When I walked through the door (there was no floor)
WIP Time, Marauders - Jegulus, time to shine. Yes, I've been in hibernation but I have awoken and have finally time to write again. And apparently, my roommate has the uncanny ability to drag me into every fandom and rabbit hole they have fallen into.
Pre-Jegulus, but always very platonic Prongsfoot heavy, modern AU 2000s -ish, angsty (doesn't every Jegulus fic have a (un)healthy amount of angst?), sports, track and field is a lot mentioned, still sickfic, (and as always) inspired by Mitski lyrics, long fic ~5k
(one last disclaimer, my characterization of James has ADHD and struggles with anxiety. I've seen it quite a few times in fanon that James is portrayed like that and for me personally, that makes sense because James Potter isn't a perfect being but strives to be perceived as such, such a determination often comes with the fear of not being good enough and in this fic, this fear is triggered, so there will be mentions of unhealthy coping mechanism and doing sports to an unhealthy degree. Some other mental health issues will be implied in other characters such as Marlene, Regulus, and Sirius. I've tried to not write it triggering but it might be for some people, so please mind the tags and take care!
Tw: sickness, insecurity, unhealthy coping mechanisms, very much idiotic behavior from some people but they are all just trying to do their best, basically, everyone here is trying to be the best version of themselves for their close ones, in typical fanfic fashion everyone is in a need for a hug, angst, I really have to stress angst here, strong words, sounds like it but no character death)
But when I stepped through
There was no floor.” (Mitski, I Want You)
James sits in the armchair, legs crossed, a book resting in his lap. The dim light from the old-fashioned nightlamp on the nightstand across the room barely reaches the pages, casting them in shadow and making it difficult to decipher the letters. He squints, shakes his head, strands of unruly black hair falling into his vision. With an impatient flick, he brushes them aside, attempting to refocus his eyes on the page. Yet, the words seem to blur and dance, the black ink melting into the paper, leaving only inky shadows on the yellow-edged page, creased by his own shaky fingers.
Lately, his finger seem to tremble uncontrollably. He picks skin, bites his nails, has nervous itches that he needs to scratch, and feels restless.
Glancing at the page number, he realizes that he barely made it past the first chapter. He has skimmed the character introduction, the names already lost in his hastiness. After all, he has never been the type to read a lot, sitting still and concentrating on line after line isn’t his forte, school was stressful, purgatory for his teenage self, filled with insecurity to be asked to read out loud, doctors called it ADHD or mild dyslexia, he smiled it off, but in this moment all that seems so small, so irrelevant, so trivial, so far away. School, graduation, teenage angst. The book and its content do not matter at the moment, it’s merely a distraction from the waiting. Waiting for what?
He shakes his head again. Not now. No is not the time for doubts, venom-spiked what ifs and accusingly raised fingers. That’s a territory he isn’t yet ready to grapple with - the haunting question what he could have done or what would be different had he just behaved a little different, had he seen the signs, had he cared more for…
His fingers start to bleed. “No, you-”
Artificial breathing echoes through the room. What a horrifying sound. He freezes, halting in his movement, ending his train of thought, the scratched fingers forgotten in his lap, and focuses solely on the sound - the steady up and down of the pumps, mechanical and synthetic, the squeaking of the plastic tubes as they are filled with oxygen. He stops everything, just to concentrate his mind on the sounds from the bed next to him - the sound that signals life, that reassures him that despite everything, there is still breath, still fight.
Sometimes, he is even scared to breathe himself, afraid that his own breath might drown out the mechanical rhythm, his own heartbeat drumming louder in his ears than the machines, that he might miss the moment the machines stop working, that he’ll be late once again.
There is now an ugly, red stain on the book page.
Suddenly James feels itchy, a relentless urge for him to move, stand up, and run laps around the pitch. That’s the type of person he is, always brimming with energy, accustomed to the rhythm of a morning jog, the too much energy itching under his skin, incapable of sitting still and keeping a low profile, attributes that made him a good athlete. There is always a higher bar to jump over, a faster record to break, a more challenging move to execute. And he needs it now, needs to jump, run, swim, get free from the nagging fear that grips him.
Just as he is on the sports field, James behaves as a private person, a man of action, moving before thinking, executing a plan of putting things into their rightful order again, fixing what’s broken. It’s in his nature to confront challenges head-on, to tackle them with determination and vigor. Because hard work pays off, if you give enough, it’ll be rewarded. But this situation has defeated him, brushed past all his defenses, and rendered him utterly useless. It’s a linear tunnel with one entrance and one exit, no byroad you can take, no detour to cheat the system.
The fingers have stopped bleeding, and a crust has formed on the scratch.
The book falls from his hand, the spine bounces off the armchair, and lands on the carpeted floor with a dull thud. The cover is probably broken or some pages are now dog-eared. He can’t bring himself to care. It’s a cheap copy from a secondhand shop, Oxfam or something, no book he ever was interested in. He has picked it up absentmindedly in the thriller section, paid a pound for it, walked out, and forgot what was even written on the back. Now he can decipher the title. “The Red Dragon” by Thomas Harris.
Red like the wound on his finger. “Sirius-”
The machine pumps air in a steady rhythm into the plastic tubes. James follows them with his eyes, from the gray cuboid up to a flimsy, metal IV pole and then the face covered with the oxygen mask - Sirius’ face. His lanky figure is barely covered by the cotton nightgown, the jet-black hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. His skin, in the pale glow of the room lamp, is grayish, plastic-like, waxy. His tattoos look like dark markings on the bared upper arm, thorny tendrils spiraling around his skinny biceps. His body looks shrunken, exhausted by the sickness, sucked dry until nothing was left except bones and sinews, leaving the limbs as thin as matchsticks.
James can count Sirius’ ribs when they arch up for each breath, pressing against the nightgown. The stark difference between his arced ribcage and the sunken hollow of his stomach is scary. But the ribs rise and fall, Sirius is still breathing. It’s simple, profound, and yet, so important. James feels his eyes burn, Sirius is still breathing, he wants to cry. How absurd that would have sounded two years ago to find relief in something as basic as breath.
But the most basic things of life have failed Sirius, taken away by cancer, inherited.
The ‘fuck you’ attitude, the nonchalant grins, raised middle fingers, anarchic jeans patches, smokes nipped between their lips - all these moments have come back to haunt James and Sirius. Even the spirit of rebellion is weak in the face of loss.
James stands up to place his hand on Sirius’, his fingers drop down to the wrist to measure his blood pressure and pulse. Everything is within the normal range. Over the past few months, he has become an expert in using blood pressure cuffs, repeatedly putting them on and off, watching the rubber ring inflate and threaten to squeeze the ridiculously thin arms, that seem to become skinnier with each time, in between. He can read the values, assess them, and interpret them. The values appear normal, nothing that should raise concern, and yet he has a lingering unease. How could he not feel uneasy when Sirius lay there, fighting for each breath?
The fingers have started to bleed again, the wound ripped open by his teeth, a nervous tick, biting his skin.
Better people than James would know exactly what to do in this situation, would formulate the right plan to combat the problem, and refuse to let themselves be defeated this easily. And James, with his strong will, vigor, and determination, would charge head first through every obstacle on the path if it would help. He would burn the world down for his friend. But in this situation, it is not enough, with sheer belief in the turning of everything for good, Sirius has often mocked as naivety, it isn’t working. Fate isn’t always positive. Fate has diced up Sirius onto a one-way road and he could only dictate how fast he wanted to move along, how much chemo, how many pills, how sedated - but the ending is awaiting Sirus inevitably.
Stage four lung cancer, inherited, public health care, no miracle cure in sight. A final, cruel gift from the black family.
James shakes his head again, trying to rid himself of the clammy feeling in his chest, like a staple pressing against his ribs, a poking in his core, a venomous serpent suffocating him from the inside. Or the nagging in his mind, urging him to bite his nails, pick at his skin, make the bleeding even worse. Feel something different than the constant fear.
Or to run until his legs give out beneath him, until exhaustion forces his knees to buckle, all muscles burning, maybe then he could find peace. Mile after mile, each step another step despite his inner resistance, pushing himself further, sinews impossibly stretching against his skin, driven by a primal need. It’s satisfying to hear nothing more than his own heartbeat, drumming in his ears, his breath steady and controlled - not panic hitched like now, when he is even afraid of its sound.
He can call to coach now and arrange another training session, practicing for the new season coming up, there is still so to practice… but it means leaving Sirius here alone in the hospital, James can’t do that.
“Sirius,” James tries saying. His voice is unsure and hoarse, the name tasting bittersweet in his mouth like fermented fruits. He wants to spit it out. His eyes burn. Normally, he talks too much, finding words effortlessly, always with a witty remark on his tongue—a silver tongue that had gotten him and Sirius into a lot of trouble, but had also saved them twice as much. He can negotiate, speak tenderly, find the right tone, even though most of the time he just talks his own nervousness away. But now, he feels stuck, his tongue refusing to cooperate, unable to curl around the right words. “Sirius,” he attempts again, trying to find the right way to say goodbye.
Since he doesn’t want to leave Sirius alone at night, he has placed the armchair next to the bed. In darkness – when the stupid room lamp is turned off, he can reach for his hand, feel his presence, Sirius’ lukewarm skin against his palm. He longs to anchor Sirius here, to keep him safe, to ward off the looming specter of loss.
The heart monitor beeps softly in the background, a steady backdrop. Suddenly, the rhythm quickens, the hum growing in volume, becoming more prominent, more urgent. Spikes appear on the monitor, the once steady curve now dotted sharp peaks, each blip a heartbeat - a heart dangerously speeding up.
“Sirius.” James grabs Siruis’ hand, squeezing it tightly. “Calm down.”
The hand moves in his grip, shakes slightly around as if it wants to break free, or grab attention. James gazes down on Sirius’s face, the worn countenance, the sunken cheeks, the pale lips pressed together, the black hair strands. His eyelids flutter, struggling to lift, the effort visible. His fingers clench James’, holding onto them with a sudden strength, trying to lift his upper body.
“Promise” The chapped lips move, whispering, barely forming the word. Sirius is speaking. His voice is soft, exhausted, “Promise, Promise…”. The mantra becomes more silent with each time as Sirius’ strength wanes, a fading plea.
“I know, I’ll find him”, James only whispers, eyes burning, as Sirius sinks back into the hospital bed.
It’s evening when James meets Marlene in the waiting area of the hospital foyer. As he approaches, he notices her leaning against the wall, one leg slightly raised, her combat boot leaving a grey stain on the white plaster of the clinic. She stands with an air of casual defiance, arms crossed over her chest as if she is hugging herself or trying to shield herself from the chilly air of the aircon. With Marlene, it is always hard to tell. Her bleached hair is painted orange by the unforgiving overhead light, the strands yellowish and the roots almost black, they need some recoloring. When she turns her head to nod at him, her lips are pinched into a tight line.
“James”, she greets, almost sounding bitter like she is expecting someone else.
It’s typical Marlene, or ‘Marls’ as Sirius has sometimes called her with a cheeky grin ‘Marls, my iron lady’, to shield herself behind a facade. Over the years, she has honed her skill of building armor around her, hiding all signs of vulnerability beneath a layer of dark humor and sarcasm, one of the many reasons why she and Siruis worked sometimes so well together, a double trouble team with no limitation when it came to ‘what borders not to cross with your jokes’. That has led to a couple of broken hearts, shed tears, and painfully obvious muffled laughs at school.
But where Sirius is artistic, a lazy poet, Marlene is hard-nosed, an athlete, as determined as James on the pitch, direct and sharp as a blade with her words. She rather much likes coming across as harsh, tough, and accusing, only to apologize later, than appearing weak. Any hints are hidden. It’s what sports have taught her, grit your teeth, endure it, run faster. Everyone is your opponent, exploiting any signs of weakness in your defense. It’s what made her a good athlete.
Over the years, she has softened, opened up to him, and shared a smile or two with James, they were colleagues on the field after all, but sometimes he asks himself if he will ever truly understand her as Sirius had understood her.
Sports may bind them, the same sweat-inducing drill they feel, the same need to impress, prove themselves, be better, run faster, and jump higher, but it’s also what divides them. Track and field is no team sport. There are only three places on the winner’s podium and only one gold medal to win.
And maybe that made them too similar. Maybe they see the same insecurity in each other’s eyes of not being good enough, which makes James bite his skin and Marlene bark at the people close to her.
“Coming home from visiting Sirius?”, her voice slices through the air like a razor, impossibly sharp. She turns her head away, already not satisfied with his silence. With impatient motion, she hurls in her jeans jacket for a pack of cigarettes, her movement tense, almost shaky, a habit transformed into a need, often shared with Sirius in a smoke break. She lights herself one, above her the ‘no smoking’ sign, the flame reflecting in her eyes.
Some Hospital staff throw them some annoyed glances, but Marlene pays them no mind.
James grants her one breath, one greedy inhale and exhale, before he stalks forward, snatching the smoke from her hand. She doesn’t resist, only cocking a brow in response. He drops it and extinguishes it beneath his shoe. It sizzles.
“The coach wouldn’t like it. We have an upcoming season.”, he responds tight-lipped, his voice a low rumble. He sounds tired, impossibly tired.
He doesn’t know what to expect in Marlene's eyes. Hurt, annoyance, or the sinister gleam of satisfaction from having finally riled him up. Normally he would know, being a good friend, a teammate, a colleague, knowing her since preschool. Any other day, he would know how to carefully maneuver around Marlene’s defense mechanisms and not retreat like a bitten dog. He wouldn’t feel actually hurt by her words - when they slice through the air aimed at his heart. But not today.
Not while still feeling the phantom touch of Sirius’ hand around his wrist.
Not while feeling fidgety, the wound crust fresh on his fingers.
So, he turns away, looking up. 9pm tells him the clock above the entrance. The setting sun bleeding over the horizon outside. Soon it will be night.
Sirius had always liked night-time. He had been more vibrant when the sun had set as if he was a vampire crawling from his crypt - he was - is pale as such. James swallows, turning his eyes back to Marlene.
“Fuck you, James. And fuck the coach.” She curses, frustration audible in her tone, but it’s more silent, more defeated. She grabs the pack, the carton already wrinkled from frequent usage, Marlboro, half empty, and throws it to James. “Happy now?” Her pierced eyebrow is raised, but the sharpness in her glare has disappeared.
Replace by a silent begging.
He nods silently, letting the carton disappear into his pocket.
She falls back against the wall, venomous teeth retracted– no longer a viper poised to strike, but arms still tightly crossed. The sharp edge of her tone softens, the facade - the armor of spiked words - crumbling to reveal a hurt animal licking its wounds, a friend grieving for another friend. “You’re gonna leave him, aren’t you James? You’re going to fuck off to god knows where.”
Her words are still harsh, the swear words stressed, but it isn’t accusing anymore. It’s more of a resigned statement. An observation. A sad acknowledgment of the inevitable truth.
“Yes”, she answers, adding a laugh, that sounds hollow. It’s closer to a sob but still masked by layers of sarcasm. “Finding his brother, isn’t that stupid? Here’s proud Sirius Black, biting every hand that’s ever offered to him, standing tall with his legs broken, that is still fighting like a moron against a disease that is going to kill him…. the proud idiot, that would strut like a fucking peacock…. if he still could…”
She halts, another bitter laugh escaping her lips. “He begs you to find his brother. The one that would stab a knife into his heart and twist it with a fucking grin. The moron is too proud to ever get help … even when he needs it but he wants his traitorous brother back. ”
“I promised it to him.”, James interjects but it sounds unconvinced.
Anger flashes in her eyes.“It doesn’t make sense to me. Why he would want that? Why would he want his fucking brother back? We would have burned the world down for him and his brother wouldn’t lift a finger.”
Suddenly she crowds him, pushes into his personal space and James wonders if this is now the moment when she’ll punch him. Lash out on him, inflict the the pain she feels on him, or slap some sense into him, how stupid it is to leave Sirius for a promise that was once drunkenly made. “And you will do it. Mr ‘Howdy Doody’ Perfect Potter will play the hero and bring his brother back.”
He feels her finger jabbing into his chest bone. “You will leave Sirius when he needs you the most and you know that.”
The urge is back, nagging his mind, sitting on his shoulder.
His fingers find the wound on his hand easily, it’s a trotted path, a well-practiced movement, fingernails gliding over in skin in the ease that speaks of years of self-inflicted harm, they search for the curst, rip it off. He doesn’t feel the pain anymore, it’s hidden in his clenched teeth, tensed muscles, the anticipation for a striking bolt of inner release but it doesn’t come anymore. So, the nagging continues, whispering to his ears to find a new wound.
“He is pushing you away.”
Marlene is close. She is a fighter, always has been, he knows that. She will strike if she feels it’s necessary, and color her knuckles red. She has always been like that, life taught her to be a rolly-poly doll, pushing her down, punishing her for small mistakes, trying to know her down time and time again. But Marlene always gets back up, wiping the blood from her lips, stronger and fiercer than before.
She learned how to punch, how to form a fist correctly, how to extend your arm without hurting your wrist - or how to fight dirty in a world that’s often cruel and unforgiving. She has been underestimated because of her gender, because she’s queer, or just because she isn’t what society expects her to be.
She learned to become the predator before falling prey to them, how to bare her teeth and snarl like an animal to protect herself - but most importantly, to defend the things close to her, the things keeping her steady in life, the footing under her feet. Because these things have been taken away from away so many times, she is holding desperately to them her family, her girlfriend, her friends - Sirius.
In her bizarre way she is trying to keep him here, anchor him, and because Sirius needs James, she needs James here.
“He is pushing you away.”, she repeats her words, this time with more pressure. “Sirius has always been doing that. That’s why he broke up with Remus shortly after his diagnosis.”
James winces at the memory. He still remembers that day, the voice mails on his phone, the unanswered SMS, that still wait for him, the letters, the notes, everything - and Sirius begging him to ignore it ‘It’s for Moonie. It’s for the best.’.
Marlene’s glare is cold, calculating, estimating his reaction to her next words. “I don’t know if he is trying to save you from yourself or if he is being egotistical but he does not want you to see him suffer. “, she begins, her tone clipped and direct. “But one things is certain: The illness has taken a toll on him, more than he thought. He’s a shadow of fromer self, sickly, pale, weak, barely recognoicable. So, he sends you away on some odyssey, chasing the shadow of a phantom, a hope that has died years ago. We don’t even know if Regulus is still alive. But with you gone, he seems resigned, feels ready - ready to face his end. With Remus away, you are the last thing keeping him here.”
As Marlene words cut deep, James feels a surge of anger rising within him, a defensive shield, anger is easier to deal with than guilt. His jaw clenches, and he takes a step back, putting some distance between himself and Marlene. He straightens his spine, towering over her.
He is taller and she hates it when he uses it against, it make her feel insecure.
He glowers down at her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is tinged with frustration. “You push and push, thinking you have all the answers. But reality check, Marls, you don’t. You don’t what it’s like to be in anybody’s shoes because you only think of yourself.”
It slips past lips before he can think about it. He has halted in his movement, the wound crust open, blood on his nails, when he says it. “You think punishing me, will make you feel better. But surprise, surprise, it does not. But you still keep pushing, still keep snarling because what else can you do. You keep chasing the feeling of release of the pain inside but it never comes.”
The words spill out before he can stop them, fueled by the sting of Marlene’s accusations. He pauses, but it’s too late to take them back, to veil himself again. He lifts his hand, displaying the wound on his fingers for her to see, the crust broken, blood staining his nails.
“I’ve been there, done that. And look at me Marlene look where it gets you.”
“I need some air.” He turns on his heels and walks off, eyes burning, a crinkled pack of smokes in his pocket.
Jame is hunched over the sink, back bend, the harsh fluorescent light of the visitor's bathroom shining from above, his brows furrowed in concentration, as he watches the water run over the scratch. It looks horrible.
Worse than he remembers. It refuses to close, the crust torn away too often to form anymore, leaving the skin red and irritated, a glaring reminder of his of vulnerability. In a mortifying way it makes him feel better, feel like he achieved something. Like he can be proud of himself, proof that he is still capable of feeling. The pain keeps him grounded, anchors his feet, steadies his trembling limbs and makes it possible to move without shaking uncontrollably.
Without it, he feels lost.
As they call out his flight for boarding he checks his phone one last time. ‘Lily’ he reads on the tiny display in the dimmed light, his patched finger hovering over the flight mode symbol in the taskbar. Despite his intentions to ignore it, he can’t, feels bad for other people just trying their best, and guilty for worrying them, so he tips on the pop-up. ‘She doesn’t mean it like that. Pls don’t try to be angry. It affects her a lot, more than she is willing to admit. But you mean a lot to her, too. - Red’
‘Red’, another one of Sirius’ creations. He was like that, witty with nicknames, sharp-tongued but open and affectionate with the ones close to his heart. ‘Marls’, ‘Red’, ‘Moonie’ - and of course ‘Prongs’. He was a poet, sometimes impossibly tender with words, a snake crawling through the undergrowth, not emitting a sound and then, suddenly striking, clawing its teeth into its prey. Often they all were prey to Sirius's words.
That’s why even now when everything is lost, all of them - Marlene, Lily, him, and even Remus with unanswered voice mails cling to Sirius like he is their lifebuoy in a sea storm.
He sighs, opening the Lily’s second message. ‘PS: Hope you’re ok :)’
Glancing down on the wound on his hand, a band-aid is plastered over it, a smiley printed on top. Caring for it was more instinctual than actually necessary, wiping it clean with alcohol, spraying liquid bandage on top of it, and then the band-aid, securing it all. The movement was automatic like a well-oiled machine, even blindfolded he could have executed it, trained by years of injuries in sports and - what he had done to himself. The smiling face looks at him strangely, mocking him.
It was more a subconscious action than anything else, something he can’t explain himself. The hurt is still pulsing underneath it with a vicious edge, biting into his nerves with sharp teeth.
‘PS: Hope you’re ok.’ He reads again.
He knows he is not ok, still he types ‘I’m ok, no worries. Tell Marlene I’m not angry.’
A headache announces itself in his ears with tinnitus. So, he won’t sleep on the plane after all.
A promise on his lips. "'I'll find him."
(more coming soon. It's just a WIP, that wanted to be more but Uni crashed anymore writing. Sorry for any mistakes. I wrote that in one sitting and it felt like I was possessed by some writer's anger, trying to get the words down - and felt my roommate's breath on my neck, telling me 'When are you finally finished?' :-)
(plus no worries, they all will get the hug they need.)
