For a moment Remus grins at the top of his head, more charmed than concerned—jokes, in his experience, have been the clearest mark of acceptance instead of only tolerance—but it doesn't last. He chews the inside of his lip and only looks at Charles long enough to decide there's no point in trying to read him. Not at this angle. Not with those sunglasses and that beard in the way.

So instead he joins him in watching the clothes tumble and sinks, legs sliding slowly out ahead of him, to sit down. His boots squeak against the floor the whole way, but he makes up for that, maybe, by holding the bottle back toward Charles.

"Are you drinking in the laundry room because you left or because you're back?" he asks, and raises his eyebrows. "Or for fun. I'm not here to judge anyone's hobbies."