“Anything for our Moony”

You lift the covers. You’re still wearing your top from the night before, but your trousers are missing. You spot them a moment later on the floor next to the bed. 

You cover your eyes, swallowing as your nausea swells. This is why you should never be off the clock. One night without your tape recorder and notepad between you and your interviewees, and you’ve corroborated everything the industry has ever thought about female journalists. 

All you wanted was a story that would keep you your job. 

For years, you wrote articles and sent them off to magazines like tossing rocks into the ocean. Most sunk, never to be seen again, and it was only when you were losing hope, only when you were starting to think that maybe you just weren’t meant to do this, that you got the gig at Spellbound. The pay is awful, but the work is good—better than good, if this first assignment is any indication of what’s in store for you. If they keep you, that is. It may not matter how good your feature on the band is if Spellbound catches wind of this. 

What was it all even for? You didn’t get one usable quote out of the whole evening. Even if you were to summarize what it is the Marauders are like on a night out, your memory of it all is too hazy to be trusted. You let yourself get sucked in. Into teasing and laughter, the feeling of someone’s warm hand on your back, a soft voice saying things that made you smile in a dark room. It wasn’t the glitz and glamor you might have expected, but it’s still not your world. You’re a journalist; you’re meant to look in, not step inside. And most importantly, wherever you go, you’re supposed to bring your readers with you. No one reading Spellbound is going to know what happened that night at that stranger’s house party with Britain's most sexed-up rockstars. You hardly know yourself. Which means you weren’t a journalist last night; you were only a fool.

You sit up fast, temples throbbing punishingly, when the door to the room opens. James comes in as you yank the covers up over your bare legs, his smile of greeting fading fast at your obvious panic. 

“Oh—god, I’m sorry.” He whirls to face the wall. “I’m so used to just barging into these rooms, I didn’t even think. That was rude.” 

You stare at the back of his head, reeling. “It’s fine,” you say slowly. “I mean, is it anything you haven’t…seen before?” 

“Are you asking if I’m familiar with a woman’s body?” James sounds startled, and halfway amused. “Because, yeah, obviously, but I like to think each one’s like a snowflake.” 

“No, I mean. James.” He glances over his shoulder, finding you haven’t moved. You plead with him to understand. “Is this your room?” 

James’ puzzlement appears to worsen, his brow crinkling in the moment before his eyes shoot wide. “Oh!” 

The pressure in your head cools to a more tolerable level. James gives a breathy, open-mouthed laugh. 

“Oh,” he says again. “Oh, you—we—” 

“Thank god,” you groan.

“Excuse me?” 

“Can you toss me my trousers?”

James obliges, and turns to face the wall again, overcome by spurts of laughter. Thankfully, by the time someone else knocks on the door, you’ve managed to get all your clothes on. 

James opens it once you say it’s okay, and Sirius and Remus come in accompanied by the welcome aroma of coffee. 

Sirius looks from his drummer, half bent over and eyes watery from laughter, to you. “What’ve you done to him?” 

“I don’t remember how I got here,” you admit. “I didn’t know what to think.” 

“Oh. Jamie,” Remus chides, passing you a cup of coffee. His own lips twitch amusedly. “Don’t be mean.” 

“No, I don’t—it’s not—” James sputters. His eyes shine as they meet yours. “It’s not that you’re not lovely, you just looked so horrified. Is the idea really so awful?” 

You roll your eyes, declining to answer. If it weren’t for your job, yes, you might not have such an adverse reaction to the idea. As much as you’d like to think the world a less vain place, musicians don’t rise to the Marauders’ level of fame without people wanting to sleep with at least a little bit. As Sirius pointed out, sexual appeal is part of their brand. The interest of James—or any of them, really—is something anyone would be lucky to have. You’re no exception.

“It’s not you.” James finally manages to quell his laughter, sending you a halfway apologetic look. “I’m just not looking right now.” 

You wave him off. “Right, I forgot about your secret girlfriend.” 

A funny expression crosses James’ face—you feel a twinge of remorse, worrying the comment may have come across as more prying than you meant for it to—but then he smiles and draws his finger across his lips, zipping them shut. 

“This room is yours,” Remus tells you. 

You stare at him. “Mine?” 

“Yes.” He starts to perch on the bed, sending you a look as though asking for permission, and at your obvious bewilderment sits the rest of the way. 

You watch him sip his coffee while your headache grows worse again. “But Lily said the band couldn’t pay for me to travel with you.” 

Remus shrugs. “The band isn’t paying.” 

“He is,” James says, almost pridefully. 

You feel your eyes grow and grow as the air in your lungs dries up. Remus holds up a placating hand. 

“It’s alright,” he says. 

“No, it’s not.” You shake your head, a bit manically. Your temples throb in protest. “What?” 

“Don’t get yourself all worked up.” Sirius leans against the wall, drinking from his own coffee mug while he eyes you appraisingly. “You look like any more upset might make you sick on the bed.”

You look between him and Remus. “But, why? You can’t. I can’t accept it.”

“Looks like you already have,” Sirius hums. He smirks when you glare. “Get over it, babe. We can’t have you as our own live-in paparazzi and then have it come out how badly your time with the Marauders fucked up your back. It’d be bad press.”

“It’s really nothing,” Remus assures you, far kinder than his bandmate. “Do you feel like you could eat? We were thinking of going to a cafe down the road.” 

“Might be a good idea to have something not from the hotel buffet,” James agrees. 

You blink at him. Sirius snickers, drawing your stare.

“You’re very talkative when you’re drunk,” he clues you in.

“God.” You tip your head down onto your knees. What’s smudging your mascara a bit more, at this point? “I’m so sorry.” 

Remus’ hand lays itself over your head with a strangely reassuring weight. “Don’t be sorry. Let’s go eat.” 

“Yeah,” Sirius says helpfully, “just get yourself cleaned up so we can go, yeah? Some real food might make you look a bit less ill.” 

“How are you not hungover?” you mutter. 

James shakes his head as if to brush you off. He leans close as you follow the other boys back to their dressing room, lowering his voice underneath the cacophony of others. “I was, too.” 

You haven’t written one thing in your notebook all night. It’s shameful, a waste of your time on this tour and a smear on your reputation as a journalist, and yet you’re too relieved to feel very remorseful about it. It’s difficult to feel anything bad around such a merry band of marauders, anyway. 

James and Sirius are singing and dancing, the elongated version of their song Sweet and Easy, Sirius playing the riff on his unplugged guitar. Remus has to maneuver around them to keep his bass out of harm’s way, his lips curled up with an exasperated fondness. The venue has left a bottle of wine, which the boys find quickly, completely ignoring the glasses beside it in favor of passing the bottle between them. Sirius puts his guitar away but doesn’t stop singing, occasionally taking breaks to make exuberant twanging sounds with his mouth. Lily stops in to check on them and steal a sip of the wine before flitting off to talk to some venue personnel about some business none of you pretend to understand. 

You’re content to watch it all, finally getting some decent notes, but soon Sirius holds the bottle out to you. 

“Have some,” he offers. 

“Oh, I can’t,” you say. “I’m working.” 

“What if you didn’t work?” James proposes. He’s got the sun shining out of his face, gleaming with sweat and smiling so big your cheeks ache with sympathy pains. “We haven’t had a proper night on tour since you’ve been here. You should come out with us.” 

You raise your eyebrows, curious. “Out where?” 

“I don’t know,” says James, as though it’s ridiculous to assume one would know where they’re going before they get there, “out.” 

“You’d be alright with me coming with you?” 

“You can absolutely come with us, if—” Sirius steals the pen from your hand. “—you leave your security blankie at home. No work.” 

“I can’t,” you say, genuinely apologetic. This feels like an olive branch, a reward for your show of loyalty in keeping Remus’ illness secret, and you hate to refuse it. But the entire point of you being here is to work. 

You brace yourself for Sirius’ anger, but he only pouts. It’s a nearly disorienting contrast, his eyes made big underneath all the eyeliner and bottom lip pushed out. “Why not? Aren’t you ever off the clock?” 

“Are you?” you counter. These boys would know a thing or two about not being able to shed a professional skin. No matter where they go, they’ll always be The Marauders. 

Sirius doesn’t back down. “Don’t work. Let us show you a proper night on tour, but it has to be off the record.” 

You sigh, looking away from him as you consider. You do want to go. You only know that you shouldn’t, that there’s no real point in it if you’re not getting quotes you can use. Unless, maybe, spending off-the-record time with the band makes them more likely to give you good quotes in the future…

Your gaze wanders until it finds Remus. He gives you a shrug, as if to sympathize. You won’t be winning this one. 

“Okay.” You take a breath. “One night.” 

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

“We’re not up against great odds,” James levels with you, bent close to your ear as you both watch Remus chalk his cue stick across the table from you. “Sirius is good, and Remus is really good, but the good news for us is Sirius gets sloppy after a few drinks.” 

“He’s had a few drinks,” you say hopefully. 

James grimaces. “A few more. You said you haven’t played before?” 

You take a sip of your beer (Remus had surreptitiously guided you away from the punch bowl, informing you that it’s often spiked with more than booze at these things) and regard the way Sirius is racking up balls on the other side of the pool table. It’s covered in red carpeting, and the size of it makes you wonder how whoever’s house this is got it in the door. 

“Not much,” you admit. 

James nods, then laughs at your grim look. “I’m sure you’re a quick learner.” 

“I’m really not.” 

“Are you going to break, or are we?” asks Sirius, grinning smugly at you both as he steps back from the table. 

“We are,” James announces. He takes the cue stick he’d chalked up for you both a few minutes before and steps up to the table. It smacks into the white ball with a satisfying sound, sending the rest scattering. 

“Stripes,” he says proudly, when one goes in. He tries to send another in behind it, but it bounces off the wall just shy off the hole. 

Sirius says something to Remus as he goes up next. The music is too loud for you to make it out—An old rock album that you’ll have to ask the boys what they think of later. If someone puts on a Marauders track and you get their live reactions, you’ll really wish you hadn’t left your pen and tape recorder on the bus—but the glint in Sirius’ eye tells you it’s something that would make grandmothers around the globe clutch their pearls. Remus scoffs and banks a solid ball neatly into the corner hole. 

He and Sirius take turns, and it quickly becomes apparent that James wasn’t exaggerating. They hit three in before Sirius misses the fourth. You’re about to tell James to forget you and try to save your team by doing it all himself, but he’s already putting the cue stick in your hand. 

“Alright, so your hand is your bridge,” he says as he leans down beside you and helps you position your hand on the table. “You want to use it to guide the shot.” 

He’s already hip-to-hip with you, but when his free hand lays comfortably on your back, showing you how to lean down, you stiffen. James takes it away instantly. 

“Curve your thumb up a little…” he continues, putting a few inches of space between you. “Perfect. See, I knew you’d be a natural. Can you line it up from there?” 

You try your best, but ultimately the ball goes flailing in the opposite direction of what you intended. You laugh at yourself as Sirius boos and James gaily accuses the other team of having sabotaged your cue stick. 

Sirius sticks his tongue out as he lines up his next shot. 

“You know,” James says quietly, underneath the sound of Sirius’ cue ball finding its mark, “you don’t have to believe the rumors. Not all of us musicians actually have every STD known to man.” 

Your face falls, and he grins at you. 

“I’m joking.” 

“No, no.” You shake your head, heart in your throat. “It’s not that. I’m not—I don’t disapprove or anything, I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, I really was joking,” James tells you. “It’s okay.” 

“No, I think touching is great.” You feel your eyes pop as soon as you hear it out of your mouth. Shame washes hot from your chest up to your ears. “Not…I mean, physical affection.” You cringe, but you can’t think of any nicer way to put it. “I think it’s great. I just can’t do it.” 

James’ look softens. “I get that. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You didn’t,” you insist. “Honestly, it’s fine. I’m just not used to it, so I…it surprises me, I guess.” 

He nods slowly. Like he really is listening, and a little bit like he feels bad. “Okay. Well, if—” 

“Hello?” Sirius says from the other side of the table. “It’s your turn, slackers.” 

You smile at James in hopes of dropping it, and after a moment he smiles back, letting it drop. James gets one of your striped balls in before you manage to hit in the white ball by accident, which is apparently worse than hitting nothing at all. 

Once Sirius and Remus realize how truly hopeless you are, they definitely start going easy on you. They deny it, but the change is hardly subtle. Remus misses easy shots. Sirius stops ragging on James for taking extra time during your turns to coach you. When you manage to make your skills look really pathetic, the unanimous decision is that you should get a re-do. 

They still win by a good margin, obviously. Sirius is still fairly gloaty about it. 

Remus is put on your team next to even the odds. He’s as good a coach as James, though he says the way James showed you how to position your hand was all wrong and makes you learn it again. You get two beers in before you realize that beer is having more of an effect on you than you anticipated. Sirius crawls up onto the table to make a difficult shot. Remus can’t stand to lose, and so sends a few of your balls home before relinquishing the cue stick to you each turn. James and Sirius give several demonstrations of the victory handshake they came up with back in school. 

Eventually, Remus goes for a smoke, and then it’s only you and James against Sirius, which should be easy if it weren’t for James’ unwavering faith in you. Sirius shoots the eight ball around for ages while you try to catch up. When he makes fun of you you steal a cocktail napkin from the bar and play him at tic-tac-toe until you feel better about yourself. 

“Easy,” James laughs, steadying you with a brief touch to your arm when you nearly sway into him. “You alright?” 

You try to will your atoms to steadiness. “Mm, yeah. I’m good, I just…”

Sirius giggles. He’s a giggly drunk, you’ve learned, which suits him in a way you can’t explain. If you could draw instead of write, Sirius’ laughter would look like little starbursts coming out of him. 

“You just?” James is laughing at you again. It’s catching; a laugh bubbles up in your own chest. 

“I just didn’t think I’d get like this from a few beers,” you admit. You think hard. “I guess maybe it could be because of the hotel food.” 

Sirius props his elbow on the edge of the pool table and his chin on his hand, looking up at you through his lashes. “The hotel food?” he asks. 

You grin, sheepish. “That might be it. I’ve been stealing the free breakfasts from your hotel, so just, you know. Maybe those carbs aren’t still in me now.” 

James makes an odd face—odd for him, at least, something not very smiley—and Sirius heaves a big, long sigh. 

“I thought you were so smart,” he laments. 

“I am smart,” you defend yourself. 

“No.” He shakes his head. Morose in a way you’re beginning to recognize as playful from him. “You’re a silly, silly girl.” 

“You’re mean.” 

“I think they’re going to wind down here soon anyway,” says James. He gathers you and Sirius’ half-finished beers along with his own. “I’ll go find Remus so we can get back.” He sends Sirius a teasing look. “Can you be trusted with her?” 

“What must you think of me?” Sirius gasps. “Go on. We’ll get the coats.” 

“Not too much touching,” says James, already leaving. 

Sirius stares after him with a bewildered look, but ultimately he shrugs, accepting. “Come on, doll.” He snags you by your belt loop, tugging you upright before letting go. “Let’s go see if someone hasn’t stolen our things.” 

Along the way, Sirius gets stopped by others at the party, some who have just realized he’s here and others who have been waiting for the right time to ask for an autograph. People have been coming up to the boys all night. You’ve made yourself scarce when it happens, melting into invisibility on the sidelines, but now Sirius won’t let you; he keeps you close, hooking a finger in your belt loop again and then glancing over periodically to make sure you haven’t gone anywhere while he smizes and flirts with his fans. 

Eventually, you make it to your destination. The impromptu coat closet is a guest bedroom, quiet and blissfully dark and with a sinfully soft-looking bed to hold all of the coats. You crawl up onto the pile without a second thought (you can hardly account for the first). 

“What are you doing?” Sirius’ voice has softened, as though he doesn’t need to shout so much when no one’s around to hear it, but you can still detect the amusement in it. He gives your ankle a tug. “We’ll never find you if you disappear in there.” 

You let out a sigh, sinking down into your plush mattress of outerwear. To sleep here sounds incredible. It’d be the best sleep you’ve had in a week, far preferable to the ever-hardening tour bus seats. “You should be happy. You can finally be rid of me like you’ve wanted.” 

Sirius tsks. “Oh, but leaving you here like this would be playing dirty. I wouldn't want to win like that.” The bed shifts as he sits down by your legs. “Also, Remus would kill me if I left his coat, and you’re on top of it.” 

“Oh. Sorry.” You abide the tug Sirius gives near your hip, lifting up so he can pull the coat free. 

“How drunk are you really?” 

“Not that bad,” you say, nearly falling asleep on a pile of coats. You turn your head. Sirius is little more than an outline in the gray dark. “Hey, can I…can I say something that’s going to make me sound like an idiot?” 

“I would love nothing more.” 

“You guys aren’t like how I expected you to be.”

He grins, surprised. A flash of teeth. “You aren’t quite what I think we were expecting, either.” 

“That makes me feel better,” you confess. 

“That it’s not just you?” 

“Yeah.” 

Sirius chuckles. “Happy to be of service.” 

The pile of coats poofs with air as he lays down beside you. It settles slowly. 

“I can hear your brain working. What is it?” 

“I have a question,” you admit. “Off the record.” 

“Shoot.” 

“You really wouldn’t leave me behind just because I’m drunk?” 

“I thought you weren’t drunk.” 

“Not very.” 

Sirius hums, considering. “I suppose not,” he says eventually. “The others are getting a bit attached to you. And Remus already told James we can’t have a dog, so.” 

“So I’m…you’re comparing me to a dog?” 

“Well, gorgeous, if the shoe fits…” 

“You’re so mean.” 

“Yeah, like that.” Approval coats his voice. Your chest warms with it. Remus pulls his arm from behind you, touching instead the strings of the bass. “So from fattest to thinnest, it’s EADG.” 

“Excellent And Delicious Gyros,” James supplies helpfully from where he’s splayed out on Sirius’ hotel bed, letting the other boy braid strands of his hair. You’re all gathered in Sirius’ room again, which the boys appear to default to despite you wondering aloud whether Remus might be more comfortable in his own room. They only waved you off.

“People have different mnemonics they use,” Remus admits. 

Sirius glances up to grin at you. “I like Eat Ass, Drink Gin.” 

“Even people who don’t play bass,” Remus finishes. 

Sirius only shrugs. “Don’t pigeonhole me. I’m multi-talented.” 

Remus eye roll tells you all you need to know about what he thinks of that. 

“What do you use?” you ask. 

His freckled cheeks color lightly. “Eat A Dick, Grandma.” 

You guffaw, shocked at him. James beams like a proud parent. 

“What did your grandma ever do to you?” 

“Nothing terrible. Sometimes I change it to Eat A Dick, Guitarist if I’m in a mood with someone.” 

A hair tie shoots across the room, thwacking Remus in the back of the neck. You whip around to glare at Sirius, unreasonably protective. 

“Hey.” 

“I’ll get him back for it later,” Remus assures you lowly. He redirects your attention to the bass. “Now, here’s the secret. Most beginners pluck by pulling the string up, but if you pull across…” 

You practice until your fingers are sore and Sirius is complaining about hearing the same tedious sounds over and over again. Remus is a patient teacher. He lets you experiment with each new thing until you feel comfortable and teases the other boys back for you when you’re too hesitant to do it yourself. 

“I think you’ll do better at drums,” James says once you give up for the day. He’s unearthed one of his drumsticks from somewhere (you’re becoming convinced he keeps them on his person in secret holsters) and is twirling it between his fingers, half a dozen braids sticking straight out from his scalp. “It’s just hitting stuff.” 

“Just hitting stuff?” You massage your fingertips together, raising your eyebrows at him. Remus’ scoff is colored with fondness. “Maybe that’s how it feels if you’re already good at keeping a beat.” 

“Oh, that’s easy,” says James, with the confidence of the naturally talented. 

“I’m going to learn something else,” you decide. “There’s no way I’m ever going to feel decent at playing the same instrument as any of you.” 

James grimaces at you. “Sorry, babe, but you might not be able to avoid it.” 

“I’ll just learn to play the piano.” 

Remus gives you a sympathetic look, jutting his chin toward Sirius. “There’s not much he doesn’t know how to play.” 

You turn to blink at the guitarist. “Really? You play piano too?” 

Sirius arches a brow at you. “I was born with fingers like these,” he says, holding up a hand, “and you think my mother didn’t force me into piano lessons?” 

You frown. “I’ll learn the flute, then.” 

“Gorgeous, you insult me. Breath control is my job.” 

“Seriously?” Sirius’ eyes light at that, and you hasten on before he can make some lame joke. “Fine. I’ll learn to play the accordion.” 

Sirius hums, considering. “Niche. I like it. Give me a week with it.” 

“Prick,” says Remus. “Let her have the accordion.” 

“Thank you!” You grin at him, pleased beyond reason when Remus smiles back. 

Sirius scoffs, but he’s less sharp today than you’ve seen him yet. Each of you is more relaxed than you have been for days, save Remus, who has managed to seem unchangeably equanimous even though it's him you’ve all been worried about. You wouldn’t have known he was in pain before, but now his practice with hiding it is as plain as Sirius’ and James’ practice with making everything seem normal when Remus decides he wants it that way. 

“At least you already play one instrument,” James tells you. When you look at him in bemusement, he uses his drumstick to point to the tape recorder you left on the desk. “The recorder.” 

Your nose wrinkles, and Sirius boos him. Remus shakes his head. “Christ.” 

“I thought it was clever!” James defends himself. 

It’s a stroke of good luck that you’re just leaving the breakfast area. You spot them before they do you, and you’re halfway to them by the time James turns around with a stack of fresh towels. They get squished to his chest as you throw your arms around him. 

“Oh.” James sounds surprised, though not entirely displeased. “Hi.” 

You step back quickly, embarrassment prickling over your skin. Hugging the musicians you’re meant to be reporting on seems a step outside of professionalism. You let your heart get away from you. 

It’s still in your voice when you ask, “Where have you been?” 

“You miss us?” Sirius flirts, stepping out from behind James. You blink. He looks wholly different without his stage makeup. You knew this, of course—it’s only logical that he would, and you’ve seen a few pictures of him without it before—but the softness of Sirius barefaced startles you. Still, his grin is just as dangerous. “That’s sweet.” 

It appears he’s reset since his coldness to you a few nights ago. Well, you haven’t. You turn back to James. 

“Is Remus okay?” 

There’s a blink of hesitation, and even when James manages to tell the lie, he’s not very good at it. “Yeah. He’s fine.” 

“Then what are we still doing here?” 

“Easy, babe.” Sirius crosses his arms. His posture is all ease, but you don’t miss the way he moves subtly in front of James. “You’re starting to sound like our manager. We’re entitled to a break every now and then.” 

You refuse to be mollified. “You cancelled a show,” you say. “I went to the library. The short-term effects of an electric shock should have gone away that same night.” 

Sirius’ eyebrows have gone up. “Oh, she can write and read. You just get more impressive by the day, don’t you?” 

“If Remus is still feeling affected, he needs to see a doctor,” you insist, nearly pleading. 

“Okay, okay.” Now it’s James trying to mollify you, while Sirius puts a hand behind your back, guiding you both away from the desk clerk who suddenly seems to be paying attention. “Let’s sit.” 

“We should get back,” Sirius starts to say, ignoring your small sound of indignation.

“Sirius.” There’s a question in James’ voice, a request. Sirius stops protesting. 

You both let James lead you to an empty corner of the hotel lobby, where four chairs sit out of the way of foot traffic and the crowded breakfast tables. Sinking into the plush cushion makes you remember the ache of your spine. You roll your neck and try not to fixate on the fourth chair that remains empty. 

More questions crowd the space behind your molars. But James fiddles with the stack of towels as he sets them down, seeming like he might have something to say, so you wait. 

The second he sits, his fingers start drumming a nervous beat on his thighs. “Have you been okay, out there?” 

“I’ve been fine,” you say. “Just worried about whether Remus is okay.” 

James nods, taking a breath in. He turns to Sirius. “I think we should tell her.” 

Sirius looks aghast. “James.” 

“She hasn’t told anyone about the album. She can keep a secret.” 

“She’s—” Sirius’ gaze flickers toward you before returning to his bandmate. “She hasn’t told anyone about the album yet,” he hisses. “She’s a fucking hack, she’s not just going to keep it to herself.” 

It stings, but the fear in Sirius’ expression is almost worse. Almost enough to make you take his side, say it’s alright, you don’t have to know. 

“You can tell me,” you say instead.

“Don’t,” Sirius shoots back. He doesn’t even look angry with you. “You know as well as I do you’ll have to publish anything we tell you. Don’t pretend like you’re in the business of keeping secrets.”  

“Not if it’s personal,” you blurt. 

Sirius blinks, his brows twitching together. Even James looks a little surprised. 

“I’m only interested in writing about your music,” you say, “not destroying your lives. And right now, I only want to know if Remus is okay.” 

James lets out a big breath, but Sirius’ expression smooths like a sheet of paper. He looks at you blankly. “And if we said he wasn’t?” he asks. “Would you go call your magazine and be the first to publish the news that The Marauders are looking for a new bassist?”

James cringes. “Don’t say that.” 

Sirius doesn’t back down, and so neither do you. You hold his gaze. “So long as whatever you tell me doesn’t involve your music or the new album, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” 

Sirius scrutinizes you for a handful of moments. You let him look his fill. 

“He’s still recovering,” he says finally. 

There’s no time for satisfaction at having gotten what you wanted. You frown. “Then he needs to go to hospital.” 

“No, he doesn’t.” Sirius looks exhausted all of a sudden, slouching until his back hits the cushion of his chair. It’s the sort of exhaustion accrued over days. “This isn’t the first time this has happened. We know what he needs.” 

You’re confused. “This isn’t the first time Remus has been electrocuted?” 

“No, that’s definitely a first,” James laughs. You can see some of Sirius’ fatigue around his eyes, too, but James looks lighter than he did when you sat down. “He means we’ve seen Remus like this before, just not after, um, what happened with the mic the other night.” He winces at the memory. “He has these…pains, sometimes.” 

You look between the two boys, silently begging one of them to make some sense. “Pains?” 

“They come and go. We don’t always know why.” 

“This time we know why,” Sirius points out, a tad bitterly. 

James winces again. “Yeah. But usually the reason isn’t so obvious. He just starts hurting, all over. And he’ll get these awful headaches, and be so tired, but not be able to sleep…” 

“That sounds terrible," you murmur. 

“It is, yeah.” 

“Has he been to a doctor?” 

Sirius snaps his fingers. “Shit, I knew we were forgetting something!” You grimace at your thoughtlessness, but the look he sends you is more teasing than anything else. “Yes, we have tried that, actually. A few of them. They haven’t been able to tell us what causes it.” 

“We think that this time, the stress of what happened at the show, and the way it made him sort of…seize up, that might’ve brought it on,” James tells you.

You nod slowly. “So, is he going to get better?” 

“He always has,” says Sirius. And his voice is resolute, as if it can counter the worry nested in the corner of his mouth. “He just needs time to rest.” 

“Can we help?” 

“Warm baths seem to make him feel better,” James says, nodding to the stack of towels sitting next to him, “which is why we needed more of these. I don’t think there’s anything else we can do for now, though.” 

His voice is kind, but it does little to settle the worm of unease wriggling in your gut. You push at your nails, thinking of what you might be able to contribute. Maybe you can find something more at the library…

“You can see why this doesn’t make a great headline for the band.” Sirius is watching you again. Testing. “Our fans are supposed to think of us as these flawless, robust—” 

“Sex machines,” you fill in. 

A startled laugh escapes James. Sirius grins at you. “Precisely,” he says. “It sort of contradicts that image if Remus isn’t always perfectly healthy.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I don’t know. People already like that he’s a bit quieter. It makes him mysterious. Maybe they’ll find him being vulnerable about his health endearing.” 

Sirius’ eyes narrow. “That wouldn’t be very mysterious.” 

“No, but it’d be honest.” 

“You said you wouldn’t write about it,” James reminds you. It’s a statement, but there’s a question in his tone. A hint of uncertainty. 

You blink. You’d already been spinning the story in your head, without even meaning to. 

“I won’t,” you promise them. “Sorry. I won’t tell anyone.”

Relief melts the tension from James’ expression. “Thank you,” he says. 

Your voice softens. “Of course.” You look between Sirius and James, then at the stack of towels. “Can I see him?” 

Sirius shakes his head. “Nothing personal,” he says. “He doesn’t like to have anyone around when he’s like this.” 

You don’t think you would, either. It makes you feel better, though, that James and Sirius seem to be exceptions to this rule. You’re glad that Remus has friends he trusts to look after him.

“We actually probably should get back,” James says, almost apologetically. 

“Oh.” You don’t do a great job of keeping the disappointment from your voice. It was nice to have people to talk to, if only for a little while. You stand. “Yeah. I should get back to the bus.” 

James hisses through his teeth. “I can’t believe you’re still sleeping in there. My back would be killing me.” 

“Can’t risk you all sneaking off in the night and leaving me behind.” 

The girl next to you lifts up her arms, and so you do too. You clear your head and let the music run its fingers through your hair, let the bass move you how it likes. 

It’s strange that, on some level, you feel like you know them now, and yet The Marauders are as inhuman to you onstage as they were at the previous show. Their talent, the way they fill a space, how insanely good their music sounds live—it all feels like it should be impossible. 

The crowd’s intensity doesn’t wane as the show goes on. Sirius catches the second drumstick James throws midair, presenting it to a girl just below the stage like a rose. You’re surprised she doesn’t pass out. After a few more songs he appears to decide Remus is too lonely on his side of the stage and goes to flirt with him for a while, playing his guitar close to Remus’ bass and crooning the lyrics in his ear. The bassist only rolls his eyes, but even that gets a merry reception from the audience. 

Another drumstick goes sailing over your head. When you duck to avoid it, you see James spot you. He double-takes, his brows shooting up. The boys were busy when you asked Lily if it’d be alright if you didn’t stay backstage tonight. He leans away from his microphone to mouth at you something that looks like, What are you doing down there?

You shrug with your hands still up, laughing. What’s it look like? 

James and Sirius must really have that telepathic bond they’ve boasted about in interviews, because the second James turns to Sirius Sirius looks back at him. James nods at you with his chin. 

Sirius looks confused, his eyes skimming over the audience, but when he sees you he laughs through the next word. It’s barely noticable—you doubt anyone around you would think it’s the fault of anything but a good time—but it makes your face go hot with awareness anyway. 

Sirius in turn tells Remus, who finds you easily. A girl nearby shrieks at the attention of The Marauders’ mysterious bassist landing so close to her. 

“How are we doing?” Sirius asks in the instrumental break. He’s shiny with sweat, his hair grungily mussed. He looks right at you as he asks, “Is everyone having a good time?” 

You whoop and cheer along with the rest of them. 

“Oh, sad to hear it.” That smirk again, smug and coy and conspiring all at once. “Let’s see if we can do better.” 

Next is the part where all three boys sing. They’re not all the vocal talents that Sirius is, but a handful of The Marauders’ songs simply sound better with more than one voice, and the crowd buzzes with anticipation to hear them. James grins as he reaches for his microphone—

And a high buzzing cuts through the room. 

Sirius’ guitar cuts out instantly. James stops playing a moment later. It takes you a breath to realize what’s happened, the audience going suddenly so silent you could hear a pin drop. But then Remus falls. 

James’ seat clatters as he rushes for him, but Sirius gets there first. They’re swarmed by people from backstage—security, crew, the flash of Lily’s red hair. Voices around you start low, cautiously rising. 

“What happened?” 

“Is he okay?” 

“I think he got electrocuted.” 

“Is the show over?” 

“He just touched the mic and froze up.” 

“How could he have gotten electrocuted? They do a million checks on those things.” 

“Did you see what happened?” 

“Aren’t they even going to play Sweet and Easy?” 

You push your way to the stage. No one stops you from clambering up, the venue staff a swarm of alarm and uncertainty. Remus has already been moved off of the stage, the other two boys disappeared with him. 

The buzzing cuts out as Remus’ microphone is unplugged, but the noise stays. 

There’s no one in the band’s dressing room. You grab your things, an eerie premonition that you may not be back here passing through you. You move down the hallway. 

You’re not the only one looking for the band. All around are people talking into headsets, checking rooms, trading information. You follow the sound of shouting to the back door. 

“Oi! You’re not done yet, you haven’t given us our full time!” 

“We’re leaving.” 

“The hell you are. We paid for an hour!” 

You push the door open just in time to see Lily spin on her heel to face an older man. She marches back toward him, tilting her chin up to look him in the face. He makes her look so young—in her shoes, you know you’d be scared shitless—but Lily is fierce. 

“Your equipment almost killed my bassist,” she seethes. “You’re lucky we’re only leaving.” 

“You’re violating your contract!” 

Lily looks at you. “Let’s go.” 

You give the angry man a wide berth and hurry after her to the bus. Lily doesn’t wait for the driver to get the door, yanking it open manually and stomping up the stairs. “We’re ready,” she tells him. 

“Lily!” Sirius' head pops up. You crane your neck and see the tops of James’ and Remus’ heads next to him, all smashed into one seat together. Everyone else has beat you here; it appears The Marauders’ crew knows how to make a quick getaway. “What the hell was that? Who checked our equipment?” 

“I don’t know,” she answers. 

“What the fuck does that mean, you don’t know? Who’s keeping us safe?” 

You flare with anger on her behalf, but Lily only sucks in a deep breath, letting it out of her mouth. “Are we going to hospital?” 

“He says no,” says James, sounding worried. 

“But are we?” 

There’s a pause as Sirius’ head ducks down. Low voices come, inaudible, from the boys’ shared seat. No one else on the bus dares to speak. 

“No,” Sirius says finally. He doesn’t look happy about it. 

Lily nods, her expression pinching as she drops into a seat. Her hand comes up to cover her eyes. 

You hold onto a seat as the bus starts moving, hesitating for a moment beside her before continuing back. 

Sirius looks up at your approach with fire in his eyes. “Fuck. Off.” 

“What happened?” you ask, ignoring him. Remus is slumped between the other two boys, his head on James’ shoulder and Sirius’ arm wound protectively through his. You can’t tell if he’s asleep or only has his eyes closed as he did the last time you rode on the bus. “Is he okay?” 

James grimaces. “This really isn’t the time.”

“Did he—” 

“We’re not in the mood for questions.” His voice isn’t unkind, but it is firm. 

You pull back, stung. You were asking out of concern, not for—but, fuck, should you be asking for a quote? Is this the sort of thing you’re supposed to cover? Is your editor going to call you tomorrow and want the insider’s scoop on what happened here tonight? 

You step back, taking a seat a few rows away. 

“Let me see,” a gentle voice murmurs as soon as you’re gone. It takes you a moment to realize it’s Sirius. “Does it hurt?”  

You can’t make out Remus’ reply. 

“Is it still prickling?” James asks. 

Remus says something else. Their voices drop too low for you to hear. 

Lily makes a short, breathy sound that you think might be a laugh. She makes her way down the aisle, holding a foil-covered plate. Your empty stomach twinges hopefully. “You don’t have to worry,” she says, sitting down on the bench across from you. “We have a deal. No one’s trying to ditch you.” 

“No one?” you echo dubiously. You can think of at least one someone. One with calculating eyes and a cheeky grin. 

Lily’s smile falls several shades shy of cheeky. She’s got a kind sort of face, when she’s not bargaining to keep you quiet. Not soft, necessarily, but friendly. The apples of her cheeks are round from smiling. You want to like her. 

 She holds out the plate like a peace offering. “James thought you might not have eaten.”

“Oh, thank you.” You lift the foil off, saliva flooding your mouth at the spread underneath. Two sandwiches, three different types of pasta, and a bread roll. 

“We didn’t know what you liked,” Lily explains almost apologetically. 

Your heart warms. “This is great. Thank you,” you say, packing as much sincerity as you can into the words. 

“No problem. If you do want to get out of here for a while, you’re welcome to go try the boys in their rooms—” 

“Yeah.” You stand as soon as she does, forgetting for a moment to curb your eagerness. “Yes, please. What room numbers?” 

Lily blinks at you. “You don’t want to eat first?” 

“I can eat there.” 

“Alright…” She eyes you, and you think there’s almost a glimmer of sympathy behind the amusement in her gaze. “They’ll all be in Sirius’ room by now. Three-nineteen.” 

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Sirius opens the door like he knows it’s going to be you, his eyes pre-narrowed. 

“Go away,” he says. “I’m in too truthful a mood.” 

You laugh, trying to ignore the bubble of nerves in your chest. “That sounds like too good an opportunity to pass up.” 

“Let her in,” you hear Remus say from inside. 

To your surprise, Sirius steps aside. Like a dog that’s had his leash yanked. You suppress a smile as you move past him. 

It’s a large room. You weren’t sure what to expect—you wouldn’t have necessarily been surprised if the band had been given a suite to share, or the cheapest rooms in the hotel. The Marauders are climbing the charts at a dizzying pace, but they’re yet new enough to leave you unsure of how “famous” they consider themselves. If this is only one member’s room, though, they must have been granted a substantial budget. There’s enough space for a small sitting room set offside of the king bed, where Remus sits with his legs hung over the side of a chair, a notepad propped on his knees. James rolls over from where he’s sprawled atop the bed when you enter. 

“You got your food!” he observes, pleased. 

You return his smile. “I did, thank you. That was really thoughtful.” 

“Bet you’ve been too scared to set foot outside of that bus.” Sirius brushes past you, going to a mirror above the desk. He’s already getting ready for tonight’s show, you realize. His eyes are outlined in dark charcoal, and he’s wrapped in a hotel robe. He takes up the eyeliner pencil again as he says, “If we found it without you in it, we’d have burned rubber leaving you behind.” 

You keep your smile in place like a good sport, even as your face heats at how well he’s predicted your fears. You nod at the guitar propped against an abandoned chair. “Did I interrupt you in the middle of songwriting?” 

“Yes,” he says. Your stomach flips. You wonder if he’d scare if you reached for your tape recorder. “It’s going to be the title track of the album, and we’re going to call it ‘The Girl with the Microphone Won’t Leave Us Alone’.” 

You deflate. “Bit longer than your usual titles.” 

Remus’ lips twitch. “We’re workshopping it.” 

You take a seat on the bed, next to James. After he procured an afternoon breakfast for you, you think he’s earned some favoritism. You put your plate between you in a silent offer to share. “Do you mind doing a few questions?” you ask him nicely. 

“Oh, no,” Sirius tuts. “We’ve learned from our mistakes with that one.” 

You roll your eyes. “I promise not to ask you anything about the album. Or about threesomes,” you tease. 

James smiles. His eyes dart to his bandmates briefly, but he takes a sandwich from your plate. “Okay, sure.” 

You switch on your tape recorder and grab the other sandwich for yourself. “How much of your team’s budget do you think is allocated to replacing your drumsticks?” 

James laughs. It bursts out of him like a bubble popping. “That’s what you want to ask me?” 

You shrug, chewing. 

“I don’t know. A good portion, I suppose. Why?” 

You swallow. “You’re always throwing them out into the crowd. I think at the last show I saw you give away three.” 

“Three exactly,” says Sirius. 

You look at him with raised brows, and Remus says, “Sirius keeps a tally.” 

You smile, getting a bit more comfortable on the bed. “So you’ve noticed.” 

“Of course we’ve noticed.” Remus sends James an amused look. “There’s a crew member at every show that has to stand at the ready to run him new ones.” 

“Do you give many of your picks away?” 

Remus appears to consider this. “I’ve signed a few for fans before. After shows.” 

“That’s sort of getting at my point. Obviously, you know you could sell your drumsticks for, like, I don’t even know how much money,” you tell James. “Why are you always throwing them away?” 

“I don’t think of it as throwing them away like trash or anything,” says James. “It’s just, the people who’ve come to see us, they’ve paid money to be there. I want to give them something back.” 

“Melt,” Sirius taunts him. 

Remus hums his agreement. “James is too generous for anyone’s good.” 

You feel yourself softening towards them, even Sirius, if only a tiny bit. The Marauders are known for their onstage chemistry, and it’s commonly attributed to the boys’ long-standing friendship, but it’s even more obvious watching them offstage like this. The affection between them is so easy. It makes you like them each more just for witnessing it. 

“You’re already giving them a show, though, aren’t you?” you ask James. “They’ve paid to see you perform.” 

James shrugs. “I still want to give them something more, I guess. They’ve given us plenty, feels like the least I can do is toss out a drumstick.” 

Fuck, he is so endearing. Spellbound’s readers are going to eat this up. And his response leads nicely into your next question. “You clearly care a lot about your fans. You and Sirius” —You notice Sirius’ head perk up— “have historically been known for giving them quite a bit of attention. Flirting with them, or with cameras, or interviewers.” You send Sirius a taunting look; you haven’t received that sort of treatment since your deal was brokered the previous night. “But recently, you seem to have toned that down.” 

It’s the nicest way you can phrase it, and a gross understatement. James was never quite as salacious as Sirius can be, but it wasn’t a rare occasion for him to take off his shirt and lob it into the crowd in the middle of a show, or to make eyes at a fan as a sort of game, or to smile and flex for paparazzi. A few months ago, that all stopped completely. Cold turkey. You’re far from the only one to have noticed. 

“There are some rumors that this change of heart might be attributed to a new relationship,” you go on. “Care to comment?” 

James gives you a winsome smile. “Not really.” 

Before you can press, Sirius is in front of you, leaning into your space to steal a piece of pasta from your plate. “Gorgeous,” he purrs, “if you wanted me to flirt with you, you only needed to ask. There’s no need for these roundabout tactics.” 

You refuse to move. “I prefer you honest.” 

“Tsk. What makes you think this isn’t my most honest self?” Sirius holds your stare, his eyes droopy. 

“Just a feeling.” 

“Have we earned the right to ask you a few questions?” asks Remus, his calm voice cutting smoothly between you. 

You blink and turn to him. “Me?” 

He tilts his head, as if to say, Why not? “You’re going to be travelling with us for a while,” he points out. “Is it so strange to want to get to know you a little?” 

You smile apologetically. “You can ask me whatever you want, but I think I’m going to disappoint you. I’m not very interesting.” 

James’ eyebrows lift. “That’s sort of mean.” 

“Not mean. Just the truth.” 

“Ah.” Sirius half turns on his way back to the mirror, pointing his eyeliner at you as if in approval. “A cold, unfeeling journalist’s creed.” 

“Now you’re being mean,” James chides him. 

“Just tell us one thing about yourself,” Remus coaxes. “Anything.” 

You push at your fingernail, trying to think of anything you know about yourself. One singular thing. An interesting hobby or a personality trait. You wrack your brain, and what comes out is, “I want to be a music journalist.” 

Remus’ eyebrow twitches. 

“Um,” says James, “aren’t you already a music journalist?” 

“Christ alive.” Sirius digs his fingers into his temple. “Who checked her press pass? I’m going to kill Mary.” 

“No, I mean, I am,” you laugh, nervous and now feeling rather exposed. “Sort of. It’s just that I’ve only done freelance work up until now. Spellbound’s only just hired me on a probational basis, but if they decide to keep me I’ll actually be able to start establishing myself.” 

“When do you know whether they’re keeping you?” James asks. 

You give him a sheepish look, your voice quieting. “After I send in this article.” 

It feels like a shitty thing to tell them—that your career depends on their cooperation—but they would’ve likely pieced it together anyways. You don’t quite look at any of them in the pause that follows. 

“What made you want to go into this?” Remus asks. 

You shrug. It feels strange having your role as the interviewer turned around on you. “Music.” 

“Oh, you’re a fan of that, are you?” Sirius teases. When you glare at him in the mirror, he grins. “Come on, doll. Give us a real answer.” 

“Music is the real answer.” You fight the urge to cross your arms defensively. “It’s real. I’ve always liked that it tells you things about people they wouldn’t tell you themselves.” 

Remus watches you, intrigued. His eyes are a light, almost orangey brown, like the sap that hardens on the bark of pine trees. They have a way of making you feel like he’s looking straight into you. “How would a song someone writes tell you anything more than what they’re willing to say?” 

“It’s not always the lyrics,” you argue. “It’s the sound. You can’t hide anything in music. It’s true authenticity.” 

You get a bit worshipful at the end, shying once you’re done at your own zeal. It’s a relief when James nods. “I kind of get that. Like how when Remus is in a mood with us, he’ll write himself a great bass line and make our parts shit.” 

You feel your lips curve. “Sort of like that.” 

“So,” says Sirius, turning now from his spot in front of the mirror, “just so I understand, you believe that musicians are only ever truly honest through their music, and yet you’ve taken up a career of asking us questions?” 

You smile wearily. “Even if you can hear the honesty in someone’s music, there’s no way to prove what it reveals. I’m hoping I can get some people to tell me about it.” 

“Right,” he drawls. “Good luck with that.” 

“Prick.” James tosses a drumstick—you don’t know where he gets it from, you haven’t seen him holding one this whole while—across the room. It thwacks between Sirius’ shoulders. “I think it’s a noble cause.” 

You like Sirius a lot. You want to like the same things he does, and going to see this band had been a step towards that, you thought. But maybe you’re simply not meant to share in everything. All the things he likes—thrumming crowds, loud voices, bass you can feel in your teeth and the deafening squeal of a guitar amp—make you feel like you’re actually dying. Because Sirius brought you along, he had to abandon what probably would have been a great night for him. Instead, he spent the first part of the concert crouched in the dirt, rubbing your back, and now he’s spending the rest of it at home. Not exactly an upgrade. 

You can’t quite look at him when he brings back a cup of water, sitting down next to you on the couch. The water is cold enough to make your teeth ache. A chill passes through you. 

“Are you cold?” Sirius asks. 

You shake your head. “I’m okay.” 

He looks dubious. He waits until you finish your water and set it down before taking your hands into his. They flitter like trapped butterflies between his palms. 

“How do you feel?” he asks. This earnestness is new on him, almost as endearing as it is unsettling. You halfway wish he’d go back to quips and flirting. 

“Mostly tired. It’s like I ran a race,” you try to joke, “except without any of the effort or actually going anywhere. I’m just sore and tired.” 

Sirius gives you a smile. You suspect it’s mostly for your sake, but you appreciate it nonetheless. “I don’t know, it seemed like a workout to me. What’s sore?” 

You shrug. It makes the aches in your muscles flare up. “My chest, but it, like—” you gesture halfheartedly around your rib cage “—wraps around.” 

“Yeah?” Sirius’ brows pinch. He lifts a hand to your shoulder, winding it around to the back of your neck and pressing down gently. “Like there?” 

You sigh, you can’t help it. 

His grin seems to widen and soften at the same time. He shifts a little, moving his hand lower and kneading between your shoulder blades. “Does that help any?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Perfect. Come here, doll.”

“Sirius, you don’t have to…” 

“I want to,” he says, at once firm and kind. “If it helps I want to, okay?”

You end up leaning forward onto a pillow with Sirius bent over your back, slender fingers prodding at your overworked muscles. He’s patient and gentle, checking in that he’s not hurting you any time he moves to a new spot. Slowly, the tension in your back comes unspooled. 

“I’m sorry you’re here instead of at the concert,” you murmur after a while. 

Sirius’ touch falters only for a second. “You shouldn’t be,” he replies. “The point of that was only to hang out with you. Seems like I got that, didn’t I?” 

“Don’t you wish you were having fun, though?” 

“What? Why?” 

Remus gives you a look. “Weren’t you just telling me your head is hurting?” 

You chew the inside of your lip, but stand your ground. “Yeah.” 

“The laptop’s not helping with that, darling.” 

“Finishing my report will.” 

“You’re not finishing anytime soon, and the light’s not good for you.” 

He reaches for your laptop, and you draw it closer to you protectively. “It’ll be bad for me whenever I do it, so I may as well finish tonight.” 

“Enough.” Remus’ voice firms up. “Close it.” 

You scowl but do, saying a silent prayer that you remember all you’d wanted to say when you pick it back up again. Remus takes your laptop, moving it out of reach before he finally passes you your tea. The steam feels nice, and though you’d rather die than admit it you can feel the muscles in your face relax almost immediately. You blow on it gently.

A hand on your leg makes you look up at your boyfriend. Remus’ expression has gentled, a softer brand of concern in his eyes where they meet yours. 

“You wanna come here?” he asks. 

He helps you find your way into his lap, one of your thighs on either side of his. He draws slow, soothing strokes up your sides. One hand finds your face, thumb dimpling your lip. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, not without humor. “I know you wanted to keep working, but your body was tired of it.” Remus moves his thumb to kiss you, soft and lingering. “You’re your own worst enemy when you get like this, dove.” 

Your sullen mood gives way easily under the weight of his devotion. “I’m sorry,” you sigh. 

“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to take better care of yourself.” He studies your face. “Have you had painkillers?” 

“No.” 

A wry smile. “How did I already know you were going to say that?” 

Remus reaches into his pocket, pulling out a couple of pills he no doubt fetched while the kettle was boiling. He passes them to you, watches as you down them with your tea. 

You watch him back as you swallow, feeling shyer than you did a minute ago. “Thanks, Rem.” 

“Don’t mention it.” He smooths a piece of hair away from your eye. His thumb lands on your temple, beginning to drill small circles. 

If your enthrallment with his touch weren’t enough, the skill with which Remus does the motion would be. It’s hypnotic. Your eyes fall closed, head listing forward. Remus chuckles and encourages it the rest of the way with his other hand on the back of your neck, letting you rest on his shoulder. How could anyone say that soulmates don’t exist, when the curve of his neck seems so perfectly fitted to you? 

“You’re going to let me look after you now?” he asks warmly. 

You manage a feeble hum of assent. 

Remus is massaging your head with both hands now, deft fingers smoothing over your scalp and working their way gradually towards the tensed muscles of your neck. “Good girl.” Your body goes warm and loose at the praise. Your forehead rests heavily upon Remus’ shoulder. 

His quiet voice takes on an amused hue as he asks, “And what are you going to do the next time your head starts to hurt while you’re working?” 

You whine. “Remus.” 

“I just need to hear it from you once, dove.” 

You sigh. You think for a second that you might just pretend to fall asleep to avoid saying it, but the pressure of Remus’ fingers lessen until they’re barely there at all. He’s waiting for you.

“It starts with a b,” he hints. 

You’re glad he can’t see you scowling into his shoulder. “I’ll take a break.” 

You wipe rough paths across your eyes and push away from the floor. Remus helps, unnecessary but sorely tender touches pulling you up onto the bed. He kisses your nose, then your mouth. 

“Hi,” he murmurs. 

You loose a breath that you think was meant to be a laugh but falls short somewhere. Your chest aches like a bruise; either from the containment or from the release. “Hi.” 

“Bad day?”

You shrug. 

Remus hums. It’s a knowing, compassionate sound. 

Despite the best of intentions, all his gentle touches and the weight of his arm around you only make you cry harder. Remus holds you closer as you start to sob, binding you to him while you rattle yourself apart. He makes soft shushing sounds without any real intent to quiet you. 

After a while, Remus shucks off his trousers, pulling back the covers of your bed and tucking you both in. Early evening light still spills through the slats in your blinds. You think that Remus must be feeling really badly for you to get into bed in his daytime clothes, but the material of his jumper is as soft as a dream as he folds you into his chest. He pats a slow rhythm between your shoulder blades.

“How are you, sweet girl?” he asks lightly. 

You hold his middle tightly. “I’m okay.” 

There’s a pause, Remus deliberating whether to call your bluff, before you feel the faint pressure of his kiss to your head. “You’re okay,” he agrees. “I’m here. It’s gonna be alright.” 

You nod, your eyes welling with heavy heat all over again. The truth of it permeates. No matter how awful you feel, it helps to have someone who will lie in bed with you and hold you through it. Who wants to do that for you. 

“Maybe,” Remus muses, “we could order in dessert, and then it could be even better than alright.” 

You sputter a laugh into his jumper. 

Remus sounds encouraged, the hint of a smile in his voice. “Yeah?” 

You turn your face up to see him. His lips turn down pityingly, cupping your face to brush a few tears away, but his eyes are fond as ever. “I’ve been craving mousse cake,” you whisper.

Your boyfriend’s pupils swell with chocolate-induced lust. “From that posh place downtown?” 

“Mhm.” 

“You,” he says, kissing you ardently between your brows, “are so brilliant.” Your lips lift halfheartedly, a spark of bashfulness igniting in your face. This only seems to encourage Remus. He kisses you again, gentler. “Would that make you feel better?” he asks genuinely. 

You hum. “A little. We don’t have to, though.” 

“I think we do have to. I think it’s imperative, at this point.” 

As he grows more teasing, you only grow more sheepish. It’s a cycle you know Remus has no intention of breaking; your only hope is to give into his coddling. “You’ll have at least half,” you say, “won’t you?” 

────────

“Holy shiiiit, you’re unreal! Fuck! Oh fuck!”

Your boyfriend pants in your ear as he nears his high, thrusting into you as deep as he could go.

“You feel so- god, oh my god! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! Just like that! Hoooooly mother of god!”

“You okay?” You moan underneath him, out of breath and wrecked as you watched him fall apart above you.

“M’good! So good, baby….So fucking good. This feels so nice.” He whimpers “Being inside you like this…”

“Yeah?” You squeak as he hits a spot deep inside of you that had your toes curling.

“Fuck yes….so wet…and tight and perfect. God, baby, you’re perfect. So fucking perfect….all for me. Mine. My girl…”

“Yours.” You whisper, kissing his neck as he lets out a gasp.

“Hah! Fuck! Y-you…oh god! You’re…squeezing’ me…so good. So fucking good! Are you close, sweetheart? Tell me you’re close. Please tell me you’re close!” He pleads.

“M’almost there, Eds.” You moan, gripping tightly onto his biceps as he keeps fucking into you “Just keep going, baby. Don’t stop.”

“No, no, no. Not gonna stop…I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve fucking got you. Shit….just give it to me, yeah? Please? God, please, angel. I need you to cum. Need you to give it to me.”

“Eddie…” You whine.

“Fuck, baby! You’re squeezing me so good….you gonna cum? Yeah? You gonna cum for me? Please fucking cum for me, angel.”

He slams into you relentlessly, reaching down between the two of you to rub hurried circles on your clit.

“Eddie!”

“Fuck, baby, you’re so close. I can feel it. Come on, sweetheart, fucking cum for me. Need to feel you cum on my cock.”

It hit you faster than you expected, your orgasm peaking with a high pitched gasp that had Eddie tumbling right after you.

“Oh my god, sweetheart! Atta girl!” He groans “I’m so close, baby. Gonna fucking cum. Gonna- oh shit!”

Eddie grasps your hand, squeezing it as he released inside of you- filling you up as he panted and whimpering above you. His arms give out, sending him collapsing on top of you as he tries to catch his breath.

“Fuck…” He laughs, gasping for air “That was…god, you’re amazing.”

He presses featherlight kisses to your forehead, your temples, your cheeks.

“I love you.” He whispers “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” You say, looking up at him as he looms over you- the ends of his curly tresses brushing against your face. You reach up, grabbing his necklace as you absentmindedly turn it over between your fingers.

Eddie just stares down at you. Admiring. Watching.

Fuck, you were so beautiful.

“You okay?” You ask, noticing that he hadn’t yet pulled out and rolled over onto the mattress beside you like he normally did.

“Yeah.” He says, clearing his throat “I just…can I just stay here like this? Just for a little longer?”

You watch as he looks down at your tangled up bodies, his eyes staring at where you met.

“What do you mean? Like-“

“Inside you.” He admits “Just like this. I just want to stay here with me inside you. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” You nod, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes “Okay.”

“I just….I love being inside of you. Even after we have sex. I love how warm you feel….and wet. I…okay, you’re going to think I’m a total weirdo creep when I say this.”

“Yeah? What else is new?” You joke, causing Eddie to playfully tap you on the arm.

“Stop it.” He says “I’m being serious here. I…I love being inside of you. It’s my favorite place. I know that sounds crazy but I feel safe. Right here like this…with you. You make me feel safe.”

The words that left his lips had made you feel tingly inside. Good. Loved.

“You feel safe with me?” You ask, looking into his brown doe eyes.

“Yeah, I do.” He sighs “But especially like this. I could stay like this forever. Knowing that this is the closest that I’ll ever be to you.”

“Okay, that’s actually really sweet.” You murmur.

“Can I ask you for something else? Without you judging me?” Eddie asks, his voice coming out small.

“Of course.” You say, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Can you…can you hold me, please? Would that be weird? If that’s too weird-“

“Come here.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him down to you- allowing him to lay on top of you fully as he buries his face in your neck. He inhales your scent, smiling into your hair as he closes his eyes.

You smelled like home.

You felt like warmth.

You were safety.

“This good?” You ask.

Eddie nods his head against your neck, wrapping his arms around you so that you were pressed tightly against him.

“This is perfect.” He mutters.

Home.

Warmth.

Safety.

You.

“I can feel your heart beating.” He whispers as you run your fingers down his back soothingly, sending a shiver down his body.

Your touch. Your body. Your heartbeat.

You were so close. He wanted nothing more than this. To be completely wrapped up in you.

“I don’t want to be anywhere else but here.” He says, mumbling against your neck “With you.”

He pulls away for a second, taking you aback as he reaches for one of your hands- gently placing it over his heart.

“Do you feel how crazy you make me?” He asks, looking down at you as you felt his heart race beneath your touch “That’s what you do to me, sweetheart. No one else. You. I love you. I love you until my heart stops beating, you understand?”

“I love you too, Eddie.” You proclaim “More than anything.”

“Good.” He smiles, nuzzling his nose against your cheek “Because you’re stuck with me. Forever. Just like this.”

And you couldn’t imagine wanting to be with anyone else but Eddie. Forever.

Just…like…this.

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You roll your eyes. Rather good-naturedly, James thinks; not everyone is willing to play along with Sirius’ teasing, especially when they first meet him. Especially when it’s debatable how much is teasing and how much he’s really trying to scare you off. 

“Sheffield,” Remus answers you, his eyes closed. 

You look at the seatback separating you from him, nodding as if to yourself. “Thanks.” 

The bus rumbles to life. The overhead lights shut off—Remus’ form actually deflates with relief—and everyone settles in for the drive. James watches you try and make your seat more comfortable, shoving the contents of your backpack around before putting it under your head.

“Are you really going to sleep in here?” he asks. 

You meet his eyes across the aisle, cast in shadow but for the every-so-often passing streetlamp. “Yeah. Why?” 

“Just seems like a lot to go through to play groupie,” Sirius hums. 

Your gaze sharpens. “Do you feel ready to talk about the album yet?” 

“At least take me to dinner first.” 

“Then I’m in for the long haul.” You fluff your makeshift pillow some more, curling up stubbornly. 

Sirius sighs, loud and theatric, as he leans his shoulder against James’. “This is what we get for letting you take a question.” He pokes his elbow into James’ side playfully. “Ought to know better by now.” 

James doesn’t know you very well, but already the feel of your curiosity filling a space is becoming familiar. Part of him suspects this might be Sirius’ intent; to tease you with jokes you aren’t privy to, to make you feel even more on the outside. James takes pity on you. 

“Back when we were in school,” he explains, a tickle of warmth in his face, “we’d just started doing gigs at parties, and the school paper interviewed me about it. We didn’t have a name yet, and I may have, possibly, overused the word ‘threesome’...” 

“As you can imagine, rumors swirled,” Sirius finishes for him, the barest hint of fondness underlying his wry tone. 

Your voice carries a smile. “So, your band has a long and loving history with the press, then.” 

“That’s the quote you should use when you write it, yeah,” James laughs. 

“That’s why you don’t want to talk to me?” 

Sirius scoffs, and James winces. Just when things were starting to go well. James knows you don’t mean to antagonize Sirius; not in the same way he’s trying to rile you. It’s only an unfortunate consequence of your job that your mere presence is a catalyst to Sirius’ protectiveness.

“I think you’ll find musicians generally prefer speaking with people who know a thing or two about music,” he says. 

The silence between you balloons in an instant, thick and volatile. James bites his tongue against the urge to fill it with whatever first comes to mind. 

“Really?” you ask. 

Sirius shrugs. Even the small movement is meant to nettle. 

“I know enough to recognize that you’re chickenshit for not finishing what you started with Lookaround.” 

Remus’ eyes crack open. 

“Pardon?” Sirius asks tartly. 

“Just my lowly opinion.” You shrug, a mockery of Sirius’. “You tried experimenting with your sound, but when the feedback wasn’t all positive, you backpedaled and abandoned the whole thing. Sort of cowardly, I thought.” 

The look Sirius is directing towards your seat is dangerously sharp. James finds his wrist in the dark, squeezing. 

“And what did you think of it?” 

“Of what?” 

“The song.” 

“Oh.” You hum, considering. “I liked it, honestly. I feel like people got upset before they gave it a real chance, but two things can be true at once, you know? A band can take their music in a new direction and they can use too much synth while doing it.” 

“I was against the synth,” Remus notes, still half pretending to be sleeping. It spooks James a little each time he speaks. 

You look as thought you might be smiling at the back of Remus’ seat. 

“What would your review have been?” Sirius’ tone is far from biteless, but its edge has dulled somewhat. 

“You mean, if I’d published one at the time?” 

He makes a noncommittal sort of noise, like he doesn’t really care either way. 

For a moment, you’re quiet. James wonders if this might be a preview of how you’re going to write about them, once they let you publish the news about the album. He finds himself nearly holding his breath. 

“I’d have said you were overzealous with the synth,” you say at last, “but that the shift to slightly slower, moodier rock felt like a maturation of your usual sound. I’d have asked your fans to give you room to grow.” 

Your small section of the bus is quiet. Echoing with the reverberations of your earnestness. 

James stares at you. “Would you like to join the band?” 

You laugh; it saps the tension from the air, leaving James’ fingertips buzzing like they do after a show. “You don’t want me,” you promise him. “I’ve tried learning to play instruments. I wasn’t very good at it.” 

“Ah.” Sirius rests his head on James’ shoulder, closing his eyes at last. “It’s easier to be a critic.”

Begrudgingly, he checks his clipboard. Glances at your press pass. “Hold on.” 

The door shuts again. 

Your short, surprised breath clouds in the air in front of you. Hold on? What are you holding for? Your editor hadn’t given you hardly any instruction at all for what you were meant to do once you got here, but it seems like this douche could keep you locked out here all night if he wanted to. 

It has the feel of a test. Like if you were a real journalist, an experienced one, you’d know what to say to get in the door. You’d hand the bouncer a cigarette and waltz in asking, The band’s in the dressing room? Cool, thanks. I know the way. 

As it stands, you’re cigarette-less and more liable to bite your tongue off from nerves than to use it for anything helpful. You’re about to raise your fist and knock again anyway when the door swings open. 

“Hi!” Inside is a girl about your age, with a feathery coat and a halo of dark curls. Her bright smile feels like a punch of relief. “Spellbound?” 

“Yeah.” You step closer, shaking the hand she sticks out. 

“I’m Mary. I handle the boys’ PR.” She steps back, and after a brief glance at the bouncer, you follow her inside. Mary sets off. 

“Awesome.” You hurry to keep pace with her, sidestepping rushing backstage crew and trip-hazard wires. “Um, and when you say ‘the boys,’ do you mean…” 

“Oh! The Marauders.” Mary laughs. “I forget they’re not just the boys to everyone anymore.” 

“Have you worked with them for long?” 

The glance she shoots over her shoulder at you is humorous, cryptic. You get the itch to turn on your tape recorder. “A while, yeah.” 

Before you can ask her to elaborate on that—and if she’d mind possibly being quoted in your article—Mary turns a corner, and you’re looking at the stage. 

The venue isn’t large, but it bowls you over how huge the crowd is. They’re wall-to-wall, teeming, and buzzing with a loud, anticipatory fervor. 

“The boys are just doing final checks,” says Mary, “but they’ll be out in a minute, and afterward I’ll have someone show you to their dressing room for the interview. Sound good?” 

“I get to watch the show?” you ask dumbly. 

She looks surprised. “Of course. Can’t write about musicians without hearing the music, right?” 

“Right,” you echo. 

Mary grins. “Great. Don’t leave without seeing me, okay? I’ll want to know when to expect the issue.” 

You don’t know those sorts of details. You hardly know who to ask to learn those sorts of details. But you nod at her, and she blazes off, and then you’re alone. Backstage at The Yard. 

You brush your fingers over the curtain tied back from the stage, imagining years of history trickling through your fingers like dust. The Who might have played here. Bowie. Marc Bolan. You’d pass out if you weren’t so keen on staying conscious for your interview

Your first interview. You’re still floored to have been offered it, honestly. Green as you are, a rising titan like The Marauders is no small gig. Either your editor wants a reason to fire you in your first month at Spellbound, or he has a lot more faith in you than you do. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when the speakers buzz to life as one. 

“Hello? Is this thing on?” 

Screams erupt from the crowd as they recognize the voice instantly. They surge towards the stage, hungry. 

“Stupid fucking thing.” There’s a dull beat, like someone tapping the microphone. “Do you think they can hear us?” 

The crowd cheers impossibly louder. Across the dark stage, you spot the movement of a few dark shapes, and despite your weak attempts at professionalism a thrill races through you. 

“Oh. Guess so.” The voice grows a bit cheeky, the facade of ignorance slipping. “Well, suppose we better get on with it then.” 

Sirius Black steps onto the stage, and everyone loses their minds. 

For one fleeting moment, you almost wish you were a photographer instead of a writer, because you’ll never be able to come up with the words to capture this. The way Sirius saunters into the spotlight as though he’s made of it, dark hair gleaming and guitar strap slung carelessly over his shoulder. The way fans at the front claw at the stage like they’d die to get a scrap of his leather boots under their fingernails. The way your own heart rockets into your throat, despite being on the same level as him while the fans aren’t, despite having prepared yourself for this night all week. 

Bandmates James Potter and Remus Lupin follow him out to no less lively reception. Sirius and Remus plug their instruments into amps while James gets cozy behind the drumset. While Sirius continues working the crowd, Remus glances to the left for hardly a moment—just long enough to catch sight of you. You’re hardly the only person standing off to the side of the stage, but you must look somehow distinct from the crew, because his eyes lock on you like you’re something out of place. 

His head tilts slightly, as though to say, And you are?

You hardly have an answer for him. Your hand comes up of its own mind, a sort of shrug that might be a wave. You try not to grimace at yourself. 

And then they start. 

There’s no countdown. You’re not prepared for it—you don’t know how they’re prepared for it. There was no signal that you could see. It was like fucking teleapathy. And far from the last magic show The Marauders have in store for fans tonight. 

The crowd throws itself into motion as the band plays the opening bars of their first hit, The Phoenix. The lights change from blue, to orange, to red. You scramble for your notepad, wanting to take down the set list before you forget it. 

Sirius is a born frontman. When the light hits him, he’s larger than life, and he’s good enough to take the crowd with him, too. Remus absorbs the adoration in a different way. He keeps his attention on his bass as he plays, seeming entirely focussed on the music, except for once in a blue moon when he’ll glance at someone in the audience. They go absolutely rabid for it. James is, clearly, just thrilled to be here. He’s got as much energy as the fans. His drumsticks move nearly faster than you can keep up with, until one goes sailing offstage halfway through the third song. A crew member has a replacement in his hand almost instantaneously.

It’s difficult to imagine these boys playing in pubs and small parties, as they’re alleged to have done for almost two years before making it big. The story goes that James was talking to Rita Skeeter, one of the biggest names in musical journalism with a self-proclaimed nose for talent, without any clue who she was; he charmed his way onto the scene on dumb luck. Looking at him now, you can believe it.  

Short of your jotted-down set list, you’ve no clue if there’s anything you’re supposed to be doing. You end up simply enjoying the show. The Marauders’ discography is short enough that they’re able to play every song in a single show, their audience growing more enraptured seemingly with each one. By the end, Sirius’ hair is a wild mess, James has lost three drumsticks to the crowd, and Remus only looks a tad sweatier than he did when they came out. The crowd roars their devotion as James thanks them all for a great night. 

You stand still as the stage goes dark. You’re humming with adrenaline and most definitely in the way, crew pushing past you to get to the stage and begin undoing everything that had gone into making the show as vibrant as it was. You step back, meaning to get out of their path, and find yourself on someone else’s toes. 

“Ouch.” 

“Shit, sorry!” You turn, finding yourself at terrifying proximity to a sweaty shirtfront. You step away cautiously, looking behind you this time to avoid any more collisions. 

“It’s okay. I step on them too, just not usually so hard,” says James. His voice registers only half a second before his face, shiny with sweat and as smiley as he’d been on stage for the last hour. James Potter. “Are you the journalist?” 

“Um” —Fuck, are you?— “yeah.” 

“Perfect. Mary’d fry me if I lost you.” James grins. “We’re ready if you are.” 

You nod dazedly, letting him turn and lead you away. When Mary said that someone would come and collect you, you didn’t imagine she meant someone from the band. You watch James wave hello to various crew members, too dumbstruck to remember the pen in your hand. 

“Did you like the show?” he asks you. 

“I…yeah. It was amazing.” You take in a breath. “It’s obvious why your tour sold out so fast.” 

“You think so?” James sounds genuinely pleased. It’s endearing. Is that the sort of thing you can put in your article, that he’s endearing? “Thanks.” 

Your voice peters off into shyness. “Of course.” 

James leads you down a hallway that leads to another hallway, and then you find yourself stepping into a room where Sirius Black is groaning, “Ah, fuck. James, you weren’t actually supposed to bring her here. You were supposed to shove her out the side door, you twat.” 

You stop at the threshold. 

The room is blurry with cigarette smoke, but almost better for it. It feels frozen in time. The vanities with marquee lights around the mirrors, the discolored velvet settee, the hanging aroma of cigarettes—it’s all just as you’d imagined a dressing room would be. You feel the need to reach back to your past self and squeeze her hand. It’s a dingy, dilapidated dream. 

“Settle something for us.” Sirius’ smooth voice pulls you back into the present. “Remus wants us to change the setlist to close with Red Rose, but we’ve always closed with Sweet and Easy.” 

“It doesn’t have the same effect,” Remus mutters, seemingly vexed by an argument already lost. 

“Right, and this effect has nothing to do with Red Rose’s bassline.” 

The hint of teasing is barely detectable in Sirius’ tone, but the way Remus rolls his eyes suggests he’s either heard it or has saintlike patience for his diva guitarist’s moods. You watch as James tosses himself over the back of the settee, tousling Remus’ hair in a conciliatory fashion. It’s surreal, seeing them all in motion like this. As though magazine photos have come to life. 

“Red Rose ends fairly definitively,” you say, slowly. “With Sweet and Easy, the riff at the end gives you a chance to prolong it if you want to. Like you did tonight.” 

“So you were paying some attention, then.” Sirius looks pleased. 

You frown. “It wasn’t my first time hearing your music.” 

“No?” 

“No.” 

He appraises you. You get the sense that it’s more for show than anything, the glitter on his eyelids flashing in the light. “You can come in, then,” he decides. 

“Oh god, sorry.” James turns around on the settee. “You didn’t really have to stay out there.” 

“It’s okay,” you say. “Door open or closed?” 

Sirius hums. “Closed.” He drops one eyelid in a wink. “Don’t want to spill all our secrets to you and then have Colin the sound technician blab them before you can.” 

You smile at him, though you doubt that. The Marauders are the emerging heartthrobs of England. They have a way of making fans feel as though they know each member of the band intimately, but when you’ve actually read their interviews you haven’t felt like they’ve revealed much at all. It’s all fluff—Sirius admitting he prefers dogs to cats, humorous tales of James orchestrating pranks in school, Remus divulging that Moonage Daydream is his favorite non-Marauders song. You think these three silly boys are better at giving press the runaround than they let on. 

You take a seat in a chair perpendicular to their settee and turn your tape recorder on, setting it on the ottoman between you. 

Remus extends a pack of cigarettes to you in silent offer. 

“Thanks.” You take one. Look at James, sitting unaffectedly while Sirius and Remus smoke next to him. “You don’t smoke?” 

It’s a small test. James has answered this question before; you’re only wondering if he’ll give you the same response. 

“No,” he says. 

“Have you ever tried?” 

He shakes his head, shrugging. “Haven’t ever really wanted to.” 

You consider him a moment. “Fair enough.” You set your cigarette down on a side table, unlit. “I’ll do it with you, then. Remus, how old were you when you started smoking?” 

Remus’ eyebrows lift, but Sirius laughs. It’s a blasé, false sound. “We went to boarding school, gorgeous,” he says, as though that’s answer enough. “Are we going to talk about cigarettes this whole time?” 

“I was just curious.” You lean back in your chair, trying to pretend like your heartbeat isn’t bumping in your fingertips. “Don’t want to scare you with all the big questions straightaway, right?” 

Sirius props his chin on his hand, eyes locking onto yours. They’re a watercolor gray-blue no photo you’ve seen could approximate. “We can take it,” he promises.

It feels like a challenge to hold his gaze, so you do. “Okay. Which of your songs means the most to you, and why?” Sirius opens his mouth to respond, but you turn away. “Remus?” 

Remus looks surprised to be asked. With how quickly Sirius and James both seize the mic, the public hardly knows anything about him. “Good question,” he hums. You do your best not to let the compliment go straight to your head. “I suppose The Phoenix.”

“And why’s that?” you prompt. 

“It’s the first song we all really collaborated on.” Remus is looking at you, but you don’t miss the fond smile James sends his way. “I can’t play it without thinking about the fun we had writing it.” 

You nod, beaming internally. Why don’t people corral Remus into taking questions more often? He’s fucking phenomenal at it. 

“And you?” you ask Sirius. 

Sirius affects a look of shock, pointing at himself. “Oh. Is it my turn?” 

You bite down on a smile. “Yes.” 

“Lovely. Just checking.” He leans back, crossing his ankles on the coffee table. “My favorite would have to be Fever Dog. Means a lot to me.” 

Your lips part, though really you should have expected this from him. Fever Dog is widely considered The Marauders’ most scandalous song. Whenever they play it live, Sirius will pick a woman in the audience and put on a grand show of lusting after her. Some have argued he should have to make a formal apology to one venue for what he did to their microphone stand. 

You stare at Sirius, and he stares back at you. He’s going to make you ask. 

“Why?” you ask, cheeks burning. 

He grins. “Oh, you know.” 

You wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. He’s waiting for you to pry it out of him. If he thinks you’re going to use your time on that, he’s got another thing coming. You turn to James. 

“And what about you? Which song means the most to you?” 

“Actually,” says James, his smile a shade away from sheepish, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to be fairly tight-lipped about that one. My pick is a song we’ve only just written.” 

An ember of promise flares to life in your middle. “It’s unreleased?” 

“Unfortunately, yeah.” 

“When can we expect to hear it?” 

Sirius tuts. “Now, doll, you heard him. He can’t say.” 

“Come on.” You lean forward and look at James, nearly pleading. A brief conversation about smoking and bland answers to what was meant to be your most revealing question; so far, all you’ve managed to get is the same fluff as everyone else. “There has to be something you can tell me. What’s it about?” 

“Our lips are sealed,” Sirius answers for him. 

“Does it follow the trajectory of Lookaround, or are you returning to your old sound?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’s it called?” 

“Sorry, we’ve really got nothing for you there,” James laughs. “As of now it’s still only called Track 8.” 

The other boys go still. James doesn’t seem to realize why until you piece enough of yourself back together from the wreckage of your own shock to open your mouth. 

“You’re releasing an album?” 

Sirius’ unruffled facade is back in place in a millisecond, but James’ eyes widen, and that tells you all you need to know. 

“We label all our unreleased songs as numbers until we come up with a decent title.” Sirius gives a careless wave of his hand. 

You shake your head. “You’re releasing an album,” you say certainly.

Remus sighs, covering his eyes with a hand. “Oh, Jamie.” 

This is huge. Gigantic. The Marauders have risen to fame on singles, which is impressive enough—word of an impending album will blow up their fanbase. And to have the news break during their first tour—

“Now, what would give you that impression?” Sirius asks. But you see through him, now. His insouciance is all for show; he’s scrambling. 

A laugh stumbles out of you, giddy. Before you can launch into more questions, the door to the dressing room opens. 

“Unless we want to get caught in traffic, we really should—” The round-faced redhead stops mid-sentence when she spots you. “Oh. Sorry. Are you all almost done, because…” 

“Lily.” James’ tight voice is an obvious cry for help. 

The woman’s eyes find him instantly, her posture straightening. “What?” 

He smiles, abashed. Still hopelessly endearing. “I might have messed up.” 

“She knows about the album,” says Remus from behind his hand. 

Lily looks between the three boys for a handful of seconds—James’ contrite expression, Remus’ defeated posture, Sirius eyeing your tape recorder like he might grab for it. Her shoulders slump. “Oh, fuck. Seriously?” 

“I had nothing to do with it,” Sirius insists.

“Right. Sure.” Lily rolls her eyes. She crosses the room, picking up your tape recorder from the ottoman—you nearly lunge for it, panicking, but she only hands it to you—before taking a seat in its place. “Hi,” she says, seeming to collect herself enough to give you a halfway friendly smile. “I’m Lily. I’m the boys’ manager.” 

You smile back, mostly at the way she calls them ‘the boys,’ just like Mary did. You wonder if it hints at a familiarity not usually so common between bands and their teams. You shake Lily’s hand. 

“We’re not ready for people to know about the album,” she says calmly.

You steel yourself. “It’s my job to write about these things.” 

“I understand that.” She presses her lips together. “What can we offer you?” 

You feel your eyebrows go up. “I’m sorry?” 

“What if we promise you an exclusive on breaking the news about the album, but you wait until we give you the go-ahead to publish?” 

You’re shaking your head before she’s done. You don’t want to make any enemies—certainly not before you’ve even established yourself in the industry—but you have a job to do. There’s no good reason you shouldn’t publish this tomorrow. 

“Should I get Mary?” James asks worriedly. 

Lily holds up a hand. “We’re fine. What if—” 

“What if you let me write about the process?” you blurt, then shy at interrupting. “Sorry.” 

But Lily’s eyebrows have drawn together. “What do you mean?” 

“I, um.” You clear your throat. Try not to think about the other three sets of eyes on you, focussing only on Lily. “I could document the process of The Marauders creating their first album. It could be a feature in Spellbound.” You start talking faster as the idea solidifies, growing excited. “I’d have to ask my editor, but I’m sure he’d approve it. You let me stay with you for a while on the tour, do a few more interviews, sit in on some things, and I hold the news about the album until you’re ready to release it. With the full inside scoop.” 

For a while, Lily only looks at you. You scan her face, trying to gauge any reaction, but she’s unreadable while she seems to be doing the same to you. “That could work,” she says finally. 

“No!” Sirius is aghast. 

Lily grimaces. “Sirius—” 

“No, we cannot take the fucking enemy—” He sends you a look. “—nothing personal, gorgeous—on tour with us.” 

“We may not have much choice,” says Remus. His expression is weary, though thankfully not particularly hostile when he looks at you. The cigarette between his fingers has burned nearly to the filter. 

“We can’t finance you travelling with us,” Lily tells you. 

“I’ll pay for myself,” you reply thoughtlessly. How you’re going to do that is a problem for another time. “Do you have a tour bus I can ride along on?” 

She looks begrudging. “Yes.” 

“I can sleep there.” James cringes as if in sympathy at the idea, but you don’t second-guess yourself. “You won’t have to pay for anything.” 

Lily takes in a breath. She glances at the boys briefly, but sticks out her hand. “Alright. You come on the bus with us, we give you two formal interviews, and you hold the news about the album until I say.” 

You put your hand in hers. “Deal.” 

“My shy girl.” Sirius’ voice is a strange mix of taunting and affectionate that has your tummy twisting in knots. When he mouths at the edge of your jaw, he lets one of his incisors scrape just a little. Just enough for you to feel it. “I know you can do better than that, can’t you?” 

“I can’t.” The end of your voice tips up into an agonized whine as Sirius’ fingers move again over the cloth of your underwear. 

“Aw, I believe in you.” 

“Sirius, I—I really can’t.” You wriggle helplessly as his grip slides between your legs to cup your ass, his forearm pressed warmly against the center of you. He lifts you further into his lap. You’re half desperate, your fingers curling around the few inches of rope binding your wrists to the bedframe. “I have neighbors.” 

“I know that, baby. You have thick walls, too.” Sirius leans back to give you a patronizing look. When he comes closer again, he comes close enough for you to feel his words ghosting across your lips. “I want them to be able to hear you through them.” 

He situates you firmly on his lap. Close enough to feel the warmth of him like an aura, too far to do anything about it. You tug at your ropes, and he strokes a placating hand up your side. You don’t even realize the noise you’ve just heard has come from you until you feel Sirius’ chest rumbling with laughter. 

“That’s a start,” he teases, “but I know you can be even louder than that. You just need a bit of help, hm? Let everyone hear how pretty you sound.” 

The next sound you make is a rather resentful humphing one, but Sirius only laughs again. His first attempt at helping you has resulted in the restraints on your wrists. He caught you covering your mouth with your hand one too many times, and now he’s decided to do something about it. Sirius has made it very clear that while he has no problems with you being naturally quiet, he does with you making yourself quiet. 

His other tactic to get a reaction out of you seems to be giving you everything except what you want. You’ve been licked and bitten, teased and toyed with, but your underwear have remained on despite the fact that the fabric is now basically sheer from wetness. Sirius acts like he doesn’t even see it, kissing you the way you usually like him too, pillowy soft and sweet, precisely because he knows that's not how you want it now, while his hand stokes flames up your side and you move yourself back and forth uselessly over his thigh. 

“I don’t want them to hear,” you plead. 

Sirius coos, taking your face between his hands. “Poor girl. Are you embarrassed?” 

You nod, blinking fast. 

“What’s your color, beautiful?” 

“Green,” you murmur. 

“Be glad it’s just the neighbors,” he says, granting you the sort of lingering kiss you’ve been craving. You push into him, letting your arms stretch behind you to get closer. “Next time, I want to open the window so everyone walking by can hear you, too.” 

You let out a low moan of mortification. Sirius grins, pressing another conciliatory kiss to your cheek. 

Remus, not usually one to be told what to do, eases himself sideways without complaint. He ends up half on top of you, his body between your legs and his head on your chest. 

“This okay?” he mumbles. 

“Mhm.” You sound just as exhausted as he does, and you didn’t even make the excursion to the grocery. “You’re really warm.” 

“Yeah, so are you.” 

You lay a clammy hand atop Remus’ limp hair. It’s the best you can do for affection right now: wordless commiseration. Your stomach has been twisting in knots and turning itself inside out since the early hours of the morning, and after spending hours taking turns with your boyfriends being sick in the toilet or a bucket or the kitchen sink, you seem all finally, thoroughly worn out. 

Remus falls asleep quicker than you’ve ever known him to. His slow, even breaths fan hot over your chest, lips smushed in a sleepy pout like he’s laying a kiss over your heart. The cruel lines slicing across his face stand out against his flushed skin. 

James comes back a few minutes later with Sirius in tow and Sirius’ laptop tucked under his arm. They make nearly identical pitying faces when they see Remus conked out on your chest. 

“Did he get any food?” Sirius asks, peering into the grocery bag. Where Remus is flushed with the fever from your shared illness, Sirius has paled, his complexion gone wan and greyish behind his curtain of dark hair. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. “What’s with the laptop?” 

“He was leaving a review of the restaurant from yesterday,” James explains, setting the laptop down on the coffee table before collapsing back onto the couch with a sigh. 

“They bloody deserve it.” Sirius tears open a packet of crackers. He sets a few in James’ hand with a look that promises vengeance if he doesn’t eat them, then does the same to you. “Our story needs to be told.” 

“I didn’t say it didn’t.” James piles on top of you and Remus, practically contorting himself to rest his head on Remus’ thigh. It doesn’t look particularly comfortable. 

You eye Sirius where he’s curling up in the armchair. “Drink your vitamin water,” you remind him. 

“Eat your crackers,” he counters. “And sweetheart, I love you, but if you don’t move that bucket away from me I’m going to be sick all over the three of you.” 

Remus makes a drowsy whining sound, like he’s protesting this even in sleep. 

“I cleaned it out,” you say, defensive. 

Sirius’ nose wrinkles. “I can smell the remnants of vomit past.”

James reaches over, sliding your bucket across the floor. 

“Oh, yeah,” you say. “I see it.” 

Lily’s eyes seem to twinkle as she looks up at the sky. “I loved Alice in Wonderland as a kid.” A smile tempts your lips. You can see that for her so easily, falling in love with a story about a girl who discovers a world of magic and adventure in her own backyard. Lily always seems like she’s trying to make ordinary life a bit more magical; it’s in the way she approaches the world bright and curious, the way she finds character in the curve of the moon. “What was your favorite film when you were little?” 

You hum. “I’m not sure if I had a favorite. Maybe Coraline.” 

“Oh, see, there’s an ominous cat in that, too,” she teases. 

“Maybe that’s what makes a hit film,” you muse, “an ominous cat.” 

Lily’s laugh skitters across your skin like tiny sparks, leaving warmth in your chest and your gut. She turns to look at you. “That’s probably it.” 

“We should let the industry know.” 

“What, so they can have all the credit?” She’s close enough for her breath to ghost across your cheek. “I don’t think so. You’re the visionary.” 

You look at her. Lily’s eyes, pretty green and darkening in the twilight, hold yours askingly. And you’re nervous, and you’re still worried about your chapped lips, but you breathe in and let her meet you halfway. 

Her lips are pillowy soft. More’s the pity she’s not getting the same experience in return, because this is impossibly lovely. Lily tastes like the jasmine tea she had at your coffee date, and when you step closer her hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking down your cheek in a soothing caress. You melt. 

Your fingers are still twined with hers, but it takes you a few moments to work up the courage to take your other hand out of your pocket and bring it around her waist. Lily lets out a sigh that goes straight to your stomach, rustling up butterflies and something deeper. You think you inhale. Like her every breath out is your breath in. 

Another stroke of Lily’s thumb down your cheek, and her lips part from yours. Your eyes stay closed, but you feel the tickle of her lashes before she breathes, “Hi.” 

“Hi,” you whisper back, managing to come back to yourself enough to look at her in turn. Lily is as astonishingly pretty as you left her, though her cheeks somewhat ruddier. “Are, um. Are my lips too chapped?” 

“What?” She laughs. Sparks, all over again. She’s really got to stop that, or even in this weather you’ll overheat. “No, lovely, you’re perfect.” 

You can’t help the smile that takes you, though you turn a bit sheepish as you look at her. “Are you sure? I’ve felt like they are, but I forgot my lip balm at home…” 

“Is that what you were thinking about?” Lily asks, teasing. 

“No.” You press your lips together, feeling the imprint of hers. “Not all I was thinking about.” 

“That’s reassuring. Well, I didn’t notice, but if it’s bothering you I have some lip balm you could use.” 

You blink at her. “You don’t mind sharing?”