Disclaimer: I am a college student, and really quite poor. If you sued me, you'd get some Ramen noodles and maybe a couple shot glasses.
Chrysalis
by gunsandbutter
i.
The first time James runs into Sirius Black, they are both ten years old.
(They are at some boring gala or another, and he is diligently avoiding his ceremonial duties as eldest son by exploring the building. It will be years before he realizes that Sirius was doing the same.)
Literally, he runs into him. He recoils from the collision, muttering hurried apologies. As he rights himself, he notices the other boy is giving him a look of such utter distaste that he stops in his tracks. They stare at each other.
"Sorry," James says again, more slowly than before. "Didn't see you there."
"I'm sure," the boy says. He eyes James's messy hair and offers a rather smug smile. "You do seem to be in a hurry."
"I am," James lies, defensively reaching up to pat his hair into submission. Seeing the smirk on the other boy's face, he instead ruffles it into further disarray.
He eyes the boy's robes—fancy and horrid, a sure sign of swanky pureblood influence.
Brilliant. I'm sure we'll be the best of mates. He might even invite me back to his place to torture Muggles, or maybe sacrifice a house elf or two.
Still, his father told him he must be on his best behavior today. Shrugging, he sticks out his hand. "James Potter."
The other boy's face changes rapidly; in fact, he looks slightly ill. James can't decide whether it's the name or the extended hand, which the other boy does not shake. Instead, he bows—none too deeply—and says, "Sirius Black." His gaze skims James's face, and he adds, "Son of Altair and Estelle, and heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."
A fellow heir—even better than he'd hoped. Perhaps they might discuss their fortunes, and pledge their future children in marriage to secure the purity of their blood.
James feigns a smile. "Black, eh? I've heard of you."
"Of course you've heard of us," Sirius retorts, sounding irritated. He gives James a critical once-over; James fights the urge to fix his hair. "Don't think I've not heard of you, either."
James frowns. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
Sirius raises a scornful eyebrow. "Everyone knows about the Potters."
"Knows what?" James demands.
Sirius merely smiles, superior and damning.
James knows better than to take the bait, but he intends to forget that. "At least my family's not full of Dark wizards." Sirius's eyes narrow, and James forges ahead. "I've heard things about you Blacks—"
"Of course, of course," Sirius interrupts. "The Potters would never dream of dabbling in the Arts—far too busy being Mudblood-loving blood-tr—"
James hits him.
He hasn't had much practice at it, and it's more like a shove than anything. But it is the last thing Sirius expects, and he stumbles back, stunned. He stares at James with wide gray eyes—studying him, almost. Under the weight of his gaze, James is suddenly aware of the hot flush of his cheeks, his clenched fists, his heavy breathing.
Sirius Black is judging him, and James is surprised to find he is anxious to learn the verdict.
Tentatively, as if weighing his options, Sirius hits him back.
Right, then.
The punches quickly progress into an all-out wrestling match, and within seconds, they are both on the floor. Despite himself, James can't help but grin as he dodges a sharp elbow to the ribs. He has often wished he had a younger brother to scuffle with; knocking the stuffing out of a pompous pureblood will be almost as good.
In fact, James is having such a grand time of it that by the time they are interrupted, he has nearly forgotten what they are fighting over.
"Sirius Black!"
Sudden tension under James's hands, and the other boy springs back as if propelled through the air. It would be comical, if it weren't for the look of absolute dread on his face.
James scrambles to his feet and whirls around to face the intruder. It is an older girl, arms crossed, looking thoroughly displeased. She can't be past her majority, but her imperious stance makes her seem far older. Her dark hair and elegant formal robes are flawlessly arranged; if she were anyone else, James might think she was rather nice-looking. But this girl, James thinks, is a Black to her very bones—from her classic pureblood features
(pale sculpted face and cold eyes)
to the crest on her robe—and in a moment of madness, James allows himself to feel terribly sorry for Sirius.
It takes him a moment to notice the second girl, nearly identical to the first, but less severe about the face. Behind her, a small boy watches the proceedings with eager eyes. Blacks, all of them. James is impossibly outnumbered.
He is weighing the potential threat of the younger boy when the girl strides forward.
"Sirius, if your mother finds out about this—" She catches Sirius by the shoulder, clenching long fingers into his robes. "Rolling about on the floor like a dog, honestly…"
"Like a dog," the younger boy echoes, giggling to himself.
The girl tosses a quick look over her shoulder at the boy, and he quiets immediately.
"This is disgraceful," she continues, tightening her grip on Sirius. "Your conduct recently has been simply deplorable, and now this—brawling with the likes of him—"
"Just a minute!" James protests, his pride momentarily overcoming his shock. Sirius is a right pain in the arse, to be sure, but this girl is insufferable.
The glare she turns on him is enough to freeze the blood in his veins. "You stay out of this, blood-traitor."
He can only stare at her, speechless, as she wheels on Sirius once more. "You can be sure your father will hear of this," she warns, squeezing his shoulder for emphasis. "He will be greatly disappointed in your shameful behavior. I am sure he will see to it that you learn proper respect for your family."
James can only imagine what this might involve. Despite his better judgment, he catches himself sending Sirius a look of commiseration. Luckily for him, the other boy does not meet his gaze.
"Oh, let him be, Bella," sighs the second girl. James nearly jumps out of his skin; he had forgotten she was there. "They're only boys."
James cringes to think of the ice in Bella's eyes as she turns on the other girl. "He is no such thing, Andromeda," she snaps, jerking Sirius by the shoulder. "He is a Black."
There is a long, dangerous pause. James tells himself to breathe.
Bella's gaze turns back to Sirius, and her lips thin. "Both of you would do well to remember that."
With that, Bella releases Sirius and marches away, hair flicking angrily over her shoulder.
Head bowed, Sirius follows the older girl without a word. Andromeda lays a hand on his shoulder as he passes; he shakes it off, and they all fall in line. They look strikingly similar from the back: four slender figures with dark robes and black hair, straight backs and measured steps. Bella disappears around a corner in dignified silence, and within moments, they are gone.
James stands in the empty hallway for several long moments, dumbfounded. Merlin, he thinks finally, gingerly touching the lump forming on the back of his head. No wonder they're all barking.
He takes the long way back to the ballroom.
ii.
Narcissa catches up to him just outside the Great Hall.
"Have you gone mad?" she hisses, low and toxic in his ear. "I can't believe it. I won't believe it. Do you have any idea what your parents will say—what your mother will say?"
"I can't tell you word for word, but I have a feeling they'll be less than pleased." Somehow he's managed to lose his prefect, a tall sixth-year with blond hair. He scans the crowd, trying to find him.
"Less than pleased? Sirius, do you even understand what you've done? You're the heir—and you're in Gryffindor!"
"That's awfully observant of you, cousin," Sirius agrees. He has just caught sight of the blond boy when Narcissa grabs his arm, forcing him to face her. She looks uncommonly flustered. Sirius is rather impressed with himself; his cousin is not easily ruffled.
"Tell me, Sirius. Do you try to disgrace us, or does it just come naturally?"
"I've made a special effort just for you, Cissy darling," he growls, pulling away and pushing ahead through the throng.
She hurries after him, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the crowd.
"Of all the houses, you had to be put in Gryffindor! No Black in a thousand years has ever been placed there!"
"I was feeling adventurous," he says shortly, squeezing past a group of Slytherins. They give him a coldly disapproving look as he passes.
"This is no time for your sarcasm, Sirius! What are we going to do?"
He stops in his tracks, turning on her with his most hostile scowl. "I can't do anything, Narcissa. I hardly asked to be placed in Gryffindor." His voice shudders around the name. Despite his brave front, he is terrified. A Black is mindful of his surroundings; the suspicious looks from his fellow students have not escaped his notice. He is not a welcome addition to the House of Lions. He briefly wonders whether his housemates will get him before his family does.
Narcissa grips his arm again, looking agitated. "But you were, Sirius. Whatever you did, you've made a mess for the entire family. Surely you understand that."
("Between you and me, I'm happier in Ravenclaw than I think I could ever be in Slytherin.")
He sighs, admitting defeat. "Of course I understand."
Narcissa looks relieved. "Well…all right, then. Good." She takes a moment to regain her iron composure, and within seconds, she is once again the bossy cousin he has always known. "You'll have to ask to be re-Sorted," she decides, releasing his arm. "Clearly there has been a mistake. Of course your parents will petition for you, and mine—maybe even the Malfoys—"
Sirius glances over his shoulder; once again, his prefect has disappeared. "Listen, I can't talk about this right now. I have to find my prefect."
"But you will ask for a re-Sorting?" she asks urgently.
"I—"
Sirius is startled out of his response as someone shoves roughly past him, knocking his shoulder. The boy glances back; Sirius can see narrowed hazel eyes behind the glint of spectacles. The Potter boy—James, is it? There is a fire in his eyes that Sirius hardly recognizes. It is angry, and arrogant, and challenging. Sirius would dearly love to wipe it off his face with a good punch.
"Sirius?"
"Yeah, sure," he says absently, waving her off. "Of course."
iii.
Sirius is brooding again.
James can hardly stand it. Most of the time, it's all he can do to convince the other boy to belt up for half a second. But occasionally, Sirius is prone to bouts of intense sulking: spells of stony, unyielding silence that can last for days. He falls into these moods suddenly—and just as suddenly, they are gone, and he is back to being as disruptive and irritating as ever.
The Marauders have tried everything to counter these episodes. They have reasoned with him, shouted at him, tempted him with dungbombs and pranks, but Sirius is as immune to their heckling as he is to their bribery. He simply ignores them—and, in the end, they have learned to do the same. They can only deal with the mood swings, and speculate privately as to the source. As for James, his best guess is that Sirius is perhaps not as removed from his Black childhood as he would like to believe.
When the Sorting Hat placed them both in Gryffindor, James knew his new housemate would be impossible to deal with. From what he had seen, Sirius's sort were all the same—slaves to tradition, bound by rules and customs, uniformly cold and emotionless.
Since then, James has discovered that Sirius is in fact quite fond of breaking rules—a fact confirmed by their long, glorious history of detentions. And most of the time, he could hardly be called emotionless—in fact, he once admitted that his family always considered him too emotional. At the time, James found this hard to believe, having seen Sirius's cold indifference in action.
The truth is, James has realized, that Sirius avoids any emotion that could be considered dangerous. He might at turns be indignant or amiable or cheeky or pouting, but when faced with the reality of his feelings, he draws back to the safety of detachment.
(Remus is convinced that James has put entirely too much thought into the whole matter. "He's a teenager," he says, rolling his eyes. "So he gets in a temper now and again—so what? Learn to appreciate the silence.")
Whatever the reason behind Sirius's sudden sourness, he has picked a bad time. It is that time of month, and Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs have been called into active duty.
On their way to the Shrieking Shack, Sirius is strangely distant, even huddled together as they are within the intimate darkness of the Invisibility Cloak. More than once, James is tempted to pinch him, just to make sure he's really awake. Unfortunately, Sirius would probably hex him into next week, so James keeps his hands to himself.
The Whomping Willow is raging at full force when they arrive. They stop, watching in awe as the branches slash and beat the air, stirring up a wind that whips at their hair and stings their eyes. Home sweet home.
"Go on, Wormtail," James says, feeling suddenly impatient.
"Right, then," and Peter is gone, leaving James and Sirius in awkward silence as they listen to the scuttle of tiny feet across the ground.
James sighs. "Padfoot—"
"Prongs," Sirius replies, with an air of finality.
James blinks, thrown by the interruption.
At that moment, the branches stop swinging, and Sirius pulls away from the Cloak, ducking quickly into the Willow without a backward glance.
Padfoot seems unusually aggressive tonight. The wolf has always been the alpha; such is the accepted balance of the pack. But tonight Padfoot is challenging the wolf's authority, which is both daring and extraordinarily stupid.
Their normal wrestling holds a hint of danger. To Prongs, it seems the claws are digging more deeply, the teeth gnashing closer to tender flesh. The wolf pins the dog, as he always does—but this time, Padfoot refuses to bare his throat in submission. Instead, he wriggles out from the wolf's hold, snapping his jaws a bit before racing off into the forest. Stepping forward, the wolf growls low in his throat—a warning and a threat. It is too late. Padfoot is gone.
The wolf growls again, angry this time. There is a squeak as Wormtail vanishes into the relative safety of the nearby brush, and the wolf takes off. Prongs is close behind; Padfoot may be feeling bold tonight, but he is no match for a full-grown werewolf.
Sirius is his best mate. More often than not, Sirius's roguish grin and quick thinking are responsible for getting them out of tricky situations. If it weren't for Sirius, he'd never have managed the Animagus transformation, the Marauder's Map would never get finished, and he'd have no one to talk to during detentions.
Sirius is a bloody fucking idiot, and James is going to kill him.
He glares at him as they emerge from the Willow, but Sirius is deliberately ignoring him.
Wanker. Stupid, reckless, werewolf-fighting wanker.
It is bitterly cold. The two of them begin the hike back to the castle, trudging silently across the bare ground. Peter has already gone back, leaving the larger animals to sort out the wolf. For a moment, James wishes he had gone too—just walked away, and let the dog and the wolf take care of each other. The next moment, he dismisses the thought. If he had gone, Padfoot might be dead. It is a miracle he isn't dead now. Padfoot could have died. Sirius could have died.
And for what? For the sake of his pride, maybe, or his balls. For a thrill. For a challenge. To work out whatever has his panties in a twist this time.
He should be dead.
James grits his teeth against the thought. Why can't Sirius, just for once, function like a human being?
Because he's not one, whispers a voice. He's a Black.
Well, that's just brilliant.
James decides to try the straightforward route; if that doesn't work, he'll proceed straight to homicide.
"So," he begins, trying to sound nonchalant, "what the hell's gotten into you?"
Sirius doesn't blink. "Nothing."
James stares at him for a long moment, hoping to make him uncomfortable. "Come off it—seriously, what's going on?"
"Nothing, Prongs. I mean it. I'm fine."
"Right. Because I know when I'm fine, I go around picking fights with werewolves—you know, just for laughs."
Sirius says nothing, preferring to study the ground before them.
James releases a great groan of frustration, clenching his hands into fists as he finally whirls on his best mate. "Fuck, Sirius, what is wrong with you? You've been moody all day. Again! I don't know what the fuck to do with you when you get like this. Listen, if you're pissed off at me, you might've punched me in the face and got it over with. We could even talk about it, if you really wanted to be a bird about the whole thing. But, no! You decide to take your chances with Moony, who serves you your arse on a platter and takes a piece of it with him to remember you by! He could have killed you, Sirius. You know what, maybe he should have killed you, and then I wouldn't have to deal with your stupid—fucking—nothing." He stops, heart pounding in his ears.
Sirius glances at him, eyebrows raised. "You quite finished?"
James considers for a moment, breathing hard. "Yeah. Think I am."
"Feel better?"
He shrugs. "A bit. You should try it."
"I might," Sirius says, and punches him.
In the half second before he feels its effects, James notes that Sirius has managed to develop quite an arm—and then pain is blossoming across his jaw, blurring his eyes, spinning him to drop heavily to his knees. He launches himself at Sirius's legs as he falls, and they both land hard on the ground.
"Fuck," he gasps, swinging blindly as Sirius's knee catches him in the stomach. Their bodies are hopelessly tangled, and they roll, a flailing ball of limbs and cursing and crooked spectacles.
"Ouch! Jesus, watch the gaping wound, would you—"
"Your own stupid fucking fault—"
"Oh, lay off—oof—what're you, my mum?"
"Fuckin' well hope not—"
"Prat—"
"Wanker—"
"Blood-traitor—"
"You, too!"
"Well, yeah—but it's your fault—"
Sirius finally manages to slam James's back against the ground, and they both pause, heaving for breath. The sky is lightening with the first hint of dawn. Back in the Shrieking Shack, Remus is lying in an exhausted heap on the floor, while up in Gryffindor Tower, Peter is snoring, alone in the dormitory.
Sirius peers down into James's face, hair falling past his eyes, and finally cracks a smile.
"This looks familiar."
James laughs. "You know, I was just thinking the same—" and Sirius kisses him.
It is about what he would expect, all things considered. Sirius's lips are soft, but insistent; there is a metallic taste to his mouth, probably blood. Neither of them has shaved, and their faces rasp against each other. It is decidedly different from the few times he has managed to kiss Lily—but then, Lily is generally less heavy, and less forceful, and less scruffy about the face.
Lily.
Sirius. Not Lily—Sirius. His best mate. His arrogant, good-looking, skirt-chasing best mate.
James is just coming to realize that he is being kissed by Sirius Black when the boy in question jerks back, looking flushed and horrified.
Dazed as he is, James decides immediately that he does not like the look on Sirius's face. It speaks of guilt and disgrace, fear and embarrassment. It reminds James of a boy he met many years ago, a stiff young heir who had no idea he would soon betray his family by way of a Hat. He was a boy afraid of failing the only family he knew, and something important snaps in James's brain.
He claps a hand over Sirius's mouth, shuddering slightly at the wet heat against his palm. With his free hand, he tugs off his glasses and tosses them, hopefully, to safety. "Not another word out of you," he orders, trying not to squint, before sliding his hands into Sirius's hair and yanking him back down—wrenching his mouth into position until there are teeth and lips and tongues and blood and Sirius
(long cruel claws buried deep in black fur)
Sirius
("—proper respect for your family—")
Sirius.
It is with great regret that James eventually pulls back for breath. Somehow, he has managed to roll them over; Sirius is pinned and squirming, which does little for James's concentration.
"You see that?" James demands, panting as he grins at the blurry face below him. "Now we're getting somewhere," and he ducks down for a second attack.
It will only occur to him later—much, much later—that he has never kissed Lily like this.
He can feel Sirius saying something, but his words are lost in the tangle of mouths, and frankly James does not much care to find them. He did tell Sirius to be quiet, after all.
Of course, he might take a minute himself to explain some things. It's terribly uncouth, really—snogging the hell out of someone without at least offering a statement of purpose. But what is there to say?
Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're not dead.
If you stop, I'll have you killed.
I want you so badly it hurts.
No, James decides; best to keep quiet.
"James," Sirius gasps into his mouth, lashes grazing James's skin as James nudges a leg between his. "Prongs, I—"
James silences him with a very insistent press of his thigh, and Sirius's words trail off into a low moan, which itself deals a killing blow to James's end of the conversation. "Shut up, shut up, you idiot," he mumbles, licking a path up his jaw. Fortunately for all parties involved, Sirius does.
iv.
"You understand, of course, that this may be quite disruptive to your current schedule. Changing your career course this late—"
"I've got all the courses," Sirius argues. "Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Charms, Transfiguration—I'll have more than enough N.E.W.T.s."
"Becoming an Auror is not merely about coursework, Mr. Black," Professor McGonagall replies crisply. "You must go through a series of tests—aptitude, character—it's extraordinarily demanding. They take only the very best."
Sirius debates insisting that he is the best, but decides against it. No point pushing what she already knows. "I'm prepared for whatever they can throw at me, Professor."
"I don't doubt it," she says, voice dry. She purses her lips for a moment, before lowering her spectacles and peering over their rims. "I hope, Mr. Black, that you have not come to this decision at the prompting of your friends—in order, perhaps, to follow the path of your friend Potter?"
"I'm hurt, Professor. That's not it at all," he replies, aiming for a look of righteous indignation. He is only partially lying, after all.
McGonagall raises an eyebrow; he smiles in return. She replaces her spectacles, the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. "Unfortunately for the Aurors, they lack the means to assign detentions."
The smile fades, and Sirius braces himself for her next argument. It is slow in coming, as his Head of House hesitates most uncharacteristically.
"You realize, Sirius," she says finally, "that they may not accept you, for…for no fault of your own."
Sirius's stomach tightens.
("You are a Black. You will always be a Black. You are your family, Sirius—you can no more deny us than you can deny the blood that runs in your veins.")
"I…I am who I am," he says slowly, shrugging in what he hopes is a casual fashion. "Sooner or later, we're all going to have to accept that."
They sit there for a moment, looking at each other, before McGonagall sits back in her chair, shaking her head. "That sounds suspiciously like good sense, Mr. Black."
"I expect you've rubbed off on me after all these years, Professor."
She chuckles. "Then I suppose your time here at Hogwarts has been to some avail, after all."
Sirius grins. "Whatever will you do with yourself when James and I have gone?"
"Spend less time escorting students to the Infirmary Wing, I imagine."
"More's the shame. Poppy will be so terribly lonely."
McGonagall sighs, shaking her head again. "Sirius…" She levels a hard look across the desk, resting her head on her hand. "Do you really understand what you're getting yourself into?"
("Congratulations on your latest fencing victory, Sirius—it sounds like you've become quite the young swordsman.")
("I've heard things about you Blacks—")
("Andromeda will not be joining us.")
Sirius offers his most disarming smile, olive branch and coup de grâce all in one. Everyone knows that no one, not even the unflappable Professor McGonagall, can resist Sirius Black at his most charming. "Yes, Professor," he says. "I understand."
v.
James is almost asleep when Sirius speaks.
"I hate those fucking masks."
Go to sleep, Padfoot. It's lovely and warm. We've just fucked our brains out. Long day. Go to sleep.
But he knows better. Sirius's body feels tense and uneasy next to his, which can only mean that he is still irretrievably awake, and probably brooding. Steeling himself for a long night, James yawns into Sirius's hip and opens his eyes.
Sirius doesn't continue, and James prompts, "Why?"
"Just...not knowing who's behind them. It could be any of them. Rodolphus or Evan or Lucius or…anyone."
Or Regulus, James adds silently, since Sirius won't.
"You know? They all look the same. Like they're not really people."
"That's what they're aiming for," James reminds him. "They want to be anonymous. They're just bogeymen. They're trying to frighten people."
"It's just strange not to know who you're trying to kill, is all," Sirius mutters, and James regrets his thoughtlessness. For Sirius, those faceless soldiers have faces—and names, and histories, and family crests. He has fenced with them, attended their parties, listened to their gossip. Their blood is his blood. Their story is his story, with a different ending.
Sirius rolls away, and James follows, wriggling up until he is pressed against Sirius's back. He noses the back of Sirius's neck, kissing the pale skin. "I know," he says, though he doesn't.
Sirius's muscles are still taut against him, and he waits, hardly breathing, as long moments slip away in silence. Finally Sirius relents, rolling to his back with a sigh.
"It doesn't matter, anyway."
Of course it matters, James doesn't say, because he is suddenly struck by how very young Sirius looks, and how weary. His eyes are huge in his face, like a child's, but filled with the tired resignation of an old man. He looks defeated, and for the first time he can remember, James feels a shiver of fear skitter up his spine with icy feet.
"Sirius." He leans over him, searching his face. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Sirius snaps, suddenly cross. He pulls away, avoiding James's gaze. "You always think there's something wrong."
"And something always is," James counters, sitting up as Sirius rolls out of bed.
"In your head, maybe." Sirius stalks to the window with the careless grace of an angry cat, glowering out at the empty street below.
"That's why I'm with you, isn't it?" As soon as the words are out of his mouth, James wishes them back. Once upon a time, they would have been joking; now they hang awkwardly in the silence, threatening and ominous.
James fumbles for his glasses as he slides out of bed, but they have disappeared into the general chaos of Sirius's bedroom. Giving up, he crosses to where Sirius stands leaning against the window frame. He runs a hand up Sirius's back. The muscles tense under his touch, and he pulls back.
"Sirius," he says. "What is this really about?"
"Nothing."
"Sirius—"
"Everything, then. Everything, James! You, this…us. The war. Remus. The Death Eaters. It's all wrong, James—so what the fuck does it matter, anyway?"
James frowns. "Of course it matters, Sirius. All those things—those are our lives, the only ones we've got. Nothing matters more."
"Really." Sirius turns to him, a shadowy silhouette against the window. "Then tell me, James. Tell me what it's all for." He stops, waiting. James doesn't speak, and Sirius continues. "Please, tell me there's more, James. By all means, tell me that there is more in this world than money, and power, and games. Tell me there's more than blood. Tell me, James. Tell me that, and I'll believe you."
James tries to remember a time when he has been able to deny Sirius anything.
Stepping forward, he slides his hands up to frame Sirius's face. "There is more, Sirius. That's not what life is about. There's more. There's family, friends…love." Sirius turns his face into James's hand, swallowing hard, and James thinks, You. This. Us.
When Sirius looks back, his eyes are very bright, glinting silver in the dull glow from the window. "I believe you." He lifts a hand, fingers cold as they cover James's. "But that doesn't make it true."
There are no words.
Sirius squeezes James's hand, pressing his cheek tight against it. His gaze drops, and James is left staring at the blurry fan of dark lashes against pale skin. He can't help but admire the contrast, though he has seen it many time before, on many difference faces.
The nose, the mouth, the cheekbones—James has seen them all before. The face before him is the product of centuries' worth of aristocratic inbreeding. The purebloods all share the same sharp features, from the Blacks to the Malfoys to the Lestranges. Over the years, some features have become emphasized, from the size of the eyes to the chiseled definition of the face.
(Sirius once mentioned the exaggerated prominence of these qualities, pointing to his own, admittedly razor-sharp cheekbones as evidence. "We'll all look like right idiots in a few generations, no doubt. I'm lucky to have got off with only a few extra toes." James is almost sure he was kidding.)
Even in its entirety, Sirius's face is not so different from Lucius's, or Bellatrix's, or Regulus's. It is not so different, really, from James's own face.
This, then, is what the purebloods have been working toward—this beauty, this talent and power. Sirius Black is the finished product of a long line of almost-theres. No wonder they were loath to set him free.
James realizes he has been drawing nearer to Sirius's face as he studies it, details laid bare beneath his scrutiny. Chapped skin where Sirius worries his bottom lip. One eyebrow arching just slightly higher than the other. Delicate white scar hidden along his hairline.
Dozens of people have had that chin, James thinks. Hundreds, probably, with that mouth. All the Blacks have got those long eyelashes, and even his horrid old mum has the same color eyes.
But no one has ever had this. No one has ever had Sirius, lovely mad Sirius with his stupid jokes and rolling hips and strange dog-breath in the morning, and James is suddenly overcome with gratitude and alarm.
He pulls away, still gripping Sirius's face in his hands; the other man looks up, startled by the abrupt movement.
"You," James says. Muscle flutters against his skin as Sirius blinks, and he loosens his grip, feathering his fingers across Sirius's face. "You are not them."
Sirius frowns. He opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes close, and he sighs.
James leans close again, breathing him in, speaking into his skin. "You are not one of them." He skates a thumb over Sirius's eyebrow, across the plane of a cheek, over the sharp swell of his nose. "You are not them. They are not you." There is wetness beneath his fingers, against his lips. Salt and absolution.
Slowly, Sirius's hands come up to grasp James's forearms.
"You are not them," James whispers, brushing his lips against Sirius's eyelids to seal them. "You are not them," punctuating with quick kisses to Sirius's chin, his jaw. "You are not them," forehead, "not them," earlobe, "not them," corner of mouth, "not them."
Mine, he thinks. Not theirs. Mine. Mine.
He accidentally breathes it out, hot and possessive, into the hollow of Sirius's throat. He hardly notices the substitution, but long fingers tighten on his wrists, and he pauses, unsure. Then Sirius releases his hold, slides long arms around his back, pulling him in until there is no room for explanations. He can feel the other man's heart beating against his own chest, and there is a note of warning in Sirius's voice as he says, "Don't you fucking forget it."