The sanitation was suffocating. It invaded his lungs and clogged his throat, filling his head with sharp whiteness, so much that Sirius could barely breathe. Or perhaps it was the sight of Mrs. Potter lying on the bed that took his breath away. Before he had uttered half a protest, James had shoved him into the room, forcing him to face the silvery greeting from his adoptive mother.
“Sirius love! I missed you so much!”
He’d missed her too, just in a more guilty, muted way, much in the same manner autumn leaves drifted off autumn trees. People never really noticed the change. They were there one day, but look away for a month and they’d be gone. Stare at it really hard and it’d slip away.
Sirius let her hug him, crumpling in her warmth and managing a husky “I missed you as well.” It tinged his cheeks faintly pink as he stepped back from the bed. James was right. He was stupid and selfish for not wanting to visit Mrs. Potter, and for what, the childish hope that not having closure would mean not ever crossing the great divide?
Words washed over him, kind ones, reminders and fond confessions, sometimes just filling the room with a sweet sort of melancholy. Ones that weren’t Sirius’s to receive. It irked him, very much actually, that the Potters never gave him any explanation for their generosity. He didn’t want to ask Mrs. Potter now, not when she looked so frail under the sheets, not when he knew what the answer would be. So he stood very still and let the words flow around him, like a sea, cleansing him and trickling into every crevice, every nook.
A voice jolted him out of his contemplation. His response slipped out, an absent “Mmm?”
“You have five minutes.” It was Prongs, head peeking in through the crack in the doorway. But as quickly as he entered, he left, leaving Sirius feeling stifled by the hospital air and the constricting limitations of human life.
“‘S not fair, y’know.” Sirius was looking at his boots again, but peeking at Mrs. Potter through his lashes, gauging her reaction. “You’re dying and...people who deserve it...aren’t.”
“Everybody deserves to live and die, dear. It’s a cycle.”
Sirius wondered if everyone always sounded so philosophical before they died.
“I--I just,” his voice cracked and he reached for her hand, thin and cold, like the branches on an autumn tree without its autumn leaves, “You did so much for me; I owe you so much and I was so al-- why?” No, these were not tears in his eyes. Sirius Black was not fucking crying.
“I’m a Black, Sirius.” She smiled. “Maybe not anymore, but I was once.” Sirius thought she sounded like the kindest person in the world. “I accepted Charlus’s love, and now it’s time for you to accept ours.”
It was fitting, he supposed. Cracking a lopsided grin through the blurriness in his eyes, he gave a weak laugh. “I do.” There wasn’t any punchline.
“Take care of James and Charlus, Sirius, and don’t get into trouble.” Mrs. Potter seemed appeased by something and added, “Too much.”
“I solemnly swear,” Sirius clutched her hand tighter in his grip, blinking rapidly and managing a painful smile. It struck him suddenly, that he’d never see her again, hear her laugh or tell him to make his bed. Death was so imposing, so disgustingly final. It was the one rule that even he couldn’t break, and he hated it, abhorred it, wanted to punch it in the face and scream and throw breakable objects at it.
Death was like winter, Sirius mused, stealing autumn leaves from autumn trees, turning beautiful things into lonely boughs, and it had stolen from him something precious.
His throat clenched and he finished, “That I am up to at least some good.”
