Remus loved nighttime, because that meant he could go to sleep.
For Remus, sleep was a promise of holy sanctuary. A barricade of warm darkness.
Every night he tucked himself under his black bed sheets, embroidered with little silver constellations and planets and moons, tracing his fingers across each one until he found the one he was looking for.
Those little stars were almost part of him, as if even without sight, with only his touch and his soul he could always find that constellation.
Sometimes in his sleepy haze, it almost seemed to glow under his fingertips, a daytime warmth seeping through the sheets and through his whole body, a galactic swirl of serenity at his fingertips.
Even at night his star gave him sunlight.
He felt so at home yet out of place, an intruder in the vast expanse of pitch black paradise. Remus wished he could be a star too, or even just a glow in the dark sticker at least.
But in sleep he could shed his insecurities and his inadequacies, forgetting himself in an embracing respite of nothingness.
Nothing but the stars. His constellation in the palm of his hand.
Wrapped up in those starry sheets, wrapped up in a little universe, he felt untroubled, at peace.
Laying in the stars with his star. With his Sirius.