Work Text:
You're seated before the mirror, the cap of your eyeliner in one hand, the sharp-tipped applicator in the other. There's a tightness in your chest that has nothing to do with breath and everything to do with frustration.
The tremors started small this morning—barely there, like a low buzz beneath your skin—but now they've spread through your arms, making precision a battle rather than a given.
You try again.
And again.
The applicator jitters in your grasp, leaving a smudge beneath your eye instead of the sleek line you intended. With a sound halfway between a growl and a sigh, you drop it onto the vanity and press the heels of your hands into your eyes.
"Hey," Sirius says, his voice soft with concern. He's standing behind you, hesitating because he can sense the storm building—not directed at him, but at everything else: your body, the unfairness, the bloody eyeliner smeared across your skin like a battle wound.
His presence is a warmth at your back, grounding yet unobtrusive. You sense him there, real and solid, even before his fingers brush your shoulder—a touch light enough to be a ghost's whisper. "Can I help?"
You hesitate, your gaze dropping to the array of makeup scattered across the table. There's a vulnerability in admitting defeat, especially over something as seemingly insignificant as this. "I look like a child who's been let loose with a felt tip pen."
His chuckle is a soft rumble, a comforting balm over the sting of failure. "No, you look like someone who could use a hand...and didn't think to ask." A pause, then, "Lucky for you, I'm here to offer one."
The refusal sits on the tip of your tongue, familiar and reflexive. You've never been one to depend on others, especially not for tasks as mundane as applying makeup. But when you meet Sirius's gaze in the mirror, his eyes hold no pity—only an understanding that runs deep and quiet, like a river beneath winter ice. And his hands, roughened by years of hard living yet gentle, promise steadiness where yours falter.
So, you nod.
Sirius picks up the eyeliner, cradling it like a paintbrush about to create a masterpiece. His other hand lifts your chin gently with two fingers, tilting your head just so. He leans in closer than he ever has before, his breath a soft whisper against your skin—focused, careful.
"Close your eyes, baby."
And you do.
His touch is feather-light, the pencil gliding along the edge of your eyelid, leaving behind a trail of black that transforms your look entirely. His thumb rests against your cheekbone, anchoring him as he works, and you can feel the heat radiating off his skin—a stark contrast to the coolness of the makeup. Every so often, he pauses, holding his breath as he draws the line along your lashes.
The world falls away, leaving only the two of you in this intimate dance of trust and transformation. The silence stretches between you, comfortable yet charged with an energy neither of you voice.
You keep your eyes closed, even after he finishes one, waiting for him to begin the next. The pause lingers a moment longer than expected, and you can't help but ask, "Are you holding your breath?"
"Shh," he whispers back, the ghost of a smile touching his lips even though you can't see it. "Don't distract the artist."
He finishes the other side before moving on to your lips. He selects a color without asking, but it's the right one—the same shade that always makes you feel more like yourself.
When he finishes, there's a moment of silence broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as he steps back. "Open your eyes."
You do, and your reflection greets you—eyes lined just so, lips smooth and colored lightly, expression softer. It's not just the work of the makeup; it's the understanding behind it that transforms you.
"You could have been a makeup artist," you say, watching him through the mirror.
He shrugs, looping his arms around you from behind. "I found my calling," he replies, resting his chin atop your head. "Taking care of you."
You want to protest, to remind him that you can take care of yourself—and you do, most days. But instead, you reach up to squeeze his hand, acknowledging the truth in his words.
Because today, the tremors won.
But love did, too.