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It must be getting early, clocks are running late
Paint-by-number morning sky looks so phony
Dawn is breaking everywhere, light a candle, curse the glare
Draw the curtains, I don't care 'cause it's alright
I will get by
I will get by
I will get by
I will survive
"Touch of Grey", Grateful Dead
The bedside table is a veritable apothecary of tiny potion bottles, jars of salves, and tins of ointments. At the back sits Remus' dented metal water bottle, charmed to refill itself. An abandoned mug with the dried dregs of tea leaves inside sits nearby.
The bed is low to the ground and made up with sheets that have grown soft and thin from repeated cleaning spells to charm away tears and sweat and occasionally blood. It's not the bed they normally sleep in, but rather the spare bedroom of the cottage Remus has shared with Sirius for the past ten years.
“I don't want to convalesce in the bed we fuck in,” he'd said to Sirius when they'd decided to buy the little house. He's taken to calling the spare bedroom the “sick room” and they keep the room closed off when it isn't in use, trying to shut out the proverbial albatross around Remus' neck.
Outside, the March weather is grey and rainy, but the “sick room” is stifling warm from being closed up and the darkening charms keep the curtains sealed tightly against the little daylight there is. Remus leans heavily against the doorjamb, surveying the room, cane in one hand and a fresh mug of mint tea in the other. He sighs, steeling himself for the slow hobble to the bed.
Today he is 49, and forty five years of broken bones and strained muscles are catching up with him. Sirius has gone to the shops under the guise of needing more potions, but Remus knows it is a ruse to buy a chocolate cake like the one they saw on display at the bakery last week. He didn't have the heart to tell Sirius that he wouldn't be able to stomach cake for at least another two days.
In their younger years, the day before the moon was marked by irritability and aches, but Remus had always been able to solider through at least the morning and early afternoon. Now the decline is sharp and fast, and he spends the 24 hours before moonrise in bed, plagued by joint pain and headaches and fever. He'd slept relatively well last night in their bed, but he'd woken that morning to a note from Sirius and the start of a migraine that had him feeling particularly nauseous.
And so, it was time for the sick room and the countdown to the moon. With gritted teeth, he finishes the trek to the bed, careful to keep as much weight as possible off his left foot. It was an old, frequent target of the wolf's rage before he'd started to use Wolfsbane and later it became prone to dislocating during transformations. The resulting trauma to the joint has left it arthritic and given to swelling before the moon.
He sets the tea down on the crowded nightstand and curls into the bed, closing his eyes against the waves of nausea that threaten to upend his measly slice of dry toast that he'd forced down during his brief break from sleeping.
The next thing he knows, he is being woken by a soft voice and the feeling of a hand on his cheek.
“Happy birthday, baby,” Sirius whispers as he presses his lips to Remus' temple. “I'm sorry, you've got to wake up and take your potion.”
Remus tries to open his eyes but they flutter closed again on their own. He grimaces as he takes stock of his aching body.
“Remus,” Sirius urges, tipping the cup of foul-tasting potion to his lips. Remus gags and turns his head away.
“Hold on,” he croaks, struggling to extract himself from the sweat-soaked sheets. Pushing himself up with a shaky arm, he raises his head and manages to open his swollen eyes.
“I've got it,” he says, reaching for the cup of potion. His trembling hand holds the cup while he steels himself against the nausea and he swiftly drinks it down. Sirius snatches the cup back just before Remus nearly drops it as he crumples back into the pillows, breathing heavily.
Even with his eyes closed, he can feel Sirius' question forming.
“I'm okay, Pads,” he says softly. “I just need to rest.”
Sirius watches silently as Remus lies there, breathing slowly in and out from his nose, clearly fighting off the urge to vomit. He flicks his wand, refreshing the cooling spells on the sheets and pillow. Remus feels the dampness of his own sweat dry and the sheets feel tolerable again against his aching, fevered skin. He makes a small sound of thanks, extending his fingers from under the quilt to touch Sirius'. They hook together, holding a quiet vigil for a moment before Sirius gives a light squeeze and drops Remus' hand. He presses another kiss to Remus' temple.
“I'll just be in the library. Get some sleep.”
When he wakes again, it is late afternoon. His entire body pulses with an aching sensation, like his skin doesn't quite fit. The throbbing in his head still pounds dully behind his eyes, punctuated by the sharp stab of his swollen ankle. The last thing he wants to do it be upright but he needs a piss and his pride is not far gone enough to give in to spell work meant for invalids.
He reaches for the cane leaning by the nightstand and swings his legs out of bed, standing shakily. The room tilts and blurs through his sleep-puffed eyes as he makes his way awkwardly to the door and down the hallway to the loo.
Sirius appears at the other end of the hall, summoned by the sound of Remus' uneven gait and the cane's distinctive click against the old wooden floor.
“I'm fine,” Remus grumbles, reaching the bathroom door and retreating inside. He clutches the edge of the cast iron tub, steadying himself as he tries to catch his breath.
“I'm pretty old for a werewolf,” Remus had said after the previous full moon as he soaked in the bathtub and Sirius washed his hair.
“Old only for a werewolf who doesn't have medical care or a stable place to live,” Sirius had corrected. “That's not you.”
“For any werewolf,” Remus had replied. “We've got to be realistic about this at some point.”
Sirius took one of Remus' slender hands in his own and pressed the swollen, arthritic knuckles to his lips.
“No, you are just creaky and achy, not dying,” he'd whispered as he kissed Remus' hand. “Shut up. We're both getting older. Even I've got greys now.”
Remus hadn't replied, instead closing his eyes and sinking deeper into the hot water.
It's getting harder every month. Remus can see the fear in Sirius eyes every time he notices how much harder.
He pisses, washes his hands, presses a washrag to his swollen eyes for a brief moment, and then slowly hobbles back to the sick room.
Sirius is standing at the side of the bed. He's opened the window a bit, letting some fresh air in.
“Hey,” he says quietly as Remus collapses back into the mattress and tucks himself under the sheets. “How's the headache?”
“Better,” Remus lies, closing his eyes.
The bed creaks with Sirius' weight sitting down opposite.
“What can I do?” Sirius asks, curling up beside him and reaching up to run his fingers through Remus' hair. “Do you want some food? You should eat...”
“Please, Pads,” Remus mutters into the pillow. “I'm fine. Just let me rest.
“You've been asleep most of the day,” Sirius counters. “I got some chocolate cake at the shops for your birthday....we could have some now? Or there's some leftover pasta...or I can heat up some broth? Eat something, please.”
“Can you just stop?” Remus says sharply, his hoarse voice growing louder with irritation. The fingers in his hair, though meant to be soothing, feel sharp and scratchy against his over-sensitive skin. “I said I'm fine.”
Sirius bites his lip and rolls away, facing the far wall of the spare room, staring at the old overstuffed armchair that sits opposite the bed where he's so often kept vigil over Remus. The long winter nights coupled with the increasingly difficult moons means he's spent more time in this room this year.
There's a soft sniffling sound and Remus sighs, rolling over to nudge Sirius.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I don't mean to take it out on you.”
“I hate this,” Sirius whispers, rolling over to face Remus and tucking the man against his chest, resting his chin atop Remus' head.
“I know,” Remus says against his shirt. “I'm sorry. I don't want you to worry.”
“Hah,” Sirius laughs sardonically. “Sure.”
They settle into silence, Sirius stroking Remus' back, waiting out the hour until moonrise.
After a while, Remus can't stand the touch anymore. He rolls out of Sirius' grip, stretching out his limbs as his nerve endings fire off conflicting signals. The muscle spams are part of the final decline towards moon rise, making him twitch and jerk uncomfortably.
“It's nearly time,” he says through gritted teeth, reaching out to steady his leg as the rogue limb shudders.
“Okay,” Sirius says, sitting up and watching Remus with a mournful expression.
“Did you do the wards?” Remus asks as he writhes uncomfortably on the bed. “The Floo?”
Despite ten years of success with the Wolfsbane potion, he is overly cautious. Before, when he could be up and about for the morning before the moon, he would diligently check every possible entrance to the cottage. Now it is Sirius' responsibility.
“I will,” Sirius says. “Just a second.”
Remus watches as he goes to the hall closet to retrieve a blanket that he spreads on the bedroom floor. Then he disappears to check the wards and disconnect the cottage from the Floo network.
When he returns, he shuts the bedroom window and draws the curtains, performing the same security spell on the window's latch.
“Ready?” he asks, turning to Remus.
Remus nods and allows Sirius to hook him under the arms, mostly lifting him out of the bed as they make the awkward transition down to the blanket on the floor. There was a lengthy period of time when he'd insisted on transforming in the cellar just in case the Wolfsbane failed, but he'd finally agreed to transform in the spare room. However, the line was drawn at transforming on the bed; he preferred to keep the wolf's clumsy claws away from the mattress when possible.
“There we go,” Sirius says soothingly, settling Remus down on the blanket. He reaches for the water bottle from the bedside table and tips it to Remus' lips. “Drink a bit of water for me?”
Remus takes a few sips before curling up on the blanket, his limbs tangling in a twitching, jittery heap.
“It's time,” he says with a shuddering breath.
Sirius glances at his watch.
“You've got a while longer,” he says.
“Pads....go....” Remus says urgently, sweat pouring down his face in rivulets now. Sirius takes the corner of the blanket and wipes it off before performing the spell to remove Remus' pyjamas, folding and depositing them on the bed. He gives Remus' arm one last tender touch, then goes to the opposite corner and silently transforms to Padfoot.
Remus had allowed his friends to witness the actual transformation only a handful of times. Mostly, Sirius faced the wall until the transformation was complete and then he'd join the wolf. The process was ugly and brutal and very vulnerable. As a child, he'd screamed through it. Now, he is mostly quiet. It starts with an intense burning in his joints that grows to an unbearable peak and stays there until the shock sets in and adrenaline overrides the pain.
He whines softly, tears springing to the corner of his eyes as it starts. He grips at the blanket, body spasming as the change takes over. Sirius will never tell him, but the sound of his bones cracking is the single most horrible thing Sirius has ever heard and he heard it innumerable times at night in Azkaban as the Dementors glided past.
The whimpers soften to a mournful howl and Padfoot lifts his head, turning to greet the wolf.
Remus spends most of the night laying on the blanket, trying to sleep. Padfoot is pressed to his side, his big black muzzle resting on Remus' back.
When the moon finally retreats from the sky and the first rays of winter sun begin to rise, Sirius faces the wall and Remus endures the change back. Suddenly, Sirius is there holding his head and tipping water to his parched lips and he drinks eagerly, always dehydrated after the intense ordeal. And then he's gone to blackness, slipping in and out of consciousness.
The next thing he knows, he is in bed. His body is supported by a dozen pillows, all tucked carefully under his joints as if he's reclined in a giant armchair. His mind is fuzzy and sleep-addled as he slowly takes stock of himself, becoming aware of the cool compression around his left ankle and knee. Sirius has bound them with some kind of bandages and they are surrounded by ice. He opens his eyes, blinking in the dimly-lit room. Sirius is slumped in the chair across from him, asleep.
“Pads,” he rasps. His voice is barely a whisper and he licks his lips before trying again. “Pads?”
Sirius jerks and wakes, his eyes widening as he takes in Remus.
“Oh thank Merlin you're awake,” he says, leaping to his feet. “A few more hours and I was going to call Poppy out of retirement.”
He gets Remus' water and helps him drink his fill before starting to dose out a half dozen vials of potion.
“It's mid-morning on the 12th,” he informs Remus as he hands over the medication. “I was worried you'd hit your head or something, but all my diagnostic spells didn't reveal anything abnormal.”
Remus swallows the proffered potions, feeling the aches in his limbs abate slightly with each one. He flexes his fingers, testing the joints for tenderness and is relieved to find the pain is tolerable.
“How do you feel?” Sirius asks.
“Okay, actually,” he says. “Did I wreck my leg again?”
“It was just really swollen. I don't think you did anymore damage.”
As he hands back the last of the empty potion vials, Remus grips Sirius' hand in his and pulls it towards his mouth, kissing Sirius' knuckles.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I know this sucks. I don't think I could do it alone. In fact, I'd probably still be passed out on the floor.”
Sirius cracks a small smile and reaches up to stroke Remus' cheek.
“Most definitely. Now, are you hungry? I have been trying to avoid the temptation to break in to that chocolate cake of yours...”
For the first time in several days, Remus takes stock of his stomach and feels a pang of hunger instead of nausea.
“Sure. I could go for a little slice.”