Feeling like a fool is a sensation utterly unfamiliar to him. Not knowing, just guessing, then second-guessing himself as he mistakes kindness for affection, attention for interest, mere politeness, human decency and perhaps a platonic fondness for infatuation. He could hit himself for ever hoping and deems hope to be the stupidest feeling of all.

Never in his life has he gone thus far to just ask, it’s all a matter of observation for a conclusion to spark. Then a spark. Only then he dares to doubt. Only then he dares to ask.

Is it better to speak or to die?

Every day you cross the threshold of the great hall and sit in the same spot, between his arm and Sirius' arm. The two compare poorly and he is aware of how many of his arms would have to be bound together to make up for one of Sirius'.

And maybe that’s the only reason for you to pick that other arm to lean on or swat in a jest, but Remus chooses to remain in the realm of not knowing. The realm of guessing, as this is something he does not dare to ask about.

Until it becomes familiar and almost equal when this maddening thing called friendship blooms amongst the three of you and suddenly his arm also gets granted a lean and a swat, an occasional squeeze and the most infuriating, a brush.

A warm kind, gentle caress, most likely performed without any thought put into it. It is better to think that instinct guides you, rather than a thought, when you touch him with something resembling love. It is worse to think that it means nothing.

It is better to die, for him. He would rather die than say something and lose the touches altogether, no matter how unsatisfactory they are compared to what he wished from you. Another day, another meal eaten in the hall, another class, another agonizing night, only sleeping to see you in the dreams he's been granted in replacement of the nightmares. You'd even infected his subconscious.