pull the shades
(razor blades)
you're so tragic
hate you so
love you more
(i'm so elastic)
things you say
games y o u play

( dirty magic )

It's pitch-dark out, and raining to boot, when he hits the door at a run. This is insane, this is crazy, this is stupid, this is life. C'est la vie, right? Here we go, and don't look back. That's what they say. Lightning crashes, and thunder's loud and scary as all freakin' hell (he's always been so afraid of thunder, even though it can't hurt you, but it's scary, so loud and feral, atavistic and raw and he wants nothing to do with thunder, but then, he wants nothing to do with them either, and he's been dealing with that. Thunder he can handle. Them, he can't. Not anymore, at least.)

Mud splashes high on his leg, splattering him with it, and he doesn't stop running, dragging all his worldly belongings - a too-light trunk, really - behind him, which only makes the mud pooling on his clothes worse. But he doesn't care, he doesn't care because he's going, going, gone, and there's not a damn thing they're gonna say to him, no, not anymore, he won't take it. He won't listen to them dictate his life.

This is suicide, he thinks suddenly, and ignores it.

He's good at ignoring his better judgment. He tells his friends that that's just the way he is, but it's not. He just acts on impulse because he can, because he relishes in the pissing his family off because they deserve it, god-dammit! They deserve to have a thorn in their sides.

Lightning, again. He shrinks all of a sudden, and realizes he's lost. Lightning. Thunder. Lightning. The asphalt reeks of wet, and he can hardly see the lamps on the streets for the rain. He decides to keep running, because what more damage could he possibly do? And if this lands him somewhere in the back-streets of Moscow, oh well, right? He's away from his family.

So he runs. And at the same time, hides. He knows it, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he ignores it, along with his screaming survival instinct and thunder-phobia (he's sure it has a real name, and he thinks Andromeda told him once, but can't be bothered to dredge it up, because who gives a flying fuck what it's called? It's there, right? That's all that matters.) And he's scared, terrified, really, panicking inside while running himself sick, heading who-knows-where with god-damn lightning everywhere and he can't understand why some people think it's beautiful.

It's hideous, hideous, and wrong, and terrifying and loud.

No, not loud. Thunder's loud. Thunder cracks like a hammer-on-an-anvil, you know, remember from that History tutor from childhood, Thor's Hammer, right? Thor's Hammer, that's thunder, only he doesn't really think they called thunder the hammer, and it had a name but…

He can't think. He's angry, and he's hurt, and he's scared and wet and fuck, he's crying like a little baby. Yeah, Sirius the baby, couldn't even run away from home without crawling back to mama like the -

Lightning.

Lightning, dammit, why did he have to pick the night of a fucking hurricane to run away? He's sure he's gone crazy somewhere between Grimmauld Place and wherever the hell he is now, sure he's lost it, gone off the deep end, hit the ground and there goes Sirius, went crazy and ran out into a tornado, and no one ever found the body.

What do they care? He's not part of that family anymore, no, he's not. Not part of the Blacks, but he still bears the name, yeah, still a Black, even though he's not on the tapestry. He'll always be Black, won't he? He'd rather be a Potter. Or even a Lupin. Hell, even a fuckin' Pettigrew, anything but Black. He hates the name, hates the connotation - pure-blood, stuck-up ass - wants to be rid of it like he's rid of his family.

But he can't find his way, he's trapped by rain, by wind, by where the hell am I? screaming in his head. And like the hand of God - or the hand of Satan, more like - he hears his mother's voice in the back of his mind, talking about the stupid Knight Bus and even common mudbloods can ride the thing, I can't understand why anyone would ever -

He throws out his right arm in desperation and there's another lightning flash, then a different flash of light, and there's the Knight Bus, and all of a sudden, he thinks he might rather face the storm.

But he walks inside, pays the weirdo at the door, refuses to give his name, and throws out the first address that comes to mind - barring Number 12, Grimmauld Place, of course, because he's never, ever going back there, even if it kills him - and collapses on a bed before he realizes that he doesn't even know where he's going.

He knows it's a friend's address, but he's too scattered right now, too shaken, and too hysterical (and, god damn it all, he's still crying) to think of who. Probably James. Yeah, that's most likely. Or maybe Remus. But Remus won't take him in, Remus is too much of a fucking goody-goody. Remus will give him a place for the night, then take him home in the morning.

James, yeah. He gave them Prongs's address. Prongs, he'll let him camp out on his couch, because he's seen Sirius's family firsthand, he knows how much it sucks. He'll be… okay, right? Okay.

He tries, really, really tries to stop crying before they get there, but…

When James opens the door, he looks surprised, worried, and a little bit scared. The look on his face tells it all, he knows, and his best friend (more a brother than his real one) grabs him by the arm, throws a towel at his face and tells him he'll get a blanket and a pillow and is the guest room okay? James's parents have that same concerned looks on their faces, but he ignores them, crashes toward the bathroom and collapses on the floor, crying with anger and shame. Someone knocks, but lets him be.

He's got a horrible, deep, sinking feeling that he's just like the rest of his family. They're all a bit insane, and fuck, he feels insane right now, absolutely bloody wild, like he's let some caged beast out, and it scares him. He doesn't like being a Black, doesn't like the vein of crazy that marks his bloodline and haunted his steps all the way here.

He grabs the faucet violently and splashes ice-cold water on his face (not that it'll do any good, considering he's already wet, but that's just he crazy talking, right?) and takes a huge, deep breath, all the way from his diaphragm to his whatever else you breathe with. And he starts to calm down.

His reflection stares at him, muddy, tear-streaked, and now diluted by the icy water. His hair is filthy, unwashed and everywhere, his clothes are torn and dirty, and there's mud splashed all over him. And, for the first time since the argument that started this god only knows how long ago, he laughs.

Laughs long and loud at his ridiculous reflection. And when he's done showering, scrubbing the grime off his skin with redemptive steam, he goes out and pretends that his family hasn't affected him at all.

He always was a good liar.