Chocolate Icecream

Dark head in hands in his. A line of ice-cream around the mouth; so sweet, so tender, so tasty.

Two boys. A droplet of sweat, gone before it can touch the concrete. Toys long discarded. Hopscotch lines drawn from one unto the other. Two hearts. His heart. Their heart. Them. Together – always.

The sharp smack and tang as flesh separates from flesh. Familiarity so intense the air is thick with it. Like smoke. Like magic.

He thinks that word every day now. Magic. He lets its bitter coolness wash over him in that state between sleeping and waking which seems to haunt his everyday life. It is a ritual and it harmonises him, makes him ready for the next terrible advance of his nightmares.

If the brief remembrance of being able to once work magic balances him, it is the thought of his love that strengthens him, keeps him alive.

Soft skin warmed and brown by the sun. A single teardrop. Large hands fondling, stroking, caressing. Need want, lust need, want, want, need, need, need, need and no release. No release for him now. No rest for the wicked. Not since…

A trickle of water down the wall? And wet rooves, torrents pour down on both their heads. Cold wet lips and warm wet tongues. Wood on the water. Flow. Exuberance… adrenaline… terror. A campfire. Soft kisses and flicker-golden skin. Less… less… and so much more. Delicacy… like… like… a butterfly. Yet rough tongue, rougher fingers – searching, exploring, realising.

Sometimes he will awake, clutching tenaciously at a fragment of dream, but all too soon it is gone from his clumsy grasp. Not lost, but stolen. He cries, warm salty tears that evoke… almost… but not quite. He is not sad – they are not close enough for the infliction of misery – but he is not happy. He is not allowed to treasure those moments – he is not allowed to treasure anything except the cold reality that is pain. The thoughts… the need are wrenched heartbreakingly from him and he cries out. It descends, power and menace and fear and a hate so strong it burns like ice.

The knowledge that he must deal with it is there. He should store away the memories like a squirrel’s nuts so that they remain his, and resign himself to cold unfeeling indifference. But they are so strong, overwhelming his barriers and flooding him through.

Pink bubblegum. One piece left, so they share it, trying to chew at the same time. Long yellow grass. Warmth. All his memories seem to be of warmth, and this makes it that much harder to face reality.

Winning… winning… not sure what. And why would he need to know? He would only have the knowledge denied him once more. But treacherous heat pulls him on, and he remembers the brilliant blue of the sky, a small, gold ball in his hand… and winning.

Why is it that he can remember the exact amount of stars he had to climb to reach the Common Room, but he cannot remember his own lover’s name?

Suddenly he retches violently. Drops of crimson spatter the floor. There is nothing left in him except blood and bleakness and soul. Soon, even those will be gone; like a light flickering out he will be empty.

Blackness. Only blackness, comforting in its release yet terrifying in its infinity. He shudders, making himself breath the cold stale air. Nothing works for him now.

Horror tinged with sadness tinged with fear, a dark hood, a festering claw. Is this the first time he has transformed without knowing? He suspects not, but this is the first time he has noticed. The terrible awakening fear dims slightly, and the emotions heave and buck and grow and encompass his whole, then are continually wrenched away almost as soon as he can produce them. A smile, soft lips…? But no, it is vanished, and the last of his will to live with it. He is left with a blank white page, which is almost as terrifying as the endless dark.

He rips at his arms, human again. His teeth dig into scars and scabs and other weeping wounds, as if the flow of blood can bring with it the flow of remembrance. It is dark, dark blood. It looks like black ink as it pools around his shoulders.

Ink. Inky hands and ink-stained fingers. Chocolate ice-cream, which he cannot relate to anything else but which he knows is important. As the world around him falls away the thought remains clearly in his mind. Something about chocolate ice-cream… and a tree?

Magic.

No, he cannot forget brilliant lights, like he cannot forget smooth touches and smoother words, no matter how hard he tries. But his happy memories have been stolen from them, and he has nothing left, except…

No. Not now. Not after all this time.

But he cannot resist his subconscious, and like he rents his arms he rents his memories, and the pieces flutter into view.

No kisses, but suspicion. Lies. Betrayal – red hair? Red hair and betrayal. Last words and betrayal. Hate and betrayal. Lies and pain and love like a blow to the chest. A clock, face smashed, hands ticking ever onwards.

Green eyes, green light. And he was too late…

Death.

“James!” he cries, forlorn, forgotten.

Want, need, need, want, want, need, need, need, need. Less… less… and then more than he ever could have asked for.

Stolen kisses and stolen memories. A dog, howling. A man, laughing. A rat leaving.

Sirius opened his eyes and looked across the room, wondering how he could have forgotten.

Traitor.

Death.

A family of boys, waving from a battered newspaper clip.

And a rat…

A rat…

He sat bolt upright, eyes gleaming as he teetered on the brink between madness and sanity.

“I’ll kill the bastard!”

The air rang with a voice, hoarse after lack of use, and the shadows shrank back from its strength. There was only green eyes and green light and a clock ticking ever onwards. Chocolate ice-cream, and a rat. Nothing, nothing could stop him now. He was at… he was at…

“I’ll kill him!”

He was at Hogwarts.