Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a stupid idea, really. There was no surprise there, given that it originated from Barty’s astoundingly smooth brain, yet even after several years of friendship, Regulus still found himself floored by the man’s sheer lack of brain cells. 

“Start a band? Really ? That’s your new grand plan?” 

Barty looks up and shoots him a withering glare, its impact significantly diluted by his curled-up position on the chaise lounge across the room where his head had previously been comfortably nestled in Evan’s lap. 

“I don’t see you coming up with anything else, you git. Besides, you even said yourself that it could be fun,” the black-haired man grumbles, blindly reaching behind him to find Evan’s hand and placing it back on the crown of his head. Evan huffs out a small laugh, resuming his task of scratching Barty’s scalp. Regulus watches this interaction disdainfully and concludes, not for the first time, that both of his friends are complete and utter idiots. 

Discussing the various ways the lot of them could ‘hypothetically’ escape the grasps of their awful families was not a new conversation topic. In fact, it was one that they brought up quite often, the ideas ranging from ones as boring and tame as just booking it with a backpack and a passport (courtesy of Evan, whose pragmatism was much needed to balance everyone else’s lunacy) to as ludicrous as faking their deaths and living off the grid on a little olive farm in Italy, spending their days harvesting fruit and eating charcuterie (courtesy of Dorcas, who saw no issue with living in a tiny house with two of the most introverted people she knew and Barty Crouch Jr.). 

Personally, Regulus would rather his parents die a mysterious and violent death, leaving their vast family fortune to him and relieving him of just a few of the many lingering demons that occupied both his head and his home. But alas, he knew he would never in his life be fortunate enough for that particular scenario to happen. 

“I said that when I was drunk off my arse and listening to the absolutely massive rock playlist you sent to me on loop,” Regulus responds dryly from where he stands across the room, scanning the vast wall of instruments before settling on a sleek black viola, a personal favourite of his. While it was understated in appearance, it produced some of the most rich, full sounds, ones that burrowed into your skin and warmed you from the inside out.

He grasps the neck and picks up his bow before settling on an armchair next to two of the three morons he considers family. The third lets out an undignified snort at his rebuttal from her place sprawled on the carpet in front of the lit fireplace, looking far more comfortable and far less proper than she would have been if Regulus's parents were in the room. Luckily, they were out at a private dinner party that evening, leaving the rest of the house blissfully empty and a smidgeon less batshit insane than it usually was. 

For once, Regulus felt like he could actually breathe. 

“Oh, don’t even pretend that you haven’t thought about it. That same night, you wouldn’t stop jabbering on about how much you loved Nirvana and how much you wanted to make music like Kurt Cobain.” Dorcas teases, examining her already pristinely groomed nails with furrowed brows. 

“Okay, first of all, I don’t think that’s an uncommon sentiment to have, Nirvana is fucking incredible and anyone with ears could tell you that Cobain’s songwriting is legendary,” Regulus retorts, nimble fingers tuning up the strings of the viola, plucking every once in a while to test their accuracy. “Second, you of all people should know to take whatever I say after taking Fireball shots with a heaping cup of salt. My words are not to be trusted once you get that shit in me.” 

“You’re not still hung up on that time you admitted that you’d have sex with Barty if you were drunk enough, are you?” 

“Dorcas, I swear to god -”

“Wait, what ? When did he say that ? How did I not know about this?” 

“Oh, here we go.” Evan sighs, staring up at the ceiling in disdain and listening to the mayhem unfolding in the Blacks’s music room. 

The four of them practically lived there, spending so many of their teen years in that room that they considered it to be more like home to them than their own rooms. Well, as much as they could when it was owned by Walburga and Orion Black, two of the single most vile humans to ever walk on this godforsaken planet. They were in decent company, though, with Barty and Evan’s respective fathers seemingly in competition to see who could be the most shit dad in the country and Dorcas's mother being so absent it was almost as if she didn’t have one at all. 

Naturally, their families had all existed in the same social circles growing up, so they had become accustomed to seeing one another at all of the dreadfully boring and painfully insipid social events they were expected to show up to. However, it wasn’t until one fateful evening at a party hosted by Regulus's parents did they truly seem to click. The four of them were requested (told) to perform something for the rest of the guests, resulting in them playing one of the most spontaneous yet beautiful renditions of Beethoven’s Op. 131 their audience had ever heard; it was as if the moment they began to play they were not only properly introduced but also intimately acquainted with one another. 

From that day on, they were attached at the hip, to their families’ collective contempt. The four of them suspected the only reason their closeness was tolerated was because of the bragging rights it gave their parents; their childrens’ musical success was simply an extension of their own, something to make themselves and their family names look even more aggressively pretentious than they already were. 

Perhaps the only decent thing their parents ever did was allow them all to become friends. Or, as Orion would put it, “make connections”; the idea of “friends” was simply considered to be plebeian, or just plain unnecessary. Networking among the intricate web of high society British elites was expected of a Black. “Friends” were not. 

His whole life, Regulus had been conditioned and moulded into becoming the perfect, well-rounded aristocrat he was always told to be: he diligently participated all of the necessary etiquette, sport, and dance classes, he learned all of the expected languages, he attended every gala and ball he was told to attend, he got excellent grades and went to a prestigious university, and most importantly, became well-versed in the arts. Specifically, music. 

From the moment he could stand on his own, Regulus was put into lessons, learning how to play all sorts of instruments, from the piano to the cello to the harp. And, once his parents discovered his potential as a vocalist, he began taking singing lessons, as well. While he despised his parents for many things, his musical training was maybe the only real thing that he could even consider thanking them for (not that he would ever even whisper a word of sincere gratitude in their direction; he rather shove his head into an oven). 

When his typically articulate words failed him; when his body simply wouldn’t allow for the same kind of casual touches he envied his friends for giving and receiving so easily; when he felt his thoughts were far, far too loud… music was how he could communicate the way he felt to the people he cared about, and by extension, to himself. 

A rotten day could be summarised in a few bars on his violin; the sound of his parents’ grating disapproval could be recounted on the standing bass; a particularly haunting nightmare was easier to forget when he could busy his hands on the black and white keys of the piano. Dorcas, Barty and Evan were fluent in Regulus's musical language.

In turn, Regulus was able to get to know his friends better through their love for music, as well. It was fitting how effortlessly incredible Barty was at riffing on anything with strings; his spontaneity was so clearly reflected in how easily he could throw together a new catchy melody or come up with a show-stopping solo. Evan had an undeniable knack for anything bass, echoing how much of a rock and constant he was to everyone else in their little group. Dorcas's unapologetic and bold nature suited percussion perfectly, her perfectionism resulting in some of the most precise drum and key work you’ve ever seen. Together, they created some of the most harmonious, cohesive music, both literally and figuratively. 

However, they were still young adults with razor-sharp wit and a propensity to incite carefully controlled chaos (whether this is intentional or not could be debated), so they also created a generous amount of noise. 

“I cannot believe you’ve never told me this, Dorcas, I thought we were friends.” Barty says, mock hurt dripping from his voice as he tried (and failed) to keep a cocky smirk off of his face. 

Dorcas scoffs, eyes wide with fear as she slowly inches away from the grey-eyed boy glaring at her so hard she was surprised she hadn’t caught fire yet. “Do you think that I would ever consider it knowing that fucking gremlin over there may strangle me if I did?” 

“I’m still considering it. Tread carefully, Meadowes.” 

“Regulus, snookums, I’m deeply flattered, truly-”

“I will castrate you if you finish that sentence.”

Barty gasps, clutching his metaphorical pearls with a dramatism that makes Regulus's eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks for a moment that he may see his brain. 

“I’ll have you know, my dick should be considered a national treasure. It would practically be treason, if you chopped it off.”

“Perhaps it’d be considered a public service, instead. I’m sure the whole country would rest easy knowing they wouldn’t be terrorised by you and your insufferable libido any longer. In fact, I reckon I could be knighted for such a selfless and honourable deed.” 

Evan and Dorcas, who had been admirably maintaining their composure for most of the bickering, erupt into a fit of giggles, much to Barty’s displeasure. He takes one look at Evan’s barely concealed grin and shaking shoulders and pouts, turning away from the bleached blonde, bearing a remarkable resemblance to a fussy toddler.

“I hate every single one of you fuckers.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that, snookums, Reg was only teasing,” Dorcas coos condescendingly, affectionately patting Barty’s leg, who responds to the gesture with an indignant huff and a sassy eyeroll. . 

“Definitely was not, but whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

“ Regulus. ”

“Oh, shove off. I suppose you get to keep your cock. For now. ”

“The British public sincerely thanks you for your generosity.”

Regulus exhales through his nose, the closest indication of amusement he’s willing to respond to this absolutely insane exchange with. Instead of acknowledging Barty’s obvious attempt to get him bickering again, Regulus resumes his fiddling with the viola, finding it to finally be tuned to his satisfaction. He lifts the instrument, placing it in the crook of his neck and resting his chin on the chinrest, and begins to play. 

His friends fall quiet as the first notes ring out, the sound echoing off the walls of the room in a manner that reminds them just how lovely the acoustics are in it. Dorcas's eyes are closed, head slowly bobbing along to the rhythm - the tell-tale sign that she’s enjoying the music. Evan seems lost in thought, fingers half-heartedly scratching at Barty’s scalp as he stares out the window at the rain steadily pouring down outside. Barty doesn’t seem to notice or care that his head massage was no longer as thorough as it was before - his focus has shifted on to Regulus, who has become completely absorbed in the music. 

The piece he plays is one that he had composed years ago when he was freshly fifteen years old, barely a year after he went from having a brother, a best friend, and a partner around to keep him company in that prison of a house to being completely and utterly alone. It was around the time that his bitterness truly sunk into his bones, the feeling of defeat, of dread, of pure, unadulterated rage transforming into something crushingly apathetic by then. He no longer knew how to be his old self, the person who felt everything so deeply it was as if his heart was its own sentient being, consuming the feelings and energies of others like it was the sustenance it needed to continue beating. 

The new Regulus was left with nothing but a hollowed-out corpse.

Before then, he had leaned into the belief that music composition was to be left for the greats his parents instilled in him; Regulus was merely a vehicle for appreciation and replication of the classics, not someone who was capable of creating them himself. However, if there was one thing that Walburga and Orion Black were historically good at, it was underestimating their children. 

Though Regulus found himself unable to let himself feel the traditional way more often than not, the second he began jotting down ideas for chord progressions and melodies and began playing them, he could faintly feel the smallest signs of his old self flickering to life. That emptiness he grew so used to feeling would start to recede, replaced by a faint but ever-persistent beat of hope, always in time with the songs he’d play. From that point on, he was addicted, filling journal upon journal with his ideas, creating entire multi-instrument masterpieces that would never be performed in the way they were written, but brought him closer to living again all the same. The piece he played may have been one of hundreds he had made since then, but still remained one of his favourites - the one he made shortly after meeting his friends for the first time.  

As Regulus finishes his solo, he slowly feels himself coming to awareness again. It’s not that he completely dissociates while he performs necessarily, but he does find a sense of inner peace, a sort of meditative state that calms his mind like nothing else and allows him to feel, however brief both of those states may be. The only times he has ever felt anything similar are the few occasions that Evan or Barty manage to scrounge up a couple of spliffs for the four - sometimes five, if Pandora was around - of them to pass around when things at home were particularly shitty. Even then, though, not even the delightful fuzziness of being stoned could compare to the satisfaction of playing a song he developed himself.

Only the soft patter of rain and the gentle crackling of the fireplace fills the otherwise quiet room now, the four young adults occupying it savouring the few blissful moments of calm they can get. Regulus appreciates how they were all people that can appreciate silence, people who revel in the in-between moments of life rather than rushing to fill it with something - he respects them all more for it. It was the perfect way to say hello to yet another stifling summer holiday, one that would surely be anything but relaxing or decompressing (as per usual); a moment in time captured by the lingering whisper of Regulus’s viola echoing off the walls and the comforting presence of his current company.

Unfortunately, this period of serenity doesn’t last nearly as long as Regulus would like. 

A swift knock echoes through the room, the respectful but firm rapping of knuckles against the wooden door achingly familiar. Regulus heaves a sigh through his nose, setting his viola and bow on the side table beside his chair and sitting up straight before calling out, “come in”. 

The door opens to reveal Klaus, the butler who has been serving the Black family longer than Regulus has been alive. Regulus isn’t entirely sure how old he is, as he has always seemed ancient to him, but he was a respectful, dutiful man, and in many ways was more of a parental figure to him than either of his parents. 

“Pardon the interruption, sir, I only wished to inform you that the Lord and Lady Black are en route back to Grimmauld Place. They will be arriving momentarily,” Klaus states, white gloved hands clasped behind his back. 

Those two sentences were dreaded by Regulus and his friends every time they managed to find time to hang out without one or multiple sets of parents “supervising”. It felt like the fireplace had been snuffed out, taking its warmth and comfort right along with it. 

“Thank you for letting us know, Klaus. It is much appreciated.” Regulus replies with a slight nod. Klaus offers a shallow bow before exiting the room, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. 

A moment or two passes before Dorcas makes a noise of distaste, sluggishly sitting up from her position on the floor and stretching. She shoots Regulus a concerned look that he waves off; after all, their near-perfect afternoon had to come to an end at some point. 

“God, I long for the day that we can spend more than a couple of hours hanging out without our psycho relatives breathing down our necks,” Barty says half-heartedly, also beginning to rearrange himself into a more presentable position. Dorcas nods emphatically as she perches herself on the edge of the chair across from Regulus, falling into what she likes to call, “Rich Bitch” pose - back straight, shoulders squared, ankles crossed and hands folded in her lap. 

Living your life with families like theirs required many unexpected skills, one of the most important being method acting; Dorcas’s posture was like her way of resetting herself and getting into character. 

“You and everyone else here, mate. I don’t even know how we do it, sometimes. Honestly-” Evan cuts himself off abruptly. Regulus doesn’t question it for a moment, and a second later understands why his friend stopped talking. He steels himself at the sound of heels clicking down the hallway outside the door, providing a moment or so of mental preparation before the door slams open, revealing Walburga Black herself. 

She’s as gorgeous and vile as ever, all sleek dark hair, ghostly pale skin and cold, empty eyes. Though Walburga was not large in terms of physical stature, she made up for it by being simply menacing in every other way. She had a knack for making everyone around her feel small and insignificant in her presence, her husband being no exception.

Orion hovers in the doorway behind her, a physically and socially formidable person when on his own, but a rather pathetic man who consistently finds himself dwarfed when in the company of his vicious wife. 

Their dynamic is one that never fails to make Regulus ponder why people even bother getting married, but he reckons his parents are almost certainly the last people one should look towards if they’re trying to find examples of loving, functioning relationships.

At his mother’s entrance, Regulus stands, immediately striding up to her and offering a slight bow, taking one bony, ringed hand and bringing the back of it to his lips. “Good evening, mother. Father. How was your dinner?”

Walburga looks down her nose at her son, eyes flitting past him at his three friends, who have joined him by the door and wait to greet the lady of the house themselves. As her stare meets their own, they move in unison, Evan and Barty bowing in greeting as well while Dorcas sinks into an impeccable curtsy.  The Black family matriarch sniffs indignantly, not bothering to acknowledge Regulus's friends. 

“Dreadful. I simply do not understand how hard it is to serve a satisfactory meal. I daresay that Lady Mulciber has grown out of touch, or perhaps utterly senile,” She responds, a sneer contorting her handsome face into something utterly grotesque. With a slight tilt of her head, she returns her attention to the three other people waiting to be addressed. “I must say, Regulus, I was not expecting you to still have company by the time we returned.”

“Apologies, mother. They were just preparing to leave when Klaus informed us of your arrival.”

“Well, I’d presume that their families would be grateful if they were to make haste in their departure; it seems as if I see them more than their own parents do.” Walburga retorted. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus sees Dorcas flinch. It’s not obvious - she’s almost as good at concealing her true feelings as he - but she’s one of his closest friends, and he can read all of their tells better than anyone. 

“Of course, mother. I’ll escort them out,” Regulus says neutrally, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest that had begun to fester as soon as he was informed of his parents’ arrival. 

“That won’t be necessary. Your father and I have something to discuss with you. Kreacher will see to it that your… associates… find their way home.” The tone of voice she uses makes Regulus's blood boil. His mother looks over her shoulder to where the butler stands, stoic and professional. “Ensure that they’re returned to their drivers.”

“Right away, madam. If you all will follow me,” Klaus bows to Walburga, inclines his head at Regulus's friends, and begins to usher them out of the music room. As they file out, Evan shoots Regulus a meaningful look over his shoulder, at which Regulus shakes his head minutely, watching as the blond disappears around the corner. 

A moment later, he’s left alone with Walburga and Orion. The quiet that had been comforting mere minutes ago was now decidedly unsettling.

“Take a seat, Regulus.” Walburga instructs. It’s not a request.

Regulus walks over to the armchair he had been occupying earlier and sits down. He mentally grits his teeth at being commanded like a fucking dog, but a lifetime of taking orders has conditioned him to control his reactions better than the most experienced military personnel. Even still, to satiate his need to punch someone, he crosses a leg over the other and sinks into his chair, maintaining the dignity expected of him in a way he knows his mother would abhor. 

Walburga and Orion settle themselves on the same chaise lounge Barty and Evan had been nearly snuggling on, backs ramrod straight and expressions as lifeless and dull as dolls. If he didn’t know any better, Regulus may have confused them with a pair of rather serious looking wax figures. 

“Your father has something he wishes to speak to you about.” Walburga states, the slight squint of her eyes and wrinkle of her nose alerting Regulus of her disapproval towards his posture. However, her lack of commentary is unexpected, and makes his situation even more eerie; Walburga Black never holds her tongue for anything.

Regulus turns his attention to his father, whose own expression gives nothing away, as expected. He takes a moment to analyse the older man’s face. It truly is remarkable how strong the Black family genetics were; razor-sharp cheekbones, deep grey eyes, a thicker bottom lip. He used to despise how much he resembled the man responsible for his existence, but has since become numb to the notion. He may wince when he looks in the mirror for a bit too long or when he gets compared to Orion by people he meets at society events, but it’s better than looking like her. 

The woman in question turns her head to stare her husband down, goading him on with a pointed look. Orion seems unperturbed, but Regulus knows better; if there was anyone who was most firmly under Walburga’s immaculately manicured and over-controlling thumb, it would be his father. 

“As the heir to the Black legacy and fortune, it’s prudent that you begin aligning yourself with the standards set and upheld by the previous lords,” Orion begins in his deep, rumbling timbre. “That includes selecting a partner worthy of sharing the benefits of your future title.”

Of all the things his parents could be speaking to him about, this specific topic was one that he, admittedly, did not expect. 

Regulus raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, feigning innocence. “Forgive me, father, I don’t fully understand. I was under the impression that I would be able to finish my education before taking a wife.” 

“Yes, well, it has come to our attention - and that of our peerage - that, in addition to your… social circle… being quite small, you have not had any sort of public romantic entanglements.”

Regulus doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. He settles for keeping his face passive.

“I suppose this is true. However, I still fail to see the relevancy of either of those things to the pertaining subject.” Regulus responds, knowing he’s dangerously close to crossing the thin line separating genuine confusion and actual insubordination. “Blacks are not known to entertain frivolity, especially in regards to their company.”

“People are talking.” Walburga cuts in harshly, never one to beat around the bush. She stares her son down with a look of such ferocity that Regulus feels his fingers twitch in unease. “Your lack of involvement with any woman is starting to fuel rumours .”

There it is. The true problem. He is fully aware of what kinds of rumours his parents refer to - they’re the kind that, while in many settings wouldn’t phase the average individual nowadays, could ruin a person of the same social standing as himself and his parents. That’s why the rules existed.

You see, there are several standards that members of the Black family must abide by, both spoken and unspoken:

The unspoken ones were typically pretty obvious, moreso expectations than anything else. They involved universal concepts understood by all of high society, including how to compose oneself, what manners and customs you possess, the way in which you live your daily life. 

The less obvious ones were a matter of learning on the go; for example, all it took was a swift backhand across the cheek for Regulus to never utter his brother’s name in his parents’ presence again. 

There were several other lessons learned in a similar fashion.

On the other hand, the rules that really matter, the ones that, in the event that they were broken, could spell disaster for not just him but the Black family as a whole, were so deeply ingrained in his being through word of mouth and physical reminders that it was as if they were coded into his DNA: 

“You are the heir to the Black family legacy. You must look and live the part.”

“You are not to associate with the common or the disgraced.” 

“Never act in a way that brings shame to the family name.” 

He personally felt that the majority of these “rules” were a very convoluted way of giving the exact same warning a million different times, each worded ever so slightly different, but nevertheless, the tactic was effective. Regulus may have his moments of minor rebellion, like his stunt with his posture or the brazen attitude in which he speaks to his parents on occasion, but he’s not brave or stupid enough to do anything truly out of line. 

He knows what happens when you break one too many rules; he saw it occur with his own eyes. It’s the reason why his parents tell others that they only have one child, why most people believe Sirius to be dead - at least metaphorically speaking. 

It’s the reason that, if anyone asks him directly, no, he doesn’t have a brother. 

Being gay, or even suspected to be queer, would successfully manage to completely overturn the precarious balance the rules upheld. And now, these supposed rumours were putting him in between a rock and a hard place. It’s bad enough if people are gossiping about it, but the fact that he actually has something to hide makes it infinitely worse. 

Unfortunately for him, Regulus was, in fact, incredibly homosexual.

If having aggressively homophobic parents wasn’t enough on its own (Regulus is certain it is, but where’s the fun in that?), he had parents who also expected him to not only claim a lordship to maintain the family legacy, but to produce a legitimate heir who would one day be expected to do the same thing, as well. 

Regulus thinks he may be sick. 

He knew this day would come eventually. There was no way around it. Yet, he had foolishly believed he had more time.

“That’s preposterous. Just because I’m not gallivanting around town with a new woman every week does not mean I have no interest in them. I suppose subtlety is not the novelty it used to be,” Regulus says disdainfully, doing his absolute best to look unshaken by the exchange, but even he had limits to what he could mentally process at one time. 

“No, I fear it is not.” Walburga grinds out, not even bothering to conceal her irritation. “Which is why we have decided you are to marry immediately following your graduation this coming June.” 

It takes herculean effort to not blow chunks all over his mother’s brand new Chanel stilettos. 

“My graduation,” Regulus murmurs, brain short-circuiting at the news. His foot starts tapping restlessly on the persian rug that Dorcas had been stretched out on not fifteen minutes ago - it feels like a millennia had passed since then. “That’s less than a year away.”

“Plenty of time for you to find a woman befitting the title of Lady Black. You will court her, of course, and you will be wed shortly after the ceremony.” Orion continues, looking unbothered by this whole exchange. “If you fail to find an appropriate match yourself, your mother and I will make one for you.” 

Regulus is starting to feel light-headed.

“It is our sincerest hope that this will put an end to the nonsensical chatter that’s been occurring recently. For your sake, and that of the House of Black, including the future heir you will sire.” 

Yeah, he’s probably going to pass out. 

“Of course, since you will be marrying quite young, especially in this day and age, we don’t expect you and your wife to be having any children for quite some time. However, you mustn’t wait too long and risk jeopardising your shared fertility.” 

Regulus starts debating on the most efficient ways he can go about ending it all. He has about forty-six options to start with, so he decides he’ll go down the list, beginning with eating a bullet for dinner that night. He knows that Orion had a rather large collection of hunting rifles he could choose from - it was only a matter of picking one that could most efficiently do the job.

“This is of the utmost importance, Regulus. You will be married, come this summer, and you will continue the lineage. This is your duty as the future Lord of the House of Black, and we will see to it that you adhere to your responsibilities. Do I make myself clear?” Walburga finishes, making such intense, burning eye contact with her son that he finds himself worried she can hear his thoughts. 

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. We will leave you to your practice.” 

“Of course, mother.”

Walburga and Orion stand up, turn on their heels, and exit the room, the door shutting with a loud thud that makes Regulus flinch. It feels symbolic, like a door to the rest of his life, to his freedom was just shut forever. 

Not for the first time, Regulus looks around this room - one that holds so many memories (both good and bad) yet still remains one of the only places in his house he doesn’t feel suffocated - and feels completely, utterly trapped.

Regulus takes a deep, shuddering breath, knee bouncing uncontrollably. His parents’ orders and following departure had finally pushed him over the edge, and he was crumbling - fast . He bites his lip hard enough that he tastes the coppery tang of blood on his tongue and tries desperately to breathe. 

In. Hold. Out. Hold. 

His anxiety was something that has metamorphosed into somewhat of a beast. Most of the time, it was locked up tight, kept in a cage that protected him from its terror and destruction. However, every once in a while, something happens that sets this creature loose, allowing it to wreak havoc on Regulus's state of mind to a degree that rivals even Walburga’s cruellest episodes. He finds it bitterly humorous that a monster of his mother’s own creation had become powerful enough to put her own malice to shame. 

With shaking hands, Regulus once again lifts his viola to his shoulder, hand grasping his bow so hard he fears he may snap the delicate wood. He tries to play something, anything, but his thoughts race so fast he’s having difficulty remembering little things, like where to place his fingers or what tempo he should take up. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, setting the instrument aside and desperately reaching into the pocket of his trousers for his box of cigarettes and the sleek silver lighter Barty gifted him for Christmas a couple years back. Once he confirms that the dynamic duo were securely stashed, he stands. 

It takes all of ten seconds to put away his viola and snuff out the fireplace before he’s striding out of the music room, making a beeline for the back door. He barely registers putting on his boots and his windbreaker, a dull little thing that he hides in a box by the staff quarters to prevent the old bat from burning it. 

“Sir,” Regulus hadn’t noticed Klaus coming up behind him and jumps a bit at the sound of his voice. “It’s still raining outside, I insist you take at least an umbrella-”

“I’m fine, Klaus. If my parents ask, I’ve gone to spar at the gym,” Regulus says mechanically, tying a knot on his laces and straightening up. 

His hands haven’t stopped shaking.

“Of course, sir.” Klaus turns and leaves; this is hardly the first time Regulus has needed to make a quick getaway. 

The first breath of crisp air feels like a punch in the stomach. The second is less jarring, but still intense, a chill so sharp that it burns the back of his throat. Wind whips at his face and tousles his hair, but it’s grounding, slowly bringing him back to reality. 

Regulus barely makes it out of the courtyard and down the block before he’s ducking under a café awning to light up. As soon as the smoke fills his lungs and the nicotine hits his brain, things get a bit clearer. The restlessness eases a bit more with every drag and by the time he’s made it down to the filter, staring absently at the perpetually busy Westminster street in front of him, he feels almost sane again.

With a sigh and a flick of the lighter, he begins to walk, the surprisingly cool early-June rain already beginning to make his inky curls stick to his face and neck. It’s not too intense anymore, but the bite of cold water is enough to make him shiver, even with the burning tobacco warming him from the inside out. He absentmindedly pulls his hood up. 

There’s a very loud, very obnoxious voice in his head that keeps taunting him, berating him for not thinking of a way out of this situation sooner. Laughing at his naivete, the sheer gall of him taking this long to think of ways out of this. Now, the voice, which sounds remarkably like his bitch of a mother, cackles gleefully, it’s too late!

Regulus grits his teeth, shoving the voice and its nasty little jabs out of his head. It’s not productive to wallow in self-pity and rage; he had things to do. 

He does the mental maths to figure out how long he has to not only find a suitable wife, but to properly court her and arrange a marriage that wouldn’t involve actual feelings, and somehow an entire year seems far too short to negotiate what would essentially be a fluffed up business deal. Though he begrudgingly doubts locating a woman of reasonable status who would want to marry him would be difficult, there were several caveats she would have to accept that he knows for a fact would be a dealbreaker to most. 

This lady would have to be either asexual or a lesbian, and then, on top of that, have no problem with a) being in a loveless marriage to a gay man, b) copulating for child-bearing purposes, and c) having and raising at least one child. Regulus finds himself nearly lightheaded trying to picture a scenario where all of those things miraculously line up and then proceeds to give up on that option entirely. 

Then, he considers the second option: an arranged marriage. He would laugh, but it’s currently his life that seems to be one big fucking joke, so the urge fades pretty fast. This option would actually be a business deal, but one that would almost certainly be absolutely, astronomically fucked. Any woman that Walburga finds to be perfectly charming would be beastly at best and literal hellspawn at worst. 

Not for the first time, Regulus mentally curses his older brother for putting him in this ridiculous situation in the first place - and then immediately deflates when he remembers why he himself is putting up with this bullshit. Why they all were putting up with this bullshit. 

They each had their own reasons as to why they hadn’t ever gone through with one of their many, many escape plans. Some of them, like Barty, for example, were very open about the reasons they remained firmly where they were: he knew that if he were to leave, the abuse he suffered at the hands of his father would end up getting inflicted on his mother instead, one of the only people he actually cares about. He refuses to let that happen. Similarly, Dorcas has an eight-year-old little sister who needs to be taken care of; she knows her mother won’t do it, so she’s stepped in instead. 

Regulus and Evan have never made their own justification known to their friends. Barty and Dorcas both respect that. They know how important it is to keep certain cards close to the chest, and they have far too much respect for them to push the matter. All they know and care about is that they do have valid reasons to want to stay, and even more valid reasons to want to get the fuck out of there. 

At this point, Regulus realises just how far he’s walked, and for how long; somehow, he managed to get to Camden without processing a minute of the journey, and in the time it took to get there, it had stopped raining. With an eye roll at his own lack of awareness, he begins to turn around to start his hour-and-change trek back to Grimmauld Place, but stops dead in his tracks. 

He’s never been to this particular part of London before, despite living a mere five kilometres away his whole life. Looking around, he takes in the brightly lit buildings, covered in graffiti and highly saturated murals, and understands immediately why this is his first time visiting. 

The night is still young, so he watches as hordes of young people travel from place to place, ready to find a late street food dinner or their next drink: A pair of two twenty-something-year-olds wrapped in black leather and lace share a cigarette under a streetlamp, blood red lips exhaling streams of white smoke. A boy with electric blue liberty spikes rolls by on a skateboard with a guitar case on his back. An incredibly androgynous individual wearing a heavily embellished all-denim ensemble walks out of a sleazy-looking store with a brown paper bag and a very smug smile on their face. 

This is exactly the kind of place that Orion would be fighting to get bulldozed.

Regulus - who is pretty knowledgeable about different subcultures in fashion and queer spaces, all things considered - feels wildly out of his depth. He knows that his posture and thousand-pound designer boots alone make him stick out like a sore thumb, not to mention the way he’s been staring at strangers like a loon. And yet, nobody cares. For once, Regulus is not being swarmed by people his age and their vulture-like parents who all want to get in the good graces of the Black heir, starting meaningless, shallow conversation all while plotting how to leverage his family name and trust fund for their own gain. He’s not being asked out by dull, insipid women whose only personality traits revolve around their appearance and social standing, nor is he being challenged to an unwanted dick measuring contest by men who just want to gloat about the number of properties they own on the Mediterranean. He’s just… existing. 

Checking his watch, he decides he has a good hour or so before his parents start sending out a search party, so he throws caution to the wind and wanders around. He’s already out, so why not?

There are stores selling all kinds of eclectic clothing and oddities, from vintage fringed chaps to a rather impressive array of tiny spoons. While many are closed by this time, he finds the window displays fascinating and makes a mental note to return with Dorcas in tow. Regulus is also intrigued by the overall aesthetic of the street he’s on; the colourful lighting, painted crosswalks, and brilliant murals make even the most mundane of establishments have a sense of vitality and personality. 

It is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. 

Regulus explores for a few more blocks and is just about to call Klaus to send for the driver when he hears something… captivating. Down an alley across the street, he spots a little sign in the shape of what appears to be a bathtub hanging above a basement door, exactly where the music he’s picked up on seems to be coming from. 

Confused, and admittedly curious, he crosses the street (using a rainbow coloured crosswalk, mind you) and approaches the source of the sounds, the volume rising until he begins to make out the individual instruments and a rather good female singing voice. Regulus glances at the sign to what he now understands to be a bar, creatively named “The Leaky Cauldron”. 

With a slight bit of apprehension, he descends the stairs and pushes open the door, the music immediately growing significantly more clear, bass so intense he feels it in his throat. He walks down a narrow, dimly lit hallway towards the sound, the walls covered in framed photos of different musicians performing on what he guesses is The Leaky Cauldron’s stage, before he reaches the main room of the establishment. Stretched along his right is a fully stocked bar, stools and counters stained and worn from what looks like decades of use. To his left, there is a wide, empty space, creating a pit of sorts for the crowd to stand and rock out to the band playing on stage in the far corner of the room. 

There are three guys and a woman playing on stage, each wearing a completely different kind of outfit. The lead singer, the woman, is draped in black head to toe, from her blunt bob to her towering platform boots, silver jewellery dripping from her wrists and neck. The two guitarists, the bassist and lead, look identical, with pale, freckled skin and shaggy ginger hair. Even their style resembled one another, a bizarre mix of layers and patterns that gave off a distinctly 70’s vibe but in monochromatic blue and orange. The drummer looked… pretty normal. Other than his gold nose ring, he looked tame, decked out in a well-loved Korn t-shirt and a pair of khaki Dickie’s. 

Regulus was beyond confused. That being said, he was also thoroughly pleased with this turn of events; they weren’t half bad, for what seemed to be a local grunge band. 

Deciding against interacting with or, god forbid, touching a random sweaty stranger in the pit, Regulus takes a seat at the far end of the bar where a pretty bartender with a spiky brown pixie cut and several facial piercings greets him, giving him a perplexed once over. “Get caught in the rain?” they ask, slinging a dishrag over their shoulder with a small smile. They have to talk pretty loud to be heard over the volume of the band and the crowd cheering them on, but Regulus manages to hear them alright. 

Regulus lets out an amused huff, reaching into his pocket to pull out another cigarette. He raises an eyebrow at - Alice, their name tag reads, right alongside a pin with the nonbinary flag colours on it - who nods and passes a well-loved ashtray towards him. 

“Something like that,” he says, fag hanging out of the corner of his mouth, before bringing the lighter to it and inhaling. “What is this place?”

Alice raises an eyebrow, looking thoroughly confused. “What do you mean?”

“This,” Regulus vaguely waves his hand around to emphasise his point. “The photos, the stage, the band… I’ve never been anywhere like it.”

“Well, we’re far from the only music venue and bar in London, let alone Camden. You must not get out very often,” they laugh, quickly passing a newly re-filled bourbon glass in the direction of a very stoic looking woman with dirty blonde hair and darkly-lined eyes a few stools away from him. 

“You’re telling me,” he snorts in response, taking another drag. 

He watches curiously as the woman with the whiskey tips the drink back like a shot - not batting an eye - and places it back on the bar with a twenty-pound note. She shakes out her hair and gives Alice a quick nod and smile before joining the crowd at the base of the stage. If Regulus was attracted to women even in the slightest, he’d probably be sporting an incredibly ill-timed semi right then. 

“Could I get a glass of whatever it is that you just gave to that woman over there? I need something stronger than a pint right now.” 

“You got it,” Alice says, pouring two fingers worth of the amber liquid into a slightly beat up tumbler. “And, to your credit, I think The Leaky is pretty special, so it makes sense that you feel a bit out of sorts.” They pass the glass to Regulus, who takes an experimental sniff and grimaces; he’s definitely going to need that ride home. “This place’s been around forever. It’s one of the oldest punk bars in Camden, and it’s known for being the first venue that some of the biggest names in music had ever played in, mostly in the punk or alternative scenes. It’s quite the honour to perform here, and because of our reputation, it gives you a solid chance of actually going somewhere.” 

Regulus nods slowly, turning his head to once again watch the band performing. They really are great performers, really making an effort to engage with the audience and put on a show. The two redheads, who he assumes are twins or at the very least are related, are especially entertaining, jumping around the stage or making grand flourishes with their instruments that makes Regulus wonder if they’re drunk or just like that. The singer has an energy to her that’s eye-catching, a vibe that makes her stand out even when she’s not doing much physically. The drummer, on the other hand, is just as energetic as the two guitarists, sweat dripping down his brow as he works the set like a pro. 

“What are these guys called?” Regulus asks curiously, taking a swig from his drink. He struggles a bit not to make a face; he’s no lightweight, but the shit in his glass was like gasoline.

“They’re called Lionheart. The drummer is actually my fiancé. It’s always been a dream of his to play here.” Alice smiles proudly, glancing up at the stage with a fond look on their face as they mix up a slightly green tinted cocktail. Sure enough, Regulus spots a modest but pretty silver band on Alice’s left hand, glimmering in the low light of the venue. 

“They’re pretty good,” Regulus comments, ever so slightly bobbing his head to the beat of the song. It’s even more uptempo than some of the previous ones played, and the ginger on lead is absolutely shredding a solo, looking every bit a classic rocker in his deep blue ensemble. “What other acts have come out of this place?”

They begin pouring a round of tequila shots for a group of late-teens who already seem like they’ve had far too much to drink, screwing up their face in thought. “Well, some of the bigger names have been The Weird Sisters, Poltergeists, and The Aurors. More recently, though, The Marauders have really been picking up some nationwide recognition, now that they’re signed. I hear they’re working on their first EP now.” 

Regulus furrows his brow and almost drops his nearly-finished cigarette in disbelief. “Wait, all of those groups got their start here? You’re joking.” he says bewilderedly, thinking about how many songs he knew from the first few groups this very friendly bartender had listed. Barty would freak out if he knew that Regulus had just wandered into this place without knowing what it was. 

Alice chuckles, filling two pint glasses with beer and passing them to a duo of middle-aged men with brightly coloured hair on the far side of the counter. “Yup. Incredible, isn’t it? I don’t know what it is about this place that attracts such talented people, but it’s been amazing seeing people I know chase their dreams here.” 

Just then, the band wraps up their set, and the bar is immediately swarmed by thirsty patrons looking for relief after a long period of dancing and jumping around like lunatics. Regulus sits and lets Alice’s words process for a moment, not even acknowledging the number of people now crowding his left. 

He isn’t too sure if it’s that damn alcohol coursing through his veins or if he’s genuinely lost it, but Regulus finds himself actually considering Barty’s batshit insane idea from earlier that evening. He puts out his cigarette butt and lights another new one.

Say they did go through with forming a band. They could write their own music together and perform it to people who would actually be interested in hearing it. If they managed to attract enough of an audience and gain support from them, it could be their ticket to making a name for themselves separate from their families. Regulus knows that success in the music industry is a blend of genuine talent, being in the right place at the right time, and luck, and he and his friends already have the first two of those things. The last? Well, let’s hope Alice is right about The Leaky’s reputation. 

He considers the steps and precautions they would have to take: first and foremost, they needed to write the music, but that was hardly an issue; between his own compositional and lyrical abilities and his friends’ abundant creativity, he had no doubt they could write some good shit. 

Second, they would have to get the proper equipment. They were all skilled enough to translate their classical training to other similar instruments with a bit of practice, but how would they get their hands on them? Walburga consistently goes through all of his belongings and monitors all of his card purchases, so there was no way he could keep a whole fucking electric guitar or keyboard hidden. He knows Evan’s and Barty’s fathers had little regard for their sons’ privacy either. Perhaps Dorcas could, though, given that her mother seemed to have no interest in her own children or what they got up to. Regulus supposes they could also have a version of a storage unit if Dorcas's home wasn’t an option, but they could cross that road when they get there. 

Lastly, and most urgently: there was absolutely no way any of their parents could find out about this. That would basically guarantee their collective demise; Regulus was practically breaking out in hives just thinking about what the consequences would be if Walburga and Orion ever discovered him pulling a stunt like this. All it would take is a single photo or video circulating online for them to be finished. The Leaky wasn’t the kind of place they could require a no-recording policy, not to mention the fact that it would be counterproductive to the whole “get-big-make-money-and-run-away-from-their-families” operation that they’d be running on the down low. 

So, how the fuck would they prevent that from happening?

Regulus racks his brain for ideas until he nearly chokes inhaling smoke when one abruptly comes to him: they could wear masks. 

They wouldn’t be the first ones to do it by any means, so it wouldn’t be completely out of left field. Ghost and Slipknot incorporated theirs into their band’s lore and concept and people loved it. Faceless musical artists were becoming more and more popular with the likes of Orville Peck. It could work. 

It would be, by far, the most absolutely insane and outright rebellious thing he - or any one of them, for that matter - had ever done, but it could work. 

“Hey, you staying for the next set?” Alice asks, the question jostling him from his thoughts as they thoroughly wipe down some glasses. There’s a bit of sweat beading at their forehead and chest from running around serving drinks. Regulus looks around and startles at how sparse the crowd at the bar has gotten, most of them mingling or dancing to the Misfits song playing over the speakers as they wait for the next performance. Lionheart is breaking down their set-up to make room for the next band to play in record time. 

He checks his watch and swears - he’s going to have to come up with some good excuse as to why he was out “sparring” for nearly three hours. He shoots a quick text to Klaus before turning back to Alice, shaking his head.

“No, unfortunately, I’m not,” he says bitterly. “I did want to ask something before I go, though. What would it take to start performing here? Who would I have to talk to?”

Alice’s eyebrows fly to their hairline. “You’re in a band?” they ask, looking genuinely floored by this revelation. 

“Something like that,” Regulus replies for the second time that night, fiddling with his lighter with a thoughtful look on his face. 

The bartender shakes their head in amusement, looking up, whistling, and waving. Not a moment later, Regulus is surrounded by the members of Lionheart. 

“Nice job tonight, guys. This is...” Alice begins, looking pointedly at Regulus for him to introduce himself. 

“Reg. Pleasure to meet you all.” He says politely, nodding at them; he doesn’t want to deal with people knowing his full name and then figuring out who he really is later down the line. 

“He’s quite posh, is he not?” One of the redheads says with a playful smile, his fully orange outfit seemingly to glow in the low light of the establishment. “Wouldn’t expect a bloke like him to be hanging around The Leaky, no?”

“Shut up, Fab, he was being polite. Seems like you could learn a thing or two from Reg here,” The lead singer admonishes, swatting at the bassist’s arm. She turns to Regulus with a sheepish smile. “I’m Emmeline, but most people just call me Emme. It’s nice to meet you, as well.”

“Apologies for my brother’s lack of tact, mate. I’m Gideon. The moron I share a face with is Fabian.” The other redhead smiles. Up close, Regulus can see just how identical the brothers are. It’s a bit scary, he has to admit. 

“And I’m Frank. I see you’ve been befriended by Alice already; they have a tendency to do that, I’m afraid,” Lionheart’s drummer jokes good-naturedly, pressing a kiss to Alice’s temple as they laugh. 

“Yes, well, Reg has been good company tonight. He just shared with me, though, that he’s interested in playing at The Leaky. He’s in a band, too. Or, if I remember correctly, ‘ something like that ’,” Alice quotes with a cheeky grin. “I figured you could help explain what the audition process looks like while I get ready for the next rush.” 

The musicians turn to look at him, looking pleasantly surprised by the news. 

“Very cool,” Emme says with an impressed look. “What’s your band called? Maybe we’ve heard of you guys!”

Regulus snorts in spite of himself. “You definitely would not have. Let’s just say we’re quite new to the scene. Haven’t entirely figured out the name deal, either, truthfully.”

Emme nods understandingly. “Totally get that. You guys will figure it out. Sometimes it just takes a bit to find something that sticks.”

“Yeah, like at one point we were fully ready to commit to Hippogriff , but thankfully we all decided that that was a stupid ass band name-” Fab snorts, getting cut off by their drummer.

“We’d be more than happy to talk to you all about what our experience has been like so far. If you’re seriously considering auditioning, though, you’ll want to speak to Aberforth first. He owns the place,” Frank explains kindly. “I’d recommend coming back in during the day. This place only becomes a full-fledged concert venue at night, so it’ll be less hectic.”

“And old Abe will probably be in a better mood then, as well. He’s not the most cheerful guy to begin with, but he usually prefers the afternoon crowd.” Fabian adds. “Less rowdy.”

“I’d have the whole band name situation figured out by then, as well as a demo or two of you guys playing. If you have both of those things and he likes what he hears, I bet you anything he’d welcome an actual in person audition.” Gideon continues.

Regulus nods slowly, processing all the information he’s just received. It all seems relatively doable, even if the thought of going through with this whole process still makes him nauseous. 

“Alright, cool. Thank you for the information, it’s been very helpful,” He says sincerely. 

“Absolutely, mate! Listen, we gotta finish moving our gear to make room for the next guys, but it was great meeting you. Alice’ll give you their own info as well as mine, so reach out whenever and we can set up a day to talk a bit more,” Frank responds, extending a hand. Regulus takes it with a firm shake and half smile. 

A second later, he feels his phone buzz. His driver must have arrived. 

“Excellent. I’ll be heading out now. I’ll be in touch, though,” he promises. Alice extends a slightly stained bar napkin to him with two labelled phone numbers on it. 

“It was very nice to meet you, Reg. I look forward to seeing you again soon!” They say cheerfully, waving goodbye.

Regulus decides he really likes them. 

“You as well, Alice. See you soon.” He reaches into his pocket for his wallet, sets down a fifty-pound note beside his empty glass and waves goodbye.

Then he turns and exits The Leaky Cauldron, hastily locating the car and getting in, speeding off back towards Westminster. 

—

“He looked so familiar, didn’t he?” Fabian comments, placing his guitar back in its case and firmly closing the lid. They’re running a bit behind schedule, but that’s never stopped him from running his mouth before. 

“You know, now that you say that, he definitely did,” Emme replies, unplugging all the various cords that connected their microphones to their speakers and wrapping them up nice and neat. 

“I thought that as well, but I’m certain I’d remember who he was if we’d met him before. I feel like you can’t forget a face that pretty,” Gideon muses as he helps Frank break down the rest of his drum set. 

“Looked a bit like Sirius, no?” Frank observes, packing away a snare into a soft-shelled suitcase. 

“Think Sirius is pretty, do you?” Fabian jokes. Frank flips him off, not even looking up from dissembling his kit. Fabian chortles.

“Nah, just because they’ve got dark hair and light eyes doesn’t mean they look alike. Sirius isn’t even close to that uptight. Clearly this kid’s got some serious baggage,” Emme waves him off, picking up a crate filled with cables and pedal boards to load into their van. 

“Who’s got some serious baggage?” 

“Oh, hey, Remus! Just some bloke we met tonight. Wants to start playing here, if he can. Listen, can you help move the big amp to the back?” 

With a careless shrug and nod, Remus grabs the giant amp like it’s nothing and carries it off. For someone who practically lived in the same old sweaters a grandfather would, the man was shockingly sturdy. Fabian stares at the dirty blond with a truly ridiculous look on his face, practically drooling at his very casual display of strength; it typically took two of them to move the speaker around, so watching him do it by himself was quite the sight.

“I’ll never get over how strong that motherfucker is.” the ginger says in awe, subconsciously rubbing his own skinnier arms as if to compare. 

His brother snorts, picking up his own amp with ease and walking in the same direction off-stage as Remus. “You’d be able to do that too if you didn’t quit going to the gym after a week.”

“Shut the fuck up, Gid.”

“Do you guys need any help with anything?” a shorter, slightly stockier blond man asks with a smile, coming out from behind the curtains separating the pit from backstage. 

“I think we’re just about finished, Pete, thanks. Can we help you guys set up your stuff or are you all good?” Fabian inquires, quickly scanning the stage to make sure nothing was left behind.

“I think we’ve got it. Besides, you know how anal Sirius gets about his set-up. Wouldn’t want to get him worked up for no reason.” 

“Yeah, fair enough. James back there? I wanted to say hi before we left for the night.”

“Yup, he’s going over the setlist with Lily. This is more of a rehearsal show than anything else - we’re not even playing a full set - but he’s still almost as meticulous as Sirius,” Peter rolls his eyes fondly. 

“They’re absolutely meant for each other, aren’t they?” 

“Oh, without a doubt.”

“Right. Thanks again, mate,” Fabian grins, patting Peter on the back and following the rest of his bandmates to the backstage area. It’s rather cramped but they make do, carrying most things by hand into the van outside and ensuring the area is kept clear during reset. True to what Pete said, Fabian spots the tall brunet standing alongside a shorter ginger girl, huddled around a clipboard. 

“James!” he exclaims, raising a hand in greeting. The other man looks up with a bright smile, beckoning Fabian closer.

“Alright, Fab?” James asks, slinging a friendly arm over Fabian’s shoulder once he’s in range. The touch very in-character for James, who is about the most physically affectionate guy Fabian’s ever met. 

“Can’t complain. Had a good set, made a new friend I think, packed up easily and quickly. Living the dream,” Fabian comments light-heartedly.

“New friend, huh?” James drawls, warm brown eyes glinting mischievously from behind his round wire-rimmed glasses. 

Fabian laughs. “Not that kind of new friend, no. Someone Alice met over at the bar. He was curious about playing here, so Frank kinda took him under his wing. You know how he is about adopting strays,” he jokes, playfulling nudging James with an elbow. 

“And we are eternally grateful for his generosity,” James responds, eyes wide with sincerity. Fabian will never understand how the kid could take the most passive-aggressive sounding things and turn them into something genuinely kind. He supposes James is just that type of a person. 

“I bet you are. You guys have got some great stuff coming your way, we’re all very excited for you,” he says, meaning it with his whole chest. The Marauders were like the little brothers they had never had, so they have all taken a lot of pride in their success. 

“Thanks Fab, that means a lot,” James says bashfully.

“This is a very touching moment, but we still have to figure out the last song you’re performing. So if you’re not gonna help James make up his mind, Fab, it’d be great if you could stop distracting him,” Lily cuts in, looking unamused at the exchange. Fabian knows it’s all love between The Marauders, Lionheart, and all their friends/crew, but they know when it’s time for fun and when it’s time for business. Lily helped keep them all in line, which was desperately needed given how unhinged everyone else was. 

Fabian raises his hands in surrender, removing James’s arm from his person and stepping away. “Aye-aye, captain. Just wanted to say hello,” he salutes at James before nodding at Lily with a playful smile. “Keep up the good work, Little Red. You know James needs all the help he can get.”

“Oi!”

“Love you too, little bro!”

Fabian says hello to a few more from the usual crowd as he heads out, almost bumping directly into Sirius as he waves to Marlene and Mary.

“Whoa, sorry, mate!” He exclaims with a chuckle, resting a steadying hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. Sirius waves him off with his own laugh and gives Fabian a measured once-over. 

“You’re good, I know it’s difficult to keep track of yourself when you have all these long, gangly limbs. It’s gotta be tough being a triplet to both Gid and the inflatable tube man,” Sirius drawls, a playful smirk stretching across his face. Fabian hears Marlene snickering under breath as she and Mary help unpack Remus’s drum set and he shoots her an affronted look. She gives him a “well, he’s not wrong!” kinda face. He (very maturely) sticks his tongue out at her. 

“You wound me, Black. I almost forgot how sharp that tongue of yours can be. Remind me to never get on your bad side,” He says in response. As he looks at Sirius a bit closer, he feels a wave of deja vu come over him; maybe Frank was right - he did look remarkably like that guy from earlier. 

Both of them had inky black hair that fell in curls, but Sirius’s cascaded past his shoulders while the other bloke’s was much shorter, barely framing his face. They both had grey eyes, yet Sirius’s were lighter, almost an icy blue. Their face shapes were even similar, with high cheekbones and a strong chin, though their jawlines were different, Sirius’s being more square. Still, even with the slight differences, the resemblance was uncanny.

“Do I have something on my face?” Sirius asks, looking cocky in a way that is just so Sirius that Fabian chuckles in amusement. 

“No, you’re all good. We just met some guy that Gid said was pretty and that Frank said looked like you, and I just realised that he was right.” Fabian says nonchalantly. 

“So, what I’m hearing is that you, Gid and Frank think I’m pretty.” the black-haired man raises his eyebrows, smiling and wiggling his eyebrows impishly.

All of a sudden, practically out of nowhere, Fabian feels a presence beside him and jumps when he hears a low voice speak into his ear. “Choose your next words very carefully, Prewett. That’s my boyfriend you’re flirting with,” Remus says quietly, making Fabian yelp in surprise at the unexpected appearance. For as tall as the twins were, Remus still had them beat, towering over the two of them and all of their friends. At times like these, that extra height was menacing, and Fabian had to admit he was both amused and a little freaked out. 

“Where the fuck did you come from? And I was just telling him what Frank and Gideon said, not me!”

“Right,” Remus drawls, unconvinced. He strides past Fabian, pulls Sirius into a long, possessive kiss and then keeps walking, continuing to set up the stage with their equipment like nothing had happened. 

“Anyways,” Sirius says breathlessly, cheeks pink with heat as he glances over his shoulder at his only slightly jealous partner; Fabian would bet his entire collection of guitars that if it was physically possible, there would be cartoon hearts flashing in his friend’s eyes as he watches his boyfriend set up his drum set on stage. “What were you saying about this doppelganger of mine?”

“Nothing important, Siri, you’re good. Have fun tonight!” Fabian says cheerfully, snickering and winking at his dishevelled younger friend before walking out the doors and into the alley to meet his brother and head back home. 

As he approaches the beat up van, he lights himself a cigarette and takes a disbelieving puff. 

Those two really did look so similar. 

—

Back in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, Regulus finds himself staring up at the ceiling, freshly showered and contemplating what he was about to do. He knows that if he gives his friends the go ahead, they’ll have his back no matter what, especially given the newest development that occurred this past evening - it’s just a matter of having the balls to do it.

In the privacy of his room, he dares to dream. He thinks about what life would be like if he wasn’t bound to his parents’ - and society’s - expectations for him. He considers what it would feel like to pursue the thing he loves more than anything with the people he cares about most. And, most frighteningly, he imagines a life where he was free to be himself, one where he could use his talents and skills to inspire other people to be brave, too. 

Taking a deep breath, Regulus unlocks his phone and opens his group chat with Barty, Dorcas & Evan.

Regulus : Barty, you win. We’re going with your idea from earlier today. 

Barty : no fucking way

Evan : Oh boy

Dorcas : for the record, i want to say that this was definitely one of the crazier ideas we could’ve gone with, but i support it 100%

Barty : everyone shut the fuck up, reg said that i WIN

Regulus : Don’t let it get to your head, it’s big enough as is. I have a plan, so we’ll meet up in person to discuss. 

Evan : When? 

Regulus : Tomorrow.

Dorcas : that soon? is everything alright? 

Regulus : I’ll explain everything when we see each other next. Dorcas, would we be able to meet at yours? I can’t risk people overhearing. 

Dorcas : my mother is on another one of her usual spontaneous trips with suitor #739, so we’ll have the house to ourselves

Regulus : Good. Does Selah want anything? 

Dorcas : she’ll probably want you to play something for her but that’s it. she’s easy to please. 

Regulus : I’ll bring my violin. 

Barty : softie

Regulus : I will slit your throat. 

*Evan & Barty laugh at Regulus's message*

Regulus turns off his phone. Stares at the ceiling again. Wonders if he’s completely lost it; being surrounded with people like Barty Crouch Jr. and Dorcas Meadowes for an extended period of time would do that to a person, so he can’t say he’s overly shocked. Still, there’s a small part of him that mourns his sanity, and an even smaller one that mourns the self-preservation that had gotten him as far as he had. 

At the end of the day, though, Regulus knows he’s making a good decision. He thinks that if he did stick around long enough to end up married to a woman, he’d probably be dead before they embarked on their honeymoon. He also thinks that if he lived to see the day where Walburga could control that aspect of his life, it wouldn’t be a life worth living at all. 

He continues to consider the possibilities. This could all go nowhere. He could put in all this work, all this planning, only to end up stuck playing a show a week at a bar in Camden, until one day, he’s not around to play anymore for one reason or another. 

It could never happen at all. It could stay within the four walls of the Meadowes’ drawing room, nothing more than a meticulously planned daydream. They could all decide it’s not worth the effort or the risk and never speak about it again, continuing to live as if they had never spoken at all. 

Or, somehow more frighteningly, it could go somewhere. It could be big . They could run away from their old lives and everything they’ve ever known to pursue a pipe dream, a fantasy that hadn’t even existed before Barty brought it up on this fateful September evening. It could change everything - and that was terrifying. 

Regulus sometimes thinks the only reason he stuck around was because he was scared. He was scared of what his parents would do or say if he did; scared of no longer being Regulus Black, the heir of the noble House of Black, and all of the securities that came with it; and, most of all, he was scared that he’d be nothing if he did - that he wouldn’t know who he was separate from the unrealistically high standards for excellence set upon him and the absolutely insane happenings of his family he was dragged into the moment he was born.

Sure, being scared has kept him alive. But has it let him live? 

Here he is, just a few weeks shy of twenty-one, and his entire life has been lived for the satisfaction of others. It’s pathetic. It’s humiliating. And Regulus is finally so sick of existing this way that he’s willing to risk it all to change it. 

As Regulus puts his phone away to charge, he can’t help but think of Sirius. The rage he feels at being left alone still festers deep within him, but if he allows himself to dwell on the memory of his brother for longer than a mere couple of seconds, he can recognize how much he misses him. 

It’s startling; It’s something that’s uncomfortable to admit - he’s not happy about it, either. But he’s only human, and he’s also a little brother who once thought his older brother was the best, most incredible person in the world. The one person who he thought would always be there to support and protect him from the cruelty they had to suffer through together every day - until one day, he just wasn’t.

When he stops for a minute, gives in, and lets himself feel… He realises: he is still so angry at him. He still feels endless hurt that he was left to deal with their awful parents alone. Still has the incorrigible frustration that he has to assume all his brother’s responsibilities. 

But despite all of this, he embarrassingly hopes that his big brother feels the same way… that he misses Regulus as much as Regulus misses him. 

He tosses and turns for a while, wrestling with the annoying, treacherous feelings that he wishes he never let grow at all. They had a tendency of lingering, and even more distressingly, giving him hope. For the first time since Sirius left, Regulus’s defeated heart fights to beat.

When Regulus finally falls asleep, he’s stifling the desperate hope that Sirius is happier wherever he is now under the excruciating pain of being left behind.

Chapter Text

Sirius Black was, for lack of a more eloquent word, fucking exhausted . 

Don’t get him wrong, he could not be more grateful for the way life had been going for him lately. He was officially a recording artist - an actual fucking recording artist - with his band, which just so happened to be made up of his best mates and his boyfriend. Said boyfriend was, hands down, the most incredible, smart, funny, loyal, sexy man Sirius has ever seen, and for whatever reason, he chose him. And, he was finally playing his own music during their shows, which happened every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday night at one of the most legendary rock bars in Camden. So, all that being said, he was doing pretty fucking fantastic.

However, being a musician in a city like London was never going to be easy, at least not when Sirius and his bandmates were as early in their careers as they were. Every one of them had day jobs to attend to on top of their almost daily practices and tri-weekly performances, which meant not a single Marauder had had a full day off in months. Sure, Sirius had a sizable backup fund courtesy of his Uncle Alphard, and both James’s and Peter’s parents were never too far if they were truly in a pinch, but all four of the men were adamant that they would make a way for themselves with as little outside help as possible…

…which is how Sirius ends up bartending at one of his many beloved haunts. 

The Three Broomsticks was a quirky little place blocks away from The Leaky. Stumbling across it had been a rather fortunate accident not too long after the lot of them had moved to the city, a result of a few too many shots of tequila and some lovingly aggressive encouragement from Marlene. Sirius remembers the night fondly - and shockingly well, considering the amount of alcohol consumed before and during the whole experience. 

The blonde had seen the neon sign hanging over the entrance and excitedly dragged him and Lily down the stairs by the arm, not bothering to explain even as they shot several slurred questions at her. Their other friends had been just as dumbstruck, following the trio into a shockingly spacious room, the club speakers blasting Vroom Vroom by Charli XCX as what looked to be at least a couple hundred people headbanged and gyrated to the beat. 

The ceilings were higher than you’d expect for a basement-level club, but it allowed for several colourful lights to illuminate the room and bounce off the crystals strung up across the roof. A massive elevated DJ booth was set up in the back, giant speakers surrounding the platform and rattling any glassware within fifty feet of them. The club’s perimeter was lined with booths and tables, none of which were available, and the bar itself was packed with colourfully-dressed patrons. 

Sirius had taken one step in the place and absolutely fell in love. In a matter of seconds, he and his friends went from standing in the entrance, absolutely stupefied by the sight before them, to dancing in the middle of the crowd. James had immediately befriended a duo of drag queens who had been passing by, twirling one around with a bright smile and an expert hand. Marlene and Lily had just held each other tightly whilst jumping like lunatics, drunkenly shouting the lyrics to the Lady Gaga song that had come on. Peter and Mary had been locked in a fierce dance battle that started as a joke but quickly turned competitive, their antics amassing a small crowd of observers who cheered them on; Mary was definitely a better dancer, but Peter brought the energy. Even Remus, who was generally anti-dancing, had tentatively bopped his head to the beat, a protective hand at Sirius’s hip the entire time they were on the floor. 

Sirius still couldn’t believe that he got Moony drunk enough to dance with him there. It’s likely one of the biggest reasons he wouldn’t ever forget the night. 

Sirius had finally taken a much-needed break to grab a drink when he met Rosie for the first time. “Jack and coke, please,” he shouted. 

The pretty blonde bartender turned to face him and let out a delighted cackle, blue-lined eyes sparking with amusement as she took in his disheveled appearance. After tripping over someone’s pair of enormous pleasers and nearly eating shit, as well as having to shoulder through several handsy club-goers, he must have been quite the sight. 

“Anything else, beautiful?” she asked. It was then that Sirius’s barely-functioning brain processed how gorgeous this woman was, and if there is one thing that Drunk Sirius (and Sober Sirius, too, if he was being honest) loved to do, it was flirt. 

“Your name would be lovely, angel,” he drawled, a bit unsuccessfully given how much the room was spinning at the time. 

The beautiful woman had laughed again, and as she made his drink, she looked him dead in his eyes and said, “You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you? My name’s Rosmerta, but you can call me Rosie.”

The next day - after waking up on the floor of the living room at 1pm to the sound of Peter barfing his liver out in the kitchen bin, which was always a lovely way to start his afternoon - Sirius learned a bit more about the place from an annoyingly non-hungover Marlene. She was very excited to ramble on about the club, so much so that he had to ask her twice to speak a bit quieter as he nursed his own headache with a bitter cup of black tea and pure spite. 

Apparently, the pub-turned-queer-club was something of legend. Half of the time, the Three Broomsticks was your average gay bar, bumping pop and EDM mixes to get white-girl wasted to. The other half saw it transformed into a goth club, attracting the more vampy Camden crowd. 

It had originally been a rather popular sports bar, before the times quickly caught up to the owners and they refused to adapt to the shifting landscape of the neighbourhood. However, a trio of lesbian pagans had managed the buy the previous owners out in the early 2000’s (how they managed to was somewhat of a mystery, but rumour said it was a result of a nasty spell and some inheritance money), turning the establishment into a safe haven for all the weirdos, freaks, and queers in the city. 

Rosmerta, as he found out, was the niece of one of the three witches who bought the place. Suddenly, everything made complete sense.

Sirius was sold. He promised himself that the second he no longer felt like a jackhammer was doing reno on his frontal lobe, he’d be marching right back into that place and begging Rosie to let him work there. Did he know how to bartend? Fuck no. That was Prongs’s job (he made the absolute best mojitos). But he’d learn. 

And learn, he did. Rosie had taken one look at Sirius’s pleading, washed up face when he had gone back later that afternoon and given in. 

“Bartending is only about twenty percent of the actual job. You’ve already got the other eighty,” she had told him with a mesmerizing twinkle in her green eyes as she worked on prepping the bar for the night. 

“And what’s that, if I may ask?” Sirius asked, leaning on the counter in interest with a lazy, hungover smile on his face. 

“That,” she responded, gesturing at him vaguely with the knife she was using to slice up a crate of limes. “The face and the flirt.” 

When Sirius had returned to their flat that night and announced the good news, Remus had been slightly concerned. And by “slightly concerned”, he was actually pissed. He and Sirius had argued back and forth about how Sirius would have to “quite literally talk dirty to strangers” as part of his job - Remus’s words, not Sirius’s - but once Sirius reminded him of how well people tended to tip when they were drunk and horny (and reassured him how his actual dirty talk was reserved exclusively for Remus via thorough demonstration), Remus conceded. Sirius started the very next day, armed with nothing but the three cocktail recipes Prongs had kindly demonstrated for him half an hour before his first shift and a fuck ton of confidence.

That was four years ago, now. 

Sirius went from working six nights a week, sometimes seven if it was during Pride or a similarly busy time of year, to just four to accommodate The Marauders’ performance schedule. It was great money, the company was fantastic, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love being paid to gossip, hit on people, and serve liquor. 

All that being said, it was also draining. Working every single day into the early morning hours of the next, sometimes picking up odd jobs in the afternoons to make some pocket change in between their decently rigorous practice schedule, and somehow finding time to function like a normal person was a tall order. 

Some of them handled it better than others. 

Wormtail was a bit of a coin toss. Some days, his motivation and excitement were contagious, giving everyone a much needed boost of energy whenever they were feeling particularly exhausted. He’d get a decent six hours of sleep and be ready to go, bass in his hand, smile on his face, and joke on the tip of his tongue. Other days were rough, often a combination of a shitty shift at the call center he worked at and a difficult band practice. Those times weren’t amazing, Peter’s self-doubt and frustration getting the best of him more often than he was able to push through. They had been working with Pete for a while now to help boost his confidence around playing, and while it was slow-going, he had made tremendous progress over the years. 

Moony was the brains behind the whole band. He contributed most heavily to the writing of their music, instrumental arrangements coming to him like magic. An idea would come to him halfway through practice, and he would just stand up from his drum kit, leave without a word, and then return twenty minutes later with the first rough draft of a new song. Unfortunately, Remus could be quite volatile on a bad day, slowly simmering until one wrong chord or missed beat sets him off. Those days weren’t overly common, but they were largely influenced by his chronic flare ups; they had gotten worse over the years with how stubborn he was about practicing even if he woke up feeling stiff or blatantly in pain. It took them time to figure out how to handle his outbursts, but after nearly seven years of playing together, the rest of the band (and their friends) knew to give him ten minutes to smoke and breathe rather than try and calm him down themselves. 

Prongs was their rock. Simply no other way to put it. He balanced out the rest of their energy, steering them back on track when needed but not hesitating to join in when they were fucking around. He was, by far, the most consistent out of all of them as far as mood and performance went, which helped when the rest of the band were as unpredictable as they were. Sirius can count on one hand the number of times James was ever actually angry or pissed off during a practice, and it was generally in response to the rest of them being pricks. Those moments were a bit scary, if he’s being honest, but he can admit that they were never undeserved. 

Sirius liked to think he rounded everyone out. As the one who proposed the idea of them all starting a band together, he was easily the most emotionally invested in their success - at least initially. Remus had been quick to jump on the bandwagon, his songwriting one of the catalysts of Sirius’s big dream to begin with, but it wasn’t until James and Pete began seeing how incredible their musical chemistry was and how people reacted to their performances that they truly went all in on making it their careers. 

His passion was a bit of a double-edged sword, though. Sure, he could lead practices efficiently and encourage his best mates while they played, but it was just as likely for him to get frustrated and lash out. This band was absolutely everything to him - it didn’t matter if it had now become everything to everyone else, as well. 

Usually, he could find ways to calm the fuck down and ease up on being a controlling piece of shit, but his genetics didn’t completely dodge the Black family madness; Remus and James were often the only two who could bring him back down to Earth when his brain decided to rebel against him. 

Sirius is proud, though. Proud of how he has grown to be so much more strong and resistant against the resentment that had clung to his heart like a leech. Proud of the band and the persistence they had displayed, even when times were tough and the future looked bleak. And, perhaps most of all, proud of the fact that he had the courage to do any of this shit in the first place. 

It had been hard work - literally and figuratively. But now, it was finally paying off. 

Today was one of those rare days where all of them were off. An entire day with no work, no practice, and no show was practically unheard of, only happening once every other month (or longer, if they were particularly unlucky then).

Sirius had woken up that morning as he normally would, muscles aching after their high-energy set the previous night and barely ready to face another grueling day of the ‘starving artist’ gig they had going on. All it took was seeing Moony’s face on the pillow beside him and a mumbled, “we’re off today, love,” for Sirius to remember that bit of good news, though, and in a matter of seconds, he was happily snoring in his boyfriend’s arms again. 

They didn’t get up for another couple of hours after that. The first was spent peacefully dozing, limbs tangled under their linen sheets as sunlight bathed their cramped room in a cozy golden glow. The second saw them savouring the extra time they had by taking each other apart slowly and methodically, coaxing the sweetest and most indulgent of noises from one another until they were ready to go back asleep. But by then, it was nearly noon, and Remus refused to get back into bed in the states they (and the bed itself) were in, shepherding a whinging Sirius into their ancient shoebox of a shower to get cleaned up. Sirius was downright giddy, however, once he realized he could take every second he wanted to hold onto Moony, sharing lazy kisses under the warm water and gently helping each other clean up. If their hands happened to wander a bit, well. There was time for that, too. 

It was a perfect morning.

Bang, bang, bang!

“Oi, I know you two are probably basking in post-coital bliss or something, but you’re using all the hot water and I’ve got to shower!” Peter’s muffled voice shouts from the other side of the bathroom door.

Sirius groans, leaning his forehead against Remus’s chest. “It’s always something,” he grumbles, closing his eyes in irritation and wishing desperately that the bassist would go away. 

“Fuck off, Pete!” Remus snaps back, glaring in the direction of Peter’s voice despite the man himself being safely behind a wall and the shower curtain. A muffled thump against the door comes immediately after, which would have been significantly more funny if Sirius wasn’t prepared to strangle the little rat for ruining what was shaping up to be the best shower he’d had in years. 

“Remus, I know that Sirius is sexy and you can’t keep your hands off of him, but there are at least three other rooms you can grope him in that won’t run up the utilities,” Peter shoots back, his usual snark in fine form.

“Okay, okay, we get it. Christ,” Sirius huffs, reaching around Remus’s back to turn off the tap as Remus grabs their towels. They exchange an exasperated glance as they step out of the tub, making quick work of brushing their teeth and toweling their hair off so it didn’t drip along the already questionable-looking floorboards. 

Remus swings the ancient, peeling door open to reveal Peter, whose expression of perfectly blended amusement, irritation, and disgust is so perfect that Sirius has to bite back a snort. “Didn’t realize someone could have sex hair even after taking a shower,” Pete remarks, eyes looking back and forth between Sirius and Remus’s - admittedly - insane-looking locks. 

“Didn’t realize that we were flatmates with one of Oz’s munchkins until right now, either, but you learn something new every day, don’t you?” Sirius retorts. 

“Git.” 

“Prick.”

“ Bitch .”

“ Cunt .”

Peter finally shoves past Remus and Sirius, flips them off over his shoulder, and slams the door behind him, rattling the whole apartment a bit with the force of it. Sirius makes eye contact with Remus, who is barely suppressing a smirk, counting down from three with his hand as the showerhead starts up again. Sure enough, when he gets to one, they hear the tell-tale sign of someone stepping into ice-cold water, Peter’s yelp so loud that Sirius wonders if their neighbours could hear it (and with how thin their walls were, the answer was almost certainly yes ).

“I hate both of you fuckers!” Peter yells. 

Remus and Sirius lose it. 

“Love you too, Wormtail,” Remus wheezes, coughing a bit to catch his breath. The groan that follows sets the two of them off again, Sirius nearly falling against Remus as he wipes tears from his eyes. 

Leaving Pete to take his frigid shower, Sirius heads back to their room to throw on a pair of sweats whereas Remus decides to actually get dressed, pulling on a pair of thread-worn jeans and one of his beloved knit jumpers. Now that the excitement around having the day off had worn off, Sirius could see his boyfriend begin to slow down from the lack of caffeine fueling his body. He passes Remus the book he had been reading and begins guiding him to the living room and Remus presses a wordless kiss to the top of Sirius’s head in thanks. 

The moment Sirius hears the sound of reggaeton coming from the kitchen, he knew they were in for more than their usual morning brews. 

James had always been a morning person. Since they met, he would always be the first out of bed and first ready to take on the day, often having to wake up his three roommates so they didn’t miss breakfast or class. It was a trait that Sirius had desperately wished would rub off on him via proximity or osmosis or whatever the fuck, but he supposes that being named after a star permanently damned him to be a night owl. 

When Sirius began living with the Potters around year five, it became very clear that James had every reason to be a morning person, with parents like Effie and Monty. Monty, in particular, lived for mornings, loving the early rise that afforded him time to practice on his guitar out back in their garden and to make breakfast for his family. It became routine for Sirius to emerge from his room at half past ten only to see Monty and James chattering in Spanish, a well-oiled machine in the kitchen as they juggled cooking, dancing, and singing along to whatever salsa song played from the speaker as Effie watched them fondly with a cup of homemade chai. 

When they moved in together post-graduation, mornings like those ceased to be a daily or even weekly thing. There simply wasn’t enough time to enjoy mornings like that anymore. That being said, James refused to let the tradition go. “Things like that make a house a home,” he had said to Sirius. 

So, on lucky days like these, they were treated to the Potters’ infamous Sunday brunches. 

Sirius and Remus found James in front of the stove, brandishing a spatula like a microphone as he tossed bacon in a pan and sang along to Niña Bonita . He was clearly in his own little world, hips swaying along to the beat as he balanced frying eggs, mashing mofongo, sauteing shrimp, and folding rice. On the counter beside him, there were three steaming mugs and a single to-go cup. Sirius takes a second to appreciate his best friend’s contagious energy, a small smile stretching across his face as James continues to feel the music.

Almost as if he senses their presence, James turns with a grin. “Morning,” he says, tone teasing and suggestive. “Or rather, afternoon , now.” 

“Shove off, Prongs. We can’t all be as productive and chipper as you at eight A.M,” Sirius shoots back lightly. 

“Morning,” Remus responds tiredly, ignoring James’s light jeering and his partner’s own sardonic comment. James takes one look at Remus’s beat expression and wordlessly passes him his favourite Hemingway mug, filled to the brim with extra-sweet café con leche. Moony accepts it with a grateful nod and sinks into one of the bar stools they have lining the counter, one hand propping up his head.

“Look, I did my best to convert you. It’s not my fault that you and Moony prefer to do all of your work - among other things - at night,” James responds, passing Sirius his own cup of perfectly brewed Earl Grey with a splash of cream. Sirius inhales the scent of the steeped tea leaves and sighs, finally feeling properly lucid. 

“I think this morning was proof that not all of our activities have to happen at two A.M., Prongsie.” 

“You don’t have to remind me. I got back from the gym right as you two were… properly waking up,” James snorts, returning to the stove to start transferring food on to plates. The bacon and sausage hits a tray covered in a few layers of paper towels, while the mofongo gets generously dolloped on to the three plates he has lined up on the counter. Sirius’s stomach grumbles.

Just as he goes to say something lewd to really just pull James’s leg, Niña Bonita ends and the bachata version of Te Extraño begins. James gasps, immediately dropping everything to act the song out. Sirius doesn’t miss a beat and begins singing along as well, letting James reach out and grab him to dance. A newly-caffeinated Remus watches affectionately, holding on to his coffee like a lifeline. 

“Yo lloro y lloro al saber que no estás, con mis labios, mira mami, yo te quiero besar,” James spins Sirius around with a laugh before pulling him close again.

James and Mary had taught Sirius, along with several of their other friends, how to properly dance back when they were still in secondary, a night packed full with salsa, tequila, and an embarrassing amount of tripping over one another’s clumsy feet. In addition to being one of Sirius’s most fond memories of his time at the Academy, the skills he developed had become a staple in his life; not only was he a hit among the tías at Potter family reunions, but he could also dance with his best friends, too. 

“ Mira como estoy sufriendo, me quemo por dentro, por sentir tu amor ,” James and Sirius chorus. James playfully caresses Sirius’s face, who, in return, blows James a kiss. He catches it and makes a show of holding it to his heart, continuing to sing as he finishes dishing out brunch and passing Sirius and Remus their plates. It takes physical restraint for the two of them to sit down during the breakdown of the song, but the smell of James’s cooking easily persuades everyone to chill out and focus on eating. 

The minute Sirius takes a bite, he has to hold back an obscene moan. He doesn’t know if he should kiss Prongs, Monty, or both for blessing his taste buds with such incredible food. Part of him feels the need to fly to Puerto Rico to thank the entire island for their contributions to the culinary arts. 

“I was able to prep enough of this for the next couple of days, so we’ll have mofongo and rice for breakfast or lunch and chicken biryani for dinner tomorrow. Mum sent some replacement spices since we had run out of a couple, so I’ll be able to make it," James reports. 

“Thank you for cooking, Prongs,” Remus replies, finally back to his usual self now that he’s had food and coffee. He’s already worked through half of his sizable pile of bacon. “It’s delicious, as always.”

James smiles bashfully. “It was nothing, really. I love doing it.”

“We’ll clean up,” Sirius promises in between shoveling forkfuls of rice into his mouth. James waves him off, busy slicing a sausage link into bite-sized pieces. 

“What’s Pete in such a hurry for?” Remus asks, mixing egg yolk into his mofongo. “I saw the to-go containers, and he nearly bust down the door of the bathroom earlier.” 

“He’s meeting up with that girl again. The one he met at the pub down the street? He mentioned it last night, but both of you were pretty gone,” James responds with a laugh. 

While it wasn’t unheard of for them to get drunk after a performance (or before, or during, for that matter), it was relatively rare for them to get crossed. So, when Remus had surprised them with a couple of joints after the show and an extra baggie filled with bud for later, both he and Sirius may have gotten a bit carried away. 

Now that he thinks about it, Sirius does remember laying out on the floor of their tiny living room alongside an equally stoned Moony, passing the joint back and forth until he could feel every cell of his body humming and watch as the cracked ceiling began to spin a bit. He vaguely recalls James and Peter talking, but their voices had sounded so very far away through the thick haze of cannabis and alcohol. 

Whatever may have transpired after that moment is beyond him; Sirius is honestly impressed he was able to dig up that little snapshot by itself. However, he still feels a bit guilty about the bathroom situation, especially now that he knows why Pete was in such a rush. 

As if summoned by their conversation, Peter rushes out of the hallway, running an anxious hand through his slightly damp hair as he pulls on his trainers. James stands to meet him, passing along Pete’s food and coffee with an impish grin. “Best of luck, mate! Knock her dead.”

Peter accepts the food and drink with a grateful smile of his own. “I’ll try.”

“Oi, Wormtail,” Sirius calls out. Peter’s head snaps toward Sirius, still looking vaguely peeved. “No trying in this household. You will .”

“Thanks, Pads,” Peter mumbles bashfully, cheeks reddening. 

“Did you wanna borrow that one nice cologne I’ve got?” Remus asks, also looking a bit abashed from earlier with the way his shoulders hunched in and his fingers restlessly tapped against the linoleum countertop.

Peter wrinkles his nose at the offer. “Appreciate it, mate, but I don’t really fancy the idea of Sirius popping a boner because I smell like you.”

“I would not – !”

“He’s probably right, love. It’s the one you got me for Christmas last year.” 

“Oh. Well, perhaps it’s for the best then.” 

“You guys are disgusting,” Peter complains as he pats his trousers to check whether he’s got everything. A quiet swear, and then he lunges for the bowl of keys propped up next to the door, shoving his own set into his front pocket. 

“You love us,” Sirius says cheerfully, scraping at what’s left of his heavenly meal.  

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Right, well, I’m off, lads. Thanks for breakfast, Prongs. Be back later,” Peter waves, opening the front door with one hand as the other goes to shrug a jumper on. 

“Use protection!”

“Oh my god, fuck off, Sirius!” 

The front door slams shut, leaving the flat sitting in a brief, entertained silence. 

“Pete’s gonna kill you one of these days, with how much you push his buttons,” James observes, collecting the practically licked-clean plates and standing up from the counter. 

“What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t tease the poor sod?” Sirius defends, snatching the plates from James’s hands with a disapproving look. “We said we’d clean up. Go sit down.” 

“Or what?” James taunts with a playfully bratty glare.

Sirius tosses James a flirtatious wink over his shoulder before placing the dishes in the sink. “Moony, I wash, you dry?” 

Remus hums in agreement, slowly rising from his seat and stretching, arms pulled over his head until his spine pops. Sirius is treated to the smallest sliver of happy trail before Remus drops his arms and joins him in the kitchen, dutifully beginning to towel off the assorted kitchenware Sirius had begun to scrub. 

As they wash, Sirius sees Prongs sink into the couch in his peripherals, acoustic guitar cradled in his arms as gently as you’d hold a baby. Within seconds, he was softly playing along to the old-school salsa coming from his speaker. 

The guitar was a gift to James from Monty - a six-string from his own personal collection. It was stunning, a maple-coloured beauty with an embroidered strap Effie had gifted him early on in their relationship. Monty swore to both James and Sirius that it was his lucky charm, the instrument he wrote some of his favourite - and most successful - songs on. James had cried when Monty handed it to him at his graduation party.

To this day, James carried the same belief as his father that the guitar was just special, and he, too, began to write some truly beautiful pieces with it in hand. 

By the time Sirius and Remus had finished up and joined their friend in the living room, James had turned off one of his many trusty Latin playlists and had begun practicing one of the songs Remus started to develop a few days prior. His eyes were closed in concentration, fingertips effortlessly sliding along the strings of the guitar with a practiced grace. The progressions were a little tricky, but for James, who had been playing since he was old enough to hold the thing, it came as easy as breathing. 

Remus collapses on to their flea market armchair, its corduroy fabric faded to a near-orange colour over the years, and opens up his worn copy of Crime and Punishment . Sirius follows close behind, sinking to the floor to sit up against the bottom of the loveseat in between Remus’s legs. The latter absently tangles his fingers into Sirius’s damp black tresses as soon as he gets comfortable. 

Physical affection was a big adjustment for the both of them when they initially started dating. Or rather, casual, gentle physical touch specifically seemed to be a bit of a hard bargain. Both Sirius and Remus were about as touch-starved as they came, products of neglectful or downright abusive environments that made even the most innocent caresses feel threatening. When the tension between them had finally reached a boiling point sometime in their final year of secondary, the two of them sort of skipped the lovey-dovey phase, working out their feelings with a rough, heated hook-up rather than a first kiss fit for a romance novel. They had to work backwards from there, learning how to accept gentleness the same way they anticipated harshness. 

While it took the two of them much longer to navigate the softness that came with romantic relationships, their walls were broken down rather quickly when it came to platonic ones. James had helped with that enormously, especially as kids. He was so affectionate himself that it rubbed off on Sirius after just a couple of months of them becoming friends. Moony, on the other hand, had been harder to wear down. To this day, he wasn’t the most touchy person, but he had grown significantly more comfortable with it after over a decade of being one of James Potter’s best mates. 

Now, Sirius would happily and readily cuddle up with any of their friends, relishing the nonverbal reassurance that a simple cheek kiss or snuggle could convey. It was as if they all understood how much lost time they were helping Sirius make up for and wanted to double it, an unspoken but obvious sentiment that makes him a bit emotional if he thinks about it for too long. 

He still couldn’t believe how lucky he had gotten. 

“Hey, Moony? What if, instead of going from a G to an F sharp in this one section, we drop it to a C? It’s more unexpected and sounds really cool going into the bridge,” James asks, demonstrating the difference. 

Sirius looks up, catching sight of the bottom of his boyfriend’s jaw as Remus leans forward to pay closer attention. The hand that had been in Sirius’s hair drops to his shoulder instead, giving a gentle squeeze in apology for abandoning his head massage.

“I think it sounds pretty cool. Maybe we alternate so the first verse hits the F sharp, the second drops to the C, and the final one goes back to the F? Adds some interesting dimension and texture and gives us space for vocal experimentation,” Remus replies. 

James smiles and nods, annotating the vaguely wrinkled sheet music in front of him with an old ballpoint pen. 

“Perfect. Pads, do you want to look this over? I don’t know if you’ve started writing any lyrics, but this is a good start.”

Sirius nods, extending an arm. Prongs wordlessly passes the paper over, returning to practicing the new riff he and Moony had worked out. As Sirius scans the page, his brain begins to mess around with concepts and themes. It was going to be a more upbeat, almost folksy song, something a bit different than their usual alternative rock sound. The lyrics had to match.

He remembers some of the work-in-progress songs he has in his songwriting journal back in his room and something clicks. “Be right back,” Sirius says absently, shoving the sheet music back into James’s hands and clambering to his feet. Not a minute later, he’s marching back into the living room, equipped with his own guitar and his book of lyrics, and settling back down on to their abused shag rug to brainstorm. 

James wordlessly slides the sheet music back over to Sirius, who reads the first lines over a couple of times before beginning to strum out the melody. It’s soulful, bright… vaguely reminiscent of summer. It needed lyrics that could support the tone while still keeping some of the grit that The Marauders were now known for. 

Sirius pauses to flip through his moleskine, the leatherbound spine so soft from use that he faces no resistance in laying the journal flat once he finds the page he’s looking for. The words are slightly smudged, written out while Sirius had been on break during a shift a few weeks ago. He had gone back to the scrawled out lines when he got home, scratching out certain words and replacing them with better ones and doodling in the margins.

It looked a mess, but he knew it would sound perfect. 

“ I am a man on the run, running on two empty lungs, ” Sirius sings, beginning to strum again. “ Running from my own mind, and things I hide inside, some call it sweet temptation. ”

James joins in, filling out the sound of Sirius’s soft playing with his own confident strumming. 

“ I know what everybody knows, die young or you can grow old, until you’re buried six below .” 

Sirius allows the sound of the music rush through him, the vibrations of his guitar sending sparks up his spine. 

He felt alive . 

When the chorus finishes, Sirius stops playing, James quickly ceasing himself. “I’ll adjust some timing things, of course, maybe tweak the second verse,” Sirius says, already beginning to make notes on the already cluttered pages in front of him. “The chorus lines up rather well with what you already wrote, Moony.”

“It’s brilliant,” James says, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Can I read the rest of what you’ve got so far?” 

Sirius nods emphatically, passing the book over to eagerly waiting hands. As James skims the pages, Sirius looks up at Remus, who had been more quiet than Sirius would’ve hoped for. Though his boyfriend wasn’t the most flamboyant person, Sirius was expecting at least some sort of reaction, especially given how neatly his lyrics had fit. 

When their gazes meet, Sirius almost stops breathing at the look Remus is giving him. Those amber eyes he loved so much were filled to the brim with adoration, his stare so intense that Sirius feels himself turn pink with anticipation. 

“You’re incredible,” Remus finally whispers. He brushes a curl off of Sirius’s face and Sirius almost shudders, the light touch and reverential words enough to make him want to melt into a puddle of lovesick goo. God, if Reggie could see him all doe-eyed and blushing like this…

The sudden thought of his brother disarms Sirius immediately. 

With all of the band’s recent success, he couldn’t help it. He’d been haunted by the look in Regulus’s eyes when he snuck into the younger boy’s room that night, begging him to come with him. The confusion, the shock, the eventual rage. How Regulus had seemed to age ten years in less than a couple of seconds, any trace of the boy Sirius adored firmly planted behind the same mask the two of them used to mock other society assholes with. In that moment, he knew he had lost Regulus to their parents for good. 

It was the last time Sirius had ever seen him. 

Running out the back door with nothing but the clothes on his back and his journals was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. And while Sirius will never regret escaping his parents, he’ll also never forgive himself for not trying harder. For not convincing Reggie that it would be worth it, even if their parents did come after them. For not grabbing him by the arm and dragging him kicking and screaming, because even if Regulus hated him for it, at least they would be together. 

Sirius knows that Effie and Monty would have taken him in immediately. Despite never meeting Regulus in person, he had talked about his younger brother enough that the two of them - as well as James and the rest of his friends - practically knew him already. They wouldn’t have hesitated to get Regulus enrolled at the same school so they could all be together, regardless of the Academy’s steep tuition. Hell, Regulus was talented enough that he could have been on scholarship for his musical abilities alone. 

They could have lived in the city together post-graduation, could have complained about their shitty jobs, could have stayed up playing their respective instruments and giving each other notes. Regulus could have seen his older brother actually make it, or better yet, be a part of it all. 

Regulus could have seen why it was all worth it, in the end. 

“Pads?” Sirius jolts out of his thoughts, Remus’s once loving gaze now concerned, eyebrows pinched with worry. “Lost you for a second there.”

Sirius says nothing, instead reaching forward with his hand and gently pressing his thumb against the crinkle between Remus’s brows, forcing his frown to relax. He tilts his head up further in request and Remus obliges, catching his lips in a tender kiss.

“I’m back,” Sirius breathes. “And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Remus whispers against his lips.

When they finally pull away from one another, Sirius sees that Prongs has moved on from reading Sirius’s songwriting journal to scrolling on his phone, tapping out a couple of messages to people he likely forgot to respond to. 

“What’s new?” Sirius asks casually, pretending that he didn’t completely dissociate after thinking about his estranged family for a mere second. James looks up and studies Sirius’s face, clearly just as worried as Remus. He seems to realize that Sirius is better and, without saying a word, returns back to his phone, shoulders deflating in relief. 

“One of Marlene’s friends from the café is throwing a party tonight and extended an invite,” James reports, swiping a little bit more. “There’s also the half-priced drink menu at 3B tonight.”

“Prongs, I appreciate the effort, but I’m there all the time. And when I am there, I can get drinks for free,” Sirius responds. The Three Broomsticks was wonderful and he loved it there, even if he wasn’t working. But right now, he was aching for a change of pace. 

“So, party, then?” 

“Only if they have alcohol.”

“Marlene said there would be.” 

And really, what else did you need other than booze, your best mates, and the staggering guilt of your own success?

“ Fuck yes .”

—

James couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but something was wrong. 

Well, maybe wrong is a bit of a strong word to use. Weird , perhaps, or maybe off . No matter what word he gave the feeling he had, though, it was there. And it was starting to piss him off. 

He, quite literally, had nothing to be complaining about. Everything in life was going pretty fucking great, and even with the stress of his job and the band, it didn’t feel like nearly enough to warrant such a deep-seated sense that something’s not quite right . 

The feeling had been brewing for a while, annoyingly enough. For the past couple of months, James would wake up each day and that little ache in his chest would grow just the slightest bit bigger every morning. It was bizarre, and so unlike his usual steady self-assurance that he ended up asking Moony about it after their songwriting session earlier. The man took one look at James from over the edge of the book he was reading and simply said, “You need to get laid, mate.” 

And honestly, Remus may have a point. 

James had been so busy recently that the idea of sleeping with anyone just hadn’t really crossed his mind. He certainly had options, given his lack of preference for gender and the fact that he was decently attractive, but it all seemed too easy. The passion was never there - not in the way he craved, at least. He went through his ‘pointless one-night stand’ phase not too long after they had moved to the city, right around the time he and Lily decided they worked much better as friends rather than romantic partners. While the experience was fun and all, James knew deep down that he was not cut off for the man-whore life. It was too impersonal, too mechanical. Most importantly, it was almost never satisfying enough to justify the emptiness he felt afterwards. 

And yet.

It had been a long time. Probably over a year, if he’s being honest. Most of his free time was spent with his friends or practicing, both of which were things that made him feel so content and whole that he hardly noticed the sexual frustration. And when he did? His right hand usually did the trick. However, that ache was now irritating enough that James was willing to test Moony’s theory about it being a near-fatal case of blue balls. 

So, with the barest hint of trepidation, he gets ready for the party with his end goal in mind. 

An hour and a half later, James is opening the door to let Mary, Marlene, and Lily into the flat, the latter pushing past both the door and James armed with two brown paper bags and a delighted grin. 

“James, darling! We brought tequila, rum, and mixers,” Mary greets, pressing a kiss to James’s cheek as she walks by. She pauses and turns around just as Marlene gives him a jovial side hug, scanning him with a critical eye. “You’re looking particularly good today, Potter.”

“He’s dressed to get fucked tonight, MacDonald,” Sirius announces from the threshold of the hallway, always a sucker for a grand entrance. He looks like he picked his own outfit with the same intention as James, silky black button-up exposing a sliver of tattooed chest and black liner outlining his startlingly grey eyes. “Those jeans are a dead giveaway.” 

“I believe it. Your ass looks fantastic in those, papi,” Mary says approvingly. “Now, which one of you can make me a tequila sunrise?”

“Oh, make that two!” Lily exclaims from the kitchen, where she’s already commandeered the speaker to play some upbeat dancing music. Within seconds, Megan Thee Stallion is blasting through James’s trusty JBL.

“Anyone else want one?” James says, pushing up his sleeves and joining Lily in the kitchen. She pulls him into a quick hug to properly say hello. She looks beautiful, wearing a simple white slip dress and open, oversized dress shirt. Her red hair is partially pulled away from her face, revealing countless freckles and bright green eyes. 

“I’ll take one!” Peter shouts from across the room, fingers busy pinching the edges of a joint together. Remus may have taught them all how to roll, but Pete had a special knack for it. He was clearly making use of some of the bud Remus had brought home the night before.

“On it. Shots?” James asks, already uncorking the bottle. A resounding cheer carries through the flat and he smiles, counting out seven glasses. They’re all mismatched, some thrifted from antique stores and others souvenirs from the occasional weekend trip. Though nobody ‘owns’ a particular glass, they all have favourites, so James passes them out accordingly - the Welsh dragon for Remus, a pair of comically huge glass tits for Marlene, a goofy cartoon with a lewd joke for Peter, a Bowie shooter for Sirius, a sparkling crystal glass for Mary. Lily hands out the lime slices and chunky salt with the efficiency of a drill sergeant before taking her own tropical flower glass in hand. 

“To off days, for they are few and far between but oh-so fun. Salud !” Sirius cheers. They all echo him, clinking their glasses against one another’s and the table before tipping them back. 

The liquor is warm and smooth going down, sending a warm tingle across James’s skin as he sets down his empty coqui-printed shot glass and begins to make the drinks. 

“How was your free day?” Lily asks, leaning against the counter to watch as James begins to layer the juice and grenadine into glasses. He looks up at her with a crooked smile. 

The relationship that he and Lily had now meant the world to him. They had come a long, long way since their school days, from the unrequited pining on his end to their mutual breakup years later. They had too much growing left to do, too much exploring. Both of them were navigating their rather fluid sexualities, James had the band, Lily had her studies… not to mention how hard-headed and stubborn they both were on their own and how much worse it made them when they were together. It just became abundantly clear that things weren’t panning out the way James’s eleven-year-old self had dreamed when he had seen Lily for the first time.

While he’ll always hold a special place in his heart for their Lily flower, James knew that they weren’t meant to be much more than what they currently were: the best of friends. 

“Good!” he responds. “It was nice to sleep in a bit, enjoy the morning. We worked on a new song, too, so that was fun.”

Lily huffs out a laugh, eagerly accepting her drink when it's offered to her. “You guys realize that a day off means that you can also take a break from the music, too, right?”

“Says the woman who will spend her weekends at the library going through the archives for fun,” James retorts, taking a swig from his beer. Lily reddens and slaps his arm.

“That’s different. It’s a passion project. Besides, I spend the rest of my free time managing you lot. That takes way more energy than looking through a first edition of Sense and Sensibility ,” the redhead jokes. 

“Fair enough,” James chuckles in concession. “But the songwriting is like that for us, too. Therapeutic, you know?” 

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Lily muses, taking a sip of her drink and humming contently. “Oh, this is delicious. You outdid yourself today, Potter.”

“Happy to hear it, Evans. If you want another one, let me know.”

“I probably shouldn’t, but seeing as tomorrow is my day off, I might have to take you up on that.”

A whistle cuts through Doja Cat’s Ain’t Shit, interrupting James and Lily’s conversation. “Prongs, Lils, did you want to hit these?” Peter asks, holding up three perfectly rolled joints from where he sits on the couch. The rest of their friends are already seated, eagerly waiting to get stoned. 

“You already know my answer,” James teases, raising an inquiring brow at Lily. 

She sighs, grabbing the speaker with one hand and her drink with the other in preparation. “What the hell, sure. I haven’t been crossed in a while, anyways.” 

The seven of them get comfortable, fanning out around the living room. Though the fire escape beneath the window was much too small for all of them to go fully outside, the window itself was large enough that the smoke wasn’t an issue once it was cracked open. 

After passing Mary and Peter their drinks, James ends up squeezing between Marlene and Sirius, the former offering an electric blue pen for him to hit as he gets comfortable. He eyes it inquisitively, trying to decide how fucked up he wants to get. After remembering his mission for the night, however, he takes the offer. 

“It’s a hybrid strain. My sister brought it over from New York, so it’s really smooth,” she comments as James examines it further. He shrugs and takes a long pull, exhaling a cloud of white vapor. The cart has an herbal taste that tickles the back of his throat and makes him cough a bit as he hands the battery back to Marlene. 

“That’s nice,” James compliments. “I had a similar one when we were visiting family there last summer. New York has some damn good weed.”

Marlene nods in agreement. “Remind me where you guys get yours?” 

“I’ve brought some carts over from overseas like your sister, but Remus knows a guy from the record store down the street who sells stuff. Not pricey and not laced, so we’re all a fan,” James explains. The blonde ahs in response, accepting the joint from Mary. She takes a couple of long puffs before passing it to James, blowing smoke through her nose like a dragon. 

In a lot of ways, James much preferred weed over alcohol. It was smoother and left him feeling delightfully floaty rather than dizzy or lethargic. Best part? No hangover. 

He had only greened out once , and it was while they were still in secondary. He had taken a few too many rips from an older student’s crude, makeshift bong at a party, and before he knew it, he felt like he was going to expel his intestines into the trash bin he was holding on to like an anchor. 

James didn’t touch the stuff for six months after that. 

Years later, he’s much more familiar with his favourite plant. When his anxiety is stifling, or he needs to force himself to take a couple of hours to do nothing but lay around watching the telly, James can count on a couple of long hits to do the trick. 

He puts the filter to his lips and takes a long drag, the earthy smell and flavour filling his mouth and lungs for a few seconds before being pushed right back out. James feels the effects almost immediately, his body surrendering to the loose, pliable feeling he’s grown to adore. In a minute or so, it’ll also ease a bit of that godforsaken emptiness he’d been carrying. 

He couldn’t fucking wait. 

James takes a last long hit before passing it over to Sirius, dropping his head on his best mate’s shoulder as soon as the joint is out of his hands. He lazily scans the room. 

Lily and Peter are caught in an animated debate, which would be entertaining enough even if the two of them weren’t already fried. The way they’re waving their arms to emphasize their points almost has James worried that they’ll hit Mary or Marlene, who are propped up against the couch on the floor. They, undeterred by the potential threat of accidental violence looming above them, are currently grilling Remus about whether he’s been doing the stretches Mary taught him to help relieve some of his back pain (he hasn’t). Remus looks appropriately ashamed, face red with guilt as the two girls take turns emphasizing why he needs to start taking care of himself. 

“I needed this,” James mumbles, watching Sirius pull from the joint himself. The way the smoke dances in the low light of their flat is mesmerizing, curling around itself as it dissipates. 

“Oh, we know, Prongs,” Sirius says playfully, nudging James with a gentle elbow. He rests his head against James’s, taking a second hit. “Oi, Pete, can you pass the ashtray?” 

Peter swings his head around, a dopey grin across his face. He had already lit up a second joint and it was clearly starting to get to him, eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. “Sure thing, Pads,” he salutes. Mary has to interfere, though, when Peter nearly falls off the couch trying to pass it over, giggling as Sirius accepts the tray with an amused shake of his head. 

“Did he pregame the pregame?” she whispers conspiratorially, discreetly nodding in Peter’s direction. James and Sirius take another look at Peter, who’s attempting to rap along with Nicki Minaj and failing miserably. Marlene and Lily are practically crying laughing as he fumbles over the lyrics to Starships with the same confidence you’d expect from the rapper herself. 

“Yup,” James replies, holding in his own laugh when Peter tries to get up and dance. “He had a really good first date today. Guess he’s celebrating.”

“Oh, did he, now? He must have failed to mention it when we were catching up earlier,” Mary says, sending a good-natured glare over her shoulder in Pete’s direction. He’s too busy spinning Lily around to notice, the two of them giggling and lip-syncing along to the music. 

“Don’t take it too personally. He’ll probably start gushing about it once the alcohol catches up to the weed,” Sirius responds, reaching over to the coffee table they had shoved aside and grabbing his box of cigs. He places the filter of one between his teeth before lightly tapping Remus’s leg to get his attention. “Do you have a light? Trousers are too tight for me to bring mine.” 

Remus raises an eyebrow, glancing down at Sirius’s legs with a mix of resignation and interest. James can’t see his face, but he knows that Sirius is flashing the most obnoxious, shit-eating grin at his boyfriend right now. “I’ll share,” Sirius adds. 

Moony eventually sighs, digging into his own pocket and pulling out his red plastic lighter, flicking it on and leaning over so Sirius can reach it from the floor. Sirius hums gratefully, touching the tip of the cigarette to the flame and taking a couple of drags, passing it over to Remus once he gets his fill. The taller man takes it and leans back in the armchair, one hand letting the fag hang between two fingers and the other beginning to play with Sirius’s hair. 

James feels the tightness in his chest return a bit at the sight. 

He would be the absolute first person to stress how happy he was for his friends and their relationship, especially after the hell that he and Peter had gone through living with them before they finally confessed to one another. James couldn’t picture anyone more perfect for Sirius than Remus, and vice versa. As a hopeless romantic himself, it was heartwarming and, in some ways, inspiring. 

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t the slightest bit jealous of their dynamic, or the fact that they both had so clearly found their person. 

“They’re insufferable, aren’t they?” Mary huffs, clearly having seen the sight that James had. They were all used to the two of them and their antics, but it didn’t mean the rest of them didn’t love teasing them every chance they got. “At least some of us are experiencing the joys of young love and all that bull.”

Mary’s words hit James like a ton of bricks. 

“For sure. Another drink?” he offers, desperately needing more liquor in his system; he has no desire to confront his emotions right now, not when he’s been working so hard already to get rid of them for the night.  

“Well, if you’re offering.” 

James stands, brushing his jeans off and offering a hand out to Mary. She takes it gratefully, adjusting the shimmery green minidress she was wearing. “You look lovely,” James says honestly. She truly did, the colour popping against her deep skin and complementing her hazel eyes. She had even swiped a light green eyeshadow across her lids to match. “Did you make the dress?”

“I did! I got a fantastic deal on this fabric at the deadstock place down the street from my flat, and I was in desperate need for a new, cute option for when I go out,” Mary beams, twirling a bit to make the skirt float. She was about to finish her final year studying fashion design at uni, so making amazing clothes out of scraps was sort of her thing. “It worked out pretty well, I must say.” 

“It’s wonderful,” James compliments. 

“Thank you, James,” Mary says warmly. “Now, about that drink…”

James ends up making a pitcher of extra-strong margaritas, the jug lasting all of ten minutes between the seven of them. At that point, they were all fucked up enough to head to the party, which was thankfully just a short tube ride away. Sirius holds the door open as they all file out of the flat, aiming a swift smack against Remus and James’s arses as they pass by. 

Now, though the trip to Chelsea should have only taken about thirty minutes sober, it ends up taking them an hour to reach Marlene’s friend’s flat. Thanks to the many drunken distractions that the London streets seem to offer - including but not limited to a group of disgruntled pigeons, a busker, and an especially fun window display just outside of the exit of the Piccadilly line - they finally make it to the building at around midnight. 

The flat is packed. In what seems to be the cleared-out dining room, a large group of people move to the music blasting through the speakers. While James and the majority of his friends wade into the dancing crowd, Sirius and Remus float around the outskirts, fingers interlocked as they search for a place to hover (and probably make out). Lily is quick to pull James into a loose embrace, laughing as he exaggerates his head bopping to the beat of the house song blasting through the speakers. It’s certainly not his preferred genre to dance to, but James is adamant that he could move to anything if the beat is good. 

They spend a good hour dancing with one another, the music switching from the more toned down house stuff to a more energetic mix full of radio hits as they go, before James decides he needs to get to business. He taps Marlene on the shoulder to get her attention. 

“I’m going to find another drink,” James yells over the music to the blonde. She gives him a thumbs up in response, gasping when she sees a redhead in a faded grey t-shirt and jeans approaching her. He takes it as his cue to leave, sending a quick smile and nod to the man now hugging his friend before heading towards the kitchen.

James side steps multiple couples making out, as well as a heated game of what looks like truth or dare happening on the floor of the living room, eventually finding the pseudo-bar that had been put together. There’s a decent selection of spirits and seltzers, as well as some soda and juice to mix with. James helps himself to the bottle of Coca-Cola, splashing in a generous amount of rum to spice it up. 

Drink fully mixed, James finally takes a proper look at the party going on around him. There seems to be a good fifty, maybe sixty people crammed into the main spaces of the flat, but with how low the light and loud the music were, he couldn’t be too sure. A handful of faces had caught his eye on the dance floor, many of which had seemed as (if not more) interested in him as he had been with them. Now, it was just a matter of starting a conversation.

He takes a slow sip of his drink, feeling the bass of the music thump beneath his feet. It’s not as loud in the kitchen, allowing him to ground himself a bit better than when he had first walked in. 

James’s phone buzzes. He reaches into his pocket, pulls it out, and scans the screen - Sirius and Remus were leaving early as Remus’s back had flared up unexpectedly. They would meet James and Peter back home. 

He’s in the middle of typing out a response when he notices someone sidle up next to him. 

“How do you know Arthur?”

James turns his head towards the sound of the voice and immediately stops short. 

The man in front of him is gorgeous, all sharp angles and long legs. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and a low-buttoned shirt, exposing a smooth plane of pale flesh. The hand loosely gripping the neck of his bottle of beer is adorned with several chunky silver rings. 

The universe was treating him kindly tonight. 

“Friend of a friend,” James answers, only slurring his words a bit as he flashes his most charming smile, sending the text and pocketing his phone. “You?”

“Friend of a friend,” the stranger echoes, not even remotely attempting to hide how obviously he was checking James out. James feels his cheeks warm slightly at the attention, clearing his throat when icy blue eyes finally meet his. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

“James,” he replies, taking a second to appreciate the single strand of black hair artfully falling over the man’s forehead. “What’s yours?”

“Barty,” he smiles, shifting closer. James’s stomach flips. “You here with anyone?”

James nods and gestures over in the general vicinity of his friends. “My friends, yeah. One of them - the blonde in the leather jacket, Marlene - works with Arthur at the café.”

“Ah, I see,” Barty nods, looking over his shoulder briefly to where James had been pointing before returning his focus back to him. “No girlfriend, boyfriend…?” 

“Nope,” James answers easily, watching Barty’s eyes flash with satisfaction with his own sense of excitement. “Just me.”

“Well, while that’s rather unfortunate for you, I can’t lie - I was really hoping you’d say that,” Barty responds, looking like the cat that caught the canary. He leans in the slightest bit more, now close enough that James can smell his cologne. It’s a woodsy, musky scent with a hint of spice that seems to wrap around James’s head and make it go all fuzzy. “Would you like to dance, James?”

James reaches out and gently brushes Barty’s hand with his own, leaning closer so he can speak directly into his ear.

“I’d love to.”

—

It had been a while since James had been this drunk. 

In the back of his mind, past the metaphorical cotton tucked into every nook and cranny of his brain, he knew that he was going to regret it when his alarm rang bright and early the next morning. The obnoxious iPhone alarm was now irrevocably associated with both the start of a new day and the impending shit storm that was the upscale Mediterranean restaurant James worked at, which was enough to send him into a panic, nowadays. 

However, it was hard for James to feel guilty about his actions when they led him to this. 

James’s hands grip Barty’s waist, pulling the other man’s lean body flush against his own as they dance along to the 2000’s throwback playing. He’s gone enough that the name of the song is lost on him, but the beat is great and Barty’s hands are searing where they rest against his chest. 

After taking a shot (or two) together, they had been quick to familiarize themselves with one another, hands wandering as they rocked in time to the music. It had become very evident very fast that Barty had no problem initiating, his touches and looks as brazen as they came. He was taking every opportunity to explore James’s body in a manner that could just barely be considered decent, dexterous fingers teasing in their brushes against his flesh. It was a nice change of pace for James, who was historically used to chasing and initiating everything himself. He just let himself get swept away in Barty’s storm, his energy crackling under the surface of his skin in a way that had James hooked.  

From this close, James can see all the details of Barty’s handsome face, from the nearly-faded scar through his eyebrow to the slight ridge where a broken nose hadn’t healed right. There was a careless smudging of black liner across his lash line, emphasizing his dilated pupils and the faint ring of blue around them. His lips, a bit chapped but inviting all the same, were slightly parted, exhaling warm air that smelled faintly of cherry coke, cinnamon, and cigarettes. 

James desperately wants a taste. 

Barty cocks his head, almost as if he can hear James’s thoughts. “See something you like?” he asks, smirking in an arrogant way that is far too attractive for James to actually process right now. 

“Yeah,” James breathes, and without much fanfare, reaches up to grasp the back of Barty’s head to crash their lips together.

It’s messy and aggressive and exactly what James needs in that moment, Barty reciprocating James’s eager movements with his own insatiable ones. Barty is ruthless in his exploration of James’s mouth, approaching the kiss with the same sort of confidence that he’s had since they met half an hour ago. The intensity of it fills James with a restless anticipation, a deep-seated neediness that warms his stomach and has his prick stirring with interest. 

James lets his hands touch, feel. One of them fists at Barty’s short black stands while the other snakes around his toned midsection, dipping just beneath the band of Barty’s trousers. The man groans under his breath in appreciation, the sound low and throaty in a way that has James keening. In retaliation, Barty’s grip shifts to the hem of James’s shirt, tugging at it irritably before finding its place on James’s arse, giving it a firm squeeze and pulling their hips together even tighter. James can feel Barty’s semi pressing against his own, the pressure and friction delightful in his crossed, horny state. 

Barty’s lips leave his and latch on to James’s neck instead, nipping at the delicate skin there as his tongue laves the sting away. Through the fogginess of his brain, James is grateful that everyone is too drunk to notice the debauchery occurring on the dance floor.

They make out and grind for a little while longer, both growing increasingly more impatient with the teasing and touching they had going on. Eventually, Barty pulls away from James’s neck, lips red and puffy from use and eyes half-lidded with lust. 

“Want to take this somewhere a bit more private?” Barty whispers into James’s ear, playfully tugging at his earlobe with his teeth. 

He wants to say yes. This was the whole reason he was here, after all, and James couldn’t have predicted how incredible his luck would be in finding someone as carefree and sexy as Barty at the party. He knew his flatmates wouldn’t care, hell, they were supportive of the endeavor in the first place. And if this whole situation had been any indication of Barty’s sexual prowess and fluency, James would be in for quite the ride.

Unfortunately, the moment that the idea is proposed to him, that ugly, awful feeling he’d been valiantly trying to combat all night returns with a vengeance, knocking the air out of his lungs so fast James nearly keels over. He steps back, away from Barty, who looks at him in confusion, hand hovering as if ready to catch James if he did end up losing his balance.  

“I- I’d like to, really, I just…” James is breathing heavily, trying to catch a breath that is evading him completely. 

“Hey, whoa. Let’s take a minute, yeah? Get some fresh air,” Barty’s eyes are wide as he slings an arm around James’s shoulders to steady him, guiding them both through the thinned-out crowd to a modest balcony on the far end of the apartment. Luckily, it’s empty, giving James enough room to sit down on the floor and press his forehead against the cool metal railing. He breathes in deeply, letting the sounds of the city wash over him. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

A moment passes where James is simply trying to regulate himself and Barty watches with a sort of detached gaze, seeming to have little to no experience in soothing people in distress - or maybe he is simply uninterested. James is somehow grateful; he fears that if he were to be coddled by a pretty stranger in that moment, he’d probably start crying. 

“You smoke?” Barty asks, leaning against the edge of the rails with a fag between his teeth. He flicks his lighter on and inhales, blowing smoke over his shoulder. 

James shrugs, head lolling to the side to watch Barty take another pull. “Right now? Definitely.”

Without another word, Barty passes a cigarette to James, who is already ready with his own lighter in hand. 

They smoke in companionable, albeit a bit awkward, silence for another few minutes. 

“I apologize for my reaction in there,” James breaks the silence, looking up at Barty’s passive face. “I mean it when I say that I was really enjoying myself. I think I may have been a little ambitious with what I could handle tonight.”

Barty waves a nonchalant hand, not looking the slightest bit perturbed by how the evening had unfolded thus far. “No need. Shit happens. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t pass out or anything,” He stubs out the fag, flicking it over the edge of the balcony and watching it fall to the street below. “Are you feeling better now?”

James nods, climbing to his feet. He sheepishly brushes his trousers, Barty’s gaze unflinching as he watches him get up. 

“I think I better head out, find my flatmate,” James says. “Thank you for… well, all of this, I suppose. Again, I’m sorry I couldn’t follow through.”

“You’re good, don’t worry,” Barty flashes a wicked smirk. “Besides, if I really want to get shagged tonight, I promise that this little setback won’t stop me.” 

James lets out a surprised, hearty laugh, tossing his head back. That emptiness is back, now that the panic sobered him up, but this strange-yet-not-fully-unpleasant situation has somehow lightened the load.

Fuck, he’s got to figure out some shit. 

“Well, all power to you, mate. For what it’s worth, I’m quite jealous of whoever has the pleasure of getting with you tonight,” James replies good-naturedly.

Barty snorts, pulling the door open to head back inside. “I appreciate that,” he says, starting to walk off before pausing. He looks over his shoulder. “If you ever change your mind, though, ask Arthur for Pandora. She’ll get the message back to me.”

Absently, James wonders why Barty couldn’t just give him his phone number or something but nods anyway. While he’s not sure he’ll ever take the man up on that offer, it was nice to know it was there. 

“Got it. Have a nice rest of your night, Barty,” James says. Barty smiles. 

“Thanks, James. You too.”

When James finally ends up finding his friends, Peter is passed out on the floor, curled up with an empty bottle of cheap whiskey. Mary, Marlene, and Lily are all leaning heavily against one another, chatting with the redhead he assumes to be Arthur. 

“Oh, James! We weren’t expecting you back for a while. That bloke was efficient, huh?” Marlene wags her eyebrows, necking back the last of her drink.

“Long story, McKinnon. How long has Pete been out for?” 

“Maybe fifteen minutes? We tried taking the bottle away from him about half an hour before that but he was… insistent,” Lily grimaces, looking down at the sandy-haired man snoring at their feet. 

“Sounds about right,” James sighs, bending down and shaking Peter’s shoulder. “Wormtail, hey! You gotta get up, mate, party’s winding down and we gotta get the girls home.”

Peter mutters something incoherent, turning away from James with a snort. The girls giggle, still tipsy enough that the situation is more amusing than it is worrying. 

“If he needs to crash here, it’s alright. I’ve got space on the couch,” Arthur offers, glancing down at Peter’s prone form. 

“That’s very kind of you, but this git’s got a shift in,” James checks his watch and swears. “About six hours, give or take? So he’s gotta get home. Thank you for the offer, though, Arthur.”

“Anytime,” Arthur smiles. “I’m going to make sure no one's head-first in the toilet. If you’ll excuse me.” The ginger man bends down and presses a quick, friendly kiss against Marlene’s cheek and waves at the rest of them before disappearing down the hall. A moment later, they hear a loud swear and a clatter, then the beginnings of a muffle argument. James looks at the girls and at Peter. 

In seconds, they’re moving. 

“Time to go,” Mary announces, gathering Peter’s phone and wallet from where they had nearly fallen out of his pockets whilst Marlene and James haul the man to his feet. He’s half-conscious, babbling nonsense into James’s ear. 

“Quite right,” James responds to the mumbling, grunting as he adjusts Peter’s arm around his shoulders. “Marls, do you have his other side?”

“Yep,” she strains. “Fuck, I need to add another arm day to the schedule. Goddamn,”

Lily rolls her eyes. “He’s gotta help at least a bit. You can’t carry him to our flat and yours,” she says, grabbing a water bottle and pouring some of the liquid into her hand. She then proceeds to toss the water into Peter’s face.

The man yelps, squirming a bit as he blinks it from his eyes blearily. “Wha–? I’m up, I’m up, Lils, do not do that again.” He staggers a bit, unsteady in his drunkenness, but he can at least walk on his own now. 

“Wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t get so fucking messy, now would I?” Lily responds crossly. Peter at least has the decency to look a bit embarrassed, face pink at the call out. 

“Sorry, guys,” he replies, looking at his feet in shame. In this state, he looks like an admonished child. 

James heaves another long sigh, absolutely knackered from the day’s series of events. God, he missed his bed. 

“It’s fine, mate. Let’s just go. As is, we won’t be getting back home til at least 3, and that’s if we can catch a cab.”

The lot of them stumble their way to the girls’ flat about twenty minutes away, exchanging hugs and ‘goodnights’ as they enter the building. Lily and Marlene link arms, staggering into the building with hushed giggles. Mary, the last to go inside, turns to James, the slightest bit of worry crossing her features. “I’m not fully sure what happened tonight, but if you need to talk about it, give me a ring, yeah?”

Mary was just like that. Easy, approachable. Endlessly kind. James was grateful for her dedication and loyalty, even with how piss drunk she was, his chest warming with affection for the woman in front of him. 

“Thank you, love. I will. Sleep well tonight,” he says with a reassuring grin, Peter already beginning to doze off again against his shoulder. 

“You too, darling. Sweet dreams,” Mary closes the door softly behind her.

By the time they get home, it’s about half past three. Peter collapses on the sofa, snoring before his head even hits the pillow. James, achingly sober and ready to sleep off his embarrassment, trudges to the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

He stares at his face in the mirror, studying it. He didn’t look all that different, beyond maybe the dark circles now permanently etched into his face from the craziness of band and work life. Nothing seemed particularly out of place, and physically, he felt totally fine. 

James spits the toothpaste into the sink and rinses his mouth, catching his own eyes once again. 

They looked tired from behind his square frames. Beat down. It wasn’t all that difficult to understand why, with the way his life had been for the past… what, four, five years? But it was unusual. 

James wasn’t used to this kind of exhaustion. The kind that was deeper than any physical feeling, that seeped into your bones and clung on for dear life. The kind that no amount of restful sleep could cure. It bogged him down, made him feel heavy and unfocused. 

The feeling was disorienting, and if he was being honest, it was scary. 

He had had many late-night conversations with the rest of the Marauders about this kind of thing, so he could recognize some of his symptoms, but it was never he who needed the advice. He would patiently listen as his friends talked about the bits of darkness and unease that planted themselves inside of them, waiting for their worst moments to strike and take hold. James was sympathetic, of course, but he didn’t truly understand the weight of their experiences until recently. 

Now that he does, though, James can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of annoyance and anger. This was not the right time for his brain chemistry to start working against him. He was far too busy for it to consume him the way it had been threatening to do for so long, not to mention how horribly unbalanced everything would be if he, too, began succumbing to the whims of his feelings. 

James sets his jaw. 

As he starts to secure his bonnet, James makes a mental list of all the things he’d do in the morning to beat this… thing control him. He’d go for a run in the morning, eat a nice solid breakfast, go to work, practice alone, practice with the band… maybe he’d do a bit of yoga, too, something to help him escape his head. He takes a deep breath, and then another. 

He wasn’t letting it get the best of him. 

A soft rapping of knuckles against the door snaps James out of his thoughts. When he cracks the door open, Sirius is standing there with a sleepy grin, wrapped in one of Moony’s sweaters.

“So,” he starts, tiredness not concealing the suggestive tone he took on. “How did it go? I want to hear every single filthy detail.” 

James looks at Sirius’s expectant look, fondness sweeping over him. 

“Not much to tell, I’m afraid,” he answers. “I can go into more detail tomorrow, but I chickened out. Think I’m past the point of a shag fixing all my problems.”

Sirius looks confused for a moment, then a bit sad. “Ah, I see,” he looks at James, head tilted as he tries to figure out what James meant. Though they were usually pretty great at deciphering each other’s words - or lack thereof - with facial expressions alone, James was keeping a lot close to his chest at that moment, and Sirius was way too tired to pry it out of him. 

Padfoot yawns big enough that James could see his molars. 

“Go back to sleep, Pads. I promise I’m fine, so don’t stress on my behalf. I’m sure Moony is missing you.” 

He knows it’s a bit of a low blow, using Moony to get Padfoot to leave. Sirius himself gives James an unimpressed look, clocking James’s strategy immediately, but another yawn finally convinces him to take the out. 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Prongs. You’re telling me everything during practice tomorrow whether you like it or not,” Sirius glares to little effect. 

“Yeah, yeah,” James says, switching off the bathroom light. “Goodnight, Pads, love you.”

“Love you too, you daft shite.”

Once James is in his room, he strips to his boxers and falls face first into his mattress. 

The silence is so heavy in his room it’s making his ears ring. It’s no good for his head either, which is taking the opportunity to fill every inch of his consciousness with complete and utter garbage. 

He takes another deep breath, reaching for his headphones and placing them snug over his ears, and hits play on the first playlist he sees. 

As the soft croon of Frank Sinatra lulls him into a fitful sleep, James’s chest feels more hollow than ever.