#my backlogged microfics are pretty angsty so this is like my christmas present to the boys

[solitaire-sol]

02. Soft

For: @prongsfoot-microfic Month: December 2023 AO3: Link Notes: Merry (possibly belated) Christmas, and equivalent holidays, to everyone who celebrates them! I just wanted to put out a little Christmas fluff to break my lack-of-posting streak. <3

They’d spent the day out-of-doors, tramping through snow-covered fields and wading through thigh-high drifts like colder, friendlier quicksand, competing to build the most ostentatious snow sculpture before trying to stuff snow down the back of each other’s coats. By the time James and Sirius had returned to the house, the coats in question thoroughly soaked when the snow-stuffing had become an impromptu wrestling match, twilight had already fallen and the village had been illuminated by festive lights and flickering tapers in red and white wax.

Christmas had come to Godric’s Hollow, or at least it was nearly there, and the air was layered with pine and cinnamon over the fresh, clean, cold scent of new-fallen snow. James and Sirius wandered back to James’ house, where the windows were glowing in warm welcome despite the fact that no one was home: James’ parents had gone visiting, as they did every holiday, and James would normally go with them except that Sirius was there, which took priority. James had been apologetic when he’d informed his mother and father, but Euphemia and Fleamont hadn’t seemed at all surprised-- The boys were old enough to look after themselves for a night or two, and the ‘old folks’ had departed with only a few cursory warnings against burning the cottage down.

After the two of them had stamped the snow from their boots, discarding their sodden coats in the mudroom, they'd only had to glance at each other before they were racing for the stairs, elbowing each other mostly-playfully as they clattered up the carpeted steps and separated at the landing: James darted into his room, then into the adjoining bathroom, while a hastily-slammed door from down the hall signalled Sirius' disappearance into the guest bath. Taps were turned, prompting hot water to rush out from pipes charmed to convey the perfect temperature, and the billowing steam fogged up the mirrors in each bathroom. Sirius, still his mother's son, couldn't help but take the time to wash and detangle and mostly dry his hair; so that by the time he made his way back downstairs, James was already in the kitchen, a towel around his shoulders and his hair still damp from the bath as he applied frothy whipped cream to two mugs of hot chocolate with far more care than he showed in Potions.

James looked up as Sirius entered the kitchen, passing him the mug with a cartoonish dog gazing mournfully up on the side; their fingers brushed together, just a little, and something in Sirius was warmed by more than just the hot bath, more than just the heat from the ceramic under his palm. James' mug had an out-of-proportion deer on it in the same cartoony style, both cups were bought as a joke the year before, but they were 'their' mugs and saw plenty of use whenever Sirius came to stay. The mugs were a set, after all, just as Sirius and James made a pair.

Hot chocolate successfully procured, the boys made for the plush sofa in the living room, where Sirius stoked the embers in the fireplace with a flick of his wand as James flung himself onto the couch with reckless disregard for the whipped cream and molten chocolate in his hand.

“Budge up,” Sirius ordered, causing James to grin at the faux-authority in his tone, and there was a good deal of jostling and wriggling before they found something that suited them-- Half-sprawled across the length of the sofa, Sirius' back wedged in the corner of the backrest and the couch's arm, James' back to his front. Long limbs and lean bodies slotted together with zero room to spare, and something that might still have attracted covert stares and curious speculation in the Gryffindor common room could be as easy and as natural as it felt. Sirius reached behind him with his free hand and seized a handful of the thick quilt draped over the sofa’s back, pulling it forward and draping it over James, who picked up the edge and tucked it around them like a two-occupant cocoon.

It might have surprised those curious Housemates to hear the surprisingly gentle cadence of the conversation that followed, which rose and fell according to the whims of the boys now cuddled together on the overstuffed sofa, the twinkling lights of the large evergreen in the corner creating a private constellation in the firelit dimness. Christmas at the Potters' was nothing like Christmas with the Blacks, who acknowledged the holiday in the way they did so many other things: With a deliberation that was at once both slightly ostentatious and severe, all overworked house elves and enormous silver punch-bowls that had once belonged to some storied precursor who’d flavored his glühwein with his enemies' blood. Sirius had years of receiving gifts from his parents, and occasionally they'd even been things he wanted, but there had been nothing like Christmas with James' family, all three in ridiculous jumpers that Euphemia knitted and Fleamont loved and James wore with pride. Their tree, always a superb specimen from the woods around the Hollow, was always all but smothered beneath the tinsel and enchanted tapers and sugared gingerbread, and hidden among the branches were multiple ornaments shaped like the letter 'J,' each in a different style, one for every year of James' life.

When Sirius spent his first Christmas with the Potters, Euphemia presented him with a jumper of his own, and James' gift had been an elaborately wrought letter 'S' to hang next to the other ornaments on the tree. "I'll get you another one next year," James had promised, and Sirius had laughed and called James a sop and pretended to study the weave of his jumper to hide the gratitude in his eyes.

James had been as good as his word-- James always was, when it mattered, and Sirius mattered to him, even if James showed it through deeds and not quite through words. It was evident on that night, in the way that James could be quiet with Sirius, in the way that the boy who always carried himself as if he were centre-stage could drink his hot chocolate and speak only when he felt like it, not when he felt he had to. That these feelings were returned, nebulous and as-yet-undefined as they were, was obvious in the way that Sirius allowed himself to enjoy the sweetness of the hot chocolate and the milky flavour of the cream, childish tastes that he'd never been allowed to develop but which, like so many other things, he was able to experience through James' presence in his life. Sirius had been honed by his family until he'd become as bright and as sharp as a blade; but with James, with James alone, there was no need to bring that blade to bear. James could disarm Sirius without really having to try, perhaps because James so readily showed Sirius the vulnerabilities that James would otherwise never admit he possessed.

When the mugs were emptied and set on the coffee table, when the logs in the fireplace were burning low and neither James nor Sirius felt inclined to stir them to life, the clock on the mantel began to chime. “Midnight,” James observed, relaxing against Sirius and smiling into the firelight, his fingers twisting idly into the fabric of Sirius’ sleeve. “That makes it Christmas Day. Happy Christmas, Padfoot.”

“Happy Christmas, Prongs,” Sirius replied, his voice soft, his eyes softer. Sirius didn’t quite smile, still somewhat unused to the way that James could make him feel-- Like the first day back at Hogwarts with his friends, like Monty and Effie smiling at him over the breakfast table, such times with James were too precious for Sirius to take lightly, and he would never quite master James’ knack for cradling everything in a grin. Even so, if only for a moment, it seemed like the world beyond the front door had faded into a pleasantly indistinct haze, and all that really mattered was that cosy living room and that glowing fire and the quilt that smelt faintly of lavender, the lingering sweetness on his tongue and the warm, solid weight of James against him, as if that was how they were always meant to be. James’ breathing flattened and slowed as he drowsed, ever able to fall asleep with an ease that Sirius sometimes envied, and Sirius let himself follow suit, his murmured words almost lost beneath the steady crackling from the fireplace.

“You mean the world to me.”