Work Text:
The birch trees grow so near their balcony that Remus's outstretched hand reaches the branches.
He's worked on this painting for several weeks now. Having lived here with his Pads again since these leaves burst out of the buds and throughout another summer, he's familiar with the nuances of their reactions to light and humidity, to temperature and any movement of air, and to his touch.
This top-quality aquarelle canvas with special sensitivity for concealing and resurrecting line and colour can allow a beginner like him to succeed. He's known all the time (ever since he cunningly gained the right to study Magic of Images, not only Dark Creatures, at Merlin College) what he wants to include in his first real, moving watercolour. The composition was first outlined by his right hand – with the fingers of his left hand brushing the rich green foliage, then stealthily lingering on the warm skin of Sirius's knuckles while fumbling for the burning cigarette.
The initial elusive pose is in the profile. Sirius is with him and he is not.
Now last time’s background image, too – the dance of the verdant branches hit by an early autumn storm – is hidden. Only the rippling which Remus's fingertips can feel on this fresh white surface confirms that nothing has been lost.
He did capture that movement, although the rain had driven him to move the easel from the balcony. Since he’d ventured out for too long and got drenched, he was so cold that he also needed to soon close the door and to complete the scene while watching it through the glass. Still, the life in that image did not escape his compassionate brushstrokes.
This reassures Remus when he starts wetting the canvas for today’s scene. Depicting the birches in their golden glory may look like an easy feat. The temporary serenity makes it a challenge, however, to catch the subtle anticipation of further change.
If the merry and desperate glow of his colours succeeds in conveying the vulnerability of each leaf, this view will flow into the next ones. Into the thinning of veils in shades of bronze, and into their opening for the chill to enter. Or for someone to leave? No, this autumn Remus won’t.
Until late into the fading afternoon he can pretend that some of the dazzling sunlight has been stored in a solid wall of trees so that they radiate enough heat to reach him. Finally he's sure that further touches could only spoil the tints of yellow.
That’s when he allows himself to resurrect the graphite pencil lines of the sketches for the figure he's been dying to work on again.
Now he notices that his hands are getting stiff. Still, he doesn’t want to waste any time on preparing a mug of tea to warm them up.
He moves the easel in from the balcony, and goes on staring at the landscape through the window, so as to let his memory show him more than the outlines of his model: to show Sirius as he would lean against the railing. To reach the moving image, complete with the curl of smoke rising from the fag, and the curl in the strand of night-dark hair hanging over one luminous eye.
Having erased the extra graphite with wand magic, Remus goes over the important lines again. Including all the curls, which makes him smile to himself – and to the emerging figure.
His fingers are just starting to tingle, as if they could already sense the image stirring, when he hears Sirius's keys.
His heart leaps. A spontaneous flick of his wand hides everything except the latest completed background.
Remus hardly has time to fear that he’ll meet the worst sight of Sirius he's dared imagine: exhausted, perhaps wounded, sliding down with his back against the door. He's still just dropping his pencil and turning away from the easel, so as to rush to the hall...
Sirius surprises him by striding into the room. The biker boots leave muddy stains on the floor.
There’s such an unexpected amount of energy in Sirius that he’s overwhelmingly close to Remus almost too soon. He has clearly not shaved for a few days, but there are only the comforting smells of leather and dog, of garages and woods.
His rough, cold hand lands with force on the nape of Remus's neck, then the fingers slide softly along his chin, touch his lips, and flee.
Having hardly spared a glance at Remus's work, Sirius is already stepping out to the balcony.
But he leaves the door open, and as soon as he’s lit a cigarette, he turns towards Remus, leaning with his hips against the railing.
Remus doesn’t know if he’d better just concentrate on looking, as long as Sirius stays in the middle of his landscape. But he decides to take the risk: he drags the easel and the palette back to the balcony.
No words are spoken, just like every time recently when, after days of absence, Sirius has come back home to Remus in the middle of the night and left too soon again – left him wondering whether the tender touches were a dream. There is hardly enough light for painting, but more than in those nocturnal moments of intimacy.
The birches still glow like torches and illuminate Sirius, who tosses the hair from his face. And his mouth opens more than is needed for placing the cigarette between his lips.
Now Sirius must know what Remus is doing; perhaps he understands why Remus wants to do it out here in the open. And he’s not escaping it: their eyes meet every time Remus looks his way. It seems this time Sirius doesn’t care if they can be seen by someone from the street or from another balcony. His relaxed pose confirms that he won’t get impatient with the artist at work.
Remus is taking his time, fleshing out the figure in his fragile medium. No, he won't let his left, sensitive hand tremble from the cold.
Soon, when the paintbrush can be put aside and Remus raises the wand in his right hand for the charms of the Magic of Images, Sirius will step closer and grab the left, freezing hand between his palms. Having stayed almost still for Remus's sake, he’ll be shivering, too, and they’ll be standing in a tight embrace while Remus gives the final touches to the portrait.
Now Remus dares believe that he won’t lose his Pads.