( hot, sweating ) he fidgets. hands curled into fists, resting upon quivering thighs. his breath caught in his lungs ( coming out too fast, quick; pants ). inappropriate, the werewolf thinks to himself. the air knocked from his chest at regulus’ smile. and remus wonders when the boy had become so beautiful. ( he was black. the werewolf shouldn’t be so surprised in retrospect. ) ‘ i suppose it is. is this you offering your help? ‘ swallowing nerves for a smirk. one reserved for lasses and james when he’s being particularly mischievous. he barks a laugh. once. too caught up in the nearness. thighs pressed together. elbows bumping. a shudder of warm air brushes his lips; leg jumping, knee banging up on the underside of the table. too close ( not close enough, his mind supplies. )
‘ are you afraid? ‘ words a murmur. remus pushes further; fingers running down the back of the boy’s pale exposed neck. he’s shaking ( body thrumming with energy; an essence tinged in fear and excitement waiting to be released. ) and then, ‘ do you trust me? ‘ it seems imperative to ask. something akin to consent. for he has never felt this way before; uneven. it felt as though years passed with every breath, every second they spent in silence, gaze lost in grey eyes, rose-tinted cheeks, chapped lips. ‘ please. ‘ meant to be a command; now a beg. soft, pleading.
His hands are clammy, odd, mirroring some kind of fever as his body fights over whether it is hot or cold. The way that Remus looks at him -- dangerous -- tearing Regulus’ thoughts away from the books that sit before them. He hasn’t noticed how close they are, how he’s even pressed closer. Wrong. He laughs nervously back, shrugging and licking his lips, gaze dropping back to the text with a frown. Focus, he tells himself. “Thought you were supposed to be smart,” he teases quietly.
He’s thrown into another world though, closeness passed long ago for physical contact. He shudders, unable to force himself to look directly at the Gryffindor. He drops the quill, his hands feeling tangled, trapped. “Do I -- well, yes,” but he answers with some uncertainty, almost a question, not understanding. Gasping, eyes going wide, turning to glance over him. What is this? He doesn’t know how to find his own words even, lips parted. This moment is not meant for them! The drop of a book somewhere snaps him back and he pushes himself backwards, shaking his head.
“What? No -- no.” His tone almost mimics Remus’ pleading, pulling away suddenly, contradicting every advancement that’s been made in the last several weeks. Wrong, wrong, this is all wrong. But as his gaze darts about, mouth still hanging open, he realizes no attention has been turned their way. He quiets, leaning back in close, an accident when his leg brushes back against his. “You’ve gone mad. Y-You can’t...” But he can’t help biting his lip, the blush that tints his pallid cheeks, the grin that he desperately -- unsuccessfully -- tries to hide.
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