summary: James and Sirius have a few beers.  But they weren't drunk.  Nuh uh.
rated: strong R, I think.
notes: I wrote this ages ago in my LJ, and decided that it wasn't nearly as ghastly as I originally thought. 

I have a feeling that I started writing this at university, probably typing it straight into the update page.  If I were online at this moment, I'd go back and find the original post.  

I often feel that the fics written on the fly like that are of a lower quality than the ones I slave over in a 'legitimate' program, like Word.  So many don't even make it as far as my personal fic archive, let alone mailing lists, comms or archives.  However, I have a feeling that in this case, I went back and reread it, made some changes and posted it to at least one list.  And, of course, mirrordance.net.

characters: are the property of JK Rowling.  Who probably doesn't have odd thoughts about James and Sirius getting drunk and getting it on.  Poor woman.

I'm willing to reconsider that opinion these days, actually.  Maybe not about James and Sirius, of course.
 
 

While it's true that we'd been drinking, I'd like to state for the record that we were not drunk. Not as much as you might think, anyway.

We weren't drunk. It bears repeating. The room was spinning slightly, I felt all warm and comfortable inside, and not even I would have been able to ride a broomstick.

But. We were not. Drunk.

Christmas break was pretty bleak in seventh year. Normally, we'd all get together at my place: Padfoot, Wormtail, Moony and me. But I didn't have a place anymore, or family to live in it, and Remus had to stay with his parents (it was a bad time of month for him), and Peter's mother wanted him close. Her husband and elder daughter had just been killed in the Platform Ten-and-Two-Thirds Massacre.

One thing that I think I do fairly well in fic is alluding to a wider world than the one we see in canon.  It's especially easy to do in HP, where things have very evocative names.  Throwaway references to outside events: how to fake a plot.

I bought into this fanon notion of Peter Pettigrew as the son of a single mother, presumably a widow.

See how subtly I removed the other boys?

Like I said, it was pretty bleak.

But Sirius's house was warm and comfortable, and we were able to forget about the outside world for a couple of weeks. We just lay about in his room, talking about Quidditch, or girls, or nothing at all. We'd been a bit distant since the Prank last year, but things were getting better.
Things got better rather quickly that day.

A couple of days before Christmas, Sirius's mother was called away to London, and his sister had to take off for France in a hurry. They were reluctant to leave us alone, Mrs Black because she wanted to maintain the protective wards on the house, and Natalie because she was afraid that Sirius would destroy the place if left unsupervised.

Older sisters. They're all the same.

We lounged around for a few hours, and then Padfoot said to me, "You want a drink?"

Mrs Black didn't like us drinking, although I suspect that she knew perfectly well about the Gryffindor drinking games. But she wasn't home, and probably wouldn't say anything if we drank a little beer.

I have this image -- you've probably noticed over the years -- of Gryffindor House as the home of the hardcore social drinkers.  Sometimes to the extent of a bad frat house, and sometimes in a more lighthearted way, depending on my mood and the characters.

I repeat: just a little beer.

Repetition.  I must have found it amusing once.  Once.  

So we were sitting on his bed, surrounded by a pile of Quidditch magazines and an increasing number of empty beer bottles. We were drinking Old Wizard's Ale, which always reminded me of my dad, who'd allow himself one bottle every evening. One bottle of Old Wizard's, two glasses of wine and coffee. That was my dad.

Apparently James's family had passed away recently?  Relatively recently?  When I say "passed away", I mean, "died violent and horrible deaths".  

I hardly remember this fic at all, and reading it is pretty embarrassing, but I do recall the fanon I used in building it.  That portrait of James's father, for example -- I like that, and it's the kind of thing I used in a lot of fics.

I was thinking about that, staring blankly at Sirius's KISS posters. Just half wondering why Muggles get all the cool music, and half wondering whether my dad would have added KISS to his list of reasons why Muggle culture is richer than ours. Probably not, I decided.

Sirius as muggle pop-culture afficionado.  Not canon, but it could be.

"Hey," said Sirius, breaking my train of thought.

"Yeah?"

He waved Quidditch Illustrated at me. "Says here that the Wanderers are recruiting next month."

"At Hogwarts?"

"No, at all those other magical schools in Britain. Of course at Hogwarts!"

I snatched the magazine out of his hands. He tried to pout, but ended up laughing, and took another gulp of beer.

"This is pretty cool," I said. Pro Quidditch had been one of my secret dreams, the kind that my parents quietly discouraged. They wanted me to be an Auror, or a high-level Ministry functionary, or a businessman. The kind of job suitable for wealthy young wizards whose parents wanted them to become Minister for Magic before they were forty.

That was what my parents wanted.

Me, I just wanted to play Quidditch, for reasons I have trouble putting into words. The freedom of flight, the speed, the certainty that my skills are by far the best of anyone on that field, the roar of the crowd, the sparkle in a certain girl's eyes as she watched me.

I really like that little bit.  I miss that version of James, who was more like Cedric Diggory than the boy we ended up getting in canon.  I'm mostly identified as a Snape fan, of course, but in a way, it was losing my James that set me drifting away from HP.

That was what I wanted, but there were other things to be done first. Quidditch was a reward for good behaviour: I had to get a Real Job.

Anyway, said my mother's voice, there's no certainty in professional Quidditch these days. Every day, there were more rumours that the Ministry would shut down the League, in light of Current Events.

"Are you going to try out?"

"Probably not."

I was an obedient son, now that my parents were dead. In my trunk were a pile of information parchments from the Ministry and the College of Aurors.

Poignant little line, that.  Go me.

"Why the hell not?"

I took a sip of beer.

Liz died in a self-sporkification incident today...

"Obligations."

"Fuck that," he said, but he understood what I meant. The son of a witch and a dead Muggle bears as many responsibilities as the scion of an old pureblood family. We are obligated to honour our parents, and our children. That's how we were brought up, and that's probably how I'll bring up my own kids. 

There are worse ways to live.

This is another recurring theme in a lot of my fic, across fandoms: a child's obligations to his parents and the past.  

He picked up the Gryffindor playbook and said, "Pity, though. You're the best Gryffindor player in years."

I was the best Hogwarts player in years, I thought, but didn't say it. The moon will fall into the ocean before Sirius agrees with Snape, but that doesn't mean he won't tease me to death if he thinks I'm getting too big for my boots.

"Not really," I said instead.

"Really." Sirius grinned, flipping through the play book. "That Ravenclaw chaser, Kelly, she reckons we need a new rule, that James Potter should only be allowed to play Quidditch blindfolded."

In retrospect, I don't think that 'Kelly' is a good name for the era.  

"Won't help," I said. "I can smell the Snitch."

"Cute."

"I know I am."

Yes.  Cute.  *facepalm*

"Oh, look," he turned to a new page, "the parade rule."

"What's that?"

Sirius cleared his throat. "In the event of a Gryffindor win, James Potter is to be carried through the corridors of Hogwarts on the shoulders of the most beautiful girls in the house--"

"Give me that!"

I'm pretty sure I threw that in just for an excuse to bring on the boy tussling.

I made a grab for the book, but my co-ordination was a bit impaired, and I missed. Sirius held the book out of my reach, laughing madly while I tried to snatch it. He was lying back, and I was leaning over him, and I'm not sure when the mood changed, but when I kissed him, it felt like the right thing to do.

I like this; in retrospect, I think I could have gotten there without all the beer.  Except, of course, that the beer was half the point.

Maybe we were a bit drunk.

This was different.

He paused in surprise, and then kissed me back. I was vaguely aware of the Gryffindor playbook falling out of his hand and landing on the floor, but by the time that had penetrated my brain, his hand was on my hip, and I had better things to think about.

I'm pretty sure I was obsessed with boy hips that year.

We separated, and he looked up at me.

"That was ... different," he said.

"Yeah."

"Unexpected."

"Oh yeah."

"But ... not entirely unwelcome?"

"Not in the least."

The dialogue isn't bad, but they don't sound like teenage boys to me.  Of course, most of the teenage boys would be swearing and beating each other in this situation.

This time, he pulled me down to his lips.

When we parted again, he said, "I thought I preferred girls."

"Maybe you just prefer me."

He carefully pulled my glasses off. "They were digging into my face," he said.

Do I at least get points for remembering the glasses factor?

"They were all fogged up from your skin, anyway." At that distance, it didn't matter. I could see him better without them: blue eyes, shoulder length black hair, clear Celtic skin. My best friend. Lovely. I kissed him again, and felt him groan into my mouth as I moved slightly. His hands were inside my clothes, and my whole skin felt alive.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asked as I pulled his t-shirt off.

"Not to this extent."

Sirius seemed to have a new girlfriend every week, but I was a virgin. Technically, anyway.

"I meant kissing boys."

"Oh, that." I glanced away.

"You have, haven't you."

"Yeah. A few."

"Do you like--"

"Yeah. And girls."

"And Lily?" My shirt was off now, and he was licking my chest, moving down to my navel.

I don't think I can comment on this.  It's all very personal.  Feel rather like I'm invading their privacy, and then offering a critique -- "Really, Sirius, don't you think you're moving a bit fast?"

"She's..." Pure as the driven snow and oddly asexual, as if the whole business of sex were too messy and undignified. I could bring her to arousal, but she always pulled back, hesitant to let anyone else -- even me -- see her in that state. "Not ready."

I wrote this?  Me?  Really?  I shy away from writing too much sex these days, and if I do write it, I don't post it.  Maybe because too many people know my personality by now, so all my friends will roll their eyes.  Maybe I need a second pseud or something.

He unbuckled my belt and unzipped my Muggle jeans, lightly stroking me through my underpants.

"Muggle jeans" is one of those tautologies that nonetheless pervaded my writing simply because it made sense.

"You know Therese Parnell?" he asked.

"The, uh, the new Hufflepuff chaser?" Thought was becoming increasingly difficult.

"That's the one. She offered me a blow job in return for throwing last month's game."

Therese had full, beautiful lips, but it was Sirius's face in my mind. "Did you take it?"

These kids all strike me now as being too sexually precocious.  I don't know why that should be, when we all know that worse happens in early high school nowadays, and it's not like they're playing advanced sex games at age 16.  But still.

He laughed. "Told her that if she wanted to win so badly, she should do the entire team. She didn't seem too thrilled with the idea of doing Jessica and Mabel."

He leaned over and took me in his mouth, and the last vestiges of coherency fled. His hair was silky under my fingers, and I was positively enchanted by the shape of his ears.

On the rare occasions that I write sex, I try to avoid the whole genitalia business by focussing on minutiae.

He was moving against me as he sucked, and I remembered (although I was trying not to) that Lily and I had no natural rhythm, that she always pulled away, or pushed me away.

This isn't intended as Lily-bashing, btw, more of a semi-accurate portrait of the relationship I was in at the time of writing.  

She wasn't ready, but I was, and I was drunk, and Sirius was beautiful, and he was clumsy at first, but he learnt quickly, and we were perfect together.

Just perfect.

I came at that thought, and he swallowed (Gryffindor girls never swallowed; there was a dirty song about it, and quite abruptly, I had an idea for a new verse) and laughed and kissed me. I could taste myself, and him, and the beer.

We're back to Gryffindor's yobbo culture.  If I could compose verse, I'd write that song.

Old Wizard's Ale and Sirius Black.

God.

Nice.  Did I write that?

We were laughing together, and kissing, touching. He was rubbing against me, hard inside his jeans. I took them off and made him see stars, made him call out. I remember, there were nights when we'd lie in our beds, Remus, Peter and I, listening to him making love to some girl in our bathroom, and letting some girl make love to him. He never could keep quiet. It was embarrassing, and exciting. I always lay in the darkness, sure that my erection was obvious even through the closed curtains.

How old are these kids meant to be again?  Oh, never mind.  I'm such a prude.

Now it was my name he was calling, and that felt good.

I'd never thought of myself as being infatuated with Sirius, but perhaps I was.

Just for today.

I know that "We're not really gay, we just have sex" is one of the banes of fandom these days -- but that kind of relationship, that transcends one's normal boundaries, is really interesting to me.  Also, boy tussling.  Always good.

Kisses on the base of his spine, moving up to his neck. Kisses on the backs of his knees, and the crooks of his elbows. (What kind of person has ticklish elbows? I love his laughter.)

More minutiae.  The build-up was pretty dreadful, but the sex is actually okay.  

We lost track of time, drinking, fucking, teasing, laughing.

"So tell me about these boys," he said. We were under the blankets, for it was cold, and the heating charms had begun to wear off.

"What do you want to know?"

"How long?"

"About a year. Or eighteen months."

"Who was the first?"

"Um ... Travers."

That's one of the names that floated around canon without much of a context attached, right?  Either a Death Eater or a victim?  That's another thing I love about HP, the way it's so easy to bring those names back.  I can hardly remember now -- I used to know them so well.

"You kissed the Head Boy?"

"It was a dare."

"This is what you prefects get up to?"

"Among other things."

"Those meetings are just an excuse for a big inter-house orgy, aren't they?"

I don't know if this was intended as a shout-out to fandom, but it feels that way now.

"Yes, Sirius. Yes they are."

"But you've never--?"

"Only you."

"That's ... pretty cool, I guess." He grinned. "I mean, you're my best friend, mate, and I love you, but it'd be pretty hard to hear that you've been, say, sneaking around with Snape for a year."

"Sirius?"

"Yeah?"

"That's really, really wrong, okay?"

A few months earlier, I'd written James/Snape.  It may have been on my mind.

He kissed me. I forgave him.

We ended up falling asleep together, exhausted and far more drunk than when we'd begun. When we woke up, Mrs Black was moving around downstairs, and I was grateful that, unlike my parents, she had no objections to locked doors.

I dislike awkwardness in my fic.  *grin*

Sirius was still asleep, sprawled over his bed. He'd taken most of the blankets, and the best pillows. I kissed him, lightly, so as not to wake him, and went to shower.

Unbelievably, I could look his mother in the eye when I went down to breakfast.

"Sirius still asleep?" she asked.

"Yeah. We were up pretty late."

"Typical." She smiled at me, and served me breakfast. I'd expected to feel sick, but I was hungry, and I ended up eating Sirius's share as well.

After all, we hadn't been that drunk yesterday. 

Worst final line ever, with the possible exception of the last lines of "Vodkamort".  Ending fic is not one of my strengths. 

end
 
 So yes, that was the commentary.  Not so much insightful as appalled, really.  Did I honestly write that?  It has some nice moments, but so much filler!  Reading over my old fics, I'm always amazed that anyone still reads me.