Chapter Text
Sirius and James made their way down the sidewalk to the next club on their list. They bumped shoulders and weaved around on purpose, revelling in their slight buzz and pretending it was much more. It was still early in the night — by Berlin standards at least — and they were planning on making the very most of their time in the famous nightlife city, so they had limited themselves to two shots a piece at the first club.
James had tugged Sirius away when he had wanted to accept the little tab of paper from the waifish girl with green hair and the most magnificent eyeliner Sirius had ever seen.
“James!” he had cried out in dismay. “I wanted to try that.”
“Later, Pads,” James had reassured him as he navigated them towards the little square of fresh air that represented the exit from the smokey, thrumming, dance hall. “I just don’t want you to pass out before the night’s even started. And we both know you can’t really handle your shit.”
Sirius had spluttered in incoherent offence for a few moments, but he hadn't fought James on the point. They both knew he was right. And it would be a shame to miss out on the all-night marathon that the two of them had been planning for at least five months now. It had been their light at the end of the tunnel for their entire last term of uni: the prize they had reminded one another of whenever someone seemed in danger of giving up on his dissertation, the push they had both needed to make it across the finish lines of their degrees.
Now they were queuing outside the second venue of their night. It was a gay club, which had been Sirius’ requirement of the evening: every other location, at the very least, had to be queer.
“It’s Berlin, Jamie! You can’t expect me to go to Berlin and not shag at least four different blokes in the bathroom. That’d be a waste of a trip!”
The queue here was long, but the flashing lights and pulsing beats that emanated through the open door promised to be worth the wait. Taking in their peers in the queue, Sirius was gratified to see that this was not the same gay bar clientele one found in London. Sure, there were still the gaggles of (probably) straight girls in painful-looking shoes, but they were far outnumbered by some of the most interesting looking folks Sirius had ever laid eyes on. And most everyone appeared to actually be dressed to dance: simple black clothes and comfortable shoes were the norm.
As they approached the front of the queue, Sirius felt his excitement mounting. He elbowed James and gave him a look of pure giddiness. James grinned back, and threw an arm around his shoulders.
When they finally entered the main dance hall, Sirius could only describe the feeling that swept through him as pure ecstasy. The music vibrated through the floor and in every particle of the air. It beat inside his very bones. There was no choice but to move with it, because he was no longer really an individual body — he was now part of the organism that was the club.
James beamed at his obvious joy, and leaned in close to shout in his ear.
“You scope out where you wanna dance first, I’ll go get drinks and catch you up!”
Sirius nodded in assent, and, without another glance at James, started making his way deeper into the crush of bodies. The air smelled of musk and smoke and liquor. The flashing lights reflected off of people’s teeth and set their sweaty skin aglow.
He had just started to feel really at ease — a sweat across his brow, a smile on his face, his body understanding the rhythms of the dance with growing ease — when he saw something that nearly stopped his heart.
Or rather, someone.
He was on the other side of the floor, dancing alone with his eyes closed.
Sirius had thought the dance was inside of everyone, that the music was infectious and impossible to ignore. But watching this man, he came to understand that whatever everyone else in the room was doing, it could not be considered dance. And whatever they thought they understood in the music, they were missing the point.
This man was poetry made flesh. He was muse itself. His face was upturned, and Sirius imagined him in communion with some invisible god of grace. His black shirt was long-sleeved and clung to his lean torso, laying bare the outline of his every muscle and bone to the shimmering, magical influence of the coloured lights.
Sirius felt his body gravitating across the floor and towards the man without active instruction from his brain. All he knew was that he needed to be closer. He needed to find out if such beauty was truly possible, or simply a trick played on the mind by light and vodka.
As he grew closer, he came to see that he was not alone in his curiosity about this stranger. All around him, others danced with their eyes open and their faces turned in his direction. But no one made any attempt to touch him, to dance with him. It was like he exuded a force field, an electrical charge that no one was willing to trespass.
Sirius got as close as he could without violating the invisible boundary line. From here, he could see the man’s features with more clarity. He had curly, dark hair and a crooked nose that showed signs of having been broken more than once. His features were simultaneously odd and in perfect harmony with one another. Something about them tugged at a corner of Sirius’ mind: thin lips, subtly marred by a slender scar, stretched wide across his face in a crooked, closed-mouth smile that revealed the sharpness of delicate cheekbones. His closed eyes were a bit wide set and thickly framed in long, dark lashes.
Suddenly, those eyes flew open and looked directly into Sirius’ own. Sirius felt the eye contact like a physical jolt to his system. His breath caught and his limbs, which so far had been moving mindlessly, effortlessly along with the dance, came to seem awkward and stiff.
The stranger raised his eyebrows in amusement, his lips parting to show a set of impressively crooked teeth. Then he reached out an arm and grabbed Sirius by the forearm. He cocked his head to the side in question, and when Sirius nodded breathlessly, pulled him in close.
And then they were dancing, and his long, slender hands were everywhere, skimming up Sirius’ back and then teasing at the waist of his black skinny jeans. The heady scent of his sweat flooded Sirius’ mind with every inhale.
Intertwined with this man, it was as if Sirius were anointed with his same supernatural grace. The air became water, muting everything that was outside of their shared bubble and making every movement fluid and sensuous.
They pressed closer and closer, like twin magnets long separated and finally within reach once again. Kissing, it seemed, was the inevitable next step.
But then the man ceased dancing, and leaned back, and Sirius, bereft of contact, froze and watched him in confusion.
Sirius took another look into the stranger’s bright, intelligent, mischievous eyes. That tugging at the edge of thought and memory returned to him. There was something he was meant to be remembering, he could feel it. But he could also feel that there were far more important and pleasurable things close at hand, so he pushed away the nagging thoughts.
The man leaned in close to Sirius’ ear and spoke for the first time.
“Join me for a drink?” he asked. He spoke English with a British accent, and something about the way he formed his words tapped again at that tentative fragment of memory that refused to be placed.
Sirius nodded, and the stranger took him by the hand and pulled him towards the bar. As they went, Sirius caught sight of James making his way over to them with two drinks in hand. James gave him a questioning look when he saw that Sirius was not alone. Sirius shook his head as discreetly as possible, and James took the hint and switched directions. Sirius felt guilty for about a split second, but then he caught his companion’s eye again and every other thing fled his mind.
The man was smiling coyly, and Sirius grinned back, enthralled. Clearly, there was some joke Sirius was missing out on, but he could not care about that right now. All he wanted was to get closer again, and to maybe, possibly, kiss that teasing smile off the other man’s lips.
They reached the bar, and the stranger waved to catch the bartender’s attention.
Sirius watched in awe as he ordered two shots in perfect German.
“I thought you were British!” he exclaimed. “Like me!”
The man smiled, that private joke dancing in his eyes again. “I was born in England,” he said. “But I’ve lived in Berlin for many years now.”
Sirius nodded, impressed. The bartender brought over the shots. They each grabbed one and lifted in the air. They shared an intimate look, then threw the liquor back. It burned on the way down.
“And what brings you to Berlin?” asked the man, once they had recovered enough to speak.
“I’ve just graduated uni,” Sirius replied. “My best mate and I are on a celebratory trip, of sorts.”
The man grinned more widely, showing off his crooked teeth and his peculiar scar once again. He said nothing for a moment, and then:
“Oh, I thought I saw James! So you two are still close, then?”
The words hit Sirius like a gale force wind. Where a moment before the world had made sense, now there was only rushing pressure and swirling space and a curious airlessness.
Then the wind stopped, and the world reformed, except now the pieces that had been jumbled and confused were clicking into place.
“Remus?” Sirius asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Hi, Sirius,” Remus said. “I thought maybe you hadn’t recognised me. The scar has a way of doing that.”
Sirius eyed the scar in question. Slight as it was, it did change the shape of Remus’ smile. But no, it was the years that had changed him more. Gone was the awkward, gawky thirteen year old Sirius had seen last. The features were the same, but they had grown and melded into the bewitching face that was watching him carefully now.
Remus looked less certain now, as if worried the revelation was not a wholly pleasant one for Sirius. Sirius wanted to wipe that concerned look away — he ached to have the smile and the warmth and brightness back again. But there were no words in his mind.
He had thought he would never see Remus again. In primary school, the three of them had been inseparable: James the charismatic leader, and Sirius and Remus the two lost boys who found shelter in his confidence and ease. They spent every afternoon together in the Potter’s backyard, playing make-believe games and eating the delicious snacks that Mrs. Potter prepared for them.
And then, when they were thirteen and on the cusp of upper school, Remus had left without warning and without explanation. One day, he simply stopped coming in, and Miss told them that his father had been relocated, and that Remus would not be coming back.
But now here he was again, and Sirius was lost in the confusing swirl of aching loss and revelatory joy. Suddenly, the club felt suffocating. There were too many people, and too much noise, and all Sirius wanted was quiet and privacy and Remus, Remus, Remus.
“Can we — can we get out of here?” Sirius asked.
Remus raised his eyebrows high, and Sirius realised what his words had sounded like.
“I mean — can we go outside for a bit? Walk? Catch up?” He reached out and laid his hand atop Remus’ where it rested on the bar. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “I want to know what I’ve missed.”
Remus gave him a small smile, and nodded. “We can do that. Let me just find Andi and let her know I’m leaving.”
“You’re here with — someone?” Sirius asked, suddenly terrified.
Remus gave him a far too knowing look. “Just a colleague from the Phil. And maybe you should tell James? I’ll meet you by the door.”
Remus turned away and disappeared into the crowd. Sirius felt a bubble of dread rise up in his stomach. James — sweet, funny, charismatic James — would want to see Remus as soon as he found out who the mystery man was. Sirius would lose the delicate pocket of intimacy he had felt growing over the two of them since they had first locked eyes on the dance floor.
Everything would be as it had been all those years ago, before Remus moved away. Had someone suggested that as a possibility to Sirius even an hour previous, he would have been overjoyed at the idea of regaining his friend and the easy camaraderie the three of them had shared as boys. But now, the idea of looking at Remus as just a friend, just one of the lads — it was nearly as painful to Sirius as the thought of losing Remus all over again.
Making a split-second decision, and banking on James’ endless capacity for patience and forgiveness, he darted in the direction he had last seen his friend heading.
James was chatting to a beautiful girl with long, red hair.
“Jamie!” he called out. James looked around, a little miffed. The girl eyed Sirius critically.
“What?” he asked, his voice clipped, clearly trying to indicate to Sirius that this was not the best moment for an interruption.
“I’m going to, uh, go outside with someone for a bit. I’ll message you, alright? We can meet up at the next club or something.”
James nodded distractedly, already turned halfway back towards the red-haired woman. “Sure, Sirius. Be safe, right?”
“Yes, mum,” Sirius replied. He rumpled James’ hair and then ran towards the door before there was a chance for retaliation.
Remus was waiting for him by the exit. “James not coming?” he asked nonchalantly.
Sirius searched for a trace of disappointment on his face, but found none. He shrugged. “He was chatting someone up, so I left him to it.”
“Good of you,” Remus said teasingly.
“Oh, yes,” said Sirius. “I am very self sacrificing.”
Remus laughed. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing to the door.
“Let’s,” agreed Sirius.
The air outside was cool and refreshing after the warm, smokey interior of the club.
“Where should we walk?” Sirius asked.
Remus indicated down a side street with his head. “There’s a quieter neighbourhood just this way, if you want to get away from the revellers for a bit.”
“That sounds perfect.”
They walked in companionable silence until they reached a mellow, tree-lined block. Sirius recalled what Remus had said just before he had left the bar.
“You said you worked at the Phil?” he asked, unsure what it meant.
Remus nodded. “Berlin Philharmonic. For three years now.”
Sirius gaped at him. “The Berlin Philharmonic? Isn’t that — isn’t that the best orchestra in the world?”
Remus shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “I suppose it’s one of them.”
“So you stuck with the cello, huh?” When they had been children, Remus had toted a massive cello to and from school each day. It had looked ridiculous at the time, completely dwarfing his small frame. Now, Sirius imagined the adult Remus carrying a cello case on his back. He swallowed hard.
Remus nodded again. “Yeah. When we moved to Munich, I didn’t have any friends. I spent all my time practicing. When it was time to enter upper school here, I managed to audition into a conservatory here in Berlin. I’ve been playing with the Phil since I graduated.”
He delivered all of this information as if it wasn’t completely, shatteringly impressive. Sirius watched him with ever-mounting awe.
“And you?” he asked Sirius. “What did you end up studying?”
“Art,” Sirius said. “Painting, mostly. But also ceramics and sculpture.”
“That’s amazing, Sirius,” Remus said. He sounded warm, and genuine, and just — Remus.
Sirius laughed drily. “I’m just about the least employable person you’ve ever met.”
Remus elbowed him gently. “Hey, you’re talking to a classical musician without a university degree. I think I won this round.”
“Yes, but as we’ve established, you’re a prodigy who plays for the best orchestra in the world. The rules hardly apply to you.”
Remus laughed, allowing this point.
And, oh, it was so easy, standing here with Remus, to feel that they had never been parted. To imagine that they had stayed in touch through the years, and that this was simply Sirius paying a visit to his friend Remus who lived in Berlin. And oh, how he wished they had — the various universes unfurled in his mind, and he was once again hit in the gut with the double punch of grief at the chances lost, and joy at the possibilities regained.
Remus seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “Well, there’s always work for artists in Berlin. You ought to move here. Ha.”
The suggestion, made half in jest, rushed up and over Sirius, and suddenly it was the only thing in the world he wanted. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “I ought to.”
Remus smiled hugely at him, a shining beacon that Sirius latched onto for dear life.
They continued walking down the tame, residential street, lined up so closely that their hands brushed with each step they took.
It was funny — less than an hour before, they had been dancing close enough to kiss. But now that Sirius knew who Remus was, he felt as shy as a teenager on his first date.
In a rush of courage, Sirius caught Remus’ hand in his own and interlaced their fingers. Remus squeezed hard in response, then leaned his head on Sirius’ shoulder.
They walked like that, intertwined, through the long Berlin night. Slowly, they grew familiar with one another once again. Sirius told Remus stories about his time at uni, and the time he had spent living with the Potters. Remus told Sirius about his life in Berlin, and his friends in the orchestra. Their conversation flowed easily, and when lulls of silence came, they were as comfortable and familiar as lying down in bed at the end of a long day.
During one such lull, Sirius thought idly that there was little chance he’d ever return to his epic night out with James. At least not this trip.
He had a feeling that James would understand.