Chapter Text
Prologue
Bramley, Derbyshire - Present Day
It should have been easy, Sirius thought. He literally wrote words down for a living, and had done for a decade. But a book was different than a song, there was no hiding what he meant in clever little metaphor, it would be all out there, the story that started all of this.
This was pretty great however. His life.
They’d toured the world, played some amazing shows, met bands and artists they’d been in awe of their whole lives. But when their publicist had come up with the idea for this book, Sirius hadn’t been convinced. James and Lily had talked him into it eventually and Remus had just shrugged in his way and said, “Don’t make me look like a twat”. Which had made Sirius laugh, because Remus still called him a posh twat very regularly.
So now, he sat there in front of his brightly lit laptop screen trying to decide how to tell this story.
The whole idea had come about when they had been talking about their debut album turning ten. Sirius couldn’t believe so much time had passed, most of it still felt like yesterday. Their album, Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings , had been released when they were only a year out of school, nineteen and invincible. Nineteen and blindsided by fame and pressure. But that was a different story.
This one was about the build up, the stories, people, and decisions that had all culminated in their award winning album: the full bag, a Grammy, couple of Brit Awards, and lots of other national ones. Critics had said, and still say, that it defined a generation, and it was still held up by a lot of people as a bit of a breakthrough in rock music. All this stuff was very nice of course, but to Sirius, it was just a musical representation of their life at that time.
Their publicist thought it would be a good idea to release a companion book to go with the special anniversary edition they planned to put out. She wanted the stories of playing grotty clubs, those blurry nights and bleary mornings, how it all had felt, how the songs on that album related to it. And the inspiration behind those songs.
At least this meant that he could make Remus do some of the work, since a couple of the songs were his.
The rest of them, or the majority anyway, probably wouldn’t have existed without that cold January evening, nearly eleven years ago, the night that he had met Remus for the first time.
The View from the Afternoon
Sheffield, Yorkshire — January, 11 years ago
It always started in a gennel, the ten foot wide alley between the back of the club and the back of the shops in the next street over. Dirty cobbles, bins and bags and that rotting smell, sweet and unpleasant. At least that was one good thing about the winter, unloading the van wasn't as pungent as it was on a summer evening.
They weren’t even really supposed to have the van up the alley - they all had to climb out the boot to unload, because the doors couldn’t open against the brick buildings either side. But it was too far to the road to carry all their gear, and James loved the challenge of reversing up the lane because he was a mad thing.
James had sourced the van, his old man’s construction company had let them have one of their old ones. It was now spray-painted electric blue with a crude stencil of a stag's head on the side. Not the most original, but it served its purpose. Even if the paint was patchy and there were speckles all over the rear window because they’d forgotten to mask it.
They had got in loads of shit for nicking the spray cans from a job site; James had been working for his old man since they left school in the summer. Sirius had wondered at the time why the cans James had got had all been ones designed for spraying upside down. It was because they were for marking out foundations and other construction related tasks that Sirius had no idea about.
He didn’t have a huge amount of experience with spray cans in general, truth be told. A skill like that would have been unusual for an heir to the peerage, and spray paint technique certainly wasn’t on the curriculum at Harrow.
James had always known a bit more about the real world though. He’d got into Harrow on a rugby scholarship. His folks could afford the fees these days, but seven years ago, Mr Potter had only just started building his company up. He’d only had the one office, a few workers and a couple of apprentices. It had moved quickly though, and was very different these days, Potter Construction had built half the North.
Sirius was sure his own father would still call the Potters ‘Working Class’ though. Even if they probably had more actual money in the bank than the Blacks. The Blacks held the ancient Earldom of Hereford, and all the land and wankery that went with it.
It was something Sirius tried not to think about, he didn’t like the things his family stood for, and he didn’t like the way his father voted in the House of Lords. Most of all though, he didn’t like that the people up here, in Sheffield, could tell the moment he opened his mouth that he was his father’s son. Or at least, that he was the son of someone like his father.
He and James had been out of Harrow since the summer. In those six months, James’s carefully honed RP accent – something he’d learned quick sharp at Harrow to prevent the Upper Sixth’s from destroying him for being working class – was slowly retreating. Sirius on the other hand, found it impossible. Sometimes he felt like the folk up here didn’t even speak English. Although, they all understood him just fine. Understood him, and judged him, and rolled their eyes when his vowels were a bit too long. Christ, it wasn’t his fault he could pronounce the full complement of constants in the English language.
But none of that mattered right then, nothing (or nowt as James’s dad would say) would make their amps lighter as he lugged them from the back of the van. He put them next to the door to the club, on the other side from the bin bags and their smelly puddle, and went to help Lily with her drum kit. This club was good, they had a riser, and the basic set up, but because Lils was about the most high maintenance drummer in the fucking world, she had to bring her own hi-hats, cymbals and snare.
Lily wasn’t local either, they knew her from school, she’d spent two years at St Pauls in Hammersmith before being kicked out, (caught out selling pre-written essays to girls with full bank accounts and empty heads) Then, just by coincidence, James had shared a private music tutor with her, and when he and Sirius had decided to start their band, they needed a drummer, and she was about as mean and perfect as one could hope for.
Sirius was quite sure that James was in love with her, not that he’d ever admit it. And Sirius didn’t blame him if he was, because if a girl was ever going to turn his own head, it would be Lily Evans.
He was yet to find a girl to turn his head however. Hold his hand and make him laugh? Sure thing. Snog him senseless and tell him he was the poshest bloke they’d ever got off with? Easy. But none that gave him that feeling, the one you read about, the one all the poets wrote about – there was a lot of poet chat at Harrow. He’d read so many descriptions of the miraculous feeling that could inspire you or break you, make life worth living, or ending. But he’d never experienced it for himself.
Lily was right inside the van, half concealed behind the huge black case that held her drums for travel. Sirius could only see her big wind-up bouffant of auburn dreadlocks, and her chipped blue fingernails as she heaved the case toward him. Sirius caught it as it went over the lip of the back door, and helped her lower it to the ground.
“Where’s Potter got to?” She asked, still crouching inside the van, the rips in the knees of her jeans split open wide as she looked for something in one of the duffle bags next to the wheel arch.
Sirius tipped his head towards the door to the club in indication. James was inside, organising whatever it was that needed to be organised. Sirius’d shoved his hands in his pockets to protect them from the fucking freezing northern air whipping down the alley as he watched her pull her phone from the bag.
“No word from Pete?” He asked, knowing that Pete would never text him, it was always James, or maybe Lily.
Lily clucked her tongue, “I’m sure he’ll be here, he was getting back today right?”
Sirius nodded, Pete was their “manager” Sirius didn’t particularly like him, but he’d got them quite a few of their gigs during the summer. He knew the local clubs pretty well, and had a few good connections.
Lily still had her phone in hand and was tapping away, then she jumped from the back of the van and threw her arm around Sirius's waist, and held the phone up, camera facing them.
“Smile, dickhead.” she said, jabbing him in the side where her pointy fingers rested. “Your pretty face is the only reason we have any followers at all.”
Sirius did as he was told. The sun was low down the end of the gennel behind them, and his smile turned genuine when he saw the snap; Lily’s auburn dreads glowing like they were on fire, lit from behind. His own dark shaggy hair catching in the wind, it had grown out a bit from his regimented school haircut. It finally looked the part now, half hanging in his eyes, ficking out over the collar of his quited jacket. The jacket itself probably undid all his scruffy hair efforts, “Not very rock and roll” James and Lily told him every time he wore it, but it was warm, and Sheffield was the coldest fucking place Sirius had ever lived.
[ @gingersnap: the view from the afternoon. ]
Sirius watched over her shoulder as she shared the photo, deftly tapping in and out of all her different accounts. Adding the line:
[ Come see us at @thecauldron tonight – with @bluestagofficial, @AncientHouseofWank @PrinceoftheForest ]
Sirius grinned at his stupid handle. He probably needed to change that, or he would if they ever got famous anyway.
“Should be good tonight.” Lily said, her green eyes excited as she looked up at Sirius. The low sun hit her face and made the smattering of freckles across her nose stand out against her pale skin, the fridgid air had taken the last of her colour.
She tucked her phone into her front pocket, her hoodie was so big it hung past her bum, and her sleeves were rolled back. Sirius knew it was her favourite, it had the Ramones emblem emblazoned on the back, and she’d had it forever. She wouldn’t be wearing it inside though. By the end of the gig she’d be down to her tank top, and likely more sweaty than either him or James. Lily was a machine.
“Yeah,” Sirius agreed easily. He always had this optimistic feeling in the afternoon before a show; tonight would be the night, someone would see them, someone would share a clip from their set, the right eyes would see it, and somehow, they’d get to do this for a living. Him and James and Lily, the three of them, belting out songs about being lost yet hopeful, about misspent youth, and falling in love.
Music that connected with the people they played for, the people they drank with, even the twats they got in fights with while waiting for a taxi at 3am. They wanted to capture it. This feeling, this life.
Sirius and Lily hauled the rest of their kit inside and found James. He was leaning against the bar, in full tradesman auto-chat with the old guy who ran the place. Sirius was always impressed with how James could talk to anyone. He blended in here, a local boy again. His mad hair unstyled and sticking out in all directions, his grey sweatshirt was the opposite of Lily’s massive one, it was fitted, and even pulled a bit tight across his shoulders. Sirius remembered it from school, but James had been training with the local rugby club this winter, and while he was still the compact, nippy little winger he’d always been, there was definitely a bit more muscle on him these days.
James was nodding cheerfully to the barman, “Yeah, that’s me old man, I’m on site with him all week, since we can’t make enough out of the band just yet.”
“Ey-up,” The man turned to greet Sirius and Lily as they approached the bar.
“Alright.” Lily returned, without looking up, her phone in her hands again. No doubt checking all her likes and retweets. Sirius held out his hand to the barman, “Thanks for having us tonight,” he said, “I’m Sirius, this is Lily.”.
“Well, nice to meet you.” the man faltered, taking Sirius's hand and shaking it, looking surprised by the formal politeness. “Tom,” he said, “Do you work for Potters too?”
Sirius actually laughed as he imagined himself on a building site, "Christ no,” he said, “I'd be a right liability on site, Mr Potter would never allow it.” Tom seemed to accept this, giving him a bland smile, and Sirius felt the need to add, “I'm at the RSPCA, over by the Uni pitch.”
Tom’s smile turned approving. No one ever hated you when you told them you helped abandoned animals. It was Sirius’s favourite charity, and if his father ever managed to die, (a moment that Sirius anticipated with equal parts joy and trepidation) he would happily offer as much of his inherited resources as he could to the animal rescue.
“Oh aye,” Tom said, then he spoke to James again, “Weel, since I know your old man, I’ll do you half now, reyt?”
“Mint,” James agreed, and Tom passed him a wad of cash, half of their pay for the night, likely about a hundred quid, they normally got about seventy pounds each a night, which was pretty good. It covered petrol and beers, and buying dinner a couple of nights a week, but it wasn’t enough to live on, they only played once or twice a week.
Sirius didn’t actually need to make an income from this, he still had a credit card whose bill was paid by the family estate, but he didn’t know how long that would last. He and his father were clashing more and more often these days.
“Chips and a pint?” James suggested, when they got back outside, and because it was freezing, and chips seemed like an excellent idea they went around the corner to the nearest pub.
Now, you might think that a place called the Golden Lion would be full of old English charm, all mullioned windows and low ceilings with exposed beams.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
The Lion was an old 1960’s working mens club, it still stunk of fags, even though you hadn't been able to smoke inside for years now. The carpet was that revolting geometric pattern used en-mass throughout mid-century pubs and clubrooms across the land. Skinny legged, formica topped leaners were arranged around the room, and there was horse racing playing on three different screens.
Absolutely ghastly.
But despite the unappealing environment, the place was quite full so the food and drink was likely to be just fine. So, Sirius went to the bar to order, while Lily and James got a table.
It was a coincidence perhaps, that Sirius had been thinking about optimism and romance as they unpacked the van earlier, because something was about to happen that would impact both of these things rather heavily for him. The something being an abrupt, England football jersey wearing, floppy haired barman.
He’d never have thought in a million years that this moment in his life would occur here, in this aesthetically offensive northern pub. The glaring strip lighting and fat old blokes with missing teeth, not to mention the group of kids in tracksuits at the pool tables who could only have been about sixteen, were as far from the setting of life changing moments as it was possible to be. Unless being clobbered with a pool cue was considered life changing, because that seemed like a much more likely outcome.
But there, stood behind the bar, passing a rum and coke to a permed old bird with a half smoked, but unlit fag hanging from her lip, was the most beautiful chap Sirius had ever seen.
“Ey-up,” the young barman said, lifting his chin in greeting as Sirius caught his attention. His warm eyes widened just a little as they fell on Sirius’s face. He couldn’t have been much older than Sirius himself; his sandy hair waving off to one side, above those eyes that seemed to have trapped Sirius somehow. There was a roll-up tucked behind his left ear, the same ear that had a little silver sleeper in it. But then his eyebrows went up in agitated anticipation and Sirius realised he hadn’t replied, just stood there gaping gormlessly. Well that wouldn’t do.
“Good evening,” Sirius said, as a sudden rush of something in him made his voice come out more fucking posh than ever, it was like he was nervous. But Sirius was never nervous. Maybe he was ill. His heart was racing, and he felt quite hot, he was probably coming down with a cold.
The bartender was still watching him expectantly, there was something happening in his eyes, Sirius couldn't tell if it was derision or amusement. Sirius pulled himself together, “Three pints of Carling and three chips, please.”
“Got tha',” the barman said, almost sounding relieved that Sirius had managed to speak, “card is it?”
Sirius held up his credit card, and the bartender pushed some buttons on the clunky till that looked to be of the same generation as the rest of the place. Then he indicated the card reader with a lift of his chin. As he did so Sirius saw that a thin but ragged, silver scar cut across his sharp jaw.
The barman was frowning again, but Sirius realised it wasn’t his fault this time, the pin pad for him to pay wasn’t registering, “Dicky thing,” he muttered, tapping at the til again, “there i’ is,” he said as the screen lit up.
Sirius swiped his card and pushed okay and then the little receipt popped out the top, “Oh, needs signing for, then?” the barman sighed, as if this was a huge inconvenience.
“I don’t have a pen, I’m sorry,” Sirius told him, feeling disproportionately guilty that he didn’t carry a pen with him at all times.
The barman dropped a blue biro on the bar, it was marked with the local bookies logo, and Sirius signed the receipt. His loopy signature barely fit on the little bit of paper. The barman took it back, and his card to compare them and gave an amused little snort.
“I assure you it's mine.” Sirius said.
“No doubt,” the barman said easily, handing it back, “Just thinking it were nice tha’ posh twats have stupid names too.” He pointed to his chest, “Remus, thanks t’me daft mam.”
Sirius smiled, despite the insult, “I come from a long line of posh twats with stupid names.” he said, “My brother is called Regulus, I think I’m the lucky one.”
Remus cracked a smile then, a smile that made Sirius re-evaluate a lot of what he thought he knew about himself.
“Oi, Remus,” the other man behind the bar called, “Pull the pints not the patrons.”
“It’s nowt,” Remus shot back, then he looked back at Sirius, “Over there, is it?” He nodded to Lily and James at their table.
“Yes,” Sirius said. “Will you bring it over?”
“Wait for your pints,” he said shortly, “food’ll be out ten, like.” Then he went and pulled three pints. He pushed them across the bar to Sirius, who arranged them in a triangle so that he could carry them all at once over to the table.
The walk across the revolting carpet to his friends seemed very long. He’d never had such a reaction to another person. He kept wanting to look back, half sure that he’d imagined the whole thing. Surely no one really looked like that? Magical eyes that caused such chaos in his brain, lips that seemed to pout even when he smiled, and the brief flash of teeth when that quick smile broke through, why was that stuck in his head?
It all pointed in one rather obvious direction.
“Jamie,” Sirius said weakly as he sat down, his throat was suddenly so dry he felt like he needed to neck his whole pint. “I think I’m queer.”
Lily snorted into her newly acquired pint, “No shit.” she muttered.
James, however, was frowning at him, “Are you alright, mate?”
“Fine, I suppose,” he looked over his shoulder, Remus was talking to the manager with his back to them. “The bloke at the bar,” Sirius started, not really knowing how to explain what had just happened to him, “Christ —,“ he really did skull a large portion of his beer then, Lily was leaning over to get a glimpse of Remus.
“Oh yes,” she said approvingly, “not what I’d have picked as your type though.”
Now James was looking in the direction of the bar too, scowling even, his eyes behind his glasses were flicking back to Lily every few seconds. “So you saw some chap,” he said in confusion, “that one?” he nodded towards the bar, “and what, now you know you’re gay? I mean, I suppose he’s alright.” James looked back at Sirius then, “How do you reckon he got that scar?”
“Very mysterious,” Lily said, sipping at her pint, and clearly trying very hard to look serious.
Sirius's pint was half gone. Just like his brain. “I’ve never thought —,” he said. He'd kissed a couple of boys at school, but that didn’t mean anything, there weren't any girls around, everyone did it, James hadn’t though…
Then Lily's reaction finally registered, and Sirius shot at her, “What do you mean, no shit? ”
She shrugged, “Well, I just thought we didn’t talk about it, I always thought you were … fluid in your preferences.” she gave him a kinder look, “it’s not like it matters.”
James nodded, “It's not a huge revelation, mate.”
“It is to me,” Sirius grunted, still unable to completely understand what was happening, “Can I have your pint?” he asked James hopefully, after he finished his own.
James laughed, amused at Sirius's mental breakdown, “Sure thing,” he took another mouthful and pushed it across the table. Then he got up, “I should get some water anyway, Pete reckons lager’s bad for the pipes.”
So he went to the bar and Sirius drank his pilfered pint, in the hope he’d find sanity at the bottom of it. He supposed he did notice good looking men if he thought about it, but not as often as women. How had he got to nineteen years of age without realising he liked blokes? More importantly, what was he going to do now that he’d met one that had literally scrambled his brain?
James was back, with a big glass bottle of water, and three more pints on a tray. “His name's Remus,“ James announced, as though this was some great favour to Sirius, “I asked him to come to the gig if he gets off work in time.”
“He already told me his name.” Sirius said faintly. He supposed he should be glad that his friends gave zero fucks about this revelation of sexuality, but he felt strange. He wasn’t particularly worried as such, confidence in oneself was a rather important part of his upbringing after all. If this is who he was, that was just fine. But, he wished James or Lily had pointed it out earlier. Then Sirius remembered what the other barman had said, “pull the pints, not the patrons.” Did this mean Remus might be that way inclined?
Vaguely, he was aware of Lily and James talking about him.
“How do you even know he’d be interested?” Lily said, her eyes still following Remus as he served the other customers.
“Please, everyone likes Sirius.” James said blithely, “ he’s just never been this interested before.”
“Everyone likes looking at him,” Lily corrected, “but all the girls I know think he’s too stuck up.”
“Yeah, because he’s not normally interested.” James returned. As though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I’m right here, you know,” Sirius muttered as he picked up his pint, their chips better hurry up, or he’d be going on stage pissed.
Tonight was ridiculous.
Suddenly there was a big cheer which startled Sirius. Four of the chubby toothless chaps near the biggest racing screen were lifting hammy fists, urging their nags on loudly.
What on earth am I doing in here? Sirius thought. He chanced a glance back at the bar, and saw that Remus was looking in their direction. He quickly busied himself though, as soon as he realised Sirius was looking. He threw his tea towel over his shoulder and leaned forward to talk to a man in a Blades jersey who was slumped on the bar.
At least James had provided Sirius with a way forward. He was going to go on stage and play his fucking heart out and hope that Remus came and watched, and realised he was less of a posh twat than their first encounter had suggested.
It might actually work out, because it was always his plan to play his heart out anyway, and he never spoke much on stage, so there wasn’t much chance of reinforcing any perceived class divide.
Sirius played bass, he wrote all their songs too, but had no talent as a singer. James played guitar and belted out the songs from Sirius's little book with an immense amount of talent, while Lily thrashed away on the drums and came in with back up vocals.
As he started on his third pint, and their chips arrived, not delivered by Remus unfortunately, Sirius was starting to feel a bit better, or maybe just a bit drunk. Either way, he’d moved on from paralytic shock, so that was an improvement. He listened to James and Lily discussing the set list for the evening, but his mind was drifting.
Sirius couldn’t help but draw a comparison to another part of himself that he hadn’t understood at first, a part that was rather important to him now, probably the most important.
Back at school, Sirius had thought he was writing poetry for the longest time, tucked away in his little black notebook. This might seem strange for a teenage boy, but as he’d already thought that day, there was a lot of poet chat at Harrow. This was until James started learning the guitar and singing Sirius's verses out, it was only then that Sirius realised they’d always sounded like music in his head.
Maybe it was a bit like the Remus-revelation; Heirs to the peerage didn’t write rock songs or play bass, they wrote poetry and learnt the cello from the age of five. Heirs to the peerage also got married and continued the family line. They certainly didn't get struck by a bolt of homosexual lightning in the middle of a grotty pub in Sheffield.
His father already disliked the fact that he wrote songs and played in a band. Sirius did not want to think how he would react when he discovered the heir to the Earldom of Hereford could easily end up as a blunt stump on the family tree.
Saturday Nights, and Sunday Mornings-
[ Excerpt: It was a strange time, the year before the album. We were playing shows once or twice a week, and getting paid, but it wasn’t enough to live on yet, like the weekend hobby that we all wished would one day be our real job.
We didn’t know that the album deal was so close, or how everything would change after it. We only knew that we lived for Fridays and Saturdays. This song was about that feeling, that hope, that tonight would be the night. We’d see everyone we knew, have a smashing good time, get discovered. But then inevitably, end up just the three of us, in the wee hours. One of us would decide we were in love with the last person we’d shagged, and send them ridiculous messages, because we were pissed. ]
*
Anticipation has a habit to set you up
For disappointment in evening entertainment but
Tonight there'll be some love
Tonight there'll be a ruckus, yeah, regardless of what's gone before.
*
And she won't be surprised and she won't be shocked
When she's pressed the star after she's pressed unlock
And there's verse and chapter sat in her inbox
And all that is said is that you've drank a lot
*
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