Beautiful Things | Wolfstar

Seventeen

James swings open the door to the pub, and a rush of loud chatter and a fusty scent of alcohol hits Remus head on. Peter trails in last, tucked safely behind both taller men. They find an open table and slide into the booth. James shrugs off his jacket and grabs a handful of peanuts. 

"You ever been here before?" James asks. 

"Only a few times," Peter answers first. 

Remus just shakes his head. He gives the place a quick sweep with his eyes. It's fairly big, and the dim lighting makes it hard to see much at all. A pool table is on the far side and an oval shaped bar sits in the middle; glasses clink and corks pop as the two bartenders maneuver their way to serve customers. Tables are scattered around the floor, but there's plenty of space to mingle. 

"I'm going to get a drink," Remus says. "Want anything?"

"Get a pitcher for the table," James answers. "On me."

Remus nods, sliding out of the booth. He walks over to the bar, leaning against the counter patiently. A few bums sit on the stools with glazed eyes, falling asleep with their drinks in hand. One of the bartenders smiles at Remus. "What can I get you?" he asks as he pours somebody else's drink. 

"A pitcher and a whiskey," Remus answers. He rubs his temples slowly to drown out the noise when he sees the bartender's name tag: Smitty Jones. Remus picks his head up immediately. "Don't you own this place?" 

"That I do," Smitty says, handing Remus his drinks. 

"Thanks mate..." Remus grabs the drinks and makes his way back to the table where James and Peter sit. "Hey, James, do you know what happened here a few months ago with Sirius?"

James raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Didn't peg you as a tabloid reader, Rem," he says while pouring himself a glass. 

"I'm not. I just heard it through the...office gossip." Remus swallows his whiskey with a slight grimace. He's not usually one for hard liquor, but after this week, he needs a drink. 

"You know, I have never met Sirius, but he already scares me," Peter jokes. 

James chuckles. "Sirius isn't scary unless he has to be. He's a good man." James's eyes meet Remus's before he brings his glass to his lips. "So Peter, you're the bloke who's been making Remus's lunches."

"I dabble..."

Remus scoffs. "Don't be so modest." He leans forward and jabs a thumb at Peter's shoulder. "He's a bloody brilliant chef! Even Sirius ate your muffin."

"You should open your own restaurant," James suggests.

Peter waves off the idea. "That's the dream."

"Have you ever considered catering?"

"Like anybody would want food catered from my flat."

James rubs his chin in thought. "Not if you say it like that!" James downs his second glass, not feeling the effects, but raises his voice significantly louder. "You're Peter Pettigrew, the up and coming chef with an all exclusive artisan kitchen, serving only select members of London." Peter's mouth is nearly frothing at the sound. "See, mate. It's all about marketing." 

As the night goes on, more pitchers are brought to fill the empty glasses piling on the table. Peter rests his head against the wall; his face is flushed and head spinning with images of meringues and eclairs. James is tossing peanuts into the empty pitcher, though his aim is incredibly off. He ends up tossing them into Peter's hair most of the time. 

Remus gazes around the bar seeing double. Sirius is standing at the bar. His business casual attire looks exceptionally fitting tonight; nearly all the buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing his tattooed chest and defined abs. His trousers hug his bum perfectly and in the front -