Written for the Remus/Tonks ficathon at LiveJournal, inspired by prompt 10: a picture of a cigarette held in a woman's fingers. I'm an avid anti-smoker, but for some reason this kicked my Muse into gear.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to JKR, the rest is mine.

I hope you enjoy. Any comments of any nature (even on typos!) will be very welcome. I accept both signed and anonymous reviews.

I picked up smoking a few months ago.

It all started that fateful night, when Remus came over to seek some company. He missed Sirius; he felt alone without his best friend. He needed to know that there were still people he mattered to, people that cared about him. So he came to find me. He knew he could count on me.

We sat in the living room and had some coffee. He opened his heart, poured everything out to me. His memories of Hogwarts, the years that followed. That Halloween night that took away the people that most mattered to him. His life after that. His meeting Harry, and seeing Sirius again; the hope he found in them. And how he felt now that Sirius was lost again, this time for good.

I knew it, I knew it all. Yet I let him speak. There was pain in him, pain he needed to release. It was obvious in his words, so heart-wrenching and yet so beautiful. Sometimes a tear would drop, and I'd know that his heartstrings were playing a song with a special meaning for him.

I listened to him intently. I could see the gratitude in his eyes for being someone who would listen to him. He didn't need to hear comforting words, he just wanted to talk and know he wasn't talking to the void.

He finally finished speaking, with a long, heavy sigh. It was my turn to speak.

I had things to say too. Or rather, one thing: a secret I had been keeping for months. A part of me said the timing was wrong; another said that it was perfect. And another said there was not such a thing as good timing; all that mattered was to seize the moment.

I started by telling him I was his friend and cared for him. He knew that, but hearing it brought a smile up to his face. I was so encouraged to see his beautiful smile; I always am. If Remus is smiling, you know there's still hope.

Then I went to sit near him, put my arm around his shoulder. He didn't pull away; it comforted him. I knew it would. He's not one to let people close to him easily, but even he needs a hug every so often.

And then I spilled it.

Everything.

Including the coffee.

And he didn't even notice.

He didn't even notice the warm, brown liquid staining his tattered robe, running down his trousers, dripping on his shoes. He just stared at me, his beautiful eyes – brown that border to olive green – searching mine. I swear my heart had stopped beating at that point.

And then he said it.

You can't love me.

I honestly thought he was kidding.

And then, suddenly, he was showering me with excuses, explanations, a whole load of meaningless words. I tried to follow his reason, but soon stopped listening. I couldn't understand, and I didn't want to know.

Then, thinking he had made his point, he left. I'm not even sure he said goodnight; I was too dumbstruck to listen.

It was my turn to seek someone's company. So I went to Molly. Sat with her over a cup of tea and tried to remember what he had said, see if she could help me make some sense out of it. She couldn't. I still don't know if it was his fault for speaking nonsense, or mine for being unable to understand him. But the point remains.

I thanked Molly for the company. But maybe I'm not like Remus. Talking to her didn't really feel all that helpful. When I left the Burrow, I wasn't the slightest bit relieved. The night was beautiful, though, and I couldn't return home and face that coffee stain again. It would remind me of a certain pair of eyes I could not afford to think about at that moment.

So I went for a walk in the nearby park. Strolled down the cobbled path, surrounded by flowers of colours barely discernible under the dim, yellow light of the lampposts.

And, on my way home, I stopped by one of those 'open all night' corner shops and picked up a pack of cigarettes. Seemed like the thing to do at the time.

To this day, nobody knows I smoke. I get chided enough for not eating well, for not sleeping much, for avoiding everyone and staying locked in my flat. I don't need additional lecturing for filling my lungs with nicotine. I only smoke when I'm alone, and the image of Remus and his haunting eyes comes floating in my mind. Like now.

You can't love me.

I hate the way he said it. As if saying it would make it true.

You can't love me.

I don't know if he's convinced anyone else about that, but he can't convince me.

You can't love me.

Like hell I can't! I can, and I do!

My fury sends the empty vase flying across the room. It breaks in tiny pieces. I can't be bothered to fix it.

My hands are trembling, ever so slightly. I get up and put on a robe, then sit down again and light a cigarette.

Of course it's not any help. What help can a small stick made of paper and tobacco possibly be? What comfort can it offer, when its life ends merely ten minutes after it begins? It has no soul, no understanding. It can't stop the tears that start streaming down my face. But I put it in my mouth and breathe its bitterness in anyway. As long as I'm drowning my sobs under the thick layers of its tar, as long as I don't bury my face in my hands, as long as my mind is so intently concentrated on the burning tip of the cigarette, as long as exhaling doesn't come out like whispering his name, it's not really crying.

Or, at least, that's what I keep telling myself. Because I don't want to cry. I don't want to cry for him.

It's not worth crying over spilt coffee.