Sirius stumbled into the garden, crushing the daisies underfoot, weighing the stone in his hand. The perfect little grey stone, with a sharp jagged edge he had picked up from the sidewalk, where even the crazy old man by the train station had given him a dirty look and scooted away. He looked up at the house in front of him, counting the windows- two up, one over- then threw the stone with all his might. The stone shattered the window with the beautiful sound of breaking glass, and Sirius laughed, a sound of insanity and desperation. He let himself fall on his back, the dirt soft beneath his fingernails as he stared at a crushed daisy, its whiteness slowly turning red as blood dripped from a cut on his arm. He clutched his broken wrist to his chest, his last defense against the coming darkness, or maybe he was going crazy because he laughed and laughed until he coughed, the blood washing up in his mouth.

The front door burst open and James rushed through, his hair sticking up and his glasses balanced crookedly on his nose, his feet bare and sinking in the grass. He stopped as he looked at Sirius, an expression of revulsion crossing his face before being replaced with one of horrified sympathy and Sirius grinned, because how else should he react when faced with a broken, bleeding, mess of a person lying in his garden? The taste of blood stuck to his tongue as he coughed again, watching, fascinated, as it dripped onto the dirt.

“Fancy seeing you here, Prongs,” he whispered, before letting his head fall back on the dirt, his wrist still clutched protectively to his chest, closing his eyes as he let out a choked sob disguised beneath a some semblance of humor, but there was nothing really funny about any of this. Then suddenly James was hugging him, crushing him, and the heat of his body was more than Sirius could as for, because a leather jacket isn’t really any protection against the cold rejection of family.

“Lucky coincidence,” James whispered and Sirius buried his face in the crook of James’ neck, his fingers clutching at the soft fabric of his pyjamas, ignoring the stinging pain of his tears on the cuts scattered across his face.

When he woke, his fingers were tangled in James’ shirt sleeping next to him, his glasses knocked off his face. His arm clenched on Sirius’ wrist, and even though it hurt, he was glad, because the sharp pain somehow dulled the ache in his chest.

When he woke again, the dirt was scrubbed from underneath his fingernails and his wrist bound tightly in a white bandage, his head no longer cushioned by dirt but a pillow, and James sat next to him on the floor. He turned to smile at him sadly, reaching up to brush the last bit of wetness from his cheek, and Sirius couldn’t tell if it was water or tears, and he didn’t really care.

“Breakfast is ready if you want,” James whispered, and he got up, leaving behind a small bit of parchment that fluttered onto Sirius’ lap. He picked it up.

James and Sirius,

There is fruit on the table when you’re ready, make sure you eat! Don’t use the stove, you’ll burn the house down. Your father and I went to the store to buy some clothes, James’ are too big for Sirius, and when we get back I’ll make some eggs. We’ll be back in an hour.

Love, Mum and Dad

And Sirius clutched the parchment to his chest, closing his eyes and he let a small smile appear as he drifted off to sleep.