HP FIC: "Fragile"
Title: Fragile
By: naatz
Rating: PG to PG-13
Pairing: HP/SB
Cliche: Time Travel
Warnings: None
Length: ~4,000 words
Betas: mimiheart, hungerbound, sesshiyuki, unrequitedangst.
Disclaimer: The victims of this 'fic are JKR's.
Notes: Written for hp_cliche!
Summary: 'There were all sorts of questions he avoided, like the date, and who was Sirius's doctor anyway, and where exactly was he?' Reviving memories is hard; letting them go again is a lot harder. HP/SB.
Fragile
Sirius was lying on something; what it was, he couldn't say, but he knew that he lay on something very soft, that nothing stopped a cool hand from caressing his forehead and wiping sweat off his face, and that a voice, almost too deep and low, was whispering his name.
He felt the prickling of tears escaping his closed eyelids; he itched to open his eyes and wipe the tears away, but his eyes wouldn't open and his hand would not move. Another hand wiped them away for him - the one that had touched his forehead.
Whatever he was lying on made Sirius feel like he was drowning in white and feathers and love.
If only he could find the strength to lean closer to the hand --
Unconsciousness claimed him, just about then.
---
(He's sick, let him rest.)
There was whiteness all around him: white on white on white, and yet Sirius had to smile, because the hand kept coming back, as if from within a dream.
(I can't leave him like that. He's burning up.)
(Let him sleep. The fever will break.)
Tiny voices in the back of his mind. Go away, Sirius tried saying. Go away and let me sleep, you're disturbing me.
(If - if you're sure.)
The hand on his burning forehead was replaced by a cold cloth. The contrast was sharp and relieving, but also so very painful.
(--are you certain this is wise?--)
(--yes--)
(--you shouldn't get too attached--)
Mindlessly, Sirius batted their voices away.
He fell.
---
Smells and tastes wafted through the air and under his nose. Flowers, freshly picked roses, left a bitter-sweet taste on his tongue. Chicken broth simmered in a room nearby.
Sirius couldn't put a face and a name to the voice just yet. The voice was familiar, and Sirius knew that for some reason he loved the person hiding behind it. The person's voice sounded like it belonged with Sirius and wanted Sirius to belong with it, but Sirius was too different to belong: He always stood out, tall and proud and too bloody perfect at everything he did.
Was he sick? The voices implied that he had a fever; that would explain why he felt as though his brain was being boiled alive by his blood.
He was fed potions and medicines, and spells were cast all over him.
(There has to be something. He's just wasting away.)
(We're doing the best we can.)
(Well, it isn't enough!)
Then Sirius whimpered, and there was silence; there was no sound aside from the quiet thrum of sunlight beams, caressing both his body and the roses by the window.
(Sirius, come on.)
(Let him sleep.)
(That's all he's been doing.)
(Then it won't hurt him to sleep some more.)
---
Sometimes, the hand didn't caress his brow or touch his face in reassurance, and the voice didn't keep calling his name, saying, Sirius, Sirius.
Sometimes, the voice had sounded like it was choked on emotion while it lay beside Sirius, holding him close and attempting to keep Sirius from ever slipping away.
When the choked breathing subsided, it would speak in an airy whisper.
Breathe, Sirius was told. Breathe.
(Live.)
---
On the day Sirius managed to crack his eyes open, the voice had been crying. Maybe that had been the trigger, not the potions and spells and medicine - just the crying of somebody who cared.
From his bed, Sirius could see black hair atop of baggy clothes. He could see white-washed walls and a window, pouring leftover sunshine that the green garden outside didn't wish to use.
Sirius blinked his focus back to the sobbing man.
He tried to say something:
Hi.
Are you all right?
Thanks for taking care of me.
Don't cry.
I'm fine, don't worry.
I won't die.
Only a tiny mewl managed to escape his throat, instead of what he would have liked to say.
The face snapped up; Sirius's eyes met glasses, round with a black frame, and past the green eyes, and below them, two tear-stained cheeks. Then Sirius's gaze went past the cheeks to the red, quivering lips and strong chin and then the neck.
Then he raised his eyes back to meet the startlingly green gaze of the other man. It took up so much space over the man's other features, becoming the one that stood out the most.
For the first time in days, Sirius felt grounded.
"Sirius," the man whispered.
The man almost looked familiar, and he sounded a bit familiar, too. But, that couldn't be right, because Sirius would have remembered him. The heartbreaking fragility was too memorable.
Sirius swallowed. His throat was scratchy, and dry. His eyes itched. His hands ached, as did his legs, and his stomach felt so empty.
The man shot to his feet and fled from the room, leaving Sirius to wonder whether he was that scary while awake.
But the man returned, carrying a large, dark glass. Sirius threw the notion that he was unwanted out the window as the man knelt by his bed, propping Sirius up with the pillows. "Here, drink this," the man said, and held the glass to Sirius's mouth, waiting for Sirius to drink.
Sirius drank greedily. It was . . . not water, and it wasn't medicine, and it wasn't any potion. Oh - It was the chicken broth he had smelled so long ago, or maybe, not that long? He couldn't remember.
His stomach rumbled a few moments after he finished, unused to digesting real substance, even though it was only soup. He squirmed, and the man chuckled, a wet small sound that sounded like on the verge of hysteria.
Sirius found that he could work his mouth and vocal cords, now. He asked, "What's your name?"
"Harry."
Sirius nodded. "I'm Sirius," he said.
Harry rose from the floor and sat down by Sirius, his weight making the mattress sink downwards. Their hips touched, and warmth passed to Sirius's body - a much more pleasant warmth than the burning fury he'd suffered.
Harry's reached to caress Sirius's brow, his palm cool over Sirius's heated forehead.
"I know," he said softly and kissed Sirius's forehead. "Go to sleep," he offered, voice soothing and loving and accepting, and Sirius couldn't get enough of it.
Even though he fought to remain awake, his eyelids slipped shut just as he made a last attempt to cling to Harry's words.
In his dreams, he saw life; vibrating green on vibrating green, surrounded by rays of sunshine, enfolding the busyness of vibrant cheer.
(He woke up this morning.)
(That's very good news. His fever is also coming down.)
(Will it stay down?)
(I don't know, but we can hope.)
"Be quiet," mumbled Sirius to the voices, and went back to his sunny garden.
(chuckles.)
---
When Sirius awoke the following morning, he heard humming from the direction he'd identified as kitchen. Steam and smells floated through the air: chicken broth and vegetable soup, and buttered bread.
He let his muscles relax and his senses connect to the world, and he closed his eyes.
This place, though plain and simple, welcomed him in a manner that Grimmauld Place never had. He knew that here he could be safe and appreciated, not like back at home with all he screams and yells.
Sirius opened his eyes, and saw the tall, bright ceiling. Here, he could rest.
Harry came into the room with a plate in one hand and a glass in another. He sat by Sirius's bed, his plate in his lap and the glass on the floor. Harry glanced at Sirius then, and jerked in surprise when he realised that Sirius was awake.
"You're awake," Harry said clumsily. He gave Sirius the glass he'd brought. "Here. Drink this."
Sirius did. His muscles felt better now. His throat felt slicker, and when he tried, he could move his hands easily to rest over his stomach.
"I like it here," Sirius said, as if it explained his alertness.
Harry nodded. "Me, too." He took a bite out of his sandwich, chewed, swallowed; thought. He asked Sirius, "Are you hungry?"
Sirius was surprised to realise that no, he wasn't very hungry. "Not really. Just a bit tired."
He got nods and smiles in return. "Maybe you should go back to sleep?"
"Not tired in that way."
Harry put down the sandwich on the plate, and the plate upon a side-table. The side-table was coloured a light brown, complementing the brown chair, the white bed, the pastel-green carpet in the room. Sirius hadn't paid attention to the décor before, but now the colours unfurled themselves in front of his eyes.
"Would you like to talk about anything, then?"
Sirius attempted to think. It was rather hard, because his head still hurt, but soon he found a subject. that he knew he ought to worry about.
"How did I get here?"
Harry chewed on his bottom lip. The motion added a childish nuance to the character that he made up in Sirius's mind. "I don't exactly know," admitted Harry, his Adam's apple bobbing with discomfort. "I found you on my doorstep one morning, and I couldn't turn you out."
Sirius nodded. "Thanks," he said. "I don't want to be an inconvenience."
Harry averted his attention back to his sandwich and bit on it before saying, mouth still slightly full, "Don't worry. You aren't."
---
Sirius was floating, high on roses and on sun and on the green, green grass.
(You can't keep lying to him.)
(Watch me.)
All it took was a push of imagination to grow wings, and then just like that, Sirius was flying; flying from his mother, father, brother. Flying to his friends, to James and Remus and Peter.
(You know this isn't fair. Not for him, and not for you.)
Yet something changed, and suddenly it wasn't just James, Remus and Peter. Suddenly, it was Harry, too, taking up the most space and his smile the brightest. He wasn't the tallest, that was James, and he wasn't the bulkiest, that was Peter, and he wasn't the lightest - that was Remus.
But Harry shone with warm, silvery light that blinded Sirius whenever he looked too long.
(You don't understand-I can't--)
Here, Sirius could leap; he could hop; he could laugh, and everything laughed with him.
(I can't just let him go again!)
---
A cool, tantalising cheek touched Sirius's.
Sirius moaned. It felt so good to be drawn close, as opposed to being repelled. The bed's softness was oppressive, and it was good to finally feel something firm against his skin.
For every action, there always had to be an opposite reaction. And so, Sirius sought it with sleepy hands, and was momentarily surprised that when he found it, Harry was seeking it, too.
His eyes snapped open. He turned his head and stared at Harry. How - how come he'd known that it was Harry next to him?
Sirius couldn't have gotten used to Harry's cool touches and gentle comfort in such a short while.
Harry raised his head. His face blushed red, and an awkward smile tugged at his lips. "Good morning."
"Good morning," Sirius replied, puzzled. What had just happened?
Harry offered him a hand, which Sirius gratefully accepted. He was surprised to be hauled up, back leaning against the wall, as Harry tucked him in with a quilt the color of red mud.
"I was told that it was time to try and get you up," explained Harry. "Sitting up straight is the first stage."
Sirius nodded. "I missed sitting," he admitted. Being propped up by pillows and actually sitting were very distant from one another.
Harry laughed, voice soft and rich, and so far removed from the hysteria that had tainted it when Sirius had first heard him laugh.
"You're too young to only want to sit still instead of running around."
Sirius narrowed his eyes. "I'm sixteen, I can sit still if I try." Yet he couldn't help but wriggle out of his covers and set his legs on the floor. The contrast of the temperature between his warm feet and the cool floor was shockingly pleasant, and the waves sent up his spine caused him to shiver not only from the cold, but from the delight of the sensation, too.
He attempted to stand, but his legs buckled, unable to support his weight. Suddenly, there he was on his knees with the deep, hollow ache that had just left his joints, but now returned.
Within a moment Harry was kneeling down beside Sirius, throwing one arm around Sirius's shoulder while the other grasped under Sirius's legs, lifting him off the floor.
"You were very sick," Harry said, really close to Sirius's left ear. The air tickled the delicate skin near Sirius's hair, and he shivered. "You still are," Harry said, in concern this time. "You need to rest."
"I'm fine," Sirius ground out, though he wasn't. It'd been such a long time since he was this weak - ages and ages ago, when his mother had gotten furious with him for calling her a worthless hag. She had levitated Sirius and smashed him against the dining room's wall, breaking several of his bones. Regrowing his bones was very tiring, and reminders of phantom pains prickled in his joints for months after.
Harry shook his head. "Even if you don't know your limits, I do." He settled Sirius back in bed and under the covers, but still seated.
"I'm sorry," said Sirius. "I don't want to be a bother."
Harry made a small, choked sound, and turned his face away. "Trust me," he said, voice muted in a sea of emotion, "you're the last person I would ever consider a bother."
Sirius didn't want Harry to go away yet.
"Don't leave now," he requested. "You can sit here, too, there's enough space."
Harry seemed to hesitate, but then he'd done as asked.
Sirius closed his eyes, and leaned on Harry instead of on the wall; he only fell asleep after feeling a strong arm encircling him, drawing him close.
---
(Someday, you'll have to face the consequences.)
(I know.)
(He'll die, here; this relief is momentary. Why won't you understand?)
(I --)
(Send him back. please.)
(What I choose to do with him is none of your business.)
(You'll feel the guilt for his death. Once was already enough.)
(Once was more than enough.)
---
Time never entered Sirius's room. Harry had admitted to him that he always took care to leave it on the other side of the door.
They cuddled together, now. Sirius's arm would snake around Harry, his head resting on Harry's shoulder, and Harry's arm would wind around Sirius, head resting on the crown of Sirius's head.
Now, Sirius also coughed. They were dry, sharp coughs, but they scratched his throat with fire. Although his legs gained strength, his lungs would burn whenever he walked or stood for long periods of time.
Sirius took small pleasures where he could. The feel of one day's stubble against his hair. The feel of a body pressing against his. The feel of a person wanting him to be around.
Harry was trying to hide something, he knew. There were all sorts of questions he avoided, like the date, and who was Sirius's doctor anyway, and where exactly was he?
While curious about these mysteries, ultimately, Sirius did not care. The mundane had become irrelevant, and all he cared about was the peace he'd found in this place, though even when he had his peace, he couldn't stop the small pangs of restlessness and shame that he had to depend on Harry's charity to survive.
"Don't go," said Sirius when Harry shifted.
Harry hushed him by moving his body closer to Sirius's. "I'm not going anywhere," he calmed Sirius.
Sirius clung to Harry. "Stay with me."
Harry pressed a kiss to Sirius's forehead, and whispered, his lips moving against Sirius's skin, "I'm not going anywhere."
Sirius raised his head, looked Harry in the eyes, green, green, green, so green; he thought that if he could see that colour forever he could die happy. Raising his hand from Harry's back to tilt his head down, and then Sirius was kissing him.
Soft, and cool, yet oddly hot and exciting.
Then he had to draw back, because he had begun coughing.
---
When Sirius's breathing problems worsened, both he and Harry knew it was time to bring in the medication they had wanted to avoid.
After downing the first potion since the second day of his waking, Sirius asked Harry, "Am I going to die?"
Harry smiled, cupped his cheek, and said, "No."
They both knew he was not telling the truth.
Sirius swallowed thickly. The action banished the sudden bitterness in his throat. "Come lie down with me?" he asked.
"Sirius-" started Harry, "-I don't think this is such a good idea."
Sirius laughed, but ended up choking when the tears began rolling down his cheeks. "I'm dying," he said.
Harry's eyes clouded over. He sat down on Sirius's bed, right by Sirius, hips touching together again. His hands were on Sirius's face, and he said, "I'm not going to let you die." His voice sounded vicious and harsh, as if - as if Sirius's death would also kill a small but vital part of himself.
"I don't want to die," whispered Sirius.
A soft, keening sound escaped Harry's throat. He stood and looked at Sirius, then turned tail and fled.
Sirius lay in bed, alone in the empty room. He was left with nothing to do except stare at the white ceiling. Time passed until he raised himself with difficulty to a sitting position, wanting to peer out of the window into the beyond.
On the windowsill there was a vase filled with pink and white and red roses, whose perfume filled the entire room with their exaggerated sweetness. Behind the vase and the glass panes grew a friendly garden of trees and grass, too untamed and wild to belong to a proper household.
Beyond Sirius's bedroom, harsh shouts and the shattering of glass.
Sirius closed his eyes and imagined that he was flying.
---
(He trusts me.)
(I also trust you.)
(I don't deserve that trust.)
(You deserve everything you're willing to accept.)
The door creaked open, announcing the presence of Harry and food. Sirius woke from the sound and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
Harry's face was carefully blank, but the small signs that Sirius knew to look for by now were there: a crease on the forehead. The puffy eyes. The rumpled hair.
"I'm sorry," said Sirius.
Harry replied, "You didn't do anything wrong." He handed the plate to Sirius, and watched while he ate.
"Sirius," he said, but paused.
Sirius raised his eyes from the plate; it was good quality china, painted with dark concentric circles.
"I'm sorry."
Sirius blinked. "You didn't do anything," he said. "I mean, you did everything you could to help me, so, thank you."
The pause that followed echoed painfully around the room, touching everything from the roses to the door to the window-panel to Sirius's bed.
Harry sighed. He made his way to sit by Sirius, and took the plate from him, ignoring the squawk of protest from the boy. His hands went to Sirius's shoulder, gripping a bit too forcefully, and he shook Sirius so hard that they were both left breathless.
"I'm not going to let you die," he hissed into Sirius's face. "You are not going to die."
Sirius looked away.
Harry removed one hand from Sirius's shoulder and caught his chin instead, forcing him to look at him in the eye. "Trust me," he said. "It'll hurt, for both of us, but - trust me."
Sirius nodded. "Don't leave me," he begged.
Harry closed his eyes, inhaled, opened them again. Without saying anything more, Harry brought his face closer to Sirius's, and kissed him. Sirius kissed him back, and felt alive.
He did not want to leave this place, even if it meant not seeing his family and friends again. He wanted to stay here with Harry, in this room and with these roses, and feel like he was floating and flying, finally surrounded by what he needed.
They kissed and fell.
Together.
(I've decided. No remorse.)
(I'm sorry.)
(Me, too.)
---
(Sirius.)
Sirius floated. Again, he flew on wings of dreams, flying and stretching his wings, attempting to chase after and catch the light that shone off from Harry.
(I'm sorry.)
Don't apologise, Sirius wanted to say. You're too bright.
(Make sure to live your life to the fullest, all right?)
Went without saying. While he might be dying, he was going to be more content dead than he'd ever been alive.
(I'm sorry I couldn't do anything.)
Soft kisses were placed on his forehead, cheeks, and lips.
(I love you.)
Sirius wanted to spread his hand and touch Harry, but he couldn't, because all he had was wings.
(Live well, Sirius. Goodbye.)
No, Harry couldn't leave him, the kindest person Sirius had ever known couldn't abandon -
And then the white softness was gone, replaced by mists, red and gold, and he couldn't do anything but cry, tears burning his eyes and creating a wet trail on his cheeks, and he felt too weak to raise his hand and wipe them away.
There was no hand to console him, no voice calling his name to ground him.
His wings turned back to arms. He still floated in the air, remaining up due to sheer stubbornness. He looked for the bright, silvery light that was Harry, but it was gone, gone, gone. . . .
(Sirius?)
Sirius opened his eyes. He saw black hair and a face covered by glasses, and on his lips, Harry's name came to life, searching.
"Who?" asked James.
---
After it was all over, Harry collapsed on the bed in his spare bedroom - Sirius's bed in Sirius's bedroom, his mind reminded - with his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands.
"You did the right thing, Harry."
Harry shook his head, not looking up. "I shouldn't have brought him here at all," he said, voice cracking.
"Harry."
Harry straightened his back, letting his arms fall to his lap. "Remus, I didn't mean to -"
Remus sighed. He brushed his hand against his hair, now more silvery than brown. "I missed him, too."
"I'm supposed to be an adult, I shouldn't have-"
"Harry. He was only sick because he was misplaced in time, and now that you sent him back, he'll get better."
"Yeah. To his own time. I sent him back there."
Remus sat next to him on Sirius's bed - the spare bed, Harry corrected himself. "I'd forgotten how small he used to be," he mused. "And the way he used to behave when he was ill."
Harry forced out a laugh.
"Go to sleep," suggested Remus, his voice turning quiet and soft. "It might do you some good." He left Harry alone then, easing out of the room and closing the door behind him, knowing that Harry will want to stay in the room that Sirius had occupied.
Harry lay down and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to catch a wisp of scent that might have been left behind.
Behind his eyelids, he could see light and smell freshly-cut grass, liberally littered with sunbathing roses under the azure, cloudless sky. He could look at the garden and lose himself in the image, forgetting for a moment that he felt remorse in his gut, even though he'd promised that there would be none.
End.
|Meduza|
By: naatz
Rating: PG to PG-13
Pairing: HP/SB
Cliche: Time Travel
Warnings: None
Length: ~4,000 words
Betas: mimiheart, hungerbound, sesshiyuki, unrequitedangst.
Disclaimer: The victims of this 'fic are JKR's.
Notes: Written for hp_cliche!
Summary: 'There were all sorts of questions he avoided, like the date, and who was Sirius's doctor anyway, and where exactly was he?' Reviving memories is hard; letting them go again is a lot harder. HP/SB.
Fragile
Sirius was lying on something; what it was, he couldn't say, but he knew that he lay on something very soft, that nothing stopped a cool hand from caressing his forehead and wiping sweat off his face, and that a voice, almost too deep and low, was whispering his name.
He felt the prickling of tears escaping his closed eyelids; he itched to open his eyes and wipe the tears away, but his eyes wouldn't open and his hand would not move. Another hand wiped them away for him - the one that had touched his forehead.
Whatever he was lying on made Sirius feel like he was drowning in white and feathers and love.
If only he could find the strength to lean closer to the hand --
Unconsciousness claimed him, just about then.
---
(He's sick, let him rest.)
There was whiteness all around him: white on white on white, and yet Sirius had to smile, because the hand kept coming back, as if from within a dream.
(I can't leave him like that. He's burning up.)
(Let him sleep. The fever will break.)
Tiny voices in the back of his mind. Go away, Sirius tried saying. Go away and let me sleep, you're disturbing me.
(If - if you're sure.)
The hand on his burning forehead was replaced by a cold cloth. The contrast was sharp and relieving, but also so very painful.
(--are you certain this is wise?--)
(--yes--)
(--you shouldn't get too attached--)
Mindlessly, Sirius batted their voices away.
He fell.
---
Smells and tastes wafted through the air and under his nose. Flowers, freshly picked roses, left a bitter-sweet taste on his tongue. Chicken broth simmered in a room nearby.
Sirius couldn't put a face and a name to the voice just yet. The voice was familiar, and Sirius knew that for some reason he loved the person hiding behind it. The person's voice sounded like it belonged with Sirius and wanted Sirius to belong with it, but Sirius was too different to belong: He always stood out, tall and proud and too bloody perfect at everything he did.
Was he sick? The voices implied that he had a fever; that would explain why he felt as though his brain was being boiled alive by his blood.
He was fed potions and medicines, and spells were cast all over him.
(There has to be something. He's just wasting away.)
(We're doing the best we can.)
(Well, it isn't enough!)
Then Sirius whimpered, and there was silence; there was no sound aside from the quiet thrum of sunlight beams, caressing both his body and the roses by the window.
(Sirius, come on.)
(Let him sleep.)
(That's all he's been doing.)
(Then it won't hurt him to sleep some more.)
---
Sometimes, the hand didn't caress his brow or touch his face in reassurance, and the voice didn't keep calling his name, saying, Sirius, Sirius.
Sometimes, the voice had sounded like it was choked on emotion while it lay beside Sirius, holding him close and attempting to keep Sirius from ever slipping away.
When the choked breathing subsided, it would speak in an airy whisper.
Breathe, Sirius was told. Breathe.
(Live.)
---
On the day Sirius managed to crack his eyes open, the voice had been crying. Maybe that had been the trigger, not the potions and spells and medicine - just the crying of somebody who cared.
From his bed, Sirius could see black hair atop of baggy clothes. He could see white-washed walls and a window, pouring leftover sunshine that the green garden outside didn't wish to use.
Sirius blinked his focus back to the sobbing man.
He tried to say something:
Hi.
Are you all right?
Thanks for taking care of me.
Don't cry.
I'm fine, don't worry.
I won't die.
Only a tiny mewl managed to escape his throat, instead of what he would have liked to say.
The face snapped up; Sirius's eyes met glasses, round with a black frame, and past the green eyes, and below them, two tear-stained cheeks. Then Sirius's gaze went past the cheeks to the red, quivering lips and strong chin and then the neck.
Then he raised his eyes back to meet the startlingly green gaze of the other man. It took up so much space over the man's other features, becoming the one that stood out the most.
For the first time in days, Sirius felt grounded.
"Sirius," the man whispered.
The man almost looked familiar, and he sounded a bit familiar, too. But, that couldn't be right, because Sirius would have remembered him. The heartbreaking fragility was too memorable.
Sirius swallowed. His throat was scratchy, and dry. His eyes itched. His hands ached, as did his legs, and his stomach felt so empty.
The man shot to his feet and fled from the room, leaving Sirius to wonder whether he was that scary while awake.
But the man returned, carrying a large, dark glass. Sirius threw the notion that he was unwanted out the window as the man knelt by his bed, propping Sirius up with the pillows. "Here, drink this," the man said, and held the glass to Sirius's mouth, waiting for Sirius to drink.
Sirius drank greedily. It was . . . not water, and it wasn't medicine, and it wasn't any potion. Oh - It was the chicken broth he had smelled so long ago, or maybe, not that long? He couldn't remember.
His stomach rumbled a few moments after he finished, unused to digesting real substance, even though it was only soup. He squirmed, and the man chuckled, a wet small sound that sounded like on the verge of hysteria.
Sirius found that he could work his mouth and vocal cords, now. He asked, "What's your name?"
"Harry."
Sirius nodded. "I'm Sirius," he said.
Harry rose from the floor and sat down by Sirius, his weight making the mattress sink downwards. Their hips touched, and warmth passed to Sirius's body - a much more pleasant warmth than the burning fury he'd suffered.
Harry's reached to caress Sirius's brow, his palm cool over Sirius's heated forehead.
"I know," he said softly and kissed Sirius's forehead. "Go to sleep," he offered, voice soothing and loving and accepting, and Sirius couldn't get enough of it.
Even though he fought to remain awake, his eyelids slipped shut just as he made a last attempt to cling to Harry's words.
In his dreams, he saw life; vibrating green on vibrating green, surrounded by rays of sunshine, enfolding the busyness of vibrant cheer.
(He woke up this morning.)
(That's very good news. His fever is also coming down.)
(Will it stay down?)
(I don't know, but we can hope.)
"Be quiet," mumbled Sirius to the voices, and went back to his sunny garden.
(chuckles.)
---
When Sirius awoke the following morning, he heard humming from the direction he'd identified as kitchen. Steam and smells floated through the air: chicken broth and vegetable soup, and buttered bread.
He let his muscles relax and his senses connect to the world, and he closed his eyes.
This place, though plain and simple, welcomed him in a manner that Grimmauld Place never had. He knew that here he could be safe and appreciated, not like back at home with all he screams and yells.
Sirius opened his eyes, and saw the tall, bright ceiling. Here, he could rest.
Harry came into the room with a plate in one hand and a glass in another. He sat by Sirius's bed, his plate in his lap and the glass on the floor. Harry glanced at Sirius then, and jerked in surprise when he realised that Sirius was awake.
"You're awake," Harry said clumsily. He gave Sirius the glass he'd brought. "Here. Drink this."
Sirius did. His muscles felt better now. His throat felt slicker, and when he tried, he could move his hands easily to rest over his stomach.
"I like it here," Sirius said, as if it explained his alertness.
Harry nodded. "Me, too." He took a bite out of his sandwich, chewed, swallowed; thought. He asked Sirius, "Are you hungry?"
Sirius was surprised to realise that no, he wasn't very hungry. "Not really. Just a bit tired."
He got nods and smiles in return. "Maybe you should go back to sleep?"
"Not tired in that way."
Harry put down the sandwich on the plate, and the plate upon a side-table. The side-table was coloured a light brown, complementing the brown chair, the white bed, the pastel-green carpet in the room. Sirius hadn't paid attention to the décor before, but now the colours unfurled themselves in front of his eyes.
"Would you like to talk about anything, then?"
Sirius attempted to think. It was rather hard, because his head still hurt, but soon he found a subject. that he knew he ought to worry about.
"How did I get here?"
Harry chewed on his bottom lip. The motion added a childish nuance to the character that he made up in Sirius's mind. "I don't exactly know," admitted Harry, his Adam's apple bobbing with discomfort. "I found you on my doorstep one morning, and I couldn't turn you out."
Sirius nodded. "Thanks," he said. "I don't want to be an inconvenience."
Harry averted his attention back to his sandwich and bit on it before saying, mouth still slightly full, "Don't worry. You aren't."
---
Sirius was floating, high on roses and on sun and on the green, green grass.
(You can't keep lying to him.)
(Watch me.)
All it took was a push of imagination to grow wings, and then just like that, Sirius was flying; flying from his mother, father, brother. Flying to his friends, to James and Remus and Peter.
(You know this isn't fair. Not for him, and not for you.)
Yet something changed, and suddenly it wasn't just James, Remus and Peter. Suddenly, it was Harry, too, taking up the most space and his smile the brightest. He wasn't the tallest, that was James, and he wasn't the bulkiest, that was Peter, and he wasn't the lightest - that was Remus.
But Harry shone with warm, silvery light that blinded Sirius whenever he looked too long.
(You don't understand-I can't--)
Here, Sirius could leap; he could hop; he could laugh, and everything laughed with him.
(I can't just let him go again!)
---
A cool, tantalising cheek touched Sirius's.
Sirius moaned. It felt so good to be drawn close, as opposed to being repelled. The bed's softness was oppressive, and it was good to finally feel something firm against his skin.
For every action, there always had to be an opposite reaction. And so, Sirius sought it with sleepy hands, and was momentarily surprised that when he found it, Harry was seeking it, too.
His eyes snapped open. He turned his head and stared at Harry. How - how come he'd known that it was Harry next to him?
Sirius couldn't have gotten used to Harry's cool touches and gentle comfort in such a short while.
Harry raised his head. His face blushed red, and an awkward smile tugged at his lips. "Good morning."
"Good morning," Sirius replied, puzzled. What had just happened?
Harry offered him a hand, which Sirius gratefully accepted. He was surprised to be hauled up, back leaning against the wall, as Harry tucked him in with a quilt the color of red mud.
"I was told that it was time to try and get you up," explained Harry. "Sitting up straight is the first stage."
Sirius nodded. "I missed sitting," he admitted. Being propped up by pillows and actually sitting were very distant from one another.
Harry laughed, voice soft and rich, and so far removed from the hysteria that had tainted it when Sirius had first heard him laugh.
"You're too young to only want to sit still instead of running around."
Sirius narrowed his eyes. "I'm sixteen, I can sit still if I try." Yet he couldn't help but wriggle out of his covers and set his legs on the floor. The contrast of the temperature between his warm feet and the cool floor was shockingly pleasant, and the waves sent up his spine caused him to shiver not only from the cold, but from the delight of the sensation, too.
He attempted to stand, but his legs buckled, unable to support his weight. Suddenly, there he was on his knees with the deep, hollow ache that had just left his joints, but now returned.
Within a moment Harry was kneeling down beside Sirius, throwing one arm around Sirius's shoulder while the other grasped under Sirius's legs, lifting him off the floor.
"You were very sick," Harry said, really close to Sirius's left ear. The air tickled the delicate skin near Sirius's hair, and he shivered. "You still are," Harry said, in concern this time. "You need to rest."
"I'm fine," Sirius ground out, though he wasn't. It'd been such a long time since he was this weak - ages and ages ago, when his mother had gotten furious with him for calling her a worthless hag. She had levitated Sirius and smashed him against the dining room's wall, breaking several of his bones. Regrowing his bones was very tiring, and reminders of phantom pains prickled in his joints for months after.
Harry shook his head. "Even if you don't know your limits, I do." He settled Sirius back in bed and under the covers, but still seated.
"I'm sorry," said Sirius. "I don't want to be a bother."
Harry made a small, choked sound, and turned his face away. "Trust me," he said, voice muted in a sea of emotion, "you're the last person I would ever consider a bother."
Sirius didn't want Harry to go away yet.
"Don't leave now," he requested. "You can sit here, too, there's enough space."
Harry seemed to hesitate, but then he'd done as asked.
Sirius closed his eyes, and leaned on Harry instead of on the wall; he only fell asleep after feeling a strong arm encircling him, drawing him close.
---
(Someday, you'll have to face the consequences.)
(I know.)
(He'll die, here; this relief is momentary. Why won't you understand?)
(I --)
(Send him back. please.)
(What I choose to do with him is none of your business.)
(You'll feel the guilt for his death. Once was already enough.)
(Once was more than enough.)
---
Time never entered Sirius's room. Harry had admitted to him that he always took care to leave it on the other side of the door.
They cuddled together, now. Sirius's arm would snake around Harry, his head resting on Harry's shoulder, and Harry's arm would wind around Sirius, head resting on the crown of Sirius's head.
Now, Sirius also coughed. They were dry, sharp coughs, but they scratched his throat with fire. Although his legs gained strength, his lungs would burn whenever he walked or stood for long periods of time.
Sirius took small pleasures where he could. The feel of one day's stubble against his hair. The feel of a body pressing against his. The feel of a person wanting him to be around.
Harry was trying to hide something, he knew. There were all sorts of questions he avoided, like the date, and who was Sirius's doctor anyway, and where exactly was he?
While curious about these mysteries, ultimately, Sirius did not care. The mundane had become irrelevant, and all he cared about was the peace he'd found in this place, though even when he had his peace, he couldn't stop the small pangs of restlessness and shame that he had to depend on Harry's charity to survive.
"Don't go," said Sirius when Harry shifted.
Harry hushed him by moving his body closer to Sirius's. "I'm not going anywhere," he calmed Sirius.
Sirius clung to Harry. "Stay with me."
Harry pressed a kiss to Sirius's forehead, and whispered, his lips moving against Sirius's skin, "I'm not going anywhere."
Sirius raised his head, looked Harry in the eyes, green, green, green, so green; he thought that if he could see that colour forever he could die happy. Raising his hand from Harry's back to tilt his head down, and then Sirius was kissing him.
Soft, and cool, yet oddly hot and exciting.
Then he had to draw back, because he had begun coughing.
---
When Sirius's breathing problems worsened, both he and Harry knew it was time to bring in the medication they had wanted to avoid.
After downing the first potion since the second day of his waking, Sirius asked Harry, "Am I going to die?"
Harry smiled, cupped his cheek, and said, "No."
They both knew he was not telling the truth.
Sirius swallowed thickly. The action banished the sudden bitterness in his throat. "Come lie down with me?" he asked.
"Sirius-" started Harry, "-I don't think this is such a good idea."
Sirius laughed, but ended up choking when the tears began rolling down his cheeks. "I'm dying," he said.
Harry's eyes clouded over. He sat down on Sirius's bed, right by Sirius, hips touching together again. His hands were on Sirius's face, and he said, "I'm not going to let you die." His voice sounded vicious and harsh, as if - as if Sirius's death would also kill a small but vital part of himself.
"I don't want to die," whispered Sirius.
A soft, keening sound escaped Harry's throat. He stood and looked at Sirius, then turned tail and fled.
Sirius lay in bed, alone in the empty room. He was left with nothing to do except stare at the white ceiling. Time passed until he raised himself with difficulty to a sitting position, wanting to peer out of the window into the beyond.
On the windowsill there was a vase filled with pink and white and red roses, whose perfume filled the entire room with their exaggerated sweetness. Behind the vase and the glass panes grew a friendly garden of trees and grass, too untamed and wild to belong to a proper household.
Beyond Sirius's bedroom, harsh shouts and the shattering of glass.
Sirius closed his eyes and imagined that he was flying.
---
(He trusts me.)
(I also trust you.)
(I don't deserve that trust.)
(You deserve everything you're willing to accept.)
The door creaked open, announcing the presence of Harry and food. Sirius woke from the sound and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
Harry's face was carefully blank, but the small signs that Sirius knew to look for by now were there: a crease on the forehead. The puffy eyes. The rumpled hair.
"I'm sorry," said Sirius.
Harry replied, "You didn't do anything wrong." He handed the plate to Sirius, and watched while he ate.
"Sirius," he said, but paused.
Sirius raised his eyes from the plate; it was good quality china, painted with dark concentric circles.
"I'm sorry."
Sirius blinked. "You didn't do anything," he said. "I mean, you did everything you could to help me, so, thank you."
The pause that followed echoed painfully around the room, touching everything from the roses to the door to the window-panel to Sirius's bed.
Harry sighed. He made his way to sit by Sirius, and took the plate from him, ignoring the squawk of protest from the boy. His hands went to Sirius's shoulder, gripping a bit too forcefully, and he shook Sirius so hard that they were both left breathless.
"I'm not going to let you die," he hissed into Sirius's face. "You are not going to die."
Sirius looked away.
Harry removed one hand from Sirius's shoulder and caught his chin instead, forcing him to look at him in the eye. "Trust me," he said. "It'll hurt, for both of us, but - trust me."
Sirius nodded. "Don't leave me," he begged.
Harry closed his eyes, inhaled, opened them again. Without saying anything more, Harry brought his face closer to Sirius's, and kissed him. Sirius kissed him back, and felt alive.
He did not want to leave this place, even if it meant not seeing his family and friends again. He wanted to stay here with Harry, in this room and with these roses, and feel like he was floating and flying, finally surrounded by what he needed.
They kissed and fell.
Together.
(I've decided. No remorse.)
(I'm sorry.)
(Me, too.)
---
(Sirius.)
Sirius floated. Again, he flew on wings of dreams, flying and stretching his wings, attempting to chase after and catch the light that shone off from Harry.
(I'm sorry.)
Don't apologise, Sirius wanted to say. You're too bright.
(Make sure to live your life to the fullest, all right?)
Went without saying. While he might be dying, he was going to be more content dead than he'd ever been alive.
(I'm sorry I couldn't do anything.)
Soft kisses were placed on his forehead, cheeks, and lips.
(I love you.)
Sirius wanted to spread his hand and touch Harry, but he couldn't, because all he had was wings.
(Live well, Sirius. Goodbye.)
No, Harry couldn't leave him, the kindest person Sirius had ever known couldn't abandon -
And then the white softness was gone, replaced by mists, red and gold, and he couldn't do anything but cry, tears burning his eyes and creating a wet trail on his cheeks, and he felt too weak to raise his hand and wipe them away.
There was no hand to console him, no voice calling his name to ground him.
His wings turned back to arms. He still floated in the air, remaining up due to sheer stubbornness. He looked for the bright, silvery light that was Harry, but it was gone, gone, gone. . . .
(Sirius?)
Sirius opened his eyes. He saw black hair and a face covered by glasses, and on his lips, Harry's name came to life, searching.
"Who?" asked James.
---
After it was all over, Harry collapsed on the bed in his spare bedroom - Sirius's bed in Sirius's bedroom, his mind reminded - with his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands.
"You did the right thing, Harry."
Harry shook his head, not looking up. "I shouldn't have brought him here at all," he said, voice cracking.
"Harry."
Harry straightened his back, letting his arms fall to his lap. "Remus, I didn't mean to -"
Remus sighed. He brushed his hand against his hair, now more silvery than brown. "I missed him, too."
"I'm supposed to be an adult, I shouldn't have-"
"Harry. He was only sick because he was misplaced in time, and now that you sent him back, he'll get better."
"Yeah. To his own time. I sent him back there."
Remus sat next to him on Sirius's bed - the spare bed, Harry corrected himself. "I'd forgotten how small he used to be," he mused. "And the way he used to behave when he was ill."
Harry forced out a laugh.
"Go to sleep," suggested Remus, his voice turning quiet and soft. "It might do you some good." He left Harry alone then, easing out of the room and closing the door behind him, knowing that Harry will want to stay in the room that Sirius had occupied.
Harry lay down and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to catch a wisp of scent that might have been left behind.
Behind his eyelids, he could see light and smell freshly-cut grass, liberally littered with sunbathing roses under the azure, cloudless sky. He could look at the garden and lose himself in the image, forgetting for a moment that he felt remorse in his gut, even though he'd promised that there would be none.
End.
|Meduza|