Chapter Text
Merlin—he looked beautiful lying there. Sirius was the painting of a saint: stretched out like a sunning lion on their living room floor, haloed by cigarette smoke and strobing party lights.
James couldn’t help but wonder how Renaissance artists would’ve depicted Sirius if they’d caught a glimpse of him tonight, with his shirt half buttoned, dripping wet with sweat, with his legs spread and—
Fuck.
The picture of Padfoot posing for such a painting came on so suddenly that it nearly knocked James off balance as he crossed the room with a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky in hand. Thankfully, not off balance enough to trip and smash it into a million pieces. But, certainly off balance enough to smack his shin against the coffee table in a bumbling, drunken stupor as he craned his neck to look at him. “Shit,” he hissed beneath his breath, rubbing the small egg-shaped bruise forming on his leg. A dull pain radiated up his shin.
“Alright, Prongs?”
James simply nodded in response. Gritting his teeth and smiling through it. This is what he got for being an obnoxious, leering asshole. He shouldn’t have been ogling Sirius, of all people, like that.
He tried desperately to distract himself from the intrusive thought, and radiating pain, by tidying up after the party—picking up bits of glitter and rubbish off the floor and gathering cups—as Sirius eyed him quizzically from the floor. A traitorous blush coloured his cheeks.
What was wrong with him?
He was suddenly painfully aware of Sirius’s micro expressions: the way his grey eyes tracked him as he tidied; the tiny dimple that formed when he smirked; the way he bit the inside of his cheek when he was lost in thought.
He forced himself to avert his gaze—to keep his eyes downcast and focused on the task at hand instead—anything to distract him from the wicked fantasies James’s inebriated mind was suddenly conjuring.
Because this was fucking embarrassing.
The room was utter chaos. Enchanted streamers hung from the ceiling fan, someone had pissed in Sirius’s pot plant in the corner, and not a single one of their wine glasses was in the cupboard where they belonged. It was par-to-the-course for a marauders' party, of course. But James had never minded as much as he did in that moment. Never cared about their flat being a mess, or leaving the stains in the carpet to sit overnight.
But then, he’d never had such impure thoughts about his best friend before. Had he?
There was no denying Sirius was objectively good-looking. He had the kind of unattainable physique most men could only dream of: lean, chiselled, carved from marble. Everyone knew it. Even James himself knew it, if he were being honest with himself.
How could he not? He’d spent the better part of his youth competing with him for girls’ attention, watching Mary MacDonald pine after him in Charms class, and measuring his own body against his impossibly high standards. But knowing it and actively noticing it were two decidedly different things.
He risked another look at Sirius from across the room, who was lazily fiddling with the cigarette between his fingers and making absolutely no attempt to help James clean up. His hair was pulled up into a sweat-slick, messy bun, and his shirt was only half buttoned. Not that his dress shirt left much to the imagination anyway: it was completely soaked through, near-translucent with sweat and spilt drink.
Sirius had always dressed neatly in button-ups and fitted trousers—even after he’d left Grimmauld Place and his Mother was no longer around to demand it. Though, he’d never worn his expensive clothes in the stuffy pure-blood way the rest of the Blacks did. His cuffs were always rolled, and his pants were too tight to be entirely decent—or modest.
James had never noticed just how effortlessly cool and aloof he was until now, though. As if he’d been walking around with blinders on for the better part of ten years: best-friend, brother-in-arms, pointedly-platonic blinders. There was no reason they should’ve come off now. Absolutely no reason tonight should have been any different from all the nights they had spent together before.
But it was different? Wasn’t it?
They’d thrown plenty of parties, got drunk together on more occasions than he could count, and quite literally spent every waking moment together since they were eleven years old. And yet, James suddenly couldn’t take his fucking eyes off him tonight. Couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d danced with Marlene McKinnon on the tabletop; gone absolutely feral and ripped his shirt off over the new Bowie album; and lit up when James had wrapped his arms around him and joined in.
Honestly, he could think of nothing else.
Had he lost his goddamned mind? Merlin, fuck.
“We can clean up tomorrow,” Sirius drawled from the floor, waving one hand around lazily, and draping the other over the grey, threadbare couch. “Give me some of that firewhisky.”
Sirius didn’t need any more firewhisky; James could smell it on his breath from across the room. His tongue must have been laced with it. Still, the ridiculous little pout he mustered called him like a siren song, as if tugging him toward him by his belt loop.
Something in his pants twinged, and James could have died right then and there. Honestly, he was disgusted with himself for acting like some lovesick schoolgirl, joining the long line of Sirius’s other admirers: turning to putty every time he batted his lashes or so much as smiled in his direction.
Godric, what was wrong with him? He’d probably smiled at him every day for the last ten years.
He needed to pull himself together.
This was Sirius he was fawning over. Sirius, his best friend. Sirius, his roommate. Sirius, his fucking brother. This absolutely wasn’t happening.
Nothing had changed. He was just drunk.
Very. Fucking. Drunk.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you clean in my life.” James teased as he slunk down on the floor beside him.
Sirius chuckled. “And I never thought I’d live to see the day I missed Kreature. Maybe we should get a house elf.” Sirius threw his feet over James’s leg, which he room for almost instinctively. Up close, Sirius’s breath smelled even more strongly of alcohol and cigarettes. Though inexplicably, it didn’t put him off like it usually did. In fact, he wanted to breathe in as much of him as he could while they were close like this. Smoke and all.
James had never liked the fact that Sirius smoked. It reminded him too much of all the horrible things he used nicotine to suppress. Of Grimmauld place, Sirius’s brother, and nearly getting Snivellus killed as a teenager. And yet—as he watched Sirius light another cigarette in the middle of their empty living room, his stomach flip-flopped. It took every ounce of his self-control not to watch it slack-jawed. He averted his gaze quickly and tried to push the pornographic image of Sirius wrapping his lips around something entirely different from his mind.
Fucking hell, how much had he drunk tonight? Surely, that was the only reasonable explanation for the way he was ogling his best mate. Either that or someone had spiked his drink with love potion.
That must have been it.
“Are you going to share?” Sirius asked, smiling at him through the smoke and nodding towards the firewhisky bottle James was whiteknuckling. He had been clutching it so tightly in his lustful haze that his fingers had started to go numb.
“Yeah—of course.” James didn’t know why he was blushing, but he could feel it creeping up his neck as Sirius reached for the bottle. His fingers were adorned with simple, silver rings that clinked against the glass as he took it. The moment their hands brushed, he felt a spark of static jump between them. It buzzed pleasantly over his skin, awakening the butterflies in his stomach.
In a vain—if not a little misguided—attempt to drown it out, James started talking. Entirely too fast to be casual. Anything to keep his mind off Sirius deep throating the bottle of firewhisky right there in front of him.
The party.
The weather.
Quidditch.
“James—“ Sirius eventually interrupted, chuckling. “Shut up, yeah?”
He let out an awkward laugh in response and snatched the bottle back from Sirius, taking a long gulp. “Yeah, sorry.”
If he didn’t reel it in soon, Sirius was going to sniff him out.
Sirius smiled at him again—understandably confused—before cocking an eyebrow. The skin around his eyes crinkled in that warm, disarming way that made the fabric of James’s jeans crinkle in return.
He wanted to curl up into a ball and die.
Usually, these quiet moments after a party were some of his favourites: when it was just him, and Sirius left in the aftermath—passing bottles of booze back and forth, debriefing and chatting shit into the early hours of the morning.
At school, they’d taken any excuse to throw a party: birthdays, Quidditch wins, post-exams; regular Tuesdays, Quidditch losses, pre-exams. And moving into their flat had hardly slowed them down. If anything, it’d had the opposite effect. Remus, Peter and half the Order had more or less taken up residence in their spare bedroom, and their dining table was rarely free of plastic cups and cheap Muggle liquor.
James and Sirius would spend the entire night dancing, drinking and dabbling in the occasional illicit substance, having the time of their lives. And there shouldn’t have been a higher high than a Marauders party—certainly there wasn’t for their guests. But for James and Sirius? The best part of the night had always been the comedown they spent together, curled up on the couch.
But tonight? What he wouldn’t give to just go to bed and forget the entire goddamned night. What he wouldn’t give for the floor to open up and swallow him whole before Sirius noticed his best mate was suddenly making googly eyes at him and getting a hard-on for simply existing in his presence.
James had never felt so hot and bothered by his proximity: by the way Sirius so easily threw his legs across his lap, and rubbed his feet absentmindedly against his side. He’d groggily thrown his head back and was now distractedly chatting to the ceiling about his night. Hopefully, distractedly enough to miss the way James was biting his lip and trying to manoeuvre his legs in a way that hid his crotch.
He fucking hated it.
“I’ve got to go to bed,” he announced suddenly, throwing Sirius’s legs off him in a fluster.
This earned a disgruntled groan and frown from Padfoot, who abruptly sat up. “It’s barely 1am,” he said, frustratedly, like a petulant child who had just had his favourite toy snatched away from him.
“I’ve just got to—“ James scrambled desperately for an excuse. But, when nothing came, he threw his hands up in frustration instead. “I’m just tired.”
Sirius frowned, eyes fixed on his lightly blushed cheeks, looking almost concerned. “Are you—James, are you good?”
James shifted awkwardly on the spot, trying to manoeuvre his pants to conceal his…problem.
But, all the squirming only served to draw attention to it. Sirius smiled devilishly the moment his eyes landed on his crotch.
James could have died right then and there.
Pads was smiling so wide that every one of his infuriatingly perfect teeth were on display. “Are you—“ he sniggered, “are you running off to have a wank?”
James groaned and flushed in equal measure. “Oh, sod off.”
“You are!” He exclaimed gleefully, jumping to his feet. “You abandoning me to go get your rocks off to the image of some bloody girl.”
James reached for the only cushion on their threadbare couch—a crimson and gold checkered one their mother had bought them after visiting their flat for the first time, and being severely underwhelmed by the decor—and lobbed it towards Sirius hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. “No.”
“Who was it? ”
“What are you on about?” James whined pathetically.
“Who did you want to take home tonight?”
James groaned.
“Surely not Lily again?” He teased. “Come on mate, we’ve been through this.”
Colour rose up James’s neck.
“Mary?”
He couldn’t meet his eye.
“Oh come on, not Marlene? You know she fancies girls right?”
“No!” He growled, swatting the mental image away. The idea of fancying Marlene McKinnon was about as repulsive to him as the idea of fancying Sirius would’ve been fifteen minutes ago. She was like his sister for fucks sakes. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked.
Just like Sirius was his brother.
Fuck.
James scrubbed his hand over his face and tried to block out the onslaught of questions.
“Alice?”
“That bird Peter brought along?”
“Mary’s friend?”
James rolled his eyes and started making his way towards his bedroom. “No—Merlin, just drop it, alright?”
But Sirius was hot on his heels and decidedly not dropping it. “A bloke then?” He continued.
The hitch in James’s step must have given him away, because Sirius let out an excited chuckle.
“Oh my god I was joking,” he squealed, “but it is, isn’t it?”
James picked up the pace.
“Welcome to the club Prongsie,” Sirius said, clapping him on the shoulder teasingly, “we’re thrilled to have you.”
As they came up to his bedroom door, James pressed his back against it and turned to face him. Trying, desperately, to maintain some semblance of composure. “Quit it,” he said, staring into Sirius’s slate grey eyes.
“Oh, don’t be such a prude,” Sirius sing-songed as he came to a stop beside him. “I’m only joking”
“Sirius…” James warned, swallowing back his next words: I’m not.
There were no words to explain the look they exchanged then.
It was—
Fuck—
Charged.
Sirius took a step towards him, resting his arm against the bedroom door. James pressed himself even flatter against it. “Is it me?” Sirius smirked—joking.
He was joking, right?
The glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.
James knew Sirius well enough to know his tells: the way his eyes softened and mouth curled into a mischievous smirk when he was flirting. He knew the look, even if he’d never been on the receiving end of it—
Until now.
James swallowed and averted his gaze. “In your dreams,” he choked out.
Sirius smiled at him, slowly tracing the edges of him with his eyes. He didn’t move. If anything, he leaned in closer as he whispered, “Are you sure?” Close enough to fog his glasses.
He was testing him.
James also knew him well enough to know that he would play this entire exchange off as a joke if he flinched now: laugh it off, and go back to his own room.
But neither of them were laughing.
James liked to think he was a braver-than-average person; ex-Gryffindor quidditch captain that he was. But, in that moment, all his Gryffindor bravery failed him, and he hesitated. Just for a moment.
Because this was a bad idea—wasn’t it? And not just a run-of-the-mill bad idea either. A potentially friendship-ruining bad idea.
The worst idea either of them would ever have. Certainly, one they would come to regret in the sober light of morning.
Sirius withdrew his hand and wobbled backwards when James hesitated. Though James still couldn’t take his eyes off him.
He cleared his throat. And then, in one swift motion, opened the door, playfully nudged Sirius backward, and slipped back into his room.
“G’night Pads,” he said, all but slamming the door in his face.
He stood on the other side of it for a second, heart beating fast, before slamming his head against it.
Merlin’s balls.
What the fuck was that?
That was—entirely too close for comfort.
Sirius must have lingered on the other side of the door for a moment, too. Because James was already halfway to bed by the time he heard him patter down the hall.
Not that he could hear much above the sound of his own heartbeat, and alarm bells ringing in his head.
Godric fuck.
He couldn’t get the image of Sirius standing there out of his head, or his own fucking pants off quickly enough.