OOM-but-Not, July 22
Jul. 13th, 2013 08:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for_his_friendsThere's no particular reason Remus decides to go outside this evening. Nothing portentous or ominous or significant in the decision. No real reason he can put his finger on at all, beyond that the thought occurs to him and, well, why not?
And it's nice outside. A bit like the Hogwarts grounds, but at the same time, very obviously not the Hogwarts grounds. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once, with the lake and the trees and the . . .
That's . . . .
. . . it's . . .
It's the full moon.
And that's impossible, it's completely impossible, because this is not a thing that sneaks up on him, he always knows, he can feel it, and anyway, it was last week, he has three more weeks until there's another one, and it can't be, it just can't.
But it is and oh fuck he's not ready for this and he's going to kill someone or worse and there's nothing he can . . .
Except . . .
Except nothing's happening.
Remus stares at the backs of his hands, which are shaking rather a lot, but which are still unmistakably his hands. The fingers still end in nails rather than claws, there's still skin where there would be fur. He closes them into fists, counts to ten and then twenty and then two hundred and seventeen. Still hands. He opens them again, turns them so he can see the palms, and breathes in very, very slowly.
Still his hands. Still his mind.
Cautiously, Remus looks back at the moon hanging over the trees.
Definitely full. Definitely a moon.
Remus closes his eyes, rubs his hands across his face. (Still his face. Still his nose. No snout.)
He opens his eyes and looks at the moon again.
Still there.
What the hell is going on?
The moon is full, and he's . . . Remus.
But then, it's not his moon, is it, for all it looks like it. And maybe . . . maybe . . .
Remus sits down on the ground, because he's not sure his knees are exactly properly functional at the moment.
It's been years since he's seen a full moon with his own eyes, so long that he can't remember one. He was too young, and it's not like they knew that he'd better appreciate that last one because he'd never see another. But he stares at this one, now.
He supposes it's pretty, in an abstract, aesthetic sort of way. It looks . . . harmless. Uninvolved. Silvery and insubstantial, like a charm you summon for amusement, not like anything that could itself summon high tides and monsters. He can see why people sing about it and write poems about it and meet their lovers by its light.
He doesn't like it. He doesn't even like the narrow crescents that bracket the new moon, and he certainly doesn't like the moon like this.
But he doesn't stop looking at it, either.
(And that's stupid, that's really stupid, because he doesn't have any real idea of how much of a grace period he's got here, except that he doesn't feel like he does before he changes. He's not sure how he feels, but it's not like that.)
He just sits, cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his (still human) hands, and he stares at the full moon.
And it's nice outside. A bit like the Hogwarts grounds, but at the same time, very obviously not the Hogwarts grounds. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once, with the lake and the trees and the . . .
That's . . . .
. . . it's . . .
It's the full moon.
And that's impossible, it's completely impossible, because this is not a thing that sneaks up on him, he always knows, he can feel it, and anyway, it was last week, he has three more weeks until there's another one, and it can't be, it just can't.
But it is and oh fuck he's not ready for this and he's going to kill someone or worse and there's nothing he can . . .
Except . . .
Except nothing's happening.
Remus stares at the backs of his hands, which are shaking rather a lot, but which are still unmistakably his hands. The fingers still end in nails rather than claws, there's still skin where there would be fur. He closes them into fists, counts to ten and then twenty and then two hundred and seventeen. Still hands. He opens them again, turns them so he can see the palms, and breathes in very, very slowly.
Still his hands. Still his mind.
Cautiously, Remus looks back at the moon hanging over the trees.
Definitely full. Definitely a moon.
Remus closes his eyes, rubs his hands across his face. (Still his face. Still his nose. No snout.)
He opens his eyes and looks at the moon again.
Still there.
What the hell is going on?
The moon is full, and he's . . . Remus.
But then, it's not his moon, is it, for all it looks like it. And maybe . . . maybe . . .
Remus sits down on the ground, because he's not sure his knees are exactly properly functional at the moment.
It's been years since he's seen a full moon with his own eyes, so long that he can't remember one. He was too young, and it's not like they knew that he'd better appreciate that last one because he'd never see another. But he stares at this one, now.
He supposes it's pretty, in an abstract, aesthetic sort of way. It looks . . . harmless. Uninvolved. Silvery and insubstantial, like a charm you summon for amusement, not like anything that could itself summon high tides and monsters. He can see why people sing about it and write poems about it and meet their lovers by its light.
He doesn't like it. He doesn't even like the narrow crescents that bracket the new moon, and he certainly doesn't like the moon like this.
But he doesn't stop looking at it, either.
(And that's stupid, that's really stupid, because he doesn't have any real idea of how much of a grace period he's got here, except that he doesn't feel like he does before he changes. He's not sure how he feels, but it's not like that.)
He just sits, cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his (still human) hands, and he stares at the full moon.
