the musings of a guitarist
If Sirius was able to articulate anything in his life, it was how much he needed to exist around people. From some perspectives, he knew it made him a parasite, a person who fed off the idea, the emotions, and the presence of other people; it made him someone who had impossible expectations of those he chose to be around, and someone who was temperamental if those people changed in any way. However, from another perspective, he brought the warmth of the sun to any room, he was someone who knew how to bring someone out of their shell, to encourage people to be someone they always had the ability to be, but were unsure how to bring that person into being.
There were times when people would tell Sirius he was too much - it was a common experience. When they would tell him that he filled a room so brightly, it was impossible to see anything else; that he consumed them and their thoughts until they almost forgot who they were.
He hated that he could do that.
He didn’t even realise he was doing it until they were gone.
His shine was why his brother was still with their parents, and why his parents had never blinked an eye at his refusal to return home one summer. It was better for everyone, that much he knew, but it still hurt to see Regulus want to be the star, rather than to want Sirius to burn their family traditions to ashes.
When he was a child, his parents had adhered to a strict schedule, never allowing any freedom or flexibility or choice of what he wished to do. The small taste of freedom he managed to get was when he and Regulus were allowed in the gardens, at four thirty in the afternoon. Sirius would lie on the grass as Regulus swung from the tree branches and it was the only time they were allowed to be themselves, to be siblings.
The park was no real substitute for the time he spent with his brother, but in a way, it helped him to feel as if he still spoke with Regulus.
Sirius would notice the people watching as they walked by, nodding their heads, swaying their bodies to his songs. It was a surreal experience at first, but he eventually grew accustomed to the stares.
When he walked through the park, guitar case in hand, he noticed there was someone who was always writing; when it rained, when it was sunny, when it was cloudy, when the wind was harsh, he sat under the same tree, on the same bench, writing something in his notebook.
What Sirius wouldn’t give to see inside that book.
As he walked past the writer, he saw him chewing at the end of his pen, curling up on the bench as if it would help him to think. After seeing the writer so many times, Sirius couldn’t help but smile every time he saw the familiar brown curls, and he always waited to see if the writer would wear a different jumper, or if he was going to actually wear clothes appropriate for the weather.
A part of Sirius wanted to say hello, to ask him what he was writing, and why he never seemed to leave the park; he was there when Sirius arrived, and there when Sirius left.
There were few times in his life Sirius had wished he had more confidence, but this was certainly one of them. James had already told him to just suck it up and say hello, but every time he passed, the writer looked so entranced by what he was writing, Sirius didn’t have the heart to interrupt him.
Therefore, when he glanced up from his guitar to see the writer standing before him, watching him as if Sirius wasn’t from this earth, it took everything within Sirius not to squeal. “You’re the writer,” he said, internally slapping a hand to his forehead - what an introduction.
The writer nodded, though he seemed surprised Sirius acknowledged him. “You’re,” he began, pausing. “You’re the guitarist,” he replied, and Sirius couldn’t help but laugh.
“Sirius,” he grinned, and the writer furrowed his eyebrows.
“I was being serious…” he trailed off, and Sirius bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing, but he couldn’t help himself.
“No no,” he said, waving his hand in front of him. “My name, it’s Sirius,” he explained, and the writer blushed, muttering his apologies. “Don’t worry, I make the same joke all the time,” he grinned.
What happened next, was what Sirius was unprepared for. He knew he would have offered anything to see what the writer wrote in his notebook, but to be offered a part of it felt invasive.
“I’m sorry if this is weird, but I wrote this for the song you were playing,” the writer said, and Sirius couldn’t help but smile. “It took me a while, but I think I know the feeling the song is about.”
Never taking his eyes off the writer, Sirius took the paper from him. “What do you think it’s about?” he asked, wondering if the writer had been able to connect to his music, grasping the notes he played and forming them into words.
“It’s a melancholic feeling, sort of how you’d feel after a mutual break-up,” he began, looking anywhere but at Sirius, who was staring at the writer, his heart tripling in beats and catching in his throat. “You want to do more, make things alright again, but it’s better for you to leave than it is for you to force a relationship when circumstances won’t allow you to. You want to go, but at the same time you want to stay.”
Sirius felt the air leave his lungs; he felt the cold sweepings of the breeze infect his veins and cause him to shiver. He wasn’t sure how long he spent staring at the writer, who shuffled and fidgeted under his gaze. He wasn’t sure how the writer had managed to pick it up so easily.
He let out a bark of laughter. “No one else has been able to figure it out yet,” he said, turning to watch the clouds glaze over the sun.
“Perhaps they haven’t truly listened,” the writer said, and Sirius hummed, nodding.
“Perhaps not,” he replied, still watching the clouds.
He unfolded the paper, unsure if it was a good idea to read it so publicly.
Reading the words, he noticed each line caused his eyes to sting, and his mouth to go dry.
Sirius caught the writer’s wrist before he walked away, willing himself not to cry, forcing the stinging behind his eyes to subside. The writer had not only managed to know what the song was about, but his words reflected exactly what he wanted to say to Regulus. “Thank you,” he whispered, his grip on the poem tightening. “You have no idea what this - this is exactly -” he tried to say.
“I’m glad it means something to you,” the writer smiled, walking away before Sirius got to ask for his name.
-----
Sirius fumbled with his keys, trying to get them from inside the pocket of his leather jacket. Muttering curses under his breath, he leaned to one side, placing his guitar on the floor, and moving his shopping bags into his other hand.
He still dropped his keys on the floor.
“Shit,” he mumbled, resting his forehead against the door to his apartment. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand back into his pocket, rubbing his thumb across the piece of paper given to him by the writer.
He felt his heart slow and he picked up his keys, wishing he had more hands than he did.
From the moment the writer had left, Sirius had been unable to think straight. He wasn’t sure if he was confused, flustered, sorrowful or exhausted - it may have been a mixture of the two. He’d been wandering around the city, trying to piece his mind together, when James texted him about being out of food.
Sirius only hoped he’d managed to buy what they needed in his dazed state.
Stumbling into the apartment, he was surprised to find James already home, sitting on the sofa. “Sirius!” he exclaimed, flinging his arm over the back of the sofa. “Finally, I’m starving,” he complained. “Please tell me you got rich tea biscuits,” he asked, as Sirius placed the bags on the kitchen table.
He glanced inside, seeing the biscuits on the top and threw the packet at James. “God knows why you like them, they’re bland as anything,” Sirius said, smiling as James scoffed, placing a hand over his chest.
“How dare you critique this biscuit, are you even British?” James accused, making Sirius snort.
“No, and neither are you,” Sirius said, raising an eyebrow. Whilst they’d both spent most of their childhood in the UK, Sirius was born in France, and James was born in India.
James chuckled. “Ah, touché,” he said, and Sirius rolled his eyes. “Pronouns today?”
“He/him,” Sirius said, not even blinking. “Besides, nobody likes that biscuit but you,” he shrugged, and James began to chomp on his biscuits.
As Sirius began to put the shopping away, his thoughts were flooded once more by the writer and the poem; he felt his face begin to heat, and without a thought, he slapped his hands against his cheeks, burying his face in his hands. This caught James’ attention, who squinted at his friend, as if there was going to be a small sign above his head which told James what was on his mind.
James cleared his throat. “You alright there?” he asked, both amused and concerned.
“Yeah,” Sirius managed to squeak, resting his head against the kitchen counter. “No,” he admitted with a sigh. “You know the writer?” he asked, peeking at James from the counter.
James nodded. “The guy you thought seemed interesting, but had no idea how to strike up a conversation, right?”
“That’s him,” Sirius sighed. “I met him today.”
“No shit,” James exclaimed, scrambling from his seat. “How’d that happen?” he asked, and Sirius felt a little offended that James didn’t think it was through his natural charms or a sudden burst of confidence.
It wasn’t, but James didn’t know that - yet. “You know that song I’ve been working on?” he asked, and James nodded. “He wrote a poem for it.”
James whistled.
“Pretty much sums up how I felt about it too,” Sirius continued, laughing to himself. “You know what’s funny about it though?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “It was as if he managed to look inside my mind, or my soul, or something… the poem expressed exactly what the song was about.”
“Really?” James asked, smiling. “Maybe he’s a wizard.”
Sirius rolled his eyes. “I doubt that Jamie.”
“You never know!” he insisted. “Did you get his number?” he asked, and Sirius rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly.
“No? he said, laughing when James gave him the look.
“You at least got his name, right?” James asked, raising his eyebrows as he looked at Sirius. “Right?”
Sirius ducked his head. “If I say no…”
“Honestly Sirius,” James tutted, throwing himself back onto the sofa.
“As if you were any better with Evans,” Sirius retorted, realising his blunder only when James shot him a grin that would impress the Cheshire Cat.
“Like him do you?” he asked, pretending to be nonchalant about it.
Sirius groaned. “I’ve met him once, James; at most I’m intrigued by him.”
“But you don’t ever find someone who intrigues you,” James said, and Sirius hated to admit it, but he was right. Sirius often couldn’t see much of a spark inside others; he couldn’t see a reason to involve himself with them.
Sirius sighed, pulling the poem from his pocket before sitting next to James. “Well, when someone writes a poem like this for a song I’ve only just managed to finish, I get intrigued,” he said, offering the piece of paper to James, who scanned over the words.
When James’ eyes widened, Sirius couldn’t help but smile, knowing James would re-read it before handing it back. “Holy fucking shit,” he muttered. “It’s about -”
“Regulus,” Sirius finished, and James placed an arm over Sirius, pulling him into an odd sofa hug.
“I didn’t know,” James said, as Sirius placed his arms around him.
Sirius shook his head. “As if I talk about it,” he joked, and he could practically feel James rolling his eyes.
He hit Sirius lightly round the head. “I know you don’t bottle things up, you express them through your music, but Christ Sirius. You know you can talk to me right?”
“I know,” Sirius said, burying his head into James’ shoulder.
James sighed, knowing that was all he was going to get from Sirius. “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to ask him to write another poem for me,” he grinned, managing to escape James’ grasp. “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be on a date with Evans?”
“Her roommate is sick,” he explained, with a sigh. “She doesn’t want to leave her by herself,” he said, a wistful smile pulling at his lips.
Sirius smirked. “Well aren’t you smitten,” he teased, and James stuck his tongue out.
“I plan on surprising her at work tomorrow,” James shrugged, running his fingers through his hair. “Do you think she’d find that obnoxious?” he asked, his eyes wide. “Will she find it creepy?”
“You’ve been dating for two months, Jamie, I think as long as you show up towards the end of her shift, it won’t be creepy,” Sirius assured, and James took a deep breath. “As for obnoxious, you’re always somewhat of a thorn in my side,” he mused, making James elbow him in the stomach.
“Yeah, yeah,” James muttered with a small smile. “Shouldn’t you be figuring out what to say to your writer?” he taunted, and Sirius groaned, throwing his head back into the sofa.
-----
Sirius made a mental note to always listen to James.
He wouldn’t admit it, but somehow, James was always right - it was bloody infuriating.
James had told him to take an umbrella with him, but when Sirius looked outside, the sun was shining and the sky was a deep blue - the wrong sort of weather to carry an umbrella around with you.
He also should have planned what to say to the writer when he saw him once more.
Later, he would blame it on the rain which seeped through his clothes and felt as if it was seeping through his skin into his bones making it shiver; he would blame it on his early arrival at the park to begin with; he would blame it on his mind being more focused on how he should have bought that umbrella with him.
He couldn’t believe that his first words upon seeing the writer again were, “Write another poem for me.”