Chapter Text
March 15th, 1981
Leeds was bearing the brunt of the fading winter, windswept and gloomy even in mid-March. Remus blinked up at the overcast sky as he stumbled out of the tour bus. Mary had her arm wrapped around his bicep, giggling and squinting into the early evening.
“Call me when you’re in town again.” She pressed a wet kiss to his cheek.
Remus nodded mutely and fished his cigarettes out of his back pocket, watching as Mary trotted away, hips swinging. His t-shirt stuck to his back with sweat despite the cold, blood rushed to his cheeks and his hands were clammy. James was leaning against the accompanying tour bus, trading barbs with Gideon.
“Alright?” James asked. Remus waved him off.
“Listen to this,” Frank called as he clambered aboard the bus.
Frank strummed his guitar, his ministrations released a smattering of rough chords.
“Enough, mate.” Remus grimaced and swiped the guitar from his grasp. “Lucky we don’t pay you to write.”
Frank scowled, all red-rimmed eyes. Three neat strips of blow stared up at Remus from the coffee table. Remus grinned and bent over to snort them languidly, batting away Frank’s half-hearted attempts to stop him. He swiped at his nose and leaned back against the upholstery, staring up the ceiling and strumming the borrowed guitar.
That night Remus thumbed at his frayed guitar strap, heart in his throat. James screamed something unintelligible in his ear before he rushed off, hair blue-black under the stage lights. Remus meandered onto the stage after him, approaching the microphone and smiling sweetly at the crowd.
“We’re The Six,” Remus said lowly.
His words were greeted by screeching and a slew of inappropriate suggestions. He laughed and swept a hand towards the rest of the band. His movements felt sluggish as if wading through water.
James nodded encouragingly from the drum set, waving his drumsticks wildly, and Dorcas gave the two-fingered salute, dark skin shimmering with glitter. Gideon covered his microphone to mock Frank, slapping him upside the head good naturedly. Marlene leaned towards the crowd, trying to coax them into a frenzy, bangles clinking together as she swayed. Remus shook his head at their antics and the microphone caught the tail end of his laugh. He launched into the first number of their set.
He sang but he couldn’t feel his lips.
–
Remus ran through his usual opening spiel, generic pleasantries falling from his lips without a second thought. He was running his mouth off a bit, cobbling together anecdotes from the tour with filthy jokes. The crowd hardly minded, meeting every pause with a wall of screams and laughing even when the joke wasn't funny. James, brow furrowed, fidgeted in his seat.
Remus smiled blithely at the crowd, eyes unfocused.
Midway through the chorus of 'Evangelist' Frank missed a cue and Remus laughed into the microphone, losing the thread of the song. James white-knuckled his drumsticks and Dorcas cursed sharply under her breath.
Marlene saved them with a bass line and a bubble gum smack get it together boys . Remus felt the pinprick of James’ gaze as he snickered and rearranged his fingers against the chords.
After the set James pressed a water bottle into his palm.
“Remus,” James hissed in warning.
“Relax, Jamie,” Remus murmured even as he obediently drank from the bottle, throat suddenly tight with thirst. James shook his head but left Remus backstage. Marlene saddled up to him, stealing the cigarette from his fingertips.
“He just worries. We all do.” Marlene took a long drag and avoided his eyes, to lessen the accusation no doubt.
“I’m fine, Marls. I just need something to take the edge off, you know how I get.” Remus shrugged. “Nerves and all.”
Marlene gave a noncommittal hum. She didn’t believe him.
“Don’t fuck this up for us.” She clapped him on the shoulder and pushed away from the wall, flagging down Gideon, who already had a bottle of tequila in his hands.
Remus nodded sagely, taking a heavy gulp from the water bottle and groping around in his pockets. He grinned when his hand found purchase on the plastic baggy, for his nerves and all that rot.
–
The tour bus was a disjointed mess of colours. Someone had their hand on Remus' thigh, warm, steady, violating. His head lolled against the couch and he felt the heady sensation of a warm mouth on his.
Later, when the sky was a smoldering red and the vibrancy had been leached from his surroundings, he escaped outside with his guitar. Someone had left lawn chairs on the asphalt, bottles strewn underfoot. Remus picked up a half-full bottle of rum and sipped it idly, uncaring who it may have belonged to.
Remus began with 'Evangelist' the way he should have played it that night. It sounded too soft without the others, too much like Remus had felt writing it. He played 'Needling' next, a song he had written with James while practically still in their graduation gowns.
Remus looked up. James was exiting the tour bus he shared with Frank and Gideon. He looked far off, preoccupied, probably with thoughts of Lily. Remus snorted derisively as he watched James blink back into focus. Sometime after sixth form, James’ seduction tactics had become so embarrassing Lily had taken pity on him, a one-time date offer contingent on him keeping his hands to himself. They had been together ever since.
Lily was an upright kind of girl, she went to university in Manchester and only drank on weekends. She had attended their sixth form and spent years turning her nose up at their antics, though the mild-mannered ones occasionally got a begrudging smile. Remus and her had been friends first, before even James had become infatuated with her. Now, well, Lily didn’t really approve of the sort of antics Remus was prone to while on the road.
James meandered over cautiously, eyeing the bottle in Remus’ hand. Remus handed it to him and James took a long pull, keeping a firm grip on it. Remus smothered an eye roll, he could get his hands on worse things within spitting distance.
“Anything new?” James asked as he took the seat beside Remus, nodding towards the guitar.
Remus raised a brow.
“You know if you–” James waved at him vaguely. Cleaned up. Stayed sober. Got your fucking shit together .
“Welcome to rock’n roll,” Remus drawled but there was a touch of knowing self-deprecation to it.
James scrutinized him. Growing up together, on the outskirts of Oxfordshire, had given James an unfair advantage when it came to Remus’ tells. This was something Remus was regretting more and more recently. He ducked his head to fiddle with the chords.
Remus’ mother taught secondary and had always impressed on him the power of words. She had meant to instill an appreciation for literary classics but Remus had always appreciated words more when they were accompanied by music. Remus had been destined for a life of amber tea and tweed. Yet here he was, drinking discarded liquor, body twinging with comedown aches and a handful of notes with no words on the tip of his tongue.
“Remus, what about–”
Remus hummed softly, plucking at the strings absentmindedly. James scrubbed a hand over his face, mouth pinched in frustration.
_
Remus was flushed with laughter as James regaled the room with stories of them growing up in Henley-on-Thames. It wasn’t something they dwelled on if they could help it, their shared childhood. The last few years had been a desperate scramble to make themselves known in London, shedding their small town upbringing for bigger things. Better things , Remus thought guiltily.
James spoke of their youthful indiscretions as if they were great misadventures instead of the byproduct of restless boredom and small-town life. Though they had grown up together, James had been set to inherit a three-tiered cream-coloured estate and Remus had been set to inherit his cousin Connor’s bike, if he was lucky.
Back then, James would beg Remus to skive off class to loiter behind the grocers, where they would light up cigarettes, fingers shaking, and cough around lungfuls of smoke. James would tap a staccato rhythm on the brick and Remus would hum under his breath. They liked to pretend they would soon rule the world. Well, Remus pretended and James planned.
“This nun was a right cunt too,” James said around a cigarette, nodding as someone passed him a light.
Remus knew where this story was heading now. He remembered that afternoon vividly. James’ feet swinging over the Thames, watching the boats go by as he ate a packet of crisps, feeding the ducks absentmindedly. Remus pacing furiously behind him, righteous indignation at having his interpretation of The Great Gatsby dismissed.
“Moony here, you wouldn’t believe it, but this man was a prefect.” James slung an arm across his shoulders.
Remus gave the group a lazy smile. James was choosing to omit that he himself happened to be Head Boy. Remus had failed to achieve that honour on account of his flagrant disregard for the school dress code and an inability to bestow teachers with the respect they were allegedly due. It was mild-mannered disobedience at best but it was enough to earn the ire of the more stringent teachers.
“Anyway, Moony gets it into his head that she doesn’t deserve to teach English lit.”
Several people turned half-lidded inquisitive stares towards Remus, who hoped the alcohol hid his flushed face. Only three years had passed since Remus had slipped a coffee stained copy of The Count of Monte Cristo into a duffle bag and set off for London, James at his elbow. He could hardly even remember a time when he would have been capable of mustering up that kind of indignation over schoolyard plights.
“So we sneak into her garden after dark and we–” James started laughing uproariously.
Gideon, who had also grown up in Henley, rolled his eyes. He had already heard this one. Dorcas wandered off, not even bothering to feign interest. She picked her way through the assembled guests in search of that distasteful peppermint schnapps she liked. The rest of the room was losing interest, bleary eyes searching for some other form of entertainment. James hardly noticed, too preoccupied with trying to get a handle on his laughter.
“We trimmed her hedges in the shape of a knob.” James finally got out between guffaws. Frank raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.
Remus and James shared a conspiratorial look. They had spray painted it bright green too, like the light at the end of the dock. Or in this case the knob at the end of the garden.
James leaned forward. “Her yappy dog bit Remus so hard he had to get stitches.”
This received a smattering of laughter.
“It was three stitches,” Remus grumbled.
“The thing tore your trousers right off.” James laughed loudly, wiping tears from his eyes.
Remus groaned and covered his face with his hands. “I had to run ten blocks in my pants.”
“Bit shy back then, Remus dear?” Marlene drawled, ruffling his hair. Remus scowled and batted her hands away.
“Wish he still was,” Dorcas added, taking a hearty sip from the newly acquired peppermint schnapps.
“Fuck off.” Remus took a drag from a joint to hide his flush.
–
Remus swiftly peeled off his t-shirt and ran his hands through his fringe, which was glued to his forehead with sweat. He left the cacophony of desperate yells and cheers behind as he wove backstage. Remus used the t-shirt to dab at his brow, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.
Gideon walked out from a nearby dressing room and grabbed his forearm. “Room 213.”
Remus nodded in acknowledgment, gaze focused on the blurred exit sign. He stumbled outside and took great gulps of air, unease crawling up his spine. His skin prickled but he didn’t feel the cold. He leaned against the brick and lit up a cigarette, hands shaking and nose running.
Remus blinked and suddenly he was staring up at the hotel. He glanced behind him, wondering how he had managed to navigate eight blocks of downtown Birmingham when all he could focus on was the thrumming of his own heartbeat.
Remus rode the lift with a gaggle of girls and had to push past them to stumble onto the second floor. He didn’t bother knocking, pushing his way into the room to find Gideon sprawled shirtless on the still made bed. Remus grinned before reaching for him, hands frantically seeking warmth.
After Remus opened every window and chain-smoked into the smudged skyline he thought about the last time he went back to Henley-on-Thames. He thought of his childhood home, the sloped roof and teetering fence, the weeds curling around the cobbled walkway. He thought of being fourteen and invincible, believing that happiness could be found in the weight of a guitar.
He wondered when that stopped being enough. Was it on that train to London? White knuckling his duffle bag and hungry for success. Or maybe it was that first show at the Windmill? When the crowd had pressed close to the stage, eager for more, for anything they would give them.
Early morning light bathed Gideon’s prone form in pink hues. Remus’ throat tightened with guilt. He opened the minibar and uncapped a bite-sized bottle of vodka.
–
Remus threaded his hands through auburn hair, biting back a moan. He scrunched his brow in confusion when Dorcas’ voice rose from outside the tour bus. Remus blearily opened his eyes, just long enough to see a flash of pink hair as the door slammed shut abruptly.
“Fuck,” Remus cursed.
“Yah, you like that?” The girl on her knees murmured as she took a breath, looking up through her lashes.
“Get out,” Remus snapped, hastily pulling up his trousers. He frantically slid his t-shirt over his head and threaded his hands through his hair, trying to make it lay flat. Marlene and Dorcas studiously avoided his gaze as he exited the bus, sharing a cigarette and casting troubled looks over his shoulder.
Dora stood a few feet from the tour bus. Her hands were balled into fists, chipped purple nail polish digging into flesh. She stared at him unwaveringly, tears spilling over her cheeks. She made no move to wipe at them, instead, she jutted her lip out stubbornly, prepared to ignore his excuses.
“You have until the twelfth of July.” Dora’s breath hitched and she pressed a palm to her mouth to stifle a sob.
Remus’ eyes darted to the swell of her stomach, partially exposed by a too-small Sex Pistols t-shirt.
“The drugs, the–” Dora broke off, looking away from Remus. “–after that, you clean up.”
Dora cradled a hand over her growing stomach. A hot flush of shame licked its way up Remus’ face, having nothing to do with the erratic drug-fueled thump of his heart. He nodded even as his head began to pound.
Remus took a step towards her but Dora threw up a hand. “Don’t.”
“Please, just–” Dora choked out. “Don’t.”
Dora lowered her eyes and turned her back to him, shoulders slumped. Marlene and Dorcas surrounded her quickly, ushering her away. Remus made quick work of the few feet back to the tour bus, locking the door behind him. His skin felt tight, chest too small for his lungs.
The door splintered open and James strode inside, stepping over the empty bottle of vodka with a wince. Remus peered up at James through half-lidded eyes, smiling serenely as he curled his fists into the carpet. James laid down beside him, frowning at him solemnly.
–
Remus beamed at the crowd, at the mass of dark writhing bodies. He squinted as the glare of the floodlights glinted off of James’ cymbals. He licked the sweat off his upper lip and smeared his clammy hands on his jeans. The chords slipped clumsily beneath his fingers.
It had been three nights since Dora left, three nights of blissful rapture and fumbling hands in which Remus could not be made to remember his own name, never mind their conversation. His bandmates had begun to whisper behind his back. Dora’s ultimatum became their mantra, the date whispered between sets like a prayer.
Marlene averted her eyes when Remus pulled aside the petite stage tech and Frank swallowed audibly when he told Remus he was out of blow. Even Gideon avoided his gaze, brushing off wandering hands with a guilty furrow of his brow.
Remus could not be made to care.
Two days later Frank found him curled up on the floor of the hotel bathroom, afterparty winding down in the other room, with a needle lodged in his arm. When Remus woke up Dorcas had his head cradled in her lap, cloth dabbing at his sticky forehead. The rest of the band was scattered around him, strewn across the hotel room in various uncomfortable positions, tense and waiting.
Remus gave them a lopsided grin. “Who died?”
James cursed and Remus heard the hotel room door click shut behind him. He closed his eyes, body aching and demanding sleep.
“He’s not going to make it to the twelfth of July,” Gideon hissed none too quietly.
–
Not even a week later Remus woke with dark spots in his vision, breath rasping out of him painfully. He bunched his fists, scratchy sheets threaded between his knuckles, and craned his neck towards the window. James was slumped at his bedside, head in his hands.
“What happened?” Remus croaked.
James startled, looking up at Remus. His eyes were puffy, face pale under the fluorescents.
“What do you think?” James’ voice was lined with exhaustion.
Remus stared up at the ceiling to avoid looking at the IV threaded into his forearm, reddened pinpricks glaring up accusingly from freckled skin.
–
Remus shouted into the microphone, drawing on the desperate surge of bodies pressing against the stage. He strutted backwards, strumming his guitar and sharing an elated smile with Marlene to his left. They came off stage in a tumble of bodies, eager for the soothing din of backstage chaos. Remus' ears were still ringing, his heartbeat erratic and his mouth dry. Frank and Gideon stayed on stage, attempting to rouse the crowd one last time, screaming obscenities and encouragements in equal measure.
“The baby’s coming,” James shouted in his ear.
Remus sputtered and stopped, staring unseeingly at James. The rest of the band was thrown into a hushed silence, eyes shifting uneasily to Remus. Frank and Gideon galloped off stage, snickering and rowdy, and skidded to a stop at seeing the others tight with alarm.
“What?” Remus breathed.
“Tonks is in labour,” James reiterated, gripping his forearm hard, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to jolt him.
“Jamie,” Remus pleaded. “I can’t.”
James’ expression tightened, his smile souring quickly.
“For fuck’s sake–” James bit out, pulling away from him abruptly.
“I’m high,” Remus blurted out, gesturing to himself as if it weren’t obvious. “I’m high as fuck. I can’t see my kid like this. I can’t–”
James' frown softened into concern. Remus was gasping, pressing a palm to his sternum to steady his breathing.
“Okay,” James said calmly, placing a heavy hand on Remus’ shoulder and steering him away from the others. “You’re okay.”
Remus took in large pulling gasps. His skin felt too tight, too hot.
“Fuck.” Remus was shaking with the enormity of this moment.
James’ gaze remained steadfast.
“I need to get clean. I can’t see the kid until I’m clean,” Remus blathered, frantically combing his hands through his hair. “Promise me, Jamie. You have to make sure I–”
Remus pressed a fist to his mouth. Dora was having his baby. Alone. He was two hundred miles away, thrumming with cocaine and uppers and whiskey. Shame crawled its way up his throat, threatening to choke him. He turned to James, clutched at him madly, desperation warring with fear.
“I can’t do it. I can’t go to them until I’m clean.”
–
Sirius woke up disgruntled, hair tousled and last night’s eyeliner still smudged under his eyes. Rodolphus was snoring softly next to him. Sirius glared at the duvet bunched around the man’s waist. Bloody music producers can never let you have anything , Sirius grumbled inwardly.
Sirius stumbled towards the kitchen intent on a cup of coffee. It was already early evening, the muted glow of London’s skyline visible from the flat’s narrow windows. He poured himself a cup, using up the rest of the coffee roast just to spite Rodolphus. Sirius grimaced at the cigarettes littering the counter, the turned-over glasses, and sticky puddles under the island.
Sirius dressed hastily, paying Rodolphus no mind as he banged open drawers and crawled under the bed for his rattiest pair of jeans. Some combination of pills had collected among his keys and Sirius popped two before shutting the front door behind him. London wafted over him, piss and taunts and brick. He grinned as he hefted his guitar case higher. He would never get sick of this. The grit of early evenings, the push of eager pedestrians, and the unrelenting fog which snaked between every building.
Sirius grew up on goose eggs, three hundred count Egyptian cotton sheets, and Bach. Sirius’ parents, bless their cold unbeating hearts, lived not twenty minutes from him. He had not seen them in four years, not since he’d come home with black ink marring his upper arm and a joint between his lips. Not since he’d confessed his sexuality like a sin.
At fourteen Sirius had already been beautiful, with unruly dark tresses framing a face still rounded with youth. A face that had beguiled men far too old and charmed bouncers into letting him into clubs well before his time. It had allowed him to crash on couches and behind bars, in stockrooms and in unknown flats.
At fourteen Sirius had already learned all the ways in which a pretty face was useful and all the ways it was not. He’d already learned of the trouble that could be found in the groping, searching hands of an unruly paramour. The trouble in the cloying breath of whispered pleasantries, promises of riches which never came to fruition. The unspoken, but always expected, reward for helping the downtrodden.
By fifteen Sirius had known every back entrance to every music venue London had to offer. He knew what drinks to order and which bands would let you sit backstage if you agreed to help with the equipment. He knew what labels were searching and which producers were on a lucky streak. By sixteen Sirius had experienced every type of high, synthetic or otherwise. By seventeen Sirius had flitted from lead singers to drummers, to washed-up managers and dealers. Very little mattered to Sirius apart from having a good time and no one was more fun than someone trying to navigate the London music scene.
Sirius darted under The Hog’s Head awning, combing the water out of his hair and pushing the door open. The bar was modestly packed, young patrons flitting from table to table and chatting idly with one another. The bar wasn’t much of anything, the tables teetered and the top-shelf liquor bottles were watered down. It was nostalgia that kept him coming back time and time again. This was the bar in which Sirius had first been discovered.
There was a group of girls near the front who pressed closer when they saw Sirius. Sirius flashed them his aristocrat’s smile, two parts cockiness and one part boredom. The prettiest of them, a dishwater blonde, uncrossed her legs suggestively. Sirius muffled a snort.
Aberforth scowled and nodded for Sirius to take the stage. That was all the invitation that Sirius needed. Whatever kept him coming back it certainly wasn’t Aberforth’s cheery demeanor.
After, when Sirius’ voice was roughened and his curls were plastered to the back of his neck, he bounded off the stage and motioned for Aberforth to pour him a drink.
“Sirius Black?” A portly man with sandy brown hair asked as he sidled up to Sirius.
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “That’s me.”
“You’re talented.” The man offered as he ordered a whiskey. “Too good for dive bars like this.”
Sirius smiled politely, eyeing the man carefully. At first glance, he looked far too old for this type of establishment, with a rumpled suit and thinning hair gelled back with some type of expensive pomade. Upon closer inspection though, it would seem the man was only a few years older than Sirius and simply appeared as if he was an accountant in the grips of a midlife crisis.
“I have a record out,” Sirius admitted. It was not the record he had wanted to make but it was a record nonetheless.
“I know.” The man sipped his whiskey with a grimace, staring at the glass in his hand with a frown.
“Peter Pettigrew.” He slicked back a meager outcropping of hair. “I represent The Six.”
Sirius raised his eyebrows, good band. They had crashed into fame last year with a single, something with bleak religious connotations. From what Sirius could remember they had been torn out of complete oblivion by Phoenix Records, school chums turned rockstars. Sirius had never seen them live, which was a rarity for him, especially given their shared label.
Last he heard their tour had been abruptly cut short by the lead singer's stint in rehab. The local tabloids had been rabid with the story, splashing the poor man’s face across every newsstand for weeks. Sirius wracked his brain for any other information about the band.
“We’re looking for some help on an upcoming single,” Pettigrew said.
Sirius tried to mask his surprise. The Six was already an eclectic mix of musicians, uncreatively named after the amount of members in their band and infamous for having too many guitarists to their name. Regardless, Sirius admired the sultry and gritty undertones of their album. He wasn’t the only one. That album had successfully launched six kids to stardom, or at least to impressive heights of popularity among London’s prickly rock scene.
Pettigrew tilted his head. “Interested?”
Sirius grinned.