Burning Man

And there are things I would like to do that you don't believe in

I would like to build something

but you'll never going to see it happen

and there's this burning

like there's always been

I've never been so alone

and I've -- I've never been so alive

-Third Eye Blind

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When I wake up, the first thing I realize is that I'm on the couch again, in your flat. You're in the small kitchen, banging around pleasantly. I don't mind being woken up so abruptly. Usually I wake up from nightmares, so I am woken happily, despite my physical discomfort. Sun filters in through the blinds on the windows, which I notice right away. The sun rarely shines in London, and it comes into the room in spots, as strong as the sun on a summer day in the country. I stand up and walk slowly to the window to adjust the blinds.

You walk into the room carrying two mugs of coffee, and apologize sheepishly for waking me up with the noise in the kitchen. I shrug it off from my spot near the window. If only you knew I could care less about being woken up by you. It's better than waking up alone. Your clumsiness is such a part of you, I actually find it endearing. Everything about you is so appealing, and I would never tell you that. I can't have you.

You sit on the couch, which is rumpled from my sleep. You let me stay the night, and I was thankful to leave Grimmauld because of the ghosts. When you said, "Stay the night" I knew it was nothing, because I would sleep on the couch as always and you in your room, the door open. You don't realize what this does to me.

"Open the window," you say, placing both of the mugs on the coffee table. I comply, even though the sun is so strong. The shades go up and I slit my eyes against the light.

"You are a burning man, Remus," you say, leaning back on the couch, holding one mug of coffee. I walk over to the sofa and sit next to you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off your body. I pick up the other cup, wrapping my hands around it, although I'm not cold. In fact, the weather is changing, and last night I woke in a sweat, having to remove a layer of clothing.

"Why am I here, Tonks?" I ask, taking a sip from the mug. The coffee is strong, almost harsh, and you left it black, the way I like it.

"Because I want you here," you say shortly. If you wanted me, if you shared my feelings, then I wouldn't be sleeping on your couch, and we wouldn't be sitting with distance between our bodies.

I look at you for what feels like the first time this morning. Your hair is purple and short, changed since last night. Your eyes reflect mine, light green. I place an arm on the back of the couch, in a swift thoughtless movement. A thoughtless movement in your eyes, but in mine a bold one. You don't react, and I keep it there.

There's really no way for me to confront you about the way I feel: I am too much of a coward. You make it so difficult for me to even consider it, because I just feel foolish. You are so friendly, loosely inviting me over for the night, like friends do. We sit and talk, and when you laugh you gently touch my arm or knee, without thinking. Sometimes I think you are just teasing me, taunting me, although you are not cruel. I come off as a burning man, like you say, even if you are only referring to the sunlight. I just burn for you.

We sit still for a moment, the sun coming into your flat, reflecting on the dust particles floating in the air. You touch my collarbone gently as you finger the leather necklace I always wear, setting my skin on fire. You once said casually that I had lovely collarbones, and as you touch the soft brown leather, it is casual. Everything that sets me ablaze is so easy for you to say or do, so careless you probably think nothing of it.

You stop, but keep your hand against me chest. Then you rise, saying, "It's late, let's get out of here." I agree, and you leave your cup sitting next to mine as you walk into your room. I sit for a moment and then go about looking for my clothing, wondering how long I can last.

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