A/N: Sorry for the delayed update - I was out camping and my phone wouldn't cooperate :/

TWs for this chapter: Panic attack, internalized homophobia (including slurs), implied child abuse, hinted sexual activity between two sixteen-year-olds (no description).


London, May 3, 2020

How does it feel the morning right after?
All that I need has eaten my desperate mind
How does it feel the morning right after?
All that I need, my secret's in your disguise

Peter shot Sirius a look when he came bounding down the stairs into the reception, now twenty minutes late, but he didn't say anything about it. Typical Wormtail. He had never been good at telling people off. It wasn't his style. Not even when they'd replaced him with Gideon as drummer all those years ago—something Sirius still felt would have been more than justified. But James had been right. They never would have made it anywhere without the twins. And Peter hadn't sulked for long after they offered him to be their manager instead. He'd always been more interested in the lifestyle than the actual music anyway. Of course, the manager title had been fairly meaningless back then, as there hadn't been much to manage, but he had taken it with pride and had grown along with the task. Sucking up came much easier to him than being angry, so Sirius and James had never regretted making him responsible for the parts of the business that they had no interest in themselves, like dealing with lawyers, labels, schedules, and journalists.

Peter wasn't the babysitting type of manager either—a laughable idea by its very nature, considering he'd always been the one to follow James and Sirius around at school, leaving both decision-making and risk-taking to them. And while there had been times where the band could definitely have benefitted from a firm-handed manager, Sirius was grateful for Peter right now. Having no desire to explain himself, he just clapped his shoulder as he passed him and strode into the adjoining restaurant, putting on his shades as he went. A waiter stood ready and guided him to a side room, where James and the twins sat at a lavishly laid breakfast table. The smell of freshly baked bread and bacon attacked his nostrils, but he wasn't hungry. On the opposite side of the table sat a man and a woman wearing press passes around their necks. They both stood up when Sirius entered, and he shook their hands across the table, but had already forgotten their names when he plopped down next to Gideon.

"Good of you to join us, Padfoot," James said, shooting him a knowing grin, which Sirius ignored in favour of pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Interesting nickname," the female journalist said, clicking her pen. "What's the story behind that? Do you all have nicknames?"

Sirius zoned out the conversation as James took the lead as usual. He was always the better diplomat. Never fazed by journalists asking the same boring questions over and over again, even if thirty seconds on google could have told them all they wanted to know. No professional pride apparently. Bunch of fucking time wasters.

At least they seemed to be taking lots of notes, as James explained their vision for the tour, and Gideon used the distraction to nudge Sirius in the ribs. "Looking a bit peaky there, mate. You alright?" he whispered.

"Yeah, I'm good, just had a few too many last night."

"Ha, we all did, innit?" Gideon sniggered. "Here, drink this. It'll help." He stuck his glass of orange juice up in Sirius's face, sloshing it around, knowing full well how Sirius felt about that shit.

The stench made his stomach lurch uncomfortably, but he wasn't in the mood for games today, so he simply took it out of the drummer's hand, using only two fingers, and set it on the table, out of Gideon's reach.

Gideon sulked for a bit over his failed attempt to get a rise out of him, but he was clearly as bored with the interview as Sirius was, because a few minutes later, he leant close again and said, "Bruv, it was a right shame that Marlene bird got so sloshed—we had her wrapped around our fingers…!"

"The two of you ought to be neutered…." Sirius pushed up his shades and sipped his coffee. Gideon snorted and straightened back up.

The hot liquid ran down Sirius's throat and joined the forming stone in his stomach. Or was it butterflies? Despite sitting down, no longer in a rush, his head wouldn't stop reeling, and his thoughts wouldn't stay put in there long enough for him to make sense of them. He was trying to concentrate on the interview, but images of Remus, his naked skin and his green eyes kept flashing across his vision, making his heart race and his neck heat up. Why had he chosen to wear his leather jacket? Taking it off would draw too much attention and the journalists had mercifully not paid him much heed so far. Were they to look, they would surely see the big neon letters on his forehead, spelling out last night's escapades. He couldn't risk that.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, but this just brought up new memories of Remus, eyes scrunched and mouth open in pleasure under his touch, so he abandoned the effort and tried to refocus on the interview. He couldn't remember which magazine or paper they came from, but judging by their dark blue business suits, it was more likely to be The Guardian than NME. What would they write if they found out about him? Would he make the front page? 'Lead Guitarist Disgraced and Kicked out of The Marauders'; or 'Sirius Black: Queen of Rock 'n' roll'; or 'Exposed: Deviant Rock Star with a Flaming Secret'; or maybe 'Laughingstock of the Whole Music Industry: The Life and Lies of Sirius Black'; and what about 'Sirius Black: Disgusting Shirtlifter Likes Picking up Strangers in Bars and Shoving their Dicks down his Throat'…? Probably not that last one, but you never knew with the tabloids in this country. Or in the world for that matter.

Oh God. Everyone in the world was going to know about this!

Why had he not thought to make Remus promise not to tell anyone? He would most certainly tell his friends, since they seemed to be so close, and that Marlene character didn't seem the type to hold back juicy gossip. Give it a few hours and it would be trending on Twitter.

He could feel the coffee in his stomach churning around, threatening to come back up. At the same time, thinking of Remus again had brought up more lust-filled images, uninvited, shameful, and arousing. A tug of war was taking place in his insides, and he would surely snap from the strain any second. He couldn't sit here any longer. His chair screeched against the hardwood floor as he jumped to his feet, his knees accidentally hitting the table, making the coffee cups and cutlery jingle and rattle, but he was out of the room before anyone had time to react.

Reaching the lobby, he fished for his fags in his pocket. It was (mostly) true what James had told Remus yesterday about them not smoking, but Sirius was grateful that he still had the package in his pocket as it was the only thing that could calm him right now. Well, not the only thing, but he wasn't going to even consider the other option….

"Excuse me sir, you're not allowed to smoke in here," said a stuttering voice behind him, and he paused, lighter only inches away from the fag in his mouth. Upon turning, he saw a pimpled teenager in a red piccolo uniform, who looked surprised in himself that he had said anything and now regretted it seeing who he had spoken to.

"Oh yeah? Then where the fuck am I supposed to smoke?" Sirius snapped, his words muffled by the cigarette between his lips, and continued to raise the lighter. He felt vaguely ashamed for speaking like this to someone just doing their job, but the very room itself was spinning now, and he just wanted to get out of here, to be alone. He spun his head around, but he saw people at every exit, all hissing and staring at him with angry eyes.

"I'm sorry sir, but there's no smoking on the premises," the teenager replied. His voice was shaking slightly, but he stood his ground.

"Now, let me tell you a thing…." Sirius pulled the fag from his mouth and took a step towards him. He didn't exactly have a plan, but he didn't get far anyway before a balding man in a black suit with a golden nametag came rushing over, followed closely by Peter.

"Is there a problem here, sir?" the concierge asked.

"Yes, there's a bloody problem. Your boy here is telling me—" Sirius began but was interrupted by Peter.

"No sir, no problem at all, we were just leaving. C'mon now, Sirius." He patted Sirius on the chest and tried to herd him towards the lifts. The ringing in his ears had got so loud he couldn't understand the reply, so after sending the concierge a glare, he resigned himself to be led away by Peter, who was apologising profusely to the hotel staff.

Inside the lift, Sirius slumped against the wall and closed his eyes against the bright lights.

"What was that about?" Peter asked as the lift began moving.

"Nothing you need to worry about, Wormtail. I just need to be alone, and I need a fucking smoke."

Peter leant close to him and muttered so the lift man wouldn't overhear, "Alright, I'll take you to your room. You can smoke on the balcony. No one will find out."

The words echoed in his ears.

No one will find out.

He clutched his chest where the phoenix tattoo was hidden beneath his t-shirt.

No one will find out….

"No one will find out, relax…."

"Your father will be home soon."

"And why should he come down here?"

"He migh—Oh shit, that feels good. Don't stop..."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Fuck, Sirius…."

"You like that?"

"Mhmm…."

That was when he saw him. He was standing behind the juniper tree, pushing its branches aside with his walking cane. The branches that one moment ago had felt like an impenetrable wall, their shadow a perfect sanctuary, their very own little piece of heaven. Now, they looked wilted, feeble… patchy at best.

For an infinite second, he just stared into those grey eyes, so like his own were it not for the total lack of life in them. Then he slowly got to his feet.

"Why are you stopping? What are you—Oh, shit!"

Sirius stepped in front of the other boy, shielding him as he scrambled to pull up his trousers. "Go," he whispered over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off that all too familiar cane sinking into the soft grass as its owner stepped slowly towards them. "Leave, now!"

"Sirius, your mother and I would like to have a talk with you."

A hand pulled at his arm. "Don't go with him, Sirius!"

"Go home, dammit," he said through gritted teeth.

"Do not make me repeat myself, Sirius."

"Yes, Father."

"Sirius don't…!"

"I'm sorry."

"Sirius…. Sirius!"

He hadn't felt the lift stop, but now he was being led out and down a corridor by Peter, who, as always, had a spare key card, which he used to unlock the door to room no. 711. Sirius rushed in ahead of him and cut off Peter's questions by slamming the door in his face. He sank down against the door and put his head between his knees. His breathing was fast and laboured, and his heart was threatening to break through his chest.

Easy now Sirius, you're safe….

He focused on his breath, trying to time his inhales and exhales, but it took a while before he stopped feeling like the air was suffocating him. His skin was clammy, making the silk lining of his jacket cling to his arms where they weren't covered by his t-shirt. He shrugged the jacket off with great difficulty, like a sticky spider's web he couldn't get free off, and threw it across the room. Following its path of flight with his eyes, he saw it landing on the sofa that he and Remus had spent the night on. Where he had held Remus in his arms as they drifted to sleep. How had that only been a few hours ago?

The room seemed so empty. What was Remus doing now? Was he sleeping in his own bed, or was he awake and thinking of their night together? Now that Sirius had calmed down a bit, he couldn't imagine Remus breaking his trust, just as he hadn't broken Remus's trust the night before when he had been given permission to remove his shirt.

Remus had scars too. Where had they come from? They looked a hundred times worse than his own—no number of tattoos would ever be able to cover them up. Sirius was no stranger to pain, but the agony that must have involved was on a whole other level. How was it possible to live through something like that and still be such a gentle soul? To still smile so much? Unlike Sirius, who took his pain out on others. He shuddered at the thought of the scene he had almost caused in the lobby just a few moments ago. Fuck. Good thing Peter had been there….

On shaking legs, he got to his feet and dragged himself to the sofa. He imagined he could still smell chocolate and pine on the cushions, and he inhaled deeply as he lay down, covering his face with a pillow.


Lyric credits:
Jupiter Day - The morning after