Prongsfoot fanfic

James was 15 at the time, and Marcus 17, when they were strolling through the city of their hometown and entered a bar, laughing and chatting at a table. Marcus, still taller than James, had lean muscle appearing, dark brown curls free and tumbling. His classic tan bronze skin a bit tanner than James, who'd paled after an entire year at Hogwarts. James's hair was..it was darker than his usual shade - as during the last few months he had dyed his hair Sirius' hair colour so that they matched. As they sat there, a man was playing an electric guitar and James muttered, still absorbed in his conversation with Marcus, ''I know I have a big ego, but I really don't understand why it's such a big deal though'' Marcus snorted.

''You're just lucky you have the heart to match it'' James stuck his tongue out at the response, his round glasses slipping further down his nose. All his cousin offered was a roll of his eyes. James shifted his attention to the man on the stage playing the electric guitar and seemed...captivated by the performance.

''That's 'Dirty Diana', right?'' he asked.

Marcus glanced at the performance nodding, ''Dirty Diana by Michael Jackson. The guitarist is doing a sweet overlay''. True to his words, the gruff man sitting on the stool on the stage was making the guitar sing, playing riffs and riffs. Thrumming the strings until they echoed through the dimly lit establishment.

''Damn,'' James muttered.

Time slipped as performance went after performance, after performance. When the guitarist eventually conceded his performance, James didn't waste a moment, pouncing off his seat. The man packed the guitar and went over to the bar for a drink. James met him there and the conversation began: "Hey, Mr., your performances were brilliant. Gorgeous. What model is that?" He asked settling beside the man with only a confidence (or foolishness depending on how you see it) youth could offer.

Marcus watched from where they had been sitting, shaking his head at James, muttering a resigned ''Gosh...'' under his breath, knowing there was no way he could stop his younger cousin.

"You don't have to call me “Mr,” kid. I'm just Rodrigo. That model you're talking about... Why would a young, reckless kid like you be interested in that? Your fingers look too daft to even touch it.." Rodrigo responded, voice matching his shaggy, rough look. Sparing the boy before him a mere, assessing glance.

"Too daft to play, but my mind’s sharp enough to know she’s a pricey one in this case. And in equal measure, alongside talent, you need a bloody good guitar and amp. Not the most expensive ones on the market... Well, at least not for guitars... They’ve got to be up to the job, haven’t they? And that’s up to the job. And it certainly doesn’t come from good old Mexico." James retorted, losing the bright, fascinated kid act, evoking a raise of eyebrows from the guitarist.

''Well, would you look at that... you look noble but have the smarts of a kid who grew up on the streets.'' He sighed. ''It’s a 1978 Gibson Les Paul. A burgundy finish over a smooth body, D’Addario ECG24 electric guitar strings for versatile playing... refined. The amplifier is a Vermona MV3, one of a kind.'' He explained as he unboxed it.

''And where exactly can I find it?'' James asked, getting to the main business, leaning forward in interest. Rodri barked out a harsh laugh setting his glass of whiskey he was nursing down.

"Are you crazy, kid? It’s one of a kind. It’ll cost you a fortune, and I doubt you’ll find a Vermona MV3 amp in Mexico… hell, not even anywhere in the world. It’s rare. Plus... only a few amps can handle the raw power of the guitar, and it also needs certain strings to support the tone and sustain. Strong fingers... it’s a beast you can’t tame, kid. Trust me... 20 years of playing... if this wasn’t one of the hardest guitars I’ve ever played—" The man explained, but the Gryffindor cut him off in a not so Gryffindor manner.

''But it’s the most magnificent one. No other guitar has that quality because, in every way, this guitar has been modified to reach higher notes while still offering more versatility—and that’s what you’ve perfected with all these materials… It’s a personal modification. That’s part of the reason you play it as if it were part of your soul… I have money… A lot of it. A whole lot. And I’m not going to try to make a foolish bet with a man whose very soul is clearly part of it. I need something like this for a friend. I need it for him. It’s… It’s simply him in every way. And I need to get him something... something that isn’t perfect, that has to go through trials and molds to still end up being unique. And yet more beautiful than any other guitar. Something he trusts with his soul. Something he dedicates everything to, knowing there won’t be another... because I know that’s how it feels sometimes. Even if he doesn’t say it himself..."James explained, voice softening throughout. Rodri remained silent for a while. Then upon reaching a decision, he stood up, removing the strap from the guitar and shutting it closed. Panic filled James like a splash of cold water. What did he say wrong?

''Hey... if your friend is everything you say he is—which I believe he is—then he should have it. There aren't many players like that. It would be better for it to be in the hands of a new generation than to be gathering dust. I'd never forgive myself.". The words were a clean slice, leaving James in a moment of disorientation.

"W-What?! But- but it's part of you! I'm not asking you for anything more than the information I need to find the exact kind! And I don't care if I have to travel halfway around the world for it!". Spluttering out, confused by the sudden switch he was sharply interrupted by Rodri pointing a finger at him.

''There you go! That’s exactly what I’m talking about! Most people would just walk away! Besides... I don’t have much time left to live. Colon cancer is a right pain in the arse, you know...''. James froze. " Take it, kid, don’t be shy... You taking it would do me a bigger favour than it ending up in some antique store or, worse still, in a trash can'' James didn't move. He didn't know anything at the moment. How to console without pity, how to manuever this situation. It felt as though he were robbing the bearded man before him. And yet still, the man uttered out "Take it." James out-stretched his hands to the case the man was giving him. Hesitant. Meeting him half-way. Rodri placed it in his arms. Letting James take the heavy load into his hands.

"I can promise you that I will never forget who first gave their all for it." Youth muttered to the fading experience before him.

"Then you've given me more than I could have asked for" Was all the response received as Rodri raised his glass. Ironically, the whiskey seemed to be nursing him now. "Now go on, before your friend over there gets confused into oblivion" Rodri said, gesturing at Marcus afar. James turned to look, having completely forgotten about Marcus. Slinging the case on his back, he gave one last long look...a soft frown on his face as his eyes stared at the side-profile of the man who he'd only just met. No matter what he felt, the guitarist had told him to take it.

Sparing one last look, James softly muttered, "Bye...'' waving a hand. Rodri grunted into his drink. James walked back to his cousin. ''Come on,'' He barely got out before dragging Marcus out of his seat to the door.

November of fourth year....in the common room with the fire crackling. November 3rd, the marauders gathered round the remnants of Sirius's birthday still echoing. James disappeared off to his room, minutes later appearing again but this time with a black case that he had perfectly hidden in his trunk from the beginning of the school year. 

''Here you are, Sirius. Happy Birthday,'' James said, sincerity shining through through the lack of nicknames. 

Grey met brown, and London met the remnants of Mexicano on that instrument.