désirée

“Everyone thinks of me as either this…this posh, poncy, pure-blood prick—”

“Nice alliteration.”

“—or this arse who just wants to pick a fight at every opportunity.” “Or both,” said Remus. “Or both,” agreed Sirius. “But that’s not what I want to be. That’s not what I want to do.” “What do you want to do?” Sirius sprawled back on the couch, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling as he contemplated this question. “I want…I want to make things. Things that matter, you know? Things that last. Like the map.” “Right…and your mirrors, and your motorbike.” “Yeah.” Sirius took a long, pensive drag on the cigarette and exhaled a plume of curling smoke. “And music.” Remus cast a curious glance at his friend. “Been making much of your own?” “A bit.” “Really? Will you play some for me?” “Fuck no.” “Oh, come on.” “It’s all shit. I don’t know what I’m doing.” “I don’t buy that for a second,” said Remus. “I doubt if anything you’ve ever done is shit. In fact, I bet when you actually shit, the toilet says thank you.” “Fuck off,” said Sirius, but he looked somewhat mollified. Emboldened, Remus carried on. “Come on, I want to hear. One song?”  Sirius considered him for an unbearably long moment. The ash from his cigarette tipped onto the carpet, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Fine,” he said at last, stubbing out the cigarette. “But if you laugh, I’ll fucking hex you.” “I won’t laugh.” Sirius glared.  “I won’t. Cross my heart.” “Hmph.” Sirius downed the last slug of whiskey from his glass, reached for his guitar and slung it onto his lap. “Bat bogies,” he threatened as he fiddled with the tuners. “Big ones.” Remus mimed drawing an x over his heart.  With a sigh, Sirius gave the guitar a few exploratory strums and adjusted the tuners once more. Then, eyes still firmly on the guitar, he said: “Right. I started this one last year, but I’m still working on it. It’s called, ‘Son of a Bitch.’” Remus snorted into his drink, then quickly composed himself. “That wasn’t a laugh.” But Sirius just gave him a rueful half-grin. “All right, well, the title’s a work in progress.” “Go on.” Sirius shot him one last glance then turned his attention to his fingers on the fretboard and started to strum. Remus couldn’t quite suppress a smile as he watched his friend slip into the song, eyes drifting off into the distance as his nimble fingers danced upon the strings, coaxing out a melody — soft at first, but quickly growing stronger, more sure of itself…He was so spellbound watching this negotiation with the instrument that it almost took him by surprise when Sirius began to sing:

I was born a pure-blood son of a bitch A first-born bait-and-switch, chokin’ on my silver spoon With a black eye

Remus jolted slightly, staring at his friend in astonishment. He’d heard Sirius sing before, of course — an endless litany of birthday ditties, vulgar Christmas carols, The Ballad of Carter-Myles — but this was different. This was…raw. Intimate. Intolerably seductive.

Found a new road racin' through the deep wood Swear I'm up to no good, dreamin’ of a new moon And sayin’ goodbye

His voice was not exactly what one would call smooth or melodious — he was no Stubby Boardman — but it was deeply captivating all the same. Remus found himself thinking of a dog’s low, husky growl. He let his eyes roam over Sirius’s features as he sang — the faint furrow in his brow, the soft line of his lips, the long, dark lashes that framed those distant eyes. He listened, entranced, as Sirius’s words snaked from verse to chorus:

Then they said I was a new man, they said I was a stranger A plot without a plan, a hopeless flirt with danger Takin’ the low road, wherever it goes I’ll tell you where that is, whenever I know

Just don’t— Don’t give up on me, I know I fucked it all up But I’ll go on tryin’… Just don’t give up on me, I said I’d be a better man I wasn’t lyin’ I wasn’t lyin’…

Remus froze. Was this…was this song for him?

A noose of golden thread They said blood finds a way, but which way's which? You son of a bitch, yeah, I'm a son of a bitch, but…

His mind drifted back to a sunlit day at King’s Cross, well over a year ago…and the words Sirius had offered him in parting after that awful term, the words that had haunted him for months to follow…

Just don’t give up on me, I said I’d be a better man I wasn’t lyin’ And I'm still tryin' I swear I'm tryin'…

“I haven’t written the final verse yet.” “What?” Remus blinked back to the present, suddenly startled to find that the music had stopped and Sirius’s gaze — once lost in his own faraway world — had returned and was now set firmly on him. “I don’t know how the song ends.” There was a long pause as both boys considered this. In the silence, Remus recognized that something miraculous had just happened: Sirius had let his guard down. He never did that, but somehow, without really meaning to, Remus had managed to crack through his hard outer shell and expose the softness he’d always suspected lurked underneath. So this is what Sirius had been doing all those summer days holed up on his own... “I told you it was shit,” Sirius muttered. “It’s not shit,” said Remus quickly. “I’m just…surprised. I never knew you were a poet.” Sirius gave a disgusted snort. “I’m not a fucking poet.” “That wasn't an insult, Padfoot.” “Forget it.” Sirius shoved the guitar away. “It’s not poetry, it’s just a stupid song.” Remus bit back a sigh. He could almost see Sirius’s outer shell hardening once more. “I liked it,” he said. “I hope you finish it.” “Probably won’t.” “That’d be a shame. I’d like to know how it ends.” Sirius’s stormy eyes flickered up to meet Remus’s own, and with the faintest intake of breath, Remus knew that it was hopeless: all his desperate pretending, his self-deluding restraint, the violent quelling of nearly seven years of butterflies…none of it mattered when Sirius looked him in the eye. He was lost.

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