l'osservatore della bellezza | wolfstar

is it ever meant to hurt so?

Now, I accept that it is perfectly natural for one to assume that if a person has any artistic ability whatsoever, they must have been born with it. It is entirely the fault of their genetic privilege that they should be so blessed, while lesser mortals, such as you and I, must suffer the consequences of our misfortunate un-creativity in life.

This is called a fact. At least, according to a wide and varied populace, this is a fact, and to prevent any arguments between ourselves we shall not disagree upon it, because either you believe in a fact or you are wrong.

However, it does not, by any stretch of the imagination, mean that those who have this 'artistic ability' are actually able to always put their blessing to use.

Perhaps the planets were peculiarly aligned, perhaps God was feeling particularly spiteful that day, but Remus had been sitting on the floor for the last hour or so, staring at his awful excuse of a portrait, hair sticking up every-which-way and more paint on his face than freckles.

It was all wrong. Although it was technically accurate, Sirius' expression simply would not... express anything.

No matter how many times Remus had painted over it, those grey eyes would not shine enough, his mouth wouldn't move enough, and they didn't look like they were going to any time soon.

Honestly, the canvas would be put to better use if it was just chopped up and burned in the grate.

Remus regretted sending his muse home, and now he wouldn't return for at least another two days. There was truly no viable solution to his predicament.

Giving the painting up as a bad job, Remus sighed and leaned back into the sofa behind him, eyes slowly closing.

And perhaps it was because he had been desperately trying to remember the exact way Sirius had been watching the clouds pass over their heads, or maybe because Sirius wasn't there, but Remus found his thoughts drifting towards the handsome man he had been painting the last couple of weeks.

His thoughts were not exactly affectionate (although he did actually like his muse), but instead seemed more inclined towards his more... physical attributes.

Remus knew that Sirius thought the same things about him. There had been more than one occasion where the artist had caught the other man gazing at him with some sort of longing.

A longing which was reciprocated, but Remus was more careful with his own gazing. After all, giving Sirius what he clearly wanted so soon would be extremely dull.

"Remus, there's a - I cleaned this room yesterday!"

"Afternoon, Dorcas."

"You can shove your 'afternoon' right up that tight arsehole of yours."

Remus sighed. "This is why you will never be respected in society. You have not mastered the art of insulting another person with subtlety, and refinement."

Dorcas raised her eyebrows. "No, I won't ever be respected in that posho society of yours 'cos I'm black, you halfwitted bastard."

"A shame, really. You're far more interesting than a lot of the society that I mingle with."

She blushed a little. "Remus, you don't 'mingle' with anyone. God knows if there's anyone more opposed to people than you."

"You have a point there." Remus smiled at her. "I prefer your company anyway."

"That won't work on me."

"I'm aware."

"Are you?"