Artist
Sirius sat on the edge of Remus's bed watching him sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest, his limbs splayed out at impossible angles. Sirius often wished he was an artist so he could draw Moony. He knew even if he was he'd never be able capture Remus's impossible beauty, he was so imperfect, it was perfect. He'd never be able to recreate on paper the feeling he got when he saw Moony's pale lashes curling against paler skin or his lips ever so slightly parted or the curve of his graceful neck.
Sirius reached out to touch Remus, and that in itself was like a painting, but one you felt, instead of saw. He gently traced a finger along Remus's high cheekbones and down to his jaw, as he would draw him. He drew a path along his chin and down his neck, hovering over the flickering pulse he found there.
Still Remus did not stir so Sirius continued his tentative painting. His hands ghosted across the dip of Remus's collarbone and down the centre of his bare chest. His fingers drew a track down the jutting hipbones but didn't dare go any further or trace the thin line of hair from Moony's navel that disappeared so tantalizingly under fraying pajama bottoms. He ran his finger delicately over every scar on that beautiful chest with it's fragile, imperfect beauty. He let his hand rest on Moony's side, fingers still fluttering gently over soft skin.
Then Remus's eyes snapped open and their gazes locked, a feeling shot between them like a bolt of electricity. And it was beautiful. It was art.