It was late into the night, the soft shining of the moon being the only light in the room, when James heard the rustle of his curtains. He’d been half asleep, dotting in between the space of lucid and asleep but not really. He scrubbed at his eyes, trying to rub some of the almost-sleep from them, as he turned towards the side the noise came from. The moon doesn’t really do much against the vast darkness of the night but Pete’s snoring can be heard throughout the room and the figure is tall so James knows it’s not him and Sirius’ bed is to the left of James’ and he always comes to James’ from that side and well, the figure is on his right. So through a few moments of deductive reasoning, James realizes its-
“Moony?” he says, voice slightly hoarse from bordering the brink of sleep.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” And from the sound of his voice, he can tell that he hasn’t been.
James sits up slightly, brows immediately furrowing together in concern. “Don’t be, I wasn’t asleep yet. Are you alright?”
“Yeah.” His voice wavers.
He feels his heart clench. He hates when Remus is upset. “Come on,” he says, patting on the ruffled sheets of his bed.
There’s only a few second pause before the weight of the bed dips and Remus is sitting in front of him. He still can’t really see him with how dark it is in the room but he can make out the curves of his face and his ruffled hair and the scars that litter on his face. He knows that face, even in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” Remus says again.
“For what?”
He sighs. “I don’t know.”
“Okay.” A pause. “Do you want to lie down?”
“Okay.”
The weight of the bed shifts more as Remus lays himself down against it and then again as James does the same. The bed feels even when they’re both finally laying in it, the weight of each other balancing it out. James keeps his distance because he knows sometimes Remus doesn’t want to be touched, especially if it’s barely a few days after a full moon.
“I’m-” Remus starts.
“If you say you’re sorry again Remus I will have to smack you with this pillow.”
“You wouldn’t,” Remus states. James can tell he’s got a smug smile on his face.
“Okay, I wouldn’t. I’d think about it though.”
Remus’ laugh is light, airy, short as the noise tumbles from his lips. “I’m sure you would.”
A billow of silence falls on them after that. Thin and airy like the material of the curtains around his bed. And although the curtains and the silence move and sway they still end up coming to a stop, retaking their comfortable position around and in the bed.
“Do you want to talk?” James says after a while. His voice feels loud and all consuming against the silence.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“James,” Remus says, not even half a minute later.
“Remus.” The words feel pretty in between his lips. In the little crevices of his teeth. In his vocal cord. In the taste buds on his tongue.
“I want to talk. I know I said I didn’t but I do.”
“Okay. Whatever you want,” James says earnestly. He’d give him everything, the very breathe in his lungs, if that’s what Remus wanted. It should feel scary to feel that way for someone but it doesn’t.
“I don’t know what to say,” Remus admits.
James nods like he understands-he does. There’s something so inexplicably human about not wanting to talk but, at the same time, wanting to so badly.
“You never answered my question,” James states.
“I did.”
“Truthfully,” James reiterates.
Remus sighs softly beside him. “I’m fine. I just-“ his voice cracks, “Nevermind.”
“No. What’s wrong?” he says because he can immediately tell when Remus is lying.
“I’m a monster,” Remus mutters, voice small like a scorned child’s. He spits the words out like they leave a bad aftertaste in his mouth.
James immediately shifts to his side so he can look at Remus, who is looking anywhere but James. “You’re not,” James says fiercely. “Who told you that? I’ll hex them.”
“No one did. No one had to.”
“Remus-“
“They’re scared of me. The first years,” Remus cuts in. “More than they usually are now that I’ve got a new scar to add to the collection,” he laughs dryly, sound laced with sarcasm. “One of them saw me, looked horrified, and then ran away.”
“They’re children, Rem. At that age, everything scares you,” James says softly. He knows this is a sensitive topic for Remus and he wants to get it right.
“It’s not just them, it’s everyone. They see me and all they see is a boy with scars. And they make fun of me for it because it’s easy to laugh at when you don’t have to live it. They’re not scared of me, they’re disgusted.” And Remus sounds so sure of what he’s saying that James feels like he’d spend his whole life trying to etch those thoughts out of the boy’s brain.
“That’s not-”
“And it was understandable when I hated myself because how could I not but it’s different when they do. I just-” his voice cuts off in a harsh crack and James knows he’s crying or about to.
He shifts closer, moving up to sit up on one of his elbows so he can see Remus’-who is laying flat on his back and staring up at the roof-face. With the new proximity, he can make out the features of his face more clearly, can make out the pained expression on his face. There’s tears brimming in his eyes, illuminated by the light of the moon.
“I just want to be normal,” Remus half sobs half croaks out.
James, in a tentative, slow move, that would give Remus time to move away if he wanted to, takes the hand not holding him up and nudges it against the one Remus has tightly fisted together near his ribs. He does it again, gently coaxing the fingers away from the palm. There’s little crescent shapes left in their wake. James runs gentle fingers over the C-shaped imprints, like the gentleness of his caress can make up for the harsh dig of nails into skin.
“No one’s normal. We’re all flawed and fucked up in our own ways.”
“I turn into a werewolf once a month and more times than not, hurt myself in the process. My body and bones ache in a way that would make you think I’m fifty and not sixteen. There isn’t a part of my body I haven’t scarred. That’s not flawed or fucked up-its just ugly. They’re right to be disgusted. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting,” Remus states, no self-pity in his tone.
James’ heart twists and turns in on itself, like the thought of Remus thinking he’s disgusting makes it physically hurt. It does. Because to James, Remus is the farthest thing from it. He’s the rainbow after a thunderstorm, the bloom of flowers after a harsh winter, the feeling of coming home after being gone for a while, the orange and yellows and pinks of the sun setting, the endorphins running through his veins after a run. To James, Remus is everything good.
“That’s not true. It’s not. I swear,” he says because he doesn’t know what else to say to that except to tell him it’s not true. That it can’t possibly be true because he’s looking at him right now and he is anything and everything but disgusting. Never that.
“It feels like it,” Remus says. And then the tears are spilling over, clear tears running over tanned skin, like water washing ashore onto the sand of a beach, running over the seashells and his freckles, obscuring the view of them until the waves settle down.
One second James is sitting up on his arm and then next his back is hitting the bed softly, the sweater-covered arms of Remus preventing him from fully laying against it. The boy softly sobs, hiding his face in the bony part of James’ chest.
“Can I touch you?” James asks even though every part of him is already touching Remus but his hands. He doesn’t want to do anything that would make him uncomfortable.
Remus nods against his chest, his voice too sob-wrecked to form coherent words.
So James curls one arm around Remus’ back and brings the other to card through the boy’s hair, running soothing fingers against the hairs on his scalp. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he chants. It’s okay to feel this way. It’s okay to need to be held and comforted. It’s okay to be you.It’s okay, all of it.
Remus continues to cry and James continues to hold him. James doesn’t know how long it’s been but after an undetermined amount of times passed, Remus’ sobs die down and turn to small, hiccuped breaths and nasally sniffles. And soon there’s just the soft sound of breathing against his chest, the rise and fall that matches his own. It’s soothing, the weight of him, like a weighted blanket but better, the pressure of the boy on top of him pressing into the spaces between his bones, making him feel fuller and more whole than he’s ever been.
“I wish you could see yourself the way I do.” And maybe it’s because he’s about seventy percent sure that Remus is asleep that he says it and that even if he is asleep, then the words are still out, floating around in the spaces between them. He hopes that even if Remus is asleep that the words imprint their way into his skin and brain and understand what he means when he says them so that maybe he could understand too.
But then Remus shifts on his chest and unwraps one of his arms from around James’ waist, moving it to press into the bed so he can lift himself up. When Remus’ face comes into view James can see clearly the puffiness of his eyes and the slight pinkish-red of the rims. His heart twists again.
“And how do you see me?” Remus whispers. And James can see clearly now too how Remus’ lips move around the words.
“As beautiful. You’re beautiful. Your heart,” he says, tapping one finger against Remus’ chest, “your brain, your soul, your scars. All of it. All of you. It's-you’re beautiful.”
“Oh,” Remus breathes out, like no one’s ever told him that he-all of him- was beautiful before.
“I could never think you were disgusting. You’re anything but it,” James says earnestly. He hopes the boy believes him. He desperately wants him to.
“You don’t have to say that to try and make me feel better, you know?” Remus says, gaze dropping away from James’.
“What? I’m-you…I’m not,” James says firmly. “You-your good Remus. You’re so good and it kills me that you don’t believe it. Can’t you see how much better you make our lives, my life? You’ve made it so much better just by being you. I love you, Remus, all of you, just as you are.” He knows there’s a hidden message behind his words, ones that truth lies in every beat of his heart. Maybe that’s why it twisted and turned earlier.
He didn’t mean for it to happen. Mean to fall in love with the boy. But he did. He did when Remus laughed, genuinely laughed-the breathless, wheezy type of laugh, at his jokes. He did when Remus would tell him about the newest book he read with that glimmer in his eyes he always got when he was talking about something he enjoyed or loved. He did when Remus would cheer loudly for him at his Quidditch matches even though he didn’t particularly care for the sport. He did when Moony would seek out Prongs during the full moon because it seemed to soothe him to be close to him. He did when Remus would read to him and let him lay his head in his lap when he was sad. He did when Remus smiled at him. He did. God, he did.
“How?”
“What?” James asks, slightly startled by the question.
“How do you love me?” And James can tell from the look on his face that he doesn’t mean ‘How can you love me?’ but rather ‘In which way do you?’.
His mouth feels dry all of the sudden. “We-It's late and you’re upset and so we shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.” The words feel like they choke him on his way out.
Was he really that transparent that Remus could see through his words and dissect them and come back with the message hidden within them? He knew he wasn’t exactly not obvious but he was affectionate with everyone so he just thought Remus would take it like that. He’d never given much thought to what he would say if he did tell Remus because he never really planned to. Tell him that is. He refused to risk possibly ruining their friendship. He wouldn’t do it, he cared more about staying friends with the boy than his ever-persistent and growing feelings for him. He could do it, he could love him like he did-as more than a friend-from a distance. Could tuck it away into his little cracks and crevices. He could and he did.
“James. Please.” His voice sounds breathless, airy.
And suddenly Remus is poking and prodding, spreading his way into the little cracks and crevices where that love is. He can feel it, the fingers spreading him open wide in search of what they want-the truth.
“You know how.” The words feel sinful leaving his mouth. Now he’s the one that can’t look back.
“How do I know if you’ve never told me?”
He swallows again, mouth dryer than the first time. Oh god, he’s actually going to say it. He feels like he’s melting under Remus’ gaze, like ice cream against the heat of the summer sun. “I like you, Remus. Have since the second term of fourth year. That’s how.”
Remus doesn’t say anything and that’s somehow worse than any way he imagined this going. Suddenly the air feels suffocating and the places they meet feel wrong and this is wrong. It’s wrong. Why did he make him say it? He’s going to hate him for it, James can already tell. Why else wouldn’t he respond?
“I’m sorry,” he rushes out. “Please don’t hate me. I don’t want you to hate me.” And he can hear just how pathetically his voice cracks at the words. “We-we can just pretend this didn’t happen. We don’t have to talk about it ever again. God, I’m sorry. I’m so-”
The words die in James’ throat the minute warm lips meet his. He makes an embarrassing startled noise into the kiss and he can feel Remus smile at it, just for a second, before pushing his lips back firmly against his. James only falters another second before he’s reciprocating the gesture. It feels like a dream. Is it a dream? And because he’s stupid and doesn’t want this moment, this touch, to be anything but reality, he pinches himself. Yep, definitely not a dream. Remus’ lips are actually moving against his and his hands are actually cupping his cheeks. His lips are warm, he’s warm, and it’s dizzying how good it feels. He wants to live in this moment, in this embrace, forever.
His hand’s card back into Remus’ hair, trying to pull him impossibly closer. Just consume me whole, he thinks. I’m yours anyway. And it feels so right like this. With Remus on top of him, warm and comforting and the best kind of weight he’s ever felt against him. With Remus’ hands against his cheeks and his lips against his. With his lips parting and Remus’ tongue entering the open space, meeting his own in a caress that has butterflies filling his stomach and his head spinning.
The need for air doesn’t matter to him in that moment, he’d die happy if it meant he could stay kissing him. Remus must value some of his life though because he eventually pulls away, sucking in a long, shaky breath. James does the same, eyes hooded and mouth agape, utterly transfixed by the boy hovering above him. He almost absentmindedly continues running his fingers through the boy’s hair; it’s soft and fluffy and James would honestly like to feel it between his fingertips for the rest of his life. Or maybe burrow up in it like some animals do come winter. How can hair be this soft and fluffy and pretty?
Remus leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut softly, just for a few moments before they’re opening again. His eyes look darker in the dark but James can still vividly picture the way they look in the sun: golden brown with little specks of green near the edges; beautiful. God, James finds everything about him utterly breathtaking.
“James,” Remus says, voice still breathless from the kiss.
“Hmm?” James says, busy brushing a strand of hair away from Remus’ eye.
“I’ve liked you since fifth year.”
“What?” he says, attention immediately on the other boy and what he’s saying. He likes him too? He likes him too. Oh, James is going to think about this night for the rest of his life.
Remus huffs out a laugh. “Yes, you idiot. I didn’t sit through all those quidditch matches because I didn’t like you. They’re so bloody long, James,” he whines, grabbing onto the hand that was just brushing hair away from his eye and curling the fingers between his own.
James laughs, giddy like a kid. He’s smiling so wide it should hurt, but it doesn’t. “I know. I always looked for you in the stands, you know? I’d get so happy when I saw you were there.”
Remus grins. “Oh you’re properly soppy for me, aren't you?” he says, rubbing his thumb against the hand in his in circles.
“Oh, absolutely. I think this is the happiest day of my life.”
“You’re sixteen, James.”
James shrugs. “I have my priorities straight.”
Remus laughs at this and then their lips are meeting again. It’s as good as the first time, if not better, and James’ chest feels so warm. After they stop kissing-which doesn’t happen for a long time-they lay on their sides facing each other. Their hands are still intertwined together and Remus still rubs circles against James’. James however, has taken to tracing the scars scattered across Remus’ face. The pad of his pointer finger follows each slope, curve, and divet with the utmost concentration. “Beautiful,” he whispers after every scar he traces. And he’s said it so many times he’s sure the boy must be tired of hearing it but then Remus smiles and he does it again.
“Beautiful. Just like you,” he says once he’s traced the final scar. And then Remus smiles again and James can’t help but do the same. He’s so fond he can feel it throughout his entire body; his heart, his stomach, his veins, his bones, his fingertips. He’s in love.
They stay cuddled close, legs intertwining and fingers still intertwined. It’s easy for their eyes to get heavy. It’s warm, so warm, and neither of them want to be cold, not when this is an option. Just before he whisks off into a comfortable sleep he hears Remus whisper, “All of you is beautiful too, James.”
He falls asleep with a smile on his face.