It turned out that the man who found himself in one of these beds every month could not handle the sight of a loved one in the same place. He felt so small, so utterly powerless, not being able to do anything but wait was driving him up the walls. He'd bitten his nails raw and tried distracting himself with some reading, but nothing made time pass faster. He stared at Severus' eyelids until he felt he could burn holes through them, or will them to open already, whichever came first.

Instead, he had to wait. He took a hold of Severus' hand once, ten minutes ago, and had gotten a weak twitch of fingers in return, that he'd quickly overanalyzed and convinced himself it was probably a negative response. Which, in hindsight, was pretty dumb, but he was that stressed.

But now that dark lashes finally started to flutter and limbs shuffle in response, Remus couldn't help the knee-jerk reaction to reach for his hand again with both of his. "Finally, thank Merlin," he muttered dumbly, voice laced with overwhelming relief. "Hi. Take it easy. You're in the infirmary."

It was a moonless night. A few years ago the observation would’ve been an idle one, perhaps accompanied by thoughts of harvest and ingredients, nothing more, nothing less. But the moon’s phases became more important in the last few years of his life than they’d ever been before then. Tracking the movements of the moon and stars and it’s shape became second nature.

And so: tonight was a moonless night. The darkness of the hour lit only by the light of the stars through the glass ceiling of the greenhouse. A long wooden table filled with books, parchment, ink, and simmering cauldrons. Severus refilled his glass of wine, and turned towards his companion. Bottle tipped, question posed without words: one more?

@hcldmedcwn

Remus felt so painfully relaxed tonight. The wine in his system, the humidity of the green house, the moonless sky -- the universe seemed to be holding him, so tender. His companion, too. Spending an easy night with Severus had turned out to be routine, these days, but it never failed to be a treat. The addition of alcohol didn't happen often, but Remus welcomed it with open arms.

If sharing things was a love language, that'd be Remus'. 

As it turns out, his seems to be physical touch, but sharing would come as a close second if it could. There's nothing that can't be shared in his life. There's an unmatched happy, warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he gets to share a bite of his food with people he loves, or tuck under the same blanket, or lend his favorite books. 

And clothes, too.

Because he has a denim jacket, yes, but his has a double coating of fur all over the insides, which makes it too warm to wear in this vaguely chilly mid-season weather. Severus' denim jacket, on the other hand. His is just denim, save for the fluffy collar, which is solely for stylistic purposes, so it'd only make sense that Remus should pick that one to wear today.

Logical, of course.

And then the emotional non-coherent probably more wolf-driven part of his brain just says hmmmm significant other jacket, fuzzy happy feeling inside!!!!

Significant other is a pretty bland term, but he still feels odd using anything else. Boyfriend makes them sound like kids. Partner is a close one, but begs clarification, otherwise they may sound like a couple of auror work buddies on duty. They're living together, which makes them feel like husbands if you pair that with the constant bantering, but no one's made that move yet.

"That's my jacket," Severus points out, stopped in the middle of his way out the door.

Remus hums around a mouthful of coffee before he swallows. "Yes."

There's a pause. He expects teasing to follow, or some stupid badly timed joke, or anything, really -- he gets silence. Severus is still hovering there, in the kitchen, not making a move to reach the front door. He's gonna be late if he just stays frozen there for much longer. 

Maybe it's just too early in the morning to banter. Maybe Severus has skipped his morning coffee and his brain needs to be kicked into gear. "I stole it," Remus gracefully supplies the opening.

Severus squints a little, in the way he always does that makes Remus' chest bubble with hysterical laughter because what the fuck are you thinking?! There's no one in the world harder to read than Severus Snape. It should be easier by now, they live together, and yet. In moments like these, the werewolf feels like he's trying to pick up context clues from a wall. Is he upset? Is he annoyed? Is he happy? Impossible to know.

"It was in my closet?" Severus says, half-statement, half-question, his expression still guarded. He looks bewildered, now. There's a glint of puzzlement in his eyes as he scans over the jacket.

"Yes. Indeed. The crime was premeditated."

More silence.

Remus finds his brows furrowing as he tries to work out the connection between what Severus is saying, and what Severus isn't saying. They've shared clothes before, he knows this isn't just that. There's always been a coat thrown over the back of the couch that gets picked up by whoever's passing, scarves and gloves hung by the door that have no defined owners anymore. They're pretty similar in size and they have similar taste in muggle fashion, it's fitting that they'd end up sharing a lot. In fact, he's pretty sure he has worn this very denim jacket before, either given it when he got cold on a walk, or picked up by accident thinking it was his own when their clothes were in a pile somewhere.

And then-- ah. Then it hits him.

It's the intent. Every other time it's been a thing of the circumstances, a casual happenstance, an act gone by without much thought. Grab the nearest coat, grab the nearest scarf, wear whatever you got on hand for the sake of being practical. It's never been just that for Remus, but he supposes the excuses were there, if you were looking for them.

This is the first time he has actively stuck his thieving little hands into Severus' side of the closet and deliberately picked out something to wear.

He wonders if all the silence is Severus being upset about sharing clothes, when all the other times, he's been okay with it because it has been excused. For that, he carefully adds, "is that not okay? Did you want to wear it today?" He hopes the second question helps giving the other an easy way out, if he feels too rude just saying don't wear my clothes. Not that Severus often chooses to skirt around his boundaries, they're way past that. And Remus wouldn't be upset.

"No," he answers instead, rather quickly.

"No for which?" 

"I don't remember what you asked." Severus' voice is comically genuine in his deadpan, and their eyes meet for the first time since this weird conversation started.

Remus can't help the fond, snorted laughter that crawls up his throat at that, but he kills it quickly, for the sake of not sacrificing a delicate moment. He still hasn't made a move to take the jacket off. Severus still hovers there, but he doesn't look upset, or mad. He seems to be processing. The werewolf foolishly hopes for the best, as he often does these days.

"Do you want me to put the jacket back?"

Severus shakes his head, and with it, he seems to shake off all the confusion. The processing seems to be done, and Remus is relieved to see his lips curl up in a muted smile. "No, keep it. It's fine."

Fine. How romantic. The werewolf lets himself laugh, this time.

"You're gonna be late," he takes another sip of his coffee, cringes at how it's already gone cold and watches his partner move. "Try not to get too distracted thinking about me in your jacket today."

Severus lets out an indignant huff on his way to the door, but Remus catches sight of the growing grin just before he turns. "Try not to get your werewolf stench on it, I just cleaned that."

Severus wakes up that morning to the gentle taps of an owl’s beak against his window. Despite the curtains being drawn, the window closed, and the cracks beneath the door and around the glass pane padded with spellwork and cloth, the cold still slunk its way into the structure of the room, seeping its way into his very bones and settling in. He drags himself inch by inch off the creaking old wooden bed, head in his hands for a long moment, before he makes his way towards his morning guest.

He opens the window just enough for Sophia to hop inside and make herself at home. She finds her stand and bowl of treats by his desk — he doesn’t have an owl of his own, and Sophia, he found, was every inch as stubborn and assertive as her owner — and sticks out her foot, where the letter is attached. He stares at the letter with something like dread, like relief. Every night since she came back into his life he wonders if he’ll wake up to a letter, and decides it won’t matter either way if he does so or not. And every morning he stares at the snowy owl like his world had stopped throughout the night and heaved it’s first breath at the sight of her.

Sophia shakes her leg, prompting. Her eyes are clever and patient. He takes the letter, unfurls its contents, and reads the loping script of his oldest friend.

Dear Sev,

Good Morning, Severus the First! Yes, I know, I know, you’re probably tired of your morning letters by now, but if you want them to stop you’ll have to tell me. In person, of course, I won’t accept more written rejections than I absolutely must, and that means freeing up your Saturday once in a while and making time for your very best friend. I’ve not seen you in weeks, and I feel your absence rather keenly. James is wonderful, but his passions are not mine, put kindly, and I would be just delighted to have your insight on a project I’m working on, you know the one! I’ve hit a curious snag that’ll make your Bullwark enthusiast heart positively dance with glee, I’m sure of it. If you find yourself free this weekend, or at any time really, don’t hesitate to pop over. You know where to find me.

And, as always, don’t forget to eat your breakfast! And do please smile more, love, you know how I worry about your wrinkles.

Love, 

Lily.

Reading the letter, in the privacy of his own room, Severus allows himself a secret smile. Eyes move over towards his desk, where his parchment and quills are, and back towards Sophia, before folding the letter back up again and sliding it into his pocket. He scratches the top of the owl’s head, puts on his warmest cloak, and tricks his way up to the castle. 

The morning is spent measuring ingredients and cleaning tables at Slughorn’s lab. Severus is not yet allowed to do more than menial tasks, and he’s quite certain his lack of credentials — and the rather large black ink splotch in his already rotten history — are to blame for that. He shakes his head against the thought before it spirals further downwards, and makes his way up the stairs towards the castle’s library, where he takes a deep, relieved breath, and quietly greets the walls and books like old and dearly beloved friends.

In a matter of moments, he’s at his usual table, surrounded by books and papers and his own scrawling script. He paces by the bookshelf, thinking aloud, his mind in a faraway place of theory and laws and hypothesis, when he becomes increasingly aware that the book he’s looking for is missing rather than simply misplaced.

He walks briskly towards the desk, amid asking Madam Pince about the book, when he looks up. Stops in his tracks, blinks. His eyes narrow suspiciously, lips thinning part with nerves and part with irritation. ‘ Where’s Pince, ’ he asks after a moment of silence. ‘ And who are you? ’

As expected, Remus' biggest challenge on the first hour of the job is holding himself back from tapping a feather to the rhythm of the Beatles song stuck in his head. Annoyingly catchy little shits, that band. He hung out far too often in Muggle spaces, these days, it was difficult not to absorb a lot of the culture.

It doesn't help that he wants to absorb it. And be absorbed. He wanders around Muggle London, offering his soul up for taking like a desperate empty body in search of a home. There's so much comfort to be found in leaving everything behind to slip into another world, walking weightlessly around people who would never know -- or understand -- what he's done. For the sake of his father, he doesn't slip completely, but he's gotten fairly close. Imagine, never touching a wand again. The bliss. His daydreams are so often of getting a ridiculously small flat somewhere in busy London, a shitty job that allows him unsuspicious breaks on the full moons, maybe a plant by the window.

An overpriced Beatles record spinning on one of those music-playing thingies.

Even distracted, he catches sight of the man walking towards him as soon as he's out from behind the bookshelves. He walks so determinedly for someone whose eyes are on the floor, for a moment Remus wonders if he'll stop at all or try to march right over the desk.

And then their eyes catch, the stranger thankfully stopping in time, and the werewolf finds distant familiarity on that face. Perhaps just someone he's seen around the castle before.

He squints, Remus squints right back, in childish defiance. The way his question is more order than inquiry makes him remember distantly that he was once a Gryffindor. There's a faded memory of rebellious disobedience buried deep beneath his skin. It's been quite literally beaten out of him by now, but it was there, once. "Remus Lupin," he answers in the same tone as the stranger -- never quite one to introduce himself as Mr. Lupin like he probably should. He regards the man in front of him, considers cracking a bad joke, imagines the look of distaste he'd get in response. It only makes him want to joke more, but there's hardly any payoff in being a nuisance to complete strangers.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Paul McCartney insistently sings in a loop, ah, look at all the lonely people. Remus taps at the desk absentmindedly.

Remus has been zoned out for most of her instructions, but he zones back in time to give her a reassuring nod. He can't help it. There's so much to look at, the eery familiarity of being within these walls again, looking up at the old bookshelves, the tall ceiling. The overwhelming smell of parchment and ink and the aura of pre-pubescent stress. It doesn't feel like coming home. It feels like taking a fun vacation, instead. An exciting piece of new scenario on his usually (blissfully) boring routine.

She notices his distraction, and her brows pinch together in concern. He scrambles to comfort her, in hopes she won't change her mind about leaving.

"I'm good, seriously. Come on. I mean, I've read books for years," he jokes. Well, it was supposed to land like a joke, but he can't remember his thought process behind it anymore. Madame Pince purses her lips and studies him with dark eyes that seem to see effortlessly through him.

He's not nervous about the job, though, and hopefully she can see that. He has worked in a library for years now, and books were all he had for the last three years of his school life; he feels more at ease lost somewhere within tall bookshelves than he ever does anywhere else. He can handle a few pesky students. It's the place itself that he's still wrapping his mind around -- not the library, the castle. It's not the first time he steps foot in here since he left, but it's the first time he'll be staying this much time around. It feels different. The walls seem to curl in on him, the windows look menacing, the main desk and chair seem ready to digest him.

"How hard can it be, right? I'm not gonna kill anyone," he deadpans.

Pince blinks, her face unchanging. Tough crowd.

"Owl me if there's an emergency," she says, already turning away briskly, like she knows if she doesn't leave now, she won't have the courage to. It's comforting to know that somewhere deep down, even begrudgingly, she trusts him. He has the courtesy to play nice and refrain from any other risky jokes as she hurries out.

He circles the desk carefully, and sinks into her chair with faux confidence. It is surprisingly soft, and inviting. He wonders if this really is the furniture digesting him, and he decides he wouldn't mind that, as long as he got a good nap out of it. He revels in it for only a moment, then takes to going through her desk drawers, snooping around. Nothing too exciting in there. Eventually, he has to settle in for the familiar, boring part of the job -- sitting around until someone needs him.

He sighs for dramatic effect, opens the latest muggle book he's been dissecting, and sticks his nose in it for the next couple of hours.