Chapter Text
Sirius
They won their first game of the season 3-0.
Sirius ached all over. His face hurt from the grin he’d been sporting since the goal horn went off in the last two minutes of the third. His shoulders hurt from being slammed into the boards by his teammates in rowdy congratulation. His thighs and ankles hurt from skating hard on a breakaway. His fingers hurt from the grip he’d had on his stick. His side hurt from a hit he’d taken from an opposing player. And his heart hurt a little from just how much he fucking loved hockey.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, baby!” James whooped, tossing an arm around Sirius’ shoulders and dragging him into a headlock. The rest of their team parted around them and made their way into the bar for celebratory drinks, leaving Sirius and James to grapple with each other on the street outside—a regular occurrence, and their teammates laughed as they passed, slapping them both on the shoulders and shouting at them to hurry up and "Come get victory-level wasted!"
Sirius had ignored the look of concern that James had shot his way at their jeering; ignored the way he had shoved Jeremy, who'd been the one to say it, a little harder than might've been considered friendly. James always worried about Sirius, he got that from his mother. But in this instance, Sirius had given him a reason to. He had it under control, now, though—the drinking. It wasn't a problem anymore. Sirius wasn't a problem anymore. He would have a few beers, celebrate, and then go home.
“Next game, we’re getting you that hat trick,” James stated, grinning as he mussed up Sirius’s hair, still damp from the shower. Sirius scowled in faux annoyance and groaned when James jumped onto his back suddenly, nearly knocking them both onto the sidewalk. “Yeah?” He urged, “Yeah yeah yeah? Say it!"
Sirius couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as he hooked his hands behind his best friend’s knees. “Yeah, Potter.”
James gripped his shoulders and shook him excitedly, and Sirius swore he felt his brain rattle in his head from the force of it.
“Get off, you oaf,” he laughed, swinging them both around in circles until James was too dizzy to hold on anymore. He slid back down onto his own two feet, throwing mock punches at Sirius’ stomach. Elbow jabs, scuffling shoes, and raucous laughter were interrupted by Sirius’ ringtone, some EDM remix of Barbie Girl that only served to make James cackle even harder.
“You still haven’t changed that? Jesus, Padfoot. I pranked you with that ages ago.”
“I don’t know how to change it back!” Sirius protested, brow furrowing when 'Unknown Number' flashed across his screen. “Besides, Barbie Girl is a classic. Now shut up for a sec.” He slapped a hand over James’ mouth as his best friend began to protest and hit the answer button, lifting the phone to his ear. “Uh, hello?”
“Sirius?”
“That’s me–“ James licked a slobbery stripe up Sirius’s palm and he shrieked indignantly. James booked it before Sirius could whack him upside the head, disappearing into the bar without looking back. “Yeah, you better run!” Sirius called after him, remembering belatedly that there was a person on the other end of his phone. “Sorry. Who did you say you were?”
“I didn’t." They cleared their throat, voice low, “It's me, Regulus.”
Sirius felt a little drunk suddenly, despite not having touched a drink yet tonight. The sidewalk seemed to tilt around him and cave in on itself and he wondered if he was dreaming. “Regulus? My little brother Regulus?’ He pinched his own forearm—once, twice, three times—twisting the skin and leaving crescent-shaped imprints behind.
“How many other Regulus’ do you know?”
Sirius blinked rapidly, standing stock-still on the empty street outside the bar. Distantly, he could hear the voices of his team from inside, shouting and laughing and singing terribly off-key. “Well… none, but I thought–“
“That I hated you? That I'd been groomed into another classist, homophobic, long-nosed dictator?” The words should have sounded bitter, but Regulus’ voice was calm, if not a little hollow. Uncaring—and Sirius was reminded of their teenage years, himself rambling excitedly about something or other while Regulus sat at his desk, pretending to listen, humming at all the appropriate moments without looking up from whatever he was working on. There was a time when Regulus hadn't been able to look away from Sirius at all; five years old and utterly enamoured with his older brother. Sirius could remember the feeling it gave him: pride, and more than that, an overwhelming urge to keep Regulus safe. Sometimes that pull he had felt to protect him had threatened to swallow Sirius whole.
But a switch had flipped, Sirius couldn’t pinpoint exactly when, and suddenly, Regulus hardly looked at him at all. Suddenly, he didn’t need to be protected anymore. Suddenly, the wide-eyed, curious boy he'd helped raise was halfway to becoming a man; hard-eyed and scowling and aware of far too much. He didn’t need protecting. He was too sharp and too jagged to even be touched. Sirius had tried anyway, had cut himself up on his little brother’s edges. And then he had left—had to leave. Between Regulus and his parents, it was that or bleed out. Sirius’ skin wasn’t thick enough to stand it.
“Sirius,” Regulus said flatly, and he realized he’d been silent for far too long. “Is this a bad time?”
“You don’t have a long nose,” Sirius blurted, fumbling for the right words. It had been nearly three years since he had spoken to Regulus, and all he could think to say was, “I think you have a nice nose.”
Regulus’ sigh was audible, spilling softly through the receiver. “We have the same nose.”
And despite the absolute oddity of the entire situation, Sirius snorted with quiet laughter. “Exactly.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You never called.” The words were out of him before he his brain could catch up. Out in the night air, in the empty street, and Sirius couldn’t take them back. He tried anyway, “That was– I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”
“Well,” Regulus interrupted, “It’s true anyway. But I’m calling now, and before you ask, it is for entirely selfish reasons.”
The bar dipped in and out of focus and the sidewalk split up the middle and Sirius was in that Leonardo DiCaprio movie, Inception, and the city was folding over itself and he was definitely dreaming because he had been of the assumption that hell would freeze over before Regulus ever talked to him again. Dread pooled in his gut, fast not slow, like that time his mother had knocked over her wine glass and the red liquid had seeped across the white table cloth before anyone could move to stop it. Maybe hell had frozen over, hell being 12 Grimmauld Place, their childhood home. Maybe something was terribly wrong.
“What happened?” Sirius asked, mind turning over with possibilities. He watched the wine spill again and again, like a video on loop. “Are you okay? Is Maman–? What–”
A sharp laugh cut him off. A laugh like glass shards, Regulus’ laugh. It grated in Sirius’s mind the way his mother’s voice used to, stung the same way as his father’s open palms.
“…Regulus?”
The other end of the line fell silent. There was a rustling, the sound of a door slamming closed somewhere far away, and then Regulus’ breaths—closer and slightly muffled, like he’d pressed the phone aright up against his lips. “You haven’t changed,” he whispered, sounding oddly solaced. “I thought… maybe… But you’re the same.”
Sirius frowned. He thought he had changed since he was seventeen. No, he knew he had. James said so sometimes, told him,
You smile all the way, all the way up into your eyes. You laugh like you’re allowed to. You speak without thinking. It’s a good thing, Padfoot, trust me.
He opened his mouth to tell Regulus as much, but wherever his brother was erupted into noise. A series of loud bangs and shouts filled Sirius' ear, muffled as if they were coming through a wall or a locked door.
“I have to go,” Regulus hissed, so quietly that Sirius strained to hear. “Don’t worry. I know you will anyways, but just trust–”
The phone beeped dully as the call was cut off.
“Hello?” Sirius pressed redial. It rang once and then went to voicemail, not even Reg’s voice, just some automated message. “Fuck,” Sirius spluttered, calling again. “Fuck, what the fuck.” Straight to voicemail this time. Again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again– “You’ve reached–”
A panicked whine escaped Sirius’ throat, hands coming up to yank at his hair in frustration. It was still damp from his post-game shower, his skin was still warm from playing hockey, he was a little sweaty from wrestling with James, his teammates were loud in the bar less than ten feet away, he had just scored two goals in their first game of the season and now he was landing hard on the curb—sobbing out breaths that made his chest heave so hard Sirius wondered if he’d pull a muscle, knees bent up against his ribs like he was small again; a little kid hiding under the desk in his bedroom while hell raged around outside. But Regulus wasn’t tucked under his arm now, Regulus was somewhere else, somewhere where people shouted and yelled and banged on the door and it made Sirius want to pull all his hair out because–
What good are you? What good are you if you can’t protect him?
Should’ve know, should’ve known… You can’t even protect yourself.
—
James wanted to talk about it. Of course he did. James grew up with a gentle mother and a warm father who smiled so often he had crows-feet stamped in the corners of his eyes. James grew up in a house full of how was your day and why are you sad and tell me how I can help and I love you no matter what. And Sirius loved him for it—loved James as much as he loved hockey—but Sirius didn’t know how to talk about it because he had grown up under a silence so heavy it was suffocating, punctured only by the glass when it got too sharp, when his mother’s cup got too full and the wine spilled over.
“I’m fine,” Sirius repeated for the hundredth time, a broken record. A broken something. He felt like the vase he had smashed when he was twelve and hastily tried to glue back together before his mother could see. He had never used a hot glue gun before, and there were scars beneath the callouses on his fingers from all the places he had burned himself that night. It hadn't mattered anyway. The glue had dried too fast, too thickly on the thin shards of ceramic. Lumpy, globular, visible. The glue gun had left sticky strands behind in its wake, little web-like threads that lead straight back to him.
“It’s not like it hasn’t happened before,” Sirius said with a weak, joking smile.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed in front of him, James crossed his arms, unimpressed. His position reminded Sirius of a pretzel. "You haven’t had a panic attack in years.”
Sirius nodded like a bobblehead as he spun himself around and around in James’ desk chair. “Yup.”
“Okay, so–” James kicked his leg out, catching the chair with his foot. With a gentle lurch, it stopped spinning, and Sirius pouted. “You don’t have to tell me what caused it, but I want you to know that you can tell me because you can tell me absolutely anything ever and I will never judge you and you know that."
Sirius huffed out a breath, and it blew a strand of his hair up off his forehead. He did know that, but the reminder was nice. It settled over him like a blanket. He wanted to tilt his head back and shut his eyes, to finally fucking sleep for the first time since Regulus called which had been—what day was it—almost forty-eight hours ago. But Sirius knew sleep wouldn’t come to him. Not when he saw the bruises on a much younger, wide-eyed, giggling, curious Regulus every time he closed his eyes.
“I know,” he mumbled, picking at the callouses on his right palm.
James shifted his outstretched leg, pressing his socked foot against Sirius’s knee. A warm, gentle weight. That was Jamie: warm and gentle. His father and mother.
What did that make Sirius? His father was cold. His mother was angry. Their hands were heavy and their tongues were sharp and the vase was still broken.
“Do you want to tell me who called?”
Sirius nearly laughed. What a silly question. Sirius always wanted to tell James everything. I can feel the cracks spreading, James. Fault lines in everything. You know me better than anyone in the world and I like that. But sometimes I don’t know myself at all, so where does that leave us?
“My brother,” Sirius exhaled the words into the air between them. And the room was so quiet that for a moment, he wondered if he’d actually said it out loud or if he only thought he had. But when Sirius looked up, James’ face was stricken.
“What? Regulus called you?”
Sirius swallowed, nodding stiffly. “Something was wrong, Jamie,” he whispered, voice hoarse in his own ears. Terrified. He hadn’t been terrified in a long time. “Something was wrong. We were just talking and then– There was shouting. Shouting and– and then nothing. He hung up.”
Or someone hung up for him, Sirius thought.
“What did he say?” James was kneeling in front of him on the carpet now, face open and imploring, soaking in the information like some amateur detective.
“He said he was calling…” Sirius squeezed his eyes shut, thoughts churning in time with his stomach. “Selfishly. For selfish reasons. Then he laughed at me because apparently I haven’t changed, and then there was all this noise and he said–” His eyes flashed open, hands clenched into fists in his lap. “He said not to worry.” I know you will anyways, but just trust–
Trust me.
“He’s a smart kid,” Sirius croaked. “Always was. Way smarter than me, Jamie—had these walls, fucking sky high—knew how to protect himself.” He looked up from his hands in his lap, meeting James’ worried gaze. “He’ll call back,” Sirius said firmly. “He’s smart. He’s fine.”
James covered Sirius’ hand with one of his own and squeezed.
Trust me, trust me, trust me. Sirius was under the desk again, Regulus curled up beside him, We’ll be okay. I promise. Just trust me.
He swallowed, flipping his hand to hold James’ and squeeze back. “He'll call again. He will. Just have to trust him.”
It was a nice sentiment, and it did calm Sirius some. Enough so that James deemed him acceptably stable and promptly passed out on top of his covers. In his defence, they had gotten up for practice at six AM that day and it was one in the morning now.
Sirius was still wide awake, mind running a mile a minute but full of trepidation rather than panic, which he supposed was an improvement. He had migrated through his and James’ shared bathroom and into his own dorm, laying flat on his back on the floor in a pair of basketball shorts and some fuzzy red socks he had pulled as high as they would go up his calves. He heard a couple of people passing beneath his window, chattering quietly as they came back from a late night study session or a weeknight party. A lot of senior students had crafted their schedules so they could have Friday off, and that meant their three-day weekend had already commenced. Sirius was not so lucky.
He heard the elevator chime and then footsteps, before a door halfway down the hall squeaked open and closed. Even muffled, the series of mundane sounds sliced through his round-about thoughts rather abruptly, and Sirius was startled by how still the space around him suddenly seemed. How quiet, despite how loud it felt inside his head. He counted the beats of silence, fucking suffocating like his fucking mother and that fucking house—one two three four five six seven—before he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Fuck,” Sirius whispered, and sat up to fiddle with the clock radio on his bedside table. It crackled from disuse and he winced at the volume, twisting the dial down until the song that started filtering through was barely loud enough for him to hear. Sirius laid back down on the floor with the radio pressed up against the side of his head, and the music throbbed steadily against his temple.
Anyone who’s ever had a dream
Anyone who’s ever played a part
Anyone who’s ever been lonely
Anyone who’s ever split apart
He didn’t recognize the lyrics, but it felt nice. Numbing. The singer's voice was distinctly female but rumbly and low. Sirius closed his eyes at the sensation as the song carried on into the last verse, all soft percussion and a mellow tone before an instrumental ensued, backed by a steady stream of la la la's. It petered off into nothingness, a crackle of static and then—
“That was Sweet Jane, by Cowboy Junkies,” crooned the radio host. “Now I think this one’s pretty self-explanatory. Jane Bennett is one sweet girl, and she lives her whole life playing the part of the perfect eldest daughter. Obedient, lovely, and well-mannered. Maybe it's so her other sisters can afford to fuck to around without giving their poor mother a heart attack." The host chuckled softly to himself. "I think being the golden child could get a little lonely, don’t you?”
Sirius didn’t know what he was talking about, but he liked the way he spoke. Softly, hushed, as if he was in the room with him, trying not ruin the ambience; the feeling of being the only ones awake in the whole world.
“Next on my carefully curated 'Pride and Prejudice' playlist, we have Elliot Smith of course. This is Angeles. Happy listening.”
Sirius stayed splayed out on the floor like that for the next hour, repeating the song names to himself in his head so he would remember to listen to them later.There She Goes, In the Heat of the Morning, R U Mine?, Times Like These, Ode to a Conversation Stuck in Your Throat. The host didn’t always pause to talk between songs, but when he did he spouted odd little musings, explanations as to why a particular verse pertained to one character or another, or a specific scene or bit of dialogue. A few passages were even read aloud, arguments riddled with old English speech that the host somehow managed to twist into something amusing. Maybe it was his laidback tone, or how he delivered the lines like he was in a one-person play, doing all the different voices and everything. But Sirius found himself smiling, occasionally muffling his sleepy laughter. He had never read 'Pride and Prejudice' in his life, but this Mr. Darcy guy sounded like a bit of an asshole if he was being honest.
The last thirty seconds of I Wish You Would rose to crescendo and then cut out into a pause. There was quiet shuffling, like the host was moving around, and then his voice was a low hum pressed to Sirius’ temple once again.
“So, that wraps up this weeks playlist. I couldn’t resist slipping some Bowie in at the end there, you know how I am. I’ll be playing DJ for the next couple hours, so if you have any song requests you can DM our Instagram page—it’s at moony tunes—that’s moony with two y’s. See you next Thursday, and thanks for tuning into Hogwarts University's late-night show: Moony’s Midnight Mix.”
There was an audible click as the mic switched off and then Stairway to Heaven kicked in. Sirius blinked at his crumbly popcorn ceiling for a few seconds before launching himself onto his bed and scrabbling for his phone. He opened Instagram and searched up the account, squinting at the brightness of his screen in the dark as he clicked on the first suggestion that came up.
@moonyytunes
Moony
Host of HU Radio’s very own ‘Moony’s Midnight Mix’
DM for song recs & inquiries
The profile photo was a slightly blurry picture of a full moon. There was only one post, from almost a year ago, a photo of a sound booth set-up complete with a switch board, two microphones, and a stack of novels with a headset balanced precariously on top. Moony was scrawled across the right headphone in silver marker. Only part of the host's hand was visible, large and softly tanned, speckled here and there with small freckles, resting on the edge of the desk. The tail end of a scar was visible, a thin white line that curved up the side of the thumb.
Sirius realized he was zooming in on the photo and stopped, blushing alone in the darkness. Since when did he think hands were attractive? He shook his head at himself and scrolled down to read the caption.
"Tune in on Thursday nights from 12 to 2 AM for our newest segment: ‘Moony’s Midnight Mix,’ where I pick a book every week and design a pretentiously elaborate and embarrassingly thought-out playlist to go with it. Yes, I have too much time on my hands. No, I don’t get paid enough for this. C U around ;)"
Every week. Huh. Sirius wondered what next Thursday’s book would be. He dropped his phone on his chest and leaned back against the pillows, twisting a few of the longer pieces of his hair together as he wracked his brain for a good song to request. A song he thought this Moony guy might like. His own music taste mostly consisted of 70s rock and metal. Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath were his favourites, introduced to him through the records James' dad still collected. From what he’d heard so far tonight, Sirius could guess that Moony liked rock ballads. Indie artists. Guitar solos. Songs with lyrics that meant something. Songs that sounded like summer, like falling in or out of love.
Sirius sucked his bottom lip into his mouth as he scooped up his phone again.
To @moonyytunes: Hi. Tangerine by Led Zeppelin?
He stripped his fuzzy socks off and reached down for the radio, setting it back up on the table next to his bed as he wiggled his way under the covers. Sirius propped himself up on one elbow, watching his phone in his periphery as he fiddled with the radio's volume dial. After a few moments, the screen lit up.
From @moonyytunes:
Hi. I like the way you think :)
—
With an hour and a half of sleep under his belt, Sirius was bleary-eyed and swaying on his feet when he arrived at the rink for morning practice. He was so tired he missed Bay's fist-bump, ignored Jeremy when he slapped him on the ass with a towel in passing, and even forgot to tease James about his ridiculous bedhead. In fact, Sirius hardly looked up from the floor until he was geared up and out on the ice, skating into a corner to bounce pucks off the boards by himself.
James’s usual sunny disposition was visibly dimmer than usual, and while he smiled and joked with the rest of their teammates, Sirius could hear the stress in his voice. He could see how distracted he was in his missed passes and sloppy drills, could feel his best friend’s worried gaze tracking him throughout their two hour practice.
Sirius felt a flash of guilt. Not only did he have to make himself miserable with worry for Regulus, but now James was worrying, too. He tried to shake it off, to convince himself of all the shit he’d spouted to James yesterday: about how Regulus was smart enough to handle himself, to fight his own battles. But the truth was, Sirius wasn’t sure if he knew his brother anymore. Was he still strong and brave in that quiet, severe way of his? Or maybe they had carved it all out of him, crushed him flat between their hands and then molded him into something more acceptable—a puppet shaped like a prince.
Sirius was on autopilot, going through the motions on the ice, in the locker room, in the showers, in the hallway when his coach stopped him to say, “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you today, son, but it better be resolved by the game next week. Alright?” And Sirius had nodded mutely, eyes trained on his boots, and then speed-walked away towards the double doors.
He was so deep in thought that he didn’t really register where he was going until he was standing at the foot of the parking lot. His wet hair was stuffed in a beanie, hockey bag slung over his shoulder, and the sun was so bright it snapped him out of his wallowing. He squinted at the sky in irritation and belatedly realized that James, who had the car keys, was not with him or anywhere in sight.
“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, pulling out his phone to shoot him a text. The doors swung wide open behind him and he jumped in surprise as a hand clapped down over his shoulder.
“Alright, Black? Jesus, you’re jumpy today.” Bay Oonark sidled up beside him with a teasing grin. His long hair was tied back in a low ponytail, and while he had a pair of bulky winter boots on his feet, his clothing merely consisted of a muscle shirt and basketball shorts despite the October chill. Maybe the weather really was different up there; the kid had to be at least six foot five.
“I’m good,” Sirius muttered. “Hey, did you see Potter on your way out?”
Bay tilted his head in thought and then nodded. “Uh-huh. Fret not, Capitaine, your husband should be out soon. He was nearly dressed when I left—Oh, and talking to Levy.” He winced in sympathy. “On second thought, you might as well wait in your car.” Jeremy Levy and James Potter shared the same penchant for getting distracted and derailed.
Sirius scowled and tugged on a piece of his own hair. “Potter has the keys," he grumbled.
“Ah, well you’re welcome to wait with me in Ollie’s car until–”
“Non, he isn’t,” Ollie interrupted, walking past with his usual glare in place. “Don’t offer up my car as refuge. We have class in fifteen minutes and you know how I am about the Jeep.”
Bay rolled his eyes at Ollie’s back, who crossed the lot towards the shiny black Jeep in question. “Sorry, Black,” he patted Sirius’ shoulder. “Invitation revoked.”
“Narky!” Ollie shouted. “Class, remember?”
Bay shot Sirius a sheepish smile “That’s my cue. See you at the gym tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
And then he was gone, jogging across the parking lot and hauling himself into the Jeep seconds before it peeled off towards the academic buildings. Ollie and Bay were both in second year at Hogwarts. They’d grown up together in some small middle-of-nowhere town in Quebec. That made up the rest of Sirius' line: him and James alternating between centre and right wing, Sliver on the left, Jeremy and Bay on defence, and Ollie, of course, between the posts.
Sirius sighed and shook his head, looking down at his phone.
From Prongs:
Sorry sorry, out in 5
To his right, a car door slammed, and Sirius flinched. Bay was right, he was too jumpy. He felt like he had the first few weeks after moving out—like his limbs were locked up, cold and careful. Like he didn’t belong anywhere.
Sirius glanced up towards the source of the noise. In the handicapped parking space was a busted-up red Prius, an older model with the front fender half hanging off, and leant against the driver’s side door was a man. His light brown hair looked tousled into something carelessly messy, curling around his ears and drooping over his forehead. Broad shoulders and long arms wrapped in an over-sized cardigan—brown, the colour of milk chocolate—were all Sirius could see of his body; the rest of him hidden by his car. He propped his elbows up on the roof of the Prius and brought a cigarette to his lips, hands half-covered by a pair of fingerless gloves. Sirius watched his cheeks hollow as he took a drag, his attention held by a styrofoam container as it skipped its way across the parking lot, and thought—oh my god, this is the most handsome man I have ever seen.
There was just something about the way he moved, about the effortlessness he exuded like some kind of heady cologne. Smoke caressed his cheekbones, fingers red-tipped from the cold, and he looked like a painting, like the love interest in a sappy nineties rom-com. Sirius felt like he could've stood there for hours, just watching him.
“Oi, Black!” Sirius spun on his heel and suddenly came face-to-face with James, Levy, and Sliver, more commonly known as Juda Slivková, fastest skater on their team; a title he had maintained all of last season and so far, this season as well. Sirius was excited to see how he would progress this year. Juda was shy, for a hockey player, especially one as good as he was. The rest of the team had a collective ego the size of Texas, but Juda always skated like he had something to prove, played like it determined his worth, sometimes acted like he didn’t deserve to play at all—like he was worried someone would take it all away from him if he made even one mistake.
He reminded Sirius of himself in a lot of ways.
“What’s up, Sliver?” He smiled down at Juda before turning to the burly man next to him. “Levy,” Sirius barked, reaching over to slug Jer in the shoulder. “You’re holding up my ride home. Don’t talk to Potter in the locker room, you know he’s shit at multitasking.”
Levy grinned and hooked his arm around James’ shoulder. “Seemed pretty good at multitasking last night, eh Potts?”
James chuckled at the innuendo, shaking his wet hair so hard that he sprayed Juda, who grimaced but didn’t comment.
“Watch it,” Sirius teased. “Sliv just had a shower, he doesn’t need another one.” But Juda was already stepping away from their little group with a reserved smile, waving to somebody over Sirius’ shoulder. He turned to look and hot Prius guy, chin propped up in one hand, was waving back.
Juda hiked his bag higher on his shoulder and mumbled shyly, “Later, guys.”
James and Levy chorused their goodbyes, but Sirius could only stare as Juda tossed his shit in the tiny trunk and slid into the passenger seat. The driver took one final drag before standing up to his full height. He was tall. Not like Bay, but not many people were tall like Bay. He dusted ash off the roof of the Prius with his fingers, and something about the motion was oddly familiar. Sirius felt a surge of deja vu, watched those long, thin fingers smooth over something in the back of his mind. Where had he seen that before?
He was so zoned out that he didn’t have time to look away, and the man’s eyes flitted upward with the skip in Sirius’s heartbeat, catching his gaze. At this angle, his eyes caught the bright morning sunlight, a warm amber staring right back. The cold that had been plaguing Sirius all day fled his bones instantly. Heat surged up his neck, and he adjusted his collar, feeling the flush all the way to his toes.
He could've sworn he saw the man’s lips twitch as he turned away and lowered himself into the driver's seat. When the slam of his car door echoed across the lot, Sirius hastily turned away.
“You alright, Black?” Levy asked. James was giving him that calculating side-eye, Sirius could feel it. He suppressed a groan and avoided looking at either of them.
“Yep, good,” he breathed, rubbing a hand over his face. His cheeks were hot against the back of his hand—fuck, fuck my pale skin, fuck this. Sirius Black does not fucking blush. “Um, who’s that guy with Juda?” Sirius cringed even as the words left his mouth. He had never been great with subtleties, or with anything that wasn’t head-on, honest, blatant confrontation. He and James were alike that way, it was probably why they got on so well; if either of them had a problem, they shouted it across the room at the other immediately. Leaving James or Sirius to stew too long was always a recipe for disaster.
Problems with himself however, Sirius could bottle those up and keep the lid twisted on tight until it choked him.
“Oh, that’s Sliver’s roommate,” Levy shrugged. “Name’s Remus, I think. He’s a nice guy. Bit quiet, probably why Sliv likes him though.”
“Cool," Sirius blurted.
James was looking at him like he had two heads, blinking owlishly with those big dual-coloured doe eyes—perpetually confused unless he was on the ice, in his skates and ready at centre line. James had eyes like flint and steel, one so dark it resembled obsidian in this light, and the other a brown so warm it was sometimes startling. Sirius didn’t know what James was looking for in his expression now, but he must have found it because he shot Sirius a curious smile and turned his attention back to Levy.
“Doesn’t Sliv have his own car?”
“Nah, it’s busted up, man. I dunno if it’s in the shop still or if they scrapped it, but his roommate’s been driving him to practice since September.” Levy’s phone rang in his pocket and he fumbled to answered it. “What? …Yeah, yeah… Alright.”
James nodded to Sirius and whispered a goodbye to Levy, who shot them a grin and a thumbs up, rolling his eyes at the person on call with him at the same time. It made a ridiculous picture and Sirius couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped him. He fell into step beside James as he headed for the silver Honda Civic, or the MILF Mobile as the team has so lovingly dubbed it. James eased an arm across Sirius’ shoulders as they walked, squeezing the back of his neck gently. It was meant to be comforting, a gesture that said, I’m here, and I love you.
And Sirius felt that, he really did, but in the frazzled state he was in, it was also a reminder of his mother. Of the way she used to grab him by the nape, a silent warning, a reprimand. Like calling a dog who had miss-behaved to heel. He thought of Regulus. He thought of Regulus being hurt. He came to an abrupt halt in front of the passenger side door of James’ car and let his forehead fall against the sun-warmed hull with a thunk.
Breathe.
“Padfoot?”
Something was buzzing. His palm tingled. Sirius’s phone was vibrating in his hand. Regulus.
“Hello?” He answered as fast as he could, desperate for news, to know Reg was okay, for anything.
“Black? It’s Lily.”
Sirius sagged against the car door. “Who?” He asked weakly.
“Lily. Your RA, Lily,” the girl on the phone snapped. “For Christ’s sake. Will you be back at the dorm any time soon?”
“Dunno.” Fuck, he was so tired. If he finally fell asleep on the car ride home, would James carry him inside? Mm, probably.
“Listen, Black, you need to get here. As soon as you can. As in, like five minutes ago.” Lily sounded frantic, and not in the way she usually did. This wasn’t her I’m-going-to-report-you-if-you-don’t-turn-that-music-down-this-instant level of frantic. This was different. Lily sounded scared. “There’s… well…”
Sirius glanced at James, who was eyeing the phone pressed to his ear with a the frown on his face. “Lily?” Sirius urged, the second-hand panic knocking him awake. “What’s going on?” His mind raced with worst possible scenarios, with thoughts of his parents storming the fourth floor dormitory, his mother setting his books on fire, his father demanding to speak to the university president and have Sirius shipped back home at once. The stuff of his nightmares, nightmares he hadn't had since first year.
James’ eyes blew wide with understandable panic; Last time their RA had called, it had been to inform them of a drastic plumbing issue that had decimated half of their shared unit. "Well?" he asked. What's the matter?"
Sirius ignored him as Lily started to ramble again.
“You just... you have to get here," she repeated. "There’s a boy—and I thought it was you at first, you look so similar, but anyway—There’s a boy sleeping on the floor in front of your room.” Her tone softened suddenly, lapsing into a frightened whisper. “And Sirius, he… he won’t wake up.”