A/N: WolfStar has been my obsession for a while now, but this is the first fic I've fully written for the pairing, so I hope it hasn't turned out too awfully. Just to warn you, this story contains serious themes: strong mentions of child abuse and mental illness/instability, as well as brief allusions to self-harm, alcoholism, and suicidal ideation. If these things might trigger you then I'd recommend you don't read on – I don't want anyone to feel upset or uncomfortable.

Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me. The plot, however, does :)

Escapism

It is remarkable the way that those who suffer so often go unnoticed. Perhaps it is the suffering itself that makes them invisible; that shrouds them in a black blanket of misery to repel the gaze of those who do not want to see. Or perhaps it is the way that they turn inwards, invert themselves, look themselves away and bury the key so that no-one can see the scarring that disfigures their heart and draws the light from their eyes.

When Remus sees Sirius on that crisp October night, he notices the suffering immediately. It is difficult not to, because it shapes him so entirely, from the hopeless slope of his shoulders to the bow of his head, to the scuffed black converse that kick at the clotted mud beneath the swing. His sable hair hangs over his face, hiding luminescent skin and discoloured bruises that are almost faded unless you know that they are there, and from the end of a concealed cigarette, ghostly white smoke curls away into the still air.

The silence hangs heavy, holding its breath. Remus approaches.

"Sirius." He says. It is a greeting and an acknowledgment, a reassurance that says, I know exactly what has happened, and I am here. He sits on the swing next to him and sets the paper bag down at their feet. The seat is cracked and pooled with water and the chains are rusted stiff. They are cold to the touch, but Remus holds them regardless, because he needs to hold something and he knows that Sirius won't let him touch him, not yet.

"Remus." His voice is hoarse and smoky. He tilts his head back to the sky, his hair tumbling down to his shoulders and revealing a darkening bruise around his left eye. There is a gash on his cheek, but it is shallow, and the blood has already dried. Sirius blows a smoke ring up into the air. "You came."

"Yes," Remus says, because of course he came. There was never an option. "What happened?"

A hollow laugh, another wisp of smoke. "You know what happened, Remus." His face cracks into a crooked grin, and it is so raw and empty that Remus wants to cry. "The same as always happens."

Remus looks away, towards the bare frame of the play area. He had used to play there as a child, scrambling over the brightly painted railings and crowing to his parents to look at me, look at me, look at me! The paint is peeling now.

"What did she use?"

"Just her fists, this time."

"But your cheek –"

"Scratched by her ring." He is so matter-of-fact that Remus' chest hurts. He could never talk about it so easily if it were him, as if it were normal for parents to hurt their children. "My wrist as well. Might be broken." He shrugs as he says it, and if Remus wasn't trying so hard to be strong then he would actually cry, because fuck, Sirius.

"Let me see."

"Don't touch, please." Sirius extends his wrist, and Remus peers closely at it in the blueish light. It is red and swollen and tender, and Sirius is right, it might be broken.

"You need to put ice on that," Remus tells him. It's easier to think about the practicalities of it than to think any deeper.

"No point. It's not like it isn't going to happen again." Sirius leans back in the swing, his eyes closed and his expression set. If Remus didn't know better, he would have thought that his friend looked almost content. The chains creak. "Have you got it?"

Remus reaches down and grabs the brown paper bag. He hands it to Sirius. "Here," he says. "It's only wine. I thought you might like something stronger, but dad must've finished off the vodka last night."

Sirius wrenches the cork out and drinks heartily, desperately, straight from the bottle. When he passes it back, almost half of it is gone. "Thanks, Rem. I needed that."

Remus nods, tries to smile. "I know, I'm always great." He takes a few swigs himself, then passes the bottle back to Sirius, back and forth between the two of them, lightly intoxicating them until the lines of reality seem to blur and merge. If he lets his mind relax, he can almost pretend that everything is alright; that Sirius' bruises come from fist fights, because he's tough and strong and capable, not from the horrendous anger of the woman who is supposed to have nurtured him for the past fifteen years. Thinking like that is painful, so he drinks again, washing the feelings away. He knows, now, why his own father turned to alcohol. It is an extremely effective pain reliever.

After a while he hesitates, sobering a little. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, why would I?" Sirius is far from sober, and it is not just from the alcohol. His eyes, which had previously been hollow and lifeless, are now glittering manically and he seems to be almost dangerously high. He is at the stage where – as Sirius once described it on another night – his blood is buzzing, his bones are tingling, his wounds are just beginning to burn and it gives him life. Sirius sometimes hurts himself to get that life, Remus knows. "It's fine, it's over, I'm free! I'm free, Remus!"

He leans back in the swing and kicks higher and higher, throwing his head back to the sky and cackling with a childlike hysteria. He is elated, but it won't last. He is too fragile, too unbalanced, spiralling up up up out of control, and there is nothing Remus can say that will bring him down. Remus almost wants to grab him and shake him, pull him into his arms and let him cry, but of course Sirius doesn't know how to do that.

"Stop, Sirius," Remus tries weakly, but he's not even sure if his friend hears him. It's frustrating, because he's always known how to get through to Sirius – more than Peter, more even than James – but now his pleas fall on deaf ears because Sirius' mind is a hurricane and he can't hear anything over his own thoughts. "Do you want me to call James?"

"Fuck James!" Sirius cackles. Remus isn't even shocked, because he knows it's not Sirius speaking, not really. He's like a child mimicking his parent's words – anything could come out of his mind now, and it wouldn't be his fault. "Fuck James and his perfect fucking mum and his perfect fucking house and his perfect fucking family!"

Sirius is flying too high now. His hair streaks out behind him and he soars up so high that he is silhouetted against the stars, eyes bright and gleaming and incandescent. The flimsy metal frame is shaking and creaking ominously. Remus has to shout above it to be heard.

"Sirius!" There is an icy venom in his voice and it shocks him because God, Sirius needs love right now, not the projected hopelessness of a friend whose last threads of patience have been slashed by the knowledge that he can do nothing, nothing to stop this. He grabs for his friend, but Sirius' white-clenched fists have already ripped themselves from the chain and he is hurtling forwards to land on the damp grass like a puppet with its strings cut.

There is a silence, long enough for him to worry that he is really hurt, but then there is a peal of breathless laughter and a shaky hand extends from the heap of shattered Sirius.

"Moony, come here," he hears, and although the voice is odd and unnatural, it is less hysterical and more… Sirius. Remus hops off the swing and comes to sit cross legged beside him. Sirius gradually unfurls himself until he is lying on his back, hands beneath his head, and Remus copies him so they are side by side, mirror images of solemnity.

"That's me." Sirius says. He points his hand up into the clear sky, at the cluster of stars stitched into the velvet of the night. "And there's you, Moony. Look at us, both shining. Isn't it incredible?"

"The moon doesn't shine," Remus reminds him. "It just reflects the light from the stars."

Sirius looks at him and smiles, deep and warm and tangible, as if he's seeing him for the first time. "Or maybe it's the other way round."

Remus reaches for his hand. He flinches at first, then Remus feels lean fingers clasp around his and pull his scarred hand to his heart, cradling it. Sirius' hand is cold, but he can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the fog of his breath, the constellations reflected in his eyes that say that despite everything, he is alive. Sometimes, Remus knows, Sirius doesn't want to be alive, and Remus is frightened that one day he will act on it.

But it won't be today. Not while Remus is holding him and watching him and wanting to do so much more with him that would never, never be allowed. But that's okay, for now. Having Sirius here is enough.

"The sun's rising." Remus follows his gaze to where the first raw streaks of daylight bleed over the horizon. Somewhere in his mind, his mother's melodic Welsh accent whispers, Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning. "I'll need to go home soon."

Remus grasps his hand and moves closer. "You need to get out of there, Sirius. Come and live with James, or Peter – or me."

"I will get out." His hot breath condenses on Remus' neck. Remus shivers, and wishes the situation were different. "I will, someday. But not today."

And Remus' heart sinks, because he knows it isn't that easy – if it were, he would have left already. He wishes Sirius could only face the world and say: Look. Look what my mother has done to me – but he can't, because it is dark and shameful and mother always knows best, and no-one will ever understand Sirius' hurricane of a mind before it spirals out of control. No one except Remus.

So they rise slowly, hand in hand, and walk to the gate. They stand there facing one another, and they have so much to say that it can only be transmitted through charged silence, but they understand. And when the birds start to chirp obliviously in the bare-boned trees, Remus leans over and gently kisses Sirius on the corner of the lips, and Sirius lets him.

"Take care," Remus tells him, and Sirius' responding smile is more like grimace, because they both know that this is going to happen again. His eye has darkened to a blotchy black now, like an ink stain, and the gash on his cheek is crusted with dark blood. He moves his wrist tenderly. If Sirius comes to school tomorrow, he will tell everyone he got in a fistfight, and everyone will marvel over how strong and handsome and lucky he is, and Remus won't be allowed to say anything to anyone. But maybe he will, someday.

Remus watches as Sirius slopes away towards the posh estates, the ones with marble steps and stone lions guarding the entrance and ornate brass doorknobs. He had envied the people who lived there, once. He watches the hopeless slump of his spine as he disappears round the corner, resists the urge to sprint after him and catch him and kiss him, and force him to spend the night on the pull-out couch of the Lupins' three-bedroom terrace.

Or he could share Remus' bed. Remus wouldn't mind.

But there is nothing he can do, so he stands there a few moments longer, then turns and walks back in the opposite direction towards home. He lets himself in softly and crawls into bed as if nothing has happened. His parents are still asleep, oblivious. When they ask him how he slept over breakfast, he says nothing.

Maybe he will tell them, someday.

But not today.

Thank you for reading! Please fav, follow or leave a comment if you enjoyed this story – it would make my day!

I'd like to point out that if you or anyone you know is in Sirius' situation, then please tell somebody. Speak out. You don't need to suffer in silence.

On that cheerful note, I hope you all have a wonderful day/afternoon/evening, wherever you are :)