Good Times, Bad Times
“What do you guys even do?” Remus says.
They band is piled into a van procured from somewhere in James’ garden. He has to hide it from his neighbors because they keep reporting it for suspicious behavior.
“Huh?” James says. He tried to get in the drivers seat but was roughly forced from it by Lily, who is now driving rather horribly.
“Like, for work,” Remus says. He’s sitting beside Sirius in the back of the van, which has no seats, just equipment. Their thighs keep touching but Sirius won’t move away. “I never asked.”
“I’m an engineer,” Lily says. “I work in Liverpool.”
“Damn.” Remus whistles.
“Damn is right,” James says. “She’s amazing.”
Lily looks at him with so much love in her eyes it makes Remus want to puke. James kisses her. Sirius must share Remus’ sentiment because he makes a retching sound.
James chucks a water bottle at Sirius’ head.
“And you, James?” Remus asks.
“I’m in university,” he replies. “Have been off and on for the past few years. Usually just a couple classes here and there. Mostly, I take care of Harry.”
“Stay at home dad,” Sirius says. He punches his chest. “Respect.”
James and Lily are very clearly young parents. They’ve told him that Harry has just started secondary school, which places him around eleven or twelve, but he also knows that they’re only in their late twenties. He doesn’t think it’s his place to ask about the timing of it all.
Luckily, James doesn’t need prompting to talk. “Since we had Harry when we were so young, we finished our O-levels, then Lily went to university while I worked. Now, it’s the opposite. We had a plan, I guess.”
“Good on you,” Remus says, thoroughly impressed. “I’m twenty-nine and I’m having a hard time. I can’t imagine going through O-levels with a kid.” His deal with his parents was that he would finish secondary modern, and then he could do whatever he wanted. So, at sixteen, he and the band packed their bags for London. He never sat any exams, never needed to.
“I’m a primary school teacher,” Sirius says. Remus knows this, has heard it from him at their recovering addicts meetings, supposes Sirius is saying to maintain the anonymity. And, if he’s being honest, he doesn’t believe it.
Sirius should be a mechanic, or a cross-country biker, or a rockstar. Imagining him in the classroom is, frankly, hilarious. The more plausible option is Sirius lying because he’s cooking meth in a lab or, like, dancing to disco music.
“No, you’re not,” Remus says, dead serious.
“I have shown you a photo of my class,” Sirius says.
“And I refuse to believe that it’s real.”
Sirius gives Remus a playful shove.
~
The venue for their performance is in Liverpool on a strip of bars. It reminds Remus of when his band first started playing in London, young, unafraid of what would come next. They’d play every night, all at different bars, just waiting for someone to notice them. When they were noticed, it was more bars, then tiny venues, then tiny tours as opening artists until, finally, their album was recorded and released.
Remus remembers the release day well. At least, he remembers most of it. Walking into record stores around London to see if the record was there, getting handshakes and champagne at the company, gathering around the radio, just waiting to hear if their song will get played.
That night, a performance at their biggest venue yet, an opening band just for them, and free drinks to go around. Cocaine. Pills. Remus wishes that he would have kept himself in enough control to remember it.
But he can’t.
It’s a small bar, a bit of an older crowd. It appears that the only substance being passed around is liquor, and Remus can deal with that. He can. The lighting is dim, the stage is raised just a foot off the ground. It’s getting busy, everyone filing in for show time. There’s a photo of the band on the wall, their posters spread out on tables.
“You nervous?” Lily says, halfway through with her pint of beer.
Remus snorts. “Are you fucking with me?”
“No. Are you nervous?”
He crosses his arms and stares at her. He’s played for twenty-thousand people. He’s played Madison Square Garden. He has met Robert Plant and Marc Bolan and Mick Jagger. He calls the stage his home, he misses it like a limb is gone. He says, “Yeah, I am.”
A hundred thousand people and a decade can’t change that.
“Don’t fuck up.” Lily pats him on the shoulder. “We’ll be pissed if you do.”
She pushes past him, knocking him in the shoulder as he goes.
Remus just stands there, shocked, until he notices James at the bar, staring at him.
“She likes you,” he says.
“What?” Remus shouts. He steps closer, sure he can’t have heard James right.
“She likes you,” James repeats.
“She bloody hates me, mate.”
“See, that’s what I thought at first too,” he says, leaning in like he’s letting Remus in on his little secret, “until I realized that’s how she shows her love. That’s just how she is.”
“She’s like that with you?”
“She’s worse with me.”
Remus frowns.
“What can I say?” James slides off his stool and shrugs. “I like a strong woman. C’mon, time to play.”
Remus gets looks. He walks through the crowd and people know who he is. It’s not often that the bass player is known, but somehow, Remus is. His interviews on the telly, his magazine photoshoots, whatever happened in between; he is known.
It’s his hometown. People he might have gone to school with. People who might have seen the tabloids that somehow managed to report his entrance to rehab. Who cares about the bassist? Evidently, everyone.
And he’s back, not with Wolf, but with some Dad band in Liverpool.
He climbs on stage. Puts on his bass. Looks at the crowd. He liked it better when he couldn’t see their faces.
“Hey, Remus,” Sirius says, hopping on the stage. He pats Remus on the back. “Turn down your amp. This ain’t MSG.”
Remus looks at his amp, and sure enough, he has it turned to where it’s been marked with a ‘P’ for performance. His anchor before sound check, before he listened to the acoustics of the venue. Louder, softer, music and metronome through his in-ears, side conversations with the drummer through their mini-microphones.
Okay.
He has the set list written on his arm. Checks the first song. Jeepster. Easy.
“Hey,” Sirius says into the microphone. He puts his bottle of water on the ground. “How’s your Thursday?”
There’s a general chorus of ‘good!’ Some guy shouts and Sirius flips him off.
“Anyway,” he continues. “We found a bassist, no help to you lot. I won’t say his name. You know him already.”
Remus gives a little wave. He kicks a chord out of his way.
“Be nice to him.” Sirius glances at Remus, then whispers, “I think he’s a little nervous.”
He smiles, shaking his head.
“Well, if you don’t know us, which I highly doubt, we’re ‘Warthog’ at the moment, subject to change.” Sirius picks up his guitar and strums once. “Count us off, Jamie.”
~
After the gig, all Remus wants is a fucking drink. He wants some tequila in his system, some wine, some fucking cocaine. It’s the lack of adrenaline that’s jarring, there’s the horrible absence of something in his gut. Wolf stole all of his organs and won’t give them back.
He goes to the bathroom and rinses his face with water. He pinches his arm with his nails. Thinks about breaking something. Throwing his shoe at the window. Killing someone. Shooting up.
This was a bad idea. A bad fucking idea. He can’t even play a simple fucking show without being reminded of everything he can’t have.
Someone pounds on the door and Remus shouts, “Fuck off!”
“Hey, mate, it’s just me,” James says. “We’re done loading up. We’re heading out.”
Remus runs his hands through his hair. Looks at himself in the mirror. He split his lip somehow. Blood is bubbling.
He wipes it with his wrist and opens the door. Instead of letting him out, James pushes him back in.
“The fuck?” Remus asks.
James’ eyes are slits behind his glasses. He closes the door behind him and looks at the sink.
“What’re you doing in here?” He spits, striding forward. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you ran off after we played.”
Remus steps back. “Nothing.”
James shoves him into the wall. “What the fuck were you doing?”
“Nothing!” Remus says more forcefully, hands up like he’s being grilled by the police.
“Listen, mate, I don’t know what you did with Wolf, in London, in America, I don’t bloody care,” James hisses, voice icy cold. “None of that shit around Sirius, do you hear me? If I even catch wind of it, I’m sending you back to London and I’m getting your boy taken from you, you got that?”
“James-“
He grabs Remus by the collar of his t-shirt and says, “You got that?”
“Yeah.” Remus jerks away. He pulls his t-shirt down. “I got that.”
James finally backs up, anger melting from his eyes just as fast as it came. “I’m glad we’re in understanding.”
“For the record,” Remus says, sipping James’ anger up from the floor, letting it cloud his vision like it’s alcohol, “I’m sober now.”
“Better fucking stay that way.”
~
Sirius drives the van home with James in the front seat. Remus is in the back with Lily, absolutely fucking fuming. His initial fear of James blocked his anger, but it’s all coming back to him now, especially now that James is acting like nothing happened.
It’s fucking terrifying, actually, how fast James snapped out of it.
It’s alpha shit. Remus is sober. What else does he have to do to be believed?
They get back to James and Lily’s house and park the van in the garden. Remus leaves without saying goodbye because he’s afraid he’ll say something dumb like you guys aren’t even that good anyway. He’s afraid he’ll smash something. Like one of James’ garden gnomes.
Well.
He glances behind him to check that everyone else is adequately distracted, then he steals a medium-sized gnome from the side of an overgrown bush.
Okay, so, he knows he’s not the best person ever, but stealing a garden gnome is better than crushing something. Like James’ skull.
He puts the gnome in his passenger seat and turns on his car.
As he’s about to pull out of the driveway, Sirius comes out from behind the house and holds up a hand, motioning Remus to wait. Thinking he’s busted for the gnome, he carefully places it on the floor of the back seats, rolling it under Teddy blankets.
Sirius pounds on the window.
“What?” Remus shouts.
He says, “I need a ride.”
“I can’t hear you,” Remus mouths.
Sirius rolls his eyes. He walks around the back of the car and climbs in the front seat before Remus can think to stop him.
“First of all.” Sirius slams the door. “If you’re gonna pretend you can’t hear me, you should do a better job.”
Remus drops his head onto the steering wheel.
“Second of all, if you think you got away with stealing that gnome, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Remus groans.
“Now take me home.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m going home.” Remus shifts his car into reverse. “You just happen to be in the passenger seat.”
~
By the time Remus pulls into the parking spot outside his flat, his anger has waned and he has realized what exactly he’s just done. Taking Sirius to his flat might not be the smartest idea. Not when Remus has an extensive history of not being able to control himself.
“So what happened after the gig?” Sirius asks.
Remus grunts. He puts the car into park, then reaches into the back seat to get the gnome.
“You just ran off. Couldn’t find you.”
“What, you think I was doing drugs too?” Remus snaps.
Sirius recoils, but doesn’t say no.
“Great.” Remus gets out of the car and slams his door shut. “Glad everyone is so confident in my ability to stay sober. Wonderful.”
“Hey, mate.” Sirius gets out of the car, following closely behind Remus. “People like us? We gotta look out for each other. I don’t think you were shooting up. You’re sober now, I trust that. Where’d you go?”
Remus fumbles with his key. “I went to the toilet.”
“Are you… are you okay? Like, you stole James’ gnome.”
Remus pushes into the building. His door slams against the wall, and it echoes through the stairwell. “I thought we weren’t talking about sobriety.”
Sirius closes the door behind him. There’s no light in the stairwell. His face goes pitch black. “Then let’s… let’s talk about it now.”
Remus gets caught up looking at Sirius before he snaps out of it and starts up the stairs.
The flat is kind of a mess. The ash trays are full, there’s dishes in the sink and a vase of dead flowers on the tables. The walls are covered in drawings that Teddy had made Remus, his achievements are hung on the fridge.
Remus drops his keys onto the table and puts his coat on the side of the chair. He places the gnome by the vase.
“Want something to drink?” he asks Sirius, who’s taking off his jacket slowly, almost carefully. “I’ve got Diet Coke. Water. Diet Coke…”
“Diet Coke, then, I guess.”
“Good choice.”
They’re in the kitchen, which is frankly fucking disgusting. Remus does his cleaning on Friday mornings, just before he picks up Teddy. The rest of the week is accumulation. He hands Sirius a Diet Coke and leans against the fridge.
“So…”
“I like your place,” Sirius says, cracking open his drink. “It’s very ‘tortured rockstar’.”
“Should I be offended?”
“I dunno, does the shoe fit?”
Remus sips his drink. Tries not to smile. He likes how Sirius looks in his apartment, all tattooed arms and messy hair, a white t-shirt and a sharp jaw. “Nah.”
“Ha.”
Remus wants a cigarette, and he wants to share it with Sirius. He’s got this voice in his head that’s telling him this isn’t a good idea, but another one that only wants this, this, this, this.
“But, actually though.” Sirius takes a minute step forward. “What happened after the gig?”
Remus shrugs. Can kind of only look at Sirius’ collarbones where they have slipped out of his t-shirt. “Reminded me of gigs with my old band. I guess it’s kind of a trigger for me, or something. Made me wanna use.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t fucking use,” he says, struggling to keep his anger in check. “I’ve got a kid. I’m trying to get equal custody. I’m not fucking using.”
“Damn, okay,” Sirius sighs. “I’m not accusing you, I’m just asking.”
“And I’m sober.”
“Great, I’m glad.” He glances at the table. Back at Remus. Bites back a smile. “Then where’d the sudden need to steal James’ gnome come from?”
Remus could tell him what happened in the toilet, but he decides not to. Sirius and James are clearly best mates. He has no business getting in the middle of whatever’s going on there.
“Needed to do something.”
“I get that. Are you gonna return it?”
“Nah.”
Sirius lets his smile go. It’s a small thing, he’s got perfect teeth, but it’s bright. The type of smile that feels rare.
“Smoke?” Remus asks.
“Always.”
They go to the window. Remus tries not to stink up his apartment with the cigarette smell, but Dora smokes too, so he assumes it’s okay. He just tries to keep it to a minimum when Teddy’s around.
He opens the window and sits on the ledge. The air is chilly and slightly damp. It’ll rain soon. He offers a cigarette to Sirius, then passes the light.
Sirius lights up, is then engulfed in a haze of smoke. It weirdly feels like where he belongs, always in the haze, always a little bit unknown.
“I get you though,” Sirius says after a while of silent smoking. “Like, feeling weird after performing. It happened to be for a while after getting sober. James would literally shove me in the van and not let me get out until I’d calmed down.”
Remus flicks ash out the window. “How long have you been sober for?”
“Around six years.”
“Damn.”
Sirius leans his head against the wall. One of his legs is kicked up against the molding around the window, his hand hangs off his knee. Remus could move his leg an inch to the left and they’d be touching. He doesn’t.
“I’m lucky to have James,” Sirius says. “I wouldn’t have done it without him. I was in… I was in deep.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Sirius kills his cigarette. “We both used when we were in secondary school, but then Lily got pregnant, and James got sober. I didn’t, I just got better at hiding it. And then we tried our luck as a band in London, and I got all caught up in the art scene, you know what it’s like. Lily was in school. James was at home with the kid. I was… doing nothing. And then Harry was four and James caught me using in his bathroom and he kicked me out of the house until I was sober. Took me two years.”
“It’s never a clean break.”
“Never.” Sirius pulls out another cigarette. “And now I summarize everything in passing conversations.”
“This is a passing conversation?”
Sirius lights his cigarette. Breathes it in. Says, “No.”
“Then tell me more.”
“It’s nothing that you don’t understand,” he says. “You know what the withdrawals are like. You know what it’s like to lose your life. You also know what it’s like to find a new one, how much better it is.”
Remus smiles softly. “I’m still figuring out that last part.”
“That’s fine,” Sirius says. “You’ve only been sober for, what? Six months?”
“Yeah. Trying for, like, three years, though.”
“It won’t get easier.” Sirius knocks his knee against Remus’. “But it’ll get better.”
Remus holds his hand out for Sirius’ cigarette. Doesn’t want to light another one. He puts his lips right where Sirius’ lips were before and inhales the exact same thing that is swirling around in Sirius’ lungs right now.
“It’s nice to have someone that gets it.” Remus passes the cigarette back. “My band, uh, my old band, they never got it. They’re still… they’re still trying to call me.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. They’re writing a new album and realized they don’t know how to do it without me.”
“That’s humble.”
Remus kicks Sirius’ foot. “Nah, it’s shit when you’ve got a bunch of drug addicts calling you up weekly at random times of the day.”
“What do you tell them?”
“Used to tell ‘em to get sober or get lost,” Remus says. “Now, I don’t pick up the phone.”
“Do you wanna go back?”
Remus could tell the truth. He could say that he feels the absence of the stage like the absence of a limb, that he dreams about playing a song for the first time in the studio, that he hasn’t felt that click of a jam session in months. Instead, he says, “No.”
“You’re a liar, Remus Lupin.”
He grins. “I’ve been caught.”
“Don’t give me your bloody court answers. I don’t care about that shit. Tell me what you’re actually feeling.”
Remus lights a cigarette. He’s fucking chain-smoking tonight. He hops off the ledge and walks over to his extensive record collection, pulls the very first Wolf record off the top shelf, where it’s kept safe, where it’s broken and beaten, where Remus tries to ignore it but never can.
He flashes the album at Sirius, a navy blue midnight with a howling wolf, then puts the record onto the player.
It’s a jazzy bass solo that turns into rock and roll when the drums and guitars come in. At the time, Remus thought it was revolutionary, but he was sixteen and stupid. Now, it’s all a bit cheesy.
And then the singer starts. Evan. And Marlene on guitar. And Mary on keys. And Barty on drums. Remus has had such a hard time connecting their faces to their names, keeping them separate always feels a bit easier. It’s hard to forget that they were once all best friends, once all yearning for the same dream. It’s even harder to forget the way they fell apart.
“He’s got a great voice,” Sirius says.
Remus stands by the record player, smoking. He lets his hand fall. “Yeah.” He lifts the needle, skips a couple songs, the album is fine but the later ones are great. “I’m the one who wrote this album. I’m the one who got us recognized by our record label. This is my band.” He runs his hand through his hair. “And it’s not my band anymore.”
“It’ll always be yours a little bit, won’t it?” Sirius says. “I mean, most of them are your songs, right?”
“This?” Remus touches the album, grazing his fingers over where hundreds of people have touched. “This is mine. The second and third album are mine. The fourth is mine. Whatever comes next is not.”
“So, you’re possessive.”
Remus gives Sirius a look.
He shrugs. “Hey, mate, I’m just saying what I’m hearing.”
“Let me just…” Remus goes back over to the window ledge and sits down. “I’m going to be honest.”
“Go for it.” Sirius presses his knee against Remus’ again, this time with full intent, this time wanting him to feel it.
“Teddy is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Every time I have that kid in my arms, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. He saved my life, I don’t doubt it, and now I get to watch him grow and I get to say that I have a son and I feel so goddamn lucky that I don’t know what to do about it.” Remus hits his cigarette. Can’t look at Sirius. There’s a pit in his stomach and it feels a whole lot like guilt. “But I miss my band.”
“You can’t have both?”
“No. I tried. It doesn’t… it doesn’t work like that.”
“Hey.” Sirius touches Remus’ knee to get him to raise his eyes. Leaves his hand there. His eyes are icy blue. “You’ve got a band here, if it’s any consolation. And we’re a bunch of sober losers, so I’m sure you’ll be okay with us.”
Remus snorts. Shakes his head. “Well, I don’t got no choice, do I?”
“Not really.” Sirius smiles. “You’re ours now. Just between you and me, but Harry’s started asking when he can start calling you ‘Uncle Remus’.”
“Damn,” Remus groans. “So soon? How long have I known the kid? What, like, four days?”
“I think he’s starstruck,” Sirius whispers like it’s a secret. “He’s got big, famous Remus Lupin running around in his house.”
“I was the bloody bassist.”
“Damn straight.”
They both laugh, soft chuckles that leave their shoulders bouncing. Sirius takes his hand off Remus’ leg but knocks his shoulder into Remus’ and it feels like this could be something special. It feels like there’s something here. Or, there should be.
“You know, while I’m thinking about it,” Remus says while the laughter dies down, standing up. “I’ve got something I wanna show you.”
“Hmm? Where’re you going?”
“C’mon.”
Remus takes Sirius into his office, which has ended up becoming a a music room, and then a semi-Teddy room. A keyboard in the corner, guitars on the walls, haphazardly written sheet music scattered all over place. Half-drank cups of tea with the bags still soaking in cups, crushed Diet Coke cans.
“Wow,” Sirius says, closing the door behind him. “You’ve got… a lot of guitars.”
“Hmm?” Remus looks around, gives a pathetic little laugh. “Yeah. I guess I just like guitars.”
“More guitars than basses.” Sirius drags his finger along the bottom of one of the electric guitars mounted on the wall, a navy blue one with dents and chips in the paint. It’s one of his oldest, probably could use a re-string.
“Guitar is my primary,” Remus says. He picks up his acoustic guitar and shuffles around his notebook of sheet music. “I just do bass stuff for the band. How about you grab that other acoustic?”
“This one?” Sirius points to the only other acoustic in the room.
“No, the other one.”
Sirius spends a few seconds scouring the room before he rolls his eyes at Remus. “Asshole.”
Remus laughs. Gives his guitar a strum.
Sirius reaches up to pull the acoustic down from the wall. His shirt rides up on his hip, and if he isn’t a damn vision with a guitar in his hand.
“I transposed this, thought it would be fun to play with the band,” Remus says. From where he sits on the ground, he tosses Sirius the notebook of lyrics and chords.
“Zeppelin?” Sirius scoffs. “No way, mate.”
“You’re all talented musicians. You can do it.”
“No, I’m not worried about that, Lily can play literally anything.” He sits down as well. “I can’t sing Zeppelin.”
“Why?”
“It’s too high.”
Remus grins. “It’s not too high.”
“Yes it bloody is.”
“And who told you that?”
Sirius sighs. “It’s too high.”
“At least I didn’t choose Immigrant Song, just sing it.”
He strums the first note. “You gave me the rhythm part?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
They figure out the guitar parts before Sirius starts to sing. Luckily, as any boy born after the year 1950, he knows the song, so it’s fairly simple to get it to slide into place.
The song really isn’t that high; it’s one of Robert Plant’s more reasonable performances, so it’s easy on Sirius’ voice, it actually fits his voice better than what he had been trying to sing.
“When my woman left home for a brown-eyed man, I still don’t seem to care.”
Remus smiles at him and plays a dumbed-down version of the guitar solo. He’s got the chords down, but figuring out what to play is Lily’s territory.
“I know what it means to be alone.” Sirius laughs at himself after singing the line, his coy delivery evidently making him shy. He misses the next line because he’s too busy giggling.
They finish out the song with minor mistakes. Sirius, still laughing, Remus with a rapidly beating heart. Sometime during the song, maybe halfway through, maybe at the end, it just clicked. He wasn’t worried about mistakes or the next chord, he was just playing, and Sirius was just playing with him.
It’s the closest he’s gotten to Wolf since he left.
“When’d you start playing?” Remus asks, leaning back against the wall.
Sirius plucks the E string, puts the guitar down. “When I was fifteen.”
“What made you wanna?”
“My mother didn’t want me to,” he says, “so I did.”
Remus rests his chin on his guitar and looks at Sirius through his eyelashes. “And singing?”
“Oh, I always did that. I was a choir boy for my church.”
“Of course you were.”
Sirius swats Remus’ knee. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that it makes sense.”
“Does something about me scream ‘choir boy’ to you?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Remus sits up straight. “Something about you screams that you’re trying to get away from who you used to be.”
Sirius has his eyes locked, icy blue, Jackie Blue. “Well, that can be said for the both of us.”
“Yeah, I guess it can.” Remus doesn’t mean to but he whispers.
In the foggy background, blurred because all he can see about are Sirius’ eyes, is a painting of Teddy’s. Made at daycare, gifted to him on a Friday evening. Me and Daddy in all capitals with not enough D’s and too many loops on the ‘Y’, and them finger-painted in red. And then he’s seeing that letter that came in the mail a few months ago with weekend written all over it and the way it has sat on Remus’ nightstand since because he’s forgotten because he can’t forget because he’ll never be good enough because it’s a kind of penance for his crimes, his wrongdoings, and then there’s Sirius in front of him and maybe that’s penance too, maybe he’s the tempter the devil sent, maybe it’s a test, maybe he’s everything that Remus shouldn’t have anymore but goddamn he wants it, and maybe still it’s all in his head.
Remus says, “Wanna play another song?”
Sirius says, “I should go.”
And it becomes clear which one of them is stronger.
Remus drives Sirius home.