Unintended Intentions, Chapter 1: Apotheosis
Genre: Romance, Drama, Humor.
Characters: Marauders, etc.
Universe: Set in an AU London, with a King instead of a Queen (will come into the plot later).
Warning: May eventually contain homosexuality, if offended, please do not hesitate to stop reading.
Later Chapters: Chapter 2: Antithesis | Chapter 3: Anamnesis | Chapter 4: Adumbration | Chapter 5: Crepuscule
Unintended Intentions
Chapter 1: Apotheosis
He was lost. Nothing, at that moment, could bring him back. Nothing held him back. His fingers glided. Plucked. Strummed. The strings of the guitar produced the most melancholic, romantic tune under his uncanny, uncommon dexterity. Eyes shut, tightly. Beads of perspiration trickled down the back of his neck, collecting at the top of his forehead. Lips pursed. Jaws clenched. Heartstrings taut as he hauled the deepest, saddest memories from the expanse of his soul, decanting his pain into the music.
He was oblivious, to the world, the audience being swayed by his music, and the pair of unyielding grey eyes scrutinising his fingers.
-
Earlier that evening…
"Oh, Mr. Black," she paused, gazing fondly at him, "I was under the impression that this was a business dinner." A small, uncharacteristic, suggestive sneer was directed at him.
He flinched inwardly, disgusted at how crude she was being. Schooled in the art of aristocratic nonchalance, he smiled cordially, eyes betraying nothing but cool elegance, velvet smooth voice replying, "Of course, Miss Greengrass."
He lift his hand off her elbow, hiding his relief with a flash of a charming smile, and gestured politely towards the entrance of the classy restaurant. She gave an approving glance, eyebrow cocked, and walked inside. She stood there, waiting for the man to join her, as her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of the interior.
It was, without a doubt, the best restaurant in London. Rumors flitted gracelessly, and spewed out of even the more cultured mouths of high society. She would never admit to it, but she had propagated some while in the process of collecting more. She had heard it all.
Owned by a madman entrepreneur. Genius, but wildly eccentric.
She followed him, and waited for the waiter to seat her, handing her an elegantly-designed menu. Her lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as her perfectly-manicured spidery fingers traced the text.
Mr. Black, or Sirius as he was known to friends, merely nodded congenially at the waiter, a cocky grin pulling at his lips as he confirmed his usual request, and not of food. He turned to his date for the evening, briefly, before turning to the expectant waiter.
"A vintage, if you will," he nodded curtly, winking as though some shared secret passed between them, unbeknownst to his guest.
The waiter nodded, desperately holding back a mischievous grin.
A vintage. Always a vintage. Never the vintage. Or the finest. Yet, whenever he brought a bottle that was certainly not the one requested, he was merely rewarded with a knowing, conspiratorial smile. Sirius knew of the wondrous collection of wine, spirit and various alcoholic drinks the cellar of Emerald City held. Why, he had assisted the owner in their selection, perusing his extensive knowledge of fine dining and alcohol.
Said owner, now clad impeccably in a waiter's uniform, was positively brimming with mischievous thoughts of ruining his best friend's dinner. The date tonight was positively vile. He could, without hesitation, imagine her in her element among giggly, pretentious high society ladies. The very same society his friend sought to avoid. The society that clamored for Black's attention. The society that he, James Potter, had willfully shunned, and proudly succeeded in doing so.
He selected a bottle of Merlot, ignorant the request for a proper vintage, and made his way up to the dining area. A proper maître d' had appeared at Sirius' table, doing his best - James could see a clenched fist hidden beneath the serviette - to tolerate at what seemed to be irrelevant questions from the lady. Sirius had the tell-tale steely gaze of a seasoned war veteran which, when he sent a warning look, he quickly changed imperceptibly to one of amusement.
He beckoned for the elderly maître d' to him when the latter was done, and handed him the bottle wordlessly, knowing the older man would understand who its intended recipient was. He decided he would attend to various other matters that require his attention, rather than have some glee at Sirius' expense.
Sirius, on the other hand, was utterly miserable. His guest was, he concluded, a downright asinine heiress of an unfortunate successful upper-crust family dealing in overseas trading. He contributed little, smiling at all the right times, murmuring his assent when appropriate, and to his relief, excused her when she decided to go to the powder room.
He let out an inaudible sigh, leaning back in his seat as he turned to the musician at a corner of the room. He let his eyes focus on the man - a thin, lanky figure with near golden hair, face obscured by the shadows caused by the incandescent lighting. It was a sorrowful tune, inspiring some heartbroken moments in his life to creep treacherously close to the surface of his veneer of detachment. He narrowed his eyes, catching himself in time, and fortified his defenses. It was a dangerous composition, and for it to be played by a nondescript character only added to his apprehension.
He surveyed him warily, missing nothing in his meticulous visual dissection. His face now turned towards the light, and he could see him better. Sandy-brown hair, with touches of dark brown, cropped neatly. His facial features were deemed attractive - a pair of full, though thin well-shaped lips, a straight, elegant nose, and the coveted refined high cheekbones only prompted him to note with resignation that if the said musician were a woman, Sirius would have no qualms of bedding her and making her his. His gaze moved downwards, lingering appreciatively at what looked like a supple torso, with slightly muscular arms holding the guitar with the air of a skilled performer. Then his inspection came to a sudden halt as he felt himself drawing in a sharp intake of breath.
His hands. Long, willowy fingers with trimmed nails, angular yet almost feminine in their elegance. No doubt the pads of his fingers would be rough, as a man's digits should be, yet he could not resist the notion that perhaps this man had soft hands - like a woman's. It seemed as though anything the man held could take one's breath away. He held something with character, with a purpose, and with some sensuality that Sirius knew was natural.
Hearing the grating voice of his guest approaching, he tore his gaze away, away from those damned hands, and made a mental note to ask James who the musician was.
"Mr. Black," she began, lips curling into a suggestive smirk, "would you care to escort me home?"
He shook his head, frowning slightly at the unbecoming implication, and retorted, "No, that would be indecent of me. Allow me to arrange your transport home."
He beckoned for James, who sauntered towards them, and gave a slight nod.
"Miss Greengrass is ready to leave. Please arrange for her," he turned to said woman, offering an apologetic smile, "I do apologise, but your family would simply find it unacceptable."
Without another word, she strode past him, furious that her efforts for the entire night had been in vain.
He reclined once again in his seat, attention now pinned on the previous target. He was enthralled by the music, by the charming manner with which the lean man's fingers seemed to caress and cajoled the strings of the guitar.
"He's good, isn't he?" James sat across from him, now dressed in different attire. "Name's Lupin. Remus Lupin." He adjusted his spectacles, eyes unfocused but seemingly looking at Lupin as well.
"That's a strange name."
"Yeah, but he's a nice chap."
"How nice?"
"Why?" A teasing grin crept up his handsome face as he turned towards his face. "What's got your knickers in a bunch, Black?"
Sirius grunted in mock annoyance, though an impish grin betrayed his amusement. "He plays good music."
"Still don't see the connection here."
"That sad number, the one he played before…" He needn't finish.
"Oh, yeah. Gets me every time."
"Plays it all the time?" Sirius turned to him now, the gleam in his eyes revealing his curiosity.
"I don't know." James shrugged. "I'm not here all the time, you know. But yes, plays it when I'm here. Never misses to make me tear up a little."
"Ooh, ickle Jamesie bawling his eyes out, eh?" He teased.
"Oh, shut up. Not like you weren't about to anyway," he snapped back.
He laughed, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on the table, now more encouraged to tease the other man.
"Maybe that's why he's doing it. To see you cry, Prongs."
Surprisingly, his little joke succeeded in alarming the other man. "You don't say!" He turned to look at Lupin, terrified at the notion that the meek man could possibly be as scheming as Sirius made him out to be.
"You're an idiot sometimes, did you know that?" he chortled. "You can't be that daft, can you?"
"You don't know about him, Sirius," he turned back to his friend, unable to fathom whatever it was Lupin was thinking though he returned the gaze with a slight smile. "He's an intelligent man, and I wouldn't put it past him," he added thoughtfully, in a low voice that snapped Sirius out of his mirth.
"Oh?"
"He's wicked, I tell you," he raised his eyebrows for emphasis, nodding gravely, "I've been a victim of some … amusing pranks of his, when he's feeling particularly up to it."
"You? Victim? Now that's a man I'd like to meet!"
He grunted, reluctantly acknowledging Lupin's occasional upper hand over him. "If you say so, could always ask him to join us."
"Do."
"Aye, I will. Now get going, you great oaf." He stood up, realizing that it was time to head home to his fiancée. "You dropping by again tomorrow?"
Sirius grinned; standing up as well as he straightened his suit. "Yeah, and have him join us."
"Oh, he's not coming tomorrow," he replied, waving a hand dismissively.
"Why not?"
"Not his shift."
"Can't you call him?"
"Why?" he sneered at him, "You'd like a date?"
"So what if I wanted to?"
He snorted disbelievingly. "Don't have his number."
"Why not?"
"I may own this place, but I'm not completely involve in its operations, okay?"
"Still, you could at least get ahold of his number."
"You're just going to have to wait."
"Arse."
"Ponce."
"Git."
"Bastard."
"Insufferable berk."
"Get the hell out of here, Black."
"No one wants to stay near you, Potter."
"Get."
"Alright, alright, you nancy. No need to get you knickers in a twist."
"Yours are in a twist."
"Oh, shut up. I'm going."
"Alright. Take care and all that shite."
"Told you you were a nancy."
"OUT."