Often, in the back of humid, stale-aired classrooms and under layers upon layers of blankets at night, Remus marvels over how close one has to be to someone else in order to kiss them. The fact that it doesn't just happen is still somewhat strange and unsettling for him; for one thing, it requires leaning in close enough to see the other person's pores (and then even closer so that their pores go indistinguishably blurry), and Remus has never been quite confident enough in his own pores to be comfortable with something like that. Especially when, in comparison, the other person has the most perfect pores Remus has ever seen.
With all the time Remus spends thinking about kissing, he spends far less time doing any actual kissing. This had never bothered him up until he had actually tried kissing, and now he can't stop thinking about it.
This is ridiculous, he tells himself as he rolls over in bed for the millionth time that night. This is a waste of time and energy and I am going to sleep right now.
He doesn't, of course, because his brain cannot let go of the memory of wet lips pressing against his own dry, cracked ones, of a tongue tracing his bottom lip, of seeing up-close not just pores but also eyelashes and spots missed while shaving and everything else that makes up the face of the boy who had kissed him (once? twice? three times?) in a dark corner at the most recent after-Quidditch party.
Despite his most valiant attempts, it's impossible to ignore the way a hot flush spreads from his cheeks down his neck and over his ears. It's embarrassing, really, the amount of time he spends thinking about that one stupid kiss, the kiss that probably only happened because they had both had just a bit too much Firewhisky by that point in the night, the kiss that most likely will never happen again no matter how much Remus wants it to.
He kicks the blankets off his legs and swings them over the side of his bed, fighting himself on whether he needs a cigarette or a glass of water or both. He sits there, curly hair in wild disarray around his flushed face, staring at the dark floor as he wills himself to make a decision. As soon as he's made one, however, Sirius renders it null and void by pushing back the heavy crimson curtains on his bed and speaking Remus's name in a tone made heavy and soft with sleep.
Remus has never climbed back into the safety of his blankets so quickly in all his life, and that, he thinks, is saying something, since the number of times things have blown up in this dormitory are much higher than he would like. "Hey," he says quietly. "You're up early."
"Going for a run, I think," says Sirius, blinking his eyesight into focus and smiling far too brightly for half-past four in the morning. "Got a game today, you know."
"Have you," says Remus, trying his best to look as though he doesn't want to be distracted from the deep sleep the darkness allows him to partake in for another few hours, at least.
"Mm, against Hufflepuff." He strips off his t-shirt in favor of a warmer alternative, something long-sleeved with a Quidditch logo on. Remus isn't sure of the affiliation, but then again, he doesn't exactly make an effort to follow Quidditch in the borderline obsessive way that James and Sirius do. "Won't be a challenge worth anything, but it'll be a good opportunity to jump up a few hundred points in the rankings." He grins, that one crooked lower incisor just barely visible in the semi-darkness of the room. "You coming?"
"Running? Hell no."
"To the game, you twat."
"I suppose, if you drag me. And you will, won't you?" Remus sits up a little more in bed, smiling slightly.
"Always do." Sirius runs his hand through his hair in front of the mirror, long fingers catching on the curls he usually spells straight. "Right, I'm off. Don't go down to breakfast without me, yeah?"
"Mm. Wouldn't dream of it, Sirius."
"Good." The door snicks quietly shut behind him, and Remus is left to claim the sleep he's no longer sure he wants.