Chapter Text
Sirius wasn’t expecting this.
Wasn’t expecting any of this, really.
He lies in bed, completely immobilized, staring blankly at the ceiling he hasn’t properly looked at in days. His body feels wrong—too heavy, too distant, as though it belongs to someone else entirely. It’s like he’s paralysed, his ability to get up, theoretically impossible.
He knows he should move. Knows that normal people get out of bed, shower, eat, exist. But the idea feels abstract, far away, like a concept he once understood and has since forgotten.
The sheets cling to him, damp with sweat and something stale. Sirius can feel the grease and grime stick to his skin, his hair itchy and matted against the pillow. The smell of himself—unwashed, exhausted—lingers thick in the air.
He’s not sure how long he’s been laying here for—maybe a few hours, maybe a couple of days—he doesn’t know. Time blurs into something shapeless when every moment feels the same. All he knows is that he can’t move.
Can’t, except for when the sound of a screaming infant cuts through the fog and yanks him back into his body.
Harry.
The cry is sharp, desperate, and it hits Sirius straight in the chest, bypassing the numbness entirely. His heart lurches painfully, instinct overriding exhaustion, grief, everything else. Then, Sirius has to get him.
With a quiet, defeated sigh, Sirius pulls himself out of bed. His limbs protest the movement, shaky and weak, as though he’s been underwater for too long. He stands there for a second too long, swaying, forcing his feet to remember how walking works.
He trudges through his bedroom, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. It’s dark in here, not a single sign of light traveling through the windows. He never opened the curtains. Can’t remember the last time he did.
He stumbles out into the hallway, the walls too quiet, too empty, and makes the few short steps toward Harry’s room. Each one feels heavier than it should.
Stepping in, Sirius is hit with the sound of the baby’s wails, louder now, urgent. It twists something deep in his chest. “Shh,” he says, moving closer toward the crib. “It’s okay sweetheart.”
His voice is thick, pulled taut by exhaustion and disuse, rough around the edges. He barely recognizes it as his own. But that doesn’t stop Sirius from finding the energy to sound loving, to sound caring. Even when he thinks he doesn’t have it in him, he finds it anyway—scraping it together from somewhere deep and aching.
He lifts Harry from his crib, cradling the two-and-a-half-month-old to his chest. Harry is warm, solid—small fingers curling weakly into the fabric of Sirius’s shirt.
Sirius hushes him, humming a soft, broken melody he doesn’t remember learning. His eyes slip shut as he rocks the baby back and forth, slow and steady, letting the motion ground him. Harry’s cries soften, then stutter, then fade into quiet hiccups.
“I know, I know—” Sirius replies, patting Harry on the back. “Nightmares are no fun. I’m sorry you have to put up with them.”
Harry sighs softly, his tiny body relaxing as sleep pulls him back under. But Sirius doesn’t stop talking. The quiet makes the thoughts louder, his tiredness only edging him on, loosening his tongue.
“I get nightmares too, you know,” he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Your dad used to help me through them—back when we were kids. Now…”
Sirius trails off, the words catching painfully in his throat. The truth lands hard and merciless—realising he’ll never get James’s help through a nightmare again. Neither will Harry.
The thought stabs him sharply in the chest, a sudden, brutal pain that steals his breath. His grip tightens around Harry instinctively, as if afraid of losing him too. Exhaustion settles deeper within his bones, heavy and suffocating, pressing down until even breathing feels like effort.
Sometimes, Sirius wishes the feeling would disappear. This weird sense of despair, the urge to evaporate into thin air. To stop existing for just a while. He wishes it would just go away. Wishes he could just—
But he can’t do that, that is. Harry is depending on him. Sirius is, quite literally, the only family this poor boy has. And, well, even more depressingly, vice versa.
The thought doesn’t feel noble or comforting. It feels terrifying. Crushing. Like a weight he can never put down.
Sirius sighs, long and harsh, pressing his lips briefly into Harry’s soft hair. “Maybe we should go do something,” he mumbles, more to himself than Harry. “Get out of this disgusting place. What do you think, huh? Would you like that, Harry?”
Harry simply continues to rest peacefully against Sirius’s chest, small breaths warm against his skin. Sirius doesn’t hear an ounce of complaint from the baby.
Still, that doesn’t mean Harry said no.
He never knew September’s weather could be this cold.
Scratch that, he did, Sirius just forgot that. The cons of staying inside for practically two months, he thinks, bitterly to himself. His jacket feels too thin, the chill slipping beneath the fabric and settling into his bones like it has every other morning since everything fell apart.
Sirius is walking down the paved pathway, his hands gripping the pram a little too tightly as he pushes it along. The wheels hum softly against the concrete, a steady sound that keeps him moving when his legs want to stop. Feeling the sun on his skin—even through a clouded sky—makes him feel… alive.
The sensation is jarring after so long in the dark, like stepping into brightness with eyes that haven’t adjusted yet. It also reminds him of what he’s lost. The tragedy that’s occurred. The warmth feels undeserved somehow, like a cruel reminder of a life that kept going without James.
He sighs, shoulders slumping as the exhaustion creeps back in, heavy and familiar. He’s barely left the house, opting to head straight for the closest thing. The park. Somewhere open, somewhere quiet enough that he can pretend he isn’t being watched.
Walking through it, Sirius can’t help but notice the life sprouting about. Leaves turning, grass stubbornly green, birds hopping along the path as if nothing has changed. Even in the midst of everything, life continues to grow, to thrive. Maybe it’s a sign for him to keep going. Maybe the green world around him is telling him to push through, that things will get better.
But things don’t feel better. They feel horrible, horrendous. Like he’s carrying a weight no one else can see, pressing down on his chest with every breath.
Leaning closer toward the pram, Sirius can’t help but admit this to the tiny two-month-old resting peacefully inside. “It feels like the earth is mocking me, Harry. I see all these animals trying to adjust to the changing season around them, and… they’re thriving.”
Harry doesn’t stir, soft and warm beneath his blanket, unaware of the ache in Sirius’s voice. Sirius straightens slowly, his eyes scanning the surrounding park. Scattered along the path are benches, spaced out but close enough that conversations could easily drift between them, placed together in a way that feels dangerously close to gossiping.
Sirius continues walking, slow and deliberate. The ladies with their babies strapped to their chests watch him closely. He can feel it—see them, even. Their judgmental faces, their disgusted eyes lingering on him as he walks by, taking in his unkempt hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the pram pushed by a man who looks like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks.
This is why he doesn’t leave the house. He gets this if he does.
He lets out another sigh and steers the pram toward an empty bench further away from those ladies. He sits down, grunting as he does so, only then realising how stiff his joints feel. Probably from barely moving, from laying in bed, rotting away in the darkness he created. His body feels older than it should, worn down by grief and stillness.
Sirius doesn’t feel ready to leave the darkness yet. Why should he? It all feels fresh, raw. His heart has shattered more times than he can count in the span of four years, and this time it feels permanent—like something that can never be put back together.
He pushes and pulls the pram softly, rocking it in a slow rhythm, keeping Harry content. His eyes drift across the park, the wind brushing gently against his exposed skin, cool and insistent. People walking past catch his gaze, some staring a little too long, like they’ve seen a ghost. Sirius wouldn’t be surprised if he looked like one—pale, hollow, half-haunting his own life.
Still, he keeps watching the scenery, forcing himself to stay present, to take it all in. Sirius is just about to get up, the urge to flee settling uneasily in his chest, when someone sits down on the opposite bench, across from him.
Sirius’s jaw drops at the sight.
The man is… tall, to say the least. Broad-shouldered but not intimidating, long-limbed in a way that looks effortless. His hair is messy, curls limp and longer than they probably should be, like he’s forgotten—or chosen not—to tame them.
The clouds covering the sky do little to help determine the man’s hair colour, but the way his skin is tanned, warm and golden, like he’s recently visited some sun-soaked place—the beach, perhaps—makes Sirius’s heart stutter painfully in his chest.
He looks soft in a way Sirius hasn’t seen in a long time. Pretty, in a quiet, unassuming sense. Like someone carved from sunlight and warmth, dropped gently into a grey afternoon. His face is kind, even in repose, lashes dark against his cheeks as he settles in. The contrast makes Sirius painfully aware of himself—unkempt, hollowed out, existing somewhere between barely coping and falling apart.
There’s no way the man opposite him would view him nicely. Sirius knows that. Knows he must look like a mess. But he lets himself stare anyway, because it’s been so long since he’s seen something beautiful up close.
The man pulls out a novel from his bag, fingers careful with the pages as he opens it. He looks completely immersed in it, like the world has fully captured his attention. Just like he has, for Sirius. Watching him breathe, shift, exist feels grounding, like proof that not everything gentle has disappeared.
So, he sits there, watching him. Letting the moment linger longer than it probably should. Eventually the man leaves, standing and slinging his bag over his shoulder—but not without catching a glimpse of Sirius.
Their eyes meet.
The small, genuinely pleasant smile Sirius gets in return is unexpected and soft and devastating all at once. It settles somewhere deep in his chest, warm and fragile.
It’s one he’ll remember, even as he stumbles his way home.
Ever since his eyes met that man’s on the bench, Sirius has been to the park daily.
It starts innocently enough—something to look forward to, something that isn’t the four walls of his house and the quiet that presses in on him there. At first, Sirius thinks the man might go to the park at the same time every day. He seems like the type to be on a schedule, always on time to places, never late. Someone put together. Someone with their life still intact.
But much to his disappointment, he isn’t there.
So Sirius decides to take up another walk during the day. Then another. He justifies it easily—fresh air is good for Harry, the movement is good for him. By the end of the week, it’s routine. Three walks a day. He pushes the pram down the same paths, sits down on the same bench for about an hour, before getting up and continuing his walk like nothing happened.
Getting out into nature has been fun. Helpful, even. Sirius feels more energised—if only slightly—every time he goes out into the sun. The light sinks into his skin, reminds his body that it’s still here, still capable of feeling something other than grief. It’s refreshing in a way that surprises him.
Along with Sirius’s motivation to see this man again, he’s begun slowly taking care of himself again. Well, showering mostly. The water feels too hot, then too cold, but at least it washes some of the weight off him. He still eats garbage, sleeps practically never, and only ever really gets out of the house to go for his walks. Still, he’s doing something. That has to count for something.
The wind picks up, brushing against him sharply as he makes his way toward the empty bench. Sirius shivers slightly, tugging his jacket closer. He’s been feeling disheartened lately. The man he’s been wanting to see again hasn’t been there, not once, not at any of the times Sirius has tried.
Maybe he should give up. The idea of watching someone—waiting for them, hoping for them—isn’t a good one. It’s creepy. Pathetic. He knows that.
Sirius wouldn’t mind going home, crawling back under his stale sheet, blocking out the rest of the world, refusing to interact with his neighbours. Like his neighbours even care. They don’t even know him. Actually, they’re rather pissed off with him—because of the whole screaming infant in the next room.
He sighs, closing his eyes briefly. This is ridiculous. He is ridiculous. There is no way he’s ever going to see—
“Mind if I sit here?”
Sirius’s eyes snap open. His head turns sharply toward the sound of the man’s voice, heart leaping painfully into his throat. His eyes widen, comically, as Sirius realises who it is.
It’s him.
Up close, he’s even more striking than Sirius remembers. Taller than Sirius initially thought, shoulders broad beneath his coat, posture slightly hunched like he’s used to making himself smaller. His face is soft in a way that feels disarming—gentle lines, expressive eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw that makes him look warm, real. Human.
Sirius nods quickly, clearing his throat. “Uh—yes, yes of course.”
The man smiles warmly at him, and Sirius feels it in his chest. Closer up, Sirius can distinctly tell the other’s hair colour. It’s light brown. His curls look much tighter, more defined, almost as if he’s taken effort into his appearance since the last time Sirius laid eyes on him. Like he cared how he looked today. The thought makes Sirius’s stomach twist strangely.
“Thank you,” he replies, moving to sit down on the bench opposite him with a quiet grunt.
Sirius watches him. He watches how the man pulls out a book from his bag, placing the bag neatly beside him on the bench. He watches the way the man’s long, slender fingers open the book, very carefully turning the pages, like he respects it.
His mouth consequently waters at the sight of his fingers. They’re long, delicate and slim, bony in a way that Sirius would deem good. He imagines how they would go about touching him. The way his fingertips would drag across his skin.
He shudders lightly at the imagined feeling, never once peeling his gaze from those pleasant fingers. Sirius can only imagine how those fingers would tease at his rim. How they would slowly ease their way inside him, bringing an ungodly amount of pleasure to him.
Sirius has to pull his gaze from those fingers, clearing his throat as he does so, shifting in his seat to hide the obvious bulge now forming in his pants. Heat rushes to his face—embarrassment, frustration, want. He lets his eyes linger anywhere else, very obviously, very pointedly, refusing to look in the other man’s direction.
“You good?” the man asks, directing his question toward him.
Glancing over at him, Sirius nods quickly. “Yep—yes—sorry.”
The man hums softly, smiling at him in a way that feels patient, kind. His gaze lingers on Sirius for a brief moment longer—curious, unreadable—before turning back to his book.
Sirius exhales slowly, heart still racing, and wonders dimly how something so small—someone simply sitting beside him—can make him feel this awake.
And this unsteady.
At this time, Harry’s small, little cries begin to ramp up.
The sound cuts through Sirius instantly, sharp and urgent, tugging him out of his own head before he can spiral too far. His reaction is immediate. He’s on his feet before he fully registers the movement, joints protesting as he moves to pull open the shield protecting Harry from the elements. Cold air rushes in, brushing against Harry’s face.
“Naww,” he coos, soft and instinctive, the word slipping out like second nature as he takes in the discomfort scrunched up on Harry’s face. “It’s okay little one,” he says gently, reaching into the pram to pull Harry free.
Harry’s cries soften almost immediately, though he’s still whining, whimpering, little hiccuping sounds catching in his chest as if he’s not quite convinced yet. Sirius presses Harry closer, warmth to warmth.
Sirius frowns, a little confused as to why the distress lingers. “Do you need a nappy change?” he asks, lifting the baby up slightly and bending awkwardly, bringing his nose down toward Harry’s bottom.
He sniffs, slow and deliberate. There’s nothing—no smell, no familiar warning sign. “It’s not that,” he mumbles out. His frown deepens as he pulls away, shifting Harry carefully and cradling him more securely in his arms.
His hand pats firmly against Harry’s bottom, rhythmic and practiced, in that soothing way that usually works without fail. Sirius rocks him gently, shoulders loosening a fraction when the cries quiet further—though they don’t disappear completely. Harry’s tiny fists still clench and unclench against Sirius’s chest.
“Maybe he’s hungry?”
Sirius’s head snaps toward the voice, jumping slightly. For a split second his heart stutters—he had completely forgotten the man was still there.
“Sorry?” he asks, blinking at him, the fog in his brain taking a second too long to clear.
The man eyes him, nodding as he gestures toward the baby. “Could he be hungry?” he suggests, careful, gentle, phrasing it like a question rather than a correction.
Sirius considers it, gaze peeling away from the man’s face and dropping back down to Harry’s. The baby squirms faintly, mouth opening in a reflexive little motion.
“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” Sirius asks softly, already reaching toward the bottom of the pram where he’s stored all of Harry’s necessities.
He shifts awkwardly, careful not to drop Harry as he leans and fumbles one-handed for the bag. His balance wobbles, frustration flaring as his fingers scrape uselessly against fabric instead of handles. With a small huff, Sirius pushes himself back against the bench with a dull thud, breath leaving him in a rush.
“Here, let me—” the man offers, already shutting his book.
Sirius shakes his head immediately, the refusal coming fast and instinctive. “No, no, it’s okay—”
“No, really,” the man says, his tone surprisingly soft, unbothered. “Let me. You’ve clearly got your hands full.”
Sirius hesitates, then relents without argument, too tired to insist, too aware that the man is right. He watches as the man pulls the dark blue bag from beneath the pram and sets it carefully on the bench between them.
“There you go,” he says warmly.
“Thank you,” Sirius replies, heat creeping into his cheeks despite himself.
The man’s smile never drops—if anything, it softens further, something kind settling into his expression. “You’re welcome.”
Sirius lets out a slow breath he didn’t realise he was holding and reaches out to unzip the bag with one hand. The fabric shifts uselessly under his fingers, the bag too light, moving with every jostle. Frustration bubbles quietly beneath his skin. He could really use his other hand.
He looks down at Harry resting in the crook of his arm. The baby is calmer now, eyes fluttering shut, tears gone. The only evidence he’d been crying at all are his flushed cheeks, faintly damp lashes.
Sirius glances up at the man sitting beside him.
Should he ask again? Would the man think him completely incompetent? A mess? Someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing?
Maybe. But Sirius does need the hands.
Biting his lip, he exhales. “Excuse me?” he calls, directing his question toward the man.
The man looks up from his book. For half a second, Sirius braces himself—expects annoyance, impatience.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, the look he receives is calm, caring; gentle in a way that makes something inside Sirius ache and soften all at once.
“Yes?” the man replies.
Sirius draws in a breath, hating himself for needing help at all. “Do you mind unzipping the bag?”
The man’s eyes widen slightly. And it’s then Sirius really notices them—how oddly unique they are. A mixture of gold, yellow, and orange, the orange blending into an earthy, almost wooden brown that spreads across his iris, filling every nook and cranny.
He nods without hesitation. “Of course,” he says, setting his book aside immediately and reaching out with long, slender fingers to unzip the bag.
Sirius watches with rapt, inept attention as the zipper slides open, revealing the contents inside. “Thank you,” he murmurs, doing everything he can to avoid the man’s gaze, embarrassment prickling at his skin.
The man nods. “Of course. Do you, uh… need any more help, that is.”
Sirius looks up despite himself and finds sincerity swimming in what he assumes are amber eyes. He hesitates, the answer lodged heavy in his chest.
“It’s okay if you do,” the man adds gently, noticing. “I’m happy to help.”
Sirius exhales long and slow, shoulders sagging as the fight drains out of him. He nods. “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”
The man smiles like it’s nothing at all. “No problem,” he says easily. “I umm… you might have to direct me,” he admits sheepishly. “I fear I have no clue as to what I’m doing.”
Sirius lets out a small laugh—light, warm, almost surprised. It slips out before he can stop it. It’s the first time he’s felt this light in months. This careless. The guilt hits immediately, sharp and sudden, and his smile fades just as fast.
“Right,” he nods, deflating. “See the bottle of water—” The man hums in response. “Grab it and fill the baby bottle up to about the third top line.”
The man follows his instructions carefully. Sirius watches the water fill the bottle, each trickle dragging his thoughts somewhere darker—how Harry’s parents should be here. Should be doing this. How it would be different if they were.
It would’ve been better if he died.
Then Harry wouldn’t be without parents, and Sirius wouldn’t have to live in his grief.
“What next?” the man asks, pulling Sirius back to the present.
He blinks, forcing his mind to refocus. “Right, uhh—” He pauses, grounding himself. “See the container? Pour all that into the bottle. Then do the lid, and shake.”
The man does exactly that. Sirius watches him with something close to fascination. If the man hadn’t admitted he didn’t know what he was doing, Sirius would swear he’s a natural.
“Done,” the man says, handing the bottle over.
“Thanks,” Sirius replies quietly, taking it.
He presses the bottle to Harry’s lips. The baby latches instantly, sucking eagerly like he’s been starving half to death. Sirius smiles softly down at him, the tension in his chest easing just a little as the world around him fades away, leaving only the weight of Harry in his arms—and the fragile, unfamiliar comfort of not being alone.