Actions

  • Entire Work

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Collections:
My favorite gays aka Wolfstar, favourites, best of the fucking best wolfstar, wolfstar fics but like also any other fic that sounds mildly interesting, cool stuff, wolfstar essentials, My heart is full, my marauders era tbr, Favwolfstar, the wolfstar greats, best wolfstar, devastating mauraders masterpieces, soph's all time fav marauders era ffs, Best of wolfstar fics, holy grails of wolfstar, harry and his gay dads
Stats:
Published:
2022-01-08
Completed:
2022-02-03
Words:
89,679
Chapters:
17/17
Comments:
1,475
Kudos:
8,260
Bookmarks:
3,284
Hits:
302,995

Berlin Angel

Summary:

Berlin is absolutely miserable in February. Or it’s just Sirius.

Alternatively: A story of how Remus Lupin stepped into Sirius’ life, flashed his trademark grin, and reminded him that life is a beautiful thing meant to be enjoyed. No risk, no fun!

Notes:

This goes out to all my fellows struggling with depression. Sirius might have needed one Remus Lupin to get him out of his misery, but maybe all you need is this story.

And if you are still on the fence about whether you should read this right now, I will make you three promises: you will fall in love with Remus Lupin, you will fall in love with Berlin, and you will have the most fun you had with a story in ages. Do you trust me?

The lovely @losthelove has compiled a playlist of all the songs to this story for us, thank you!

You can find the Berlin Angel map here if you want to take a virtual (or real) trip through the places mentioned in this story!

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: It all started with a jacket

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Berlin Angel

 

Ich weiß, ich hab gesagt (I know I said)

Ich bin heute am Start (I am down tonight)

Aber ich komm nicht klar und da (But I can’t cope and where)

Wo ich schon tausend Mal war (I’ve been a thousand times)

Will ich heute nicht hin (I don’t want to go there)

Weil da immer die gleichen Leute sind (Because all the same people are there)

Und weil ich müde bin (And I’m tired)

– AnnenMayKantereit,  Ich geh heut nicht mehr tanzen

 

Berlin is absolutely miserable in February.

The sky hangs low and grey, full of unshed rain and exhaust gases above the frost-slicked streets. The people are darkly-clad and darkly-spirited, striding over the crunchy road salt on the pavements like ill-willing missiles. The facades of century-old buildings are crumbling from neglect under layers of graffiti.

Berlin is absolutely miserable in February. Or it’s just Sirius.

With numb fingers, he presses the green-glowing ‘open’ button on the train carriage and quickly side-steps to let a thin stream of glowering passengers out. It feels like every single one of them looks Sirius straight in the eyes as if saying ‘you are a waste of space’. He smiles politely, not looking at anyone in particular, and lets himself be carried into the gaping mouth of the train like a small bubble in a stream of soap water draining in the kitchen sink.

The seats are all taken, and Sirius quickly walks to the back of the entrance, resuming a stance at the opposite doors – one of his favourite spots on trains here. It has the luxury of avoiding the glorious prospect of standing in someone’s armpit, and a handle to grab onto while allowing for a quick exit. Like all good things, it comes with its risks – for example, being trampled over by stubborn cyclists with their metal companions. They are everywhere, literally everywhere. Sirius hates cyclists.

With an ear-ringing sound, the doors close and the train takes off, snaking its way above the streets of the city. Sirius leans his head against the plastic of the wall and gazes through the condensation-fogged window. The morning darkness is slowly lifting, replaced by a depressing grey – it will stay like that for the whole day, and no one will be able to tell what time it is without a watch. Is it eight in the morning? Is it three in the afternoon? No one knows. Sirius is sure Berlin is just a simulation, time is not real here, it’s just a soul-hoovering machine that sucks all joy out of you until you’re nothing but an empty shell. Just a couple more months and Sirius will join the rest of the crowd, buy a black North Face jacket, and death-stare at anyone daring to make eye contact.

Okay, maybe he is a little bit dramatic.

He gets ripped out of his thoughts by an annoyed woman with a double buggy that almost pins him to the wall. She has a look on her face that asks, ‘What are you going to do about it?’. The two toddlers in the buggy look just as unimpressed as their parent.

Sirius scrambles to step out of her trap and frantically looks around for another place to stay until he has to get off. The train is emptier now, they just left a big changeover stop, and a lot of people filtered out to catch another train line. With an incredible amount of relief, Sirius spots an empty seat at the very back of the carriage and hurries to take it.

It’s a two-by-two booth, like most of the seats on trains here, and it’s almost empty except for one seat. Sirius slumps down diagonally from the other passenger – an unspoken but vital rule on public transport in Berlin. The first seat taken is always the one at the window, facing in the driver’s direction, then the one diagonally from it to allow for maximum space, then the second one in the driver’s direction – and then the last pitiable passenger has to squeeze past all the other three to the second window seat. This is how it’s done, and people  will  judge you if you don’t comply with it. 

Sirius sighs and looks up at his booth companion, careful not to make an impression of someone who stares at strangers. But all his good intentions are out of the window as soon as he sees the guy.

It’s nothing Sirius has seen in Berlin before. Or anywhere else, come to think of it. He is like a negative space in all the darkness around them; as if a clever stage director has illuminated him with a well-placed light from behind. He looks completely out of place here.

He’s lounging in the seat uncaringly, one long leg bent and balancing an ankle on his knee, looking down at his phone. Light, almost blond curls spill around big headphones like a halo, falling into his eyes. He’s wearing intentionally oversized glasses, gold-rimmed and reflecting half of his phone screen for Sirius to see – he’s reading something, a book or maybe an article, mouthing enthusiastically and unashamedly along to whatever is playing in his headphones.

The thing that catches Sirius’ attention even more than his general attitude, is his jacket. It seems to be of some sort of fluffy fleece material and flashing in different, bright colours – one sleeve pink, another light blue, the high collar and chest bright yellow, the lower part lilac. As if a pack of back-to-school highlighters vomited on him. It’s absolutely, outrageously ridiculous and Sirius can’t help a genuine smile.

The guy looks up from his phone, looking over Sirius’ shoulder to the display, probably making sure he hasn’t missed his stop. Behind the large glasses, his eyes are incredibly vibrant as well – green, with a bright golden rim around the pupils, and framed with surprisingly dark eyelashes. He looks down, and on the way, his eyes briefly graze over Sirius. With a quizzical look, he glances up from his phone again and looks Sirius straight in the eyes, catching his staring.

Sirius blinks a couple of times and quickly looks away, mortified. How embarrassing. He’s done it again; he has been staring at a stranger like a total weirdo. No matter how good someone looks, or how eyewatering his clothing choices are, this is just bad manners. A bit hesitant, Sirius quickly looks at the guy again, just to make sure the moment has passed. He is still looking at Sirius attentively, an amused smile clinging lopsided to his lips.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to–“ Sirius says, feeling his cheeks burn.

The guy raises his eyebrows and nudges one shell of his headphones back. Oh, right, he didn’t hear anything.

“I said, I like your jacket,” Sirius says and smiles politely.

The guy smiles brighter and tugs his headphones down completely, letting them hang over his neck. “Thanks. I like yours too,” he says and looks down at Sirius‘ chest.

Sirius is momentarily stunned by his voice – surprisingly deep for the way he looks, with an adorable little accent. It’s not as pronounced as of some other Germans’, although the younger generation speaks almost perfect English, but still noticeable. 

With some confusion, Sirius looks down on himself, completely unable to recall what he’s wearing today. Oh, it’s his most favourite leather jacket – a little rebellion against Berlin and its weather that will ultimately end with him catching a nasty cold, but sometimes that’s a risk you have to take to stay true to yourself.

“Err… Thank you,” Sirius says and looks up again.

The guy cocks his head and grins. “Wanna trade?”

Sirius wavers for a long moment, not really sure what he’s suggesting – is this some sort of language barrier? But then the guy is already getting up, taking off his absurd jacket and handing it over to Sirius. Just like that. Underneath, he’s wearing a pristinely white hoodie without any logo.

Completely bewildered, Sirius stares at the offered garment. Is this guy crazy? Does he really want to trade jackets with a total stranger on a train? Sirius is still in some sort of daze, but he feels himself move automatically to take his own jacket off. The guy is still grinning when Sirius offers it to him, and takes it easily, draping it over his shoulders.

Sirius accepts his jacket in return – it’s heavy and feels incredibly warm, the body heat lingering on the thick material – but before he can do or say anything else, the guy looks up at the display again as the train halts on the next stop.

“Bye!” he says and, just like that, leaves a confused Sirius alone, taking with him his most favourite leather jacket.

It takes Sirius a moment to realize what happened, and he quickly leans over to the window to catch the heap of golden curls descent the stairs of the platform. With Sirius’ most favourite leather jacket. Never to be seen again. This is the most absurd thing that has happened to Sirius, probably, ever.

Maybe all of this is not real, and he really did catch the flu, and now he’s imagining things in a fever dream?

Not having any other options, Sirius reluctantly puts his arms through the sleeves of the jacket and tugs it on. They seem to be of similar size because it fits nicely, maybe the sleeves are a bit too long. It’s incredibly cosy and smells… Sirius lifts the high collar to his face, feeling absolutely mental, and sniffs the material. It smells good. Of nothing specific, definitely not cologne or body spray, but it has a very distinct smell.

With a weird feeling in his stomach, Sirius drops the collar and stares unseeingly out of the window. He just traded jackets with a handsome, mysterious stranger on Berlin’s public transport, and he just smelled his body odour. And he liked it. What the actual fuck.

The jacket has large pockets and Sirius absentmindedly sticks his cold hands in them but quickly takes them out. They aren’t empty.

With detached fascination, Sirius retrieves a napkin and a pack of gum from one pocket. And a wallet from the other.

The guy gave Sirius his jacket  with his wallet still inside . 

“Savignyplatz,” the soul-less voice of the train announces, and Sirius scrambles up to get to the exit before the doors close again. He might just have had the weirdest interaction of his life, but he still has to make it to work on time.

The strange guy and his jacket can wait.

 

***

 

The company Sirius works at pays absolutely miserable wages, expects ungodly working hours, and doesn’t actually produce anything or bring any benefit to the world. But, hey, it has a smoothie bar.

None of his co-workers is actually German, and Sirius has a strong suspicion that the only reason he was hired was that they still lacked a British employee. It seemed like the founders were more concerned with covering the whole globe on their ‘our team’ website than actually doing a good job. A thing, Sirius learned quickly, that was concerningly common on Berlin’s start-up market.

It suited Sirius just fine. He was not after a fulfilling life mission or an enviable career. He wanted to get out. This is what he told during the interview as well. Exactly like that.

“Why do you want to work for our company?” the CEO who insisted on being called ‘just Pete’ asked, legs hoisted up on the meeting table in an exaggerated display of casualness.

“I want to get away from England,” Sirius said.

Just Pete laughed joyfully as if it was a clever joke.

“And why do you think we should hire you?” he asked then.

“Because I am the best Marketing Director you will ever see,” Sirius said.

It was an obvious exaggeration. He knew it. Just Pete knew it. He still nodded approvingly.

“One last question,” he said with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Imagine you are working here, and you open the fridge in the communal kitchen. There is yoghurt with a best-before date that passed yesterday. What do you do? A: Throw it away. B: Eat it. C: Ask if anyone else still wants it.”

Sirius just looked at him, feeling dead inside. “I’m lactose intolerant,” he said.

“You will hear back from us until the end of the week,” Pete said.

And just like that, after weeks of paperwork and apartment hunting, of which Sirius doesn’t know what was worse, he arrived in Berlin for his first day of work. It truly felt like a new start – a new year, a new city, a new job. So many possibilities before him. He really had hopes that it would change everything, give him the perspective he desperately needed and an opportunity to reset his life.

As it turns out, you can run from your country, and family, and friends, and exes, but you cannot run from yourself. 

Sirius hoped for a new beginning, a fresh start, a happier life. What he got was seasonal (hopefully just that) depression, incredible amounts of stress from moving countries and settling into a new workplace, and no one,  absolutely no one , to talk to.

This was Berlin in its essence. No one cared about you, at all. Not even superficially. No one would ask how you are doing at the shops; no one would carry uncomfortable conversations at the doctor’s office out of politeness; no one would make any moves to get to know you. 

It was the loneliest Sirius has ever been, while constantly surrounded by over three and a half million people every day. The paradox of big cities, coupled with German indifference, and Berlin’s trademark rudeness. Sirius didn’t find it quirky to be snapped at while ordering a meal or buying groceries, or just existing in the wrong place at the wrong time, no matter how people tried to romanticize the Berliner Schnauze. 

Sirius was absolutely miserable in Berlin.

 

***

 

He gets off from work when it’s already dark outside. The days are getting longer the closer spring comes, but Sirius has yet to see any improvement on that front when he’s working. It’s making his brain mushy in the worst way; he has the feeling he spends all his time either in darkness or under neon lights.

Maybe he has a vitamin D deficiency. Maybe he should get some supplements or something.

Today is especially bad because Sirius doesn’t even have the feeling that he has been productive. He spent all day thinking about that guy from the train.

He really was like a breath of fresh air. Sirius was too confused and stunned to process it at the time, but retrospectively, he’s sure that the reason he was instantly drawn to him was that he had this vibe… It wasn’t even his clothing style, although it was a bit unusual for the morning commuter crowd – Sirius has seen people dress in all kinds of ways in Berlin. This guy’s jacket was a bit too colourful in the sea of dark raincoats and outdoor gear Germans loved to wear casually, but it didn’t even come close to the craziest outfits that can be seen on Berlin’s streets every day.

He was just different. Sirius can’t even say  why . He just knows it. That guy had a big sign above his head that said ‘main character’ in bold letters. And Sirius was just a lucky extra, graced with his short-lived attention. This whole jacket-trading-stunt was probably just some elaborate character development for the guy and had zero to do with Sirius himself. 

Was it sad to feel like a side character in your own life? Or was it just a healthy dose of self-awareness?

The guy was handsome too, not just in a traditional sense, although that too. It seemed like he lacked a certain barrier – his face was open, friendly, not as closed off as most people tend to look like in public places. 

And his behaviour? What sort of person just randomly does something like this?

It was a mystery that didn’t let Sirius go all day. The jacket, slung over his office chair, attracted his eyes every time he got up from his seat; its soft collar pressed against Sirius’ back almost encouragingly while he tried to focus on his work. 

The first thing Sirius does when he arrives at his flat is to turn on the bright overhead light and pull out the contents of the pockets again. 

Chewing gum. Napkin. Wallet.

Sirius feels like a cheap version of Sherlock Holmes and feels inexplicably amused, picking up the pack of gum and inspecting it from all sides. Just normal gum, spearmint, some of it is already missing. Did the guy chew it when he was on the train? Sirius can’t remember, but it doesn’t feel significant enough, so he moves on.

The napkin turns out to be from some business Sirius doesn’t know. It’s clean apart from a rumpled corner as if it came in contact with something wet at some point. The logo on the bottom is in green ink – a contour of a wolf howling at the moon that looks more like a disco ball. A bar maybe? Or a club? The guy definitely looked like someone who would go clubbing.

Sirius imagines him, without his big headphones, head thrown back and curls flashing up in all different colours to the beat of some techno music, a teasing smile bright and happy on his face. Maybe he would be wearing Sirius’ jacket next time – it did look good on him, probably cooler than on Sirius himself. Or not, actually, who wears jackets while dancing? Sirius was really out of his depth here…

He left the wallet for last even though it was probably the item that held most of the answers. It’s thin and light, barely bigger than a credit card and of some weird, waxy material. Definitely not leather. 

Sirius opens the wallet eagerly and stares at the neat row of cards. On the other side is a small, magnet-closed pocket for change which is completely empty, and it opens up on the long side to reveal a compartment for banknotes.

“Germans and their love for cash,” Sirius murmurs to himself, mostly amused. 

The guy left Sirius his wallet with around one hundred euros in cash. Who carries around so much money? Or is he some careless rich kid?

Sirius snorts at himself. He should be the last person to judge someone because of their finances – not with his old-money family, not with his overstated Oxford degree, not with his history of overpaid employment.

Burning with curiosity, Sirius takes out the cards and lays them on the top of his dinner table, careful to not forget the right order – he wouldn’t want the guy to know he went through his things if he finds a way to give him his wallet back. Because he definitely should. A hundred euros! If Sirius’ guess is not correct, and the guy is not some well-off prissy, then this is probably half of his food budget for the month.

The first card is his ID. Jackpot! 

“Remus John Lupin,” Sirius reads aloud, trying the name out on his tongue. That’s an interesting name. Definitely not German, but this is not surprising in a city like Berlin. Sure, he had an accent, but Sirius doesn’t know if it’s a German one, he could be from anywhere. Or his parents were just as mental as Sirius’.

“Twenty-seven!” Sirius exclaims out loud to his empty flat.

Remus certainly didn’t look like he was twenty-seven. He looked barely over twenty, if that. Sirius is twenty-eight himself, just a couple of months older than him, but he feels ancient in comparison to that guy. Remus seemed like someone who brings his laundry over to his parents’ house to wash. Sirius had set up a private pension account and invested in an ergonomic pillow.

Sirius studies his picture very carefully. He looks exactly the same on it as he did this morning, maybe his hair was a little shorter back then. It’s not even a bad picture – Sirius liked to calm himself with the thought that everyone looked horrible in ID photos, but not Remus, apparently. Sirius checks the back to see when the ID was given out and huffs a laugh – five years ago. This guy really doesn’t age, does he?

Even his signature looks cool. Elegant somehow, but in an effortless I’m-good-at-everything-I-do-and-I-don’t-care kind of way. He probably has nice handwriting too.

He was, indeed, German. Born in Berlin. So, definitely bonkers parents with a passion for unique names. Sirius could relate to that.

Eye colour was stated as green, but Sirius knew that already. He was, apparently, 187 cm tall, which in Sirius’ books was fucking giant – he didn’t have the time to appreciate his height on the train, unfortunately. Sirius himself barely scratched the 180 cm and he was only a little bitter about it.

And now Sirius knows his address too, which is a bit weird. That was incredibly stupid of Remus to give him his jacket without checking the pockets beforehand. Now a complete stranger knew very personal details about him. Not that Sirius would do anything bad with it, but he could have! Very irresponsible.

But what do you expect from a guy who spontaneously suggests trading jackets with someone just because they expressed their liking for it?

Sirius puts the ID back in the wallet and moves over to the other cards. One is a health insurance card, which is the first responsible thing he witnesses from Remus – at least he carries his insurance card with him in case of an accident. Another one is a public transport card for a whole year. Sirius checks quickly, but no, there is no license. So, Remus probably doesn’t drive and takes public transport every day. Well observed, Sherlock, that’s the case for most residents in Berlin anyway.

The other two are bank cards, a debit and a credit. Sirius rolls his eyes and really hopes that Remus noticed the absence of his wallet quickly and blocked the cards – if Sirius was someone else, he could easily spend all of his money now.

He won’t, but he could.

For some weird reason, Sirius feels a bit angry. Stupid guy, why is he so careless? How did he even survive for so long with an attitude like that?

Maybe because he doesn’t think the world is out to get him, a voice in Sirius’ head supplies. 

Well, that’s very naïve of him, Sirius shoots back mentally.

“Great, I’m talking to myself now,” he murmurs. Then notices what he has done and shakes his head at himself. He’s slowly losing his mind.

Sirius puts all the cards back to where they belong and studies the wallet a second time, more carefully now. And, indeed, he finds another compartment with some paper jammed inside.

With an appreciative hum, Sirius pulls out an organ donor card. Remus Lupin, ready for any type of emergency, it seems like. Good for him.

The other one looks like a page from a book, or maybe printer paper. It’s quite old and tattered at the edges where it’s neatly folded to fit into the small pocket while also showing the writing at the same time. Sirius quickly scans the lines and then returns to read them with more care. It’s in German and Sirius struggles to piece the words together into a coherent thought. Picking up his phone, Sirius goes the extra step of translating the short note.

 

Your task is not to seek for love,

But merely to seek and find 

all the barriers within yourself

that you have built against it.

 

“Oh.” Sirius exhales slowly, the meaning sinking in slowly. It feels like a punch to the stomach, in the most weirdly uplifting way. If Sirius wasn’t an atheist, he would definitely think the universe was trying to talk to him. “Who the fuck are you, Remus Lupin?”

 

***

 

This was definitely a stupid idea, Sirius thinks to himself while he freezes his butt off in the line at the entrance of a club.

After going through Remus’ wallet like a creep, he began thinking of how to return his wallet to him. He probably could have handed over the wallet to a lost-and-found place, but he wasn’t so sure that Remus would go through the trouble of seeking it out at all. Maybe he could’ve given it to the police, and they would be able to contact him.

But all of it was very… impersonal. And Sirius felt like they had a moment there. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that they met like that. That Remus decided to trade jackets with him. Maybe it did mean  something . Sirius doesn’t know what it could be, but he is incredibly curious. 

Also, he really wanted to meet Remus again. Why, he couldn’t tell yet. There was just something about the guy that fascinated him, and maybe they could have a real conversation that way. Laugh about the absurdity of the situation, for example. That would be the appropriate thing to do, no?

Sirius knew his address now, from his ID. But wouldn’t it be weird to randomly show up at his doorstep? That would definitely be creepy. He could mail it to him, of course, but that would exclude the possibility of a chat.

The only other clue Sirius had, was the napkin, and a quick internet search told him that this logo indeed belonged to a nightclub in Berlin called ‘Wolfsbane’, which explained the wolf. Not too far away from Sirius’ place too, which was a surprising coincidence. And so, Sirius found himself, on a freezing Friday night, lining up for it next to sullen-looking university students in tight trousers and drunken bridal shower participants.

It was a stretch, of course. Remus might have been to this club once and never again. He might have gotten the napkin from someone else and never stepped a foot into this place. The possibility of him also being here tonight was almost non-existent.

Sirius was certain that all of this was a gigantic waste of time – he was tired from a long week at work, and, frankly, too old to go clubbing without a clear reason. Especially alone. He hasn’t done it in ages, and for good reason.

As his turn comes to go up to the entrance, he briefly hopes that the bouncers will turn him around as they did with a couple of people in front of him already. He definitely didn’t look like he belonged in the crowd and didn’t feel like he should be allowed in. But surprisingly, the bouncer takes one look at him and nods grimly, stepping aside to let him through. Sirius almost asks if he’s sure about that, but then gathers himself up and walks inside.

The small foyer is dimly lit with purple lights, the walls almost physically shaking from the music behind them, and the girl behind the counter grins at him as he walks up to pay and hand over his jacket. She winks salaciously as she stamps his hand with the same logo he’s seen on Remus’ napkin and waves him through to take care of the next people in line.

The club is packed, and Sirius takes a good look from his elevated spot at the entrance – a couple of steps lead down to the actual floor. It’s not big and fancy, on the contrary, the rectangular dance floor is almost too small in Sirius’ opinion. There is a tiny stage at end of it where a DJ desk is residing right now, but the location looks like it could also house some live gigs. People are dancing enthusiastically, looking like a unanimous mass from above, flashing up in the colourful lights that pulse to the music.

At least it’s not techno, Sirius thinks. Which is actually a feat in Berlin. It sounds more like some elaborate remix of a current pop song, and Sirius understands why he has been allowed inside. No real Berlin cool kid would let themselves be seen in a place like this, and because of that, Sirius’ mood lifts a couple of notches. 

How he expected to find Remus here, in the unbelievable case he actually is present today, is beyond Sirius’ comprehension now. This  was  a bad idea. He should get a drink.

Feeling a bit out of place still, Sirius follows a group of guys to the side of the dance floor where a large archway seems to lead to the second half of the club. It’s just as loud there, but not as crowded. There are small tables with comfortable-looking chairs and sofas lining one wall, and a long bar on the other side where most people are waiting for their drinks. 

Sirius spots an empty barstool and walks over to it hesitantly. Is he breaching some sort of unspoken Berlin clubbing rule by sitting down just like that? But no one pays him any attention, and a girl actually moves aside with a kind smile to allow him better access to the seat.

He sits down and looks up at the menu above the bar to decide what he’s going to order. It’s been a while since he went out to drink. What do people even drink at clubs? Shots? No, Sirius won’t do shots alone. That’s pathetic.

Loud laughter, heard even above the music, catches his attention, and he looks over to the other end of the bar to see what the commotion is about. Instantly, his stomach bottoms out and his heart flies up to his throat at the same time.

There, behind the counter, leaning over to hand a group of guests their drinks, is a very familiar-looking mop of curls. 

Maybe this was a great idea, actually, Sirius corrects himself and can’t help a satisfied smirk.

Remus Lupin is indeed at this club again tonight. Because Remus Lupin is working here. What a bloody coincidence!

Watching Remus work behind the bar is the most entertainment Sirius has had in months. He looks absolutely in his element there, mouthing along to the music with a blinding smile, moving in time with the beat like going through some sort of practised dance performance. He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt and white-and-black checked pants that look like chess board made clothing. He looks good.

The crowd loves him as well. Guests clap and cheer when he throws and catches bottles, or balances shakers on his arms, or pours multiple shots at once. Everything he does looks so smooth and effortless that Sirius feels transfixed by his motions, like a moth drawn to a flame. 

The absolute highlight comes when a group of girls order their drinks, all talking excitedly over each other. Sirius watches how Remus leans over to them, head tilted to hear better, and a smile starts blooming on his lips. He nods and shows them two exaggerated ‘ok’ signs with a wink.

Remus quickly, almost too quick to follow, builds a tower of empty glasses with small shot glasses on top, and pours the liquor and soda in, making a point of doing it smoothly and to the beat of the music. Then he motions for the group to take a step back and cracks his knuckles for show, before pouring a line of liquor from the last glass directly on the wooden countertop.

The girls, probably already knowing what he’s about to do, jump up and down in excitement, and squeal as he pulls out a lighter from his back pocket. As he does so, his eyes briefly meet Sirius’ and he stills for a second, surprised, before his smile grows wider. He’s definitely smiling  at  Sirius now. Without breaking eye contact, he clicks the lighter and swipes his hand over the counter.

Instantly, a roaring wall of flames shoots up, eating through the liquor and crawling its way to the drinks, closer and closer, until the drinks are now on fire as well. Remus grins at the cheering crowd and wipes a towel, completely unbothered, through the flames on the bar, distinguishing them. With incredible precision, he then tips over the burning shots, one by one, into the bigger glasses at the bottom of the tower. 

The other bartender laughs and claps at his performance. The girls are ecstatic. Sirius feels like, suddenly, there is not enough oxygen in this room.

On second thought, maybe this  was  a bad idea. Very bad. Very, very, bad.

Notes:

Berliner Schnauze - a typical way of interacting with strangers (and sometimes friends too) that native Berliners have that is based on quite rude remarks and/or a mocking attitude, which is not meant in an unfriendly way