A/N: Okay... One of the darkest chapters of this fic ahead, so brace yourselves. It's another flashback chapter, set before the prologue, giving a glimpse into the stuff that made Sirius end up on that floor in Munich.

Warnings: Dark Sirius, drug abuse, suicidal thoughts, rough sex (kept M-rated - the original, E-rated version is posted over on AO3 as chapter 11, same author and story name).


Somewhere in Eastern Europe, autumn, 2017

I want to get a tattoo
With your name and then kill myself
With blood and ink, your name is written
With blue and black in a scab

I want to crash on my bike
And cry for help and you help me
With gravel and blood your name is written
In a river of asphalt, like a showcase

Burn, burn, oh, Tattoo John just burn
Burn my tattoo, make me learn
Learn, oh, Tattoo John just burn
Burn my tattoo burn

A growl escaped him as he pushed the roadie up against the door of the hotel room, half a second after it had closed. Lustful glances and stupidly tight workwear trousers had been taunting him all day, and he had finally had enough. He smashed their lips together and forced his tongue inside, making whatsis-name whimper like a bitch in heat. Grabbing the crotch of the trousers he was so partial to, he wasn't disappointed by what he found. His other hand found a nipple which he twisted through the shirt, earning him a bite to the lip. He grinned and grabbed the broad shoulders, pulling them away from the door and backing into the room, before twisting and shoving the other onto the bed.

He fished a small zip lock bag out of his pocket and dangled it tantalisingly in the air. In a flash of pearly white teeth, it was snatched from his fingers, a black logo shirt landed on the floor, and a thin trail of the white powder that had kept him going all night was laid between hard abs beneath a tattooed chest. Bending down, he blocked one of his nostrils and snorted the line into the other in a swift move. He threw his head back and groaned as the powder burnt through his airways, leaving a chemical taste in the back of his throat before it all went numb. Then he was shoved back on the bed, his shirt was pushed up, and a matching line was laid on his left pec. A greedy nose inhaled it promptly, and a wet tongue cleaned up the remaining dust. He grabbed a fistful of blond hair and lost himself in a war of clashing teeth and power-hungry tongues.

"Off," he demanded, pulling at a leather belt. A fumble of hands, a lift of hips; then trousers and pants were ripped off. He jumped to his feet and took his time stripping his own clothes off, smirking in satisfaction when he saw his every move being followed with a hungry gaze. He reached down and gave a few strokes before offering himself up. Warm lips engulfed him without hesitation, and he moaned loudly at the sensation and grabbed the hair again, forcing himself deeper. After a gasp of surprise, the effort was doubled with a hum of satisfaction, and he watched in fascination as an eager hand went to pleasure its owner, but when the other hand ventured between his legs, he pushed roughly away. "Fuck no. That's not how this is gonna go."

A startled face looked up at him, but the wide eyes soon became hooded, and the o-shape of the mouth transformed into a seductive half-smile. Then followed a shrug and a spread of legs.

That was when the cocaine hit his brain.

Everything seemed to pass in glimpses from there. Nails dragging down his back, profanities singing through the air, tattooed flesh between his teeth, a leather belt between another set of teeth. Begging and moaning and urging. Tightness and heat and hunger. Like he couldn't ever get enough. It felt like an eternity and a blink of an eye all at once. As if every move catapulted him forwards in time, and he wanted to chase the ecstasy, wanted to reach the peak, wanted to prolong the pleasure—he just wanted. He was going mad with need; the thrill multiplied tenfold by the chemicals in his bloodstream. The grunts, sharp angles, and hard planes—it was too much—he was going absolutely insane, and he had to slow down—but it was too late—too intense—his whole body shook—out of the blue—long over-due and way too fast—wave after never-ending wave.

When the last of it had subsided, he collapsed back onto the bed. Everything was spots and stars for a while and he just let it flow through him, trying to hold on to the nice feeling. But the high was dissipating fast—slipping through his fingers—giving way to an all-too-familiar hollow feeling, as the mattress dipped and something heavy and sweaty flopped down beside him. He grimaced and wiped his sticky hand on the sheets before hoisting himself up into a sitting position.

"Oi, where're you going?"

The voice sounded muffled, like it was coming from another room or like he himself was under water. An arm draped around his waist, trying to get him to lie back down. Too tired to fight, he fell back against the mattress with a thump and just stared at the ceiling. He felt kisses at his temple and a warm body being pressed against his side.

"That was well nice," a deep voice hummed in his ear. It was no longer muffled, cutting through his dizziness like a swarm of flies trying to invade his ear canal.

He grunted and tried to shift away, but this only caused the grip on him to tighten, stubble scratching his shoulder and neck.

"What the fuck, man…" he said and jerked away, almost falling off the side of the bed.

"Whoa, easy there. Just come and lie down…." A sleepy hand patted the mattress.

"No, I've got to get going," he snapped and lumbered to his feet, scanning the floor for any sign of his clothes.

"Why?"

"Got things to do."

"It's three o'clock in the morning."

"Yeah, well, I'm late for jumping off a bridge…" he muttered, pulling on his jeans, not bothering to find his pants.

He never heard the reply as he quickly from the room, clutching his boots and shirt to his chest. The lights in the corridor blinded him momentarily but he didn't stop to adjust, just wanting to put some distance between himself and the room. He clumsily pulled on his shirt and tried to put on his boots without stopping. This, of course, caused him to fall on his arse. When he finally managed to stuff both of his feet into their appropriate boots, he scrambled up again and took off down the corridor, looking over his shoulder as he ran, checking for any pursuers. A few walls, lamps, and potted plants got in the way, but he didn't care. Reaching the end, he burst into the stairwell, and with no clue what floor he was on and no recollection of where his own room was, he just climbed.

The last flight of stairs was blocked by a velvet rope, but he swung his legs over it and continued. Pushing open the door at the end, he found himself under open skies. A vent was churning out steam somewhere to his left, and to his right was a big glass structure, illuminated softly from below. Chimneys, antennas, and electrical cabinets populated the roof, which was enclosed by a low wall, no taller than a foot. The door behind him fell shut with a heavy, metallic clang.

Alone.

He could breathe now.

Breathing was a good idea.

On shaky legs, he made his way to the wall and peered down. What city was this? In fact, what country? He had no clue, but it hardly mattered anyway. It was all the same. He saw a few cars driving past below him, but the road, which had been so busy during the day, was now mostly deserted. They looked like toy cars from up here. Like he could just reach out and grab one of them. The streetlights had a yellow glow and made everything look bleak and dirty. One lamppost was blinking dully, as if trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to keep illuminating this dreary concrete landscape. The traffic lights at the junction changed from green to yellow to red as he looked, and a breeze lifted his hair from his face. He closed his eyes and swayed slightly. He could feel a prickling at the back of his neck. He turned around—had someone been hiding behind a chimney?—but no one was there. He breathed in through his nose. The air was thick with smog and a smell of frying oil coming from the vents.

His limbs were starting to feel heavy, and his mind was foggy, so he fished in his pockets. He cursed when he realised he'd left the bag of blow behind, but he found a small white pill hiding in the lint at the bottom of his jeans pocket. His hand felt like it had lead weights attached to it when he raised it to his mouth and placed the pill on his tongue. It took several tries since his mouth was so dry, but he managed to swallow it and sat down on the low wall dangling his legs over the edge. In his other pocket he found a crumpled cigarette and a lighter. He lit what he could salvage and let the smoke fill his lungs. By the time the fag was gone, the prickling feeling had subsided, and the urge to bump up felt less sharp. The pill must have been a benzo, he decided with a disappointed sigh. It was probably for the best, though. He really ought to go to sleep. But the effort required to locate his bed felt insurmountable at the moment. And it was so nice and quiet up here.

He could stay and not have to face the roadie again tomorrow when they had to set up stage in the next city.

Shit.

What the fuck had he been thinking? Why couldn't he just have kept it in his pants? He usually managed to, but he supposed everyone had their breaking point…. He felt sick thinking about the man now, when only a few hours ago he had felt nothing but raw lust and desire. Why did he never learn? It always ended like this. And one of these days it was going to end a lot worse, when someone would inevitably let something leak to the tabloids.

He flicked the butt of his fag over the side of the building, letting his eyes follow its tumble down to the pavement way down below. What would it feel like to hit that at terminal velocity? Would it erase these feelings inside him? Dull the bubbling panic, obliterate the paranoia? Would it set him free? Unchain him from all these expectations, all this tedious surviving? It would be painful and messy for sure, but perhaps his outsides would finally match his insides. He wondered what people would say about him after: Oh, what a tragedy, so young, so promising…. Another bright star snuffed out by fame and temptation... His inner demons finally got the better of him….

He laughed at himself. No, at best people would call him an idiot, maybe use him as a cautionary tale for a while, and then he'd be forgotten. Nothing but the occasional butt of a joke. Besides, it would only prove his parents right.

He sucked air in through his teeth and let his head fall back. It was a clear night. Despite the glow from the city, he could see the stars blinking down at him. His vision spun and blurred but he squinted and locked in on his own star. The brightest one by far, yet somehow still cowering in the shadow of Orion.

The whole sky seemed oppressively close tonight. Like a weighted blanket settling on his shoulders, pressing him down, stifling him. How could anyone ever describe this as beautiful, let alone peaceful? Didn't they see his gnarled family tree with all its rotten, slimy roots spreading to the very edges of matter, eating up everything in their way until only black holes were left? Every blasted light up there was a freaking ancestor looking down on him with contempt and disappointment. The dissident branch that had dared to try to bloom. But it wasn't possible. It wasn't in his DNA. He realised that now.

He was so fucking tired. He just wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep and never wake up. His feet felt like twenty-pound cement blocks, waiting to guide him to the bottom should he choose to make the jump. His spine sagged and his arms hung limp. The sound of his sigh was echoed by the wind, which wrapped around him, caressing his neck before a strong gust suddenly slammed into him, making him lose his balance.

For one glorious moment he felt weightless and—

The air was knocked from his lungs as his back hit the roof with a thump. He groaned and blinked. Orion was shining down at him, unchanged, club held high the same way it had been for billions of years.

"Piss off…" he muttered, losing the battle to his heavy eyelids.


A/N: Inspired by too many real rockstar stories, this was truly hard to write, but I needed to understand where Sirius is coming from in order to appreciate how far he's made it since then. Hopefully he won't ever go back there.

Lyric credits:
Nephew - Blå & Black (Danish parts translated by the Author)