The first touches weren't hesitant; they were controlled, soft, gentle movements of curling fingers tracing fading scars. They were movements that both sets of hands knew well; patterns from the care of treating War wounds that were ingrained in the very fibers of their skin.
The pair would be sitting on their couch, in their home, alone after an afternoon with Remus and Hermione, when fingers would slide across a wrist, tracing the edge of a burn that was in the final stage of healing. Depending on the person who was touching, the path would change; if it was Sirius, his fingers would trail up silky flesh to rest in the soft curve of a scarred stab wound on Harry's forearm. If it was Harry, the fingers would dip and swirl, tracing the calloused-over lines of physical defense wounds on Sirius' palms.
They'd slide into an embrace that had long overstepped the boundaries of platonic, but had never crossed the line of physical romance. Harry would curl into Sirius' lap, knees folding beneath him as he bowed his head beneath Sirius' chin in what looked like a mockery of childlike innocence. Sirius would pause for a moment, nose resting against Harry's temple, and inhale deeply; coarse fingertips would slide compliant arms onto Sirius' shoulders', and he'd curl inwards, drawing Harry to him with a soft sigh.
Harry would fall asleep then, resting comfortably and without nightmares; his soft weight would often lull Sirius into a hazy state that was familiar. He'd draw Harry closer to him then, fingers rubbing slow circles into the line of the young man's spine, tips of his nails grazing along the line of skin between trousers and T-shirt. Harry would arc forward, Sirius would inhale deeply, and he'd smooth the wrinkled fabric beneath his hands.
Waking to a jerking motion, as his world slid backward momentarily, Harry would groan as Sirius slipped his elbows beneath his numbing knees, and he'd press closer. This was when the line between platonic and romantic would blur, but neither of them really paid attention; a soft kiss would be pressed to a drowsy mouth, whispered goodnights curling from a throat that so desperately wanted to say, "I love you."
The first touches weren't hesitant, the embrace that followed was always safe, but the last words of the evening coiled inside like a sickening combination of hope and fear; minds working on basic instinct as thought was brushed away, they were unsure.
But the lines between platonic and romantic were blurred, and it was decided that it didn't really matter.
I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters involved, and I am not making any profit from this work of fanfiction.