Cotton Soft and His

Remus let his fingertips trail down the t-shirt, soft cotton rippling in the darkness of the wardrobe. His touch, initially reverential, tentative, gripped the hem, ripping the top from its hanger.

Clutching it to his face, he gave it a sharp inhale, a sob escaping immediately as hot tears over-spilled.

The others had long been adopted into his wardrobe. Never washed. Only used for the sole purpose of absorbing Sirius' distinctive scent, until it had faded completely. Replaced by Remus' own traitorous smell.

And this was the last one. No more after this.