Title: Le Tourbillon
Requestor: krystal_moon
Author:
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: James/Lily, Sirius/Lily, Sirius/James, Sirius/Remus, implied Sirius/Regulus
Summary: Who doesn't want to be loved by everyone?
Word Count: 35,260
Warnings: voyeurism, fingering, drug use, boys being assholes, femdom, poetry, angst, unrealistic portrayals of achieving orgasm, extensive foreshadowing, exhibitionism, excessive length, wall sex, (constant) alcohol use, incest, occasional breach of the fourth wall, over-indulgent discussion of a car, fluff, the French.
Author's Notes: A big, big, big, big thank you to my Dylan Thomas who held my hand through the madness -- you are a total goddess. Also, so many thanks to Lia who resisted the urge to kill me every time I asked for an extension or seven. I couldn't possibly list all my inspirations for this story, but the principle inspirations were Truffaut's Jules et Jim, Godard's Pierrot le fou, and Cuarσn's Y tu mamα tambiιn. Bonus points if you can find the rest. I hope you like it, krystal_moon!

"You've gotta be digging it while it's happening 'cause it just might be a one shot deal."

- Frank Zappa

Lily arrives three days before they're set to leave. The house, as she enters, is in disarray – clothes (clean or otherwise) are piled on chairs, tables, books, the floor, and even the television; records and their cases litter the floor like enormous fish-scales; pens and paper cover every surface, doodles (mostly of penises) and checklists, very sparsely checked. It stinks of pizza and beer and days-old cigarettes smoke, of shoes and weed poorly masked by weak potpourri and cologne; typical boy-stuff, a clear indication that parents haven't been around for days.

Lily brings her own mess as she nudges open James' front door; two large duffle bags (one over each arm), a knap sack, and a suitcase drifting lazily behind her.

"James?" she calls, dropping her bags in the front hall (piled with what she knows is Peter's luggage.) "James? Mr. Potter? Mrs. Potter? –" a deep breath, "– Sirius?"

"Lily?" James' voice comes from the basement, muffled. "Hon?"

She weaves through the mess and stands on the basement landing, calling down: "What are you doing?"

"Packing." Apparently Sirius is down there, too.

"Can I help?"

"No, love, –" James yells, "– we're almost done."

The boys emerge, hair and shirts powdered with dust, their arms packed with a clutter of things; torches, folded cardboard boxes, a record player, even a dented old washboard.

"Hey," James says cheerfully, his glasses askew off his ear. He leans in and gives Lily a quick kiss. "Grab something?" She helps them unload their things to the couch.

"Do we really need –" Lily fingers through the stuff gingerly, "– a Ouija board? You know those things don't work, right?"

"Oh ye of little faith," Sirius says, beginning to sort through the pile of rubbish, releasing thick clouds of dust as he does. "You gotta believe."

Lily looks up. "And a washboard?"

Sirius shrugs. "It might be fun." She looks at him blankly. "It was James' idea anyways. I don't plan on wearing clothes, personally."

"Rule number one:" James says, "Sirius must remain clothed at all times."

"What, just me?"

"Just you."

"I'd like to point out," Sirius says with a swagger, "that I'm the only person I know that needs rules set out. Must mean I'm the best partier ever."

"Don't worry, I'll make you a manifesto, Sirius, all your Dos and Don'ts. Numerated and put into law, with amendments for good behaviour –"

"Sirius, shut up. James, stop yelling." Lily gives Sirius (opening his mouth to complain) a warning glance. "Where is Peter? And when is Remus coming? Tell me I'm not stuck alone with you berks until we go."

"Petey is out –" Sirius says, pointing to the empty driveway, "– getting us food." He struggles to undo a knot of shoelaces wrapped around an old cigar case. "And Remus is keying in tomorrow." He drops the box and looks at her. "Now," he fiddles about his pockets, pulling out a beaten pack of Woodbine cigarettes, "settle something for us: can you drive?"

"Drive?"

"Yeah. Like, a car."

"No," she says, narrowing her eyes, "I can't."

"Told you she couldn't," James yells from the kitchen.

"Huh. I thought you could." Sirius pulls out two cigarettes, putting one behind his ear and the other in his mouth. He hands the pack to Lily, but she shakes her head; he puts it back in his pocket and lights his own with the tip of his wand, breathing out a hazy cloud of smoke.

"Wait," Lily says, warily, "why would I need to drive?"

Sirius looks up. "James didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"We drive there," Sirius replies, lips spreading with a newly minted grin. "We drive down to my house."

"You – we drive there?" Lily narrows her eyes. "Why?"

He takes a drag on his cigarette. "Tradition."

"Tradition," James repeats, stepping out from the kitchen, a glass of iced tea in his hand, which he offers to Lily. "We do it every year. It's always been like that."

"How can all five of us drive down?" She holds the glass without drinking. "James, you told me we were Apparating. I thought we were Apparating."

"Nope."

She looks at them like she's waiting for a punch-line. None comes. "You're not joking, are you?"

"Nope."

She looks back and forth, from one irritatingly self-satisfied grin to the next. "With what car?"

"My car," Sirius says proudly, relishing the taste of it in his mouth.

"You can drive?"

Sirius tugs his license from his back pocket and offers it to her with a flourish. She takes it, studying it closely. He's wearing a monocle and making a ridiculous face in the photo, no surprise there, but then she notices the name: PETER FONDA.

"Peter Fonda?" She looks up, cocking an eyebrow. "Isn't he in that movie you made me watch – whatsit, Easy Rider?"

"Yeah, well, they needed a birth certificate. Certainly weren't going to take my Wizarding one, were they?"

"So he made one up," James adds eagerly. "I did that part."

She looks at the card closely: "It says you're eighteen."

James and Sirius begin to laugh, tears budding at the corners of their eyes.

"It's not even that funny," she says (they keep laughing.) "So what, you can buy alcohol. Big deal. You're both off your nut." She hands the license back. "I just can't believe you passed the test. I can't believe our government would trust you with a car."

"Thanks." Sirius slips it back in his pocket. "And, miraculously, Petey can drive too. He took the test with me. He's out with my baby." The word makes his eyes light up. "Oh, Lord, Lily, I can't wait for you to see her."

"Her?"

"His car." Even James looks star-struck, bleary-eyed and mesmerized.

Sirius steps towards her, hands spread apart, gesturing wildly as he speaks: "Think of it. A cherry red 1974 –" Sirius pauses, bites his lip, deliberately building tension that, judging from Lily's expression, clearly isn't there, "– Jensen Interceptor. Mark Three. Four seat. Convertible." She shrugs. "Lily – come on – a – a Jensen Interceptor? Lily, it's like – are you serious? How do you not know?" He looks beautifully crest-fallen. "It's the most – the most – think of it, V8, GT –" Lily shrugs again, "Gran turismo; for trips, I mean. It's, good God, it's gorgeous. And it's British, and sexy, and sleek, and it's got four-wheel drive –" ("It means all four wheels drive the car, not just the front two or the back two," James clarifies) "– oh, God, Lily, just wait till you see her. Cream leather interior. About a million horse power. It roars, Lily. It roars."

"And is it a pretty car?"

"Is it a pretty car," James mimics in disbelief, turning towards Sirius and mouthing the words again, like a grievous insult. "If sex could steer it would look like this car."

"It's a pretty car," Sirius says, nodding.

"But – can it take all of us? And our stuff?"

At this, James and Sirius give another telling glance, grinning widely, proudly.

"Well," James says.

"Well," Sirius agrees.

Lily is well-versed in this mischief, she graduated with a triple-starred first in reading her boys; the glance, the dark-glimmer in their eyes, the twitch in Sirius hand, that rapid-beat pulse going in James' neck like he's being pumped full of joy. She catches on quickly: "What have you done?"

The boys grin, wider if at all possible, and they shift to slap each others hands, lazy and right.

"You didn't," she says.

"Did – what?" Sirius ponders.

"It's illegal."

"Not really –"

"It's illegal."

"Really, at worst, it's only a misdemeanour," Sirius counters.

"Besides, we didn't do it," James adds cheerfully.

"Who did?"

The boys light up with pride, like little incandescent children given father's brandy to sip. Sirius pats James' back like a proud uncle, and James gives a falsely modest look at his feet before meeting Lily's stare with a thieving little grin: "Dad," he says.

"Dad," Sirius agrees.

Her eyes narrow. "Your dad? Your dad condones this?"

"Our dad suggested it," Sirius says, elbowing James and clearly enjoying Lily's fury (happy that, for once, it's not directed at him.)

Lily looks at him, nostrils opened, flared, eyes flashing somewhere between disbelief and explosion. She pushes her hair back from her forehead (dark at her temples where sweat is beading cool) and she struggles to figure out what to do, nodding her mane back in irritation. She feels betrayed by Mr. Potter, a once-wise man now revealed to be just an aged imprint of his gangly son. And then there's James, looking at her appealingly, as if for permission, pleading for her (just once) to join them in their endless campaign against rules.

"Think – this way is so much better," James reasons gently, defusing his red-head of a bomb, "we normally had to take two cars, but this time we can all fit into one. It'll be more fun, and we won't even need to borrow my dad's car either."

At this, Lily begins to smile, a mischievous little thing she has borrowed from the Marauders, a creepy feline smile, like a cat who's got the canary and the canary's secret stash of cream. "And, James, hon, does your mum know about this?"

Flash frozen, in mid-breath, James stares at her in disbelief. Sirius blinks widely, swallowing loudly, that twitch in his hand turning into a fist. They sway, like in a breeze, making round Os with their mouths and gasping like the air has been shucked from their lungs.

"You wouldn't," Sirius spits. ("You wouldn't," James echoes, a desperate whisper.)

"Oh," Lily says, relishing this, sipping at her iced tea, "I would."

"Lily," Sirius intercedes, "don't be a spoil–"

She turns on him, green eyes flashing dark: "And what do your parents think about this?"

"They don't know," he says simply, slowly, "and they don't really care about me anymore." She looks at him in silence, biting her lower lip. "The Potters are my parents now."

Silence falls like a heavy snow, electric with tension; Lily knows she's misspoken, James' expression (oh God, don't bring them up, he stares, panicked) and Sirius new-pale skin and balled fists make that clear. Everything moves and shifts, the jocular teasing of before morphing into dark, unwanted shapes. They stare, silent, like a Mexican stand-off, lips dry and uncertain.

A deep breath. "I'm sorry – I, I didn't think," Lily finally says.

"Don't be, it's fine," Sirius says, raising a palm haltingly. "They can't be buggered, neither can I. My money, the summer house, it's all my Uncle Alphard's. My parents were pretty angry when they found out about that. But, what could they do – magically binding will and all that."

Lily shrugs, and tries a little smile. She notices James reach up to touch Sirius' back, sliding down in one stroke to rest once again at his side – she wonders the meaning; don't blame Lily, maybe, or she doesn't know better, it seems to say; a little comfort for Sirius, but making Lily blush red. "That's – nice. So, uh," she glances outside, towards the setting sun, just cresting beneath the window and shining blind in her eyes, "where is this place anyway?"

"Annecy. It's on lake Annecy," James says.

She shrugs, unsure.

"It's in the south-east, really close to Switzerland," Sirius clarifies. The tension lifts, like a fever that finally breaks. "It's actually in a town called Lathuile."

"Oh – so, um – not near Bordeaux?"

Sirius smiles. "Not really, no."

She blushes, this time innocently. "I've only been to France once. To Paris."

"It's definitely not near Paris," Sirius says with a grin. "Lots of mountains down there. Near the Alps. Here, I'll show you on the map."

They step out of the sun (swirling behind them large funnels of sweet dust adding to the din of smells, those of age and staleness) and to the kitchen, where a half-dozen large maps cover the surface like a patchwork quilt. The main map is frayed and beaten, marked FRANCE ET MONACO 1961, and lines in highlighter and pen are drawn in cross-hatch across the surface. Twin fingers, Sirius and James, lead her down the winding roads, from Godric's Hollow (near Tutshill) across England, across the Channel, and down through France.

"– then from Calais, we go down to Reims –" Sirius says, pronouncing the French names elegantly, naturally.

"– and then from there we go to the A26 to the A31all the way down to Dijon –" James continues.

"Like the mustard?"

Sirius smiles and nods. "Like the mustard. Then, we take the A39 –"

"– all the way down here –"

"– no, James, you idiot, that's a river –"

"– oh, Jesus, fucking river –"

"– okay, no, we take the A39 to the A40, then all the way down here, la route de Paris, then down la route de Bellegarde, down into Annecy proper –"

"So that's it then?" Lily asks, putting her finger over the spot where Sirius indicated. "That's where the house is?"

"Nope." He traces his finger around the edge of the lake, to the opposite end. "And this, this is Lathuile. This is where the summer house is. It's in a little valley – see, these are mountains. It's right on the edge, right about here." He indicates an unnamed enclave just east of the town. Finished, the boys sit back, relaxed, pleased at their own initiative. Lily looks from them to the map, scrutinizing the location again.

"And we're staying there for how long?"

"Five days," James says. "Plus the journey there and back."

"Hmm. And how long – pray tell – does this trip take?"

"Oh," James says, "no more than –" he looks to Sirius, who shrugs "– twelve hours?"

Sirius shrugs. "Give or take." Lily stares back, a loss for words. "Maybe thirteen?"

"Thirteen hours?"

The door opens and Peter nudges his way in, white plastic bags hanging from his wrists (stinking of fish and oil), a grease-soaked paper bag between his teeth. "Guyth? A lil helpf?"

"Peter," Sirius says, lighting up brilliantly. "Food!" He leaves the kitchen table

"Thirteen hours, James?" Lily blinks, hoping once again for a joke. He nods. She bites her lips and drops her hands to her side. "Oh Lord."

"Hey Lily!" Peter says, smiling broadly. "Didn't know you were coming today!" He drops the food on the counter. "Why don't you guys ever tell me anything –" he looks at James.

"Pete, we told you yesterday."

"Oh." Pete bites his lip, but manages to smile at Lily, before: "Oh – damn – I don't think we have enough food now."

"It's okay," James says, opening the paper bundles of food. "I'll share mine."

They sort out the food, big greasy slabs of battered fish and soggy chips, tartar sauce and mayonnaise on the side. James takes from the cabinets a big bottle of malt vinegar and a container of brown sauce. He sorts through the drawers and finds a stack of paper plates (no clean china left) and the food is divided amongst them. A couple of bottles of cheap wine are dug from the back of the cabinet and they drink the half-empty beers James and Sirius have left standing in the fridge from nights past; pale, bland, and as flat as a preteen cheerleader.

"ΐ la bataille," Sirius says, and they dig in.

"So," Peter says, swallowing a mouthful of food, "what're the arrangements now?"

James offers: "No different. I figured – me and Lily in my bed –"

"You don't want your parents bed?" Sirius asks, having slept there the last few days with Peter. (Sirius had his own bedroom, in the spare room, gifted to him when he moved in with the Potters, but he has never been one for sleeping alone.)

"No way. Too Freudian for my tastes. Sirius, Peter, you'll keep sharing, right?"

They exchange glances and shrug, they say they don't mind.

James continues, waving his fork around as he talks: "Though, when Remus gets here –"

"Bagsy mine," Sirius interrupts, grinning. "I'll just sleep with him in my room. Pete'll still have dad and mum's room – that's okay, right?"

"Sirius –" Lily says, warningly.

"No, I'm fine." Pete smiles at Lily, (who looks at him, frustrated.) "No, really, I don't mind."

Sirius is content: "It's settled, then." They get back to their food, finishing up in silence.

"Look, handy," James says, tossing the plates right into the trash.

"Very classy, James –" Lily half-says before being pulled by the arm by an insistent Sirius, dragging her out to the driveway.

"Come on Lily, you gotta see her – come on, come on."

And there she is, in the pale gloaming light, shiny red paint reflecting the night like silver. The soft top is down, a huddle of canvas behind the seats, and the leather interior is the colour of crθme caramel. The car itself (coachwork, James explains later) is a big blocky thing, square and low to the ground, with wide, round headlights in rectangular casings. It's a stout car, short, with only two doors (a coupι cabriolet, Sirius explains) though still with enough room for four seats (being, as is detailed, a two plus two model.) Sirius runs his hands down the length of her reverently, feeling the smooth lines of her, right to the boot.

"Well?" James asks, stroking the wing mirror lovingly. (He's slapped away – keep the chrome clean, you ponce.)

"Well." Lily steps in front of the car and touches the bonnet lightly, fingering the red paint absently. "She is a pretty car."

They exchange grins, all four of them, petting the car like a family pet.

"Let's take her out," Sirius says, suddenly. "It'll be fun, c'mon."

He doesn't need to say it twice; the boys and girl pile in the car quickly, excitedly (Sirius is driving, he gives Lily shotgun.) James and Peter get into the back (oddly comfortable and spacious, for such an obviously small space) and they're off with a quick rev of the engine. The car pilots like a dream, taking the curves of the road like they're not even there, like the thing is hovering over the tarmac, which, knowing Sirius, it very well might be. Sirius is right, though: the car positively roars, a hoarse little engine that rumbles as they go, like the sound of stones as they crash violently on shore. Lily's long hair whips about her face and she holds it back, grinning, as they rush through the twilight-lit trees. She's wrong; she knows she was wrong: Sirius is a very, very good driver; he leans easily into his seat, back and relaxed, one hand on the gear shift and the other on the wheel. He slides between gears easily, preternaturally, from first to second, and comfortably into third like he's been doing this all his life.

The road from Godric's Hollow to Tutshill is empty, a curvy spaceous thing that leads them in and out of Wales, threading the border like a needle through cloth. Sirius manages to bring her up to fourth on a long stretch, jumping up from 60 to 110 in the blink of an eye. They rarely meet another car.

"You're riding the clutch, you idiot," James yells from the backseat.

"No I'm not," Sirius calls back, slipping through another hairpin much too fast.

"I can hear it!" James says, leaning in between the seats, yelling over the engine and the metallic slap of the wind. "You'll kill it like that."

"You can't hear someone riding the clutch, now shut up and sit down, you don't even know how to drive," Sirius finishes, jamming it up another handful of digits.

Fifteen minutes later and they're in Trefynwy ("Welsh," Peter says – "Thanks, Pete, couldn't figure that one out," James replies.) The town is dark, lit only by the pale orange of lamplight. Sirius dances around the place like it's home, sliding up and down backstreets, over the river and into the spartan downtown, populated only by a few bustling pubs and many closed market stalls.

"I'll be a second," Sirius says, idling the car by the kerb and vaulting the door. Lily looks back at James, questioningly, but he just gives a shrug.

It's a few minutes before Sirius is back, and he's holding a small baggie filled with what looks like tinfoil upon his return. He jumps the door again and lands happily in the driver's seat, tossing the bag back to James, who shoves it quickly into his jacket pocket.

"What was that about?"

"Special treat," Sirius says, raising his eyebrows importantly. Peter laughs from the back, slapping James on the shoulder cheerfully.

"Special treat?" Lily asks even though she's pretty sure what they mean.

Sirius brings two fingers to his lips and gives a sharp sucking noise. "Eh?"

"Oh." She gives a guilty little grin. "Right."

After idling for a few minutes, letting the tourists catch their breath, Sirius kicks it back into gear (the car whines appropriately.) He does a ridiculous and highly illegal turn through the town and speeds down the road they just took, leaving behind the acrid smell of rubber and dust as they go.

They're back home in another fifteen wind-soaked minutes. Sirius rolls into Godric's Hollow, the roar of the engine echoing between the houses, amplifying it to sound like a whole caravan of bikers strolled into town. They pile out, all big smiles and giggles, like children on a school trip. Their hair has been blown every which way, dirty tangled messes that they flatten down while laughing at each other.

The rest of the night passes easily; packing and sorting, more beer and cigarettes, a midnight movie on telly and then half-sleeping on the couch in a big pile (Sirius on James' lap on Lily's lap, Peter on the ground pressed back against her legs) before going to their own beds.

Sirius grasps hands and hugs James at his bedroom door, bare chest on chest, brotherly love and all that, the way they've said goodnight to each other since they'd met.

Peter watches them, and chuckles: "Oh yeah," he says to James, "I forgot you had that dent thing." He presses a short-nailed finger into the shallow divot of James' otherwise flat, pale chest. It's about two inches long, an inch deep, right in the division of his chest and squared neatly between his nipples.

"It's called pectus excavatum," James says, shying away from Peter's hand. "My sternum is inverted, it's not a dent."

"It's still pretty freaky," Peter says. "Like a little crater."

"I think it's neat," Lily says, sliding two fingers into the indent, kissing her boyfriend lovingly on the mouth. "Makes you interesting."

James blushes and smiles. "Hopefully I'm more interesting than a sternum."

"Nope." She kisses him again. "Now, time for bed." And they part ways.

Down the hall, Sirius crawls in with Peter, a big soft bed with thick lacy covers. The weight on his legs relaxes him, and Peter's warmth beside him is comforting; he rolls in against his friend and sleeps with his forehead pressed against Peter's shoulder, their twin snores matching rhythm as they drift off.

In his own bedroom, James strips to his white boxers and slips into bed, curling against Lily tightly. "I love you," he says sleepily, his hands crawling under her over-sized T-shirt (The Magi; only James could like a band that awful) and cupping her bare breast, thumb playing lazily over her nipple, maybe just because he can.

Lily puts down her book and kisses her boyfriend on the nose, playing into his slow touches, warmth flooding her body like a shot of rum. She turns to her side so they're face to face, and leans in to kiss him, kiss him in a way that makes her intentions very clear. "Mm, love you too," she says, and she responds to his touch with her own, warm little hands creeping under the band of his boxers and grabbing his hips, thumbs sliding into the notches of his bone and pulling them closer.

James grins at the touch. "You want to?"

Lily pulls off her T-shirt and slips one leg between James', her thigh pressing up and against his cock, which she feels swell and warm at her touch. James bends towards her and kisses her breasts, hands sliding up to cup them, press them, grab them, fingers playing in circles around the nipples, biting gently at the freckled skin there before being pulled up to kiss her desperately on the lips.

Lily has got her hands in his boxers, one wrapped around his hardening cock, the other cradling his balls, playing them gently between her fingers, stroking the underside (James shivers pleasantly, rolling his hips towards her.) It's amazing the speed of all this, from sleepy kisses to handjobs and fire; like a snowball that picks up weight as it rolls, James' hands slide down from her breasts, over smooth freckled skin, and down the front of her knickers, index and middle sliding over her, through the short, dark here, ready to enter –

"Wait," she says, hand pressing against his chest. "Let's do this somewhere else."

"Somewhere else?" James is wonderfully flush, cheeks all patchy with bright red, and sweat is beading quickly at his temples. He pants as he speaks: "Seriously?"

Lily withdraws, and James follows suit (albeit, much more reluctantly.) "Come on," she says, swinging out of bed and grabbing his hands, tugging him impatiently. "It'll be fun."

James lets himself get pulled to standing, but he looks at her with mild irritation: "Why? I mean, we're fine here." He's quite hard, tenting his boxers as he stands. "Come on, hon, let's just do it here."

Lily pulls him in for a full kiss, wet with tongues and clinking teeth, like they're twelve again and behind the bleachers. It's easy to get James against the wall, pliable as he is, bending to Lily's demands of knees and arms and lips. They bump into the bedroom door pretty hard, and James knocks his head, which makes them laugh.

"C'mon," she says, between kisses, rolling into him with her thighs, her waist, pinning his hard cock between their stomachs and rolling it, which makes him squirm against her. Another kiss, and she pulls away.

James nearly gasps from the cold; he pouts at her, holding her hand which swings in the space between them lazily.

"Take off your boxers."

James looks at her curiously. "Uh –"

"Take them off." She crosses her arms, a Pan-like smirk across her face. "Come on."

James blushes, his body all caught in the orange light of the bedside lamp as Lily steps away. She's seen him naked so many times before, but now – undressing like this, in demand, pushed and posed and spot-lit; it seems different somehow, almost embarrassing, and his cock throbs at the thought and – oh God, I actually like this. Quickly, silently, he slips his boxers off, kicking them off with one foot and standing, if not proudly, then at least openly. His cock is fully hard, warm and pink, pointing out from his body, nestled neatly in the brown curls of his pubic hair; he touches it a few times, fingers sliding the length of his shaft, but otherwise keeps his hands by his sides. It's curious, Lily thinks, that she has never really looked at him this way. She has always loved him, always found passion in their relationship, in the sex, but she's never really thought of James as desirable – and here, embarrassed and totally, wonderfully naked – she wants him. She wants him in her, on her, whatever. The naivety of it, so like a teenager, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, the way he tries to cover up but thinks better of it, just standing there (God, he's skinny, she can see the feathered skin where his ribs are, the ridges of his hips and the bars of his collar) she has never found him more attractive.

"Come on," she says, smiling deeply and taking his hand. "Let's go."

He doesn't even complain; doesn't argue that, hey, he's really, really naked and incredibly hard and, holy shit, if Sirius saw him he would never live it down (ever); doesn't argue that if his parents Apparated in because they forgot something, the fire and brimstone that would come because of that – no, he just follows. Follows her downstairs, through the hall, out the front door and:

"The car." He stops in his tracks. "No, Lily, you don't get it – we really can't; it's Sirius' baby."

She let's go of his hand and continues on to the square little Jensen, rolling down the top of her knickers as she goes, swaying her hips and letting them drop to the ground as she walks. She turns to James and leans in on the metal body (it's freezing, she leaps back and gives a bright, clear laugh.) "C'mon James, I can't keep this sex kitten thing much longer without cracking up."

James, against his better judgment, against all judgment to be honest, follows her to the car. "You're really hot," he says in a whisper. "Like, really, really." It's not a very good excuse for what he's about to do, but he has to touch her, has to hold her (I'm sorry, Sirius.)

"You are, too." She kisses him on the mouth; not deep and passionate, not shallow and sweet – but there, incredibly, definitely there. Solid, dependable, totally in love.

They get in the car, the back seat like they do in all the movies and all the songs. Lily is in first, and she struggles against the leather to get into a good position. It's a roomy back seat, magically enhanced, so James has a better time of getting on top, though still embarrassingly awkward because it's James and everything he does is embarrassingly awkward.

"This is ridiculous," he says, running a hand though his hair and he leans up. Lily plays with his cock, sliding one finger along the underside, to stretch past his balls and towards his arse, finger playing gently around him.

"Isn't it?" She grins, and pulls James back down.

Like a teenager, he misses the first few times, want and need making him move too fast, and it's only when Lily intervenes (calming him, one hand around his cock, the other rubbing his shoulder) that he enters – and oh God he feels like he's going to come just then but he doesn't because he wants to go on forever, or at least until Lily comes.

He pushes into her quickly, untamed, thrusting so his glasses fall off his nose and Lily is laughing more than she's moaning. Her hands wrap around him to grab at the white of his arse, untanned as it is and shining brightly in the dark, which her fingers dig into, forcing him into her deeper and longer.

"Slow down, babe," Lily says, using her control to keep him in her, letting him release only when she wants to.

"Sorry, sorry." James looks at her, blind-eyed and immeasurably flustered, shining with pink and sweat. She laughs, and strokes his cheek and hair lovingly. "I hate it when you laugh," James replies, pulling back and straddling her hips again.

"I'm not laughing at you, hon." She leans up to kiss him. "I'm just laughing in general. I like to have a good time when we do it, you know that. I don't like weird silences."

"I'm not doing anything wrong?"

"Course you are," she says, "me too. Sex is supposed to be about that." James smiles, a bit bashfully, which makes her want him even more. "Here, let me suck you off."

They shift positions, difficultly, but the extended back seat gives her at least enough room to kneel between his legs. She takes him, right down to the base of his cock, which makes him buck forward, so she coughs and releases and laughs at James' expression which is a little high and a little sweet. "Just relax. You need patience." So she sucks him slower and James takes deep, panting breaths to control himself, and it all works very nicely until Lily's wandering hands (bored with scratching the plane of his stomach and chest) slip under his balls and push into his arse, one finger into his –

"Whoa – whoa – holy fuck –" James pulls his hips away, squeaking against the leather. "What are you doing?"

"Er – fingering you?"

"You can do that?"

She laughs, grinning. "Yes, I learned it from – well, somewhere." She presses a hand to his chest and pushes him back into the seat. "Now sit back and relax."

Reluctantly, questioningly, he does so. "You can't put a finger there –" but pauses as, bending over his cock, Lily licks the tip, and one of her fingers presses into him, inches into him, which feels amazingly weird and foreign, until she hits – something – and his whole body feels hot, electric coils unwinding through his bones and he gasps, and she hits it again, and "– oh God, put your finger there."

She continues like this for a while, one finger sliding in and out, curling sometimes and making James jerk and shake. Lily is almost-laughing as she swallows his cock; the sounds he's making, the grunts and pants and oh Gods and the frantic whimpering – it's too lovely. Amused by the thought, she slides in two fingers (James' eyes go wide, before settling into a sated grin), and fucks him like that. And then, now thoroughly entertained, she slides in another (index-middle-ring) and James gasps and swears (Oh – holy fucking fuck – good God in heaven – fuck! shit! fuck!) but he pushes in towards her, stuttered and squeaking against the leather, making her fingers go deeper, until she's almost buried to the knuckle.

After a good handful of minutes, she's cold and bored and James is almost there (trembling and panting, his chest flushed, as if painted red) and frankly, she is too. "Let's fuck," she says, finally, and James grins and agrees.

Lily is on top this time, and she pushes James down on the backseat (his head hitting the rolling arm, which makes them both giggle.) Lily climbs on top and James guides himself inside, fingers wet with her, and she holds him there, so she fucks his cock, and his hands, sliding up and down on top of his stomach, her hands reaching down to his shoulders.

Lily's face is amazing, James can see; all bright red along the cheekbones, and her lips are dark, like wet jewels. Her green eyes are screwed shut, and she's biting those lips with small white teeth. The freckles of her face are clearly visible, stark and inky against the white of her skin and her hair falls forward like a red curtain, rustled and untidy as it is; a wild, leonic, tangle that she brushes back frantically as she build up speed, only to have it fall back again.

"Fuck," James says, and Lily can see it in his eyes, that he's just about ready and it's only his want that keeps him on the edge; he always wants to see her come first, which she is happy to oblige.

"James – faster," and she can see his hands grip the edge of the seat, then the car window, then anything he can find because he's forcing his hips up and she's forcing them down and they're pinioned together, drawn and hammered together, so fully connected that they're breathing in sync, and pulsing in sync, and gasping in sync, and finally, finally –

– her thighs tighten against him as the orgasm rips through her, tugging at her hips so she pushes towards James, keeping him deep inside, forcing her so greatly that she falls forwards and catchers herself on her palms and gasps and pants and breathes the whole living thing out of her, and it's more than James can take and he whimpers – "Lily, oh my G – Lily" – and she can feel his hips buck and release inside her, James gasping and biting his lips so hard they bleed and he only manages to groan and mumble the rest of his pleasure into the cold, night air.

They gasp and pant and stare and grin at each other for a good long time. The afterglow is as heavy and warm as a blanket, and when James tries to move, Lily stops him, bending down and kissing him, saying: "No, no, please – stay inside." She likes the way he feels, the fullness and warmth of his cock, of his hands as they touch her, and their love as it fills them. It's the stupidest, sappiest thing, she knows – like something from Love Story, or The Way We Were, or any other romance movie they mutually drag themselves to, joking maliciously about it but secretly loving every minute.

"She's a rounder, I can tell you that –" James half-sings, half-speaks into the silence, "she can sing 'em all night too."

"What?"

"She'll raise hell 'bout the sleep she's lost – but even cowgirls get the blues."

Lily laughs, laughs until she's almost crying, warm and happy and sliding out so she can lie down on top of James, curling her legs around him and kissing his shoulder brightly. "I love you, you know that?"

"Especially cowgirls, they're the gypsy kind," he continues, "and need their reins laid on 'em loose – she's lived to see the world turned upside down, hitchin' rides out of the blue." He speaks with a ridiculous American accent, an absurd twang that he picks up from television.

Lily smiles, kisses him, and whispers the rest: "Even cowgirls get the blues."

"Get it?" James asks, turning and smiling at her. "Cowgirl – you were in the cowgirl position."

"Yes, love, I got it."

They get up, kiss and laugh again, and gather their clothes before heading back inside, curling under the covers and falling almost immediately asleep.

Remus joins them very early the next morning, long before the sun comes up, the world bathed only in the dim blue light of birthing dawn. The company is barely up in time to meet him, bleary-eyed and struggling along like fawns, uncertain of their feet. Breakfast is coffee (chocolate milk for James; indigestion, he says,) cigarettes, and a muffin tossed around between them in a game of catch. They pile into Sirius' car (Lily and James laugh, but no one knows why) and drive to a public park, a good ten minutes from the house.

The drive is a misery; Sirius is barely able to open his eyes and he drives unbearably slow; the others would have told him off but Peter is fast asleep in the front seat and Lily and James are drifting off together in the back. A ten minute drive becomes twenty, becomes thirty. Finally, at long last, they reach the park – the sun crests on their arrival, peaking over distant hills and making gold the streets of the sleeping city.

They're late, and Remus is sitting on a park bench, a large suitcase at his feet, smaller bag by his side. He looks sleepy too, baggy-eyed, bright and pale, though that might be more from the two-nights old transformation rather than the early hour. Sirius falls into him like a shadow; not really a hug, more a blending of persons, pools of water converging and connecting. They're close, impossibly tight, jacketed arms wrapped solidly around one another, faces buried in the others' shoulder, snuffling and smiling sleepily. ("Hi," Remus says. "Hi," Sirius replies.)

The boys give up on each other after half a minute, and Remus goes to hug his other friends, a short grasp-of-hands-turned-pat-on-the-back with James, a sweet, warm hug from Lily, a nudging of hands and shoulders with Peter. James grabs both pieces of luggage and tosses them into the (rather large, like the compartment of a train) boot of the car.

"So this is her?" Remus asks, admiring the car in the morning light.

"Yep," Sirius says, swaying and steadying himself on the hood.

"She's pretty." Remus touches the ridge of the door. "Very pretty."

The company nods, too tired for words.

"Shall we go on then?" Remus asks, receiving another nod.

"Get in the front," Sirius motions to Remus, getting into the driver's seat. The rest fold in easily, the back seat as long as a park bench.

The ride home is smoother, faster than the ride up. The sun is warm and wide, brushing them all yellow and orange as they cruise through barren streets. James, Lily, and Peter are easily lulled into sleep, leaning against each other simply, James snoring lightly. Remus is wide awake now, and eager to make up for lost time; he tells stories, knowing Sirius is too tired to reply, and keeps them awake long enough to get back to Godric's Hollow safely.

"I don't know how you all made it down there," Remus says, man-handling his own luggage from the cavernous boot.

"Whaddya mean?" Sirius says, yawning widely and stretching so that a wide strip of skin and boxer is revealed beneath his jacket and shirt.

"You can barely keep your eyes open," Remus chuckles, touching Sirius on the shoulder. "I guess you all should go back to sleep."

They nod blearily, James supporting a barely-conscious Peter by the shoulder.

The five of them amble inside and manage to get up the stairs accident-free. The parting of ways happens at the top landing, James and Lily meandering off to James' room with a mumbled g'night ("morning," Remus corrects, laughing) with Peter and Sirius posed to go to the Potters' bedroom.

"You coming too?" Sirius asks, yawning again. "There's more than enough room."

"I should pack. You guys go sleep, I'll be fine."

"But," Sirius complains half-heartedly. "Remus?"

"Go to sleep, Sirius. I'll see you later." Remus hugs him and gives him a friendly kiss on the jaw, straddling that stubbled border between cheek and throat. Sirius nods and leaves, shutting the door gently behind him as he goes.

By the time they wake up, Remus is already making breakfast: pancakes and bacon, an unusual combination ("but the only thing I could find," Remus explains.) Sirius is the second one down after Lily, who he finds sitting cheerfully at the table, hair pulled back with an elastic, sipping at black coffee. She's wearing James' over-sized Tutshill Tornadoes shirt (with a little golden snitch flying in circles around each sleeve) and pastel blue knickers, smooth legs crossed over and tapping her foot to the rock music Remus has playing on the radio.

Sirius, shirtless and dressed only in torn khaki shorts scratches his sides and sits in across from Lily. His hair is a dark nest about his ears, tangled and all over the place; he smells faintly of sweat and cigarettes and old shampoo.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Lily says, nudging his shin with her foot. "Good dreams?"

He nods. "Any more coffee?"

"Instant de-caf okay?"

"Er, not really." Sirius rubs the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders as he does. "I'm gonna need the real stuff."

"I don't think James has any," Remus says, opening the cabinets to check.

"Look in the freezer," Sirius says, "I know mum keeps it in there, thinks it keeps it fresh."

Sure enough, there's a bag of instant coffee, which Remus makes with a flick of his wand. "Milk? Sugar?" he asks, but Sirius refuses, drinking it black. "So, you call them mum and dad now?"

"Yeah," Sirius says, sipping his coffee reverently. "I mean, that's what they are, right?"

Remus smiles. "So, what do you want on your pancakes?" He asks, pouring the instant-ready batter onto the frying pan as he does.

"Just syrup and butter, please." He drains his mug and gets another, lighting up a cigarette as he does. "Want one?" he gestures to Lily, but she refuses.

"Woodbine are nasty," she says, taking James' carton of Benson & Hedges from the kitchen table. "I don't know how you smoke them."

Sirius shrugs. "Different strokes. Remus?"

"No, thank you."

Breakfast is made in silence, punctuated only by the sips of coffee and satisfied sighs. The first plate of pancakes is done by the time Peter comes down (dressed in undershirt and pale yellow boxers) and sits next to Sirius.

"Allo," he says, good mornings received in reply. Lily offers him a cigarette, which he refuses: "I've given up on them," he says. "Mum thinks they're foul. Won't let me smoke them in the house. Are we having pancakes then?"

"And bacon," Remus says, heating up a new pan and taking the plate of raw bacon from the fridge.

"Coffee?" Sirius asks, reclining lazily against Peter's shoulder.

"Yes, please." He drinks it with three milks and three sugars. "Thank you."

James comes down last, torn-up jeans and open Oxford cotton shirt being his mode. He slides in next to Lily and kisses her on the cheek, takes the remainder of the pancakes, and kisses her once more on the corner of the mouth. Sirius smirks and Peter grins, a bit stupidly. Remus makes another plate of pancakes, and with it a healthy portion of bacon; finished, he sits in with his friends and they eat in silence.

"So, tomorrow," Remus says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "We're off tomorrow morning, then?"

"With any luck," James says, helping himself to the coffee, "we'll be on our way by nine, at the cottage by midnight."

"And you and Pete are driving?" he asks, turning to Sirius.

"Yep. We'll break it up into four, I guess." Sirius looks at Peter, who shrugs. "Something like that."

"Should we show him the route?" Lily asks, pleased to be in on the joke this time.

"Nah, he's been there four times," James says, touching her hand. "You're the only – uh, uninitiated."

"How long have you all been going, then?" Lily asks, turning to look at Sirius.

"Uh, well, the first time was just James and me. That was – oh, Lord, the summer before third year, I guess. That was a total disaster – me, my parents, Regulus, my cousins Bella and Cissa, and poor little James." He punches James in the shoulder, affectionately. "I knew he loved me a lot if he stuck with me through that debacle. Then Remus and Peter came the year after that, before fourth year. Thankfully, we only had Alphard and Regulus to worry about that year. The rest of the trips were just us four." He pauses to think. "If I remember, Pete couldn't come up the summer before sixth – or was it fifth?"

"Sixth," Peter adds.

"Right, sixth. Glandular fever, right?" (Peter nods) "And now, here you are," Sirius says, gesturing to Lily. "Our last hurrah before we have to figure out what to do with our lives now that school is done. Well, you guys have to worry at least," Sirius says, grinning, "I'm filthy rich."

"I was kind of wondering how you bought that car," Lily says, tapping a finger to her chin. "What with you being, erm, excommunicated."

"We can thank my Uncle Alphard for that. Left me his fortune, he did," Sirius explains. "He's the same one who gave me the house, the one we're going to. Not well liked – neither him, nor I." He looks a bit upset, the kind of expression he always gets when he talks about his family – like he's twisting the blade. "Oh well."

They sit and drink in silence, itchy and hot from the mid-day heat and their extended naps; sticky with dry sweat in the lines of their skin, stuck hot in the hollows of knees and the folds of elbows, coiling against the line of hair, all of it exasperated by the hot coffee and food. Sirius suggests a swim, but Lily and Remus bring the subject back to packing: less than twenty-four hours and still they're not nearly done.

The next few hours are a maelstrom; packing, cleaning, driving, fixing, with only momentary pauses for food and drink. Lily keeps the boys focused, who become easily undone by television and sleep, bag-eyed and unshaven through the last few hours of this ordeal. Little catnaps in swirling pools of dust have become the norm, and seeing James and Sirius collapsed on the couch between tasks is commonplace.

By dinnertime, the work is done: empty boxes litter the hall, but all the clothes and valuables have been packed into suitcases, important objects (the record player, games, pillows and sheets for another bed, collapsible chaises lounge, etc.) are already in the over-sized boot of the car ("Their dad suggested it!" Lily says to an unphased Remus, who replies with a smile: "You don't really know Mr. Potter, do you?") The clean-up is quick and easy, and for once the house looks and smells like human beings live in it, not teenage boys.

The conversation, as conversations with boys often do, turns to food: "Are we going to the market, then?" Peter asks.

"We'll get food when we're there," Sirius says. "The food's a lot better there, and it'll be fresher. We'll just bring whatever for the car ride, stop along the way for meals."

"And booze?" James adds, grinning.

"We can pick all that up in Annecy. Unless there's stuff here we can't get there – what're you thinking?"

"Whiskey – they don't really do it proper, do they, the French?"

Sirius grins. "I forgot you're drinking big boy stuff now. If I remember, there's a nice big collection of Lagavulin twenty-five in the cellar."

"Man," James says, "are you serious? That stuff is ridiculously expensive –"

Sirius shrugs. "Toujuors pur?" That settles it because – please, please shut up about my family, Sirius is nearly begging them. Please, don't bring them up. Please?

They order pizza, drink the wine that was refused the night before, and watch a movie on the telly, again, all clumped up together (head in lap on knee over arm on shoulder against head on lap.) And when Remus is the only one left awake, he nudges his companions and they dawdle like children up the stairs, swaying in half-sleep like penguins on the ice.

"See you tomorrow," they say on the landing, exchanging hand-slaps and hugs, punches in the shoulder and smiles. They part their own ways, Peter (now alone) into the parents' bedroom, Remus and Sirius off to the Sirius' bedroom, and Lily and James towards James' room, except for –

"Oh, damn," Lily says, "I forgot my sunglasses in the car." She kisses James on the nose. "I'll be right back." Sirius tosses her the keys and she walks once more down the staircase and out the front door. James grins and punches Sirius in the shoulder – I'm getting some tonight, it says – and leaves to his own bedroom, closing the door behind him. The other boys nod their goodbye and go to their own bedrooms.

"I'll take the bathroom first," Sirius says, stepping away from the bedroom. "All right?"

Remus shrugs. "If you want." He leaves the door ajar.

Remus undresses quickly, tossing off his T-shirt and patched trousers and bundling them in the laundry basket. He stays in his black boxers (Sirius') and puts on an undershirt, sliding into bed and taking a novel out of his book bag , an old dime-store copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, which he reads absently, not really paying attention.

Beginning to drift off, he's woken suddenly by the sound of Lily walking up the creaky old staircase, followed by muffled conversation, the sound of keys jangling, then silence. Not really sure why, Remus slides out of bed and walks slowly to the bedroom door, as silent as he can. It is open an inch, and he looks out the crack to the stairway landing: Lily is there, and Sirius. Kissing. Not just a casual kiss, a peck on the cheek like everyone seems to give out around here like candy, but real, horrible kissing; open-mouthed with stupid roaming hands over Sirius' stupid naked body (totally naked, not even decency to cover him up), fingers that slide down the cream stretch of Sirius' ribs, the notches of his spine, the small of his back, along the cleft of his arse, fingers grabbing the white skin the find there. Lily has her skirt far up her thigh, gathered by one hand at her waist, her bra-straps pulled down her shoulders – and Sirius is pressing into her, and they soon find the wall and it makes Remus want to pull away but God, Lily's expression, and Sirius' little breathy pants, would-be screams that filter through the situation into fragile whimpers – he can't look away. It's absurd they can be this silent, when their movements are so strong, so violent; the way Sirius thrusts into her, his whole body moving like a wave, from shoulders to stomach to cock; the way Lily scratches his back, short nails trailing vivid red line down to his arse, where her hand plies there, one or two fingers entering into him, which makes Sirius twitch and thrust even more.

Remus backs away from the door, and sits on the edge of the bed, opening and closing his mouth, like a fish out of water. He hadn't felt a pain like this, deep in his stomach (writhing and biting), since his mother died. He doesn't know what to do; what Lily is doing, it's wrong, and James (poor, naοve James) deserves to know. And Sirius – Sirius likes Lily? Sirius never liked Lily. The bastard likes her. (And I thought he liked me, a little voice says before Remus realizes it's his own.) And James, James who Sirius calls his brother, closer than Regulus, closer than anyone. James who Sirius would die for. And in James' own house. Remus falls back into the bed, the smell of Sirius all around him like a persistent perfume of sweat and after-shave and the chlorine tang of come. He should be disgusted by what Sirius has done, but this smell is comfortable, the scent of Sirius such a constant, total reminder of why he's happy. All of a sudden, like a holy revelation, he decides to say nothing.

When Sirius comes back into the room, Remus is already sleeping.

"Rise up, Lazarus."

Remus snorts and turns over, nuzzling into the warm pillow. He is poked again, in the side.

"Come on, Remus, it's almost time to go."

Remus' eyes flutter open and he turns around, bedclothes all a-tangle around his arms and legs, tentacles of sleep keeping him pinioned to the bed. He's shirtless now (cast off in the heat of the night) and his penis is uncomfortably hard, pressed in against the twisted folds of his boxers. Sirius is standing before him, nude, one hand half-heartedly cupping his dick, the other holding a lit cigarette which he sucks on thoughtfully.

"There's some hot water left, I think, if you want a shower, and Lily is making breakfast." Remus nods and leans up on his elbows. "I brought you up some coffee," he gestures to the mug on the bedside table, "one milk, two sugars, right?" ("Yeah.") "Better get ready quick though, it's twenty to nine."

Remus nods again before flopping back into the bed.

"Is everything all right?" Sirius asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Yeah," Remus says, yawning and stretching. "Slept bad, that's all."

"Oh," Sirius says, smiling sympathetically. "I'm sorry." Remus shrugs. "Well, you can sleep in the car if you want. I'm driving first, you can have shotgun if you'd like." Remus shrugs again, which makes Sirius smile, puzzled. "All right, well, see you." He grabs a T-shirt and shorts from the chair near the door and leaves the room.

Miraculously, they're in the car by nine, on the dot. James checks and double-checks the locks on the front door (Lily has to restrain him from running back inside to check the stove – "James, hon, we haven't used the stove,") and after a few false starts (running back in for books, pens, et cetera) they're off.

The morning is cold, and the fivesome wear their coats, Sirius looking wonderfully cool in his red leather jacket (ΰ la Rebel Without a Cause,) kicking the car from first into third and taking off from Tutshill, direction Gloucester road, and out they go.

Sirius has the top of the car down despite the cold, and the chilling wind roars past them as he more than doubles the speed limit. Remus, like a puppy in a car, grins brightly as they cruise through scattered trees and villages, while James, Lily, and Peter snooze absently in the back seat.

"Are you excited?" Sirius asks after a bit, yanking down into third as they pass a school zone.

"Yeah." Remus smooths his hair back, which does nothing but make it flop once more in his eyes. "Definitely."

"I'm glad." Sirius looks glad, too. "I was wondering – did you maybe want to sleep in my bedroom this time? I mean, at the cottage."

Remus nods. "Sure." This is the first time he has. Usually he sleeps with Peter, James and Sirius taking the same bed to do whatever it is they do (Remus' stomach lurches, remembering the previous night; James, oh God, if James found out.)

"Je t'aime, tu sais?"

"What?" Remus asks, smiling.

"Je t'aime. I like you."

Remus scratches the back of his neck. "Er, joo tam too."

Sirius laughs, says nothing.

They drive over a big bridge, the one that crosses the brown filth of the Bristol channel. The rattling of the metal is enough to wake the boys and girl up, who yawn and stretch and smile happily as the sun reflects gold on the water, inking them all with Aztec patterns of sunlight.

The conversation is loud and hollow; jokes and banter that make everyone smile happily, the perfect kind of summer stupidity, rooted grandly in the ancient tradition of deprecation and shoulder-punching and jokes about sex. Peter gets hungry and his bookbag seems to be filled entirely with sweets, which he shares happily with the rest of his companions. Remus unearths the coke (which had been warming up in the over-sized glove compartment) passing the glass bottles back to the other three, gladly accepted by James (for digestion, he says, suckling on the lip of the bottle childishly while Lily rubs his stomach, a bit jokingly.)

"Mum used to live there, as a girl," James says, suddenly, pointing at a sign that reads CHIPPING SODBURY STAY LEFT. "Didn't make it very far," he says with a loud smile.

"We're on the road to London," Sirius explains later, yelling over the rush of the wind. "Two hours and we'll be on the ring road. About four until Dover. And then off to France."

The conversation into the London area is sparsely populated, tiredness still reigning so that the four passengers fall asleep at shifting intervals, often leaving Sirius to his thoughts and the curls and coils of wind (warming as they day grows old.) The route is boring, littered as it is with trees and low-lying British houses with nice British gardens and things that never really made Sirius feel like he was home; propriety, stiffness, position, appearance – things that might make Remus or Lily feel at home, but makes Sirius feel like he's trapped, restrained maybe. France (la destination) is his home; the wildness, the extravagance, the wine, the uncontainable quality of it all. Why his parents moved to England – and London, of all places – is beyond him, but even in questioning that, he realizes all the good it has brought him: Remus, Peter, Lily, and James. France means Beauxbβtons, which means no Animagi, no practical jokes, no making fun of Snivellus, no summer trips with the Marauders (it means no Marauders at all actually) and suddenly he's very happy he lives in England, in London (though now in Tutshill, with his only real brother,) because he has all he really ever needs.

Sirius turns to Remus: "Would you help me bury a body?"

"Wh – what?"

"Would you help me bury a body?"

"What do you mean? What have you done?"

"I haven't done anything, I'm just asking if you'd help me bury a body. Hypothetically."

"You haven't killed anyone?" Remus looks at him, askance.

"Not yet." He grins. "I'm just asking, would you –" he swerves to miss a pothole, "– help me, or turn me in?"

"I'd help you, obviously," Remus says. "We all would." Remus turns to look at James, Peter, and Lily, but the three weren't paying attention. "Just make sure it's someone we don't like."

"Same here." His shoulders fall back, a bit more relaxed than the awkward-start morning.

They stop in Dover for food, finally undone by James' incessant complaining. It's a small little pub, specializing in small little pub food; ploughman's and meat pies and fish and chips and hot pots and pasties and the like. Remus and Sirius share an over-sized steak and kidney pie while the rest of them get steaming, violently yellow Cornish pasties. James volunteers to get the round, and Peter buys a second. An hour passes, and Lily voices their lateness.

"No worries," Sirius replies. "We'll get the 1:15 ferry, we'll be in by three."

They finish their meals (getting another few pasties to go) and get into the car, which Sirius maneuvers to where the ferry is moored. He gets out and makes talk with the ferry operators milling around the dock like lost sheep, and he gets them all tickets, and a car pass for the Jensen. They drive into the yawning belly of the ferry, rolling into their assigned place and chaining the tires.

"All right," Sirius says, brushing off his hands. "Let's go on deck." They gather their things from the car, Lily grabbing her Jackie-O's and book, Remus taking the same battered copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and James and Peter dragging the chess board from the boot. They set themselves up near the back of the boat, around a cluster of three tables and five chairs, each collapsing into their own pastimes: Peter challenging James to a game of chess, Lily and Remus sat near each other reading, Sirius doodling absently on a notepad, occasionally looking up to watch Peter trounce James.

Sirius falls asleep quickly, only minutes into the cruise, and James (sharp-eyed) gets a blanket from one of the ferry operators and covers his boy's legs (Sirius curls into it, smacking his lips like a child as he grasps it in his hands.)

"Sirius," Lily tests, an hour and a half later. "Sirius?" She nudges him, rocking his arms so he wakes up slowly, blinking into light. They're well into the trip now, nearing the French shore; the ferry rocks gently, creaking as it steers through the cold water, the smell of salt and foam bursts against the side of the boat as it goes. "We're almost there. We got you a tea." She offers him a steaming mug, which he takes gratefully. Sirius feels lightheaded, hungover from the thick, metallic taste of the sea air, sick from the rocking and irritated by his nap. Drinking the tea quickly, he realizes he feels a bit feverish, sweating and cold at the same time, and he lets James and Lily touch their hands to his forehead (a nice comfort.)

"You feel hot," James decides.

Lily presses her lips to Sirius' forehead, a thing she explains her mum did for her when she was a child. "You're very hot," she agrees, wiping the sweat from Sirius' forehead. "Peter will take the rest of the drive, at least until you feel better." Sirius nods, feeling his eyes wet because of the wind (or so he tells himself.) "Did we pack any wine?" Sirius nods, blinking rapidly. "It's good for a fever," she explains, "so we'll give you a bit of that." It's nice when Lily makes all the decision; quick, efficient, intelligent – things only a girl could do right now, not so much motherly as simply compassionate, an inclination that boys just don't have. She knows exactly what to say: "Remus will take the front seat, you can sleep in the back with James and I, we'll take good care of you."

The boat docks with little incident, and the five (James wrapping an unnecessary arm around Sirius shoulders) go below deck. Peter, with a sympathetic pat on Sirius' shoulder, gets in the driver's seat, Remus reluctantly getting in beside him. In the back, Sirius (wearing Lily's large white-plastic sunglasses) is bookended by James and Lily, still wrapped in the blanket they've stolen from the ferry. He falls asleep against James' shoulder, curled up on the bench-long backseat while his best friend strokes his hair absently. Lily holds his hand. They drive in silence.

Calais is a sooty little town, grey and old with that strange combination of old and new buildings that personify Metropolis France. The waves still break in salty steel, and the clouds billow and cover like so much smoke.

It's easy to tell that Peter is a good driver, though he doesn't have the natural skill that Sirius does; the car jerks and shivers as he changes gear, but he has a better love of the road; he doesn't speed, he doesn't cut off, he behaves appropriately, the perfect defensive driver. Sirius would have cried.

A half hour into the drive and distant from the slate of the sea, the clouds finally burst and the sun floods the landscape like a river breaking a dam. Thick, layered suburbia gives way to thick fields and farm plots, small wooden houses and stone villas; windmills and farmhouses. The air takes on a summery smell; sweet from flowers and grapes and tomato, earthy and raw, like freshly ground wheat or handfuls of wet dirt.

Sirius stirs occasionally, sometimes after a particularly rocky piece of road, or a sharp turn, and he snuffles and mumbles, eyes only opening in squints to look up at James, smiling down.

"Kiss me," Sirius says, shifting closer to James. "Please?" It's easy to understand what he wants; if James is there, right there, right beside him, always.

James looks to Lily, who smiles and shrugs. He lean down and kisses Sirius on the cheek.

"Nuh-uh," Sirius moans, rolling about in half-sleep. "Like you mean it."

Lily looks at James, curious, thought not offended. "It's complicated," is James' reply, and he leans down, kissing Sirius lightly on the lips for a handful of seconds.

"Thanks," he mumbles and goes back to sleep.

"He's a demanding boy," Lily says, a bit coldly.

"Yeah," James replies, distantly. "He is."

"You have an odd relationship," Lily says, touching his arm gently.

"Yeah." James doesn't smile; cold. "We do." It's clear, and Lily remains silent: he doesn't want to talk about.

They stop in Arlay, eleven o'clock at night. Sirius has slept through the day, though his fever still holds sway, delirious and irate, pouting and sniffling when he isn't sleeping. They stop in a family restaurant, somewhere off the A39; an Italian-French place where they order family dishes of pasta and caviar d'aubergine (kind of a mushed-up eggplant with olive oil and herbs on bread, James explains.) Sirius is curled up asleep on the long-bench next to James, head on his lap, where he sleeps restlessly, taking in gulps of mulled wine that James holds for him at the ready.

"How's he doing?" Remus asks, pushing his pasta around his plate.

"He's okay," James says, stroking Sirius' sweaty hair like that of a dog's. "I'm sure once he has a bath and a good sleep he'll be fine."

Peter is nodding off where he sits, leaning in to press his head against Remus' shoulder. They're entering almost into a second night now, twelve hours of driving pushing them through cloud and sun, traveling so far they feel like they've gone over the curve of the earth, passing into the aching dawn that waits ahead. Lily offers to take over driving (how hard can it be? she asks – James laughs) but Peter waves her off, so focused on the task that it would be disappointing to give up now.

The drive through the night is taken in utter silence, populated only by the squeaking of crickets and the buzz of locusts; caterwauls of animals and the hollow echo of night. Peter drives with a steely determination, knuckles cold and white because he hasn't yet figured out how to lift the top of the convertible. Sirius snores quietly in Lily's lap, and Lily and James hold hands. Remus reads the map, bored.

The clock reads 12:54 when they crawl in the front drive of the summer house, rolling to a stop with a satisfying gravel crunch. The road is lined with perfect privet hedges and wide, fanning evergreens; thick (though neatly kept) flower gardens erupt in intervals as the headlights of the car flash over their colour. It's difficult to judge the size of the place; there are no lights, only the beams of the Jensen to illuminate the front yard – here, tall white columns with peeling paint, white sideboards and heavy-shuttered windows, a large double front door (over which a sign read MAISON SERPANTARD – Toujours Pur) and an open-air garage, just a weathered covering of shingle and wood. Peter pulls into there (uncertain, as Sirius is asleep) and turns of the car, which cools quickly and putts and creaks its pleasure.

They get out of the car sleepily, ambling, James half-dragging Sirius into the house. James has the keys, luckily, and opens the doors. It's harder still to the judge the interior – dark, furniture ghostly with thick canvas dust-covers, and they can't find the light switch despite all their blind wall-fumbling. Giving up, James lights his wand and they make their way upstairs.

"That," James says, pointing to the large double-doors at the end of the upstairs hallway, "is the parents' bedroom, and that," he points his wand to the next door down, illuminating old picture frames lining the hall as he does, "is the bathroom," and the next, "and Sirius and Regulus' old room," and the next, "and the spare room." The company nod and divide amongst themselves, Peter taking the spare room, James (supporting a snuffling Sirius in his strong arms) and Lily and Remus continuing down the hall.

Sirius wakes by the time they reach his bedroom door: "We're here?"

"We're here," Remus says, touching his hair softly. James lets him down and Sirius wobbles on his feet. He isn't very hot anymore, but still sweaty. "I'm glad." His eyes are bloodshot, but his skin seems to glow a bit healthier.

"Goodnight, Sirius," Lily says, kissing his sweaty forehead quickly. "Feel better."

James gives him a hug and starts away, but is stopped by a hand to his arm: "Wait, Jamie," Sirius says, reverting to old, childish names, "come sleep with me." It's less a request.

James tilts his head questioningly, but Lily gets there first: "No, Sirius, you just go to bed, Remus will take care of you."

Sirius ignores her, flushed and red and delirious: "Jamie, please. Let's go." It's like there's no one else there. "Please?"

James doesn't speak, he looks torn, mostly, and quietly upset. Lily speaks again: "No, Sirius," she says firmly, "it's out of the question. Just go to bed, you'll see James tomorrow."

Sirius, without a word, opens the door and flops down on the bed, releasing a cloud of dust as he does. Remus flicks on the bedroom light (illuminating a bare white room, a variety of magical and non-magical portraits lining the walls, all of their subjects sleeping soundly; with them old posters of cars and girls and – most prominently – the movie Easy Rider – as well as family photos and such) and the three of them watch Sirius – there he is, lying on his stomach, fully clothed, boots on and everything, facing the far corner of the room.

"Uh, goodnight then, Sirius," James says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

Silence.

"Sirius?" Silence. "G'night, man." Silence, still. "Goodnight?"

Lily sighs impatiently. "If he's pissed off, he's pissed off." Sirius is like this a lot, and she knows it: hot-blooded and brilliant shifting seamlessly into cold anger and isolation, hatred into desperation, sweetness into cruelty; what James affectionately calls his PMS – pissy man syndrome. Anything can turn Sirius from extraversion inwards – a touch, a kiss, the wrong word, the wrong thought, the wrong name (just try talking about Regulus.) It makes their relationship as exciting as it is frustrating; or at least with Lily, the boys know that when Sirius gets moody, if they just back off for a couple hours he'll be right as rain, shaking the anger off like water from a duck's back.

Lily takes a leaf from their book and leads James by the hand (with one last look, despondent) to their own bedroom, leaving poor Remus to fend against this prickly-minded foe stuck in Sirius' skin.

Remus closes the door behind him, his back flat against it, looking at his friend. Sighing, he begins to undress his friend, tugging off the heavy boots and dropping them with a clatter to the ground.

"How are you feeling?" Remus asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Sirius doesn't reply.

"Sirius, are you asleep?" He isn't; Sirius turns to look at Remus steadily, though still silent. "How are you feeling?" Sirius makes no reply, just continues his blank stare, a stare so steady it seems hateful. "Why are you angry at me?" Remus says, pointedly. "I haven't done anything." Sirius turns around, still stomach-flat against the bed. "You know what – fine." Remus gets off the bed and leaves, parting with: "We're your friends, Sirius, it'd be nice if you remembered that sometimes." He closes the door quietly behind him.

Sirius wakes up, early and hideously hot, curled in a whirlpool of dust and sunlight. He's still fully dressed and sitting on top of the covers, his bedroom light fighting feebly to be seen against the flood of morning sun – Remus clearly didn't return.

Sirius feels hungover, a bad taste in his mouth and he's weak all over, arms and legs feeling like the joints of puppet. His hair is oily and messed in every direction, his eyes red and swollen, face itchy with stubble. Sirius peels off his sweat-stiff clothes and drops them on his bed, dragging himself the short distance to the bathroom, slow-footed like drunkard. The shower is cold and refreshing; he jerks off with soap-slick hands and examines his pearl-white come like a fragile spider web caught between his fingers, or the draped links of a finely-wrought gold necklace (finally letting it wash away in the cold stream.) Getting out he doesn't much care to dry off, patting his slick hair absently with a towel and wrapping it around his waist.

James is the only one awake when Sirius pads into the kitchen. They're silent, just looking at each other, blinking rapidly. Sirius looks better, that's for sure; his colour has returned to that well-cared-for glow and tan, as smooth and even as a polished stone or maybe the rind of a hard cheese; his cheeks are flushed, and his ears, too, behind that thick weedy tangle of wet hair; his muscles bulge and relax as he shifts his weight from foot to foot and he can see the short bramble of hair that creeps above the lip of the towel, sweet and hot and speaking of fresh sex.

The moment breaks and they smile: "I'm sorry," they say in unison, breaking into grins again, the issue satisfyingly dealt with.

Breakfast is a stupid affair; bright green mint sodas they picked up in Arlay and cheese-flavoured crisps bought way back in Dover. The two boys sit on the back porch, a large screen-covered wooden platform that connects from the kitchen, decked with old, rickety chairs and tables, wrought-iron side-tables and footstools and the jetsam of dozens of years of use (tools, toys, broken highballs and old wine bottles; aged family detritus.)

They chat and eat casually, Sirius sitting back, naked, and toweling off his hair, James scratching at new bug bites and telling a story Sirius has already heard before ("so, I already had ten shots of rum, and then my cousin says we should do a keg stand –") The sun is still low in the sky and the air is cool in the shadows of the veranda, thick with the sounds of crows and the low warble of insects. They smoke James' Benson & Hedges (chick fags, Sirius teases) before Sirius goes out to the car (holding his cock and sneaking around like the world's worst spy – James roars with laughter) and returns with a large plastic bag filled with neatly-rolled joints, the fruits of a past day's labour. They light one each and suck on them silently, thoughtfully.

"Cool, early bird special," Peter says, stepping out onto the veranda. He's wearing a vibrant Hawaiian shirt and a blue bathing suit; a broad, stretching smile and his hair badly parted. He sits in next to James and pushes his teashade glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Sirius offers Peter the joint (gladly taken) and drops the towel from around his shoulders and over his naked waist, crossing his legs under him as he does, leaning forward, chin on hands.

"I like that," James says, taking a deep draw the smoke coming out in thin wisps as he talks. "The way your skin folds when you lean forward." He touches one hand to the warm skin of Sirius' tummy, patting it lightly. "See, the way it curls there, like a ribbon or something." James' hands linger there for a moment, possessively, fingers sliding in against hot muscle, the tips just probing the dry coil of hair that nestles beyond the towel.

Sirius grins and rubs his own stomach. "I guess. I haven't really thought about it." He tucks his hands under his armpits and sighs. "See, I've always kind of liked this," he says, nodding to his underarms, withdrawing his hands and touching the thin fold of flesh that pinches between chest and shoulder. "That little fold of skin there," and pokes it absently, drawing the same finger to the dark flesh of his nipple. "I always thought it was weirdly sexy."

James nods: "And collarbo –"

"Did you guys have a fight last night?" Peter interrupts.

"What? – er, no," Sirius says, blushing. He looks at James, who shrugs. "We're fine."

"No – I mean Remus," Peter replies, sucking on the joint, "he came and slept with me last night."

"Oh," Sirius says, "that was, uh, nothing. Just a misunderstanding."

"He looked pretty upset," Peter continues, cheerfully.

"Yeah, we just had a minor fight." Sirius grits his teeth. "It was nothing. Really."

Peter takes another drag: "I mean, he cried pretty much until he fell asleep."

James winces, but Sirius stares straight ahead, deadly cold: "Thank you, Peter."

"I mean, really sobbing. It was awful." He says it conversationally, casually, as if commenting on the weather.

"Shut up, Peter."

Peter either doesn't hear him, or ignores him: "I mean, I held his shoulder but I really didn't know what to do –"

"SHUT UP, PETER."

They're silent, and Peter pouts. A cool wind rolls through and Sirius shivers, naked, skin bristling with goose pimples, laps paling and going chapped. It's hard to see the lake from the veranda (wide-boughed trees set in a line, forming a shield, rustling and swaying in the wind) but the three try hard, staring through the brush like they have X-ray vision, imagining the lake because they're unwilling to look at each other.

"I'm going to get changed," Sirius says, getting up and throwing the damp towel over his shoulders again, scratching his side thoughtfully. "Then we can go to the market, get some food." James nods lazily and Peter looks away as if he hasn't heard. "Should I wake Lily up?"

"She's probably up already."

"Mm-kay." Sirius turns to the door but is pre-empted as Remus steps out onto the veranda. They stare at each other blankly, deer caught in the same headlight. Remus blinks rapidly and Sirius just stares. It's almost funny, the two of them; Sirius naked and Remus in a nice shirt and shorts; Sirius still a bit wet and chilled from the morning, Remus clean and warm; Sirius' lip trembling, Remus stiff and solid.

"Oh, Christ, Remus," Sirius moans, throwing his arms around Remus' shoulders, kissing his neck and holding him like he's drowning. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry." Remus smiles naturally, a smile so full and warm that it makes obvious the hollowness of his frown.

"It's really not that big a deal," Remus says, patting Sirius' naked back awkwardly, but it's too late now; too much talk with Peter, too much reflection, and Sirius thinks he has ruined everything (histrionic bastard, Remus thinks, you know I love you.)

Sirius grabs Remus' cheeks roughly and kisses him on the lips – once, twice, three times – wet, stupid things like the kisses of a dog, beauty in the meaning rather than the action. James grins (it amuses him) and looks over to Peter to let him in on the joke, but finds his friend's face lacking, blinking slowly and staring vacantly at the scene, almost unbelieving. Peter's joint dangles from his lower lip, which James tugs away to startle him out of his reverie ("Don't Bogart, Pete.")

"I'm going to get changed," Sirius says, cheerfully. "Then we're going out."

"Go for it," Remus smiles. Sirius nods, touches Remus' shoulder, and retreats into the house. Remus watches him go, the white beacon of his arse shining in the still-dark house as Sirius bounds up the staircase (Remus chuckles, scratching his neck bashfully.) He takes Sirius' vacated seat.

"Hola," James says, slapping hands with Remus. "Ηa va?" Remus nods, taking James' proffered joint. "Have you seen Lily?"

"Showering," Remus coughs, breathing deeply and picking a seed from his tongue. "Or, last I saw."

"Are you dating Sirius?" Peter asks suddenly.

"Am I – what? Dating?"

Peter frowns: "Going out. Together."

"Uh… huh… no." Remus narrows his eyes. "Why would you ask?"

"I don't really care if you're, like, a poof. Or if you bugger him or whatever." Peter grimaces, but thinks better of it and lets a weird smile fill his face. "I mean, I don't care if you're a gay. I just want to know."

"What does it matter, Pete?" James intervenes warningly.

"Because people don't tell me things!" Peter says, his voice rising. "I don't even know what's up with you guys!"

"Chill, Peter," James replies, like soothing a startled colt. "They just had a fight, that's all." James glances to Remus, who nods his consent. "Sirius wanted – uh – my company. Last night, when he was sick. He took out his anger on Remus. That's it. It's okay now."

Peter frowns. "And you couldn't tell me that before?" he asks, turning to Remus.

"It was none of your business," James says.

"Apparently nothing is." Peter sits back down and frowns. James sighs angrily and shakes his head. They're silent for a long time, and Peter eventually speaks, clearly not done with the subject: "Why did you kiss him then?" James glares at him, unbelieving, but Remus waves him down with a hand.

"We love each other, but we're not – um, in love," Remus says thoughtfully. "That's just what Sirius is like; you should know that by now. We're just friends."

"So, what, Sirius is a poof?"

"Peter! for fuck's sake –" James rounds on him furiously, "– he's not gay, none of us are. Now shut up or I'm leaving. Jesus Christ." Peter shuts up because Peter is Peter and when James says jump, Peter gets out the burning hoops.

Sirius pokes his head out to the veranda: "We're going now."

"We're going now," James repeats, almost thankfully. They extinguish their joints and leave.

The market is like something from a novel; cluttered with stalls and people, bursting with many-coloured tapestries and jewelry (some hand-made and fine, others plastic day-glo); stands piled high with jars and urns and clay pots of every kind, from Ming to mason; ancient toys and memorabilia from les trente glorieuses, the roaring twenties, even some Napoleonic treasures that Sirius shrugs off saying the attic is full of them. The company wanders through these stalls, dazed, like they're walking through a vivid dream, hot and high and startled by the foreign people, following Sirius' white-clad figure like some guiding seraph.

The air is warm and heady as they pass through stalls of fresh spice, ashy bellows of cumin and cinnamon, mustard and other dry powders that drift thickly in the air. Sirius points and laughs at the enormous hanging phalluses of root ginger, dipping his hands in gargantuan bags of dried beans and lentils as he walks through, trailing his ducklings behind.

They reach the stalls of food at last, Sirius spreading his arms like Moses, leading his Jews to the land of milk and honey. Mountains of food line their path like a lush forest of polished gems; bundles and baskets of tomatoes and aubergines, spears of haricot verts and asparagus; fruit of the kind they had never seen before (jackfruit and quince and granadilla and persimmon) and all manners of fresh pastry, bread, even a few stalls selling wine. The air is thick with sweet smells and thick, rapid French that babbles around them like a flowing river. Sirius winds through the thing like a Frenchman, a countryman, easy and smooth compared to his dazed and pasty Englishmen (marveling with the starry gaze of tourists, stumbling around as if high or drunk.) Sirius buys some pastries with impressive French, and passes them out: "Petit dιjeuner," he says, taking a big bite out of his cheese pastry. "Let's walk."

Sirius takes command as they walk and eat, their newfound Frenchman giving them a running commentary as they stroll (this is an old jail, he says, pointing to a stone triangle in the middle of the river, it's nine-hundred years old.) Following breakfast, Sirius starts shopping, Lily his second in command: aubergines and oyster mushrooms and potatoes and tomatoes; Peter, James, and Remus watch, impressed; apples and limes and pears, turnips and courgettes, and fat, stubbly cucumbers; olive oil and butter and big jugs of milk; fresh bread and sour plum tarts and pains-au-chocolat; big fresh fish (trout and sea bream) and smoked salmon in a wide pine box and little tins of caviar and escargot; and finally, two full cases of red wine some 1950s Chateaux something that costs a whole wad of Francs, which Sirius assures them is top notch (for that much, it better be, James says.) Peter, Remus, and James hold all the groceries like the patient husbands they are; Sirius pays for everything, waving off his friends' money (our sugar daddy, James says, a constant laugh track.)

"I'm bored," Peter says after two hours of shopping, plastic bags hanging from his arms like fat, white bats. "Can we go now?" He's sweating, little tunnels of heat running down his cheeks, soft blond hair made dark and slick, glasses slipping down his nose.

Sirius consults with Lily, leaning in and whispering in her ear, neat white teeth scraping the lobe, warm breath strange and intimate, blowing gently the soft hair at her temple; she giggles and nods. (James either doesn't care or doesn't notice.)

"All right," Sirius says, "let's drop these and get lunch."

They leave the groceries into the Jensen's enormous boot, sighing happily now they're finally unburdened. They make the walk back into the city, meandering down the riverbank in the city enter, admiring the Spanish-looking buildings (big, square things in rusty reds and yellows, orange and brown and pale rose, the whole spread coloured as if a sunset exploded over the town.)

"It's beautiful," Lily says, smiling into the river breeze, her red hair fluttering all around. "I love it here." She catches James' hand and they swing about childishly. Sirius makes a big show of rolling his eyes at Remus, who chuckles at his little clown.

Peter walks in next to Sirius: "Look at them, eh. Think they're in love?"

Sirius cocks and eyebrow. "Uh, maybe, Pete," he says, not bothering to hide his bemusement. "Could be a ruse."

Peter shrugs. "They've only been going out for, like, six months." He ponders it for a moment, watching James' back almost reverently. In an undertone he asks: "Think they've – er, done it yet?"

"I don't know," Sirius replies in a loud whisper, "let's check – Oi, James!" ("Yeah?") "Have you and Lily done it yet?" ("Fuck off you fat cunt.") Sirius smiles at Peter: "Nope."

There's a large park at the tip of the city, a broad stone semi-circle that extends into the lake, crass-covered and shaded by enormous weeping willows, punctuated by lamp posts and park benches, little vendors selling crepes. A sign reads Jardin de l'Europe. It smells of flowers here and the deep, pungent smell of lake water and weeds, cooking crepes, tainted by the diesel fumes of the nearby dock. The fivesome sit on the lip of the stone wall, legs dangling over the water and kicking like a toddler in a high chair. They admire the view, the choppy surface of the lake rising into the growing Alps, mountains so big and so close they look like islands in the sea, towering and isolated.

"So, lunch?"

They have a casual meal at a very, very expensive restaurant near the lakeside. They drink beer (Grolsch; another tradition, Lily discovers) and have a cold lunch; roasted vegetables served over ice; smoked salmon with cream cheese and capers; fresh bread with whipped butter and even more beer; a plate of aged cheeses only Sirius and Lily like; and even more beer (except for Sirius, responsible little driver, he is.)

Finished and full and flushed with booze, they sit back in their chairs and sigh. Lily asks for a kiss, which James supplies before asking one from the other three boys (only Sirius kisses her on the lips, which makes the two of them grin, united through their shared shopping experience, and other such things.)

"I wanna swim," Peter says languidly, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt. He looks for support from the others, which he gets.

"What, here?" Lily asks. "I don't have my bathing suit."

"No, no, the house has a beach," Sirius explains.

"It has a beach?" she stares at him in disbelief, the cost of the place finally becoming clear to her. "Is it private?"

"Yeah. You know those trees in the back?" she nods. "Well, it's right beyond those. It's pretty nice. Not a pebble beach like the Riviera. This one is sand."

"Well," she says, all smile, "let's go."

They do.

While the rest of them get changed, James and Sirius officially open the house; that is, uncover the furniture and open the storm windows and get the spare tables and chairs from storage, little things like this that truly makes the house theirs.

Hands on his hips, Sirius takes a beloved breath of winter-bread mould and dust and furniture polish, a familiar smell, the first real indication of summer, pulled out from the moth-eaten memories of his childhood.

"I'm glad you invited Lily," James says, sliding an arm around Sirius' waist, getting in right close. Sirius shrugs. "I know you don't really care for her."

Sirius narrows his eyes, curious. "I never said that…"

"I know, but I can tell."

"You're wrong," Sirius says. "I like her."

"Well, you really don't seem to – not at school, anyways."

"We're done school," Sirius says pointedly.

"I know. Maybe I'm wrong. It just looks to me like you never really liked her company –"

"Well that's only when you –" Sirius pauses, considering his words. "I don't know. I like her, though. I always have."

"That's good." James smiles. "I like her too."

"So, have you had sex with her?"

"Don't be an ass," James slings cheerfully.

"I'm actually asking, not teasing."

"Of course we have, I just don't like talking about it." Sirius can feel James' fingers tighten against the fabric of his muscle shirt.

"What do you mean? I always tell you about – uh – my conquests."

James looks at him warningly, and Sirius gives a Who, me? expression. "It's private, Sirius." Sirius chuckles. "I don't want to kiss and tell."

"God," Sirius says, slapping James' back. "You're fucking adorable" James gives him a look. "In a good way, I mean. You wouldn't be James is you weren't."

"Well, have you done it with Remus?"

Sirius narrows his eyes: "What?"

"It's just a question."

"Don't ask about it," Sirius says with finality. "Christ. I asked you not to talk about that, James."

"But why?" James asks, a bit pleadingly. "You know I don't mind at all! You know I think it's sweet – and Lily too. We're suppor –"

"Lily knows too?" Sirius glares at James. "Fucking Christ, we're not even together. I've never done anything with him – I don't even like him like that – I'm not a – you saw us sleeping together. Once. We sleep together all the fucking time."

"Not naked," James says pointedly.

"Hey, fuck off, man. This conversation is over." He starts tugging the white canvas dust-covers from the furniture, a little more aggressively than required.

"I don't get you," James says in exasperation. "What do you have against –"

"Nothing!" Sirius yells, shifting immediately to a deadly whisper. "I'm just not gay. I fucking told you that before. I'm just –"

"Affectionate, I know," James finishes, wearily. "I just want you to be happy, and if you keep lying to yourself –"

Sirius spins at him, furiously: "What do you want me to say?!"

James shrugs. "That what we do, what you do – it's maybe a little –"

"That's not – that's not gay, man. That's you and me. That's Siriusnjames. You're like a fucking brother to me; I only do that stuff because I feel totally comfortably with you."

"Well," James winces, "I just want you to be happy."

"Thanks a lot, James. Really. See how happy you've made me?" James stares, frozen, opening and closing his mouth trying to say something, but Sirius just brushes him off: "Yeah, fine, whatever."

"What?"

"Whatever," Sirius says again, turning his back to James. "I don't give a fuck."

"A fuck about what?"

"Anything." Sirius pauses, then drops into a big plush chair, steepling his fingers and looking steadily at James. He wants to say it – 'I'm fucking Lily' – so badly, wants to just show him up; fucking James, always trying to look out for him (why is that such a bad thing?) and trying to be the better man, and trying to sort everything out so nicely and live in a fantasy world where everyone gets along and everyone loves everybody and can't he just understand things don't work that way? Love isn't that simple: he knows that, because he's sitting in stupid, fucking Regulus' chair.

"Are you angry with me?"

Sirius sighs. God, if it were only that easy: he could be angry with James and they'd punch each other and everything would be okay. He wouldn't have to deal with the fact that, yeah, he's guilty for fucking Lily every chance he gets; that he's terrified that James will find out; that he's in love with Remus but let's not think about that; that he wants to fuck around with James so much that he jerks off to him more than he should and imagines the way James' fingers would feel inside him, and that's plain wrong because that's like wanting to fuck your brother – and that's a whole new set of problems Sirius hasn't faced since he was fifteen and drunk. Wouldn't anger just be fucking dandy. "No. I'm never angry with you."

And that's the goddamn truth.

They finish the room in silence, spreading wide the stormshutters and bundling the furniture covers in the closet. The room is all a-swirl with disturbed dust, the sun flooding Biblically into the house and giving everything a halo of bright light. James and Sirius collapse into opposite chairs and stare at each other, blankly. Neither is quite sure if they've actually had an argument or not; they're not angry, just confused, upset.

James looks at his feet and says: "I thought you just didn't trust me, that's all."

"I trust you with my life, Jamie. Don't be an idiot."

"I know." James examines his short nails, distantly hearing Lily and Remus murmur upstairs. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up. I just wish I knew what you were thinking sometimes. You're – not an easy person to read." Sirius shrugs. "But. Yeah. I'm sorry, I shouldn't pry."

"You should pry," Sirius nods. "You just shouldn't be an idiot."

James looks at him curious, not sure if he should smile or not, settling eventually on: "But, yeah, I'm just sorry, mate –"

"Sorry about what?" Lily asks, walking down the stairs, stunning in her striped blue bikini, dark red hair up in a loose bun, wand tucked behind her ear, freckles all a-gleam under the sun. Suddenly the whole tone of the room buckles and breaks, tension giving way to warmth. And really, it's like this every time James sees her: he falls in love again and again and everything seems so far away (and Sirius has got the same damn expression, James just doesn't notice.) She's like the Capitoline Venus, statuesque in every sense of the word; a classical beauty that isn't exactly slim, but curves and slides like her marble images, round and calm and tempered like the soft shell of pottery. She has a bit of a tummy, small and wider-set breasts, and large, soft hips – a distinctly Praxitelean beauty, refined rather than robust. There's an intense naturalness to her, the sway of her head, the curve of her calf to the sharp ball of her ankle, the way she walks like a sine wave, as if floating over the ground, willing her feet towards the earth.

"Mm. I forgot how good you look in a bathing suit," James says in that wonderfully awkward way he has.

"Cheers," she says, kissing him neatly on the mouth. "So what was all that yelling about?" She has red and freckled arms, and she hooks them on her hips, waiting expectantly for their story.

"Oh – uh – nothing," James says.

"I'm madly in love with you," Sirius says, off-hand. "We were dueling."

James gives a great roar of laughter, swinging one arm around Lily's waist and tugging her tight; Lily merely narrows her glance, watching Sirius with dark green eyes and chapped lips.

"Lily, relax," James says jocularly, nudging her a bit, "it's just a joke." He kisses her shoulder, and she manages a weak smile.

Sirius frowns: "Sorry, just a joke –"

"Letsgoletsgoletsgo –" Peter yells, hammering down the stairs like it's Christmas morning, Remus laughing silently behind him. Peter jogs up next to James and punches him jovially in the shoulder: "Let's goooo." James ruffles his hair like an older brother, mussing up the careful part. "C'mon, c'mon," Peter says, turning to Sirius, bouncing impatiently on his heels.

"Yeah, yeah, gimme a second," Sirius says. "We still need to get some stuff from the cellar."

"Oh, come on," James groans, his other arm going across Peter's shoulder, their two arms crossing and folding like the wings of a bird, self-same shit-eating grins shining out. "We can get it later."

"Fine, fine." Sirius fishes in his pockets for the keys – big, rustic skeleton keys, each handle engraved with the Black family seal. James and Peter clamour around him like impatient pups, rocking on their feet and pawing at Sirius' shoulder. With a jerk and a turn, Sirius opens the wide French doors that lead to the back lot, laughing as his two friends vault out of the house like greyhounds following a hare.

It's hard to see the back garden, blinded as they are by the overwhelming afternoon sun (hanging low in the sky, an hour or so from night.) Slowly as if through a fog, eyes adjust and scenery is revealed: they stand on a wide stone semi-circle of a patio, decked with chairs and tables and umbrellas and such, enough to suit a couple dozen people; to the right, the light wood of the veranda which extends from the kitchen like an enormous flowerbox. Beyond that, in the stretch of short grass, a half-dozen wrought-iron chairs sit around a dead fire pit, shallow with ash and covered with an iron grate. The short grass ends only a few meters further, developing suddenly into a thick stretch of waist-high yellow grass (with fuzzy little heads, like wheat,) scattered all around with tall Indian paintbrush (poppy-bursts of bristled red that James sometimes tucks behind Lily's ear,) Queen Anne's lace, and other nameless weeds that crawl and bloom in the thicket. Beyond that is a tall border of trees; oak or elm or beech, who knows? They're big trees though, large enough to block the view of the lake. The thick of the weedy grass drops off immediately beyond the trees, dissolving into the rough sand strip of the beach, which itself ends abruptly into the clean black water of the lake.

James and Peter tear across the grass wildly, leaping and whooping like Tom Sawyer, shucking their clothes as they go – fling; the shirt is on the lawn – buckle; the shorts are by the fire-pit – rip; socks leap into the air like little black cannonballs. Sirius, Remus, and Lily watch, amused, as the two boys vault off beyond the trees, boxer-clad and hollering as they go

Lily sighs. "Will they be naked when we get there?"

"Yep."

"You guys too?" she asks, fanning herself with a magazine, as cool as can be (she has spent far too much time with the Marauders.)

"Yep." Sirius leans against the doorway and gives her a winning grin. As he speaks, he peels off his black muscle shirt, dropping it onto the stone floor of the patio as if to prove his point.

"Remus?" She says, turning to him, her last bastion of sanity.

"Sorry, Lily," he says, unbuttoning his shirt and revealing pale, scar-rippled skin beneath, "it's tradition." It's like these traditions are holy commandments, and maybe if she were a boy she'd understand, but Lily just chuckles and shakes her head and adjusts the straps of her bikini.

When she turns back to Sirius, he's naked and stretching lazily, like a tired cat. It's surprising, she finds, that she's already accustomed to his body – the curves, the structure, the muscles thereof; it's all been under her hands, her lips, her body at one point or another. She likes the colour of his skin, Mediterranean and brown and splattered with ink-black freckles, though his arms are still darker than his chest (a T-shirt tan) which always makes her laugh. He's lean, only warm and young muscle bulging from his limbs; smooth and hard over his stomach, anchored by the round pucker of his bellybutton. The curve of his chest invites a hand, and his nipples are dusty and pink, almost brown – any lighter and they would blend into the colour of his skin. His shoulders are broad, the shoulders of a football player, or maybe a Chaser. The sharp angles of his bones (shallow V of his collar, wing-like shoulder-blades, small buttons of his wrist) play in mathematical contrast to the flesh of his muscle, like a balance of hard and soft, of strength and sweet. The flat plane of his pelvis is laced with the dark fuzz of puberty, leading down to dark curls and his circumsized penis, something her eyes linger over (even flaccid it's fat and pink; he has a beautiful penis, which makes Lily stifle a laugh.) He's so different from James; athletic where her boyfriend is skinny, blushed and brown where James is English and white, agile and flexible where James is awkward and a bit klutzy. Polar opposites, really.

Sirius sets off after his friends at a run, and it's startling to realize that she feels like he belongs to her too, at least as much as James does. Watching his thighs flex, his calves strain as he sprints through the grass – it pleases her, warms her, as much as James does. It's not a new thing that's for sure, it's a feeling she felt at Hogwarts – watching Sirius bend and move in the common room, changing from his T-shirt into a sweater – and the knowing glance he would give her, and the look she would give back. She shivers, and she's not really sure if it's guilt.

Remus is a bit more modest: he wraps his beach towel around his waist, and blushes as he does. He's got a slender build, smaller so than Sirius, but a bit broader in the shoulder than James. He's a bit gentler too; that is, not round by any means, for he seems to all be flat surfaces and bones, but simply underdeveloped, an athletic body that has been calmed by books and lessons and not really eating enough and being torn apart once a month. He's not as scarred as Lily would have thought – maybe it's a werewolf healing factor or some other comic-book-like quality – and the scars he does have are actually kind of attractive, lightning-shaped slashes that curl over his shoulders, around the sides of his body, and diagonally down his hips.

"You coming?" he asks, draping a few more towels over his shoulders for the rest of the boys.

"Yeah, sure." She smiles, and takes his hand as they walk. "It's really pretty down here. Sirius is really lucky."

Remus shrugs. "I don't know if I would say that."

"What do you mean?"

"It's all he's got left, isn't it?"

She looks at him curiously: "What do you mean?"

"His family. It's all he's got left from his family." Remus sighs, maybe more for Sirius' sake. "I think he misses them sometimes."

"But they were awful to him! – or, at least, that's what James told me." They pass the furniture and fire-pit, she can see MWPP FOREVER scratches into the peeling white paint of the table. "I mean, Sirius doesn't really talk about them a lot, does he?"

"No, not really. I think part of him still loves them, though."

"Oh." They walk on in silence, bowing under the trees and stepping foot onto the warm sand of the beach. James, Sirius, and Peter are already in the water, splashing about like infants, galloping about the shallows only to deliver a tackle to a midriff, roaring and laughing and falling into the surf with flailing limbs.

Remus, a bit braver in company, lets his towel drop. Out of respect, Lily averts her eyes, contenting instead to watch her James dunk Sirius under the water, wiry form all shiny and wet with water and evening sunlight. It's easy to tell the boys apart in the growing darkness; body types quite different, and (of course) Sirius' long hair.

This is the first she has seen of Peter naked, and he's fairly accurate to how she imagined – short, broad-shouldered, built like a rugby player, stocky and strong – though, a strength that doesn't really show itself except for the occasional play-fight. He's very, very white, though a bit red in the arms and face from their walks today. Normally carefully parted blond hair is now wet and slick, falling in front of his face like weeds, which he pushes back to make him look like an American greaser from the 50s. His front teeth are bit too big for his face and his eyes are a dark, beady brown, but on the whole he's not ugly, almost attractive in a thick-skulled athlete kind of way (despite being one of the worst athletes Lily has ever seen.)

"You coming in?" Remus asks, touching her shoulder.

"Oh, yeah, course." She drops her towel and walks towards the water (James cat-calls, but is dunked by Sirius, taking advantage of his friend's moment of weakness.)

"What, in your swim suit?" Remus asks bemusedly.

"Well – er – yeah. Hence the, uh, swim part."

"Just warning you – that's not going to go over well. I mean, with Sirius and James and all."

Lily snorts and rolls her eyes. "They can live."

"Oh, Lily, I used to be like you once," Remus says, mock-nostalgically, "so naοve, so naοve…"

"Come on, hot stuff, let's go."

The two of them, Remus starkers and Lily still in her bikini, sprint into the water, dashing over sand and surf and diving into the cold lake, splashing and kicking to emerge right in front of their boys, hair slick and wet, laughing and joining in on the games. Remus, as sweet and calm as he is, is a firecracker in their wrestling – he might not look it, but beneath that amiably warm skin and tenderness, he's a bundle of muscle and iron and fight (maybe it's a werewolf thing.) Leaping out of the water, he catches a surprised Sirius with a full-bodied grip, vicing his legs around Sirius' chest and sending them both crashing into the water – they emerge seconds later, Remus on his boy's back, arms around Sirius' neck, legs knotted around Sirius' ribs like some insane flesh-eating zombie or enormous parasite. Sirius staggers around with the added weight, screaming and laughing as Remus tries to flip them both back in the water.

Lily, not to be outdone by those muscle-flexing boys, attacks James. Even though he's ready for her (been watching out of the corner of his eye, expecting this kind of thing) she still takes him down, and quite easily at that. She runs at him and slams into his stomach, twists to pick him up over her shoulder, and drops him into the lake as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes. Sirius and Remus stop for a moment (Remus still grappling around Sirius' body, nearly sitting on the boy's shoulders) to watch the action, and laugh outrageously when James is deposited back into the water.

"Classic," Sirius says, wiping tears from his eyes. "James taken down by a girl."

"Don't underestimate her, James! – and that goes with you too," Remus says, tightening his grip around Sirius' shoulders, twisting, eventually pulling Sirius and himself back into the water with a great splash.

" Wait," Sirius says, upon surfacing, breathing heavily with exertion, "Lily, you're wearing a swim suit."

"Why yes, I am." She drops James once more into the water, and wades towards Sirius. "What of it?"

"I'm pretty sure there are laws against it," Sirius says, advancing on her too. They a foot apart, hands on their hips in stomach-deep water. "You are in direct violation of tradition. Remus can attest to the punishment."

"Told you," Remus says, drifting about peacefully.

"And what are you going to do?"

"Mm, dunno," James says, surfacing behind her, water-slick hair bobbing from the water. "We did warn you –"

"And – like I said – what are you going to do?" She's grinning, a little devious, a little mischievous, a if-you-want-me-come-and-get-me look.

"Are you tempting me, miss?" James says, rising out like some pale sea monster, stomach flexing, ribs stretching as he spreads his arms. Weeds cling to his sides, and his hair is flat on his head for maybe the first time in his life. "You wouldn't like me when I'm horny."

Like they've practiced this, James and Sirius step in at the same time, James around her back, hands threading beneath her underarms and linking below her breasts, while Sirius comes from the front, his arms wrapping around her back and gripping the clasp of her bikini top.

"Oh – oh no you don't –" she struggles, but it's half-hearted because she's all sticky and wet between these two boys; they stink of the lake and they're slippery and covered in seaweed and naked and warm and too strong for her, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

"Oh, yes we do," James says, kissing her neckline, nipping along the length of her clavicle, his hands sliding up to touch her breasts over the bikini top, squished between the fabric and Sirius' chest. "We're all naked here. I'm naked – you're naked."

"I'm not."

"You want to be – otherwise you wouldn't be here."

And that's when Sirius and his magic fingers undo the latch of her top causing the straps fall uselessly about her shoulders. Lily blushes, but it's all right because these are her boys, and it's only fair because they're all starkers, and enough with the excuses, let's be honest: she just likes showing off sometimes. This day, this trip, it's bringing out the worst in her – or is it the best? She feels electric, excited, impassioned – the solitude of the place and the language is enough to make her feel new, unique. It's somewhere between terror and joy, that they might be caught (naked, drinking, smoking pot, making love, whatever) and it just makes her heart beat rapid in her chest, a trembling tattoo of glee.

The tension of the boys' bodies keeps the wet fabric close to her skin, but James tugs at it, and tugs at it, and tugs it away, tossing it to shore, leaving it a dead blue jellyfish floating in the surf. Sirius slides in close once it's gone, her bare breasts pressing into his chest, and James does similar to her back so the three can hug – or, something weird and naked and similar to a hug. Lily laughs, and squirms a bit ("Guys, you're crushing me") but he'd be lying if she said she didn't love it. Peeling themselves away, Sirius and James drift away, leaving their beautiful creation standing, hands on her hips, blushing yet smiling, topless in the waist-high water: Venus rising from her half-shell, wet red hair draped around her neck and shoulders, breasts as smooth and white as porcelain, freckles like pepper. She pulls James in for an indulgent kiss, with tongue, with a kind of want that makes him hard under the water, with a kind of want that makes him frustrated that they're not alone. Sirius watches with narrowed eyes.

"Tray bell," a flustered James tries in embarrassing French.

"Awesome," Peter says, watching her brightly, scarcely looking away, "finally, she's one of the lads."

"Told you, Lily," Remus chimes in, adding: "didn't even last a day."

"Boob-tastic," is all Sirius says, bored and drifting lazily on his back.

They eventually cut their swim short to watch the sun set. It's fortunate, the beach faces west so they have a vividly clear portrait of the sun as it collapses beyond the distant mountains and ushering in their eager night. They sit on the hard sand of the beach, naked and drip-drying, knees brought up to their chests and all gold-wrought by sunlight, smoking a joint and chatting absently. Sirius has nipped into the house and returned with two bottles of wine; 1937 Chateaux Quincampoix, rusty red Cabernet Francs that cost enough to fund a revolution or two. They drink from the bottle, drink-drink-pass as the colour in the sky melts away.

They're pleasantly drunk by nightfall; the bottles are empty and the joints are done and their bodies are dry. They've got their towels wrapped around their shoulders and such, to ward off the gentle cold of night, still too lazy to make the short walk to the house. They talk about music and why France can't make a good rock band, they discuss their views on God, they see who can deep throat the wine bottle, they explain to Peter what exactly a prostate can do, they tell the story of their first kiss. Most of its rehashed, old material from old conversations, but they run it like a familiar route and it makes them feel a kind of togetherness, strings of conversation woven into a tight fabric. Or, it could be that Sirius just likes describing his orgasms.

It's Peter's rumbling stomach that wakes them from their reverie: they haven't had dinner yet.

"I'll cook," Lily volunteers, as she's probably the least drunk, and the most capable with a wand. This is greeted by over-enthusiastic cheers and hugs because they're actually pretty tipsy and this just seems like such a nice thing for her to do, really. Sirius promises more wine, and this is sounding just too good, so they stumble their way home, staggering and swaying like rain dogs trying to pick up a scent. Peter nearly dies in the fire-pit but Sirius saves him, which makes Peter laugh. Wow, we're still naked, huh. Yeah – look, it is my dick. Sirius, shut up, we know it's your dick. You're just jealous because I'm a half-inch longer than you, James. What, you guys measured? Of course we have, and I'm a half-inch longer. Yeah, maybe, but mine is curved. So what? So, that makes it longer. But you're uncircumsized. So what? So, it's ugly – it has a freaking hood. Boys, seriously, shut up.

They sit about the kitchen naked, so comfortable from the wine and the company that there's no real point or motivation to dress. Lily, more for practicality than modesty, puts on a bra and begins to make a kind of haphazard ratatouille for dinner. Instead of just the standard ingredients, she amuses herself by putting in whatever strikes her fancy; mushrooms, asparagus, capers, hot peppers, potatoes. She makes it in a big pot, and the five of them just eat from that rather than dirty any dishes – a recurring theme when you live with boys. Sirius drags out another couple bottles of wine, this time some 1950s Merlot, saving the more expensive wine for when they can actually remember drinking it.

It's only when it gets darker, and a cold kind of mood settles about them that they put on some clothing (mainly limited to boxers, though Remus slips on a T-shirt, too) and even then it's quite reluctant. Now the weight of the booze is really starting to press into them; James is flushed all red, and he kisses Lily more often as the night wears on. Peter sways where he sits, and more than once Remus has to stop him falling from his stool. Sirius is mostly preoccupied by his own body, flexing his muscles, checking himself for spots or marks or whatever, scratching at the thin hair of his legs, pinching his nipples and twisting them because he's got nothing really better to do than flirt with everyone in a hundred foot radius.

"What should we do?" Peter says lethargically, watching Lily drop the empty pot into the sink.

"Make out with me," Sirius says vaguely, now fiddling with his knee cap, pressing around the edges and trying lamely to lift it up. "Or we can do shots." (Somehow, the two are synonymous.)

This is generally agreed on, because what else are five teenagers in an empty house going to do – get alcohol poisoning and die, of course, so Peter gets the rum.

"Santι!" the five of them say, raising their shot glasses and downing the liquor with expressions ranging from satisfaction (Lily) to utter disgust (Remus.)

And again: "L'chaim!" Sirius proposes, and the others laugh and join in. Down goes another one.

"Cheers!" goes the third, and "Prost!" for the fourth, and it's good they can't think of any other words for a toast because they're already quite amazingly drunk and it's only ten in the evening.

The whole room adopts that warm, orange, sleepy atmosphere that descends after drinking – lamp light becomes golden, and the walls seem to curve inwards, cradling and comforting and blanketed. Every surface seems soft, every contour warm and inviting. It's a melting pot; dissolving and blurring the lines between sleeping and waking, dreaming and reality, and other such divides (gay and straight?) A haze of smoke floats about the ceiling, and it smells strongly of spilled liquor and marijuana and vegetables, their skin like lake-water and tobacco smoke.

"I love you guys," Sirius says, lying on the couch, eyes closed, cigarette dangling from his lips. "You're awesome. I don't – I don't know what I'd do with-without you."

Remus sighs and rolls his eyes (not this again) but James sates his friend: "We love you, too."

"You can't say you love me too," Sirius says, turning to sit on the couch, head in his hands, balanced on his knees. "You have to say you love me first."

"We can't – you did that first."

Sirius frowns and looks at James seriously: "Well, say it now."

James sighs: "We love you, we love you, we love you – come on, Sirius, you know that."

"It's forever," Sirius says with gravity. "It's forever, right? C'est pour toujours?"

James smiles: "Until death do us part, mate." Lily strokes James' hair affectionately as he says it, ruffling it and twisting it around her fingers. "And even after that."

"We can be ghosts together," Sirius says, dreamily. "Remus, would you like to be a ghost with us?"

"Sure," Remus says, mumbling through sleep.

"Let's go on a walk," Peter says suddenly, standing and swaying drunkenly, a half-drunk bottle of Fettercairn single malt in one hand. "I want to go on a walk."

"A walk – okay," James says, withdrawing himself from Lily's arms, stumbling over nothing as he reaches around Peter's shoulders. "A walk, all right?"

Sirius nods and has a tough time of getting up – James tries to help, but that ends in disaster as they both crash to the ground, like a Marx Brothers movie. Steadying themselves against the wall, they beckon to Lily and Remus, who look the least enthusiastic of the bunch.

"C'mon, girls," Sirius says, rolling his head and bouncing on the spot, like Rocky ready for a match. "Let's go already." Sirius' boxers are low on his hips, and he fumbles at the hem like he's just itching to strip. Remus watches his hands blankly, as they skitter to his back, and then cross under his arm pits – it's all his mind can focus on, those tan little spiders, look at them move, and Remus imagines them pulling off his own shirt, he imagines Sirius feeling Remus' body in some drunken craze, those same slender hands pulling off his own boxers – oh God, he feels like he's going to pass out, the whole world is spinning and all he has to keep him steady is Sirius' drunken smile.

"How do you guys even plan on walking? You can't stand –" Lily says, but she's cut short as James drags her to her feet. "Oh, fine," and in exchange she gets a payment of James' sloppy kisses, which is fair compensation, she supposes.

"Remus," Sirius says, demanding. "Come on, Moony." Remus lets himself get dragged out the door, stumbling on words and intentions as he's flung into the great, wet outdoors.

"Fuck me, I thought it was colder," Sirius says, spreading his arms out wide. "It's really nice." The only cold they can feel is the beaded dew on their feet that numbs their toes; the air itself is damp and warm, humid to the point of inviting fog.

They meander to the beach in a more or less forward direction, pausing every now and again to help a fallen comrade (that's Peter, mostly, who apparently brought his bottle of whiskey with him.) The sky is a pointillism picture of stars, and the moon is somewhere far away, hidden behind a mountain maybe. Lily, quick even when she's drunk, has her wand, and lights their path to the beach.

Sirius misjudges the distance and trips on the little grass ledge that leads to the beach – he falls, rolling and sprawling onto the beach, laughing outrageously as he crashes into the surf. James falls in next to him, crashing to his knees in the sand and laughing at Sirius: "God you fucking klutz."

Sirius lies on his back, his laughter subsiding, smiling and staring into the night sky: "La tempκte a bιni mes ιveils maritimes… plus – plus lιger qu'un bouchon j'ai dansι sur les flots qu'on appelle rouleurs ιternels de victimes, dix nuits, sans regretter l'oeil – something falots, I think. I don't remember." He laughs again, and James has that stupid, full-mouth grin over his face.

"What was that?" Peter says drunkenly, swinging the bottle around before taking a drink. "Sounds French."

"It was – my parents made me memorize poetry when I was young. Thought it would instill – oh, who gives a fuck, I don't know what they wanted. Give the bottle here," he takes the whiskey from Peter and takes a good long draught. "Fuckers bored me to tears, I hate poetry. I memorized all the dirty ones I could find. There just wasn't enough." He takes another drink before James takes it. Sirius leans up and stares out at the ocean, and screams at the top of his lungs: "Je suis esclave de l'ιpoux infernal, celui qui a perdu les vierges folles! C'est bien ce dιmon-lΰ, ce n'est pas un spectre, ce n'est pas un fantτme! Mais moi qui ai perdu la sagesse, qui suis damnιe et morte au monde, on ne me tuera pas!" He falls back against the shore, laughing again, laughing until tears roll down the sides of his face. "The foolish virgin," he explains, "he's talking about fucking virgins. Good ol' Rimbaud. I wish I had cigarettes on me. God, fuck, I'm covered in sand."

He's quickly joined by his friends; James at one side, Remus at the other, Lily to James' other side, and Peter to Lily's; a row of dried sardines, or something; strips of naked meat marinating in liquor and sand, skin up to their thighs lapped by the cold lake water. James and Lily turn to one another and start to kiss, deeply and wetly with sick kind of sucking noises and other horribly teenaged sounds. Peter is asleep, or seems to be, and Sirius turns to Remus.

"You wanna fuck me?" he asks, eyes wide and bright, grinning all devil-like.

"What?"

"You wanna fuck me?"

"What – no! – what?" Remus looks a little panicked, a little scared by this whole thing.

"I'm kidding. Take off your clothes." Sirius grabs the hem of Remus' T-shirt and tugs upwards. "Come on, you're making me feel over-dressed." With a little help, Remus pulls off the shirt and Sirius laughs. "Gonna go swimming with me?"

"We're going to drown."

"Sure. You coming?" With a quick motion, Sirius jerks down his boxers, pulling them from his legs and tossing them aside (into the waves; he'll never see that pair again.)

"I guess" – which really means – 'how high?'

Sirius gets up and stretches, takes another swig at the bottle and scratches his cock impatiently. "Come on, Remus."

Remus slips off his boxers and takes Sirius' proffered hand: they wade into the water, link quickly broken as Sirius dives in and Remus recoils because it's freezing and this really was a pretty shitty idea, to be honest.

"Sirius, I'm freezing," Remus says, when his friend surfaces. Remus has his arms crossed tightly against his chest, and Sirius can see the ripples of goose pimples grow along his arms, even in the dim light of night. He touches his hand to Remus' chest and pinches a hard nipple between his fingers, just for fun.

"We'll get out in a second." Sirius stands to his full height, the water level just below his cock, and he steps near Remus. "Kiss me."

Remus shrugs, and gives a cold peck to Sirius' lips.

"Now, do it like we're lovers," Sirius growls.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"A whole fucking lot." Sirius grabs Remus forcefully by the back of the neck and tugs their heads close together. "Now give me a fucking kiss."

Remus does so, and as he does Sirius grabs him hard around the neck and shoulders, wet arms slicking them together, forcing Remus so near that their cocks are touching (too cold to get a hard on, but they'd both probably have one.) Their chests are wet and cold, and their knocking hips hurt; Sirius steps on Remus' foot under the water, and instead of getting warmer, everything feels a lot like ice. Sirius forces his tongue against Remus' lips, and Remus shyly replies with his own. It's not a very good kiss, Sirius seems like he's trying to swallow Remus' face, it's all speed and no finesse; his stubble burns Remus' skin as Sirius moves his head back and forth manically, and his teeth are sharp and drag against Remus' soft lips.

"I wanna fuck you, Remus," Sirius says, pulling their lips apart and whispering viciously in Remus' ear. "I'm serious. Right now if you want."

"Sirius, you're trashed."

"I know," but he doesn't shy away, "come on. I'll do anything you want."

"You're drunk, don't be an idiot."

Sirius persists: "You want me, don't you? You're in love with me, right?"

"You're hurting me – stop it, Sirius, come on –"

"I love you, you know that?"

Remus just sounds irritated now: "I know. Can we just go? I'm freezing."

"Don't be a pussy," Sirius says, taking Remus by this hips; gently though, only a touch, tilting them closer together. "I mean, if you like me, just tell me."

Remus looks away, startled, almost crying, suddenly hurt more than when Sirius was angry.

"Do you love me?"

"Sirius, you're –"

"I know I'm drunk – do you love me?"

Remus stares at him blankly, vividly aware of his own nakedness, of Sirius cock touching his own, of feeling like he's about to pass out. It's a whisper when he finally speaks: "Yeah –" he closes his eyes, "I love you."

"I know," Sirius says, kissing him again. "I'll suck you off, all right?"

Sirius wraps his hand around Remus' wet cock, jerking him lazily, while leaning in to kiss him again – when suddenly Remus pulls away, stumbling in the water and falling back into it with a splash. Sirius laughs, but stops when Remus surfaces, coughing and spluttering, sweeping back his hair and looking totally shocked – and angry: "What are you playing at, Sirius?"

"I thought – didn't you just –"

"You're drunk," and it's almost like he has a spine, though maybe it's just liquid courage, "I'm not going to deal with you like this." Dripping wet, and more pissed than Sirius has ever seen him, he walks out of the water, and he looks kind of ferocious, kind of like the Wolf.

"Remus –" Sirius says, shell-shocked. "What are you –"

"I think it's time for bed," Remus says, making an unneeded decision because everyone is pretty much already asleep on the beach.

The walk back is awkward, sullen; Sirius is silent, and James, Peter, and Lily are drunk and tired, dragging themselves as Remus leads the way, still soaking wet and irritated at the whole night. Remus doesn't say goodnight, doesn't say anything – just goes straight to bed, closing the door behind him. The rest manage some laughs, some hugs, some hand-slaps before heading their own swaggering ways.

A few minutes pass, and then: "Lily?" Sirius whispers, peeking his head into James' bedroom. James is passed out on the bed, naked and lying on his stomach, snoring gently. "You're awake?"

She's awake and dressing, a new pair of knickers, topless but about to put a T-shirt on. "Sirius?" it's a harsh whisper, "what do you want?"

"Is James out?" he steps in and closes the door behind him. He's wearing a pair of Remus' boxers (red, white hearts, a gift from Sirius) and they're riding down his hips because of his constant fidgeting at the elastic. His hair is still wet.

"Yes," she replies, questioning.

"Asleep or, like, out?"

"He passed out, if that's what you mean." She flips her hair over her shoulder and puts her hands on her hips, not bothering to cover her breasts. "What do you want?"

Sirius steps towards her, taking tentative steps, cocking his head as if poised to ask a question. "Lily –I just thought, since James is asleep – well, you wanna fuck?"

"Oh, Sirius, we can't –" but even as she says it, Sirius gets ever closer and his boxers are low and she can see the dark curl of pubic hair that creeps towards his belly button. Lily sways where she stands; she can't really trust herself, in this room, in this heat, in this drunken swirl of want for this boy, this not-James, dark-haired imposter who came first, who seduced her way back in fifth year, long before any skinny-limbed, glasses-wearing freak swept her off her feet. "Sirius, please, this has to –"

But he takes it the wrong way, and he gets in closer, and finally kisses her, kisses her and she kisses back because, God, the things he does to her, the twisting, changing, exhilarating things. He's everything James isn't and shouldn't be; there's an element of cartoonish danger, sure, but beyond that – he's stupid, he's vibrant, he's ecstatic, he's mercurial, he's fickle, he's selfish, he's creative, he's negligent, he's explosive. It's a horrible excuse – that he's the opposite of James, that he can giver her things James can't – because that's just not true. She's here because she loves Sirius, she fucks him because that's all she can have. Lily doesn't even know how she fell in love with Sirius, how that arrogant little prick managed to seduce her on her fifteenth birthday, with that alcohol breath and bleeding family issues and wrinkled, open-fronted shirt – actually, oddly similar to how he is now (why is it working this time, too?) She wishes she could say it was because of his body (and what a body) but she loves Sirius as deeply as she loves James – for his every flaw, she finds a shred of magic, for his faults, his downfalls, she finds more of him to love. Sure, she gets irritated with him sometimes, but that's because he's Sirius, not because she doesn't love him. It's inexplicably, he's inexplicable, like some Gordian knot she longs to undo but just doesn't have the patience or the time to try – not that she ever would, that would ruin the beauty of him.

When he leans in to kiss her again, she wants to push him away because it's a horrible thing to do; to him, to James, to herself, to their friendship, to her own. But having him, and having James – it's too much. It makes her cheeks red, it makes her moan, and most of all it lets her taste the power of importance, like she's the most important person in the world, the sun to these orbiting planets – James, Sirius. Those two, the good and the bad, like two heads of the same coin – a coin she has all to herself.

God she feels awful and wonderful when he touches her; cautiously at first, his hand slipping down to her waist, cupping her, fingers sliding over the front of her knickers. It's hesitant, and endearing, and she knows it's selfish to have her cake and eat him too, but she slides her hand down the front of his boxers and wraps her hands around Sirius' half-hard cock.

The lights are off and suddenly they're against the wall and it's not even thinking anymore. Sirius kisses her like he's drowning, fighting for breath. He smells of liquor and cigarettes, but then so does she, so she doesn't object. His boxers are on the ground in an instant, and he's already hard in her hands; they press together and she smushes his cock between their bodies as Sirius tries to tug down her knickers, which he eventually loosens and drops to the ground.

"The bed," he whispers coarsely, and they fall onto it, right next to poor sleeping James. Sirius is on the bottom, and Lily climbs on top of him, knees pressing in beside his hip, leaning in to kiss Sirius wetly, drunkenly. Hands at his cock, Sirius slides inside her (she makes a small, half-pained kind of noise, before releasing a hot, sexed breath) and thrusts upwards, slowly, and into the rhythm of her rocking.

"Oh – oh fuck," he pants into the silence, "God, Lily." He says other little sex-blind things, pants and groans and he whispers names ("Lily – uhn –f-fuck – Remus, Lily –") and he barely notices that he's imagining everyone he ever loved ("Lily – oh fuck – Regulus – fuck, Regulus –") – baby murmurs that Lily can't hear and dissolve in the air like little nothings ("James – James – fuck –")

They begin to move faster, rocking and thrusting, shifting and blending into each other viciously, dueling shadows or tom cats in back alleys. Lily's hair falls over his body, a massive floral-and-lake scented paintbrush that strokes him from chin to chest. Throughout it, Sirius can feel the warmth of James beside him, but he doesn't stop, doesn't stop even as James murmurs in his sleep, or when James shifts so he sticks all sweaty against Sirius' shoulder; the one-minded desire keeps guilt away like a dam, and then Lily does that thing with her thighs, all tight and wet against him, and Sirius can barely think of anything but the thunderball of an orgasm building in his stomach.

"I'm – I'm," Sirius says in jagged breath. "Oh, fuck, faster, Lily – Lily, I love you."

Sirius comes, and that face (like a revelation,) that heart-pushing groan he whimpers is enough to make Lily come, which she does in almost complete silence. She swallows her moan with a kiss, pressing her lips against Sirius hard, twisting and turning so their noses get bent and squished, all caught up in his body and the undertow of their orgasm – an undertow that keeps them taut, tense, until finally Lily collapses, falling on top of Sirius a mess of hair and sweat and exhaustion. They rest there, panting, naked chests filling and emptying against each other, anchored painfully by the sound of James' snores. Turning her head, Lily notices that Sirius' arm is draped over James' waist, balled tight in the fabric of his boxers. The sight of it; the tension, the fragility of their friendship personified in that one movement, it almost makes her want to cry (and she knows what she has to do.)

"Go, Sirius," Lily says, nudging his shoulder. "Go to bed. Just, go –"

He ignores her, lingering in their sex, letting the warm waves of fucking and fatigue drift over him. He wants a smoke.

"Please, Sirius." The warm, wanton edge has left her voice and she sounds tired and serious.

"All right, but you have to get off me, first." She does, and Sirius rolls off the bed, stumbling and staggering about the dark bedroom in his stupor, collecting his boxers. "Goodnight, Lily." He leans in and kisses her; she's unreceptive.

"Goodnight, James." Sirius leans in and kisses James on the lips, a little kiss that drifts too long, a little too wet. "Love you, bro."

"Sirius," Lily says, suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"I – we have to end this, right now." She's crying a bit, but doesn't wipe away the tears. "I can't keep doing this, Sirius."

"What?" He stands, almost coldly blank.

"This is driving me insane. You and James and – I can't fucking handle this anymore, Sirius."

"Do you love me?"

"It's not that," she pulls the sheets around her shoulders and gets up from the bed, facing him like it's a showdown. "But I'm with James. I – that's it. I'm with him. And what we have – it just can't."

"Do you love me?"

She speaks tempestuously, like she's looking for every excuse she can think of: "It's serious. Me and James, we're serious. I think he wants to marry me. And," she's trembling, shivering or just frightened Sirius can't tell. "I think I want to marry him and it's amazing and I really don't understand how all this happened so quickly and –"

"But do you love me?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, I love you! You know that, for God's sake. You – you were my first love, Sirius. How could I – we've been together all these years and I can't get you out of my mind, all right? No matter how hard I try. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Why can't we – I mean, if you love me, can't we –"

Lily laughs, bitterly. "Oh, don't kid yourself. You love James far more than you love me. I know you'd choose James over me any day, if it came to that."

"I wouldn't –"

"Shut up, Sirius, you would. You might say you love me, but you love him more." She closes her eyes, and the world spins crazily around her, flashing and bouncing on the backs of her eyelids. "What we're doing is – is nothing. It's the remainder of – of what we had. Whatever that was. It's just lingering feelings. Can't you see that? There's nothing left of us but sex. Sex and James. That's it."

"What are you saying – we end this? That's it, three years down the drain?"

Lily opens her eyes, and her expression is unreadable. "We end this, and we never bring it up again."

"Lily –"

"Just let go, Sirius. Just – go."

It's Sirius crying now, large tears clinging to his eyelashes. "You're a fucking bitch, you know that? A fucking bitch."

There are so many things she could say: What could I do? Why would you hurt James like this? What would you have me do? You think I want this to end? But she just sighs, and turns towards her bed: "I know."

Remus wakes up and regrets he does. His head is full of tar and it's as if his bones have been replaced with lead bars. He rolls over in bed, but that's not a good idea – he groans, and tastes bile in the back of his throat – so he flops on his back and stares blankly at the ceiling, a position of least resistance. The sun is a pounding menace on his eyes, but Remus can't be bothered to find the shades, can't be bothered to do anything than count dents in the ceiling tiles and want to die a little bit. He wonders half-heartedly at the time.

It's only after a few minutes that he realizes he's alone in bed: Sirius is already gone. Remus considers vaguely where he is, but the answer is disheartening so he tries not to think about it. Remus groans again, and shifts positions, which brings only new waves of pain and displeasure, so he shifts back – it's no good – he bolts from the room and makes it to the toilet in time for an unpleasant reliving of the previous night.

He throws up until he's empty, he throws up until he hurts, he throws up until he's pretty sure his body is just being spiteful now, dry heaves so wretched that it makes him shiver and sob. He's only distantly aware that he's naked and really very cold. Alcohol is sticky on him, he smells of whiskey and other things, and his feet are dark with caked dirt.

Remus cleans himself up in the mirror; wipes away streaks of dirt from his chest, brushes his teeth, wets back his hair, before he, teetering on nausea, spends another session at the toilet.

Putting on one of Sirius' Pride of Portree T-shirts (complete with garish glowing golden star) and a pair of boxers from the bedside drawers, he makes his slow way downstairs. The steps are vertigo-inducing, and Remus takes them slowly; moving makes him feel disgusting, sticky with sweat in the crooks of his arms and his knees, his joints weak and useless, and he all he really wants to do is go to sleep.

Sirius is he in the kitchen, naked and soaking wet, toweling his hair when Remus comes in. Beside him on the kitchen counter is a bottle of Lagavulin whiskey, half-empty. "Morning, Tallulah," Sirius says cheerfully, swinging his towel around his shoulders, hair damp and wildly tangled.

Remus stares at him, glazed over. "Tallulah?"

"Tallulah Bankhead. Famous alcoholic. I think she acted on the side."

"Whatever." Remus falls into one of the kitchen chairs, sagging and groaning indistinctly. He doesn't have time for Sirius' oh-so-clever Hollywood wit and references now, not when he's just about to off himself.

"Aw, princess," Sirius says, ruffling Remus' hair in that obnoxious way he has. "Not feeling so good?"

"Don't belittle me."

"I was just kidding around," Sirius offers with a shrug. He sits across from Remus. "Can I get you anything? Water? Toast? Rotten meat covered in dog shit?"

"Oh, fuck off," and Remus drops his head into his hands, twisting in his chair to find a comfortable position that doesn't involve vomiting on the table. "How are you even alive? You had the most to drink out of all of us."

"Hair of the dog," he says, taking a quick swig from the whiskey bottle, grimacing as he swallows. "To be honest, I think I'm still drunk." He smells of the lake – he must have had a swim – and also faintly of dog, the residue of a recent transformation. "Here, go have a dip, it'll make you feel loads better. And I'll make you some bacon and coffee. Greasy foods do wonders." He looks sincere, so Remus gives in, dragging himself to standing and dropping his boxers, leaving them over the side of the chair. He is distantly aware of how easy it is undressing in front of his friends – what was once a mortifying and paralyzing experience is now almost automatic, as thoughtless as breathing in front of company.

"Wait," Remus says, memories of the night surfacing in his mind in fragments. "Do you remember last night at all?"

Sirius laughs, hollowly. "Not at all. Not after the fifth shot, at least. Do you?"

Remus sways, and suppresses a shiver. His mind just screams, shut up, shut up, so: "No, me neither."

"Go swim." Sirius waves him off, turning back to the stove and humming a song.

Remus stumbles his way to the beach. The sun has nearly peaked in the sky, and the air is thick and hot, the stone patio scalding his bare feet. Eventually, Remus steps on shore and walks into the surf like an unstoppable machine, marching ever onwards, not even flinching as the cold water reaches his penis. He falls into the water – less of a dive, more as if he had been sucked in, slipping back into the waves. It has an instant effect – nausea evaporates, the sweat and filth of the night washed away. No wonder this is religious, Remus considers, drifting on his back, a Baptism, a rebirth.

Remus enters the kitchen to the smell of bacon and coffee, as promised, and he even feels like he can stomach it this time. Peter is sitting, groaning at the kitchen table, looking wretched with his hair all over the place, dark bags under his eyes, and greasy teashade glasses at the end of his nose. Sirius is nowhere to be seen.

"Morning," Remus says and Peter grunts a response. "Where's Sirius?"

"Out. Getting something."

"Oh, Lord," Remus says, "he shouldn't be driving. He's been drinking."

"He'll be fine," Peter waves off, but Remus remains anxious.

"Coffee?" Remus eventually offers, Peter gladly accepting. They sit across from each other and sip it black, Remus checking his watch every so often. He sits the bacon in the middle of table, but Peter just winces and looks away, so Remus eats the lot.

Peter speaks first: "What happened last night?"

"You can't remember either? Neither can Sirius or I –"

"No, I remember," Peter says, putting his mug down and considering the dark, oily surface, never looking up at Remus. "What were you guys talking about, though?"

Remus considers what to say next. He feels compelled to lie, but the tiredness in Peter's voice, and the sadness makes him reconsider: "Well – um – how much do you know?"

"I know something is going on. You guys haven't been acting normally. I mean, all of you." Peter frowns; this trip is changing everything. Not in wide brushstrokes, but suddenly the way people smile, the way people laugh, the way people touch – it's altered, colder, more distant, a changed thing. He feels like he's standing still in traffic, the world spiraling around him without ever touching it.

"Well. You can't repeat this to anyone." Peter nods, solemnly. "Ah – I don't know how to put this right way."

"Just spit it out?"

"I." Remus pauses, sifting through some shallows breaths. "I'm in love with Sirius." Yeah, it sounds as absurd out loud as it does in his head.

Peter is silent, just staring at his coffee, fingering the ceramic handle. Quietly, he speaks: "Really?"

"Yeah," Remus says, and he feels like Atlas freed from his weight, "I am."

Peter looks up. He's smiling, just a little, and he looks even more tired than before. "Does he love you back?"

"I don't know." Remus drains the rest of his coffee, and pours himself a new mug-full. "Maybe. But, if he does, he's too busy, uh, doing – other people."

"Other people?"

Remus sighs. "Well." He gives Peter a significant look. "He just. He – often seems more interested in, say, affection than me. I mean, affection in general. From everyone. Everyone." He raises his eyebrows, looking kind of wounded.

"But – you – you're kidding, right? – you mean, Sirius and James? –"

"No – him and – Lily – oh, I don't know." Remus scratches the back of his neck nervously. "I – I honestly don't know what's going on with them."

"Well," Peter says, considering his words for a long moment, "he does like being the... center of attention."

"Yes, yes," Remus murmurs. "The sun around which we all spin," Remus taps his chin thoughtfully. "Yes. Yes he does."

"And you – love him?"

Remus laughs, a sweet look on his face. "Yes. I don't know why. But I – sort of do." Peter looks back down at his coffee. "Uh – Pete, you okay with that?"

"I don't know. I mean. It's not – right is it?"

Remus frowns. "What isn't? Being – uh –" gay seems too hard to say, "– different?" he finishes lamely.

"No – no, Sirius not liking you." Peter looks up and manages a smile, which Remus returns.

"It's not right – or wrong – but – well, thanks, Peter." Remus smiles, drains his cup, and feels refreshed. "I really needed to get that off my chest."

"No, no," Peter replies. "Just – thanks for telling me. No one ever tells me anything anymore." He gives that familiar pout, his big lips all pink and wet and he looks like he did in first year. The only innocent left, Remus thinks.

The rest of the day passes slowly, like a syrup. Sirius comes back, safe and sound, and continues on with the whiskey, bright and cheerful as he does, draining the rest of the bottle and starting on some wine. It's not until late afternoon that James and Lily stumble downstairs, hair messy halos of sleep, eyes thick with sleep and hangovers. After another half-meal, the company ends up lounging around the house, silent mostly except for the occasional joke, or small conversation. Sirius and Remus stick together, sitting out on the covered veranda and drinking bottles of wine and exchanging petty quips, smoking Sirius' pungent Woodbines and trying to blow smoke rings. James and Peter play chess on the stone porch, bottles of beer by their feet, and Lily is reading on the beach like an old lady, big sunhat and oversized sunglasses.

The five of them only converge once the sun has set. Darkness settles over them, along with a cool chill, so they plant themselves on the veranda, passing around more alcohol, hangovers forgotten in the wave of new booze. The record player blasts Jimi Hendrix, a wailing, whirling haze of music that pairs magically with the tang of the alcohol and the thickness of cigarette smoke. That isn't to say all is well; Sirius and Lily sit far apart, never daring to look at each other. James, Peter, and Remus are the middle men, pushing the conversation forward, pushing it even when it refuses to move.

"Maybe we should see a movie," Remus suggests, flipping through a French newspaper he can't read. "Look, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. I've heard it's really good."

"I'm not in the mood," Sirius says, tipping his chair back on two legs.

"Maybe we could rent a boat, go sailing –"

"None of us know how."

"Well, fine, let's get a drink," James says after a while of pointless talk. "Peter, can you drive?"

Peter shrugs. "Let's go."

The rest of the night crashes around them like a torrent. The cafι is lake-side, and expensive, as usual. Sirius orders the drinks – a round of perroquet – a strange green drink that he explains is made of pastis and mint syrup. They drink in relative silence, each doing their own thing; James seems curious and cheerful, but Peter is panicked, like a bomb might explode at any moment; Sirius seems pinioned to Remus' every move, like he's deliberately making a show of it, and Lily just stares into her drink passively.

"Another round," Sirius says, flagging down the waiter.

"Pardon, monsieur?"

"Oh, fuck," Sirius says with a snort, "forgot. France. Um, un autre – service, s'il te plait?"

"Out monsieur, la meme?"

"Non – puis, uh, un service de kir royal, s'il te plait."

"What did you order?" James asks, taking out his packet of Benson & Hedges, taking one out and tucking it behind his ear and another at his lips before passing the carton around.

"Kir royal. It's a good drink. Black currant liqueur and champagne."

"Sounds disgusting," Peter says, who still hasn't finished his first drink. "I'd like a nice pint, actually."

"We've got beer at home," Sirius says, waving him off impatiently. "Be a bit more cosmo – a little more cosmopolo – fuck, whatever. Be exciting, for once in your damn life, I mean."

"Sirius, don't be a bitch," Lily says, downing the rest of her perroquet. It's like she's asking for a fight.

"Ah, well, you'd be an expert in that, wouldn't you?" he shoots back.

Her green eyes flash. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

James intervenes: "Guys, guys, calm down. Sirius, I think you need to stop drinking. How much have you had today?"

"Not nearly enough," Sirius says resentfully, taking and draining Peter's remaining liquor. ("He's had a lot," Remus says to James as an aside.)

"Well, maybe you've had enough." His voice is gentle, soothing, but Lily's satisfied smiles undoes it all.

"I'm not drunk – oh, fuck, fine, I am drunk, but you can't fucking stop me." His face is red, and his hair is a mess; he looks like a disheveled aristocrat, with a shirt worth a hundred quid, a crucifix of pure gold, pewter dog tags, and the smell of alcohol and dirt abound. He's pampered and ripped, dignified and ragged, a perfect little Prince and the Pauper all rolled into one. "And you wipe that smirk off your fucking face, Lily."

"Sirius – calm the hell down," James says again. "What's wrong with you guys, everything was going so well until –"

"Until she acted like a fucking bitch."

The drinks come, and Sirius drains his off the bat. Remus and Peter watch him like they're watching a car wreck, James looks ruffled and defensive, and Lily just looks bloodthirsty. The alcohol seems to silence them, but James isn't yet ready to back down, and after a few sips:

"I want you to apologize to Lily."

"No fucking way."

"What's wrong with you, Sirius? You told me you liked her, like, yesterday!" There's a note of desperation in James' voice, which makes sense; what happens if the two people he loves hate each other?

Sirius looks from James, to Lily. "I fucking lied, man."

"But – why? I don't get you, Sirius." James looks about ready to cry, which is maybe the only thing that will shut Sirius up. He turns to his girlfriend: "Lily, what's going on?"

"I –" she pauses, frowns, "– I don't really know."

Sirius looks ready to explode, but Remus' hand on his knee and James' desperate expression, it quiets him. He takes Remus' proffered glass, swallowing it in one.

"I think we should go home," Peter whispers into the silence, and so Sirius leaves a bundle of Francs on the table and they leave, no complaints.

When they get back to the cottage, they split. It's almost totally dark now, half past nine, and the cloudy chill of afternoon has given way to a thick, warm wind and summer smells. Sirius takes off first, James trailing after him, jogging to keep up with Sirius' pace.

"Sirius – where are you going? We need to talk –"

"I'm going swimming." (Which, with this much alcohol, kind of means drowning.) Sirius is in the kitchen now, his shirt flung over one of the chairs, his shorts in a pile by the doorway. "Come if you want."

James tries to strip as he runs, but crashes and smashes into walls, hopping on one foot to kick off his shorts, nearly strangling himself trying to pull off his T-shirt. "Sirius, slow the fuck down." James careens down the hall, but Sirius is nowhere to be found. Finally kicking off his boxers, James goes at full sprint down the lawn, missing the furniture by inches, smashing through underbrush and low-hanging branches to reach the beach. Sirius is already in the water a hundred meters out, only a thrashing blot in the dark of night.

"Sirius!" James yells, hesitating on the shoreline. "Come back! You're drunk, this is stupid! We can work this out – please, come back," When no reply comes, James runs into the water, diving and splashing and kicking his way to Sirius. He catches up quickly; Sirius is drunk and stupid, after all, and he's just floundering about and he seems a bit panicked because he can't touch bottom, so James wraps an arm around Sirius' waist and swims back to shore, Sirius struggling against James' hold, spitting out half-formed words and lake water.

Finally in the shallows, James drops Sirius and the two fall apart panting, heaving, naked and cold and wet and it's far too late and Sirius far too drunk to make any sense of this.

"Fuck, James," Sirius says, leaning back on his palms and shivering, maybe crying but James can't really tell because of the water. "What are you fucking doing?"

"Sirius – fuck –" James says, panting, trying to catch his breath in the ankle-deep water, "can you just tell me what's wrong? I'm tired of – I'm tired."

Sirius is definitely crying now, short of breath between the sobbing and the struggle, "James, just fuck off – oh God," and he has to close his eyes because he can't keep looking at James' concerned, hurt, vibrant expression.

"Just tell me! I'm your friend! I'm your brother, aren't I?" James shuffles over to Sirius and wraps an arm around his shoulder, squeezing the muscle of his shoulder awkwardly. They're naked, wet and slippery and white, shining in the moon, and just because Sirius rarely ever cries, and James is so kind of close that he can't help crying himself. "Please, just tell me?"

It's thick in his chest, pulled tight over his skin, to the point of maybe breaking. Sirius knows he has to tell him, he can't hide this, not something this big, not something that would tear James apart if he found out some other way. "I – me and – I," and he can't manage the words, so he just says it: "I fucked Lily." He speaks to the ground, to the water, head bent and knocked against his knees, trailing off into gasps. "I fucked Lily, I fucked your girlfriend," he repeats quietly, almost like he can't believe it himself.

James' arm lifts, he falls away; it's his eyes that hurt the most, not wide and shocked, not narrowed and angry, just open, wet and soft and blurred. "Oh."

"I –" Sirius looks up and he's not crying anymore, just horribly pale, "James – I –" Sirius closes his eyes, wraps his arms tighter around his knees, drawing them to his chest. "James, I'm sorry. I – I'm really sorry, I just – we were – it was before you two – and, fuck, I'm so sorry."

James doesn't say anything, just gets up, naked as David, and walks away, merging with the darkness in total silence.

"James!" Sirius calls after him, unwinding but not leaving the water. "James! Please, we can talk –" but nothing happens, and Sirius falls back into the water, head cradled in the wet sand, body nudged to and fro in the small waves. "James," he whispers stupidly, "James, James – fuck."

He listens to the water, feels the horrible cold of it on his thighs, his calves, his stomach and chest. He wonders (dramatic as ever) what it would be like to drown; panicked, cold, horrible, he thinks. Sirius isn't crying anymore – actually, a pleasant sort of lightness fills him, because he knows the worst is over (except all the pain that's going to come) and he's ripped off the scab and now the blood can flow.

Sirius is not alone for long; slowly, confidently, Remus walks down the beach. He's naked too, and all warm and brown and dry. He sits in next to Sirius, arms wrapped around his knees, fingers cinched around one wrist like a bracelet. It's a very casual motion, the sag in his muscled shoulders, the limp fingers of his hands, the curve of his calf, and the arch of his bent knees.

"Well, the night does funny things inside a man… these old tom-cat feelings you don't understand. Well – I – uh, turn around to look at you – you, um, light a cigarette – something, something." Remus closes his eyes. "Sorry, that didn't go so well."

"I wish I had the guts to burn one," Sirius says vacantly, finishing the line, "but we've never met – and I hope that I don't fall in love with you." He lingers on the words for a moment. "Tom Waits. He's my favourite."

"I know he is." Remus sighs, his butt is going numb but he doesn't move. "So you told him?"

"You knew?"

"I knew. I think James was the only one who didn't know." Remus looks out to the horizon he can't see, and he looks so odd because he's just the figure of calm composure, he is; varnished cool, warm youth, all the things that Remus never was at school. This isn't the awkward, stumbling, worried Remus that Sirius loved. This here's a man, a man in the body of a boy. "It was pretty easy to connect the dots."

"Oh." Sirius is staring at the sky. "I'm sorry."

Remus shrugs, making a smooth wave of his body, shoulders and back. "It's okay."

"I've really fucked up, haven't I?"

"No. Well, yes. But you can fix it."

"I don't know how."

Remus slides down, submerges his legs in the water, doesn't even complain when a cold wave washes over his chest, hardening his nipples and making his muscles flex with goose-pimples; he curls in next to Sirius, tucking one leg over his friend's, wrapping one arm around his chest. The sand is wet and cold against his ear. "It's okay, Sirius."

"I dunno," Sirius murmurs.

"Do you remember what you told me last night?"

"What I told you?"

"That I should grow a spine."

Sirius nods nearly imperceptibly. "Yeah, I do."

"I'm growing a spine."

"I noticed."

"I love you, Sirius."

"Don't say that." Sirius sounds impossibly tired. "Please, don't say that."

Remus kisses Sirius' shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"You're making everything – way too complicated."

Remus leans up on one arm, he's looking down at Sirius, his wet and sandy hair draping, dripping on Sirius' face. They're covered in shadow, thick between their faces, and then Remus leans down and kisses Sirius; touch and release. "You've got to let go, Sirius." He leans down and kisses him again.

"I already have," Sirius says, sighing, blinking back tears.

"No, not Lily. You have to let go of James." Remus shifts positions, straddling Sirius' waist, hands locked in over his shoulders. He looks uncertain being in such a place, a kind dominance so unlike him – neither intellectual nor physical, this one purely personal, a dominance in their friendship, in their relationship. "You've got to let go."

If he weren't so upset, Sirius might have laughed. "Let go of James? I don't get it."

Remus leans down and kisses Sirius again, this time a little deeper, with less caution. "You weren't really in love with Lily, were you?" Sirius blinks at him, not really understanding. "She was something James wanted. Maybe – maybe, because of that, she was something you wanted to? Maybe – she was close as you could get."

"As close as I could get to what?"

"To James. To," he picks his words carefully, "being with James."

Sirius scans Remus' face carefully, and he feels tears roll down his own cheeks, but he doesn't remember crying. It doesn't make sense, he loves Lily, and yet, at the same time, he realizes that he went after he the same week James said he had a crush. He loves Lily, and sometimes he does it in James' room. He loves Lily, and yet sometimes he does it to feel what James feels. "It's not like that. James is – James is… special."

"I know he is," Remus says, leaning in again to kiss Sirius' cheek. "He's a good guy. I know he is."

"I love him." And not for the first time Sirius feels his drunkenness overtake him.

"I know you do," Remus replies in turn, kissing him on the other cheek.

"He's – he's all I've got left," Sirius says; he speaks distantly, not as if to Remus, but as if to the air and the stars and the lake and the land. "He's my brother. Once Regulus – after I left – he's all I've got. He's the most important thing to me." Sirius is rambling, but Remus listens, leaning down sometimes to kiss his very own Sirius, to stroke his hair and get tangled with the cold surf and thick sand. "I'd die for him, you know? I'd die for him."

"I know, Sirius, I know. But he's got his own life, too. And you've got your own." Remus feels like he should be in a movie or in some horrible romance book – Anna Karina in Vivre sa vie, teary-eyed at the cinema, discussing life lessons, or maybe a wailing virgin consoling her very own Byronic hero. It's all so clichιd, but what can he do? Sometimes life is like that. Remus looks down at Sirius and forgets the betrayal, forgets the hurt, forgets the hundreds of times Sirius has dropped him to see James, to see Lily. All Remus can see is Sirius now, Sirius drunk and desperate and hurting right down to his heart. "And – you've got me."

It's not a moment of revelation; not a, Oh God, why didn't I see it before? or a, This pain I feel shows me how much I really love you. Sirius has always seen it, just hasn't really bothered to act, because Remus is always there – that's what Remus does, he's there; he's there when Sirius needs him, he's there when Sirius doesn't. Like now, all naked and warm and soft on the beach and just the right kind of person, just the right kind of smile, just the right kind of body that Sirius needs so he doesn't throw himself into the lake. Sirius leans up and kisses Remus, stomach muscles flexing as he holds himself up despite gravity, holding it so long that his frame begins to tremble and he has to let himself down.

They're staring at each other a long while, and their minds flip between different things – they're naked, first of all, and their cocks are touching, pressing against each other in a guilty way as Remus shifts his hips. They're cold too, and dulled by alcohol, their minds fuzzy with the things that are wrong and the things that are right. They tempt each other with gentle movements, but it amounts to nothing, and eventually sleep and stars and night wins over.

"I'd like to go to bed," Sirius says as his limbs tighten with cold and exhaustion. "I just don't want to go inside."

"I brought out some blankets and pillows," Remus says gently, crawling off of Sirius and standing and stretching in the cool wind. "We can sleep out here."

"We'll be cold."

"We'll snuggle."

"You're gay."

"You too."

They spread a large blanket over the sand, up away from the surf, and crawl under the remaining three, pressed close and naked together, still wet but drying warmly. The pillows are hard and made of down, but Sirius could have slept on rocks.

"I don't know what to do," Sirius mumbles in that shadow before sleep.

"It's okay, we'll figure something out."

"He hates me," Sirius says, whispering it to himself.

"He doesn't hate you.

"What am I going to do?"

"Sleep, for now."

"All right."

"James – you're wet – wait, what's wrong?"

James looks at Lily sullenly, not quite angry, not quite anything, actually. He feels gutted, de-boned like a fish, empty and cold. He grabs Sirius' T-shirt from the kitchen counter and pulls it over his head; Lily follows him around as he looks for a pair of boxers, which he finds and pulls on.

"James, what's wrong?"

"Sirius told me." He turns around to face Lily, shaking his head. "He told me about you two."

"Oh – oh God." She's white; pale porcelain white, which makes her freckles stand out even more. "James. No. I – oh God."

James sits in one of the kitchen chairs and looks at her steadily. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She doesn't understand the question; doesn't understand the difference. "I don't know what to say." Lily backs against the cupboard door, hitting her head with a knock. "James – I wanted to tell you – I needed to. But – I didn't want you to… hate Sirius. I didn't want to break what you two have. It's why I stopped seeing him, stopped f-fucking Sirius. I know I got between you two. I know you two – that you'd choose each other over me, any day. It's not an excuse, I know, and I know I've ruined everything between you – oh, God, I don't know why any of this happened, I should have just – this was all so –"

"Was what?"

"Immature. It was – childish – I don't know, James. He was – I needed him. I mean, before we got together. And then – I don't know how to explain."

James nods nearly imperceptible. "How did it happen?"

"Well, Sirius and I had been – uh, together since, well, at least fifth year." She slides into the chair across from James, resting her palms on the table and biting her lower lip; she looks like she might lose it. "James, I didn't want it to go on this long, but – to have you, and to have him, it was –" the words make sense in her head, but it sounds so awful she's not sure if she can actually say it, "it – it made me feel good." She looks down at the table, not ready to match James' eyes just yet. "It was selfish. God, it was so selfish. But he was – he was you, but an arsehole. He was you, but I could get him because I could understand him. He was you when I couldn't have you. And then - and having the both of you – oh, God, I'm going in circles and this must not make any sense – James, I'm sorry." The light above the table is bright and harsh, like a detective's lamp, and all she wants is for this all to go away, and for James to smile that familiar smile like he always does. "But, I know who I want now – no, that came out wrong. I love you. I love you more than I thought I could ever love someone and I know this sounds like an awful book but I really do love you. I love you like I want to get married and have kids love you." She's sweating, and flushed, and crying. "James, I love you so much and – it's just, I love Sirius a bit too."

James pauses, taking this in. His expression changes almost imperceptibly, from coldness to a kind of accepting warmth. His muscles loosen, he seems to go slack against the chair, and the twitch in his fist dissolves as his hand goes flat across the table. "Let's not make this into a movie." He's quiet, so composed it unnerves her. "We should get some sleep."

"What?" She feels like she's been pushed aside; his lack of anger is more painful than if he were screaming, yelling.

"What you said. I get it. That's it, let's go."

"You get what? That I – that I l-love him?"

"It's entirely possible," James says, with heavy eyes. "I love him."

"But, not like –" and then Lily looks up, and she looks at James, and she won't say anything like it was seeing him for the first time, but she saw something she'd never seen before. "Oh – oh Lord. You – and him?"

"Yeah. Well, not what you think. But, yeah."

"Oh." What do I think? "Were you – were you together?"

"No." A ghost of a smile. "Almost. Well, sort of. But it was never that simple." James looks up, and reaches over to take her hand. "But he's – Sirius, I guess. That's all there is to it." He shrugs. "I mean, it's no excuse. It's just. I think – I think I can at least understand what you – you were thinking."

"And forgive me?" She looks like a scolded child, red-rimmed eyes and sagging shoulders, small in her chair with red hair all over, freckles standing starkly out from his pale skin.

James looks at her, and his lips turn up a little at the corners. "Yes."

"I'm so sorry, James. I love you so much." She takes his hand and kisses it, holding it against her cheek.

"I love you too." He pauses, searching her eyes, stroking her face gently. "This whole thing has been kind of stupid."

"I've been stupid."

"It's okay." James smiles, ever so slightly. "If it was anyone else – I don't know. But it's – it's almost, almost kind of okay. Because. Well. It's Sirius, isn't it?" He blushes. "My Sirius, isn't it." He pauses. "That little fucking bastard."

"Are you going to forgive him?"

James shrugs. "Of course I am. He's a bastard, but I love him… for some stupid reason. And no matter what he does, he's always my brother. Sometimes I wish he weren't, but, there you have it. Maybe I'll let him suffer a bit first, though."

"We're never going to be rid of him, will we?"

"We're a package deal."

She shakes her head. "This doesn't make any sense. You guys. Us. I don't know what I was thinking, falling for you. For you two. For us three."

"To be honest, I don't know either."

Lily smiles, and it feels like normal again, that wonderful, glowing, sparkling feeling of normalcy. "But it's okay, right? We're okay?"

"We're okay. Always okay. Shall we go to sleep?

Lily brushes away the last of her tears. "Yes – but – James, I love you. So much."

"So I've heard." They get up, hug, and share a long, warm kiss. "I kind of like you too."

She drops her head to his shoulder and kisses his neck. She feels different from this, altered, like maybe she's standing a bit taller, a bit stronger, a bit older. "Did you maybe want to get married?"

James nods. "I'd like that."

"Me too."

"Good morning."

Sirius blinks in the sunlight, squinting and groaning. He aches all over, from the hard sand and the sheer amount of alcohol and, fuck, the things that happened that shouldn't have and oh God, everything really is fucked up. Remus stirs beside him, but doesn't wake.

"Sirius, wake up, it's almost noon."

"I wanna sleep," Sirius groans, rolling over and planting his face in the dense pillow. It smells of dew and lake and other pungent things. He doesn't mind.

"Sleeping on a beach can't be the best thing for you."

And the voice is James'. Sirius rolls over and opens his eyes, full this time. James stands over him, not quite smiling, not quite angry, more of a changing, questionable look. He holds a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, and offers it to Sirius.

Sirius takes it. "James –"

"Drink first, we'll talk after."

Sirius nods and drinks. James offers him a cigarette, which Sirius takes and lights with the end of James' wand, breathing out a stale gasp of smoke that couldn't have been more welcome. It's hot, so hot; that early kind of hot that bursts the cold of dawn and sears everything in sight; Sirius has got a sunburn on the back of his neck and his arms where they poked out of the blanket, and he's wet and stiff with sweat – the coffee isn't helping, so he downs it as quickly as possible, glowing red as the heat goes straight to his face. When Sirius finishes and extinguishes his cigarette, Remus wakes up, first twisting and rolling so his face brushes up against Sirius' naked hip, which he kisses lazily, tasting the warm flesh, mumbling indistinctly.

"Remus." Sirius shakes his shoulder gently. "Get up."

"Morning," Remus says, his eyes closed against the sun. "How you feeling?"

"Uh – could be better," Sirius says blushing, realizing that he's naked and Remus naked and they're not really hiding it and what James must think. "Um. You?"

Remus opens his eyes, shifting from mellowed sleep to shock as he notices James. "Oh." He pulls the blanket around his waist, settling himself up to sit cross-legged. "Good morning."

"Morning," James says. "There's some coffee in the kitchen if you want."

"Oh." Remus nods. "Right. Uh. I'll just be. Going then. Coffee." He wishes he had some clothes, and he wishes James would stop with that self-satisfied look who I just caught with their hand in the cookie jar expression, and he wishes (most of all) that Sirius will forget all about last night. Remus gets up, very naked, wraps a blanket over his shoulders and walks off.

"Did you guys, uh –?"

Sirius rubs a hand over his face and exhales deeply. "I don't – think so."

"But you two are –"

"Maybe." Sirius reclines back on his palms and gives a little shrug. "We've always been kind of, well, maybe."

James offers a chuckle, which warms Sirius immensely. "Well, I guess we have, uh, stuff to talk about."

Sirius nods soberly. "Yeah."

James sits in the sand across from Sirius. He's got Lily's big white sunglasses pushing back his hair, and he's wearing Remus' shirt and Peter's shorts and Sirius' belt (because James refuses to pay that much for patent leather, but isn't above stealing Sirius for it), a patchwork quilt of their friendship. They both play with the sand absently, not sure where to start.

"So, uh." James says, pausing to dig his fingers deeper into the sand. "Lily."

"I'm sorry, James." Sirius doesn't look up, just makes little finger-trails in the sand, digging a figure-eight and following its route over and over. "I'm – I don't know what I was thinking. I'm really sorry."

"That's it?"

Sirius shrugs. "I don't know what else I can say. I love you, and I've fucked all this up really badly. I didn't mean to hurt you – or Lily," he adds as an afterthought. "I was just really – you liked her, and maybe because of that I – and then when you were together, it almost felt okay because we always share and –"

"You're such a little bastard," James says, with affection. "Like, a horrible human being, I hope you know that."

Sirius looks at his feet. "I know."

James sighs. "Maybe I should have said something. I figure you'd like her. Maybe I just didn't want to see any of it happening."

"It's not your fault." And then, with a smile: "But I hope I'm not that obvious. I mean, you're the one with the thing for redheads."

James laughs, still playing with the sand, shifting it from hand to hand like he's separating the parts of an egg. "I guess."

"I'm sorry."

"It hurt a lot, you know." James looks up and catches Sirius' eye. "Finding out. Maybe not the finding out itself, but putting all the pieces together, all the moments of the last year I should have seen but just – put aside, because I just didn't think you would, you know –"

"You didn't think I would? I mean, there was Catherine –"

"Yeah, but that was – we were fifteen, it was no big deal. You knew I didn't mind sharing. Like you and whatserface, Jeanne."

Sirius laughs. "We did that a lot didn't we? I can't believe we got away with it. Poor girls."

"I just didn't think you would do it with – this one."

Sirius looks stricken. "I know – it's just, Lily is –"

"Special, yeah." James gives a sad smile. "God, you're a bastard, you know that?"

"I know I am."

James contemplates this, and as a last gesture asks: "Well, it's over, right?"

Sirius rushes to speak: "Oh God is it over. I'll never do it again. I won't even look at her if you want. Seriously, she'll be like a blind spot. Poof, gone. Seriously, just say the word."

"Don't be arse, I still want you guys to be friends. Just don't be – uh, friends. Just – not this one, Sirius."

"Never ever ever." Sirius bites his lip, and offers: "Uh, do you forgive me, then?"

"Course I do." James nods, satisfied. "I shouldn't, but I'm a pushover. Even if you are a stupid cunt."

"Love you too," Sirius murmurs. He looks impossibly relieved. "I'm really sorry, James."

"Just shut it, will you?"

"Consider it shut."

It goes without saying that they hug, and kiss. Long, and shallow, just lip-on-lip, and even then it's mostly dry and passionless, just a reaffirmation of, well, everything; of seven years of friendship and living together and I'm so sorry and It's okay. Someone might have mumbled I love you, but it's hard to tell over the sound of the waves.

James touches Sirius' warm shoulder and looks at him steadily: "Do you maybe wanna get really drunk and forget any of this happened?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

"Did we bring it up?"

"Of course we brought it up. We always bring it up."

"Sirius, I'm telling you, it's not here."

"It's gotta be there."

"Here, you look."

"Hold my beer."

"Okay."

"Don't drink any of it, James."

"I won't, I won't."

Lily finishes pouring another five shots of vodka, lining them up on the metal patio table all neat and organized. She leans back and takes a cigarette, lighting it and exhaling a cloud of smoke. She yells, so they can hear her: "What are guys even looking for?"

"Serge." Remus explains, sliding into the chair across from her. "Gainsbourg. The History of Melody Nelson. Sirius always plays it here. Thinks it's cool because we're in France, and listening to Serge. Trθs cool."

("It is cool!" Sirius yells from the living room.)

"Oh, is that the one with all the talking and breathing and panting?" Peter asks, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt. "And the French?"

"Yeah," Remus says, laughing. "Very descriptive, Pete." He turns to Lily. "It's actually not bad. I mean, for something Sirius likes. It's kind of – sexy."

"I'm intrigued. Shot?" She offers him one of the small glasses, which Remus takes. They sip at it carefully, like aristocrats, but it's really quite bad vodka and they grimace and decide to down it.

"Pete?" Lily asks, offering him one.

"Why not."

The three hold their shots in the air, smiling broadly at each other; they are the secret Marauders, the ones who aren't totally insane, and this bond they share very proudly.

"To us," Lily says.

"To us," Remus agrees.

Peter just laughs.

It's down and they splutter and cough and even the single touch to the tongue is enough to make Remus want to be sick. But he holds it down, chases it with a mouthful of orange, and smiles as the juice dribbles down his chin.

"Less than delicious," Lily says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "But I guess it does the trick. Are we getting hammered tonight?"

"Seems to be the plan," Remus says, taking Lily's offered cigarette and pulling a drag from it, coughing slightly and letting it out in a cloud. "James and Sirius seem determined to, in any case."

"Let me guess," Lily says, filling the empty glasses with more vodka. "Tradition?"

"Bingo," Remus says. "You're getting good at this."

"A natural Marauder," Peter says, putting his empty beer can on the table. "Beers anyone?"

"Yes, please," Remus says.

"Et moi," Lily nods, so Peter stumbles off to the kitchen.

"So," Remus says, running a hand through his hair and pushing it back from his forehead. "Things are – better?"

"Ah," Lily says, blushing and holding her glass of wine to her temple. "So you've heard, then."

Remus nods. "I have heard, yes."

"Well," and Lily drains the rest of her wine, putting the glass on the table, "things seem to be okay. With – well, with everyone. James and I are okay. James and Sirius are okay." She pauses, listening to the distant chatter of the boys still looking for the record. "Er, are we okay? I know you and Sirius were – are, uh, you know."

Remus smiles, and refills both their wine glasses. "Of course we are. Sometimes I think you're the only reason I don't go insane around these boys." He feels warm, all over, flushed and satisfied and wonderfully filled like something has been missing for months and months. The air seems so clean now, empty of the tension that's been carried for years, fresh and warm and at last (at last) tasting of summer. The change in relationship, like the moving of continents, seems halted, the gravity of their friendship drawing the five back together like nothing has ever happened. Even Peter (wonderful, naοve little Peter) seems enchanted by it, though he doesn't quite understand how this all came about. "And – well, how are you and Sirius?"

"Sirius and I?" Lily pauses, leaning back on her chair, putting her feet on the table. "We're okay. I think – I think we learned a lot about ourselves." She nods, and it's not just the wine. "I think we learned what is, um, most important in our lives." She blushes, and so does Remus.

"Aha! I told you we brought it!"

"I think," Lily says, "our cavaliers are returning."

James, Remus, and Peter march in together; James with the fabled record, Peter with a six-pack of beer, and Sirius with a large brown bottle.

"More alcohol," Sirius says, placing the bottle on the table and uncorking it easily. "You'll like this stuff."

"What is it?" Lily asks, finishing her half-glass of wine and feeling it rush straight to her cheeks.

"C'est un clavelin de vin jaune."

"And in English?"

"A bottle of yellow wine." Sirius starts pouring it into glasses. "It's a special wine, from Jura. This is a –" (he reads the label) "– 1931 Chβteau-Chalon. My father left his rather ample collection here before –" and Sirius draws his finger across his throat. "It's worth at least a zillion pounds so I thought maybe we should drink it." Finished with pouring, Sirius puts the Gainsbourg record on the player, flicking his wand to start it playing – immediately, the porn-like twang of bass and guitar fills the outdoors, evaporating quietly into the night air; then the breathy words as Gainsbourg seduces the world, the metallic strum of guitar, the perfect nighttime mood setter, and Sirius settles right into his chair.

Lily sips at her glass; it's a mysterious little drink, oaky and nutty and filled with spice; loud and saccharine and vaguely bitter. "Your family seems to spend a lot of time in France, don't they?"

"We're French, so, yeah. And I think there's some Greek in us – hence Sirius, I suppose. I know we have a house on one of the islands, Paros or Naxos or whatever. I haven't been since I was eleven. Since – well, you know."

Lily nods. "So, you were born in France?"

"In Avignon. Ancestral home, or something. Sur le pont d'Avignon, on y danse, on y danse. We moved to London when I was three."

"You don't mind me asking, do you?" Lily says suddenly, curling her hair behind her ear. "I mean, it's not too –"

"No, it's fine." Sirius pauses, stubbing out his cigarette and taking a drink of the wine. "I – kind of like talking about them. Sometimes." He looks at his feet, almost like this is an embarrassing thing to admit. "My family came to France every year when I was a kid. This place here is Alphard's. Sometimes we went to Avignon, but we also have houses in Paris, Dordogne, and Rochefort."

"No kidding," Remus interjects.

"That's what you get with one-thousand years of pure-blood dominance. Lots and lots of money and lots of lots of property." Sirius drains his glass, and pours himself another one. "I wouldn't be upset if I never saw those houses again. This is the only place I care for. And she's all mine." Sirius does this a lot; soft, drifting conversation that he envelops in fantasy, what ifs and we shoulds. "Fuck this work thing, we should all live here." As soon as he's said it, Sirius indulges: "I mean, James and I have got loads and loads of money, I've got this house – I mean, what's so special about England? We can Apparate. Well, we'll all be able to soon is Peter would take his damn test."

Peter blushes. "It just seems really scary. I don't wanna splinch myself."

"Oh, come on Peter," Sirius says impatiently. "It's not bad at all."

"I'll teach you," James says, making Peter grin.

"But seriously guys," Sirius says, drawing them back. "Why can't we do it? It could be – oh God, wouldn't that be amazing?"

Lily sighs. "Yeah, it would be amazing. But."

They know what she means as soon as she says it, and the fantasies slip from Sirius' fingers like sand. The War. Looming over them and circling like a vulture, just now building speed but quickly becoming an inevitability. Voldemort has been a household name since they've been seven, but then he was only a scary thing, a monster in the closet; a radical, a revolutionary, a cult leader that only adults talked about. Now, the monster was a giant, the statue a colossus, the radical a tyrant.

They couldn't live here because they would fight. It was just that simple.

"Why – couldn't we?" Peter says slowly, as if unfolding his idea as he speaks. "Why couldn't we live here?"

"Because we're going to fight," James says with a touch of anger. "Because Dumbledore needs us."

Peter squints, like he's thinking deeply: "But – we don't know a lot about this Voldemort fellow. I mean, he might be a little aggressive, but he has some good ideas –"

"Yeah, like killing muggle-borns –"

"Not killing them," Peter says, trying to be reasonable, "just registering, trying to understand the magical phenomena. It's just a – science really. And, I mean, all the stuff about defending the Wizarding kind – don't you think that's important? We're a minority, and even if we can do that stuff we can, we'll die out if we don't defend our race –"

James frowns: "Defend us from who, exactly?"

"Muggles."

"But they're not trying to kill us, Peter!"

"The Witch trials? The Jews? The Muslims? The Christians?" Peter shakes his head. "They all wanted us dead. Lots still do." James looks outraged, and Peter tries to calm him. "All I'm saying is that maybe Voldemort isn't our enemy! He's a radical, isn't he? He's just trying to get the message out. He's trying to defend us Wizards, and I think that's not necessarily a bad thing."

"It is when he'll do anything to get it," James says, bluntly. "They said Hitler wasn't an enemy, just trying to preserve his race –"

Peter cuts him off: "Don't use him as an example, this is different –"

"No it isn't," Sirius says quietly. "It's the same exact thing. I know it is. My parents were sympathizers. I mean, it takes a lot to get my parents interested in the Muggle world, but Hitler – yeah, they thought he had the right idea. Always told me so, even twenty years after the war." His voice stings of bitterness and anger; untapped, unrefined. "Purity. Defense of the race."

"But Voldemort isn't exactly saying that –"

"He will be," Sirius says calmly. "Oh, he will be."

"Lily's muggle-born, Peter," James says angrily. "You want her tagged? Registered, like an animal? Given a little number on her wrist, and then –"

"Of course I don't!" Peter nearly yells, and he looks like he's close to tears. "I'm just saying we shouldn't dismiss everything Voldemort is saying! –"

"He's nothing more than a racist tyrant," James says flatly. "And I'm going to fight him, even if it means my life." They sit in silence for a while, until James turns to Peter and says: "Are you going to fight with us?"

"Am I – going to fight?"

"In the war. Are you going to fight against Voldemort with us? Like a proper Marauder?"

"I – I don't know if I can."

Sirius is angry this time: "You'd abandon us? You'd hide, all warm and safe, leaving your best friends to fight? To die?"

"I'm scared, Sirius! I'm not brave like you – or Remus, or James." Peter is furiously red, pale cheeks blotchy with rose, neck and the skin at the lip of his shirt a bright pink, eyes rimmed with tears. "I don't know if I can do it."

Lily takes Peter's hand in hers, and she speaks in a shaky voice: "Peter, if we fight together – if we fight together, nothing bad can happen to us."

The five of them fall silent, quiet until the dying sun sets and day becomes night. Night is warm and noisy, with bugs and waves and the sound of the occasional speedboat. Night is filled with more alcohol, the beers are opened and passed around, and the shot glasses lie in wait until this tension dies.

"This isn't how I pictured tonight," Sirius says, filling his wine glass with the rest of the vin jaune. "I pictured this kind of being more fun."

"I'm sorry," Peter says sullenly.

"Don't apologize, Pete," James says easily. "It's fine. It's just – don't forget, we're always with you. You don't have to go through this – thing – alone. We love you, man."

Peter nods and looks down at his hands as he fiddles with a cork.

"Shots, I think," James prescribes. "Lots of shots."

Sirius laughs. "Body shots?"

Almost immediately Remus, Peter, James, and Sirius burst into gales of laughter, laughing until they're crying, laughing until everything bad is swept far, far away. Lily knows this is another tradition, another ritual that she uncovers (like Chagnon studying the Fierce People), and she watches them like she's watching the insane; eyes wide open, slightly disturbed, fully engrossed.

She clears her throat. "Um, should I ask?"

"Just watch," Sirius says, still chuckling. He takes one of the full shotglasses and looks at James expectantly.

With a grin, James pulls off his T-shirt and leans back against the table, his body rigid, diagonal plane that forms a right-angle triangle. Thin and flexible, James leans back with his hips so his shoulders are nearly parallel to the surface of the patio table, his hands reaching back and supporting him in a strange kind of limbo. Sirius maneuvers in and, planting a comfortable hand on the flat of James' tummy, carefully empties the shot glass into the shallow divot in James' chest.

"You can't be serious," Lily says, spluttering on her beer.

"Of course I'm Sirius." He grins, a grin that James matches, and Lily (not for the first time) wonders how she came to love either of these grinning Reynards. Very gently, almost gracefully, Sirius leans down and lowers his face to James' chest – he seems to embrace his friend, arms stretching around him like an enormous spindly drinking cup, and he brings his lips closer to the divot, sliding the very tip of his tongue across the stretch of pale skin, flicking devilishly at James' nipple before resting on the lip of bone before the indent. Peter is smiling and grimacing in one, while Remus is shaking in fits of silent laughter. Lily just stares, not quite sure what to think. With a strange kind of deftness, Sirius slips his tongue into the liquor, and with one long, violent sip shoots the vodka and swallows it easily before bursting into loud, spluttering laughter.

"I cannot believe you just did that," Lily says, with amused disgust. "That is the – the gayest thing I have ever seen."

"Go on, do one," Sirius says, nudging her in the arm. "Make him straight, if you want."

"Yeah!" Peter says brightly. "Come on, Lily."

"You people are weird." She jokes, but she feels compelled to join, cherishing the invitation into their inner circle.

"Go on," James says, wiping away the spilled vodka from his neck and shoulders. "Make me straight."

"Only if everyone else does one." She likes the symmetry. Remus nods appreciatively, warm and woozy from his wine, and Peter just looks a little stunned. "Peter – you do one, I do one." She winks at him, which seals the deal. "All right, c'mere you poof."

Sirius pours another one into the shallow cavity, and Lily lowers herself to him. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she says, laughing. "You people are insane." She looks at the shot and tries to reason with it – how exactly can she do it? Like Sirius, she supposes. So she brings her lips to James' chest and, with a great slurp, takes and swallows the shot in one, coughing as it goes down.

"Oh God, it's as disgusting as it looks!" she cries, laughing and wiping her mouth.

"All right, James," Remus says, swaying over to him. "You human cup, you."

Sirius does the honours again, and Remus leans in, deftly taking the shot and swallowing it easily, chasing it with a grin. Sirius pats Remus on the back jocularly, and then quickly (looking quite flustered and self-conscious) slips an arm around his waist, tucking his fingers under the lip of Remus' shorts.

James stands, stretches, and goes back to his yoga-like position. "All right, c'mere Peter."

Peter stumbles over, looking a bit like he's wandering through a dream, that vague hazy look in his eyes. "I'm not – you don't really –"

"Yes really," James says. "Come on, Wormy."

"Don't call me that," Peter says, flushing pink.

"All right, but come on, my arms are getting tired." So, reluctantly, Peter comes over, and Sirius, like some priest in this bizarre ritual, pours the shot. Gently, carefully, Peter leans in, and (almost like he's sipping a fine wine) he drinks the shot, swallowing it and grimacing amidst the laughing cheers and applause of his friends.

"We're booze brothers now," Sirius says, passing James a towel and filling another five shots. "And James is our goblet."

"Gee, thanks," James says.

Sirius passes the shots around, and with a group cheer of 'the Marauders' they down the drink and flop back in their chairs, sipping on their beers and welcoming the warm wave of drunkenness. From this point on, the night gets hazy, like sun through the trees – more drinks are had, and even more cheers; more drinks, and . Exchanges of kisses and all transgressions are forgiven; Remus and Sirius sit close together and hold hands like a teenage couple; James and Lily do the same; when Peter says he feels left out, the cavalry come and give him bear hugs and kisses on the lips that makes him splutter and he swears happily and says he'll never, ever complain again.

"So," Sirius says, now well into a new bottle of whiskey. "What was your best orgasm?"

This gets laughs, but Sirius seems earnest so they subside into thought.

"Best orgasm?" James says finally. "Okay – well, oh shit, fuck, Sirius, you're going to hate me –"

"I already do."

"Ha ha." James steadies himself, steadies his mind. "Okay. My best orgasm was. Um. Fuck, it was in – it was maybe kind of in your – in your car."

"In my car?"

James nods. "Yep. Last week."

"With who?"

"Lily, you berk."

Sirius is on the verge; his expression is unreadable, drifting easily between anger and hilarity. "you're serious?"

"No, you're Sirius."

"You cheeky fucking bastard. In the Red Baron? You had sex in our Red Baron?" Sirius laughs, and kicks James in the shin under the table ("Ow – you fuck!") "Man, I wanted to christen her." He pouts, but it's all love.

"You're not angry?"

"Course I'm not angry. She's your baby too. I just hope you cleaned up after. I don't want to wallow in your juice."

"Ew, didn't need that image, thanks," Peter groans, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Ew."

"What's yours, Lily?" James asks, turning to his girlfriend. "Okay, okay, no – uh, truth, promise to tell he truth?"

"Course," Lily says, nodding.

James takes a deep breath. "Who was the better fuck – me, or Sirius?"

She laughs, which makes everyone else laugh. Lily smiles and she rubs James' hand affectionately. "Despite the fiasco, you each have your own charms."

"But who made you feel better?" Sirius asks, all jokingly suave. "Who filled you with desire?"

"Well, when you fuck," Lily says to Sirius," you say other peoples' names." She does an impression: "Unh, unh, unh, Lily – Lily – unh – Remus – Remuuuusssssss –"

Everyone laughs while Sirius goes bright pink.

"Aw, you thought of me?" Remus jokes, rubbing his shoulder affectionately. "I'm touched."

"Way to fucking go, Sirius," James says, giving him a friendly punch. "You stupid cocksucker."

"And you," Lily says, turning to him. "You're the most dour fucker I've ever seen." She scrunches her forehead and thrusts with her hips, giving deep, monotone grunts, which makes her audience cackle gleefully. "It's like you need total concentration." Now it's James' turn to go pink, while Sirius punches him in the shoulder. "You need to loosen up, babe. Get more creative. I mean, you freaked out when I tried to finger you and look how that turned out –"

"You fingered him?" Sirius asks, his eyes wide.

"Just a little," James replies, squirming in his seat. "It – it wasn't bad."

"She learned that from me!" Sirius says, really red and drunk. "I asked her to do it and she freaked out."

They erupt in laughter, all five of them, because that's what happens with veins full of wine and hearts full of cheer. Lily kisses James, and Remus kisses Sirius and they look at Peter eagerly, waiting for him to complain (he doesn't, but they kiss him anyway.)

"Okay, Remus, best orgasm?"

"Me?" Remus says, biting his lip. "But – er – I haven't really –"

"Surely you've had at least one," Sirius prods.

"I – okay." Remus steels himself, and speaks: "In fifth year. A blowjob. That was my best orgasm."

"Oh-ho!" Sirius says, patting him on the back. "You little minx. Who from?"

"Um." Remus laughs, and looks at Sirius with a smile. "You, actually."

Silence. "Me?"

"Lily's birthday. You were so, so drunk. I was kind of drunk too. But you were really drunk."

"I – I don't remember that at all." Sirius looks at Lily, to James and Peter, back to Remus. "Are you serious?"

"No, you're –"

"Fucking hell, if someone says that again, I swear to God –

Remus scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well, I'm serious. It was – well. Uh. You – swallowed."

Sirius pales. "I'm never drinking again."

James nudges him. "Too late."

Sirius pauses, tapping his finger to his lips as he digests the information. "Well – uh – did you like it?"

"Yes, actually. It was – you were very good. Kind of bite-y, but top notch, thumbs up."

Well, that's all right then, and Sirius grins. "Good. I aim to please. Did you get me off at least?"

Remus' cheeks go bright pink. "I – tried, but you kind of… fell asleep."

Gales of familiar laughter, more kicks under the table and more punches to the shoulder. Sirius kisses Remus, this time full and wet and biting, with displaced passion and lovely handwork. Sirius growls: "I guess you owe me one. You'll have to finish me off later."

"Cigarettes?" James interrupts, handing around his pack. The company indulge easily. "Peter, your best?"

"My best?" Peter pouts a puff of smoke and settles in his chair. "Seventh year. With whatserface. Skeeter."

"No fucking kidding," Sirius says. "Rita. You fucking dog, you. She had the most amazing boobs. Annoying as all hell, but Lordy, those boobs. What'd you do?"

"Lost my virginity," Peter replies, a bit proudly. This elicits backslaps and well-dones, jovial punches in the arm and demands of another round of drinks; Peter glows under the admiration.

This leaves Sirius. "And you?"

Sirius answers easily, like he's thought about this a lot: "April 3rd. This year. In my dormitory. With my hand."

"Your best orgasm was – was masturbation?" James says, in disbelief. "But – but all the girls! All the people you've messed around with! What's so special about April 3rd?"

"That was the day He – the holy one, the most beautiful man on earth, and my boyfriend – joined The Sex Pistols. I got the magazine, it had a full-page spread of him in these tight little jeans and that body of his. Fuck, best orgasm of my life."

"You came to – to Sid Vicious?"

"Twice."

"But – he looks just like you. You could be twins, we all said it –"

Sirius nods. "Exactly. It was sex with someone I love."

"You – you arrogant little fuck," James says, amused. "That was my magazine! Though, I should have guessed. When I tried to read that magazine, the pages were all stuck together."

"This hand knows me better than any man," Sirius says, touching his own cheek affectionately. "And Siddy. Well, Siddy is just untouchable. What a man. What a fucking man."

"And all this time you claimed you weren't gay," Remus says, cocking an eyebrow. "It seems we have evidence to prove the contrary."

"You talk funny when you're drunk," Sirius says, slapping Remus' knee. "And I'm not gay. I'm just histrionic."

"Really, that's you in a nutshell," Lily says warmly. "Histrionic and horny."

Peter, who had been filling the shot glasses once more, passes them around once again. "To being histrionic and horny," Peter says, raising his own. He is joined by his friends and they down another, sending them all reeling and spinning, their heads a mess of thoughts and love.

"You think," Sirius begins, a new thought, "you think that people will write books about us? Stories, I mean?"

"About us?" Remus asks, pushing his hair back. "Why would they write about us?"

"I don't know. We're interesting as fuck, though. We could be important."

"Who would want to write about a bunch of stupid teenagers?" James asks.

Sirius shrugs. "Maybe when we're older. Veterans of the war and heroes of the earth."

"Would you want someone to write about you?" Lily asks, opening another beer. "Wouldn't it be a little weird?"

"Course I'd want someone to write about me." Sirius nods. "So long as I'm the leading man and die a dramatic death."

"Don't talk about that," Remus says with an odd swagger, maybe something he borrowed from Sirius. "We're all going to live forever, aren't we?"

"Course," James says, nodding sagely. "Teenagerdom is eternal."

"The eternal pimple," Lily adds.

"To living forever," Sirius says, raising his glass. It's a bit odd; it's not a cheerful toast, not one of their jokes, not amused or excited, not drunkenly proposed or stupidly thought of. It seems almost poignant, like there's something more to it, a foreboding tone in Sirius' voice that speaks of the war and speaks of his family (old and new), like he's stuck on something difficult to realize. The rest of his friends realize this, and they raise their glasses in solemn unity; Cheers, they say, and drink their drinks.

As if on cue, thunder rumbles in the distance, the beginning of one of those night storms, the ones that rage at midnight and vanish by morning.

"Ooh, foreboding," James says.

"It's a pathetic fallacy," Remus says, nodding. "Like the storm in King Lear. It's the coming battle. And this is the calm before. Appropriate, I think."

"Fuck it. We're together, so who cares?" Sirius says grandly, drunkenly.

James nods. "Who cares."

"Who cares," Lily agrees.

Remus nods. "Who cares."

And, last but not least, Peter, with a small smile: "Who cares."

Their beers are empty, the wine is done; the vodka is finished, the cigarettes are smoked. Their heads are filled with storms and war, with orgasms and kisses and the French language and Serge Gainsbourg's music. It's all about not caring (fuck it); it's all about swirling and twisting and not being able to stand upright without laughing and clutching a friend's shoulder and collapsing on the stone patio in a warm, comfortable heap. It's all about being nearly naked and kissing your best friends in muggy heat. That's all it's about. No big plot, no big strategy; no politics, no philosophy; no religion, and no war; no meaning, no purpose, no climax, no denouement; no warnings, no danger, no peace, no thoughts; no big literary purpose, no small personal promise – just this, these people, right here.

When it starts to rain, they go inside.