A/N: So here is something rather longer than usual. And it's pretty much all predictable but ... well anyway.

Warnings: Not very varied or interesting: just slash. And, um, the tiniest bit of Remus/Tonks (yes i think that warrants a warning). But stick with me, it is very brief and only implied. And if you're a Remus/Tonks fan you probably won't appreciate the implications.

Spoilers: Okay, i know, who hasn't finished Deathly Hallows but i always wanted to do a spoiler warning and damnit i'm going to do one. Hem hem. Spoilers for Deathly Hallows.

Because there is always someone to depend on to help fight the demons.

Fractured Souls and Broken Light

i want to hold you high and steal your pain away

Dawn is but a distant promise on the horizon, a blush of orange creeping up from the curve of the land, diluted light splintering through the bare lower trunks of the trees ringing the outskirts of the Forest. The moon set but a little while ago yet already She is waning, already She is falling away to become new, and already wolf is boy again.

The heavy dust coating the stairs mutes Sirius' footfalls and his hands tremble; the raw scent of blood permeates through the distorted floorboards. He finds the boy a quivering bundle of weeping gashes and naked limbs, curled on the floor in an attempted pose of protection from the demons he can't fight, and only a muttered Christ, Remus flutters through the air before Sirius is helping the wolf-boy to his feet. Remus murmurs and whimpers, quiet broken sounds that cause something to jolt against Sirius' ribcage, as he stumbles to the bed, leaning heavily against Sirius.

The grimy coverlet is pulled up to his throat and after a moment of hesitation Sirius slides in beside him; Remus moves blindly, instinctively seeking warmth and his fists curl in Sirius' shirtfront. Sirius curves his arms around Remus and together they wait out the fit of shaking, waiting for the boy who has been ripped at the seams to be haphazardly stitched back together again. Remus sighs against Sirius' neck and everything seems to fall into place: it isn't too daunting to cast upon the truth that they are two thirteen year old boys facing the world; it's a vague thought that James and Peter will worry when they wake in the dormitory to find Sirius' bed empty; it doesn't matter that boys don't do this with each other, that there shouldn't be a nervous twinge in the pit of Sirius' stomach, that Remus shouldn't feel this comfortable lying tangled and too close to his friend.

In that moment it seems possible that Sirius can take Remus' pain and turn the sharp edges to gentle curves, turn the harsh cold to swelling warmth, turn the desperate longing for so much into something real. They lie curled into each other as outside the dawn breaks in a spill of bright light.

Last night the wolf ran with a dog. When Remus manages to get a grip back on consciousness there is dirt under his fingernails and fewer purple stains on his skin and Sirius is beside him as he has been every morning after the full moon for three years; his hand is carefully stroking through Remus' hair and his straight teeth flash in a wide grin. Remus wants to say Thank you but he isn't sure the words will come out right so he says nothing. When Sirius leans forward and kisses him, Remus thinks that, really, it was expected and he realises he doesn't need to put words to this. He realises it feels like finding home.

i don't feel right when you're gone away

Sirius can't breathe; he is acutely aware of his chest constricting and a tight coiling behind his navel. There is a fracture in the crimson wall of his bed hangings and through it a sliver of moonlight crawls across the sheets. It is four nights until the full moon – he knows this as if it were his own blood that burns with the curse – and his soul cries that the wolf will snarl and growl and he will be dismissed from running with the pack. But his thoughts are jerked from four nights subsequent by the muffled sound that carries surprisingly well across the quiet dormitory and his breath catches tightly in his throat.

He knows at once that it is Remus and there is a moment when his heart aches before it is overshadowed by the ache between his legs. Because he knows what Remus is doing, he knows, he can tell by the stifled whimpers punctuated with stuttering gasps, he can tell just by the familiarity the noises hold and he is once more reminded of what he has destroyed with his foolishness. His hand creeps down into his pyjama bottoms and his teeth sink into his bottom lip as his fingers curl around hard, hot flesh. As his hand strokes and pulls his eyes flutter closed and he tries to reform the lines and contours of Remus' face, to recall the warmth of dark eyes and the curve of a shy smile, but all he can bring to mind is the way Remus now looks at him, a strained twist of lips that brings no mirth to empty eyes.

Sirius hurts as though he has lost a limb, but then, really, he has. Remus is a part of him, like the last piece of the jigsaw, the last shard of light and heat that completes his soul, fills the empty space that he has always known was there but could never before put a name to. Sirius would feel silly for being so sentimental, mawkish even – if James knew he would laugh and call Sirius a girl – but when Remus curls around him and when they gasp as one and when their bodies move together he knows that Remus feels it too. But with a slip of the tongue – a slip of the mind – Sirius has ruined everything, has fractured and shattered and broken all of it. Remus says that he forgives Sirius but there is a tightness to his smile and a wariness in his eyes and when Sirius tried to crawl back into Remus' bed, he was pushed away.

And so it comes to be that they both lie awake, breath hitching and hands fumbling, and instead of drawing comfort from each other they are cold and indifferent and the night draws in around them as they huddle in separate beds. Remus tries not to think of Sirius – dark hair and confident hands - because his betrayal is still too raw; Sirius thinks only of Remus – soft eyes and acquiescent legs – and tries to lull the throbbing ache in his chest.

They lie in separate beds, hidden by heavy drapery and divided by a chasm of mistrust they try to bridge with haste, and are forcefully oblivious of each other's need and dependency. They lie in separate beds, not knowing how they complete a mirror image of raw desperation, mouths gasping and hands between legs as their breaths rise to meet in the air between them.

Of course Sirius is awake – he's found it hard to sleep recently - when, long past midnight with the dormitory silent, his bed hangings are tentatively inched apart and Remus climbs into his bed. A breathless pause and then it is hands tangled in hair and shy kisses to corners of mouths and a knee pushed between legs and frantic apologies that are smothered by teeth and tongue. Neither says anything comprehensible but everything they need to know is right there, speaking clearly in their wandering hands and burning mouths, speaking of love and trust and forgiveness.

i don't feel like i am strong enough

The sheets bunch beneath Remus' back, creasing and wrinkling like ripples breaking the surface of cold, clear water and fissures splitting glass, fracturing, and Remus wonders if perhaps it is actually his heart fracturing. Sirius' teeth press into his throat, too hard too deep, and Sirius' hands grasp his hips, too tight too close, and Sirius thrusts into him, too fast too sharp. Still, his spine arches and his hips buck and he manages to disregard the truth that really, it hurts. Quite a lot. He buries the thought in that dark void in the back of his mind that hides the things it doesn't do to dwell on and instead he summons to the forefront that this is the first time in a count of days rapidly building to a fortnight that Sirius has touched him; he likes to think that the desperate slant of Sirius' mouth and the frantic sweep of Sirius' tongue and the rushed fumbling between their legs means that Sirius is just as scared as he.

Remus is scared because Sirius' temper, always perplexing to fathom, is now near impossible to predict or comprehend and the nights bring with them an unease where he isn't sure if Sirius will coldly sleep with his back turned, lying rigid on his own side of the bed, or if Sirius will feverishly climb on top of him and heavily press him into the mattress, hands and teeth and tongue laying claim. Remus is now able to effortlessly twist the truth to suit what he wants to pretend is real: when he is splayed on his front with his face pressed awkwardly to the pillow and Sirius thrusting roughly behind him; when Sirius flinches from his touch and hisses words under his breath, too low to be heard but tone undeniably black; when morning breaks with them inexplicably tangled together and Sirius hastily wrenches his hand from the curve of Remus' arse and stalks from the bedroom. Somehow, he make believes that all of this totals to Sirius loving him, and in some strange, warped way he skirts around the anger and panic and some other hard thing that he fears might be hate, and bends the truth that is right in front of him so that all he can see is how things might have been, how they should be.

Sirius is scared because Peter has told him Dumbledore believes there is a spy amongst them; he doesn't say any more but the idea is left hanging in the air, the insinuation as brash as if Peter had spoken aloud the niggling thought that irritates the back of Sirius' mind anyway. Sirius does not, will not, cannot (probably does) believe that Remus is capable of such carnage because surely the slight frame folded into the chair with fingers curled over the worn spine of proverbial literature isn't able to double-cross and lie and hate; but the quiet voice, that has become surprisingly loud – and strangely resembles Peter in a vague manner – whispers that Remus is a Dark Creature, whispers in such a casual way that Sirius thinks he has ignored it until he realises the flicker of dishonesty tugging Remus' lips has his mind hissing werewolf, werewolf, werewolf. Remus is distant, a drifting emptiness hollowing his face and setting shadows above the curve of his jaw and below the lids of veiled eyes, sparking an anger in Sirius that makes him want to throttle Remus and demand if he is going to ruin them, if he is going to bring friends crashing to knees, if indeed he is the traitor that will slay them and leave them cold on the ground as their blood washes easily from his hands.

Remus closes his eyes and turns his head to the side as Sirius' fingernails leave deep red impressions across his hips and his hands against Sirius' shoulders are simultaneously trying to push him away and drag him closer. Sirius panics because Remus' face is blank, impassive, and he barely makes a sound as they fuck. That is all this is – fucking. They stopped making love a long time ago and the current groping and rutting falls just short of having sex. There is a tight coiling in Sirius' stomach that isn't entirely due to the slick heat of Remus' body as he roughly slides in and out; it is more a heavy ball of dread that begins to swell as he faces the idea that they may fall apart, that he might lose Remus, and even the mere beginnings of contemplation have him feeling ill because he doesn't think he'll be able to survive on his own.

Sirius comes with his face pressed against Remus' neck and silently mouths I love you, lips moving over damp skin in the shape of words he is too afraid to give sound to for reasons he isn't entirely sure but possibly centre around traitors and lies and desertion. Remus shudders through his own release cradling Sirius' head against his clavicle and with one leg hooked around Sirius' back; he can feel Sirius mouthing something against his throat but isn't brave enough to confront what it might be. They rock together in a trembling pleasure that is oddly muffled and surprisingly sharp around the edges and they greedily cling to the freedom of suspicion and worry that is offered by this one burning moment.

The weak sunlight of early November makes a half-hearted attempt of streaming through the window but the effect is more greatly reminiscent of seeping and the light seems sluggish as it creeps across the sill. It filters through the room in a dull spill and fails to reach the shadowed corners or indeed bring ample brightness; it is disturbingly apt and audaciously represents the stinging irony of enlightenment. Remus kneels at the side of the cold bed, his head falling heavily into his hands, and says nothing, thinks nothing, feels nothing, as the feeble light falls upon the day's newspaper lying torn on the floor.

because i'm broken

One, two, three – stone or brick, dirty and rough, he counts methodically and hears the crash of waves – twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five – it's cold here but not as cold as that winter when the lake froze over and they built snowmen and – fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine – he can remember names, of course he can, he isn't going mad – Remus, James, Lily – seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one – someone is screaming, in a cell, in a cell somewhere someone is screaming – Moony and Padfoot, and Prongs, Prongs was there – one hundred – there were fourteen steps to the staircase in the Shack, fourteen but it always seemed longer, always seemed – Remus, James, Lily, Harry – one hundred and fifteen, one hundred and sixteen, one hundred and seventeen – Harry, Prongs, Prongs had a baby, his eyes burned with pride and Lily's hair was – that one time in fifth year when – one hundred and thirty five, one hundred and thirty six, one hundred and – Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs – and McGonagall had been so angry but they hadn't meant – one hundred and sixty six, one hundred and sixty seven – Peter, Wormtail, Pettigrew – Moony and – Peter, Peter, quiet dim Peter, clever little bastard – one hundred and ninety eight – clever, clever, scheming, devious, clever fucking bastard – two hundred and – Remus, Remus, Remus – James, sorry and brother and Prongs and – Remus – hears the crash of waves, so loud – the screaming and the sobbing and the screaming – Remus, Moony, Remus, Remus – and when he said I love – but now he's lost count, stupid stupid stone and brick and – one, two, three –

Remus doesn't know the man's name. He never does. But he has dark hair and high cheekbones and Remus tells himself that it's enough, and when the nameless stranger fumbles with the front of his trousers and Remus notices that his hands look wrong – fingers too short, occasional freckles marring what should be porcelain - he thinks that really, it's alright, because it offers him the illusion of this being a complete stranger, a body with no meaning or familiarity, about to fuck him, instead of a distantly recognizable ghost, a shell of a person that, if he squints and tilts his head to the left, could vaguely resemble – could possibly be –

Remus doesn't think about it, just like he hasn't thought about it every other night he's been pressed up against a brick wall in a dirty alley, every other time he's staggered into an empty cubicle of grotty pub toilets with an anonymous body, every other morning he's woken in a foreign bed and stumbled out onto unknown London streets. The man-with-no-name has managed to unzip his flies and Remus isn't drunk enough to ignore the shudder of disgust that twists his stomach when fingers wrap around his cock. The hand is too soft and doesn't feel right at all and Remus feels a warped sense of relief when the fingers withdraw; and then the man is kneeling before him and Remus thinks that he really isn't drunk enough but a wet mouth is sliding down over his cock and he sharply sucks in his breath. It's rather sloppy and Remus suddenly wants to giggle hysterically but the bubble of laughter catches in the back of his throat and he abruptly realises it may possibly change to a sob.

He sets his jaw and closes his eyes and when he comes he bites back the name that haunts his dreams, the name that he wakes to burning his lips, and yells out once. He actually does laugh now, a hoarse, hollow noise that would worry him if he could feel anything more than the swell of despair in his ribcage and when his voice breaks and the tears begin to flow he thinks that actually, he probably is drunk enough after all.

They embrace like brothers; like brothers who became something more; like lovers who fell apart. They embrace like two halves of a torn soul trying to reform, ripped at the seams and sewn back together, and this time when bones knit and wounds close they come not from the convoluted fusion of boy and wolf but from the immeasurable tangle of two broken lives. Sirius is shaking, one hand fisting the back of Remus' robes and he's trying to speak: he needs to tell Remus that it was Peter; he needs to tell Remus that he's sorry; he needs to tell Remus that he still loves him, that he never stopped, not when the mistrust was so heavy it smothered them, not when he could hear the cold North Sea slamming against impermeable rock, especially not when cloaked figures robbed him of warmth and all that replayed in his dark mind was all the pain and hurt that had ever passed between them. He wants to say Moony, whisper it against Remus' neck, but his throat is tight and so he says nothing; they cling together as outside the Shack the howling wind falls silent.

the worst is over now and we can breathe again

There is heavy drapery framing the windows of the drawing room and Sirius' chest constricts to see it stirred by the movements of the house waking up after years of dereliction as it evokes cloaked shadows and hooded figures slowly gliding past prison bars and stone walls. There is silver cutlery in the kitchen and Sirius sets his jaw against the tightness in his throat as he retraces the memory of how to use it dignifiedly before he gives over to the brimming frustration and throws the silverware down. There are moth-eaten patches on the spread of his old bed and he is cold when the dark seeps through the windowpane and stealthily creeps inside the bed hangings and into his heart.

But now he has Remus. Remus, who is still there for him after twelve years, who holds him when he wakes in the dead hours of predawn with his cheeks wet and an uncontrollable fit of trembling, who helps him stumble through each day and eases the suffocating pressure of despondency that settles cloak-like about his shoulders. He has Remus and together they put back the pieces of two fractured lives, two shattered hearts.

The first time they try to have sex again Sirius is overwhelmed by Remus' mouth pressed against his jaw, by Remus' fingers stroking below his navel, by Remus' heart beating in time with his, and he begins to sob, a quiet broken sound spilling forth as he clutches at Remus and his face burns with shame and humiliation. He can't stay hard. Remus soothes him, stroking his hair and whispering nonsense words against his ear, and assures him it's okay, they can try again.

Try again. Sirius relishes the words, likes the way they shape in his mouth, harsh and pointed, blunt sounds anchored in solidarity by the way his teeth bare over the 'r' and the abrupt thud of the 'g' in the back of his throat. He mutters the words to himself, over and over; a mantra, an affirmation, a promise that here is a second chance and with trembling hands he tries to show Remus his silent vow that this time he won't fuck up.

Sirius catches himself muttering under his breath at inappropriate times. Order business is faltering; try again. Remus curls around him in the empty hours of early morning; try again. His godson may or may not be his best friend; try again. His mother's portrait screams he is the shame of her flesh; try again. He finally manages to push inside Remus' quaking, sweat-slicked body but he comes too soon; try again.

He thinks he may be going mad.

When the news hits that the kids are at the Ministry, Sirius is ignorant to words like No and Stay and Here and before they leave he pushes Remus up against the wall and kisses him fiercely. He wants to promise that everything will turn out okay but there is a destructive excitement in the pit of his stomach and he says nothing. His laughter is disturbingly loud, echoing in the decaying house.

you've gone away, you don't feel me here, anymore

The amber fire burns his throat, a raw pain that belies the slick way the liquid goes down and suggests broken glass and broken skin instead of an open welcoming void. The amber fire burns his eyes; this is what he thinks before he realises the liquor is in his mouth and it is saltwater on his cheeks, tears brimming and coursing in a constant manner that is at once painless and the most excruciating thing he has ever felt. His vision is blurred at the edges and if he looks hard enough, for long enough, the dense mass of shadow in the corner will take shape and he will laugh to see the blackness curl into the vague form of limbs and hair and straight teeth and white flesh. He will laugh mirthlessly until he recognises the figure and then he will weep with his head feeling absurdly heavy in his hands and the image of Sirius will fade to be nothing more than shadow, nothing more than it ever was.

There is a hand on his shoulder and it takes a moment to remember himself: it is so easy to forget when there is a bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand and another flowing in his bloodstream; it is so easy to lose sense when there is a hollow absence where there was once solid familiarity; it is so easy to fall apart when he is still here and Sirius is dead.

There was a hand on his shoulder but is now on his cheek, curving around his jaw as slender feminine fingers brush against his cheekbone, tips dampened by the release of sorrow. There are lips pressed to the corner of his mouth and he thinks to pull away but his body is slow, sluggish, muted by alcohol and grief and lack of sleep, and he remembers the earlier weight of his forehead against his palm as his head traitorously leans forwards. The lips covering his are soft – gentle and slow – and he is surprised to find his mouth is open and he is kissing back.

Words are forming in his head, things like No and Stop and Traitor, and for one breathless heartbeat he isn't sure whose voice is hissing, accusing, condemning but then it all falls away with the roar of his heart pounding in his ears. His thoughts stumble upon the hope that here is somebody who will understand him, here is a warm body that will chase away demons of the lonely night, here is a being free of denunciation and hushed disapproval, someone unlike those who frown discreetly in his direction and whisper between them how it has been almost a year and think that they know it all. He wants to shout that they would never be able to understand but his voice is hoarse and he's not sure if they can hear him anyway. Instead, he clings to her and in the inevitable moment of white-hot blindness he will fool himself that he can forget she is not Sirius.

Afterwards he won't be able to meet her eyes and he will wonder how her scent manages to cling to him for days. But when she comes to him weeks later, with uncertainty staining her face and her hand unconsciously hovering at her waist, he will do the proper thing and he will marry her. And he will deny the presence of the sucking wound where he is sure his heart used to be; he will pretend he is an unmarred stretch of blank canvas and not a tapestry of raw aching hurt, frayed and tattered and messily held together; he will forget that there was once a warm hand around his and whispered promises of love and someone to share the burden of this unnamed pain.

Hell has found a path to earth and is raging at Hogwarts; Remus begs Tonks to stay at her mother's house with the baby, with their son, and for a moment he is thrown by her obedience and his heart aches for the reckless impulsiveness of Sirius. She touches her hand to his cheek as he is about to leave and there is so much she wants to say that the words crowd in her mouth, choking her into silence and she says nothing. She presses her lips to the corner of his mouth and he has to turn quickly away when he thinks of desperate kisses in dark deteriorating corridors, kisses he didn't know were goodbye.

there is no one left to fight

The night is burning with flashes of red and – sparking fear that has a distinctly metallic taste – green, and the black sky offers no light to the curving arcs of tumbling bodies, making it impossible to tell if the fallen are children, teachers, Order members, Death Eaters; ultimately, Good Guys or Bad Guys. The ground is hard underfoot and the grass rather crisp – Remus vaguely wonders how the battle spilled out into the grounds and when he made the transition from sharing baby pictures to firing curses with a savage intent to harm, to kill. The air tastes of fear and loss and subtly of failure, and the acrid sting burns his tongue. His palms are sweaty and he can feel the sticky warmth of blood seeping from a deep gash just below his ribs. It is all too loud. There are shouts and curses and someone somewhere is screaming. There is an ominous stain of dark red that appears black close to his left foot and he briefly worries where the body is.

Someone is shouting his name. He turns (stupid, stupid, stupid). And Tonks is there, too far away but too close, her eyes wide and illustrating everything she ever felt and ever wanted to say. He wants to demand Teddy?, the one word seeming as though it would be enough: something to anchor him to all that he holds responsibility for now, all that he must protect; the slight bitter twist of anger at Tonks for leaving their son but which is really an aching twist of longing at the bravery she shows so like Sirius. He tries to say her name. He wants to say something. Anything. He doesn't want to say nothing. He tries to piece thought to words.

And that's when it happens. The inevitable flash of green. And Remus thinks that, really, it was expected. The ground rushes to meet him quickly. He didn't think it would be that quick. It is only a second. One second, just a heartbeat, but it spans a lifetime. His knees hit the ground. The ground is hard, the grass rather crisp. He is kneeling and it is only a heartbeat but he sees everything. He can see the sun splitting the horizon through the window of the Shack. James and Lily and Peter are there, a soft tangle of laughter and childhood. Webs of inked lines and scripted names, the Marauder's Map. The sky is black and the moon is white and Moony howls. There is the tumble of dark hair and the flash of laughing eyes and the curve of playful lips. There are hooded shadows and fluttering veils. Kisses and touches and I love you. And Sirius. Oh, Sirius. And Goodbye and I've been waiting for you and Forever. He is on his knees. He's falling, falling. Only a heartbeat, it was a lifetime. They were two thirteen year old boys. The dawn broke in a spill of bright light. It was never broken. He falls and he knows. He knows nothing and everything and he knows one thing so sharp it blinds him and it hurts. He took the hurt, he took the pain. And the gentle curves and the swelling warmth and all things real. Oh, Sirius. One heartbeat, one lifetime. He falls and he knows. He is going home.

i want to hold you high, you steal my pain away

Peractio