It's the little things that confused him.
That accidental bump on the way to turn in the potions vial for their exam. How apologetic the other boy had sounded. That smirk that was plastered on his face nonetheless as he said, "Sorry," and headed for the front of the room. The tingles that ran down his spine, fingers, arms, to the pit of his stomach when it had happened, though nothing had happened at all. Like everything that boy did to him was on accident; so completely accidental that he knew that they must be happening on purpose. How many times can one person run into you in a day?
It's the little things that make him wonder.
The way that the other boy gets ink on his hands every time he writes and the way he holds his quill, between his index finger and middle finger, supporting it with his thumb. How his hair gets even messier while he practices on his broomstick in the evenings after supper when the summer heat had faded away into a night that wasn't cool and wasn't hot. The care that the other boy takes to be sure that he writes letters to him at least twice a week, while their friends complain about the lack of letters. The details written; the obvious concern for his well-being in that dark place that he was supposed to call a home. Did that concern spring from friendly love or something else, something more, something that he can't explain but sometimes hopes for vainly and then scolds his mind for wandering into those forbidden places.
It's the little things that make him smile.
The hug he got the moment the other boy opened the door to his house–concerned about his appearance, but happy to see him anyways. How he was led to the kitchen with an arm around his shoulders–warm, secure, safe in a way that he can only be around this boy–to make up a cup or two of tea for the two of them. Their fingers brushing accidentally–or was that on purpose?–as the aforementioned tea was handed over. How the tea wasn't too hot, wasn't too cold, and had the right amount of sugar. The other boy never forgot, did he? He always seemed to remember what his friend liked the best and what would pull him out of the melancholy shadows by which he was plagued relentlessly.
It's the little things that make him feel better.
The endless days spent in the ruthless summer heat, practicing Quidditch low in the trees to avoid the Muggle's suspicions. How the other boy taught him to play regular Muggle chess one night out on the back lawn with the dying sun and a candle for light. Or the night that they played Exploding Snap until neither of them had hair on their face, then retired upstairs to plan for another year of mind-blowing pranks that would secure their reputation for years to come. And it was that night that he couldn't fall asleep, images in black and white and red tormenting him until he felt his throat tense and his eyes burn and loud sobs break free from his throat against his will. It was that night that the other boy climbed into bed with him, curled up around him, asking no questions, only providing the warmth of another person for comfort.
And it's the little things that catch Sirius' eye, making him wonder yet again what everything could mean or if he was taking these friendly gestures too seriously, too far into something that they would not, could not, ever be.
How James stared at Lily tirelessly, indiscreetly, until her fierce eyes demanded he stop. The way that James would swing his arm around Remus, then around Sirius, and walk with them both, when Sirius had thought that the gesture was meant for him alone, meant to be his own private security, even if Remus needed it as much, if not more, than he did. Or how, late after Remus and Peter had fallen asleep, James would crawl into his bed, curl up against him, that great mop of messy hair tickling the bottom of his chin and those strong, lanky arms around his waist. It was then that Sirius would lie awake, convinced of something more, only to be lulled to sleep by the steady heart pumping against him. And in the morning Sirius would lie awake, alone in his bed that seemed so vast and empty without James that he feared he would cry from the loneliness, convinced of nothing less than friendship, only to have James come in and whisper to him that he was going to breakfast, he would save Sirius a seat and then fondly squeeze Sirius' shoulder before he went.
It's the little things about James that confuse Sirius, making him wonder, making him feel better, making him smile and effecting his life in a way that no one else ever had. And yet, Sirius couldn't help but think of more than what he had with James, constantly labeling the most innocent gestures as more than what they surely were meant to be, because James couldn't be like that, could he?
A/n- Written because I didn't like the things I was seeing on the JP/SB romance page. They're all either angsty or involve rape, mpreg, or other things of that manner. Sometimes it's fine just to write a fluffy story or a teenage angst story, which I consider this to be. It's mostly reflection on Sirius' part, nothing else.
I meant nothing by that last line, and I mean no offense to anyone. It's just how I see Sirius being in this story.
Please review!
::silver-sunn101::