Time up and time out for all the liberties you've taken
Time up and time out for all the friends that you've forsaken
And if you choose to waste away like death is back in fashion
You're an accident waiting to happen
My sins are so unoriginal.
I have all the self loathing of a wolf in sheep's clothing
In this carnival of carnivores, heaven help me.
Goodbye and good luck to all the promises you've broken
Goodbye and good luck to all the rubbish that you've spoken
Your life has lost its dignity, its beauty and its passion
You're an accident waiting to happen
Things were different, of course, after Remus and Grant agreed to remain monogamous. They were still best friends, they still made each other laugh and irritated each other beyond belief, but a fresh new closeness had developed too. Remus drank less for a while - he didn’t stop altogether, and some days were very hard, some days he didn’t wash, or get out of bed, or eat. But not every day; and that was progress.
Castor didn’t take it well. In fact, he was furious. Remus even tried to explain HIV to him, but it was no good. Castor had grown so far away from humanity, he was even starting to look wolfish. His hair was thicker, blacker somehow, and extended down past the nape of his neck, creeping along his spine. His teeth were lengthening, his eyes sharper, the irises turning yellow.
“You are turning your back on your family, Remus Lupin.” He snarled. “Even your magic grows weaker.”
“I’m not turning my back on anything.” Remus insisted, “I’m trying to have a real life.”
Of course Castor didn’t understand; Remus kept Castor and Grant so separate that they didn’t even know each others’ names. Maybe he’d always known he’d have to pick one of them in the end. And Castor had never felt right.
In the end, Remus was banished from the pack. He was warned that if he ever returned, he would be treated as a threat. This was extreme, but he supposed that’s just what you got for breaking a werewolf’s heart.
Now Remus had to spend the full moons in Britain. He returned to some of his old haunts; the Lake District, the Brecon Beacons. He tried not to go anywhere there were too many memories of Prongs and Wormtail. Or the other one. To make matters worse, without the pack to help him heal every month, Remus had to apparate back to London and tend to his wounds as best he could.
“Christ!” Grant exclaimed, the first time it was really bad. He walked in on Remus in the bathroom, disinfecting his cuts, his wand shaking as he tried to grip it with broken fingers.
“Sorry,” Remus murmured, bracing himself against the sink as a dizzy spell threatened to overwhelm him. He hadn’t felt so dreadful after a transformation since… since… his vision clouded, and he sat down on the closed toilet lid, head between his knees so he didn’t faint.
“Christ!” Grant said again, coming in and kneeling in front of him. He took the bloody cotton ball Remus had been using, and tossed it in the bin. He grabbed the tub from the side of the sink, plus the bottle of TCP. “Come here, you,” he said softly, taking Remus’s hand very gently in his, and dabbing it lightly with the disinfectant.
Remus sat there dumbly, letting himself be looked after, too tired to do much else.
“For god’s sake,” Grant shook his head, visibly upset, “We can’t have you in this state every month, can we my darling?”
