Ink Drunk
Triple sec. Tequila. Lime. Repeat.
Vodka. Cranberry. Splash of soda. Repeat.
Gin. Tonic. Twist of lime. Repeat.
The rhythm of it is hypnotic, like muscle memory disguised as purpose. The same bottles in the same order. The same shakers, same ice tongs, same polite nods. Sirius doesn’t need to think when he’s back here—doesn’t want to. The repetition is comfort. Familiarity. Welcome, even, in a mind like his that rarely slows down for anything.
The bar is his cathedral. His symphony. His stage. He could navigate it blindfolded, and—well—he actually has. Twice. Once for a dare, and another time just to prove a point.
Where most people get overwhelmed, Sirius Black thrives. It’s not chaos to him—it’s clarity. It’s order disguised as madness. It’s been that way ever since he was sixteen and realized he could write essays faster backstage at recitals than he ever could in a silent library. He’d be scribbling answers in the margins of sheet music while James panicked beside him and Peter stress-ate half a pack of crisps. He’d still turn in top marks. Controlled panic, as it turns out, was kind of his thing.
Some people called it problematic. Sirius called it adapting.
And tonight? Tonight’s the kind of night that would fry most people’s brains. But not his.
The Wand and Sickle is in full Friday swing. The second wave has hit—the post-dinner, pre-regret crowd—and it’s got everything buzzing. The booths are packed, the bar is loud, and the air hums with the hot static of strangers pressed too close. Hot summers in London don’t happen often, not like this, and it’s dragged every half-decent extrovert out of the woodwork. Skin is dewy, drinks are sticky, the streets of Soho are glittering with sweat and promise.
Rick—their aging, tattooed, possibly part-werewolf owner—has propped the door wide open to “let the night in,” which really just means he can't be bothered to fetch the fans, so the inside of the bar now bleeds out onto the pavement in a trail of music, and laughter.
Sirius slides a freshly poured Guinness across the counter, barely hearing the thank-you over the din. He’s already twisting the cap off a Modelo for someone two stools down when he feels it—his phone buzzing against his hip like it’s got something to say.
He leans toward Juniper, his right hand at the bar, all dark lipstick and no-nonsense ponytail. She’s already grabbing the next pint glass before he opens his mouth.
“Go,” she says, chin jerking toward the back. “You’ve earned a pee break. Or whatever this is.”
“Saint,” Sirius mutters, pressing a grateful hand to his chest before ducking out through the swinging door that separates the chaos from the corridor.
It’s marginally quieter in the hallway. Sirius fishes his phone from his back pocket, careful not to flex too much or catch his forearm on anything. The new tattoo still hums beneath the skin—sore and tight and impossible to ignore.
He answers on the second ring. “Jamie, how is it?”
The familiar laugh crackles through the line, all warmth and chaos. “Hello, you handsome devil. Just checking in—we’re about ten out. What’s the crowd lookin’ like?”
Behind James, Sirius can hear the chaos of the car. Lily’s voice rises, telling someone to move their knees. Marlene cackles. Peter, for some reason, is singing Dancing Queen.
“Pretty packed,” Sirius says, leaning against the wall. “But there’s room for you lot. I’ll save you the good seats.”
“You angel,” James says, clearly grinning. “See you soon.”
The line clicks off, and Sirius slides the phone back into his pocket, letting his head thunk gently against the wall.
He’s got maybe ten minutes before his friends descend like a beautiful, messy hurricane. Ten minutes before he has to be charming and magnetic and on. He can do it. He always does.
But for now—just a few seconds to himself, heart ticking under new ink, mind still haunted by soft brown eyes and a dimple he hasn’t earned yet.
So he pops out to the back for a smoke, God knows he needs one.
Sirius stares up at the moon for a second. It’s low and swollen, glowing like it’s been watching too long and seen too much. He lets out a breath and rubs his palm absentmindedly over his forearm—over the ink, over the phantom touch of Remus’ fingers, the memory still sharp and quiet beneath his skin.
And then he pushes the door back open, and puts on the persona he knows so well.
His friends arrive in true cinematic fashion— letting in a rush of sticky London heat and a gust of perfume, laughter, and too much eyeliner. Lily and Marlene were at the helm, carving a path through the crowd like they had machetes hidden in their handbags. Trailblazing queens of Soho nightlife, wrapped in silk.
“Jesus! London gets one day of good weather and suddenly everyone thinks it’s Ibiza,” Marlene muttered as they bulldozed their way to the bar. A cluster of sweaty patrons loitering by the counter stared them down—until Lily shot one of them a Look, and, as if hypnotized, they made space.
A group of people occupying the front edge clock Lily’s red hair and Marlene’s don’t-fuck-with-me energy and shift almost instinctively, clearing a path like nature itself has bent to their will.
Sirius grins from behind the bar, already reaching for the good ice.
“Alright? Sirius.. Juniper!” James’ voice rang out next, half-shouting over the music as he emerged through the crush with Peter and Mary in tow. James looked like a Labrador who had just spotted a body of water. Peter looked like he wanted to go home already.
Juniper didn’t even glance up from what she was doing. “Let me guess Old Fashioned. Potter-style,” she said, already reaching for the bitters. “And a vodka cran for the beautiful wife,” she added, tossing Lily a wink.
Lily clutched her chest dramatically. “Ugh. Love her.”
“Oi! Stealing my thunder, Junie?” Sirius barks, hip checking her.
“Don’t be mad just ’cause I make drinks better— and faster—than you.”
“ Ohhhhhh! ” The bar lit up around them—half of them didn’t even know what was happening, but the energy was infectious. One guy cheered mid-shot and promptly choked on it.
Sirius put a hand to his chest, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. “I know you didn’t just say that.”
“You gonna let her talk to you like that?” some stranger hollered, already egging it on.
“No,” Sirius said slowly, already rounding the bar like a man possessed. “No, I absolutely will not. I think this calls for…”
He paused dramatically. Theatrical silence.
Juniper stopped pouring and locked eyes with him. Challenge accepted.
“…A SPEED POUR SHOWDOWN.”
The crowd exploded.
Cheers erupted from every corner of the bar. Napkins went flying. Someone banged on the counter like it was a wrestling ring. James shouted, “YES!” and Peter groaned in despair, already dragging a hand down his face like this wasn’t the fourth time this month.
“Oh my God, ” Peter whined. “We’re going to get so fucked tonight, aren’t we?”
James leaned across the bar to shout at Sirius, “Just don’t set the rum on fire again, alright?”
Sirius ignored him, pulling off his rings with a flourish and dropping them into a pint glass like coins into a wishing well. “Junie,” he said, voice smug, “I hope you brought your A-game.”
Juniper cracked her knuckles and pulled her curls into a bun using a bar blade she’d wedged between her teeth like a pirate’s dagger. “Sirius, darling,” she purred, “I am the A-game.”
Someone in the back screamed, “LET’S GOOOO!”
They each took their side of the bar, arms spread wide like dueling cowboys, bottles lined up like weapons.
Two bartenders.
Two shakers.
Four spirits.
Twelve ingredients.
And a single purpose: total drink domination.
The lights above the bar flickered a little as someone hit the dimmer switch—because of course they had a dimmer switch for dramatic effect—and the entire crowd leaned in like they were about to witness history.
Lily leaned against James, sipping her vodka cran. “Think he’ll win?”
James grinned. “Nah. Juniper’s too fast.”
“Still,” Lily said, glancing toward Sirius as he spun a bottle in one hand and flashed his stupid, cocky grin at the crowd. “He does know how to put on a show.”
And as Sirius raised both hands in the air to signal the countdown, the Wand and Sickle buzzing with energy, music thumping, heat rolling off the walls, he couldn’t help the little thrill that ran down his spine.
This—this was his domain. His church. His chaos. And for tonight at least, he was king of it.
“Three!” someone shouted, sloshing their pint like a war cry.
Sirius tossed his bar towel over one shoulder like he was about to lead a revolution. Juniper cracked her neck with a grin, already eyeing the bottles like prey.
“Two!”
She was already halfway to uncapping the triple sec, hands moving like a bloody magician’s. Sirius met her gaze, smirking. If she was a magician, he was the ringleader of the circus.
“One!”
Someone banged a glass against the bar. The crowd roared.
And they were off.
Bottles clinked, mixers hissed, ice cracked. It was a ballet with shot glasses, a symphony in tequila. Sirius grabbed the whiskey, bitters, sugar cube — Old Fashioned, easy — muddled like a man on a mission, wrist flicking, glass already fogged from the ice. He didn’t think. Didn’t need to. This was muscle memory, baby.
Juniper was all efficiency and flair, pouring vodka, cranberry, splash of soda with the precision of a Swiss watch. She garnished with one hand while prepping the next with the other, her hair pulled back like a warrior mid-duel.
“Oi!” Sirius shouted, over the roar of the crowd, “I hope someone’s timing this! I’m about to break records!”
“Only record you’re breaking is most spilled vermouth in one minute! ” Juniper shouted back.
The crowd howled.
James nearly lost his mind. Lily was doubled over laughing. Mary was fanning herself with a coaster like she was watching Shakespeare performed in Vegas. Peter, ever the fanboy, was recording the whole thing with commentary.
And that’s when the crowd parted — like something holy was happening — and in walked Rick.
Owner of The Wand and Sickle. Bartending warlock. Voice like gravel and an eyebrow that said, “I’ve seen things.” He walked in slow, leaned against the edge of the bar, and gave the scene a long once-over — unimpressed and deeply amused.
“What in fresh hell is this?” he drawled, arms crossed.
“Speed Pour Showdown,” Sirius said between slaps of shakers and strained limes.
Rick raised an eyebrow. “Again?”
Juniper was already sliding a mango mojito across the bar like she was on MasterChef . “We were summoned , boss man.”
“By who?”
Sirius threw an arm toward the crowd. “The people, Rick! Democracy!”
The crowd cheered like he’d just recited the constitution.
Rick sighed. “You two are such a pain in my arse.”
But he didn’t stop them. He never did.
They were down to their final pours — Sirius spinning a coupe glass, filling it with his signature blood orange gin fizz, rimmed with sugar, of course. Juniper finished her own masterpiece: a passionfruit martini that looked like it belonged on a billboard.
The crowd surged.
Rick cleared his throat, stepping in with the command of someone used to wrangling drunk chaos goblins. “Alright. You both think you’re gods behind the bar? Fine. Settle it the old way.”
Sirius blinked. “The old way?”
Rick grinned, slow and wicked. “You drink ‘em.”
Juniper’s eyes lit up. “Yes.”
“What?” Sirius said, peering at his own drink. “Mine’s got like—four ounces of gin in it!”
“And mine’s mostly juice,” she said sweetly. “Bottoms up, darling.”
Rick held up a hand. “Whoever finishes first wins. On my count.”
Everyone leaned in. Phones raised. The tension was so thick you could stir it with a bar spoon.
“Drum roll please,” Lily shouts, and everyone obliges
Sirius sighed, muttered something like for the drama.
Juniper winked. The menace.
“GO!”
They lifted their glasses in sync. Sirius tipped back the fizz and chugged like a man possessed, ice knocking against his teeth, the tart sting of citrus making his eyes water. Juniper? Juniper drank like it was a flute of celebration. Clean. Effortless.
She slammed her glass down a full second before Sirius coughed through the last of his.
The bar went feral.
Juniper raised her arms like she’d just won the bloody Hunger Games. “BOW BEFORE ME, MORTALS!”
Sirius dropped his glass and leaned dramatically on the counter. “I have been betrayed .”
Rick just shook his head, already walking away. “Next time you want to waste good liquor, clean it up yourselves.”
“Love you, Rick!” Juniper called after him.
Sirius wiped his mouth and pointed a wobbly finger at her. “This isn’t over.”
Juniper grinned. “Better luck next pour , sweetheart.”
He’s breathless. A little buzzed. And yeah—his pride might be wounded.
But the night’s still young, and for now?
He’s exactly where he wants to be.
***
As the night begins to settle, the chaos uncoils just enough to exhale. The crowd thins slightly, not empty but looser around the edges—like a belt unbuckled after dinner. Conversations mellow. The music hums low and liquid, no longer fighting to be heard over bodies shouting orders. A few bar hoppers peel off toward the jukebox or slip into back booths with lipstick-stained glasses and flushed cheeks. The Wand and Sickle, for the first time all evening, breathes.
Slouched behind the bar, Sirius lets out an exaggerated sigh, his chest rising and falling like he’s just completed a triathlon instead of a theatrically chaotic drink-off. The air’s sticky with sweat and citrus and the warmth of a hundred half-finished cocktails.
A damp bar rag sails through the air and hits him square in the face.
“You’re getting slow, old man,” Juniper calls, grinning as she resets the garnish tray.
Two fingers raised in her direction and a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth is all the retaliation he can muster.
Lily wedges herself between two stools and nudges a fresh pint toward him. “You’ll live.”
From across the bar, Marlene leans in, chin propped on her palm, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Alright, Romeo,” she purrs. “Let’s see the tattoo again.”
Feigning reluctance, Sirius huffs—deep and theatrical—but his hand is already tugging up the sleeve of his shirt. The second skin wrap reflects the bar light like cellophane, the tattoo beneath gleaming like something alive.
Mary lets out a low whistle. “Still obsessed. Can’t lie.”
“It’s so clean,” Lily adds, tilting her head as if inspecting a piece at a gallery. “Didn’t think you’d go for something this subtle.”
“Multitudes,” Sirius says, gesturing to himself with mock grandeur. “I contain them.”
“You are the most impulsive person I think I’ve ever met,” Lily replies, deadpan.
“And I’ve never met an idea you didn’t immediately follow through on,” Peter says, gesturing with his glass.
“That’s not impulsivity,” Sirius counters. “That’s spontaneity. You lot are just allergic to fun.”
“Also, James, You didn’t mention he was such a cutie,” Marlene says, eyes still on the ink like she’s reading tea leaves.
James groans dramatically. “Sorry, I didn’t know I was required to provide a full report on the hotness of every platonic friend I have.”
“You said he was ‘cool in that cardigan-wearing warlock way,’” Marlene presses.
“Exactly,” James says, shrugging like that somehow proves his point.
Behind the bar, Juniper raises a brow, intrigued. “Wait—who are we talking about?”
That does it. Sirius freezes. Not visibly—not enough for anyone else to clock it—but inside? The record skips.
“Remus,” James says casually, jerking his thumb toward Sirius. “The guy who did his tattoo.”
Juniper leans on the bar, curious now. “Alright, someone fill me in. Who is this mysterious warlock, and why does it sound like I missed the first half of a very messy love story?”
“He’s an old mate of James’ from summer camp,” Mary offers. “Who just so happens to be a tattoo artist. He came by the other night.”
“And completely charmed the pants off everyone,” Marlene adds, not even trying to hide her grin.
“Well, except Sirius,” Lily says pointedly, taking a sip of her drink. “He still had his pants on. Barely.”
A groan escapes Sirius’ throat as he slumps forward. “Why does it feel like you’re all conspiring against me?”
“I wonder what he’s doing now,” James muses aloud, more sincere now. “He did say he lives nearby.”
Marlene perks up. “So let’s call him.”
That suggestion hits like a bolt to the spine. Sirius chokes on his drink.
“Nope. We don’t need to do that,” he says quickly, waving the idea off like smoke. “He’s probably got plans. It’s Friday—he’s likely elbow-deep in sterilization trays or drawing a wolf mid-howl on someone’s ribcage.”
“Relax,” James says, already pulling out his phone. “It’s just a drink, not a blood pact.”
“We’re all here,” Lily says, gesturing around them. “Would be rude not to invite him.”
“If you text him, I’m leaving,” Sirius warns, tone sharp with panic—though his heart’s already halfway out the door.
“I don’t get it,” Peter says, squinting. “You went to his shop unannounced, and now you don’t even want him to come here?”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want him to come,” Sirius says, matter-of-fact.
Peter raises an eyebrow. “You sure it’s not because you developed an obsessive crush overnight?”
“Excuse me,” Sirius says, indignant. “Marlene said he was hot too, but I don’t see you interrogating her.”
“So you admit he’s cute then!” James crows, completely accusatory.
“What—No! I mean, yes. Anyone with eyes can agree on the level of someone’s attractiveness. That doesn’t mean I have a crush, James. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch.”
James gives him a look. “You remember what happened the last—”
“WE don’t need to speak on the past. Right? Isn’t that what you’ve told me? ‘Don’t dwell on things that have happened, you can only move forward.’ Those were your words,” Sirius cuts in, not wanting to rehash embarrassing situations in the middle of the bar.
“Go easy on him, James. You know he’s just got natural ‘fuck me’ eyes,” Marlene teases.
“Ugh, I am so not doing this. I’m going for a smoke,” Sirius mutters, already spinning toward the back door like he’s making an escape from a sinking ship.
The laughter follows him. Of course it does.
So does the memory of Remus’ voice—low and even, the way it had dropped just slightly when he asked if Sirius could be still.
Still. As if he’d ever been that in his life.
He pushes the door open, and the night air swallows him whole.
***
Luckily, Remus had been busy that night—no awkward collisions, no blushing greetings, no being caught loitering like a stray. Sirius was eternally grateful. The universe had, for once, spared him the humiliation.
Now, after a weekend drenched in debauchery and questionable choices, he had the flat entirely to himself. James and Peter had gone back to university, leaving behind nothing but dirty mugs and the faint echo of boyish laughter. Which, frankly, was why Sirius loved Mondays. Solitude, blessed and rare, like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
He stretched luxuriously across his unmade bed, limbs tangled in sheets that smelled like laundry detergent. A glint of black caught his eye. The tattoo. It was going to take some getting used to, honestly. His body had always been bare canvas—until now.
But he was loving it. He was. He’d followed every instruction Remus had given him to a T. As if to say, look how good I can be. following your rules, golden boy.
His stomach flipped at the thought, and he groaned out loud, throwing an arm over his eyes.
“Let’s not start the week off with pathetic pining,” he muttered to himself.
Dragging himself out of bed, he made a beeline for the bathroom. A long, scalding shower. The kind that steamed up the mirrors and peeled thoughts from skin. He stood under the spray until his fingertips wrinkled and his skull buzzed with the heat.
See, Monday and Sirius had a complicated relationship. Sure, he adored the quiet. But too much quiet? That was a danger zone. Sirius Black was not made for idleness. Not even a little.
The old saying popped into his head— idle hands are the devil’s playthings —and he snorted. Yeah. That tracked.
He’d already deep-cleaned the apartment to surgical standards, polished every bloody surface until he could see his reflection in the air fryer. Then, not content, he’d snuck into James and Peter’s room and reorganized their closets. Sirius didn’t even wear socks, but by God, Peter’s were now color-coded. (Also, that magazine Peter hid under his mattress? Absolutely vile.)
Music blared. He danced shirtless around the kitchen in his joggers, spliff tucked behind one ear like a deranged poet. Three joints deep before lunch. Standard fare. The flat smelled like lemon cleaner and weed, and Sirius moved through it like a pinball, bouncing off furniture and ideas.
By the time his high wore off, it was only 1:22 p.m.
He slumped on the couch, legs sprawled, staring at the ceiling. That itch was back. The one under his skin. It had started subtle—just a whisper. Now it roared.
“Don’t do it, you absolute nutter,” he warned himself aloud.
But then his gaze landed on his forearm. Just the music notes. Lonely, floating. Minimal. Bare.
God, it looks so naked. What was I thinking? Just the notes? That’s it?
The thought bloomed and spiraled, unraveling into something much more dramatic than necessary. He fidgeted. Tapped his fingers against his knee. Scrolled aimlessly through his phone. Re-checked his arm. Again.
That was it. He couldn’t take it anymore.
Fifteen minutes later, Sirius found himself walking—well, practically marching—down familiar streets, his hair wild, because he couldn't be bothered to pin it back, rings clicking against one another as he fiddled with his sleeves. Just three blocks. Just a walk. No harm in walking.
The door to Ink and Moon swung open a little too forcefully. Sirius had expected to see the same girl from last time, probably filing her nails or watching grainy telly. Instead—
There he was.
Behind the front desk. On the phone. The very picture of calm professionalism—until his eyes met Sirius’, and then—something warmer. Something looser.
Sirius’ stomach dropped to his feet. Abort. Abort. You didn’t call. You absolute maniac. He’s probably on the phone with someone who booked properly like a normal, functioning adult.
He started mouthing, I’ll just come back later, already backing toward the door. But Remus shook his head, one hand lifted, gesturing for him to wait.
“Half seven’s perfect, yeah,” Remus said into the phone. “Kida’s brilliant—her line work’s unreal. Alright, cheers.” He hung up, scribbled something on a pad, then looked up, brows furrowing.
“Sirius. Everything alright? How’s the tattoo? You’ve been putting the cream on like I showed you, yeah?”
The way he said it—warm, familiar, genuinely concerned—it made Sirius’ brain short-circuit.
“What? Oh—no, it’s perfect! Healing like a dream. Wanna see?”
Without thinking, he shrugged off his jacket and held out his arm. He hoped to God he didn’t look like he was presenting it for inspection like some sort of prize pig.
Remus stepped forward, close enough to touch. He took Sirius’ arm gently, turning it this way and that, fingers light as breath. Sirius’ skin tingled where he touched.
“Mm, yeah. Looks good. You’re a good listener, then,” Remus said, smiling at him with a little tilt of his head.
Sirius nearly swallowed his tongue.
Is he flirting? No. Don’t be delusional. Don’t make this a thing. Just take the compliment and go.
“What brings you back, then?” Remus asked, stepping back but not far enough for Sirius’ brain to stop fizzing.
“Oh. Uh… another tattoo. I suppose.” Sirius rubbed the back of his neck like he was a teenager again.
Remus blinked once. Then smiled wider. “Caught the itch, have you?”
Sirius nodded, sheepish. “These music notes just look a bit… lonely.”
That made Remus laugh. God, that laugh. Sirius felt it like a ripple down his spine.
“Well, I’ve got a piercing at 3:15, but I can squeeze you in around four—does that work?”
“Yes.” It flew out of his mouth too fast. He cringed internally. Pull it together, for fuck’s sake.
“Brilliant,” Remus said. “Did you wanna hang out ‘til then?”
Sirius blinked. “How do you mean?”
“You can chill out back. It’s staff only, technically, but… you’re James’ best mate. I’ll make an exception.”
James’ best mate. Would like to be your best mate. Preferably naked.
“How kind of you,” Sirius said dryly, trying not to sound like he was melting.
He followed Remus through the curtain of rainbow beads and into a hallway that opened into what could only be described as a bohemian fever dream. A pool table. Bean bags. Velvet couches. A lava lamp glowing like it held the secrets of the universe. The air was thick with smoke and incense.
Three people lounged on a sofa, passing a spliff between them.
“Pretty sure tattoo artists aren’t supposed to be high off their faces,” Sirius joked.
“Are you gonna tell?” Remus shot back, grinning.
“Might. What if I walk outta here with a dick tattooed on my forehead?”
“Great conversation piece,” Remus said, slapping him on the back.
“Oi, Jodie, Zion, Nya—this is my mate Sirius. He’s gonna hang out back here for a bit until our appointment at four. He’s cool.”
The words barely left Remus’ mouth before Sirius felt the heat creeping up the back of his neck. The dim lighting and haze of smoke were doing him a massive favor, cloaking the inevitable blush blooming beneath his cheekbones. God, pull it together. He wasn’t twelve, and yet standing there, hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket, the word mate clanging around in his ears like a bloody church bell, he might as well have been.
“Dope, no problem,” came Nya’s voice—rich, deliberate, American. She looked like she’d been plucked straight off the cover of a neo-soul record, all cascading waist-length braids beaded at the ends and rings on nearly every finger. She smiled at Sirius with easy warmth, and he felt his shoulders loosen, just a bit.
“We’ll take care of him,” added Jodie, tossing Sirius a quick wink. Her Irish accent made it sound like she was offering him a cup of tea instead of a secondhand contact high. She lounged like someone who’d never experienced a moment of shame in her life, an ankle kicked up onto the back of the couch, her tattoo machine sitting idle on the table behind her.
Sirius couldn’t help but grin. “What an eclectic group you are. An American, an Irish… this sounds like the start of a stand-up joke. And you,” Sirius said, turning toward him with a teasing glint in his eye, “I expect something exotic. You look like you’re hiding a Mediterranean upbringing or a past life in Marrakech.”
Zion didn’t even blink. “I’m from Croydon, mate.”
Laughter rippled around the room, low and melodic. Even Zion cracked a smile around the spliff he was nursing.
“I think you’ll get on just fine,” Remus said from the doorway, and Sirius glanced over just in time to catch it—the grin. Wide, soft, unguarded. Like the moon had risen early just to rest on his face.
I did that. I put that there, Sirius thought, chest tightening in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, just… unfamiliar.
“Come, join us, love,” Nya said, patting the space beside her on the velvet couch. Her nails clicked against the fabric as she shifted over, making room. “Do you smoke?”
Sirius made a dramatic show of flopping down beside her. “Definitely do.”
Zion passed the spliff without a word, the thing practically the size of a baby’s arm. Sirius raised an eyebrow, examining it like a precious artifact. “Nice to know you lot don’t skimp,” he quipped, bringing it to his lips and inhaling deep.
Which, of course, was a mistake.
The hit hit back. Hard.
Sirius doubled over into a coughing fit so violent he thought he might genuinely dislocate a rib. His eyes watered instantly, tears springing forth as if his body had been waiting for an excuse to purge all its sins. He coughed into the crook of his elbow, sputtering, hacking, wheezing like an asthmatic Victorian ghost.
Nya snorted beside him, already rubbing a hand across his back in amused concern. “Oh, sorry babe. Forgot to mention—it’s a wax spliff.”
“Its— oh —kay,” Sirius managed between ragged coughs, voice shredded and eyes glassy. “That is… some good shit.”
“I’ll have to get your dealer off you,” he added, once he could breathe again.
“No need,” Nya said, flashing a grin that sparkled behind her gold nose ring. “You’re lookin’ at her.”
She leaned back with the effortless confidence of someone who knew she was the baddest in the room, her body coiled into the couch like it was built for her. Sirius, still trying to regain control of his lungs and dignity, watched her through hazy lashes and couldn’t help the grin pulling at his lips.
The warmth of the room settled around him like a second skin. Everything smelled like patchouli and weed and something sweet burning in the far corner—maybe incense, maybe someone’s leftover candle. The laughter ebbed into soft conversation, the kind that curled at the edges and filled the silence with comfort.
He let himself sink further into the cushions, the spliff passing back into his hands.
By the time Remus reappeared in the doorway, Sirius could barely remember his own name, let alone why he was in this room full of haze and beanbags and glittery lava-lamp light. The laughter hadn’t stopped for over an hour. Neither had the rotation of spliffs, each one thicker and stronger than the last. It had felt like slipping into a hot bath—at first just a toe, then a calf, and now his entire body submerged in warmth and weightlessness.
So when he heard Remus call out, “Sirius?” it took a few seconds longer than it should have to register. For a wild moment, Sirius actually glanced around like he was expecting to find someone else answering to the name.
Remus was already walking toward him, all cardigan sleeves and clean lines and golden light caught in his curls. “Uh oh,” he said with a grin, stopping directly in front of Sirius. “Might be against ethics to tattoo you while you’re this smashed.”
Sirius blinked up at him, eyes bleary but happy. “How’d you get over here so fast? You’re so tall. Like, abnormally tall. Like a tree. James never said anything about the tree thing.”
Laughing under his breath, Remus extended a hand. “Come on, Amy Winehouse. I’ve got other appointments after you, you know.”
“I love Amy Winehouse,” Sirius mumbled, reaching for Remus’ hand like it was the last rung of a very safe ladder. “Wish she were still performing.”
The grip was warm, steady. Sirius was surprisingly steady too, all things considered, though he wobbled just a bit as he followed Remus out of the lounge space. At some point during his hazy reverie, Jodie and Nya had wandered back out to their own stations, now crouched over clients with gloves and quiet intensity. They both glanced up at him as he passed, biting back knowing grins.
“I bet we reek,” Sirius whispered, eyes wide with the kind of giggly horror only the extremely high could feel.
“Shhh!” Remus hissed with faux severity, eyes sparkling. “You’ll get us shut down.”
At the front, Remus set up his station with that same effortless rhythm Sirius remembered—pulling gloves tight, adjusting his rolling chair, laying out tools in precise little rows. He handed Sirius the clipboard with paperwork and gestured to the now-familiar leather recliner.
“So,” Remus said, sliding into place beside him, voice low and even as ever, “what’s the idea this time?”
Sirius didn’t answer immediately. His brain was gooey, cotton-filled, and still, somehow, laser-focused on the scent coming off Remus—amber and something rain-soaked, clean and heady all at once. Like a storm bottled up and sold as cologne.
“Constellation,” Sirius finally said, fumbling for his phone. The screen felt slippery and foreign in his fingers. “On the other arm. Keep things… symmetrical.”
Remus leaned in to look, so close Sirius could feel a curl brush his temple. And no, he absolutely did not lean in to get a better whiff of his hair, because that would be insane, right?
“Nice,” Remus murmured, studying the image on the screen. “Which constellation is it?”
Sirius hesitated. Too long. The lie tumbled from his mouth before he could stop it. “Oh—dunno. Saw it online. It didn’t say.”
The heat behind his ears was mortifying. Shit. Now he looked like one of those twats who walked into a shop pointing at Pinterest tattoos. Idiot.
Remus just chuckled, thankfully unfazed. “You’re a character, Sirius Black.”
The sound of his name in that voice, paired with that laugh? Sirius could’ve melted into the chair then and there.
“Right,” he croaked, dragging his hand through his hair. “Heh.”
With no further fuss, Remus asked him to send the screenshot and set about printing the stencil. As he worked, Sirius leaned back in the chair, letting the humming of the machines and the faint bass from the lounge lull him into something calm and floaty. This time didn’t feel like the first—no racing pulse, no voice in his head screaming what the hell are you doing?
Just quiet. Just warm skin, warm lighting, and the steady buzz of the needle as Remus returned, gloves on, gaze focused.
He started on Sirius’ other forearm. “Opposite side, huh?”
“Balance,” Sirius mumbled.
The pressure of the machine started, and Sirius let his eyes flutter shut. It didn’t hurt—not really. It was a bite softened by purpose, a sting dressed up as comfort. He liked it, more than he cared to admit. Liked the focus of it. The intimacy of letting someone alter your skin and trusting they wouldn’t fuck it up.
Liked that it was Remus. God, he really liked that it was Remus.
He felt himself start to drift. The needle buzzed, the air smelled like citrus cleaner and ink and skin, and his mind softened like wax under a flame. He could stay like this forever.
Somewhere on the edge of sleep, he heard Remus murmur something to himself. Quiet. Almost absentminded. He didn’t catch it. Didn’t think much of it.
Even as the constellation bloomed across his arm, Sirius wasn’t fully present.
He was already miles ahead, mapping out the next.
Ink as compass. Skin as confession. it was at that moment that Sirius decided his skin would become a canvas.