Title: Les Bienfaits de la Lune
Rating: Light R
Warnings: Peeing as a form of unfortunate marking (but not watersports) and SLASH
Genre(s): Angst
Word Count: 3231
Summary: It is a cruel twist that it is not only Remus who must suffer the wolf, but the wolf too, must suffer Remus.
Prompt: Yellow: Picture
Authors Note1: 1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Werewolf Also, Title taken from poem by Charles Baudelaire by the same name.
Authors Note2: Thank you so much to my two very talented betas![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whitmans_kiss and quadrant_of_sky !!
1. New Moon
As he stands silent, teeth gnashing, blood pumping in jealousy and anger, the wolf that runs circles in his veins mocks him, silent as ever, for not taking, claiming, owning, what should be his, what he wants more than air, more than sunlight, even more than the wolf wants the moon. He has just passed Sirius, his Sirius, his beautiful raven haired god of a boy with his chest pressing against some person, could be boy, could be girl, but not him, never him. It is only with a will born out of years of self control, of forcing the canine in his veins to remain leashed, that he is able to move his feet, look away, move along.
In truth, his only relief from the taunting presence comes from his corner of the world being nigh on the dark of the moon, the low point in the wolf’s cycle, the time when he has the most control. The rough and gritty persona, raw, untamed, feral, has but a susurrant touch in his mind with which to cajole, no strength behind it at all, and then, as the moon transits fully into position, falls silent. That is fortunate in this instance, because the fever pitch of anguish from the boy might move the wolf to action.
“Just keep your damn mouth shut,” mutters Remus to the dormant wolf inside, a pointless act but it makes him feel better anyway, like he has some control. He really doesn’t, but the illusion is pretty nonetheless.
In no measure does the wolf understand Remus’ adoration for Sirius, his love or desire. It is a cruel twist that it is not only Remus who must suffer the wolf, but the wolf too, must suffer Remus. It is a beast of the woodland that has been funneled into the blood stream, trapped by Dark Magic that only lets it break free a handful of times a year, and then only in part. They are intertwined, intimately and irrevocably, and yet wholly distinct, oil and water, a perverse patch-working of magic that leaves neither whole, never free.
Remus slowly climbs the stairs; the magnet that holds his fixation to Sirius weighs heavily, deeper than gravity, every lift of limb a struggle. He is glad for this brief square of peace, considers it a great fortune indeed that Moony could not capitalize on his miserable discovery, either to force his hand (which might have happened were it not for the darkened phase of his ruling celestial body) or howl soundlessly in his ear about the piss yellow of his cowardice.
To the wolf, what is natural, understandable, even needful, is a mate, a compliment, a female. It wants to reproduce, create a new generation to carry on its blood, Remus’ blood. Remus has no desire for this and it is a constant struggle between them, but even the wolf can sense when his battle on this issue is a lost cause.
They do not like each other, the wolf and Remus, each privately blaming the other for their plight; privately because ultimately even the beast knows Remus didn’t do this to them, to himself. Doesn’t matter, the wolf hates him anyway, and so he taunts his voiceless jibes in Remus‘ head.
The Fat Lady frowns her concern for Remus as he murmurs the password, but does not trouble to stop him for news, or question the state of affairs with Sirius. At the dark of another moon, a year past now, Remus and his three friends took advantage of the sleeping wolf and got pissed on pilfered wine from Sirius’ home. The smile on his face must have been blissful as Sirius hung from his body like a warm winter coat, whispering some filthy joke in his ear to make Remus smile and giggle and blush, which it did. Though it was less about the words and more about the warm breath they were carried on, the body clinging in drunken camaraderie and friendship. Remus pretended that late evening, wearing a stupid besotted smile and aroused blush with a lilting giggle that said everything he was thinking, hoping, wanting. The fat lady had been asking after the situation ever since; despite Remus‘ protestations to the contrary, it is of no use and as ever she persists, though not tonight. Remus trundles up the steps to the dormitory he shares with the others, with his friends and his love, though unrequited, dresses for bed, his disappointment bitter as ever and all too familiar, and falls asleep.
2. First Quarter
A bare sliver of silver on an ebony cloth, the moon hangs in soft contemplation in the night dark sky. The touch of light on his flesh as he crosses the campus grounds are familiar knives on his skin, waking the blood bound beast in his veins.
He is walking three abreast, James to the left, Sirius on his right, where he likes him because Remus likes symbolism, and Sirius on his right means Sirius is right, right for him, right for each other, if only Sirius would just not be so damned… Sirius.
Wormtail trails and the wolf stirs under his skin.
They are tied, the moon and the wolf, though Remus doubts that the wolf understands it. Taunt, tease and jeer are back, his constant companion hidden in the blood that races hot and wild through his veins, wilder still for the wolfish presence therein.
Per usual, Sirius has an arm slung casually around Remus’ shoulders, his head craned forward so he can see James around Remus and they are laughing about whatever prank they’ve just pulled. Thighs bump along and Remus lives and dies by the touch, both loving and hating Sirius for his total lack of physical boundaries.
The wolf is aware of Remus, of his interest, though loathing the idea that no progeny will issue from a union with Sirius. He is as bound to Remus as he is to the moon, to his desires and is frustrated by Remus’ lack of action. Their relationship was not always so embittered; that came after when the wolf realized it was an alpha and Remus was not.
The boys slip up the stairs, quiet as ghosts through the castle and its long drafty corridors, its portraits watching in amusement. The fat lady smirks at Remus as James says the password, Sirius still close as a lover, though nothing could be farther from the truth.
“Got to piss,” says Sirius as soon as they are in their dormitory. After a few minutes Remus agrees and follows him in.
Sirius is just finishing up, but not quick enough and Remus hungrily glances at flaccid flesh, pink and pretty in Sirius’ hand. Sirius doesn’t notice, but the wolf most assuredly does and as the raven haired boy turns to leave it surges through Remus’ veins with the force of a winter’s night howl on frosted air. Before Remus realizes what he’s done, the wolf marks Sirius with a trail of urine up the back of his robes, a single dark line trailing up from the hem.
Horrified and full of shame, Remus’ only relief comes from the fact that Sirius has not noticed, his dark robes billowing around his legs as he exits the boys loo. Pale yellow splatters the white tile, more dribbling to the floor as Remus stands stock still, cock in hand and bladder emptying to splash up from the floor, bouncing gold droplets onto his shoes.
His self-loathing, enhanced by his shame, is held in place, nailed to the spot as though by a stake, inescapable. The wolf has nothing better to do than make his life a misery, so he does.
3. Waxing Gibbous
A low-lidded eye, harsh and half-full, the moon glares down at Remus, spilling slovenly in through the dormitory window to shimmer across his bed. The wolf is strong, careening dizzily through his body, excited and enticed by the light that stings like blades on Remus’ scarred body.
Bladder full and mind overly active thanks to the beast within, Remus can’t sleep and since he has to piss anyway, he slides on his bedroom slippers and rises, passing Sirius’ bed as he goes. The crimson curtains hanging in thick dark folds are pushed slightly open, enough for Remus to catch a glimpse of a pale, bare thigh, a smattering of crinkly dark curls decorating sparsely, thickening as his eye trails up to where it bursts forth like a forest in black. Nestled in this dark thatch is Sirius’ soft cock, buoyed underneath by two round and wrinkled balls.
It shouldn’t be as enticing as it is, to see his friend, comrade in mischief, lying nude and vulnerable amongst his pristine sheets. All he wants is to take that soft flesh into his mouth, make it stir, make him stir, come alive. Come.
Before Remus even realizes what is happening , the wolf rises up again, using his desire and moment of distraction to briefly take control. White sheets darken into yellow as once again the wolf lays claim to Sirius on Remus’ behalf. Remus realizes too late and Sirius has awoken, eyes horrified and accusing.
“What the hell, Remus!”
Remus flees, bladder too full to stop the flow, and as he runs, cock now tucked safely inside his pants, he soaks his trousers through and down into his shoes. It is a miserably cold, wet and sticky affair, piss chilling on his skin as it hit’s the cool castle corridor. Worn out slippers slosh and slip as he tears down stairs, through halls and past doorways to the one eyed witch.
The ward sounds its alarm in Honeydukes as he breaks free of the building, evidence of his passing left with every step, running on adrenaline, mind drunk on shock. He isn’t sure where he is going, but knows exactly when he stops as he is bowled over by a hefty mass of black fur and tooth-lined gums. Padfoot’s thick flews quiver over his teeth, wrinkling up in a savage snarl that is deep, rolling out loud, carried on a cloud of breath on the chilly night air.
“I’m sorry,” he says brokenly, anguishing over the stink of piss covering his lower half. “It was the wolf, it was Moony, I didn’t mean to, I would never.”
Padfoot regards him balefully, seconds tick into minutes, and then Sirius transforms, sliding back to himself in the blink of an eye. Revulsion and disgust rule his expression, slowly softening, eyes gentling finally into compassion as he gazes at his friend with a soft frown.
“C’mon,” he says, standing and offering Remus a hand to get up. “Lets get you back and out of those clothes.”
4. The Full
Remus paces, paces, paces in the shack, feet disturbing clouds of dust and bits of detritus as he passes, bed to door, door to bed, bed to door, over and over and over. He can well understand why one ancient method to route a suspected werewolf was to cut into the skin to find fur beneath the subcutaneous layer (1). Everything itches horribly, as though he really is just a giant fur-laden wound, like there is hair twisting uncomfortably in his flesh. The moon is just below the horizon, can feel it rising, feel his bones ready to crack, split, elongate, feel his flesh ready to rend open and let the wolf break free.
The wolf is racing so fast in his blood that it forces his temperature up in increments, hotter and hotter, energy building like a bow about to loose its arrow. It readies itself for the off, for the explosion into being, almost there, almost there.
Then, like a laser beam of pure white hot light, like lightening, the moon breaks the horizon and shines malevolently on Remus. The pain is immense, like skin being melted off bone, everything cracking, breaking out, leaping forth.
His pupil splits and elongates, along with a man’s mouth into wolfish muzzle. Bones sound like crunched kindling as they reform, and fur does burst out as though it were housed ready and waiting just beneath the skin.
He’s free! The wolf throws back his head and issues forth a jubilant howl. Padfoot joins in, standing at his shoulder. The wolf sings to the wide world because now he is the one wearing the skin and calling the shots. Behind them, antlers lowered, warily as ever, is Prongs, nervously scratching at the wilting wooden flooring with cloven hooves, rat perched precariously on his shoulder, nose twitching.
Strangely, the wolf does love his pack, insofar as they are a pack, brethren of the hunt, of the moon, of feet pounding over cool grass and under dark canopies, of small juicy things crushed between jaws. Padfoot challenges, races forward into trees, into brush, into dark, and then something squeals followed by the scent of fresh blood. Moony is just behind, coming up on his flank; seeing the red on Padfoot’s muzzle, he lunges. The small fur covered thing, rabbit by the taste, is pulled apart and then there is blood on two sets of muzzles.
With their watchful guardian Prongs in tow, Moony and Padfoot bump, jostle and cavort through the dark undergrowth in the Forbidden Forest. He feels whole and free and wonderful. The scent of life is all around on the air, and Padfoot, his favorite, is at his side.
Oh, yes, the wolf loves James, Sirius, and Peter; Prongs, Padfoot, and Wormtail, but he has a limit. Not so with Remus, sleeping Remus, ensconced deep with in the veins of the emergent wolf. Remus sees more in Sirius, desires more, a more that has yet to come.
When Remus wakes finally, back in the shack, golden drops of sunlight bleeding in through cracks in the worn wood, Sirius is sitting protectively close, stroking his hair gently. A sad smile on his face greets Remus’ blinking eyes.
“It was a good moon, Remus,” murmurs Sirius softly. “You’re alright, just get some rest.”
5. Waning Gibbous
The ebb and flow of the monthly cycle is most apparent to Remus as the moon’s power flows out of the world and toward the new moon, the silvery light less painful on his bare flesh. The wolf’s magic is spent for the month, and though present, not nearly as much to deal with. It must rest, just like Remus himself must recover. New scars have formed, still pinkish red and sore to the touch, but largely healed. He heals rather quickly because he must, with no choice there at all.
Thigh touches thigh, Sirius next to him on the couch, still protective, still close, his scent cloying but not unwelcome; warm lavender, and sage, and magic, and boy, making it hard for Remus to breath a single free mouthful of air. The wolf is not so demanding on the down swing, the out swing, the swing toward his one night of freedom from hell.
That presence, though, is still there, still jeering him in that soundless way he has for not being man enough to take what he wants, take as the wolf would claim a mate. The force behind it however, feels tired in his mind, tired as the wolf is tired, as the world wobbles and sways toward its night of rest.
Something has changed, something in Sirius, something Remus cannot name or understand. There is a quietness to his spirit, a cooling off of the summer storms that seem so often to rage inside the raven headed boy. Prowling less, running off less, content to simply be close and Remus doesn’t trust it.
His foolish heart hopes a ridiculous hope, a pure fallacy, a fantasy, that Sirius’ gaze has turned his way. The urging from the wolf courses through his veins, but he ignores it, refuses to bend, not to the wolf, not when and if he can help it.
“Remus,” says Sirius softly; his expression is earnest somehow, and distressingly endearing. “Why did the wolf make you do… that?”
Sirius, clever Sirius, has sussed it out, wants to make him say it, but he can’t, not now, not ever. Remus resists, knowing in his heart that Sirius would never have him, not the way he wants, needs. Sirius and his mercurial heart, ever in love, a worshipful supplicant at a constantly changing altar, only consistent in his inconstancy. Remus cannot be one of them, it would break him to taste of Sirius’ love and then be cast aside.
“I’m not sure,” he replies, barely hiding the anguish it takes to lie. Not that he can’t lie, doesn’t lie; he lies all the time and to everyone. Remus uses words, lives in them, and when necessary, hides behind them.
“I don’t think that’s true,” says Sirius, and then he’s moving forward, slowly, but with purpose. “I think you know precisely why.”
Remus bolts, books and parchment, quill and ink pot, all crashing to the floor as his legs take him out through the portrait hole. Thankfully, Sirius doesn’t follow, so he paces along the corridor in front of a garish tapestry, thinking to himself that what he really needs is a place to think, to be alone. Back and forth he paces and then suddenly, a door appears, or perhaps he didn’t notice it before, and without even thinking, Remus slips quietly inside.
6. Last Quarter
Silver sickle in a dark russet sky, the light that filters down to Remus barely scratches at his subconscious. The wolf is there, readying for his nap, swimming with languid sleepiness through the rivers of red in his scarred and oft battered body. The Forest whispers its secrets on a foreign tongue as Remus relaxes beneath a tree, solid brown trunk giving his back a place to rest, earth offering up pebbles so that he might toss them to the lake’s murky depths.
Gone is the time when Remus at least had Sirius’ companionship, Sirius who deals so poorly with rejection, now always watching with soulful mourning eyes, and Remus cannot bear it. There are no words to slink behind; the wolf, still just as perplexed as ever as to why a male would want another male for a mate, has made certain of that. Unholy wolfish obsession has exposed Remus utterly, so he hides from the boy with the power to tear him asunder.
“Thought I’d find you here,” says Sirius softly. Stealthy approach is a complete success, as Remus yelps softly and squirms as Sirius sits on his legs. “Why are you avoiding me, this, now that you’ve finally figured it out?”
Remus stares blankly at Sirius, uncomprehending, though unable to escape the other boys beauty in this light, this in between time just before the day is defeated and the night claims authority. Black hair burnishes in the reddish light, eyes hold their fire steady, and Remus realizes what he could never see, refused to see, so wrapped up in jealousy and shame.
“Have you always been mine?” Remus’ words are soft, carried on barely a breath.
To answer, Sirius presses his mouth to his in a gentle, but thoroughly claiming kiss. Distractedly, as soft red lips mould perfectly against his own, Remus finds this to be a much more effective way to claim a mate.
~The End~
Rating: Light R
Warnings: Peeing as a form of unfortunate marking (but not watersports) and SLASH
Genre(s): Angst
Word Count: 3231
Summary: It is a cruel twist that it is not only Remus who must suffer the wolf, but the wolf too, must suffer Remus.
Prompt: Yellow: Picture
Authors Note1: 1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Werewolf Also, Title taken from poem by Charles Baudelaire by the same name.
Authors Note2: Thank you so much to my two very talented betas
whitmans_kiss and quadrant_of_sky !!1. New Moon
As he stands silent, teeth gnashing, blood pumping in jealousy and anger, the wolf that runs circles in his veins mocks him, silent as ever, for not taking, claiming, owning, what should be his, what he wants more than air, more than sunlight, even more than the wolf wants the moon. He has just passed Sirius, his Sirius, his beautiful raven haired god of a boy with his chest pressing against some person, could be boy, could be girl, but not him, never him. It is only with a will born out of years of self control, of forcing the canine in his veins to remain leashed, that he is able to move his feet, look away, move along.
In truth, his only relief from the taunting presence comes from his corner of the world being nigh on the dark of the moon, the low point in the wolf’s cycle, the time when he has the most control. The rough and gritty persona, raw, untamed, feral, has but a susurrant touch in his mind with which to cajole, no strength behind it at all, and then, as the moon transits fully into position, falls silent. That is fortunate in this instance, because the fever pitch of anguish from the boy might move the wolf to action.
“Just keep your damn mouth shut,” mutters Remus to the dormant wolf inside, a pointless act but it makes him feel better anyway, like he has some control. He really doesn’t, but the illusion is pretty nonetheless.
In no measure does the wolf understand Remus’ adoration for Sirius, his love or desire. It is a cruel twist that it is not only Remus who must suffer the wolf, but the wolf too, must suffer Remus. It is a beast of the woodland that has been funneled into the blood stream, trapped by Dark Magic that only lets it break free a handful of times a year, and then only in part. They are intertwined, intimately and irrevocably, and yet wholly distinct, oil and water, a perverse patch-working of magic that leaves neither whole, never free.
Remus slowly climbs the stairs; the magnet that holds his fixation to Sirius weighs heavily, deeper than gravity, every lift of limb a struggle. He is glad for this brief square of peace, considers it a great fortune indeed that Moony could not capitalize on his miserable discovery, either to force his hand (which might have happened were it not for the darkened phase of his ruling celestial body) or howl soundlessly in his ear about the piss yellow of his cowardice.
To the wolf, what is natural, understandable, even needful, is a mate, a compliment, a female. It wants to reproduce, create a new generation to carry on its blood, Remus’ blood. Remus has no desire for this and it is a constant struggle between them, but even the wolf can sense when his battle on this issue is a lost cause.
They do not like each other, the wolf and Remus, each privately blaming the other for their plight; privately because ultimately even the beast knows Remus didn’t do this to them, to himself. Doesn’t matter, the wolf hates him anyway, and so he taunts his voiceless jibes in Remus‘ head.
The Fat Lady frowns her concern for Remus as he murmurs the password, but does not trouble to stop him for news, or question the state of affairs with Sirius. At the dark of another moon, a year past now, Remus and his three friends took advantage of the sleeping wolf and got pissed on pilfered wine from Sirius’ home. The smile on his face must have been blissful as Sirius hung from his body like a warm winter coat, whispering some filthy joke in his ear to make Remus smile and giggle and blush, which it did. Though it was less about the words and more about the warm breath they were carried on, the body clinging in drunken camaraderie and friendship. Remus pretended that late evening, wearing a stupid besotted smile and aroused blush with a lilting giggle that said everything he was thinking, hoping, wanting. The fat lady had been asking after the situation ever since; despite Remus‘ protestations to the contrary, it is of no use and as ever she persists, though not tonight. Remus trundles up the steps to the dormitory he shares with the others, with his friends and his love, though unrequited, dresses for bed, his disappointment bitter as ever and all too familiar, and falls asleep.
2. First Quarter
A bare sliver of silver on an ebony cloth, the moon hangs in soft contemplation in the night dark sky. The touch of light on his flesh as he crosses the campus grounds are familiar knives on his skin, waking the blood bound beast in his veins.
He is walking three abreast, James to the left, Sirius on his right, where he likes him because Remus likes symbolism, and Sirius on his right means Sirius is right, right for him, right for each other, if only Sirius would just not be so damned… Sirius.
Wormtail trails and the wolf stirs under his skin.
They are tied, the moon and the wolf, though Remus doubts that the wolf understands it. Taunt, tease and jeer are back, his constant companion hidden in the blood that races hot and wild through his veins, wilder still for the wolfish presence therein.
Per usual, Sirius has an arm slung casually around Remus’ shoulders, his head craned forward so he can see James around Remus and they are laughing about whatever prank they’ve just pulled. Thighs bump along and Remus lives and dies by the touch, both loving and hating Sirius for his total lack of physical boundaries.
The wolf is aware of Remus, of his interest, though loathing the idea that no progeny will issue from a union with Sirius. He is as bound to Remus as he is to the moon, to his desires and is frustrated by Remus’ lack of action. Their relationship was not always so embittered; that came after when the wolf realized it was an alpha and Remus was not.
The boys slip up the stairs, quiet as ghosts through the castle and its long drafty corridors, its portraits watching in amusement. The fat lady smirks at Remus as James says the password, Sirius still close as a lover, though nothing could be farther from the truth.
“Got to piss,” says Sirius as soon as they are in their dormitory. After a few minutes Remus agrees and follows him in.
Sirius is just finishing up, but not quick enough and Remus hungrily glances at flaccid flesh, pink and pretty in Sirius’ hand. Sirius doesn’t notice, but the wolf most assuredly does and as the raven haired boy turns to leave it surges through Remus’ veins with the force of a winter’s night howl on frosted air. Before Remus realizes what he’s done, the wolf marks Sirius with a trail of urine up the back of his robes, a single dark line trailing up from the hem.
Horrified and full of shame, Remus’ only relief comes from the fact that Sirius has not noticed, his dark robes billowing around his legs as he exits the boys loo. Pale yellow splatters the white tile, more dribbling to the floor as Remus stands stock still, cock in hand and bladder emptying to splash up from the floor, bouncing gold droplets onto his shoes.
His self-loathing, enhanced by his shame, is held in place, nailed to the spot as though by a stake, inescapable. The wolf has nothing better to do than make his life a misery, so he does.
3. Waxing Gibbous
A low-lidded eye, harsh and half-full, the moon glares down at Remus, spilling slovenly in through the dormitory window to shimmer across his bed. The wolf is strong, careening dizzily through his body, excited and enticed by the light that stings like blades on Remus’ scarred body.
Bladder full and mind overly active thanks to the beast within, Remus can’t sleep and since he has to piss anyway, he slides on his bedroom slippers and rises, passing Sirius’ bed as he goes. The crimson curtains hanging in thick dark folds are pushed slightly open, enough for Remus to catch a glimpse of a pale, bare thigh, a smattering of crinkly dark curls decorating sparsely, thickening as his eye trails up to where it bursts forth like a forest in black. Nestled in this dark thatch is Sirius’ soft cock, buoyed underneath by two round and wrinkled balls.
It shouldn’t be as enticing as it is, to see his friend, comrade in mischief, lying nude and vulnerable amongst his pristine sheets. All he wants is to take that soft flesh into his mouth, make it stir, make him stir, come alive. Come.
Before Remus even realizes what is happening , the wolf rises up again, using his desire and moment of distraction to briefly take control. White sheets darken into yellow as once again the wolf lays claim to Sirius on Remus’ behalf. Remus realizes too late and Sirius has awoken, eyes horrified and accusing.
“What the hell, Remus!”
Remus flees, bladder too full to stop the flow, and as he runs, cock now tucked safely inside his pants, he soaks his trousers through and down into his shoes. It is a miserably cold, wet and sticky affair, piss chilling on his skin as it hit’s the cool castle corridor. Worn out slippers slosh and slip as he tears down stairs, through halls and past doorways to the one eyed witch.
The ward sounds its alarm in Honeydukes as he breaks free of the building, evidence of his passing left with every step, running on adrenaline, mind drunk on shock. He isn’t sure where he is going, but knows exactly when he stops as he is bowled over by a hefty mass of black fur and tooth-lined gums. Padfoot’s thick flews quiver over his teeth, wrinkling up in a savage snarl that is deep, rolling out loud, carried on a cloud of breath on the chilly night air.
“I’m sorry,” he says brokenly, anguishing over the stink of piss covering his lower half. “It was the wolf, it was Moony, I didn’t mean to, I would never.”
Padfoot regards him balefully, seconds tick into minutes, and then Sirius transforms, sliding back to himself in the blink of an eye. Revulsion and disgust rule his expression, slowly softening, eyes gentling finally into compassion as he gazes at his friend with a soft frown.
“C’mon,” he says, standing and offering Remus a hand to get up. “Lets get you back and out of those clothes.”
4. The Full
Remus paces, paces, paces in the shack, feet disturbing clouds of dust and bits of detritus as he passes, bed to door, door to bed, bed to door, over and over and over. He can well understand why one ancient method to route a suspected werewolf was to cut into the skin to find fur beneath the subcutaneous layer (1). Everything itches horribly, as though he really is just a giant fur-laden wound, like there is hair twisting uncomfortably in his flesh. The moon is just below the horizon, can feel it rising, feel his bones ready to crack, split, elongate, feel his flesh ready to rend open and let the wolf break free.
The wolf is racing so fast in his blood that it forces his temperature up in increments, hotter and hotter, energy building like a bow about to loose its arrow. It readies itself for the off, for the explosion into being, almost there, almost there.
Then, like a laser beam of pure white hot light, like lightening, the moon breaks the horizon and shines malevolently on Remus. The pain is immense, like skin being melted off bone, everything cracking, breaking out, leaping forth.
His pupil splits and elongates, along with a man’s mouth into wolfish muzzle. Bones sound like crunched kindling as they reform, and fur does burst out as though it were housed ready and waiting just beneath the skin.
He’s free! The wolf throws back his head and issues forth a jubilant howl. Padfoot joins in, standing at his shoulder. The wolf sings to the wide world because now he is the one wearing the skin and calling the shots. Behind them, antlers lowered, warily as ever, is Prongs, nervously scratching at the wilting wooden flooring with cloven hooves, rat perched precariously on his shoulder, nose twitching.
Strangely, the wolf does love his pack, insofar as they are a pack, brethren of the hunt, of the moon, of feet pounding over cool grass and under dark canopies, of small juicy things crushed between jaws. Padfoot challenges, races forward into trees, into brush, into dark, and then something squeals followed by the scent of fresh blood. Moony is just behind, coming up on his flank; seeing the red on Padfoot’s muzzle, he lunges. The small fur covered thing, rabbit by the taste, is pulled apart and then there is blood on two sets of muzzles.
With their watchful guardian Prongs in tow, Moony and Padfoot bump, jostle and cavort through the dark undergrowth in the Forbidden Forest. He feels whole and free and wonderful. The scent of life is all around on the air, and Padfoot, his favorite, is at his side.
Oh, yes, the wolf loves James, Sirius, and Peter; Prongs, Padfoot, and Wormtail, but he has a limit. Not so with Remus, sleeping Remus, ensconced deep with in the veins of the emergent wolf. Remus sees more in Sirius, desires more, a more that has yet to come.
When Remus wakes finally, back in the shack, golden drops of sunlight bleeding in through cracks in the worn wood, Sirius is sitting protectively close, stroking his hair gently. A sad smile on his face greets Remus’ blinking eyes.
“It was a good moon, Remus,” murmurs Sirius softly. “You’re alright, just get some rest.”
5. Waning Gibbous
The ebb and flow of the monthly cycle is most apparent to Remus as the moon’s power flows out of the world and toward the new moon, the silvery light less painful on his bare flesh. The wolf’s magic is spent for the month, and though present, not nearly as much to deal with. It must rest, just like Remus himself must recover. New scars have formed, still pinkish red and sore to the touch, but largely healed. He heals rather quickly because he must, with no choice there at all.
Thigh touches thigh, Sirius next to him on the couch, still protective, still close, his scent cloying but not unwelcome; warm lavender, and sage, and magic, and boy, making it hard for Remus to breath a single free mouthful of air. The wolf is not so demanding on the down swing, the out swing, the swing toward his one night of freedom from hell.
That presence, though, is still there, still jeering him in that soundless way he has for not being man enough to take what he wants, take as the wolf would claim a mate. The force behind it however, feels tired in his mind, tired as the wolf is tired, as the world wobbles and sways toward its night of rest.
Something has changed, something in Sirius, something Remus cannot name or understand. There is a quietness to his spirit, a cooling off of the summer storms that seem so often to rage inside the raven headed boy. Prowling less, running off less, content to simply be close and Remus doesn’t trust it.
His foolish heart hopes a ridiculous hope, a pure fallacy, a fantasy, that Sirius’ gaze has turned his way. The urging from the wolf courses through his veins, but he ignores it, refuses to bend, not to the wolf, not when and if he can help it.
“Remus,” says Sirius softly; his expression is earnest somehow, and distressingly endearing. “Why did the wolf make you do… that?”
Sirius, clever Sirius, has sussed it out, wants to make him say it, but he can’t, not now, not ever. Remus resists, knowing in his heart that Sirius would never have him, not the way he wants, needs. Sirius and his mercurial heart, ever in love, a worshipful supplicant at a constantly changing altar, only consistent in his inconstancy. Remus cannot be one of them, it would break him to taste of Sirius’ love and then be cast aside.
“I’m not sure,” he replies, barely hiding the anguish it takes to lie. Not that he can’t lie, doesn’t lie; he lies all the time and to everyone. Remus uses words, lives in them, and when necessary, hides behind them.
“I don’t think that’s true,” says Sirius, and then he’s moving forward, slowly, but with purpose. “I think you know precisely why.”
Remus bolts, books and parchment, quill and ink pot, all crashing to the floor as his legs take him out through the portrait hole. Thankfully, Sirius doesn’t follow, so he paces along the corridor in front of a garish tapestry, thinking to himself that what he really needs is a place to think, to be alone. Back and forth he paces and then suddenly, a door appears, or perhaps he didn’t notice it before, and without even thinking, Remus slips quietly inside.
6. Last Quarter
Silver sickle in a dark russet sky, the light that filters down to Remus barely scratches at his subconscious. The wolf is there, readying for his nap, swimming with languid sleepiness through the rivers of red in his scarred and oft battered body. The Forest whispers its secrets on a foreign tongue as Remus relaxes beneath a tree, solid brown trunk giving his back a place to rest, earth offering up pebbles so that he might toss them to the lake’s murky depths.
Gone is the time when Remus at least had Sirius’ companionship, Sirius who deals so poorly with rejection, now always watching with soulful mourning eyes, and Remus cannot bear it. There are no words to slink behind; the wolf, still just as perplexed as ever as to why a male would want another male for a mate, has made certain of that. Unholy wolfish obsession has exposed Remus utterly, so he hides from the boy with the power to tear him asunder.
“Thought I’d find you here,” says Sirius softly. Stealthy approach is a complete success, as Remus yelps softly and squirms as Sirius sits on his legs. “Why are you avoiding me, this, now that you’ve finally figured it out?”
Remus stares blankly at Sirius, uncomprehending, though unable to escape the other boys beauty in this light, this in between time just before the day is defeated and the night claims authority. Black hair burnishes in the reddish light, eyes hold their fire steady, and Remus realizes what he could never see, refused to see, so wrapped up in jealousy and shame.
“Have you always been mine?” Remus’ words are soft, carried on barely a breath.
To answer, Sirius presses his mouth to his in a gentle, but thoroughly claiming kiss. Distractedly, as soft red lips mould perfectly against his own, Remus finds this to be a much more effective way to claim a mate.
~The End~
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