last time he will see James until the war is over.
James lets Sirius look his fill, doesn't even shift under his best friend's scrutiny like he's been doing since. James looks tired, weary, aged beyond his age. They all do, now, the war taking its toll on each of them.
"James -" Sirius begins, but before he can figure out what exactly it is he wants to say, James' finger comes up to his lips, effectively silencing him. Sirius keeps staring at him, mesmerised. He can't remember when they've last touched.
Then James leans forward, slowly, his eyes still locked with Sirius'; for all it seems asking for permission. As if he needed it. Sirius doesn't move, waiting for what it is James wants. The first touch of lips on lips is pure electricity, the air between them charged with tension as James draws back, ever-careful now that the war has become a personal vendetta to ensure his son will live safely. Sirius doesn't waste time, sees the invitation in James' eyes for what it is and surges forward, chasing James and pulling him close. A moan escapes him when he feels James so pliant under his ministrations, his tongue seeking what Sirius is sure might just be the last taste of James he's going to get. The kiss isn't earth-shattering, but for all it's worth it will be burnt into Sirius' memory, its imprint so deep it won't be lost like all the other things.
When James finally draws back, he leans his forehead against Sirius'. "I'm sorry it had to be like this," James sighs into Sirius' mouth, regret seeping into his voice.
"Me too," Sirius mouths back, a sad smile lingering around the corners of his eyes. "Me too."
Before any more can be said and done, Lily's voice rings through the house. "It's time! We have to go." But James doesn't break away guiltily like Sirius had expected. Instead he softly rubs a finger over Sirius' lower lip.
"Goodbye, my friend," he says.
Sirius nods, his throat too tight to answer. When James breaks away, he turns back to the window, trying to listen past the sounds of departure and failing miserably. He's seen James leave numerous times. He won't now. Too much of a goodbye.
Only when he turns to leave himself, minutes or maybe hours later, does he put his hand in his pocket and finds the golden snitch James had snuck in there. Sirius smiles, clutching it tightly in his hand.
He still has it with him when Peter changes the world as Sirius knows it, his heart exploding around him with an earth-shattering strength.
And he laughs.
Sixteen (I long to be like you)
In Azkaban, they say, the nothingness resides. The handful of prisoners that were released tell stories of unknowable darkness within its walls: no windows to watch the moon's progress over the night sky, no torches in the narrow hallways that lead from one cell block to the next, only the sound of the Dementors' breathing as they glide along, taking your essence with them. The black is ultimate, scratching at you until you bleed, weakening your walls until all there is - inside and out - is death.
Sirius' story would be different, if he could tell it. He would tell a story of blackness and hopelessness; but even among the darkness, hope shines eternally.
Maybe the story would have helped Harry, in the dark days he is facing himself.
Maybe, if Sirius could have told the story.