Chapter Text
The Summer of 1981
Remus Lupin was watching the evening headlines anxiously in anticipation. He didn’t normally watch the news, more a morning newspaper with a coffee and a cigarette sort of person—but the grainy picture of the paper could not hold a candle to the high resolution of a t.v screen, nor could it deliver the news so immediately. He thought the whole of Britain might be watching the telly this evening, eagerly awaiting the face of a much-loved icon.
Any moment now, he thought to himself, slipping a nervous thumb between his lips.
And then the screen changed, flicking suddenly to reporters outside of a courthouse, cameras flashing, crowd swarming around the figure leaving. There he was, Sirius Orion Black, the lead singer of Britain’s most notable export—The Marauders, a popular rock band whose prominence could be compared to the likes of Bowie, the Beatles, and Queen.
Not only that, however, but the man on his screen, jacket over his head in an attempt to cover his striking features on his way to a waiting car, was Remus’s boyfriend. The thought made his stomach stir for only a moment before he remembered the gravity of the situation, wrapping his arms around himself as he became lost in the memory of how they’d ended up here in he first place.
It was two months prior, on a Saturday night after a thriving, wild gig that Sirius, Remus, James and Peter were at a bar in central London. They were sitting in a corner in a U-shaped booth. Remus was at the end of the table, James on one side, Sirius on the other with his hand on Remus thigh under the table, while Peter was sitting next to Sirius, across from James. It was cosy despite the thumping music and low-lights—nobody had seemed to notice them coming in or out, and the bar staff hadn’t put up much of a fuss either. Not after a hefty tip, and a sultry finger to Sirius’ lips urging them to keep quiet as they slipped by.
“Padfoot, you might want to ease up on the grog…a few more shows and then you can do whatever you want for a while,” said James, eyeing Sirius suspiciously as he sipped on his own drink. Remus’ eyes were growing heavy as he half inhaled the spliff James was smoking—he wasn’t sure how the three did this so often.
Now, Remus knew by now that Sirius usually fell a little flat after a night of partying, but their relationship felt too new, too surface-level for him to say anything just yet. He wasn’t the man’s mother, after all. James and Peter, on the other hand, were old friend’s of Sirius’. They’d all met at some posh private school for sons and daughters of millionaires and the upper-class of Britain.
It wasn’t the sort of crowd Remus was used to. But he thought Sirius liked that about him, and he liked that about Sirius.
“Prongs,” slurred Sirius, pressing all of his weight on Remus as he leaned across his lap to get closer to his band mate. “I’m fine—” he smiled devilishly. “—I’m fine if Moony says I’m fine.”
It was handsome, terribly undoing, and the added warmth of his lover made all of Remus’ worries melt away as he slipped his hand into Sirius’ silky black hair. Sirius looked up, forgetting James’ curious gaze to stare at Remus through half-lidded eyes.
“Not here,” Remus warned, suddenly far too hazily aware of Peter’s apprehensive positioning on the lounge, poised as if he were ready to escape—it was too hot, too smokey. It was too much. “Not now,” he gulped, retracting his hand from Sirius as he tried to wet his impossibly dry mouth, swallowing over and over again.
“Moony,” Sirius whined.
The nickname was a new thing, something that came about because of Remus only ever being seen when the moon is out and they can hide in the shadows. That’s what Peter had said, at least. And James had vehemently agreed, praising his friend’s genius mind. Sirius had shrugged his shoulders, only revealing later that night how dearly he thought of his Moony when they went to bed.
Remus shook the thought from his mind as Peter shuffled out of the booth, standing meekly at the end of the table.
“I think I’ll head home, now. I’ll see you tomorrow, two o’clock. Be there,” he said before slipping into the crowd without another word.
“He’s a wet towel, sometimes, you know?” Sirius said, sitting up.
“He’s stuck, he is,” James answered, scratching the back of his neck. “But he’s right, it’s late. I can’t keep Lils waiting. I reckon she’ll be done with her girl’s night about now, don’t you think?”
Sirius rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he said, grabbing Remus’ hand. He pulled Remus out of the booth as James got up, and they fought their way through the crowd, feet sticking to the floor with every step, each stumble leaving their hands tugging awkwardly, Sirius’ fingers dancing along to the beat of the music as if it were casual for one man to be holding the hand of another in public.
Once outside, in the fresh air of night, Remus made to pull away as they came across a number of groups of people scattered about—some smoking, there were girls crying, men in suits more fitting of a business setting. It was a typical Saturday night. Except for that Sirius didn’t let go.
Sirius always let go. But he didn’t, tonight. And somebody had something to say about it. But it wasn’t Remus or Sirius or James.
“Oi!” Called a burly man leaning against a telephone pole. He threw his cigarette to the ground, firmly stepping on it as he broke free of his equally rough appearing friends, to approach Remus and Sirius who’s hands were still inter-locked despite Remus’ efforts to get the man beside him to let go.
“Sirius, let go of Remus,” James whispered from behind them.
Sirius gritted his teeth. “No.”
“Sirius? This is not the time to play dramatics,” James continued furiously, eyeing Remus carefully. It was as if James knew what might be about to happen, but Remus was running blind, simply a prop in whatever act his boyfriend was playing at.
As the man came to a stop, standing at the same height as Remus, just taller than Sirius, Sirius let go of Remus—who let out a quiet sigh of relief—to stand in front of him.
“Got a problem?” Sirius asked, putting on his best working-class adjacent accent as he squared his shoulders.
“Yeah, I do, actually—” The bearded man narrowed his eyes, looking behind Sirius to Remus and James as if to ask if they’d intervene, to stop their friend. When neither one of them made a move, the man turned his dark, lecherous gaze back to Sirius. “Fags like you, you can’t call yourself a rock star.”
Sirius stilled, and Remus thought he heard James take a sharp inhale of air. “And why is that?”
“‘Cause rock isn’t for pansies, it’s for real men—” Sirius fist collided with the man’s cheek, spit and blood spraying from the man’s mouth as he recoiled. And as he went to swing in retaliation, James was jumping between them and subsequently falling to the ground as he caught a fist to the skull, his eyes fluttering shut as his head hit the pavement.
“Somebody call an ambulance!” A high-pitched voice called from beyond the scene as the bigger man straightened up, bearing his teeth at Sirius and Remus before calmly walking away, down the street and disappearing into the distance as if he hadn’t just knocked out the drummer of Britain’s greatest band.
“Jesus fuck, Sirius!” Remus yelled, dropping to his knees and pulling James’ head into his lap as a crowd gathered around them. He looked up, but all he found in Sirius’ stormy eyes was a blank stare totally lost in what he’d done, the damage he’d caused.
Remus knew Sirius was traumatised, tortured as Sirius liked to put it for poetic purposes, but, sitting on the cold concrete of the pavement with James’ head cradled in his lap, he was beginning to think it might be time he and Sirius deepen their relationship and get to know each other outside of sex, drugs, and rock and roll.