Sometimes in life, Remus Lupin would find himself holding his breath.

Not in the literal sense, of course - one tends to need air to actually function, odd as it may seem.

It was more like every second of time had been stretched out, nearly beyond breaking point, dragging against his skin in a heavy grip.

It was more like his heartbeat refused to change its monotonous pace, like his mind refused to exhale, like his lungs had both expanded and shrunk within his ribcage.

A peculiar feeling, I grant you. An unpleasant one - that constriction in your chest and the thrumming in your ears. It's so easy to forget to breathe - it's so hard to remember how to breathe again.

This is all strictly metaphorical. What you, the reader, decide to assign to each 'role' in said metaphor is entirely up to your own imagination. I have no right or interest in forcing my own thoughts into your empty heads.

But anyway, let us continue. A story awaits us.

***

There was a small corner of Florence that no one had ever heard of (unless they had), which was a place of all that is aesthetic and beautiful in this hyperbolic world. Here, you would meet the most perfect noses and the prettiest of clouds, in between which silk flowers were scattered with utmost carelessness.

And in this corner of Florence was another corner, one that almost everyone had heard of, which is odd if you consider the fact that no one had heard of the corner wherein this corner lay (again, unless they had).

A man lived here. A man who went by the name Remus Lupin. Whether this was his real name or not, we cannot be too certain (although it does sound rather too perfectly theatrical to be genuine).

And who was he? Well, he was a man of many talents. Painting, sculpting, writing - he had mastered them all.

His hands could showcase life at its finest moments, whether it was in the beautiful expression a person would make when looking over their shoulder, or in the intricate pattern of letters that might stain someone's lips.

There was a delicacy in his work that sobbed of vulnerability. But if one looked a little closer, they may have spotted the malicious quirk of a mouth in one fragment of perspective. They may have discerned a word or two that did not seem quite in line with the rest.

All in all, Remus Lupin was highly respected in his field. And rightly so - there were not many that could create something wonderful in the span of a mere day.

Unless, of course, it was today.

"Lupin, my dear friend," Peter Pettigrew (Remus' dear friend) ground out, glaring, "I cannot fathom why you believe this to be an effective way of finding inspiration, but I must beg of you to stop."

Remus, as usual, ignored him, and continued to hang upside down from his bed. His hair acted as a surprisingly efficient broom.

This had been the situation for a few days now. Remus had apparently exhausted his creative capacity (and had fallen out with his latest muse), so now he moped about his house in a depressive state.

And poor Peter, who had been called upon at the most infuriating times of the day so that his dear friend could unleash his fury on listening (if tired) ears, had had enough.

"Lupin," he sighed, leaning back in his chair, "this is not good for your health. You will not feel any better for it."

"I have no reason to exist."

A groan. "Then find another one!"

"He was so beautiful, and now he's left."

"Well, if you ask me, his nose was too big."

Remus scowled. "You would say that."

"Naturally."

They fell into sullen silence, looking darkly in separate directions. Then Peter tried again, a bit more kindly. "Why don't you find another muse?"

"What a ridiculous notion."

"What makes you say that?" came the affronted reply.

Rolling his eyes, Remus finally sat in an upright position. He ran a hand through his tawny locks, watching the ceiling with morose eyes. "I will never find someone as beautiful as Fabian Prewett."

"What about his brother?"

"Or his brother," Remus added, wondering privately as to how a family could produce, not one, but two men as perfect as the Prewett twins. Lovely bone structure, the both of them had.

Peter watched Remus watching the ceiling. Exhausted, annoyed and near despair, he made one final attempt.

"Look, my friend James Potter might have someone who could be of assistance to you."

"James Potter?" Remus furrowed his brow. "Isn't he that rich fellow who lives near the cathedral?"

"The very same."

"How did a beggar like you manage to hook someone like him?"

Peter raised his eyebrows. "I'm nowhere near a beggar. Besides, there was no 'hooking' involved. Not everyone has your peculiar tastes."

"I suppose not, but doesn't that just make life so very dull?"

"I wouldn't know. Anyway, Potter has a friend who might be more than willing to pose for you at a fairly cheap sum."

"Oh yes?" Some interest glittered in those amber eyes. "A man, I'm assuming? You know I prefer them."

"Oh, believe me, I am keenly aware of the fact."

"And what would be this young man's name?"

Peter sighed in relief. Finally, they were getting somewhere. "His name is Sirius Black."