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All he has left are ruins. His whole life has been slowly crumbling for the past fourteen years. His life is decaying, growing soft like stone turning to sand. He thinks that one day he will wake up and find that has body has literally begun to disintegrate. He'll rub at his eyes and find only dust; one careless motion will demolish his nose; he won't be able to stand because his legs will have sunk into a pile of ashes.
Fuck. Maybe that already has happened. All these days locked up in a house he hates, he may as well be dust.
It's true, Sirius is a little bit obsessed with the ruinous quality of his life. He told Remus a version of these thoughts last night and Moony frowned, averting his eyes, saying nothing. It wasn't really the reaction he was looking for. James would have laughed, told him to shut up, stop being so wilfully morbid. He's always needed James to puncture his dark thoughts. Without him they tend to spiral unchecked.
Sirius used to worry that he would forget James; that one day he would find himself unable to recall James' face, his voice, his laughter. It's true those things have faded, become elusive in his mind and dulled with age. But what's harder than the forgetting, he has found, is the remembering. There are unexpected splinters of memory that come back to him; moments previously lost in the depths of his memory that now resurface, taunting him with faded sunshine and frozen smiles.
He remembers now an afternoon by the lake. It is one of hundreds of afternoons by the lake that they spent together. At the time it seemed like their days consisted of nothing but lazy afternoons spent basking in the sunshine and each other. But now Sirius thinks of it, their time together wasn't long, really—not when you measure it against a lifetime.
"You ever realise that growing up is just growing old?" Sirius said, his mouth twisting around the words. He propped himself up on his elbows, his legs stretched out on the grass. Beside him, James lay flat on his back. "This is it," he continued, "this is the pinnacle. From here on in, it's just a slow, meandering road into false teeth, long beards and—and—ballroom dancing!"
"Ballroom dancing?" James inquired mildly.
"Yeah. Old wizards always take ballroom dancing lessons. I don't see why. It must be part of the aging process."
"Hmmm." James nodded. He seemed to be genuinely considering Sirius' rant. Or maybe he was just taking the piss. James had feigned-sincerity down to such an art these days ("but Professor McGonagall, a hippogriff really did eat my homework…") that it was hard to tell.
After a moment's thought, James added, "I'm not really into ballroom dancing. Just so you know. If you really think that's the direction your life is going in, might wanna count me out." James grinned.
Yeah, definitely taking the piss. Bastard.
"Fine," said Sirius, "I'll be dancing with the fittest old broads while you sit in a corner and cry about losing your teeth."
"Oooh." James rolled over on the grass, so that he was lying on his front. He fitted his chin into the crook of Sirius' shoulder and nosed into his personal space. "When you put it that way…" James licked his lips, as Sirius tilted his face, anticipating the feel of James mouth against his. "Give us a kiss, quick, before we both lose our teeth."
In his memory, a thousand times over, Sirius obliges.