I'm Falling Again (I'm Failing Again), a harry potter fanfic

Monthlies & Fortnightlies
Would You Rather | 4. Write about the Marauders
Switch Off | 14. Hit Zipper T. Bunny with an Axe | (Emotion) Frustration

WC: 6870

o . o . o

I'm Falling Again (I'm Failing Again)

What if I'm someone I don't want around?

Sirius woke up with a start when a pillow crashed into his face. What the hell? He sat up, bleary-eyed and brushed long curls out of his face. His hair was long and a bit unruly now, but he kind of liked it that way. Remus was standing in the doorway to Sirius' bedroom, his arms folded across his chest and one eyebrow raised.

"How could you wake me up before ten?" Sirius asked, glancing at his alarm clock and frowning. "This is a positively ungodly hour, Ree, I feel utterly betrayed."

"Figured you might want to get up and get moving, seeing as we actually have places to be today." Remus made an absolutely excellent point.

Sirius swung his legs out of bed, padding across the floor and heading for the bathroom. In the doorway, he stopped and leaned over, kissing Remus' cheek softly. It was a small gesture, but it was enough to let Remus know that he wasn't actually mad about being woken up. In fact, he appreciated it. Years of touring and playing late into the night and going out after had certainly established a sleep habit that was proving very difficult to break, but Sirius was trying. He wanted to make his daytime hours more productive and more creative, and that meant getting up earlier.

He used the bathroom, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and dug through one of the drawers to find one of his stretchy headbands. He put it on, using it to hold his curls back, and made his way out to the living area. Unsurprisingly, James and Peter were already sitting at the dining table, eating scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. Remus had gone to the kitchen, and slid a plate over the countertop for Sirius when he saw him.

"Cheers," Sirius said as he grabbed the plate and headed for the table.

It wasn't entirely common for the whole band to stay at Sirius' house, though in the past few months it had certainly happened more often. But today was a big day and they had been rehearsing for two days straight, so it made sense for them to be together. And Sirius' house was meticulously free of temptation. But even if it wasn't common, it was still comfortable. Remus, James, and Peter were his three best friends, and after years of touring together, they knew just about everything about him.

Sirius felt calm as he sat at the table with his friends. He had expected that this day might be filled with anxiety, but so far it was off to a good start. He had been doing the work for the past few months. He was ready for this now.

o . o . o

The guys gathered for sound check, each strutting onto the stage with their instruments. Sirius approached the mic at the front of the stage, one hand cradling the neck of his guitar. It was only sound check, not a real concert, he reminded himself. Nobody there cared how he sounded as long as it was alright technically. Even so, he grimaced at the gravely sound of his voice as he strummed the first chords of a song.

This was their routine for every sound check. Start with Sirius - one song, just him and his guitar. Followed by a song for James, one for Remus, and ending with one for Peter. Lastly, they would finish with two songs with all five of them.

Sirius reached for his water bottle - not filled with water, but with a strong gin and tonic - and took a sizeable gulp, pausing in his song for a moment. It was more than enough to whet his vocal cords. His fingers returned to the strings of the guitar, plucking deftly away as he sang.

o . o . o

Sirius stepped out onto his back patio, chest bare, feet bare, ready to bare his soul to the universe once more. It had become his daily ritual, to try to get comfortable in his vulnerability.

It started with yoga - his feet on the sun-warmed bricks of the patio. When he had first started the practice, he would watch videos to guide him through each session, struggling a bit to execute the moves and hold the positions. Sirius might be a fit bloke, but yoga was a whole different ball game. As he'd gotten a little bit more practiced though, he'd started deviating from the instructors' videos more and more, listening to what his body wanted to do. Now, he almost never followed the videos, choosing to just create his own flow of positions instead.

It was a particularly warm day, even for the southern California desert, and Sirius could feel the sunlight soaking into his skin. It was like a healing salve and he loved it. He reached up toward the sky, linking his hands together and bent first to the right, then to the left, feeling his joints crack pleasantly. He bent down, placing his palms flat on the ground and feeling the stretch in his knees. Slowly, keeping his breathing steady, he walked his hands backward until they were wrapped around his heels, forcing an even tighter bend. He breathed through it - in, out, in, out. Deep, calming breaths. When he was ready, he laid his palms on the clay once more, walking his hands out until his body formed a triangle with the ground. He sank down onto his elbows, shifting his weight forward onto his forearms until he felt a stretch in his shoulders and the backs of his knees. Sirius held the position for a while, trying to focus his mind on the sound of cicadas beginning to stir for the day.

When he felt like he was in the right headspace - calm and focused on his body and the space around him instead of thoughts floating in and out of his mind - he leaned forward and kicked his feet up, strong abdominal muscles pulling them skyward until he was perfectly vertical. His obliques clenched and his biceps shook with the effort of holding the position, but he continued to take deep breaths, staying vertical for as long as he could before first dropping one foot down to the ground and then the other.

Sirius cycled through a variety of other positions that kept his body engaged and his mind centered, ending with a string of meditative positions and then finally with a standard seated pose. Having finished his yoga, he reached over and grabbed the guitar he had brought outside with him, settling it in his lap. Without stressing over tuning the instrument, Sirius began to pluck at the strings, strumming purposelessly. He played whatever notes came to mind, occasionally doubling back over a few chords that he particularly liked the sound of. As he got lost in the music he was playing, deeply channeling his emotions in that moment, he began to hum along. There were no words, and he felt less pressure without them. There was a freedom to just create without expectation.

o . o . o

Sirius strode through the stadium's tunnel, stepping out onto the cement floor of the arena. The chaos of the backstage setup unfolded before him, hundreds of wires snaking this way and that, the looming LCD backdrop propped up with heavy support beams. The rest of the band was already gathered there, waiting for him so they could go through their pre-show ritual together. Sirius adjusted his heavy chain necklace with one hand and ran black-painted fingernails through his curls with the other.

"Ready?" James asked, his expression as excited as ever.

That was the thing with James - he loved every minute of doing this. So did Sirius really, but he always doubted. James, on the other hand, seemed completely confident in his skills in their future, and in fans' love for him. But Sirius was always waiting for it to crash down around his ears.

The familiar anxiety was rising like bile in Sirius' throat. What if the fans didn't like him? What if he messed up on stage? What if everyone found out that this was all a ruse? He didn't belong in the company of great artists.

Trying to suppress his feelings, Sirius nodded to James. The four boys gathered around an old amp. It never got used anymore, but it was the first amp they ever had as a band, and it was covered in stickers and graffiti from their first few years, when they had been struggling to make it big. Now, James placed four shot glasses on top of it and carefully filled them with amber whiskey.

"Nothing can break us," all four boys chorused in unison, wrapping their fingers around the shot glasses. Together, they raised the glasses to their lips and tossed back the shots.

Sirius felt the fire of the whiskey burn down his throat, but it was a welcome sensation. That heat always anchored him to reality and reminded him that the doubts and demons in his mind lived only in his head. He high-fived and hugged his band-mates, cementing their pre-show tradition. One by one, James, Remus, and Peter turned toward the stage, ready to walk out. With their backs turned to him, Sirius snagged the bottle of whiskey and quickly gulped down another two shots' worth of fiery liquor. He needed just that little extra boost of confidence to dispel the doubts.

The crowd was going to go wild when he walked on stage. They did love him. He was good enough.

o . o . o

Sirius ran his hands through his still-damp curls, staring at the shirts he had hung up in his dressing room. The nerves were starting to get to him, manifesting in indecision. Which one would look best under the stage lights? Which one would he be the most comfortable in? But his eyes kept gravitating toward the ruby red silk shirt, so he reached for it. He loved this shirt. Loved the way it looked against his fair skin and black pants. Loved how it made him feel like he was living life on the edge. It was absolutely his best rockstar shirt. He knew he would feel the confidence he needed to feel if he wore it.

There was a slight hesitation though. He remembered all too well what had happened the last time he'd worn a shirt like this. Not the exact same shirt, but similar. Both red, both a luxurious silk that slid across his skin like water. He wasn't sure he needed that memory on stage with him tonight. But it wasn't the same shirt, he rationalized. And he could really use that boost in confidence.

"You can do this," he told himself as he slipped his arms into the sleeves and buttoned up the front of the shirt, leaving a fair amount of his chest visible. Some things might be different, but he was still the same Sirius.

When he was ready, Sirius left the little dressing room to go meet the other guys. It was unusual for them to have separate spaces to get ready. Before they got big, when it was small venues, they didn't really have any space at all or were lucky if they had one room together. And then when they started doing stadium tours, it was mostly locker rooms. But this was a theater, and that meant the luxury of individual dressing rooms.

Sirius walked through the back hallways, as usual the last one in the band to be ready. When he emerged backstage, he couldn't help but let out a little chuckle at the sight in front of him. James was doing something akin to squats, rocking back and forth across his feet slightly.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Sirius called out jovially.

"Hey!" James greeted, standing up and looking over his shoulder, smiling at the sight of his best friend. "I think my pants shrunk in the wash, they're feeling particularly tight tonight. So I'm just trying to… get them comfortable… so I can sit…"

"Are you sure you haven't just put on a few pounds?" Sirius teased as Peter and Remus snickered.

"That's not funny," James replied, the hand not holding his drumsticks immediately ghosting over his stomach and then pulling his leather jacket a bit closer across his chest.

They all knew James worked out religiously, and drumming itself was no easy feat, but he could be incredibly self-conscious about his body. In that respect, he and Sirius were opposites. While James had complete faith in his talent and believed whole heartedly that he had earned his place as a rockstar, he constantly worried whether he truly 'looked the part'. Meanwhile, Sirius was always confident that he looked good, but he had trouble quieting the doubts that he deserved to be where he stood.

Shaking those thoughts off, Sirius joined the rest of his bandmates around their old amp. They each laid a hand on top of it, and Sirius closed his eyes, searching for a moment of serenity. If he was going to do this successfully, he needed to find a spark of belief somewhere inside of him. He repeated a simple mantra, but one that he had long struggled to believe, hoping that tonight he could finally feel the truth in it. You earned this. He had a great voice, superb guitar skills, and a killer personality. He could do this.

"Nothing can break us," James said first, the certainty in his voice there for good reason. Remus and Peter parroted the phrase, sounding equally sure, and Sirius repeated a heartbeat after them, trying to convince himself that his voice didn't have a note of hesitancy in it. They were going to be great.

o . o . o

Sirius' brick red silk shirt shone under the spotlight. He looked like a statue of a Roman god painted in technicolor and brought to life. With four songs now behind them, Sirius took a moment to take stock of how things were going while the four of them chatted with the crowd for a moment. James emerged from behind the drum set, walking to the edge of the stage and looking out at the crowd in front of him, picking who to chat with.

The last song had been a little quieter than Sirius would have liked. It was one of their ballads, but it had been a chart-topper for them, and usually the crowd would sing along, pulling out phones and swaying like a scene in a movie. That had happened a bit, but it had been different. More subdued. He couldn't help but wonder why. Had he sung it wrong? Had he messed up the words? Was his voice lacking in emotion? Maybe people had finally figured out that the love and heartbreak behind the words was all James', not his. He was nothing but a fraud, giving voice to someone else's words.

Sirius reached for the tumbler filled with whiskey that sat ready for him on the edge of the drum platform. He quickly downed what was inside, sliding his tongue over his lip to sweep up every last drop. The liquor was like confidence coursing through his veins, giving him the strength to continue with the show. It banished insecure Sirius from his mind, letting rockstar Sirius step to the forefront once more. He wanted to hear people chant his name, screaming with delight.

Turning back to the crowd, Sirius beamed, drawing from the whiskey in his veins and James' energy. His voice boomed as he swaggered over to his friend and threw an arm around his shoulder (to a cacophony of cheers).This was everything he craved. This attention and adoration. He never wanted it to end.

o . o . o

It was everything Sirius wanted it to be. He felt fantastic. The doubts that had always plagued him were there, but they lived in the periphery of his mind instead of stomping across the forefront.

He felt a little bit naked on stage. It was raw in a way that he hadn't been in so long. He could feel all the eyes on him, and he had to remind himself that they weren't crawling over him, inspecting for flaws. They were celebrating him, his band, the music that they created together. And maybe his emotions were being broadcast to thousands of people in front of him, but they were they because they liked what they heard, because they identified with it on some level or found meaning in it.

Sirius felt god-like. He was standing at the edge of the stage, breathing heavily with his arms raised out to his sides like he was on the bow of the Titanic, feeling everything. The screaming of the crowd felt louder than ever before, and he could feel each thrum of the guitar in his nerves, each beat of the drum echoing with his pulse. It was nothing short of glorious.

Remus plucked out a string of quick chords on his guitar, drawing out screams of excitement from their audience as he began the intro to the next song. Sirius stepped away from the edge of the stage, back pedaling to his mic stand. He replaced the mic on it, picking up his guitar and draping the strap over his shoulders. With an intense focus, Sirius placed the fingers of his left hand on the neck of the guitar, the fingers of his right pinching a pick and beginning to drag it across the guitar's strings. His heart leapt excitedly as the sound of his own notes joined with Remus' echoing through the theater. Sirius grinned up at Remus, just a quick flash of a smile before he stepped back up to the mic.

But as the melody approached the first line of the song and Sirius opened his mouth to sing, his mind was disturbingly empty. He couldn't remember the words. Nothing was there. He floundered, a panicked expression flickering across his features. Sirius turned back to Remus, who was looking at him with a confused expression, and then looked over at Peter, praying that they could somehow telepathically help him. They played another round of the introductory chords, but it didn't help Sirius recall the words. He tried to play it off like they were just riffing a bit, but he knew everyone could tell that he had forgotten. When it came time for the first verse again, he heard James' voice ring out clearly behind him, singing the song they had written together barely two years ago. Sirius focused on playing the right chords on the guitar, hot tears burning in his eyes. What was wrong with him? How could he screw up so badly? He had disappointed everyone - his fans, his bandmates, himself… Hot, searing shame coursed through him and he felt like the spotlights were scorching his skin. Sirius no longer wanted to be on stage in front of everyone, feeling the raw emotions. He wanted nothing more than to hide away and forget.

o . o . o

Sirius walked off the stage and James immediately clapped him on the back. They ended every show this way - the encore was a big, booming song followed by Sirius alone on the stage with his guitar, singing an emotional ballad. It was terrifying for him, every single night. And when it was over, he always walked away with his heart pounding and his breath catching in his throat.

"Brilliant as ever, mate," James said, flashing an exuberant smile as he ruffled Sirius' curls playfully. "Truly, you're exceptional."

Sirius nodded, still a little too wound up to answer properly or even process his friend's words. James only knew the barest hint of Sirius' anxieties - a toe dipped in the whirlpool. Remus had dived deep into it some time back, but even he didn't know the full extent of the darkness. And Peter… well, Peter only knew what he observed. Sirius reached for the bottle of whiskey that was still perched atop the band's old amp, taking a swig.

Remus frowned. He and James exchanged significant looks, trying to take stock of how many drinks Sirius had had and how he was feeling. It was crucial to being prepared for how the rest of the night was going to go. It was a Saturday, and they had four nights until their next show, so they would go out and party, but that could end so many different ways. In the hospital after a bar fight. Cleaning up after Sirius puked all over himself. Ordering pancakes to deal with a run of the mill hangover. Fighting over whatever dumb thing Sirius did, which he didn't even remember half the time. From what they were seeing, they were worried. Sirius was spiralling, buried deep in his mind. Going over every single mistake, remembering voice cracks where there were none. Analyzing every detail over and over again.

o . o . o

Sirius growled in frustration as he stalked off the stage. That was… not how he wanted things to go. He'd had a picture in his mind of a glorious comeback, fans screaming his name, a feeling of triumph coursing through his veins. Not flubbing the damn words to a song that he wrote. It was embarrassing. He felt like a failure.

"Hey, it happens to everyone," Remus said softly, trying to reassure Sirius as much as he could. "You know we've all done it. It's fine."

But Sirius pulled away from his touch, aggressively snatching up one of the bottles of water that were sitting on a side table for them. He hated himself for this. Hated that he had done something so stupid, and hated that he couldn't accept Remus' support no matter how truthful it might be. It didn't matter if everyone didn't, he shouldn't. He should be better than this. He was Sirius Black.

He walked off, trying to get as far from that damn stage as he could. He gulped down water, and vaguely wished it were something stronger, before he violently shoved that thought out of his mind.

"Sirius! Mr. Black!" The voice called out to him as a young man with glasses and a press badge swinging around his neck chased him down.

"What?" Sirius snapped. He was hardly in the mood for this.

"My name is Benjy, I'm with Rolling Stone, I was hoping I could ask you a couple of questions," the guy asked, adjusting his glasses.

"I don't…" Sirius stopped himself. For Rolling Stone, maybe he could take a minute."Yeah, alright, go for it."

"How did your first show back feel?"

"Uhh, well there were some ups and downs, but overall it felt good to be back on stage and in front of the fans," he answered. It was bullshit, sort of, but he knew better than to give the honest answer. Well, Benjy, right now I really hate myself in every imaginable way, but I guess I do love my job somewhere deep inside. When I'm not a monumental failure at it.

"There's a rumour that the reason your tour got cut short last year -"

"The tour didn't get cut short, the band had to cancel two shows, but then continued touring," Sirius interrupted.

"Right, but you didn't continue to tour," Benjy amended. "And the rumour is that it was because you went to rehab."

Sirius felt like he was reeling. He took a step backward, swaying as his mind tried to figure out which way was up again, and grabbed onto the railing in front of the stadium seats to steady himself.

"We… we don't comment on the particulars of band members' health," Sirius said, his voice sounding like it was an ocean away. It was a canned answer, the standard answer that their manager told them to give any time they were asked about what happened during the tour.

"So you were ill?" Benjy persisted.

"I… yeah, I was ill," Sirius replied, shaking his head as anger started to boil within him. "Look, mate, we don't give out health information, alright? Please just respect that."

"Well it's just that you're a pretty big icon." Benjy smirked, which Sirius found extremely annoying. "A role model, even. So I think people have a right to know if you're a druggie or something."

"People don't have a right to anything." His words came out like a growl, deep and gritty, with a fair bit of bite behind them. "I didn't sign up to be a role model or anything, I just signed up to make music and share it with people."

Sirius pushed past Benjy, shoving him into the railing, and walked through the stadium tunnel. He didn't need this, not tonight. Deep down, he knew he'd just given Benjy the soundbite he was hoping for - something brash and angry and definitively not a denial. It would be splashed across all the papers soon enough, another reminder of his many failures. And this time it would be immortalized and publicized for all to see.

o . o . o

The party raged under neon lights, a pulsating bass reverberating through their bones. The dj was playing one of their songs, but it was some remixed version. Sirius staggered through the crowded bar, other people's fingers dancing along his ruby red shirt as they recognized him. It was funny - there was no denying that he was a celebrity of massive proportions. People went crazy in his presence. But it was never enough to quell the doubts. He didn't just want to be a celebrity, he wanted to be a god.

His fingers skimmed the bare waist of a pretty girl as he tried to pass by, but her fingers snagged his pocket and pulled his hips flush with hers. Her lips slid over his, warm and wet, and Sirius was tempted to lose himself in her. But he pulled away, continuing his journey through the masses. There was a door at the back of the bar that he knew led to a private room where a second party would be unfolding. That was where the good stuff was.

He knocked three times on the door, and it swung open, a burly bouncer standing on the other side. The stern-looking fellow immediately stepped aside when he saw Sirius, one of the perks of being a rockstar. Not for the first time, Sirius wondered how he had earned his celebrity status. What had he ever done to become so famous? And how long would it last before people found out that he didn't deserve it?

James was sitting on a grungy sofa, a couple of other partiers around him. Peter was perched on the arm of the sofa next to James, while Remus lounged in a little armchair, beer in hand. In front of James was a decently sized square mirror, several lines of cocaine spread out across its surface.

"'Bout time," James said, catching sight of Sirius.

"Got held up," Sirius shrugged in reply, "literally."

Peter wrinkled his nose at that comment, while James let out a little chuckle. Pulling a short, metal straw from his jacket pocket, James placed one end at the base of the first line and positioned his nostril over the other. James inhaled swiftly. He gave both the straw and his nose a quick wipe, and then offered the short piece of metal to Sirius. He followed James' actions, but snorting two lines in quick succession before handing the metal straw off to Peter and sinking onto the couch next to James. The rest of the group took their own turns - Remus declining - laying more lines when they exhausted what had been there already. Sirius did another line when the mirror circled back around to him.

The high was… well nothing compared to it. He felt invincible. Finally, he felt like he was every bit the rockstar that people saw him as. He was irresistible. Sexy, witty, talented. His doubts vanished into thin air, leaving only confidence in their wake. He wanted to feel this way all the time. Sirius didn't see the concerned look on Remus' face as he snorted his fifth line of cocaine, sagging backward against the sofa to watch the kaleidoscopic colors dance across his field of vision. God, he never wanted this feeling to fade.

o . o . o

Sirius slipped the key into the lock, turning it and pushing the door open. He all but slammed it behind him, his frustration getting the better of him. He collapsed on James' couch, feeling like absolute shit and feeling even worse for being alone. James, Peter and Remus had all gone to a post-show party, but Sirius had ducked out, knowing that going home was a better idea for him. The guys - mostly Remus - had insisted that they could just go back to James' apartment with him and hang out, but Sirius was adamant that they shouldn't miss out on the fun just because of him. Besides, it was part of the job. Going out and socializing with fans and with other people in the creative industry was how they stayed relevant and formed professional bonds. It was necessary. Still, it didn't mean it didn't suck to be left behind.

Idly, Sirius reached for the tv remote, hoping that something could distract him from the thoughts swirling through his mind. He didn't want to drown in them. He had to keep his head above water. Sirius flipped through the channels, but it seemed like the universe was trying to play an evil prank on him. TBS was airing Walk the Line, ABC Family was showing A Walk to Remember, TNT was playing Pitch Perfect, and HBO had a choice between A Star is Born and Bohemian Rhapsody. Even the Hallmark channel was playing a stupid romance about a singer who went back to his small hometown and reconnected with his high school sweetheart. None of which were quite the distraction he was hoping for.

Sighing heavily, Sirius turned the tv off and stood up, pacing the living room. He was frustrated with himself. Beyond frustrated. He had fucked everything up tonight - ruined the show for the band. And then he had gone and mouthed off to the reporter, and that would only make rumours swirl even worse than before. He knew, of course, what people had been saying since he left the tour. He knew there was a lot of speculation. Stories had come out, people who had been at parties talked. Nothing stayed secret for long when you were famous. But he had undoubtedly made things worse tonight.

Sirius walked over to the sliding glass doors that led to James' balcony and slid them open, stepping outside. It was the middle of July - the height of summer - but at almost 1am the air was cool. A slight breeze blew off the coast, ruffling Sirius' curls. He looked up, wishing he could see the stars, but Los Angeles was just too bright. Too much light pollution. He could see a few, but that was all. Especially with the moon shining so brightly.

He stared up at the moon, trying to remember any of the mantras he had to calm his mind and dispel the ugly thoughts, but nothing came to mind. Instead, the only thing he could hear in his mind was the screaming of his own self-hatred. You're a failure.

o . o . o

The light was too bright. He could see it through his eyelids, blinding.

Sirius groaned, and the vibration of it brought him a little closer to reality. He could hear a high-pitched beeping and feel pressure on his arm. With great effort, he blinked his eyes open slightly. Though his vision was hazy, he could see Remus, asleep and bent over his bed with one hand resting on Sirius' wrist. Gazing around, he saw James sitting up on a little pleather sofa, glasses askew and head tipped back against the wall as he snored softly. Next to him, Peter was curled up into a ball with his head on top of his hands.

Where were they? Why was everyone so somber?

Sirius tried to move, aiming to sit up, but his muscles protested at even the slightest flex. Remus, however, felt even the tiniest movement, and immediately sat up. He smiled in a sad sort of way when he saw Sirius' eyes opened a little.

"Wha's goin' on?" Sirius mumbled, his voice weak and hoarse.

"We're at the hospital, Sirius." He was exhausted and it showed in his voice and the weight behind his eyes. "You OD'ed. Again."

"How long?"

"A week."

Sirius closed his eyes. He didn't want to see the disappointment on Remus' face. He couldn't bear it again. A week. That meant two canceled shows. And there'd be several more before he'd be able to play again. He had let down his bandmates, his friends, again. What a wretch he was. Perhaps it would have been better for all of them if he'd just died. He was beyond saving - why couldn't they just let him go?

"Do you have any idea how this feels, Sirius?" Remus asked. His voice was a whisper, but it was every bit as laced with anger as if he were screaming at the top of his lungs. "What you do to me?"

Sirius shook his head, the small motion making him ache dreadfully.

"You whisper that you love me when we're alone, but…" Remus looked away, tears shining in his eyes. "You wouldn't keep doing this if you loved me like you say you do. You're an alcoholic, Sirius. An addict. And you need to get help before you tear apart everything we've worked so hard to build."

o . o . o

By 1:30 in the morning, Sirius was positively bubbling over with self-loathing. He wanted more than anything to go to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he had visions of himself standing on stage, gaping like a fish as he forgot this words to his own song. He could imagine the tabloid mockups about deranged drug-addict Sirius Black. He wanted to tear his hair out and scream from the top of his lungs. Anything to make it stop.

Pacing the balcony, Sirius wondered idly when his friends would be home. He had been too angry back at the venue to accept their reassurances, but now he needed it more than anything. He needed to hear that they didn't think he was a failure, that they forgave him for his mistake. He needed them to tell him that it wasn't a big deal. Sirius groaned, placing his hands on the wrought iron railing and pulling himself toward it until his hips bumped against it. A breeze lifted a curl that had fallen across his forehead, and Sirius tilted his head up into it. The feeling of the warm metal under his hands almost felt like the sun-warmed bricks of his backyard patio, and Sirius closed his eyes, trying to imagine he was at home doing yoga. But it was no use.

Growling, Sirius pushed away from the railing and went back inside James' apartment. As he was walking, a familiar glitter caught his eye, and he turned toward the cask that James had turned into a liquor cabinet. The hoops around it had been covered in shimmering gold leaf, standing out against the dark mahogany wood. But it wasn't the shine of the gold leaf that had caught his eye. On top of the cart was a beautiful crystal glass with about an inch of warm, amber liquid in the bottom.

He knew he should just walk away from it, but as he stared at the glass he could practically taste the high-end scotch on his tongue. Like a moth drawn to a flame, Sirius walked over to the cask with his hand outstretched, the crystal cool against his skin when his fingers finally wrapped around it. He swirled the scotch around in the glass a bit, the heady smell wafting up.

You're weak.

Sirius knew he should be stronger than this. He had spent months working towards his sobriety, and he shouldn't be so willing to throw it away. But the scotch smelled heavenly and he knew it would probably taste even better.

You're a failure.

The familiar words echoed in his mind once again. He was already a failure when it came to music, why not be a failure at sobriety too? He could throw it all away together, all in one night. And wouldn't that be a bit poetic? To lose it all in one fell swoop.

You're worthless.

Sirius brought the glass up to his lips, slowly draining it. He savoured every drop, every last taste of the golden liquid. Once he tasted it, all he wanted was more. He knew how well it could drown all the demons in his mind, and there was no sweeter way to do it. There were no other glasses or bottles out on the barrel, but suddenly Sirius was desperate. He had been sober for five months until now, but he felt like he was in the first day of withdrawal. His hands were shaking as he pulled at the door of the cask's cabinet, but it was firmly locked. Sirius swore vehemently. He had to get in there.

He walked to the kitchen and began rummaging through the drawers, looking for anything he could use to lever open the door. There was very little that might be suitable, but Sirius settled on a heavy chef's knife. It was fairly sturdy, but still seemed thin enough to wedge into the crack between the cask's wooden planks.

Crouching next to the barrel, Sirius wedged the knife into the seam of the door, getting it in as deep as possible for leverage. His muscles flexed as he applied pressure to the blade's handle until he heard a distinct crack in the wood around the lock. After that, the door swung open easily, and Sirius threw the knife - now heavily bent - to the side. He didn't even bother rummaging through the cabinet to find something good. It didn't matter. He grabbed the first bottle his hands landed on and popped the top off, bringing cool glass to his lips.

The bitter tang of vodka swirled across his tongue as he gulped it down faster than anyone ought to. There were several memories associated with the taste of cheap vodka, but Sirius tried to tamp those down. The whole point of drinking was not to remember. He took several large gulps of the vodka, draining two to three centimeters of the clear liquid. Sirius put the bottle down, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth to catch the last droplets.

Standing, Sirius felt the alcohol kick in, making him a little bit dizzy and wobbly on his feet, but he staggered back to the balcony, shoving open the glass door and stepping outside. He still loved the feel of the night air on his skin, so he curled up on the little outdoor sofa with the bottle, taking another gulp every few minutes and letting each new wave of intoxication wipe away some of his guilt and shame from the night.

By the time the bottle was a third of the way empty, Sirius was slumped over the arm of the sofa. His movements were choppy as he continued to lift the bottle to his mouth, slopping more and more vodka over himself with each sip. But he kept drinking, chasing the feeling of total numbness. He didn't want a single cell in his body to remember what had happened that night… not even the faintest hint of a memory in the darkest recesses of his mind.

When the bottle was nearly halfway empty, it fell from Sirius' hand to the cement, breaking with a soft clatter. But Sirius didn't so much as twitch as the noise. His eyes had glazed over and his clothes were damp with all manner of fluids as his chest barely moved with ragged breaths.

Sirius was completely unaware of his friends returning to the apartment ten minutes later. They arrived in high spirits, but joy and levity quickly turned to panic as they saw the broken liquor cabinet. The boys ran tore through the apartment, searching for their bandmate, but it was Remus who found him unconscious on the balcony.

Sirius didn't hear the swears his bandmates let out as they saw his state and blamed themselves for allowing him to sink to such a low. They should have done a better job clearing out the apartment. They should have known how badly the performance had affected him. They should never have left him alone.

Sirius didn't hear the sirens as an ambulance raced through the Los Angeles streets, coming to a halt right in front of James' apartment building. Paramedics questioned his friends, trying to determine exactly how much he had drank.

But finally, Sirius didn't hear the echoing voice in his mind reminding him of his failures.