You moan a lot in your sleep. Do you know that?

I wonder if anyone's told you that the sounds you make when you're blissfully unaware are animal, at best.

I'm not complaining. Not in the least.

I'd complain if you stopped.

The times when you're unconscious and moaning are the times I'm happiest – the times I can imagine the growls, panting and whimpering sounds coming from behind the drapes closed around your bed are because of me.

I pretend that it's my name tumbling from your lips, that your gasps are because of my hands sliding over your skin, that you can barely control yourself as you undress first me and then yourself.

You begin so softly, after James and Peter have both fallen to sleep - first a muffled yelp, shortly followed by deepening growls, and finally the moans, which slowly ascend in fervor and pitch.

My fingers clutch at my own covers, and then my bare skin, leaving small crescent marks that indent so deeply you'll ask about them tomorrow.

Your breathing quickens and mine matches its' pace. Sometimes I catch a word, a name, which you so quietly gasp it's almost as if you know I'm listening to you.

Sweat begins to glisten on my almost naked body, leaving a cold and clammy feeling, which I fail to notice until afterwards, preoccupied as I am with the heat of being with you.

I can hear you tossing, and turning, while I lay ever so still, afraid of waking you, because I know I wouldn't be able to last if that were ever to happen.

My own heart beat begins to thump in my ears, the roar of blood stirring the wolf within. I fight the desperate urge to go to you – an urge that would ruin my façade.

Images flash through my mind – 'accidentally' interrupting you in the shower (My God, I can't forget the curves of your body); your arm around my shoulder, our heads touching; you falling asleep as you rest your head against my legs.

I hear you gasp one last time, and in the end, it's everything I can do to stop myself crying out.

I grit my teeth, and inwardly scream your name – the only evidence of which is my breathing becoming harsh, ragged, and the sudden realization of my nakedness; the cold hugging my chest.

---

Two beds over, Sirius whispers ever so quietly, 'Moony…'.

Completely awake, he turns onto his side, and a tear slowly drips onto his pillow, – a routine that has by now become familiar – heart wrenchingly familiar.