And what of the moon when it sinks in the sky?

-

Alex’s jaw was hanging open a little bit and his gaze followed the man’s hand, his own twitching slightly as he felt the warm, calloused artist’s hand rest on his own. He didn’t move for few moments, a bubbling of insecurities and worry growing within him that had little to do with being naked and everything to do with feeling like a damn fool. An artist, a master artist thought he didn’t know himself well enough to be worth painting. What did that say about him?

“Am I really that shallow?” he asked abruptly, the veela-temper squelched under the human shame making his voice less than steady, “There’s nothing to me at all apart from the good fortune I’ve had?” he turned his head towards Remi as the older man packed away but didn’t look to meet his gaze, he didn’t feel he’d be able to. “All because I’ve never bothered to look?” Was he that desperate for the perfection of fame and fortune there was nothing left to him now he’d achieved it? Was this why he couldn’t ‘take a few years break’ like his manager had suggested? Why he didn’t know what to do with himself? Because he was a fame-hungry shell of a person with all the depth of a paddling pool!?  

--

Remiel finds himself frowning at Alex’s series of questions. It occurred to him that the young man had likely done little to question the big ‘whys’ and ‘whos’ of his life. Such was youth. He himself had often stumbled along giving little contemplation to his nature until it was pointed out to him. He had felt old and used up and in chaos before beginning to get a grip on the life he was living and that was only after most of it had been taken from him. Perhaps Alex could avoid those tragedies.

“You’re spiraling cara mia,” Remi exhales slowly, “I am no one to decide those things for you. I can assure you pride is not a sin unless you let it become vanity. Vanity is the road that leads to doubt and love cannot grow where doubt lives. You have so much time left to figure it out but it never hurts to get an early start. Besides,” he pauses, winking, “a highly doubt a a fame hungry shell of a person with the depth of a paddling pool would worry so much about coming across that way. You’re an artist Alex. You’d be incapable of such a trivial existence. Trust me, I would know. If you need a suggestion on where to start, start with your muse. What inspires you? What brings you hope? Where do you see beauty in the world? Not the mundane things like a nice vase of roses. Real beauty. What makes you stop in your tracks. Maybe it’s a cone-flower growing through the cracks in a sidewalk or pretty face looking down at you from a balcony. Why don’t you put your clothes back on and have a think with a nice glass of wine?”

Leaving work early was completely unheard of for Amelia Bones. Hell, even leaving on time was enough for people to turn their heads and ask if she was okay, so just to get out the door an hour before she was due to leave, she’d had to time it right to get from her office to the elevators without a commotion.

For the better part of her day Amelia had swithered on whether she should go to the exhibit opening or not. Sure she had appreciation for the finer things, but the art world wasn’t one she truly fit in to. There would be plenty of people better suited in attendance after all, so she didn’t think her own presence would really add to the occasion. But with a personal invite from Remiel himself, Amelia knew that she couldn’t not go. He wouldn’t have asked her to if he didn’t want her there after all, and so she wanted to show support for him on such an occasion. 

Stepping into the gallery, she didn’t have to look around too long before she caught sight of Remiel heading towards her. “Hello.” She replied after a beat, letting out the breath she had taken in order to correct his calling her Miss Bones, though it was not needed. Noting that he had remembered from their previous interaction, she offered a smile as she took his offered hand. “I’m happy to be here, so the pleasure’s all mine. And thank you. I’d be very surprised if there wasn’t some level of pretentiousness so you’re already off to a good start.” She nodded, a small chuckle escaping as she glanced around at the other guests there. “How is it going so far? 

--

“I have learned most of these people are significantly more tolerable with a glass of wine in hand,” he offers rather conspiratorially, Every guest had been hand selected, neglecting those who had responded with a plus-one. Critics and fellow artists alike but less than a half dozen he’d consider a friend. It had been like that, even with his late wife. Lavish parties and ‘benefit’ dinners with people who could barely tolerate one another and waited for the first opportunity to tear one another down. 

Remiel had never understood that. Art was about one soul connecting with another. It was about offering part of one’s self for another to find solace in. At least it had been for him and that was what he was trying to share now; with his classes and his little gallery. He was just trying to find a space for himself and his son where he could live, forever pursuing the expression of his heart.

He offers Amelia a hand, this time the smudges of paint and charcoal have been removed. Remiel is as prim and appropriate as ever, with his normal pleasantries intact. He’s an engaging and vivacious host when he wants to be, no doubt he’ll make a rather grand speech during the night thanking everyone. For the time being however, his attention is on Amelia. “Why don’t we get you a glass of something and a few hors d’oeuvres? You can tell me about your day? I’d be honored to listen,” he pauses, taking a deep breath and smiling, “I must say, so far you’re the highlight of the evening.” 

.

While Fawn had became quite familiar with the muggle culture throughout the years, she didn’t know about everything. “What’s a psalm?” She blinked slowly. She didn’t know the power a song could have on people until today. She knew she might be more fragile than the rest, but look at the mess she made. The woman linked her arm with Remi’s and just rested her head against his shoulder, her wedding ring feeling heavier than ever around her neck.

“Well, he died many years ago” she responded, looking at their hands together. “And he didn’t do anything to me” she couldn’t say that Elvis broke her heart, because by now, she was the one breaking her own heart. “I was seventeen when I met… David in Belfast” she spoke quietly, his name burning in her tongue and making her heart feel heavier than usual. “He kissed me that night and I knew… and when you know, you know” she continued, her eyes fixed on the front, on the floor. “There was this Elvis song playing when he kissed me” she then added. Gosh, she could see it as if it had just happened.

“We got married in Vegas a few months later, after we arrived to America and there was this fake Elvis singing that same song” she then added, letting out a sad chuckle. “And it became our song…” flashes of her and David dancing to it crossed her mind, they had the funniest and cutest pictures taken. Fawn still had them with her, they were in a box in her home, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at them yet. “I haven’t heard that song since…” she trailed and looked at the plants that shivered but fortunately, instead of growing any further, they slowly began to shrink. “We danced to it one last time” she sighed, spilling a few more harmless tears. “The radio… it just caught me off guard I guess…” she shook her head slowly before running her hands over her face and pushed her hair backwards.

“I just miss him so much… I sometimes feel that’s all I do, no matter how hard I try to move on” between David and River, it seems that no matter what, sadness would chase her everywhere. It’s been seventeen years since she lost her brother and four since she lost David and it still hurt as the first day. Sometimes Fawn could’ve sworn she would feel their presence, but she knew better than to voice that out loud.

--

“A psalm is one of the little verses they put in the Holy Bible. They have Hymns too, which are put to music but my parents never much liked music. Even the devotional kind. There was a lot of reading,” he answers her question. Though that is only part of the story. Outside of Sunday services and brief car rides, there was very little music in his home growing up. Mostly he liked to hum the hymns or organ tunes he remembered to himself while he worked on his drawings or helped take care of his younger siblings. 

“I understand,” he wraps an arm around her. Hugging her tighter. The truth is, he isn’t sure he does understand. When he met Allegra, he had been so young and consumed by her. Entranced by fullness with which she lived her life and how unapologetic she was endeavoring in acts he had always been told were sins. The difference was Allegra had been a dream, as much a figment of his own design as she was a real person. In the end, for all his love and the life they had tried to build, she hadn’t been been his at all. 

David, Fawn’s husband, was not like that. From what he could tell, the man had been kind and fun. The love Fawn and him shared had been an honest one. Remiel’s focus is on his son now. He wants a good life for Orion but he can’t help but wonder some times if he’ll ever find love again. He also hopes the same thing for his friend. She deserves to be happy; her broken heart is already so heavy. He wishes he knew better how to make things easier for her -to lesson the pain of all that she felt. 

“You don’t have to move on Fawn. Just focus on making room for more,” he offers thoughtfully, “room for more living. Room for life without his. . . his body being here. Because he’s still with you. Watching over you. He still loves you, it just exists differently. Love is eternal, in all its forms.”

He could hear and feel Remiel getting closer and, though he did his best to hide it, his shoulder’s raised and tensed and the rest of his body followed suit, wondering if he was in for more corrections, changes, verbal proof he couldn’t even sit for a damn portrait without his veela abilities helping him along. Much as he was lorded as a modern-day siren it was very different when he couldn’t sing or put on his usual public persona with a manager on one side and tour staff on the other.

His eyes went wide  when Remiel tilted his face up, he found himself staring into a handsome face as what may as well have poetry was said to him. He swallowed, his throat feeling tight and he had the sudden urge to pull more of the cloth up to cover his body. “I-” he swallowed again, “That’s a very personal question.” he whispered, “I’ve never… This wasn’t supposed to be so-” intimate. And here he was unable to speak in coherent sentences. But what if it wasn’t enough? Underneath all the glamour… how could what remained be equal?

"Perhaps," Remi ventures softly, placing a hand over Alex's and giving it a comforting squeeze. His voice is the same delicate kindness as a cool breeze on a hot spring day, "you should take some time to think about it? You are more than the unkindnesses committed against you just as much as you are more than the good fortune granted to you." He lets go of the young man's hand and rises from his perch beside him. His movements are paced and deliberate as he returns to his easel.

"I am always here if you need to talk Alex, but today will not be a day for painting," he peaks around the canvas, polite smile still intact. There's a gentle click as he locks his paints in their chest. “You understand, I’m sure. . . an artist must work under the right conditions. I want you to think about what I’ve said. Find what drives you Alex. Who are you when all those tiny graces are gone? Because I’m sure that man is worthy and I can’t wait to meet him. We have a few weeks to complete this project. Why don’t you reach out by owl when you have room in your schedule to try again? Or if you just need to talk.” 

✦

“Relax, darling. I’m playing with you,” Florence replies with another laugh and a brief flash of teeth. His answers have seemed so earnest so far it almost doesn’t seem fair to keep teasing. It’s in her very nature to do so, but for now… Florence can give Remiel a little reprieve.  “You don’t need to be so stiff and proper, I promise I’ve dealt with worse than you.” She’s always had a thick skin, and it’ll take more than a little small talk to truly offend her.

The revelation of his heritage causes Florence to falter in his steps, just paces from the bar as she turns to look at him again, all thoughts of drinks forgotten for now. She never would have guessed. It leaves a bit of a sour taste in her mouth. Florence never directly joined the war – nor ever felt quite as strongly about blood purity as those who did – but Durmstrang did little to foster warm and accommodating feelings towards those from muggle lines.

 “A muggleborn… truly?”

--

‘And there it is,’ Remiel thinks to himself, the way it always is. The surprise. The shock. That he, with his expensive clothes and polite manners, could be something less than even a half-blood. He’s used to it, or he had been. After the war ended he thought it wouldn’t matter so much. Not with his story, the details of his tragic marriage, Allegra’s death and his freedom hinging on a technicality, all splashed across the newspapers. He was surprised there were still people who didn’t know -especially since the quantity of threats he had received had been so numerous in the early months after the trial. 

But nearly four years on, maybe things were shifting. 

“Truly,” he smiles with all the grace of a gentleman, “I sense you don’t often keep the company of my kind. No harm no foul, as they say. I wish you a pleasant evening Miss Florence. Che Dio ti protegga, buona notte.” He nods his head in slight bow, before lifting it proudly and turning on his heel before leaving. 

—

“Sure, a rosemary water will be fine, thank you.” Amelia replied with a small nod, allowing Remiel to lead them towards the office. Not that she didn’t already know where it was, of course. Had she the same temperament of some of her colleagues, she might have already shown herself the way and began conducting her inspection, but even with knowing the gallery and its owner as long as she had, she still preferred an invitation in to any space she visited. 

“Oh, well I’m not sure I deserve to be your guest of honour, Remiel, but I’d be more than happy to attend.” She nodded again. He was right, work could wait for one night and she’d lost count how many times she’d been told that by several other people over the years. She needed to get out of her office and live her life a little more. 

“Am I familiar?” She asked, flashing him an incredulous glance before shaking her head. “I may be a borderline workaholic shut-in, but of course I’m familiar with Da Vinci. Do you really have one of his pieces here?”

-

“You certainly would deserve to be my guest of honor. One finds, among artists, they often have enemies and allies but very few friends. After the trial and everything that came of it, I realized your polite consistency was the closest thing to companionship I had known in many years,” he waves his hand reassuringly, “I’m under no false pretense of course, Amelia. I just mean it was the first time in my life where I knew all the rules of the game I was playing to survive.”

He opens the door to his office, stepping aside to let her in. “Yee of little faith,” Remi tsks, shaking his head mournfully, “one study does not an exhibit make. I have several of his works on the female figure. I was unable to procure Scapiglliata. That was a great disappointment but,” he shrugs, moving to fetch her a glass of water. A pitcher has already been steeping so he adds a few ice cubes and a wedge of lemon for garnish. Remi sets the glass down on his desk beneath a coaster and motions for her to sit. 

“Let me just grab the books, I have everything for the year to date up here. Anything further back I can get from the archives,” he pulls the aforementioned receipts book from it’s shelf and puts it on the desk next to her water, “all transactions are in the ledger but some of the discourse for the pieces was through letters which I have and pieces from local artists were through face to face discourse. I can pull out the pensive?” He tucks the loose black fabric of his tunic into his pants, not that it will hide the colored streaks over the denim or smudges on his hands. 

Where: Sunken Moon Gallery

When: May 18

Who: Remi and Amelia

He let's out a breath, nervously adjusting his tie once more. Pure silk won't make a difference between his new exhibit failing or succeeding but he's still chosen his best suit. It's the first time he's managed anything as incomparable as Leonardo DaVinci and had someone outside the art world as notable as Amelia Bones attend. He’s not sure which one curls the pit of his stomach more. However, if he fails, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t look good doing it. 

A few of his closer acquaintances are already present, wine in hand and critical gaze in place. He knows the look, a stern but serene gaze to hide excitement. He’s managed an impressive feat, with no shortage of hoops to jump through to get there; their had even been a certain challenge in ensuring everything was Kosher which Remi had found amusing. It had cost him more than a few favors to people he wasn’t sure he wanted to be indebted to. The promise of Amelia’s presence was worth it though, a step out of the shadows he had lived in for so long. 

Remiel crosses the room immediately when he spots Amelia. Relief floods his chest, though he can’t say why he was so afraid she wouldn’t come. Would it really matter in the end? Besides some flickering curiosity of his own desires, the consequence of her presence was entirely personal. He offers her a hand, his voice blooming like an ounce of fresh cream in a cup of hot coffee, “Benvenuta Miss Bones. . . Amelia. I’m so pleased you made it. I can only imagine how hard it is to find the time so I’m very grateful you have. I would like to formally welcome you to ‘God is a Woman’. A little on the nose I know, but what is art without a little pretentiousness?” 

✦

“You make that sound like a bad thing,” Florence laughs, a soft and silvery thing, as her hand drops back down to her side. “Perhaps some of us enjoy the battle.” There’s no denying that’s what her life has been so far, even with her playful rebuttal to his remark. A complicated maternal relationship and a vampiric father haven’t made things easy, but Florence isn’t lying either; she’s always relished a challenge. She steps forward easily in the direction of the bar, trusting that he’ll follow. His reply prompts her to glance at him over her shoulder as she walks, a delicate eyebrow arched upwards. “It sounds like there’s a story there,” she comments. “Now who’s the one with mysteries?” 

--

“Oh,” Remi frowns, “that was not my intention. I’m sure you’re more than capable of rising to the challenge. I only mean I, myself, don’t want to be another vexation to you. There are so many other ways one can entertain themselves, don’t you think?” He responds in kind, following alongside her, easily matching the pace. He smooths a hand over his suit jacket, smiling planely at her accusation. He always remembers to smile, as much a defense mechanism as it is manners. “I suppose,” he answers, “I mean to say I’m a muggleborn and an artist and no artist was ever a gentleman until after his death. Not that I’m in any rush to meet my demise. What shall it be,” he motions, indicating the bar.

There was a reason why she chose to own a flower shop, plants and flowers were her happy place, it was when she felt most at peace. Being in an environment like this one was good for her and her mood. But sometimes life happened and the slightest thing would trigger something catastrophic. She had turned on the muggle radio and everything was going smoothly, Fawn even found herself singing along to some of the songs she recognized. That was until they played that one song. It had been the song that was playing when she and David had their first kiss. The song they claimed to be theirs, the song they danced on their wedding day and every anniversary.

Whenever these things happened, Fawn wouldn’t recognize the symptoms until it was too late. The plants started growing in all directions as her body trembled and Elvis Presley’s Suspicious Minds played on the radio. When she finally snapped out of that painful trance, Fawn was sitting on the floor, hot tears rolling down her cheeks as the held her wedding ring tightly. Fawn cried for a long time, until she had no energy left in her.

Her big eyes were fixed on a random spot, her hand suspended on the air. She twirled her fingers slowly, making an ivy grow and shrink over and over her hand and arm. “We are caught in a trap…” she sang in whispers as her free hand fidgeted with her wedding ring. “I can’t walk out… because I love you too much baby…” Anyone would’ve thought she was crazy. And maybe she was a little.

It wasn’t until she heard someone calling out her name that she shut her mouth and looked up. The leafs and branches moved until a more than familiar face appeared. The woman tilted her head to the side, her big eyes following Remi until he sat next to her. “Do you like Elvis?” she responded to his question with one of her own. That didn’t make any sense, but things stopped making sense to her a long time ago.

--

“Can’t say I am Fawn. I grew up Catholic so if it wasn’t a psalm I probably didn’t hear it and my. . . Allegra liked opera and classical music. Now? Orion is into David Bowie and Elton John so I think I missed the Elvis window,” he settles next to her into as comfortable a position as he can manage. Her question is related to whatever has happened, he’s just not sure how yet. His next job is to suss out how and help her resolve the conflict. He’s always been good at listening to people’s concerns. Fawn’s problems seem to explode right out of her before she even has the chance to get a handle on them; he hopes that one day this won’t be the case for her and she can live in peace.

Remiel puts a comforting hand over top of hers and gives it a squeeze until she looks him in the eyes. “What’s Elvis done to you Cara Mia? Shall I find him and hex him for you,” his voice is gentle, calm, rolling over her like soft waves in the ocean. He’s never been one to start a fight, but be damned if he hasn’t survived every struggle he’s come up against so far. How bad could one muggle singer be? 

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, softer still. Every once of gentleness, of kindness and patience, living in him for that moment. Softly. Lightly. Moving out like ocean waves. Quiet. Quiet. Quieter still. He uses his free hand and waves his wand to cast a muffling charm, to dull the loud noises and sharpness of the lights overhead. Softly. Lightly. “I’m here Fawn. Tell me about Elvis.” 

Tiberius had managed to get rid of the boring co-workers that were trying to get him talking about work on his day off. He wanted justice, and he understood that you gained political currency at these type of things, but he needed a break, specially from talking about the new muggle artefact legislation, that seemed to put more pranksters in trouble than actual criminals.

He thought he could get some proper food before returning with renew energies when he accidentally cut in front of someone. “I apologise Mr Moon, I didn’t see you there.” he said offering the plate of cheese so the man could grab some. “I’m well, trying to navigate the social and work line. How are you?”

--

Remiel waves a dismissive hand, bowing slightly. Tiberius has never been anything but polite, yet is was his family that pulled the first string that unraveled his life. The artist is left with a great deal of uncertainty as to where exactly he stands in the other’s eyes; though he supposes it is the same as most in the Wizengamont. A second rate criminal and conman, not bad enough to warrent time in Azkaban but not decent enough to be left unfettered. 

“Ah,” he nods knowingly, “there’s great difficulty in that, certainly. Tonight is no night for work, yet I’ve already filled a few pages with sketches. Hopefully you find a greater restraint than I have.” His forest brown eyes study the other man for a moment and then drop to the plate of cheese. “An esteemed gentleman of the Wizengamont is offering me a fine selection of cheeses, how could I be anything but well,” his hand hovers for a moment before he selects his slice of brie, “I do wish I hadn’t started the evening with Pinot Nior. A crisp sauvignon blanc would be perfect with this brie. Anyway, that’s a triffle. Hopefully work hasn’t been too taxing? You all do so much for the community, it must be very hard.”

“Bundimun?” Dung’s head perked up at the sound of a voice seemingly addressing him. He slowly turned around, hand sliding carefully from out under his jacket.

“What, me?” Lips pulled down in a little frown of confusion, and the tip of one index finger planted itself firmly into the center of his chest. Before waiting for an answer, he shrugged and shook his head ‘no,’ deftly turning both pockets inside out.

“’s an ACID POP, mate. You really do need those glasses.” He held the wrapped candy out, offering it as evidence, daring Remi to take it from him. Something distinctly bundimun shaped wriggled against his chest, however, in a concealed breast pocket. A bead of sweat trickled down Mundungus’ temple. For someone who spends so much time lying, you’d think he’d be better at it by now.

--

It is not the first time Remi has been told he needs his glasses. He doubts it will be the last. However, his visual acuity is usually only questioned by his son when he’s trying to hide something and that’s the feeling he has now. Nothing seems inherently untrustworthy about the stranger -but nothing assuages suspicion either. 

He frowns at the candy, “no thank you Signore. A bit early for sweets in my opinion.” His voice is a calm, steady compendium of his decision. Whatever he really thinks does not matter. He smiles politely, removing his glasses and tucking them back in his pocket. “We can only hope I was mistaken, I’ve seen more than one building collapse due to an infestation. . . Bundimun’s really pose a greater safety risk than people give them credit for.”

Alexander lips thinned slightly at the expression, wrong, he’d done something wrong. He loathed messing up and this was just lounging on a damn chaise, surely he couldn’t be than incompetent? Remiel’s suggestion had the half-veela’s eyes widening a little, “Umm, I’ve never done that. I shower than get on with whatever else needs doing.” His father had been very hardworking and he’d inherent the ethic, one more reason he was struggling with being told to take some time for himself. He took the book as it appeared though, “Hmm, I’ve never read this, I didn’t even know about magic until my Hogwarts letter arrived.” Thumbing through the contents page he found a story that sounded interesting based on the title.

His gaze flicked back to Remiel when the man spoke again and he winced a little on behalf of his species, “I really try and keep that under-wraps,” he’d had a very stressful day early on in his first tour, his manager was trying to talk him down and he’d yelled, it’s been so loud, so angry the glass had shook and his eyes turned black; she’d been scared, he’d been terrified and since then he meditated, ate certain foods and did everything to never lose his temper. “It’s not very good for publicity to be grumpy,” he added as a half-formed excuse, without his ‘charm’ Alexander didn’t think he was the most suave person. So, he sat up, lent his back against the chaise, put the book in his lap and started reading, “Are you sure this’ll be… enough?”  

--

Remiel lets out a soft sigh and rises from his seat. He crosses the short distance between them and sits on the edge of the chaise, careful not to sit on the silk sheet keeping Alexander’s modesty intact. Although the artist was certain he had seen things that would make the devil blush, he wasn’t about to plunge someone else into the deep-end of hedonism. His coffee colored eyes are thoughtful as he looks at Alex, his hand dips into a pocket and he pulls out his glasses. 

A thoughtful finger lifts Alex’s head until their eyes meet. He folds his hands back in his lap, “and why, Alex, don’t you think it will be enough?” His head tilts thoughtfully, an undeniable tenderness in his aura. “When the masks are off, when the fanfare has died down, when the lights are low and all your tiny graces are gone. . . when someone truly sees you, why don’t you think that will be enough?”