Disclaimer: All the characters in this story belong to J. K. Rowling. I simply missed them.
in fear everything
lives, impermanence
makes the edges of things burn
brighter. The rocks are purple, heart-
red. We hold our eyes tight
to the line; the reference point
not the mountains but the moving
car, and each other.
Margaret Atwood, Highest Altitude
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i.
She is lying underneath a birch tree. June is humid this year. Her skin is coated in that sheen of sticky, teenage sweat that lingers after a whole day of burning sun and water in the air. Her hair is loose. The tendrils on the back of her head are dark, wet. They cling to her neck creating coils like tempting snakes. They ask to be watched hungrily and then twisted between exploring fingers. She squints her eyes at the setting sun – still sharp despite the late hour. She closes her eyes and all she can see is red, orange; it is pulsating, hot. She is lulled by the heat, yet still aware of her body and its close proximity to the boy beside her. She hears rustling and a quiet 'Shit.' She gives him a quick, cursory look. He reaches for something in his black leather backpack. 'Ah!' he smiles broadly.
'How did you get that?' she breathes with incredulity and amazement, and yet, at the same time, with something akin to acceptance, compliance.
'Hog's Head. I think the old codger has a soft spot for me,' he winks and his smile speaks of reckless self-awareness. He takes a sip from a small glass bottle, no bigger than a hip flask. She eyes him savoring the drink. The liquid looks like deep amber, burnt gold. It all fits perfectly somehow – his smirking, hauntingly beautiful face, early summer dusk and whisky.
'What?' he asks before taking another sip.
'Nothing,' she pauses and stares. He is stretched on the ground next to her. She wonders briefly how it is possible that he is not overheating being dressed all in black. She is wearing white and she can barely stand the feeling of clothes on her body. He becomes her focal point, a center of gravity. He sucks the reality in. What is outside of him does not matter. Everything around them is lush, full of colors, vibrancy and life. Even so, he sits there – a spot of darkness on the greenest grass – and illuminates the evening's shadows. His shoulders are reddened, the sunburn has not sink deeply enough yet. She taunts him by saying, 'Simply admiring your guts.' She motions for him to give her the bottle. He grins.
'Ah, Evans,' he pushes her leg with his knee, the answer in his movement. 'I knew you'd appreciate my efforts.'
She hesitates only for a moment, distrusting his swagger, and drinks. She squeezes her eyes. 'Oh God, that's strong. It tastes like a leather belt.'
Sirius snorts. 'You got to get used to the taste. Just enjoy it, keep it on your tongue, feel the burn.'
'It sounds so wrong coming from your mouth,' Lily laughs, but she takes another swig from the bottle. She swallows slowly, brows furrowing. Sirius makes to reply, but she is licking her lips and it catches him off guard. He shifts a little. She glances at him and raises her eyebrow. A question.
He hesitates only for a second and moves his face closer to hers. 'There is absolutely nothing wrong with my mouth, Evans.' His gaze travels lazily from her lips to her eyes. He backs away a bit and drops onto his left side, facing her, 'It only speaks the truth.' He enjoys his wittiness.
Has is become quieter now? She cannot hear any rustling of leaves above their heads, no distant, muffled sounds of conversations and laughter. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears.
'You're impossible,' she shakes her head, smiling somewhat ruefully – maybe in capitulation, thrilling acquiescence. Is it her conscience or shyness taking control? Because impossible in her emotional thesaurus could also mean hopelessly captivating or insufferably appealing. She won't tell or show him that, however. Lily only returns the bottle and props herself on her elbows, looking up at the sky again. 'If you're being so honest – have you got anything else on you then?'
His grins much wider now. 'Actually, I do. But I'm waiting for Potter to come back. I promised to share a congratulatory drink with him.'
'Ah, the Cup,' she nods. 'Congratulations!' He stares at her for a second. He forgot himself in the haze of their mutual comfort. The realization that she doesn't know anything about her friends' nightly endeavors hits him suddenly. Yes, he meant the Cup but, most of all, their reason for celebration is another successful attempt at taming a suffering lycanthrope. This time they went even farther away from the school grounds. He suspects that they might also be honoring some unknown deities keeping them safe as their growing foolhardiness can be measured by the evolution of the moon, reaching its peak at its pearly fullness.
'Thanks,' he raises the bottle, 'I didn't think we'd make it this year. Tough competition, you know? Slytherins are a bunch of fucking assholes, but you can't deny they can play'. He barks a laugh, 'You didn't hear me say it.' He takes a quick swig, sloshing the drink in his mouth as if he wanted to rinse it.
'Not a word.' She bumps her right shoulder on his left one, winking in understanding. His gaze challenges her – not because he does not believe her, but because of the touch, skin to skin, a kindling. He imagines tracing her flowering freckles on her arms with his nose, smelling her in bloom. He does not dare to go that far, however, even though he is all defiance and audaciousness. The lines between them, which should mark some clearly defined territories, have recently become criminally disregarded. He wishes he could familiarize himself with the geography of her softness, push the pressure points, kiss the dips and mounds, trace the blue veins under translucent boundaries of the body. What stops him is, perhaps, a flicker of shame and—
'Where is James anyway?' She sounds out of breath, startled like a cat hiding under a chair.
He looks at her steadily, searchingly. 'Still with Peter at the hospital wing. Remus's poorly again'. She nods, eyes still fixed on him. Someone passes by and says a loud 'Hi!'. They both jump slightly. Her stomach drops. He busies himself with hiding the bottle behind his back. 'All right, mate!' he replies, a hand up. Nervous. She smiles awkwardly. Lily feels the need to move, rearrange herself, do something. Her heart is in her throat. Sirius is looking down, long hair falling over his cheekbones. She notices his stillness – it is so contrary to his nature. Instinctively her fingers want to reach out for him, to comb through the wavy strands, to relieve him of the uneasiness. Instead, she curls her fingers into a fist to stop herself. She does not trust the heat, the need, the reflexes that betray her. He does not look up, but he moves his hand closer to hers. His small finger slides over her wrist.
'Sirius…' she might be asking for something.
'Yeah, I know.' He takes his hand, sits up. 'Sorry.' They fall quiet, guilt stretching their lungs. He puts his chin on his knee, hands playing with the grass. He turns his head and glances at her. There is disappointment in his eyes, a silenced want for confrontation, a restrained demand. She thinks she understands the different kinds of regret that they show. Soothing an itch is not worth losing someone's trust – or in themselves. A moment stretches.
'There you are!' James rushes to them. He throws his backpack next to Sirius', his school robes follow. He falls unceremoniously between them and gives Lily a loud kiss. She laughs and ruffles his hair.
'How's Moony?' Sirius observes his friends, feeling out of place. James' hands wander lovingly over Lily's arms and face.
'Better. Looks like crap, though,' Potter quips, kissing her shoulder. Sirius' eyes follow his movement and he feels a sting in his gut. A loss by default. He smirks, however, and says, 'What's new about that?' which earns him a smack to the head from Lily. They laugh. The tension stubbornly persists and James regards them with interest, wonderingly. He does not comment. 'Oi, got that drink you promised me?'
'Of course, sir,' Sirius salutes, winking. Always aiming to please, always aiming to prove himself. He throws another bottle to James. Green glass, bulky. 'It may be dodgy. Aberforth looked weirdly pleased with himself when he gave me that.'
'You mean he grumbled happily?' He uncorks the bottle with his teeth and passes the bottle straight to Lily. She shakes her head. She has had enough of burning in her chest for today.
Sirius snorts and takes the liquor from his friend's hand. 'To the boys and joys of freedom!' he toasts. James repeats cheerfully.
There is something like a lump in her throat.
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ii.
'The Boys and the Damned, that's what I know for sure. Marlene managed to get it out of Remus because he's the one who usually buys records with Sir– whooooo,' Lily almost slips. She grips James' arm hard to stop herself from falling on a wet sidewalk. She laughs, wiping water from her nose.
'Got ya!' He raises his hand, stills her, and smiles fondly.
They are so cold they may actually hear their teeth rattling. There is a downpour of rain so heavy that is seems as if the sky has broken, clouds erupted. London is moody and morose like a child throwing a tantrum. Water flows through the cobbled streets, a lost mountain spring trying to outrun cars and slip through the cracks to get as far away from city as it is possible. Their shoes are soaked through, calves splashed with mud. Rain thrums on their umbrella and it sounds like a melancholic mantra.
They are rushing through the muggle side of the capital trying to find an address of a vinyl record store. She managed to get it from her neighbor or – as her father would call him – another damn troublemaker with weird hair.
'Where is that bloody shop?' James grumbles, stretching his arm to help Lily step over a muddy puddle.
'It's supposed to be right here. I think he mentioned a back entrance or something.' She turns her head around to see better. 'Over there!' she points at a cellar door with a signboard. Vinylgate.
They run across the street. He pushes her forward to enter first. He stops to brush the umbrella off before following her. The shop is tiny, cramped. There are rows of vinyl records stacked and catalogued according to genre and country. They are welcomed with a dismissive grunt from the shopkeeper. Their eyes meet to say 'This is interesting', but they shrug and leave their bags next to the entrance.
They ask right away for the bands that they know Sirius enjoys. The man simply points his finger to the wall with various records displayed on shelves and mutters something intelligibly. New Releases is says, so they quickly take two vinyls, grinning. Nailed it. James turns to skim his hand over the top of a stack of discs.
'So, do we start with… American, British or…' he picks up a label, 'Unassorted?'
She snorts. 'That fits perfectly. Sirius Black, the unlabelled, unassorted, untamed.'
'Please, don't tell him that. He might get ideas.'
'Or worse,' she puts down the first record, 'An ego boost.'
He mouths, 'Not possible,' and moves to browse through the American section.
'What about this?' he points to Radio Ethiopia by Patti Smith. She looks at the record sleeve, smiling broadly.
'Almost the same hairstyle. Put it on the Yes Pile, please.' He laughs loudly, shakes his head. 'Piles,' she can hear him snickering to himself.
She turns to flip though British music. 'I think we need something bolder for him.'
He quirks an eyebrow. 'Such as?'
'Such as this!' She picks up the record triumphantly. James reads and raises his thumb in agreement.
'Put it on the Yes Pile, pleeeaaase,' he mimics and chuckles.
She points a finger at him, 'Watch it, Head Boy!' She can hear him laughing again.
Lily looks at the record. Raw Power by the Stooges. She knows the record which surprises her as it is not really her cup of tea – the rawness of sound and Iggy's lyrics. There is tension and built up energy in their music and Sirius is nothing but a timed lethal mechanism released by closeness and dangerous sort of hungriness. She reads the song titles on the back cover and a shiver goes through her. It is the cold. Yes, it is the cold. She looks up at her boyfriend, but he is busy browsing, humming to himself. She stares at him, her stomach sinking. She feels guilty for wanting his best friend – almost a brother – to go off, to ignite around her.
'You still here?' he bumps into her arm.
She startles, smiles. Caught. 'What have you got?'
'This, my love, is The Velvet Underground and Nico,' he beams. 'He's gonna wet himself like a toddler on sugar.' She grins, freckled cheeks go up. 'He's always wanted this.'
'You think he'll like his presents? It's his last birthday at Hogwarts.'
'Are you kidding?! He might actually kiss you all over for this. He may kiss us all over!' She rolls her eyes, amused. 'Or, even better, he's going to play them to his sweet, fetching mother and finish her off with these heretic muggle sounds.'
'I'm fine with both options,' she replies lightly, quickly. Too quickly. Her eyes dart to his. He pauses, surprised.
'Are you?' he asks, suddenly serious.
'Come on, James. I'm just teasing.' She catches his sleeve, dragging it down. Inside she is taut like a drum, panic seeps into her muscles. 'I might feel sorry for his mother, though. Then again not really,' she tries to deflect.
He does not answer for a while. He puts the record down, slowly. 'Because I think the feeling might be mutual.'
'What?' she stiffens. Oh God. Oh God.
He brings his lips to her ear. 'You heard me. I can see, Lily. I'm not daft.'
'See what?' her voice is strained. Curious. Excited. Tempted. No. Sirius' fingers on her arms, going down, drawing out goosebumps, speaking in an unknown language.
His hand goes to his hair. He is mulling something over in his head. She can tell because he always plays with his black mop of unruliness when he is distressed or perplexed.
'James, I didn't mean it that way.' She feels sick. Something twist inside her.
'I—' he starts. He glances over at the shopkeeper, but he has headphones on, his back turned to them. 'I think we need to talk. There are some things. I, uh—' he stops again. He looks troubled.
'You what?' she takes his hand. His palm is clammy. 'James?'
'I can see, Lily, how you look at each other. I'm not Peter.' She gives him a withering look. 'Sorry.' He heaves a sigh. 'I'm—, I'm not jealous. I just feel… weird.'
Her heart hammers in her ribcage. Not a tiny bird fluttering. A monster out of captivity. 'But—' he interrupts her.
'No, I'm really, weirdly, not jealous. I just—, bollocks.' He takes another deep inhale.
'You're confusing me now,' she furrows her brows. 'What is it?'
'He's like a brother to me, but sometimes—' he moves his weight from one leg to the other, hand in his hair. 'Sometimes when I look at you both, I'm curious.'
She stands there, blinking. She thinks she might stop breathing. Something is happening to her knees.
'About what?
'About you, him,' he turns his head, checks the clerk again, sighs. 'Myself.'
'You don't mean…' she does not continue. The question hangs between them, open. His choice how to finish. But he may kiss us all over reverberates like an echo, an innocent slip, perhaps a subconscious confession.
'Gods, I don't know,' he raises his face, looks at the ceiling, exhales loudly. 'I feel possessive, okay?' He averts his gaze. There is a blush on his lovely, bespectacled face. He puts his hands in his pockets. He seems annoyed at his uncooperative, uncontrolled body parts.
'Possessive of the both of us?'
Another exasperated sigh. 'Kind of, yes.' He whispers, 'Like you are both mine, but in a different way and when I see you together, I'm torn between liking the possibilities and hating myself.' The words gush out of him as if they were kept sealed off all this time, airtight, and then released. He dares to look up at her. 'Lily, please, don't look at me like that, I don't get this.'
'I do.'
He stills.
'Confession is good for the soul,' her mother once claimed. Too risky of a fallacy when it concerns one's heart.
She braces herself, hands on the wooden container behind her. She feels hot. There is too much clothing. No space, no air. She tilts to the side so that she can peek at the shopkeeper as well. 'I do understand the confusion of wanting something from someone you shouldn't.'
There it is. A liberating revelation. Guts out. A perverse sort of relief.
He bites his lower lip. He nods several times like he is trying to adjust to the feeling of comprehension seeping into his bones. Lily waits, silent.
What does the truth feel like? A jolt when you trip up, an unexpected feeling of vertigo when you are not really scared of heights.
He gives up the fight with his hands. One of them goes to his disobedient fringe again, the other one reaches for her. 'Let's—, let's look for more records and leave, okay?' He looks lost, mind in disarray.
She searches for something in his face. She does not push it, she lets go.
'Okay.' She squeezes his hand.
Something escapes from her chest. Rips it right through.
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iii.
'Okay, so get this, what if we could borrow a car from someone's parents and go for a trip after graduation?' James proposes, excitement in his eyes. 'Remus says he wants to apply for a driving licence this summer.' He looks expectantly at the group of his friends sitting on the couch next to him or cross-legged on the carpet.
'You're off your trolley, mate. As if my mum would agree,' Peter says glumly.
'Oh, come on! We're all gonna be seventeen and free from school.'
'Yeah, but is it actually a good idea? It's not exactly safe out there,' Remus interjects. Everyone falls silent.
'Way to kill the mood, Moony,' James leans back dramatically and huffs.
'I think he's right, you know?' Lily touches his arm. 'And in any case, my parents won't let me borrow their car for sure. Dad loves it as much as he would his third daughter.'
James snorts and grabs Lily's shoulders to bring her closer to him. She snuggles under his arm and puts her feet behind Remus' back. He jumps surprised at the cold toes touching him but grins warmly at her.
'Would you be comfortable with Remus driving the car anyway?' Peter asks smirking. It gets him a kick in the knee from said boy.
'Hey! I'm gonna be a great driver, thank you very much.' They all laugh, but their merriment is subdued, dulled by the mention of danger outside. Music plays loudly in the background. Some new experimental electronic releases someone found and brought to the party. Monotonous, droning beats are mixed with the sounds of clinking glasses, other exchanges of thoughts and opinions, cheers, cars driving outside.
'It's not really a—' Lily starts but is interrupted by a loud opening of the door and 'Finally!' shouted from the hall of the flat. Their pensive mood dissipates.
They all raise their heads to see Sirius walking confidently inside and beaming at them. He is surrounded by the rest of their friends; Frank Longbottom, Alice and Marlene pop in just seconds behind. He stretches his hand and passes a stack of vinyl records to a tall boy who quickly takes them, reads the artists names and opens his mouth, eyes wide in disbelief. Sirius grins. It is amazing to watch, Lily muses, how the atmosphere changes around him. James visibly loosens up – almost as if he could not be at ease without his friend. People high five him, pat him on the back. Sirius relishes the attention, although his body moves unconsciously in their direction.
'Oi! You late prat! Where have you been?' James shouts at his best friend. Lily shifts next to him, suddenly feeling warm. Her stomach flutters. Sirius saunters in. He shrugs off his leather jacket and stands in front of them proudly presenting his newest t-shirt: Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols. 'What do you think?' his smile is contagious. His hands slide down his torso as if he wanted to tempt them to touch it. He is effortlessly mesmerizing; his apparent scruffiness is just a rebellious act, a statement.
Remus shakes his head and Peter says, 'It's odd to see you in any other color than black.'
'You have to make some sacrifices in the name of passion, my friend.' He pats the shorter boy on the head.
'Why are you so late?' James asks and moves to the side to make some space on the couch.
Sirius rolls his eyes, annoyed. 'Mommy threw a hissy fit, obviously.' He sits down, picks up his backpack and puts it on his knees. 'My oldest son! Consorting with mudbloods and scum!' he imitates his mother and sneers.
'Ah, the usual,' Remus rolls his eyes.
Sirius turns his head to look at Lily behind James' back with apology. His eyes stay on her for a second. 'And then I was late to meet a mate of mine,' he continues. 'Had to find him and get these!' He takes out several bottles of alcohol, a pack of cigarettes and—
'You didn't,' James squeals.
'What?' Lily takes her eyes off of Sirius.
'He bought a motorbike! A fucking flying motorbike!'
Sirius slings his pointing finger into a small silver ring and dangles two keys in front of their faces. 'Oh yes, I did. One step closer to freedom!'
'Where is it?' asks Remus, a mixture of concern and fondness in his voice.
'Still at the garage. It has to have a once-over just to be sure and then I'm off from my shit-hole of a home.' He stretches his legs and arms. Contentment radiates from him.
'It's gonna be mental!' James bounces lightly, giddy like a child. Lily laughs at them both.
The music changes. Apparently Sirius' choice of entertainment won and Iggy Pop's Gimme Danger starts, eliciting a 'Hell yeah!' from someone in the room. Remus and Peter are called to join Frank and Alice by the table. They quickly bring their heads together and start talking, sipping beer from brown bottles.
James, Sirius and Lily stay back and fall silent. James looks at Lily who is sitting with her head bowed, blushing, her red hair falling over her shoulders. Two strands are pinned at the back revealing her freckled cheeks. Then he glances at Sirius who is lounging on the couch, head on a pillow. He observes them intently, pupils wide, ebony. Their eyes meet. Sirius bites his lower lip. A second of consideration, perhaps hesitation. There is a cigarette stuck behind his ear. Someone cheers loudly and his gaze is drawn to the source of the noise.
'Do you want to have a drink? It's New Year's Eve, after all,' James breaks the tension. A tentative, hopeful intermediary.
'Sure,' Lily replies. 'I'll have… that one.' She points at a bottle of red wine.
'Mate?' James smacks Sirius' knee.
'Sorry. Same as always.' Meaning whisky.
'Good. Faithful, loyal.' James passes a bottle to his friend, picks up one for himself.
'What do we drink to?' Lily bends forward to peek at Sirius. She smiles at him. He smiles coyly back.
'First, to tomorrow's hangover on the train. Then, I propose to drink to not strangling a Slytherin on said train and lastly, I guess, to my new love,' Sirius smirks. His right arm dangles from the armrest. There is confidence in his languidness, passion contained skillfully.
Lily's brows shoot up. She looks at James, taken aback. The corner of his mouth curves into a tiny smile. 'He means the bike.' She inhales, breath needling her lungs.
She snorts and smacks Sirius on his thigh. Exhale.
'What's with the aggression towards me today?' But his tone is light, amused. He raises the bottle, waits for them to clink their own against his and takes a gulp. 'There it goes.'
A long pause.
Sirius passes his drink from one hand to the other so that his left forearm can go behind James' head. He rests it there while braving his nerves and then touches the ends of his friends' hair, the tip of his ring finger slides against the nape of the boy's neck. James closes his eyes, exhilaration flares up like a match. It is a tender invitation, a shy tap against the door and his response is to slide his own hand into Lily's hair. A delicate pull. A connected link.
'What about drinking to us?' he breathes, eyes still shut. He takes a sip. A timid suggestion laid bare.
They look at each other again. Lily bumps her hip against her boyfriend's leg to move him towards Sirius. James scoots over to Sirius' side, his chest touching the other boy's arm. Lily hugs James, but her right hand slips behind his back to touch Sirius' hip, stomach or any part that she can reach. They wordlessly sip their drinks, each one of them focused on the places where their bodies meet.
It is as if they touched for the first time which is not the case at all. Still, this moment is new. An acknowledgement of the lines merging – not blurring. In cartography of their relationship, a line is a stroke, carefully drawn but with a finger, with lips, with looks that linger and sink into tissues. They only delineate where the craving begins, how it flows through delight and ends in intimacy.
Remus regards them, preoccupied. Sirius notices and tenses. 'What?' his eyes seem to ask. But Remus's face reveals only an understanding of sorts, like something has finally clicked, fallen into place. He raises his bottle and inclines the tip forward to direct Sirius' gaze to the middle of the room. It is almost midnight, so people start gathering around.
He slowly stands up and puts his hand on James' shoulder. Lily hastily disentangles herself and brushes her hand through her hair. They are awkward around each other – as if their limbs have forgotten how to support them. Then someone sticks a bottle of champagne into James' hand and begins counting.
A girl comes up to Sirius and puts rose-colored glasses on his face. She winks at him and goes away, waving flitatiously. He smirks. 'Unbelievable,' James mutters. But when the count comes to ten, nine— Sirius only grabs their hands and quickly makes his way towards the kitchen. It is in the back of the flat, small, cozy. There is nobody there. It is dark inside, but a warm afterglow from the noisy room provides some light. The door is left ajar. There are no chairs and there is no table either, so they sit on the floor, backs against a kitchen cupboard.
Their hearts are beating fast. A shout erupts from the living room. 1978 welcomes them, but they pay no attention to the festivities. Drinks forgotten. There is only a moment of indecision in Sirius' hands before he grabs Lily by the hips and moves her to sit between him and James. She is panting slightly, her chest too small to have so much air within it. Oh God. Sirius palms her face and glances at James who only puts his own hand into the other boy's hair to bring him closer. Go on. Lily exhales and Sirius' lips are there – on her own. A bird, a treasured snitch in tremulous flight. He is not gentle, he makes his mark. This is also his territory now. The stroke of his tongue traces her lower lip, teeth grazing to claim more and more. Lily's hands are on both of the boys' knees, squeezing hard. She feels overwhelmed by the sensations, by the mere realization that this is happening.
Then James drags his nails across Sirius' thigh and the boy makes a deep noise in his throat. He stops kissing her and catches his breath. One more moment. Another question and James closes the distance between them. There is your answer – which he presses into his mouth. Lily brushes Sirius' hair away and leaves kisses along his jaw, his neck. Her heart might be bursting right now and she does not care. They fall into an exploratory rhythm, uncertain at first but then turning into an easy cadence of sensations, intrinsic poetry. Why did we wait for so long?
His arm cradles her and brings her closer. There are things he wants to do but he does not know what to do with himself. Freckles. Flowers. Breathe. He remembers her shoulders, arms and his face is suddenly in the hollowing by her neck, a subtle concave bait. He starts kissing all the places on her body that haunt him. James is on her other side, catching the straps of her dress and pulling them down. Like opening a book. She whimpers quietly and it sends shivers down Sirius' spine.
Lily catches James' hand and presses it to her side, her breast. He takes off his glasses. Lily smiles and kisses him hard. Thank you. More. Sirius touches her right leg, hand slowly going up and up and her skin burns under his fingers. He traces the line from her knee to her upper thigh and flattens his palm there. Another claim. This is mine now, too, you know? With his other hand he grabs Potter by his shirt and kisses him again. He bites into his neck, clavicle, shoulder and pops two buttons open to touch where he never thought possible. The boy's heartbeat is furious, unrestrained animal under his hand. What else did you expect? James' eyes provoke him.
Lily grabs the back of Sirius' t-shirt and pulls it up. She does not take if off, merely sticks her hand under it to feel his skin. There is sweat between his shoulder blades and she slides her hand down feeling his spine. She wants to count his vertebrae with her lips, but they are by his neck. Architecture too complicated to dwell on when there is no time. Not enough. Something shatters in the other room. They jump, startled. A second to catch their breaths. Then someone comes to the door, listens, sighs, and silently closes it. 'Moony, where are you?' they can hear. Retreating steps are muffled by the music.
Sirius glances at his hand on Lily's leg. What if somebody came in? Became a witness to their indiscretions of youth, this act of heated foolishness. But his attention is drawn again to the people next to him. Where was he? Oh. He watches, fascinated, as James catches his wrist and slides it up. He lifts her dress. His hand brushes against her groin and then against her stomach. She hisses softly and is surprised by her impatience. What now?James calms her by planting kisses all over her face and moves to align himself along her side. Sirius does the same. Lily pins her nails into Sirius' hip and he thrusts involuntarily against her leg. This is how the body takes over. There might be a sorry in his gaze but it is smothered by her hungry kiss. His hand smoothes down towards her navel and then touches her hip under the thin fabric of her pants. His fingers inch closer to where her legs meet the rest of her torso and she can only think please. The kitchen becomes even smaller, sweltering. Her awareness is concentrated only on sensations, those sharp essences of physical contact.
James considers them and decides to move silently behind Sirius. His back and his left shoulder are pressed between the kitchen cabinets so he can easily grab the other boy by his arms and prop him against his chest. He catches Sirius off-guard and they take a second to find a comfortable spot. They fit perfectly. He puts his hands under his t-shirt and snorts at the print on it. Fingers travel down to Sirius' belt and— 'Breathe,' James says quietly into his ear because the boy's chest stopped rising and falling. The feeling should not be that novel, that thrilling to Sirius as he has had his share of experiences, but the moment his friend's fingers graze across his abdomen and the coarse hair below it, his breath hitches in this throat and, fuck, he is trembling. He gives himself away and, perhaps, it is a consolatory discovery of affection and vulnerability in such saturnine times of distrust. Breathe.
Sirius' stabilizes himself on his other hand by pushing it against the floor and puts his head into Lily's hair, panting. She feels his hot puffs of air and her eyelids become heavy, eyelashes like a net curtain on her cheeks. She moves her right leg to allow his right hand more space and they both let out a quiet moan when his finger touches her right there. They are certainly not drunk, but being clasped like that between each other's bodies makes them inebriated – consciousness altered by too much oxygen, hormones and need coursing through their systems.
James curses under his nose and his hand plunges into his friend's pants – a venture quite unfamiliar, and yet he is well acquainted with the movement of his palm along these intimate body parts. They all move in sync. The raw, clean emotion of wanting to possess, to go somewhere beyond the edges of their skin becomes a lesson in metaphysics, in the nature of being. Ontology of tenderness. Time might have actually stopped right there. Lily sees yellow and white and blue and she has to bite into Sirius' shoulder not to be heard – a fervent kind of assail. He presses his body tighter against her as if asking to be held. He follows right after, pressing his hand hard into her leg, groaning, his cheek on her chest. Hot, damp. I'm here, I'm right here. Oh Gods.
James' hand flattens against Sirius's stomach. Their chests heaving. They all sit, immovable in the satiated stillness, disbelief fighting with foolhardy sensation of gratification. Lily raises her head to look at James and their shy smiles whisper I'm okay. I'm okay, you? He beams lazily. Sirius straightens and turns to gaze intently at his friend. There's no going back. I don't want to. He cups the back of Potter's head and kisses him hard as if trying to convey the feeling of the blissful upheaval inside of him – the anarchy of senses. His hands go to his pants, but James stops him. 'I'm good,' he says softly. 'Honestly, I'm good.' Because, really, they all got what they wanted.
A delicate laugh escapes Lily. It seems to surprise her.
'What—' Sirius croaks and clears his throat. 'What is it?'
'I just don't believe we did that,' Lily murmurs. She cannot find the strength in her legs to stand up, so she just smoothes down her dress.
'In the kitchen,' James smirks. They all slump against the cupboards, tired, sluggish.
Sirius snorts. 'Pass me the champagne.' He elbows James, but his other arm reaches for Lily, the movement natural, effortless. He hugs her tightly to his side. 'Happy New Year.' He swings the bottle, gives it to the girl next to him. She kisses his shoulder. Instincts made free. A hushed liberation.
'Yeah,' James accepts the drink from his girlfriend, smiling. 'Yeah.'
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iv.
'Hush, you'll wake him,' Remus turns his head to silence his friends in the back of the car.
'Nah, Peter sleeps like a log,' James picks himself up and peers into his slumbering friend's face. The boy's head is lolling sideways, mouth slightly open. 'He is knackered. Said he had some stuff to do yesterday and didn't catch a wink.'
'I wonder,' Remus muses, looking a little bit troubled.
'Is there something wrong?'
'I'm not sure. He's been acting off for a while. Can't put my finger on it.' He clicks his tongue, anxious. 'Let him sleep.'
'Right.' James leans back. His arms automatically go behind Sirius' and Lily's shoulders. They snuggle to him. Sirius' legs are too long for the amount of space in the car, so he has to press his knees to the seat in front of him. You look like a big, meaty spider, Lily laughed earlier at him. He nipped her earlobe for that. She got the point.
Lily's head rests on James' chest. She plays with his hair, arm up, eyes closed. Content. Sirius holds James' hand against his own, cheek pressed to the inside of his palm. He looks at the window – a kaleidoscope of landscapes passes them by. They are mostly quiet, sometimes commenting on something, but they are just relishing the moment of peacefulness – perhaps the last one. They are not certain.
Remus plucked up his courage a week ago and asked his mother for a car. She agreed to lend him the old machine – a turquoise Austin Farina, beloved of his granddad – on the condition that they would not do something stupid. He admitted later that she probably agreed because his father told her about the political unrest and she thought she was giving them a chance to be free, to do something teenage. They have two days for themselves, so they decided to drive to the seaside. Lily said that she has fond memories from Bexhill, having gone there as a child – hence their current destination. Peter was the last to join. He moaned something about his mother being obstinate and overprotective, but in the end she let him go.
'How far till we get there, mum?' Sirius teases.
'About an hour or so, I think,' Remus checks his map which is spread out on Peter's thighs. Sirius yawns audibly.
'I'm hungry,' his head falls onto James' forearm. 'Can you change the radio station? I've had enough of the Beatles.' Lily shoots him an are-you-serious look. He shrugs. Remus plays with the contraption, mumbling something that sounds like a crybaby and stops when he hears a gentle guitar melody.
'Leave it,' Sirius quickly recognises the music. 'I like it. Nick Drake.'
They fall silent, listening to the lyrics. Lily turns her head and presses a kiss to James' breast. Sirius notices and his lips quirk upwards. They have become almost inseparable recently; together, perhaps, in pursuit of some sort of happiness at the end of all things. Birds of a feather. She stretches her hand to get a hold of his long-fingered one. It is warm, welcoming. In moments like this, Sirius loses his stark contrasts and lines, his wildness rests solely in his gaze. Only they know him like this. His fragility is a fortress that one has to fight to get to. She feels all the more adored, all the more courageous because of this trust.
Sirius brings his lips to her fingers and they stay like that, entangled, caught in this precarious situation where the love they feel seems to be a fair indicative of how much pain and loss it might bring. Inescapable, heartbreaking mathematics.
Remus glances at them in the front mirror. James catches his gaze and smiles lightly. His quiet friend knows them too well to interfere. He perceives more than he lets on and, in any case, he is not the one to show people where to look for joy and for feeling of belonging. He already has it as hard as it gets. In such unstable times, they all become emotional travellers, they are all birds of passage. They migrate from one place to the other in search for home, for a place where the quality of spirit beats fear and judgement.
What does the truth feel like? A firm hand catching yours. Certainty against a despairing feeling of impermanence.
Peter shifts in his seat. Remus catches the map before it falls from this legs. He takes a look at the three lovebirds behind. They are asleep or maybe just deep in their own world. He turns the volume up a little bit. He looks straight ahead.
And I was green, greener than the hill
Where flowers grew and the sun shone still
Now I'm darker than the deepest sea
Just hand me down, give me a place to be.
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i. There may be some grammatical or stylistic anarchy going on. English is not my native language and the story has no beta reader. Nevertheless, I tried to do my best.
ii. I really do recommend listening to 'Gimme Danger' by the Stooges.