title: bleeding through other people's wounds

summary: "You've fallen into that slow-paced monotony of coffee in the mornings and waking up in the same bed with the same hands curled over your body like weeds. It is boring and stifling and one day you swear you will choke." Sirius, Lily and drowning in nicotine. / for hpfc.

for: the word count challenge, with the prompts fairytales, Crucio, practise what you preach, and the quotes you see below.

notes: As usual, I decided to choose a pairing I haven't written before - hence, SiriusLily with strong JamesLily and RemusSirius hints. The POV alternates between Lily and Sirius, and all extracts are by Andrea Gibson. A massive thank you to both Ali and Allie for betaing!

(Do you believe that Mary was really a virgin?)

Your hands brush for a second and fire roars through your veins until you are burning.

You suppose you could tell yourself that you love him, that he's all yours and you will have your happily ever after after all. But he isn't, and isn't that the point? He is the thrill of the fight, not your husband.

Maybe you should stop fucking second-guessing, because it's not proper or lady-like and your dear old mother would probably chuck you out on the streets for it.

But you don't care. You are no saint.

They told you, believe in miracles. Believe in princesses and picket fences and you will be just fine, dear.

But still you sneak around behind your husband's back and you relish in the pain. It is oh so sweet, and even though it burns, it's so much better. This fire is what keeps that frail heart beating, and without it, you will fade. It is a Crucio through your heart, but James never made you feel like this.

Sirius is precarious and exhilarating and you wobble on your picket fence.

He's all fire-and-anger, and you breathe in smoke-and-nicotine. You need it. You're all passion-and-blazing; you're an inferno, darling, but it's the smoke that kills.

(Do you believe that Moses really parted the sea?)

You are a distraction.

All she needed was a body and lips, and there you were, willing. You're made of shards of your former self, and she lets herself drown in it. But it isn't about you, and never will be.

You only see each other in shadows.

Sometimes, you stay. You set the alarm clock an hour early and sneak back to your own life as if nothing happened. But you still want her soft hands and soft hair and soft, clever words - nonsense, snatches of poetry and muttered curses.

The thing is, you are selfish and stupid.

She may need you, but you want her - you want every forbidden kiss and touch like she's nicotine and you smoke twenty packs a day.

Sometimes you don't stay. And that's okay, because sometimes she doesn't want you to.

You tell her, "Never fall in love," but maybe you should practise what you preach. Because one day, you'll forget the alarm. You'll be forced to see each other's faces rather than the dark, delusional corners of hotel rooms.

And she will be forced to crawl back to her husband and you will touch your lover's scars as penance for your sins.

You've fallen into that slow-paced monotony of coffee in the mornings and waking up in the same bed with the same hands curled over your body like weeds. It is boring and stifling and one day you swear you will choke.

(But she is as chained to that ring on her finger as you are to Remus' smile.)

(And if you don't believe in miracles, tell me, how would you explain the miracle of my life to me?)

"You look beautiful," James tells you, voice dead and eyes empty. You're not wearing anything remotely beautiful, you think - a torn pair of pyjamas and a sad smile. You're holding the mug Sirius got you as a wedding present.

James has been more quiet more often, though, you ponder. Maybe it's the war. Maybe it's love.

(There's not really a difference, after all.)

"Sirius came over," he continues lifelessly. "Said something about him having another mission tonight, so he wouldn't be able to make dinner." You look down because poor James was planning to cook because he loves cooking and he was even planning to clean because he loves you.

"I have healer training tonight. I should have told you-"

He smiles. "I know."

You swallow and you wonder when life became like this. Lies. Secrets. Smoke. And fucking silence.

"I'll save him and Remus some; maybe put a heating charm on it or something. You know they won't eat tomorrow otherwise. See if I can't sneak a bit extra in, seeing as Remus doesn't have a job and Sirius has been - away - more."

Oh, James. Doesn't he melt your heart, dear? Always giving and giving and giving-

"Okay?"

"Okay," you promise. You wonder when he's going to wake up and realise you've never been okay at all.

(I wanna know how much of your life you've spent giving, and if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes.)

He chokes when he sees you learning against the kitchen counter.

"You're home," he whispers, but it sounds like stay. He bends and breaks with the Crucio aimed at his heart and falls back in love with you.

You don't answer him.

"I think-" Remus breaks off, and he looks like Lily then, all wide eyes and clever fingers and secrets. You wonder whatever happened to Remus Lupin, that brilliant little boy who was too afraid of the big bad wolf. "I think that one day you won't come back."

You yawns as you say, "Well, we're all gonna die someday."

That isn't what he meant.

"Fuck you," he says softly, and he is still Moony, full of contradictions and misplaced rebellion and bleeding through other people's wounds and you love him. But- he is no longer reliable and no longer safe and you can't bear the knowledge that one day you won't love him at all.

You show yourself out.

A lamp sails through the window after you, but it never does catch up. You pretend that you're not fucking Lily and that James and Remus don't know and you pretend that you are perfectly happy with your picket fences and make-believe.

You laugh as you light a cigarette. You can pretend you're not bleeding, drowning yourself in nicotine. They'll all leave you, one day.

(And it will be their blood on your hands.)

(I wanna know if you bleed sometimes through other people's wounds.)