Chapter Text
Third year: Blue
(in French, blue can mean the color, obviously, but also a bruise; that’s the meaning I chose)
“Stop moving.”
Muttering, Sirius complies and forces himself to remain still while James dabs the corner of a wet cloth on his split lip. Sitting turned toward one another on the Chaser’s bed, the latter still in his Quidditch outfit, having just returned from practice, and his best friend beside him, his medium-length black hair falling messily over his battered face, the two teenagers exchange a look. Sirius’ gaze immediately looks away; James’ lingers, examining the injuries.
November has settled in at the castle, stripping the trees of their leaves and shortening the days. Sirius has just turned fourteen. Usually at this time of year, the familial invectives that have plagued him all summer are far enough that the tension has eased and James can get his best friend back, with all his usual nonchalance, a sarcastic retort at the corner of his mouth for one of his own tirades.
But this year is different. James sees the gloomy period dragging on, and nothing he tries seems to change anything. His friend’s anger and resentment, far from subsiding, grow worse and worse, to the point that Sirius doesn’t seem to know how to contain them. So he looks for an outlet; he gets into fights. It’s not uncommon these days for James to find him lying on the floor in the dormitory after practice, exhausted and bleeding after another strife.
His helplessness infuriates him. Ever since they met two years ago, James has prided himself on being one of the few, perhaps even the only one, who truly knows Sirius. Who gets it, who understands, no matter what happens, and who can react accordingly. Yet, this time, he feels completely out of his depth. Whichever words he finds to try to reach Sirius, none of them seem to calm him down.
James would like to understand why Sirius does this to himself, why he looks for a new opponent as soon as his bruises fade. He wants to shouts, shake him, convince him that he doesn’t deserve this. More than anything, he wants to show Sirius that whatever his demons are, whatever his family says, he’s better than them, better than this, and for Sirius to believe him.
Instead, and because he can’t bear to stand by and do nothing, he’s made himself his friend’s personal nurse, tending to the wounds on his face and bandaging his sprained limbs. Using magic would probably be quicker and easier, but James has but a vague understanding of healing spells and he doesn’t want to risk hurting Sirius any further. What’s more, he has noticed that his friend was calmer while his wounds healed, as if, in addition to the desire to get better, they fascinated him somewhat, as tangible proofs that he had let out his anger. So James leaves them alone, content to patch them up as best he can without saying a word.
That night, Sirius is in a worse shape than usual. His eyes are swollen, his nose is bleeding, his mouth is bruised and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows reveal skin that is beginning to turn yellow in some places. His gaze, impenetrable and distant, remains fixed on the wall. It is this absent look that strikes James the most, as if Sirius were somewhere else, out of reach, drifting further and further away with James not knowing how to hold him back.
“Sir’…”
The hand holding the cloth falls back on his thigh. James can no longer bear the silence, nor that distance between them. He wants Sirius to look at him, to see him, to know that he is there for him and always will be. He wants Sirius back. The plea escapes him in a trembling voice.
“Talk to me.”
The young Black turns his head toward him and sighs, sorrow evident in his gaze.
“I can’t James. I don’t know how to explain.”
“Then tell me what to do.”
Sirius doesn’t react for a few moments, and James fears that he will retreat into silence again, but the teenager ends up taking his hand to raise it to his face with a shy smile. Instantly understanding his intention, James resumes treating his lip. When he’s done, his other hand rests on Sirius’ cheek, tracing with his thumb the outline of the emerging marks.
“You’re going to have bruises.” He says, and Sirius snickers softly.
“I know, I can feel them.”
“Does it hurt?”
The boy shrugs but doesn’t answer, perhaps wanting not to worry James any more. The latter is still gently stroking his cheekbones and lets himself think aloud.
“My mum used to give me magic kisses when I got hurt as a child. She said that this kind of kisses could heal anything.”
“Did it work?”
James thinks about it.
“It healed the owies of the soul.”
“Maybe that’s what I need,” Sirius jokes, but his gaze is weary and his laugh rings false.
“I can give you some if you want,” James whispers after a moment, not entirely sure of how such a suggestion will be received.
“You want to give me kisses?”
Sirius stares at him with puzzlement, eyebrows raised and a mocking smile threatening to appear at the corner of his lips. Embarrassed, James looks down.
“I just want to help.” He admits sheepishly, and his best friend’s gaze immediately softens.
Sirius realizes that the situation must be weighing on him too, more than he would have thought, and he bites his lip, overcome with guilt. He hesitates, because he feels like that would be crossing some kind of line between them, but it’s been weeks now that he has been closing himself off to James, and neither of them is taking it well, even if he himself doesn’t show it.
He scoots imperceptibly closer to the other boy on the mattress, places his own hand on his.
“Okay James, let’s give it a try.”
The first kiss James plants on his cheek is trembling and brief, barely a press of his lips before the boy pulls away.
“You okay?” he asks and Sirius nods.
The ones that follow are just as uncertain, the two friends are awkward, tense. But then the kisses go longer, James’ lips linger and, gradually, Sirius relaxes, even closing his eyes to focus on these strange and new sensations. There is infinite tenderness in James’ gestures, in the way he holds his face in his hands to plant kisses on his nose or cheekbones. The affection he perceives in these attentions breaks down his defenses one by one, and as he squeezes James’ wrists in his hands, he slowly begins to cry.
James doesn’t say anything. But when he notices, he kisses the tears away.
The boys move closer on the bed, turn completely toward one another, closing the distance between them. Their legs intertwine, their foreheads now separated by only a few inches. They’re holding each other, wishing they never had to let go. James keeps kissing him, Sirius keeps crying, and little by little his anger evaporates, his grief dissipates. James’ hands, warm and reassuring, push away the darkness; his lips, lacking sufficient words, teach Sirius another language.
The two friends end up snuggled up against each other on the mattress, enjoying the closeness. James still doesn’t have an explanation, and probably won’t have it for a while, but for once he doesn’t care, because he feels like he’s found a way to reach Sirius without forcing him to talk.
They stare thoughtfully at the ceiling, then Sirius looks at him and breaks the silence.
“Hey James, if I get bruises on my soul again, will you heal them?”
And James looks back at him with a smile.
“Of course. For as long as you need.”