Remus arrived by train to be with the band during their first leg of the UK tour that July. Armed with one large duffle bag and a rucksack full of notebooks and Fruit Pastilles, he felt appropriately equipped to last the month.
Haringey, the bus was stationed at. He arrived at the hotel two streets away, and Sirius said, "Hey, hey, look who's here!" and Fabian clapped him on the back, and Remus took it as a good sign. He was alarmed, slightly, upon arriving at the bus shelter to see what they'd be travelling in. It wasn't exactly one of the luxury Sleepers he'd heard about, but a converted double-decker which, judging by the finish of the renovation, the band had carried out work on themselves.
The top deck was half roofed, half open. Most of the seats had been ripped out and replaced with rather dubious looking bunks.
"They're not entirely comfortable," Peter explained when Remus dumped his bag on one. "Occasionally we actually sleep on the floor instead. Only sometimes, like."
They'd also painted huge, runny Union Jacks on the sides of the bus, just in case the sight of a dilapidated double-decker trundling down the motorway wasn't weird enough.
"My uncle used to do dirt cheap tours round London 'til he got caught up with. Then he had to get rid of the old girl," Sirius explained, patting the wall beside him lovingly. He had claimed a bunk for himself, a lower bed by the window, and had propped his guitar case up by the headboard. "We were just starting up so we asked if we could have it. She's been with us ever since. Well, why fork out for something fancy when this one's just as good?"
Why indeed, thought Remus. To have a proper bed perhaps? A seat that didn't make your arse completely numb? A bathroom wouldn't have gone amiss either, though his main concern was that the whole thing seemed completely illegal. But they set off that first day, and not once was the bus pulled over.
From the moment they left the Haringey bus shelter,everything was full steam ahead, all guns blazing, no sleep for the wicked and all that. Literally, for the first few nights.
Never had there been a more hectic seven days as far as Remus was concerned. By the first Friday of the tour he'd sat through four concerts, an aggressive photo-shoot and one uproarious press conference. That was just for the sake of promoting the new record; the boys wanted to be out gallivanting every single night too, and had successfully dragged him along each time.
When they weren't travelling they insisted on visiting every shop, bar or amusement in the vicinity, so far having accumulated a set of golf clubs to play with on the open-top deck of the bus, a huge England flag which occasionally doubled as a sleeping bag, and a green ukulele James had taken to bringing on stage with him.
Remus didn't mind the constant chaos so much to begin with, even if he was the kind of person who liked to curl up with green tea and a copy of NME back at home. As the guest, and most importantly as The Journalist, he was in no position to complain.
Recording as much of Blue Stag's lifestyle as possible did prove difficult sometimes. So many people hung round with them, most of them uninvited, although he noticed there were a couple whom the boys seemed genuinely fond of; a very tall, sullen-looking bloke with dirty blond hair, and a bonny red-haired girl. Remus had assumed she was just a friend of the band until he stumbled across her and James in a rather compromising position in the otherwise empty bus one night (and was hastily told to "perhaps leave Lily out of the article, eh?")
He was often doing that, stumbling across people tangled up together. He blamed it on the lack of separate compartments in the bus. It wasn't exactly one of the luxury Sleepers he'd heard about but a converted double-decker which, judging by the finish of the renovation, the band had carried out work on themselves.
The top deck was half roofed, half open, and most of the seats had been ripped out and replaced with rather dubious looking bunks, so uncomfortable the band often opted for the floor instead. They'd also painted huge, runny Union Jacks on the sides of the bus, just in case the sight of a dilapidated double-decker trundling down the motorway wasn't weird enough.
"My uncle used to do dirt cheap tours round London 'til he got caught up with. Then he had to get rid of the old girl," Sirius had explained on the first day, patting the window beside him lovingly. "We were just starting up so we asked if we could have it. She's been with us ever since. Well, why fork out for something fancy when this one's just as good?"
Why indeed, thought Remus. To have a proper bed perhaps? And a seat that didn't make your arse completely numb? A bathroom wouldn't have gone amiss either, though his main concern was that the whole thing seemed completely illegal.
Not, of course, that he could ever get a second opinion on this. Barely anyone would speak to him, and he could only assume it was because he was the malevolent journalist, brimming with spiteful intentions.
Even Peter, who had warmed to Remus somewhat since their first meeting, seemed a little wary around him. James acted downright suspicious; when he didn't have anything better to do he often took to asking Remus probing questions about Soundscape and then following any given answers with narrowed eyes and proclamations of, "I've never heard of it!"
Sirius and Fabian were much more relaxed about him. They never ostracised Remus for being a journalist, though there was one major difference between the bassist and the drummer; while Fabian nearly always acted completely down to earth, seeming stoned even when he wasn't, Sirius could switch from your happy-go-lucky best mate to your latest enemy in a matter of seconds. He had a very short temper. To make matters worse, so did James. While Remus had read about past feuds between the band members in Benjy's magazines, it was rather unnerving to see their disputes playing out in full.
James, he learned, was usually the instigator of the arguments. He liked to wind everyone up to some degree but it seemed to grate on Sirius's nerves more than the others, despite their supposedly famous friendship.
The first demonstration of James's lack of tact had been one swelteringly hot Saturday as they were driving to a gig in Cardiff. Everyone had been minding their own business - Sirius had been in the midst of showing Remus the trick of a three card match - when James decided to announce, admittedly after a rather large liquid lunch, that "his band" had performed spectacularly badly at Colston Hall the previous night.
Everyone on the bus looked up with varying degrees of annoyance etched into their features. Peter merely grunted his response, continuing to fiddle with his acoustic guitar. Fabian didn't even blink. Sirius was the one who let the cards go limp in his hand, immediately snapping that James had no room to talk - he'd played the worst out of all of them.
Remus watched on quietly as James, getting rather red in the face, swivelled in his seat to face his best friend head-on.
"I have an excuse to fluff up a solo, mate. Guitar actually requires skill, you know? Whereas you, well..." He scoffed. "You have to be pretty fucking dreadful to mess up on a bass."
Remus didn't think this was particularly fair. It was, of course, an ignorant statement, but besides that Sirius was a fantastic bassist. Watching the Bristol gig from backstage, Remus didn't think he'd messed up once. On the contrary, Sirius always played with flair and vigour. James, however, had stumbled on his guitar work on several occasions, but now he chose to ignore that as he laid into Sirius about his "complete and fucking utter lack of energy or charisma".
The Colston Hall argument was the first Blue Stag row Remus witnessed, and over the next few days as they covered the remainder of the South-West gigs the squabbles continued. They were fairly petty most of the time, occasionally involving Peter or, more often, a member of the road crew or some fan one of them wanted on the bus and another one didn't.
But the worst altercation occurred four days later, backstage at Hammersmith Apollo. Sirius had been missing all of the previous night, and although he often disappeared in the evenings James had been on at him about it all day, making these strange, scathing remarks only the band seemed to understand. He hadn't backed down even when they'd been ordered by Moody to sit quietly in one of the back rooms like children.
As Remus tried to concentrate on his notebook he could hear the low buzz of James's words from across the room, followed by the occasional hiss of words from Sirius whenever he chose to reply. Remus caught only snippets - "I'm just saying, you could try –" and "don't say, just shut it" before James made one final quip, and Sirius suddenly pounced on him.
The gasps of everyone around him made Remus look up, but by the time he had everyone else was already jumping into action. The tall, scruffy blond bloke (to whom Remus had never been introduced) was doing his best to yank Sirius's thrashing form off the frontman, while Lily was having her hands batted away by James who was clutching a nose trickling crimson.
"Get off me!" he snarled, though it was difficult to tell if he was talking to his girlfriend or Sirius.
It was Moody who grabbed James under the arms, and he and the blond bloke pulled the two men away from one another like teachers breaking up a playground brawl. Sirius stumbled to his feet, but before Moody had the chance to let rip the yell that was clearly bubbling in his chest, Sirius stormed off through the double doors, seemingly unscathed, followed closely by the blond man.
Remus watched on uselessly, feeling as though he should somehow jump into action too and having little idea what he could actually do to help. He turned his attention back to the remaining group.
"Leave off," James was telling Lily, who flopped back down into her own chair with an angry toss of her red curls. "I'm fine, he hits like a fuckin' bird." Then he snorted so that a little blood sprayed from his nose. "Funny, that."
"Bloody well done, Potter," Moody snapped. He took the wad of tissue from Lily's hands and shoved it at James's face. "Lost your bassist and you're on in an hour. Very nice."
"He'll just be on the bus, for fuck's sake," James said thickly, making to push the tissue to his nose and then lowering it again to add: "sulking."
"Yes well, you will push him, won't you?" said Moody.
"Don't fret," a voice said from beside Remus, making him jump and snap out of his daze. He turned to see Fabian, all lazy smile and half-lidded eyes, chuckling. "They do this all the time. No, I mean all the time."
"Why?" asked Remus, throwing another anxious glance towards the door as if expecting Sirius to come bursting back through to finish James off.
Fabian shrugged. "Something to do, isn't it? Plus, James and Sirius are such good friends that they can do stuff like this." He crossed one long middle finger over the second to make his point. "You know, that's the sign of a best mate: someone you can tell to fuck off, knowing they won't take it to heart."
Remus was fairly sure Fabian was stoned or something, but he gave a stiff nod anyway. It was useful information, he decided; how being in a band could turn your closest friend into your worst enemy and all that, that would be great for the article.
When Sirius hadn't returned after twenty minutes, Remus found a pointed finger and a bark of, "You! Go and fetch him!" being directed at him by Moody. Rather than protesting that he was a journalist and not the manager's lapdog, Remus pocketed his notebook (currently full of similar musical feuds and falling outs to which he could compare Sirius and James) and stood back up, weaving through closely-packed bodies and exiting through the back of the building.
It was a particularly warm summer evening, the sky still a pleasant blue, and he spotted the ridiculous bus straight away. He could see the despondent driver smoking on the step.
"Mind if I go in there?" Remus asked politely upon approaching. He had to wait while the driver took a long drag of his cigarette before eventually budging the tiniest amount to the side so that Remus had to awkwardly side step him to get on to the bus.
"I don't know what the problem is," he heard immediately. "You'd think, wouldn't you, that with him..."
It was Sirius, of course. Remus spotted the head of dark hair, the tattooed arms and tight clothes as soon as he stepped into the heat of the bus. It wasn't overly shocking to find him speaking to the scruffy blond bloke either, but what was surprising was the way Sirius, upon noticing Remus, quickly darted backwards away from the other man, shutting up altogether.
It could have been Remus's imagination, but he looked pretty shifty, and it perhaps had something to do with the fact that, before he knew Remus was there, his long guitarist's fingers had been gripping the front of the blond guy's white vest. Perhaps they were on the verge of fighting, too... but somehow that wasn't Remus's gut reaction.
He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Sorry, I just... I've been told to come and fetch you back," he said. He looked on anxiously as Sirius ran those same fingers through his long hair, giving a bright smile in response.
"Cheers, Remus. Back in a minute, mate," he said, voice slightly strained.
The blond man was still watching Sirius, but then he turned very slowly and set a pair of cold blue eyes on Remus in a way that told him he was clearly interrupting something. What that something was, Remus didn't want or bother to ask.
Instead he nodded curtly, answering a silent question of are you leaving now?, and practically hurled himself back off the bus, starting towards the arena with clumsy footsteps and hoping his message had been clear enough that Sirius would follow him. He really didn't want to be under the gaze of that menacing blond guy any longer than he had to be.
Needless to say, Blue Stag didn't perform spectacularly that night. The crowd didn't seem to notice, still frenzied, screaming, chanting, singing as enthusiastically as ever, but Remus had seen the band enough times now to know a good show from a not-so-good one. It also helped that Moody was stood beside him muttering things like, "what the hell are they playing at?" and "this is bloody embarrassing".
Remus tried to write but he wasn't really in the mood for a review when the band were playing so half-heartedly. By this point in the month he had grown to like all the boys to some extent, in spite of their fights and boisterousness and reckless natures. They weren't exactly friends with him, but he wanted to give them a good word even so.
He would have been able to do a better job if he were somewhere quiet, though by now he was just watching the concerts out of politeness. It didn't exactly do well for them to say "coming to watch, Remus?" and for him to then reply with "nah, give that backstage pass to someone else. I'd rather sit on the bus and do work".
So he stood for another hour before the band completed their set and, following the perfunctory encore, the four of them finally finished for the evening, scrubbing fluffy towels over their faces and making straight for the drinks table. James promptly picked out a bottle of Seagram's vodka, throwing back the clear liquid like water before announcing, in an adrenaline-pumped voice, that it was time to get "completely shit-faced".
Fortunately, Sirius' scoff at this was muffled by the towel he was running over his face and James didn't notice. Just as well really, otherwise there might have been another fight.
"Pete, Fab," James drawled. He threw his arms around the two men, the Seagram's bottle dangling beside Fabian's tattooed shoulder, before moving to slide a hand around Lily instead. "M'lady."
Then he lifted an eyebrow at Sirius who stood away from them like a spare part.
"Coming?" James said casually, taking another swig from his bottle. His nose was still a little red.
Sirius swung the towel by his side and raised an eyebrow in return. "No, thanks."
Their fights rarely lasted longer than a couple of hours, but Sirius had punched the bloke after all, and it seemed to be taking a little longer than usual to heal the wounds.
Remus heard James begin to mutter something about what Sirius would be getting up to instead, stopping when Lily slapped his arm and tried to change the subject by asking where they were going.
"We'll find somewhere in the city," James told her, before turning to Remus. "Coming, my little writing friend?"
"Er. I'd better stay and get on with some of that writing, actually."
James looked annoyed for a moment, but he soon shrugged, arm still slung around Lily.
"Suit yourself," he said, and then they were off, closely followed by Peter and Fabian. A fair few hangers on trailed after them too, including Scruffy Blond Bloke who, Remus noticed, barely gave Sirius a second glance as he left. Maybe they weren't such good friends after all.
Suddenly the back doors swung shut, and he found himself alone with the road crew and Sirius. The bassist had no time to speak to him though as he dutifully began conversing with the group of fans that had formed, clutching backstage passes, obviously having been completely snubbed by the others.
Remus felt a surprising stab of anger at the rest of the band for leaving without even considering them. They weren't groupies, they were just kids! God only knew the lengths they'd gone to or the amounts they'd paid for those passes. They looked absolutely ecstatic, some of them frozen, at the simple fact that Sirius was signing their t-shirts.
One boy in particular – dressed in similar clothes to Sirius's trademark stage ones; ripped t-shirt, black drainpipes and a long bandana threaded through the belt loops to make a tail – looked to be on the verge of tears as he chanted over and over again: "Oh God, you're my idol!"
With a quick smile Sirius dug in his jeans pockets, producing a few picks and dropping them into the boy's shaking palm. The kid looked as though he were about to faint, and Remus found himself smiling. There was something he could definitely write about.
When they'd gone, Sirius approached him. Remus snapped his book shut, shoving it back into his pocket as the bassist produced a pack of cigarettes and offered one to him. He refused, watching Sirius light up and start towards the door.
"That was nice of you," said Remus, simply to break the silence. He gestured towards the fans' retreating backs as he pushed his side of the double door open.
"It's James they really want to see," Sirius replied modestly, half-smile not quite reaching his eyes.
"I don't think so. That boy was practically hyperventilating."
They wandered down the alleyway towards the back of the private car park where the bus was waiting. Sirius stopped for a moment before leaving the mouth of the lane, turning his face up towards the dark sky, seeming to relish the cool breeze as the fresh smoke flowed from between his lips.
"Nice kid," he said, sucking up the last of his cigarette. He tossed it to the ground, stubbing it under a heavy boot before setting off again.
There were things Remus wanted to ask him at this point, and not only because they seemed like they would be beneficial to what he wrote. Did Sirius still get a kick out of meeting fans? Was it hard to believe, or did it ever get boring? Were there any fans that became pushy or aggressive? But he didn't want to seem like the prying journalist who never switched off. Sirius had had a bad day, and as he wasn't initiating any conversation himself Remus decided to leave it for now.
Once inside the empty bus, Sirius didn't seem intent on conversation either. He started up the curving staircase before pausing and turning to look down at Remus.
"Coming up?" he asked.
A part of Remus wanted to, but a bigger part - the irritatingly sensible part - knew he had to do some work. Reluctantly, he shook his head, offering Sirius a smile as the man continued the rest of the way up to the top deck, leaving Remus alone.
Sighing, he flopped down on to one of the bare seats and shoved aside the George Cross flag that Fabian had been wrapped up in that morning. He took out his notebook, turned to a clean page, nibbled the end of his pen absent-mindedly, thinking for a moment, and then began to write.
This was by no means the article itself but so far his notebook mainly consisted of little code words to remind him of certain occasions, a method he'd used at school when preparing for exams. It never seemed to fail him; even now he found himself recalling all the necessary quotes and he spent the next half hour expanding the little code words and abbreviations in full, quite pleased with himself at how much he had actually managed to obtain while still sticking to the contract guidelines.
So involved was he with his writing that he almost jumped right out of his skin when, from above him, he heard music. Glancing up, he half expected to see a pair of speakers staring down at him. Then he realised it was Peter's old acoustic guitar being strummed, and with a soft jolt he heard a gentle voice begin to accompany it.
He set down his notebook carefully, turning his head upwards for a better listen. The words he couldn't make out from the first deck though it was a melody he recognised, and he moved towards the soft sounds without hesitation, climbing the stairs like an eager concert-goer.
It was Sirius who was playing but then, who else would it have been? As Remus stood in the doorway of the roofed part of the top deck, looking out to where the man was lounging on the open-air half, he also realised he'd been correct in guessing the song.
"And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?" came the soft words, emanating gently from the front of the bus, "Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?"
Sirius's voice was very different to James's. Not as perfect, nor as clean-cut, though its huskiness, the way it sometimes didn't quite reach the lower notes so that they turned into shallow breaths, somehow seemed more honest, more intimate. It was perhaps clichéd to think it, but the imperfections made it sound beautiful, and Remus found himself stepping closer automatically.
A mistake. Sirius heard him. He let the guitar slip from his grasp as he turned, surprised, and the instrument hit the floor with a dull thud.
"Shit – sorry, mate," he said, sounding genuinely apologetic as he hoisted the guitar back on to his lap. "Forgot you were working. Did I disturb you?"
"Not at all," said Remus.
"You sure? You weren't, er, in 'the zone' or something, were you?"
"I'd be having a right go at you if I had been," Remus smiled. He motioned towards the guitar. "Pink Floyd?"
Sirius's surprised expression dissolved into a grin. "I was beginning to wonder..."
Remus wandered over, Sirius's friendliness over the past week making the act of approaching him much less intimidating, and dropped down into a seat in the opposite aisle.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Sirius continued to smile as he plucked gently at the high E string with his little finger. "Remus. You hum Adam Faith songs under your breath."
At this, Remus didn't know which emotion was more prominent: horror at this revelation, or surprise that Sirius recognised Adam Faith songs at all.
"Do I?" he said weakly. Apparently horror had won.
"Oh yeah, it's brilliant. But hey, not to worry. You just redeemed yourself."
Remus laughed a little shyly. He decided not to question Sirius's knowledge of obscure cheesy 60s singers, and instead turned his gaze on to the starry night sky above them.
"It's really nice up here," he said, lacking anything better. He was a journalist, he was supposed to be good with words, yet somehow Sirius, in spite of his geniality, seemed more difficult to impress than the other band members. Maybe it was because he was supposedly some temperamental genius.
Sirius hummed in agreement and set the guitar down beside him. There was a moment's silence while he took out another cigarette, until a voice down below broke it with a yell of, "Rock and roll for life!", prompting Sirius to snort as he lit up. Taking a drag, he spoke through his smoke: "So. Are you having fun?"
He stressed the last two words in that strange Southern brogue, and for some reason the question surprised Remus. He had been watching Sirius's fluid motions so intently that he blinked before replying a second too late, "Yeah. Yes, of course." He paused. "Are you?"
"Course," he said, shrugging. "Touring's... it's great, you know."
"You don't get homesick?" asked Remus. He knew how much he himself was missing his bed and his friends and his records and maybe even Frank, just a little, and that was despite how exhilarating the experience here was turning out to be.
"Not much," said Sirius, taking another drag. He looked like he'd answered the question a thousand times. "Got my family here with me."
Remus thought this was rather touching, but after a moment Sirius suddenly laughed and burst out with: "God, what a pansy thing to say." He threw Remus a wink. "Won't put that in the article, will you? You'll ruin my image."
Remus huffed out a laugh. "What shall I say then?"
Shrugging, Sirius sucked on his cigarette thoughtfully. "I abandoned all sense of family values so I could earn a living out of getting 'completely shit-faced' with my best mates?" He had James's voice down to a tee, and Remus grinned appreciatively.
"Very hardcore."
"Oh, I'm anything but."
"Yeah?" Remus turned to him, eyebrows raised and lips still tugged into a stupid smile. "You look pretty, um. You know."
"Do I?" Sirius laughed. "I look pretty 'you know'?"
"You have tattoos and that." He was starting to mumble a bit, not wanting to come off as creepy or overly observant.
"My tattoos make me hardcore, eh?" Sirius was looking at Remus a little strangely now, his lips seeming like they wanted to smile though his eyes were slightly calculating, considering. His free hand danced lazily on his chest, and then slowly travelled down to the hem of his shirt which, after a moment's pause, he tugged up slightly. "Check it out."
At first Remus didn't know what he was supposed to be looking at, and his eye was caught by a large tattoo of a hollow five-pointed star, a hip piercing glinting in the middle. But he followed Sirius's gaze to a tiny, delicate strip of writing along his waistband: You and me burning matches.
He furrowed his brow a little. "The Beatles?"
Sirius ran his forefinger over the little inked letters, shaking his head in a self-deprecating sort of way. "Very hardcore, isn't it? Thought you might appreciate it," he grinned. "Dreadfully mawkish, don't you think?"
Remus blushed. He could easily believe that he'd been humming Beatles songs under his breath as well.
"So you like them?" he asked.
Sirius shrugged, still ghosting a thoughtful finger over the tattoo.
"Yeah, but it was..." He hesitated. "Well, an ex loved them, and I think my very drunk, eighteen-year-old self thought I was being dead romantic." He laughed and tugged his shirt back down. "I don't even know what it means." He sucked on the last of his cigarette and tossed it over the side of the bus, letting his head fall back over the seat.
"I like it," said Remus. "The song, I mean."
"Yeah? I wasn't a big fan of the later stuff," Sirius said, before smiling. "Not that I really have a clue what I'm on about. I suppose you're going to tell me that 'Revolution 9' was their magnum opus?"
"Oh no, no, I mean I preferred the older stuff as well," said Remus, and then he was rather embarrassed to find he was actually leaning forwards eagerly, merely at the prospect of discussing one of his favourite bands. He cleared his throat and sat back again, at the same time as Sirius picked up the guitar with renewed vigour, like he'd been struck with a brilliant idea.
"What's your favourite song of theirs?" he asked, fiddling with a tuning peg.
"What, you're going to play it, are you?"
"What is it first? Then we'll see."
"What if you don't know it?"
"Just tell me the song, Lupin!" Sirius laughed. Remus looked at him. He hadn't realised Sirius knew his last name.
He hesitated before answering, "I don't know. 'I'll Follow the Sun'? I like that."
Sirius hummed his appreciation, half-smile widening. As he began picking out chords and strumming experimentally he said, "I'm glad you didn't say 'Imagine'. Everyone says 'Imagine'. Not even a Beatles song. Right."
He rolled his shoulders and adjusted the guitar a little, played a G chord, then began playing the introduction to Remus's chosen song very smoothly, adding in the root notes as and when. At first his long fingers danced along the fret board, playing both rhythm and melody together – so well that Remus would have thought he'd learnt it beforehand if he hadn't just chosen the song himself and then watched Sirius picking out the right chords in preparation – but then in the chorus, he began to sing the melody instead and Remus tensed a little.
Halfway through, Sirius broke off with a laugh. "Am I ruining it?"
Remus shook his head wordlessly, willing him to go on. Sirius sang the next verse in that lovely untrained Baritone, whistling the electric guitar solo and making Remus laugh. He pretended to duff up the last note, giving a mock bow to Remus's applause.
"That was great!" Remus gushed like a kid. "I didn't know you could play guitar like that and... well you know, you can really sing."
"Thanks," said Sirius, as though he'd heard it all before.
There was a moment's comfortable silence until Remus laughed softly and said, "You know, a guy I work with thinks you're ace. 'One of the finest bassists in rock music', I think were his words."
Sirius turned that easy smile on him. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, he loves you lot. He really wanted to come on this tour actually."
Fiddling absent-mindedly with the hem of his t-shirt, Sirius looked at him carefully. "Didn't you?"
"Yeah, course," said Remus, feeling a little guilty as he looked at the man whose band he had been less than kind about on more than one occasion. "It's been great. You lot are... really great. And I mean, it'll be good for the magazine."
"Did you always want to be a journalist?
"Well..." Remus started, a little thrown as he was used to asking the questions rather than being asked. "I don't know. I always wanted to write. Except for a couple of years when I thought this really awful band I was in was gonna be famous." He laughed, shook his head slightly to demonstrate just how much of a joke the whole thing had been, but Sirius merely asked him what position he'd played.
"Guitar," he answered after a moment's hesitation. He remembered the hours spent strumming away on that old acoustic, trying to nail blues songs, failing more than miserably and stopping when his mother poked her head around his bedroom door with a pitying look.
Now Sirius held out the guitar to him, eyebrows slightly raised with expectation.
"Badly," Remus added.
Sirius just shook the guitar a little by its neck.
"Absolutely not," Remus said firmly. "I was shocking then, so I don't suppose I've improved much now."
Sirius shrugged. "I'm no Clapton."
"Oh please."
Sirius started to smile, but then he sighed and forced the guitar to stand up next to Remus. Turning in his seat, he began to look for something. Remus watched him curiously until, from beneath a discarded pair of jeans, Sirius found James's green ukulele. He gave it an experimental trill, quickly tuning the nylon strings with expert ease. Then he threw Remus an expectant look, nodding to the guitar he'd placed beside him.
"Right then, Remus. What'll it be?"