SUNSHINE SUPERMAN, sirius black

1. the jean genie

( 1976 )

CHAPTER ONE
⚡︎  The Jean Genie ⚡︎

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All of the best ideas begin with an argument.

That's what Eros once believed, anyhow. It was his personal philosophy for a long time, considering how much he enjoyed moulding peoples opposing opinions to match his own, a sculptor at home in the headspace of his creations. As a natural born leader, people tended to gravitate towards him under the influence of an invisible, magnetic pull. He was a firm believer that he was completely right until proven wrong, innocent until proven guilty. (Meaning that he was completely insufferable. Still is, probably — it really depends on who you ask.) Looking back, perhaps he was just overly fond of causing arguments and things then just spiralled in a domino effect.

Lemongrass incense burned on the windowsill, smoke tendrils spiralling away into the intricate designs on the stained glass window. Sunlight poured through, creeping across the creaky floorboards like spilled ichor upon the marble of Olympus. The faint scratching of chalk against the blackboard sounded as a boy tainted the surface with his carefully concocted graffiti. A bass guitar filled the silence with the riff of Lady Madonna by the Beatles, calloused fingertips hitting every note perfectly. The music classroom was deserted in the fading dregs of summer with the exception of a few stragglers, a group of students notorious for being inseparable.

There was Deimos Powers with his broad shoulders and thick skull, not that they'd ever hold that against him. He had a good heart that was outlined in the scarlet of his tie and dimples on his face, even if he wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. Besides, he was an exceptional beater and an even better drummer, making him a key asset in the building blocks of their little band.

Lavinia Jeon was all sugary sweetness and pink hair dye, her fingertips disfigured from the pressure of her steel bass strings. Her smile was enough to thaw out permafrost, radiant enough to leave you with a sunburn that's warm to the touch. A technicolour guitar pick always hung on a silver chain around her neck, suspended in between her collarbones every hour of every day. It was incredibly dear to her, though none of the others could explain what made it so sentimental. She refused to play with it, too. Eros never wanted to pressure her into telling him what its story was, so he simply didn't. Now he'll never know.

Frankie Trelawney was as grouchy as they come, shaggy bleach blonde hair framing her sharp face, sculpted like a statue from the Renaissance. She sat atop a squinty desk, forming chords on her guitar but refraining from making any noise, save the jittery feedback from her amp. Her uniform was askew and went against most of the regulations, day old makeup smudged over her face from the night before. She was a stone cold bitch, but Eros never said she wasn't gorgeous.

Stephan Ollivander, on the other hand, was truly the only person mean enough to rival Frankie. He really should've been in the year above them, though his defiance to conform to anything and tendency to sucker punch 'annoying cunts' meant that he'd been held back a year for his fiery ideologies. If you were to search up impulsive (or irritating) in the dictionary, Stephan's name would come up in bold letters with descriptions of his passion for muggle rock and bruising his knuckles, hair bleached and buzzed to spite his grandfather. He was the culprit of all the vulgar drawings scratched onto the blackboard, hands bloodied by spectral chalk.

Eros was self-absorbed enough to consider himself the pick of the litter, with his tight mahogany curls and a smooth complexion of copper. A god amongst his peers, a heaven-sent angel in bellbottoms. He leaned back in his chair as the sky outside meshed into the reds of newborn dusk, boots sliding against the engravings on his desk whilst he engaged in a back and forth with Stephan.