Chapter Text
Remus Lupin is a singer-songwriter, or trying to be.
He does indeed spend his free time writing songs, and performing said songs. Currently, performing them on a deserted, windblown pier in Suffolk to a gaggle of rowdy seagulls.
Sirius is there though, appreciating the lyrical irony of east coast winds in his stylish anorak, dark hair whipping about as Remus strums his guitar and sings his only moderately catchy song.
♪The sun's in the sky ♪
♪ Nothing can go wrong ♪
♪ Kiss winter goodbye ♪
♪ And sing this summer song ♪
♪ I was born here,♪
♪I guess I'll stay♪
♪ Why would I ever go away? ♪
♪ Life is a lifelong ♪
♪ Summer's day... ♪
Sirius claps and cheers, grinning enthusiastically, too enthusiastically, his handsome face a bit manic. Sirius Black, his one man support crew, friends since school, his manager, roadie, roommate at Teacher’s College.
Sirius, who isn’t daft enough to quit his respectable job at the local grammar school, like Remus has, to pursue music full time.
A whole year now, working part time as a geriatric stock boy in a bulk-buy warehouse; twenty-eight being a whole decade older than most of his colleagues. He lives with his parents, and plays as many gigs as possible (dismal, poorly attended gigs). He'd have quit by now, he knows, without Sirius chivvying him along. Sirius shooing away seagulls, making James and Pete and Marlene drink their after work pints at whichever pub Remus and his guitar were sitting at …
♪ Whoa, whoa, whoa ♪
♪ I'm gonna sing all summer long. ♪
Tonight that pub is the Wizards Arms, and Sirius is there, still in his work clothes, button down and trousers, the only hint of his real personality showing at his wrists, where the ink lines of his rebel youth peek out from folded back cuffs.
He and Marlene grin up at Remus from their table, Marlene has no qualms about displaying her real self. She sports the same shaggy blonde mullet she's had since it was an ironic statement at uni. Massive pink plastic daisies dangle from her ears, and the t-shirt beneath her blazer reads "queerer than you" wreathed in flowers, which are actually stylised vulvae if she lets you get close enough to look.
James and Pete bustle in, just as Remus is strumming the final lines of The Summer Song.
James Potter, perpetually in a rush, but somehow always late, is flustered but grinning, whooping and clapping loud enough to drown out Remus's delicate end notes.
Pete snags the lager jug from the centre of the table and sloshes him and James a glass each, he holds his up to Remus, his round cheeks boyish, even at nearly thirty.
James clicks his pint with Pete's and calls, "Play the summer song!" In overzealous support.
Remus sees Sirius kick him under the table as he admonishes, “He just did, you late tosser.”
“Play it again!” James laughs, toasting Remus like Pete had. “Great song!”
Remus doesn't play it again. Despite the enthusiasm at the table of his friends, no one else in the pub is particularly interested in the scruffy musician trying his very best. Instead he puts his guitar away, plonks into the last remaining chair at the table, and takes the dregs of the jug for himself.
“Cheers,” he says, dispiritedly lifting his pint.
Sirius pats his knee bracingly, smile still fixed firmly but his eyes are concerned, sad even. Grey and blue and even silver when the light hits them right. Remus wonders if he's disappointed in him.
Remus is disappointed. A whole year, and he hasn't got anything to show for it.
“Where's Lily?” he asks James, unable to stand another moment of Sirius looking at him like that. He drains his pint in five big swallows as James answers.
“Hosting book club, with the mums from Harry's school.” James has come direct from pre-season rugby practice, still in his training gear, a bit of mud on his cheek, and another smear across his forearm.
“Oh, what book this week?” Remus asks, voice slightly hoarse from drinking too fast. He waits for the effects of the beer to kick in, to drown out the voice inside he doesn't want to listen to. The voice connected to Sirius’s hand which has only just left his knee, and the looming realisation that he needs to make a decision about his future in music.
“No idea,” James shrugs, “She was just googling the plot last night, hasn't even read it, I think they just get together to drink.”
“Tidy.” Sirius laughs, a bit too loud as his empty glass hits the table. Remus frowns, sure it was full when he sat down. Sirius has necked his whole pint apparently. Remus wonders if he’s drinking away his internal voice too. The voice that no doubt agrees with Remus’s. The voice that says it’s time to be realistic. It’s time to go back to teaching. Maybe he could teach music instead of English, Those who can’t do … as the proverb says.
Thursday afternoon at Lowestoft Wholesale Warehouse is quiet, Remus hums to himself as he reverses his forklift down the towering aisles, enjoying the lack of customers. He’s not run anyone over yet, but there was a near miss with an out of control trolley earlier in the week. The incident report forms were bad enough then, he’d be here all night if he actually hit a human.
“Lupin!”
It’s the foreman, Mr Crouch, standing at the end of the aisle, arms folded, looking at Remus like he’d collided with a toddler instead of a rogue trolley. But he’s always looked at Remus like that. Remus tries his best to smile as he steers the forklift in the foreman's direction. But even to him it feels like a grimace.
“Sir?'' Remus asks, polite as ever. Even if the sight of the man's scraped back thinning hair and well worn, but impeccably tidy uniform sends him spiralling into a vision of himself, trapped in this job long enough to wear out a uniform, or worse, lose his hair.
“How are you enjoying the job?” Crouch asks as Remus idles to a stop in front of him. He sounds annoyed, too annoyed for small talk.
“Yeah, not bad.” Remus says honestly, because while the pay is not good, and the work is very dull, the hours are flexible, and he isn’t emotionally drained like he was with teaching, “Good, I suppose, thanks.”
“I've noticed that the customers like you.” Crouch says, still grouchy, like this is a bad thing.
“Okay, great. I do try to be friendly."
Crouch scowls, "Unlike me. I'm increasingly finding, I don't like you."
He should probably be offended by this statement, but Remus doesn't particularly like Crouch either.
"You know, the beard gets on my nerves. What's wrong with shaving?”
Remus touches his face, he’s been quite proud of his beard, makes him look trendy. It's taken a while to grow in nicely.
“And I don't like the way you're always late.”
Fair, Remus thinks, but it's only ever five minutes, and he always makes it up at the end. It's hard to get out of bed when you've been up half the night.
Crouch still isn't done. "I get the feeling you think working here is beneath you.”
That’s because it is, Remus wants to say, but he doesn’t. “Oh.”
“But the customers like you,” Crouch repeats, grudgingly, like Remus is polite to people for the sole purpose of pissing Crouch off. “So, if you want to go full-time, you can.”
Kill me now, Remus thinks, The irony just might.
He hates this job, but here he is succeeding at it. He loves music and yet he continues to be a consummate failure.
“Right. Okay. Well,” he stutters, unable to form a sentence that isn’t, ‘Fuck off, Crouch.’ Instead he manages to mumble, “Yeah, great. Uh, let me think about that.”
Crouch has moved from pissed off to offended now, and slightly threatening, “Or, here's the alternative, son.” He waggles his finger and Remus feels like he might laugh, because he can’t quite believe this is his life. “Two weeks, you're out on your ear. Yeah? I'll give the job to dozy Karen.”
Dozy Karen is standing down the far end of the aisle, trying to force a huge tin of cat food onto a shelf that clearly doesn’t have room for it.
"Classic Karen," Remus mutters, he's so done with this. He turns his key and the forklift shudders into life again. "I'll get right back to you." He smiles, or grimaces. Does something with his mouth anyway.
Then Crouch's store phone squawks from his pocket and he answers it.
"Bloody typical," he mutters down the line, then eyes on Remus, he adds, "There's someone to see you. At checkout, make it quick."
The sight of Sirius, standing at the checkouts brightens Remus's day considerably.
He's got his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and his hair tied back as his neat and tidy work-self. But he's grinning again as they pop out the door, brimming over with something like hope, or mischief. "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"
"I'm gonna have to say good news," Remus replies, wondering what could be making Sirius so cheerful, "'cause I don't think I could take any more bad news."
Worry flashes across Sirius’s face briefly before he rallies again, "Well, the good news is …you're booked for Latitude Festival."
"No!" Remus laughs, the weight of his immediate future fluttering away at this astonishing surprise, he hadn't even known Sirius was looking into it for him.
Sirius’s grin spreads at Remus's reaction. "Yes!" He claps him hard on the shoulder. "It's not the biggest stage mind, it's the … it's the Suffolk Tent."
The local acts tent. Very minor, but still, a real paid gig, at a festival.
"I don't care what tent, it's Latitude! It's a proper festival!
He grabs Sirius around the shoulders, looking into his face for a moment, his smile so wide it's hurting his cheeks.
Sirius’s eyes sparkle with silver, clearly very proud of himself. Remus hugs him tight then, unable to stop himself, dancing them around, he thinks Sirius’s feet might have left the pavement. "You are the best manager in the world!"
Sirius wriggles out of the hug after a moment, and claps his shoulder again, suddenly a bit stiff, no more laughing silver eyes. “You'll be brilliant,” he says stoutly.