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he’s laying there, with his curly hair in natural chaos, and his round glasses askew over his big eyes, and his blazing cigarette tucked between loose pink lips, and sirius thinks he may die.
james is talking, rambling on about something that sirius can’t quite decipher in his current state — he can taste the searing firewhisky lacing the back of his tongue, and his vision is a little foggy, images vague. but he can still make out the soft thrum of james’ voice that bounces off the walls of their empty dorm. maybe he’s speaking about quidditch, maybe about his holiday plans, maybe lily evans.
blinking out of his daze, sirius takes another swing of firewhisky and sighs as it numbs his rigid roots. he looks over at james again, and finds him sitting up, the mattress shifting with his movement. sirius’ own raven hair presses against the headboard, and he examines his friend as he crawls up next to his own body, casually curling into his side.
the familiar scent of lavender shampoo, faded-yet-rich cologne, boyish sweat, smoke and liquor prickles at his nose, and he leans into the touch, his free hand coming up to brush back brown curls, cheek falling to the side against those same strands. one of james’ arm hooks around his narrow waist, fingers nudging back a slip of fabric and finding the prod of his hipbone. his skin is tacky hot against sirius’, and goosebumps rise over tingling skin.
this particular evening is stuffy with a gentle yellow light that slips through window blinds, and the soft gratitude that comes with spending time with the person he loves most. even with the knowledge that this will all fade away when remus and peter get back from their study session, and lily’s no longer occupied with her other friends. when james’ fingers are free to linger on lily’s arm, and his eyes are free to trace over each of her freckles, this will be no more.
“pads,” james’ sudden call jolts sirius from his apparent wallowing, and he looks down to see long fingers holding out the wasted cigarette, a gray cloud of smoke ascending in front of his face. he wordlessly trades it for his liquor, filling his lungs as his eyes find the long line of james’ throat, the way it becomes exposed when his head is tossed back and he gulps down heaps of firewhisky.
“what’s on your mind?” the bespectacled wizard ponders against sirius’ shoulder, peering up at him with those glassy eyes. sirius can’t help but turn and meet them, taking in the flutter of his lashes and the rosy crimson dust of his cheeks that often finds itself appearing upon intoxication — one of the many things sirius adores about him, unfortunately.
sirius shrugs with his free shoulder, looking down and dragging james’ hand from his exposed hip to his lap, twisting and pulling at the silver ring that clutches his middle finger. “stuff,” he decides on, pathetically.
james snorts. “care t’elaborate?” he says in a buzzed slur, pulling away from sirius’ fidgeting and instead intertwining their fingers, his warm palm an ever-present sensation that dries sirius’ mouth. are friends supposed to do this?
“just— thinking ‘bout what a horribly boring time moons and wormy must be having right about now,” sirius murmurs with an insincere smile, ignoring how obvious his shitty cover must be.
he also ignores the look that james sends him. he ignores the way he looks up at him, eyebrows twitching and eyes searching. he ignores the tilt of james' head that makes tremors leach down his spine from the feeling of naked vulnerability. he ignores the fact that james' hand is still tangled with his, and that they’re both clammy yet neither make a move to seperate. he ignores the erratic thud of his heart and the way it cracks his rib cage with each shudder. he ignores the nagging bit of knowledge in the back of his head that tells him all these scorching, blistering tingles he feels in his body are a tell-tale sign of his addiction to this unrequited infatuation.
he ignores the knowing look in james’ eyes, the sprinkle of something he can’t quite unravel, something that makes sirius feel something akin to hope — no, he can’t let himself fall into that cycle, the one that leads to nothing but dread and heartache.
but all that falls away from james’ face, melts from his features in seconds, and as his eyebrows soften and his lips tilt up tenderly, kindly, his fingers tighten around sirius' own ones. a thumb runs circles over the base of his thumb, and curls nudge his jaw as james burrows into his shoulder. “yeah, i reckon you’re right.”
sirius let’s his eyes slip shut. this is enough. for now, it’s enough.