A Soul Without A Story
Weeks passed without much incident. Remus worked shifts at the Clay Cat when he could and stayed on the afternoon rounds at Sanguini’s. He sorely missed working with Lily, who studied fashion in Chelsea during the day and only worked night shifts. But his nights were now spent at his new studio, brainstorming ideas for the MoMA piece. It was an added bonus that his change in shifts at Sanguini’s had successfully kept him from another run in with Sirius Black.
Remus woke with a start to his phone buzzing. He sat bolt upright, back aching and a piece of paper stuck to his face from drool. He’d fallen asleep at the studio. He spent all of last night pinning up sketches, trying to find inspiration to no avail. The last thing he remembered doing was drawing a vague figure.
Peeling the paper from his face, Remus wrinkled his nose and trashed it. His phone buzzed angrily on the desk—Regulus.
Remus hadn’t been there to make breakfast that morning. Oh boy. He hit answer.
“Remus Lupin, you’d better be a dead son of a bitch, or you will be one soon.” Regulus said the moment the line connected. To anyone else, the anger in his voice would’ve sounded genuine, but Remus knew better.
“Sorry, Regulus.” He yawned, stretching out his back. “Fell asleep at the studio.”
“What am I meant to do? Drink a half pot of coffee and fend for myself?”
“Yeah. Or go to one of your fancy restaurants.”
Regulus scoffed. “There’s a time and place for TheDelacour, and it is not at eight in the morning.”
“Well, I’ve got a session here at nine, I might as well stay here.” Remus grinned. “You’re on your own.”
“You are the worst friend ever.” Regulus replied spitefully.
“Go cry into your silk handkerchief, posh boy.”
“It’s Italian linen, you classless bitch.” He snapped.
“Byyye, Reg. Don’t burn the apartment down.” Remus sang.
“I’ll set your room on fire.”
“Love you too.”
Regulus, because he’s the rudest person Remus has ever known, hung up on him first. Chuckling, he stowed his phone away and cleared up his desk. Numerous sketches adorned the glass wall, and half-crafted models of ideas sat strewn about the workspaces.
He had no solid ideas. He knew he was putting too much pressure on himself to make a masterpiece, and no focusing on creating because he loved his craft. But how could he not feel the pressure when so much as at stake? If he didn’t make something perfect, he’d never get another chance like this again.
Remus didn’t want to let anyone down, especially McGonagall, who was taking such a risk with him. He needed something to strike him, something larger than life, something that would blow the curator away.
It was a good thing Regulus was never serious when Remus missed breakfast. It was an important routine for them, but they were both perfectly capable of looking after themselves if the other couldn’t be there. The last thing Remus needed under all this pressure was more from his home life.
He went down to the pottery studio early, hoping work would allow him to focus on his project later with fresher eyes. Today’s session were meant to work with their leather hard pieces, which meant carving and englobing, and hopefully a little less mess.
Remus pulled some work from the kiln and checked up on the bisque cart, discarding pieces that had been forgotten by their makers. Then, he squeegeed the floors as was mandatory every month, and let his mind wander as he pushed water towards the floor drains.
Art began with an idea. A story. A feeling. He needed a find a story to tell, or a feeling he could turn from abstract to tangible. What was his story? Was it something people would care to hear? Did he even want his story told? Did he have one?
For as long as he could remember, Remus felt like a side character in his own life. He felt destined to be sidelined, made with the sole purpose to add an element to someone else’s legacy. He’d never been the center of attention, never someone’s first choice. He grew up with people like Sirius and James, who’d always seemed to fit in no matter where they went. People gravitated toward them, Remus included. Through high school, Remus was just known as Sirius and James’ friend. Peter was somewhere between the range of Sirius, James, and Remus. He could fit in anywhere, whenever he wanted, but choose to stay a step back. He enjoyed preening in the attention Sirius and James brought, and could be loud enough to make himself his own.
Remus had never really done that. He used to be able to flirt easily with anyone, but he was quieter about it. He was never as brazen as his old friends, never as well known or liked. Sirius, James, and Peter came from old money—Remus was their scholarship sidekick that they brought on to make themselves look better against. He knew that now, just not then when he should have.
Pretty faces and money talked—before his senior year, Remus at least had a pretty face. Sirius and James were undoubtedly the most attractive of their little gang, and Peter had a tired sort of grace about him that helped him get by.
When Remus lost his pretty face, well…there was nothing else keeping him floating. He metaphorically drowned out of a life that he’d always felt like an outsider in.
He didn’t have a story. What he had to bits and pieces of someone else’s, a perspective in the plot line of another’s tale.
Suspended in a void without significance. Without feeling.
Maybe there was something in the lack of something that Remus could use. He finished the floors and propped up the caution signs, staring at the studio as he pondered the thought.
Numbness, void, suspension, hollow.
They were just words, but maybe there was something in them that he could use. It was a start—better than all of his sketches upstairs. Remus sighed, collecting some clay, and starting turning something to take his mind off it.
The monotonous spinning of the wheel was hypnotizing. He worked the clay up and down, slippery hands gliding frictionlessly. The wheel thrummed as he hunched over it, bracing his arms and forcing the clay to center.
Years of turning had left him with a fair bit of upper body strength and he no longer struggled when the clay fought him. Remus was a pro at it by now, and was soon raising the clay into a slender vase.
Folks for the session started filing in, rousing Remus from his meditative thoughts. They greeted him and watched as he finished off the piece. Marlene and Dorcas had arrived a some point, and were cheerfully talking with the guests while Remus carefully detached the vase from the wheel and set it aside.
“‘Morning everyone,” he announced, smiling at his session. “your pieces are leather hard right now, which means we can carve feet and englobe if you want. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the englobe cart…”
——
Remus spent the rest of the day in a haze, mulling the four words over in his mind. There was something there, he could just see the outlines of it in his mind’s eye. The words were slowly taking shape, turning into fragments and something like gold and sand and string. He couldn’t put the images into words—just suggestions of possibilities.
He worked mindlessly through his shift at Sanguini’s, monotonously cleaning glasses, refilling orders, and wiping down the bar. His back hurt from sleeping funny at his desk, his feet hurt from being on them all day.
Slughorn pulled him aside before the start of his shift to passive aggressively ask him to pick up more hours, calling him ‘dear boy’ like he was a teenager. Remus was fuming by the time he was allowed back behind the bar, and angrily scrubbed at a smear on the counter when a new customer slipped into the stool opposite him.
Remus glanced up briefly and did a double take, almost choking on a sharp inhale. Sirius Black sat before him. Closer up, he could now see how the youthful face he once knew had turned into the sharply defined features in front of him now. His hair was longer than it had ever been at school, and the perfectly pressed uniforms were replaced with scuffed up leather and torn jeans.
But the lazy elegance he used to hold himself with was gone, replaced with a nervous fidgeting as he played with the rings on his fingers and looked up at Remus with wide eyes.
“Hi,” he said awkwardly. His shoulders were hunched in a little sheepishly. Remus just stared at him, unable to look away. “So, er, I dunno if you remember me—“
Memories of that night weeks ago flashed in his mind, Remus panicking and Sirius…flirting? Something cold passed over him as he remembered who he was talking to.
“Take your flirtations to Skeeter’s, if you don’t mind.” He said shortly, already turning away.
“Wait!” Sirius made to reach across the bar for him, but stopped himself. “Look, I wanted to apologize, okay?”
An apology. Something a seven years younger Remus would have killed for. Logically, he knew Sirius had no idea who he was really talking to, and this bitter resentment was over something stupid and old.
Stiffly, Remus turned back around and looked at Sirius. The only thing giving him the bravery to do so was the mask covering half of his face.
“Look, I know I can be forward and make assumptions.” Sirius said, talking quickly as if he knew Remus was already thinking about leaving again. “I really didn’t mean to freak you out and possibly out you at work—“
The very thought of outing Remus anywhere was so laughable he actually snorted aloud. Sirius paused, frowning at him.
“Everyone who works here is queer.” He clarified, crossing his arms.
“Oh.” Sirius said. “Oh, well that’s fine then, innit? Not my problem—I mean! I don’t have a problem with it! Perfectly alright with it! I’m gay, actually, so you see, I really don’t mind—“
“Yes, I know.” Remus interrupted him, helplessly amused. “You were the one making a joke about gay sex.”
Sirius clapped a hand over his heart, feinting offense. “I was not joking! I’ll have you know I was being entirely serious!”
Remus raised an eyebrow, and Sirius deflated.
“Sorry,” he said again. “my best friend’s told me I turn everything into a flirtation. Which I’m sure you get too much of at work. I’ll stop.”
“That must be very hard for you.” He replied, unable to help himself. Sirius popped his head up, a hopeful smile spreading on his lips. Remus could see the innuendo the other boy desperately wanted to make, but, true to his word, Sirius restrained himself.
“I’ll live,” he said instead. “Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry for what happened the other night. I hope you were alright.”
“Fine, thanks.” Remus replied quickly, already starting to edge away under the guise of refilling orders. Sirius took the hint and stood from the bar, although he lingered until Remus had run out of things to do.
“I’ll see you around, maybe?” He asked, that hopeful smile back on his face. Remus, helplessly lost between distancing himself and not wanting to be rude after Sirius had been perfectly polite, waved awkwardly in response.
It seemed enough, however, because Sirius burrowed his hands in his pockets, shot him one last dazzling smile, and left, a new bounce in his stride.
Remus leaned back against the bar top with an explosive breath, mind reeling.
And so, the magnet began to pull.