Remus's eyes slid over to him, a reflection in the dirty mirror, as a slow, steady pull of his hand brought the razor (a straight one, it was cheaper) carefully down the length of his jaw. It slowed as he watched the man stumble, form a question.
He saw Sirius move, restlessly; Minerva had once told him, when they were young, that he'd never learn to stay still. He brought his eyes forward again, squinting at a scar crossing the line of his jaw that broke the skin there.
There was silence, in the small, cramped bathroom, as Remus rinsed his face. "I'm shaving, Sirius," he said, finally, because the man needed an answer. "And you're distracting me."
Remus didn't look at him, shoulders and stance rigid and defensive. He liked this idyll setting they'd created, flimsy as it was. He wasn't sure how much Sirius could stand knowing about him, about what he'd done to live during the dead years. Or the years before, the Azkaban years, for that matter.
no subject
He saw Sirius move, restlessly; Minerva had once told him, when they were young, that he'd never learn to stay still. He brought his eyes forward again, squinting at a scar crossing the line of his jaw that broke the skin there.
There was silence, in the small, cramped bathroom, as Remus rinsed his face. "I'm shaving, Sirius," he said, finally, because the man needed an answer. "And you're distracting me."
Remus didn't look at him, shoulders and stance rigid and defensive. He liked this idyll setting they'd created, flimsy as it was. He wasn't sure how much Sirius could stand knowing about him, about what he'd done to live during the dead years. Or the years before, the Azkaban years, for that matter.