"Moony?" Sirius asks, while propelling a ball of parchment at said Moony's head.
Remus, not looking up, catches the ball midflight, continues scanning through the creaking old tome as before, underlining relevant facts with a terribly useful little charm, tosses the ball back at Sirius, and replies, "Yes, Padfoot?"
The parchment hits the animagus squarely between the eyebrows. Scowling, he simply says again: "Mooony," – except this time the vowel's elongated to give the impression of a whining dog. Which it is, Moony thinks wryly.
"Padfooot," he says, in much the same manner. Sirius glares at him, mutters what seems to be an incantation – but Remus doesn't look up at him, feigning nonchalance – and tosses the parchment at Moony again.
Catching it, Remus puts everything on hold for the minute, meaning to open the ball and write down a demand for Sirius to bugger off. In the politest of ways, of course.
But opening it, he notices writing: "Hi."
Looking up, Remus takes note of Sirius' sheepish gaze. He smiles kindly, "Hi."
Sirius' own mouth is taking shape of a rose crescent, but, again, simply says, "Moony."
But this time it's softer, held with more reverence and caution, as if the moment could shatter and break if Sirius is too loud. Remus doesn't mind.
"Yeah?" he asks; he too speaks softly, soothingly, as if to convince a startled creature not to take flight.
"Kiss me?" Sirius asks, a little pleadingly.
Needy puppy, Remus thinks fondly, closing the ancient book and stepping into Sirius' desperate embrace. But I wouldn't change it for the world.
Meanwhile, in Sirius' head, he thinks (while melding his lips against the other boy's) not of Moony, or even Mooony, but of Remus. His