CHAPTER SEVEN. . .
My Name is Nobody

"Living systems are never in equilibrium. They are inherently unstable. They may seem stable, but they're not. Everything is moving and changing. In a sense, everything is on the edge of collapse."
Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park

The next morning, August wakes to find Sirius staring into the fire; a brown parchment letter of his own clutched so tightly that his knuckles are white-the skin almost seeming to split at the seams. He was careful not to place too much weight on Sirius' legs as he rose, moving closer to look over his shoulder, chin notching itself over his shoulder. August doesn't let his eyes settle over the words of the letter; he knows what it's like to have his privacy intruded on. Instead, he carefully takes the parchment from Sirius' furled hands and placed it onto the coffee table.

"Are you okay?" He asks. "Do you want to talk about it?"

When Sirius shakes his head, August doesn't press. The early morning birds could be heard out the window of the tower, flickers of brown, white and black feathers flitting through the air, swiftly flying towards the the Owlery for morning deliveries as a silence falls over the two teenage boys. August moves back slowly, giving Sirius the space that he thinks he requires. August aches to break the silence, searching, combing through his mind for the right words to say.

"Can I do anything to help?" August questions softly. He's desperate to erase the look of pure despair that paints Sirius' fallen expression; the feeling itself one that he is all too familiar with.

Sirius doesn't say anything at first; opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, gulping for air, before he closes it fully and succumbs to the empty feeling echoing within his chest. But then he moves- surging forward, his arms clasping around August's waist without warning.

And for a moment all August can do is be still as his breath is knocked out of his chest, and his heart constricts. He has always been sure, confident in his movements and his actions. While not everything he did was carefully calculated-even just to the first step-August Darlington has always known where his heart lands. But now as his body tingles and his knuckles turn white, holding the boy that clings to him for dear life, he is unsure. He has never been a stranger to stolen moments. A boy of mouths slanted against each other in a passionate show of romanticised infatuation, leaving purple and yellow bruises as parting gifts in stolen moments where he can find himself drawn out of his painstaking head.

Before August can register the short-circuiting of his brain, Sirius pushes him away with wide eyes and a panicked expression.

"I-I have to go."

August doesn't seem him again that day.

And Sirius shrugged it off as if nothing had happened.

August's mind forgets.

They do not speak for three days until August makes the first move in a Dead Poets meeting.

☾☾☾

Soon, October comes and goes in a flash of chilling winds, the trees losing their greenery, and the sky becomes darker earlier in the day as both Halloween and Winter inch closer. That night, Lily had presented him with an apple and a new copy of The Iliad; a white flag, a surrender. August pushed away the objects and drew his best friend into a hug. He missed her; he needed her more than the deafening silence that her vanished presence brought. But still, August throughout the last days of October has found himself unsettled, bartering for an answer that his mind cannot give. Why? He asks as his eyes are drawn to Sirius, who's head is thrown back in a bout of violent laughter. Why? He asks again as worry strikes him like thunder, cutting through his muscle, and down to the bone when Sirius gets hit that little too hard with a bludger by his partner in Quidditch crime, Marlene McKinnon. Why does it feel like he is on fire each time they link gazes, and his hand brushes his thigh when they're sitting just that little bit too close on the couches?

Unsurprisingly, Sirius is on his mind as August crosses the threshold into the Great Hall rather than the Astronomy homework that he has due the next morning, and hasn't completed. He huffs through his nose, shaking his head to rid himself of the black-haired boy that had stolen his attention as Lily attaches to his side, pinching his waist with a smile.

"Excited for the feast?" She asks.

August grunts. "I'll be happier when we're in the Room of Requirement.

Lily flashes him a look of vague concern. "Are you okay?"

"Positively peachy."

His smile is tight, and Lily presses her lips into a thin line. She opens her mouth to speak again.

"I'm fine." August snaps.

Lily raises her hands in surrender, snagging his arm and begins pulling him in Remus' direction. "Come on then."

As they approach the soft-looking teen, they find his irritated gaze locked onto the curls of Juliet, who sits at the Ravenclaw table with Malia by her side. Lily clears her throat, and Remus' head snaps in their direction.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"Nothing." Remus replies, pressing his hand into his face with a sigh.

Lily hums, slipping into the seat beside him. "Doesn't seem like nothing."

"Sirius got another set of letters from his parents." Remus explains quietly. "Each one worst than the last and he refuses to talk to me about it, or even James."

August takes the one across from Remus without a word; brooding in the warm chatter that hangs around his crestfallen figure. He is still brooding: a harrowing, and dangerous concoction of ornate epiphanies and shattered glass as his hold on his reality grows looser. August Darlington has always thought he's the one puzzle he never had to try and put together; that the stolen moments of lips pressed together and hands made of fire running up the pale skin of his back were enough. And as the chatter only rises in volume, he finds himself itchy, burning with anger as his knuckles whiten with his increasing grip on his pants. A clap to his shoulder sends an electric shock of surprise through his system.

"You look troubled, mate." James slides smoothly into the seat beside him.

Sirius quietly takes the one furthest from August as Peter picks the one beside Lily. In a moment of weak confusion, August's heart pangs, and his grip grows tighter-nails digging deeper into the fabric of his pants and beginning to indent the unmarked skin below.

"Just tired." August replies, levelling his cold gaze on Sirius. August's smile is void of humour, but his voice rings with equal parts of menace and mirth. "I'm trying to make a habit of being the one brooding to maintain the balance of this friend group but someone has decided to steal my job."

James chokes on a laugh and Lily smacks his knee lightly, slanting him a look.

Sirius avoids his eyes; tunnel vision locked onto a crack in the wooden table, and August chokes on a sigh before pulling his hands away from the fabric and splaying them on the table. He looks over each scratch and scar, picking at one of the newer puckered wounds that rests on the bridge of his knuckles.

"Oi Potter, budge up, you're in my spot."

August has never been more grateful to hear Malia's voice. His shoulders slump as she nudges James, causing him to move over and she can slide into the place beside August. She sends him a questioning look, eyes drawn to his nails digging at the wound on his knuckles.

He shrugs, saying nothing.

Throughout life, there are many lessons to be learnt. How words can be used to strip one of their self esteem; how they're easy to manipulate and misuse. How one's actions are often a reflection of the storm raging within. And that silence. . . Silence is the most deadly killer of them all. It is swift, relentless and dark; the feeling of drowning as your body acts upon it's natural reflex to suck as much oxygen in as possible, the natural reflex being your ultimate enemy. So, when August is silent, and his shoulders droop as his expression twinges with the slightest hint of stress, Malia inches her hand towards his, and carefully pries his hand away and locking it with her own. She twists the ring that Juliet gave him those weeks ago with a fond expression.

"Shouldn't you be with Jules?" His voice cracks from a day's disuse. "We wouldn't want you to get in trouble."

"Thought you'd enjoy my company more." She replies softly, giving his hand a squeeze, and brings it down to rest on her lap. "McGonagall is going to have to move me herself if she wants me at the Ravenclaw table."

The stroke of her thumb against his own is what keeps August grounded throughout Dumbledore's pre-dinner speech. He takes the time to look around the Great Hall; orange pumpkins line the walls, each with different faces etched into their flesh, and small candles lighting them like lanterns. The false-sky above is dark and storm, a stark difference to this mornings blue sky, and cotton-candy clouds. August purses his lips as Dumbledore's voice fades from the room, and dinner appears on the table.

Malia nudges his side. "Do you want Yorkshire pudding?"

August nods and she places one on his plate. He reaches over her, snatching two slices of pork from a large plate and three pieces of broccoli.

"So," Lily pauses, fork pressed to her mouth as she swallows her bite of potato, "who's reading tonight?"

"Sirius, I believe." Malia says, stabbing a carrot forcefully.

Sirius makes a noise of conformation and August looks down to his plate. Surprise shifts through August like a tingle down his spine as Sirius pushes away his dinner abruptly, and steps out of his seat. Without a word, August pushes away his own and follows. Nobody but their friends notice them leave; the Hall is busy with sound, truth colliding with lies; gossip colliding with secrets as they all spill from the honey-mouths of Hogwarts students and stick to the air like glue.

When they cross the door into the hallway, August doesn't waste time with silence. "Somethings wrong with you."

"Thanks, August, just what I needed to hear." Sirius replies through gritted teeth.

He walks further and further from the Great Hall, and August tails him mercilessly.

"I have."

With a scoff, August snags Sirius' wrist. "Liar."

"What?"

"I said you're a liar." August snaps. "You pushed me away and ran with your tail between your legs. What did they say that was so bad?"

"Nothing." Sirius tries to pull away.

"Liar." August repeats.

Sirius' voice falls to a whisper. "It's nothing."

"I don't believe you." August replies, squeezing his wrist in comfort.

"You don't have to believe me." Sirius replies. "I don't care."

"I just. . . I know that face." August pauses, thinking over his words. "The frown of parental disappointment, and the slight eyebrow crease of a recent lecture. I know that it hurts more than you let on sometimes."

Finally, Sirius stop trying to pull away from August, stunned into silence for a single moment before once again he surges forward and yanks August into his arm.

"Thank you." He says quietly.

"I'm here. . ." August replies, awkwardly patting his back. "If you need me."

☾☾☾

Sirius and August find themselves in the kitchens just as the Halloween Feast is ending; pulling snacks into the pockets of their jumpers and pants as the dirty dinner plates come pouring into the sinks. They're silent; even August relishing in the comfort of few words being exchanged. There are times that August forgets how young they truely, but is reminded by the mixture of worry and concern creases Sirius' sixteen year-old forehead, eyebrows pinched together and his usually mischievous eyes narrowed. August bites his lip at the anxiety in his taut stance, fingers gripping his mug of hot chocolate so tightly that her knuckles are white-a contrast to the shadows that ink the bags beneath his eyes. Silently, August pries the cup from his hand.

"We don't have to go." He offers quietly, almost a whisper. "If you don't want to."

Sirius makes a noise of indifference, letting August take the cup from his hands.

"Yes or no?"

Sirius shrugs, and August flattens him with a stare.

He sighs. "Yes, let's go."

They walk through the halls side by side, never quite brushing against each other, but the warmth of Sirius' skin sitting so close to his still sets August aflame. He shoves down the feel-the primal instinct coursing through his teenage body and focuses on the needs; Sirius needs him to be here, but he does not need his useless baggage. The same line runs through his mind: August would not sick a ticking time bomb on those innocent before him such as Sirius, so why would he give himself over to him? To him, there has never been a difference. Their friends are already inside the Room of Requirement by the time August pushes open the door and allows Sirius to step in first.

The world is no longer silent-the crackling of the fire and needless chatter all setting Sirius on edge. He feels August's hand hover over his shoulder.

"Yes or no?" August asks again. "You don't need to be here."

Sirius nods stiffly. Carefully, August guides him with a gentle touch to the shoulder towards the couch where Sirius falls into the seat beside Lily with a taut smile. She slants him a look, but a quiet nudge to her shoulder from August signals for her to let it go.

"I can't read." He mutters quietly as August takes his place on Sirius' other side. "Not tonight."

"I will." August hums, squeezing his shoulder before standing and facing the group. He plasters on a smile; the master of hidden truths and counterfeit smiles. "Change of plans: I'm reading tonight, and as my treat I'm reading a passage from The Iliad."

Lily withholds her groan and August flicks her a mocking smile. She smiles back-all razor teeth and gum.

August clears his throat, and snags his book from where he left it on the shelf above the fireplace earlier. "Tonight, I have chosen a passage I hold dear, the death of Patroclus."

"Cheerful." Malia throws out the comment.

Remus stifles a laugh.

"They say he was his lover." August says over the roar of the fire as Peter places in a log and the room turns somber. "And that is why Achilles' rage was so strong: the grief, the overdose of losing the love of his life sent him down a path of murderous anger and uncontrollable fury. His weakness was never really his heel, truely it was his love. . ."

Quiet falls over the group, and August clears his throat.

"Patroclus stunned by the spear and the god's crushing blow was weaving back to his own thronging comrades, trying to escape death. . ."

Hours later, on his way back to his dorm when all words are said and done by the respective members of the society, August reflects on his own texts. Each offered a different sense of the world: some stable, a tender touch to the cheek on days that he needed extra love, more comfort than people could provide. Others sent his insides twisting, churning with tension as the great mystery unravels in front of his very eyes. Another pulls at the strings of his heart and wet his cheeks with tears that he would never tell anyone that he let fall. Soon, he finds himself reflecting on his own words: they say he was his lover. And that is why Achilles' rage was so strong: the grief, the overdose of losing the love of his life sent him down a path of murderous anger and uncontrollable fury. His weakness was never really his heel, truely it was his love. . . What was his weakness? Was it the force of nature that protected his back throughout their childhood-the women blossoming from girlhood to her teenage years like the beautiful flower that she is? Or was it Malia's laugh that sings like a calming lullaby, and the matching snort that Lily lets out in the safety of her friend group. Could it even be the brush of skin that set his skin aflame, and his heart racing?

August decides that he's fine with not knowing just yet, and resides to the silence of the halls as one last line of a book far away, lingers in the back of his mind.

My name is Nobody. . .

August could live with being Nobody; not having to live through the endless, merciless questions that his mind throws at his heart without so much as a warning. But alas, what is a bomb without the ticking timer.