Title: Blue Monday
Summary: Remus has boxes taking up an entire wall, filled to the brim with barely-touched records; there's a story there, Sirius knows.
Words: 1147
A/N: A while ago, I made myself sad by thinking about Sirius's lost years in the 80s, the heyday of music; how he missed out on one the best (club) songs of the 80s, Blue Monday by New Order released in '83. It is my absolute favorite song and it's what inspired me to write this fic. Wolfstar, always.
The first sleeve Remus presents him with is completely black, save for a few brightly coloured tabs on its side. There's no writing on it, no name, nothing.
From his position on the floor, fully reclined and leaning on his elbows, Sirius quirks an eyebrow in mild curiosity as to why Remus has specifically chosen this to start slowly introducing Sirius to all the things he has missed in those years.
He understands it's a way for Remus, the least painful way Remus knows, to touch upon their lost time.
Remus catches his expression, chuckles lightly, shakes his head and proceeds to slowly lift the vinyl out of its sleeve.
It looks brand new; glancing over at the boxes filled with records, Sirius notices that all the records look barely touched. There's a story there, he knows. Remus was never one to share his enthusiasm for music and collecting records, and Sirius can't imagine why Remus would spend money, his carefully saved money, on any of this. But the boxes, all filled to the brim, take up a wall and a lot of precious space.
Remus moves the record player as close to them as the stretched-out cord allows, utterly Muggle and perfectly matching the decor in this ramshackle, godforsaken place Remus calls home.
"Trust me," is all Remus says as he positions the record and places the needle just so.
The first few beats, some time of drum beat, has Sirius looking at the record player in surprise. At thirty seconds in, Sirius is sold, sitting upright and staring at it in awe.
The song keeps building, and everything in Sirius responds to its thumping beat, swept up along as it goes. He knows he must have a dumb expression on his face and can practically feel Remus's smug look.
When he looks up to confirm that expression, something in Sirius breaks at the devastating gaze that meets his own.
The beat, now overlayed with a haunting voice, has Sirius closing his eyes.
He might as well be back in their dormitory, clad in his Hogwarts-issued trousers but wearing a Muggle t-shirt as a form of rebellion, surrounded by his most prized possessions: his second-hand record player and his first second-hand record, Space Oddity by David–must be a Wizard, little cousin. There can be no other explanation. Welcome to your awakening–Bowie, courtesy of Andromeda. Nothing in his life had ever been second-hand, but Sirius never even got a chance to wrinkle his nose at it disgust as wild curiosity took over; nothing in his life had ever before earned the reverence he felt as he held the record, nor had anything ever given him the rush he felt when he played his first Muggle record or the sensation when the song had washed over him. It had captivated him like nothing before, even stopping James, Remus and Peter in their tracks, drawing them to where Sirius was sitting cross-legged, joining him in his awe.
'How does it feel…'
He lies back down again, refusing to let any thoughts through or any emotion to take hold of him. And it's not that hard when the song keeps him on his toes like this. He feels electric, like he's about to vibrate out of his skin.
Sirius has no idea how much time has passed, but silence rings around him, them. The song must have been much longer than what is deemed standard, even for that time.
His eyes must have opened on their own accord at some point because the first thing he registers is the ceiling, cracks and all.
He looks to the side to find Remus staring at him, this time with a soft look on his face. Perhaps Remus was transported to that same moment with Sirius; maybe he remembers the way they all felt when they shared that first song together or the many second-hand records that followed.
The soft look on Remus's face slowly disappears into an expression still oh-so-familiar to Sirius. It would usually be followed with a self-conscious downwards gaze and a lifted right hand to rub at his neck. As if on cue, Remus's hand travels up to rub his neck and then his face, head tilted in the direction of the boxes.
Sirius is not sure whether he wants to hear whatever it is that Remus is working himself up towards. What is there to be said, really – other than revisiting everything that went wrong so quickly but still so gradually.
"I started collecting records back in '83," Remus says, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. "This was the very first one."
Sirius must have made some form of noise because that familiar gaze is now fixed on him. He remembers this part too; while Remus might not have always said what he wanted to say, that look in his eyes meant he had resolved to say what needed to be said.
"It was the first song that forced me to think of you again." The derisive chuckle accompanying that statement feels out of place, and Remus must have thought so too because he follows it up with, "I hadn't allowed myself to think of you, you see. I couldn't."
"But then this blasted song came out. Everything about it made me think of you: the look on your face as you would first discover it; how you would play it on repeat, dancing to it; forcing us to go with you to a Muggle club just to get a taste of it as the song fully surrounds you, sharing it with other people, covered in sweat and beer. I…"
These are angry tears, Sirius recognizes, flowing freely down Remus's face, and he does nothing to wipe them. He probably isn't aware of them, Sirius thinks.
"I started collecting records from then on. Whenever a new song came out that I knew would have you sitting up the way you did that day in the dorm, with that look of sheer awe on your face, I would make sure to add it to the collection. Not much survived with me in this past decade, but this… These fucking records did."
When Sirius wipes at his own face, just to block out the visual of Remus, his hand touches wetness. He was sure of the fact that along with his slowly decaying body, his tear ducts had been one of the first things to go. He can apparently still feel things other than being on the edge of madness with simmering rage or the overwhelming bursts of elation he felt when he first saw Harry then Remus, or the complete apathy he has now reverted back to, that disassociative state that kept him alive all these years.
Ignoring the sniff he hears, he folds up his arms under his head and closes his eyes again.
"Play it again."