Wow... it feels like forever since I started a new fic! So... warnings... Don't read this if you don't like slash. Comprende?

Disclaimer: I don't own it. Duh.


16 January 1976

Dear diary,

I guess that's how these things are supposed to start, anyway. I've never had a diary before. I'm not sure what Wormtail was thinking when he gave it to me. I guess it's better than the pink fuzzy slippers Prongs got, though. Not that he minds, since Lily came down wearing a pair just like them Christmas morning. But anyway, it's been three weeks since Christmas, and frankly I don't know what to do with you. But, I'm sitting here watching Remus sleep off last night's full moon, so I thought I'd write down all my sappy thoughts in you. Aren't you lucky?

He's beautiful when he sleeps. Not that he isn't beautiful all the time, but when he sleeps, I can stare at him all I want. Only staring, though. I can't ever touch him. I'd lose him completely if I tried.

His hair is what makes it hardest not to touch him. He laughs and calls it 'hair-colored hair,' but it's not like that at all. It's a light reddish golden brown, but to me, it looks like oak leaves in late fall. The dry ones that crunch under your feet and make everything smell like autumn. At least, it's that color until the sun hits it.

The moment sunlight touches his hair, it prisms into a rainbow of precious metals. Copper, bronze, gold, some indefinable color that's neither copper nor purple. Even a few strands of silver, from premature grey hairs. All together it forms a crown, a halo of the most delicate workmanship imaginable. And on top of the beauty, it's warm, soft as a cloud, and clings to your fingers. I know because I mussed his hair once, and it was all I could do to take my hand away.

Hands… his are long, and elegant. Covered with a lacework of barely-visible scars—and ink stains. He always manages to get ink on the index and middle fingers of his right hand. It's driven me mad ever since I first noticed it. Especially when he uses the scented ink that Wormtail got him for Christmas. I'm not sure what the little rat was thinking, giving such feminine gifts this year, but the ink's incredibly frustrating. Bad enough that I can't touch him, but now on top of it he smells like cinnamon buns…

Excuse me, diary. I need a moment to compose myself before I pounce him and start sucking his fingers. And possibly other body parts.

… Okay, definitely other body parts. Come on, Padfoot, think pure thoughts.

Pure thoughts. Right. There are dark shadows under his eyes. The plaster under the left one makes him look even paler—last night was hard on him. Obviously, or he wouldn't still be asleep. Or maybe he doesn't want to wake up. He's smiling a little, like he's having good dreams. I wonder if I'm in them. I love being the one who brings a smile to those lips. They're a little on the thin side until he smiles. Then they're perfect. But he doesn't smile often enough.

He just shifted, and the sheets fell away. It's January, which means it's roasting in here. The house elves are always overenthusiastic about the fires in our dorm, for some reason. Not that I'm complaining… I like sleeping shirtless. And I love it when he sleeps shirtless. It's the only time I get to see this much skin. I'll never understand why he's so ashamed of his body. It's beautiful, scars and all. Or maybe especially the scars. They're a part of what he is, of why he's himself, and that makes them beautiful.

It feels so intimate to watch him like this, while he's asleep. Most people would never guess that he's so muscular, for example. They never get to see past the secondhand clothes and the shyness to the real Moony. I wonder how many of the girls he tutors in arithmancy know that he comes up with most of our pranks. All the really good ones, anyway. And he never gets caught at it. Plus he manages to pull our asses out of the fire most of the time.

His eyelids are fluttering. That's the cue for me to stop watching. I can't let him know I've been watching. There are too many questions there that I don't know how to answer. If I tell the truth, he'll never speak to me again, but I can't lie. Not to Remus. I'm absolutely incapable of looking into those beautiful eyes and lying.

I can't look into his eyes at all, lately. I'm afraid of what I might see, or worse, what I might not see. Or what he might see. If he knew I loved him, what would he do? Reciprocate? Refuse to ever speak to me again? Pity me? No matter what, things will change between us, and odds are it won't be for the better. At worst, he'll hate me. I think I'd die if I saw hatred in those eyes. Some people call them golden… but gold is just a metal, and cold. His eyes are more like honey, or amber. Yes. Amber. Tears of the gods, with an inner glow and unfathomable depths. Eyes to drown in, only I can't let myself fall in…

But he's getting up now, and I don't want him asking what I'm reading, so I'll put you away for now.

"Good morning, Moony."

Now, review, or I won't post more!