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James could tell from the way he tossed his jacket over the chair, not even bothering to hang it up, that Sirius had no intention of staying long. He knew he had two options. Neither of them involved Sirius staying.
Even if James could beg and cajole him to stay now, by morning he would find the other side of the bed empty. It was something that he would have to make peace with, the one thing that Sirius Black could never change.
His life was lived in passing through places, past people. Never lingering long enough to put down roots. It was so very different from the life he had always imagined for himself. The life his parents had prepared him for. A house, a family, maybe a dog.
If it weren’t futile, James might have reflected on what this might say about the way they were raised. And how he held out the hope that one day they would wake up and Sirius did have the ever indomitable desire to pack up and find somewhere new.
When the familiarity of their surroundings, or the neighbours knowing their names, did not scare him. James hoped, most of all, that they would finally find peace. Once he did, maybe Sirius could finally accept that independence did not need to mean being shackled to the road.
Their hallway closet was a catch-all for their lives, everything they did not use often, the things they did not want to have to repack in a few months when their lives took them elsewhere.
Which is where James often let their spare helmet slumber, not typically feeling up for the long rides any more. He used to love them, look forward to them. Back when he still thought that they could sooth the burning need for escapism that roared through Sirius’ veins. That which compelled him to move ever forward, never looking back.
One wind-chilled night somewhere in the endless fields of Cornwall, they had mused over mythology. If someone were to tell their story, whose journey would it resemble? The tale of Orpheus and Eurydice had burned on the tip of James’ tongue, but in the end he never brought it up. Because, at the end of the day, Sirius did care enough for him to turn around. That he might be the only exception to his forever forward facing fascination.
Not after Sirius had brought up The Odyssey, and they both knew he was right. Though he did not see himself as Polites, the steadfast companion along for the journey. No, James knew that he was doomed to be Penelope in this tale, left behind to mind the kingdom, always wondering if his lover would return after he’d sailed off into the sunset.
Forever in doubt of his return, but never in doubt of his love.
Still, as James sifts through the puzzle pieces which make up their lives, memories from places they landed—even briefly—stored away for safekeeping, he cannot help but feel the melancholic nostalgia of fading pictures. Images of places that they had called home, no matter how brief and tumulous their time there had been, James cannot shake the creeping feeling of I miss you from settling under his skin.
A sentiment that lacked rhyme and reason, while the both of them were still there. Even over the shifting sea of cardboard and rustling and rattling of memorabilia, he could hear Sirius’ shower. A constant reminder that he was still there.
Yet, the feeling remained.
In many ways, these boxes form an archive, detailing their many adventures, their ups and downs. Places that James loved, that he thought Sirius loved, only for them to be abandoned when the dust settled.
James shook his head, trying to dislodge the age-old question of when he would become one of the exhibits in the museum of discarded memories. How long until Sirius grew bored with him too.
Because in fleeting flights of insecurity—something that was not normally part of James Potter’s vocabulary, he had wondered. One fateful night, this thought, this earworm had found its way to the tip of his tongue, stage diving into a rare quiet moment between the pair of them.
He could not remember which couch they had been sitting on, they’d had so many different ones, nor the shape of the room. But he remembered the way the light had hit Sirius’ face when he’d asked. The way his lips twisted into a grimace, his eyes wide, and his jaw working on words that would take forever to come.
Less than a fortnight later, Sirius had come home with new plans. A new place. James hid his sadness behind a smile, combed his fingers through his hair, listening to Sirius describe what would come next.
That night, they packed up their life once more. Another adventure, another port in the storm that forever raged behind Sirius’ eyes. All James could do was try to stay his centre, be the eye of the storm, and maybe one day his parting words would not be edged with desperation.
Even over the clattering of once precious records, James hears the water turn off. He knows that he had minutes before Sirius appears, fully dressed, hair still damp. James will chide him about catching a cold and Sirius would laugh—a tense sound, like an over-tuned guitar string, ready to snap. Then, he would smile, the corners of his lips trembling as he makes his excuse.
“Darling, I’m leaving! I need to breathe some cleaner air.”
Always the same phrase, the same reason. Always I, not we. This time, James would not let himself be excluded.
From the ruins of their flat in Manchester (Or was it Brighton?) he excavates the helmet and tucks it under his arm. Just in time to intercept Sirius in the hallway.
“Darling-” James does not allow him to finish the sentence, instead he cuts him off.
“Let’s get out of the city, we need to breathe some cleaner air.” His words are met with a smile, and it is almost as if the fissures—that always seemed to threaten to crack his heart open—heal themselves with that one simple gesture.
Because for now, at least, they are together and the sound of the wind rushing past his ears will drown out all the ‘what ifs’ long enough to almost understand why Sirius is the way he is.