Chapter 2
Remus wakes up to Sirius’s breath on his neck.
He keeps his eyes shut and lets himself revel in the warmth that radiates from every spot their skin overlaps.
His bones still ache from the moon and there’s a gash across his left shoulder that left him tossing and turning till the alarm clock glowed two am. He hardly sleeps on the night after, and can only be grateful that this moon happened to land on a Friday night, meaning he’d have the weekend to recover.
And Sirius’s arms are wrapped around his waist, and everything feels a bit better.
He runs his hands gently through Sirius's hair, and pulls the blankets around them tighter. Remus can’t fathom what he could have possibly done to deserve to hold a star, but he’ll cling to it as long as he’s aloud.
”Morning love.” He whispers when Sirius starts to stir. “Sleep well?”
Sirius hums and squeezes him tighter. “Please tell me it’s a weekend.”
”Sunday. But you do have to meet your brothers and Lily for Brunch in three hours.”
”Blergh.” He rolls over moaning. “Why do I force plans on myself?”
”Because you and James have an unhealthy co-dependence and would probably die if you had to go without one another for more than two days.”
They lay in bed a few minutes longer, neither wanting to leave the comfort of their own little world. But, there are many things that need to be done before the day is over.
Sirius sighs. “Fine, I’m awake. I guess I should go take a shower.”
He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, before looking back over his shoulder at Remus. “Care to join?”
…
“Would you like to come down stairs today?”
Padfoot looked up from his sketch pad, surprised. Though he had been well enough to walk for a few days, those steps had been frustratingly painful, and disproportionately exhausting. He wasn’t sure his chances with the stairs were very good.
But, Moony seemed to know what he was doing (even if he rarely bothered to inform Padfoot to ask what that was). If Moony declared him prepared to face the staircase, then Padfoot supposed he trusted him. It wasn’t like he had much choice anyway.
And, if he was honest, he was a bit curious about the life Moony led. The man claimed to own a tea shop, but he was able to take hours out of his day to care for a stranger. He never talked of any other person in his life (well, he seldom talked at all), though he had tens of names on his calendar that lay on the far wall.
“Alright.”
With a great deal of clenched teeth and side shuffling, Padfoot was transported down stairs more or less in one piece.
The bottom floor was, in fact, a tea shop. Though it was unlike any other he had (not)seen.
Empty mugs sat on empty tables. There was a display case full of pastries, but labeled with colors rather than price. The chalkboard above the counter that Padfoot assumed would normally host a menu, was blank, save for the word LOST, written in the center in long white letters.
Moony didn’t seem to feel the need to show Padfoot around, so he sat down at one of the window tables and silently accepted the pens and paper Moony handed him.
Moony had brought him the art supplies two days after he’d woken up.
As well as fighting off boredom (there wasn’t much one could comfortably do when their chest felt like it had been run over by a stampede of angry cheese graters), the drawing had revealed that, while his memories were still annoyingly redacted, his motor skills had stayed intact.
He must have been an artist of some sort. He could reproduce objects in ink with startling accuracy, the type that would take years of practice.
He seemed to have a particular talent for faces as well. Though he didn’t have much to go by, He’d drawn himself in the mirror a few times, and even Moony had complemented the image. He’d sketched out a few portraits from a book of photography by his bed too, though those references were exhausted quickly.
Mostly, he found himself drawing Moony. It had taken longer to get his face down than he would have liked, certainly much longer than it had taken him to do the other faces. Most of the early sketches looked like Moony, but were slightly off. He’d look younger, have a different tilt in his eyes, or Padfoot would forget to add the scar over his ear. He could never quite get the scar placement right.
But, he had no shortage of time, so, sitting at the window table, he once more set himself about the task of capturing Moony on paper.
The man had busied himself at the counter, clicking buttons on the register, and re-organizing the pastries. The sun was high in the sky by now, but no one seemed to be stopping by. For about an hour, Moony disappeared behind a swinging door that Padfoot assumed led to the kitchen. Time seemed to crawl on as always, slowly.
Until, the poppies started showing up.
And the strangest thing about the appearance of these flowers was that with them, appeared Moony’s smile.
And then finally, appeared a customer.