Chapter 1
Friday February 14th, 1986
Remus sucked at his cheeks as the smell of pine and cigarette smoke swam up his naval cavity, despite his only having just closed the door. The bell that had jingled as he entered felt highly ridiculous considering the punk metal emanating from the boombox behind the counter and the murals of scantily clad (or entirely unclad) women that folded around the interior walls. Slipping his hand deep into the recesses of his jacket pocket, he fingered the notes waiting there, flitting his finger over four twenty pound notes and a tenner, he replayed his conversation with Marlene for the up-teenth time.
“My first few were seventy pounds an hour, but once he took me for drinks he dropped it to fifty five. Even insisted on it after I told him I wasn’t interested. I think it's just because I sit so well.”
Remus blew through his nose, shifting from one leg to another, all while eyeing the counter and the leather couch, weighing the differing effects of confrontation or formality. It was just as he decided he might as well sit, that the man that Marlene had described to Remus over lunch days before emerged from a back room, daintily pulling ink-stained gloves from hands that were somehow covered in more ink than their coverings. The gentle fondness that Marlene had used on his name, “Sirius,” with an absentminded quirk of her mouth, had not accurately prepared Remus for the man that startled briefly, before he turned a vinyl cover grin at Remus, and sauntered his way toward the counter. Remus was suddenly hyper aware of the coffee stain he had so desperately tried to scrub from the bottom of his jumper, or the fact that he had not properly washed his hair that morning, as he had hoped to do. And then he became hyper aware of the fact that Marlene’s tattoo artist had reached the counter, and Remus was still fixed in limbo, equal distance from the door, the couch, and the counter.
“Hey,” he started, pulling a dishrag from where it had been stuffed through his belt loop, and giving a single, long swipe across the counter, “sorry about the wait. Can I do anything for you? Did you call yesterday around three?”
There was an effortless gravel to the voice that accompanied the tattooed hands, but the voice was far from intimidating. It reminded Remus of the tube after the sun went down, a mechanical whir through London, jolty and flickering, yet comforting.
“Ah, no,” Remus readjusted his hands in his pockets, taking one out to brush back and flatten a rouge strand of hair that had floated its way into his eyeline. “Should I have called? I’m friends with Marlene McKinnon? We work together. She said you do walk-ins.”
The smile that had become comfortable on the man’s lips invigorated again at the sound of Marlene’s name. “Well for her walk-ins are whenever I can. Business protocol is Tuesdays and Wednesdays though.”
“Oh,” mentally, Remus was already dialling Marlene’s number to rag on her for this. But all the brain power that was still there in the moment with him was utterly embarrassed at the lack of social skills he was currently portraying. Of course he wasn’t a socialite, but the London grey eyes that were looking so intently at him were making it hard to focus on two things at once. “Thank yo-”
“We can get you scheduled for something now though.” He offered, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort Remus was bathing in. The notes in his pocket had begun to feel like needles against the pads of his fingers. “I don’t have anyone for about an hour, just can’t sit you for much in that time, unless you’re looking for an outlined heart or some bird’s initials.”
Remus felt some strained laugh gurgle up his throat, and miraculously, it emerged reasonably enough to pass for genuine. He shook his head and inclined it somewhat in an attempt to appear aloof. It was exceedingly hard over the sound of the boombox, his secondhand loafers fighting for scraps of dignity against the silver hoops looped through the man’s earlobes. “An appointment would be great.”
“Alright,” from behind the counter, he pointed to a tall stool located by the side of the couch and produced a large black binder from below the counter, “lets figure out what we’re working with, and then I can give you a day, time, and quote.” Remus dragged the stool to the counter’s edge as the man tapped a long finger, which Remus realized was not only tatted, but also painted at the nail, on the binder’s case. “If you haven’t got something in mind, you can take a peruse through here. I can also mock something up if you’d like.”
“I’ve got a reference, if that’s alright.”
The man grinned, nodded, and patted the binder affectionately, before sliding it away. “Makes my life easier. And more interesting. Bet McKinnon told you to bring it in.”
Remus returned the nod, and from the front pocket of his slacks, he produced a piece of paper that had been folded over numerous times, trying to nonchalantly flatten out each crease to reveal a thick outline of David Bowie’s infamous lighting bolt.
The man hummed a small sound of approval to himself, and Remus was stirred with a momentary pride as he drew his painted nail over the outline. “It’s gonna take about two hours, you want color, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Remus responded, settling onto the stool.
“Where?”
“Here?” Remus gestured to the inside of his left bicep.
“Perfect.”
“There’s some scarring. A lot. I should warn you.” Remus felt his face go hot as the words came out too fast. Almost on top of one another. Almost an apology.
“Fresh?” The man asked, as calmly as if Remus had asked about fish in Sainsbury’s.
“Ah, no. Old, actually, real old.”
“Then you’re golden.”
“Oh, good.” Remus pressed a finger into the scar beneath his jacket and beneath that, his jumper. The sting was only mental now, but his mind did a hell of a job convincing him it wasn’t.
“Alright, so the two hours is gonna have you at about one thirty.” He pulled another, smaller book from below the counter and flipped through it. “Can you do a week from tomorrow? Saturday the twenty second?”
“Yeah,” Remus answered.
“Sixty thirty work for you?”
“Mmh.”
Now that Remus was sitting, the two were at eye level, and when the other man raised his head from the schedule, the sharp cut of his eyes daunted Remus for a moment. “Perfect,” he started, extending a hand across the counter. “I’ll see you then. I’m Sirius.”
“Remus, Lupin. Thank you.”
“Mind if I keep this with me?” He pointed to the reference, which Remus had torn lovingly from a magazine.
“No,” he responded, and then faltered, “You said one thirty?”
“Yeah, we’ll do sixty five an hour. That works for you? And we’ll have to do a deposit before – half, standard procedure.”
“Marlene said you started at seventy an hour.” Remus gingerly began to remove the notes from his pocket, looking up to be faced with a grin that raised on the left side a smidge more than the right.
“Call it a first time special. Or a friend's discount. Or on account of "I like your taste.””
Remus felt his lips tug as well as he passed three of the twenties and the tenner onto the counter. “Perfect. Thank you.”
* * *
Without so much as kicking off his loafers, Remus was dialing Marlene’s number, scrunching the phone between his ear and just shoulder as he shrugged off his blazer and riffled through his workbag to find his organizer. Just as he had scribbled down “tattoo appointment” on the twenty second at six thirty, the ringing stopped and Mary’s cheery voice rose on the other end.
“You’ve reached McKinnon and Macdonald. Who is this?”
“Hey Mary, it’s Remus, could you put Marlene on?”
“Well it’s good to hear from you too, Remus. I’m doing well, how sweet of you to ask. And yourself?”
Remus cringed, but a smile bit the corner of his voice. “I’m alright Mary, I take it revision has you hoping the phone will ring?”
“Oh bugger off, Lupin.” She laughed, and Remus grinned to himself as a fumbling sound informed him that Mary was indeed passing the phone off.
“Hey! What’s going on?” Came Marlene’s honeyed tone. Remus walked as far as his phone cord would take him and settled on the arm of his couch. He looked down to his fingers, imagining how they would look with intricate little stick and pokes as he dug a box of cigarettes from the pocket of his slacks.
“Marlene. You didn’t tell me he was bloody fit.” Reaching to the coffee table, he flipped open a lighter, having balanced a cig between his lips.
There was a beat of a pause. “Who?”
He struggled for a moment to light the cigarette, his first words coming out muffled against the paper, before he inhaled deeply and set the lighter down. “Sirius! That artist you told me about! The one that took you for drinks!” With his free hand, Remus absentmindedly shoved up his left sleeve and prodded the skin on his bicep. He traced a crummy lighting bolt as Marlene’s laughter crackled through the line.
“I wasn’t sure you’d care. Can’t imagine you’d take it well.” She dropped her voice somewhat in an attempt to mimic him. “”I don’t need you setting me up. ‘Specially not with your seconds.””
Remus winced and chuckled at the same time, letting his sleeve fall down again to cover the scarred skin. “Well I don’t. But you could have warned me. Granted, it wouldn’t be a set up, unless you know something I don’t.”
He could hear the smile in her voice, soft and with only a sliver of teeth peeking through. “Remus, I don’t have to tell you you cannot start fancying my tattoo artist. Not when he lowers his rates for me. And no, I don’t know which team he plays for, regardless.”
He took another drag off of his cigarette. “It’s your fault for sending me to him. I have an appointment next weekend. I’m getting the lightning outline we looked at, Bowie’s.”
This time when Marlene paused it was pregnant. And then there was a small giggle that could have been either hers of Mary’s. And knowing Mary, she hadn’t left the room. “You didn’t see him today, did you?”
“Yeah,” Remus replied, “why not? And for the record, he does not do walk-ins on Fridays for people who aren’t you-”
“Remus.” She giggled, and this time it had to be Marlene, because there was an ounce of nervousness in it, “check your calendar.”
He craned his head to where his calendar hung next to the door to his flat.
“What?”
“Remus, it’s Valentine's Day! You did not walk into The Dog Star and ask Sirius to tattoo a queer symbol onto you right then and there, on Valentine’s Day.” The phone had pulled away from her head and Remus heard a loud groan before a faint “Oh my god.”
Remus blew a short breath through his nostrils. “Marlene, there’s no way he thought about that. I wouldn’t.”
“Well you’re not going out on Valentine’s Day, are you? Nothing to remind you about it besides me.”
Remus had half a mind to be insulted by this, but chose against it, readjusting the phone on his shoulder. “How do you know he has something to remind him?”
“Come on Remus. Why did you call me? He’s got plans.”
“Oh fuck off, McKinnon.” This time Remus was sure he could hear both girls laughing on the other side of the phone. He stood, dragging a hand through his hair before rubbing it down over his eyes. His mouth twitched up at the sound of their dying laughter, and his tone softened. “I’ll see you Monday?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you then, Remus. Take care. And don’t go thinking about snogging my tattoo artist. I’ll never forgive you.”
She hung up, and Remus placed the phone on the hook, expelling a sigh before plunging his cigarette into the ashtray next to the receiver.