It was the night after the full moon and Remus was relaxing in a steaming hot bath, soaking his aching bones. Sirius sat on the toilet seat with a half-empty bottle of whisky in one hand. He was gesticulating wildly with the other as he talked, scattering ash from his smouldering cigarette all over the floor as he tried to explain himself.
"I first noticed it the other day when we had that game of billiards at Prongsy's place," Sirius said. "Just the way you..." Sirius noticed everything about Remus. He always had. From the first time he, tired and scared, watched Remus sleep off the effects of his transformation, Sirius had been cataloguing Remus' quirks. Now, he watched him in the bath after the full moon because he'd "be damned if you're going to survive an attack from within, only to drown in your own home," and worked on his list. Periodically, and generally in the interest of getting a rise out of a certain someone, he would revisit them.
Remus raised an eyebrow. He had on his cat eye glasses and was trying to look offended without dripping water on the comic book he was reading. Since he was small, he had always read comic books the night after the moon; they didn't require deep thinking when thinking hurt. He had them memorised cover to cover; the familiar stories comforted him. His favourite, and the one he was reading just then had been a gift from his Aunt Beatrice, a cartoon rendering of Never Cry Wolf by Jack London. In his other hand, making it all the more difficult to support his book, he held a glass of red wine. "The way I... what?" he asked.
"I just mean that you hold your glass elegantly, not that you're a fucking ponce," Sirius said.
Remus glared. "You compared me to Oscar Wilde," he said.
Sirius was backpedalling like mad. "Regulus did ballet," he blurted.
"What?"
"No, really. He was good at it too. I have photographs."
"It's alright, Sirius," Remus said, and went back to his comic.