artist | 5 August | @dailyprongsfoot | 501 words
Sirius is tracing the curve of James’ jaw with a pencil, imagining that it were his finger doing it, instead.
James looks gorgeous like this: distracted, laughing, lighting up the room in that uniquely James-way that only he’s capable of. The afternoon sunlight is catching all of the browns in the curls of his hair, and Sirius wishes he could take the time to parse out each hue. There’s a mediocre pencil drawing only just beginning to come to life on the sketchpad in front of him, and yet Sirius already knows it won’t capture even half the magic that is real-life James.
Sirius shades here and there, deepens the shadows of James’ cheekbones, keeps the brightness under his eyes. This particular sketchbook is full of drawings of James: James at Quidditch practice, James in the Great Hall, James furrowing his brow at his Potions homework. Page after page lie hours of dedication to the image of James, and he has no idea.
More than once, Sirius thought of showing him. It could be platonic, really, if framed in the right way—but Sirius knows the true intent behind it, and that’s what scares him. James is his best friend in the entire world, someone who’s been there for him no matter what. Sirius would stick by James under any circumstance, he would run any time James called, and he knows there’s something more to this feeling. There’s something to unpack between the pages upon pages of James’ face in his sketchbook, and Sirius would do everything in his power to keep it secret.
“Hey,” James catches Sirius’ eyes, and there goes that familiar swoop of his heart. “What’re you drawing?”
James scoots closer on the floor, shoulder pressing up to Sirius’ legs that hang from the armchair. He presses his cheek into Sirius’ leg and tries to peek. Sirius reacts immediately, clutching the sketchbook to his chest. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
An odd look crosses James’ face, but passes just as quickly. “Fine, keep your secrets. But I think you’re a really good artist, you know. I won’t judge you.”
There’s an earnestness in James’ face, something like ‘you’ve given me everything in the world already, won’t you give me this too?’
“Alright,” Sirius says, loosening his white-knuckled grip on the sketchbook. He tilts it toward James ever so slightly, heart pounding. “It’s—you. I was drawing you.”
James considers it for a while, brow furrowed, then traces his finger over his replica’s jaw. “It’s... really good, Sirius. Like, really good.”
There’s a heart at the back of Sirius’ mouth. “You can have it, if you want.”
James’ face lights up. “Thanks, Pads. You’re the best.”
He presses a kiss into the side of Sirius’ knee, and Sirius’ heart leaps out of his mouth. Peter says something, then, that draws James’ attention, and the entire moment is over just as quickly as it started.
Sirius sits back to finish his drawing, heart laid bare and beating on the carpet in front of him.
