Sirius black is a good artist, Sirius black is a great artist, and he fucking knows it. Ever since he was young, he found comfort and peace in art. When everything got too loud, and his parents began screaming he would hide in his room nose buried in a sketchbook. He would emerge hours later, fingers dusted with paper cuts and drenched in ink. He went through sketchbooks as fast as 1 a month. When he went to school this habit did not stop. Instead of an escape and a means of survival it was quite comfort. He still went through sketchbooks like crazy but now they were pages and pages of life drawings. His friends, professors a particularly nice day, a stag, a rat, a dog. Sirius loved drawing animals.
So, when he learned at the age of 15 that his art could be a career, he was ecstatic. At home he was being groomed, to take over the Black business but after running away from home easter of year 10, he found freedom, and the strength to properly pursue his art. Sirius enrolled and got into UAL and has been a student for two years. He would be lying if he said it didn’t wear him out. Going to school for it definitely made him loath his craft a little but he never got tired of it. Yet no matter how many ears a young van Gogh cuts off; art block is inevitable. That’s where we begin our story.
Sirius is walking around London, headphones on, portfolio in hand. He hasn’t drawn in weeks. He steps into a small café near his flat in soho hoping for a strike of inspiration, and if not that. A latte.
“Next,” he hears as he moves his way to the front of the line. Taking his headphones off to place his order, he meets the eyes of his barista.
And holy fuck
“Can I … help you,” said the man. A man with sandy curls, deep brown eyes and artistically placed scar, which sat right on his face. Drawing a line from chin to nose to eye. Sirius could swear his heart stopped for a minute.
“Um hi can I get a latte please,” he said composing himself, because nosiriusyoucantjuststareatthecutebaristaidontcarehowcuteheis.
“Sure name?” the man asked bringing a sharpie to a paper cup.
“Sirius,”
“Like the star?”
“Yes!” Sirius smiled, he always loved when people pointed that out, even though it’s no secrete Sirius is a star, he still loves when people points it out. Especially, when “people” happens to be a really cute brown-haired barista. As the man scribbles down his name and order, Sirius feels it. It. The undeniable all-consuming feeling of creativity. A high he has chased since he was 5. Inspiration hath struck.
“Um sorry,” he found himself drawing, “but- could i- do you mind if I draw you?”
The man quirked an eyebrow, “draw me? What are you a street artist?”
“More like art student,” he said gesturing to the lanyard around his neck. The man leaned in across the table to study it a tad closer.
“UAL prestigious,”
“Yea well,” Sirius shrugged, a light pink blush covering his face, “so?”
“So?”
“Can i?”
“Can you what?”
“Draw you,”
“Oh! Yea sure my shifts nearly over, take your drink and sit I’ll be there in a moment,” the man said sliding Sirius his drink. He didn’t even clock him making it yea.
“Ok how much for the coffee,” Sirius said bringing out his phone to pay. The brown hair boy hummed as he came round the counter, dropping his apron in a pile of dirty laundry.
“How about you let me keep whatever you draw,”
“What if it’s really shit,”
“Well then I can just get your number then,” the boy smirked walking past Sirius to sit comfortable in a booth at the back.
-----
He looked beautiful, Sirius thought as he smudged the charcoals on his page. His jawline was sharp, which contrasted well with the softness of his hair. His hand were large and full of veins scattered with rings. He wore a large worn-out jumper. The soft glow of the café lighting paired beautifully with the commotion of the soho high street just outside the window. Sirius sketched for what seemed like hours. Yet the whole time the boy sat patiently, listening politely to whatever pose Sirius asked for next. Not a complaint escaped his mouth. By the time he finished the café was less busy, the sky had changed from blue to light purple and his hands were black with charcoal.
“Right, you may have to let me keep this one, my professor would love it,” he said turning the picture around. The boy sat up to get a better view, eyes widening at the picture.
“Sirius this is brilliant, it’s just your just- it’s gorgeous,”
“it’s you,”
“Well, I don’t think it was my beauty that did that, you’re really talented,”
“Thank you, for the compliment and for posing you didn’t have to do that,”
“Yea well I had time and there are worse fates then being stared at by a gorgeous art student for half an hour,” danm these kids got game.
As Sirius looked down to name his piece, his head shot up in realisation, “Wait! What’s your name?”
“Remus, Remus lupin,”
“Remus,” Sirius said, testing how the vowels rolled of his tongue, “Remus, such a pretty name,” he muttered the next bit, “such a [pretty name for a pretty boy,” Remus still heard.
“Pretty boy huh,”
Play it cool Sirius, play it cool.
“Please like you don’t know,”
Remus hummed, “Yes I do, you do too, I feel like that’s the important thing,”
“Well, the pretty boy pleasure meeting you and I thank you for your addition to my coursework,”
“Hmm can I have your number now,”
Now it was Sirius’ turn to quirk an eyebrow, “I’m sorry,”
“Well, I thought I made it quite clear if I don’t get the piece then I get your number,”
“Oh, yea sure,” Sirius said handing over his phone. Remus typed in his number and sent himself a smiley face before handing the phone back to Sirius.
“Well then I’m sure I’ll see you again then star, good luck with that piece,” Remus bent down pressing a small kiss to Sirius cheek as he stepped out of the café. Sirius burst into an obnoxious grin, as he went to Remus’ contact.
Pretty boy
The fucker named himself pretty boy.