forever is the sweetest con

The urge to go out the window gets louder. You twist the lock on the door before you can act on it.

Sirius pushes the door open. In the moment when it's cracked, sound from the bar pours in, overlapping voices of varying tones. Nerves tighten your throat before Sirius shuts the door swiftly and locks it behind him.

"Hey." He greets you with a kiss, as though he's only just come to visit you in the toilets for fun. His thumb strokes your cheek, cold rag pressing to your stomach. "How's your hand? Can I see?"

You hold it up for him. Sirius doesn't comment on how it shakes, frowning as he takes it into his own and holds the rag gently on top. The cold edges of ice dig into your knuckles through the terry cloth.

"Does it hurt?" Sirius looks up at you. You keep your eyes on your hand. "Remus said sometimes people can break their little fingers from a punch like that."

"I think it's fine," you mumble.

"Yeah?" He begins feeling up the length of your hand anyway, gentle little presses with his fingertips, like you're something to be treated with care. Satisfied, he squeezes the end of your pinkie fondly. "How are you doing, lovely girl?"

Your mouth curls in on itself. "I don't think it's me you should be asking about."

"No? Why not?"

"I'm not the one who got hit."

There's a pause. You hold your breath again. It feels like you're bracing for a blow, except you're the one who deals those out, apparently.

"That did surprise me," Sirius admits.

He doesn't need to tell you that. You knew already. You have a sharp memory of Sirius' face, eyes gone wide and lips parted on a silent gasp, the sight of it like having a bucket of cold water thrown over you as you realized what you'd done. Even in that first moment of clarity, when the heat of wrath still lingered at the edges of you and your hand didn't hurt a lick, your regret wasn't for what had happened, but for how many people had seen you in that state.

Your voice now is weak, tremulous. "I'm sorry. James is your friend, and I guess he just seems too nice for someone to be mean to…"

"Well, yeah," says Sirius, "but, I don't know if you've noticed, James is a fairly big guy. He can handle himself."

You nod and look at the floor. Whatever this thing you had been feeling out with Sirius, you think it's done now. He's kind to come end things in person, but you sort of wish he'd just let you go out the window.

"It's sweet that you still wanted to stick up for him, though."

You blink up at him. Sirius' mouth lifts on one side.

"Anyway, I'm not going to track down the guy you hit and ask how he's doing," he says, thumb stroking the side of your hand. "First because it'd be totally disingenuous—I don't care at all how that prick is—and second because I'd much rather be here with you."

You stare at him. "Sweet?"

Sirius shrugs. "Maybe not in the conventional sense, but yeah. I thought it was sweet. Rather hot as well."

You think you must look cartoonishly shocked. Sirius laughs, and it's the sound of it that makes you feel sure he's telling the truth. Full and warm.

"Is it weird that I found it hot?" he asks genuinely.

You struggle with speech for a moment. "Is it weird for you?"

"I don't know" Sirius leans closer. His lips brush the edge of your jaw. "I think lots of stuff you do is hot. It's not really out of the ordinary."

Deliriously, you find yourself fighting a smile. "I'm alright with it if you are."

You sputter, but somehow you know Sirius has already walked away. You finish up quickly, hoping no one told your date that you were using the toilet as you set out to find him.

As it turns out, you don't have to go far. He's chatting with James in the sitting room.

"—she goes insane for a sweet," James is saying, "so I wouldn't recommend sharing anything, because you won't get any. I've been burned before. Oh, and if you're getting pizza—"

"Hi," you announce yourself, smiling sheepishly at your date. Sirius is reheating something in the kitchen and pretending not to be spying on you. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you yet. I'd have met you downstairs."

"Nonsense." James waves you off. "Being early is a good quality. And I'm sure Reggie would rather pick you up from your door, wouldn't you, Reggie?"

Reggie gives you a smile. You wonder if that's a distress signal in the widening of his eyes, or if you're imagining it. "Yeah. Hope I'm not rushing you."

"I'm sorry—" Sirius cuts off any reply you could have made. "—what did you say your name was?"

Your date appears flummoxed and somewhat overwhelmed at finding himself the center of attention of your entire flat, when he only came to see one of you. He twists around in his seat to see Sirius. "Reggie."

Sirius' nose wrinkles. "That's awful."

Reggie blinks. "Sorry?"

"You have a brother named Reggie," James jumps to Reggie's defense.

"Exactly. Which is why I can speak on the matter."

There's a knock on your front door. You look to your flatmates, confused (your guest is already here), but a moment later Remus leaves his room with a brisk, "Got it."

"You have a brother also named Reginald?" Reggie asks Sirius, in what seems to you a desperate attempt at friendly conversation.

Sirius grimaces. "Well, it's…no, but—"

"His brother's name is Regulus," James fills Reggie in. "They're both named after stars."

"That's nice," says Reggie pleasantly.

"Wait," you cut in, "you have a brother I haven't met?"

"Oh, Reggie is far too cool to hang out in our flat," James teases.

"He only thinks so—" Sirius mutters, then shakes his head quickly, as if clearing cobwebs. "You're making my point for me. Having more than one Reggie is only going to be confusing. You—" He fixes his gaze on you now, and your eyebrows raise. "—can't bring this one around here."

Your mouth actually drops open. "What? You don't get to tell me what to do." You sound childish, you know; later, you might reflect on this and cringe at your date bearing witness, but now you're too in shock. "It's my flat, too."

"Sorry," James is murmuring to Reggie, "they get like this sometimes. Flatmates, you know—"

"I didn't say you can't date him," says Sirius. "Just don't bring him around here. If I wake up to 'Reggie, Reggie, oh yes, Reggie' in the middle of the night I'm going to come hurl on your bed, specifically. And I can promise you you'll never get another surprise pain au chocolat from me again."

Your face had burnt at Sirius' impression of you saying Reggie's name, but at the threat of your sweets ritual being taken away, you're genuinely hurt. You think it must show up on your face, because James rushes to play peacekeeper.

"Hey, easy," he says, spreading his hands like a referee. "Let's just take a step back. There's no need for scare tactics."

"James," calls Remus from the door, "can you come here, please?"

James looks at you and Sirius warily as if ensuring you'll behave while he's gone. You push out a frustrated breath, standing.

"We're going," you tell them.

"I don't see how I'm being unreasonable," says Sirius. "Just don't have sex with my almost-brother in our flat."

"Right. Um—" Reggie gets up awkwardly as you stalk towards the hallway. "It was nice to meet you."

"You too, Reginald."

"Reggie's fine."

"I'm not calling you that. Nothing personal, yeah?"

"I am so sorry," you whisper to Reggie when he catches up to you. You're tugging on your shoes in a hurry. "He's not usually—he's not always like this."

"It's okay." Reggie's eyes crinkle, almost like he's trying not to laugh. "Honestly, I—"

"James, you have a vent in your room that goes downstairs, don't you?" Remus asks loudly.

"I, um...think I might," James hedges, approaching the door in a wary manner. "Why do you ask?"

"Have you heard anything strange coming out of it lately? Mr. Palmer's asking."

"Oh, my god." You put a hand over your mouth, stopping out of view of the front door.

Reggie's eyes widen. "What?"

"No strange noises that I've noticed," James replies to Remus. "Although, sometimes I think I hear strange things all over this place. It's a bit of a spooky building, isn't it?"

"Mr. Palmer is our downstairs neighbor," you tell Reggie in a whisper. "James likes to play this really long, elaborate, um…prank? On him?"

"A prank?" Reggie's brows furrow. "How old is he?"

"It's actually quite funny," you admit. "And Mr. Palmer is pretty rude, so—"

"That's what I was just telling him," says Remus. "We've wondered about ghosts on occasion, but you know I don't believe in any of that stuff. There are lots of things that can make sounds like someone screaming."

"I can't believe Remus is playing along." You're giddy.

"I don't know, I heard from some old tenants that something rather unspeakable happened in the flat below us in the sixties. And whenever I hear something odd, it always seems to come from below." James voice raises with poorly-performed surprise; you don't know how everyone doesn't always see right through him. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Palmer. That's your flat, isn't it? I wasn't thinking."

"Are you ready to leave?" Reggie looks to the door expectantly.

Contrite, you shake your head. "I think we should wait until Mr. Palmer's gone. If we make James laugh, we'll ruin all their fun. It sounds like they're nearly done, though."

"Are you serious?"

When the band comes in, greetings are friendly and brief. Reckoning is a former quartet who recently picked up a fifth member, a keyboardist who's been thrown right into the action of live performances, and a rare all-girl band in a boys' industry. You already know who they all are, of course, but they're polite enough to introduce themselves to you anyway. You shake each of their hands in turn.

You start them off with some warm-up questions. You ask the keyboardist how she's finding things. Let them talk about their favorite songs from their first album, how they feel they've grown into the second. Things you already know the answers to.

But your time is limited, and they have to be warmed up eventually. You find yourself bracing as you reach for your more in-depth questions.

"So Marlene," you address the guitarist who was one of the band's early members, "you're open about how you grew up in the church" —you look at her, waiting for the nod that it's okay to continue— "but the songs you write aren't the sort played in most religious households. Why did you decide you needed to play rock?"

You're prepared to be shut down. Marlene has spoken about her religious upbringing, but only in quips and jokes. She's never talked about what it was like, or how she feels about it as an adult, and it doesn't seem likely that she's going to suddenly open up about it tonight. But to your surprise, she grins.

"Well," she says, "every teenager's got to piss their dad off somehow, don't they?"

You laugh. The band laughs with you, and some of the tension in you eases. "I'm guessing your parents weren't secretly listening to The Doors, then. So when did you find rock?"

Marlene laughs. "You talk about it the same way some people talk about finding Jesus." You start to apologize, but she cuts you off. "No, no, I love it. That's exactly what rock is for us."

She tells you about finding a The Who album under her older cousin's bed, about sneaking out to her first concert at fourteen and, later, sneaking out to band practices. The other girls jump in with their own stories of disapproving parents and the formation of their band as a sort of clandestine, rebellious affair. It's all really, really good material. You even get a soundbite about the name Reckoning as a nod to the idea of a biblical day of judgment.

You feel the apprehension leave you gradually. The band just keeps talking, and you almost forgot how easy this could be. You stop worrying that every question could be a landmine you're stepping on by accident, or that they're going to decide to refuse to talk to you. It's refreshing. It's a relief.

"That was impressive," Lily says while you put away chairs afterward.

You hum, using one as a crutch to get it across the room. You've insisted on helping this time, though it's not much help when you move at a snail's pace. "Yeah, you can tell they're true students of the genre. It's very cool."

Lily laughs. "They are very cool," she agrees, "but I meant you. I suppose I haven't been around often when you're asking the boys questions, but those were some good ones."

Your heart flutters at the compliment. "Oh. Thanks."

"You knew so much going in. How do you do that? Do you really keep up with every band that way?"

"I've got almost a whole notebook of questions," you admit. "It's not really a lot of work." (That's a lie. It is, but you enjoy doing it.) "I just read previous interviews, from them and from anyone close to them. And I take notes on their lyrics, too, obviously."

"Obviously." Lily smiles. She bumps her elbow into yours lightly, and you realize she's put away the remaining chairs while you were working on your one. You relent, letting her lend you a bit of support as you head towards the back exit of the venue. "Well, it clearly works. Those girls were smitten with you, asking all of your insightful questions. It's a skill, getting people comfortable that quickly."

"Wish it worked on everyone," you joke.

Lily hums. "Don't sell yourself short. You've charmed our boys, too. We're all just a bit wary of the press." She tosses you a sideways glance. "I hope you haven't been taking it personally."

"No," you fib. Because you know you shouldn't be, though you can't always help it. "It's part of the job."

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

"Obviously they spilled their guts to you," Sirius scoffs later. "They're playing a show at eight on a Sunday night. They need the press."

"Don't be a prick." Remus picks one of James' drumsticks up off the hotel bed, lobbing it at him.

Sirius dodges smoothly. "I'm only saying, some of us aren't so desperate."

"Maybe it's a strategy?" James proposes. Remus is still recovering from your late night a couple of days ago—James has been drumming a fretful beat on his lap about it all day—so you're all in his room, spread out on various furnishings while he rests in a nest of pillows. "You said they have a new member, maybe they're trying to start her out on lower-stakes shows."

"Maybe," you say, though you don't know if you buy that. More likely that a band of all girls has to fight harder for good time slots. "You guys were starting out once. Didn't you ever play a Sunday show?"

Remus grunts a confirmation.

"Worse," says James. "We played Wednesdays."

You smother a laugh. "Everyone has to start somewhere."

"We were the pride of Wednesday nights at Floozy's," Sirius defends them. "We drew a crowd."

"Of six people," Remus finishes.

You do laugh now. Sirius levels you with a teasing glare and aims a halfhearted kick at your good ankle. "Regardless of when they're playing" —You kick him back— "it was nice to interview a band who was actually answering my questions."

"Don't be coy, babe," Sirius teases. "We know you really love the chase."

"Is that the impression I've given you?"

"I think we deserve a little bit of credit," says Remus. "You've been asking us questions for three weeks now. I'd reckon we've answered at least a few."

"A few, yes," you allow. "But not many. Scoffing and making noises don't count as answers." You send meaningful looks at both Remus and Sirius.

James laughs.

You turn to him, pointing. "And I can't write a feature of quotes about how good you think the hotel food is."