Chapter Text
january
in january sirius black and lily evans almost hook up.
just because they're the most beautiful people in the room and they feel like they owe it to themselves to try. like they were pushed by the universe to meet so they can fuck around and find out, so they do, only what they find out is that it's a terrible idea.
it's at some birthday party neither of them really wanted to be at. sirius is there because marlene mentioned it (one of the tenants at his building, except he hasn't seen her — or her girlfriend dorcas — in this excuse of a party even once, so they were probably screwing with him, which — yeah, sounds like something they would do), and lily is there because she's been sleeping on mary's couch because petunia kicked her out because she, lily, royally fucked up her last relationship. or maybe it's the depression and major existential crisis after the fuck-up that caused the kicking out. or maybe it's because she was in the way of her and vernon realizing their vision of a suburban nuclear family. honestly lily doesn't know anymore, doesn't know how it all got so shitty so fast. but anyway mary is here and she felt weird staying at her place without her there, so she just tagged along.
lily notices him first, gravitates toward him because he looks just as uninterested and ready to leave as she is. he seems to think the same of her; he looks at her differently than he has everyone who's approached him so far, even offers to make her a drink in the kitchen. so off they go, the kitchen cramped but quieter and better lit than the main area, smelling faintly of citrus and cinnamon. he makes her a daiquiri, she makes him laugh. and he's fit, objectively, although he has that regal and pristine way about him, too sleek to be exactly lily's type, if we're going to be completely honest. but he's nice, in the i'll make you a drink and not stare at and make comments about your thrifted jacket way (she's pretty sure his leather jacket alone would pay for a good five years of her life), and not in the shy or patronizing or overly polite way either. and he's smart, and he gets her references and she gets his, and she's made him laugh which means he's also funny, obviously, and he likes the weird sisters but also high school musical, unironically.
so in like thirty minutes they figure they should start making out, because isn't that the natural order of things in parties like this? find someone cute, who thinks you're cute also, and bond and laugh over similar things (or pretend to, which they didn't even have to do, unless sirius is just a really good actor?), and then it's like mutually passing some kind of test, confirming they're good to press mouths and bodies with for at least the remainder of the night?
except — my god.
i mean it's nice at first, she's up on the counter and they're equal height that way, she gets to wind her arms around his neck no problem, his hands light on her waist. and he leans in, and she meets him halfway, and lily thinks, for a second, finally something in her life is going right. and then everything goes horribly wrong.
she doesn't know what it is exactly, perhaps it's just all of it at the same time — the angle, the timing, the fucking anatomy and physics and maths of it all. their mouths and noses don't slot quite right, and they're both leading and following at the same time, and it's just — awful. harrowing. she feels him frown against her mouth and she pulls away, making a face as well. he actually, literally, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, that's how bad it is. and she can't even blame him. she would too if it wouldnt further smudge her lipstick.
"what the fuck?" he mutters.
"yeah, no," she agrees. "that was awful."
"why was that so fucking bad, jesus. i swear i'm not — that's not how it usually goes. with me."
"well, i can say the same," she says. "it's like — why did it feel like kissing — "
the next things they say at the same time:
"my sister?" / "my brother?"
"i don't even have a sister." / "i don't even have a brother."
they laugh. sirius moves to sit beside her up on the counter. he drinks from the drink he made for her. lily doesn't mind. she thinks they've bonded now, from the traumatic experience that was that kiss, really, if you can even call it that, more than they would have if they actually slept together.
so anyway that was a terrible idea. but also not. because with that out of the way, they start talking about other things, which is great, because it turns out he has an apartment. as in he owns one, a wholeass building with flats for rent.
and apparently he likes her enough to allow her a decent rate, worst kiss in the world ever and all.
he picks her up at the train station. he takes her luggage from her, and they walk down the street. the gryffin, which is what his building is called, is just walking distance from the station. she asks, "why are you rich then?"
"inheritance."
"ah. political? royal?"
"a bit of both. criminal, mostly."
she glances at him. he doesn't seem to be joking.
she asks, "is that why you're named like a fucking mafia boss?"
"what — i'm not?"
"sirius orion black? come on."
"i don't remember telling you my middle name."
"mary told me."
"talked about me, did you? did you tell her how bad it was?"
"no, because apparently you're a catch. and notoriously very picky. like, it was a big deal that something happened between us, so i didn't know how to say it sucked without it sounding like i was the problem."
"maybe you were."
"maybe shut the fuck up."
he huffs out a chuckle. "that's funny, though. that's what happened with dorcas and marlene, too."
"oh?"
"yeah. apparently they know you from common friend circles? marlene couldn't believe you'd let me kiss you. literally what she said."
"hm. so what's the story then? just so we're consistent."
"what did you tell mary?"
"we made out. didn't sleep together. you?"
he nods, amused. "same."
"i can't believe... isn't it funny how similar we are, but also how fucking incompatible?"
"except i'm rich," he says, because he's an asshole.
"fuck you, wow," she says. her trunk's wheels trip over uneven pavement. she nudges his side. "you're not really a criminal, are you?"
his mouth twitches. "my family is."
"what are you then?"
"i don't really know how to answer that question."
"i mean — i'm a writer. i want to be, anyway. i'm working on — something. in the mean time i'm an editorial assistant for a small lit mag."
"you're asking my nine to five? i don't have one. i own the apartment. i have investments here and there. i have a trust fund."
"are you part of the mafia?"
"no."
"are you... part of a crime ring? a syndicate?"
he eyes the street ahead, gaze almost lazy. "if i want to be."
"do you?"
"hm. sometimes." when he glances at her, something akin to caution crosses his expression. "does it scare you?"
"no," says lily, finding she means it. "i think it's cool."
a little later, he asks: "do you have a list of people you want dead?"
"yes, actually."
"okay, well, i can handle that," he says, super casually, like lily just wanted help painting her walls or something. "just let me know whenever." he stops in front of a faded pink building, five floors. a staircase leads from the road to a small porch, then a set of carved wooden double doors. "this is us. welcome home."
in january lily evans starts living in a pink building with sirius black (and dorcas meadowes and marlene mckinnon, who share the second floor, but she hasn't really seen them yet), and they discover that they like the same bands, like the same books, have the same-ish family problems. (except he's a rich asshole and lily is a broke bitch.)
on sunday, they feed the aggressive, offended-looking ducks at the small pond two blocks away. they attempt to name the ducks, but they bicker about who's who, and sirius thinks the names she comes up with are stupid and basic and she thinks his are stupid and ridiculous.
greg? really? fucking greg?
why the fuck would you name a duck bartholomew beaumont? were you dropped as a baby?
on wednesday, they watch terrible, low-budget movies in his flat (fifth floor) until 3 AM — a regrettable decision for lily, who has to work the next day — just so they can unreservedly, vehemently hate on something together. they find they do that really well. she puts popcorn all over his hair like they're flowers. he lets her.
on thursday, they fight about the laundry, of all things. sirius for some reason folds his clothes with military precision. it's unnerving. lily reaches over to rumple the edges or make it imperfect some other way, because she physically can't stand the way he does it, and he says what she does drives him crazy. they don't do laundry together anymore after that.
on friday, she has last-minute extra editing work for the magazine. she comes home frazzled and in a bad mood. he helps her organize her notes, and then he makes them both tea and he sits on the floor with her while she reads him the submissions she finds funny, or corny, or just straight-up bad. he learns her sticky tabs system for edits — nothing better to do, he says, when she asks what he's still doing there — hands her the things like a nurse handing the doctor tools during an important surgery. he's a reader, you know, and it turns out he has standards — surprisingly similar to hers, they just have different preferred genres — so later he starts helping with the actual editing, too.
on saturday, she gets writer's block, and she doesn't meet her word count, and it triggers a particularly bad self-loathing spiral. she rides the train from the first to the last stop, then back again. just sits there and watches people and the sun set and lets the lull of that liminal space untangle her thoughts. sirius comes in and coincidentally finds her at one of the stops. he sits beside her, starts conversation — something about celery? or a risotto place? she barely registers any of it — then notices something's up with her. he stops, then asks if she wants company. she thinks about it. is surprised to find that she does, his company specifically, so she tells him so. he sits there and they do two more rounds, almost an hour total — he brings out a paperback at some point, agatha christie, but they don't really talk — and then she stands, and they walk home together.
on sunday, she notices he hasn't turned the page of his book for a while, and finds him staring blankly at nothing with the book still open in his hand. faint lines between his brows, jaw set. she asks if he wants to get ice cream, and it takes a while for him to get out of whatever he's thinking about. has to say what, sorry? she doesn't repeat it, just gets to her feet and fetches both of their jackets, throws his his way. come on, i'm paying. she gets honey yogurt, which is very good. he gets burnt caramel. it's awful. they end up sharing the yogurt one. when they get back, his pages are turning again.
he gets her a turntable for her birthday. what the fuck, she says, because 1) she didn't tell him when her birthday is, 2) aren't these things expensive?
he shrugs, says he's rich. (yes, again.) it basically cost nothing, he says, considering how rich i am. i hate you, she says, what the fuck. (yes, again.)
"and my birthday?" she asks later, after they spend some time going through his record collection for something to play.
"did a background check."
"of course. did you use your criminal resources?"
"obviously," he says. "also google."
they play the weird sisters's debut album and eat mango cake on the floor, straight from the box. the shop forgot to put a candle, so sirius holds out his index finger for lily to blow and make a wish on.
on the last day of january he asks if she wants to go on a roadtrip with him.
"i have work," she says. they're in the study on the ground floor and lily is a few hundred words from her daily word count.
"file a leave."
she taps the edge of her laptop with her index finger. "how long is this trip?"
"just two days. less, actually. i'm just picking someone up out of town. we can leave in the morning and be back by night." he pauses, sucks on the inside of his cheek. "we might be back late though, so you might want to sleep in the next day? or, i don't know. we can leave on a friday. so you only have to be gone for one day."
she frowns. "wait — why should i be around for this? who are you picking up?"
"one of the tenants."
"um. my question stands."
he purses his lips, then he turns to leave. "fine, i'm just gonna go alone," he says.
"jesus, fine. i'll go." in her head: him sitting beside her on the train for an hour, no questions.
he comes back. tries to hide it, but he looks relieved. lily reckons he needs her for it for some reason, whatever this is. although she can't imagine why on earth he would. who and where and what could it be for him to need her there? "friday then," he says. "just let me know which friday's good."
"mhmm."
"do you have a camera?"
she does not. "does my phone count?"
"i guess?"
"why?"
"it's pretty there. you might wanna — i don't know. take pictures."
she bites in a laugh. "sirius."
"what."
"nothing. i've just never seen you this nervous about something."
"i'm not nervous, the fuck?"
"you so are. it's fine. it's cute." maybe they're picking up his girlfriend or something. or his ex.
"fuck off," he says. he's turning away again.
"where are you going? oi."
"out. we're out of oat milk."
he's out of sight now, but she can hear him in the entryway. she calls out, "can you get some tuna also?"
"no," he calls back, then the door closes.
"dipshit," mutters lily at her keyboard.
he does get tuna. only he gets the whole fish, fresh, sashimi-grade, and lily only meant the canned one. for a freaking sandwich.
in january she goes from crying on mary's couch at midnight, muffling the sound with her knuckles so no one would hear, to laughing at a fish in sirius's kitchen for a whole ten minutes.