Remus dragged himself over to his bed and flopped down beside a pile of art books that wobbled precariously from his movement. It took his entire paycheck to be able to afford his flat and his food, so saving up his tips was all he could do to eventually pay for LCAD. The jar was getting fuller by the day, but Remus knew it wasn’t enough. As Remus slipped off his sneakers, he reached into his pocket and grabbed the handful of change that made up his tips, tossing it into the jar that sat on the table by the door. He had been on his feet the entire time, serving coffee to wealthier people than him, smiling through his frustration. One particularly soggy London day, when the sky threatened to soak Remus’ only pair of shoes to their very core, Remus returned to his flat after an excruciating shift at the cafe. He knew that this was the cost of following his heart. Remus knew that this was the life he chose. There was no kitchen, only a hotplate, a microwave, and a mini refrigerator that served its purpose well enough. There was a single bed pushed into the corner, covered entirely with books during the day. Tubes of paint littered the ground, pallets and brushes scattered about amongst half filled jars of dirty water. It was filled with canvases and easels, three or four works going simultaneously. Remus knew he’d never be allowed to pursue the life he needed while he lived at home, so he took a job, then another, then another, until he was able to afford the run-down basement flat that he lived in: a single room that was his and his alone. Remus’ art was never his hobby, it was his everything. Days where Remus didn’t approach a canvas and pick up a brush were excruciating, he was left broken and starved. He thirsted for it, felt it tearing at his insides. Remus needed his art the same way he needed food and air. He painted because if he didn’t, he felt incomplete, empty. Remus didn’t paint because it relaxed him, he didn’t paint because he enjoyed it, he didn’t paint because it was fun or entertaining. But calling what Remus did a hobby? That was a blow to Remus’ heart that he couldn’t withstand. Nobody wants their only child to struggle to put food on the table. Not wanting Remus to live a life of poverty, that made sense. Remus hardly ever believed in himself anyway. Not believing in his talents, he understood. “What’s wrong with earning an honest living, Remus? Why can’t you just do your hobby in your spare time?” It was the same term his father tossed at him when Remus had wanted to go to London College of Art and Design instead of working at the autobody shop with his dad. After all, he was an artist and he did struggle to make end’s meet.