Self-control.
Remus has heard that term so many times.
The first time he heard it, he was five. Sitting in the cellar, knees against his chest, the cold seeping into his pale skin, wide green eyes trying to focus on the tear-blurred image of his father. His father's face was contorted with sorrow — grief and pity. It's advice; advice to control the wolf.
He hears it every full moon after that. He doesn't understand why; the advice never works. He can't control the snarling beast; he can only ignore it. Ignorance isn't bliss though, and every night as he lays in his bed, staring at the ceiling, he can hear it prowling and growling at the back of his head. Let me out, it taunts, and he shuts his eyes real tight and tries to listen to their advice. It doesn't work; it never works.
He repeats the advice over and over though — in the shower, in his bed, down in the cellar, in the garden, at the shop, at the park. It hangs in the back of his head as he reads, it rings as he helps his mother in the kitchen. It permeates his every action.
It becomes him: the thought, the notion. It is his everything. He worships it like the most devout of religious followers. And it shows.
It shows in what he eats; he is adamant about knowing everything that he puts into his body. He is nine and he has a diary in which he records every meal, every ingredient, every fat, every bit of cholesterol, every gram of sodium, every carbohydrate, every protein. Every calorie. He records his every word and action. He records the moment the he goes to bed and the moment he wakes up. He counts his steps. God, he counts his steps.
His parents knows there's something off. They're worried. Their glances and bitten lips and hushed word; he knows. But they can't do anything. They try, of course; they encourage healthier behavior at first, taking him to new restaurants or cooking new meals, and then when that fails, his mom tries to understand. She asks to see his records, asks him about them. It irritates him. He takes to carrying chocolate around with him because, when they see it, they think he's being normal. In all honesty, he hates chocolate and is always eager to give it away to clamoring children.
They keep repeating the advice as well, their good effort that he's turned into poison. It's the last words they have to him before he boards the Hogwarts Express in 1971 because they don't understand what he's made of it.
He clings to the advice even when he steps up to the Sorting Hat on September 1st, 1971. He sits on the stool and lets the brim of the hat fall over his eyes. Gryffindor, he thinks.
"Now wait a moment," the hat whispers in his ear, "there's a lot more to you than you think." Gryffindor. "Your smart and your kind," it continues. Gryffindor. "And you're clever and cunning. Oh, how you're clever and cunning." Gryffindor. "You'd do a lot better in Slytherin though. They'd understand your needs and they'd understand that you'll do anything to meet them." Gryffindor. "Salazar's house will do you well." Gryffindor. "But if you're sure..." Gryffindor — "GRYFFINDOR!"
He removes the hat and. With a calmness not known in his new home, he strides over to his clapping table, and sits beside a black-haired boy he spoke to earlier on the train.
Hogwarts is a struggle for him. His secret looms over his every action and his control is tested at every turn. It's hard to count the calories of the food he eats, leaving him estimating when he jots down the information behind his closed bed-curtains. He has responsibilities now, homework and socialization. Holing himself up and burying his nose in books doesn't get him far. Counting his steps and his calories is an obstacle. Still, he manages. He is the master of manipulating his life, after all.
He knows his behavior is noticed by his friends. He doesn't care. They're kind but they come from privileged backgrounds and none of them know struggle. When they were five, they worried about taking naps and playing hopscotch. They've never had to worry about parts of them; they've never had to worry about losing it — whatever it is. By this point, he doesn't even know.
He assumes they talk about it behind his back. Their attempts at subtle intervention are not at all subtle. Their worried looks are blatant. He pretends not to know. He's very good by this point, at knowing what he wants to know and not knowing what he doesn't want to know. He doesn't care that they talk about it; there's a lot to care about, self-control and the Wolf chief amongst the many, but what words his friends spew aren't them.
He's a little miffed though when Regulus bloody Black, brother to Sirius and whom Sirius estranges himself from on a daily basis and whom Sirius should most certainly not be sharing his issues with, approaches him.
Regulus is an awkward boy. Thirteen, with moles and freckles and glasses thicker than James'. He wears an outer robe over a sweater vest over a sweater over a buttoned-up shirt and primly tied tie — lots of layers in other words. His black hair tickles his ears and his fringe falls across his glasses. His lips are bitten, chewed, and scabbed. And he's pale; dear lord, he's as pale as a ghost.
They're in the library. He tries to sit quietly in the chair across from Remus but it squeals under his wait and his flinches. He sets his books on the table in a neat stack and sits with a deep slouch. Remus isn't sure what to make of this boy, and his bloodline, behavior, and intentions.
"You do it too?" he finally asks. It's clear that he's forcing his voice into a lower register, and the hoarse crack at the end tells Remus that puberty isn't being kind to the boy before him. The smattering of bright red pimples across his face tell him that too.
"What do I do too?" He has a feeling he knows; the way the books are stacked, perfectly aligned, the way his glasses are smudge-free and scratch-free, the way his clothes fit not too small and not too big — it is something he is used to, something he does all the time. All the time.
"Control yourself," he whispers, like it's a swear, like the words are contraband. And perhaps they are, or perhaps they should be, because just like the cheapest crack it ruins lives. "Y'know, manipulate yourself." And the way his eyes darts and he wrings his hands; he's like a junkie looking for a fix. They're junkies for power, power over themselves.
"Yeah."
It's probably not a good thing that they meet. No; there is no probably about it — it's not a good thing that they meet, that they connect. They're like nymphomaniacs and sex-dolls, drug addicts and heroin; they're their worst nightmare and best pleasure. They're already on a path of ruin, and meeting one another is like meeting a bomb-maker. They explode.
Remus begins to count the words he reads each day and continues as normal. (Except his head is full and he's often elsewhere and there at the same time.)
Regulus picks up smoking and continues as normal. (Except his lungs, weak from the Black family inbreeding, can't handle it and he's coughing like a taxi in New York honks — often and loud and irritatingly.)
Remus halves his calorie intake and continues as normal. (Except he's weak and woozy and dizzy.)
Regulus doubles his smoke breaks and continues as normal. (Except for the smoke cloud that follows him everywhere and the way his coughing sounds like he's hacking up one of his weak lungs.)
Remus refuses pain-relieving potions after the moon and continues as normal. (Except for the blood that seeps through his white shirt in the middle of Transfiguration.)
Regulus burns himself with his cigarettes and continues as normal. (Except for the dark circles on his skin and the way he jumps when someone even barely touches his forearms.)
Remus eats every other day and continues as normal. (Except for that time when he fainted in potions... and that time during the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match, and that time during Transfiguration, and that time during a Hogsmeade trip, and that time, and that time, and that time...)
Regulus disobeys right in front of his family and continues as normal. (Except now he knows what Crucio is like.)
Remus does this and Regulus does that and Remus does this and Regulus does that. It's a vicious cycle of one-upping decimation. They implode and they explode and by the end of the day, they're so high on the way they wreck themselves that they don't even realize that they're motto isn't self-control anymore, that it's self-destruction.
Hope sees this in her little boy and cries. Lyall sees this in his son and breaks a plate. Peter sees this in his friend and withdraws behind his bed-curtains. James sees this in his fellow Marauder and shoves food down his throat and confines him to bed-rest after moons.
Walburga sees this in her son and yells at him. Orion sees this in his boy and pops open a bottle of Firewhiskey. Bellatrix sees this in her cousin and sneers at his weakness. Narcissa sees this in her dearest friend and gently asks him if he's alright.
And Sirius. Oh Sirius. He sees it in both of them and he doesn't know what to do. He tears out his hair trying to figure it out, trying to save two of the dearest people in his life. Yet he can't. They waltz to their doom and he can't do anything but watch and yell and be ignored and brushed aside. He stands in the Room of Requirement and screams his rage and he punches Severus Snape so hard the greasy git sees stars because there isn't a bloody thing he can do.
It continues. It goes on and on and on. There is screaming and breaking and burning. There are highs and there are lows. Hells and Heavens and more Hells and terror and pain and misery and sorrow and fuck all, the world is crashing down.
And they kiss. It's brutal and bruising and when Remus pulls away, Regulus' lips are bleeding and there are blooming bruises on his cheeks where Remus' fingers were.
And Regulus visits the Shrieking Shack on the full moon. He confronts the beast, taunts it like it's a fluffy poodle, and barely misses those glimmering fangs and barely escapes being torn to shreds.
And they fuck. It's as brutal as their kiss; no preparation, tearing and blood and chafing and they get off on the pain not the passion. Regulus can't sit without wincing for a week and he wears the violent black hickey on his neck like a scar won in battle. Remus can't get the smell of blood off his body and can't get the way it feels to crush off his fingertips.
And Regulus takes the Dark Mark. Remus sees the brand and salivates — not because of some dark magic fetish like Snivellusbut because of the Hell it means, a Hell he envies.
And they fight. Broken bones and molting bruises and scratches and cuts and bite marks and when they're done they get off on the fire it sets through their veins. The sex is just as violent, and sometimes it stands on the line of fucking and fighting, but they walk with satisfaction back to their own flats. (Because they've been going along that long.)
And Remus cries.
Why? Because they've danced with the edge for so bloody long but there was never ever a care for what happened if they fell.
Sirius is there to break the news. There's a skull where Regulus' face should be on the tree, and there's two dates beneath that spot. 03.08.1960-14.05.1978. Sirius is also there to lend a should for Remus to sob onto, and there to sneak him into the funeral and after party where they look at the family tapestry and Remus sees the spot where Sirius' face is and where Regulus' face isn't, where Walburga burned his face off as a final parting gift to her disgraceful and dead son. Sirius is there to join him when Remus' laughs over the irony of it. (The Slytherin and Death Eater is burned off the Black family tree but the Gryffindor and Blood Traitor isn't.) Sirius is also there to hold him when those laughs turn to sobs. And Sirius is there when Remus admits — with a blotchy face, swollen eyes, and a red now — that he can't control himself.