Differing Beauty (PG-13)
By Oscura
Disclaimer – Not my characters, no profit is being made by me. JK Rowling owns everything.
A/N: Credit to Peter Jackson, director of "Heavenly Creatures" for the bath idea! I hope this is fluffy enough – I can't seem to escape including SOME angst however hard I try! Written for theSiriusXJames Christmas Exchange, and dedicated to Trace.
You have always been very much aware of how things look. Perhaps this is a natural preoccupation of the beautiful: you tend to see yourself in a succession of tableaux, the centre of a picture, balancing all elements of light and darkness in your aspect.
So naturally, when you hear there is going to be a snow fight in the castle grounds on the afternoon of Christmas Day, you decide to wear the new robes Remus has given you, of midnight blue silk; as soon as you unwrapped them you knew that they were perfect, austere against your black hair, your pale skin (fragile as porcelain; in places, you can still discern the faint blue shadows of the summer's bruising. To you, it is a memento mori, a whisper of something to be feared). A picture forms in your head: the white sweep of snow, the green bank of trees, you, slender in the dark robes with your hair loose, thrown into sharp relief by the pale castle towering behind you, softened by the glowing afternoon light.
No one has ever called Sirius Black sensible. It is instantly obvious to you, seeing yourself thus, that you must wear your new robes, that no other possibility can be entertained for a moment.
You fight viciously. At least half the school has stayed this year (there have been six deaths already, this rain-sodden autumn term, something you don't like to think about, something underlined by students appearing at breakfast pale and heavy-eyed, quieter than before). Anyway, it's a big fight, exciting, you may not have the stamina of some of them (James, for example, who could carry on for hours, yelling directions and throwing snowballs with a deadly aim). Still, you have a passionate desire to win and a reasonably good eye – you make up in adrenaline and deviousness what you lack in physical strength. You enjoy this, the small, immediate gratification of it, the sense of freedom and power. The cold air on your face thrills you at first, and you can't help remembering the grand, lonely Christmases in London – and then a shower of white blinds you and you are drawn back into the fray.
After an hour or so, things start to wind down, and you suddenly realise how tired you are, every inch of your body taut and aching. For a moment you want to lie down right there, in the snow, and sleep and forget everything. But James says, "Sirius? Merlin, your lips are blue!" He seizes both your hands in his larger ones (which are tanned, you notice with a distant, exhausted interest, probably all that extra Quidditch practice) and rubs at them energetically. His skin is warm against yours, and you realise all at once how cold you are, in your thin silk robes; you glance at the bluish-white skin of your wrists and your vision suddenly blurs. James – of course – notices this, puts his warm arm around you, walks swiftly towards the castle, guides your faltering steps.
He murmurs to you under his breath, you can't even hear the words, but you feel the vibration of his breath against your ear. You relish this, it reassures you, you are no longer about to cry.
Twenty minutes later you are in a hot sweet-smelling bath sucking a ginger flavoured candy cane. James is sprawled inelegantly on the floor next to the bath, not saying anything. That's one of the best things about friendship, you think. Not having to talk all the time. You've never really found life easy, but you talk so well, you sparkle and smile and fiddle with things, you can't keep still, you're beautiful, you have a beautiful laugh – these things make people like you, cover up your difficulties. It's only with James that the other side, the still, quiet, gentle Sirius can be shown (because James will never get bored with you; he'll laugh, but not unkindly).
He fiddles absentmindedly with your hair where it falls over the edge of the bath. You lie on your back and look up at the white ceiling, the holly in the room's corners – which is a darker, glossier green than the Holly in London – the wrought iron candle holder hanging from the ceiling, a simpler and less antiquated version of the chandeliers in Grimmauld Place. There are some leaves twisted round the base of one of the candles, pale smoky berries – it's mistletoe. You find this rather quaint and sweet, so you take the candy cane out of your mouth (which is smiling, quite unasked and involuntarily – a rare event with you, as most of your smiles are simply part of the "Sirius effect") and turn your head to tell James (his hand has gone still in your hair), so you can laugh about it together. And then his eyes fall to your face, and you realise that he, also, has seen the mistletoe, and he leans towards you, his dry, warm lips touch yours.
Your eyes are still open, and you see his hazel ones closer than ever before, and there are tiny flecks of gold in them, and seeing this is like a special present that he has given you. He pulls back a little and you both giggle, uncertain and perhaps a little giddy and shy with joy. Then he kisses you and you can taste mulberries and caraway and sugar in his mouth, and underneath the taste of James himself, which is a little sweet and a little salty and a little bitter, and quite delicious.
And seeing your smile, and your eyes shining, James slips off his robes and gets into the bath with you, at the other end (and takes your hand and strokes it all over, very slowly, with his thumb), but still nobody speaks, neither of you has anything to say or to explain, because the warmth of the water, the lingering taste of each other, the sheer closeness – these things seem to say it all for you, in silence.