Remus Lupin sits curled in an armchair, armed with a book and a tea-filled mug. Tonight, he is determined that he won't allow himself to start thinking about him. He opens his book and sips at his tea, which spreads warmth out from his stomach to the rest of his body. Much like the warmth he used to feel whenever he was around, but the werewolf doesn't make that comparison.

He sets his mug down and glances over at the happily dancing flames of his small fire, not thinking about how those silver-grey eyes used to burn like that for him, only him.
He looks down at his book again and reads despite the warm breeze coming from - where is that coming from? - and blowing around him, which doesn't make him recall hot breath on his neck and whispered words in his ear at all, not one bit.

Resting the book on his lap and reaching for his tea once more, Remus cradles the mug protectively in both hands, eyes boring into it, seeking, searching for something. He thinks he can see a flitting image in the depths of the tea. He's not exactly sure what he's seeing, but it definitely isn't that cocky, infuriating smirk that he couldn't help but fall in love with. And it isn't that softer, gentler smile that was reserved for him alone, that smile that used to make him melt whenever he saw it. No, it's neither of these things, Remus decides, and he doesn't really want to know what it is anyway. He places the mug back onto the coffee table a little too hastily, causing half its contents to spill onto the table and the hearthrug on the floor.

Glancing down in frustration at the mess he has made, Remus sighs as he pulls his wand out of his robes, cleaning the spell with a quick incantation (and he is most certainly not thinking about why he learned that spell in the first place, oh no). With that done, Remus decides to return to his book once more; after all, he wasn't really that thirsty.

His brown eyes skin across the pages of the book in his lap, and they hardly notice that the ink the book in printed in is almost the exact same shade as the long, glossy black hair that Remus used to love running his fingers through when they were-

"Goddamn it!"

He is standing in one swift, angry movement, letting the book fall, seizing the mug and throwing it at the mantelpiece, covering his face with his hands as it shatters and falls to the floor.

Every night for the past twelve years, Remus has tried to forget, tried not to think about one Sirius Black (lover- no! traitor, betrayer, DeathEater). And yet, every night, for the past twelve years, all Remus can see when he closes his eyes is Sirius' young, beautiful face, all he can hear is his voice; he can vividly recall the silken smoothness of Sirius' skin against his own, can taste his enticing, exotic flavour that is entirely Sirius'. Everything in his head is Sirius. Thoughts of Sirius. Memories of Sirius. Hating Sirius. Longing for Sirius. Mourning Sirius. Loving Sirius, still, after everything he did.

Every night, without fail, for the past twelve years, Remus Lupin has hated himself for wanting what he couldn't have.