Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

And a Happy New Year!

Remus followed quietly, keeping close to Sirius.

"How many articles of my clothing have you stolen?"

"Not enough."

They made it back to the kitchen, Sirius returning to his preparations after resettling the apron over his shoulders.

"Soon enough I'll be wandering around in a tea towel," he laughed.

"I don't think that'll be enough to cover you up, but if it helps you sleep at night."

Remus felt the heat rush to his face, ears going hot and red. He let his stare rest on Sirius; he was obviously in his own little world where only he and the chicken exists, and Remus was merely an overlying shadow that made annoying, chittering noises every once in a while. His back was facing Remus, hair tickling the nape of his neck. Remus could see the rise and fall of tense breathing.

He hated how much he loved Sirius. It felt like a record on repeat; every time a thought bounced around the confines of his empty skull, Sirius was there accompanied by the everlasting, unrequited love that cackled in triumph. When he walked into a room full of life and people, he saw him. When there were twenty people crammed into Lily's tiny flat with wine and beer trying to chat away with Remus about his Muggle job and his family, he saw him. When there were a million other things to pay attention to on New Year's Eve, he saw him.

Here he was, for the umpteenth time, just looking at Sirius with these idiotic, romantic thoughts in his head, and he looked like more than just his best friends. He wanted to tell him this again, beat it into his brain so that maybe he could get it. He wanted to tell him how much he needed him – how lonely his flat had been with the absence of his cavorting and stupidity. He wanted to tell him of the family of snitches rampant in his chest every time he so much as glanced in his direction.

In his dreams, he'd told Sirius that he'd taken up a place in his heart he didn't even mean to give. But he knew, when he woke up, that Sirius didn't exactly feel the same, and the lopsided grins and the lingering touches didn't hold the same weight. There was still a sliver inside of him that didn't accept that, and perhaps that was the part that broke a little bit every time Sirius ignored him that night. It was the part that continued to love him, the hopeless romantic, the one that wanted to turn their smoking breaks into coffee dates and brunches on the days he worked, that wanted their conversations to never end – but if they must, with kisses. The part that didn't just hug Sirius, but held him close.

"You're staring," Sirius waved his hand in front of Remus' face slowly. "Am I really boring you with my dazzling cooking?"

Remus shook his head, clearing his conscience of all remnants of longing, "Well, if I have to be honest, I want to help with something."

"Poor Moony left to his own devices," Sirius cooed, stumbling a bit when Remus' hand shoved him lightly. "Alright, alright. You can help. But tie up your hair and wash your hands – I mean it! Wash them, don't just graze them."

Remus glared, "I know how to wash my hands! I just doubt that you can cook."

Sirius gasped, "How dare you! And you consider yourself a chef?"

"I know how to make soup," Remus scrubbed his hands vigorously in the sink, boring holes into the back of Sirius' head.

"Making soup isn't cooking, you heathen," Sirius growled. "Can you even poach an egg?"

"Why would I want to poach an egg? I hate poached eggs."

"You only hate them because you can't cook them right," Sirius pointed a hot spoon at Remus as he dried his hands. "Besides, your shittiness at cooking surpasses anything else I'm shitty at despite me not being shitty at anything."