rambles, rambles, the dictionary doesn't define rambles as time well spent
He doesn’t even remember whose idea it was to sleep in the same bed. Under the same covers. On the same mattress. On the same pillow. Alone.
Remus Lupin likes his bed. He likes being able to let his arm roam left and his leg take up the right so he’s sprawled across the bed like a gargantuan human X, taking up as much room as possible and not worrying about whacking someone’s nose broken in his sleep. Or yanking away the sheets so they’re all his and he’s securely wrapped up in them like a burrito. Or accidentally hugging a torso that resembled the squishiness of a well-fluffed pillow. At night, all memorandums were very, very dangerous. Inhibitions gone.
Here he is, wearing nothing but a nightshirt that’s so oversized it only reveals the hem of his boxers, and faded brown socks that go up to pool at his ankles. Remus shifts his feet under the covers. And through the darkness, he sees the folds in his sheets move and wrinkle themselves in new areas.
He glances over at Sirius, the air in the room quite cumbersome. He mentally pleads that the black-haired boy is already asleep, and begs for their years of friendship to create an ephemeral telepathic link between them and send Sirius the message to drift off for both their sakes. And even though Sirius’ breathing is steady and halcyon, both to the jealousy and relief of Remus, he ponders whether or not the other boy is really asleep.
Remus fights the urge to prod Sirius in the back with a curious finger, right in between his shoulder blades. He wonders if he should blow on his neck, very softly, and watch to see if he’ll jump and check for the source of the extra air. Remus also weighs the option of tugging on a couple strands of his black hair, still and pooled out over the pillow.
Instead, Remus keeps his appendages to himself and tries to nestle in his side of the bed, only for his spine to make contact with the wall. He doesn’t have a lot of options, and his arm is already pressing against the vertebrae by Sirius’ waist. He swallows, wondering if Sirius can hear his heart palpitating in his chest like the sound of bodies dropping to the ground with resounding thuds. Through his veins and through his blood, Remus feels the haunting pump of nerves. Endless question marks form in the wrinkles in the sheets.
And as he stares at the shadowy silhouette and stagnant bump, ever-moving rays of moonlight peering through the flimsy parts of the curtains illuminating the scene in front of him, Remus swallows dryly, keeping his head to the wall. In the corner of his eye, however, Remus can’t help but spy an obvious lump in the shape of a boy lying impossibly close to him, but still far enough away to leave a portion of untouchable air in between their hips. And then the body next to him shifts slightly, so his hair tickles just the edge of Remus’ shoulder and without being able to help himself, the werewolf shivers.
A tingle runs up his toes and lingers there at his ankles, right where the socks get fuzzy. Remus bites his tongue and bites harder when the tingle still refuses to go away. Like soft, frothy seawater humming at your toes or hot cocoa after your fingers are numb from frostnip, a gentle hum vibrates through Remus’ spine and stops short to loiter at his neck.
And the awkwardness increases.
Oh, the awkwardness. It’s so deliciously awkward, Remus doesn’t even know whether to crack and just laugh away the tension or slide out of the bed as discreetly as he can manage and bunk up under the bed with the bugs for the night, choosing discomfort in contrary to a thorny matter that he doesn’t know how to deal with.
That matter has, and always will remain to be, Sirius.
Sirius Black released pheromones everywhere he went.
Remus folds his arm and rests his ear on his palm, propping his head up on his elbow. He sighs quietly, his eyes on Sirius.
The covers are up to his hips, sitting there languidly. If the other boy’s cold from the lack of warmth, his muscles aren’t shivering in protest at all. Still, Remus doubts the boy’s discomfort entirely. He can feel Sirius’ body heat from a foot away, like a bit of the sun chopped off and melded onto Sirius’ flesh.
But what’s bugging Remus the most is the fact that the shirt Sirius never bothered to take off is hugging at his waist gingerly, lying over it and revealing the smooth line of his skin to his hip and his ribs.
Remus licks his lips, realizing that with Sirius so close and the covers up to his chest, he’s developed a thin layer of sweat on top of his skin. But he’s too afraid to move out from his sheets in fear of causing a disturbance to move Sirius from the way his body is resting right now.
The crook of smooth skin between his neck and his shoulder, pale and almost porcelain-like in the moonlight, is almost tempting to Remus. And with his soft breathing slowly moving his chest up and down, the crook in his waist going up and down, up and down, Remus has the urge to slide a hand over his hip. Nestle himself closer so his body melds into Sirius’ backside, his nose in his hair and his chin resting on his shoulder blade.
The werewolf’s hand twitches to do just that, finally find peace to fall asleep upon with his flesh against Sirius’ and their knees bumping and thighs pressed impossibly close.
His hand rises from his side and with two fingers tentatively out, he approaches Sirius’ waist. Just to touch it, just to lay his palm upon his skin for a second. Just to break the rules and cross a line for a moment.
But Remus doesn’t want the risk. He doesn’t want to deal with aftermath. With the thoughts in his head that he knows will form. He knows they’re already lingering in his head, but they’re gray. Fading back, just waiting to be flooded with color and make themselves known.
Remus bites his lip and let’s his sigh work silently through his teeth. And even though one resounding thought is loud in his head, he ignores it.
He doesn’t want to risk it.
I need you so much closer.
Remus Lupin likes his bed. He likes being able to let his arm roam left and his leg take up the right so he’s sprawled across the bed like a gargantuan human X, taking up as much room as possible and not worrying about whacking someone’s nose broken in his sleep. Or yanking away the sheets so they’re all his and he’s securely wrapped up in them like a burrito. Or accidentally hugging a torso that resembled the squishiness of a well-fluffed pillow. At night, all memorandums were very, very dangerous. Inhibitions gone.
Here he is, wearing nothing but a nightshirt that’s so oversized it only reveals the hem of his boxers, and faded brown socks that go up to pool at his ankles. Remus shifts his feet under the covers. And through the darkness, he sees the folds in his sheets move and wrinkle themselves in new areas.
He glances over at Sirius, the air in the room quite cumbersome. He mentally pleads that the black-haired boy is already asleep, and begs for their years of friendship to create an ephemeral telepathic link between them and send Sirius the message to drift off for both their sakes. And even though Sirius’ breathing is steady and halcyon, both to the jealousy and relief of Remus, he ponders whether or not the other boy is really asleep.
Remus fights the urge to prod Sirius in the back with a curious finger, right in between his shoulder blades. He wonders if he should blow on his neck, very softly, and watch to see if he’ll jump and check for the source of the extra air. Remus also weighs the option of tugging on a couple strands of his black hair, still and pooled out over the pillow.
Instead, Remus keeps his appendages to himself and tries to nestle in his side of the bed, only for his spine to make contact with the wall. He doesn’t have a lot of options, and his arm is already pressing against the vertebrae by Sirius’ waist. He swallows, wondering if Sirius can hear his heart palpitating in his chest like the sound of bodies dropping to the ground with resounding thuds. Through his veins and through his blood, Remus feels the haunting pump of nerves. Endless question marks form in the wrinkles in the sheets.
And as he stares at the shadowy silhouette and stagnant bump, ever-moving rays of moonlight peering through the flimsy parts of the curtains illuminating the scene in front of him, Remus swallows dryly, keeping his head to the wall. In the corner of his eye, however, Remus can’t help but spy an obvious lump in the shape of a boy lying impossibly close to him, but still far enough away to leave a portion of untouchable air in between their hips. And then the body next to him shifts slightly, so his hair tickles just the edge of Remus’ shoulder and without being able to help himself, the werewolf shivers.
A tingle runs up his toes and lingers there at his ankles, right where the socks get fuzzy. Remus bites his tongue and bites harder when the tingle still refuses to go away. Like soft, frothy seawater humming at your toes or hot cocoa after your fingers are numb from frostnip, a gentle hum vibrates through Remus’ spine and stops short to loiter at his neck.
And the awkwardness increases.
Oh, the awkwardness. It’s so deliciously awkward, Remus doesn’t even know whether to crack and just laugh away the tension or slide out of the bed as discreetly as he can manage and bunk up under the bed with the bugs for the night, choosing discomfort in contrary to a thorny matter that he doesn’t know how to deal with.
That matter has, and always will remain to be, Sirius.
Sirius Black released pheromones everywhere he went.
Remus folds his arm and rests his ear on his palm, propping his head up on his elbow. He sighs quietly, his eyes on Sirius.
The covers are up to his hips, sitting there languidly. If the other boy’s cold from the lack of warmth, his muscles aren’t shivering in protest at all. Still, Remus doubts the boy’s discomfort entirely. He can feel Sirius’ body heat from a foot away, like a bit of the sun chopped off and melded onto Sirius’ flesh.
But what’s bugging Remus the most is the fact that the shirt Sirius never bothered to take off is hugging at his waist gingerly, lying over it and revealing the smooth line of his skin to his hip and his ribs.
Remus licks his lips, realizing that with Sirius so close and the covers up to his chest, he’s developed a thin layer of sweat on top of his skin. But he’s too afraid to move out from his sheets in fear of causing a disturbance to move Sirius from the way his body is resting right now.
The crook of smooth skin between his neck and his shoulder, pale and almost porcelain-like in the moonlight, is almost tempting to Remus. And with his soft breathing slowly moving his chest up and down, the crook in his waist going up and down, up and down, Remus has the urge to slide a hand over his hip. Nestle himself closer so his body melds into Sirius’ backside, his nose in his hair and his chin resting on his shoulder blade.
The werewolf’s hand twitches to do just that, finally find peace to fall asleep upon with his flesh against Sirius’ and their knees bumping and thighs pressed impossibly close.
His hand rises from his side and with two fingers tentatively out, he approaches Sirius’ waist. Just to touch it, just to lay his palm upon his skin for a second. Just to break the rules and cross a line for a moment.
But Remus doesn’t want the risk. He doesn’t want to deal with aftermath. With the thoughts in his head that he knows will form. He knows they’re already lingering in his head, but they’re gray. Fading back, just waiting to be flooded with color and make themselves known.
Remus bites his lip and let’s his sigh work silently through his teeth. And even though one resounding thought is loud in his head, he ignores it.
He doesn’t want to risk it.
I need you so much closer.