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Chapter Text

February.

The walls were as gray as the London winter sky, the chill in the house was as sharp and bitter as the icy wind whipping through the tree branches. The windows on the back of the house, a solarium of sorts, were wide and paneless, revealing an open expanse of a back garden—an estate of sickly skeleton trees and ice wrapped hedges. The endless scenescape of a Wuthering Heights play-on reality, a maze of a deathly winter moor. 

Sirius sat with his knees tucked to his chest, cardigan slipping off a shoulder, next to a space heater he dragged into the sitting room. He rested his chin on his knee and watched the trees shiver and the fog creep up the hills, soon to spill over their land and obscure the wisp of reality the view offered. 

He couldn’t stand the cold–not this cold anyway. The dreary, damp, never ending expanse of time that persisted longer than he thought possible. There were no seasons in this part of the country, just gray overlapping gray in various temperatures. He didn’t have it in him to miss the drama of fall, the promise of spring, or the bone-deep heat of summer. 

He didn’t have it in him to care about much of anything anymore.

The book he’d been reading had fallen off the seat next to him and laid out on the floor, spine up, pages flayed open and bending. He stared at it, thinking that he should pick it up, but unable to move from his frozen position. It would take too much effort to bend, to breathe as he sat up, to find a comfortable position again. So, he studied the beige weaves of fabric beneath his feet instead. A rattan rug the same hue as everything else in the house. A monotone akin to his spirits. 

The only color was the rust stripes on the cuffs of his sweater and the embroidered star patches on the elbow. There was a fraying thread on the left sleeve, and he wondered if one wrong tug could unravel the whole thing. What difference did it make, really, when the tie he had to the garment died ages ago. It was just fabric, just something to have draped over him now. 

He sat there for some measure of time, insignificant, and stagnant. It wasn’t like he had plans. There was no one to text or call, no neighbors or nearby friends to visit, no hobbies that piqued his interest. There was an unread message from his PR lead, a query from the record label he should respond to, but what would he tell them? That there was no music? The truth was, his only source of inspiration had been away for weeks, so he waited alone in their sprawling estate for him to return. 

A brush against his leg, and Sirius looked down to see Crookshanks, his plump orange cat vying for his attention. The mass of ginger fluff plopped to his back and showed his belly with a chirp. Sirius smiled and reached down to pet the soft skin. 

“Hi, Crooks,” he said, voice cracking on the words, throat hoarse from lack of use. 

When was the last time he spoke? 

The cat stretched and pawed at the cushion by Sirius’s knees. Dropping his feet to the floor, he let the tiny beast jump onto his lap. The comforting rumble of purs and body heat settled him, as did the repetitive strokes along Crookshank’s soft fur. 

“When is Dad gonna be home, huh?” He asked the cat, who said nothing back. 

Fabian’s flight was supposed to land any minute, but Sirius hadn’t heard from him. He normally texted before they took off and immediately upon landing, but it had been two days of radio silence. It was like that sometimes when he was on set. The movie Fabian was working on was technically challenging and required his entire focus, or so he’d been told. What the movie was about was a mystery to Sirius. Underwraps for now, love, Fabian had said before he left with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to phone every night before bed. 

That had lasted two nights.

His stomach growled next to Crookshank’s ear, earning him a headbutt to the gut. He wasn’t hungry though, not really, despite his body’s protest. He’d eaten oatmeal yesterday. That should hold him over right? Maybe Fabian would cook tonight. Then he’d have to eat or else he’d face speculation. 

When his joints couldn’t take the chill any longer and the knuckles of his fingers stiffened, Sirius scooped the cat up in his arms and moved into one of the large living spaces by the fire. He watched the flames crackle, snaking around the ceramic logs. All the fireplaces in the house were gas. Couldn’t have mess from real wood, of course, no matter how Sirius protested. He longed for the earthy smell of cedar, the lingering smoke that clung to his hair and clothes that he could carry with him throughout the sterile house. Some small comfort that reminded him of home.

The door opening broke his concentration on the fire. There was a distinct sound of shoes being shuffled out of and the swish of a winter jacket being shrugged off and hung on the metal hook by the garage. 

“Siri?” 

“In here,” Sirius answered, his voice echoing off the hard surfaces. 

Fabian smiled as he rounded the corner. The seams of his lips were tight and his jaw was set. It didn’t reach his eyes. He looked tired. The color blue clung to him like an aura, as it always did when he was home. The space deepened with it—a stark contrast to his fiery red hair, broad shoulders and tall, stiff-spined stature. He painted a picture of confidence from afar, but Sirius could see through it after all this time. 

Dropping Crookshanks, Sirius padded over to Fabian, trying to get a happy expression to stick. “You didn’t text me that you were on your way. I would have freshened up.” 

Fabian scanned him head to toe. “Sorry, love. I was preoccupied with the script revisions.” 

The hug was firm, but short, and the kiss was chaste. 

And just like that, Fabian was retreating to the primary suite. “I’m going to shower the plane off. Put on a pot, will you, sweets?” 

Sirius just nodded, not wasting his breath. He put the kettle on, taking comfort in the distant sound of the shower and the boiling water beneath him. 

The steam on his face felt wonderful, and the smell of tea leaves was aromatherapy of the most relieving kind. Fabian was allergic to perfumes, flowers, and scented products, so it was the closest Sirius could get. At least until the wisteria and sweet pea bloomed in the garden, but spring was too far off to count on. 

Two sugars and a splash of milk for both of them, and Sirius made his way to their bedroom. Setting the two cups and saucers on the bedside table, he changed into fresh clothes, ran his fingers through his frizzy curls, and pinched some color back into his cheeks. He looked sick. Pale skin, a touch gray—like everything else—silver eyes matte, and raven locks lack-luster. His shoulders were narrow and his shirt hung off of him in a way it hadn’t six months prior. His reflection mirrored a shell of himself that he wouldn’t have recognized a year ago. 

Fabian strolled into the room with only a towel around his hips, drops of water slipping down his chest and across his abs. 

“You’ve been working out,” Sirius noted. 

“Here and there,” Fabian said with a smirk, dropping the towel altogether. “Like what you see?” 

Sirius forced a laugh. “Of course I do. You look good.” 

There was a moment he thought Fabian would come close, kiss him, maybe even touch him, but he didn’t. He was probably tired from traveling all the way from Morocco where the movie was filmed. Sirius watched him dress with the phantom of want twisting in his empty stomach. 

“Thanks for tea,” he said once he was in sweats and one of Sirius’s 2017 tour crewnecks. “Let’s put something on.”

Not another rerun, for the love of God, Sirius thought as he wordlessly followed him down the hall and into the TV room. Once they’d settled beneath a thick blanket with Fabian’s legs thrown across Sirius’s lap and The Godfather on for the thousandth time in their five year relationship, he felt himself defrost. 

An unassuming silence stretched between them as the film played. Sirius hardly saw anything, glancing between Fabian’s profile and the loose thread of his sweater he was rolling between his thumb and forefinger.

“Hey,” Fabian said, tapping on his chin. “What’s wrong?”

Everything and nothing came to mind. 

“Just miss you,” Sirius said quietly with a small shrug.

“I’m right here,” he replied with a hollow smile, kissing Sirius’s cheek and returning his attention back to the screen. 

So close but so, so far in the ways that counted. 

The movie played out in dissociated flashes in front of Sirius’s eyes, and before he knew it, the credits rolled. 

“What’s for dinner?” Fabian asked as he turned off the TV. 

“Um—” So much for him cooking. “I thought maybe Chinese?”

Fabian hummed in assent before standing and leaving the room without a word. Sirius sighed, heart clenching as Fabian slipped out of sight. He sat alone for several minutes, wondering if Fabian would notice he hadn’t immediately followed. If he did, he didn’t come looking. 

The Chinese menu was open on the kitchen island when he stepped into the sterile space. The stainless steel countertops gleamed under the LEDs. Sirius squinted in the harsh light. 

“I went ahead and ordered. You wanted the wantons, right?”

Sirius sighed. “I don’t eat pork.”

Fabian looked up from his phone with furrowed brows. “Since when?”

Tears pricked in the corner of Sirius’s eyes, but he managed to keep them at bay. “I’ve been a pescitarian for two years, remember?” 

“Oh, right,” Fabian said with a sheepish smile before returning to whatever he was doing on his phone. “That’s why we eat fish all the bloody time.” 

When the food came, Sirius fixed their plates—rice and veg only for him, not that he had an appetite anyway—and set the table. They ate in silence, only the sound of forks scraping filled the large dining room. 

“That’s all you’re going to eat?” Fabian asked disapprovingly when he finished. 

Sirius’s plate was half eaten at best, but his stomach was too full of knots to eat more.

“Maybe if you had asked me what I wanted, I would have eaten more,” he snapped, regretting it instantly when Fabian flinched. 

Here we go…

“Can’t you let me relax for one fucking evening before you start with all of… that?”

He felt his jaw clench and his restraint thin. “All of what, Fabian?” 

The vein in Fabian’s temple jumped. “Bitching. All of that bitching.” 

Rage bubbled up in Sirius’s chest, vitriol in shades burning red. Shoving his chair back from the table, he fled the room without another word. Fury was a weapon he knew how to wield all too well, and he wasn’t willing to sacrifice such a powerful emotion on Fabian. Not when it was a losing argument. Not when it was fleeting. Not when he could put it where he needed most. 

Fabian would show up eventually, drop to his knees in front of Sirius, and apologize with watery words soon enough anyway.

Escaping to the den, he slapped the door shut behind him, locked the door, and pressed his face into the padded, sound-proof walls and screamed. Once his throat was raw and the cavernous space in his chest was empty again, Sirius picked up his guitar and did what he did best. 

He wrote the first song he’d written in months—a last chance anthem, a plea.

Stop, you’re losing me. 

Chapter Text

May.

“How long will you be gone?” 

“Just three days,” Sirius said, carefully packing his suit into a garment bag. It would wrinkle regardless, but you don’t just manhandle a five-thousand dollar custom suit for the sake of making it to the jet on time, no matter how much fuel it burns. 

Fabian grumbled something under his breath, but Sirius ignored it. If he had something to say, he should say it with his chest. 

“I still don’t understand why you agreed to it,” Fabian said finally as Sirius zipped up his suitcase full of perfectly polished dress shoes, diamond cufflinks, and a blissful supply of light layers.

Sirius snorted. “Performing at the award show I’m being honored at? It’s not rocket science, Fab.” 

He was stopped from going into the bathroom by a firm hand to the center of his chest. Fabian’s square jaw covered with two days of stubble flexed. “Stop with the sarcasm. We’re having a conversation.”

“No, you’re having a conversation, I’m getting a lecture,” Sirius said firmly, ducking beneath Fabian’s arm to start packing his toiletries. “You leave for weeks at a time, and I’m not allowed to complain, but I leave for three days and suddenly its a problem?” 

“Jesus Fucking Christ. How many times do we have to have this conversation?” Fabian huffed, nostrils flaring. “It’s for work, Sirius.”

Sirius turned on him, gesturing wildly. “So is this!” 

“No, what this is is just an excuse for you to run off to New York City with your hoity-toity friends and demean yourself in front of thousands of people to sell records.”

“That’s my job, Fabian,” Sirius hissed, fists balled by his side. “I’m an artist, in case you’ve fucking forgotten. I know it mortifies you that I have a public persona to uphold, but this is who I am!” 

Fabian crowded him in the large bathroom, and Sirius froze—wouldn’t dare move when he was in this state. He’d never hit him, but the threat… well, it was there. Sirius knew a thing or two about what premeditated rage looked like. 

Taking Sirius by the shoulders, he spun him so he was forced to look in the reflection. Fabian took him roughly by the jaw. 

“This is who you are, Sirius. A normal person, just like everyone else.”

Sirius didn’t look normal, he looked small. Not just because Fabian had a good six inches on him, or that his shoulders were far more broad, but because Sirius was lifeless in the reflection. His gray eyes were wide, his lips were bitten and trembling, and his chest was concave. God, he looked pathetic with the heel of Fabian’s hand to his neck. 

He didn’t recognize himself at all. 

“Let go of me,” he said evenly, holding Fabian’s stare in the mirror. 

Fabian tightened his grip momentarily before storming out of the bathroom. As soon as he was out of sight, Sirius gasped and leaned heavily on the counter. He needed to get out of there. 

He needed to get to New York now. Before it was too late.

Once he’d hastily put the last of what he needed into a bag, he sped through the house with his luggage in tow. He didn’t care if he didn’t say goodbye, he just needed to leave. Get some space, some fresh air. A new perspective on the situation so he’d know how to deal with whatever the fuck had just happened. 

Right before he turned the corner, he caught Fabian’s red locks in his periphery, camped in a chair with a tall glass of whiskey in the foyer. 

“You could have come,” Sirius said. “It was your choice to stay.”

When Fabian didn’t respond and chose his liquor instead, Sirius stormed through the front door where the chauffeur was waiting. 

“See you in three days, love,” he sneered as the doors clatter shut behind him. 

His driver Peter gave him a sympathetic look, and Sirius wanted to die. As if he didn’t look pitiful enough. 

He pretended he wasn’t crying the entire way to the airport, head resting on the window, looking up at the heavy blanket of gray he would soon be above. By the time they pulled up to the tarmac, the jet was looking a lot like a getaway car. Wiping his eyes, he put on his shades and thanked Peter when he opened his door. 

“Mr. Black,” Frank, his pilot, said in greeting with a firm handshake as soon as he was on board. 

“Good to see you, mate.”

As soon as Sirius was in his seat, the plane pushed back. Thank god. He and London needed some time apart. Hopefully the distance would make his heart grow fonder.

Transatlantic flights were well-charted and familiar, so he knew exactly how much sleep he could get. Like a lullaby, the sound of the engines and the rocking of the wings put him straight out. Flashes of Fabian’s hands and turbulent blue eyes morphed into delicate fingers and amber pools in his dreams, blending with haunting chords of a song he only allowed himself to play in his subconscious ruminations. 

Sirius’s eyes flew open when the plane touched down. He must have been exhausted. It was the most restful sleep he’d had in who knows how long.  

Out of the window on his right was the skyline he would draw on the bedroom ceiling the nights he couldn’t sleep. The sun broke through the clouds, shining down on the island, and Sirius smiled. It was nothing short of a warm welcome to the city that always managed to feel like it was waiting for him, right where he left it. 

The thing about New York was that there were people, well, everywhere. Even adjacent to the tarmac designated for private jets. Sirius descended the stairs from the plane to unexpected cheers. A small group of airport employees were buzzing with excitement near the terminal. His heart clenched as he stopped to wave. 

Being perceived shouldn’t be a foreign concept for the ‘most awarded artist of all time’, but he’d spent the majority of the last two years isolated at their London house. Outside of appearances for events, he hadn’t interacted with the fans nearly as much as he’d liked. 

The truth was he missed them, and he missed who he was when he was with them. He tried to explain it once to Fabian, but was quickly dismissed as being egotistical.

The fans never made him feel that way, and Sirius didn’t, really… except when Fabian got in his head. 

For the moment, though, he was Sirius Black again. It was an adjustment to step into his public persona, but one he was happy to make. He smiled the entire way to the Upper West Side. 

As soon as the car pulled up to the brownstone, Sirius was out of the sedan and hurried through the front door. The last thing he needed was for the paparazzi to show up to their family home. 

The squeak of his boots echoed in the large foyer as the door clattered shut behind him. The house looked exactly the same as it always had, with gleaming marble floors and ornate woodwork original to the home. Thankfully, the omen of oppression it had when their beloved parents were alive was absent. The three story staircase looping the height of the house stood magnificently to his right, and the statuesque parlor sat to his left. The kitchen and dining room down were the hall, as well as the living space and back garden. It was warm and charming and absolutely nothing like his home in London. 

“Padfoot!” 

James came bounding down the stairs at warp speed, crashing into Sirius full force with a hug that would crush him if he weren’t used to it. 

“Prongsies!” He cried, squeezing his best friend with all his strength.

“So bloody glad you’re here,” he said with a grin that radiated sunshine. “It’s been too long.”

“I missed you,” Sirius gushed, near tears. “I missed New York. I missed everything.”

James squeezed his hand. “My vote is for you to move in and never leave again.” 

“I vote nay—“ Regulus said, following down the stairs after his husband. “Lovingly.”

“I fear you’ve been out voted. I’m moving in next week,” Sirius smiled, tugging his baby brother into his arms. 

After more watery exchanges, Sirius made his way up the stairs. His childhood bedroom was objectively unchanged, but felt different—homey—now that it belonged to his brother and best friend. Dropping his bags on the bed, he was just about to text Fabian that he’d arrived when a call came through.

“Hi Marlene,” he said with a grin.

“I’m gonna kill the driver,” she hissed, the sound of horns blaring on the street in the background. “He told me he’d call the second he dropped you off.”

Sirius laughed. “You have things timed to the second, do you?”

“I’ve only got you for two days when you factor in flights and transportation, so yes. I wouldn’t be a good manager otherwise.”

“Can I shower or do you have plans for me in the next ten minutes?”

Marlene didn’t play into his sarcasm. “I’ll be there in 30 to pick you up for your round table interview, so wear something fabulous. After that, you’ve got the rehearsal for the performance, and then the party.”

“The party?”

Fuck. He hadn’t banked enough social energy for that. 

“Didn’t I tell you about that?”

Sirius scoffed. “You absolutely did not.”

“Well, suck it up. All the nominees are gonna be there, and I’ll be damned if you’re not in attendance.”

Well, that was that. There was no arguing with the woman. Marlene was the best manager in the business, and also the biggest pain in his ass. At least he got what he paid her all seven figures for. 

“I don’t think I packed anything for that,” he admitted, unzipping his bag speculatively.

“Dorcas will be there in five with options. I figured I wouldn’t like what you brought.”

Probably not. He owned a lot of gray and sweaters nowadays. That’s what happens when the only inspiration to be found was London weather and his melancholy spirit. 

“In that case, I need a cappuccino and a joint by the time I’m out of the shower.”

“Roger that. Caffeine can be arranged, but the joint has to wait until after rehearsal.”

“Whatever you say.”

Fabian never let him smoke, so what was a few more hours?

“Okay, get to it, mister. The world, according to me, waits for no one. Even your posh ass.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

“Hanging up now,” Sirius said.

“One more thing,” Marlene interrupted. A shouting man in the background told her to watch where she was walking. 

“Hm?”

“Can’t wait to see you.”

Sirius grinned. “See you in—“

“—27 minutes.”

“Roger that.”

Sirius was out of the shower and ready to be dressed in exactly ten minutes. It felt nice to be on a schedule again, though he wouldn’t dare admit that to Marlene. Autonomy was so monotonous sometimes. 

He could hear the echo of voices in the entryway and the sound of several pairs of shoes making their way up the stairs. Right on cue, there was a knock on his bedroom door. Dorcas was eternally punctual.

“Come in.”

Dorcas’s smile disappeared when he looked at Sirius. “What happened to you? You’re skin and bones!” 

“Good to see you, too, Dorks,” he muttered, watching her direct her assistants to set up his “dressing room” in the guest suite next door. 

Dorcas was a personal shopper on steroids, hired and then promptly seduced and married by Marlene. The woman knew clothes, which was convenient, because they looked amazing on her. Before becoming a stylist, she was a literal supermodel. She was ethereal with her dark skin and eyes, braids down to her ass, and features so symmetrical it was almost uncanny. Sirius was gayer than gay, but he couldn’t blame Marlene for locking her down.

“I’ll have to use all my tricks to get these clothes to fit you properly, but I’ll manage,” she continued, appraising him.

“Are you going to hug me before you dissect my physique further?”

“I can multitask,” she said with a smirk.

“You’re a very talented woman,” he laughed, wrapping her in his arms.

“Now that that’s out of the way—let me work my magic.”

Ten minutes later he was dressed in a pair of blue velvet bell-bottoms with a off-white silk button down undone to the sternum, leaving his tattoos on full display. He had been bullied into a pair of heeled cognac boots with a matching belt and was decked out in a plethora of gold jewelry that hung from his ears and neck. Dorcas was currently holding his hand hostage, stuffing different rings onto his fingers, while her assistant blew out his hair. 

It was oddly relaxing, despite it bordering on intrusive. 

“Oh, he’s perfect!” Marlene proclaimed as she paraded into the room. Her shaggy, chin length bleach-blond hair was standing on end from the wind. “Thank you, baby.”

She kissed her wife on the temple before waving off the hair stylist. “His hair is bouncy enough, we don’t need him looking like a pageant queen.” 

“Marls,” he grinned, accepting her kisses to either cheek. “I’m so happy to see you.”

She smirked and pushed a stand of hair into place. “And I’m happy to see you… looking exactly how I wanted.”

“I dare say you did it again,” he said as he eyed himself appreciatively in the mirror. He almost looked like himself again. 

“Almost,” she said, finishing a black coal liner from her purse. “You know what to do.” 

And he did. Outlining his eyes in his signature smudge, he grinned at his reflection. There. Long gone was the trembling version of himself that had been held hostage in the mirror only hours ago. 

He was Sirius Fucking Black, and it was about time everyone remembered it.