fire in my brain (and i'm burning up)

by littleoldrachel

Summary:

Remus' relationship with his body is far from normal, but he knows pain. He is so used to it that it no longer feels deafening, even when he can scarcely move from its intensity, even when it ebbs and flows less and less now that he's in his mid-forties and instead just stays and stays and stays.
Rather, the thing about his lycanthropy, the thing that has been keeping him awake for almost a week now, is that he knows he's getting worse.

Notes:

• For thistlecat.

Thank you so much to the wonderful mods for creating such a brilliant fest 💚

Written for Moony’s Midlife Crisis Fest 2025, prompt I17: As he ages, Remus's transformations are taking more and more of a toll on his body. He finally has to ask for help as much as he very, very much does not want to do that. Any ship or friendship! Remus being stubborn and avoiding people rather than letting them see how much he's struggling.

Chronic illness and chronic pain are unique experiences, and I just ask that you be kind to your writer when you read this 💚 if you are struggling yourself, I love you and I see you and I believe you. You deserve compassion and empathy, but most of all, you deserve to be heard 💚

Content warnings:
• Discussions of discrimination and systemic oppression (of werewolves)
• Internalised ableism - a lot of this is not challenged (at least at first) as it represents Remus' headspace and relationship with his own body and condition
• Remus refers to aspects of his body and pain in quite graphic ways at times - if this feels like too much for you, skip the italics sections from “Remus knows his relationship with his body is fucked-up,” to “So, yes. His relationship with his body is far from normal, but he knows pain.”
• Poor mental health (both present and historic), including depression, anxiety, self-harm, suicidal thoughts and eating difficulties
• Issues with body image and weight
Please ask if you'd like more info about any of these, and take care of yourselves.

Remus Lupin has a good life. 

Granted, this may not have always been the case—far from it, in fact—but now, more than ever, life is good. 

And yet here lies Remus, shifting around in bed to chase a cool patch of mattress, searching for anything to help him best this bout of insomnia. Just like his sleep, it evades him, and he sighs heavily, then winces as his partner lets out a sleepy snuffle beside him. 

Remus allows his gaze to soften, then drift to the wall opposite, where a set of photographs hangs (slightly wonky because Sirius insisted he didn't need to measure it beforehand). Although Remus' eyesight is now far too poor to do more than squint at the blurry shapes in the darkness, he knows these photos like he knows the precise grey of Sirius' eyes—the silvery sheen of James’ Invisibility Cloak (or Harry's now, he supposes). The three photographs are just a handful of those that spread across the entirety of his and Sirius’ shared home, and represent real, precious, tangible evidence that life is better.

The first is from their informal wedding ceremony two years ago, with Sirius swooping in to kiss Remus’ joy-flushed cheek whilst he blinks lovestruck at the camera. ‘Informal’ never stopped Sirius from looking a million Galleons, of course, in his gorgeous pinstripe suit and delicate silver jewellery. Still, the very fact that they made it to a ceremony at all after so many years of betrayal, heartbreak and isolation—it’s a miracle in itself. 

Beneath it hangs a beaming Harry with his arms around Draco Malfoy (though Sirius has charmed a fogging spell over Draco's face that Remus wipes clean at least once a day). Even years on from the War, there are shadows beneath Harry's eyes, but his smile is brighter than Lumos Maxima. All in all, Harry has been coping remarkably well since saving the entire Wizarding community eight years ago (regardless of what Sirius mutters about how shacking up with Draco bloody Malfoy is not coping).

(Sirius would sooner die than admit it, but seeing how Harry lights up around his partner is softening the hard edge of Sirius' horror at the coupling.)

And the final photo beside it depicts a bashful Remus cutting the ribbon on Britain's very first School for Wizarding Werewolves—a sentence Remus still cannot quite grasp as reality, even with the evidence staring him in the face. It's a dream come true to be working as a teacher again, educating the werewolves who were Turned in the War, as well as those who were never granted the same opportunities that Remus himself was blessed with, those who did not even get to learn to read or write before being shunned by the entire world. 

It has been a mammoth undertaking; Remus has found himself playing teacher, therapist, healer, coach, politician, father figure, and more besides over the last two years, and he's practically worn himself into the ground in the process of Sirius' grousing is to be believed. 

But it's just so impossibly good to be able to see the real evidence of the ways in which he is Making A Difference to his students’ lives, to be able to untangle some of the harm to replace it with care. Watching that spiderweb expand outwards as tentative threads of reconnection are woven between children and estranged families, as whole communities are forced to allow those webs to remain instead of brushing them away once more. It makes his heart ache with gratitude that he found a group of people so convinced that he was lovable and worthy that they spoon-fed it to him until he could feed himself. It makes it bleed with a grief that recognises their stories of discrimination, self-loathing, ostracisation… 

Everywhere Remus looks, he sees evidence of the ways in which his life has changed, blossomed, healed, and sprung into something new and hopeful. Even the ache of visiting the graves of those who were lost—and the conspicuous gaps at the table when they gather—cannot erase how much good there is now. 

And none more so than this:

As if Sirius can sense his churning thoughts, he rolls over in bed, slinging a warm arm over Remus' waist and snoring directly into his face, complete with tiny huffs of sour morning breath.

It's beautiful. He's beautiful. Even more so for the assault on his senses because it makes it real. It's the realisation of everything he ever, ever wanted, all his impossible dreams—

And so, again: Remus Lupin has a good life.

And yet.

The pain.

☾☆☾☆☾

Pain has dogged Remus like a malevolent shadow his entire life. 

It sits beneath every memory like a fucked-up filter on a photograph, blurring all the precious details and colours. It lurked in the base of his spine on his wedding day, sat heavy on his hips during the Sorting Ceremony, coated every inch of skin in flames in the build-up to his first Full Moon post-October 1981.

He used to dream of unpicking it from his heels, Peter Pan-style, casting off the unwanted hanger-on and stuffing it into his drawer.

(He'd gotten as far as rifling through his mother's sewing box before she'd found out what he was doing and why. And then she had cried and cried and cried as he looked on in bemusement.)

Remus knows his relationship with his body is fucked-up, but he only learnt this from watching people's reactions to him—

☾

Remus, aged eight, is playing reluctantly with the doll he was given for his birthday, even though what he really wanted was The Wrinkle in Time paperback in the charity shop. He flips the doll upside down so that her skirts fall around her hips and thighs. It would be so easy to just pull the limb clean out of its socket and—

A shiver thrums through his body, catching on the ache in his own legs. 

“What are you doing, darling?” His mother cocks her head at him, pausing the rhythmic chopping of potatoes, and Remus frowns. 

“Nothing. Just. Just wish I had these.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean? I thought you didn't want to wear your dresses anymore.”

“I don't!”

“Then what…?”

Remus shrugs. He regrets even bringing it up now, but she continues to press, and he sighs. “I wish I could pop my arms and legs off, too.” He pauses. “Maybe my head, too.”

There's a clatter as his mother drops the knife against the counter, her eyes wide and sad as she stares at him. It's not until later, well after she's scooped him up into a tearful hug and held him tight, that he understands what he said wrong.

☾

—But as he'd grown, he'd gotten used to the pain, as much as such a thing is possible. He knew that it would feel worst of all in the week leading up to the Full Moon, rising relentlessly to crescendo in the forty-eight hours prior—a throbbing, pulsing, lancing, burning, aching, searing, draining pain, surfing through his entire body until not a cell remains untouched. 

His friends had learned his pain schedule like it's No Big Deal (when the fact that they want to truly is the biggest deal of all to Remus), and they had adjusted, offering Warming Charms and cups of tea and Honeydukes chocolate. For the really bad days, James had learned the Torpeo charm, allowing him to float in the numbness for a while—

☾

Pete dumps the Operation board between them, flipping down heavily on the mattress of Remus' bed, hard enough that even Remus can feel it beneath the pleasant cloud of cool numbness encasing his lower body. The magic has quieted the aching in his joints to a mere ache, where before the bones had seemed to grind against each other.

“So,” Pete begins, hands darting all over Cavity Sam as he deposits tiny objects into the designated holes. “All you have to do is get the objects out of the hole—”

“That's what she said,” James murmurs from his perch at the end of the bed. 

“Mate, what?” Sirius says. “That doesn't even make sense?”

Pete ignores them both with practised ease. “—without setting off the buzzer.” He demonstrates with the tiny tweezers and the tinny buzzing silences Sirius and James' bickering at once. 

Remus leans forward, wincing as his joints groan in protest, and plucks up the little bucket tucked into Sam's knee. It's surprisingly easy, even as his fingers tremble, and he can't help but let out a dark chuckle. 

“What's funny?” Pete asks as he counts out the $150 reward. 

Remus shrugs. “Wish I could just take out all of this shit in my body,” he says simply. 

Pete's hand stills where he's attempting to pick out the wrench in Sam's ankle, and it sets the buzzer off immediately. “Oh, I—”

Remus is suddenly very aware of his friends staring at him with no idea what to say. He's struck by immense gratitude that he didn't say what he really meant: that he dreams of ripping out his spinal cord like a pull-string doll. 

They sit there in awkward silence for a moment, Remus cursing himself for ruining yet another moment, before James clears his throat: “My go, Wormtail, bet I can get that wrench.”

The moment passes without further comment, and somehow—stupidly—that feels worse.

☾

—So, yes. His relationship with his body is far from normal, but he knows pain. He is so used to it that it no longer feels deafening, even when he can scarcely move from its intensity, even when it ebbs and flows less and less now that he's in his mid-forties and instead just stays and stays and stays.

Rather, the thing about his lycanthropy, the thing that has been keeping him awake for almost a week now, is that he knows he's getting worse. Furthermore, he's entirely powerless to prevent that. 

He's been so used to feeling like shit all the time that it's taken him years to piece together that his condition is simply deteriorating, swiping away his pain-free days as easily as a Scourgify.

But it's the exhaustion that really gets him. Pain, he can adjust to, but never the energy drain. 

Sirius' hand brushes warm against Remus' aching hips, splaying flat against his belly almost protectively. 

The softness of the unconscious motion makes his heart ache in a way that is entirely different to his ailing body. 

He doesn't know why he hasn't told Sirius about how bad it is yet. Of course, Sirius know that he is often in pain and more tired than most, but as far as Sirius knows, it's no worse than in Sixth Year (at the time, it floored him for days and he couldn't even sleep, simply drifting in a pain-filled haze, but now, Remus goes to work on days like that). 

So, he doesn't know why, except that saying those words out loud feels like a death sentence after everything they've been through, like a confirmation that Remus was never supposed to survive the War, and his borrowed time is almost up. 

It feels like giving in to the pain and giving up on all the things that make his life so rich and good and worth it. 

(Remus couldn't bear to give it all up. Not in the name of his pain and his fatigue and his stupid, crumbling body.)

He rallies his stubbornness with the little energy remaining, squashes it down into a compact little ball, and forces it into the tenderest part of his pain, stopping up the cracks in his resolve.  

He just has to keep pushing. Like he always has. 

(Remus Lupin has a good life. And he'll be damned before he lets this ruin it.)

☾☆☾☆☾

It’s barely two months before Remus is facing down the barrel of his own obstinacy. 

He wakes on a Saturday, and before he’s even opened his eyes, he can tell; the day is going to be a write-off. The fatigue is heavy on his chest, and the simple act of opening his eyes and sitting up in bed leaves him near breathless with exhaustion.

It’s the kind of drainedness that pushes him to check that he’s not forgotten the Full Moon is imminent (as if he ever could with the way it tugs on his very bones), but, no: still a full fortnight to go. Worse still, this was supposed to be a lovely domestic day with Sirius—a rare occurrence these days with how busy Remus is and how much living Sirius is trying to make up for.

Remus wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball and sleep the day away, to dream about a body that works. But even as he closes his eyes again, the nagging sensation in his chest that he is wasting precious time with his lover, that he’s going to ruin it all, that he just needs to get a fucking grip and get up—it claws at him until he’s in a miserable haze of frustrated, groggy exhaustion.

“Knock knock!” Sirius’ voice chirps at their bedroom door, and Remus forces his eyes open once more.

His partner leans there, smile crooked, hair mussed from sleep, eyes crinkled with warmth as he meets Remus’ eyes—and the affection there takes his breath away for an entirely different reason. “You planning on getting up at all today, Moony?”

Remus bites back the surge of annoyance that always ripples so much closer to the surface when he’s exhausted. “What time is it?”

“Just gone eleven. Here—” Sirius flicks his wand and a battered mug (a gift from Ron several years ago now, reading ‘in my defence, the moon was full, and I was left unsupervised…’ Hermione had been mortified when Remus had opened it, but Sirius had laughed so hard that she had finally cracked a smile too) floats across to Remus’ outstretched hands. His annoyance evaporates as quickly as it had arisen—it’s milky and sweetened just as he likes it, of course. 

“Thank you,” Remus murmurs, taking an immediate sip to hide the way his hands tremble at the effort of holding the mug. From the way Sirius’ eyes narrow, he’s caught the weakness—which is the nightmare of living with someone as bloody intelligent as Sirius-I-worked-out-how-to-become-an-Animagus-at-fifteen-Black—and Remus scrambles to distract him.

“Any plans for today?”

Sirius pauses. “Nothing concrete. Thought I might paint a bit. Seeing Harry and the lads later for a Quidditch friendly—you’re welcome to come along and watch.”

“Thanks, I—” Remus swallows, struggling to pluck the words from a brain that feels gloopy, as if the exhaustion is glueing his thoughts together in a messy tangle. “I have some marking to do.”

Sirius lets out a dramatic sigh and flops onto the bed, stomach-first. “You always have marking to do, Moony.”

“Yeah, well, funny thing about being a teacher—”

Sirius rolls onto his side. “You work too hard and you always have.” His smile fades a little, and he reaches out a thumb to brush the sensitive, thin skin beneath Remus’ eyes, impossibly gentle and tender in a way that makes Remus’ heart ache. “Are you having trouble sleeping again?”

Remus summons his limited energy to muster up a rueful grin. He hates the poorly-concealed concern in Sirius’ eyes; as much as it means everything to have such blatant evidence of Sirius’ care for him, he’s tired of being the source of so much worry for Sirius: a man who has endured enough hardship and fear and desolation for a thousand lifetimes. “No more than usual.” He catches Sirius’ hand and twists to press a clumsy kiss to his palm, a gesture that has Sirius' eyes sparkling once more with warmth. 

“I can ask…” Sirius sighs and makes a fake retching face. “I can ask the Malfoy boy to brew you up some Sleeping Draught as well as the Wolfsbane?”

“Are you ever going to call him by his name?”

“That is his name!”

“Sirius.”

“Ooh, given name—am I in trouble?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love me, Moony.”

Remus rolls his eyes. “You know I do. I just think it would mean a lot to Harry if you could bring yourself to call him Dra—”

“Sure—when a Fire Crab shoots snow from its arse.”

“Sirius.” 

“Urgh.” Sirius rolls onto his back. “I preferred it when I was nagging you about your health—let’s go back to that—”

“I don’t need any Sleeping Draught,” Remus says staunchly, though he’s not sure if that’s the truth or simply that he wants it to be. “And if that changes, I’ll owl Draco myself.”

Having Draco Malfoy, talented potioner and—sorry, Sirius—probable future godson-in-law, as such a permanent fixture in his life, has done wonders for his actual transformations (even if the build-up and come-down remain a hell all of their own). The younger man brews Wolfsbane with a devotion born of the immense shame of his past mistakes, but Remus doesn’t think Draco would be able to take it if Remus told him that seeing how happy he makes Harry is forgiveness itself.

“Fine,” Sirius says, springing up with an ease that Remus has never known. “I’m going to be in the studio if you need me.”

“Sure.” 

Sirius leans in, presses a firm kiss to Remus’ forehead and then ruffles his hair gently before vanishing out of their bedroom.

Remus sags back against his pillows at once, energy almost entirely spent from that brief interaction. He has got heaps of marking to catch up on, as well as a funding proposal to wing over to Percy for refining, and, as of last night, he had been planning on going to watch the game later.

(He may not be a teenager anymore, but something about Sirius loping about a makeshift Quidditch pitch, curls reduced to waves by the sweat in his hair and eyes alive in a way that only flying makes him—it makes his heart sing and heat pool in his belly.)

Not to mention, the thought of wasting a whole day moping around and being tired seeps guilt into his stomach like poison.

It’s a Herculean effort to drag himself out of bed and onto unsteady feet. His right knee twinges as he puts weight on it, but he doesn’t fall—thank God, his skin already feels tender enough without purpling it for real. He forgoes changing out of his pyjamas because the thought of wasting all that limited energy on putting on Real Person Clothes is almost unbearable to him. 

Everything just takes him so fucking long when he feels like this—having to pause at the top of the stairs to brace himself to make his unsteady way down, giving himself a full-on rest at the bottom step as his head pounds. It’s infuriating, and the frustration rears up like a beast ready to take him down. 

Remus rewards himself (even as he despises himself for needing it) with another break against the doorframe to Sirius’ studio. 

His partner stands barefoot before a canvas streaked in burnt orange and persimmon, humming to himself and swaying his slender hips gently. He’s got The Cure blaring through his headphones, loud enough that the tinniness of Boys Don’t Cry leaks out, and though he can’t have been at it for more than half an hour, his cheek is somehow already smeared with buttery yellow paint. Sirius chews the tip of his paintbrush thoughtfully, completely oblivious to Remus’ presence, before darting forward with another swoop of tangerine against the canvas. 

Painting has been Sirius’ saving grace as they’ve made the slow and unsteady progress of rebuilding a life—both together and individually—after everything they’ve been through. For Sirius in particular, starting to paint seemed to release a little of the demons from his shoulders. Sinking his pain into the canvas gave him an outlet for years of pent-up trauma and grief and hopelessness, and slowly—slowly—the nightmares lessened and the black moods lightened. He’s not okay by any means (and truly none of them are), but he is better; joy and affection come easier to him now, and Remus relishes in being the one who got to witness him relearning that happiness. 

And yet. Remus can’t help but think back to those earliest creations and see himself in the monstrous shadows there, born out of Sirius’ experiences in Azkaban, lessons learned from The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, of having been at war for over half his life. Burning those first canvases had been hugely restorative to Sirius’ recovery, but Remus had felt such depths of grief watching them crumble to ash—if only it were so easy to burn away the monstrous parts of himself, too.

Even now, as he watches Sirius paint, it’s easy to dive into the canvas with him, and he wastes precious minutes on the realisation that his lycanthropy feels a little like one of Sirius’ paintings, in a way he would never dare put into words for fear of sounding insane. The jets of yellow are the throbbing that shoots through his stomach and hips; the swirls of red dry dark like his blood against his shredded flesh; the purples sit heavy on the canvas like his headaches at the base of his skull; the blue-blacks oppress all other colours just as his exhaustion ruins fucking everything—

By the time Remus claws his way back to the surface (Sirius still hasn’t noticed him, absorbed as he is in his art), his limbs are wobbly with the effort of standing. He slumps gracelessly down into the living room sofa and tries to force his brain into action. 

Only it’s like someone has cast the Slippery Jinx onto his thoughts as they slide past him tantalisingly close.

He’s supposed to be marking the adult class’ free-writing task from the previous week, but Merlin’s beard, it takes him a full five minutes to remember which folder he even needs for that class. It feels nigh-on impossible to focus, but Remus had promised them that he’d get these back to them for Monday morning, and he refuses to let down these adults who the entire Wizarding World has let down so monumentally. 

And so, he makes his painful way through each assignment, highlighting the misspelt words and grammatical errors in a neon green that hurts his eyes, and mentally lambasting himself every time he realises he’s been staring at nothing for several minutes. Little shoots of pain spark through his wrist as he strikes under some inventive spellings—the students will work on corrections themselves—and he takes to rubbing the thin skin there until it's near raw. It doesn't touch the pain, of course, which is buried deep inside of him, but the placebo of it helps a little. 

He wants to cry when he discovers he has only managed to go over five of them (on topics as diverse as ‘Why I should be allowed to curse my bitch of a neighbour’ to ‘Caring for a Fanged Geranium’). The remaining stack mocks him across the room, but the shift of the shadows in the room tells him that at least a few hours have passed. A few hours and fuck-all to show for it. 

Remus swipes angrily at the tears that prick at the corners of his eyes. He’s not going to fucking cry over this—and he certainly doesn’t have time for that given how much he has already wasted.

Deciding a cup of tea might help the situation, he stumbles to his feet and makes his way to the kitchen, eyes glassy as his body protests at the aches that have now settled into his bones on top of the dreadful exhaustion. Remus takes a mug down from the nest, too tired to care which, and freezes.

He stares blankly at the electric kettle he'd insisted they get (“because sometimes I want a goddamn cup of tea without having to magic it, Sirius”), and cannot for the life of him remember what he needs to do next. He reaches for the steps in his brain that he’s followed a thousand times before, and they are just… gone. 

Panic rips through his chest, shot through with fury at himself, and he bows his head, dropping against the countertop. 

There’s a clatter behind him, and Sirius’ paint-flecked face appears, taut with worry. “Moony?” 

“I’m fine,” Remus says immediately, straightening too fast and blinking hard at the burst of white dots in his vision. 

Sirius shoots him a strange look. “Just… hanging out on the floor for fun?”

“Mmm.”

“Someone Floo’ed to the wrong fireplace this morning,” Sirius laughs, warm and genuine and so fucking happy. Where ordinarily it's Remus' favourite sound on the planet, right now, it grates against the tender edge of Remus' composure and he clenches his jaw hard enough that an iron tang bursts in his mouth. Why is he suddenly so fucking annoyed at the person he loves more than anyone? 

Sirius grabs the kettle and fills it from the tap—overfills it because he can’t seem to get the hang of Muggle technology, even if he can begrudgingly acknowledge its perks—as if Remus hasn’t been agonising over this for the last ten minutes. He dumps a spoonful of coffee in his own mug and a teabag in Remus’, then twists to look at Remus, back to the counter. Sirius seems to take in the fact that Remus is still in his pyjamas, and cocks his head at him. 

“You sure you’re okay, Moony?” 

Remus nods, willing away the irritation lest he take it out on Sirius, who certainly doesn’t deserve his wrath. “Just… having a bad pain day,” he manages, and it feels wholly inadequate for the fatigue that’s physical agony on his body. 

Sirius’ expression is laced with concern. “Already?” 

Remus shrugs. He doesn’t have it in him to pretend for Sirius right now—and a significant part of him is demanding why he decided he had to in the first place. “You going to your match?” 

“Yeah,” Sirius says, grinning. “I’ll tidy up the studio later, just ignore all the mess.”

Remus nods absent-mindedly, stepping into Sirius’ space, and closing his eyes as Sirius’ arms come up to encircle him easily. He drops his head against Sirius’ shoulder, savouring the way the other man tightens his hold and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “Assuming you’re not up to it, then?”

There’s no disappointment in his voice, but Remus flinches from it all the same. 

“‘Fraid not,” he murmurs into Sirius’ chest. Sirius smells like oil paint and sweat and—faintly—dog; it’s a wonderful concoction that’s wholly Sirius, even if he needs a shower.

They stand like that in silent contentment as the kettle crescendoes and then clicks off, and Remus reaches for it without thinking. Sirius yelps suddenly, slapping Remus’ hand away from where he'd gone to grab the wrong part of the kettle. 

“Fuck, Moony—you could have been burned!” His grip on Remus' waist has tightened to almost painful levels on his tender skin, and his eyes are wide with worry. “What's going on with you today?”

Remus pulls himself away roughly, annoyance flaring once more. “Nothing,” he snaps, “I'm fine.”

Sirius watches him for a long moment that peels him open, exposing all his dysfunctional, broken parts. Remus resists the urge to squirm beneath his gaze, focusing on the frustration to avoid sinking into the shame that's just beneath it. How did he fuck this up of all things? And now he's worried Sirius and he might not go to his game and Remus will have to pretend all evening that he's not falling apart, and—

Sirius breaks his stare, turning to pour water into their mugs. He makes Remus' tea perfectly, as always, sliding it across to him wordlessly. 

“Thank you,” Remus mumbles.

Sirius sighs almost imperceptibly, and Remus’ anger crumbles into guilt. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sirius has already swept out of the room. Remus sags in both misery and relief, screwing his eyes shut against all of it. 

It’s not a fight, he reminds himself. It barely even registers as a blip on the scales of their history of conflicts, but it sits bitter and aching in his throat all the same. 

Sirius drops a kiss on his cheek when he leaves, and asks him very seriously to “take care, love,” and Remus has to duck his head to hide how the words bring tears to his eyes. 

(Sometimes, he doesn’t understand why Sirius tolerates him and all his various Issues, even—especially—the ones he doesn’t know about.)

☾

It’s twilight when Sirius returns, bright-eyed and bubbling over with enthusiasm for the game, their earlier tension apparently forgotten. Remus had dragged himself back up to bed as soon as it was socially acceptable, cocooning himself in the softest blanket he could find, and drifting in miserable discomfort. 

Sirius groans as he eases himself into bed, reaching for Remus at once. “Oof, my knees will not thank me for that match in the morning. We're getting old, Moons. Worth it, though.”

Remus makes a noncommittal sound. 

“Better?” Sirius asks, and Remus wants to sob. 

(Better? Better by what measure? By the fact that he can form vague sentences without feeling like he's caught by Devil's Snare? That he's finally horizontal and he's no longer expending precious energy on sitting upright? Remus is never fucking getting better from this. And though he knows Sirius and his friends ask that question with the best of intentions—and always have—it doesn't take away the sting of their expectation that he will just bounce back, that his pain is temporary and not as ever-present as his shadow. If ‘better’ in terms of the fact that Remus is now too tired to want to rip his limbs off, then sure, Sirius, he's better.)

(But Remus can't say any of that.)

Instead, he nods half-heartedly, resigned to using the dregs of his energy on reacting appropriately to Sirius' report of the match. 

When sleep comes, it will be restless and uncomfortable—and Remus is tired of expecting otherwise. 

☾☆☾☆☾

A few weeks later, and post-Full Moon recovery, finds him in his happy place: standing before a class of boisterous students and seeing them light up with comprehension as they make their way through The Fountain of Fair Fortune. 

This particular class is one of his favourites, made up of witches and wizards in their twenties and thirties, many of whom are learning to read and write fluently for the first time. With a Full Moon so recently, a couple of the students—Rohan and Edie in particular—look a little worse for wear, but everyone else is their usual chatty selves.

(It had taken months to get here; months and months of Remus trying to balance discipline with empathy—to a group of people who had never truly known the latter. The behavioural issues had eventually been ironed out as it had slowly dawned on his students that their teacher was like them, that he knew their struggles even if he had been privileged enough to attend Hogwarts. Trust had been hard-won, and Remus hoards it like a Niffler with a pouchful of Galleons.)

And Remus has a headache that was surely brewed up in Azkaban—or perhaps it was thrust on him by the wicked minds of the likes of Dolores Umbridge—because Merlin’s saggy tits, it’s like it’s cleaving him in two.

As the class goes on, Remus finds himself leaning more and more heavily on his desk, flinching away from the overhead lighting without meaning to. A couple of times, he presses the heels of his hand into his eyes until galaxies burst forth; if he squished his eyes clean out of their sockets, would it relieve some of the immense pressure within? 

Lucas—a sweet, shy man who was Turned in the War—is the one who raises his tentative hand (most of his students call out their answers, but Lucas is endearingly clinging to his own brief experiences of schooling). “Are you alright, sir?”

Remus can’t help but smile. “No need to call me ‘sir’, Lucas.”

Faisal, who had immediately taken Lucas under his wing, squints at Remus. “He’s right, though, Remus. This is not your best look.”

“Thank you, Faisal. I’ve just got a headache, nothing to—”

“Again?”

This comes from Maria in the corner, whose transformations have left her with a stump where her left arm once was. She loves to fuck with nosy strangers about how she lost it (“I ate it,” she’ll tell them with a somewhat wolfish grin, and then cackle in delight at their reactions), and Remus adores her cheeky sense of humour—it reminds him so much of James in the early days with his butter-wouldn’t-melt expression and devastatingly quick wit.

“Again,” he confirms, and Maria frowns. Just as well he didn’t tell her that it never truly left in that case.

“That’s the third time this month,” Lucas says quietly, and Remus feels a surge of panic at being Observed so well. 

“I’m fine—let’s get back to—”

“Have you tried—” starts Edie.

“Boooooo!” Faisal interrupts. “We hate that shit. The last thing Remus wants is suggestions—I bet he gets plenty of those from normie busybodies.”

(He does, but he cares more about how Edie sinks back in her seat, eyes hurt.)

The class burst into discussion, voices overlapping in a way that wreaks fucking havoc on his pounding skull, and Remus has to clamp a hand over his ear to try and minimise how much the sound ricochets like exploding shards of glass. 

“Shut the fuck up!” hisses Faisal, and everyone falls silent at once, watching Remus.

It’s the strangest sensation being watched by this group. He’s always been aware of the power he holds as a teacher, but none more so than for these students, for whom he is the oldest werewolf they have ever known. There is a palpable hope pinned to his chest, heavy with the weight of proving that life can be so much brighter than they’d ever dared to dream for themselves—than they’d ever been allowed to dream for themselves. There’s no research for werewolves older than about thirty, and certainly none that focuses on the human side and its complexities, and it’s a fact that fills Remus with righteous fury. 

(He feels desperately caught between downplaying his pain and his fatigue to avoid burdening them with the knowledge of how much worse it can get, and wanting to prepare them for the reality of it as much as he can.)

(It’s a privilege to be able to grow old as a werewolf now; it’s a goddamned travesty that he claims that title in his mid-forties.)

He stares back at his students and realises that he has no fucking idea how to explain to them that he doesn’t actually remember the last time he wasn’t in pain or dizzy with exhaustion or miserable or brain-fogged or in a potion-induced sleep. It feels much too vulnerable to share with them all; in all honesty, it feels much too vulnerable to even admit to himself, and he cringes from it. 

“I’m fine,” he says firmly, willing himself to believe it, too, even as his head throbs sharper and louder and brighter. “Let’s get on with the story—Michael, I believe you were next.”

His students exchange skeptical glances, but to their credit, they behave exceptionally over the course of the morning, getting on quietly with their work. On the rare occasion that a voice raises above speaking-level, the culprit is angrily shushed by Faisal or Maria, dropping back down into quiet.

It’s an act of kindness for which Remus feels pathetically grateful. His head still aches, of course, and his vision blurs at the very edges, but it’s—just about—bearable. 

He doesn’t want to acknowledge to himself that he’s shared this with his students, where he wouldn’t with the love of his life, that he’s (sort of) accepted help from them when he shies away from Sirius’ concern. It’s because they get it, he knows: a thought that threatens to fracture his heart in a myriad of different ways.

☾☆☾☆☾

Harry stops by their house more often than not, but he religiously joins them for dinner on a Thursday night, and (when he dares) brings Draco along for the ride.

He, Sirius and Remus have taken to ambling the mile and a half into the little Carmarthenshire village, eating at the tiny pub, and strolling or Apparating back, depending on how much they’ve drunk that night. Something about the hearty, traditional food reminds Remus so strongly of Hogwarts and of simpler times that, against the backdrop of a truly hectic few years, it has been such a comfort to rely on these evenings with his favourite people in the world. When Draco joins them, he is visibly discomfited by the Muggle-ness of his surroundings (a point that Sirius revels in), but even he has started to settle in. 

But Remus is about to ruin their Thursday night plans for the third week in a row: 

“You can’t come?”

Bless Harry’s big and generous heart; for all his numerous talents and wonderful qualities, he is, and always has been, as easy to read as if Remus had Legilimens-ed straight into his head. His crestfallen expression is clear, even as he fights to keep his face neutral. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I really am. I’m just not up to it tonight.” 

Remus is nestled into the sofa, where he has been largely stuck over the last few days. He knows how he looks; he hasn’t left the house in several days, the bags beneath his eyes scoop deep into the apples of his cheeks, and his hair is three days past needing a wash (if only he had the energy to raise his arms for the time that would take). His blankets are also covered in biscuit crumbs; the only thing he has felt able to stomach in the last few days has been custard creams, but now the evidence of his comfort-eating is scattered across the sofa cushions.

Harry, on the other hand, is the picture of health if not for the concern creased into his brow. “That’s fine, Remus—don’t apologise, I—let’s have another takeout dinner—”

“No,” Remus says, as firmly as he can manage, and tries to sit up a little straighter to show how much he means this. “I want you two to go and have a nice dinner like normal. I’ll just nap here. I’m just knackered, Harry.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, then closes it, looking to Sirius. His partner has kept unnaturally quiet throughout their conversation, and now he pushes off the wall with a sigh. “I’m going to make you some tea, love,” he says quietly. He drops a kiss on the top of Remus’ head and moves towards the kitchens. “Can I make some toast? Eggs? Anything?”

Remus swallows down his shame. “Do we have more custard creams?”

Sirius’ mouth twitches, concern at last giving way to fondness. “Of course, Moony. Forgot I married the Biscuit Monster—”

“Cookie Monster,” Harry corrects automatically.

“—Can I make you something more substantial, though?”

Remus shifts uncomfortably, hating all these eyes on him. “No, I’m fine, Padfoot, really.”

Sirius gives him a long, hard look, his disbelief boring into Remus like he’s been pinned right through the chest, and then leaves.

Harry sighs, dropping down beside Remus. “Why don’t I believe you?”

Remus shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he insists. “Just a bit rundown lately.”

(Internally, he's begging Harry not to call him out on the fact that every part of that sentence is a lie.)

Harry angles himself so that he’s looking Remus dead in the eye. Remus has gotten so used to seeing Harry soft and warm and full of laughter that it’s sometimes too easy to forget he was once The Boy Who Lived. Now, though, with the steely edge of protectiveness in his gaze, Remus is reminded of what a Gryffindor this man really is. True to form, Harry goes straight for the jugular. “Padfoot is really worried about you,” he says quietly. “He won’t say it to you, but you’re scaring him—you’re scaring me.” He visibly swallows. “I’ve lost so many people, Remus. I need you to promise me you’ll tell someone if there’s something wrong. It doesn’t even need to be me, but—somebody.”

(You’re not doing a good enough job of pretending everything is fine, Remus hears. It’s not what Harry means, and Remus knows that. It’s already a gut punch into his aching stomach to know that despite his best efforts, Sirius is not fooled, that he is distressed even.)

And so Remus does the only thing he can think of when backed into a corner: he takes the coward’s way out and he fucking lies, right to Harry’s face.

“If I were worried, I would tell Sirius,” he says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. “And you’re not losing me just yet, Harry.”

Harry searches his face a minute longer, then finally nods, ducking his head. His messy black curls fall into his eyes, and Remus’ heart squeezes at how James-like this gesture is—so much so that he pulls Harry in tight for a side hug, mashing their cheeks together. 

Harry allows the desperate motion, even as it knocks both of their glasses off kilter. Eventually, he clears his throat, disentangling his limbs slightly to fish a piece of parchment from his jeans pockets.

“Percy asked me to check if you’d had a chance to look over those edits for the funding application yet? He said the deadline’s coming up, and—”

“Fuck.” Remus drops his head into his hands. “No, I—it completely slipped my mind, I’m sorry—”

“I could get Hermione to take a look if you want? She’s the best at that kind of stuff!”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll sort it this weekend—”

“She’d be happy to help,” Harry tells him, and Remus digs his fingernails into his thighs as anxiety trickles, icy cool and unpleasantly lumpy into the pit of his stomach. What else has he missed? Harry pauses, and then says carefully: “She also wanted to know if you had thought anymore about attending the conference? The one she’s organising on Magical Reform for Beasts with an XXXXX classification—sorry, Moony.”

Remus brushes off the cruel terminology easily; he’s heard far worse in his time, and likely will again. Unfortunately, the panic that this is something else he’d completely forgotten about is far stickier, clinging to his lungs like Puffapod spores.

“Shit, I’ll… I’ll get back to her on that this weekend, too.”

He sees Harry glance furtively at his parchment and wants to cry with exhaustion.

“What else have I forgotten?” he demands, ignoring how his voice cracks.

Harry swallows. “I just wanted to remind you that it’s Draco’s birthday in a week or so. You obviously don’t have to get him anything from you and Sirius, but I know it meant a lot to him the last few years, and we both know Sirius won’t want to—”

Remus tries to smile, but his lips are trembling with the effort of doing so, and he must look truly pathetic. “I’ll sort it, Harry, don’t worry.”

(Birthdays mean so much to Harry nowadays, both for the way his own was ignored and mocked growing up, and for the fact that he didn’t believe he would live to see as many as he now has. His enthusiasm for other people’s birthdays is particularly strong—and a testament to how much he wants to avoid others feeling as alone and unwanted as he once did.)

(Remus adores him.)

“And also, Neville was asking after you. He said he hadn’t heard back from you and he was worried—”

“Harry—” Sirius’ voice cuts across the rambling, sharper than he ever is with Harry. Harry falls silent at once, glancing guiltily at Remus. Sirius’ eyes are locked on Remus, and Remus realises with a start that his hands are trembling in his lap. He brushes one roughly over his eyes, again surprised at the wetness there, and tries to smile reassuringly at them both.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m just… a little behind, is all.”

Sirius moves towards him, carefully placing a steaming mug of tea on the side, along with a plate stacked high with biscuits. He mutters a charm with a complex flick of his wand, and then nods, satisfied. “Can I get you anything?” he asks, gaze intense. “Do you want a heating pad? Medication? More cushions?” Remus shakes his head, even as the care in his voice brings fresh tears to his eyes. He ducks his head to hide them and allows Sirius to press a tender kiss to his forehead. 

“I love you, Moony,” he tells him softly, and the lump in Remus’ throat becomes near unbearable. 

“I love you, too,” he returns shakily. 

“And I love you, three,” chimes in Harry, drawing a hard-won grin from Sirius and a fond ruffle of his curls.

Remus fights to hold it together for the last few minutes as Harry and Sirius putter around the room, finding shoes and Muggle money and final excuses to check on Remus. He knows that they will be talking about him the second they’re out of earshot, which pools dread in his belly, but it’s too late now to alleviate that.

Finally—finally—the door swings shut with a click, and their footsteps fade as they track down the path. Remus counts to ten, then to thirty, and once he’s sure they aren’t about to return, he lets himself collapse.

The tears come alarmingly quickly, heavy and hot down his cheeks, splotching against his blankets. He’s just… so overwhelmed. Except that word doesn’t even begin to cover it—there is simply too much pressing on his chest, and he can’t get enough air in—

Panic attack, says his pre-frontal cortex, but he’s gone. It’s been a long time since he’s had a panic attack—years, even—and he’s fallen out of familiarity with the way it feels like a Squeezing Hex has been blasted right at his chest. He strains for breath, ragged gasps ripping through the peace of the living room he and Sirius have so lovingly made theirs, but they catch on the edge of his tears, leaving him a messy, spluttering wreck. The coughing fit that ensues rattles his bones with shattering intensity, bringing even more tears to his eyes, and he sobs, because it fucking hurts.

It all fucking hurts so, so much, and Remus is so tired of how much it hurts. He’s been in pain his whole damn life, and perhaps this is finally the end of his rope—the last few months have been even more of a strain than usual, and his well is simply dry. He just wants it to stop, so he can rest, truly rest for once in his life, so that he can actually complete the mountain of work he has failed to get done, so he can be the person his loved ones deserve him to be. And he knows that a lot of this is just the panic attack talking, dragging him down into its abyss of despair as it is so wont to do, but it’s feeling less and less like an exaggeration and more and more like Remus is simply deluding himself.

It will end, it will end, it will end, he reminds himself, except the panic attack is not fucking ending. It feels as though he will die like this, suffocated beneath his own patheticness and uselessness, and Sirius and Harry will have to find his corpse here—it will be yet one more way Remus manages to ruin their lives, even in death. He clenches his hands tight enough around his thighs that it will bruise him mauve and puce, willing the pain to give him a spark of something to cling to. 

(It does not.)

And Remus gives into it, drifting, sinking, gone.

☾☆☾☆☾

Of all the people he thinks would understand, Minerva would be the one who gets it more than anyone. She has been living with arthritis for almost two decades, a fact that she and Remus had bonded over during his time at Hogwarts as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. He remembered their conversations over cups of tea, grousing about their aching bodies, with nothing but fondness. 

By the time it becomes clear that he really isn't getting better from this, that he really is deteriorating in the ways he had feared, and above all, that he cannot bear to carry this alone anymore, Minerva is the only person he can think to tell. 

There's so much that he's desperate to tell someone. So much self-loathing that he can no longer contain, and so much loneliness that he can only share with someone who’s right there with him in their sinking ship.

He longs to tell her that his life has somehow become a series of checks and balances, and he’s terrified this mental arithmetic is for life: if I leave the laundry until tomorrow, perhaps I will have the energy to cook dinner tonight. If I travel to see Harry this Saturday, I will be wiped out on Sunday. If, if, if—only it's all a guessing game and rarely works out as he hopes.  

He wishes he could tell her how angry he felt when Sirius caught him checking the weather forecast and burst out laughing (“Muggles don't actually think they can predict the weather, do they? That's advanced magic to be able to do that!”). Remus had ruefully joined in the merriment even as he seethed internally because Sirius would never have to worry about this stuff, and how dare he make fun? However, Remus had also been careful to take note of the days that the temperature was due to drop, of the humidity and the chance of rain. He’d carefully added it all to his equation-game of how much will my body ache tomorrow? It doesn't help, per se, but being the tiniest bit prepared for it makes him feel, however much it is a lie, that he has scraped back a modicum of control. 

He writes and rewrites letters to her, never to be sent, trying to put words to the feeling of being nauseous with pain. How it prickles at the base of his spine, building to a stabbing that ricochets to the tips of his fingers and down his legs. How even his fingernails ache from the brush of bedsheets against them.

It feels wrong to be grateful that someone else is suffering with him—although he knows that Minerva’s does not stem from being a monster—and especially someone he loves and respects as much as her. And, truth be told, he’s not grateful really; he wouldn’t wish this even on Dolores Umbridge and her twisted, hateful soul. He’s actually furious that it’s him and Minerva whose bodies are failing, when so many people do not even have to consider how utterly exhausting it is moving through life in this way. He’s heartbroken at how Minerva describes what her pain has taken from her, grief-stricken for himself as he realises that no amount of mental preparation can brace him for the moment it takes everything from him too. 

They've been writing periodically—Minerva dictating her letters when her swollen joints won't allow it, which Remus can track by the slight difference in the form of her letters when she is unable to write herself.

And so Remus forces himself to sit, pen in hand—because he has no fucking energy to waste on refilling a quill these days—and stare at a blank page. He’s been sitting here long enough that his back aches, not that it takes much, and he’s blasted with the mental image of completing a Muggle jigsaw puzzle with Lily one Christmas in Third Year. He’d looked at the tiny, delicate pieces, at the beautiful design they would eventually make, and had felt so fucking jealous. He had wanted—he still wants—to snap his vertebrae apart like this jigsaw, then reassemble them to make some fucking sense.

It’s like all the words he’s so desperate for someone to hear are trapped, lurking somewhere in the gooey, useless mess his brain has become. Even when they creep forth to the tip of his tongue, it’s agony to try and push them out; he’s left with pathetic little platitudes to Sirius (“just in a bit of pain today”), who believes him less and less, and stalks around with more and more hurt that Remus is blatantly hiding something. Unlike their previous fights, and especially unlike the fights during the First War, accusations do not get hurled, but just like before, Remus can feel himself shying away from the edge of the re-emerging conflict in a way that only ever aggravates Sirius. His partner only ever wants to get it all out in the open and fixed; Remus knows there’s no fixing himself.

The page remains blank, and Remus’ chest tightens with pent-up rage—at himself, at his body, at his loved ones who can never hope to understand, at the world that has never wanted to—

Remus screws the paper into a tight little ball and hurls it away. 

Minerva’s letter will have to go unanswered (again).

☾☆☾☆☾

Harry’s birthday brings blazing sunshine with it, as normal, but none of the buttery beams of light falling across the living room can outdo Harry’s absolute beacon of a smile.

His birthday party, always a joyous, raucous affair, sees their home crammed with all of Harry’s favourite people, a feast of delicious treats that could rival even the Sorting Ceremony meals at Hogwarts, and a symphony of chatter, laughter, in-jokes, and banter. Harry is surrounded by his closest friends, Hagrid and Sirius are deep in discussion in the corner, Molly is straightening the pile of birthday presents stacked higher than she can even reach—everywhere Remus looks, everyone is just so happy.

Except him. 

Remus’ chest has felt tight all day as though he’s on the verge of tears, and he’s not been able to get a full breath into his lungs either. It’s like the Whomping Willow has sunk its roots into his skin, piercing the delicate tissue of his lungs and rupturing all those precious air pockets. Not only that, but the weight pressing into his chest has been growing heavier and heavier, and he’s near dizzy with the exhaustion of lugging it around all day. 

The backdrop of the pain in his knees and hips and spine and stomach is such a familiar setting to him now that they barely register beneath the exhaustion. Instead, what registers is that he’s completely fucking miserable.

Remus excuses himself from the celebrations when he finds himself unable to keep from snapping at Luna for her inane commentary on Nargles (and when did he get so mean? Once upon a time, he would have loved to debate their existence with her), and retreats to the kitchen, where he can’t hurt anyone else.

There, he spends a blissful hour in solitude, head pressed to the cool surface of the countertops to relieve a tiny bit of the pressure there. 

To his surprise, it’s Draco who comes to find him, and Remus straightens resignedly. 

“Lupin, I—”

“How many times, Draco?”

Draco hesitates. “Remus, then. We’re doing the cake in a minute, and… I think he’d really want you to be there.”

(Remus wants to have the energy to be kind about this; he can recognise how hard it must have been for Draco to abandon his usual swagger and ask this of him, how hard and alien this whole thing must feel for someone who has grown up in the cold).

“I—I’m in a lot of pain today, Draco,” he says, and feels the nervous rush of having skirted closer to the truth of the thing than he ever has in the last few months. “I need to stay out here for a bit. But don’t wait on my account.”

Draco’s eyes dart up and down Remus’ body; doubtless, he’s taking in how hunched and old Remus looks now, how his body has changed shape. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and for a moment, Remus thinks he’s going to let it go. 

And then—

“But it’s Potter—Harry’s birthday,” Draco whispers, the words a goddamn sword in Remus’ chest as if Remus isn’t painfully aware of how much he’s ruining the celebrations.

(He can’t fucking speak.)

His jaw is clenched so painfully tight to try and contain the sob that’s ripping up his throat, as he turns and flees the kitchen, away from Draco’s wide, confused eyes and judging words, away from all the people he’s hurting with his useless body. 

Because none of them see how hard he’s fucking trying. 

And sure, that was his choice, insofar as any of this has been his choice, but that doesn’t change the fact that it has devastated him. None of them sees how much it costs him to keep acting like everything’s fine, or to remain calm and kind and patient when inside he is screaming. 

Never has he felt more like a beast; never has the animalistic, raging anguish felt to close to the surface in his human form—the Wolf just wants to howl and howl and howl until someone hears it, and Remus—

Well. 

Remus doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

But he sure as hell doesn’t want this.

☾☆☾☆☾

Remus is running late.

Tonks is downstairs waiting for him—he can hear her gentle humming as she noses around their kitchen—and they should have left five minutes ago if they wanted to make it to Sirius’ Quidditch match on time. Tonks has never been particularly time-conscious, so she is absolutely unbothered by the prospect of being late, but Remus can’t get the image of Sirius out of his head: the resigned look in his eyes, the way he’d called him “Remus” instead of “Moony” or “love” or any of the other nicknames that Remus tucks into his heart. 

(He’s losing him, which is what he most feared when he first realised that this was all getting worse. He’s pushing Sirius away with his secrets, but he doesn’t know how to begin to make him understand this one—nor why Remus has kept it bound so tight in the first place.)

There’s a crash from downstairs and an unmistakable “oops” from Tonks, but Remus doesn’t even flinch at it. 

Instead, he stands in front of the full-length mirror and he wants to fucking Reducto it into infinitesimal shards, small enough that he doesn’t have to see a single reflection of himself in their shape.

Because he’s not an idiot. 

He knows his body has changed over the last year. He can feel it in the way his clothes have been sitting differently on his body, in how Sirius’ arms fit around newfound softness and give, in how it sometimes pulls at his bones or throws him off-balance. 

After all, he went from being relatively active despite his pain—exercise-averse, as Sirius teasingly puts it—to almost completely inactive. And he thinks of the (what must be) hundreds of Custard Creams and little treats he’s had over the last year, desperate to feel something that didn’t hurt, desperate to believe he could still enjoy his life like this—

And now his jeans don’t fit and he feels sick at himself, with himself, of himself. It’s not even the weight itself; it’s the fact that it’s such a physical reminder of how much he is not in control of his body. It’s how hard he fought to come to a place of acceptance with a body that didn't quite fit his idea of what a man should be, then of his lanky, gangly, bony body and its cross-stitches of scars, only for it to change again, this time bringing with it curves and stretch marks. 

He tries one more time, but they simply do not fit him anymore—and it's fine, truly. It should be fine; as he'd told Harry when he had mourned his skinny little frame a couple of years ago, clothes are meant to fit you, not the other way around. 

And yet. 

He stares down at his belly—because that's what he has now—and wants to run away from all of it, from this body and these mistakes and this unending pit of self-loathing—

Back in the mirror, he takes a proper look at himself for the first time in weeks. The added softness is, of course, what draws his attention first. But a closer look shows that his hair is no longer ‘streaked with silver,’ as Sirius so affectionately calls it, but grey, flecked with patchy auburn in a few stubborn spots. His wrinkles feel more pronounced (and it can't just be that he's actively looking for them now), and the skin beneath his eyes appears practically bruised. 

He looks old, he realises, with a painful ache in his chest. Old and round and frail—and frankly, utterly pathetic caught up in these too-small jeans and devastating realisations. 

There's a sharp rap at the door, and Tonks sidles in without waiting for a response.

“So, I broke a vase, you probably heard—my bad,” she launches straight in, not even looking at him. “Anyway, I think I've Reparo’ed it as good as new—well… I mean, it's wobblier than it was before? And I can try and rebreak and repair it again, but—”

Her voice cuts off suddenly as she turns to look at him, eyes widening. 

“Oh—I didn't realise you weren't dressed yet,” she says, hands flying to her eyes. “Sorry—here I am, burbling on about vases, when you—” She cuts herself off again. “There I go, what am I like?” Tonks laughs awkwardly. “I just… are you nearly ready?”

Remus hadn't moved the whole time she's been rambling, his brain still stuck on how out of control this all feels, and Tonks seems to take his silence for helplessness. 

“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks him. “Do you want me to charm it bigger for you?” Her wand is already out, but Remus is stuck. He can’t quite explain it, other than it feels like a tiny Cornish Pixie has shoved its way into his brain and is playing havoc with his emotions: he’s simultaneously on the verge of tears, yelling, and maniacal laughter all at once.

But Tonks’ words are so light and considerate that it feels insane that this small act of kindness is the straw that finally breaks the Hippogriff's back. 

Mortifyingly, desperately, hopelessly, he bursts into tears. 

There’s an agonising few seconds where Tonks stares at him with wide, panicked eyes as he gasps for breath, cheeks wet and flushed, shoulders heaving—

And then she’s babbling again, only it’s all the wrong things: 

“Hey, hey. Remus, breathe—what…. It's normal to gain weight in your forties, you know that, right? You’re fine—”

Her gentleness makes him sob harder still, because if only that were all his heart is breaking over. He doubles over, clawing at his chest where there’s an aching, tearing, weeping sore of emotion, only his fingernails merely scratch at his skin, leaving the Feelings to fester inside his body. It’s like all the colours and noises and sensations have been dialled up, like how Sirius used to blast Queen on the record player Alphard had gifted him at Hogwarts—loud enough to rattle the panes of glass in their windows. Remus feels as brittle as glass now, brittler even, because he’s shattering to pieces all over his and Sirius’ bedroom, leaving tiny razor-sharp pieces in his wake and hurting everyone he loves in the process. 

(All he can think, near hysterically by now, is that if she hadn't already moved on from her crush on him (to Charlie Weasley no less; talk about moving on up), then this would surely have done it.)

“Remus—what—? What do you need?” Tonks sounds frantic now, though he can’t say he blames her—he’s now curled in a ball at the foot of the bed, gripping his hair with his fists, and he can’t stop fucking crying. She wraps her arms around him, trying to wrestle his fingers from his hair, but he groans—he doesn’t want to be touched right now; he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this: an embarrassing, pathetic wreck of a man, crying over something he cannot even put into words. 

(He doesn’t want anyone to witness this, and yet the thought of making her leave wracks his body harder still with sobs.)

Tonks has backed off, hands raised. “Okay, okay. No touching. I—Remus, you’re scaring me… is it… does something hurt? Are you hurt?”

More than you can ever understand, he wants to howl at her, but before he can, he realises there’s an awful animalistic keening—Tonks is not safe; there must be a wild animal in here. Remus flails around desperately, searching each corner for the beast making such a terrible racket, but there are only dustballs.

“Remus?” Tonks says again, and fuck, he wishes she’d stop saying his name and help him to find the animal in here.

Except—

In the second that he went to snap at her, the sound stopped, and Remus realises with dawning horror that he was the beast all along. It’s enough to bring fresh tears to his eyes, and he buries his face in his knees, flinching away from her tentative touch.

He can vaguely hear that she’s talking, but the words do not register as English—they’re oddly distorted and loud, and he doesn’t understand.

Suddenly, there’s a loud swooshing, and he glances up in time to see the blurry outline of a silvery-blue jackrabbit leaping through the bedroom wall. A Patronus, his brain says numbly, but he’s too tired to make any further connection, and Remus shoves his face back into his knees with a sob.

(I can’t do this anymore, he realises, but he’s not sure what this refers to. He’d long since grown used to the idea that his life might look—from the outside at least—smaller than others’, that there are certain things he would never be able to manage, both because of the lycanthropy and his status in the Wizarding World, and because of his health. But now, the Quidditch hoops keep changing positions, and Remus cannot hope to score.)

A crack rips through the room, and all of a sudden, there’s another presence at his side—a voice he’d recognise anywhere, even in a dingy Shrieking Shack twelve years after hearing it for the last time:

“Moony—fuck, Tonks, what happened?”

There’s a hand on his neck, trying to ease his head up, but Remus stubbornly buries it deeper still, choking on his own tears a little because he doesn’t want Sirius to see this. He didn’t want Tonks to see it, but Sirius seeing it feels even worse somehow. The hand stills, and Sirius’ voice comes, soothing as though he’s dealing with a wild animal. “Okay, love, okay. You stay there.” 

Gentle fingers stroke at the back of his neck, twisting softly around the curls at his nape, and the motion sends a shiver through Remus, his tears slowing ever so slightly. 

“I’ve got you, Moony. You take as long as you need,” Sirius says, and somehow, it’s everything Remus needed to hear.

He closes his eyes around the fresh tears that fall at how much love Sirius has imbued those words with, and tries.

☾

It takes a long fucking time. 

Even once his breathing has slowed from its ragged pant to something smoother, which only catches in his throat every few breaths, even once his cheeks feel disgustingly sticky with tears rather than actively dripping, he still can’t bring himself to raise his head for a while.

His hips throb from the rigid position he’s held on the floor for so long, but still, he chooses to prolong what he knows will be an awful, difficult conversation. 

Remus is just so goddamn tired, and he no longer remembers it being any different than this.

But he rallies the very last of his strength, strangles the coward inside him that wants to Apparate away from this and never return, and raises his head. The motion dislodges Sirius’ hand from the back of his neck, and Remus swallows before he can meet his lover’s gaze.

Sirius’ eyes are red-rimmed, too—there’s a pinkish hue to his irises, like a sunrise against the Welsh sea—and he’s dressed in his Quidditch training gear—

“Fuck,” Remus says, and his voice comes out hoarse and crackly. “Your Quidditch match—”

Sirius’ nostrils flare in obvious displeasure. “If you truly believe that you are less important to me than some Quidditch friendly, then I’ve done a piss poor job of loving you, Remus Lupin.”

“I—” Remus swallows, willing the tears that are welling up once more to fuck off, but Sirius’ face softens. 

He reaches out, brushing the pad of his thumb along Remus’ lower eyelashes, releasing the tears trapped there and keeping them on his thumb like a precious moonstone. His eyes search between Remus’ as his palm moves to cup Remus’ cheek, and then he draws him in slowly—achingly slowly—for the gentlest brush of their lips. He holds Remus like he’s something cherished, bringing their foreheads together in a soft embrace. 

(Remus forgets about the Quidditch match. He forgets his embarrassing meltdown, and his aching joints, and being at the very end of his shredded tether. For a moment, it’s just the two of them against the world once more, and it’s all he needs.)

They breathe a shared breath for a few minutes before Sirius speaks again, so softly that their tiny universe remains a lovely safe haven. 

“Here’s the plan: We’re going to take a shower, get some food in you, and then you’re going to sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Deal?” He phrases it like a question, but there’s very little flexibility in his voice. 

“What time is it?” Remus whispers, clearing his throat around the raspiness of it.

“Almost ten,” Sirius says. “Come on, love.”

“I don’t really have the energy for—”

“That’s why I’m doing it with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know. Come on.” Sirius leans in and presses a kiss to Remus’ forehead, then wraps his arms around him, hoisting him up with relative ease. He wraps an arm around Remus’ waist, and they walk—Sirius walks; Remus stumbles—to the bathroom together, where Sirius seats Remus on the toilet whilst he starts the shower.

The thump of the water and the immediate steam that dances out from behind the glass are inviting, but Remus has to lean heavily on Sirius as he manoeuvres them both under the warm jets. “I’ve got you,” Sirius murmurs again, and Remus finds himself positioned against Sirius' chest in a loose hug. “I’m going to wash your hair,” he says, “and then you, and then we’ll get you into bed with something tasty, okay?”

(I’m not a child, the angry, frustrated part of Remus wants to snap, but even that part has lost the edge of its bite in the face of so much unconditional care.)

True to his word, Sirius lathers shampoo through Remus’ hair, massaging into his scalp in a way that leaves him near boneless with pleasure. Sirius’ deft fingers tease out the knots and wash away the weeks of built-up grease, before repeating it all. The silky conditioner that follows smells like satsumas, and it makes Remus’ stomach growl in a way that has Sirius chuckling. 

“Soon, darling,” he tells Remus’ belly, and Remus flushes.

Finally, Sirius swipes a washcloth laden with soap across Remus’ body in tender, sweeping arcs. Remus can’t meet Sirius’ gentle eyes as he washes the curve of Remus’ belly, and Sirius makes a wounded noise.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Sirius whispers, and it’s almost a beg, which feels impossible, because Sirius is many things, but he does not beg. 

“S’just. I didn’t realise, and…” Remus shrugs. “S’not what you signed up for, is it? None of this is.”

It’s the most he’s managed in hours, and the effort leaves him exhausted, practically swaying where he stands.

“I happen to love this body,” Sirius says mildly, “because it’s yours.”

Remus shuts his eyes, allowing Sirius to finish his process, but by the time he’s wrestled them open again, he’s being gently towelled dry by Sirius. And then he blinks again, and he’s methodically munching on some toast with a thick layer of blackcurrant jam—

And then he’s not aware of anything at all.

☾

He wakes up slowly, blinking away the glare of sunlight in his eyes. It’s pleasantly warm being bathed in its buttery glow, and he stretches slowly, hissing as his joints pop and groan.

“Good morning.” Sirius shifts beside him, placing a bookmark between the pages of a Muggle classic.

“Morning,” Remus says. His voice comes out oddly croaky, and that’s all he needs to remember. 

The memory of the night before, and of Sirius’ promise to talk about it in the morning, dumps itself heavily into Remus’ gut. He swallows, breaking eye contact, and makes to roll away from Sirius, but then—

“Don’t shut me out again,” Sirius’ voice cracks on the final word, and it’s this that makes him turn back around. Sirius passes him a glass of water, which Remus drains in one, and then there’s a long pause.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” Remus admits, and Sirius chuckles humourlessly. He reaches for Remus’ hand, and Remus hesitantly accepts. Sirius presses a kiss to the back of his hand, then tucks it to his chest.

“I’m guessing that this isn’t just about you putting on a few,” Sirius says, and he tries to smile, but there’s so much worry in his eyes that it looks all wrong, like the ghastly Black family protraits at Grimmauld Place.

Remus can’t bring himself to smile either. “It’s not really the weight at all,” he says to his knees. Sirius makes an encouraging noise, and Remus sighs. “You’re going to be pissed with me.” 

Sirius cocks his head, considering. “Probably,” he concedes.

“Sirius!”

“But I love you enough that I know we can… get through whatever this is. Think of everything we’ve already come through.”

Remus’ eyes feel damp, even though he doesn’t understand how there are more tears to come. “What if it’s not? What if it’s not something we can beat this time?”

“Then I’ll be with you, all the same.” 

Sirius is deliberately keeping his voice steady, but Remus can hear the thrum of fear beneath the surface, the way his partner is bracing himself for everything to be snatched from him once again.

Remus cannot bear to let that happen.

“Okay. Can you—will you hold me?”

There’s a warm pair of arms around him at once, coaxing him to lean back against Sirius’ chest until every part of their body is brushing together, with Sirius’ chin hooked over Remus’ shoulder. “How’s this?” he whispers, breath tickling Remus’ neck.

Remus nods.

And then he starts to speak.

He explains how this started—the slow, creeping realisation that his health issues were no temporary blip, but a clear, marked deterioration, that the pain had snuck in more and more and more until it was all-consuming and all that mattered. He shares the exhaustion with Sirius, only gets stuck on the fact that exhaustion is nowhere near a strong enough word to cover what a bone-deep, mind-melting fatigue grips him. He tells Sirius about the dark thoughts that have started to feel more and more like a relief, of the crushing grief that he is not getting better, of the slow-burning self-loathing that continues to grow in volume, even now, as he lays bare the most tender, vulnerable parts of himself. 

Remus feels limp when he’s finished, like his soul is no longer inhabiting his body, and he could float away forever if it weren’t for Sirius’ arms holding him there. He rubs wearily at his eyes, smearing the latest set of tears from his cheeks, and waits for Sirius to process it all. 

“I don’t understand why you didn’t say anything,” Sirius says at last. “Did… did you think I wasn’t noticing that something was wrong? Merlin’s beard, Moony, do you think I’m a fucking fool?”

Remus’ stomach plummets. “No, I—”

“Did you think you were hiding this well? Merlin’s saggy tits, Moony, you are the most important person in my world. I was going to notice that you suddenly stopped doing all the things you loved, and withdrew from everyone, and got really sad and grumpy and—” He cuts himself off, tightening his hold on Remus. “Of course, I noticed. But why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I asked you so many times, and you just… brushed me off.”

Remus feels miserable, a sick sort of lump pressing painfully into his throat. “I… I don’t know.”

Sirius sighs. “I’m not mad at you,” he says, pressing a kiss to the crown of Remus’ head. “I’m worried as hell and I’m mad at myself for not pushing harder, but I’m not mad at you.” Another long pause. “Please, Moony. Just. Tell me the truth.”

“I didn’t want it to change,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to change how you looked at me.” Remus twists his fingers around his t-shirt, then plucks it off his stomach where it’s clinging. “I… I liked how things were before. Things felt good. And if I could pretend that everything was normal, it just felt… better, I don’t know.”

Remus feels Sirius nodding against his back. “Do you know that you could turn into a Flobberworm, and I would still love you?”

Remus frowns, spluttering a laugh despite himself. “Ew, Sirius. That’s… there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

“Yes,” Sirius says, and Remus can hear the wolfish grin in his voice. “We’re delinquents together. A runaway criminal and a werewolf; we make a pretty dashing pair.”

Remus laughs, genuinely this time, and it’s the first time in so long that it’s almost painful to crack open his chest and allow the sunshine-brightness of joy back into his heart. 

“Is that the whole of it?” Sirius asks because he somehow knows Remus better than Remus knows himself. 

Remus is grateful that he can’t see Sirius’ face all of a sudden. He pauses for a long moment and then sighs. “I… I didn’t want you to have to put yourself out for me.” It’s like coughing up glass to try and scrape the words from his throat, but the bloody remnants are truer and more vulnerable than anything he’s said thus far. “I didn’t want to burden you with this. With me. Not on top of being…”

“The rest of that sentence had better be ‘the light of my life,’” Sirius says.

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you think is the truth. That is not the same as my truth.”

Remus closes his eyes, resisting the frustrated edge of his anger. “You don’t understand.” 

“No, you don’t understand, Moony. You don’t understand that you have been my entire lifeline and gave me the hope that things could get better. I have watched you fight to survive your whole life, and I’m not letting you give up on yourself now.”

“I’m not even fifty yet,” Remus says quietly, and Sirius hums, pulling him closer still. His hand comes up to cup Remus’ cheek, and Remus’ heart aches at the affection he’s been so afraid of accepting recently, for fear of Sirius realising how wrong things are.

(How fucking stupid he’s been.)

“If this is all life is—if it’s just going to hurt this much and drain me this much, then what is the point?”

Sirius stills behind him as the enormity of what he’s asking sinks in, and they are quiet for a long, long time. 

“I’m not going to pretend to know the answer to that,” Sirius says at last.

“That’s not like you.”

“But. I want to help you figure it out. The point, I mean.” Sirius sounds oddly unsure, and Remus squeezes his other hand where it’s splayed over Remus’ belly. “I feel like you’ve been surviving for the last few months, not actually living. So, maybe we start there.”

(Remus isn’t sure he believes Sirius and how simple he makes it sound. He wants to believe it, because hope is a fiery, feisty little slip of a thing, and it has long since abandoned Remus—but its nest remains in Remus’ heart.)

(Maybe… just maybe, it will return.)

☾☆☾☆☾

No matter how much they both want to fall into handling this perfectly, such a thing is impossible. 

There are blazing rows about Remus’ new limits and boundaries, about what he can manage, about the fact that “I’m not a fucking child, Padfoot,” in which both men are unspeakably cruel, before making up in the small hours of the morning. 

It takes almost a year for them to find a rhythm that works for them. A year for Remus to learn to ask for help before he literally keels over from exhaustion. A year for Sirius to learn to wait to be asked instead of assuming he knows what Remus needs, but also to learn the signs that Remus is often too tired to take notice of himself. 

There are people who disappear from Remus' life, of course, when it becomes clear that Remus is not getting better, not really. As much as they had protested and told him that they didn’t mind him cancelling on them last minute again, they gradually stop reaching out, and after some kind, but firm words from Minerva, Remus stops, too. He doesn’t have the energy to waste anymore on people who only accept the easy parts of him. It doesn’t diminish the surge of guilt he feels about lost friendships, nor the hurt at the slow-burn rejection, but it is a relief to have more headspace for the people who do show up for him time and again.

After all, Luna is there whenever she comes home from her adventures abroad, with fresh tales of fantastical creatures and pockets of wisdom wrapped up in a bizarre story. Neville keeps him well-stocked with a range of plants that have healing properties, but also regularly brings him homegrown sunflowers and tulips and bluebells, just because Remus beams at the sight of them. Minerva’s letters arrive on a tight fortnightly schedule, whether or not he has had the energy to return correspondence, offering him a rare outlet to someone who truly gets it in a way that most of his loved ones, despite their best efforts, never will.

Percy and Hermione work to secure him funding to employ another teacher for his school—and then another when students on roll continue to increase. They both take on marking duties, recruiting their friends and colleagues to do the same as needed, until Remus has a small army of volunteer editors who believe in what he is trying to achieve. 

Tonks is there with her usual cocktail of chaos and humour and liveliness, never failing to make him crack a smile—even if that involves morphing into uncannily good versions of their mutual acquaintances, and tricking Sirius into thinking they’re the real person. 

Draco remains a permanent feature, much to Sirius’ disappointment, of course. But he and Remus swap book recommendations and debate political systems, and on the day that Draco comes to him uncharacteristically anxiously, and explains that he has been developing a new pain-relief potion, Sirius calls him Draco for the first time.

The memory of his old friends, of all the people they have lost thanks to the Wars, will remain a part of him forever, but it’s a part that brings him peace despite the pain of the loss. Remus has come a long way from the scrawny, quiet eleven-year-old who rocked up to Hogwarts in hand-me-down robes and a self-loathing so strong he was choking to death on it. And he would never have even started on that journey without his old friends; the blessing of that is a gift he is doing his best to hold on to.

Harry is there on the good days, when they can go out on walks to the pub or to Diagon Alley for ice cream just for a lark. But he’s also there on the bad days, bringing takeaway food to their house and playing board games with Remus until he falls asleep, chatting away about his day and his colleagues when Remus is too tired to form a sentence, making endless, perfect cups of tea.

And Sirius, of course.

Sirius is always there—a point over which they clash plenty, at least in the beginning. He watches with smug triumph as Remus’ stubbornness loses out to Harry’s (and Lily’s) pleading eyes, and Remus finally agrees he will try a cane. He ensures a constant supply of Custard Creams and sweet treats in the cupboards, he buys a truly bonkers amount of heating pads and pain potions—he even takes a masseuse class to better be able to work the knots out of Remus’ aching shoulders. But more importantly, to Remus, he still loves Remus just as fiercely and loudly and brightly as before—he still bickers with him about taking breaks, he still pounces on him to tackle him into a hug, and he still kisses Remus like he’s worth more than all the gold in Gringott’s.

 

This is the point, Remus realises, on the most ordinary of days, almost a year later. His legs are slung loosely over Sirius’ and he’s working on a Sudoku, whilst Sirius completes The Daily Prophet crossword in record time. 

Remus happens to glance up and catch Sirius’ gaze, and he’s floored by the depth of the affection there. It’s like Sirius is shining a ray of pure light onto the messiest, ugliest, most complex parts of Remus’ life, and is still seeing nothing but precious, lovable treasure. 

And Remus feels like a fool for only now stumbling on what humans seem to have intrinsically known since the dawn of time: that the point is to love and be loved in return, in all its glorious, ridiculous, soft, and immeasurable ways.

 

Remus Lupin has a good life. It’s a hard, messy, painful, complicated life, but it is also bursting with love and support and hope in a way that he could never have believed possible. 

His life is good. 

And he wants to live it.