I Want To Break Free
A sharp rap at the door jolted Sirius half-awake, but it was the shrill voice that followed that truly dragged him into consciousness.
“For fuck’s sake, Sirius, get up! You had one job, be awake before noon.”
The door swung open, and a burst of light from the hallway made him groan, pressing his face into the pillow. His head was heavy, his limbs sluggish, the lingering haze of last night’s whiskey and cigarettes clinging to him like a second skin.
“Five more minutes,” Sirius muttered, voice rough from sleep and disuse.
“Five more—?!” His manager, Charles, strode in, the click of his expensive shoes sharp against the marble floor. “Do you have any idea how fucking difficult it was to get Rolling Stone to agree to this spread?”
Sirius cracked one eye open, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “I’m guessing not as hard as getting me out of bed.”
Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, I hate you.” Then his eyes flicked down, and his entire body tensed. “Oh, for... Are you serious, Sirius?”
Sirius followed his line of sight. There, half-hidden under last night’s discarded silk shirt, was a copy of Blueboy Magazine.
Charles plucked it off the floor between two fingers, holding it away from himself like it was radioactive. “Do you even think before you do shit like this?” His voice dropped, sharp with warning. “You know what’ll happen if someone sees this lying around.”
Sirius exhaled slowly, pushing himself upright. The sheets slid off his bare torso, the cool air a rude awakening against his skin. He held out his hand. “Give it back.”
Charles scoffed but didn’t move.
“Charles.” Sirius’s tone dipped, the smirk gone. “I said. Give. It. Back.”
For a moment, they stared at each other, a silent battle of wills. Then, with a sigh of deep resignation, Jameson shoved the magazine into Sirius’s waiting hand.
“Five minutes,” he snapped. “Not ten. Not fifteen. Five. And for fuck’s sake, try to look like a goddamn rockstar and not someone who just crawled out of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”
Sirius watched him storm off, then looked down at the magazine. He ran a thumb over the glossy cover, over the model’s sharp jaw and knowing eyes.
Then, with a sigh, he tossed it into the drawer and swung his legs out of bed.
Five minutes.
He could be somebody else in five minutes.
Sirius ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the last remnants of sleep as he stepped out of the hotel room. The hallway was too bright, the air too cold, and the day already too long before it had even started.
He glanced out the window at the city below grey skies and flashing billboards, a world that would spend the next seventy-two hours eating up whatever Rolling Stone decided to print about him.
This is going to be one of those days.
The interview. The photoshoot. The inevitable twisting of his words to paint him as either an untouchable rock god or a cautionary tale in the making. Sirius exhaled sharply. He wasn’t in the mood for this shit.
“Move it, Black.” Charles was already striding ahead, his pace brisk with irritation. “You’re late. Again. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get you this feature?”
Sirius rolled his eyes but followed. Rolling Stone should’ve been a dream, validation that he’d made it. But all he could think about was sitting in some over-air-conditioned room while a reporter with a tape recorder dissected his life, looking for the cracks.
Charles shoved open the door to the suite where Sirius would be getting ready. Inside, a small army of stylists was already waiting, makeup artists, a hairdresser, a wardrobe consultant with an array of carefully curated outfits.
The moment he stepped in, they descended. One tilted his chin up, inspecting his skin. Another smoothed a hand through his hair. A woman with a measuring tape eyed his frame, probably mentally adjusting the fit of whatever ridiculous outfit they were about to shove him into.
Sirius let them. He sat down, let someone dust powder over his cheekbones, let another flatten the rebellious strands of his hair. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, a carefully constructed version of the man the world wanted to see.
...
Remus knew full well he was late.
He glanced at his watch, then at the slow-moving traffic ahead, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He could already hear himself blaming it on the congestion, crafting a half-believable excuse about unexpected roadwork or an incompetent cab driver. But the truth?
He just did not want to be there. Not in the slightest.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love music, he did. He had built his entire career around it. The thrill of discovering a new sound, the rush of being the first to capture an artist’s story in words, the way a song could crack open something deep in a person’s chest, all of it had once been exhilarating.
But after years of interviewing rock stars, Remus had learned a harsh truth: most of them were absolute bastards.
They were egotistical, self-destructive, and, more often than not, completely out of their minds.
He had learned that the hard way.
Remus still remembered when he met the Mick Jagger. He’d been thrilled, this was Mick Jagger, the man who had revolutionized rock and roll, a living legend. He had walked into that interview with nervous excitement, expecting wisdom, charisma, a conversation that would change his life.
Instead, he got a cocaine-fueled, barely coherent Mick Jagger who spent the entire interview hitting on him.
Remus had sat there, gripping his tape recorder, trying to steer the conversation back to music while Jagger made increasingly lewd suggestions between sniffs and smirks. He left that interview feeling disgusted. The article he turned in was professional, neutral, but the illusion had cracked.
And as time passed, he realized it wasn’t just Jagger. It was all of them.
Every so-called icon he had admired turned out to be the same: reckless, arrogant, drunk on their own fame. And just like that, the thing he loved most in the world music became corrupted by everything he hated about the industry.
Now, he only saw the machine behind it all. The managers keeping their artists in line. The labels controlling every move. The PR teams spinning outrageous behavior into artistic eccentricity.
And today?
Today, he was on his way to interview Sirius Black.
Another overindulged, self-obsessed rockstar. Another day of gritting his teeth through bullshit answers and aren’t-I-so-fucking-charming smirks.
Remus sighed, running a hand down his face.
He was so tired of this.
Remus arrived at the hotel, flashing his credentials to the staff with practiced ease. He barely registered the polite nods as he made his way through the halls, too busy skimming through his notes.
He already knew what he was going to ask. Most of it was standard fare. A few questions about the upcoming album, the inevitable tell us about your process, something about the tour. Nothing groundbreaking. Nothing particularly interesting. But then again, he doubted Sirius Black would give him anything interesting.
When he stepped into the hotel suite, the photoshoot was already underway.
Sirius Black sat in a lavish chair, a cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers, eyes hooded in that deliberate, I-don’t-give-a-shit way that all rockstars seemed to perfect. The camera flashed, and Sirius barely moved, tilting his head just slightly, as if he was so accustomed to being admired that it required no effort.
Remus muttered some half-hearted excuse for being late, not bothering to see if anyone cared. He leaned against the wall, watching with vague disinterest as the photographer adjusted the lighting, took another set of shots, and cooed at Sirius to give them one more, just like that, perfect.
It was all so tired.
He let his eyes wander, studying Sirius Black up close for the first time.
The man was, admittedly, ridiculously good-looking. It was infuriating, really. Sharp cheekbones, dark waves that framed his face just so, iced blue eyes and a charisma that made people desperate to be in his orbit. He had the kind of beauty that got away with everything.
When the last shot was taken, Sirius leaned back with a stretch, clearly pleased with himself. The crew bustled around him, fixing things, murmuring about lighting and angles, but Remus had already moved toward a chair, sinking into it with a heavy sigh.
He spread his legs wide, slouching comfortably as he set his notes on the table. Sirius, in contrast, sat across from him with perfect posture, his legs crossed with an almost dainty precision. It was the sort of thing that made Remus want to roll his eyes.
Of course, Sirius Black was a snob.
Remus knew all about the Black family. Anyone from his part of the country did.
Born and raised in Missouri, not too far from Memphis, Remus had heard plenty of stories about the Black family, old member of the Klan that owned half of Tennessee, the kind of family that had old money and influence in all the right places.
And Sirius? Sirius Black, he was quite confident , was exactly what happened when you threw obscene wealth at an already oversized ego.
Remus didn’t bother easing into the interview. He pulled out his recorder, set it on the table between them, and pressed the button.
“I’m starting,” he said flatly.
Sirius barely had time to adjust before the first question hit.
"So, Sirius, your new album is out now. What’s the inspiration behind it?"
Remus was met by Sirius Black staring at him blankly, pupils blown wide, his gaze completely unfocused.
Sirius blinked a few times, clearly startled, before his eyes seemed to clear, though only slightly.
Remus’s mind clicked immediately into place. Great. Another junkie. He pressed his lips together, trying to mask his distaste. He didn’t have the patience for this anymore.
"Okay," Remus said, tapping his pen against his notebook, eyes narrowing. "About the album. What’s the inspiration behind it?"
Sirius’s gaze flickered back to Remus, and he blinked again, as if finally realizing they were in the middle of an interview. He shook his head slightly, as though snapping out of a daze. "Sorry," he muttered, voice a little rougher than before. "I wasn’t paying attention. I—"
He stopped himself, a brief look of confusion crossing his face before he quickly caught his words. "I was just... Distracted." He seemed to shake himself mentally, as if trying to stop himself from saying more.
Remus raised an eyebrow, his patience wearing thin. "Right. Well, I’ll just go ahead and repeat the question for the third time. What’s the inspiration behind your new album, Sirius?"
Sirius took a deep breath, clearly trying to focus, and gave a quick, apologetic smile before answering. “The new album... it’s inspired by the songs I grew up listening to, you know? The old blues, the kind of stuff my parents wouldn't let me listen to when I was a kid.” He leaned forward slightly, eyes sparking as he spoke. "I wanted to go back to that sound. Something raw, real. It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve recorded before. And honestly? I’m happy with that. I wanted to break free from all the trends, you know?"
Remus found himself listening a little closer. He wasn’t expecting Sirius to sound so genuine. The man’s charisma was undeniable, even when he was just talking about music. But Remus quickly pushed those thoughts away. He wasn’t here to get distracted.
He flipped through his notes, asking the next question. “Who are your favorite artists, then? Who influenced you the most?”
Sirius shifted in his seat. He didn’t hesitate, which made Remus expect the usual answers: Elvis Presley, The Beatles, maybe some Stones.
But then Sirius said, “James Potter.”
Remus blinked, his pen faltering slightly in his grip. He looked up at Sirius, his brow furrowing. “James Potter?”
Sirius nodded, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah, James Potter," he said, his tone easy, like it was obvious. "You know, the guy with the piano? I'm a really big fan of blues. Of course, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, they're legends. I love their sound and all, but James? He's in a league of his own. There's something raw in the way he plays. It’s like his fingers are spilling out his soul with every note, and that’s the kind of music I want to make."
Remus blinked, thrown off by the casual reverence in Sirius’s voice. The image of Sirius Black a rock god, the embodiment of excess, gushing about James Potter was... jarring.
Remus’s eyes widened. “James Potter?” he repeated, almost as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He quickly recovered, forcing himself to sound casual. “Didn’t expect that one from you,” he muttered under his breath.
Sirius gave a knowing grin.
Remus cleared his throat, feeling his mind race with the implications. Remus had idolized James growing up, he had all the records and he knew all of James' songs by heart.
Remus couldn't help but smile just a little. "Actually, I’m a big fan of James myself," he admitted, a slight sincerity in his voice. "He really does play with his soul. But, uh, besides him, who else has shaped your sound over the years?"
Sirius leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly on the armrest, as if deep in thought. “Well, aside from James, I’d say Stevie Nicks and Robert Plant. Classic rock legends, you know? The ones who defined what rock and roll is all about. But I really like Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf as well.”
Remus found himself nodding, genuinely impressed. Okay, this was different. It was rare for a rockstar to even acknowledge blues artists, much less admit to being influenced by them. He hadn’t expected Sirius to drop names like Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters.
“Yeah,” Sirius continued, his voice a little more animated now. “It’s all about that raw sound, that feeling. You don’t get that from just strumming a guitar or singing into a mic. You’ve gotta live it.”
Remus watched Sirius as he spoke about his career, the passion in his voice unmistakable. There was an earnestness in his tone, a sincerity that Remus couldn’t deny. As much as he tried to maintain his cynical attitude, he couldn’t help but be a little moved by the way Sirius spoke about his music, about the connection with his audience, the ever-present drive to create. It wasn’t the selfish, ego-driven attitude Remus had come to expect from rock stars such as him.
He’d always believed they were all just in it for the fame, the drugs, the attention. But Sirius? There was something more to him than that. Remus felt a flicker of unease. This interview was not going as he had expected, and he wasn’t sure whether to feel unsettled or intrigued. Sirius’s answers were thoughtful, and there was a subtle tone to his words that made Remus think there was a lot more beneath the surface than the snarky rockstar persona everyone seemed to admire.
"So," Remus said, pushing himself back in the chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of his recorder, "is there anything... after the tour? You've been at the top of your game for a while now. What’s next for Sirius Black? Another album? A new direction?"
Sirius didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, Remus noticed the way his fingers drummed against his leg, as if weighing the future. The smile that crossed Sirius’s face when he finally spoke wasn’t the usual smirk, but something more introspective.
"Keep creating," Sirius said, voice soft but firm, as though it were the only thing that made sense to him. "As long as there’s breath in my lungs, I’ll keep making music. Maybe different music, different sounds. I don’t know exactly what’s next, but I know I’ve got more to give."
Remus found himself nodding, more absorbed than he had been since walking into the room. This was not the man he had expected to sit across from. There was something in the way Sirius spoke, the sincerity in his voice, the way his hands moved as he described his passion. There was an energy here that Remus couldn’t ignore.
Remus hadn’t wanted to ask the next question. He’d known from the moment he walked into the room that this was the real reason Rolling Stone had sent him. Sure, the profile would cover Sirius’s music, his career, and his upcoming tour, but the real headline? That was meant to be his sexuality. The rumors had been swirling for the past two years, tabloids, industry whispers, the occasional slip of a tongue in the wrong place. Everyone wanted to know the truth.
His editor had made it clear: if Remus could get Sirius Black to admit, even hint at anything, sales would skyrocket. The higher-ups were already predicting it would be one of their best-selling issues of the year. And for Remus? It could mean the promotion he’d been chasing for five years. He knew how the game worked. If Sirius gave him anything even remotely ambiguous, he could spin it just enough. The repercussions would be someone else’s problem.
Still, as he sat there, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he found himself hesitating. He wasn’t sure if it was the way Sirius had spoken so earnestly about his music or the way he’d defied every arrogant rockstar stereotype Remus had built up in his mind. But something about it made him feel like an asshole.
He exhaled through his nose, keeping his voice carefully measured as he spoke. Make it sound natural.
“There’s been a lot of talk about you lately,” Remus said, watching Sirius closely. “You know how it is, everyone’s got an opinion. And people love a mystery, especially when it comes to someone like you.” He leaned forward slightly, his tone just conversational enough to keep it from feeling like a trap. “So, for the sake of setting the record straight...” he let the words settle, giving Sirius room to interpret them as he pleased “is there anything you’d like to say about all that speculation?”
Sirius went very still. Not in an obvious way, but just enough for Remus to notice. The way his fingers twitched slightly against the fabric of his jeans, the way his jaw tensed, not clenched, just… Aware? He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze flickered past Remus, just over his shoulder.
Remus didn’t have to turn around to know who he was looking at.
The manager.
The air between them seemed to shift, the easy rhythm of their conversation fracturing. Remus could hear the distant hum of hotel staff in the hallway, the faint sound of the ice machine whirring to life, but inside the room, everything felt muted. Sirius swallowed, just barely, before finally speaking.
“I have a girlfriend,” he said, his voice even but notably vague.
Remus nodded slowly, pressing his lips together. Of course.
"Who's the lucky woman? If you don't mind me asking." he asked, knowing full well that he wouldn't get a real answer but needing to go through the motions.
Sirius’s smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’d like to keep my privacy, if that’s alright."
Remus leaned back in his chair even as irritation flickered in his chest. He had known this was how it would go, but it still annoyed him. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because, for the first time in the interview, it felt like Sirius was slipping into a role, one that had nothing to do with who Remus had been speaking to moments ago. Up until now, their conversation had felt real. But this? This was calculated, rehearsed. And Remus found himself resenting it more than he should.
"Fair enough," he said, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile.
Remus tried once more to steer the conversation back toward Sirius’s personal life, but each time, Sirius deflected with an easy, practiced charm. It was clear he had no intention of giving Remus anything more.