It's Sunday morning and the sound of the radio wakes him up. The DJs are still talking about Sid Vicious' overdose, and he's hit with that sense of dislocation again. It's more than that someone so close to his age is dead. More than that something he felt a connection with is gone with a finality that can't be denied. He thinks about the spiral downward (inward?) into self-destruction with an indulgence that he knows is contrived and naive and still it seems so completely inevitable. It is only a shallow connection and it's stupid to lie in bed and chase his thoughts in circles, but then shallow connections are all he really has.
The sharp February morning has slipped around the edges of his window and chilled the air, and only the urgent need to piss forces him from under the covers. He steps into his slippers and shuffles through the clothes and records on the floor and across the hall to the shared bath. The mirror gives him back a distorted image of himself, its warped surface dotted with white spots of toothpaste and stray hairs. No surprises. The dark shadows under his eyes give him that bruised look that had always made his mother and other old ladies want to give him hugs and tea and biscuits.
He runs a hand through his tousled hair and smells smoke instead of curry for once. The taste of cheap ale sits on his tongue unpleasantly. It's too cold and too early to consider a shower when the water only ever gets to tepid, so he settles for brushing the foulness out of his mouth and splashing cold water over his face. He runs his wet fingers through his hair to tame it and shuffles back to his room.
The album he's looking for is hidden beneath an empty crisps bag and yesterday's pants. He pulls it out of the sleeve and sets it on his record player, expertly laying the needle on the fifth track. He bends to the tiny refrigerator as the record hisses those few seconds before the music starts. At least he'd remembered to pick up milk on his way home from the club.
He pours himself a bowl of cornflakes and munches his way through it before the song ends. The crunching almost drowns out Strummer's vocals, but the music thrums loud enough within the small space. The neighbors must be out in one way or another because no one bangs on the walls.
He'd like another bowl of cornflakes, but he has work today so he knows he can cadge a meal there at the end of the day. He eats the banana almost on the verge of too brown instead.
His clean clothes are taking up space on the only chair in the room. It's a nice tidy pile since he'd done the wash only two days ago. He tugs out a pair of rust colored corduroys and pulls them over his skinny hips. The last place he'd worked, even though it was a dive as well, had insisted on cheap polyester uniforms that had been so hideous he had changed out of his street clothes in the tiny bathroom at the restaurant every day. That might even have been one of the reasons he was sacked.
He's thankful for small favors, though. The Taj may be a dump but at least the Patils don't have delusions of grandeur. When he's finished dressing he pulls on his coat and scarf and locks the door to his bedsit behind him, not that it matters. A swift boot to the door would send it off its hinges, and he can't imagine anyone wanting to take anything he's got anyway. Anything he ever has worth stealing is consumed on the spot.
Outside, he wraps his scarf higher and tucks his chin down, but he doesn't hurry. He passes the pawn shop at the corner, deliberately studying the dirty gray clouds scudding over the rooftops of the row houses, but his fingers curl around the smooth curves of the pick in his pocket.
The walk to work takes long enough that the streets are just beginning to bustle with lunch time crowds. The bus stop shelter where he likes to have a smoke during breaks when he's flush enough to buy fags is empty. The pack in his coat pocket only has two left and he wavers between having one now or waiting until his midday break.
He stands there undecided with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. Through the dirty glass of the shelter he sees the bloke who makes deliveries for the pizza place next door cycle up to the shop. The bike looks expensive and shiny and he knows it is never left outside even with a chain and a lock. For a moment their eyes meet, then he watches the savvy boy hoist his bike and carry it inside.
The breath he has been holding makes a drift of white fog as he crosses the street. The bell to the front of house jingles, cheerfully out of place in the cramped, pungent interior he enters. It is always noisy, the strange cadence and shrill pitch of female voices singing just this side of too loud from the single speaker mounted in the corner above the dirty picture window. The transistor radio that the counter girl keeps dialed to the latest pop clashes raucously in his ears as he passes back and forth from between the counter and the kitchen, expediting orders and serving up yellows curries on cheap white plates.
He is hot now, his pores oozing Indian spices and he rolls up sleeves to his elbows and ducks outside for a quick breath of air when the last of the lunch rush lingerers dourly pays his ticket. Under the awning, he breathes petrol and ozone and the faint whiff of floured dough.
A muffled curse heralds the appearance of the delivery boy. He watches him wrestle the bike out the door and climb on, securing the delivery bag over one shoulder. The wind gusts and the boy looks up. He watches him sniff the air and look around until their eyes meet again. The smile is the brightest thing he's seen in months, years maybe: white, straight teeth and a secret joke around the corners. Goose bumps shiver up his arms as the boy pushes off and pedals down the street.
At the end of his shift the cook gives him two full containers to take home. It'll last him a couple of days, so he digs the day's tips out of his pocket and springs for fags at the corner shop. It's already dark when he starts home but the sidewalk is well lit and crowded and he hasn't got to the dodgy bits yet, so he isn't too concerned when he hears a shout behind him.
It's the delivery bloke pedaling hell bent after him, a ridiculous red scarf streaming out a good three feet behind him. He must look amazed as the bike skids to a stop because the boy ducks his head a bit sheepishly but then he lifts his chin and pushes his hair off his face with an impatient gesture as the wind blows it forward.
The bright smile is back and he hardly hears the words coming out of it. Instead he stares at pale skin flushed scarlet in the frosty air and black hair whipping forward and back as the wind shifts. It's a study in contrasts: white and red and black. Red lips and quick flash of tongue wetting them and the boy is watching him expectantly.
I'm sorry, he stops staring long enough to stutter, what?
The boy laughs again and white teeth flash.
I'm Sirius. I thought I'd introduce myself since we see each other almost every day.
Oh, quite, he says awkwardly and shoves a hand out as some old training of his mum's takes control of his body. I'm Remus.
Another laugh and the boy-Sirius-grabs hold with an icy hand and gives him a firm shake.
Want a ride home?
He blinks in the face of such unabashed forthrightness and looks at the indicated handlebars doubtfully.
I don't live near.
I don't have anywhere else I need to be.
Sirius is grinning now, his expression almost challenging.
He can't back down from it. His own chin lifts a little and he nods.
They end up on a park bench eating the still steaming curry together instead.
Not bad, Sirius says, better than the shite I deliver anyway.
The small park where they sit is deserted when Sirius leans over and kisses him with cold lips.
Do you want to get some ice cream?
Nobody eats ice cream in February, he answers stupidly. His lips are burning.
I do. Come on, then, Sirius says, pulling him to his feet and into an all night diner. He orders ice cream sundaes with hot fudge and whipped cream and a cherry on top. He wonders if Sirius has deliberately chosen a sweet that matches his coloring so perfectly.
Can I have your cherry?
Too late for that, I'm afraid.
He doesn't smile, but Sirius throws his head back and laughs, then his cherry disappears in a swirl of Sirius' tongue.
Come back to my place? Sirius arches an eyebrow suggestively and waggles the stem of the cherry with the tip of his tongue.
He considers as he licks the last bit of hot fudge from his spoon.
All right.
They take the tube because it is full dark now and frigid and Sirius lives across town in not exactly a posh area but in one that he could never hope to afford. He questions the wisdom of his decision, but Sirius is pulling him up two flights of stairs and then they are inside.
He sees the odd mix of expensive and second hand shop items that he can't quite figure out but which makes sense somehow for this bright, high contrast boy. But what really draws him is the bookshelf.
The books are expensive but slightly worn, well-loved his mum would have said. All the children's classics are there and more. He runs a finger along the spines, suffused with a feeling that is more sublime than envious. Aesop's Fables, Arabian Nights, Grimm's Fairytales-he looks up and grins.
Snow White.
Sirius cocks his head like a curious dog. What?
You're Snow White.
Laughter warms the air between them as Sirius comes closer.
Have I been dead asleep then? Have you come to kiss me awake?
No, he says, turning back to the captivating row of books. I think I've been the one asleep.
Wake up, Sirius says before pushing him back against the shelf and kissing him.
They say you start hallucinating right before you die, he says when Sirius finally pulls away. The laughter barks out again and he wonders if it really is such a common occurrence as it seems to be.
You can't be dying, I just kissed you awake.
My hero.
Prince, Sirius corrects with a grin.
Suddenly awkward, he twists away and stares at the book spines again.
Fingers circle his wrist and slide down to entwine with his. Sirius looks straight ahead at the shelf.
They're the only things I took with me when I left home.
He wants to ask why Sirius' hand tightens for a moment and why the laughter is gone from his voice, but he doesn't.
This one, he says instead. My mum used to read it to me. My favorite.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin? Sirius smiles and pulls the book out of its place.
All the little boys and girls
with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls
and sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls
tripping and skipping
ran merrily after
the wonderful music with shouting and laughter
I always felt sorry for the little lame boy left behind, he says.
Sirius sets aside the book and reaches for his hand again, reading it with the tips of his fingers as if there were fascinating stories to be discovered there instead.
You have calluses. Do you play an instrument?
Guitar.
Will you play one day for me?
Hocked it two months ago.
Sirius smiles, brings their hands up to his cheek.
Play me.