Chapter Text
There’s nothin’ quite like the sound of a rodeo crowd on a hot Friday night — all boots stompin’, babies cryin’, someone hawkin’ kettle corn so sweet it sticks to your teeth. Smells like dirt and grease and beer and fear, all mixed up with diesel exhaust and old hay. The kind of stink you gotta earn.
I’m sittin’ on the top rail of the chute, bull underneath me kickin’ at the walls like he’s already decided I ain’t stayin’ on longer than two seconds. Maybe three, if I’m lucky. Name’s Bodacious Jr., which is a real funny joke until you remember the original Bodacious crushed a man's face in the '90s. So that’s comfortin’.
“You got him tight?” James leans in, mouthguard half-in, half-out, sweat drip-slidin’ off his temple. He’s still got his vest half-unzipped, like he’s too damn relaxed for someone who could die in the next ten minutes. He’s up after Marlene, so he’ll get a good laugh at my expense when she shows me up.
I grunt. My glove’s already taped, rope threaded. Bull rope’s sticky with resin and sweat. Feels like my heart’s tryin’ to punch through my ribs.
“Y’know, you don’t have to keep drawin’ the mean ones,” James adds, adjusting his hat, eyes glintin’ under the floodlights. “Could just pretend to suck for once. Might get a ride that doesn’t want to murder you.”
“That’d be boring,” I say. “Besides, gotta keep things spicy.”
He snorts and hops off the fence to get ready for his own ride. Peter’s somewhere in the crowd, prob’ly stress-eating a funnel cake and shoutin’ statistics at anyone who’ll listen. Kid doesn’t ride, but he knows more about the sport than any of us. He keeps score like a damn accountant.
I take a breath. Big one. Chest out, lungs full of night air and sawdust and nerves. The crowd’s startin’ to buzz — PA announcer crackling my name over the loudspeaker:
“Sirius Black, ridin’ for Silver Spur, on Bodacious Junior. This boy’s got fire in his veins, folks—don’t blink or you’ll miss it!”
I hate when they talk me up like that. Like I’m here to entertain. Like I ain’t got skin in the game.
The chute gate swings.
The bull bucks left and I follow, hips loose, hand locked in like I was born for this. First jump’s clean, second’s nasty. He spins hard, dirt flyin’. I lean with him, knees pressed in, free arm high and floatin’. Eight seconds feels like forever when you're countin' it one buck at a time.
Crowd’s screamin’ like mad, but I can’t hear any of it — just the thump of hooves and the rattle of my bones. I know I’m yelling too, but I can’t hear myself over the sound of my own pulse.
Then he fakes right and whips left.
I don’t go flyin’, exactly — more like ripped outta my seat by the devil himself. I hit the dirt shoulder-first, roll once, twice. He comes around swingin’ those horns and thank God for one of the clowns, Fabian I think, who jumps in just as I pop up to my feet.
Eight seconds? Probably not.
But I’m breathin’, and that’s enough.
I dust off my jeans and pull my hat back from where it landed near the rails. I can hear James hollerin’ from the other end of the arena, grinnin’ like an idiot.
“That was sick!” he yells. “You stuck the landing like a gymnast.”
“Shut up,” I call back, grinning despite myself.
The announcer reads my score — 78 — which is fair, I guess. Not my best, not my worst. Not enough for top placement tonight, but I’ve ridden worse bulls and walked away sorer.
As I climb the fence, Peter hands me a bottle of water, still squinting down at his notepad.
“You’re two points behind whichever one of the Prewetts that was, but ahead of Greengrass,” he mutters. “If you ride clean next week, you’re back in the top five.”
“Remind me why you’re not doin’ this professionally?” I ask, guzzling half the bottle.
He shrugs. “Don’t like pain.”
Fair enough.
The dust hadn’t even settled from my spill before they were callin’ up the next riders.
Marlene’s first. She’s already got her vest buckled and one hand wrapped, noddin’ along to some beat only she can hear. She’s got this wild spark in her eyes — one that says dare me — and it always gets the crowd riled up. Not everyone loves seein’ a girl in the ring, but Marlene don’t give a damn. She gets more cheers than boos, anyway.
“You ridin’ Demon Seed again?” Peter calls out, squintin’ at his notes like he can't believe her bad luck. Marlene doesn't notice of course, the optimist that she is.
“That’s right, baby,” she says, swingin’ herself down onto the bull and patting it’s neck like it’s a tired horse, not 1800 pounds of fury. “He’s a sweetheart once you get to know him.”
James hoots. “Last time he launched you halfway to Kansas!”
“Yeah,” she grins, pullin’ her hat down. “And I still scored higher than you.”
She gives a thumbs up and they open the chute.
Marlene explodes outta the gate like she’s made of dynamite. The bull bucks hard and twists mean, but she don’t flinch — she leans right into it, chin down, arm up. For a second she’s all air and instinct, hat flyin’ clean off, blonde curls whippin’ behind her like a flag.
Eight seconds later, she lands on her feet and throws both hands in the air like she just won the damn Super Bowl.
Crowd goes feral. Even I clap, despite myself.
She jogs back toward us, grinnin’ like she just kissed God and liked it. Dorcas is waitin’ at the gate with her hat in hand, eyes shining, and I catch it — just for a flash — the way they look at each other. Real soft. Real quiet. Then it’s gone, and the adrenaline is taking over her.
“Y’all see that?” Marlene crows, breathless. “Tell me I ain’t the baddest bitch in the ring.”
“No one’s arguin’,” Peter says, scribblin’ fast. “That’s an 82 if I’ve ever seen one.”
She high-fives him and howls like a wolf. “Damn right it is.”
James is next. He does this thing where he rolls his shoulders like he’s stretchin’ for a swim meet, not a death match. Always calm. Too calm.
He’s got charm for days — flashes a grin at Lily in the bleachers and she damn near rolls her eyes outta her skull. She tries to hide her smile, but we all see it. Girl’s got it bad, and James knows it. They all fancy him, but he’s only ever had eyes for her. It’s sickening, and she’s coming round to him, so it’s only bound to get worse.
“You gonna ride the bull or flirt it into submission?” I shout.
He adjusts his grip on the rope and throws me a wink. “Don’t need to flirt. It already likes me better than you.”
“Debatable,” Peter mutters beside me.
The gate flies open.
James hangs on like a damn limpet, knees locked, hat low over his brow. The bull spins like a tornado but he don’t budge. He’s got the kind of balance that makes folks jealous — fluid, cocky, like the dirt itself’s tryin’ to shake him and he’s laughin’ at it.
In the end, he’s thrown before the buzzer sounds when the bull leaps forward and somehow trips almost simultaneously, jerking James out of his seat. He lands hard, narrowly avoiding being crushed by the flailing beast, rolls once, then jumps to his feet with a fist raised, imitating me from earlier. The crowd erupts.
“Show-off,” I say under my breath, but I’m grinnin’. Bastard makes it look easy.
Back at the gate, he’s barely breathin’ hard. “You owe me a drink if I outscored you.”
“You didn’t.”
Peter checks his notes. “He did.”
“Shuddup, Pete.”
Remus Damn Lupin is last, and we don’t need to discuss whether we should stay til the end to watch him, it’s a given. We all sit together above the chute, quiet for once..
And he don’t say a word as he preps, he never does. Just tapes his glove, checks his rope, and mounts the bull like he’s done it a hundred times. Which he has. You can tell. No crowd-pleasin’. No talkin’. No smiles. Just business.
He’s drawn a big bastard — Brimstone — with eyes like murder and a mean streak a mile wide. Even the handlers give him space.
Marlene whistles low. “He’s gonna eat shit if he ain’t careful.”
But Lupin doesn’t even flinch. Leans down, mutters something against the bull’s neck like he’s sayin’ a prayer.
Then he nods.
The gate explodes open.
And what happens next ain’t like James or me or even Marlene. This ain’t flashy. Ain’t loud. It’s sheer grit. That bull bucks like hell — one, two, three spins — mean as sin — and Remus Damn Lupin is hangin’ on like he was built for it. Remus Lupin is there for the prize money, not the glory.
There’s a moment, dead center of the ride, where he leans too far forward — the bull jerks right — and we all flinch.
But he stays on.
Eight seconds hit and he lets go like he’s fallin’ into water, hits the ground clean and walks it off without even glancin’ back. Like it was nothin’. Like the bull knows better than to turn for him.
Crowd don’t cheer as loud, but they should’ve. They never do, because he always makes it look like luck. But that wasn’t luck. That was grit.
Back near the fence, Remus peels his vest off. He’s sweatin’ through his shirt, chest heavin’, face flushed. There’s something in his eyes, something wild.
I hand him a bottle of water before I can think better of it.
He glances down at it. Takes it without a word. Drinks deep.
His shirt’s ridin’ up slightly where the vest bunched — and that’s when I see it.
The scars.
Across his left side, slashin’ from ribs to hip — old, angry lookin’ things. Raised and pale and deep.
Jesus.
I don’t mean to stare — really, I don’t — but my eyes lock there too long.
Remus notices. His jaw tightens, eyes flickin’ up to meet mine. There’s this beat of tension — sharp enough to cut with.
“Bull gored me,” he says flatly.
I blink.
“Damn.”
He shrugs like it’s nothin’. “Didn’t die. So.”
I should look away. Should say somethin’ stupid or crack a joke.
But I don’t.
We were all there, some two years ago, we all saw. We all thought he was a dead man. But he lived, and didn’t change.
But now… now the scars are kinda… hot. And now I wanna punch myself in the face.
Later, out by the trailers, the girls have started tricklin’ out — Marlene’s already out of her gear, boots up on the tailgate of Dorcas’ truck, lookin’ like she owns the whole damn place.
She sees me and whistles low. “Bodacious Jr. tried to turn you into pudding. You all right?”
“Just a little bruised,” I say, flexin’ my shoulder. “Nothin’ a beer and some ice won’t fix.”
Mary MacDonald tosses me a wink from beside the truck. “Y’all always say that, and then show up limpin’ like old men next day.”
“Limpin’s part of the charm,” I shoot back.
But I’m not lookin’ at her. Not really. Not anymore.
Because Remus Damn Lupin just walked into view, his tan hat in one hand and an envelope full of prize money in the other, brown hair damp with sweat, and he looks… well. Like he doesn’t care who’s watchin’, which only makes me watch him harder. He’s wearin’ beat-up boots and a plain shirt, no flash, no name-brand patches. Just raw and quiet and all real.
He doesn’t look my way.
And I hate that I want him to.
I shouldn’t be lookin’ at him. Not like this. Not in the open, like some fool with his heart hangin’ out his mouth.
But Remus Lupin’s got this way about him — slow, quiet, solid like an old tree in stormy weather — and it pisses me off how badly I want to figure out what’s goin’ on in that head of his.
He walks past us toward his beat up old truck, eyes flickin’ over me, up, down then up and away, like I’m just another damn cowpoke in the dirt, not worth the time of day. Which, rude.
So, naturally, I follow him.
“Hey, Lupin!” I call, way too loud. I ignore James makin’ a face like what the hell are you doin’ behind me. Everyone knows that Lupin’s mean, and doesn’t like me and James, what with our ‘fancy’ families.
Remus stops, but doesn’t turn around. “Yeah?”
“Nice ride earlier,” I say, saunterin’ up like I own the whole damn county. “Looked clean.”
“It wasn’t,” he says, still not facin’ me. “Was lucky to place. Ask your pal Pete.”
I lean on the bonnet in front of him, arms crossed, tryna look cool instead of like a jackass who chased him across the damn fairgrounds.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” I say. “Most guys would kill for your form.”
His head tilts slightly, like he’s suspicious of the compliment.
“…Thanks,” he mutters after a second.
God, he’s impossible.
I push a little more, grin tilting sideways. “You always this friendly, or is it just me?”
Remus finally looks at me — and yeah, okay, maybe I wasn’t ready for that.
His eyes are sharp, tired, unreadable. He looks at me like he’s tryin’ to decide if I’m a real person. It kinda reminds of the way a bird eyes up a worm in the dirt.
“You want somethin’, Black?”
I laugh. “What, a guy can’t say hi to his competition?”
He snorts, and it’s a beautiful, exasperated sound. “We’re not friends, Sirius. You only show up here to play cowboy.”
That hits, sharp and real. I feel my jaw twitch, but I keep the grin on. Don’t let it crack.
“I ride, Lupin. Just like you.”
“You don’t ride like me.”
There’s a weight to that I don’t understand yet. Or maybe I do — I just don’t wanna touch it.
I change the subject.
“Look, I’m just tryna be friendly. Don’t gotta be an ass about it.”
“Didn’t ask you to be friendly.”
“Fine. I’ll just go back to my friends.”
He shrugs. “You do that.”
And just like that, he slips into the drivers side and shuts the door in my face.
“You’re awful at this,” Marlene says when I wander back over.
“What?” I play innocent. “I wasn’t doin’ anything.”
“Exactly,” she says, tossing me a bottle of Coke. “You were doin’ nothing but flappin’ your mouth.”
“I was bein’ charming.”
Peter snorts so hard he chokes on his candy. “You? You were tryin’ to flirt with Lupin?”
“I wasn’t flirting,” I lie quickly. “I was bein’ friendly.”
Marlene raises an eyebrow. “You always get that flustered bein’ ‘friendly’?”
“Please,” I shoot back, too fast, too smug, my mouth speaking before my brain thinks, some side effect of the excitement of the past few hours. “If I wanted Lupin, I’d have him.”
The second it’s outta my mouth and my head catches up, I regret it.
Peter and Marlene go quiet. Even James glances at me from where he’s stretchin’ out his shoulders again, brows lifted. Lily and Mary exchange a quick look and I know I’ve done it.
I cover with a shrug. “Not like that. I mean. You know.”
No one answers. The silence buzzes louder than the PA system.
Jesus.
It’s not like I haven’t — experimented. Behind barns, in the backs of trucks, at parties I didn’t belong at. Boys who were curious, or drunk, or just bored. But it was always fast, messy, private. Easy to forget about in the morning.
It’s not gay if no one talks about it. It’s not gay if you say it with a smirk and everyone laughs and moves on.
Except no one’s laughing right now.
James breaks the tension by slinging an arm around my shoulder and dragging me away toward the trailers.
“You should let it go, mate,” he says under his breath. “Lupin’s a tough crowd.”
“He’s just got a stick up his ass,” I mutter. “Acts like he’s the only one who ever rode for somethin’ real.”
James shrugs. “Maybe he is.”
And I hate that he might be right.