The Poets in Vienna

Four

     Sirius Black was a poet. He was not, however, a murderer.

     So when he woke up to a tall boy with fiery eyes and messy curls pointing a gun to his head, Sirius was confused.

     He was confused why he had to be taken hostage on a Monday of all days, he was confused why his kidnapper had to be a morning person, and he was confused as to why, of all the people in Vienna, he was chosen as a suspect.

"Sit up." The man spat, for what could've been the second time, Sirius didn't remember. His voice was rough, and reminded him of his father's, but there was an unmistakable foreign accent in his voice. There was no denying he belonged to the streets.

     Partly because Sirius had smelt him before he saw him, and partly because he looked like he'd been through a paper shredder at some point. Scars covered his body, some small and unnoticeable unless you looked close, and others large, covering expanses of tanned skin.

     His knees were on either side of Sirius's torso, the covers a tangled mess. The gun against Sirius's head was cool, and the metal was heavy, begging to be shot. The man's other hand was at his side, ready to attack if Sirius tried to express resistance.

     Sirius groaned in annoyance, trying to shake off his deep sleep. He tilted his head to the side slightly, so that the man's face wouldn't be so close, and was met with the gun being pressed against his head roughly in response.

"What the hell?" Sirius said, voice deep and hoarse from waking up. He propped himself up on his elbows, trying to ignore the man in front of him threatening to kill. The man backed up only slightly so they wouldn't be so close, which Sirius appreciated. But the gun against his head never moved.

"I said. Sit up." He grabbed Sirius's arm, yanking him until he sat up fully. The man stayed on his knees, watching Sirius carefully, as if he would disappear out of thin air if he didn't keep watch.

"What do you know about a murderer poet?"

     Sirius let out a laugh, low and short. The man tightened his grip on Sirius's arm, gloves digging sharply into his bone. He hisses in pain, not bothering to attempt to escape his grasp. The sun poured in from beneath the curtains of his room, filling the scene with an orange-ish hue.

"I don't know anything about a murderer." Sirius said, jaw tightening. He stared challengingly into the man's eyes, trying to gain some sort of higher-level over him.

"Liar."

     His spit flew on Sirius's face as he leaned in closer again, hot breath falling on his nose. Sirius tried not to go cross-eyed, focusing on a deep, jagged scar that ran across the man's face, its presence leaving Sirius with a pit in his stomach. He looked like he knew how to fight, that was for sure. His cheekbones were sharp, and his face was gaunt. Sirius could tell even when on his knees that the man was tall and slim, the bones of his knees leaving indents in his thighs.

     Sirius tried to think of a reason someone would take him for a murderer. He was secretive, sure, and lived on the edge of town, never went outside unless it was to write, but lots of people didn't like to socialize, it wasn't that strange. There was that one time his friend went missing after a night out, but that was entirely unrelated.

"Are you with the cops?" Was all Sirius asked, getting annoyed by the man's grip.

     The man, or cop, let out a huff at this, releasing Sirius's arm, and using his free arm to pull out a pocket watch from the worn-out jeans he wore. Sirius attempted to rub at the darkening red mark left on his forearm, but didn't get far before the man reacted, shoving it away and pressing the gun further into his head. Sirius winced in pain, gritting his teeth.