Title: Stay With Me Eternally (or at Least Until This Ends).
Pairing(s): James/Sirius, James/Lily.
Rating: Eventual NC-17.
Content/Warnings: Angst, pining Sirius, infidelity, first war era, sharing a bed.
Summary: c. 1979. While everything teeters on the edge of going to shit, James and Sirius take a three-day trip together.
Notes: I showed my friend a snippet of this and all he had to say was "James Potter? You? Really?" so I'm going to apologise in advance if the characterisation is subpar. Infidelity warning refers to James/Lily, though it could also refer to Remus/Sirius if you want to see it that way.

you're in a car with a beautiful boy,
and he won't tell you that he loves you,
but he loves you.

day one.

Drive North. Find Peterson. No magic.

Simple, really.

"You first, or me?"

Except, of course it isn't.

Sirius looks at James over the hood of the car—rented, inconspicuous, looks like it'll fall apart if they touch it too hard—and shrugs. "You."

James is closer to the driver's seat, Sirius reasons. And he's got the keys in his hand. It makes sense for him to drive first. James nods, opening the door and slipping inside, and Sirius finishes chucking their bags in the back before joining him.

"Like the old days, eh?" The car's engine rumbles as James turns the key, and Sirius can't help the way he stares, transfixed by the curve of James' fingers, by the way his hand ligaments ripple beneath his flesh when he takes hold of the steering wheel.

The old days.

If only, Sirius thinks.

xoxo

The radio is broken, because of course.

They run out of things to talk about an hour in, or maybe they just stop trying. It never used to be like this, Sirius thinks, but he finds himself thinking that a lot, lately, so he supposes it doesn't fucking matter what it used to be like.

Stop living in the past, is what Remus always tells him, and. Fuck. If Sirius isn't trying.

"Wanna swap?" he asks, because the silence is suffocating, because it leaves him alone with his thoughts, and with nothing else here to distract him, that's not something Sirius wants.

"Nah." James tears his eyes away from the empty road to look at him, and there's a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and Sirius can't help but wonder if this is easy for him.

He doesn't understand how it could be.

xoxo

They switch over three hours in.

Sirius is thankful to have something new to do with his hands, because up until now he's been picking at non-existent lint, been tapping on the sun faded surface of the car. He'd tried not to watch James too much, but. Fuck. At least he'd tried.

James, at least, hadn't seemed to notice.

Or perhaps he just doesn't care.

"Whatd'ya reckon?" James says, and he's got his head thrown back, resting against the seat, and he's got the first few buttons of his shirt undone, and Sirius can see sweat shining on his skin in the sunlight. It's almost as bright as the gleam of James' wedding ring. "Stop once it gets dark?"

Sirius looks to the skyline. It's still light—the sky an almost uncharacteristic blue, the sun bright and beaming and too warm—but they will have to stop eventually, he thinks. "Motel or car?"

James spares a glance to back seat, eyes the bags that cover it, the leather jacket that's thrown over them. "Motel."

xoxo

One bed.

Because of course.

Not enough rooms, the clerk had told them, and Sirius thinks that he probably should have fucking saw it coming. The door shuts behind them with a quiet bang, and James announces that he calls the first shower, and so Sirius moves to the bed, dumps his bag on the covers as the sound of running water filters in from the next room. He rummages around for something to sleep in—will shower in the morning, to wake himself up—and pulls on a thin shirt, night pants. There's a bottle of whiskey in the bag, a pack of smokes, too, and he pulls them both out, cracks open the window, and lights the cigarette before settling on the bed's edge.

When James emerges from the bathroom, all he's got on is a pair of pants. His chest is bare, his skin tanned, his torso defined by lines of muscle, and Sirius can fucking see it—can see when they were sixteen, when they did this, before, when it was the Potter's house, not some dingy, dirty little motel, when James came over and pushed him down on the bed, when he took the cigarette from his hand and replaced the bitter taste of tobacco with the sweetness of his mouth.

The old days.

Now—Now James just sits on the other side of the bed. His hand runs through his hair, and Sirius can see beads of water drip from the wet locks. They trickle down the side of his face, pool together at the spot where his neck meets his jaw. Sirius used to love kissing that spot, he remembers.

James had used to love it, too.