l'osservatore della bellezza | wolfstar

no matter what you try to do

James was in the mood to annoy. And seeing as Sirius was away, he knew where to go.

"Oh Peter, darling! Where are you?"

Pettigrew poked his head around a large pile of clothing. "For heaven's sake Potter, right where you left me."

Shrugging, James sauntered over to where his friend was stitching clothes, a smug look on his face. "You might've left, though. And then what would I do?"

"You'd simply find me again and continue your incessant barrage of irritating natter."

"I'm extremely offended by that attack."

"Oh, bugger off, Potter."

"I'd rather not." James slumped into the seat beside Pettigrew, fiddling with the fabrics strewn across the table.

The tailor shop that Pettigrew owned was quiet today, which was the state it tended to be in. It was also quite dark, which explained why the two men needed to squint so hard to see one another (or, indeed, anything else. Like needles, for example, which are good to keep an eye on, since they can be quite painful if one doesn't pay attention).

But it was cosy, which was why Peter enjoyed being there. Something about being surrounded by your own handy-work and the possibility of new creations that would make someone else feel happy gave him a sort of purpose in life.

It sounded a bit ridiculous, seeing as we are talking about mostly standard clothing, but just the chance of having a use made Peter feel less, well, useless.

The sound of singing from outside made them both look up.

"It's the singer again," Potter said, a smile appearing on his face once more.

"I can hear that," Peter replied, trying to keep his focus on his stitching. It simply would not do to prick his finger again.

"Shall we go see him?"

"I'm busy, Potter."

"You're always busy." Standing, Potter tugged at Peter's arm. "Come along, Pettigrew, we can throw coins again."

"No, Pot- ow, dear fuck."

"Apologies, my friend," Potter said, as Peter sucked at his pricked finger with a scowl on his face.

"I decline your apology."

A sigh. "Oh, please let's go see him. He's so very good."

Peter looked down at his work, then sighed, too. "Very well, then. But if I get into trouble with my client I will direct them to you."

"I'll seduce them so that they're no longer angry."

"Miss Evans might get jealous." Peter nudged James' shoulder, smiling slyly.

"I hope she might, that would make my day completely."

The singer was out on the street, a small crowd gathered around him. Florence (and really, the entirety of Italy), had a habit of being crowded and bustling with people, who were prone to making a lot of noise.

Therefore, it was mildly rare to see a crowd so entranced by a single man, one who no one really knew the name of and yet everybody knew who he was.

Peter and James joined the throngs of people, whispering quietly to each other about nothing in particular.

One of those nothings was a certain girl James was in love with, who was still somewhat leaning towards pretending she didn't return his affections. And yet they'd walked together regularly, they'd had dinner, even went to see an opera together once.

I mean, yes, that opera had been awful. But it was the thought that really counted.

It was in the quiet moments, when they both caught the other's eye and stifled a laugh, where James felt himself fall further for this woman. As if he'd hit rock bottom and pummelled right through.

"Why don't you simply confess your feelings?"

James gaped at him. "Are you mad? She's bound to say no to me."

"I absolutely do not believe you, but trying to convince you otherwise is futile."

"It is."

Standing there together, listening to familiar music with people who were similarly transfixed, it felt as though they were all holding the same thread, attached to the same person, tangled together even though they didn't really know each other.

Again, very over-poetic for this usual situation.

But while I despise taking things at face value, it is occasionally good to look at the world and search for any pockets of beauty that may exist there.

Anything can be made beautiful, just as anything can be proved ugly. We could enter a debate about what makes something beautiful or not, call it a societal construct and place no value on it, but I shall not bore you any further with my perceptions.

For as we all know, this chapter is merely a filler. It's boring, and also very short.

Why, you may ask, am I pointing out that which everyone knows?

Well, I'll be honest: I don't know. But continuing this facade is pointless, so we shall leave James and Peter here, and move on with the story.

...Oh, don't give me that look. I did try my best, you know.