Chapter Text
Ding-dong, the bitch is dead.
And she’s trying hard to have the last word.
The letter arrives on a Tuesday, in a cream-coloured envelope with that pretentious Toujours Pur family seal that immediately makes Sirius’ stomach churn. He stares at it, and lights his third cigarette of the morning.
The funeral was bad enough. Not his proudest moment, but then again, his mother was never really proud of him, no matter what he did, so what’s to disappoint her one more time.
The family pew had felt like a trap, his brother’s shoulder inches away from his own, the distance between them both suffocating and vast. Of course, Regulus’ spine was straight as a blade, bearing all the eyes burning into their backs with a careful blankness on his face, while Sirius kept squirming under their watch.
James had taken his other side, his solid warmth a shield against the world, his arm squeezing Sirius’ every time his legs started bouncing, which was probably the only reason he managed to make it through the service.
He couldn’t even do grief right.
He couldn’t even look at Regulus.
Well, that’s a lie. He’d stolen glances, like a coward, only to find his brother, all proper posture and pristine pallor, with his hands clasped in his lap like the picture-perfect little lord he was. Even if his knuckles were white from the tension that he was trying so hard to hide.
The urge to reach over and grab those hands? Overwhelming.
Actions taken? None.
It wasn’t his place anymore, was it? He had given up that right when he’d climbed out of his window, leaving nothing but a note saying “I’m sorry.”
Sirius really is the worst kind of brother. He couldn’t be there for Regulus properly even at their mother’s funeral, couldn’t offer a single word of comfort. He just sat there like a lump, drowning in his own inadequacy.
“Fuck!” The fag burns his fingers. The little stack of ash drops to the kitchen floor, and Sirius watches it fall and scatter, weirdly transfixed. It’s grey, like the dry earth they’d dropped on her coffin. Like Regulus’ eyes when he’s—
No.
He takes a deep drag and blows the smoke at the ceiling. He considers setting the unopened envelope on fire, make it properly dramatic. That’s what everyone expects from him, anyway. Let them talk. Let them whisper about poor Regulus, having to deal not only with his mother’s death but his train wreck of a brother as well.
“Will you keep staring at it for a few more hours, or are you actually planning to open it?”
James leans against the kitchen door frame. Even though it’s past ten, he’s still in pyjama bottoms.
“Don’t you have an office to be at?” Sirius asks.
“What will Dad do, sack me?”
“Nepotism at its finest.”
James reaches over to dump two sugars in his coffee. “Stop deflecting and open that bloody letter.”
Sirius takes a moment to enjoy the smoke curl in his lungs. The envelope sits on the table like a loaded gun.
“What if it’s…” he starts, but then he stops. He’s not even sure what he’s afraid of. That she’s cursed him from beyond the grave? That she’s found one last way to tell him what a disappointment he is? That he was her one and only regret?
He knows he’s been disinherited, there’s no way he hasn’t. It wouldn’t be news. Still, he can live without a reminder slap in the face, thank you.
“It can’t be that bad,” James drops onto the chair next to him. “Want me to do it?”
And this, right there, is why James is Sirius’ best friend. He doesn’t make it a thing. He doesn’t point out how Sirius’ hands are shaking, just offers to do it like it’s nothing.
“Be my guest.”
The tearing sound makes his teeth ache, but he focuses on sipping his coffee while James is reading. The way those brown eyebrows first knit, then shoot up past his glasses frame, is less than encouraging.
“Mate,” James says slowly, “your mother was one real piece of… work.”
Sirius stubs out his cigarette, and immediately lights another. “Tell me something I don’t know. What’s the damage?”
“What did Reg say after the will reading?”
“Nothing,” Sirius grunts. “I mean, I didn’t ask.”
“Why not?”
The invitation that came through the solicitor went straight into the bin. There was no point in attending, what would’ve been the point in asking for details?
“Just rip the plaster off already, would you?”
“You’re in the will. And there’s a letter for you, too.”
Sirius chokes on the smoke. “You’re kidding. Give it to me.”
He snatches the papers from James, not caring about the legal jargon, tossing paper after paper, until he finds the letter attached.
Sirius,
If you are reading this, I have left this mortal realm. I suspect you have already toasted to my departure—you never could hide your feelings, son. You have always been wearing your heart like a banner. It would do you well to learn the art of restraint, but I might as well wish for the earth to start spinning backwards. You take that after your father, may he find peace with the Lord.
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has survived centuries of war, plague, and revolution. It will no doubt survive your flight of fancy, as well. I have given you time to play at independence; you have had your rebellion. Now it is time to put an end to such nonsense and remember who you are.
Know that the stipulation I have imposed comes not from spite—though Heaven knows you’ve earned that—but from my final duty as the mother you so thoroughly rejected. I trust you will eventually understand that everything, including this, has been done out of love.
Walburga Irma Black
Sirius stares at his mother’s handwriting until the words blur together. Blood rushes in his ears, and he’s distantly aware of James’ voice, but he can’t hear anything beyond the thundering in his chest.
Then he kicks the table with a loud swear. He doesn’t want to scream; it would feel too much like giving her the satisfaction of seeing him lose it.
He grits his teeth and goes back to the legal babble. The text is dense and formal, full of long, tedious sentences, but the spine of it sticks out rather plainly.
…to my eldest son, Sirius Orion Black, I bequeath a portion of the Black family estate valued at £2.5 million, to be released under the following conditions:
The beneficiary is required to establish and maintain permanent residence at 12 Grimmauld Place for a continuous period of minimum 6 (six) consecutive months, physically occupying the property as their primary place of living…
The period of residence must commence within 10 days of this notice…
Should these conditions not be met to satisfaction, the aforementioned portion shall be redistributed according to Section VII-B of this document…
“Fuck me,” Sirius mutters, then a laugh tears out of his throat. “This is a joke.”
Actually, it’s brilliant. Diabolically.
By Black family standards, that money is a pittance, of course. Still, he could make use of it.
It’s not that they’re struggling; the flat is nice, spacious, even, and in a good part of the city—but it’s James’ flat. Effie and Monty’s flat, technically. And sure, Sirius makes fair money, enough to keep his bike running and cover his share of utilities, but James always waves him off when he offers to contribute more, and anyway, the cost of living in London, and his and his penchant for drowning his misery in whisky do eat up a good bit of his income.
He could do something real with that kind of money. Buy Emmeline out of the business. Stop feeling like he’s still crashing on the Potters’ sofa.
But Grimmauld Place?
Regulus still lives there.
Fuck.
“What would you do?” he asks finally, but he doesn’t look at James. He stares at his mother’s curly signature instead.
“Honestly?”
“No, lie to me.”
“What?”
“Yes, honestly!”
James looks at him like he’s gone mental. “You can’t be seriously considering it.”
“Why not? In this economy?”
“Sirius!”
“What? Money is money.” He runs a hand through his hair, grown long enough now to properly piss off any remaining relatives. “I could buy the other half of the garage from Em. Expand it, maybe, after a while. Finally have some savings. Kickstart my life and all.”
“Fuck the money, we have enough. That house is toxic. They’re all toxic. We barely scraped you together after you left.”
“I’m not seventeen anymore,” Sirius points out, mildly frustrated. “And she’s not there.”
James gives him a look that reminds him of Effie when she thinks Sirius is being rather thick.
“Why on earth would you want to go back there? What if Reg—”
“Don’t. Just… don’t.”
Sirius doesn’t want to think about Regulus. Like how thin he looked at the funeral. How dark the circles were under his eyes. How when his eyes found Sirius’ above the coffin, Sirius froze in place and couldn’t speak or move until Regulus looked away, mouth pursed like he was tasting something bitter.
Would he mind?
Would he hate Sirius more than he already does?
Or would he just stand there with that perfectly impassive expression he had mastered so well, untouchable, unapproachable, while Sirius trips over his own words in a futile attempt to repair the irreparable?
As if words could make up for anything.
Leaving was easy. A duffel bag in James’ car, and he was gone.
Returning, on the other hand, would be anything but.
“Sleep on it,” James suggests. “But you know that this is exactly what she wanted, right? To pull one last power play from beyond the grave.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Regulus would probably rather tear down Grimmauld Place with his own hands, one nail at a time, than have Sirius walk through its door again. And that’s optimistic.
He takes another drag of his cigarette, watching the ember eat away at the paper. His mother hated the smell of smoke in her precious house.
The thought makes him smile.
He pushes back from the table. The chair scrapes against the floor with an ugly sound.
“I need some air.”
“Want company?”
“Nope.” Sirius grabs his leather jacket from where it’s draped over the sofa. “Gotta think.”
James doesn’t try to stop him, which he appreciates.
The Triumph roars under him, but for once, the engine’s thunder isn’t enough to shut his brain up.
Whoever came up with ‘don’t speak ill of the dead,’ surely never met Walburga Black. If there is a hell, she’s already redecorating.
He takes the next turn at ninety, scraping metal against tarmac, chasing that sweet spot where there’s no room for thought. He threads the needle between a double-decker and a construction barrier, close enough to see the driver behind the wheel turning ghost-white. His heart’s pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to break free, and isn’t that just ironic?
His body knows where to go before his mind catches up. The garage looms ahead, all shuttered up, and he’s so gone he actually expects Emmeline to be there for a second, ready with a smart remark about Sirius’ love life or lack thereof, before reality hits.
Right. Day off. Emmeline’s in Bristol, visiting her sister or something.
Sirius fishes out his keys, and only bothers turning on half the lights.
The Norton's still waiting, its organs scattered across his workbench. He should put the girl back together by the end of the week—but for now, he collapses onto the ratty leather sofa that’s seen more arse than a strip club, and pulls out his phone because he’s a hopeless masochist.
Obviously, there are exactly zero messages from Regulus. Not like he’s expecting any. Their funeral chat was a masterclass in awkwardness: weather, service, anything to dance around the corpse in the room.
He snorts.
Before that… Christ, when did they last talk?
His thumb hovers over Regulus’ contact like it’s magnetic.
What’s the script here? Sorry I ghosted you for almost a decade, fancy being flatmates?
He doesn’t need to do shit to know how this would play out: Regulus’ mouth doing that thing where it twitches down before he catches himself, his posture stiffening even more, all cold politeness, polite coldness, politely telling Sirius to fuck off.
Brands are forever. Burnt deep within the skin, indelibly, and the nerve endings refuse to regenerate.
He shoves the phone back into his back pocket before he could do something brainless. His boots echo as he stalks through the garage, his black-painted nails tapping on all the mechanical children—the Ducati with its battle scars, the BSA that Emmeline keeps threatening to scrap, but Sirius is too stubborn to let die, and that godawful, lime green Kawasaki that looks like it’s been chewed up and spat out.
This place isn’t just a garage. It’s the first thing that wasn’t handed to him with strings attached. It wasn’t borrowed or charity-case gifted. Every success and failure is his own. Sure, Emmeline took a chance on him, but he’s carved his own space here with grease and sweat and pure determination.
Two and a half million quid, though. That’s not peanuts.
Yeah, let’s pretend it’s about the money.
His phone vibrates against his arse. For one pathetic second, hope flares in his chest, and he hates himself for it.
[11:42] You okay?
[11:43] Smashing
[11:43] Fuck off
A grin breaks through. Trust James to smell his bullshit from across London.
[11:43] Get your arse home
[11:43] We’ll get Chinese and figure this shit out
Home. Funny word, that. The flat they live in is home—has been for years, because Effie is nothing if not determined to take care of her boys, and that includes making sure they don’t end up in some rat-infested flat in Stonebridge just because they’re trying to prove a point about independence. She had personally vetted every flat in their price range until she declared one “adequate enough not to give her nightmares about black mould poisoning her children.”
Children. Plural. Very casually.
Yeah, that’s home.
Still, there are nights with too much booze and too little sleep when Sirius’ mind wanders down memory lane. To the dining room, where he would pull faces at Regulus, until he would nearly choke trying not to laugh, and would kick him under the table. To one of those stormy summer nights when they’d crawl into one bed or another, and Regulus would read his book out loud, resting his head on Sirius’ chest, soft curls tickling his brother’s chin.
For all their endless fights, Sirius found himself agreeing with their mother on one thing: Regulus has always been, indeed, perfect.
[11:45] Rain check
[11:45] Got a Norton to resurrect
It’s not a lie. He needs to fix that bike—but first, he lies back on the sofa and pulls his arm across his eyes, blocking out the light. Just for a minute.
***
The warehouse is a tomb of concrete and steel. Old industrial windows line the walls thirty feet up, catching strobes that paint the people below in flashes of purple and blue. The crowd ebbs and flows like a living tide, and in the depths of the building, a heavy bass is shaking the foundations apart.
The music pounds through Barty’s bones; he can feel it in the centre of his chest, a relentless thump thump thump that seems to match his heartbeat, which should be concerning. But it feels good, no, amazing. He’s on the top of the world, suspended in time and space, unspooling above the floor like a glittering ribbon.
He has lost his shirt, gained someone else’s jacket, and now he is sprawled across the speaker stack, one arm dangling off the edge as he’s watching the rainbow fracture and split.
Get down, get up, get down, GET OUT—
The funding confirmation is still open on his cracked phone screen. It’s the perfect middle finger to everyone who said he’d amount to nothing (his father), who said he was a waste of space (his father), who kicked him when he was already down (take a guess).
His old man can shove it up his arse.
He should care more about the good news, but his mind is splintering in sixteen different directions, and none of them lead to profit margins.
“I fucking did it!” he shouts to the UV constellations someone’s painted on the ceiling. Are they moving? They shouldn’t be moving. Everything’s technicolour and teeth.
“There you are.”
Evan materialises from the mysterious nothing. He’s all tailored elegance and clean lines; he could pass for royalty if not for the golden glint of his septum piercing and the way his pupils are blown wide under the strobing lights.
The good Doc has been sampling his own prescriptions again.
Barty’s grin turns feral.
“Want some more?” He fumbles in his pocket already with impatient hands, looking for a baggie of something.
But Evan grabs his wrist, takes the little plastic bag away, and steadies him on the speaker stack. “One more and you’re gonna drop dead.”
“Promise?”
The air tastes like peach-flavoured Nestea, and the room is spinning, but Evan isn’t. Evan never spins. He’s the eye of the hurricane, already examining the content of Barty’s pocket, which is a glorious threesome of Molly, coke, and K, just enough in quantity to send anyone on a pleasant cruise around the universe.
“Ground rules?” Evan looks at him with a raised eyebrow. His grip hasn’t eased, probably because Barty keeps swaying from the force of the music, trying to follow that neon squiggle up the wall.
Barty rolls his eyes. They get stuck up for a long moment, and the feeling isn’t altogether pleasant.
“No mixing.”
“And?”
Barty laughs at him, looking at his fingers, wondering if there might be traces of coke there to lick off. His tongue darts out before any other thoughts could form, licking a stripe across Evan’s knuckles.
Evan exhales loudly.
There is something on his fingers, Barty notes happily. He cleans it all up with a swirl of his tongue, leaving a shiny trail of spit, then lets it go with a pleased groan.
God, peach-flavoured Nestea.
“Stay in sight,” he finally purrs, wrapping his arms around Evan’s waist.
Push me, pull me, wrap me up, drown me in you, you, YOU—
Gravity is a bitch, he notes as tries to pull himself up using Evan’s waist, but his grip is slipping. Or maybe Evan is turning liquid under Barty’s steady grip, in which case, fuck him for being so heartlessly inconsistent.
“Continue at home?” Evan asks, sliding his hand to the back of Barty’s neck, pressing their foreheads together.
Barty wiggles away, because he’s finally managing to stand up.
“I’m fine,” he slurs, moving his body to the rhythm of the music—dancing, if you please, though his hips refuse to cooperate. He fumbles for his phone and shoves it in Evan’s face. “What a day. Huge. Massive! Look, look at this number!”
“Yeah, I saw. You’re incredible.”
“I am, aren’t I? You hear that, you fucking wank stain?!” He must be shouting at the ceiling again, because he sees the UV stars, and his throat hurts, but the music swallows up his voice. “Ev, I need to piss. Don’t you need to piss?”
For some reason, that amuses Evan, who nods with a small smile.
Struck by divine inspiration, Barty gives up his newly acquired ability to stand in favour of dropping to his knees. He tries to unzip his new jacket—momentary confusion, it’s already unzipped—and cranes his neck to look up at Evan with a wide grin.
“Ease yourself, baby,” he offers kindly.
“I’m not gonna piss on you,” Evan sighs, unfairly unimpressed.
A blink later they’re in the bathroom under the flickering fluorescents, surrounded by cracked tiles and ancient graffiti bleeding into fresh paint.
Barty slams into a stall, not bothering to close the door, and pees long and hard and onto the filthy floor. Then he zips up with a satisfied smirk, and meanders out to the urinals to watch Evan doing his business, but it’s not much of a show. As expected, Evan refuses to piss on anything but the porcelain.
He moves like Quicksilver. One moment, Barty’s leaning against the walls, the next he’s pushed against one, Evan’s hand on his jaw, disgustingly softly.
“Get your shit together,” he says quietly, “or I’ll put you in a cab.”
“Will you tuck me in, too?” Barty pouts. “Read me the Three Little Piggies?”
The grip on his jaw finally tightens, delicious, heart racing racing racing, and Barty can feel Evan’s pulse through his fingers as he licks right into his mouth with a filthy slide of tongue and teeth. He laughs, loudly, writhing like a worm on a hook, thrusting his hips in a mocking invitation for more, sure that Evan would take it anyway, take me anyway, even though they both know it’s just another fucked-up game of Barty’s.
His cock is hardening in his jeans, how is this even possible with all the shit in his system, fucking traitor. Barty is, regrettably, pretty easy to work up, and Evan knows exactly what strings to pull. His other hand slides to cup Barty through the fabric, so clinically that it’s offensive.
Barty growls and thrusts harder, stuck in his own game now.
“Alright,” Evan’s voice has gone dangerous-low. His pupils are blown so wide they could swallow planets; there’s barely any blue left. His straw blond hair is sticking to his forehead, and Barty wouldn’t mind licking the sweat off him. That shit must taste like some seasick caramel divinity. “Colour?”
“The greenest of greens.”
The slap doesn’t catch Barty off guard, but its harshness does. It makes his ear ring and his head snap to the side, and the moan that tears from his throat is embarrassingly real.
His skin is stinging, singing, and he’s a fork stuck in the socket. He can taste blood where his teeth caught his lip, and his cock twitches, heavy and insistent.
“Again,” he pants, rutting against Evan’s palm. The friction is brutal through denim, but that’s good, that’s perfect, just as good as the funding confirmation, if not better.
Evan slaps him again, then again, one palm meeting his cheek, unforgiving, the other still holding his jaw, fingers curling tight, fuck yeah, right there. Barty sees the whole Milky Way as his head falls back against the wall with a thud, and he comes in his jeans, staining the front, legs shaking, body twitching.
For a moment, they just breathe together in the flickering light. Barty can feel his heartbeat in his eyelids.
Then Evan’s hand slips away, his touch on Barty’s face softens again, and something cold slides up Barty’s spine. He knows that look in Evan’s eyes, that affectionate sadness that doesn’t suit them, and that makes him want to crawl out of his skin. It’s suddenly agonisingly hot in the bathroom, freezing hot, so damn blazing it will melt the tiles.
Can’t think, can’t breathe, fuck you, FUCK OFF—
“Red, red, red!” His voice comes out higher than intended.
Evan’s hand withdraws from his face immediately. He’s not being difficult now, at least. He steps back. Isn’t that just hilarious, how he can look so posh even in this shithole bathroom, leaning against the dirty tiles like they’re the finest marble.
Barty’s fingers are shaking violently as he looks for a cigarette. It takes a moment, but he finds one in the pocket of his new jacket. He takes a drag, but nothing comes from it, what the fuck is wrong with everything?
“Need a light?”
Yeah, that thing. Fire.
The silver lighter appears like some kind of peace offering. Barty’s hands are trembling too hard to hold the fag steady, but Evan doesn’t comment on it, just takes it from him and holds it to his lips.
The tip glows orange, and they pass the cigarette back and forth in silence. The lights continue to flicker, Barty won’t stop shaking, and Evan’s jaw is still working overtime, but neither of them mentions any of it.
The come is drying uncomfortably in Barty’s jeans. He feels himself being scraped out.
He takes one long, final drag, deep enough to taste ash.
“I’m thirsty,” he says. “Let’s go home.”