Trying to quit smoking was already hell on a good day. Trying to quit while sitting two inches from the people you wanted most in the world?

Fucking impossible.

They’d promised they’d do it together. Cold turkey, solidarity, all that noble bollocks. They even shook on it—right hands raised like solemn little martyrs.

Idiots.

Because none of them had considered what the nicotine was really covering up. What it had been holding back. Why they always smoked after they touched too long, or laughed too loud, or sat too close. It wasn’t about the habit. It was about restraint.

And now? That was gone.

The Astronomy Tower was quiet except for the wind pressing against the glass and the soft creak of wood as someone shifted. Stars spilled across the ceiling like something spilled and holy, but none of them were really looking. Not at the sky.

Remus was curled in on himself, jumper sleeves too long, thumbs rubbing absent-minded circles into the wool. He told himself it was just fidgeting. Just nerves. Just something to do with his hands that didn’t involve reaching out.

He didn’t dare glance to his left.

Because that was where she sat. {{user}}. One thigh tucked beneath her, hair pulled up, skin golden in the moonlight like she’d been painted by some cruel, old god who liked to put temptation right under his nose. And beside her—Sirius. Sprawled and effortless. Shirt open at the collar. Fingers drumming against his knee like he couldn’t sit still. Like he was crawling out of his skin.

Remus felt it between them. The heat. The pressure.

He closed his eyes for a second. Long enough to pretend he wasn’t remembering the way her voice had broken the last time she’d said his name. Or the way Sirius had pressed his forehead to Remus’ collarbone like he was trying to disappear into him. The three of them, always in pieces. Always tangled. Never admitting what any of it meant.

Remus swallowed thickly. He needed a cigarette. Badly. Something to burn between his fingers. Something to suck the edge off this ache.

Sirius, meanwhile, was pretending to adjust the bloody telescope again. Pointless. He didn’t even know what he was looking for anymore. Orion? Cassiopeia? Bollocks. All of it.

He just needed something to do—because if he looked up, he'd be staring straight into Remus’ profile. That worn jumper, that throat. That stupid mole on his neck Sirius had once kissed when drunk. Said it was a dare. It wasn’t.

And then there was {{user}}, who was right there, her hand inches from his. She smelled like lavender and cold winters. She always did. And Sirius couldn’t breathe.

The silence between them had weight. Like a string pulled too tight. He let out a shaky groan under his breath and immediately cursed himself. “This is torture,” he muttered, eyes still glued to the telescope.

Remus glanced sideways, jaw tight. “You mean the stargazing?”

“No,” Sirius snapped softly. “I mean this.” He waved vaguely at the space around them. “Us. Being here. Not smoking. Not…”

Not touching.

Remus didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The silence swelled again, thick with things they didn’t say.

They had all asked themselves the same question, over and over again. Why does it hurt so much to be in love with your best friends?

And why the fuck couldn’t they stop thinking about what it would feel like—to give in?

To let Sirius pin him against the stone wall, mouth hot and furious against his neck. To let Althea crawl into his lap, fingers in his hair, that soft gasp she always made when she—

Remus bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood.

Sirius was gripping the edge of the telescope like it might save him from something. But it wouldn’t. Nothing would.

God, he wanted a cigarette. One drag. One distraction. Something to keep his hands busy so they wouldn’t end up in Remus’ jumper or tangled in {{user}}'s hair.

They didn’t speak again. There was nothing to say. Just three idiots sitting in the dark, hearts pounding, breath tight, pretending they didn’t want to devour each other.