Under Pressure
Remus didn't see Sirius Black for two months after that.
The Rolling Stone spread had finally come out and it painted Sirius in an overwhelmingly positive light. It highlighted his relentless work ethic, his refusal to conform to the reckless rockstar stereotype, and his clear passion for his craft. The photos were striking. The photographer had done an exceptional Remus favorite was one of Sirius leaned against a wall, cigarette between his fingers, his leather jacket hanging off his naked torso covered in tattoos he looked like he’d just stepped offstage.
Remus’s editor, however, was less impressed.
“This is soft,” the man grumbled, flipping through the glossy pages with a disapproving frown. “You let him off easy. Should’ve sent Skeeter instead.”
Remus bristled but kept his voice even. “You told me to cover him, not tear him apart.”
The editor scoffed but ultimately let it slide. “It’s selling well, at least.”
The other piece Remus had written, a short article about Sirius collaborating with James Potter, had unexpectedly gained traction. Music magazines and newspapers had picked it up, which ended up creating speculation and excitement among fans.
Still, with the article done and Sirius off on a tour, Remus figured that was the end of it. He doubted he’d see Sirius again.
Then, one morning, he arrived at work to find his editor waving him into his office.
Remus stepped inside to find the man mid-phone call, a real, clunky home phone balanced precariously between his ear and shoulder. He barely glanced at Remus before gesturing toward the desk.
Remus followed the motion, spotting a set of event credentials sitting on the surface. He frowned, opening his mouth to ask.
The editor held up a finger, silencing him.
Remus exhaled sharply and crossed his arms, waiting as the man continued his phone conversation. From this side, all he could hear was his editor making vague, noncommittal noises.
“Oh, really?”
“Huh.”
“No way.”
A beat.
“Well, that’s just terrible, honey.”
Remus’s lips twitched. He could tell exactly what was happening. The editor was on the phone with his wife, pretending to be invested while she gossiped about someone at her office.
Another pause. The editor let out a low whistle. “Wow. Really?” He made an exaggerated face at Remus, as if to say, Can you believe this?
Remus, unimpressed, raised an eyebrow.
After another moment, the editor sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I gotta go. Okay. Love you. Bye.” He hung up and immediately looked at Remus. “What the hell are you still doing here?”
Remus blinked. “I thought you were about to say something else.”
The editor huffed. “Nope. Just grab the credentials and go.”
Remus hesitated. “What event am I covering?”
The editor shot him a look like he was the dumbest person alive. “What do you think? A goddamn horse auction? This is Rolling Stone, Remus.” He gestured toward the credentials on the desk. “It’s a music festival.”
Relief washed over Remus—for a second.
Then the editor smirked. “And guess who’s headlining?”
Remus exhaled sharply. He already knew the answer.
“Sirius Black.”
...
Remus pinched the bridge of his nose as Eddie Van Halen launched into yet another tangent, the sharp scent of alcohol clinging to every word. The man was a genius with a guitar, no doubt, but he was also clearly several drinks in, and Remus was struggling to keep the conversation on track.
“So, the new album,” Remus attempted, voice level. “You’ve really leaned into the...”
“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie cut him off, waving a hand. “It’s all about feel, you know? You can’t force good music. It’s gotta come from here.” He thumped his chest, nearly spilling the beer in his other hand.
Remus barely resisted a sigh. Before he could attempt another question, a familiar voice cut in smoothly.
“Is he boring you to death, Professor?”
Remus turned, and there was Sirius Black, looking effortlessly cool in sunglasses, even though it was past 7 pm. He was grinning, looking far too pleased with himself as he slid seamlessly into the conversation.
Eddie squinted at Sirius, then let out a loud laugh. “Black! You sneaky bastard. What the hell are you doing here?”
Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. “Same as you, mate. Pretending this whole thing is about the music and not the money.” He shot a quick glance at Remus. “Though some of us actually prepare for interviews, isn’t that right, Professor?”
Eddie chuckled. “Don’t let him fool you. Black knows how to talk, he’s just as full of shit as the rest of us.”
Sirius smirked, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Maybe, but at least I’m charming about it right Professor?"
Remus rolled his eyes. “Can you stop? I'm not a Professor.”
Sirius smirked. “Sure,” he said, then his gaze flickered downward, landing on Remus’s chest. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the design on Remus’s shirt.
“Nick Drake, huh?” Sirius said, tapping a finger against the faded Pink Moon album cover stretched across Remus’s chest. “Didn’t take you for the type.”
Remus raised a brow. “And what type is that?”
Sirius grinned. “Melancholic. Broody. Probably writes poetry in the margins of his notebooks.” He took a step back, looking him up and down, then snapped his fingers. “Moony.”
Remus blinked. “What?”
Sirius shrugged, as if it were obvious. “You look like the kind of person who stays up all night staring at the moon, thinking about the meaning of life and whether or not we’re all just stardust.”
Eddie snorted. “He’s got you there.”
Remus sighed, already regretting all his life choices. “No, I'm not." he muttered, shaking his head.
Sirius just grinned wider. “Whatever you say, Moony.”
As Eddie took another swig from his bottle, a stagehand approached and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Van Halen, you're up next."
Eddie exhaled heavily, nodding as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Alright, alright," he muttered, stretching his shoulders before flashing a lazy grin at Remus and Sirius. "Catch you boys later."
Remus sighed as Eddie sauntered off, the lingering scent of alcohol thick in the air.
Sirius chuckled. "Not a fan?"
Remus shook his head. "I don’t particularly enjoy trying to hold a conversation with someone who reeks like a liquor cabinet."
Sirius grinned. “Good thing I don’t smell like one, then.”
Remus huffed a laugh but didn’t respond. Sirius shifted closer, lowering his voice. “I’m glad you’re here, Moony.”
At that, Remus turned to look at him properly, only to instantly regret it.
Sirius’s eyes, blue, almost grey, were fixed on him, sharp and searching, as if he could see right through Remus, peeling back all the layers he had carefully built over the years. The intensity made his stomach clench, made his breath catch in his throat.
Remus wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. He felt trapped, not in an unpleasant way, but in a way that made his heart hammer against his ribs.
Sirius licked his lips, and Remus hated himself for watching it.
“I can get you a drink,” Sirius offered, voice softer now, almost teasing. “Whiskey neat, right?”
Remus blinked. He was impressed that Sirius remembered, but he refused to show it. Instead, he forced himself to smirk. “I’m not supposed to drink while I’m working.”
Sirius tsked. “Then I’ll get you something else. Cheesecake, maybe? I know a good place.”
Despite himself, Remus smiled. "Maybe some other day."
Sirius looked like he wanted to argue, to insist, but instead, he hesitated. Remus could see it in the way his fingers twitched at his side, the way he shifted on his feet as if searching for an excuse to keep him here.
So, when Sirius finally spoke again, it was almost predictable. “Well, you’ve got interviews to do,” he said, then grinned. “Why not start with me?”
Remus should say no. He should tell Sirius that he has a whole lineup of artists to get through. But the truth was, he didn’t actually want to leave. He wasn’t ready to pull away from this magnetic pull between them, the way Sirius looked at him like he was the only person in the room.
He swallowed and nodded. “Alright. Let’s start.”
The interview, if it could even be called that, had quickly morphed into something else. A conversation. A back-and-forth that felt less like work and more like something personal, something Remus wasn’t sure he should be indulging in.
He told himself it was just professional curiosity, the same drive that made him a good journalist. But even as he kept asking questions, he couldn’t ignore the way he leaned in just a little, the way his words felt more like something for himself than for the article.
"So, what keeps you going?" Remus asked, twirling his pen between his fingers. "You’re already a star, sold-out shows, number-one records. What’s next?"
Sirius shrugged, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Music’s the only thing that makes sense, really. The rest of it..." he gestured vaguely around them, to the chaotic energy of the festival, the industry, the fame."it’s just noise."
Remus hummed. "So it’s not about the money, the parties, the drugs, the women?"
Sirius smirked at him, something amused and knowing flickering behind his eyes. "That what you think of me, Moony?"
"I think you’re a rockstar, and rockstars have a reputation," Remus countered. He leaned back, tapping his pen against his notepad. "Speaking of… your girlfriend. How’s she doing?"
Something shifted in Sirius’s expression. It was subtle, the way his jaw tensed slightly, the way his fingers curled tighter around his glass, but Remus caught it. He always did.
"She’s good," Sirius said, a little too quickly.
Remus raised an eyebrow. "Is she here tonight?"
Sirius exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "No." The answer came too fast, too final.
Remus narrowed his eyes. There was something off here.
Sirius shifted on his feet, running a hand through his hair before finally breathing out, his shoulders sagging just a bit. "I've been under a lot of pressure lately," he admitted, voice quieter now.
Remus tilted his head. "Pressure from where?"
Sirius didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze flickered past Remus, toward the far side of the room, where his manager stood talking to someone from the label. The air between them grew heavier, charged with something unspoken. But Remus didn’t need words to understand. He followed Sirius’s gaze, then looked back at him. "Ah," he murmured.
Sirius let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Yeah. ‘Ah.’" He stared into a wall like it held answers. "There’s a lot of pressure to do things right, to play the part. Keep people happy. And it’s not just the music, you know?" He shot Remus a glance, something guarded behind his eyes. "It’s everything else. The image. The expectations. The..." He cut himself off, shaking his head. "You wouldn’t believe the kind of shit they come up with."
Remus considered him for a moment. " Like a fake girlfriend?"
Sirius hesitated. Then, after a beat too long, he exhaled. "She’s not really…" He trailed off, rolling his lips together. "Look, I’d rather keep myself from more shit. That’s all."
Remus studied him. Sirius’s voice was steady, but there was something about the way he held himself, something about the slight edge in his tone, that made Remus wonder just how much he wasn’t saying.
"That doesn’t sound like the life of a man who’s got it all." Remus said, his voice quieter now.
Sirius scoffed. "What does having it all even mean?" He gestured vaguely around them again, to the flashing lights, the roaring crowd just beyond the stage. "You think this is it? I play the part, smile where I need to, say what they want me to say, and I get to keep the dream alive." He tapped his fingers against the side of his leg. "Doesn’t mean I’m not fucking trapped."
Remus wasn’t sure what to say to that. He had spent enough time around celebrities to know that fame wasn’t always what people thought it was, but something about the way Sirius said it, something about the raw honesty in his voice, made it feel different.
"Music’s the only thing that makes sense," Sirius muttered, almost to himself. "It’s the only thing that’s mine."
There was a beat of silence between them. Then Sirius suddenly huffed a laugh, shaking his head as if trying to push away whatever had settled over him. "Fuck, I’m being depressing, aren’t I?"
Remus shrugged, feeling his lips twitch up despite himself. "A little."
Sirius grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’ll make it up to you. I promise."
Remus smirked. "Right. Cheesecake."
Sirius blinked. "What?"
Remus tilted his head, feigning innocence. "You said you'd make it up to me. I want cheesecake."
For a second, Sirius just stared at him, then a slow smile spread across his face. "Cheesecake, huh?" He leaned in slightly. "Alright, Moony. I’ll do it."
Remus huffed a laugh. "Better be good."
Sirius grinned. "Only the best."
Remus opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, someone approached and clapped a hand on Sirius’s shoulder.
“You’re up next,” the man said.
Sirius straightened, rolling his shoulders back like he was shaking off whatever vulnerability had slipped through in their conversation. He nodded. “Got it.”
Remus watched as Sirius turned toward the stage, his presence shifting, no longer just Sirius, the man, but Sirius Black, the rockstar, the untouchable legend. The transformation was seamless, like flipping a switch.
For a brief moment, Remus considered following, watching Sirius perform, seeing firsthand the way he commanded an audience. But then he forced himself to turn away.
This was work. That’s all it was.
He had interviews to conduct, notes to take. He wasn’t here to get caught up in Sirius Black.
...
Sirius caught up to Remus just as he was about to leave, jogging slightly to close the distance between them. He was still damp with sweat from the performance, strands of hair sticking to his forehead, and his shirt clung to his body. It was distracting. Too distracting.
"Where you off to?" Sirius asked, slightly breathless but grinning.
Remus hesitated. He should say home. He should say he had work to do. Instead, he said, “Calling it a night.”
Sirius’s grin widened. "Perfect. That means you’re off the clock and can have a drink with me.”
Remus knew he should say no. He really should. But instead, he found himself saying, “Alright. One drink.”
Sirius looked triumphant. “Whiskey, then? Got some in my dressing room.”
Remus raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like whiskey.”
“I don’t,” Sirius admitted easily. “But you do. So I requested some.”
Something warm curled in Remus’s chest, but he ignored it, chuckling as he followed Sirius backstage. “And how did you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t,” Sirius said with a shrug. “I was just hoping for the best.”
They entered the dressing room, a surprisingly small space for someone of Sirius’s status. There was a mirror ringed with lights, a cluttered table, and a small couch pressed against the wall. Remus sat down, and Sirius grabbed the whiskey, pouring them both a glass before sinking onto the couch beside him, just a little too close.
Remus took a sip, humming at the familiar burn. “Not bad. You’ve got good taste, for someone who doesn’t drink it.”
Sirius smirked. “I’ve got good taste in other things as well.”
Remus rolled his eyes but didn’t push. “Good show tonight,” he offered.
Sirius tipped his head back, exhaling. “Thanks. It was a good one.” He took a sip of his own drink, even though Remus knew he didn’t particularly enjoy it. “Crowd was wild. Always is at these festivals.”
“You feed off of it,” Remus observed. “It’s like it fuels you.”
Sirius looked at him, and Remus felt pinned in place. “Yeah. It does.” He took another sip. “But it’s exhausting too. Like… it takes something out of me, you know?”
Remus found himself nodding before he could stop himself. “Yeah. I get it.”
They lapsed into silence for a moment, the whiskey warming between them, the air heavy with something unsaid. Remus knew he should leave soon, before this turned into something he wasn’t ready to name.
But he stayed.
Sirius swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. “So, Moony,” he drawled, turning to Remus with a slow, lazy grin. “What’s the verdict? Was the whiskey worth staying for?”
Remus huffed a laugh, setting his glass down on the table beside them. “I’ll admit, it’s not bad.”
“High praise,” Sirius murmured. He shifted slightly, his knee brushing against Remus’s, and Remus felt it like a wave. The dressing room was small, too small.
Remus swallowed hard, telling himself he was imagining the heat radiating from Sirius’s body, the way every movement felt intentional, deliberate. He had spent the entire night convincing himself that whatever pull existed between them was just his own mind playing tricks on him. But now, with Sirius so close, his eyes hooded and his lips slightly parted, that illusion was shattering.
Sirius smirked, watching him. “You look tense.”
“I’m fine,” Remus lied, taking another sip of whiskey for something to do.
Sirius hummed, clearly unconvinced. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against Remus’s cheek. “You know , you don’t have to run every time I get close.”
Remus’s fingers tightened around his glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sirius chuckled, low and knowing. “Sure you do.” His knee pressed more firmly against Remus’s, and Remus felt his pulse skyrocket. “You feel it, don’t you?”
Remus should have lied. Should have laughed it off, should have done anything other than look up and meet Sirius’s eyes. But he did, and it was a mistake. Because Sirius was looking at him like he was the only thing in the room that mattered. Like he had been waiting for this, for Remus.
Remus's breath hitched as Sirius leaned in, so close that Remus could smell the faint trace of sweat and whiskey on his skin. His lips hovered just over Remus’s, waiting, giving him the chance to pull away. And that was the problem, Remus didn’t want to pull away.
He wanted to know what it would feel like if Sirius would kiss him, whether it would be careful or desperate, if it would taste like whiskey or something entirely unique to him.
But then reality crashed over him like a cold wave.
He couldn’t do this.
Remus jerked back so quickly that his glass nearly slipped from his fingers. “I—I have to go.”
Sirius blinked, caught off guard. “Moony...”
But Remus was already on his feet, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. “Thanks for the drink,” he muttered, barely looking at Sirius as he moved toward the door.
“Remus, wait...”
But he didn’t. He pushed the door open and walked out, leaving Sirius alone in the dressing room, still sitting on the couch, his hand still half-raised as if reaching for something already lost.
Sirius exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his damp hair. "Well. That went brilliantly," he muttered to himself.
He reached for his whiskey, taking a slow sip as he stared at the door Remus had just fled through. There was something about the way Remus had looked at him right before he panicked, something hesitant but wanting, like he was teetering on the edge of something dangerous and thrilling. And then,