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i.
He cannot love a man, no, not at all, Remus thinks. Not gently, not tender. His bones are too creaky, his teeth too sharp. Too reminiscent; of that .
He thinks of the veins through his body, branched like ivy leaves. He thinks himself ivy, juvenile lush.
He thinks himself the way ivy grows. The green, green leaf. The way ivy trails, and the way it wraps. The way it chokes, and bears down mighty trees.
He thinks the reflection in the mirror an imposter. A monster .
ii.
Remus thinks of everything. Remus thinks he thinks too much. Though; at this moment in time, this special little bubble Sirius has constructed just for him—no one else—all he can bear to think about are his hands and the breath on his neck. He couldn’t shun the feeling of Sirius' heartbeat against his back.
The water is warm against his head when Sirius brings the pitcher to his forehead. The water leaves a trail of goosebumps down his back in their wake. Remus thinks he can settle with this domestic life. He wonders if the wolf feels the same.
iii.
“No,” he slows, “ No, not at all.” He smiles.
He recalls that golden smile often, in and out of his dreams. Even when the aforementioned man is standing in front of him. It plagues his mind, from dusk to dawn. When he kisses the scars laid across his skin like the rings of a tree. When he whispers his “I love you, I love you, IloveyouIloveyou’s” into his skin.
Once upon, Remus considered his scars dithering.