Author: Mosh Title: Something Unspeakable Note: You may not archive, re-post, or alter any of my stories without my permission. Please contact me first. Thanks! |
Sirius has done a really stupid thing. Really stupid. He's not sure what he had been thinking, but he imagines he can still feel his biggest mistake to date (and that's saying something) warm on his mouth, if he thinks about it too much. He still feels it under his hands, the creases of a grey jumper and the lithe body shifting beneath it. He still feels it crawling over his skin like a slow moving, uncontrollable flush. He's mortified, terrified - that he's fucked everything up. That it might be the end of life as he knows it. With utter hopelessness he asks himself again, What were you thinking? But no answer is forthcoming. At least, none he's willing to acknowledge. He hides out in the library, as it's pretty much the last place anyone would think to look for him. Down in the last aisle - where the boring old Wizarding Atlases of the World volumes that nobody bothers to read are stored - he leans back on the shelves and hits his head purposefully against the dusty book spines. Idiot, idiot, fucking, idiot. It's Springtime but the snow has come late, and the landscape outside looks like the kind of thing often painted on Christmas cards. Sirius stares out through the small, frost-caked window and shivers. In fact, the cold weather played a small factor in Sirius making his grand mistake. His mistake had been thoughtless - no, idiotic - but so unbelievably warm and deceptively welcoming at the time. As always, hindsight is a complete and utter bitch. He closes his eyes, swallows thickly, wishes he had a bloody Time Turner to fix things. Wonders if he really would fix things if given the chance. Now there's food for thought. Would he? Wouldn't he? Would he? Wouldn't- "Padfoot." Oh, shit. Sirius cracks his eyes open and turns his head to the left, finding the source of the voice. "How'd you find me?" he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. His stomach flips in an unnerving way, not nauseous - something else. James shrugs. "I figured you'd go straight to the last place I'd expect, so I tried here first." "I hate you." James smiles at that, but it's not the usual cheery grin, his eyes aren't quite right - sort of too relaxed for it to be a genuine Prongs smile. Ah well, you brought this on yourself, Sirius thinks dismally. Damned rash impulses and the inability to resist them. "So," he says out loud. "So," James agrees, looking down at his feet which only causes his glasses to amble slowly down his nose. He's sweating. Unsurprising, really. James is not often struck embarrassed like this, and neither is Sirius, for that matter. James takes the deepest of deep sighs, scuffs his shoes across the carpet as he moves closer, leans against the shelves next to Sirius, mirrors him by sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. Like giant bookends, they stand still and silent, until - "We can't, you know, Padfoot." "Can we not talk about that ever again? I didn't... it was just a stupid spur of the moment thing. Didn't mean anything." James nods slowly. "Right. Doesn't mean anything. I mean... yeah. Nothing." He exhales, inhales; his right arm twitches quick as a Quidditch reflex, but there's no Quaffle, just tension. "You're my best friend, man," he continues at length. "Since the train that first time, and I hope until we're really old and decrepit, stuck in some retirement home, having knackered broom races across the day room and that sort of thing." "I feel a 'but' coming on." Sirius looks up at the ceiling, but there's nothing there to help him, just dull, cracking plaster the colour of dirty snow. "Don't do it, Prongs. Just leave it. I don't want to know, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to say it." James lets out a frustrated little noise, for once stuck for words. He pushes himself from the bookcase and stands squarely in front of Sirius, his eyebrows knotting together and his glasses once again inching down his nose. "Everything's changing. Next year's the last year. Lily. Careers Advice. Applying for apprenticeships. NEWTs..." His nose scrunches for a second and Sirius really doesn't find it endearing. "All those things. And then I think, but there's always Padfoot. And if you tell anyone I just said that I'll cut your bollocks off." Sirius tries to feign an off-handed tone, forcing it past the sickening lump that's edging up his throat. "You know how much I value my gigantic balls, Prongs. Your secret's safe with-" "... me." He's finishing the sentence in his head because Christ alive, he can't talk - James has - holy shit - and he's - what the hell? - kissing, lips - and - fuck. It's just like in the dorm half an hour before, except this time James is kissing him, not the other way around. James. Is kissing him. It's like a solid punch in the gut, only with a reverse effect; instead of falling backwards, Sirius is launched forward, like a strong magnetic pull, a gravitational lurch, an energy he has no sodding control over. James tilts his head to the side and opens his mouth a fraction. It's perfect, just like kissing should be, not like the Stupid Mistake Kiss Sirius had hastily planted on his best mate earlier. Their bodies bump together, an awkward movement that's unfamiliar but also pleasurable in its own strange way. It's a whole new territory, the best friend snogging thing, and Sirius wonders what the repercussions will be. Then, figuring you only live once, he throws himself into it whole-heartedly since James hasn't yet pulled away. It's not long before there's a hand on his hip, which is definitely encouraging, considering it's squeezing tightly and drawing him so close there's not room for a quill to pass between them. The rush of blood to Sirius's groin - now that sneaks up on him. Maybe he's thinking about the kissing too much; he's never this bad with girls, for God's sake. With girls it's always tongue, hands, lift skirt, wet heat. No big deal, no real thought put into it, as it's not like Transfiguration or anything. It's more second nature for him, a natural process. An extremely enjoyable one. Yeah, it's easy, with girls. Not like this. There's something dark on the edges here, something sharp just waiting to tear him up into pieces, something inevitable but still too shady to put into context. Sirius isn't ready to face it, but he knows it's there, knows what they're doing is essentially destructive in the grand scheme of things. Knows something is waiting. Whatever. His growing erection presses right up against James and there's no way to hide it; Sirius can't physically stop with the kissing, with the clutching James's hair so hard it has to hurt, with the hungry noises begging and hot-to-bursting in his throat. He can't let go. James breaks off long enough to draw breath and mutter, "Isn't this just," and then he's back again with fervour, whatever he was planning to say fading as he apparently forgets it, or just plain refuses to complete it out loud. Sirius tries to interpret it, but in the end he comes to the conclusion that "Isn't this just" pretty much sums it up nicely, because there isn't a word for this, at least nothing in English and he doesn't know any other languages so there it is. James's hand slips down into his trousers and everything goes south for a blissful, fierce, heady moment. Then Sirius is done, shaking with a grunt and a wanton buck of his hips. He comes with a curse that rides his breath into James's mouth, his cock twitches within a sweaty, sliding palm, Oh... oh... oh... If he had the guts - which he doesn't, he realises, because it's the library and it's daytime - he would drop to his knees just to see what it's like. What Prongs is like. Instead, Sirius presses one hand flat against James's trouser front and rubs, urgently, because damn it, he has to make it happen for Prongs, it would be disastrous if he didn't. A clock starts to strike; Sirius isn't sure what hour - he hears the chime vaguely, counting him in. By the time the clock hits two James's eyes are unfocused, by five James is gasping wildly for air, by eight James is falling heavily against Sirius and raggedly trying to get himself under control. And when they finally, finally manage to stop - breathless, overheated, sated, thinking too much, too fast, too afraid - James's glasses are smudged and slightly steamed, Sirius's shirt is untucked from his trousers, there's come on his shoes, and there are tiny beads of sweat across his brow. His forehead pressed lightly against James's, Sirius tries to fathom what just happened, but there's no way. "Christ," says James. "Yeah," agrees Sirius. "I came here to say... you know, something else." "I was planning on telling you to go away so I could wallow in self-pity." "Fucked that one up royally, didn't we?" "It's been a weird day." "What now?" "I haven't a clue, mate." A pause. "I'm gonna let go of you now." "Right. Yeah, okay." A second, maybe two, and James extracts his right hand from Sirius's trousers, uncurls his left hand from the back of Sirius's neck. Sirius lets go of the bunched up fabric of James's school sweater with his right hand, and removes his left from the curve of James's arse. He hadn't meant to go there, and he wonders how the hell he went there without noticing, wonders if it means that thing he can't handle right now. "This is a very messed up situation," James points out (eyes averted, cheeks red) as if reading Sirius's mind. Sort of irritating, how he's always been able to do that. "Really fucking messed up. Padfoot, do you realise?" "Of course I do, you pillock. What can I say?" "Well, you started it." Ruffled, Sirius says, "Yeah, but you damn well finished it." "Shit." Nothing's resolved. There are no reassurances, no promises, no 'this will never happen again', no 'this will happen again', only a twisted kind of acknowledgement and an embarrassing sense of satisfaction, a filling. "I think," James says, then runs his hand through his hair, then fiddles with his tie, "that we're gonna have to just see how things go. I can't... not now, and you... well, you can't, can you?" Sirius shakes his head, and though he isn't exactly looking James knows. "So... you hear about Smart getting pummelled by that rogue Bludger?" It's completely random, but Sirius has to admit it's probably the best way to handle everything. For now. While potentially dangerous, unspoken things thrum in the air as thick as spells and it's still too much. Go with it, he thinks. "When?" They button up, tidy up, turn, head out of the aisle, side-by-side. "This morning during practice. He got it in the shoulder, then his back. I heard the crunch from the other side of the pitch." "Ouch." Past the study tables, voices lowered to a whisper. Past Pince's desk (she gives them a curious look, as if she's wondering what took them so long and why they've come out with no books in hand, no bags hanging on their shoulders, school uniforms creased). Out into the corridor, then left, toward Gryffindor Tower. "Blomquist's calling for a re-match, said the game was rigged." "Oh please, it's Hufflepuff. Who'd bother rigging a Puff/Gryff game?" "Exactly what I said." Voices carry on the frosty air, snow beats in through the open castle windows, scattering all over the hall floor. It's come too late for March, but just the right time for two sets of footprints, same size, trekking together through the white, toward something unspeakable that's already begun. ~Fin~ |
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