Breakfast but bitter.

You scrub one of the grey towels through you hair, taking care to avoid rubbing your ears too harshly. You place it down and stare at yourself in the mirror, eyes narrowed as you observe your physical appearance. Back before the addition of animal attributes, werewolves were classified as more like wolves that walked on human-like legs. You look at the wolfish anthro in the mirror He’s not unattractive, hell he might just cut into good-looking, but he seems so... unhappy with how things are at the moment.

“You need to find out a way.” You grumble at him, “Otherwise you’ll lose her if you slip up. This is a house of cards that you’re trying to keep standing from a typhoon.”

He looks back with exhausted acceptance.

You suppose he can’t help it, but then again neither can you.

You toss the towel onto the bathroom counter and sigh as you go to your closet, slipping on your underwear, a black shirt, and a pair of black jeans. You walk over to your desk and open a drawer, drawing out a necklace. Without hesitation you slip it over your head and finger the silver wolf-shaped charm, hand closing over it.

‘A real werewolf would burn if he touched that.’ You muse, a snort of amusement escaping.

It’s a bit weird in the whole why when you compare yourself to old-time werewolves, but something about how they seemed to come out as powerful and masculine was as much bitterness and admiration. When they weren’t portrayed as savage beasts, they seemed so strong, indomitable and in-command in the stories. It was a bit off-putting though, you know if anyone was a pack leader who got the girls though, it wasn’t you. You weren’t assertive or aggressive, but the flip side was you weren’t planning on multiple mates or anything. You were just in love with one girl and wished you could love her without reservations.

You shoulder your bag and roll your neck before you make your way down the stairs. You arrive in the kitchen to see your mother smiling at you while is setting a plate of pancakes and bacon for you on the table where you normally sit. You grab a fork and knife and slide past your mother and kiss her on the cheek with a excited grin.

“Thanks mom,” You compliment, “Looks amazing as always.”

That was one thing you had tried to do — mom was always willing to teach you — but you felt like you would never cook like your mom. Everyone said you made good food, but your mom was on a level that was unattainable to anyone else, you would swear in a court that no one’s food was comparable to your mother’s cooking. You quickly take a seat and set your bag on your side to pour some maple syrup onto your pancakes before you began to scarf it down.

Your mother laughs, “Don’t ****.”

You swallow a mouthful of food, “I won’t!”

She chuckles and takes a seat next to you, sipping on some tea she had brewed fro herself and ran a fond hand through your head. You lean slightly into the touch, sighing in relaxation. Lazy mornings like this are what keep you on an even keel.

“Hey Remus?” She asks.

“Hm?” You hum.

“Have you given any thought to a relationship?”

Your mood plummets, “Mom...”

“I know.” She sighs, “But you have to think of your future.”

“I have.” You reply, tone frosty, “But the one person I ever wanted wasn’t good enough for you and dad.”

Your mother lips purse in annoyance, she still clearly remembered the person you nominated years before, “I know you’re close to Accalia... and I do like her. But you can’t limit yourself when it comes to love because of a fit of sentimentality. There are women who are good matches for you and come from a distinguished background.”

A blaze of anger surged within you, and almost instinctively your hand tightens until the utensil bends, “A fit of sentimentality?”

Your mother leans back, realizing she may have made a mistake in how she worded that. But that was always the way it was, you get probed and then you remind them of the one person you wanted and how they shot her down. Your father was calculating when it came to this, but at least he was straightforward about it. He never saw much point in dancing around something that needed to be said. Your mom was a bit better on that front but you never forgot that in a way you were being lulled into manipulations by her.

You feel your anger boil and you know if you stay you are going to say something hurt her.

You stand up abruptly, “Thanks for the food.”

“Remus...” She begins.

You hate how she sounds like this is just a phase. This almost condescending disappointment.

“Save it.” You snarl, your surge of anger breaking your control like brittle twigs, “I should know someone who never had an actual feeling of affection for her husband and was literally wed off for power wouldn’t get it.”

You hear your mother’s offended gasp and the slightest whine of pain.

It makes a part of you flinch in self-loathing and another part of you smiles vindictively.

And you grab your bag and march out the door, ignoring the choked sound that was definitely a sob.