A/N: This story was partially inspired by Three Days Grace's song called Never too late, thus the name ^^ I'd advice you to go and check out that song if you aren't already familiar with it, it's just pure amazing *grins*

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The main honors of creating these two characters goes to the pretty and rich lady living in England. I only own the plot of this fic and the OOCness that's bound to come with it *smirks*

Warnings: This will be slash. As in, I'm so going to write Harry and Sirius getting down and dirty at some point along the way. So if that isn't really your cup of tea, I'd advice you to hit the back-button right about now. No use flaming me afterwards, darlings, I gave you a fair warning ;)

1. Oil and water

They didn't understand.

No, scratch that. There was no way they could've understood. Locked up in their cozy little living rooms with hot cups of tea under their noses as they were, there wasn't a chance of them to understand. Or even want to.

But for someone who'd had to fight for anything and everything in his life and whose whole existence was a quarrel after the other, it was easy to understand. Understand but not accept. It was the highest taboo ever labeled under forbidden and that just made it all the more desirable.

I understood what the others didn't. Painfully well, even. For they didn't see how he looked at me, and at times I wished I would've been granted with such blind eyes as well. I understood, even better than I'd ever wanted to, what he was searching for. I wasn't sure if I was the right person to give him any of that.

So, I tried to stay out of his way. This is a large enough house to be able to do something like that pretty easily. But I couldn't escape him during mealtimes and those moments of socializing when we were both dragged by the collar to the living room so that we would feel like we were a part of a family neither of us ever asked for in the first place. I tried not to encourage him, to give him a cool front, but if there ever has been a person in this world who has seen through my numerous facades and false smiles without even trying, it is him.

Oh, how I sometimes wish it had never come to this. For he has found me out, painfully and inevitably ripped down any kind of a barrier I tried to build around myself, and he didn't even have to try. Just one single look from those eyes that by themselves are a reminder of why I should never be thinking these things and I am reduced to a babbling fool whose words make no sense, not to the world nor to me. Just one touch and I must flee, for my whole body burns and I am thinking of something I constantly catch myself picturing and even more frequently try to shove away.

He just needs to smile or laugh at one of my stupid jokes and this house suddenly seems like a paradise, a place I never wish to leave. All he needs to do is step into the room and look like he always does, maybe greet me with his smooth voice, and I catch myself thinking that it might not be so bad to be locked up in this house for good with a glass of Firewhiskey in my hands.

He doesn't like it when I drink, I can see it in his eyes. It is the only time something negative passes behind the shining depths when he looks at me. Usually, if I've been drinking, it's always on the landing in front of his room where we bump into each other when I'm dragging my sorry and miserable ass to my own room one floor above his. His eyes- a constant reminder of why exactly it's better to be drunk than to face my thoughts- narrow ever so slightly before his lips- that I always try not to stare and end up doing just that after fighting a yet another lost battle- purse, like he'd want to say something but isn't sure if he should. It is rare for him to speak during these fleeting occasions when it's just the two of us awake in the otherwise quiet house, and I am either so drunk or too caught up in my own line of thought to say anything either. Though, I have noticed that a fleeting touch of sadness has come to taint his mesmerizing eyes as he pats me on the shoulder before smiling that tiny smile and sweeping past me. I don't have to look to see where he is going, for I know he sleeps with that Ron-boy while in here. In this house that has its fun by switching from a paradise to a prison-cell faster I can ever quite catch up with, he sleeps practically under me. And I always try not to think of that in a more crooked kind of a way.

He goes his way and I go my own. And as I climb the last flight of stairs to my room, I can't stop thinking that I should go back and do something. But I squash that thought like I have always done up till now, for there is a part of my brain that keeps telling me that I have only imagined the looks and touches, lingering longer than necessary. That they are just an illusion my mind has come up with in order to justify my own dreams and hallucinations, to make me believe I am alright.

As I reach my own room I glance back and am greeted with the sight of an empty landing, getting engulfed by the shadows once more. I try not to think of it, but the more I stare the more I try to kid myself into believing that it is good like this. That we- as a Godfather and a Godson- are like oil and water. Two substances destined to never mingle. It is a lonely thought but I force myself to believe it once more as I step into my room and am greeted with even more darkness and shadows. It is like the walls and floor has somehow absorbed all that has been swirling inside my head ever since last summer when he first came here.

The thought of oil suits me because of it's color. Black is much like the color of my thoughts these days, instead of just my name. And water is along the lines of how I picture him, innocent and pure.

Oil would only tarnish it all.

So, I shall remain as an observer and will never act upon my urges.