He got it done the summer before he turned 16, in a smoky shop in East London. The owner blew whiskey breath in his face, grabbed his ass, and promised not to ask questions. Later, when the tattoo was done and the grabbing wasn't, Sirius broke his nose.

That night, Sirius Black ran away from home. It wasn't because of the tattoo, not really. It was bound to happen eventually. His bag had been packed forever. There were a million reasons to go, he was just waiting for one of them to be enough. But, while it wasn't because of the tattoo, and even though his bag had been packed forever, The moment his father pressed a lit cigar into his newly tattooed shoulder blade just happen to be the reason that made him finally pick it up. The words "Filth loving faggot" ran through his head the whole flight to the Potters'.

Filth Loving. It made his blood boil. Faggot didn't bother him anymore. He'd been called faggot by his father since the day he turned 9 and told his father he didn't want to be engaged to Narcissa Malfoy. At this point, it was the most familiar term of endearment the elder Black seemed to express. He could handle faggot. And he could handle bitch, and squib, and muggle-loving-no-good-piece-of-shit-blood-traitor. Hell, being called filth in itself was almost cute.

But filth loving was something else entirely. Especially about Remus. He knew was Remus was, and he wasn't filth. Even if sometimes he thought he was. On nights like this, when Remus looked in the mirror and saw nothing but the monster he could be, he and Sirius stole away to the astronomy tower and stared at the sky, because there are things we have to face head on, and the moon is one of them.

He knew to go to the Potters in the way he knew it was time to leave. It was instinctual, running to James. It had been that way since the moment they met; Sirius determined to outlive his family name, James determined to help him. When Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor, it was James who reached out to him, and James who had been reaching out to him ever since. Every time Sirius had been picked on, bullied, shunned; Every time he was abused, starved, rejected. James, James, James. He was always there to fight Sirius' battles alongside him.

And the Potters were lovely. Moreover, they loved him. Euphemia was an angel, and doted on him constantly. She always seemed to have a sense for when he was coming, and on multiple occasions had met him with a hug and a steaming cup of chamomile tea, even before he'd had a chance to knock. On the record, Sirius only drank vodka and the blood of small children, but Euphie wasn't ever one to buy into his tough guy aesthetic. He had thought to call her out on it once, and then immediately thought against it. Because, patronizing or not, she was the only decent mother figure Sirius had. Besides, he supposed he really didn't hate the tea. Or even the extra cup she left on the balcony, just in case he couldn't sleep and decided to go out to look at the stars-which he pretty much always did.

Fleamont was wonderful, of course, in the way any father figure who doesn't call you faggot or burn you with cigars may seem to someone with experience only in the former category. But more than Sirius' dangerously low expectations, he knew that Mr. Potter was a genuinely good man. He called Sirius "son", but only after expressly asking permission to do so. Every single time he did, something warm seeped through his stomach. THis was especially effective when Mr. Potter was referring to Sirius and James as a joint unit. "These are my sons," he'd tell the nice woman who visited from the ministry. Or once, when they'd been into some trouble involving both goblins and a copious amount of polyjuice potion-which truly should only be used on humans-when he'd looked at they sternly and said, "Now Sirius, James, your mother and I did not raise you to behave this way."

And while Sirius logically knew the Potters hadn't raised him, it was easy to forget most of the time. Because if it wasn't them, who then? Certainly not his own parents. They punished him, sure, but only on the times he dared be a decent fucking person. Beyond that, all the really cared about was marrying him off to some pureblood wench and making him into a sperm donor for their future grandchildren. Passing on the bloodline. Miles above and away from the house where he grew up, Sirius snorted. That had alway been a bunch of bullshit, anyway. His parents weren't exactly the affectionate type, and he couldn't imagine they would be any more loving to potential grandchildren then they were to him. They just cared about preserving the precious line of blood, continuing the grand name of Black.

The grand name of Black. The legacy. A legacy of genocide and prejudice. A legacy of bigotry, of hate, of pretentious parties. A legacy Sirius hated. A wave of nausea threatened to take him off his broom. His legacy. He took a deep breath, trying to force the thought away, leaning forward to speed up. But this wasn't something he could outrun, no matter how far he went. He could (and had) denounce every member of his family; he could remove himself from prejudice. He had. And there were people that accepted him, loved him, for it. People like the Potters, whose hilltop home was just coming into view in the distance. People who loved him for overcoming hate, for seeing the fault in his surroundings.

And that's why he really needed Remus right now. Because while the Potters were lovely and James was his best mate, and while they had always shown him nothing but kindness and love, in spite of where he came from, it was Remus, not them, that really understood what it meant. What it meant to struggle against blood. Because, as elitist as it sounded, Sirius grew up being told that blood was everything, that it made you who you are. And if that was true, Sirius would always be a monster. Only Remus knew what that felt like.

Thusly, even as Sirius approached the Potters' house, where he could now see a woman outlined against the doorway, two cups of tea in hand, he knew he wasn't where he needed to be. Because James helped him fight the outside, but it was Moony, only Moony, who knew how to beat the thing inside.

"Sirius! My God, you look awful! What happened?"

"I couldn't take it anymore, Euphie. I had to get out."

"Oh, Siri. I understand. Don't even start worrying about a thing. You can stay here as long as you like. Now come inside where it's warm, I made us some tea."

"That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Potter. But do you think I could just send a quick letter first? If the owl isn't already out, that is."

She seemed taken aback, but smiled.

"Of course. Take as long as you need."

Sirius needed Remus.