And they could never tear us apart

It wasn’t enough. They were celebrating! What? James couldn’t remember, but it had been something important and he’d been so thrilled when Sirius had suggested a night, just the two of them, in their flat with a bottle of fire whiskey to share. The problem had been that it had been a while since either of them had been to the shops and their booze supplies had already been low when they’d started. 

So here they were, stumbling around muggle London in search of more whiskey. It wouldn’t be as good as fire whiskey, but it did have a certain quality that wizards had never mastered. James just didn’t think it was as fun without the smoke. Not to mention that he just had so many fond memories associated with fire whiskey, and probably a fair few memories that were lost to hangovers and too much booze. The important part was that he’d spent them with Sirius, and Remus and Peter, but mostly Sirius. 

James would be the first to admit that he had a favourite out of his best friends. Not that he needed to admit it, everyone seemed to already know. What he hadn’t admitted, and probably never would, was that he was also in love with Sirius. There was just too much at stake. 

Maybe by the time the war ended he would pluck up ye olde Gryffindor courage, but for now he was content to keep flirting with Lily. At this point it was mostly a habit, but it was also a good decoy to hide his real feelings. 

Pesky, pesky feelings. 

They should be illegal. They just made everything complicated, like how James really wanted to snog Sirius right now, but instead he had to pretend that he was just too drunk to stand properly so that Sirius would keep holding him close as they walked into town. Wonderful, gorgeous, beautiful Sirius who was so amazing and pretty…

James whined pitifully as he tripped over a crack in the pavement.

“Watch it, James!” Sirius exclaimed as James nearly pulled them both to the floor. 

There was a slight chance that they didn’t need more alcohol, but it was too late to turn back now. 

Sirius’ hand gripped on James’ arm, warm in the hurricane of cold that surrounded him. Even the simple touch made his heart flutter and James melted into Sirius’ side. “Warm…” he sighed. 

“And here I thought I was hot. You wound me, Potter!” 

The noise that James made was truly embarrassing. He sounded half like a strangled cat, and half like a drowned banshee. Sirius was hot. That was just a fact. Pretty much every witch or wizard that fancied boys in their year had asked Sirius out when they’d been at Hogwarts, and a fair few in other years. Every time James had burned with jealousy, but Sirius always rejected his suitors and returned to James with blinding smiles that turned his stomach to goo. 

It wasn’t fair. 

“Wouldn’t want to stoke your ego,” James grumbled, and if anyone asked he would blame his flushed cheeks on the cold and the whiskey.

“Pfft, you really are blind, my darling Prongs.”

Oh dear god. In Merlin and Morgana’s names, Sirius was trying to kill him. That was the only logical explanation. 

“I need more whiskey. It’s cold, you’re hot… and I’m really drunk,” he whined, pouting at Sirius, only frowning when he realised his glasses were starting to fog up. 

“Did you bring muggle cash?”

Fuck. 

“Erm…”

“Me neither!” Sirius cheered gleefully, seeming far too sober for James’ liking. 

The idiot always had held his booze better than James, claiming it was in his blood. Apparently, the Blacks could drink any other pureblood family under the table. It was something James had learned the hard way in sixth year when he’d tried to go toe to toe with Sirius on a night out at the Three Broomsticks. Well, according to Remus at any rate. James couldn’t remember a single thing of that night. 

“Why so happy no money?” James slurred as he peered at his best friend.

Money was good. Without money they couldn’t buy more booze, and without more booze they couldn’t finish celebrating… the thing.

“Because, my dear Prongs.” James’ heart nearly gave out once more at the nickname and his stupid mouth let out a ridiculous giggle. “We can plan a heist!”

Oooh, now that did sound fun. Since leaving Hogwarts they never got the opportunity to play pranks and have fun. It was all war, death and destruction. He never regretted joining the fight, but Merlin, he missed having fun with his mates. A heist would be the perfect solution!

“I’m in!” He announced, throwing his arm around Sirius’ shoulders. “What are we doing?”

Now, normally James would be in charge of the planning, but he was a great leader, and great leaders knew when they were too drunk to be in charge. Sirius was the best right hand man and would do an admirable job planning the shenanigans. All James had to do was listen and not get distracted by ogling at Sirius’ arse in those jeans. 

Were jeans even allowed to be that tight?

How did one get into jeans that tight?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Sirius’ butt looked great, so very grabbable. James should test that theory. 

Wait. No. Friends didn’t grope each others’ butts. That was a crush thing not a friend thing. Merlin, he was so screwed. Maybe the alcohol was a bad idea, but it was too late now! The heist was being planned. 

Less of a heist and more of a robbery, but James would inevitably sneak some extra money into the till once he had cash. He was stupid rich and really didn’t need the money. It was just sometimes the thrill of doing something a little bit naughty was too enticing. 

Unfortunately for both of them, it turned out that Sirius was a lot drunker than he let on and his plan pretty much entailed finding the nearest off-licence and stuffing bottles of whiskey into their coat pockets before hightailing it out of there. Naturally, the shopkeeper caught them and they ended up racing down the street. The world started to spin as they ran making James' stomach twist unpleasantly. Gasping for air, he gripped Sirius' hand and squeezed hard. If they didn't shake the cops soon then he was absolutely going to hurl and he really didn't want that. Whenever he threw up whilst drunk, his stomach was always too fragile to eat the next day.

Sirius turned to face him, shining like he really was the brightest star in the sky. His eyes were sparkling, silver pools of light that drew James in like a moth to a flame. There was a beaming smile on Sirius' face and he laughed maniacally as he linked their fingers together.

"Alright there?" Sirius asked, pulling James along despite his desperate need to stop. "Looking rather like Frank's toad. More green, less warts."

James just glared, not trusting himself to talk. 

"I have an idea, come on!" 

Sirius led them into the next alleyway, darting in at the last minute. The shadows engulfed them as Sirius plastered them to the wall. His body pressed up against James'. It was the end of James' last remaining braincell. All he could think about was the heat of Sirius' body, the feel of it against him. And oh, Merlin, Sirius' lips were so close, just centimetres away from his. It would be so easy to just lean in and- 

"Where'd they go? Split up and find them!" The cop's voice was far too loud, too close. Even hiding in the darkness of the alley wouldn't save them for long. 

James stared at Sirius with wide eyes. This was an all too familiar situation for them. How many times had they been stuck in broom closets and empty classrooms waiting for Filch to go past? Adrenaline coursed through him, mixing with the booze in his blood until he was downright giddy.

A giggle escaped his lips, followed by another one, and another. 

"Shut it, James!" Sirius hissed, pressing his hand over James' mouth to muffle his laughter but it only made him laugh more.

It wasn't even funny, but he couldn't help it. Once James caught the giggles that was it. He couldn’t stop until he collapsed on the floor, clutching at his stomach to ease the cramps. Sirius knew this better than anyone. Normally he was right next to James on the floor, gasping for air. Any moment their eyes would lock it  started all over again. 

"James!" Sirius snapped, but it was no good, and James could see his friend's calm mask start to crack. There was a smile on his oh so kissable lips even as he glared at James. "We'll get caught. You need to stop!" 

The thing was, with Gryffindors, they had a terrible habit of acting or saying things without thinking, and James was no exception. In fact, he was probably one the worst for it. It was a trait that had gotten him into more than his fair share of trouble, even if he never intended to do something stupid (which sometimes he really did). It was just that sometimes words would blurt out and consequences would follow.

In this case, when Sirius told him to stop, James blurted out "Make me!" 

Sirius narrowed his eyes at James, his gaze flicking down to his lips before he shrugged. His hands cupped James cheeks and before James could process what was happening, Sirius kissed him.

Sirius was kissing him. 

Holy Morgana’s tits!

James whined and kissed back eagerly, deepening the kiss with a swipe of his tongue. His hands flailed by his side before gripping into Sirius' leather jacket. Whiskey and cheap smokes. James would always remember their first kiss whenever he tasted whiskey or cheap smokes. It was something that was just the very essence of Sirius, with his leather and his vinyls and his cool, carefree attitude. 

And by Godric, James was smitten. No one could hold a candle to Sirius Black in his opinion, and now that he knew what it was like to kiss Sirius Black, he knew that there was no going back. 

When Sirius finally pulled away the cops were long gone and they were completely alone, but James was having any of it. He'd spent six years pining after his best mate, there was no way he was giving him up now. 

"I wasn't done!" He whined, pouting up at Sirius who was looking incredibly flustered.

Good.

"Wait-" Sirius protested weakly but when their lips met again he was kissing back with just as much passion as James.

It was dizzying, magical, life-changing. James felt like his magical core was melting with Sirius'. They'd always been inseparable, understanding each other on a level that no one else comprehended, but now it felt like they were one. James and Sirius had become JamesAndSirius. 

One kiss wasn't meant to mean that much.

This time when they broke apart, both panting and flushed, Sirius rested his forehead against James', letting out a soft sigh. "Tell me this isn't a joke to you, Jamie."

James chuckled, finding Sirius’ lips once more in a chaste but tender kiss. "I've never been more serious in my life." 

Smirking, Sirius stepped back, brushing James' cheek with his knuckles. "I thought I was Sirius." 

Despite everything, James snorted. It was a joke that never got old, even in moments like this. "My Sirius," he amended. 

"My James," Sirius agreed.

Warmth bloomed in James' chest and he smiled brightly. The world might be a drunken haze, but he knew, clear as day, that he'd been Sirius' for a long, long time. He might not remember why they'd been celebrating in the first place, but he damn well knew why they were now. 

"Yours, mine, ours…" James mumbled, pressing his face into Sirius' neck. 

Legs stiff and body tired from the long journey, he makes his way to the arrivals hall, wheeling his heavy suitcase behind him. The English air is much colder than he remembers, making him shiver, but he’ll have to get somewhere less crowded to dig out a jacket. Tired travellers mill all around, and on the other side of the rail is the usual turn-out of taxi drivers or travel agents, holding little signs with names, and loved ones with flags and flowers, waiting for their husbands, wives, children, or parents. The girl sitting across from him on the plane jumps into the waiting arms of her boyfriend, and Sirius feels a little pang of yearning in his stomach.

No one is waiting for him.

But it’s alright. He’ll find a hotel, get a good night’s sleep, and perhaps go and see James tomorrow. The tenant in his flat will be out on Thursday, and then he can begin the slow assimilation back into his old self. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing remains to be seen, but one thing is certain: it will be good to see James again. Hopefully he hasn’t forgotten him.

Making his way down along the rail, he passes more happy faces and more signs. ‘Mr S. Thompson’, ‘Dr Ramesh Kumar’, ‘Miss Bridget Furman’… and then at the very end: ‘Major W. Anker.’ He snorts and looks up to find a smiling face framed by a hopeless mess of black hair.

“Really?”

“You left me for a year, innit?” James’s smile widens to a grin, and Sirius throws his arms around him, laughing into his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?”

“Picking you up. I reckoned you’d do something silly, like finding a hotel when I have a perfectly equipped guest room.”

Sirius smiles sheepishly as they pull apart. James knows him too well.

“I’ve got both Stella and Guinness, so you can have your pick,” James says, nodding at the plastic bag by his feet.

“Lead the way.” Sirius grins, keeping an arm slung over James’s shoulders as they stroll past all the other people still greeting their loved ones. How did he ever envy them?

“Your hair got longer,” James says as he drives them into London.

“I see they still haven’t found a cure for yours.”

James laughs and runs a hand through it, messing it up even more.

They pick up some Indian takeaway and settle on James’s sofa, kicking up their feet and opening their beers like they’ve done so many times before. Banter and laughter flows between them like they haven’t been apart at all, despite how isolated Sirius has been. The last camp he worked in had no reception, and it could take weeks for a letter to reach England. It’s unreal having James so close again, and Sirius finds his mind drifting as James updates him on life in London, the timbre of his voice a warming balm on his still too-cold skin. The words are less important. Looking at him is enough. He doesn’t look any different, not really, yet Sirius has an acute urge to examine and log the wrinkles that appear in the corner of his eyes when he smiles, measure the dimples in his cheeks as he laughs at his own joke, and count the stubble on his chin where he must have missed it with the razor this morning. Wonderfully familiar and brand-new all at the same time.

“How was it?” James asks after they’ve finished their second beer. Low and hesitant, his voice has lost the playful edge. “Your letters sounded like….”

“Yeah…” Sirius says. “It was—”

But he doesn’t want to talk about it. Not right now. He wants the laughter back.

“Can I tell you about it tomorrow? I’m too tired.”

Sirius brushes his teeth in the hallway loo and exits to find James coming out of the guestroom.

“I found you an extra blanket.”

“Thanks, Prongs.” Sirius smiles at his best friend, chest suddenly tight. The thought of separating for the night is almost too much to bear. “For coming to get me, and for….”

“I’m just so glad you’re home.”

James pulls him in for a hug, warm and sure and safe, surrounding him with his whole body like he always does.

“I’ve missed you, Padfoot. I’ve really, really missed you.”

“Me too, Prongs. Me too….”

Sirius hadn’t even known it was possible to miss anyone that much, but the mere scent of James seems to soothe every cell in his body, his touch calming every nerve ending. The pulse in his neck is a tether to cling to, solid and unwavering against Sirius’s cheek.

They hold each other tighter, past the point where it would be prudent to let go, but Sirius can’t get his body to cooperate, and James isn’t making any sign of moving either, so he just lets it happen, lets himself sink further into James’s arms, emptying his head of thoughts. Here, he can simply exist.

“I’ve worried about you…” James mutters, turning his face into his neck.

“I’m okay,” Sirius whispers, not entirely sure if it’s true, but in this moment, it feels like it.

He runs a soothing hand up James’s spine and feels a tiny pull at his scalp as James plays with the ends of his hair. His other hand is resting safely on the small of Sirius’s back, but his fingers wriggle just the tiniest bit, kneading his muscles. James has never been able to keep his hands still, always moving, always busy, and though it’s just the softest touch, it’s insistingly pulling Sirius closer. He responds by scratching lightly between James’s shoulder blades, squeezing his side with his other hand. He’ll drink every second of this, let James’s fingertips burn his skin as they trail up his back, fill his lungs with the scent of home, melt into a puddle if it means he can cover every inch of James.

This is not what they do, not how James&Sirius functions, but he doesn’t care, he’s missed too much, ached too much. He’s not sure when exactly it dawned on him that James is the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks of home, the first thing he sees when looking into the future, and the only answer he has ever had when asked about love, but the knowledge has been sitting solidly in the back of his mind for a while now, tucked away until the world would stop falling apart around him. But it’s breaching containment now, crashing to the forefront like a flash flood threatening to drown him.

Goosebumps travel down his arms, and an electric current pulses down his spine, all the way into his toes as James’s hands continue to caress his back, his sides, his neck. His own hands are busy mapping every muscle and every bone, every soft bit of skin, smooth and radiating heat. This is not what they do, but God, he wants it. Needs it. Craves it.

James nuzzles the side of his face, coaxing him into looking at him. Sirius is almost afraid to open his eyes, to find that this is all a dream, but the warm hazel eyes speak of a longing as strong as his own, and the full, soft lips meet his with a hunger just as fierce as the one growing in his stomach. His back hits the wall, and he pulls James closer, begging him to deepen the kiss, to erase this terrible distance that’s existed between them. They must make up for all this futile time apart, mend the holes in the fabric of the universe.

Don’t leave me again, James’s fingers seem to say, clutching desperately at Sirius’s shirt.

I won’t, Sirius tongue says as he pushes it deeper into James’s mouth, because how could he?

This is not what they do, but Sirius will happily spend the rest of his life doing it.

“You, ah…” James says, slightly out of breath. His chest heaves under Sirius’s hand, heart beating a urgent rhythm, beckoning Sirius like a ceremonial drum. “You don’t have to sleep in the guest room….”

And even though there was a voice in his head telling him to leave. 

And telling him that this, showing up unannounced and sweaty, was, perhaps, not the correct course of action, he swallowed it down. Because there was a chance this could be right. This could be it.

He had left his mirror at home in his bedside table on purpose, not wanting a call from his Dad to disrupt any of his plans, but he ignored those thoughts too. The ones where his Dad had found his bedroom empty and his mirror put away and then grounded him until he was a thousand years old for sneaking out and making a trip across London.

Harry drowned out the lecture already playing in his head with a knock on the door in front of him. 

Not quite sure what to expect, dancing on the balls of his feet to see if the door would even open. It took several moments, but it did.

Harry stood face to face with legendary Quidditch player, James Potter, all thoughts of a lecture quickly vanishing in favor of this. He had only ever seen him in magazines and of course, Quidditch game from afar. But it seemed silly, to expect James Potter to wear his Quidditch uniform around his own home. Of course he wouldn’t be in his uniform. And instead, a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, square glasses on his face and his hair stuck up at the back of his head.

The same way Harry’s did.

They had the same jaw shape too, though James’s had stubble on it, which filled Harry with some hope that maybe one day he’d be able to grow some semblance of a beard. He watched as James’s mouth fell slightly open, staring at Harry, hazel eyes scanning him from head to toe. Horrified or amazed at the eerie, uncanny resemblance. 

Harry cleared his throat and attempted to stand up straight, “Uh…hi. Hello. I know it’s late. You probably don’t get visitors, or I don’t know, maybe you do. But my names Harry. I’m a big fan. I play Quidditch too! I’m a seeker! At Hogwarts! So I’m a fan, but I think you also…might be my Dad.” 

On the other side of the door, James didn’t say anything, eyebrows slowly coming together in further confusion. Or concern. Harry couldn’t tell, but he could tell the longer James stared at him, the more he realized what a terrible, awful, hare-brained idea this had been.

The voice in his head was absolutely right.

But he had come all this way.

And he wasn’t going to go down without some kind of effort.

“Everyone at school says I look just like you,” Harry added, sticking his chin out a little, as if that tiny bit of information would help the situation. “And we do! You wear glasses! I wear glasses! And my hair, it's...like yours. Do you have a mole on your arse too?”

James slowly closed his eyes, mouth finally closing and twisting to fight a smile, “I don’t have a mole on my arse,” he said.

“So just the glasses then,” Harry nodded, “I’m adopted. Everyone’s said I look like you for ages. Did you give a baby up for adoption? I was adopted when I was a baby.”

James didn’t say anything but took a step outside of his door threshold, down the small drive, looking past Harry and around the bushes. 

“Did you lose something?” Harry asked.

“No, I’m looking to see where the rest of your friends are, or the cameras or your parents, because a kid just showed up at my door at nearly midnight and--”

“I’m almost fifteen, I’m not a kid.”

“You’re a kid,” James repeated, bending down to look underneath a shrub before turning back around to face Harry. “Are you alone?”

“Yes?”

“For Merlin’s sake…” James muttered walking past Harry and into his home once more. Harry half expected James to shut the door in  his face but instead James looked back at him expectantly, “Well? Come on in, kid.”

Harry smiled, practically skipping into James’s home, nervous heart beat quickly replaced with excited flutters because he was in James Potters home. He had seen it in a Quidditch magazine before, the inside of James’s home, and Harry pulled out the pictures, beggining his Dad to please change their kitchen table because James’s was built for athletes and if he wanted to be any good at Quidditch, he should try to do as much as he can.

His Dad didn’t buy a new kitchen table. And when Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup the second year in a row, his Dad had made a point to remind him that he didn’t need to be James Potter, and just Harry was more than enough.

“Take your shoes--” James started to say, but noticed Harry was already in process of untying his dirty trainers to leave them by the door. “Thanks.”

“You said in your Quidditch mag interview you were a shoes off household,” Harry told him excitedly, nearly stumbling over as he pulled off one of his shoes, standing on one leg, “I am too. Well…my house is, where I live. My Dad… the Dad I live with, not you, if you are my Dad, he says it's rude to leave your shoes on.”

“Mmm,” James hummed, regarding Harry closely. Harry kept grinning, unable to contain his excitement, head looking around at everything in sight. 

“Do you have your cups here?” Harry asked, “Do you really have a whole room for all your cups and awards and stuff?”

James couldn’t help but laugh, reaching a hand up to mess up the hair at the back of his neck, “Not everything they put in there is true. They’re all at the Tornado’s training pitch, they only brought them to my house for the article.”

Harry’s tried to keep his face from falling, not wanting to let The James Potter know how badly he wanted to see the cups and his plaques up close. James had led them both into a living area, couches and chairs mismatched with brightly colored pillows, looking very different thant Harry’s living room, though exactly like he had imagined it. There was even a crocheted blanket folded on the armrest of the couch. If Harry remembered correctly, all handmade by James’s mother before she passed. James gestured for Harry to have a seat on the couch. 

“Do you--” Harry started, looking around at the pictures on the walls and the mantle. Unable to sit still or stop his mind from racing with questions.

“Look, kid--”

“My names Harry.”

“Harry,” James paused, taking in the new piece of information, “I’m not sure why you’re here.”

“I told you, I think you might be my Dad. I’m adopted.”

“Do you want…an autograph?”

“Really? That’d be brilliant, no one would--”

“Most kids who want an autograph don’t show up at my doorstep.”

“Well, no, that's not…I’m not here for an autograph.”

“So what is it? Do you…want money?”

Harry snorted, “I don’t need your money. I have plenty.”

“Do your parents know your here?”

“...Not exactly.” 

“Are you unhappy at your home? Is that what this is? Do you need to--"

Harry’s head immediately started shaking back and forth, almost laughing at the suggestion James had made, “No! No. Merlin, no. My Dad is brilliant. He’s the best! He takes me to Quidditch games loads, and I have a really nice house and space to fly and, he’s great.” James let out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose behind his glasses, “I don’t…want anything from you. And I already have a Dad, so I don’t actually need one. If that's what you think I'm here for. I was just curious and thought maybe and if it wasn’t true and you didn’t give a baby up for adoption fifteen years ago then…maybe we do just look alike! Which is pretty cool. For me anyway. But…if you were…I dunno, if you’re my Dad…I wanted to meet you, and I thought you might…want to meet me too?”

“I can’t let you stay here, Harry.”

"Can you at least answer--"

"I have to get you home."

“But--”

"Your parents are probably worried sick and I can't let you stay here longer than you've already been gone."

Harry scowled, crossing his arms over his chest and slumping into the couch, “You’re being very uncool for a Quidditch player.”

“You can tell Witch Weekly all about it,” James told him. 

“Can I still get an autograph?”

“I’ll get you a jersey in exchange for your address. I'll sign it and then we are out of here. Deal?”

“Deal,” Harry grinned, sitting up again. “Number 12 Grimmauld Place.” And for a reason Harry didn’t quite understand, James Potters mouth fell open for the second time that evening.

--

It was supposed to be a quiet night. It was a by week. No games. Practice all week and Coach Fletscher had let them leave the pitch early. Ordinarily, James might have gone out with his teammates--it was Friday after all-- but something had compelled him to call it an early night. He was looking forward to an evening at home, by himself. A nice dinner. The wireless playing the Falcons-Canons game, while he made a pot of tea. All had gone according to plan until there was a knock on his door, and James answered it. In hindsight, terrible idea. James had been in the public eye long enough to know better and not answer doors after certain hours. But he did, and was met with none other than a younger version of himself.

The same glasses.

The same hair, sticking up at the back and curls falling over his ears. James could remember being a teenager and wanting to keep it long like the kid in front of him.

Do you have a mole on your arse?

James had said no.

But he did. On his left cheek. And he wasn’t about to ask this strange kid to pull down his pants to compare. He could see the headlines in his mind already, even as he welcome the kid into his home. 

It was supposed to be a quiet night.And getting the kid home was supposed to be a noble and responsible duty. 

But now James was in front of a doorstep that wasn’t quite unfamiliar. He remembered, he knew it from mistakes of years past. The welcome mat had been swapped out. The door had been painted a bright teal and the lawn was well maintained, white rose bushes lining the walkway. The kid, Harry, stood slumped at his side, head hanging even with the blue, signed, jersey hanging around his elbow.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked looking up at James as they stood in front of the door, “Isn’t this more trouble for you?”

“Sorry,” James shrugged, “Had to make sure you got home safe.”

“I’m here though! Can’t you just--”

“I’ll tell you this,” James said, “If I ever snuck out, after my curfew, and went to a strangers home at your age,” but James paused, thinking momentarily about his own parents, knowing that he would’ve never wanted to sneak out in the first place. His parents were his best friends. “Actually, I would’ve never had the nerve to leave in the first place, but if I did, my mother wouldn’t have let me out of her sight until I was thirty. I owe it to...I need to make sure you get in there."

Harry laughed a little, scuffing his shoe on the ground, and sighing, “Fine.” Harry hesitated only a few moments more before reaching forward and clicking the hinge to the door handle. The house was protected by magic, recognizing Harry’s signature immediately, and allow him to enter through the front door. 

Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

James would’ve recognized the black dragon hide boots and oxfords by the front door anywhere. Any time. Any space. It could’ve been at a fancy ministry gala, the shoes piled miles high and James would’ve been able to pick them out. 

The door shut behind them and before Harry could even say a word, footsteps were running down the hall.

“Harry, I swear on Merlin’s Beard if that is not you, I am going to--”

“It’s me, it’s me. Don’t call the aurors or whatever you were going to do,” Harry said plainly, holding his arms up in surrender as Sirius Black came into view, the end of his sentence cut off. 

James hadn’t seen Sirius since the night before his wedding.

James had actively avoided circles where Sirius Black might have been. Gringotts. St. Mungos. Diagon Alley. It was half the reason he became a Quidditch player, deciding that was the safest bet to stay far, far, far away from the man who had nearly ended his relationship (though it turns out James didn’t need anyones help to do that) and was the subject of every day-dream and night dream James ever had back in school. He was the chip on his shoulder. The thorn in his side. 

James had done an excellent job of building a life without giving Sirius a second thought.

Until this quiet night turned to dust and Sirius was in front of him, dark curls pulled back away from his face in a knot, except for one that fell across his eyebrows. 

Older.

Somehow more handsome than he had been all those years ago. 

James watched as Sirius pulled Harry into a fierce hug, hand at the back of Harry’s head, pulling him into his chest. 

“I’m fine,” Harry said, muffled by Sirius’s jacket. Sirius was fully dressed in muggle clothing, likely in preparation of starting a neighborhood search for his missing teenager.

“For now,” Sirius responded quickly, grey eyes fixed on James. 

His insides squirmed under the scrutiny.

But he was nearly thirty five. He wasn’t going to let a school-yard…crush turned lover turned Merlin knows set him off-kilter after all these years.

“James Potter,” Sirius said plainly, the corners of his mouth turning upward in a half smirk, while still holding Harry against his chest. 

“James signed a jersey for me, isn’t that cool?”

“Well, I’m certainly glad your little excursion led to something cool, Haz, because that will probably be the last cool moment of your summer. Any final wishes?”

Harry pulled away from Sirius’s chest, and turned to look back at James, “Do you have any extra tickets to next weeks game that you can--” James laughed as Harry’s sentence was cut off by Sirius’s hand coming over his mouth.

“I apologize for my very rude child, I don’t know who raised him,” Sirius said, keeping his hand over Harry’s mouth and pulling him closer to his chest again with his other arm.

It was strange.

It was…comforting.

To see Sirius Black with the kid that could’ve been his. To see Harry not in a hurry to leave Sirius’s embrace. How comfortable his kid was speaking and joking with his parent without a second thought. Entering a house after sneaking out without fear.

“We’ll…it seems to me, you might’ve.”

“Got me there.”