🦝

He has Barty and Evan's initials on his collarbone, a rose on his ribs, stars on his shoulders

So so many more little ones

(CW: implied/mentioned child abuse and the effects of it, mentioned injuries, hinted at alcohol abuse)

When he was younger James didn’t really understand. When Sirius swore he’d never seen a christmas tree in person before, when he’d eat so meticulously and properly yet finish his food quicker than anyone else, when James would find himself in Sirius bed telling a funny story to distract him after a nightmare that left him clammy and pale. James didn’t get why.

The only thing his mum said when he’d written to her about his brilliant new friend and his odd tendencies, was to be very kind to him.

So he was. Over the years, when Sirius would lock himself in the dorm after receiving a letter from home, when he would lash out unexpectedly at people who didn’t deserve it, when he’d become dejected at the mere mention of his brother, when he would drink way more than a post-game party ever warranted. James eventually knew why. But he was always good to him.

Because Sirius was still the clever, hilarious, wonderful best friend that he’d yammer on to his parents about all the time. That simple.

Even when he’d flooed into his living room one night during the summer before 6th year and gotten blood all over the carpet. When he’d cried and cried, and scared James almost to death.

His parents could furiously send papers to the ministry on Sirius’ behalf. Peter and Remus could visit and try to take his mind off of it all, try to maintain normalcy. The only thing James could do was be there. And he did that the best he could.

He was there with buttered toast on Sirius’ side table when he wouldn’t get out of bed for days, when he’d flinch at even a door opening, when he was a hollowed out husk of the little boy James would skip detention with to race their brooms precariously over the Black Lake.

Was he holding out for Sirius out of pity? To prove his patience in some way? To be a hero? Sirius had asked him as much once.

And he’d told the truth. That while the tear-stained t-shirts, the bouts of undirected rage or fear, the trying to understand and understand and understand when he knew there were things he never would, could be difficult.

At the end of the day there was nobody else he’d shared chocolate frogs with on the train as a first year, or snuck into the headmasters’ office with to plant fireworks, or spilled his deepest confidences with in the dead of night.

There wasn’t another Sirius.