The dawn crept in like a whisper, soft and unhurried, painting the room in hues of gold and gray. Sirius lay awake, his restless fingers tracing patterns on the rumpled sheets, his mind alive with the kind of energy that only the early hours could bring. Beside him, Remus slept, his breath steady and deep, his face serene in the way that only sleep could make it. The contrast between them was a quiet symphony—Sirius, the spark of lightning; Remus, the calm of the earth.
Sirius propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze lingering on Remus. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting delicate shadows across Remus' skin. His freckles, faint and scattered like constellations, seemed to call to Sirius, begging to be mapped, to be known. Sirius smiled, a small, private thing, and reached out, his fingertips hovering just above Remus' shoulder.
He began with the lightest touch, a featherstroke along the curve of Remus' collarbone. Remus stirred, a faint hum escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake. Sirius’ smile deepened, and he continued, his fingers dancing in slow, deliberate movements. He traced the lines of Remus’ shoulders, the dip of his spine, the rise and fall of his ribs. Each touch was a word, a note, a brushstroke on the canvas of Remus’ skin.
Sirius’ mind wandered as he worked, his thoughts as fluid as the morning light. He thought of the way Remus laughed, low and warm, like the rumble of distant thunder. He thought of the way Remus’ hands, calloused and steady, could hold the weight of the world and still feel gentle against Sirius’ cheek. He thought of the way Remus’ eyes, golden and knowing, could see straight through him, past the bravado and the chaos, to the heart of him.
His fingers moved to Remus’ arm, tracing the scars that marred his skin. Each one was a story, a battle fought and survived. Sirius’ touch lingered there, reverent and tender, as if he could heal the wounds with his love alone. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the oldest scar, the one that ran from elbow to wrist. Remus sighed in his sleep, a soft, contented sound that made Sirius’ chest ache with something too vast to name.
“You’re my masterpiece,” Sirius murmured, his voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “Every line, every scar, every freckle. You’re perfect.”
Remus’ eyes fluttered open then, slow and heavy with sleep. He blinked up at Sirius, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “Morning,” he said, his voice rough and warm.
“Morning,” Sirius replied, his fingers still tracing idle patterns on Remus’ skin. “Did I wake you?”
“Mmm. Felt like you were drawing on me again.” Remus’ smile turned teasing. “What is it this time? Another map of the stars?”
Sirius grinned, unrepentant. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just you. You’re my favorite thing to draw, you know.”
Remus chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Flatterer.” He reached up, his hand brushing against Sirius’s cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you love me,” Sirius said, leaning into the touch.
“Yes I do,” Remus agreed, his thumb brushing over Sirius’ bottom lip. “Even when you wake me up at the crack of dawn with your artistic endeavors.”
Sirius laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. He leaned down, capturing Remus’ lips in a kiss that was slow and sweet, a promise and a prayer all at once. When he pulled away, Remus’ eyes were soft, his smile tender.
“Go back to sleep,” Sirius whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Remus’ forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Remus’ eyes drifted shut, his breathing evening out almost immediately. Sirius watched him for a moment longer, his heart full to bursting. Then he lay back down, his hand resting lightly on Remus’ chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
The morning stretched on, lazy and golden, and Sirius let himself drift, his thoughts as light as the sunlight streaming through the window. In the quiet, in the stillness, he found a kind of peace he had never known before. And as Remus slept beside him, his skin still warm under Sirius’ touch, Sirius knew that this—this was his masterpiece. Not drawn in lines or strokes, but in moments, in love, in the quiet beauty of a shared life.
And it was perfect.