"No," James said. "You didn't fuck up. They fucked you up, Pads." He said the nickname without thinking, because he'd been using it all afternoon, while Sirius was sixteen. This Sirius, the one he was holding, was still Pads to him, still his best mate, still his brother, just as Lily was still his wife. But a moment later he remembered that Sirius had told him not to call him Pads, and remembered that he couldn't transform anymore, and cringed. He didn't know if it was still anathema to Sirius or not, or whether it was acceptable to call him that now. Just in case, he said quickly, "Sorry."
His cheeks were wet now too, though he hardly noticed; he felt sympathy, and yet he felt a strange kind of relief, too. It seemed to him that this breakdown had to happen for them to get anywhere; they had to realize how much they were broken before they could fix things properly. And that made it feel hopeless sometimes, but James kept holding on even tighter, determined not to let their brighter future slip away from them. He would drag Sirius back out of the darkness, come hell or high water, and everything would somehow be alright again. He was James Goddamn Potter-- or James SuperNinjaBadassAwesum Potter, as he'd called himself when he was five-- and he willed it to be so.