All of the color is gone. He had seen a little bit of brown, but Sirius clumsily let it slip through his fingers as his vision faded back to grayscale.
"FUCK!"
Sirius flopped onto the small leather loveseat in his studio flat, panting heavily. Well, it was a flat. Before he donated his bed frame for more room for his canvases, sold his television for cash to buy paint and had his oven removed for space for a drying rack, it was a quaint place for a college student. Now, it's a sort of makeshift art studio. Regulus, his brother, thinks he's going to regret the oven removal and a few other minor changes he made to the place, including an awful lot of holes in the walls from the thumbtacks he uses to pin up his music posters, when he needs to eventually move out. Sirius isn't worried though, he'll find a way to charm his way out of having to pay for the damages.
Right now his worries aren't focused on the inevitable consequences of his superb interior design choices. They aren't focused on what he's going to have for dinner tonight, what with his missing stove and all. They aren't even focused on the fact that he just destroyed what was left of his flat.
Okay, he will be worrying about his one room flat looking like a tornado just passed through it later. In a fit of rage, he dumped all of his paints on the floor, stomped on his charcoals, split another easel in half, and now that the adrenaline is slowly vacating his body, he feels a vague itch near his fingers. He looks down at his hand, and sure enough there are large bits of glass wedged in between his knuckles. The itch turns sharper and sharper until it burns.
"Fuck," he breathes.
He steps over the record player on the floor, surprised it survived the catastrophic meltdown Sirius had-his last one hadn't been so lucky- and walks into the would-be kitchen. It would be a kitchen if he actually stored food or dishware in the cabinets, but instead when you open them there is a variety of art supplies, finished pieces, and his first-aid kit.
It would also be a kitchen if Sirius hadn't sold his oven. With his stomach growling, he is beginning to regret that choice. He drags the kit out of the cabinet with his left hand, his right one still hissing with pain. Unfortunately, his right hand is his drawing hand. He finds himself wishing he'd been born ambidextrous, like his brother.
No, Sirius isn't worried about his landlord, or his stomach, or his studio, or his hand. He's worried about the looming deadline that comes to a close on Sunday.
3 days, Sirius thinks. 3 days left to come up with a piece that "displays the experiences of my future and past" and I have nothing to show for it.
He's had weeks to come up with an idea. Months even. But no matter what Sirius does, he is stuck with his worst case of artist's block yet.
His phone rings, and the tight knot in his stomach slightly loosens when his best friend's contact flashes on the screen. Sirius answers, and props the phone against the fruit bowl, putting it on speaker phone. He tries to not let his phone touch the drying pieces of paper mache resting on the empty basket.
"Hey Prongs," Sirius says, pulling out the last of the glass shards from his hand. "How're you feeling?"
As soon as the glass is completely removed, Sirius runs his hand under the cool water of the sink, unsure if this is the correct method for cleaning the wound. He winces while his vision is immediately filled with crimson from his bleeding knuckles. The pain subsided long enough for him to realize he saw the color, but even that faded away too.
"I'm brilliant mate, how about you?" James’ voice crackles from the other side of the phone. Sirius can practically hear the lopsided grin he knows is plastered on his face. Of course James "Sunshine" Potter will be having the day of his life while Sirius can't remember a day when he felt more like running away from everything he knew. Except, of course, the day that he did.
Since the day he ran away from home, he doesn't know if his baby brother will ever forgive him completely. The thought of Regulus' perpetual grudge against him didn't really help much with his mood, so Sirius tried to focus on the good parts of his day.
Yeah, right.
He let out a halfhearted chuckle, "Well, I'm actually pretty shit. The best part of my day was hearing that you're doing great while I peel glass out of my hand."
"Bloody hell, Pads, another fit?" James asks, his sly smile quickly replaced by a pitying sigh.
Bandaging his now clean hand, Sirius allows himself a moment to look past the opening of the kitchen into the rest of the studio. The breakdowns are becoming more and more frequent. They start when he pushes himself too hard for too long and he gets frustrated. They end only when everything he owns is reduced to piles of nothing on the floor.
Instead of answering his best friend, Sirius lets out a small hum in his direction. A small smile plays on his lips when he spots the now-broken vase that caused his injury. He feels a strange sense of calm when he looks at the mess that he can't really explain.
"Shit, well-" James stops. He takes a sharp breath and tries to find his footing. As much as he wants to be, James has never been good at comforting. He gives his everything to fix. He took Sirius in when he left home and tried to fix the wounds he was given, the trauma he had from his abusive childhood, and even tried to fix his relationship with Regulus. Goddamnit if he wasn’t good at it, too. But some things can’t be fixed, and that’s when James starts to feel useless. “I just wish I could help.”
Sirius doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re the most helpful bloke I know, did I not tell you that the best part of my day so far was your unusually chipper mood? Is it Evans? What happened?”
“Stop deflecting. I think you should take a break from working, Pads. Maybe get a spot to eat and put your headphones on, yeah? Listen to some Queen or some old hippie shit and get your creative juices flowing,” he suggested.
Sirius’ serenity drops instantly. “Prongs, I only have 3 days to finish this piece. If I don’t put in the work I can kiss my midterm grade goodbye!” He has less than 72 hours and a painting with a bullshit prompt to make. He can’t waste any more time. “I’m burning my precious minutes just talking to you!”
“I know that, but honestly Padfoot, you’ve been working nonstop all week and all you’ve gotten are fits and broken supplies,” he sighs. “Your inspiration isn’t going to strike in that stuffy flat of yours. At least go down to the new cafe they opened by your place. Bring your sketchbook and some pencils and see if you can break through, yeah?”
Maybe it was just his stomach talking with the withdrawals of being stoveless, but Sirius agreed and found himself walking to the local cafe with his headphones on and his canvas bag under his shoulder.
“When You Were Made” by The Growlers playing loudly in his ears, autumn leaves crunching at his feet, Sirius felt unstoppable. And maybe a little hopeful. For the first time in weeks he could see some colors: mixing together and flowing and bright.
You were the reason they stuck around
But you're old enough now
Don't worry babe
Not 'till you've been there too
Will your world be less cruel.
Sirius opens the door and smells the familiar scent of dark roast and pumpkin spice. While the colors were still muted, his world was no longer greyscale.
He was in the line, about to shoot James a quick text praising him and telling him how right he was, when it was his turn to order. He looked up, about to speak, but an invisible dam broke and color bounced into his world again, starting with amber.
The man in front of him was a sight for sore eyes. The color leaking from him made Sirius feel as if he’d been deprived from it for months, which he had been.
His eyes were a bright amber in contrast to his tired eyes. If he looked closely, Sirius could see the ring around his iris was actually a dark brown, and the same brown was littered throughout the rest of his eyes in speckles. He had a long silver scar across his freckled, golden skin, dragging from the corner of his left eye to just above his right jawline. His mess of brunette and dirty blonde waves fell over his forehead, overgrown, but it suited him well. He was tall and lanky. The way his arms moved when he talked reminded Sirius of a baby giraffe that was still trying to get used to its limbs. That’s when Sirius realized the barista had been talking, and he had been staring.
“I’m sorry,” Sirius said, taking off his headphones and realizing how dry his tongue felt. “I was- I didn't quite catch that.”
The barista just laughed, and Sirius thought his smile was somehow prettier than the rest of him. His teeth were straight but not perfectly white. His lips stretched widely into a wolfish grin as his shoulders bounced up and down with the action. That’s when Sirius saw his mouth moving and began to wonder if this was going to be a problem, never being able to focus on his words because of the color dripping from him and his godlike features stealing his attention. His jawline was unrealistically sharp, and his Adam's apple looked like a bubble in the middle of his throat that would pop if you touched it. And his cheekbones-
Oh fuck, he’s talking again, Sirius thought.
“-was just letting you know about the seasonal special,” he said, with a mild accent that Sirius couldn’t place. “It’s not very good but I’m obligated to recite the message for every customer.” His smile was less friendly and more I’m going insane.
Sirius barked a laugh. His eyes drifted towards the man’s body. He was wearing an old sweater that looked like it belonged to a grandpa, but seeing it on this beauty of a man felt right, like it was a part of him. He then looked at the brown apron he was wearing, it had three pins attached. One said, “I Speak Welsh!” another said “He/Him.” And the nametag he was wearing said Remus. Of course his name was as remarkable as he was.
“Where’s Romulus?” Sirius teased, with a tilt to his head and a falsely curious expression on his face.
Remus didn’t miss a beat, “He’s in the back. He’s in charge of the milky drinks, y’know?”
That ripped another sharp laugh out of Sirius. “Didn’t know they served lattes with wolf's milk here,” he retorted, not bothering to hide his smile this time.
That drew a chuckle from Remus, his shoulders moving up and down again and Sirius was quite pleased with himself. His pride quickly turned to embarrassment when he saw Remus’s eyes rake over him. He suddenly felt underdressed in his black sweatpants and Bowie T-Shirt, his hair tied back in a bun with loose pieces framing his face. He was covered in paint and his leather jacket felt a bit out of place.
“Yeah, it’s all the rage right now,” Remus drawled. Sirius forgot what they were talking about, rushing to pull his long hair out of the knot it was in. He was still looking at Sirius, but his face instead of his clothes, searching. He had one hand leaning on the counter and one wrapped around the electronic register. Remus suddenly stopped studying him, and made eye contact that made Sirius nervous. “What’d you like?”
“Can I draw you?” Sirius blurted without thinking. Sirius had broken through his block, and there were ideas swimming in his head, soaking through the leftover barrier he had, all amber. When he saw Remus’ slightly confused expression he quietly added, “please.”
Remus was slightly taken aback, but he recovered quickly. “Uh, yeah sure.” He had a neutral expression if it weren’t for the corners of his mouth betraying him, tilting upwards. “Would you like to order?”
Brought back from admiring Remus’ shy smile, Sirius’ wide grin wouldn’t leave his face as he said, “Oh yes, a medium black coffee and a chocolate croissant, please.”
“Will do,” Remus said, and while he was punching buttons on the little register Sirius had time to notice the light pink blush on his cheeks. Sirius' smile grew impossibly wider.
Remus grabbed a cup and a sharpie, ready to write something, and looked back up at Sirius, almost sheepishly, “Can I get a name for that?”
“Sirius.”
Remus nodded and looked down at the cup, then looked back up at Sirius with a slight smile and furrowed brows. “Like the dog star?” he had asked. Sirius couldn’t do anything but blush like a teenager and nod.
Remus smiled and went to fill up his coffee. When he came back, he handed it and the chocolate croissant across the counter. Squinting his eyes and frowning slightly, tipping his head feigning curiosity, he asked “Isn’t it ironic that my name means wolf and yours is the dog star?”
“Almost like destiny brought us canines together.” Sirius said, only half joking.
That made Remus do that wonderful shoulder laugh again. Sirius blushed. “Something like that.”
Sirius sat down in a corner booth to eat his croissant and draw in peace. When he looked at his coffee cup, the name wasn’t ‘Sirius’ at all, but instead the hot barista wrote ‘Romulus.’ He rolled his eyes but laughed all the same, and when Sirius looked up at Remus, he didn’t see a reserved smile or a slight chuckle. Remus threw his head back and laughed, still moving his shoulders.
He began to draw, his mind filled with a canine-like smile and moving shoulders. Sirius tried to focus. He wanted to get his sculptured features just right, afraid he couldn't do him justice. Looking up often to study Remus, Sirius would more often than not find Remus already looking his way, smiling, every single time.