Good Fortune (Ongoing)

1. Marquee Moon

Remus was, in every sense of the phrase, having a bit of a bad day. The day in question started off on the wrong side when Teddy woke him from a deep sleep, jerking wildly and opening up his bleary eyes to see a mop of curly brown hair, mussed from sleep, peek its way above the mattress. His mouth was quivering something fierce, and worryingly was ringed with a suspicious looking substance that Remus tried to pretend he didn't see. "Wha's up Teds?" Remus croaked out. "Threw up. Don't feel good," Teddy replied, his mouth quivering more, and Remus noticed worryingly that his brown eyes were quickly filling up with unshed tears, clumping his long eyelashes together. Well. You don't feel well, sprout, the EngLit demon in his chest grumbled. He quickly sprung up to grab Teddy, hoping to prevent the colossal meltdown and wailing that would ensue. He felt a squelch against his chest, grimacing as he peered down to see Teddy's jams, the purple ones with the solar system print on them, sopping with his sick, which was now plastered across Remus's own shirt. Lovely. "Hey, hey bud, it's okay! Did you throw up in the toilet?" That, apparently, was not the right question to be asking his nauseous almost 3-year-old, as Teddy began wailing. Remus's brain couldn't be asked to function at any human capacity at – he glanced at his shitty bedside clock that emitted sparks on occasion (he pretended he didn't see that, too) – 6:17am.

His day continued to unfold in a series of events that provoked his left eye to twitch with a shocking regularity. He wondered if he should go to the optometrist. Perhaps a CAT scan, or a lobotomy, would do the trick. Teddy had, in fact, not thrown up in the toilet, and Remus was on hands and knees scrubbing at the carpet in front of the bathroom with a tea towel, his reusable pink dish gloves, and a crazed gleam in his still twitching eye. Teddy cried for over an hour, despite any prompting on Remus's part. He finally calmed down and fell asleep on the threadbare blue couch after a dose of children's cherry flavored Emetrol, a digestive, cup of oat milk, and a 20-minute backrub combined. Remus, having done all of this with a frightening lack of mental clarity, briefly wondered if becoming a parent made you more susceptible to superpowers. Something about chronic lack of sleep had to do something funny to one's brain. Or perhaps, living in the city gave him radiation. Either way, he felt quite proud of himself for his calm demeanor & went to make himself a coffee (stubbing his toe on the wooden llama toy left on the floor enroute to the dingy kitchen), only to find his ceramic canister with a moon (his mother bought it at Urban Outfitters on sale for £4.99, the red sticker on the bottom still attached and fraying at the corners), which normally held grounds, empty save for a spattering of brown bits left at the very bottom. Not enough for a pot. "That's fine. It's fine. I'll pop into the cafe on the way to class. It's fine," he mumbled to himself, still looking into the canister, as if it would suddenly not be empty if he willed it so hard enough.

After deciding that it was too late to get any more sleep without ruining the schedule for the remainder of his day that he so neurotically placed together in his head, he quickly called his Mum to let her know Teddy wasn't feeling great. She insisted, despite any protests Remus gave, that "he'll be fine, I can handle a sick boy! I've done it before, Remus John!" His Baba would never let Remus skip class if he could help it. He quickly sent thanks to the universe for his parents and their unyielding support. When Remus, at almost 17, found out that he and his ex-girlfriend had not been quite as careful as they thought, his parents responded with understanding and compassion at his choice to keep the child. Danni hadn't necessarily wanted to get an abortion, but she made it very clear that she was not ready to be a parent. If she had the child, Remus would be solely responsible. It was a terrifying decision to make, especially so young, but from the moment he saw the fuzzy black-and-white image of the little bean on the first ultrasound, his heart was in that little turd's clutches. Bugger.

He raised little Teddy as a single father, with the help of his parents, and somehow managed to scrape through his A levels, and into a university of which he was currently attending. Parenting was a difficult task, to say the least, because it was more than a simple task to check off his list. His day revolved around Teddy, which he did without complaint most days, but to say he didn't struggle with his identity was a stretch. He was trying, recently, to allow himself to remember he was more than just a Da. He felt on edge of a mental collapse almost always, and he felt he was just dipping a toe into some sense of personhood and independence via engaging in his interests again for the first time in a long time, attempting to make friends in his course, and focusing on healing from his own traumatic past. Allowing his parents to lighten the load enough to make it possible was quite difficult.