Latte Art

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re crazy Mary.”

“You’re one to talk!”

They stared each other down. Off to the side of them, Marlene waved her hand, sighing out loud. “Does it really matter? Just wear the stupid thing Barty,” she said, stretching out on the chair of the clothes shop. 

Barty turned to stare at her in horror. “That is the worst shirt I’ve ever seen!” He protested. “What happened to your sense of style?” He gestured at the offensive piece of clothing Mary held. “I can’t wear that to the exhibition!” 

“This isn’t even the worst thing you’ve worn! It’s not that bad!” Mary defended, turning to appraise the orange shirt she had picked out once again. 

“Exactly! I’ve worn worse things before! That’s how bad it is!” 

Mary rolled her eyes, putting back the orange shirt. She continued sifting through the racks of clothing, and Barty did the same. Too fancy, too casual, too itchy, too stuffy…The list of problems with each article of clothing went on. 

It was only about ten minutes later when Marlene started to complain again. “I’m starving. Why couldn’t you have taken Sirius instead? Are you two done yet?” Marlene whined. Both Mary and Barty ignored her. 

Finally, fed up, Marlene stood up and grabbed a random shirt off the hangers. Barty turned, attention caught by the sudden movement. Oh. It was perfect. A sage green button up, which was plain but still stylish enough. Barty knew just the thing to go with it.

They left quickly after Barty bought the shirt, to Marlene’s delight. Waving to the both of them, Barty called an Uber to take him to the studio he shared with Sirius. Upon reaching, he walked in, dumping the shopping bag on a chair.

Sirius stood there, on his side of the studio, staring at a canvas, seeming deep in thought. He held a paintbrush on one hand and a palette in the other, which teetered precariously at the edge of his fingers. The canvas was painted a light brown, and Barty could make out the sketches of buildings. 

Shrugging off his jacket, Barty decided to not to distract Sirius and went to change in the bathroom. He slipped on an old, oversized shirt which had previously been white. Now, there were random splashes of paint all over it. He glanced at the mirror. He looked fine. Plain. Nothing much. Just a shirt over sweatpants. A wave of insecurity washed over him, and he looked away from the mirror. 

Walking out, he started preparing to paint. Putting on a carefully curated playlist by Dorcas, he connected it to their speaker. Upbeat music filled the air. Barty turned on his alarms as well, and stared at the blank canvas. He had just finished a painting of an amazingly beautiful landscape that James had captured with his camera, and he had to start a new work.

Barty had always hated blank canvases. It was when he had no ideas or inspiration. There wasn’t that rush of adrenaline that made him feel like he could paint anything. He’d rather have half done paintings than have an empty canvas. Art block was unbearable to him. 

Barty rooted through his own mind for an idea. Anything. His thoughts took him back to the café. Of the blonde boy. Of his bright brown eyes. Of his poise but quick movements. Of his elegant handwriting. Of the cup sitting on the table near the entrance. 

Barty turned, quickly going to grab the empty cup that he had washed already. Setting it on the side table next to his canvas, Barty picked up a pencil.

And it felt amazing. His hands moved the pencil across the canvas, almost of its own accord. His mind flowed with ideas, and it was almost like there was magic thrumming through his veins. He lost himself to the inviting pull of it. It was like submerging into water and floating there, allowing himself to be carried by waves and currents. Switching out the pencil for a paintbrush, he continued to paint. He knew exactly what to do, and never missed a step. It was spellbinding.

His alarm went off. Barty snapped out of the drunken haze he had been in. His throat felt dry, and his hands were stiff. Putting the palette and brush down, he took a long drink from the water bottle that was always ready on the side table. Flexing his fingers, he turned off his alarm, with a glance at the time. 6.10p.m. It had been around five hours already. He took a step back. 

On the canvas, there was a blonde barista capping a drink. There was a neutral look on his face, but a hint of amusement sparked in his eyes. Oh. He had drawn and painted Evan. From his memory alone. He stepped back even further, eyeing the painting critically. It was quite far from done, but it looked fine. For now, anyway. 

Barty turned away, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. There were new splashes of paint on the already-ruined shirt. There were many colourful strokes of paint on his hands, and even some on his arms. His hair was messy and he looked tired.

Not like Sirius. Barty’s gaze slid to him. He was still painting, but he still looked good. Barty glanced back at himself. He looked terrible. He felt terrible. It was disgusting. Anxiety clawed its way up his throat. It held him in an iron grip. His breathing was uneven. No. He was fine. He had to be fine. His fingers fisted into his palms. They dug into his skin. There would be imprints later. He stared at himself. A part of his mind screamed at him to look away. That part won over. 

He forced his gaze away, choking back the tears that threatened to spill. Pandora had helped him through this many times. He took a few slow, deep breaths. It was slightly better. 

Turning his back to his painting, he headed for Sirius, to see what he had painted. Sirius looked up as he approached, nodding in greeting. Barty glanced at his canvas. Sure enough, it was of the city, with a sunset and Sirius’ signature dramatic lighting. People milled around, but they were blurs. There was only one clear person who sat on a bench. They were sandy haired in a knitted sweater, a book open in their hand. 

 Barty turned to flash Sirius a devious smile. “Remus? Now that’s a whole new level of obsessing,” Barty said, laughing at Sirius’ flushed face. 

“Shut it Crouch. You’re not much better,” Sirius gestured at Barty’s painting. “Evan? In fully fleshed out detail with little to no planning beforehand? All from memory?” Now it was Barty’s turn to blush. “And the writing on the cup?”

You’re not as bad as people say. You’re a whole lot worse. Evan had written, as an insult. Not that Barty really saw it as one. 

“Fine. Are you going to show that in our art exhibition?” 

Sirius paused, pondering this. “I don’t know. I might. I like it, I guess. So maybe I will,” he finally replied. “Oh about that, the date and time for the exhibition was finalized. It’s in a month, so 10 May. It’s going to be like a night time thing, at 6p.m.” 

Barty nodded, praying that he remembers to write it down in his calendar. “Are you going to throw in the auction?” He knew that Sirius had been on the fence about it for quite a while. It wasn’t easy to give up works that you had poured your heart and soul into. Barty knew that.

Sirius was quiet. He stared at his own painting. Finally, he shook his head. “No. Maybe another time,” he stated. He seemed certain about it. Barty nodded in reply. 

He looked back at his own painting, staring at it. Should he display it at the exhibition? Maybe. He moved over to cover it with a tarp, something he did just in case. Ever since James accidentally splattered his painting with paint, effectively ruining it, to say he had been mad was a huge understatement. James had been banned from the studio after that. Even Sirius and Regulus couldn’t make Barty revoke the ban. On that topic, Barty made a mental note to ask Regulus about James. 

Barty glanced at his painting again. Maybe, just maybe, he should pay a certain blonde barista a visit.