A/N: People are not happy with me borrowing their laptops and not telling them why. *is a closet fanficcer* Note: some profanity a-coming. Also, when I say pants, I mean underwear. I felt strangely American rereading it. Pants. Heh.

For tmmdeathwishraven who requested CharlieRemus and then made me kind of love it. Sigh. As if I needed more things to ship.

Prompt: 32. Self control

Pairing: Remus Lupin/Charlie Weasley

He's leaning against the doorjamb with a smile on his lips and a look in his eyes that says I dare you.

Remus knows he's the kind of boy who whispers fuck me in quiet corners of loud nightclubs, the kind of boy who takes home strangers with slim wrists and bright eyes regardless of what they've got in their pants, the kind of boy who makes love but doesn't really feel it.

Remus is none of these things. Remus is the opposite of these things.

Remus is scared.

But when Charlie says, "You miss him, don't you?" and walks forward oh so slowly but not nearly slow enough, Remus only nods. He does not run, as he should. He does not say, "Goodnight, Charlie." He does not ask him to leave, does not close the bedroom door in his face, does not crawl into bed and fall into exhausted slumber alone.

No. Remus nods, and Charlie sits beside him, pretending to understand.

"You loved him, didn't you?"

Remus nods again. His eyes are stinging. He stares at the floor, ignoring how Charlie's fingers are rubbing circles along his spine, how Charlie's warmth is burning his side in this icy bedroom, how Charlie makes him feel like a blushing, inexperienced, little child.

"I knew it," Charlie says softly. "Mum never would say, but I knew it."

Remus doesn't know what to say. He wants to look at Charlie but he's too afraid. Part of him wants to kiss Charlie, to touch Charlie, to drag Charlie backwards onto the bed and keep pretending he's okay. But he's Remus, and he's the kind of man who waits for someone else to make a move, the kind of man who lets love find him, the kind of man who doesn't just fuck for nothing.

He's got more self control than he has sense.

So he stays quiet.

"Remus," Charlie says, "Look at me."

Remus hesitates. He can't help it. He only meets Charlie's eyes when there are long fingers pushing his chin up, and he sees then that Charlie's eyes are blue. He's never noticed before.

The world seems to stop for that moment, with Charlie's fingers on his face and Charlie's eyes on his and Remus wants more but he wants out, he wants to kiss him but he wants to push him out the door and he wants Charlie to stop fucking teasing him, for Merlin's sake.

"I'm too old for this, Charlie," he whispers.

"You're only a few years older than me," Charlie replies, and Remus can feel the damp heat of his breath like the wave of heat from a lit candle. He cannot look away from those blue, blue eyes.

"Twelve years is hardly a few," Remus says, his tongue dampening his dry lips clumsily.

"Twelve years," Charlie whispers, and Remus can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand. "Is twelve years really that long?"

His eyes burn into Remus', blue hellflames, and Remus feels a knot in his throat. Twelveyears and SiriusSiriusSirius run through his head but he's not thinking straight anymore, not at all. His breath comes in little pants and his eyes are filling with tears.

"Shut up," he growls, and then he is on Charlie, lips and teeth and tongues and hands, fire and ice and too many clothes, yes and oh, God and Siri- Charlie, and Remus is pretending again.

And, really, who needs self control anyway?