When he'd first noticed the scar, Remus had literally felt ashamed. It was the first time that rush of emotion, that burn, that sting of horrid tears welling in his eyes had made his stomach drop like that.
It was the morning after his first transformation since his mother had passed.
October 14th, 1975, ten in the morning. She'd have been eating her breakfast. . . .she'd have been sitting, a tired smile brightening the sunken face, across from his father, who was silent. They had always been quiet people. They said their good mornings, their I love yous, their goodnights, and that was enough to satisfy both of them. The silence had bothered Remus, but there wasn't much to talk about.
Right now, she might have been writing him a letter. She'd remind him to be cordial, to be careful. She'd remind him that she and "Daddy" loved him and that they'd sacrificed a lot for him. To tell the truth, he ignored her when she said that. John Lupin had sacrificed nothing but his reputation, and for that he owed his father no gratitude.
She might have been crying, the quiet tears rolling down her cheeks without needing reason; no one had ever to asked why she cried. When Remus saw the scar, sickly brown, hiding slightly beneath the shadows of his grey face, he felt humiliated. He hadn't done this to himself as a werewolf. He'd been human, and his intentions were fully understood.
October 22nd, 1975. When the dark haired boy had seen his friend's tears, noticed the scar for what it truly was, he'd lost all former cockiness, shed whatever obnoxious skin he'd worn. Remus had stripped him bare, turned him inside out, and now he was naked and kissing those tears away; the taste of salt lingered on his tongue."Perfect," he exhaled, thumb tracing over the mark, a mark of just that: imperfection. "These are what make you perfect. Maybe she knew that all along."
"Sirius. . . ." The name sounded like a prayer. "You're the only thing that makes me perfect."
October 23rd, 1975, early morning. He should have been at home, wondering where the time had gone and where she was right now; instead, he was wonderfully, hopelessly lost, wrapped in his arms. Their philosophy was perfect.