There is something about you, calling to me

by ThisLiminalSpace

Summary:

It had never occurred to Regulus, until today, that perhaps the Gods weren’t simply looking for a planet.

That, perhaps, they were looking for theirs.

Chapter 1: Prologue

The world is black and white.

And those are colors, if you know what to look for. If these are the only nuances your brain has been trained to observe. Shades that whisper of warmth, that hint at cold; black and white can be colorful for those who have known nothing else.

Regulus’ favorite color is grey. Early morning grey, like the soft murmur of planets, like the stillness of a world asleep. That kind of grey.

He doesn’t like the polarizing pigmentation of white, nor the absence of pigment from black.

Grey is middle, grey is something. Not quite either.

That is who Regulus is, too. Not quite either.

He is part of his community, but not quite. He is quite skilled at maths—as is everyone on the ship—but not quite a genius. He is normal—but not quite. His interest lies, also, in something not quite what it should be.

Regulus’ interest is in languages. A rare interest—STEM being better suited for his people's needs, as he’s been told relentlessly, for decades.

He could have it all, if only.

‘If only you didn’t daydream so much. If only you got it, the way your brother does.’

It would have been disheartening to hear so constantly, if Sirius hadn’t been so adamant that ‘It’s good to dream, Regulus. They’re only jealous of the ease with which you disappear in your brain. It’s fuzzy magic, something they’ll never have. They’re upset about the lack of control they have over you. Do not let them win.’

Regulus didn’t want his parents to win. He didn’t want them to lose, either. Didn’t want this divide he had been born into. And regardless of his desires, his career had been traced from birth.

His job is measuring stellar distances. Calculating the transit time between one location and the next, searching for the perfect planet to land. It’s astronomy and interstellar travel, wrapped up in a complex package that would be better suited for someone smarter, no doubt. Someone like Remus. But there are rules in place on the ship, and that’s the job Regulus was bred for; it’s the job he’s doing.

He’s good at it, but it isn’t what fulfills him. It’s an important job. He should be honored; rare are the people allowed the kind of access Regulus has. The kind of knowledge.

‘You are finding us a new home,’ Riddle once said. ‘You honor the Gods.’

The Gods are important to their people; a lot of their lifestyle hinges on them. Pleasing them, and honoring them.

This is a hard concept for Regulus to grasp. He isn’t stupid by any means, but he is confused. Everyone is working hard to please the Gods. Have been, for four thousand years. His people are all so quick to bask in the knowledge that what they are doing is pleasing the Gods somehow, but this doesn’t make sense. If the Gods are happy, satisfied with the work, honored…why have they never come down to meet their people?

So Regulus does something that isn’t allowed, an unwritten rule. He’s never heard it spoken out loud, but like all unvoiced truths, its weight is undiminished by its silence. The edict is clear: you do not question the Gods.

And yet.

Regulus doubts.

 

Notes:

I was shaking as I wrote these tags.
I'm so, so, SO excited to share this story with you.
I spent YEARS in the Star Wars and the Star Trek fandom and I read so much intergalactical stuff and I love space and I love writing and I've never been MORE excited.

Some housekeeping 🧹

I'm 30K into this story but it isn't over, and a lot of the first chapters contain things that need to be added from later ones, so this story will update slowly because it's kind of convoluted.

It's probably not going to be for everyone, it's very metaphor-heavy and I do what I like to do, which is underexplain and hope y'all get it, but I'm always available to discuss on Tumblr because actually I have pages and pages and pages of knowledge that will never make it into the fic but that I needed to have for my own comprehension of this story. That being said it probably won't be everyone's cup of tea and that's so fine ao3 is so big there is so much for you to find.

I can confirm (despite a lot of push from my brain to go the other direction) this will be a HEA.

you can find me on tumblr at thisliminalspacedaydreams x

Chapter 2: ('black');('white')

Notes:

This chapter only makes sense thanks to Celine
who was gracious enough to point out all the “???” “make it make sense” and “that’s just wrong” that allowed me to course correct. Celine, never change.

I’m also writing this from Japan where I’m lowkey turning into 90% tea, 10% human. Bless this country.

Regulus is a Pureblood, his lineage stretching back over four thousand years, to an era marked by eight-legged monsters crawling the Earth amongst the Gods. It is said that his ancestors were Gods themselves, a legacy passed down over generations, leading back to Regulus.

The dangers grew as the monsters rose in numbers, so the Gods sought refuge amongst themselves and the stars, distancing themselves from the world they once walked—and the beasts that roamed it; looking for another planet to settle on.

There is talk of immortality, stories of ageless Gods who never wither nor face death, but the lack of gravity rendered them weaker, unable to perform their duties in front of the public eye. Safe in space and far from the reach of monsters, the Gods withdrew from public view, choosing a Pureblood family, the Blacks, to uphold their legacy and rise to Godhood should they never return. Simultaneously, the Gods designated another family, the Riddles, to be their voice in the meantime.

If Riddle is the voice and counselor, and as such the only one allowed in the God room, Regulus is the heir, as close to a God as it gets on this ship, yet he knows nothing about the potential consequences of the Gods disappearing for good, and what that would mean for him.

Like his brother before him, and his father before that, Regulus' path has been laid out for him, going back one hundred and thirty generations: he has been given the honor of finding that suitable planet. Guiding their people home, establishing a settlement, fulfilling the original mission of the Gods, who now oversee from a distance, entrusting new minds to dig into the infinite matter of space with eager fingers, sifting the vast expanse for new, unexplored possibilities instead.

It’s an important job, they say—the Gods through Riddle, his father, his mother, anyone he’s ever encountered.

Regulus doesn’t understand how important it could possibly be, considering the sheer amount of good planets that have been rejected. Plenty of good choices to settle, he’s good at his job. At twenty-eight—and nearly ten years at this job—Regulus has found no less than nine habitable planets, almost one a year, with all the criteria one could possible ask for: good atmosphere, good size, some type of non-threatening lifeform, and more than enough space to comfortably host a ship with a few thousand people.

As far as Seekers go, Regulus would qualify himself as one of the best ones of the past few centuries. Before he took over, the median for planets found per year was well under one. In truth, most Seekers before him had only really been able to find three to four suitable planets within their years as Seekers. That’s three to four suitable planets over the length of a career, and Regulus is waiting to hear back from planet number ten. Ten in ten years, it’s a good, solid number. Sets a precedent, which isn’t really what one wants to hear when one is a Seeker.

His goal is to find a planet that’s habitable—which all nine planets were—that is also validated by the Gods.

This is the tricky part of the job no one told Regulus about: sometimes, your superiors are Gods who haven’t left their secret chamber in centuries and speak to you via an interposed messenger. Sometimes, you’re accidentally very good at your job, but the bottleneck comes from higher up, and you can’t get a word in.

Were he able to, Regulus would lay down his case in front of the Gods, knees on the cold aluminum floor, What’s wrong with my itineraries, can’t you see what I see, do you not realise these planets might be the best shot we have? What am I missing, what aren’t you telling me, do I need to spend the rest of my life searching for a planet that I’ll never even step foot on?

But seeing the Gods is forbidden for him of course. He is the heir, not the messenger. And, so Regulus is on his way to another near-miss, he can smell it. Smell it, because planet Kepler-1649c is a sans faute nestled in the Quantaris cluster, which means it’s the perfect place to land, which means the Gods are going to reject it, which means Regulus isn’t going to get a iota of sleep tonight, twisting and turning instead, going mad with the need to understand something that doesn’t make sense.

Letting go…isn’t his strong suit. It’s hard, when something has begun, when something’s his responsibility, to give it up. To abandon it, abort the mission. Regulus wishes he were allowed to at least step foot on the planet for a few weeks, test it out, maybe the Gods are wrong and perhaps this planet is mighty fine, and wouldn’t that be great if we could put down our four thousand year old suitcase somewhere new?

It’s difficult, but of course it’s planet number ten, another year, rejection already crawling up the length of his spine, and Regulus watches Avery leave the Level 2 lab to hand Riddle the coordinates, who will present them to the Gods.

6743 people on board, and each new direction is taken right here, in this lab, by Regulus’ calculations and with Remus’ help.

The door slides shut behind Avery, and Regulus slumps back into his chair, eyes raising to the ceiling. They’re in a compact office with aluminum flooring—a common setup aboard the ship, a central island adorned with large touch-screen panels, and two chairs on which Regulus and his colleague do their job. No windows needed, it’s a functional space—a glorified metal box where Regulus spends the majority of his waking hours. It would be mind-numbingly boring, were it not for Remus.

Remus is a Strategic Evasor. Where Regulus is in charge of the destination, Remus is in charge of the journey. He is one of these quiet and clumsy types, mostly keeps to himself. He must have been tall in another life, but in this one his spine is constantly bent. It itches inside Regulus’ brain when he thinks about it too much, the urge to correct, to pull him upright and force him to stand up straight. Years of education tingling his straight spine when he watches Remus stands anything but. But Remus is quiet, and it works for Regulus, it really does.

It means Remus doesn’t ask about the books Regulus brings into work. Looks at them curiously, sure, but eventually goes back to his job, quiet.

He turns to Remus, now. “Odds?”

“97.4%.”

Regulus hums thoughtfully. "That's a low bet, even for you."

Remus reclines back in his chair, nose up in the air and looking at the aluminum ceiling panels. He shrugs, voice steady as he replies, “Saying one hundred would upset you too early.”

Regulus can almost touch it now, this thin layer of trust that has been building between them for three years, steadily gaining strength—which means Regulus lets Remus see the books, but doesn’t let him read them, or see the covers. Likewise, Regulus pretends not to see Remus’ furious writing crusade.

Give and take, neither one of them is doing entirely legal things, and neither one of them is questioning the other about it. What’s your favorite planet turned into I won’t say anything if you don’t, a weird twist on the game of friendship.

The trust crust is in its early stages, and Remus is too smart, Regulus can’t imagine anything good could come from trusting another human. After all, it’s never served him right before.

So they keep it superficial, trusting colleagues and nothing more. Remus is the only reason the ship isn’t regularly plummeted by meteor showers, by anticipating the obstacles through complex calculations that not only baffle Regulus, but also most of the crew. If Regulus is proficient in mathematics, then Remus is nothing short of a prodigy. There are many smart people on board, but Remus stands out. It’s understated brilliance, that is the only reason Remus is so high up, working alongside Regulus in the Upper Level.

With 6743 people aboard a ship that has yet to make landfall, it's crucial to allocate resources—people—wisely. People like Remus, a no name appearing out of the dust clouds three years ago. That in and of itself is mystery enough, in a ship where vanishing and appearing out of nowhere isn’t quite a possibility. Food doesn’t grow on metal, and water doesn’t stream down an oily cable, this isn’t the wild. People are accounted for, wherever they may be, which means Remus didn’t appear. He was put there.

Remus wasn’t even born on the Upper Level; Regulus would have known. There are only so many chosen families on the ship, a child would have been impossible to hide…which leaves the only logical solution. That Remus comes from below, and isn’t that an interesting mystery? Regulus could poke, of course, has thought about it more than a handful of times, but Remus hasn’t poked at him, which Regulus is grateful for. It’s that give and take, the strange concept of friendship when you’re already an adult. What’s your favorite planet turned into I’ll keep your potentially illegal secrets. It’s all games, no matter how old you are. The only difference, it seems, is that the older you get, the more jaded you become. Regulus doesn’t think it would have been this hard, making friends with Remus while they were younger. Can almost taste his imagination as it runs away from him, forcing a potential narrative in his palms.

“What’s you’re favorite planet?”

The question is asked from above Regulus where he is sat cross-legged in front of the bay. It’s the best place in the ship, if you ask him. From here, Regulus can watch the Shipwalkers clean the pannels, repairing the hull when rocks hit it. There is light from distant stars coming up from several directions, it feels like the ship is moving in slow-motion, altering perception. They’re likely going a lot faster than it feels like, and Regulus likes it, so he says,

“A black hole.”

“That’s not a planet.”

“Does that mean we can’t be friends?”

The boy shrugs. “I’ll be mass, then.”

“That’s not a planet either.”

And it would come out easy, like easy comes when a species is small and candid, full of hard truths and soft questions, tripping over their legs.

“Why would I want to be a planet when you aren’t? Without the presence of mass, there would be no material to collapse and form a black hole, so you need me. And I need you,” he would have explained, and oh.

That would have been the start.

“I don’t get upset.” At that, Remus lets out an offending laugh, full of skepticism and complete with the aftertaste of disbelief.

“What?” Regulus asks, a little too mean to be true, he’s hiding offense under a little anger, and Remus laughs again.

“You get upset all the time,” Remus teases.

“I do not.”

“Sure you do, it’s all that privilege, biting you back when things don't go your way,” Remus points out, unbothered.

Regulus looks up from his lap with a little bite. “You’re saying I’m spoiled.”

And Remus, bless his carelessness, shrugs again. “Your words, not mine.”

“I—” Regulus cuts himself off, squinting at Remus, teeth biting at his lower lip, before grudgingly admitting, “Maybe I get disappointed.”

“Sulky.”

“Disappointed,” Regulus insists. “They’re fine, my planets.”

His voice is so filled with a pitiable frustration that Remus can't help but laugh again. “Of course, they are.”

“My calculations are accurate,” he presses, and Remus nods again. “Then why aren’t we landing,” he curses, foot kicking the side of a metal panel. The panel—and his toe—protest with equal brevity. “I swear to the Sun—”

He’s interrupted by the door sliding open again, revealing Avery, who eyes the spot Regulus' foot had met the panel with a mix of curiosity and disdain. An emotional outburst, how so beneath him. Regulus doesn’t pay him any mind, concern creeping up. It’s too early, hasn’t been long enough, have the Gods even looked at Regulus’ comprehensive data, Kepler-1649c is good, one of the best perhaps, and—

“Not that one.”

Regulus has heard this excuse nine times, and his frustration is becoming palpable. He has asked for an explanation, hints of reason, Why not this one?, so he can improve. Is it the wrong size, the wrong composition, or something entirely other? What is the problem for each of these planets? Regulus is good at his job, isn’t he? He wouldn’t get fired either way, Sirius made it impossible to turn Regulus into someone replaceable, but even so.

Regulus is the new notch in four thousand years of history, and he’d like to be the last one. One final notch, turn the page and end the story.

So he’d just—he’d just like to know. If he knew, perhaps he could do better. Perhaps they could get off this ship. It is his home, all he has ever known, and he loves it...but it isn’t quite his home either.

It’s one of those inexplicable feelings he always thought was unique to him, that strange pull.

There is something else in the ether.

Calling to him.

---

The Black family is the only one allowed to wear white, though he is ill-at-ease in it. He doesn’t like the attention it brings, a looming Scythe between him and every other family, every other person, Remus. This privilege, meant to set him above the rest, feels more like a wall. The dichotomy of two people working together, side by side on the same project, and yet being so distinctly separated.

'Where black absorbs most of the light that reaches it, white shrugs it off,' Riddle had once told him. 'The world began with light, because without light there can be nothing else. And one day, it might begin again with you. Your family wears white because when the time comes, you, too, might have to shrug off what seeks to absorb you.' Which was highly cryptic, unpleasant news, on top of being…wrong, somehow. An oily feeling on top of the skin.

He doesn’t feel ‘more than’. No better than anyone else on this ship. His family is leaning so heavily on tradition, holding on to the past like one does with some priceless relic on the verge of crumbling, Regulus doesn’t understand it. The Blacks are descendants from the Gods, but what does that make him, thousands of years later?

His family worships these traditions, holding onto them with a fervor that borders on obsession, but to Regulus, they feel more like chains than honors, pulling him towards a destiny he’s not sure he wants. He’s caught in the tug-of-war between the glory of his ancestors and the reality of his own desires, feeling more out of place with each passing day.

He just—exists, and when he has time, he reads. Well, he tries. Teaching yourself a language from scratch is…certainly more complicated than math.

Binary, code, numbers, have a logic to them, or perhaps it’s just because it’s what Regulus is used to and has known his entire life, the only real thing he’s been taught on top of speech and traditions. Binary is structured, predictable. These are systems built on principles that remain consistent regardless of context—1s and 0s function the same way regardless of the machine.

Language has no logic, as Regulus has come to find out. Or rather, it does, but that logic seems to be shaped and reshaped by countless factors beyond its immediate utility for communication. Language logic morphs from one tongue to another, and so far, Regulus has only taught himself three beyond his native Scigua and the bits and pieces of Eigen.

On board the ship, three dialects born from English are spoken; not enough diversity within a group of almost seven thousand people to develop brand new languages. The dominant one is Scigua, spoken amongst everyone on the Upper Levels. Regulus also knows a little of Eigen, and absolutely nothing of the Ospin, which isn’t taught nor written. It’s the language Riddle has been crusading to erase from the ship, deliberately obscuring and targeting it for eradication. Ospin is the savage language; the beastly one. The language of madness.

Beyond the simple interest of learning about his ancestors and a long forgotten past, Regulus has become fascinated by these dead languages and their rules. The simple fact that linguistic logic used to be influenced by where and when the people that spoke it existed is baffling to Regulus. Evolutions from one language to the next, the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis,he’d read once. Linguistic relativity, the suggestion that the structure and vocabulary of a language influences the way its speakers perceive and interact with the world.

The suggestion that language determines thoughts.

That people can only think in the ways their language allows.

And it’s logical really—the way Scigua cuts through the clutter with the precision of a laser, streamlining communication to its essence. Designed to be unambiguous and rooted in predicate logic, Scigua essentially functions as spoken code, or as close to it as their ancestors managed to achieve.

Regulus hadn't realized how bland Scigua was, until he began taking forbidden trips into Riddle’s hidden book room—ventures he ought to have forgone in favor of sleep, not trespassing. And the more he learned other languages, the more Scigua began to feel stripped bare in comparison.

This week’s book—Aeneis, which is in Latin, one of the first languages he taught himself—isn’t the best one he’s ever read, but, well. Beggars, or in his case, clandestine scholars, can't be choosers. There are only so many books available in the hidden book room, and it’s hard enough, decrypting the words he’s taught himself to read. Hard enough, keeping it a secret. From his parents, from Remus, from Riddle, the unwitting donor of his nightly lessons. Riddle, who has no idea Regulus steals his books and teaches himself anything at all.

He’s pretty sure his father knows, at least partly, but their game is one of avoidance. No favorite planet to share, it isn’t friendship; it’s I won’t get you into trouble if you do not give me a reason to, taking the twisted form of fatherhood done crooked, nothing right about the way his father raised him—them.

There used to be two, Regulus cannot forget it. He was raised with numbers, and this is the first lesson.

Day one, one plus one equals two, yet Regulus is alone.

Day two, two plus two equals four, yet he’s alone facing his parents at dinner time. Has been, for the better part of ten years.

Equal measures are important, and Sirius has left a gaping hole, something uneven in the family numbers, it’s unsettling. For a mind like Regulus’, where structure matters, how dare he.

Sirius knew—knows—Regulus needs the stability of something sure.

Should have known that what Regulus doesn’t need is a brother, forty-six levels below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Aeneis is a real book, it’s Virgil's "Aeneid”, an epic poem that tells the story of Aeneas. It’s kind of like a continuation of Homer's Iliad and The Odyssey. It cover a lot of topics, including the struggle to establish a new homeland (hehehe). It also has a bunch of propaganda, so I’m just cherry picking here.

Any reference, now and in the future, to color is heavily inspired by James Fox’s The World According to Colour: A Cultural History, which I cannot recommend enough.

I have used a lot of books to write this fic, and I’ll refer to them as I see it relevant. So if you see something super smart, either it’s me, or it’s just shamelessly pulled from one of my reference books (probably the latter tbh).

Also, this is kind of my love story to space, languages and soulmates, but it’s taking a bit of a strange road to get there. Will there be smut? I sure hope so. Will there be a fight? Most likely. Are there going to be nervous breakdowns? Absolutely, I’ll keep you updated on those.

Fic I’m currently reading that’s making me bfeizjoafdhzuifgbeufe : Tarte Tatin

 

Where’s Sirius at? What’s that 46 levels bonzana?

you can find me on tumblr at thisliminalspacedaydreams for a chat :) x

Chapter 3: ('paper');('people')

Summary:

Today, Remus becomes three dimensional, a person in Regulus’ mind. 3D is the first layer of trust cementing itself down, the turning point.

Notes:

Bonjour, this is the result of my 29 hours flight. Edited this while I was half asleep, cramping in my seat, but heyo it's here.
Thank you to anyone who's given this little fic some love, it's hugely motivating and very appreciated <3

 

 

Regulus is at work, engrossed in his words, swallowing them like some might swallow food, when Remus hits his ankle with his foot, coughing brusquely, just as the door starts swinging open. Regulus barely has time to shut down the book and make it disappear under the table data overlay as Avery appears.

He’s a strange character, Avery. Quiet as a ghost, simultaneously always and never there, seemingly mighty busy with all this back and forth Riddle is commanding. There’s something about his dark eyes that have never rubbed Regulus the right way, something sly and confusing, floating around him like an aura Regulus cannot make sense of. He’s been working alongside Avery for close to a decade, and he still hasn’t gotten a clear picture of Avery. Every time he thinks he gets close, the picture eludes him again. It’s in the sneer Avery sports, that seems directed at everything—Regulus, Remus, Riddle, the entire ship. It’s in the fact he never seems to showcase an ounce of outward happiness, yet he’s diligent, does his job like he cares about it. It’s in the quiet way he seems to hold on to more secrets than most. He’s forgettable, it’s his job to be where he is needed, quiet and observant. That, on a ship, is power. Forgettable people are privy to information they might not get to know otherwise, simply because they’re forgotten in the corner of a room.

“Riddle is demanding to know the new coordinates by the end of the month.”

Book firmly clutched between his thighs hidden by the center island, Regulus silently slides the tablet with the information recap he and Remus had been working on, one hand going to rub at his chest absentmindedly. There is a planet they have secured in Caelumina-SDSS J1359+4011. The atmospheric composition is near-perfect, it’s in the Goldilocks zone, and they’ve got proof of rain—liquid water. Add good gravity, relative geological and orbital stability, a strong magnetic field, and virtually no hostile life forms—it’s the perfect next stop. Planet eleven, ripe for the taking.

Avery grabs the tablet, eyes roaming over the data table where Regulus and Remus are hunched over, calculations and maps spread in every which direction in the data system.

“And what’s this?”

Remus lifts a bored eyebrow. “Working on the next one,” he says. In case this perfectly suitable planet ends up being ‘unsuitable’, too, is the silent, yet loudly irreverent continuation of that sentence.

But all Avery and his sly eyes do is blink. “Good,” and he’s gone, tablet in hand.

Remus turns to him. “Odds?”

Regulus retrieves his book from beneath the table and opens it back up, sifting through the pages to find the place he’d cut himself off at.

“None.”

He doesn’t mean to say the rest out loud.

Comments like what Regulus is about to say are better left unspoken, lest they’re interpreted the wrong way.

But Regulus heard the silent tail end of Remus’ response to Avery, the quiet insolence, and somehow the rest escapes him, resonating entirely too loudly in the lab—

“I’m starting to think the Gods don’t want us to find any home that isn’t this ship.”

He blinks the moment he realizes what he has said.

The affront. The consequence-worthy sentence dancing in the air between them, seeking a place to latch on to. This is a sentence that harbors doubt against the intentions of the Gods of this ship. This is a sentence to be punished over. A sentence to be killed over.

Remus doesn’t respond—doesn’t react at all, and so neither does Regulus.

The words have escaped Regulus’ mouth, reverberating over every corner of the lab, but Regulus is playing dead with a bear, spine going cold with fear. If he doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t…act out, in any way, perhaps the sentence will stop dancing, and he’ll be able to swallow them back and pretend he never said them. Better to pretend it doesn’t matter; that it isn’t a big deal.

Quietly, like he doesn’t exist, he puts his head back into his book, ignoring the soft tremble of his hands, the urge to lift his thumb and bite at it. The urge to start explaining, overexplaining perhaps, this isn’t what I meant, I’m loyal to the Gods. Except this is Scigua he’s speaking, his words cannot be mistaken for anything else, context doesn’t matter on this ship, with this language. It’s been stripped bare, and so has Regulus.

It takes hours for his hands to stop trembling, for him to stop forcing his breathing to sounds casual.

And then, just before the end of their shift, when Regulus has tentatively decided that Remus must not have heard him correctly, that he’s safe, that no one heard him...It’s a quiet statement, and had Regulus not been so tuned to the boy who now has the power to walk up to—anyone, and say the words, Regulus doesn’t believe the Gods want him to find any home that isn’t the ship, sealing his fate as a free man, he might not have heard it.

“I’m starting to think so, too.”

Regulus almost drops his book.

 

---

 

Regulus has always thought of his peers as two dimensional paper people, fleeting and ephemeral. They drift past him, sometimes catching on to one another for a little while, but both will move on eventually, their lives like parallel lines. Almost-but-not-quite-touching, Regulus will never think about them again.

Paper people, because they lack the substance and complexity people he knows possess.

Paper people, because people aren’t real to him unless his mind consciously decides to give them depth.

Today, Remus becomes three dimensional, a person in Regulus’ mind. 3D is the first layer of trust cementing itself down, the turning point. And so, he starts paying better attention.

It’s always been strangely fascinating to Regulus, observing the way his brain does what it does when it starts transforming someone into Someone. Flesh and bone and more. A little spice, something nice, and very few people get that treatment from Regulus. He can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of people he considers three dimensional in his life. His parents, his brother. Riddle. A friend, once.

Asking the eight-years-old girl, who has a complex family dynamic and is definitely not where she’s supposed to be—a situation not unlike Regulus’ own, for he, too, is not where he should be—“What’s your favorite planet?”

Pandora doesn’t even look at him, eyes focused on the expanse of space visible by the ship’s bay, before answering,“LHS 1140b.”

“Oh,” Regulus says, caught off guard. This isn’t a planet he knows, nor one he’s ever heard anyone mention before. Pandora sighs happily, tapping her fingers to the cold flooring as an invitation. Tentatively, Regulus takes the remaining steps to sit by her side. They’re in a corner of the common room on Level 2, partially hidden by the stairs. It’s always been Regulus’ favorite place to spend his insomnia nights in, right there in front of the ship bay, looking at the stars, pushing and pulling and rubbing at his chest like trying to ease up something choking him from the inside. The feeling of panic, of being too alone never really letting up unless he stared at the expanse of the galaxies visible from a window the size of the entire left wall of the common room. Like a humming settling into white noise, somehow less noticeable. He’s always been alone here, until now. “Why?”

Pandora clicks her heels together twice, finger moving to tap at her chin. “Because of its symbiotic biomes, of course.”

“Its symbiotic binomes?”

“Biomes,” Pandora corrects. “It means it’s a world of interconnected ecosystems. Mom said that different species depend on each other for survival there, so they had to evolve to cooperate.”

“Doesn’t it make it weaker than other planets, if species have to rely on each other to survive?”

Pandora hums thoughtfully. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It makes them stronger.”

Regulus shakes his head. “If one species dies, it’ll take the other with it. That makes them weak.”

“You’re seeing the far away potential end instead of the beauty of it, how very pessimistic of you. This is a planet made up of species that have bonded together against adversity. So perhaps they’ll eventually die,” Pandora shrugs like death is inevitable, like it shouldn’t be feared. Perhaps more so than most, she would know. “And what a mighty end, for them to go hand in hand.” She’s silent for a while, before turning to him. “Our ship is like that. You and me could be, too, if you wanted.”

“Interconnected?”

“Symbiotic biomes,” Pandora confirms.

“How would that work?’

It’s the winning question, and Pandora spends the remainder of the time they don’t have explaining how, theoretically, all of this symbiotic system would work. Talking and talking, laying down plans until the first artificial light of dawn begins to tint the edges of the ship. It’s only then that they’re found out by the morning patrol. Pandora gets dragged back and away to her family, sure to be scolded, as Regulus gets the same treatment. Still, a smile pulls up at her mouth, and Regulus returns it.

‘Symbiotic’, he mouths out at her, and she smiles. Mouths back, ‘biomes.’

This is a new smile, that will end up guiding his life for years.

Very few people get that treatment from Regulus, and it’s been a long time since a paper person turned into Someone, so he isn’t quite ready for his brain to start seeing. And yet.

Remus has scars, and his nose is crooked. When he smiles, the left corner pulls up higher than the right. He’s tall, yet acts small. He doesn’t cower, exactly, but he lets himself look smaller than he is, consciously making a lot of effort to appear non-threatening. Don’t put me back in the Lower Levels. I am not worth your attention, that is the energy that emanates from him.

He has a notebook, in which he scribbles with a pen, both of which aren’t forbidden exactly, but certainly aren’t common. Not common enough to be owned by someone from Lower, at least. And yet there he is, most days, scribbling like what he writes is a secret. Like what he writes is Regulus’ equivalent of the stolen—borrowed—books from Riddle’s book room. Something that isn’t quite forbidden, but not explicitly accepted, either. Two sides of the same coin, Regulus hasn’t been in a duo in a while—a long gone brother will do that to you.

And so, after three years of working professionally alongside one another, Regulus makes an effort. Starts engaging in conversation, poking gently around Remus’ secrets as Remus responds in kind, eyeing each other up like a ship does a meteor that flies by a little too close. Asking, are you like me? Was that a fluke? Are we the same?

Remus said, I’m starting to think so, too, and became a person. Now, Regulus needs to know what kind.

Poking, “What book are you reading?”

Regulus takes a shot of honesty.

“The Iliad.”

Poking again, Regulus this time, “Where did you come from?”

He’s never asked this question. It’s personal, everyone knows you don’t ask a ghost from which house he hails. But Remus isn’t a ghost, and they’re taming each other. There are fifty levels to the ship, and Remus answers with a soft, honest,“Forty-six.”

 

---

 

“What book are you reading?”

It’s habit now, Remus’ first question upon entering their lab. Regulus offers bite-sized pieces on the topic of what he’s reading, in what language, and ‘Is it strange to be able to read a language you cannot speak?’ ‘Yes, of course,’ and, ‘Who taught you these languages?’ ‘I’m self-taught,’ and, ‘Do your parents know?’, which earns Remus a sharp downward twist of the lips as Regulus mutters, ‘They do not know. If they did, I’m sure they'd strongly disapprove. Call it frivolous endeavours.’

‘There’s never been something less frivolous about wanting to know things.’

‘It’s nice way of putting it.’

‘I’m not putting it nicely. I’m saying, knowledge is power. There should be no shame in what you’re doing—learning things.’

‘Even though they’re useless, dead languages?’

‘Especially if they’re useless, dead languages.’

Regulus pauses. ‘All I feel certain of is that the more I read, the less I know.’

‘It’s the burden of knowledge.’

Regulus lifts a brow. ‘It grows with every new fact you accumulate?’

‘Yes.’

“De Lingua Latina.”

“What is it about?”

“It’s a systematic study of Latin philology and etymology.”

Remus opens his mouth. Closes it. “How are you reading about...philology and what was it?”

Regulus eyes Remus with a frown. “Etymology. By looking down at the page and reading the words?”

Rolling his eyes, “But are you understanding anything?”

“Some, yes. It’s hard, but I have time. Some words don’t translate well, and some—don’t translate at all. It’s…” He sighs. “Scigua is limited, and so much of what I read is entrenched in the context of our ancestors. I think a lot of details go right over my head.”

“Doesn’t it get frustrating?”

Regulus laughs, the sound as unfunny as it comes, as he brings a hand up to rub at his chest. “Yes, it does.”

“What do you need?”

“Right now? A translator would be nice. A day trip to Earth maybe?” He sighs, rubbing harder at the center of his chest. “These writers keep referencing food I’ve never tried, places I’ve never been, weather cycles—seasons—I’ve never experienced…It all seems to be interconnected somehow. Like, like—”

Symbiotic biomes.

So perhaps they’ll eventually die, and what a mighty end, for them to go hand in hand.

Our ship is like that.

You and me could be, too, if you wanted.

Remus’ voice brings him back to the present.

“Like what?”

Regulus shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Remus doesn’t press him for more that day, and Regulus doesn’t ask about forty-six, either, but several days later, Remus is scribbling in his notebook and Regulus is deciphering page twenty-three of this impossible book, when—

“It’s not words.”

Regulus’ hands freeze on the book he’s holding, not daring to make a move and spook the truth out of the lab, letting it poke its head out gently instead. “Oh.”

“It’s a…spinoff.” Remus frowns, mouth twisting. Adding, “From binary.”

Regulus attaches the words together in his mind, spinoff, and binary, and not words, trying to align it into a sequence that will make sense. “You’re writing in code?”

Remus shakes his head. “No. I’m inventing one.”

“You—”

The door starts to open, and both Remus and Regulus disappear their less-than-allowed hobbies under the table data overlay, falling quiet, eyes jumping to Avery in expectation as his head pokes in. He’s stone-faced, and doesn’t even look at Remus when he tells Regulus, “The Gods want to see Caelumina-1b from closer up. Lead us there.”

 

---

 

Regulus sees not white for the first time in a dream.

It’s an accident, as all extraordinary things tend to be.

He’s walking down a road on a planet he doesn’t know, which isn’t new. Regulus’ subconscious loves planet-walking, and will do so often. The landscapes are always bare, monochromatic masses—not today.

Regulus is walking amongst towering structures unlike any he’s ever seen, stretching towards the atmosphere, surfaces shimmering. There are flickering lights—blackwhiteblackwhiteblack, and a steady stream of faceless people pushing past him, moving with purpose. They navigate between the giant towers; some ride in wheeled contraptions while most are on foot, going up and down a hole in the ground through rusted stairs. There’s a constant hum and buzz, and scents like something organic mixed with the unknown.

Regulus doesn’t know where he is, but he’s walking there regardless, when color starts to bleed out from the monochrome. It’s the sun above, peeking from behind the structures. White, so very white, turning light grey, and then shifting into something else. It’s bright, like tainted white somehow, beautiful.

Regulus is so surprised, he startles himself awake.

Furious with himself, he closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep again, to, quickly, please fall asleep. So eager, excited and anxious to meet not white again. He doesn’t manage to fall asleep, body too tight and tense, and Regulus thinks about it for days.

Inventing a color is impossible, yet Regulus knows the not white to be color, as sure as he knows two plus two equals four.

He’s disappointed not to dream of it again for weeks.

 

---

 

Another day in the lab, circling one another with careful questions, trying their hand at taming one another in the name of friendship.

“Why do you need a new code?”

Remus doesn’t look up from his scribbling. “So I can write messages without being read.”

Yes, obviously, but, “Why would you need to not be read?”

Lifting his head up, “For the same reason I haven’t told anyone about your little bookscapades. We are quite sure it isn’t wrong, but we are also quite sure that we could get into a lot of trouble for doing it.”

“…Doing what?”

Remus’ mouth twists as he turns back to his troublesome notebook. “I can’t tell you that yet.”

It’s a casual statement carrying no heat, a truth a little too far down the road of friendship they haven’t reached yet. So Regulus nods, filing that in the corner of his mind. Then, curious and wanting and trying so hard to be honest and real, “Will you teach me the code?”

The question isn’t even fully out that Remus fires back, like he’d been holding back, like he’d been waiting for Regulus to suggest it, “If you tell me about what you have found from your books.”

And that, well. “It’s a deal.”

 

---

 

Their discussions are interest-focused—languages and code being primordial topics, and how interesting, how unfortunate that they do not have more. Skirting entirely around the subjects of family, and rank, and forty-six, which shouldn’t be as terrifying a number as it has become to Regulus; four and six baring their teeth when Regulus even attempts to think about it, I have a brother, forty-six levels below, Remus’ mouth forming around the word, ‘Forty-six’.

Regulus doesn’t think now is the right time to start poking at this dividing subject, bring up the disgraced brother from his past, did you happen to go past him? Oh, it’s just my brother, who abandoned me, nothing for you to worry about. But did you? Did you meet him? He looks like me only meaner, with the face of someone willing to break his brother’s heart for a joke. For a prank. For a laugh. Did you meet him? Did he look remorseful? Does he look like he did ten years ago, and would I find him in a crowded room, on any planet, ten or thirty years down the line? Tell me I would, tell me I would, tell me I would tell me I would tellmeIwouldtellmeIwouldtellmeIwouldtellmeIwouldpleasepleasepleasetellmeIwould recognize

my brother

anywhere.

Whispered support and voiced complaints, his brother has managed to stay one of the ship’s favorite topic, even in the years since Regulus took over the role of Seeker from him, that Sirius had only really had for a few months. There hasn’t been a lot of gossip in recent centuries. The ship is smooth sailing for the most part, and secrets—if there are any at all—aren’t revealed, sailing under the radar and away from prying ears, keeping to the shadows. All in all, there is very little to talk about onboard…if not for the tragedy of Sirius Black, heir to the Gods, the promising descendant who threw it all away. Sirius Black, who left it all on little Regulus’ shoulders to carry.

If only Sirius knew the talks he is part of, he’d be so proud—causing mayhem and discord, continuing his tarnishing of the Black name crusade from a distance. Ten years since his sentence, and Sirius is this close to becoming a taboo subject. For how Riddle’s sentence was an attempt to smother his presence in exile, his banishment has only served to do the opposite, feeding the fire.

It would have driven his mother insane, had Regulus himself not been an incredibly unproblematic son. A few bouts of insomnia, some forbidden trips to the ship’s bay, sure, nothing bad enough to worry over.

The compromised code has been stripped from the Black name and sent in the Lower Level, leaving only sparkling numbers. Father, mother, son, three’s a good number for everyone except Regulus. It’s the taste of four at the back of his throat, unforgettable somehow.

So he doesn’t tell Remus about Sirius, and Remus doesn’t press him about it, the both of them carefully poking at the exposed underbelly they’re leaving out for each other, leaving what’s hidden in the shadows for now.

 

---

 

“How did they find out about you?” Regulus asks one day.

By his calculations, they’re just six days away from the planet that has been miraculously green-lit by Riddle in the Caelumina-SDSS J1359+4011 galaxy. In six days, Regulus will know if his tally is going to go up, hop, on the tally of Regulus’ Perfectly Fine Failed Planets, one more thrown away, let’s go back to Seeking, or if he will be able to finally step outside the ship for the first time. Breathe unrecycled oxygen. Drink unfiltered water. Eat grass. Have something that hasn’t been touched and used by thousands of people before him. Something that’s his.

Perhaps that’s the constant ache inside his bones, perhaps that’s the warning unfurling inside, find something that is yours, find something, it’s calling to you, you must find it, calling to you from the ether, find it, it’s yours, you must find it.

I can’t, he wants to reply. There is nothing here that hasn’t been owned by someone else before. Everything we own is everyone’s, but the ache in his chest isn’t content with this information, pulling tighter, find something Else, then. Something that isn’t Here.

Planet Caelumina-1b is six days away, which represents an improvement from the last attempt. This time, Riddle didn’t outright refuse—agreeing instead to hover over and take a closer look, although Regulus suspects this might be solely for his benefit. Because Avery witnessed Regulus’ emotional outburst, and reported it to Riddle, who must have rolled his eyes, how very beneath him, let’s hover over it and appease him with a non-immediate rejection.

This has happened before, twice. For both planet Three and planet Six, Riddle had agreed to scope the place up, before the Gods had changed their mind about it: another planet hovering too close, a moon at the wrong distance, something inconsequential that would push Regulus’ research into oblivion.

Most of the time though, Avery will quickly come back to the lab with a negative, and months of Regulus’ research will come to a screeching halt, asked to be forgotten and thrown away. It’s a sharp stop and Regulus’ brain hates it. The transition isn’t just difficult; it’s agonizing. He needs several days to calm the tremors in his fingers, shaking with the force of change, stop half-way through, incomplete, I’m not finished I’m not finished I’mnotfinishedI’mnot

Perhaps leaving a task incomplete feels like pulling skin only because it echoes his perpetual sense of incompleteness. He’s been incomplete his entire life, rubbing at his chest to erase a feeling that he’s never quite grown used to, and something that he does should be completed, even if it’s only his role as Seeker. He cannot live as a half-person forever, known for accomplishing half-tasks. He’s convinced that it would leave his chest, this ache, if they could just—land.

“About me?”

Regulus lifts his slender pointer finger to Remus’ forehead, where his big brain resides, tapping once.

“Oh. My father pushed a guard. Bothered her until she got tired and gave me a Nine problem to solve.”

“Why did your father do that?”

Remus purses his lips. “I think he knew I wasn’t meant to—become like him. I think he wanted to give me a chance to become something else.” Something other than a Lower nobody.

“Did you solve it?”

“Huh?”

“The Nine,” Regulus clarifies. “Did you solve it?”

Remus shakes his head. “No. She made it purposefully unsolvable, so I called her a deck rat and got sent to prison—”

“—You went to prison?—”

“—They test people there,” Remus continues, “to determine how to put delinquents to good use. Unfortunately for them, they didn’t rig the tests, so I solved all of them in seconds, quickly enough that it attracted the attention of the higher ups. The more problems they gave me to knock me down, the more they realized I wasn’t actually lying, and it went from there. They figured I was a ‘genius’, whatever that means. So they let me rot in prison for a few weeks before I was granted pardon, told to pack my bags, and moved up.”

Remus skims over that one a little too fast to be carefree, but Regulus lets it slide, tucking the topic in a corner of his mouth for next time.

“Have you seen your family since?” He asks instead, trying to keep his voice steady.

“No,” is the sharp reply. “In case you haven’t figured it out already, this isn’t a ship with communicating vessels.”

Don’t I know it.

It’s bitter he knows, Regulus can’t help it. He doesn’t much like this ‘level business’, either. This gatekeeping of people from one Level to the next, this hierarchy system he found himself on top of by accident—fate, perhaps both.

People have been taken from him, people who did not fit the ship’s mold. Sirius is the prime example of a person who didn’t fit, who got thrown out and away from Regulus’ reach, silly mistakes turning to consequences he never could have fathomed. Had he been able to, Regulus would have put a stop to it. Regulus gets it—free will is important. But had he known what Sirius’ games would mean to them, the consequences they would have—he’d have thrown free will out the window. He hasn’t seen his brother in ten years. Doesn’t know if Sirius is even alive, though hope keeps him steady on his feet. Sirius has always been rebellious, but he’s never been stupid. He’s good, petulant but smart. He can prove useful.

And once they land on a planet that is suitable, there will be enough space to change the rules.

Regulus will find his brother.

Planet Caelumina-1b is showing promise. Three landmasses and two polar regions, with a thin translucent layer—the atmosphere. She could be the one that the Gods approve. She could become home.

Gods, he hopes they approve.

 

---

 

Three days before their ship makes visual contact with Caelumina-1b, Regulus dreams of not white again.

At least, that’s how it starts.

He’s walking down a barren landscape when the sun stops being so white, and starts bleeding this decidedly not white color.

Quietly surprised, Regulus thinks he knows what to do this time, reminiscent of his typical response in moments when things become too intense to fully comprehend. He freezes, focusing on his breathing.

Eyes up in the sky, he’s witnessing not white take over the sun, until another, different, new color starts painting the sky. Softer than the bright sun one, this color feels like taking a dip under the spray of a warm shower, soothing like slipping in a dream.

He stares, and breathes in through his nose, forcing himself to calm down, do not wake up yet, keep looking, keep breathing, do not upset yourself awake. And it’s as though his brain is consciously discovering he’s asleep, but letting him have this, you’ve been living in a monochrome world forever, you can look at this a little longer. I’ll let you sleep in.

Like walking down the book-lined wall of the book room, fingers touching the spines with reverence—when he’s supposed to be several corridors down in his private pod, sleeping.

Stealthy, quiet and unobtrusive, he’s watching splotches of hues materialize.

The soothing, cold toned color seeps into the edges of his vision, bleeding into warmth, shifting into a deep stain that could be black—if black was violent—, that blends into an all-at-once-warm-and-cool tone, then warm only, into cold again, each hue cascading into the next, into not whites blooming faster than Regulus can keep track of, bursting open like a nebula ejection.

Mouth falling open, he’s drinking in the spectacle, gaping at a rainbow, if a rainbow wasn't made of shades of grey.

If it was colorful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

hello!

The paper people analogy is something I’ve always felt, which is sometimes upsetting for people, but it’s the best way I can communicate that. Am I the only one? Because... people don’t matter until they do. And sometimes they have to bang over my head with a hammer for a few days until I actually see them? Kind of like seeing everyone in black and white until one day they turn technicolor and I can't control when or why or how that happens?

De Lingua Latina, by Marcus Terentius Varro is a real book

When I tell you writing I’mnotfinishedI’mnot and not being able to… FINISHED
ok here it is. Finished, finished, finished.
There. Better.
I’m clearly workshopping my own brain here.

I hope you enjoyed, again I know nothing about space, or spaceships, or anything at all I was just in the Star Wars fandom for four years so I'm shamelessly stealing and adapting from the sparse knowledge I have about what space is.

Chapter 4: (/huːɑːrjuː/);(/ʤeɪmz/)

Notes:

I'm REALLY proud of this chapter (which is why it took me forever; I had to read like 5 books to honor the bouillabaisse in my brain).

Thanks (as usual) to Celine for Alpha-ing this chapter and pointing out all the problems. You're the real real.

And thanks to Remakaz and Arik for encouraging me to not jump when opening the window seemed like a good idea. Your "don't die now" really helped. You deserve more ice cream.

There's a gift at the end from the lovely Trickster <3

Regulus sits with this information for entirely too long, letting it consume him. One arm wrapped around his knees, the other pulling at a strand of hair by his ear. He’s rocking back and forth, upset and elated all at once about colors, colors, we’ve seen colors, did you see that, colors everywhere, did you see?, brain jumping around in all directions like an untethered atom bouncing off the walls, like sparks flying.

Had Regulus been able to, he would have told Sirius. This is the first instinct, the pulling in his gut—to open his pod and knock on the one besides his. Sirius would have slid open the door panel and Regulus would have blurted it out, breathless.

‘I’m seeing colors in my dreams, I’m seeing colors, what do I do?’

His brother always knew what to do; he would have known now, too.

Regulus’ mind is working against him again, the emotional stimuli too strong, brain prompting the body to wake up, to a threat, something dangerous is afoot, wake up and fight. He’s tired yet wide awake, barely two a.m. and his fingers are itching; he wants to pull the covers back over his head, he wants to close his eyes and disappear, he wants to see color again.

It’s an addictive desire, a want crawling out of his body from somewhere dormant, seeking something more than the three-tone shade he’s known his entire life. He should crave the routine, the ease of slipping back into something as simple as black, white, grey, but for once in his life he doesn’t. Perhaps because, for once in his life, it isn’t easier to go back.

Back doesn’t have dreams.

Back doesn’t have colors.

This is the first time Regulus doesn’t wish to backpedal into the past. Wishes to move forward, instead. Into another dream, hopefully.

After all, dreams now have everything Regulus ever wanted: colors and, sometimes, memories of his brother.

It feels like a twisted game; Regulus should be dreaming in shades and waking up to color, not the other way around; his life’s been turned upside down.

Until now, Regulus had never cared about his insomnia. It’s always been a part of his life, and it’s never been a problem. Before, he’d wake up, or wouldn’t sleep at all, open his pod and ask Sirius to crawl into bed with him; or he’d tiptoe to the ship’s bay to look at the universe. And, in the past few years—ever since that night, he would tiptoe to the ship’s bay and turn around, opposite the bay, head to the simili panel—and open the forbidden book room; slip inside unnoticed, pick up a book, and slip back out into his pod where he would spend the rest of the night trying.

What’s this word, what’s this one, how do they work together, I’m learning.

Contextualizing.

Teaching oneself a language feels like two things all at once: glorious and overwhelming. Every unlocked comprehension is like finding a habitable planet, while every exception to the rule you thought you’d understood feels like being sucked into a black hole. Progress in language isn’t linear, isn’t like math, isn’t like anything Regulus has ever done before. It’s a messed up ladder where the majority of the steps are broken or nonexistent, where the good ones have been eaten by parasites and are flimsy; it’s climbing one step only to fall down three.

And perhaps Regulus would have stopped trying, would have given up, if not trying felt easier. As it is, and for the longest time now, Regulus has existed in two states: learning, or thinking about learning. Both of these are the only true contentment forms Regulus feels. Doing—anything else, feels like a waste of time. He prefers the endurance of discomfort linked to the challenge of learning, than settling for the ease of applying knowledge he acquired long ago.

Sirius, the universe, the book room, learning—all are interests that made his insomnia bearable.

It surprises him, how unbearable it feels, now that his eyes close but the sleep doesn’t come, brain turning around like a moon on orbit, circling unhelpfully around sleep, forcing him to stay awake when all he wants is to dream.

He’s never really had a reason to want to sleep before. He does, now.

But sleep eludes him, and Regulus doesn’t know what else to do but the next best thing.

‘I’m seeing colors in my dreams, I’m seeing colors, what do I do?’

He knows what Sirius would have said.

‘Learn about it.’

Regulus pushes the covers aside and makes his way to the sliding door of his pod, taking a deep breath. Well, time for his illegal walk of the week.

Lithe feet on the cold floor, he’s done this walk a hundred times by now, knows what to look for. Still, there’s a certain thrill about it, even after years; the forbidden calling to him.

The ship is silent save for his own breathing and the constant humming of the ship’s life support systems. Dimly lit corridors bathed in the soft glow of emergency lights that line the walls at regular intervals, and long shadows that dance as he moves. Regulus knows the route by heart, having memorized every turn, every shortcut, every panel that might squeak underfoot and betray his presence. He moves with a purpose, steps measured and silent, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the occasional night-shift worker might still be present. He opts for the less-traveled paths instead, the maintenance corridors and service ducts that crisscross the ship like a labyrinthine network of veins.

He’s a ghost, haunting the spaces he once roamed freely with Sirius. Those memories are a double-edged sword, and Regulus propels himself forward through the maze of corridors, leaving behind him the comfort of memories and the pain of the left behind; he can’t think about Sirius right now.

Approaching the ship’s bay, Regulus pauses, pressing himself against the wall, ears listening intently for any sign of activity, any hint that he might not be alone. Once satisfied, he slips through the door and into the vast open space of the bay.

Here, the windows offer a panoramic view of the stars, an endless sea of light against the backdrop of the void. It’s breathtaking, always, but tonight he has no time to linger on the view.

He crosses the bay with swift, sure steps, eyes fixed on the far wall. The hidden panel— indistinguishable from the rest of the wall to anyone who doesn’t know exactly what they’re looking for—waits for him. Regulus reaches it, glancing around one last time, then raises his left hand and presses it firmly against the panel, tilting his arm. He brings his right hand up, pointing his index and middle fingers out together. Pausing, he then moves his hand down along his left arm in a smooth line, and taps lightly when he reaches his wrist. The panel clicks softly, a sound as loud as a shout in the silence of the bay, before swinging open.

 

---

 

For something that should be forbidden, a place he shouldn’t even know exists, it’s a little ironic how at ease he feels in Riddle’s book room. The shelves are groaning under the weight of centuries, filled with the written whispers of people long gone. He passes by sections he’s become familiar with, nodding at the spines like old friends. He has the brief, unhelpful thought that Pandora would have loved it, here. He snuffs the thought away before it can grow claws; he’s spent enough time digging at the inside of his own grief for the rest of his life.

Familiar and comforting, there is the distant hum of not-yet-fear wiggling under his skin like a dissonant chord, a what if he comes in now, what if he finds me, knowing his strike of luck is bound to run out; it’s a statistical inevitability. You cannot win forever unless the game is rigged, and Regulus has been extremely lucky. Now? Now, he is counting his luck on his fingers, knowing it is running out; not knowing what might happen once it is found out.

One Black brother down, one Black heir left to go, it would be another gossip mill, ‘the younger brother isn’t better than the oldest one after all, all of the Black descendants are rotten, the entire code has been compromised, shame on them.’ Though if—when it gets out, that Regulus has been stealing books and learning Ancient languages, it might trigger something unprecedented.

It was always meant to be the Blacks. One child after another, from generation to generation, ‘descendant from the Gods, born and bred to take over when the time comes,’ though that ‘time’ has never truly been determined. If Gods are able to live for four millenia, why shouldn’t they be able to live for another ten? Twenty? Forever? What is the purpose of having ten families on the backburner in the case a God might die—vanish—evaporate? And how does a God die, exactly?

Regulus has spent quite some time thinking about this. When is a God not a God? Regulus thinks he might have an idea.

A God only exists in people’s minds, is only defined by perceptions, beliefs, and societal frameworks.

Their Gods are a unifying force, they are the guiding influence for every decision made aboard the ship. They used to be present, to walk this ship, to talk to their people. Gods used to be revered and entirely part of their ecosystem, before they decided to retreat in the God room. Before they chose the Riddles as messengers.

When is a God not a God?

When one stops believing in it.

Regulus wonders whether Gods can die; or if they must be killed.

There are other families that could take over Regulus’ role, should he be found out and dealt with, but it has been the Blacks for four millenia. The nine other chosen families exist as spares for catastrophic events—a plague or a meteor, a cataclysm. None of them have ever been told what Regulus has been told, just 'how special you are, unique now, the only Black capable of doing what your brother never could, you’re stronger than him, you’re better than him, you can do this the way he never could have.'

It’s all lies, rotten truths, but this rot is his family’s fault, shared over centuries of reinforcement, evil and entitlement trickling down, inbreeding to give way to Sirius and Regulus, both betrayers of their blood in their own right.

Sirius’ betrayal runs deep, forty-six levels down. Regulus’ is more dangerous, a game played over almost a decade of illegal walks down to Riddle’s book room, learning languages and questioning the Gods’ authority in silence. So Regulus suspects his betrayal might run deeper than Sirius’.

Sirius’ was visible and obvious, with immediate consequences.

Regulus’ is ongoing and secret.

And yet, here Regulus is, in the forbidden book room, putting everything in jeopardy—his family’s status and his own—to find a book about something he only knows the bare minimum about. But the book room, as Regulus has come to find out, contains a variety of subjects: old tomes and newer ones, a variety of subjects in a variety of languages, though he’s only been able to decipher a few—Latin, Greek, French, their ancient scripts now more familiar patterns.

He’s trying not to eat more than he can chew. Oh, but he’s chewing now, looking for a bridge between the vivid dream and this reality. For the first time, he starts looking for something on purpose. He’s seeing black and white again and it’s frustrating, the dual tone isn’t enough anymore, not now that he’s experienced the rest, not now that he knows there are colors beyond his spectrum, not white and more, just—beyond somewhere, and he knows—knows there has to be a book on color, there has to, this cannot be forgotten data, it can’t—

He finds it on the lower shelf. His fingers brush against the smooth leather and its worn spine, as if it’s been pulled and replaced many times before. With a trembling hand, he reaches out and draws it from its resting place. The cover is plain, no title etched into its surface, but when he flips it open, the first page greets him with an illustration of a prism, light bending and breaking into a spectrum of greys that have names. Yellow, blue, green, purple, red, orange.

Important enough in another life, then, that they’d be given names.

Important enough that Riddle would have kept a record of it.

He flips through the book quickly, words snagging his vision; passages on symbolism, on the physiological and psychological effects of color, on the way societies throughout history have used color to communicate. And it’s flipping through the pages that Regulus has a realization: should he leave the book room with this book, it’ll cement his otherness. If Regulus leaves with this book, he’ll read it. And if he reads it, he’ll carve a place where he is neither just spare or heir, but betrayer instead.

It’s a used book, unlike the majority of the other books in the room, which means its absence is bound to be noticeable. Reckless, to take it with him. Reckless, to even consider it.

And yet.

 

---

 

“You’re acting weird,” Remus observes, gaze piercing through the semi-darkness of their shared workspace.

Regulus barely looks up from the book in his lap, eyes flitting to the table data overlay where star maps float before his eyes before settling on Remus.

“No?” he responds in feigned nonchalance.

Remus raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Yes. Secretive. You’re hiding something.”

Regulus is. He’s hiding a discovery so monumental it threatens to fall off his mouth every second he isn’t speaking about it, yellow and blue and purple crowding the back of his mouth with the determination to come out, the ferocious urge to be pronounced out loud, to exist.

Still, he says, “No.”

Before Remus can counter, the door to their office starts to slide open with a hiss. Regulus drops the book between his thighs to hide it, eyes lifting to Avery, and oh. He doesn’t need to hear Avery’s words, devoid of emotion, to know their content; the directive from the Gods is as predictable as the orbit of a planet these days. It’s instinct, his hand lifting to his chest, rubbing, smoothing, circling.

They’ve been hovering over Caelumina-1b for less than a day, not enough time to truly decide, not nearly enough time to gather the necessary data—

“The Gods do not wish to set their people down on Caelumina-1b. Do you have a new course for us yet?” It echoes off the metal walls, sliding down the panels and coming to rest on the floor like dead things, before taking on a new life and sliding up like cold fingers to reach Regulus, to cement his feet to the floor. It’s the death of another planet, a new hard stop for Regulus to weather, research going out the airlock and into space, freezing a project before its time. Caelumina-1b—planet eleven, hop, on the tally of Regulus’ Perfectly Fine Failed Planets.

He hates Avery. Hates the Gods. Hates Riddle. Hates his brother. Hates himself and his inability to let go of unfin

He doesn’t have another planet locked in yet, not really. But…he looks up at the overlay. “There is this galaxy—” He starts, and doesn’t remember how to end the sentence. He blinks awake again. Rubbing, smoothing, circling.

It’s Remus who helps. “Zephyrion, Sir. We are looking into Zephyrion. Right, Regulus?”

The galaxy. He can focus on the direction of the galaxy. Clearing his throat, he blinks again and looks at Avery, nodding, hand pressed against his chest. He has to track the abandoned sentence. “...Zephyrion,” he confirms. “I am looking in that direction, so Remus can start leading us there.” It’s not like we aren’t in constant movement, he doesn’t say. Not like we have been aimlessly wandering the universe for thousands of years. Not like a few days without purpose will change anything. Not like there is a planet right there that can host us. Not like I’m not finished I’m not finished I’m not finished I’mnotfinishedI’mnot

Avery nods, something passing through his features, there-and-gone too quickly for Regulus to analyze. Something sympathetic yet cold. Regulus blinks again, and Avery’s face is stone cold as he turns around and leaves.

Regulus turns to Remus, who looks at him with something like pity. With something like I’ll try to distract you.

“Why Zephyrion?” He asks, and Regulus lets out a sigh. Eyes closing, he inhales a few deep breaths, trying to cure the itch of his fingers against his heart, the not finishednot finis

Breathing out again, Regulus’ fingers slide from his chest and glide over the display to bring up the data on Zephyrion, and he tries. Tries to let his brain disconnect from Caelumina-1b. Tries to move on. “It’s located in a particularly stable region,” he starts, and yes. He can do this. “It’s far away enough from the volatile energy emissions of the closest supernovae and the gravitational disruptions of the dense star clusters you have on the periphery.” His fingers are shaking still, and Remus gestures at him, go ahead, continue, so Regulus does. “It’s—it’s got a high number of G-type stars, regions where a planet could have liquid water on its surface. And where there’s water, there’s…”

“—the possibility of life,” Remus finishes.

Regulus nods, pointing at the screen, on the right hand side. “There’s also an indication of metal-rich planets there, more likely to have a geologically active core.”

Remus stares at him for a beat too long, assessing the damage. Seemingly satisfied at what he finds, he smiles. “I never thought about it this way.”

Regulus echoes Remus’ smile. It’s a half-hearted attempt, but it’s there. The try.

“That’s why I’m in charge of directions and planet viability, and you’re in charge of mapping optimization and obstacle avoidance.”

 

---

 

He meets the boy twenty-six days after his very first encounter with not white.

He’s dreaming again, no colors to be found in this dream yet, but there is water. So much of it, crashing relentlessly against the shore, kissing his feet. He recognizes the beach from a book, yet now he tastes the sand crunching under his teeth, something almost metallic about the briny air, and wind. All three—the wind, the sand, the ocean’s roar—are entirely new experiences for him, borrowed from pages, yet he can feel it all in his sleep; the bite of cold in the wind and the way his hair whips at his temples, squinting eyes against the too white sun and the too cold wind.

The ship’s temperature is controlled, and wind doesn’t exist away from the pages of four thousand year old books. Regulus doesn’t get cold. Doesn’t feel wind. He lives in a metal box. A glorified cage, really. Once again, he wonders whether his brain can actually dream up something like this; can his mind create experiences he’s never physically known? Is it possible to dream of places and sensations one has only read about?

Except, of course, one can, because Regulus is.

It’s been twenty-six days and Regulus knows to be patient, now. Within minutes, colors start to bleed into his dream, touching material and infusing it with life and dimension. Sand turns warm, sky turns cold, water like sky and sun like sand. It’s all the same color palette but Regulus doesn’t have a name for them yet; he lacks the words, the reference from his book needed to label each shade correctly. What is blue, and what is yellow? What is orange and purple? Which one’s which? He’s unable to associate a color to its rightful name, all he knows is the sand and the sun are the same color but not, the same way the sky and the ocean match without matching. All he knows is that it’s beautiful, and Regulus never wants to wake up.

This is his dream, but he’s not alone, and here is the thing.

Regulus rarely dreams of people. He dreams of faraway lands and non-recycled air, languages and Sirius. He dreams of planets one through eleven and all the things he could have become there. He dreams of faceless crowds that do not interact with him at all. It’s a longing for things Regulus will never get to have, metaphoric dreams that lead to him waking up empty somehow.

He rarely dreams of people and interaction.

So isn’t it strange, when he starts.

It takes a while for Regulus to notice him. His dream is loud with the sound of waves crashing and wind flowing, sun too harsh, the smooth popping sound of sea foam as the water retreats before attacking the shore once again. By the time Regulus hears the sandy steps and turns away from the ocean view, the boy is almost already in front of him, walking down Regulus’ dream like he belongs there, like he’s been here before, like he isn’t interrupting. Eyes on Regulus’, he walks with confident strides, giving Regulus ample time to take note of the boy’s appearance.

Not only does the boy not belong in Regulus’ dream, he also looks different. His skin has a deep, rich tone, a unique shade that Regulus can’t quite define. Equally dark hair, tall and—broad. Bright-colored top and neutral-colored pants wet up to his calves, barefoot, he lacks the short and lanky shape of Regulus’ people, yet doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. He radiates a sense of ease and unburdened existence, like nothing Regulus has ever seen before. Well-fed and muscled. Free, perhaps, to take up space. His eyes are nothing short of extraordinary, the same shade as his skin but not, and the absolute lack of words to describe him enrages Regulus. This inability to describe or even categorize what he sees fills him with frustration. He’s reached a glass ceiling separating him from a richer, more nuanced language, a lexicon filled with the precise terms for tones, shades, and colors that would enable him to articulate what stands before him. Regulus has taught himself so much, and it’s been so long since he’s felt this intensifying yearning for the knowledge and words that remain frustratingly out of reach. He wants to scream. Never wants to wake up. Wants to lift his hands up and touch the boy who looks like the start of an unfamiliar, shaky promise.

The boy walks towards Regulus with a single-minded focus, barely paying attention to their surroundings, and stops before him. Smiling, he opens his mouth, and unfamiliar sounds begin to form.

Regulus likes to praise himself for his cool-headedness.

He is a man of science. He doesn’t feel surges of emotions. He doesn’t get overwhelmed by them.

And yet.

The voice is jarring enough to shatter his dream. The beach, the wind, the sun, and the boy dissolve into the ether of his subconscious, leaving Regulus gasping awake in his pod.

 

---

 

“Can your brain invent a language?” Regulus asks Remus the next day. He’s barely hiding the urgency, the need to tell someone, to I’ve seen a boy, I made him up, he speaks alien, he’s real and he’s not and I need to speak about it to someone, anyone, you, Sirius, Sirius, SiriusSiriusSiriusIwantmybrother. His hand has barely left his chest since last night, the echo of emptiness stronger somehow.

His surprise had woken him up; he has never heard of it happening—of people dreaming.

People do not dream of boys in colors speaking an unknown language.

People do not dream of boys in colors.

People do not dream of boys.

People do not dream.

“Sure, I have—I am,” Remus amends.

This isn’t it, it’s not what I’m asking, Sirius would have understood, Sirius would have known and I want my brother, I want my brother, I want my brotherIneedmybrother.

Regulus tries. Takes a deep breath, and tries to calm the tumultuous thoughts banging around. “But, unintentionally?”

Remus stops, and Regulus watches as his expression morphs into something. Something in his eyes, strange and perplexing…awed. He is silent for far too long, long enough for Regulus to question himself, to want to melt into the ship, to want to disappear, to close his eyes and fall asleep and go back—

“What does it sound like?” Remus finally asks, breaking the dense silence that had seemed to press against Regulus’ chest, crushing him with its weight.

Regulus whips his head around. “What?”

“The language,” Remus presses. “What does it sound like?”

Oh. Oh, he’s not crazy, he isn’t, and Remus is listening. Isn’t running away. Isn’t looking at him like he’s going spare. So, Regulus thinks on it. Soft, he thinks. Strong rhotic sounds, but entirely too short on enough data to really say. He doesn’t know the root, if it’s even a real language.

Scigua is about intonation. The same word, spelled in the exact same way, but can be pronounced up to eight different ways to mean eight very different things. Energy efficiency is sensible, of course. In a ship, this is the way. Their predecessors figured ways to harness, reuse and recycle everything in the ship to make it self-sustainable. Scigua is structured and energy-efficient, self-contained, like their ship. In a world as limited and controlled as theirs, why develop a more expansive language?

This is a direct result of four thousand years of snuffing out what was considered useless. Regulus doesn’t see it as a gift as much as a curse. There has never been a place for new. For creation. For invention. Things are good as they are, blessed by the Gods. Why would they need different? Regulus guesses they must have had a bigger language, once, when they lived on Earth. But a planet’s myriad variables demand a language capable of capturing its diversity and nuance, unlike the ship’s predictable confines. On the ship, there is no need for linguistic abundance. Scigua serves its purpose well, embodying the principle of maximal utility from minimal variation. Why create more, when you can use the same thing in multiple ways?

This efficiency falls short when it comes to experience. Mathematics in their world is a binary endeavor: solutions are either correct or incorrect, like the operational ethos of their society. Data does not lie; it shows trends, allows people to do things better, see where the efficiency is, where it’s leaking from, patch it up.

But data doesn’t see passion.

Mathematics does not understand love.

Regulus hadn’t, either. Until Sirius taught him; slithering his way to Regulus’ room, opening up forbidden, unreadable books with an unreadable language, and marveling at all the combination of words, the sheer amount of letters available in these alphabets. The forbidden books Sirius showed him weren’t purposeful. They were poetic, extra, entirely purposeless. Creative even. Filled with words and images to dream. Sirius would invent stories based on the images; they would try to decipher the words and sentences. Make sense of something that they’d never been exposed to.

Regulus’ favorite game—then and now—was learning from an old, manually written translation dictionary his father had kept as keepsake. He’s taught himself some of the Ancient Tongue. Scigua is derived, heavily, from one of the first languages of their forebears: Latin, the Ancient Tongue.

All in all, it is entirely possible that his brain would have fed him garbles, but…it felt different from normal dreams. A normal dream feels stake-less, barely worth remembering. This one doesn’t. This one feels worth everything. What had come out of the boy’s mouth…Huw ɑrh yu, it has sounded like; coming from the throat, unlike their own language, which comes mainly from the back of their tongue.

Regulus’ language is as binary and purposeful as everyone’s mission on the ship. Everything they have, everything they stand for, overlooks the essence of emotion and creativity.

It’s the way. Everything must serve a purpose. If you are not being purposeful, then you are being wasteful, and that’s a crime. That is punishable. Everything is economical and meant to fill a purpose, things and people alike.

There are consequences for being useless, Regulus knows all about it. Saw it happen first hand.

Dreams guide you nowhere but space, and space isn’t kind to people. Deforming and aggressive, space takes what it is given and transforms. Life to death.

It’s been years but Regulus remembers.

You never forget a murder you’re responsible for.

“Regulus?”

Regulus blinks. “Huh?”

“The language,” Remus urges. “What did it sound like?”

Regulus considers options, ways to describe the indescribable, words sticking to the back of his throat. “Like a—dream,” he says. Like indulgence. Like a secret I am sharing with you, trusting you not to ruin it. Like terror. Like the future.

Remus looks at him for a beat too long.

Then, “I’ll teach you my code.”

 

---

 

There is a learnt level of comfort to Regulus and Remus’ routine, now. It’s born out of secrets, mostly, though more has started to bleed from it. Tentative olive branches, little tidbits of information to get to the truth of what they are.

“I don’t understand.”

“You are thinking too analytically, Regulus. Languages are something primal that started to exist in order to understand one another better. You have to stop thinking analytically.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re inventing the language.”

“It’s similar to binary but code, infused with a little flavor, it’s not that complicated. You’re the one who wanted to learn, so focus,” Remus says, pointing to their shared tablet.

Regulus crosses his arms in front of his chest, anchoring his skepticism in his stance. “And how do you know so much about this anyway?” The words come out more accusatory than questioning.

In response, Remus’ face turns into something twisted. It isn’t anger, too complex and shaded—nostalgia then, perhaps. Pain. Remus pushes the tablet away.

“You’ve never been in the Lower Levels, have you?”

Regulus’ response is a shake of the head, which Remus acknowledges with a nod, cheeks hollowing as he draws in a thoughtful breath. “I see you with your illegal books, you know.”

The air between them turns icy, and Regulus has the urge to defend his actions. “They aren’t illegal, they’re—”

“They are,” Remus interrupts with dismissive ease, “but this isn’t the point. I assume you know more about our ancestors than you’re willing to share.” Regulus looks at Remus blankly, so Remus waves his hand. “You must have read about our past…about Earth. What does this planet have that we don’t?” He asks, watching Regulus closely, a challenge in his eyes.

It all cascades in, flooding Regulus’ mind—all the planets he knows and their spherical celestial bodies, big and full of fresh air. Lovely looking and not made of metal, with these things called trees and bodies of water so large Regulus cannot even fathom. Everything, he wants to say. But this isn’t what Remus wants to hear. He sifts through his thoughts, beyond the physical attributes and back to Earth; he thinks of continents, and people, and languages, and—

“Cultures. They have cultures.”

Remus nods in approval, expression softening. “They don’t teach you this in the Upper Levels, because it’s frowned upon, but ignorance doesn’t negate existence. The Lower Levels have something the Upper Levels will never have, and the Upper Levels will never be taught about it, because it would be entirely too disruptive.”

“Privacy?”

Remus shakes his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Curiosity, Regulus. We lack the polish and pretense of the Upper Levels, but we are curious. That is what drives us. And that is something the Upper Levels, for all your sophistication, will never have."

“I don't understand."

Remus’ smile dies, turns into a scowl. “Regulus, you aren’t listening to me.”

He is. It’s all—a lot. A lot of information, a lot of everything, speed-running from colleague to friend to confidant, and Regulus hasn’t had one in so long. Being vulnerable, opening up to someone who could turn around on him at the drop of a hat. It’s terrifying.

Remus pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was born in the dark, knowing there was better above. We all were. The Lower Level, we… this is what spurred us into curiosity. Curiosity is questions, and questions bring answers, and answers bring traditions, and traditions bring culture. The stories and the dreams, the relentless work and the knowledge that most of us would never become anything else. You don’t know what that’s like.”

The thing is, Regulus doesn’t. Never did, because the only things above the Blacks are Riddle as the Gods’ messenger, and above Riddle are the Gods.

Regulus wishes to be neither messenger nor God—despite his family’s purpose, and thus never needed to long for something more.

Until.

Colors.

The amount of history of their people is so limited, it might as well not even exist. It’s the history everyone learns at school, in-between mathematics, geometry, astronomy, sciences of all kinds.

The Gods had been chased off their planet—Earth—by monsters with eight limbs, spider-like and vicious, ruthless and ruled by their emotions. Unable to reason with these spirit-demons, the Gods had taken to the sky and created them—Regulus’ people. A species ruled by strategy and science. As such, technology was the savior, the form and function, sign and signifier determining only what must happen, not what might. Machina: the only science worth learning.

There is evidence of their ancestors seeing colors, though the ability faded over time, another needless extra in a binary world where it wasn’t needed. Vestigiality, shedding pieces of ourselves because the ability for color was no longer necessary for survival, removing the useless bits to get to the brain beneath. Stick to the matter, the core of the importance, the numbers.

Regulus wonders if people missed it, at first. If everyone woke up one day in black and white, or if the process was much more sinister, losing shades and colors over generations, faded hues until the scale was monochrome. If it bothered them at all.

If it bothers them, now, this three-tone life.

It bothers Regulus.

Grey isn’t enough, and opening his eyes is a chore. He dreams of warm-colored skin and light-colored skies, but it’s his brain dreaming up a lie. The world he lives in isn’t colorful; and if it is and he just can't see it...Regulus never thought much about it before.

He thinks about it, now.

 

---

 

Regulus meets the boy again two nights after.

It’s the same dream, that exact beach with those exact same colors, but there is a bench now, and on it sits the boy, whose entire face lights up when he sees Regulus.

He’s holding a—flower?, and says something in that strange tongue, mouth turned up in a smile, eyes guarded. He looks… not scared. Not happy—or at least, not really. It takes Regulus entirely too long to pinpoint the boy’s expression.

Nervous.

He’s looking at Regulus patiently, flower in his hand, rolling the stem between his fingers in a soothing gesture and a nervous tic.

And Regulus stares, and stares, and stares, wondering how this complete stranger can look so damn comfortable in his dream, and how sad his brain must be to conjure a person for him. How lonely he must be, to seek socialization while asleep.

It’s pathetic. But...

“Hello,” he says, advancing a few steps towards the boy. His hand instinctively rises, pressing against his chest, seeking the familiar void within, only to come up empty. Regulus freezes, perplexed, and pushes against his chest further, bewildered.

There is a lack of—lack, in his chest; a cold cavity suddenly filled.

The boy replies something he cannot make sense of, which is paradoxical given that it is his own brain that conceived it. It’s his dream, he should be in command of its logic. It’s unseemly, having a brain working against you. The brain is supposed to help you work through things, not trick you into more confusion.

“Can you speak again?” he asks. The stranger observes him, cocks his head, and raises a hand to hide his face. He speaks a stream of gibberish, mouth half-covered by his hand, concluding with an emphatic word. He then lowers his hand and articulates another thing, which Regulus frowns at, eliciting a groan from the boy, who then exhales and looks up toward the colorful sky.

He stays in that position for so long, in fact, that Regulus begins to suspect his brain has immobilized the boy, and then. The boy carelessly discards the flower, rises, locks eyes with Regulus, and approaches until they stand face to face.

It’s right then that Regulus discovers something new: The sky is cool-toned and light, and the ocean is cool-toned and dark, the same color but different, and all of this is accurate of course, entirely true. But there is something else. From up close, colors have shades.

The boy’s skin is dark, his eyes are dark, his hair is dark—almost black, if black had failed at taking away and vampirizing all of the color from the boy’s body. It’s a dark that’s warm, rich, deep and neutral. It’s a dark that’s stable and enticing, instead of the dark void of black. The boy looks like comfort. Like the foundation of something.

It’s a dark that shifts.

Hands are lighter, the palm of his hands almost pale, but darker around the eyes, darker even in the cheeks. It’s all variations. Shades. Regulus wishes he had the words to compare. Linguistic relativity. ‘Not black’ sounds like such a lackluster word, compared to the vibrant boy in front of him. It’s like the spectrum of grey Regulus has come to prefer to regular black and white. Grey is variations, offers the opportunity for complicated notes.

The boy looks like a complicated note.

Like a lovely, complicated note.

He clears his throat, and Regulus looks back at the boy, paying attention once again. The boy is smiling, somewhere between uneasy and amused. He lifts a hand, makes a pointer with his index, and points at himself.

“Jayyigmeseuh,” he says. Enunciating. Taking his time.

He then points at Regulus, and lifts his eyebrows expectantly. The moment Regulus gets it, he is so surprised he gasps—and wakes himself up.

 

---

 

“Fuck.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Art by Trickster

 

Scigua has borrowed elements from Vietnamese, which is known for its extensive use of tonal variations. In Vietnamese, there are six distinct tones: level, high rising, low falling, dipping-rising, high rising broken, and heavy. Each tone alters the meaning of a word, even if the spelling remains the same. Like "ma" can mean "ghost", "mother", "tomb", "horse" and rice seedling."
WHICH IS CRAZY and I love it.

Did you know the smallest alphabet is the Rotokas alphabet (we think). it's spoken in Papua New Guinea and consists of 12 letters, it's possibly the smallest phonemic inventories in the world. It has A, E, G, I, K, O, P, R, S, T, U, and V, each corresponding to a phonemic sound. So it's like super efficient and streamlined.

Regressive evolution is FASCINATING. My philosophy teacher used to tell us (10 years ago but oh well) that it was entirely possible women would stop having a tiny toe in a few generations because females wear pointy shoes.

Anyway that's it I did sweat and cry (but only once) and briefly considered a swift exit from life while writing this chapter, so if you liked it and wanted to like, let me know, it's always welcomed.

Come say hi on Tumblr

Mars

Chapter 5: ('lucid');('war')

Summary:

I think the Gods want it back.

Notes:

Thank you for your patience :)

Regulus’ fingers trail over the spine of books from the book room. He’s getting frustrated; none of what he wants is here. Of course, this is only a small part of the problem. His frustration comes from different sources, books being the least of them. It’s just easier, pretending.

Regulus is slowly losing his mind, and doesn’t know what to do about it.

A war has started, everything taking place inside, and Regulus will not be bested by his own anatomy. His brain might be his best asset, but it’s useless to Regulus if it doesn’t behave.

If it doesn’t stop creating this boy out of thin air.

If it doesn’t stop bombarding Regulus with this insidious, passive-aggressive here’s someone to alleviate your solitude, you lonely little boy.

‘Knowledge is power’, Remus once said. ‘Learn about it’, Sirius would say.

And so Regulus is back in the book room—the book on color having been inconspicuously put back in its place, this time for something different.

Bending down, he picks up two books—neither of which are what he wants, but close enough, perhaps, to enlighten him some. One is about dream interpretation, the other about diseases; perhaps his subconscious is trying to tell him something. Perhaps he’s dying from an incurable disease and his brain is sending him this boy as a farewell: you’ve been alone for so long and you’re about to die, but I’m nice so here’s a good-looking boy for you to stare at as you expire. Look, I’ll make him speak too, but not one of the languages you know, then it wouldn’t be fun anymore. He opens both, sifting through the contents, taming the rioting thoughts telling him these aren’t going to be giving him the knowledge he’s looking for.

He’s sure he read something about dreams in one of these books, ages ago; about children calming themselves before sleep. He’d skimmed it because insomnia hadn’t been a problem he had been trying to fix then…and because trying to ‘calm himself’ before sleep did the exact opposite. The word is escaping him now, confusing because it’s right here in the corner of his mind, peeking and retreating every time Regulus gets too close to naming it. He knows it, has read it, has seen it written before, and yet he’s aimless in his search, two books in his hands but it’s not enough: the problem is bigger than two books; a person he created is wandering his dreams and speaking to him.

He refuses to search the database, doesn’t know who might have access to the information. He doesn’t want to leave a trace, or encourage questions. He has enough he’d like a response to on his own. Dreams aren’t a hot topic on the ship, and Regulus is aiming for stealth.

On the ship, dreams are a by-product of sleep; their only purpose is to occupy the mind while it is gone. Engaging with one’s dreams isn’t done, and trying to decipher them is deemed futile, considering their…lack of originality. Dreams to Regulus’ people are as foreign as the distant galaxies they pass by—observed but never explored. His people do not dream like Regulus does, but they also do not read, and Regulus remembers before.

Before, his dreams did not venture in the what-ifs of potentialities.

Before Sirius started infusing Regulus’ brain with concepts and stories, inventing some tales from basic pictures. Focused not on what was, but on what could be. Before his brother surreptitiously started implanting malware in Regulus’ mind, enabling the initial programming to expand and interweave with other knowledge. Before introducing him to the concept of if.

A curse, this if; impossible to get rid of.

Regulus never used to dream. Dreaming is a creative endeavor, which doesn’t make sense when there is nothing to yearn for. The dream is the brain’s desire unearthed. If there is nothing to desire, there is nothing to dream of.

That, of course, Sirius had to destroy as well.

To dream is to desire, and to desire is to acknowledge a lack, a void that needs filling. Almost twenty years since Sirius started telling him stories, since he unknowingly pushed his hands into Regulus’ chest and dug a hole, dragging in a sense of incompleteness he had never known before.

The more he dreams, the more acutely he feels the constraints of his reality.

The more he wants to push against them.

This is the secret.

Regulus started dreaming early on; Sirius taught him how. And then, Sirius got exiled but the dreams didn’t, malware implanted and efficient in its ruthless power.

Now, colors have started to appear.

Now, his brain has conjured up a boy who roams within his dreams, and Regulus needs to stop waking up. Needs to engage with this cerebral construct by interrogating the boy. He needs to sleep better, more profoundly, while still being lucid enough—

Regulus freezes.

Lucid.

He finds it in the last row: Lucid dreaming.

If Regulus cannot make his brain speak the correct language, he’ll learn to control it enough to do so. This is his brain, the most important part of him, what shapes his entire being. He isn’t going to let it keep a secret.

 

---

 

The problem with opening up to someone, say, your colleague, is that it can foster more than trust. Sometimes, trust engenders this compelling urge to overshare with someone to whom Regulus really shouldn’t be word-vomiting to—someone like Remus. And it’s tragic, how close to almost telling Remus Regulus is, inching nearer with each passing day. Like today.

Remus is in the process of adjusting their course; they’re four hours away from a meteor shower hitting them straight on, and Remus is busy. For Sun’s sake, Regulus is busy, he doesn’t have time to—

“I—”

He clamps his lips shut, furious with himself.

Remus half-turns towards Regulus, lifting a brow, barely taking note of Regulus’ state. His hands are flying over the touchscreen panel. “Mhm?”

Regulus shakes his head, caught. “Nothing.”

It just gets progressively worse.

The next day, Regulus opens his mouth, words like ‘dreaming’ and ‘colors’ on the tip of his tongue. He stays stuck for so long, words lingering on his taste buds, refusing to come out despite being desperate to do so, that Remus has to snap his fingers to bring Regulus’ attention back to him.

And worse.

The day after, there are at least four instances where Regulus opens his mouth, only to leave it open and quiet, and it’s ridiculous.

And worse.

“I have to tell you something,” he tries on day four, except Remus nods, then waits. And waits. And waits, and nothinghappens.

Regulus is too used to secrets. He isn’t used to letting people in.

On day five, Remus seemingly has had enough, and corners him.

“Regulus.”

His tone is so uncharacteristically serious that Regulus immediately freezes, caught off guard, and expecting, somehow, to have been found out. But Remus stays where he is, and doesn’t say more. His eyebrows do lift, though, encouraging, and Regulus blinks.

“What?”

“Spit it out.”

Regulus blinks again, and Remus insists. “That thing.”

“Thing?”

“Regulus.” It’s chiding. “That thing you’ve been attempting to birth out for days. What is it.” It doesn’t quite come as an order, though there is an inflection of something authoritative in it.

“I haven’t—”

“You are the second-best liar I have ever met, Regulus, now spit it out.”

“Who’s the first one?”

“I’m not telling you that,” Remus dismisses. “You tell me your thing.”

Well. Now they have to fight.

Regulus glares up at Remus, who immediately sighs. He mutters under his breath, something about Blacks being annoying, drags his hand across his face, and Regulus really doesn’t think Remus has a leg to stand on. “Regulus, I know what you’re about to say, and—”

“You tell me who’s the best liar, and I’ll tell you my ‘thing’,” Regulus interrupts.

Remus’ second sigh is, if at all possible, more tragic. “You were foaming at the mouth to tell me, and now you’re attempting to negotiate?”

Regulus shrugs. “You got me curious.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Remus.”

“No.”

“Remus. You’ve seen more of this ship than anyone I know. The odds that I would even know the best liar is abysmal.”

“Ah,” Remus says, embarrassed.

And the thing is, Regulus is smart, he is. But he’s also—as Remus so graciously put it—foaming at the mouth, to tell someone what’s been happening to him. And so, he misses it. The embarrassment, the sudden discomfort; it flies right past him, so focused that Regulus is on the thing he wants to say.

It only takes a handful of further nudges before the words cascade from Regulus’ tongue. He feels drugged, speaking in the small office space. Quietly. Whispering, “I’ve been dreaming.”

Remus isn’t expecting that.

Regulus knows he isn’t, because the surprise sends Remus’ hand gliding from the edge of the touchscreen panel, losing its anchor and flailing into the empty space below. His entire expression—shock and something else—plummets, and his face collides ungracefully with the surface of the table.

“I swear to the Sun—” Remus’ words are muffled against the interface as he groans, then slowly, he shifts. His eyes, wide with a mix of confusion and revelation, lock onto Regulus. Silence envelops them, and Remus doesn’t speak for a long time.

And then.

Then, he blows Regulus’ mind.

“I’ve been dreaming, too.”

 

---

 

There is a planet in a solar system they have never been to; far away—at least eight months of travel time, not that that has stopped them before. Remus and Regulus have finalized the plan, the planet looks good, it’s all systems go—

But then Riddle calls them into a meeting regarding this new trajectory, and Regulus gets that usual sinking feeling, the dread of unfinished creeping up in his gut.

“Not that one,” Riddle declares flatly, and Regulus is struck by an urge to both laugh and scream, the unfinished lingering like a sour aftertaste. Which one, then?, he wants to ask. The more Regulus works, the more rejection he faces, the more it feels like Riddle isn’t just looking for a planet. There is an elusive, missing piece. A hidden agenda Regulus does not have access to, that contains all the reasons why his curated selection of planets are deemed inadequate somehow. But asking any sort of question would raise suspicions, and you do not question the Gods, so Regulus is silent. Still. Question is doubt, is curiosity, is rebellion. Isn’t allowed, this much Regulus knows;  another unwritten rule that seems entirely too clear in its invisibility.

So Regulus opens his mouth to agree, to of course, to we’ll find another, when Remus does something unexpected.

His voice is agreeable, almost conversational. Toneless, with a dangerous undercurrent. Regulus has heard it before. In Sirius. It’s detached authority, polite and devoid of warmth and empathy.

“Would you be able to provide us with more accurate specifications concerning the Gods’ desired planet?”

It’s almost clinical in nature, the way Remus iterates the words, and Regulus freezes. He wants to die. Melt into the table, through the floor, into the Lower Levels. He looks down at his hands, feeling the frost settle as Riddle tilts his head, almost…pleasantly surprised?

“Excuse me?”

Remus clears his throat, undeterred by Riddle’s dangerous smile, and powers on. “Is it possible that, perhaps, we may be missing some key data that would more clearly define the scope of research? Certain aspects that may allow us to choose better?”

“Choose better,” Riddle echoes flatly.

“The planet,” Remus clarifies, then thinks better of it and tacks on, “For our landing.”

Riddle raises a brow. His head is tilted still, like Remus’ audacity is too surprising to condemn. Eventually, he appears to get himself back under control.

“Your job is not to worry about landings. It is to find suitable planets for the Gods to review.”

Something in Riddle’s tone hits Regulus’ mind awry, scratches the wrong side of his brain. He doesn’t react, unwilling to show his feelings in front of a man who reeks of too much intelligence. Riddle is that, intelligent and more. He is one of the most important members of the ship. You do not speak ill of the Gods, and you certainly do not speak ill of their Messenger. You do not speak up. If at all possible, you do not speak.

Sirius did, and look where that got him. Audacity doesn’t lead you ahead on the ship. It leads you below.

But what Riddle said…or rather, what he did not say.

‘Your job is not to worry about landings.’

Perhaps Regulus imagined it all, but he is now rapidly reviewing every interaction he has ever had or heard about involving Riddle.

There have always been tales of finding a planet.

There has never, not once, been talk of what would happen once that planet was found.

If…if it was just a matter of finding a viable planet—breathable air, right size, not too hot or cold, Regulus would have succeeded on the first try. Good atmosphere, decent size, it had it all. Seekers before him, too, had found suitable planets. There is a list of all the rejected planets, their details, passed down from Seeker to Seeker.

It’s part of the job, having this access to the previous Seekers’ research. It’s…possible Regulus might have been a little too proud. Looking back, all the planets identified by previous Seekers were no less remarkable than his own. None of these planets were ever unsuitable.

It’s occurring to Regulus now, striking him with the clarity of a solved equation.

Doubts started to creep in after the dismissal of the fourth planet, though Regulus swallowed it back. Perhaps the Gods were looking for something specific, perhaps they knew something Regulus didn’t. After all, the Gods are the only ones who ever once lived on a planet.

It had never occurred to Regulus, until today, that perhaps the Gods weren’t simply looking for a planet.

That, perhaps, they were looking for theirs.

 

---

 

“Do you ever think about it?” he asks Remus a few days later.

They’re in the Lab again, neither of them even pretending to work on a new destination. Regulus’ head is bent in his book, Lucid Dreaming, while Remus is staring into space. No notebook, no pen, he’s just—there, which is highly uncharacteristic of him, to look so…lost.

“Hm?”

“What Riddle said. About the planet.”

Remus takes his time, considering his words.

Regulus is conscious of their friendship, its newness. His colleague is becoming more honest, but he’s overly careful, too; mindful of the way Regulus is a Black, and Blacks are close to Riddle, and Regulus is nice, but how nice is he, really? And how true? Regulus cannot fault him for it. This entire thing is new.

Eventually, Remus nods. “Do you have any ideas what he might want?”

Regulus goes to fiddle with a page, smoothing it over and over again. “Earth….?” It comes out as a statement first, though it finishes as a question.

Remus frowns. “You think he wants to destroy it?”

“Not it.” The confusion on Remus’ part intensifies, so Regulus clears his throat, and lets it out: “Them.” Remus doesn’t look any more reassured, and Regulus elaborates once again. “Our ancestors. Where we are coming from.”

“You think he’s trying to find the planet we come from? Why?”

But the thread has been unspooled, and Regulus is just following the trail. “If it was just about finding a hospitable planet, any of the ones we presented would have done the job.”

“What would be the point? Our ancestors left this planet for a reason; why would they want to come back?”

Regulus shrugs. “To reclaim it.”

There is a weight to the words, sinking in between them, their significance slowly dawning on Remus. “Oh,” he says, the realization crystallizing. “You don’t think Riddle wants to make friends with a new indigenous species.”

“No.” Regulus confirms. He pauses, the weight of his next words even heavier somehow, “I think the Gods want it back.”

The silence stretches out, until Remus finally articulates the thought that both had been skirting around.“...Earth.”

Regulus nods.

It’s quiet for too long. Then, “You think he wants to kill them all, and reclaim the planet for us.”

Regulus’ reply twists and turns in his mouth for entirely too long, taking its time to form and refine before he speaks it. He doesn’t realize its power, nor its impact, until they’re spoken and resonating in the air, obliterating any other doubt he’s ever voiced out loud.

“I think we’re going to war.”

Notes:

You know where to find me x

Chapter 6: (’memorabilia’;’ghost’)

Summary:

But have you ever tried to contain a brother?

Notes:

Oops sorry guys I was struck by genius and added another scene anyway ignore yesterday's mishaps here we go.

It’s the same dream but it feels different; the colors are more vivid, and they’re there, instantly. Regulus awakens to his dream and it’s colorful already. This has never happened before.

The ocean is under a high, blazing sun, casting a brilliant radiance over waters that sparkle, and the air’s filled with salt again, carrying warmth. The sand around Regulus is untouched and sprawling, glistening almost as much as the ocean. Here and there, the occasional seashell or piece of driftwood lies scattered, giving Regulus’ dream more texture.

It feels like trespassing somehow. Like Regulus shouldn’t be here.

He has never had this feeling in a dream before. His dreams are comfortable usually, especially since he started having them in colors. It’s the one place where Regulus goes, where he doesn’t need to hide any secrets. Like taking a walk down your own private book room. Like lying down in your bed after the smell of Sirius’ sweater. Regulus’ dreams are inherently dipped in nostalgia somehow, which might be part of the reason why he struggles to find sleep in the first place.

It’s harder to confront nostalgia when you know it’s going to lead you down thoughts of disappearances and death.

This dream, though, doesn’t feel dipped in nostalgia.

It feels like an infraction, intruding on someone’s dream unannounced. Like when the door to his pod opens without his explicit agreement. Somewhat wrong.

It’s not terrifying, but it is uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, because unusual.

In Regulus’ life, and on the ship in particular, very little is left to the imagination. So Regulus is walking in this dream like one does on eggshells; carefully, looking around and taking notes of the variations, keeping his heart rate under control.

It’s almost the same dream. It’s just brighter.

And then, the boy—Jayyigmeseuh—appears. Too bright, too comfortable, he doesn’t look perturbed. Or confused. Or—overwhelmed by the vividness of this dream at all. In fact, like he’d done the first time, he ignores the setting, attention fully focused on Regulus…which doesn’t happen. To Regulus. Ever.

Parts of him are revered—his Black name, his pure blood, and parts of him are useful—the mere fact that he exists as spare, now heir, but no part of him is ever worth, just, attention. Certainly not worth whatever focus the boy seems able to muster up. Like Regulus…matters. Like he’s worth being seen.

The boy’s eyes aren’t set on the not-white sun nor the not-black ocean. He isn’t marveling at the fact that this dream is extraordinarily packed with colors. And Regulus is no stranger to color by now, but even for him, this is something else, like a dial turned way too high. It’s calling his attention, his own eyes unable to fully focus on the boy’s, shifting to the ocean, the sun, the reflection of light on the sand, back to the boy, and everything is mesmerizing. Overwhelming, almost.

The boy’s hand reaches out to shift in front of Regulus’ face, calling his attention back to the boy himself. Blinking, Regulus shakes his head, tries. His eyes settle on the boy’s face, attempting to stay there. He almost loses the battle, Regulus’ eyes skimming his jaw, up the slope of his strong nose, taking note of the shades and the stubble, the heavy brows. Something comes out of the boy’s mouth—an expletive of sorts, sounding pleased and surprised—and his entire face lights up, cheeks pulling his lips upwards, skin wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. He’s wearing a strange contraption on his face, framing his eyes, which is exactly when everything proceeds to take a turn.

Regulus’ eyes travel beyond the frames, hook into the boy’s, claws in deep, and suddenly there is nowhere else Regulus would rather look than there.

It’s clarity, a focal point in the swirling mess of Regulus’ attention. Energy passes through Regulus at an incredibly high speed, like a new network being plugged into a system. It’s electrical, body bursting into shivers, and Regulus can’t look away. The boy doesn’t seem any better off, eyes hooked in and sinking, and Regulus doesn’t know colors very well, but he does know this: grey was never his favorite color. He just hadn’t known that this was an option.

This, is what feels like a stellar nursery; an interplay of light and matter, eyes that emit their own gravitational pull, and Regulus is sucked in. Captivated.

It’s inevitable, the accidental step forward Regulus suffers. He just wants to get closer. He wants to touch the universe with his hand, glide his fingers over what looks like the Beginning. Foot shifting in the unsteady sand, he inadvertently loses balance and breaks eye contact to right himself, and—breathes.

It comes out as a cough, too long without oxygen, which is unheard of. Breathing is regulated by his autonomic nervous system, he shouldn’t have to think in order to breathe.

The hand comes almost in slow motion. It appears from the corner of his eye, luscious and meaty and large, extending to touch Regulus’ shoulder, right him from his sway. It’s warm where the boy touches him, and he’s a furnace, the touch a branding iron on Regulus’ skin.

The boy, at that instant, briefly strikes Regulus as the most threatening entity he has ever encountered. Like the imminent intensity of a star on the brink of supernova,  the ominous precursor of a gamma-ray burst. Then the boy’s smile wanes, and the threat abates—for now. There is a deliberate patience in his softened smile, and he…crouches down. Drags his finger through the damp sand with a focused determination, his tongue peeking out between his teeth.

Regulus is just…transfixed. Gaping, really, at the obscene way the boy’s clothes strain over his shoulders. It’s not—it’s just that—Regulus’ people do not take up space, not the way he does; unapologetically. It’s more than the physical space though, it’s the surrounding space around him that almost seems to shift and transform around the boy, warping the very air around him. Like he’s twice his actual size. Perhaps Regulus is hallucinating, or perhaps just not thinking straight.

He’s still not entirely sure where the boy comes from, why he’s there, in Regulus’ dream—or at least, what Regulus thinks is his dream. There is nothing, and then there is him, sitting cross-legged in front of Regulus, smiling up at him, ready for anything.

He’s done his research of course, and a lot of interesting information has come from his book on lucid dreaming, though it’s all theories at this point. But this, this is something else. The vivid colors, the vivid sounds, the vivid boy—

He’s drawing shapes in the sand, hunched over on his toes, and after a few seconds he turns around, looking mighty proud.

Regulus looks down, and oh.

J, A, M, E, S, spelled out in

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Latin letters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Regulus is looking at latin letters, eyes shifting between an alphabet he knows and the boy, and—oh.

The boy puts his hand on his chest, says, “Jayyigmeseuh.” Clearing his throat and trying again, eyes speaking silent sentences layering over his gestures as he points at each letter and makes the appropriate sound. “Jay-mes-euh.” Again. “James,” like Regulus ought to know by now, pointing between himself and the letters drawn on the sand.

“James,” Regulus repeats.

The boy nods. “James.”

“James,” Regulus repeats, like an idiot.

James tilts his head, and looks at Regulus, and looks, and—looks, and—

It comes to Regulus all at once, like taking a meteor to the face.

“Ssōmnia thyr ēyss,” Regulus gasps. Out loud. And immediately realizes the implication of that sentence.

It’s someone else’ dream.

This is James’ dream, Regulus is dreamwalking, he isn’t lucid dreaming at all.

James looks at him and frowns, though he doesn’t seem particularly shocked, or confused the way Regulus is. He’s mouthing shapes with his mouth, trial testing them. Then,

“Sohmneeah thee ace,” he enunciates carefully, pointing at Regulus. Pointing at himself, “James.” Back at Regulus, “Sohmneeah thee ace.”

It shouldn’t be funny.

It shouldn’t, but Regulus is taken aback by the boy’s resourcefulness, rolling with the punches like this the most unproblematic situation, and Regulus does something rare. Something he normally doesn’t do, even in real life. Something he stopped doing ten years ago.

He laughs.

The sound emerges as a hybrid of a cough and a choke, his lips contorting in an alien gesture, before the laughter breaks loose. It is raw and unpolished, untethered and underused and free.

James’ gaze fixates on Regulus, expression stuck on a strange expression of shock, for a moment. Then. The smile that overtakes his entire features could power up Regulus’ pod for weeks. The laughter subsides, giving way to a grin brimming with teeth, which then mellows into a gentler expression.

Regulus shakes his head.

Points a finger at himself.

“Regulus.”

James’ eyebrows lift up to the top of his head, right before a panicked expression overtakes his features. He opens his mouth—and pops out of existence.

 

---

 

Regulus jackknifes up in his pod. He’s sweating. He can’t believe, cannot believe—he was ejected from the dream at the same time as James disappeared, which can only mean…

“Holy shit, holy shit.”

 

---

 

“You’re very quiet.”

Regulus lifts his eyes from his portion—some sort of microgreen and mushroom, tomatoes, raw kale and potatoes. So. Much. Potatoes. Boring and nutritious, the same moto as everything else in his life.

Their ship has a closed-loop ecological system, so the food really doesn’t vary much. The ship workers use hydroponics, aeroponics, and aquaponics to grow plants without soil, minutely controlling everything from temperature, to light, to humidity, to nutrients.

LED lights, tailored to emit specific wavelengths, provide the necessary light spectrum for photosynthesis, a loop system to capture, purify, and reuse all water: moisture from perspiration in the gyms, condensation, any waste water—which is triaged and processed by decomposers and composting systems to break them down into nutrients that can be reused by the plants. They have Pollinators, who work in manual pollination in Lab 24. Aquaponers, who work in aquaponics chambers in Lab 41; the fish’s waste provides nutrients for the plants, which in turn purifies the water. Genetic Engineers in Lab 13. Bioreactor systems in Lab 12, where cellular agriculturists  cultivate lab-grown meats without raising livestock.

The entire system is an autonomous network of food production that sustains its inhabitants, untethered from the cradle of a planet; a careful balance between technology and biology, everything meticulously engineered—as is everything on the ship, including its people.

“Regulus?”

Regulus’ eyes shift from his plate to his mother, whose eyes are lined with concern. “I’m just tired, Mom.”

“You haven’t come home in a while.” That’s his father, speaking to his plate instead of his son, looking like this meal is as much of a struggle for him as it is for everyone else at this table. Regulus knows where it’s coming from; it’s the empty seat right next to his, that invisible four. ‘That’s why I don’t come home,’ is what Regulus almost says. His eyes shift to the empty seat. It’s fast but his mother notices, the corner of her mouth twisting in an expression he doesn’t quite know how to interpret.

His pod is smaller, barely enough to fit a single bed, a desk and a tiny bathroom fitted with a dry sonic shower. They have communal water showers, but these are regulated to a few times a year only, in order to save up on resources. The room is big enough for Regulus to practice his kinesthetics, but only just. It’s also big enough to contain his forbidden books and his little notebook and pen. It’s too small, however, to contain all of his secrets.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Tom mentioned you have been quite successful in your Seeking, recently.”

Regulus hums.

His relationship with his parents has been strained for years. Regulus doesn’t know how to fix it. Doesn’t know how to stop resenting them from what they let happen to Sirius. How to forgive them for what they made of Regulus.

His father’s voice, tinged with something unplaceable, breaks through his thoughts again. “Your accomplishments are well-respected by everyone here, Regulus.”

It’s a rehearsed statement, a throwaway line tossed out to pierce the overwhelming silence. But praise from the Upper Level isn’t what Regulus seeks. What he craves is the warmth from the seat still holding the heat from his brother’s presence. Words aren’t fixing what his world fractured. Thinking of Sirius tightens something in Regulus’ chest; those questions left hanging, and the gaping void his brother left behind—it’s a silent scream inside.

“I appreciate that,” Regulus replies, voice distant. He doesn’t add anything else.

His mother nods. Plays with her fork. “We heard from the Greengrasses,” she says, and ah.

That’s the reason for the invite.

That’s the purpose of this dinner.

Regulus looks at the clock. Twenty minutes on the dot after his arrival, right on time.

And ten seconds after that, the crushing realization that his parents didn’t invite him to know how he is doing, that this isn’t a happy coincidence, hits him. Moves through his body and settles into flesh like dry ice. Disappointment like a static wave between his ears. This isn’t like before. This isn’t a family meal.

This is an intervention.

His mother takes a steadying breath, continuing, “Some journeys are meant to be taken with others, not alone.”

Regulus pauses. Thinks of Sirius. Of Pandora. Of this ship and all the people it took from him. Of Remus. Of James.

His eyes trail to the empty seat next to his, and his parents’ incapability to look him in the eye as they try to matchmake him.

“I had a brother,” he says.

The room goes dead quiet. So Regulus stands up gently, and exits the room.

 

---

 

No one tries to stop him.

His mother, his father, Regulus can almost picture them eating the rest of their meal in the dead silence he left behind, the clinking of cutlery against the unspoken tensions.

His steps guide him away from their living quarters. He bypasses his pod, seeking the only thing that could provide him with some amount of comfort—the observation deck. It’s empty at this time, the temperature slightly lower than usual—though that could just be from the chill he feels inside. He walks to the port section of the bay, descends the trio of steps, and settles into a cross-legged position, gazing out of the viewport.

It’s nothing but deep space. Nothing for eons but a vast, unobstructed view of the cosmos, faraway stars against the background of the universe’s pervasive darkness. It’s isolating, not to have a single planet in sight, which is ironic, considering it’s also how he feels; isolated.

He loves his parents. It’s hard not to love one of the only sources of warmth he’s ever known. But there is a rift too, widening with time, both parties seemingly powerless to halt its expansion. Each morning, Regulus wakes up to an increasing divide: the love he holds for his parents, and the love he holds for Sirius.

It’s one family, yet the love cannot coexist; it isn’t singular. The love within his family exists in opposition, unable to merge or support one another. Everything is tainted with Sirius’ absence. The love he holds for his brother intensifies, while his affection for his parents seems to diminish. It’s not what Regulus would prefer. It’s what he has.

Well, that and memories.

He has rules in place, his mind like a museum, everything cataloged, and Sirius doesn’t get to escape his carefully labeled box unless Regulus allows it. But have you ever tried to contain a brother?

It’s easier, containing Pandora. She settles in her labeled box and waits for Regulus to take her out. Always happy to come out and play, always happy to be put back where she can rest.

Sirius doesn’t rest. He rages—knocking the box over, wandering over to other boxes, and filling them up with memories of him. It’s untameable chaos. Regulus has tried to keep him where he belongs, to stay here, let me live my life, I beg you, but Sirius doesn’t listen, and why would he? Sirius was deceived. Betrayed, and Regulus didn’t help.

So Sirius rages, and Regulus gets headaches.

He reaches up to hold on to his temple now, ignoring Sirius on his way to Pandora. He doesn’t think he has it in himself to deal with Sirius’ memories right now; ‘I had a brother’ took everything from him.

Pandora’s playing with her shoes, tapping them twice and waiting, tapping them twice again, a game Regulus never understood. She jumps up when he approaches, eyes gleaming with that peculiar light that seems to illuminate her from within. She’s a sprite, her presence both calming and invigorating. She may be a memory, only alive in Regulus’ head, but she’s a good one. Carefully crafted from all of the interactions he had the chance to have with her before she died, in all her strange and wonderful ways, like her ability to shift mood like phases of a moon.

“Reggie, you look like you’ve seen a ghost—or perhaps, lost one,” she says, her voice lilting.

Regulus settles next to her, his body language opening up despite himself. “It’s just family things,” he says. ‘Just’ might be an understatement, but he doesn’t feel like talking about it.

He’s sitting alone but there’s a soft presence next to him. He doesn’t feel alone. But…

“How are you?” she asks instead.

It comes out all at once, impossible to stop. “Lonely.”

He isn’t expecting comfort—he’s learned to navigate loneliness’ contours. But nothing can bring comfort to loneliness, aside from the presence of someone who is here. Pandora isn’t. She’s a beautiful figment of his imagination, forever paused at the precipice of adulthood, young and dead. And yet.

“Me, too.”

This is what does it. Her words shatter the fragile veneer of composure Regulus has so painstakingly maintained, tapping into a well of suppressed grief. The impact is immediate, visceral. Regulus is holding it together, and then his shoulders are shaking and everything he’s holding is falling from his fingers, cluttering on the cold hard floor and he’s crying. He’s disintegrating quietly, which is just as good. Expressions of raw emotions like this are as out of place as anomalies in the void of space.

Throughout it all, Pandora sits beside him. “It’s all right, Reggie.”

Regulus sniffs. “Is it?” he asks, though he feels the tension begin to ebb from his body, his sobs subsiding into quiet sniffles as the initial surge of emotion fades into a dull ache. There is a peculiar sense of release, like purging poison.

Pandora turns to look at him. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re seeing the far away potential end instead of the beauty of it, how very pessimistic of you,” she says, and Regulus wants to crumble. ‘You’re not allowed to repeat yourself,’ he wants to say, but then again…Pandora only lives in his imagination, now. There is only so much she can say that won’t circle back to conversations they’ve already had.

“Why did you leave me?” he whispers instead, which tumbles right into, “Why does everyone leave?” and space isn’t big enough to contain the depth of Regulus’ lonely. His lonely is so violent, banging about and causing scenes, asking to be seen by something, someone, please.

Pandora is quiet, tapping her shoes together twice, again and again, eyes drifting upward to the ceiling. “I didn’t want to, you know?” she says softly.

Regulus nods, because of course. Of course Pandora didn’t ask for any of this. She never asked to be born different, never asked to shake the status quo of the Chosen families. She never asked to be born at all. She never asked to die, either.

“But,” she continues, “sometimes bad things have to happen for good things to come out. The universe seeks balance—negative and positive forces, interdependent relationships, all interconnected. Every relationship you have is a symbiotic biome of sorts. You all need one another.”

Regulus shakes his head. “You’re gone. Sirius is gone. James isn’t—”

“You cannot think of life as gains and losses, Reggie. Life isn’t a give and take. Everything is a gift, and what isn’t a gift still is one. Perhaps just one you can’t see yet.”

“I don’t want gifts. I want my brother back.” He turns to her. “You, too.”

Her gaze meets his. “You can’t have it all, Reggie. That, too, is a gift.”

He frowns, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“You have to trust your intuition,” she advises instead. “Intuition is the music of the cosmos. It’s always playing, but we only hear it when we truly listen. When we’re lost, it’s the pull that leads us home.”

“What did you think it sounded like?”

“Music?”

“Yeah.”

Pandora hums, a slight smile touching her lips. “Like the vibration of a star and the hum of a nebula speaking to one another.”

“Those aren’t sounds,” he skeptically points out.

“They’re waves,” she chides. “Waves are a dynamic rhythm, and rhythm is sound. Perhaps not in the traditional sense, but they vibrate all the same.” He’s about to object, to this isn’t how it’s done, when she adds, “You’re so analytical. You should try to break free from what’s familiar once in a while. Sometimes, breaking away from the gravitational pull of others helps to find our true orbit. Tell me,” she says, glancing at the ceiling, “why do you think there are 1,347 bolts up there?”

Regulus follows her gaze up, to the bolts he’s never paid attention to before. It’s random, nonsensical even—like she was. “I never counted them.”

“Because you’re always looking out, not up. You never look in, either.”

“I’m looking in right now,” Regulus counters, a little offended that a figment of his imagination is complaining about him not looking inwards.

She waves him off, deflecting his defensiveness. “Do you know how light can travel for years just to reach you, to be seen by you?” Regulus nods. “Have you ever thought that we might be doing the same? On our way to being seen, to finding where we belong.”

“According to my parents, I belong with a Greengrass daughter.”

Pandora’s laughter is as surprising as it is loud. “There are much bigger plans for you than the Greengasses.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I’ve always thought so, Reggie.” She takes her time, weighting her words. “There’s always been something about you. I’ve never been able to put my finger on it, and now…” she trails off. Now, I’ll never be able to, is what she means.

“I wish you were here,” he offers, his left hand unfurling, praying for a phantom touch of her fingers on his.

“I am,” Pandora replies, though his hand remains cold. “Every time you remember me, every time you make a choice that honors who you are, I’m there, cheering you on.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” she responds eventually, which isn’t a lie.  “I think I’ll go back now,” she adds, and Regulus knows better than to beg her to stay. He cannot live in the past, just as she cannot live in the present.

It’s a soft, careful brushing against the delicate skin of his fingers, like the shape of a hand. Regulus’ eyes shift from the viewport, and he redirects them back to space. He resists the urge to look to his left—knows he’ll find nothing beside him but more space. It’ll hurt more, if he looks. So he presses his hand against the illusory pressure of a hand in his, allowing himself to believe, and lets Pandora hold his hand.

 

---

 

It’s Regulus’ dream again.

He has cracked the code. His dreams are muted colors like his brain is adjusting still, unable to really showcase the array of shades when it’s so recent, so new. These are the dreams Regulus has the most control over, able to anchor himself in it like it’s the only dimension worth existing in.

It doesn’t work as well when he is in what he has decided to refer to as James’ dream.

He has put the pieces together, truth settling into his bones—James seems too much at ease in his own dream environment, like he’s in his element, like he knows this place better when the colors are brighter. In there, Regulus cannot control the space as much, not the way he has started to learn to shape his own dream. James’ dreams are malleable, but less so; like he can put some input but it has to be validated and approved. Like he’s acting from behind a veil. Like there are limits to what he can push, limits he does not have in his muted dreams. When they’re in James’, Regulus always feels like he’s trespassing.

It’s funny how the brain works, how incredibly malleable it can be, turning obtuse and rigid if it’s raised that way. The problem is, the brain needs to be trained to want more; to want different. The brain believes what it is told repeatedly.

James is already here, looking thoroughly unbothered by the muted colors, though there is something different about him. He’s almost careful in his excitement, walking quickly to Regulus with sure steps and an expression dipped in something pleasant, but he’s breathing carefully, looking at Regulus as though from a distance; like he’s forcing himself not to put all his feelings on display.

Lessons through experience. After all, every time they’ve had an emotional outburst, it has resulted in one of them leaving the dream.

So James smiles, and though the colors are muted, James isn’t. His smile is resonant and resonating, echoes of it shaking Regulus. He’s helpless to stop his own smile from blossoming, more careful than James’ but there, important all the same.

There is a moment, for a second, where Regulus thinks James is going to extend his hand and touch him. And in another reality, he does. Regulus can almost feel the phantom graze of James’ fingers against his own. He isn’t sure what occurs, but James opts out, smile turning apologetic before it’s replaced by a playful glint of mischief. He retreats, putting deliberate distance between himself and the ocean’s edge, three measured steps back and dropping to his knees.

Finger in the sand once again, James slowly, carefully, intently, writes his entire alphabet over five rows. Twenty-six letters and one life changed because Regulus recognizes the alphabet. It’s the same as the one he came to learn while studying Latin. Then French.

And the implications of that, well.

The both of them are breathing steadily, consciously taking deep breaths, in and out, in sync with one another. It’s shared meditation; Regulus is acutely aware of his own slow heartbeat, sensing the expansion and contraction of his lungs, taking all of the space that isn’t weighed down by James. He’s anchored, steady, chest heavy and full and this is not pain. This is the opposite of pain. The closer he is to James, the more grounded he feels, like a planet aligning with its gravitational core.

He’s never spoken latin out loud before, but…“Latinē loqueris?”

James’ head snaps up, eyes widening before a frown creases his forehead, eyes hooked on Regulus’ awed expression.

Undeterred, Regulus tries again, switching tongues, sidestepping Greek, which has always felt like another branch of language, and opting for French.

“Parles-tu français?”

His transition prompts another visible jolt from James, whose eyes dart from Regulus to the sand and back again. Hands that were still a moment ago now shift, fingers clenching and unclenching.

James stares at Regulus for entirely too long before carefully, carefully, carefully, “I speak English.”

And this, well.

This, Regulus can work with.

Notes:

Scigua :

Ssōmnia thyr ēyss : this is your sleep

 

Note : I'm not diving (too) deep in here. I translate what I want to say in latin (are you proud, mom?) and then move things around and have fun with it. Also Reg's people don't have a word for dream. Dream and sleep are the same word, because why would you need a name for something that doesn't happen? Context matters in this case.

Chapter 7: (‘you’;’me’)

Summary:

Scigua isn’t a language; it’s a prison.

Notes:

All hail Celine for going through this bullshit through its draft phase and then its final form.

Thank you for killing my darlings for me, you're my Feyd-Rautha.

Languages.

Regulus has always been curious, but now he’s something else. Ravenous. He wants to understand. What is happening in his dreams, the words James is saying, why the colors were brighter in James’ dreams, the names of all the colors, why James, and how James, and who James—

He wants it all.

It isn’t enough, for this thing to be happening to Regulus; he wants to know why.

Why Regulus? Why James? Why now? Why through dreams? For what purpose? This, perhaps above the rest. What is its purpose; what is it trying to tell Regulus?

He doesn’t know how to undo twenty-eight years of teaching, of seeking purpose; he will not be able to rest until he can understand it all; it gnaws at him, demanding resolution. Knowledge is power, and Regulus feels weak. Born from a noble family, fed into a noble job…even with the loss of a decidedly unnoble brother, Regulus hasn’t had a lot of opportunities to feel weak. Misunderstood, plenty. Helpless, too. Never weak.

Weakness is vulnerability, is limitation, is the crack in the perfection he’s been so good at portraying up until now. That weakness is pushing him to connect to the dreams, to James, is urging him to seek understanding.

‘Knowledge is power’, Remus once said.

‘Learn about it’, Sirius would say.

The answer to the why is intricately tied to the boy who has found his way into Regulus’ head. The boy whose head he has found himself in now, too. The answer comes with understanding the purpose.

But, to understand the purpose, one first has to understand the language.

‘I speak English’ is as good a start as any.

Regulus hadn’t planned on learning another language; still, he throws himself headfirst into the adventure of learning English.

It starts by identifying patterns. Scigua and Aspen share certain likenesses, from the fact that they were born from one another. The Earth languages he has learned through the clandestine texts have some semblances of similarity, too. All three he knows—Latin, Greek, French—share predispositions, have a similar concept of nouns and verbs, and, to some extent, a shared set of sound features.

As Regulus quickly comes to find out, English…isn’t like these at all. Some patterns momentarily appear recognizable, only to change in the blink of an eye. English is full of surprises, but.

But, the structured sentences James speaks imply that Regulus’ brain isn’t just generating nonsense, further reinforcing the realization that James isn’t a figment of his imagination. He’s someone, out there, who has somehow found himself invading Regulus’ dreams; someone who speaks English, who exists, the same way that Regulus does, which.

Which.

Something is prowling the back of Regulus’ mind, claws scratching the walls, begging for attention, seeking cracks in the veneer. It’s whispering seductive truths, opening locked doors and letting dangerous words out of their cages, words like you know what this is, like this is the purpose. Words like, ask him where he’s from. Words like, you know where he is from. It becomes increasingly hard to quiet that voice; increasingly hard not to cave in to the urge to seize James by the shoulders and shake, and demanding to know if English is a language spoken on Earth. If he’s from there, too. It’s the fear that keeps the beast caged in—for now. Regulus doesn’t know what he’d prefer; for James to confirm or deny. At a glance, both seem equally terrifying.

A lot of gestures accompany each word they speak, and it often starts the same.

James starts with the words ‘me,’ or ‘you,’ accompanied by its logical gesture. This is followed by a physical action—like pointing at the sand at their feet, the sun in the sky, the water at their side, followed again by an inquisitive shrug directed at Regulus. It temporarily becomes their rudimentary yet effective mode of interaction. Once Regulus has practiced the words enough times in English, the roles reverse: **Regulus will say the same word in Scigua, and James will repeat it. And repeat it. And repeat it.

This is the way Regulus finds out something he had known about his language—empirically. But experiencing it firsthand is a completely different experience.

Scigua isn’t a language; it’s a prison.

Scigua confines as much as it communicates, its terms shackling nuance, indifferent to moods or textures, the words diluted into a bland sameness. The process of translating his world for James makes him experience Scigua through a compressed lens.

James gestures toward the water, calls it ‘sea’; points at the brine, the waves and the white caps, assigning each a unique term. Turning to Regulus, he points again, asking Regulus in broken Scigua, “Name that.”

The only word Regulus has, for all of these terms, is ‘aqyū.’ Wet. In Scigua…everything liquid is aqyū. Sea is aqyū, brine is aqyū, waves is aqyū, water of any kind is aqyū.

And it just—keeps happening.

The only equivalent Regulus finds for sand, is ‘tabūlya frāctu.’ Broken deck.

If James finds it odd that Regulus keeps using the same words repeatedly for things that are evidently different, he makes no mention of it. He very clearly has thoughts and opinions on the subject, but seems content to set them aside for now. Back and forth they go, pointing at the sea, the sand, eyebrows and fingers, the sun, earlobes and hair, articulating and echoing the corresponding words from clusters: nature from the surrounding dream, first. Then, anatomy.

When they run out of that, they start moving into action: Walking. Jumping. Running. Waving. Shrugging.

When they run out of that, James goes foraging for a stick and starts drawing into the sand. It’s during that little activity that the both of them realize the scope of objects James can depict and Regulus can recognize is startlingly narrow. Not only is James’ vocabulary far more extensive than that of Regulus’, but his world is, too. Some drawings give Regulus headaches, trying to wrap his head around it.

Once, James draws what he labels a ‘house,’ explaining in painstakingly broken Scigua what it entails, delineating each separate room. That the majority of people on his planet have some kind of ‘house,’ albeit differing in size and form. When it’s Regulus’ turn to reciprocate, he draws a pod and, far away enough from the first drawing to showcase the differentiation, he draws a living quarter, shaking his head when James asks about the different rooms. “No rooms,” Regulus has to explain, because there aren’t rooms. There is a room. The room. The living quarter. Singular everything.

The ship isn’t made for intimacy. Intimacy isn’t purposeful. Every cubic inch on a spaceship is valuable, and if intimacy has to be sacrificed at the altar of efficiency, then so be it. Regulus’ world has never been about personal comfort—something he’d never truly paid that much attention to, until, well. Until now, and the realization that there is a world out there where people do not live in compact pods, or share tight living spaces with family for over a decade. Where people own expansive homes with rooms dedicated to specific hobbies.

Regulus has another interesting realization, which is that while he marvels, in awe of the words and the second-hand tastehe’s getting of James’ world, James seldom exhibits awe. Instead, his face keeps flickering through confused and concerned expressions, like he doesn’t understand the divide between Regulus’ language and his own; aware that something is amiss yet unable to pinpoint what exactly it is.

And so, they keep teaching and learning each other’s languages. Both seem to recognize a fundamental truth: without the bridge of language to unite them, their capacity to communicate will be severely limited.

Once enough of a base has been acquired, they move into how to string the words together to form sentences, and once again Regulus experiences that lack, in a way he hadn’t noticed while studying by himself. There is—shame, almost, in the way Regulus explains Scigua’s minimalistic approach to conjugation.

To James’ twelve tenses in English, Regulus can only present three: past, present, and future, with a single unchanging marker before the verb for each tense. Scigua’s conjugation doesn’t exist either; regardless of the subject, the verb remains the same, with the idea that pronouns or the context work to make the subject clear.

Knowing that Scigua serves a purpose is one thing; contrasting it with a living language like English is another.

Everything in Scigua is meant to diminish and subdue. There are no empathetic words. No adjectives. Things are what they are, and they are when they are, and that is all the knowledge required to have purpose on the ship.

English overflows with options. A hundred different ways to say a hundred different things, and Regulus is jealous. How different would he be, and how would his thinking have evolved, had he been exposed to such diversity as a child? And, scarier still, how bland would he be now, had he never found Riddle’s book room?

Learning English is a thrill; it’s also one of the most sorrowful experiences of Regulus’ life. Every nuance in James’ language confronts him with the simplicity of Scigua. This leaves Regulus with a mix of emotions—bittersweet, nostalgia for a linguistic depth he’s never known and will never experience. But nostalgia cannot linger at the door uninvited forever, and happier news brushes her aside, making way for a lovely revelation: that learning a language with someone cannot compare, at all, to Regulus’ previous experiences of learning alone.

For one, there is the added layer of immersion. He’s acquiring language by exposure to James’ voice, his tone, pronunciation, context, repetition. James can spell words out in the sand and phonetically pronounce them, highlighting the proper emphases; Regulus’ eyes are on James’ lips ninety percent of the time, paying attention to pronunciation, intonation, the natural rhythm of the words. He looks his fill, and repeats, and imitates, and tries. And if he stumbles and sputters and acts like a fool whenever his eyes lock with James’, well.

It’s significantly easier, learning a language as a pair.

It took Regulus years to learn his first language all alone.

It takes him twelve dreams to grasp this one.

 

---

 

It’s James’ dream again, colors bright and overwhelming, and Regulus is armed with his scariest question yet. He stands before James, and says, “I want to learn about colors.”

James looks at him. Tilts his head. “What?”

Regulus mirrors James’ gesture, confused. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

James looks at him for a beat too long, getting that faraway look he always gets when Regulus says something that seems confusing, before shrugging it off. “I actually love colors.”

“You…do?”

“Do you?”

Regulus can only say the truth, which he didn’t even know until it leaves his mouth: “Yes.”

James cannot shut up. He’s on his feet in an instant, pointing at the sand. “Okay, okay, so. So this is sand, right, and it’s—yellow.” Regulus is about to nod, about to catalog this in his brain, the bright hue is yellow, when James interrupts, “but it’s not. It’s—it’s like fragments of sunshine, like, like the sand holds the laughter of the sun. Each grain is a different mineral, and so each one filters the light differently, see?” He picks up a handful of sand and brings it right under Regulus’ nose.

And the thing is, Regulus does see. It’s fascinating, only because colors are such a new development in his life, and he wants to know—everything. James is giving that to him. Fascination sparks as he squints at James’ hand, the sand containing it, until…until his eyes deviate. It’s the frame contraption all over again. Regulus’ attention drifts, journeying from the coarse grains contained in James’ palm to the skin beneath, noting the shift in texture and color, the subtle play of muscles under sun-kissed skin, the dance of light playing across his knuckles, and finding himself wanting to poke it.

His heart thunders as he sways forward, his own hand rising from its wise place by his side to hover over James’, yearning to bridge the gap, to touch.

“So it’s yellow…but not.”

He has no idea what he’s saying. His gaze lifts from James’ hand to meet his eyes, asking a question, electrifying the space with a quiet, unvoiced desire Regulus himself cannot name. All he knows is that it’s not normal. It can’t be. It’s—strange.

James sighs, mouth opening like there are so many words he wants to say yet can’t find a clear path forward, and Regulus’ gaze latches on to James’ lips again. Staying. Staying. Looking up. James is staring back, can’t seem to focus on one of Regulus’ eyes, gaze oscillating from one eye to the other, hypnotizing.

“I…no. Yes.” He starts, fragmented and all over the place. A pause, and James clears his throat. When he speaks again, it’s a secret. “Yes, it’s yellow. Just like the sea and the sky are blue. But it’s not the same yellow as the sun. And the blue isn’t the same depending on what you’re looking at, or the time of day, see?” he whispers, and Regulus doesn’t look at the sun. He doesn’t look at the sand, or the sea, or the sky. He’s looking at James and the sparkles of particles in the air.

He feels…creased. Crinkled. Like someone took him into their hands and scrunched him up. His heart feels bruised somehow, all out of sorts; it keeps asking Regulus to check in.

He blinks, and James is closer somehow, and—it’s not normal. His heart is in a riot, he’s feeling ill.

A hand speckled with sand wraps around his, and Regulus hesitates, unsure whether he wants to look. He doesn’t know how he would react, and perhaps it’s easier this way. The hand is warmer than Pandora’s, perhaps because it is real—in this realm, at least. However the dream presents itself, it’s as real as anything.

James’ hand is warm, heavy, calloused, and Regulus’ natural reaction is to tighten his grip. There’s no cerebral intervention, no second-guessing, and it feels…it feels.

It’s only then that Regulus breaks eye contact and looks up, trying to get some air in between them, while refusing to relinquish his hold on James’ hand. He just needs something in between, a buffer to temper the overwhelming intensity that appeared from nowhere that Regulus doesn’t know how to handle.

The sun appears more like washed-out yellow than the sand. It’s more pale, and his first description of white comes back to him. If white had failed.

Regulus’s eyes turn back to James, who is looking at him expectantly, something intangibly amiss in his expression. Like a loss of some sort. “So… yellow is failed white.”

James begins to respond, hesitates, hazy eyes lingering on Regulus’ face. Eventually, he gets a hold of himself. “There are shades. Some are more recognized than others, but each color can expand infinitely with nuances in hue, saturation, brightness…there’s lemon yellow, canary yellow, saffron yellow…” Regulus licks his lips, and James blinks, losing his train of thought for a moment. “Erm, naples yellow, goldenrod—but that’s just what people call them.”

“You call them something else?”

That’s another door unlocked, and James launches himself right through it. “Yes, of course. Colors—all colors were born from natural pigments initially, and in painting we use—”

“Painting?”

James opens his mouth again, longer this time, his hesitation more palpable. “Painting,” he repeats, eyes searching Regulus’, looking for any flicker of recognition or comprehension. “Like…the act. Of painting?”

“...The act of painting,” Regulus echoes, the words feeling alien on his tongue.

“I think I might be confused. Do you not know what paint is?” James probes, eyebrows knitting together. Regulus wants to deny it, to of course I know what paint is, I’m a paint master, I’ve done the act of painting my whole life. The lie dies on his lips, and James sees the twist of his lips in shame. “No,” James rushes in to say, tightening his grip on Regulus’ hand reassuringly before releasing it and agitatedly gesturing with his hands like it’ll dispel his own unease. “No, no, no, don’t worry at all. At all. I’m just—it’s fine. Don’t—it’s fine.”

“I’m—sorry,” Regulus says, and that seems to panic James even more.

“No! It’s not a problem at all, I promise. I’m just…nevermind. Nevermind, yes, paint. I can explain what paint is.”

Sullen, “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” James says, and before Regulus has time to deflect some more, James launches. “Paint is—well, paint is pigment,” he starts, breaking into a small, self-affirming smile, like he’s so glad he figured out a familiar foothold. “You can’t have paint without pigment. And pigment is—it’s old.”

“How old?”

“Forever old. Since the first people ever lived kind of old.”

“That’s not a number,” Regulus points out, relieved to find a flicker of his old self peering through.

James quirks a brow. “You want a number?”

If it’s ironic, Regulus doesn’t notice. He nods, so James’ lips do something, quirking down, then up, then, “Forty thousand years…give or take?”

Regulus’ eyes wrinkle at the corners. “Are you making fun of me?”

James shrugs, leaning back on his haunches, before dropping to the sand, arms going to rest on his knees. He looks up at Regulus. “I’m not, but I also am not sure about the years, if I’m honest. The concept of paint is ancient. There’s evidence of ochre being used to create paintings on cave walls with animal fat, or water. Blood, too, anything that would leave a trace. And I guess once we found something to tell a story with, we never gave it up. It’s part of our nature, I think.”

“Our nature?”

“You know,” he says, hand pressing into the sand, observing the hand shape. “Try to leave a mark. Stay relevant, even when we’re gone.”

Regulus tries to absorb this, the soft beach breeze ruffling his hair as he looks at James’ handprint. “You use…paint…to stay relevant?”

“Everyone uses their own technique. Paint. Stories. Children. Fame.” James picks up a shell, and throws it into the waves. “There are thousands of ways to live on after you die. It all depends on the size of the imprint you want to make.”

This is all very interesting, because the fact of the matter is that no one leaves a mark on the ship. People serve a communal purpose, and once their time comes to an end, they are replaced.

He wonders what it would be like, to leave a mark, to upset the cyclic nature of life aboard the ship. Wonders who might remember him when he’s gone. Who will remember Sirius, in one hundred years. One Black to replace another, on and on. Names do not matter, only blood.

“I’m one hundred and thirty-three,” he says.

“...years old?”

Regulus shakes his head. “I am the one hundred and thirty-third person to occupy my job. Once I die, someone will take over as one hundred and thirty-fourth.”

James’ face twists again, that thing he does when something that Regulus said doesn’t align with what he knows. “Are you in a cult?”

“I don’t know what a cult is.”

James hesitates. “It’s a…” looking at Regulus like one looks at something that might bolt at any moment. “A…group of people, who share a strong devotion to a…a particular figure. A leader of sorts, who sets up beliefs and ideology, to an—extreme degree.” He seems to hesitate again, almost wanting to add more, but stops himself.

Regulus processes. “Is that bad?”

James’ face twists in discomfort and—something else. Something a little stronger. “It’s… it’s complicated. You—” he interrupts himself, swerving. “Are you happy?”

An interesting question, though Regulus isn’t entirely sure he understands where it came from. Either way, happiness isn’t a real measurable value. Is he? And more importantly…Does it matter?

He doesn’t realize he’s asked the question out loud until he notices James’ face crumbling, right before he shakes himself. “Yes. Happiness matters.”

Happiness matters.

Regulus lets his gaze drift to the sea. “Why?”

And that. That answer takes a lot longer than James’ initial outburst. In fact, several things happen, over several long moments. James furrows his brows, and Regulus gets to watch as the boy comes up with a plan. James rises, then moves swiftly, positioning himself behind Regulus. He gently presses on Regulus’ shoulders, coaxing him to lower himself onto the soft sand, and Regulus complies, sinking down onto the ground. James settles in behind him, legs extending gracefully on either side of him.

“Okay,” he hears, and it’s spoken against his ear, tender and hushed. Regulus wants to—something. Lean back. It’s unbearable, and the urge is back, pulling him to James. The urge to turn his cheek to the side so James’ breath can ghost over his face. It’s absurd, so he doesn’t, but the need persists. So, he fixes his gaze straight ahead, steeling himself against the allure.

“What do you see?”

He’s not entirely sure he understands what James is attempting here. He can barely focus, the warmth pouring out of James too enticing to be anything but distracting, but…

“Water.”

He feels James nods despite the space, tuned to him as he is. “Focus here, Regulus, I’m trying something. I’m not asking you to aqyū this and aqyū that. Work with me.”

Regulus sighs, looks ahead again. “The…sea?”

A soft laugh against the back of his neck, and Regulus wants to…wants. Something. Anything to dispel the tension in his body. He’s shaking. Can James feel it? His thoughts trail back to James’ hand touching his, and the embarrassing question he wanted to ask then.

Is it normal?

                                                                                                  Is it

 

                                                                                                                          normal? 

                         

 

 

Is it normal to

 

                                                            feel?

 

Is it normal, to feel this

                                                                                                way?

“Describe it to me.”

“It’s…wet?”

Another shake of the head, a few of James’ hairs brush against the back of his neck, and he feels his skin prickle with something like fear. If discomfort were electrifying. If he wanted more of it.

James’ right hand sneaks over his shoulder, which forces Regulus to lean back slightly, as James’ hand goes to tap over his heart. “Describe it to me with this,” he says, then lifting his hand to gently tap at Regulus’ temple, “not this.”

Regulus can’t breathe very well. He’s coming down with something. He should go see the ship’s Healer. Get some B13. A heart transplant. A brain transplant..

“I see…” he trails off, feeling stupid, which never happens. He doesn’t know what’s expected of him, what James wants, what the rules of this game are.

“Can you feel the sun?” James prompts after a while, and Regulus relaxes. This, he can do.

“Yes.”

“Is it warm, or cold?”

“Warm.”

“Good,” James says, and his voice is patient, getting closer to the shell of Regulus’ ear, and it’s—obscene, how much Regulus wants. “Close your eyes,” James instructs, and doesn’t check to make sure Regulus does—though he does, of course. The more time Regulus spends in James’ presence, the more he feels like he’d do anything James asks of him, which just strengthens Regulus’ suspicion that he must be coming down with something. “How do you feel?”

Warm where the sun hits his skin. Cold where he’s sat on the sand that hasn’t had time to warm up to the rays. There’s a hint of a breeze that’s neither hot nor cold. The small waves keep crashing and retreating, crashing again. It’s soothing. Every so often, the cry of a seagull will pierce the air. Regulus’ hands are buried in the sand; the coarse grains are cool to the touch, they feel good. There are more sounds than he’s used to on the ship, but he thinks he prefers it. There is an element of unpredictability that Regulus has come to appreciate. And then there’s James, his presence felt in the warm breath against the nape of Regulus’ neck, another thing Regulus doesn’t get to have on the ship. He inhales deeply, taking in the myriad of scents, the tangy taste of seawater on the back of his tongue. He opens his eyes to colors everywhere. Blues and yellows of a thousand different shades and hues, sparkling-sea blue, wet-yellow from the sand a few feet ahead of them and sun-warmed yellow from the sand they’re sitting on.

“Do you get it?” James whispers, and Regulus realizes he’s been quiet for far longer than he’d thought, breath caught in his throat.

Regulus isn’t sure he gets it, but perhaps he’s closer to it than he was a few minutes ago. His body has lost its tension, he’s feeling bone-light, like a strong gust of wind could lift him away. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else. He’s—happy. To just…be here. In the now.

“I get it,” he says on an exhalation, which makes him realize: he’s been happy before.  He just hadn’t known that was what this light-hearted feeling was. With Pandora, looking over the universe as they passed by galaxies; with Sirius, as they imagined stories that only made sense in their mind; with his family, when the four of them were still a cohesive unit, before… when they would sit down at the table of their living quarters before Regulus and Sirius had moved out. The feeling of completeness, of having his family, all he knows, all in the same place with him.

This is followed by another, more heartbreaking realization. He hasn’t been happy in a long, long while. Content, yes. But happy?

He opens his mouth, and what comes out isn’t, at all, what he’d expected to say.

“We’re…structured,” he begins, and he feels James tense softly behind him, like he’s scared that if he moves, he’ll spook Regulus out of his sudden confession. “There are roles and responsibilities, and people abide by them. We have a…network to share information, so we can coordinate our efforts. We’re—we learn the skills and knowledge pertinent to our future roles. We recycle a lot—everything really. We’re dependent on each other, so we have to trust one another.” He breathes in. Hesitates. “We have to believe in the system. It’s—important.”

We have to believe in the system.

We have to believe.

We have to.

…I have to.

I should.

I should.

I’m a faulty chip in the matrice no one knows I’m compromised code I’m the malware infecting the ship if it goes down it’s because of me I have to believe in the system but it’s so hard and it shouldn’t be hard to believe it should be simple it should make sense I shouldn’t have to do anything it should be logical isn’t this what our entire life is built around logic but logic goes out the window when someone like you starts appearing out of nowhere telling me about water and seas and rain, and all the different ways to describe blue and suddenly that’s more important.

I don’t believe in the system.

I believe in you, though.

James breathes out carefully. “...Right.”

There is enough strangeness in the air for neither of them to speak for a long time. Regulus’ mind is working, processing information the same way that, he thinks, James is processing.

And the thing is, Regulus generally has found that he wants James’ opinion on everything, staining all of Regulus’ previous knowledge, infusing it with newfound perspective. But he’s unsure, now—something unsettling about James’ expression—that he wants to know what James is thinking at this moment. He’s afraid of the words that might escape the boy’s mouth, words that might sound like his mother’s disappointment. ‘If only’, spoken against the nape of his neck*. ‘If only you were less insatiable. Less impulsive. If only you were more like your brother.’*

It doesn’t make sense of course. Walburga hasn’t wanted Regulus to be more like his brother in years, not since—well, since. Still, the insecurity runs rampant, rearing its head at the least opportune time. ‘You should be more like your brother,’ that cruelest collection of words ever directed at him, its pain only magnified by its undeniable accuracy*—*a dig against which Regulus has no defense.

He, too, would have preferred to be more like Sirius.

It might have been easier, then, to forget about his brother.

 

---

 

It’s been harder, thinking clearly around James. Or perhaps the opposite, like a magnetic field disturbance. It clears up when James is close, and starts fizzling out when he’s awake. No, that’s not right.

Nothing clears up. Regulus is just…weighed down. It’s a good feeling, like trapping helium. Regulus feels weightless and weighed down. He’s floating but safe; James is holding on to him. He has direction, a red thread to follow.

The weight disappears when he wakes, and that’s an unkind opening in his chest; too much air suddenly, much too light, untethered.

He’s been thinking about plasma physics lately. Funny, how science never appealed to him until he found himself some strange, esoteric experiment. Regulus has no idea why, still. Hasn’t found the purpose. What he has found, though, is a new sense of loneliness.

‘Atoms can exist in an ionized state, not bound to molecules or in solid form.

When an atom loses or gains an electron, it becomes charged; we call this charged particle an ion. In plasma, many of these atoms are ionized, a collection of free-moving ions and electrons.

In the other three states of matter—solids, liquids, and gases—atoms are usually part of larger structures; bound tightly together in a solid, loosely associated in a liquid, or freely moving but still neutral in a gas. In plasma, the atoms or ions are not bound in such structures. They're free of the typical associations we see in other states, moving independently and interacting in unique ways that are influenced by electric and magnetic fields.

You can find plasma naturally in stars and suns. These untethered ions can conduct electricity and respond to magnetic fields.

They’re free; this freedom allows them to exhibit unique properties and behaviors…it’s also their demise. They erode and damage, are difficult to contain and manipulate. They can have unintended interactions with other materials, leading to contamination. These atoms are unpredictable.

Luckily, we don’t have to get rid of these atoms when dealing with plasma. We can focus on managing and controlling the ionized atoms within certain environments.’

The lonely escapes as soon as he falls asleep, replaced by—James. James, the anomaly defying the logical, data-driven framework Regulus knows so well, leaving him at a loss for how to respond other than by reverting to his familiar methods: monitoring trends, collecting data, and applying scientific analysis…which means he **is now maintaining a dream journal on his tablet within a locked, encrypted file. Colors and boys-who-only-exist-in-your-dreams are uncharted territory for Regulus. He’s hunched over his tablet now, furiously writing his previous encounter—

“You’re daydreaming again.”

Regulus startles as he catches sight of Remus in the entryway of the Lab, looking halfway between angry and resigned. “You didn’t hear me come through,” he continues, and it’s just on the edge of biting, a reprimand that doesn’t quite land.

“I did,” he lies.

“You jumped.” It’s a statement again, not quite nice. Not mean, either, just—

Regulus turns away from Remus and locks his tablet, immersing himself in the panel in front of him, inputting calculations with determined focus. He’s looking for a planet again, deliberately ignoring Remus and his not-quite-hostile presence in the entryway.

“Regulus,” Remus sighs, and Regulus turns to him, eyes hard. Remus’ hand runs through his hair. When he speaks, his voice is tinged with concern. “Regulus, you’re too distracted.”

Regulus turns from the panel, pushing his chair back with a slight screech against the floor. He’s holding on to his tablet with a grip that’s perhaps too strong. “What do you want, Remus?”

It isn’t that he’s mad, not really. It’s just that Remus is hiding something.

Remus chews on his cheek as he settles beside Regulus. His gaze flickers briefly over Regulus’ work before he turns his attention to his own tasks, pulling up data on the upcoming days’ travel and potential obstacles he’ll have to maneuver around.

Neither of them meet each other’s eyes, focusing on their respective tasks, yet the air is charged with a tension—an animosity Regulus doesn’t understand, yet can’t help but reciprocate. It’s that defence mechanism rearing its ugly head.

It keeps growing, this pile of confusion when it comes to Remus. Questions swirl relentlessly in Regulus’ mind, twisting and calling for attention.

Reflecting back, Remus was unexpectedly reassigned from the Lower Levels to the Upper one three years ago. Out of nowhere. There was no announcement, nothing. One day Regulus was working with Evan Rosier; the next, Remus was there, taking Evan’s place. He proved to be more efficient than Evan by several star journeys, but. Wouldn’t he have been warned of this type of switch? Shouldn’t he have been consulted, at least?

‘It’s the will of the Gods,’ Avery had said, and that was that.

You do not question the Gods, so Regulus had been quiet, a good citizen.

And…despite the surprise, it isn’t like Regulus is of a particularly social breed; it’s entirely possible he could have missed an announcement, or so he rationalized back then. After all, Regulus has never eaten a meal in the common room. He eats alone in his pod, or with his parents. He’s never taken part in the few social activities there are on the ship: meal times, and the one holiday of a year cycle, the Day of Ascendance. As a Black, he’s been coddled and prepared for Ascendancy, and one cannot “get to know” a future God.

Their entire lives, both Sirius and Regulus were shielded. Friendship was discouraged, relationships were forbidden. Anyone born Black has a future set out for them, whom they could be friends with, even whom they would eventually reproduce with. One doesn’t leave the Black family descendants to chance.

So Regulus doesn’t think Remus has ever really been talked about amongst his peers…but he’s also rarely exposed to them. He doesn’t know where the gossip starts, how it propagates, how it evades and avoids the wrong ears.

That being said, Remus is Regulus’ friend, but.

But he owns pens and notebooks.

But he used to live on Forty-Six.

But he dreams.

But he’s writing code to not be read.

But he went to prison.

If Regulus has learned anything from Remus’ few stories, it is that he’s likely to be the only individual Regulus knows who might have explored the ship so extensively. And with it…Remus is probably also the only one among them who would have made unlikely friends. Who wouldn’t typically have Regulus’ best interests at heart. Rebels. People who are against the system. And how well does Regulus truly know Remus?

He turns to Remus now, noticing him already looking back. “I shouldn’t have attacked you like this,” Remus apologizes, and Regulus tilts his chin up, defiant.

“Why did you?”

Remus averts his gaze. “I’m…on edge.”

“But why,” Regulus presses.

He watches as Remus inhales loudly, head dropping between his shoulders. “This is so much harder than I thought it would be,” he mumbles.

Regulus’ eyebrows crease. “You’ve always said this job was the easiest thing you’ve ever done.”

Remus sighs again, somehow louder, more of that frustration peeking through. “I’m not talking about the job, Regulus.”

Regulus’ lips curl, eyes narrowing, stealing the frustration from the surrounding air. Something. Something. Something something something is off something is off off something doesn’t make sense something off something is off. Voice cold, “Then you’re not making any sense.”

The “I know,” is mumbled to the ceiling, and that’s the final straw.

Regulus rises from his seat, strides purposefully to the door panel, and slides it open with a touch. Peeking outside for a moment, he swiftly closes it again, his gaze returning to Remus as he pivots away from the door. “All right. We’re alone. Will you fucking speak?”

Remus stares. And stares. And stares. Opens his mouth on a hesitant breath, and Regulus thinks yes, thinks finally, anticipation rising just a moment before it’s swiftly extinguished as Remus shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

The frustration bleeds into impatience, none of these feelings good, and Regulus squares up his shoulders. “Remus, you must realize you’re acting incredibly suspicious.”

Remus’ eyes lower, shoulders slumping. “Sorry.”

“I don’t care about your apologies, Remus,” Regulus snaps. “What are you hiding?”

“What are you?” Remus retorts, eyes cutting to his, and Regulus has the instant urge to gather all of his dreams in a jar and hide them; protect them. To swallow the jar and make sure no one ever peeks into his mind and discovers James. He turns his head to the side. “Right,” Remus continues with a sneer. “Seems we’ve come to a standstill. You don’t want to tell me your secret, I don’t want to tell you mine. You can’t fault me for refusing to do the same thing you’re doing to—”

“I’m a future God.”

Regulus doesn’t mean to say it, the words escaping his lips before he can stop them, reverberating violently in the small Lab. He certainly doesn’t mean to say them with the inflection he does, like his life matters more than Remus’. Like he’s more deserving of knowing Remus’ secret than Remus is of knowing his.

Remus’ expression shifts, a wall falling behind his eyes. Expression blank, he utters a monotone, “You certainly know how to act like one, yes,” before turning his attention back to his tablet.

Frustration to impatience, impatience to anger, anger to self-preservation in the form of a cold shield. That’s the problem, isn’t it, when you’ve been raised the way Regulus has. The entitlement is hard to shake off. Apologies do not come as easily as temper tantrums.

It is not easy, to shake the mother out of the son.

‘If only you didn’t daydream so much. If only you were more like your brother.’

Regulus bites his lip, ignores his mother’s voice and, burying his insecurities beneath his indifference, he turns back to his tablet.

“Fine.”

The room settles into a dense quiet, punctuated only by the hum of machinery. It’s a long while before Remus speaks. It’s a softer tone, dipped in something tight and anxious. “The Lower level isn’t what you think it is.” He hesitates here. It’s a few seconds at best, but Regulus hears the catch. “You have your secrets; I have mine.”

He draws a breath before releasing it, loudly, leaving into the panels. “What kind of ‘secrets’ do you have, Remus?”

Remus’ response is clipped, defensive. “None I feel particularly keen on sharing with you right now.”

Regulus clicks his tongue. Starts thinking, really quickly. They are at a standstill.

How does one get out of a standstill?

The truth is that Regulus has had quite a few standstills with his family over the years. And if there is one thing that Regulus has learned…it’s that force never works. Vulnerability, on the other hand…

Vulnerability is the only feeling worth something. It’s the careful, gentle exposition of the hidden layers. It’s the fear exposed like bone through muscle, here’s the one thing no one else knows. I trust you with this. Tell me, does this make me weak? Does trusting you make me weak? Or will you forgive me for being soft?

…Fuck.

“Fine,” Regulus concedes after a beat, throwing his hands up in a theatrical display of acquiescence.

Remus turns to him, eyes narrowed, body stiff. “‘Fine’?” he echoes, skepticism threading through his voice as he scrutinizes Regulus, who just keeps staring at him.

“Tell me what we need to do to bond.”

Remus stops working altogether. “Bond.” It’s a question phrased as a statement.

“If you’re going to keep repeating everything I say, this is going to take twice as long. You are aware of that, right?” Regulus quips. Remus doesn’t dignify the remark with a response, and eventually Regulus gives in, a hint of earnestness bleeding through his detached veneer. “I think—maybe we want the same thing. Or—maybe we’re more similar than you think. I…I want to tell you things. But I don’t want to—” He halts, the words tangling in unspoken fears.

“Be sent to the Lower levels if I snitch?” Remus deadpans.

Regulus’ lips press into a thin line. “This isn’t a ‘going well’ conversation, is it?” he asks eventually around a hollow laugh.

Remus lifts an eyebrow, his posture relaxing ever so slightly as he leans forward. “What makes you think it isn’t going well?” he counters.

“Because you just talked about snitching on me and sending me to the Lower Levels for wanting to bond,” Regulus says. “And I’m sure you—”

“Regulus—Regulus. I want to bond,” Remus interrupts, a trace of amusement now playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh.” The word is a soft exhalation.

“Yes.”

Regulus clears his throat, and turns back to his calculations. “Good.”

He can hear Remus’ quiet laugh. “Yeah. Good.”

 

---

 

There is a problem.

The problem, is that James doesn’t seem to have quite as many questions as Regulus.

It takes him one question, nineteen dreams into their journey, to understand why. It goes like this:

“How did you learn to lucid dream?” James asks, and Regulus remembers something very important. He knows he isn’t lucid dreaming. He knows they are currently in his own dream. He doesn’t know why, but he knows it is happening. But James—James doesn’t know. And perhaps. Perhaps, it is time for the question. The only question that has been rolling around in Regulus’ mind. The only one James hasn’t asked; the only one, in fact, that James doesn’t seem concerned about at all. And that, really, is the most concerning part to Regulus.

“James—” he cuts in, and James immediately turns his attention to Regulus.

And Regulus gets to ask his question. It’s a dangerous leap, the drop  terrifying. “James, where do you come from?”

The question does something to James. There is blinking, a heavy swallow, several intakes of breaths before James speaks.

“The United Kingdom.”

“But where?”

“...Europe?”

Regulus frowns. There isn’t a solar system called Europe, nor United Kingdom, nor— “The planet, James. Which planet do you come from?”

James pauses.

Considers.

Tilts his head to the side, voice thick and brittle all at once. “Planet.”

Regulus bulldozes right through the warning, taking no note of James’ crestfallen face and passing right by it on his way to, “—Or galaxy, just—where are you from?”

James chews on his cheek. Frowns. Opens his mouth. Says, half confused, half careless, “Earth?”

Earth.

Earth.

Earth.

‘We were exiled from Earth. We came here because of the spirit-demons, the eight-legged monsters.’

And Regulus looks at James, tries to imagine him as a monster. Or tries to imagine the odds of James’ Earth being another planet, with beings who look so similar to Regulus and his people. He does the math, and it’s easy, and the answer’s staring him right in the face:

James lives on planet Earth.

Their planet Earth. In the Milky Way galaxy. James is a human. James isn’t a monster. James is alive on planet Earth. James doesn’t have eight legs.

Everything Regulus has been brought up to believe is a lie.

Regulus wants to throw up.

He thinks he does, or it only comes halfway through before it gets swallowed back. He’s not doing all right. It’s all wrong, twisted in his guts, he can’t believe what James just said, can’t believe the ramifications of what has just been uttered.

James is looking at him strangely now, eyes busy, and Regulus doesn’t know how to sayexplainprocess what’s happening to him. So he ignores all of James’ rising questions, and tries again. Another, very important question, cutting James off—

“Regu—”

“—Are you dreaming right now?”

And James quiets down; seems to understand something is happening. Seems to realize Regulus isn’t trying to suddenly learn space vocabulary.

“Yes…Why are you asking me all these questions?”

Regulus doesn’t know how to answer this. Doesn’t know how to react. His hands are shaking, he’s shutting down. Looking around himself, the colors are retreating, Regulus’ scientific brain is coming back up, he’s pushing creativity aside to make space for what matters right now. Answers.

James spins around as the colors drain from the dream, shades of gray, white, and black overtaking the scene once more.

And James asks, suspicious now, “Where are you from?”

Regulus takes his time. Doesn’t know how to break the news to James, that something has gone horribly wrong. That he’s facing four thousand years of lies.

Says, carefully, “Originally, Earth.”

James’ face breaks down. And Regulus learns something new from that dream. Something interesting. His entire stomach drops from underneath him, as he realizes James truly hadn’t known. Hadn’t realized Regulus wasn’t, also from Earth.

He faces James as he comes to the very evident realization that Regulus does not come from planet Earth. That James has been conversing with what is, essentially, an alien.

“...What are you?”

Regulus doesn’t expect the sentence to break him the way it does. And perhaps it isn’t the sentence as much as it is the ramification of it all.

Regulus doesn’t know how to answer James. He’s human. He’s human, too. Is James saying he’s not human anymore, not really? He only started seeing color recently, right before meeting James. James is the paintbrush.

He’s human, he’s human, he’s human but he’s not. He’s different.

He needs to—he needs—

“Which coordinates?”

“What?”

“James,” Regulus urges, “what are the coordinates of your planet?”

“The coordinates? I don’t know, I don’t—we’re next to the Sun? the Moon? I don’t know, I’m a painter, I don’t—Regulus, what’s happening, why are you crying?”

Lifting a hand to his cheek, Regulus realizes he is, and it’s the end of an era, he’s different. He’s grown up twenty years in the span of twenty seconds. He needs to tell Sirius—

Oh.

Oh.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I will find you again”, and slams his head against the corner of the bench.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Heyooooo hope it was, like, okay? cool? worth the wait?

I hope so?? It's defnitely a beat off the beaten-path but I for one am having a blast writing this, I hope you've enjoyed reading itttttt.

Chapter 8: ('ideological';'clash')

Summary:

Regulus is furious, blind with anger. His hands find Remus’ chest and push.

“Start speaking.”

Notes:

Thank you, Celine, for your valuable (as always) input. I'm building you a shrine, for real.

It’s 3:24 a.m. when Regulus bolts upright in his bed, heart racing, the side of his head throbbing painfully. He reaches up to gingerly poke and prod at his left temple, flinching at the sharp pain that brings back a flood of dream-induced memories. He needs to tell—

Sirius.

Though he doesn’t have to tell Sirius, of course, because Sirius already knew.

The x has been found, Regulus is sure of it. It’s always been in a corner of his mind, thoughts rolling over onto themselves, what happened to Sirius?

Sirius has always been the more indomitable spirit, less amenable to control than Regulus. However, Sirius’ behavior took a nosedive after his eighteenth birthday. It was as if a switch had been flipped, transforming him right after he, along with their parents, had followed Riddle for the Day of Ascendance, when he was to inherit the Seeker mantle from his father.

‘We were exiled from Earth. We came here because of the spirit-demons, the eight-legged monsters.’

He recalls Sirius’ excitement on the eve of his birthday, all the hubbub from his parents—about the honor of finally becoming a Seeker, ‘Seekers are essential to the ship, Sirius’.

And, of course, Regulus remembers the excitement the morning of Sirius’ birthday, promptly followed by the dread that shrouded Sirius by the evening. Sirius had half-heartedly followed Regulus outside the pods, managing only a strained smile when Regulus showed him two very illegal spacesuits, ‘We’re going on a space walk, Sirius. Happy birthday.’ At sixteen, Regulus had unabashedly exploited their influential family name to secure a fifteen-minute spacewalk with a Spacewalker for himself and Sirius. This was the first time Regulus had leveraged the Black name for personal gain. Sirius would have never done it, but Regulus had always been the more...cutthroat of the two. More prone to subterfuge and deceit, calculating and strategic, even when his goals bordered on the illicit. Like the book room. The spacewalk. Pandora.

But Sirius has turned eighteen, and that was a big deal on the ship: the Black family heir reaching adulthood. He had been groomed to become a Seeker, and turning eighteen mattered. Regulus had wanted to do something unique to mark the occasion. Something nice. Under different circumstances, it might have been appreciated. Perhaps Sirius could have enjoyed Regulus’ gift. Now, after a decade in the dark, the oversight seems glaringly obvious.

Sirius turned eighteen, reached maturity. In the morning, he was ushered into his father’s study, then taken elsewhere—somewhere Regulus was not permitted to follow—and everything devolved from there, thread unspooling in the worst possible direction.

A few months later, Sirius was gone.

Regulus doesn’t need to tell Sirius about Earth because Sirius learned of it on his eighteenth birthday.

Sirius knew.

He hadn’t committed an infraction. He had been informed about Earth, about people like James inhabiting it, and Sirius must have asked too many questions. Must have chosen to defy the rules—

And they silenced him.

They.

Whoever ‘they’ are. Everyone.

...Everyone?

Regulus himself turned eighteen and didn’t get that speech. Regulus hasn’t been told anything. They tried with Sirius, learned from their mistake; hid the truth from the second heir.

Well.

 

---

 

3:58 a.m. finds him in the Lab, wrapped in sterile silence and the humming of the machines. He’s doing his job—sort of.

He’s ostensibly early, and perhaps he didn’t tell anybody where he was…and perhaps he’s not exactly doing his job. He islooking for a habitable planet, which is technically his entire job description… just not any planet.

He’s looking for James’.

Theirs.

His.

Regulus belongs on a planet, he comes from somewhere, and yet was brought up on a ship for twenty-eight years. His brother, his family, hundreds of generations back, all on this ship. Recycled everything, in an effort to all work together for the greater good, because they had something to look forward to. Because their planet had been colonized by evil, and they were the only remnant of a planet long killed, set out to bring their salvation to a new land and rebuild it from the ground up.

And now.

Now, that belief has been crushed. That belief is bullshit.

There is beauty in sacrifice, in four thousand years of a resilient people, patiently waiting for a planet to set foot on and start again. Martyrdom can be an honor. Yet, true honor demands unwavering adherence to the truth. There is no beauty in lies.

He’s repulsed by the thought of four thousand years of lies for—for what?

What could possibly be the reason to uproot people from a planet onto a spaceship, force them away from their home, raise and modify people’s beliefs into something completely different?

Black and white, Regulus and his people’s mind were tampered with.

He could have been born into a world vibrant with colors, free from the jarring dissonance he now endures. He wouldn’t have needed to want the unattainable, languages that wound rather than welcome. Oh, Regulus could have had such a different life—he could have had his brother. Is he even noble at all? Is his family better than others? Is Riddle—

—and Riddle knows.

Of course, he knows. He and his family, likely the entire nobility in the ship knows—do the Gods?

They must, surely.

The Gods are the ones who brought them here in the first place, the ones who helped them escape the planet, the ones who approve and disapprove of planets. Everyone is in on it, and Regulus is a fool.

So, he is going to take matters into his own hands, and rectify the problem.

Starting with, how does one find a galaxy, when there are an infinity of them? How does one find planet Earth when there are millions of planet Earths scattered everywhere? How does one find the one?

The odds aren’t good, and Regulus cannot imagine accidentally happening onto Earth by chance. He needs more than just a galaxy name. He needs—he needs—

He needs the coordinates of the ship from four thousand years ago. It’s a logical truth; the innate, instinctual homing ability of things, to find their way back to their place of origin.

The ship departed from Earth, and its coordinates must be available, somewhere. Regulus has been inputting all of the coordinates of the planets the ship has been going to. Which means, in theory, that the people before him, and the people before these people, would have also been doing the exact same thing. Which means, if he goes back four thousand years, he should be able to retrace the ship’s path and find a way to optimize the trajectory back there.

Because he’s going back there, right?

That is the only reasonable option, the only thing Regulus can do in the face of these revelations.

He can’t find another planet. He can’t continue on. He needs to see. He needs to land. He needs to take a step on this planet and lock eyes with the boy, who started walking through his dreams right after color started making an appearance.

It’s connected; it has to be.

The boy and the colors, the dreams taking on a tint of reality, languages—it’s because of the boy. Thanks to him.

Regulus wants to see him. He wants to touch. He wants to see in color, all of the time.

And it starts with finding out where the ship departed from.

 

---

 

Out of thin air, that’s what it feels like.

The ship’s logs start precisely 1,729 years after the original Earthlings departed.

Everything else before is dust, and the secrets grow.

 

---

 

Change of plan: if the data cannot be found in the database, it might be found where Regulus has come to find everything else: books. Which could take forever.

Regulus paces, the rhythm of his footsteps soothing in their echoes.

There is another option.

Another, better option.

Another, unauthorized option.

His heart sinks a little with the realization, every new step drawing him reluctantly towards the same inevitable conclusion. He stops, running a hand through his hair, exhaling a deep, troubled sigh. The truth dawns on him with uncomfortable clarity: Remus, Strategic Evasor. Remus, with his unconventional methods and uncanny knack for finding what others overlook. Remus, who was propulsed into one of the most complicated roles the ship has, due to his brains.

Ah, shit.

 

---

 

“What do you know about illegal searches?” Regulus asks the moment Remus arrives at the Lab.

Remus lifts his head from the panel. Deadpans, “You must be joking.”

The flicker of panel lights sets a halo over Remus’ face, casting sharp contrasts across his features as he evaluates Regulus’ serious demeanor. “I’m not. I need to do a comparative search, but I don’t want it to be traced back to me.”

Remus pauses, the air around him thickening with hesitation. “Regulus, whatever it is you are doing, you need to be careful.”

“I am.”

Remus pins him with a probing gaze. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Then be even more.”

Regulus lifts an eyebrow. “More,” he echoes, his response dripping with a sarcasm that borders on defiance. Remus nods solemnly, and Regulus almost wants to laugh. “You’re the one writing a coded language.”

Remus shakes his head, like Regulus doesn’t understand the situation, like he’s so deep into his own miasma he’s incapable of seeing things with a fresh eye. He isn’t, though.

Is he?

“I’m a nobody, Regulus. I have nothing to lose. You, however, need to be more careful.”

“It’s just a dream,” Regulus replies quietly, dismissing the caution with a wave of his hand.

“You know it’s not just a dream, Regulus. Stop lying to yourself.”

And that. Well. That’s rich.

“I’ll stop lying to myself the day you stop lying to me.”

Remus is thrown aback, the accusation striking him. “I’m not lying to you.”

Regulus laughs, the sound echoing hollowly against the cold metal surfaces, the opposite of funny as he crosses his arms stiffly. He parrots Remus’ words back to him, “So I can write messages without being read,” his expression flat, eyes narrowed. “You think you can say something like this and I’ll leave it alone and forget it?”

Remus furrows his brow, a silent challenge across his face. In response, Regulus mirrors the gesture, his own frown settling into an unyielding resolve. The air between them fissures and crackles, each sizing up the other.

Eventually, Remus’ expression softens. “You’re so much more than I thought you would be.”

“I don’t know what this means,” Regulus says. There is leftover anger, but he’s already deflating.

“I—” Remus stops, and clicks his tongue. Groans. Gives up. “Fuck it.” He hooks his eyes into Regulus’. “Let’s bond.”

“Bond?”

Remus nods. “Bond. That’s what friends do. They bond.”

 

---

 

It’s James who finds him, the following dream.

He doesn’t look quite as pleased as Regulus has seen him before. There is a look in his eyes, something different—betrayal.

The first thing James does is touch him.

Regulus never makes the first move. There is fear in the intent, like skimming a finger over the smooth surface of water and being scared of upsetting the life beneath with the ripples. You only lose what you cling to—much like trying to grasp water, only to have it slip through his fingers.

James has a few inches on him, and Regulus ends up staring at his chin while he tilts Regulus’ head, ever so gently, to the side. It takes Regulus entirely too long to realize what James is doing.

That he’s checking him out.

“Does it hurt?” James asks, and Regulus’ knees almost cave.

But James doesn’t cave, keeps observing the spot where Regulus slammed the side of his head in the bench the dream before. Waits for Regulus’ response.

“I’m all right.”

“Good.” James takes a step back, eyes dark and angry. Crosses his arms. “Never do that again.”

Regulus’ face twists. It’s his mother’s voice, disappointment and covered-up anger, he knows how to react to that: defense, it’s defense, he opens his mouth to defend yourself, Regulus, don’t let her use— “It was the easiest way—”

“There are other ways,” James interrupts, and he isn’t disappointed anymore. Or covering up his anger. There is fear in his voice now. “We will use those.” Distress, and Regulus doesn’t know what to do with this.

“Oh?”

James’ frown doesn’t exactly leave him, though he tries. Smiles through the ugly; a poor imitation of a smile.

“Sure. I could do something that surprises you. That’s seemed to work before.”

“Surprise me?”

James shrugs, which is the antithesis of the way his voice sounds, charged like sharp stones and panic. “Anything to avoid seeing you bash your head against a corner again. You left the dream, but it was my dream. You left me in it. It was mydream,” he repeats, voice trembling slightly with the restrain. It takes a little while for the implication to percolate through Regulus’ brain. James’ dream, meaning—“My dream took your action and ran with it. There was blood everywhere but you were gone. Do you know what that did to me?”

Regulus doesn’t. He does, however, recognize James’ outburst, intense and perhaps a bit uncontrolled. And he feels—guilty.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it.

James considers Regulus’ response, then nods. “It’s okay. Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

And Regulus came into this dream with a plan, questions and things he wanted, but the rug was pulled right from underneath him. He’s left speechless, giving James the task of leading them somewhere new next.

James does, eventually, “I’ve thought about what you said.”

Regulus said many things. He remains quiet, lets James continue. “I’m not an astronaut, or a scientist, I—I paint murals for a living,” he says, which is both crazy and nonsense, since Regulus didn’t even know painting was a real action until very recently. “But I have access to the Internet,” he says, and starts to draw a map into the sand. “I had to memorize it so I could show it to you, but I think this is probably as close as it gets with my limited knowledge.”

He draws, and from the sand starts to rise a whole map of the stars with the surrounding galaxies, a smattered sample size of the universe, in as much as an ever-expanding mass can be sampled. Regulus’ eyes are glued to the information. He can input this into a data search, look for twins. He can give the information to Remus. They can use this. He just needs a way to bring this with him. He needs to take this home with him. He needs to learn this by heart.

He looks up at James. “Thank you.”

James’ answer is as surprising as it is unexpected. “I want to find you, too.”

It’s a punch to the gut. Not entirely surprising, but hearing being said, by James…His heart gets stuck in his throat, he wants to choke it out and hide it somewhere. It’s too scary, keeping it in his chest, where James knows it resides. It’s too dangerous. James might want to take control of it. And worse, Regulus might want to let him. He has always been aware of the hole in his chest, but it has somewhat increased its siege, dug its claws in the previously unmarred skin of Regulus’ structure, and shown its bloody teeth.

When Regulus is awake, he’s in pain. His chest burns, continuously, open and raw and progressively getting worse. He’s tired and achy, too light and too lonely. He knows Remus has noticed. There is an edge to Remus’ gaze when his eyes rest on Regulus’ hand against his chest. There was a short moment, a little while ago, when Remus had opened his mouth to say something, Regulus had known it was going to be related to the hand, the chest, but Remus had shrugged it off.

‘I want to find you, too.’

Regulus is terrified, and he wants to speak but his heart is in his throat, and the stars have shrunk. This is the truth. James wants to find him, and Regulus’ universe has shrunk. He gazes out at the universe from the bay when he can’t sleep, and it isn’t enough. They used to be a comfort; so many stars, and it used to feel so large.

It feels so small, so much less significant, now. They used to feel like this endless amount of questions that couldn’t possibly be answered, and the problem is that all of Regulus’ questions have started to find an answer. It’s not an answer he ever would have chosen, but it’s calling him all the same. The stars have been diminished in honor of a bigger answer. The wonder has died down, been redirected.

The enormity of the universe feels suddenly a lot more comprehensible than the feelings. The stars have lost their grandeur, and something else has taken their place.

Dreamwalking is an entirely foreign concept to Regulus, one he never anticipated encountering—ever. In truth, none of this ever was something he would have expected to experience; the unimaginable pain of losing a brother to the guts of the ship, and the inexplicable thirst for more that grips him each time he falls asleep, only to wake up in a dream with a boy. The boy.

His boy.

Regulus has never had anything that was solely his—hadn’t known it would feel like electricity sparks everywhere, like a dangerous gift.

With his boy, Regulus finds out something new about himself. An urge. The urge to touch and manipulate and ruin and mark his territory. This is mine running through his veins like fire when the thought of James crosses his mind. He’s going mad with it.

It’s his dream. His boy. Their dream. All of this, no one else’s.

It’s maddening, the type of power ownership brings. It’s an apt word, too. Maddening. Regulus feels himself going spare with it, blunt teeth hungry for a bite, for a bruise, for a proof of existence.

He feels at ease in their dreams. Safe. James makes him feel softer, like he doesn’t have anything to worry about. He isn’t sure why, or what brought it on. James has never done, or said anything to prove his loyalty to Regulus, yet he’s running circles trying to think of anything other than James. It’s impossible to think around, so Regulus needs to understand. Why.

Why there is something about James. Something else.

Calling to him.

‘I want to find you, too.’

“Why?”

James looks away, embarrassed. “...I don’t know. There is something about you. Calling to me.”

Regulus opens his mouth. Closes it. Blushes. And reverts back to what he knows, what feels safer than the heart between his teeth. “You don’t even know me.”

A shrug.  “That is how everything in the universe ever starts, isn’t it? From nothing?”

And well, Regulus had never heard the desire to transform the absence of something into something else expressed quite this simply.

“Yeah,” he says. “From nothing.”

So James sits down with him, and starts naming everything he can, pointing at what he’s learned. “This is the Milky Way Galaxy. This is, um, Andromeda…Galaxy? I think?” He looks up as Regulus, and he’s trying so hard. “That’s the, um, the…Large Magellanic Cloud. And that’s—Alpha Centauri.”

Regulus is using 100% of his brain, trying to compute it all, as much as he can, interjecting every so often. Can you find the distance between Sol and Alpha Centauri, for next time? Can you calculate the orbital eccentricity; names don’t matter as much as data. The odds are what you call something will have evolved for us and isn’t called the same.

On and on, it’s the first dream Regulus and James spend the entire time together.

Regulus isn’t woken up by surprise.

He’s woken up by his alarm.

He takes the time to jot down everything he can about what James has told him, and it’s not enough but it’s a start.

That is how everything in the universe ever starts, isn’t it?

From nothing?

And the thing is, Regulus was never equipped to navigate a subjective experience like this one. As such, he isn’t sure how to process it. Keeping a record of his dreams seems like a good first step, which he has been doing.

The only problem is that, through his record-keeping, Regulus has discovered a new, well, issue. A trend, as it were. A trend he, for one, had not expected. A trend he, until now, had never thought of as problematic at all: proximity.

Proximity, as it turns out, makes him restless. Being in James’ proximity is making him—ansty.

Granted, his experience with the feeling is few and far between. He has been close to Remus for over three years, working with him in a professional capacity. And…that’s it.

So fine, it’s possible he’s overreacting.

But.

But, Regulus wants to talk to James all the time. He wants to speak and listen, he wants to sit in the dreams with James and do nothing. Every time he opens his mouth, James wants to come out. From dreams to colors to James, his mouth has been especially bad at containing all of his secrets. And they grow by the bucket, taking up all of the space and then some, crowding him into a corner.

James is so big, he’s everywhere.

When Regulus is asleep. When he’s awake. When he’s daydreaming. Forget keeping track of dreams, Regulus is engaging in activities that make absolutely no sense; he doodles on his tablet.

Regulus never used to be like this.

It’s a sticky feeling, like he doesn’t wholly belong to himself anymore. He is also uncertain whether this feeling is positive, negative, or—else. It feels like both at times, a pain that isn’t quite painful enough to be considered pain. Joy that isn’t joyful. It isn’t contentment. It isn’t happiness, either. He doesn’t know what this feeling is, he doesn’t have the wordsto describe something he’s never felt before. He’s—dizzy. Stomachs in knots. The pain comes from the bits and pieces that James keeps carving out of Regulus. The pieces he carves out and keeps for himself. Stealing them. Regulus doesn’t see any other explanation, because he feels less than before. Too big when he’s with James, too small when he’s alone. He cannot tell if James is stealing them from him, or if Regulus is carefully picking out the best parts of himself and sliding them down James’ many oversized pockets.

Speaking of James’ pockets, Regulus isn’t sure why it took him so long to figure out, but now that he has taken note of it, he can’t quite move past it:

James wears different clothes all the time.

Regulus, on the other hand, circles back with the exact same set he’s been wearing his entire life. It’s a uniform made out of lightweight material, reflecting solar radiation and helping to regulate the body’s temperature. It’s functional. His is white. The Chosen families wear a grey set; Pandora did. Everyone else is in black. Riddle, too. But James…James doesn’t seem to have any rules at all.

It’s dream twenty-four—one of James’—and Regulus is too curious to hold it in.

They’re at the beach; James is focused on drawing something in the sand that looks like nothing Regulus has ever seen, and James’ sand drawings are usually quite good. This looks…like nothing. Like nothing at all. But James had become frustrated a moment ago, trying to convey the meaning of a word to Regulus, who just—didn’t get it. ‘Korkskru’, it sounded like, all horrible sounds like the screeching of a door panel in dire need of replacement. James had tried miming it, one hand holding a cylindrical shape and turning his other hand in the air, before batting both his hands around, looking at Regulus like surely that would kick start Regulus’ memory. When it became clear that it wouldn’t, James then moved on to enunciating it like Regulus was deaf instead of linguistically impaired, until he’d just waved his hand around and started drawing.

If there is one thing they have both learned from the past however many hours they’ve spent in one another’s company, it’s that drawings seem to be the easiest way to convey meaning and find common ground when words fail.

So James is drawing, periodically turning back to Regulus, eyebrows high like now’s the time Regulus’ memory is going to kickstart, and he’s going to know what a ‘korkskru’ is.

Regulus isn’t. He’s pretty sure whatever contraption is being drawn into the sand is a figment of James’ imagination, because this cannot possibly be a practical object.

However, Regulus isn’t focused on the drawing as much as he is on the many pockets that are on James’ person. And it brings about a question he’s been content to keep at bay for now. It rears its head now, and Regulus is looking at James’ back, the strange garment he’s wearing, like pants with attached front and back bibs and shoulder straps to secure them in place, and—

“What are you wearing?”

James turns back, and it quickly occurs to Regulus that this could be misinterpreted, but James doesn’t look offended. Curious, perhaps. Surprised, certainly. He looks down at his crouching form. “Overalls?” He phrases it as a question, which is just another way they’ve discovered they manoeuver around their…cultural differences. When in doubt, phrase your sentences like questions. He looks at Regulus then, and—stops. Something busy happens in James’ eyes, a realization of sorts, before James hides his expression by turning back to the drawing. He’s less focused now though, half-heartedly continuing a weird half-circle on top of a curved line.

Eventually, “Why do you never change your clothes?”

He doesn’t look at Regulus when he turns the question around. It’s no longer surprise; it’s thoughtful instead. A little…concerned, perhaps.

Regulus cannot begin to imagine what kind of link James has just made between Regulus’ clothing and—whatever else, but he’s instinctively on the defense. There’s something about the way James’ voice sounded just then.

“I don’t have anything else,” he replies. It’s too curt to be anything other than defensive.

James doesn’t turn to Regulus right away. He doesn’t draw anything else, either, ‘korkskru’ half-forgotten on the damp sand.

Regulus’ mind is racing. It never occurred to Regulus before, until—well, until James, that a person could aspire to change clothes. Wear different things for different occasions. Change colors. Add patterns.

James is always decked out in the weirdest combos of clothing, things Regulus has never seen before: baggy pants that fit over his entire frame, held over his shoulders by straps. He seems to be quite fond of long shirts made from a lightweight, breathable material, and sturdy pants with some kind of smooth texture as reinforcement, metallic mesh panels. All of his clothes are always splattered with a riot of colors,and the majority have some kind of deep, spacious pockets that are bespeckled with fingerprints. It’s obvious that most of James’ shirts used to be some kind of white, though most of them are now in various states of color-stained. And every time Regulus looks at James, the words that come to mind are…chaotic beauty. It paints a frankly confusing picture.

“You don’t have anything else?”

Regulus looks down at himself. “I have a life-support system and smart fibers to monitor my health stats…isn’t that enough?” His outfit is devoid of unnecessary embellishments, adhering to a strictly functional aesthetic. It’s utilitarian…isn’t that what clothing is supposed to be? Maybe it isn’t, because he finds James sniffing loudly, and it’s the first time Regulus notices that the other boy seems…scared isn’t the correct word. Confused? Like trying to find x. Like Regulus is part of the x he’s trying to solve. Like too many questions stacked up.

“So you just rotate between the exact same clothes?”

Regulus frowns. “I have a few sets.”

James tilts his chin up. “That’s bleak.”

Defending it is instinct. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He immediately wants to apologize, take it back; I don’t mean it. I’m sorry. He says nothing. Mind racing, racing, racing, and the silence goes on, and James frowns and says nothing for the longest time.

When he does, it isn’t quite chiding, and it’s something stacked between upset and apologetic: “I don’t think I understand a lot about what is happening to me—to us. Give me some grace.”

Regulus doesn’t know how to apologize. But, he does know how to extend an olive branch. He nods at the drawing. “I can promise you, I won’t know what that is.”

James takes the olive branch, hand extending and picking it up, offering his own. “You must,” he says disbelievingly.

Regulus stares. “I don’t.”

He watches as energy surges back into James’ body, vibrating once more like he can’t stand still, like countless atoms are colliding in too little space. James’ gaze shifts back to him, the previous worry dissolving, only to morph into something akin to defeat. “Regulus. Come on.”

“James,” Regulus responds flatly.

James spreads his hands in the void between them, as if by mere gesture he could conjure the object in question. “No,” he insists vehemently. “No, I don’t believe you. A korkskru, Regulus. A korkskru.”

“Repeating the word doesn’t work, as we have established,” Regulus remarks, his voice light, betraying the amusement on his face as he watches James flounder, completely bewildered by Regulus’ obliviousness to what a korkskru is. And perhaps he should feel bad. Yet all Regulus feels is the sun’s warm embrace, soothing like a gentle caress.

But James is relentlessly shaking his head, his hands kneading the air as if he could physically pull the understanding into existence, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt to clarify. “Look,” he implores, pointing urgently at the drawing.

Regulus’ eyebrow arches.

“Regulus, you’re killing me here.”

“Is that a figure of speech?”

“Yes. No—I don’t know. I feel physically sick that you don’t know what this is. How do you open wine?”

Regulus’ eyebrows knit together. “Wine?”

James’ eyes widen further in incredulity. “No.” He fixes his gaze back on Regulus. “Wine.”

Regulus’ eyebrows quirk. “Wine,” he repeats, like this means anything to him.

“Regulus.”

He does that a lot, James. Saying his name. Repeating it, tacking it at the end of his sentences, at the beginning. Saying it just because. It creates a sort of funny, soaring feeling in Regulus’ chest, the same way James’ proximity does when he comes just a little too close, like James’ atoms act as gravity, pulling him in close. It’s getting increasingly hard to resist it. He doesn’t want to resist it, yet at the same time…it feels dangerous. Unsafe, to be too close to James, that not-quite-pain feeling rearing its head.

“This conversation is going nowhere, surely you realize this?”

But James isn’t done, too much time spent trying to teach Regulus what a korkskru is. He writes it down, which is the moment Regulus realizes what James is saying looks like corkscrew. He opens his mouth, repeats the word like calling on a foreign deity, hands open in front of him like pleading with Regulus to understand, which is about the time the foreign item appears in James’ hand.

“Corkscrew,” James exhales, relieved, taking hold of the item and shoving it towards Regulus like that’ll make a difference, before the realization fully hits him. “Corkscrew,” he repeats, though this time it’s confused.

“Did you just—?”

James blinks at the item. At Regulus. Back at the item. “I.”

“Do it again.”

“I don’t know—”

Urging, “Say a word.”

“Sunflower,” he says, and Regulus groans.

“Mean it.”

James rears back. “Hey, don’t be mean.”

“You just made something appear, James.”

“I know!”

“Do it again.”

“You try it!”

“It’s your dream.”

“It’s ours.”

“James.”

“Fine. Fine.” Closing his eyes. Focusing. Taking his time. “Sunflower.”

It starts from the sand, growing out of the coarse grain, unfurling and blooming in between them. Regulus stares at the flower, voiceless. He doesn’t know what to do about this. At all.

James is looking at the corkscrew in his hand, the sunflower at his feet. “We can make shit appear? We can—house.”

There’s a rumble from their side, sand shaking loose as a huge house rises from the beach.

“Holy shit.”

They look at each other.

“Holy shit.”

“Holy shit.”

 

---

 

Apparition is a new trick the both of them have been learning.

Regulus’ current theory is that when they’re in James’ dream, James is the pilot. Every piece of information, even Regulus’, is fed through James’ system first and approved.

He cannot make anything appear in James’ dream, just like James cannot make anything appear in Regulus’. But no matter whose dream it is, the more time they spend awake in it, the more Regulus realizes how little he truly knows. About dreams, the extent of them, what can be done with them, and how James and Regulus are able to navigate them both.

It appears that they can, in fact, appear and disappear things, none of which are actually real and existing in the dream realm. Even in the dream, said items seem wrong somehow—inconsistent textures, strange colors, or something that just feels fundamentally off.

Regulus has theories about what this is. Thinks that both of them are conjuring items they remember, like opening a drawer in the brain and pulling out the memory of something they’ve seen in real life, but the dream is distorting the reality.

He wonders what else it might be distorting.

 

---

 

Neither of them know what bonding means.

Regulus has no idea, and Remus clearly doesn’t, either.

Neither of them have really tried their hands at friendship before.

As it turns out, bonding is a lot of horrible things, like speaking aloud things you’ve never wanted to say to anyone before. Like baring your soul to a person and hoping something good—if at least nothing bad—will happen.

It’s terrifying; no wonder no one practices friendships.

“The only ones you can trust are your family,” his mother had always said.

Regulus now understands why there is a level of trust imbued in blood. His family isn’t perfect. Isn’t what he would have wanted for himself growing up, but there is a level of understanding to it. A level of built-in trust.

Regulus has always known his family wasn’t good, but knows they wouldn’t betray him either.

That is, until Sirius.

Which brings Regulus to another realization.

Blood lies. Blood betrays, and so there is no safety either way. If there is no safety, why wouldn’t Regulus trust Remus with his secrets?

Blood took away his brother, the most prized possession he had.

Honestly, fuck blood.

 

---

 

As it turns out, building a friendship with Remus is full of horrid confessions, yet is extraordinarily easy. All it takes is one specific confession. My brother taught me how to dream, and the barriers fall.

Regulus is incapable of explaining why, but he is unwilling to question it. Truth is, he hasn’t spoken about his brother in years, to anyone. As it turns out, not speaking about something does not automatically make it disappear.

It accumulates like pebbles thrown in a well. It pours out of Regulus, the moment he opens his mouth and Sirius comes out, a wave of need to speak about his brother overflows into him. And out it comes, from every pore, Sirius bleeding out into descriptions of his laughter, his care, his brother, and Remus listens to it all, interjecting when Regulus goes quiet. Speaking of his own experience in the Lower Levels, and of the people he met there, the developing culture and the ways they hide it from nobility. It’s easy enough.

He tells Regulus one day, “We are little more than animals to most people, and no one questions the inner lives of animals.”

It’s rough and hurtful. It’s honest and true. Regulus can tell it comes from the heart. It’s how Remus feels. How thousands of people feel Below.

He’s never even really considered the fate of people before. The people who aren’t him. He is appalled to have lived twenty-eight years without questions.

What sort of jobs do you have? Where do you get your education from? Do you communicate with other levels at all? What do people do Below? What do they think about people like us? Have you seen my brother? Have you seen my brother? Have you seen my brother?

Remus is patient where Regulus isn’t, because all Regulus has ever seen from the world is his belly button, only to realize it’s so much bigger. That he could have done so much more.

And throughout it all, the doubt grows, and Regulus wonders more and more about the problem regarding the Gods. How have they seen all this? How have they never reacted? 70% of the ship’s population is living in a world made up of Belowand they’re not nobles, and yet the Gods have never intervened. Never thought to…equalize.

Why?

Who are these Gods?

And can you call ‘Gods,’ the ones who oppress you?

“I'm going to teach you the code,” is Remus’ first sentence to Regulus that morning.

He is tired, brain full of James and new knowledge about the English language. He’s learning and he’s falling. Has known about the falling for a while now.

But his feet are barely touching the ground. He’s turned over. He’s wishing time would invert on itself and dreams would last longer. He wants to memorize James’ face and really, in any other situation, Regulus would have listened. Said, thank you, said, I’ve been so curious about what you scribble in your notebook. Said, Can I use it to pass a message below? Can I talk to my brother? Can I talk to my brother? Can I talk to my brother?

As it is Regulus, isn’t in his right mind.

He is daydreaming and he’s falling. He’s falling. He would confess this to his brother, who isn’t there. There is nothing and no one to confess to aside from Remus, because it’s not normal. He is dreaming in colors and touching a boy who lives in his brain. A boy who also lives on Earth.

James is invisible yet takes all of the space in Regulus’ world. He’s expanding it. It’s revolutionary. He loves it. He’s falling.

“I think I’m falling in love.”

He blurts it out, words clawing their way out smoothly. A beast who has been waiting for Regulus to speak it into existence for weeks. It’s roaming their office now. Content to be out of the confines of Regulus’ chest, purring.

Its claws are out though. Regulus hasn’t asked for this; but then again, Regulus has had things stolen from him before. Isn’t it normal that the lovely truths in Regulus’ body would create ways to fight back? It’s evolution at its finest, isn’t it? Developing defense strategies over things that hurt you in the past.

Sirius’ love looked too soft and lovely. No claws, pure.

James’ looks lovely and dangerous; ready to fight if necessary.

Regulus thinks it might be able to kill. Thinks he would let it, if needed.

Nothing hurts like losing Sirius did. And so, he will protect James with his life.

Regulus turns to Remus. “I’m falling in love.”

Remus opens his mouth, and Regulus immediately understands that he doesn’t mean to say what he does, which is, “I know your brother.”

Regulus takes the words in like a skeleton swallowing water. The words enter through his ears and escape from his body, falling through the bone cracks and along the calcium, dripping down to the ground, and Below. He is looking at them like little worms, twisting and writhing, trying to escape through the floor to their forty-sixth reason.

“What?”

He’s asking a question, but his brain is already working in tandem with his heart. It’s easy to math it. Remus lived in the Lower Levels, was sent to the Upper Level three years ago.

Sirius was sent to the Lower Levels 10 years ago.

That is seven years in a ship, on a Level with barely more than 2500 people.

“The code is for him,” Remus continues. Like now that it’s out, he has no interest in keeping it secret anymore. Like he’s looking at the worm words he’s pulling out of his mouth, and liking them better out than in. And then he continues; he looks at the worm words and speaks. “Sirius and I made it so I would come here to you. That’s what I’m saying.” A deep inhale. “Sirius and I made it so I would come here to you,” he says, leaving ample space between his words to let Regulus speak, interrupt, ask questions.

Regulus doesn’t. His brain feels fuzzy, like static and a meteor shower, skewing the data system. He listens, computing.

“Sirius didn’t know if your parents would have—if you would have been—” corrupted, he doesn’t say. Still, Regulus hears it. “He’s been preparing.”

“Preparing,” Regulus repeats, and then Remus says something. Something paradigm-shifting.

“Gods no longer exist. Riddle wants to keep things this way because it is power. And he’s a Muggle.”

“A what?”

“A Muggle. He will never have a soulmate.”

Regulus blinks. “What?”

Remus sighs. “People who cannot have soulmates; they are called Muggles. Riddle is one…or at least, that is the running theory. We believe…he does not like that. So he’s depriving everyone of the option.”

Regulus blinks again. “Soulmates.”

“You and the boy,” Remus says gently. “And, well, me and Sirius.”

“I—What?” He’s rooted to the floor. The worms are eating his shoes. Going through his soles, through his feet. He wants to throw up.

“Sirius has never been like everyone else on the ship, Regulus, you know this. He has always been able to see colors. He has always dreamt. He saw me, too, in his dreams. But unlike you, I wasn’t on another planet. I was right here. He came down here for me.”

He came down here for me.

He abandoned you for me.

He loves me more than he loves you.

You haven’t seen your brother in 10 years because of me.

Regulus takes this sentence like a meteorite to the face. Like gamma rays, like ultraviolet. Like violence.

“You stole my brother.” It is so angry it’s toneless.

There is miscalculation in Remus, his eyes busy with unspoken sentences. “What? No, that isn’t what I’m saying.”

The problem is Regulus isn’t sure at all that this isn’t what Remus is saying. He is smart enough to understand, rationally, that Remus isn’t at fault for any of this. After all, James isn’t at fault for appearing in Regulus’ dreams. His dreams are biology talking something deeper, calling them together, wanting their reunion, hoping for Nature to take over its rights. Regulus knows this, and perhaps in any other context, he would have been content to accept it.

Except his brain has been altered by too many dreams and hopes. He has been changed, emotionally trained to feel more, to think creatively. And oh, his brain is taking all kinds of creative licenses to export Remus’ words and twist them, to give them new meaning. Regulus is furious, blind with anger. His hands find Remus’ chest and push.

“Start speaking.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

This chapter was a true struggle to get through, but I just had to upload it, I've been staring at it for too long, and at some point the thing you have created must be deleted or posted, and I don't have it in me to try again.

This is it, this is the stuff I created, on a platter for you.

I hope it makes sense. I hope you liked it. I'm not super confident about it, but there are pockets and bits and pieces that I did really enjoy writing. It was more...the order of it that tripped me out.

ANYWAY next chapter is SIRIUS POV!!!! (which I've never been more excited for). I wrote it back in December and I have been patiently writing all the previous chapters, knowing the next one was coming.

But I DID really like writing this one, too, lots of moving parts getting put together, some secrets being unraveled, Regulus doubting the Gods again, he's so precious to me.

Chapter 9: (‘Legacy’;’bearer’) - Sirius interlude - Part 1

Summary:

After all, he has a plan and a brother, Forty-Six Levels above.

Sirius is seven, sitting among the other young nobles. The walls panels of the classroom are lined with images of Gods walking the Earth among humans and eight-legged monsters, displaying the divine hierarchy in meticulous detail.

The teacher’s voice echoes off the panel-lined walls, but Sirius barely pays attention, his mind drifting, daydreaming. He’s heard that story a thousand times, and so has everyone else. Besides, something else has all of his attention.

He has started having dreams. They were strange at first, blurry and confusing, with shapes and colors, nothing certain. But they have started to evolve, as things are wont to do.

For years, Sirius has dreamt of things he does not understand: a spaceship, much like his own, only different. Moldy, old, and terrifyingly maintained. With flickering lights, no windows, and crowded with so many people who never have a face.

The dreams aren’t pleasant, yet they feel like home somehow. There is something appealing to them, a homesickness almost when Sirius doesn’t sleep well, when the dream doesn’t materialize into forms that look like his ship, but not.

There was a shape in his dreams, last night. Important, this shape. He doesn’t know why, only that it is. Only that this shape matters. His back is always turned away from Sirius, and Sirius can’t see much of the boy’s form, only that he always seems to stand with his back to Sirius.

“Long ago, the Earth belonged to the wilderness, and Gods belonged to no one. But the Gods discovered Earth—an untamed sphere of potential. Moved by a desire to create perfection, the Gods chose to bestow upon this planet a gift: humans, created in their divine image. The Gods hoped to watch their creations flourish independently, nurturing the Earth into a paradise, providing humans with a spectrum of colors and emotions that helped them navigate Earth.”

Sirius tries to call out to the boy, but he can’t find his voice. The dream goes on, and the boy never turns around. And.

And.

And, why? Sirius knows the shape wanted to turn. Could hear him, almost, like a subconscious frequency, struggling to turn around as Sirius was struggling to walk forward, the distance lengthening in Sirius’ desire to see it erased.

And Sirius can never call him, or walk towards him, and he never reaches him.

It doesn’t stop him from trying.

There is something about the boy, calling to him.

“But their creations created envy, and monstrous beings with eight limbs and two heads descended from space, wreaking havoc and destruction on our world. The Gods, determined to save what remained of humanity, used the very technology of our destroyers to seek a new beginning among the stars.”

He’s always stuck in these dreams, but there is a feeling, like he isn’t alone.

Like the boy wants to turn to him, too.

He doesn’t feel the same in these dreams as he does when he’s alone. The boy’s back is warm, he knows. It’s a feeling in his gut he doesn’t need to touch to know, but by Gods, he wants to, and Sirius dreams. He is a boy who sees colors and dreams a lot. He mentions it in passing to his father once, only to be shut down immediately—violently.

‘Never speak of this again’, and Sirius is young, is terrified, has never heard his father raise his voice until today, until now, and he looks at his father, whose entire focus is on his son, eyes hard and rough and serious. ‘I mean it. Never mention dreams again. To anyone, ever again.’

Of course, Sirius obeys. He is a good son.

And for years, Sirius doesn’t know any better.

“Those who had not fallen to corruption were chosen to leave Earth behind, while those led astray were left to face the consequences of their betrayal. In their wisdom, Gods chose the noblest families to uphold their legacy. You are the result of that choice, handpicked by the Gods themselves. You are a four thousand year product of the Gods, bred and shaped over time to become the best version of humans there could be. With each generation, Gods have refined humans, removing unnecessary excess and inputing useful data, to achieve your full potential. You deserve to be here, because you are at the image of the Gods, perfection refined.”

Sirius shifts in his seat.

He is quiet.

“The Gods are with us, in this ship, weakened by gravity but eagerly awaiting a new planet to find their strength. Safe in space and far from the reach of monsters, the Gods designated the Riddles to be their voice in the meantime, and blessed Tom Riddle with eternal life. It is our legacy to fulfill not only our potential, but also the potential of their vision.”

Sirius frowns slightly. He knows the story all too well, told and embellished by his mother, day after day, eyes filled with a harsh incitation to believe, almost like she could see—tell that Sirius doesn’t know what to make of this story, of these so-called monsters.

“Our Seeker searches for our new home, fulfilling a divine mission. Guided by the Gods, they will secure our future. The rules on this ship have been created to ensure our survival. Repeat them after me. Follow the Divine Guide.”

Sirius lingers, gaze fixed on the images of the Gods as the class repeats.

“Trust the Messenger.”

On his left, Cereus Greengrass repeats dutifully.

“Preserve Unity.”

On his right, Lucius Malfoy is smirking, disdain evident in every echo.

“Guard Our Lifelines.”

There are no windows in the classroom, only panels and AI-made images. No real image was preserved from the ship’s Ascendency.

“Share Alike.”

This one, Sirius can hardly make himself speak it, it’s so ridiculous. Share alike.

Share alike, when the majority of the people’s ship do not live in the Upper Level. Do not go to class. Do not get to have the same privilege as Sirius and the ten Chosen families do. He wonders if children down below say this nonesense, too. If they believe in it.

“Foster Trust.”

His eyes turn back to the wall-panels, to the Gods, humans and monsters. The monsters are easily five feet taller than the humans. Despite their height and imposing presence, they are still smaller than the Gods, who dominate the scene with even greater stature and an aura of divinity. But the monsters are populating the panels in overwhelming numbers; creatures with eight symmetrical legs, smooth skin, and all eight feet composed of five finger-like hands. Sinuous torsos that curve with a serpentine grace. But it’s their faces that is the most perturbing: two large, expressive eyes with eerily human expressions, one sigular nose and two mouths. Each monster has a central body from which the legs extend, large and robust, evidently agile and dynamic, skittering across the panels in fluid, coordinated motions. Despite their monstrous form, there is a grace about them, a poetry in the way they seem to move.

“Respect Boundaries.”

They tower over the humans, their postures and expressions carefully composed—some appear protective, others curious or even tender towards the humans, while maintaining a fearful agressivity to the Gods above them.

“Maintain Decorum.”

The humans, smallest of all, are gathered in groups, their faces painted with expressions of wonder and fear. They are diverse in age and appearance, men and women, young and old, their faces upturned and full of emotion—awe, fear, curiosity. Their postures vary from defiant to devout, some clutching each other in shared solidarity, others standing alone, arms raised in desperate plea or in quiet reverence.

“Safeguard Our People.”

The Gods, depicted with eyes like a celestial glow, watch over the scene with a blank face, their faces like omnipotent power, robes flowing.

"Conserve to Survive.”

And Sirius can’t help but think, How funny. The monsters look more like us that the Gods do.

 

---

 

Sirius turns eighteen with little fanfare. It’s quiet joy with an undercurrent of secrecy—a skill Sirius has mastered over the years. After all, he has been keeping his own secret for years. Forever, really. By accident at first, because one cannot name inconsistencies in something that isn’t glaringly obvious, and Sirius can see colors from birth, but all of them are variations of grey. He comes to know yellow as light grey, red as dark grey. It is a world where all of the colors are named after three shades: white, grey. Black. For years, Sirius doesn’t know any better.

Until.

It is an accident, as most revelations are. No one ever means to reveal a secret; it happens. It’s a mistake, Pandora’s box that can never be closed again, the lock broken and the secrets crawling out, picked up by nimble fingers or growing limbs and extracting themselves out on their own. Sercrets are like that, aren’t they? Unburying themselves by any means, with help or alone. Secrets are meant to be shared, that’s what makes them secrets. You never know who to share your secrets with, and once the secret has been told, it can never been taken back. It’s also what makes them dangerous.

At fifteen, he sneaks into his father’s study, because it is forbidden. And like one does with all forbidden things, Sirius wants to see. Open forbidden things. Because he can. Because he’s a child.

That is how he stumbles on a locked cabinet. A locked cabinet that Sirius breaks open. A broken open cabinet that contains a secret. An old paper, conserved between two sheets of plastic. That paper has words written on it, that Sirius cannot understand: Roue Chromatique. Sirius discovers a color wheel for the first time…along with seven other printed books, hidden in that locked cabinet. Three of them have fingerprints on the spine. The rest of them are dusty, uninteresting, and because they hold no interest for his father, they hold no interest for Sirius, who is only interested in secrets. It is the one currency that matters, in a world where money and stature isn’t an object.

For years, Sirius had been dancing on the edge of danger, nothing concrete, keeping his secrets—and the others’. The illegal walks Regulus takes under his blanket to the bay window of the first floor when his insomnia kicks in. The illegal smuggling operations conducted by the ship’s engineer in Lab 4, clandestinely ferrying contraband goods to the Lower Levels in exchange for plant sprouts that Sirius knows aren’t listen in the official botanical records of the ship. The soft creak of the floorboards and the faint whisper of the front door closing when his mother disappears during the night. By accident (snooping), Sirius once accesses encrypted files on a public terminal that turned out to be the Seeker’s personal logs, which, despite the strict social stratification, had established covert trade agreements with the Lowel Levels.

Sirius doesn’t understand all the details of the secret he keeps, only that the ship’s strict rules about keeping the social groups separate might not be followed by everyone.

Seeing and not being seen, Sirius is good at that—for the first eighteen years of his life.

The Blacks are the family that will take over the Gods, once Riddle deems it time. Once the Riddle family, encouraged by the Gods, announces the official Ascendency. As such, the Blacks do not need anything, do not seek anything. They have it all.

And so, what does a person do, when everything they could want, they have? They turn to the only other value: secrets.

Sirius picks up the old paper—and finds a color wheel with the names; the real names. It’s the validation that Sirius isn’t like everyone else, that he doesn’t see the world in grey, black and white. That Sirius is different.

He is like the Gods.

And so, Sirius turns eighteen with little fanfare.

Until.

It is not an accident, as some revelations can be. His parents take him aside. Tell him, ‘You’re an adult now.’ And Sirius doesn’t know what this means. He follows his parents, until he realizes they have brought him to the Gods. To the door where they reside, and they push it open.

Sirius has never seen the Gods.

On his eighteenth birthday, he realizes he never will.

 

---

 

The God room is God-empty, but Riddle-filled.

There is Riddle, and a block of ice in the corner, partially hidden. It is—weird, that ice block. Like something stuck inside.

The room is large, and empty.

Riddle is here, and so is Sirius, and so are his parents, and so is the tense silence, as Sirius realizes what no one is saying. What everyone is waiting for him to understand.

The God room isn’t a room filled with Gods. It is a room filled with lies.

And Riddle, seemingly unperturbed, starts speaking. Casually, like one would mention a disfunction in Lab 14, like one should really go check on the microgreens. Like Sirius’ entire life has not just been uprooted. Riddle’s gaze is unwavering, fixing Sirius with it, noticing every micro expression Sirius is sporting as he speaks. Like analyzing prey as he continues a speech Sirius is barely paying attention to, too shocked to react the way he feels like he should react. With more vigor. With outrage. With disgust.

“If people stop believing in Gods, they will not know what to believe in. They need someone who can point them in the right direction.”

Sirius feels himself taking a step back from his own self, observing from afar. Turning rational, trying to find excuses and reasons. There are questions Sirius formulates, that seem relevant at the time.

“They need someone who can point them in the right direction…” he repeats. “You?”

Riddle nodding, “Yes.”

Sirius asking, “Have the Gods ever existed?”

A shrug, like this question isn’t important. “To an extent.”

“What extent?’

Riddle shaking his head, “It is not for you to know.”

“But you do?’

This doesn’t please Riddle, whose eyes sharpen, narrowing into slits. “Do not question the Messenger,” he warns.

And Sirius is taking a step back into his own body, jolted, feelings metabolizing inside of him, he feels the confused anger crawling out. “What Messenger? There are no Gods to carry a message from.”

“Perhaps not,” Riddle concedes, tone all at once soft and firm. “But I am the only one keeping your family on top.”

The weight of those words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

And this—this hadn’t occurred to Sirius, but of course. Riddle alone couldn’t hold an entire ship under his control. Gods need worshippers to exist. A Messenger needs followers to believe he is God-chosen. Riddle is the manipulative force that maintains their family’s status. Should Riddle decide to open to God room to the public, his family would crumble alongside him.

The ship’s power structure requires the God room to remain closed, requires the Gods to be in there, resting. If there are no Gods—and if people realize there are no Gods…

No one person, no matter how powerful, can maintain control or power in isolation. Power is as much about the perception of others as it is about the actions of the one in power.

Which means his parents are the enablers, they are the inaction, they are—he turns to them, desperate, eyes begging, until his gaze collides with his mother’s. His father’s. And Sirius understands. The ship on which Sirius exists, has spent his entire life, that has seen his brother’s birth—is filled with lies.

When he says so, his mother is quick to correct, “Not lies,” and Sirius stops. Takes his time, analyzes his mother’s body language. Stand-offish, with a hint of fear. Towards what—or who, Sirius cannot tell. “Gods reign supreme, and we follow in their footsteps. It’s for the best.”

It’s for the best. A throwaway sentence that does not sit well with Sirius’ stomach. He sees red. He knows the name of that color now; finds it incredibly fitting. Red, red, red.

“We are liars,” he seethes.

“We are shepherds,” Riddle cuts in sharply. “We guide people through the stars.”

“We haven’t landed in 4,000 years,” Sirius explodes, and his voice is space cold, frosted at the tips. “We’re lost, and so is everyone else. What are we even looking for?”

Silence.

Silence, silence. Too much, and too heavy. Draping across the room, stretching and bending, taking up all of the space.

“What are we looking for?” He asks again.

His parents look at each other, considering. Turn to Riddle, who guides his calculated bored, sharp gaze onto Sirius. “We want what is ours back.”

The sentences drapes itself over the rest of sentences, crushing everything else under its weight.

‘We want what is ours back.’

It makes sense. As does everything else. Of course. We want our planet back, is what Riddle means.

Still, Sirius takes a step back, hoping to be wrong. Hoping to be confused. Hoping to go back to his blessed ignorance. “What?”

Riddle sighs. “Our planet, Sirius. We are going back to Earth. We needed to take some distance, spend time breeding a better people, and you are the product of that breeding. But it took far longer than anticipated, and we lost direction centuries ago. The data—disappeared.” He pauses, and Sirius catches the intonation in his tone, like he doesn’t quite believe it himself. Like something so important could never disappear—only be tampered with. “We want to find Earth again. And claim it.”

There is something vastly unsettling about that word. Claim. Assertive. Possessive. Like it’s owed to them. Like they ownit.

“Claim it,” Sirius echoes, almost gentle in the way he speaks, almost encouraging. He’s afraid he’s disassociating from the situation, removing himself to protect himself from the terrifying truth being thrust upon him.

Riddle doesn’t react to Sirius’ . “It was ours long ago before it was theirs. They have had it for 4,000 years. It is our turn, now.” Like a conversation about a toy, like something that can be passed back and forth. Like—

Sirius turns to his mother. “Didn’t you always tell Regulus and I to share?”

His mother’s nose wrinkles in disdain, her displeasure evident at the implication of his words—or disappointed that he isn’t receiving the news with the expected grace of a Black. This observation propels a thought to the forefront of Sirius’ mind, and he swiftly turns to his father, meeting his gaze. His father’s ice-blue eyes reflect back at him, father and son. And Orion is a Black, was once an heir like Sirius—has faced this exact revelation himself.

It’s pattern recognition, and Sirius knows. Arcturus Black once brought eighteen-year old Orion into the empty God room. This isn’t the first time this situation has happened. This is one hundred and thirty generations of Black lies.

He looks at his father, who stares back at him like he knows. He does not shy away from Sirius’ gaze, letting his son see the ugly—Orion’s participation in this age-old charade. Like he didn’t do better than what his son expected of him, like he understands Sirius’ ire—and Sirius is repulsed by the legacy coursing through his veins, soiled. Disgusted by his own blood.

He turns to his mother, who continues. “We aren’t having a discussion about this, Sirius. We are preparing you for the future. For what your role will be on this ship.”

And Sirius looks at Orion again, and imagines what Orion might have told Arcturus. ‘Yes, of course’. How pathetic, to accept a role like this.

Seeker is a revered job. Seekers are as close to a religious figure as the Messenger is. And yet, all Seekers were Blacks, and all of them were liars. Sirius’ mother isn’t nice, but his father is supposed to be. Weak, yes. Both of them full of flaws, carrying a legacy too heavy not to crack under the pressure, the burden of the Gods entirely too strong not to crumble at least slightly over their shoulders. But his father was the one who understood. The one who told the truth, and Sirius cracks under the understanding that his father is weak, and a liar.

There must be something unsettling enough in Sirius’ gaze, palpable enough to draw yet another resigned sigh from Riddle as he offers a kernel of truth. “The Gods did exist, once,” he says, and Orion’s head swivels to look at Riddle in shock—a reaction that Sirius is horrified by. It’s the swiftness, the raw intensity of his father’s interest, as if Orion had never entertained the notion that this entire charade might have stemmed from something real, once. That his father has no idea the Gods used to exist. That he never asked Arcturus any questions. And, perhaps for the first time, Sirius wonders what relationship his father had with his own father. The level of respect—or fear—one must have ,not to ask questions. To accept a truth as ruthless as the one presented in front of Sirius right now.

He pities his father. Mourns the father Orion could have been, had he learned how to be anything but a reflection of his own father. This revelation hurts, too. All it took was a look, but he loves his father a little less.

He turns back to Riddle. “What happened to them?”

Riddle’s response is all too casual, feint nonchalance. “People stopped believing in them.”

There is a part missing, something Sirius isn’t getting. A secret hidden amongst the truths. Another lie, hiding. And Sirius sift, trying to unearth it, only to come up empty.

“Why am here, then?” Sirius asks, and no one responds. Once again, letting him walk into the truth of what is being asked of him all by himself, which he does, eventually, circling around what he’s been told, the situation, the stakes.

‘We are preparing you for the future. For what your role will be on this ship.’

And that is when Sirius gets it. When he finally understands what is being asked of him.

This is the secret.

The secret is not the secret.

The secret is not that the Gods do not exist.

The secret is that he will have to keep the secret that they do not, if Earth isn’t found.

That he will need to educate his own children about the Gods, one day. That his children will, too. That this cycle, as long as Earth isn’t found, will need to be upheld and repeated.

The secret is that the dead Gods will die with him. That the entire population of this ship will never know that the God room is empty—deserted, and all that is in here is empty space and—a large block of ice.

He cuts his eyes at Riddle, who is observing all of Sirius’ dawning realization with a certain calculated nonchalance. If he had a knife, he would been be twirling it in the air, waiting.

The secret is that he’s a liar, and so are his parents, and Riddle, and—

“Who knows?”

Riddle pins him with a gaze, serious all of a sudden. Warning, almost. “Us. You. Avery.” He stops when he takes note of Sirius’ confused expression, and expands. “They are their servants of the House, the Averys. They ensure nothing… problematic occurs.”

“Like telling people we are lying?” Sirius sneers, and he kisses his teeth. He cannot believe it. Cannot believe this entire system based on lies and fake worship, that has created a world where Sirius is meant to believe himself better only because it’s the norm. He cannot believe that he spent eighteen years thinking he was. Sirius was raised knowing he was better than everyone, pure of blood and heir to the Gods.

He’s dropping from heights, feeling his kneecaps shattering under the weight of the lies he was spoon-fed his entire life. If there are no Gods, then there is nothing to inherit from. Then pure blood and this family system is lies. Then… what about everyone else? The people who aren’t the ten families? What do they believe, and why did they spend the past 4,000 years being less than the rest? Because of lies?

Sirius looks at his parents then, at Riddle, letting eighteen years wash over him as something new takes over. The rush of emotions is stronger than the sadness of realizing the lies, it’s the understanding he’s going to need to create something new from the ashes of the person he once was.

“Sirius, will you stop crying?”

It’s his mother’s voice, blunt and impatient. Lifting a hand to his cheek, Sirius realizes he is, and it’s the end of an era, he’s different. He’s grown up a thousand years in the span of eighteen seconds. He needs to tell Regulus—

Regulus.

Sirius turns back to his parents, wiping at his cheeks. His voice is less steady than he’d like it to be, but they’ve already seen him cry. What’s one more exposed weakness?

“Is Regulus going to know?”

It’s Riddle who responds again from behind him. “Not as long as you bear it. If something were to happen to you, it would then be his turn. Then your children. Then his.”

How apt; another communal understanding of duty and succession. Duty to the Gods transferred to a duty to his family. A cyclical pattern of responsibility that transcends individual lifetimes.

No tadiū portā legāyu.

Not as long as you bear your legacy.

“This is insane,” Sirius says.

“It’s power,” Riddle interrupts again as he takes a few steps forward. “Power is a delicious aphrodisiac,” he continues, and Sirius wants to laugh. Wonders if Riddle has ever looked at red and thought, that’s a color. Wonders if Riddle has ever had a brother. Has ever looked at another human and thought, that’s my brother. If Riddle has ever felt love for anything or anyone at all.

Sirius has. Seen color, that is. Had a brother. Better than any aphrodisiac, that. Better than power. Which is the moment where Sirius understands that he doesn’t have to do this at all. This web of lies can end with him. Knowledge is power, and Sirius is about to become one of the most revered person on this ship. He has the power to change the narrative; people will listen to him.

“I’m not entertaining this,” he says, and starts to turn around, toward the door, towards where he can change the narrative and—and—something. In truth, Sirius isn’t sure what he can do, just that he needs to. If a system is broken down, another can take its place. Isn’t that his duty?

Portā legāyu.

Legacy bearer.

That’s what Sirius is. What he represents. He can change things.

And this, perhaps, is his first miscalculation.

Because it becomes clear, almost instantly, that he is going to be entertaining this.

“Regulus is an extraordinarily quiet child, isn’t he?” Riddle muses with a calculated nonchalance, and all the plans that Sirius had started to craft vanish instantly.

He turns to look at his mother, whose light grey eyes are contrite, but not enough to speak up. To his dad, whose eyes are shameful and cold and ice blue. And he thinks, this is my family. These are the people who are supposed to protect us.

He turns his own blue eyes in Riddle’s direction. Nothing is said it isn’t needed.

Sirius will be quiet.

 

---

 

Sirius has always been good at keeping secrets. He kept his own, and Regulus’ for years; before he even knew what secrets were. There are things you instantly know to keep to yourself. These are easy secrets to keep.

Riddle’s is the most difficult secret to keep, because he is keeping it from Regulus.

He’s never kept a secret from his brother before—not like this.

Sirius has never told Regulus about the colors, but why would he? He himself didn’t realize this was what set him apart until he did, and once he did, fear was quick to take hold of him. He tried to test Regulus, crafting stories made with more than enough opportunities to see if Regulus would frown. Would consider, or ask Sirius questions. But Regulus never did, and Sirius never pushed. Making Regulus feel out of place was the least of the things he wanted.

So, Sirius has never before kept a secret like this from Regulus. But the weight of this newfound secrecy is unexpectedly heavy, and for the first time, Sirius becomes acutely aware of how its weight begin to significantly impact his entire demeanor. It’s in his actions, minor disobediences, ways to act out, to release the stress of the secret somehow, that threatens to suffocate him. Constantly on edge, his behavior veering towards the rebellious, the burden altering his usual easygoing nature, leaving him restless and conflicted.

He cannot talk to his brother, and stops going to his pod. He cannot speak without becoming angry, without all these words threatening to spill out. Regulus tries at first, but Sirius has always been the one to keep them afloat. Regulus keeps to himself, Sirius comes to him. This is the way it has always been, and the reason why their relationship starts deteriorating. Sirius pulls always, and Regulus doesn’t seek him out. After all, it was always Sirius going to Regulus’ room. Regulus doesn’t knock on Sirius’. It’s never happened before; it doesn’t then, either.

And with Sirius removing the tether of his stability by removing Regulus, things start to spiral.

He becomes testy. Confrontational. It’s never about the secret—but it’s about the secret.

The strain of secrecy eats at Sirius like a relentless, corrosive force, eroding his spirit. He acts out at meal; during lessons; in public, in front of the other ten families. It is hard to keep it in, the secret is far too vast for his young soul to enclose. He is not built to sustain such pressure to remain quiet, to keep it all inside, and it shows; his usual composure starts peeling away, revealing raw edges and soot-stained hands, he can’t scrub it off; it clings to him.

Each outburst is another patch of rust on iron, internal decay made visible. The idea that he might be succumbing to a millennia-old legacy of corrosion—a breakdown passed silently from generation to generation, Black and silent—gnaws at him.

Is he the first one to succomb to this kind of damage?

The source of the corrosion is so simple to trace to Riddle and his cornered smiles, Sirius sees him and sees drops of corrosive acid on metal. He is making history, the continuation of a familial flaw that now threatens to consume him. It’s more than just carrying a secret; it feels like carrying a curse, leaving his hands grimy and his soul sullied.

And the problem is, when you start seeing corruption, you cannot unsee it. It starts creeping into Sirius’ entire being—and he is young, his emotions have not been eroded yet. He is fresh and new to life, just eighteen. He wants to right the wrong, but he’s been muzzled, and it only serves to anger him more.

And like with every overflowing thing, it finds ways to escape his control. He undermines directives, debates about resource allocation, publicly challenges a senior officer, breaches and accesses restricted data, treading a razor-thin line between rehabilitation and something else.

He has known the rules forever. Every child on the ship is brought up with the rules at the forefront of their minds.

1. Seeker Uni Duce Divīnu. Follow the Divine Guide.
2. Uni Confi Messiah. Trust the Messenger.
3. Uni Cōservu. Preserve Unity.
4. Vi Lias Prote. Guard Our Lifelines.
5. Uni Pate. Share Alike.
6. Fiam alēre. Foster Trust.
7. Limiām Respit. Respect Boundaries.
8. Decru Sūrvy. Maintain Decorum.
9. Uni Difindit. Safeguard Our People.
10. Superty Coservū. Conserve to Survive.

He’s forgiven once for breaking three; he is punished on two for breaking eight. The real threats starts on three, when he breaks rule number seven. On four, he’s put in solitary for breaking two, and for months, he manages to calm down, repress everything. It grows and Sirius represses, sees the fear in his brother’s eyes, how Regulus makes himself smaller, speaks less, hopes that his lack of visibility might shield Sirius. Sirius notices the toll his behavior is taking on his family, the palpable fear it’s generating across the entire Level. But repression never works, and he’s eighteen, now.

There is quiet for a few weeks, the fear and anticipation coming down to breath down Sirius’ neck, because it’s such a close call, five strikes and you’re out, these are the rules. Sirius holds it in. And in. And in. And behaves. And behaves. And behaves, all the while boiling inside, struggling to contain the secret within. He knows Regulus sees it—that Regulus knows Sirius is heading straight for disaster. At the dinner table, Regulus looks at Sirius with despair in his eyes. He’s looking at Sirius like he might not be able to forgive him, all the while realizing it might already be too late, that whatever Sirius is struggling with is an unstoppable force. Regulus looks at Sirius like he is preparing himself for the worst. This, perhaps more than anything, is the worst part of keeping the ship’s secret.

Sirius wonders what might have happened, had he told Regulus the truth. Perhaps sharing the burden, four shoulders instead of two, might have eased the burden.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. The only way Sirius has found to release the pressure is to act out.

It could have become something else, had Sirius held it in. He’s been told about things that grow under pressure. But Sirius is young, and the pressure cannot be withstood. He is not a diamond in the making. He is a supernova, and he explodes once more.

Sirius is eighteen years old. He’s legally an adult, and has done quantity of dissent, heresy, conspiracy, moral transgression and endangering the community in the past few months.

He gets put on trial.

 

---

 

Trials on the ship are rare enough that it is an event; made bigger by the fact that he is Sirius Black, perfect child who has been having a rough year. Made bigger by the fact that everyone on Level One knows what strike ten is, for any offence. Made bigger by the fact that only one other person has gotten a trial before, in known history. Only a few years prior. A private trial, for a private offence. A trial that ended in the disappearance of his brother’s only friend. A girl, Pandora.

Sirius never did learn Pandora’s offense, nor did anyone. Not even Regulus, as far as Sirius is aware. One morning, Regulus was making plans to meet with Pandora. By the evening, Pandora had disappeared.

You do not question the Gods, nor their judgement.

It is reinforced day after day, all throughout their lives, these rules by which they live by.

So when Sirius’ sentence falls, and it is the same as what all thought it might be, there are whispers. Never before, in the known history of the ship, has a noble been exiled to the Lower Levels. Yet here is Sirius Black, condemned to spend the rest of his life in the Lower Levels, as penance.

Sirius doesn’t fight it.

See, Sirius has figured out something most people never do. If change cannot come from the top, it has to come from below. Regulus will not understand, but Sirius knows his brother. He will be forgiven, once he has sacrificed enough.

After all, he has a plan and a brother, Forty-Six Levels above.

Notes:

(Celine, I love you)

Chapter 10: (‘heart’;’pockets’) - Sirius Interlude - Part 2

Summary:

 I want to sit next to you and weigh all of my decisions with your hands.

Sirius was raised in the belief that the Lower Levels are a terrible place. Something awful, the guts of the ship.

It takes him less than three minutes to realize it’s meteor shit.

Sirius’ initial reaction is to breathe in, and try to get used to the stares. Riddle must have known letting people know about Sirius being exiled would bring a crowd. And the thing is, it does. Dozens of them, looking at Sirius like one would at a very special type of eclipse, something that can only be seen from a lens. Sirius is being looked over not quite like one would look at another person, but rather like one would look at a fallen God. With curiosity, wanting to tilt their head up and look up, see who has dropped the fallen God into their space, understand the peculiarity of the moment.

Sirius’ name has always been known as the untouchable, the heir, but he’s something different now. Fallen, he’s just like everyone else—almost. It’s in the eyes. The way they look at him. Like they fear him, still.

What Riddle had not figured out, is that Sirius wants that endorsement. It’ll be easier for him to do what he came down here to do, if people know he is the Gods’ descendant. Fallen or not, Sirius is a name that holds weight . And weight makes things happen.

Sirius doesn’t want his brother to be hurt, but he does want him to be free. And that is another thing Riddle has never really considered. Riddle is an only child. He has no idea what having a brother means, the lengths you would go for him. When you are a sibling, you can have an impact on your brother’s life. You can do something that will impact his future in a positive way.

Riddle does not know that you would do that in a heartbeat, for your brother.

The novelty wore off once people realized Sirius wasn’t going to move—or speak—just yet, and he’s been left alone since. It’s only been a few hours, but Sirius is exploring the Lower Level, getting to know his new home, the place he will be in for the foreseeable future.

The architecture is utilitarian and stark, with minimal aesthetic consideration. Three hours ago, Sirius would have called his own pod, the space he knows , as utilitarian. Clearly, Sirius knows nothing—he cannot even compare . The corridors are narrow, and most of the lighting is poor, if it still lasts at all. Most panels show signs of wear and tear, with exposed pipes and patchwork repairs visible, like a jury-rigging solution, using whatever materials.

Every single inch of space, from corridor to ceiling, has been drawn on with soot. It’s a fresco, telling a story that Sirius has not been a part of. He guesses if he is part of it, he’d need to look for the evil of the Upper Class. The persecutors. Although, he hasn’t been killed, so perhaps the people here view the class system in a different light. Sirius can only guess, he’s never been taught anything about the Lower Level, other than its appropriateness for an heir.

There are few windows, unlike Level One, which has a deck with floor-to-ceiling windows.

Walking through the corridors gives Sirius a better idea of the state of the Level. Housing looks compact and densely populated, which is a word he again would have used to complain about his own space, three hours ago.

He doesn’t even know where he will sleep. What he’s supposed to do—perhaps that’s the exile. More than the physical part of it, being stripped of his purpose.

The air here is heavier somehow, more humid, like the circulation systems are less efficient, do not reach all the way down here, and it’s constantly noisy. The entire machinery is situated on Level Forty Seven through Fifty, and the floor vibrates with it, engines and waste recycling systems like a constant background presence.

It is an old man who approaches him first.

“You have been the talk of the town recently, Sirius.”

Sirius vaults around at the sound, and looks at the man who spoke to him so informally. First name, scrap the Black, which isn’t his to bear anymore. He’s been stripped of his title, fallen from grace. Sirius has a strange sense of dejà vu. It hits him out of nowhere, like a pulley to the gut, hoisting him. He feels sick, eyes hooked into the older man, and there is something awfully familiar in them, something dangerously like I know you. I know someone like you. You are familiar to me.

The man, weathered in grey, looks like a life well led, and doesn’t react to Sirius’ noticeable shift in expression. He doesn’t speak, simply looks on.

“There is scarcely anything of note to discuss,” Sirius says eventually. “This is simply who I am; rather unremarkable, indeed.”

“I somehow doubt this very much.”

He shrugs, looking down at himself, and around him. “So, I have arrived at the Lower Level,” he observes.

The man looks around like he’s looking from Sirius’ perspective, trying to see it with brand new eyes. Eventually, his gaze comes back to rest on Sirius. “I just see home.”

“It might well become mine as well, if the Gods wish it.”

The older man bristles at that. “You best stop using phrases like if the Gods wish it, if you want to start blending in here. And stop speaking so formally.”

Sirius frowns. “Formally?”

“You speak like nobles do.”

Sirius frowns’ doesn’t ease. “I am noble.”

The man’s face does something very particular with this information. Not quite a sneer, not quite confusion, not quite pity… yet somehow all three. “Destitute,” he says, and Sirius pulls a face. Then, nods.

“Mhm. ‘A noble destitute’ does possess a certain appealing resonance. I’m Sirius Bla—just Sirius,” Sirius says, extending his hand, which the man takes, and shakes once.

“Pleasure to meet ya, just Sirius. I’m Lyall Lupin. Fix your language, kid,” He turns to leave, and Sirius almost lets him, before remembering that he is alone now. Has nothing, and no one. He has no purpose here… yet has a very important purpose, all things considered. Might as well get to work right away.

“Can you assist?”

Sirius doesn’t really mean to speak these words. Doesn’t really mean to latch on to the first person he finds in the Lower Levels, and yet.

“I have work,” the man says, biting his lip. Considering. Starts walking away. Sirius’ shoulders drop down, it’s unfortunate.

“Are you coming, kid?”

Sirius kick starts like tripping a wire on his way to catch up. “You will help?”

Lyall grunts, and Sirius cannot resist a smile. He has never been grunted at before. He finds it informal. Lovely. A lack of manners is comfort, and Sirius has not been comfortable in years.

Lyall turns to check that Sirius is following. When he catches up, he nods in the direction of the corridor they are heading towards.

“I have a son.”

 

---

 

“What does everyone do, here?” Sirius asks as he follows Lyall down the corridor.

Lyall shrugs. “What no one else up there wants to do,” he replies gruffly, one finger pointed at the ceiling. “We maintain the ship’s essential systems. Propulsion systems, waste management, water recycling, any repairs of structural integrity…” he trails off, thinking about it. “Laundry, foodstuffs, any work related to synthetic or hydroponically grown ingredients.” Sirius wrinkles his nose, and the man lets out a frank laugh. “Don’t look this frazzled, young man. We get by.”

By ‘get by’, Sirius didn’t really know what to expect.

What he discovers is far from ‘getting by’. It’s grit, and resourcefulness, and something he’s never experienced before—community.

There are common areas, which are evidently separate spaces that have been broken into one larger space, where—life, for lack of a better word, happens. There are several of these made up rooms, bustling hubs of activity where people gather. They are just… here, sharing time, resources, exchanging goods in a created room, brightened with homemade lighting fixtures and decorated with items that Sirius cannot begin to make sense of.

In the center of each of these hubs, there are—what look like makeshift gardens, plants thriving through the use of hydroponics and recycled materials as planters. It breathes life into the space, which fits snuggly against this apparent sense of pride all the people have. Despite the neglect, the environment is kept as clean and organized as possible with the resources at hand. It looks ten times as good as Sirius’ Level One ever did. It looks like a lived-in home.

 

---

 

Three Months Later

 

Lyall’s son is just like Lyall; tall and made up of more grunts than actual sentences.

They are in the third common room of the Level, the closest one to their pods, where Sirius has been effectively taken on by Lyall. There’s incessant chatter around them, but Sirius is focused on the man opposite him. The fluorescent lights cast a soft glow when they aren’t flickering on and off, and Sirius’ eyes have gotten used to them. He got constant headaches the first week, from the harshness of them.

He is quiet but helpful, Remus Lupin. When he does speak, it is with economy.

“ Syeeafrih .”

“No.”

Sirius, struggling with the pronunciation, closes his eyes and rehearses the word in his mind before attempting it aloud again. “ Ssysāafry .”

“Again.”

Sirius groans, head dropping to the table. He buries his fingers in his hair, which has grown longer now that there’s no need for the strict grooming standards. He likes it better that way, enjoying the nascent ability to pull it back into a ponytail.

Frustrated but determined, Sirius tries once more from his spot, forehead against the table. “ Ceesāahfry ?”

“Barely better.”

Sirius mumbles his protest into the table. “I’ve been here three months, give me a break. And why are food names so complicated, anyway?”

Arguably, the hardest part is getting used to the language. Aspen is largely different from Scigua. The “s”ses are shorter, coming from the front of the mouth. It’s easy enough to understand, but incredibly difficult to pronounce. The organization of the grammar is the same, though. It is sort of like hearing Scigua—if Scigua wasn’t a real language. Confusing, to say the least.

Remus kisses his teeth, though it’s a gentle kind of rough. “It’s a hybrid food, we had to give it a proper name. Set it up for success. Aren’t nobles supposed to be smart, Sirius ?” Remus teases, an edge of playful challenge in his voice. It’s like he knows Sirius is named after something purposeful, like Sirius was set up for success, too. Like he cannot understand his own privilege. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

“Are you calling me stupid?” Sirius counters, tone half-indignant, half-reluctantly amused.

Remus leans back with an unbothered shrug. “If the shoe fits.”

The thing is, Remus doesn’t care about Sirius’ status, or about pulling his punches. About being borderline rude. Sirius, on the other hand, doesn’t mind either, because Remus is interested in different things—How did you come down? How many Levels are above yours? What did you eat? How many Levels are above ours? How do you interact? Do you use the same technology as we do?

So many questions, and Sirius is more than willing to answer all of them. There is nothing inherently secretive about what he shares, yet the way Sirius talks about these things creates a subtle light in brown eyes, interest sparkling. And the problem is, Sirius likes to have Remus; his attention, more so than any other girl who has ever shown him any kind of interest. More than any other girls he has ever been asked to pay attention to. And it isn’t a problem, per se . But it does mean he needs to be careful. He cannot afford to lose focus.

There is a brother, Forty-Six Levels above.

 

---

 

It’s extraordinarily easy for Sirius to mix into the local culture. For the eighteen years he spent trying to fit into a mold—that he thinks more and more was never meant to be his, fitting into this one is like slipping into the orbit of a welcoming planet. Effortless. Meeting people and getting along, effortless.

Working is another struggle. For all intents and purposes, Sirius has been bred and educated to work, but he was never supposed to do this kind of work. Manual, harsh conditions, inside and outside the ship.

He doesn’t go out, but Remus does. Remus fixes the ship’s surface from stray rocks and meteor shower hits. Sirius’ job is to decontaminate the clothes, mend them, patch them up. Ensure the Spacewalkers do not encounter any problem during their walks. It is Lyall’s job, too; that’s how he learns. Educational opportunities are limited—as in, there are none. As such, Lyall’s informal education through on-the-job training becomes the easiest path to success. It is also how Sirius quickly learns that Remus isn’t just ‘smart’. That it goes beyond what is normal—beyond what he has ever witnessed. And it is easy to notice.

Remus is quiet, most of the time, but when he does have an opinion, he never outright says it. Instead, he will spend two hours grilling the poor sap—who often happens to be Sirius—into a corner.

It takes Sirius several weeks to understand what Remus is doing. That he is trying to understand where the opinion comes from.

Sirius has it down to a science at this point. Remus will pause, reviewing every fact he knows in his brain to be true, like sifting through a com database, and then he will ask Sirius to list off every assumption, to see if he can spot an error in himself, or in Sirius. It is quiet genius, and it takes Sirius entirely too long to figure out that actually. Actually, this is something he can use.

After all, there is a brother, Forty-Six Levels above.

 

---

 

  One Year Later

 

Sirius does not realize he is falling in love until it is too late.

It’s just an ordinary day, a year or so after Sirius first descended from the polished echelons of the Upper Levels to the grittier Lower Levels.

He is busily engaged in fixing a suit seal, when the airlock door swings open on a figure in a well-worn suit, who happens to be Remus. It opens up, and Sirius has never had any trouble breathing until today. Until this day. Until right then , when the breath leaves his lung on a relieved sigh that just does not end, unraveling, and unraveling some more.

Sirius finds some answers in that breath. That hitch is every hitch he has never had with another person, ever. Any girl, boy, or human. This hitch is the sudden realization that it isn’t nineteen years of being broken. It is nineteen years of waiting to find the right person to hitch his breath over.

He finds that Remus is the best he could have ever hoped for.

Then the breath rushes back, and he realizes he had been holding it. And it is relief and love and oh you’re back, thank God you’re back. I was so afraid you wouldn’t be back, so afraid you might just disappear into space, and what would I do without you? I’ve always known what to do before, but I don’t know, now that the decisions aren’t only mine. I want to sit next to you and weigh all of my decisions with your hands.

He doesn’t try to stop his face from showing what he’s feeling. He has spent over a decade fine-tuning his face a certain way, showing people what they want to see, but now... Now, Sirius wants to show Remus his face—who he is, what he is made out of, what he wants.

For a moment, he thinks Remus won’t make sense of his expression, or worse, that he will choose to ignore it. He braces for the moment he’ll need to put it away; fearing it won’t be welcome, that something, something, something will inevitably go wrong. Things have taken a habit of going wrong, when Sirius is around. He’s prepared to live with it. Of course, he will.

He will be fine, if Remus chooses to ignore it. If Remus doesn’t return his feelings. If Remus doesn’t feel back, then Sirius will simply put his feelings away in a delicate, hidden heartpocket, and he will be very careful not to jostle it. He will put it away and pretend . He will pretend, everything is fine . And on nights where he’s alone, he will take out all of his feelings, cradling them with a mix of nostalgia, love, and sadness; acknowledging that the only place they ever got to live in were in his heartpockets, and—

“Here you are, Sweetheart.”

Remus stands before Sirius. There is no universe in which Remus is not noticing the look on Sirius’ face, his expression. He steps closer, and Sirius, a bit taken aback, says, “You’ve never called me ‘Sweetheart’ before.”

Remus lifts an unassuming shoulder, burdened by all the gear he’s carrying. “I was waiting for you to catch up.”

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, right.”

Sirius stares at Remus some more, and he’s never been more happy to have access to colors. Remus is flushing, and his bright brown eyes, his lovely face, his flushed ears. He looks happy.

“Is this for me?” Remus asks, gloved finger going to poke at Sirius’ smile once.

Sirius frowns, says nothing, then goes back to looking at Remus like he’s seeing him for the first time. He must forget to respond because, within seconds, Remus’ gloved hand is back on Sirius’ face to rest, cradle, and trace the lines of his face.

“This,” he says, tracing Sirius’ odd expression, and Sirius starts nodding, shaking himself out of his funk.

“Of course. Yes, yes, it is for you. Everything for you. I dreamt of you before I even knew who you were.”

Remus smiles, and it is the softest thing that has ever graced his features. It is effortless, too, the way Remus bends down as Sirius lifts up, and just like this, they are kissing in the hatch of the ship. It is Sirius’ first kiss. Remus doesn’t yet know that he’s going to be on the receiving end of all of Sirius’ kisses, forever.

There is a brother, Forty-Six Levels above; this is the first action Sirius does that isn’t motivated by him.

“There is a world inside,” and Remus is poking at Sirius’ head, fondling, mouth kiss-flushed. “I wish I could take a swim in there sometime.”

Sirius doesn’t make a conscious decision. It’s always been there, waiting for him to pick up his courage.

“I have a brother.”

These aren’t words that, put together, make people think about rebellions, or coups d’état, or big cultural shifts. Besides, it’s common knowledge Sirius and Regulus Black are brothers. These aren’t shipshifting words—and yet they are.

 

---

 

Two Years Later

 

Sirius is sat crossed-legged, Remus’ head lodged between his legs. Remus is quiet, looking up at Sirius like one looks at something beautiful, gently playing with strings of Sirius’ hair. Sirius replies in kind by rubbing the shell of Remus’ ear under his thumbs soothingly. It’s a mindless gesture born out of wanting to dote on the one you love.

They’re in the third common room, where everyone has been assembled for the rallying speech.

Up until now, it’s been corridor gossip, secrets exchanged and an overall feeling of secrecy. Today is the day that Lyall takes that gossip, and transforms it into a fire.

“We kept praying, and the Gods never did appear. This is how the people started to think of them not as Gods, but as monsters. And just like that, from deities to devils—absence makes the heart grow harder.”

This does catch Sirius’ attention. He’s reminded of class, years ago, and the tales his teacher weaved. This is a different one altogether. A darker take. He’s heard that speech of course—helped write it. But coming out of Lyall feels different somehow. More honest.

Lyall is used to telling stories, breathing his wife’s life through his words, keeping her alive the only way he knows how—by speaking her thoughts. Sirius finds it endearing; he knows Remus hates it. There is danger in these words, and Remus already lost a parent. And yet here Lyall is, borrowing words once again, this time from Sirius and Remus.

“In the Upper Levels,” Lyall says, eyes catching Sirius’ fleetingly before crossing over to the rest of the crowd gathered, “these thoughts were all erased. With fewer people to spread discord, it was easy to establish and follow rules, especially when you completely segregate a group of people. There are so few of them,” he says, them , like one of them isn’t in the crowd.

Sirius feels the pinprick of stares, but Remus tugs on a lock of hair, mouths, ‘focus on me ’, so Sirius does.

“It’s easy to control people when the numbers are small,” Lyall continues. “Ten families, two children each, for four thousand years.” Sirius closes his eyes. There is shame in the way his life, his bubble of lies, is dissected, open for everyone to see. “But you can’t do that when you have over four thousand people working in close quarters. People start communicating. They start thinking . Gods are monsters, and what does that make of the other monsters? The ones only called monsters?”

It’s so quiet in the common room, the vent noises barely making a dent in the thick silence.

“I’ll tell you what. It makes them things that Gods fear. Gods wouldn’t have called anything ‘Monster’, if they didn’t want people to fear it. You fear the unknown, which made people think monsters must be the opposite of Gods. And there were hopes, dreams that came to be. That someone, something would come to deliver them.”

That’s when the whispers start. Sirius opens his eyes to brown ones, grounding him. ‘Don’t look at anyone else’ , Remus mouths again. ‘Just me.’

Sirius offers him a sad smile. ‘Just you’.

“This is what an oppressed people does,” Lyall says. “It elects someone or something to look up to, to hold out hope. Existence is impossible without faith. Especially here . Especially for us. We held out hope for long enough, and if Gods aren’t dead, they might as well be for how helpful they’ve been to us these past thousand years.”

It’s nearing the end, the moment of truth. If people are going to clamor, or start throwing stones.

“A Messenger was elected, and Seekers were elected. And yet, here we are, in a ship that’s disintegrating before our very eyes. So it’s time for us to take back the reins. If no one comes, we will elevate our own. The problem is that the Levels aren’t communicating.”

When Sirius’ eyes close this time, he feels moisture at the corners.

“This is how you change a system. You create communication.”

It takes a moment for the implication to sink in, for people to understand. But once they do, Sirius is certain he has never heard such noise before.

Two years ago, Sirius came down.

And now, well. Remus must go up.

It’s a trade. It’s how everything starts.

 

---

 

Five Years Later

 

Remus has crawled in their bed, and they’re caging one another under the covers. Remus has to go. And he will—in a moment.

In a second.

He’s busy right now, Sirius doesn’t want to let Remus go; he doesn’t want to stop taking in the sight of the man he’s about to force to leave.

Sirius doesn’t fight it. After all, he has a plan. And a brother, Forty-Six Levels above. See, Sirius has figured out something most people never do. If change cannot come from the top, it has to come from below. Regulus will not understand, but Sirius knows his brother. He will be forgiven, once he has sacrificed enough.

And this is how it all begins.

“Okay,” Sirius says, like it isn’t the fifteenth time he’s said these exact same words, speaking them against Remus’ cheek. “He’s mean sometimes.”

Remus is patient. He lets himself be kissed, then pushes up on his elbows to look into Sirius’ eyes, touches his thumb to Sirius’ cheeks, and says, “Yes.”

“He bristles.”

“Yes.”

“He probably won’t talk to you much."

There are large hands framing Sirius’ face, a forehead against his, warm breath against his lips, calming. “I know.”

Remus does know. That is, Sirius has told him everything there was to know. If Remus has to name the people he knows best, Regulus Black, a man he has never even met, would make the top three. “You cannot control who he has become, Sweetheart. But you do know him. You have to trust that.” Trust that your parents haven’t brainwashed him in the six years you’ve been in the Lower Levels, Remus means.

“I wish it were me,” Sirius says. Don’t go , is what he means. We have been together for years, my soul is my soul is yours , is what he means. Who am I without you , is what he means. How long will you be gone , is what he means, and Can I fit myself into your heartpocket? Do you ever wonder if there’s a world out there where it’s just you and me? Will you dream of me, when you’re gone, and I haven’t dreamt of anyone else since I first saw your face. Come back to me. I can’t do this without you, and I will wait, wait, wait. I will prepare, and I will wait. I will wait for you.

But

But

                                 But.

                                                                                                   Will you 

wait for me, 

too?

Remus looks at Sirius like he’s in pain. Like he knows what Sirius is thinking. Like he is thinking the exact same thing. “I know.”

Sirius shakes his head. “I don’t want to stay here without you.”

And Remus is strong, but it looks like it physically hurts him when he speaks. “You will have Lyall.”

Sirius shakes his head again against the cage of Remus’ hands. “Lyall isn’t you."

Remus groans, drags Sirius closer to him still, against the rough skin of his chest. Where he’d willingly open the skin up to fit Sirius inside. “I would hope so.”

“Don’t be gross.”

The hand cradling Sirius’ face drops to take a chunk of Sirius’ hair and squeeze, pull, making him yelp. “I only want to be gross with you,” he says, and Sirius lets out a noise like a wounded animal.

“This was a terrible idea. I am stupid; let’s not,” Sirius starts, and Remus shakes his head, foreheads brushing.

“No, you are right; you’re right, and we’ve gotten this far. You are so smart. We all need you down here. Trust me with your brother the way I trust you with the rest of us.”

“No one should trust me. I am incapable; I’m a mess.”

“I’m perfect, you’re perfect.” Pulling back, eyes taking hold of Sirius’ soul. Asking him to listen . “And we all love you. And we all believe in this plan, and we trust you.”

Sirius quiets down, intertwining their fingers together; looks at their skin together, like the prettiest of color palettes. A duo is enough, Sirius doesn’t need more. “Do you really think we have a shot?”

“I really do. You’ve been here long enough. You’ve seen how we live; we need someone we can believe in.”

Sirius swallows, and it’s all too audible in their makeshift world. When he speaks, it comes out squeaky. “Me?”

Remus’ smile is soft like a moon, thumbs bracketing Sirius’ cheeks. “ You . You are nothing like anyone expected. Yet you are everything we have ever wanted.”

Tilting his head, Sirius stares up, lost in thought. Everything he has ever wanted is right there, minus a brother. His eyes are wistful as he sighs, wishing life could be simpler, wishing he didn’t need to set a revolution in motion just for a chance at a normal life. “Tell me something nice. Something I can keep to myself. Something soft and important, something I can look at when I start missing you too much.”

Remus smiles. “You’re tucked inside all of my heartpockets.”

And that’s perhaps too deep, and Sirius isn’t ready to start crying again, so he sniffles once and changes the topic. “What do you want, when this is done?”

Remus purses his lips, thinking, taking Sirius’ out gracefully. “I never want to wear a space suit again.”

Sirius laughs. “That’s the dream? No spacesuits?”

“I’m a simple man.”

“You are everything but a simple man.”

“I’m keeping it entertaining for you,” Remus retorts, pushing Sirius playfully before pulling him close, jostling him. “I wouldn’t want you to go find yourself a nice person and escape with them.”

“And leave you? Blasphemous.” Sirius’ eyes turn misty. “You’ll write to me?”

With a full belly laugh, Remus hides his face in Sirius’ neck. “You’re an idiot. Of course I’ll write to you. We didn’t spend all this time crafting this shite for me not to use it.”

“You’re too smart to be hanging out with the likes of me.”

Remus arches an eyebrow. “‘Hanging out with the likes of you?’ Is that what people call it these days?” He teases, hand sneaking in between them to pull on a belt loop in Sirius’ clothes, now on a roll. “I would say I’m smart enough to secure someone from the Noble House of Black.”

Sirius smiles with all of his teeth. “Noble House of Black, you say? My, my, seems like a catch.”

Remus closes the distance between them, mumbling, “He is.”

“As long as you don’t fall in love with him,” Sirius half-teases, mind already occupied, already intoxicated by Remus’ presence.

“No one would be stupid enough to fall for a boyfriend’s brother,” Remus muses, sentence stuffing itself between their lips.

They have exchanged harsh kisses, and slow kisses. Mindless kisses, and rushed kisses. This one is entirely in a league of its own. It’s one of these difficult goodbye kisses, see you soon kisses, I hope we meet again kisses.

When the goodbye kiss turns into a goodbye movement, and Remus gently peels the cover back, and stands up, Sirius doesn’t do what every bone in his body is begging for. He does nothing.

“Here’s to hoping. I’ll see you in a bit,” Remus says, then disappears outside their pod, shutting the panel behind him.

Sirius doesn’t go with him. He doesn’t want to watch or hear; he doesn’t want to be there. This isn’t the part of the plan he’s most excited about.

When Lyall comes back that night, empty-handed, Sirius heaves a sigh that borders on a sob. Lyall doesn’t say anything, but he steps closer to Sirius and wraps an arm over his shoulder.

“He’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

“He’s a strong lad.”

“I know.”

Then Lyall says something unexpected, something new, something he’s never said before. “I love you, too, you know? I’m proud of you both.”

The barrier breaks, and Sirius cries. It’s sadness and relief.

He lost a family once.

Looks like he found one again.

 

Chapter 11: ('merge';'dreamfall')

Summary:

There is an edge in Remus’ gaze, something resolute.

Regulus remembers thinking this is the first time he looks dangerous.

It’s geometry that wins them to the Earth.

There are an infinite number of planets, and an infinite number of Earth-looking ones. It has been 4000 years since someone on the ship has looked at Mother Earth, the Original; Regulus is the first one to find it again.

It’s in the disposition—the way the moon, the sun, and the other planets orbit, which Regulus hadn’t known about until James started mapping the space carefully, reading from astrology books and bringing his knowledge into the dreams.

It’s also something else.

It will take Regulus years to put his fingers on it; to understand that it isn’t something quantifiable . It’s simple: there is something about Earth, calling to him.

He is staring at the truth, knowing this is it. It’s Earth—three months away, roughly, by estimation of travel—and Regulus cannot breathe, struggles to react, there is too much to react to . He’s staring at what he’s done, aware that now he has found James’ home, he cannot turn back. It would kill him to do so. It’s a certainty inside him, the complete impossibility of turning a blind eye to what he’s found.

James.

James is what he’s found.

Three months away.

On planet Earth.

Beside him, Remus is holding his breath, looking at the same information he is. It’s a quiet sort of victory, that almost feels like a loss. Something about reaching your full potential that leaves you somewhat empty. Climbing to the peak, getting what you have always wanted. In Regulus’ case, what he was bred for, then denied. A Seeker bred to find nothing but mistakes, yet Regulus is staring at Earth, and it’s a lovely view but it aches inside, like his own heart eating itself.

It’s the love he has for a boy he’s never met.

The fear he feels for his own disobedience.

It’s everything it’s all of it it’s the knowledge that Sirius is alive that he knows Remus and Regulus should never have found Earth and what will happen to him to his family to Sirius to Remus and what will Riddle say and what will he do if Regulus is the one to break a four thousand year old system and perhaps most of all it’s Pandora he wants to see Pandora where is Pandora is dead and she is the one he wants to talk to most right now. He wants his best friend.

It’s pretty , she would say. Is this ours?

He would nod, and she’d say something crazy. Something wild. Something like, do you think we’ll go swimming in the ocean when we land?

Earth looks like any other planet. There is nothing remarkable about it, and yet—isn’t she remarkable?

Regulus aches all over, and it breaks his heart, rebuilds it all at once. He can feel his hands tremble, and Remus’ shaky breath nearby.

It’s been tense, the entire weight of a brother wedged between them, but even Sirius isn’t large enough to stop Regulus from getting what he wants. And oh, he wants. He wants—all he knows is that it’s not normal. It can’t be. It’s—strange. It’s ridiculous . He’s wasting. So. Much. Time. Just—thinking about James. About their next conversation. Clinging on to thoughts that pass by him; he’ll grab them mid-flight and turn them over in his palm, considering. That’s a good thought to give to James, I wonder what he’ll think .

It’s—obscene, to dawdle so much. He is sick. He must be. He has to. What other option is there ?

“Are you sure?” Remus asks, and Regulus has to swallow to wet his dry mouth, nodding. A heavy breath next to his, and Remus says, “do it.”

Regulus exhales. There is Earth, and he

                                                                  inputs

                                                                                  the

                                                                                                  coordinates;

The ship hums, and Regulus’ life trajectory changes. He feels the slight shift within his bones, inarticulable. And then, Remus is—active. Busy , brimming with action. Regulus has never seen Remus so energized before, vibrating with it. For how calm and quiet Remus normally is, he is neither now. Gone is the contemplative demeanor; his eyes, usually soft and reflective, are sharp and focused.

More than that, he is speaking. There is an urgency to his words, a fire that Regulus has never heard before.

For once, plan fragments are being shared with Regulus.

“—And I have to get in touch with Marlene and Dorcas. Dad needs to wait, but—”

“Wait, wait,” Regulus begs, hands up to meet Remus’ shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

Remus turns to him, blinking like he had entirely forgotten about his existence, looking like Regulus is so ill-equipped for this, looking sorry for Regulus.

“Regulus,” Remus says. And then, “Regulus—a revolution does not happen overnight. The explosion of it does, but the murmurs of it, they have to be fed, nurtured.”

“Is that what we are doing?” Regulus asks. “Nurturing it?”

Remus casts a glance at him, something that looks an awful lot like Regulus does not understand what he has just done. And in fairness, he probably hasn’t. Thinking about consequences isn’t something Regulus has much experience with. It’s what happens when you get raised in the fragile confines of a glass house. And so, Regulus does what he does best: he starts overthinking.

The ship has his parents. His entire life; his childhood, his friends—if he can call them that. This ship is all he’s ever known, and yet Remus appears disturbingly ready to throw it all away and abandon it all. To turn his back on the one source of stability they have ever known.

Perhaps it isn’t the best, but this ship has been good to him—though perhaps it’s been good to Regulus because he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

“How long have you wanted this?” Regulus makes himself ask.

Remus, who was in the middle of sputtering madness, stops, takes in Regulus’ face, and freezes. Eventually, he says, “You’re scared.”

Regulus isn’t stupid enough to pretend otherwise. Yet what comes out isn’t what he expected.

“What about my parents?”

Remus’ face twists like he’s heard of Walburga and Orion and it brings a sour taste to his mouth. And he must have, of course. One doesn’t live with Sirius for years and not hear about the Black parents.

“Regulus,” he sighs, the sound gentle and placating, like one speaks to a cornered animal.

“What’s going to happen to my parents?”

“I don’t know.”

Regulus jerks back, jaw going slack while the rest of his body stiffens. “You don’t know ?”

Remus’ lips press together in a grimace. “This isn’t about them. It is about everyone else.”

“I don’t *know ‘*everyone else’, Remus,” he snaps back, air quoting the words. “I know my family.”

“I’m sorry,” Remus repeats. “I don’t know.”

Regulus exhales sharply, frustration and fear blending into a harsh sound. “Okay, what do you know then? What is the plan exactly?”

Remus lifts a hand to rub his eyes like he’s tired, like this is hard for him. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No,” Regulus yells, voice cracking with the strain of all the emotions straining to get out. “No, it’s not. You’ve been sitting with these plans for years, and I’ve been living with them for minutes.”

The silence that follows looms heavy, precipice-like. Teetering silence, and Remus’ face contorts.

“We need to bring you and James together.”

Regulus frowns. “Wasn’t this already the plan?”

Remus’ eyes twitch. “Well, yes,” he starts, stops, chews on his cheek and doesn’t say more for entirely too long.

“Spit it out, Remus.”

Regulus doesn’t expect what comes out of Remus’ mouth to be, “There is a legend.”

“Oh, great. Another legend. How fun.”

Remus’ reply is snappy, on the verge of anger. Teetering, too. Everything on a precarious balance. “Do you want to know, or do you want to be angry?”

Regulus looks away. “Can’t I be both?”

So Remus rolls his shoulders. Inhales. Exhales. And falls off the edge, dragging the other boy down with him.

“Soulmates can merge.”

“Merge,” Regulus repeats flatly.

“Merge,” Remus confirms.

Regulus wrinkles his nose at the word, suddenly uneasy. “What is merge? What do you mean, ‘merge’?”

Remus’ eyes is doing the twitching thing again, discomfort obvious. “Riddle is strong, but he’s no match for you if you merge.”

“I don’t like this word, Remus,” Regulus warns, but the boy is on a roll now, muttering.

“No one is entirely sure how it works, but—”

Regulus clicks his teeth and interrupts. “You don’t know how it works, yet you want me to ‘merge’, whatever this means, with a total stranger. Why don’t you do it? You and Sirius? Aren’t you soulmates?”

Remus looks away. “Not like you and James.”

A groan comes out of Regulus, something halfway between angry and confused. His hand wipes across his face. “This doesn’t make sense . What do you mean? Why would there be a hierarchy to soulmates? ”

“It’s how nature works. Nature ensures survival by iterating. It tries and tries again until it finds the perfect match.”

Regulus arches a brow. “So, you’re not my brother’s perfect match?”

“No, I am.”

Regulus sits down, elegant fingers lifting to rub at his temples. “I’m confused, and none of this makes sense. My head is about to explode.”

Remus lifts his eyes to the ceiling, before taking a breath. “In nature, there are alphas and betas, ones and zeros, binaries of everything. This, too, is like this. There is you, and there is us.” He meets Regulus’ gaze. “Had Sirius not met me, our bond would have never awakened; it would have laid dormant, and Sirius and I would have been fine. We were fine alone. We are better together, but we did not feel… less than without each other.” The smile that graces Remus’ lips is a little sad—almost pitying. “You’ve always felt like something was missing from your life, haven’t you?”

Regulus nods, uncertain, and Remus continues. “That’s because you are a primordial pairing. Empathy’s source. You were born with this unexplained knowledge, this persistent pull; it was always going to happen, and your powers are barely at the surface. But if you dig deeper, you could do so much more. You could—talk without the need for dreams.”

And Regulus needs to put an end to this madness. “I’m not a telepath.”

“Aren’t you?”

Regulus’ mouth opens. Closes.

“Why would you know that anyway?” Regulus asks.

Remus waves the question away. “My mother kept a few books.”

“You’re inferring this from ‘a few books’?” Regulus gawks, almost laughing, because it’s ridiculous, and none of this is funny, but Remus isn’t joking. He is staring at Regulus in complete seriousness.

“Regulus,” he says. His voice is low. He isn’t smiling. “You and James need to kill Riddle.”

Regulus doesn’t know why he lifts from his chair, but the impulse grows and he does, pushing himself to a stand.

It takes him a few tries to say what he means.

“Remus, I’m 28. I’ve never left my tower.” And I don’t want to kill anyone , is what he doesn’t say. He has no interest in killing Riddle. Put him somewhere on Earth and leave him there. Something less drastic than death. Or, if Riddle must die, give the job to someone else. Someone older. Someone who’s done it bef—well. Just, someone else.

“No,” Remus shakes his head. “He has to die.”

Regulus slaps his hand on the table. “No one ‘has to die’, Remus. This is insane. No one has to die, ever . People die in accidents of old age. They don’t get... they don’t get... they don’t get killed by 28-year-old boys who were raised in privilege.”

Remus looks at Regulus with melancholy depth, like Regulus is at the start of a labyrinthine path he needs to take and has no idea; is unprepared for. Like if Regulus takes the wrong path, Remus won’t let him.

There is an edge in Remus’ gaze, something resolute.

Regulus remembers thinking this is the first time he looks dangerous.

 

---

 

Until now, Regulus hadn’t thought about telling James the details of what he had learned.

He finds out he is wrong almost immediately.

They are in James’ dream—a beach town, it seems, with a green bench and dogs playing around—Regulus has barely made dreamfall, sitting on the bench, before James is upon him.

He looks up to find James frowning, standing in front of him. For a moment, James just stands there before lowering himself to his knees in front of the bench, in front of Regulus. He takes Regulus’ pale hands in his own and applies reassuring pressure. “What’s wrong?” James asks, eyes wide and patient, unbothered by the passing of time as Regulus chews on his sentences, trying to express the maelstrom of discomfort inside his chest, the unrestful bees clawing at his throat.

“How are your parents?”

James blinks, mind adjusting, before he sighs, getting up from his knees and taking a seat on the bench next to Regulus.

It is so incredibly simple for Regulus to let his head fall onto James’ shoulder, to rest there as if it were meant to be. The comfort of such a simple touch is different with James. Regulus has never been in love before, but he imagines this is what it feels like, to be with someone, looking together in the same direction.

Beside him, James takes his left hand, playing with the divots and bumps on his knuckles.

“On Earth,” James starts, “this is how we count months. There are thirty or thirty-one days. When you put two hands together,” he says, closing his right hand and bringing it close to Regulus’ left, “you can count the months in thirty-one or thirty. It’s one of the first things my mother taught me.”

He drops his fists, taking Regulus’ hand in his again, looking down at the amalgam of hands instead of the rest of the world.

“I think she always knew how bad I was at numbers. I always needed tools to help me understand, like using fruits or tangible situations to make it make sense. There was a moment during school where I think she really got scared for me.” His finger finds Regulus’ knuckles again, playing with them. “Here, math is everywhere, to some extent, and I couldn’t find any reward in it, so my brain wasn’t focusing on that.”

“Isn’t the answer the reward?”

James laughs. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?” He shrugs, looks at one of the running dogs. “My brain has always been wired differently. We call it neurodivergence here, but maybe you are too, since you’re here.”

Regulus shrugs, but doesn’t say anything else.

“What I mean is, I’ve always been a little different, and differences are uncelebrated in my world. It’s important to fit into a box. If there is no box for you, people get confused and scared.”

This time, Regulus laughs. “Yes,” he says, “I understand that quite well.”

James hums, “I imagine. But my mom, I think she always knew I worked on another frequency. She tried to nurture that when she figured out I really connected with colors and paints. She let me have the attic in the house—the upper level, mostly used for storage. But we set it up; she bought me pigments, acrylics, watercolors, and all kinds of paper. She let me explore. She enrolled my dad, and they took me to a color run,” he says and stops, frowns, contemplates for a moment. “Can I try something?” he asks, and Regulus squeezes James’ hand, quietly affirming.

So James.

James holds on tighter to Regulus’ hand, and swipes his free left hand in the air.

With his hand, the decor swipes , too. The ocean disappears, replaced by a memory. They are still on the bench, but observing something new now—little James running and getting pummeled by chalk colors, stopping in his tracks to rub the product from his face with his fingers. The air smells of fresh chalk dust and blooming flowers. There’s a hint of sunscreen in the air, like warm days spent outdoors. It’s—vibrant. Pinks, blues, greens, and yellows dancing in the air, painting a kaleidoscope against the clear blue sky. The ground and little James’ clothes are splattered with bright colors. He’s smiling so big, one lower front tooth missing; he can’t be older than eight. There are sounds, too. Laughter and freedom and possibilities.

James swipes against the air, and they’re somewhere else. Tangy and acidic, the air smells of crushed fruit and sweat. There are hundreds of people. “My parents took me to the, ah, tomato festival in Spain. La tomatina,” and the sun is blazing down, hot and intense. Bright colors and festival banners, people shouting and the squelching of tomatoes underfoot.

Another swipe, and the air turns sweet and spicy, coating the back of Regulus’ tongue. Floral notes from the marigold garlands. Colors everywhere, and people dancing, a sense of togetherness, a playful crowd bathing in soft excitement. “To Kamavilas—erm, Holi in India while we were visiting family.”

Another swipe, “to Japan during the Sakura bloom.”

It’s the most distinctive place. The moment feels more delicate here, with the sweet fragrance of cherry blossoms mingling with the clean scent of spring. It’s early dawn, not day. It’s soft pink and white cherry, blossoming tree everywhere, petals fluttering to the ground, creating a pink carpet. It’s serene and quiet appreciation, no one around.

Regulus squeezes his hand before James can swipe again, halting him. He’s stuck for a moment, glued to the bench, before eventually standing up, James’ hands firmly clasped in his, pulling him up towards the nearest tree amid the dozens of cherry trees. The smell is heavenly, and walking in it feels like a dream.

Regulus looks up. “Why is it so dark?” he asks.

James hums thoughtfully. “There were too many people during the day, and I didn’t like it.” Regulus turns to him, and James shrugs. “It was a bad day. So Mum, Dad and I came back at night. It’s incredible. My memory isn’t quite as crisp as it used to be, but I think this is a pretty close approximation.”

Regulus lifts a hand to touch a flower on a branch above. “Fascinating.”

James opens his mouth before closing it. “Is this the first tree you see?”

“I’ve seen images, but I’ve never...” he lifts on his tiptoes and plucks a flower, rubbing it between his fingers, bringing it to his nose, eyes closed. “It smells lovely.”

“You’re lovelier.”

Regulus freezes, and so does James before Regulus hears him inhale, take a breath, and—“I find you very lovely.”

Regulus doesn’t look up when he opens his eyes, keeps staring at the flower between his fingers instead. “You have to,” he says carefully. “You’re my soulmate.”

James shakes his head. “No, it’s something else.”

A whisper. “What is it?”

James takes a step closer until his front is flushed against Regulus’. His hand follows the curve of Regulus’ jaw, down his neck, shoulder, arm, down, down, down, to Regulus’ hand. Which he grabs. And brings to his lips, kissing the knuckles there.

“There is something about you,” he says, and Regulus doesn’t think.

A natural lift from his toes to reach James’ lips is all it takes, and they’re kissing.

Notes:

Annnnnnnd we're a little more than halfway through.

Chapter 12: (‘art’;’death’)

Summary:

I’m very disappointed in you, Regulus.

Notes:

they deserve some smooching I think

Regulus imagines it appropriate that their first real physical interaction would be through a kiss. Isn’t that how anyone first experiences the world? Lips and feeding, taste and speaking—the lips are the most vulnerable part of someone.

Regulus’ lips touch James’, and it’s like discovering colors all over again. Heart beating too fast, hands shaking as they lift to hold onto James’ neck. It’s an electrified body, a heightened awareness. At first, it’s just the overwhelming feeling of being close, then feeling James’ fingers as they find a resting place on his hips, trailing up against his sides, circling over the wings of his shoulders, up to cradle his jaw with a gentle-firm grip.

I.

Regulus is pleased to find James’ hands as shaky as his own, and then he isn’t thinking about the way his entire body lights up because he’s too busy being kissed. Sparkling energy but his mind is too occupied with the sensation of James’ lips on his to process it all.

They’ve never discussed their previous relationships—didn’t really seem like the most important part of getting to know someone when you’re dreamwalking in their head at night, spending all of your time thinking about ways to communicate, ways to teach, ways to shorten the bridge between the two of you. However, kissing James is enough to inform Regulus that he’s had—at least one good partner. Someone who knew, or someone with whom James got to practice.

I will.

His hands are soft but firm on his cheeks, thumbs holding him behind his ears, in the soft spot between his hair and his lobe, rubbing soothing patterns that speak; don’t go anywhere. It’s like James is holding Regulus’ entire soul in his careful hands, strong enough not to let him go, not that Regulus is thinking about going anywhere.

The lips on his are tentative at first, gentle like a softwinged bird, pulling back a second to make sure, to get a good look at Regulus’ expression, testing the result, but ah, James should know better. He might be the one with more experience, but Regulus is the one who pulled him down. The moment James pulls back, Regulus whines, curling his hands cruelly in James’ hair and pulling him back here, back to me, back to the unfamiliar and so very welcome feeling of love on his lips.

I will die.

Regulus is twenty-eight and has never been kissed before.

It takes kissing James for five seconds to realize he’ll never be able to go without it again.

The lips on his are getting bolder, and so is Regulus, who lets go of James’ hair only to wrap his arms around his neck instead, pulling him flush against James. He has the genius thought that if kissing James’ lips feels like touching the sun, then perhaps there’s more to explore. It’s instinct, finding the initial pattern in a fractal, realizing the infinite recursion and complexity that lies beyond.

He opens his mouth with the aim to take a bite of James’ lip, just a taste, just to see, and is instead met with a tongue.

I will die if.

The bite game transforms immediately.

Regulus doesn’t care about James’ lips anymore because there is something else monopolizing all of his attention. This game is different, more complicated than lips, but it’s a game James seems happy to partake in regardless as Regulus starts to figure it out. Ever so patient, playing cat and mouse with him until Regulus gets it, until the complexities crumble to leave the game itself, where it’s both lips and teeth and tongue and biting, which Regulus is glad he didn’t forget about entirely.

They kiss for minutes. Hours, and Regulus thinks about life and death, and how sure he is that he must have been dead until this. He feels the blood in his veins rushing everywhere James sets his hands, like trying to warm up the spots before James can get there, like a game of see how warm I am, do not stop touching me. Roaming hands exploring each other’s architecture, pulling at hair, swiping over cheeks, lips testing other surfaces when James pulls back, out of breath, only to come close again and kiss at Regulus’ cupid’s bow, the side of his nose, up and kissing the skin of his eyelids, his brow, his temple, leaving no skin untouched.

I will die if you.

It’s when he reaches Regulus’ ear that something changes, a spark that electrifies Regulus’ entire body. He opens his mouth to ouch, stop, that’s electricity, what are you doing, only for a moan to escape instead. Mortified, because you can’t do that, James, it’s—weird, it’s something I can’t quite put my finger on but it’s—, he opens his mouth again only to be cut off by James’ teeth nibbling at the same spot, and Regulus experiences a little system breakdown.

His knees buckle under the what the fuck is happening to me, and James is there, of course he is, swiping his arm around Regulus’ back and lifting him up and higher, entirely focused on his left ear now, which—

There’s a tongue swiping at the skin of his ear, lips traveling quickly from his lobe to the back of his ear, when James kisses before biting, and Regulus can’t think.

I will die if you stop.

He was wrong, before.

This isn’t pain. This is the opposite of pain, except it kind of feels like if pain had a feather instead of a knife. It’s the same reaction, wanting to shield away from it, except there’s a bigger, stronger part that wants to hold on, wants to come closer, wants to ask for—

“James.”

It’s humiliating, the way his voice sounds. Like he’s never formed words before, like he’s never spoken a word in his life. Clearly though, it seems to have a positive impact on James, who drops his head from Regulus’ ear to his neck, where he takes a—bite.

If you stop, I will die if you stop I will if you I promise I will diediedie—I’ll die without it without this without you I will die—

James makes a sound Regulus will remember until the day he dies, and he wonders about the mad fact that he’s never seen anyone kiss in his life, ever. He’s never even considered this to be a possibility, let alone would have thought that it could feel this good.

It doesn’t make sense. It’s just skin; the same that one finds on their hands, fingers, on the rest of their bodies. It doesn’t make sense that lips could be so much more tactile, feel like they mean so much more.

It’s unspoken words against his lips, meanings that are lost and then found again, and James is kissing up his neck, his chin, leading back to his mouth, where the both of them get lost again.

And Regulus was worried a few minutes ago, but he cannot remember why. He’s floating, he’s in James’ arms, he’s learning what kissing feels like, and it’s oh so lovely.

So lovely, in fact, that he can barely believe the sob that suddenly escapes his mouth.

It’s dry like a cough, until James’ hand on his cheeks lifts his face higher up, gently squishing his cheeks. James’ eyes widen and he takes a step closer.

“What’s going on, tara?”

The sob isn’t dry anymore, it’s wet and so is his face, he’s crying, and it’s embarrassing but he’s safe, James has him, he’s allowed. And so, he lets it out.

“We’re going to turn on Riddle,” he says. “But it’s—not everyone is going to agree, and most of these people are going to be—people like me—nobles, it won’t take long for them to realize that if we land somewhere that already has a population, they’re not going to be the most important people in charge anymore.”

James doesn’t let go of Regulus’ face when he tries to duck his head down. He’s holding him, doesn’t let him hide. Voice soft when he replies, “I thought the only people in charge there were Riddle and your family?”

“Yes,” Regulus confirms, “but there is an order, a hierarchy. There are ten families of noble blood who are designated as the next ones, should something happen. As such, they’re offered preferential treatment. They don’t—they don’t have to live in the Lower Levels.”

James’ thumbs are rubbing soothing circles by Regulus’ eyes. He looks at Regulus like he doesn't understand but is trying, and really, it’s all that Regulus needs.

“What are you afraid of?”

He swallows, voice meek when he answers, “I don’t want anyone to die.” And I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t want tomerge. I just want to be left alone, with you.

James sighs, pulling Regulus towards him. “You’re too good for this world, tara.”

Regulus sniffles in James’ neck where his nose is hidden, voice muffled and soft, a little broken on the edges. “Because I don’t want to kill anyone?”

“Yes.”

Regulus lets out a weak snort-laugh, burying himself deeping in the crook of James’ body. Anywhere he can fit. “I don’t think not wanting other people to die should register as a quality.”

There is a soothing hand on the back of his head, encompassing almost the entirety of his skull.

“No?”

Regulus shakes his head. “Basic decency, no?”

He feels James smile against the crown of his head, something soft and secret, like Regulus has no idea. And Regulus wants to ask what, what are you saying, what’s hiding behind your sad smile, but he also doesn’t want to dig the sad from underneath the smile. So he doesn’t, resting his head more comfortably against James’ chest instead, right where he can hear the steady beat of his heart.

“What’s ‘tara’?” James hums his confusion, so Regulus clarifies. “Earlier. You called me ‘tara’.”

“Ah.”

“Is it bad?”

James lets out a little laugh. “No, it’s not bad. In Madhya Pradesh, where I’m originally from, we—” he stops himself. “My grandmother used to call me tara. It’s—star. It means star. And you’re—you know. In outer space. It—sounded better in my head.”

Inhaling, Regulus shakes his head a little. “You sound lovely.”

He feels James’ smile again, the gentle press of lips on the crown of his head.

It almost feels like a secret, whispering, “I can hear your heartbeat.”

It quickens a little after his words, and James says, “It’s for you, I think.”

“That it beats?”

James makes a soft noise of dissent. “No. It beats for me, but it dances for you.”

 

---

 

Regulus wakes up physically rested and emotionally exhausted.

He needs to sleep again, he needs to black out, be knocked down, he can’t continue burning the candle at both ends. Realistically, he knows he is sleeping, but his brain is fully awake and spitting atoms in all directions, gathering knowledge and James between his fingers like warm sand. His hands are cramping, trying to keep him safe between his shaky fingers.

He sits up in bed, rubbing a hand across his face.

Sighing, he gets up to wash his face. It’s only upon the electrostatic cleanser turning on and lifting contaminants off his skin that he realises he’s feeling phenomenally warm. Too warm to be normal, like a fever but he’s floating. His face fixes the mirror and he frowns. There is something. Something, he cannot tell what, but something.

His hands reach up to his face, pulling at the skin of his jaw, poking at his neck, drifting down to his arms, looking down at himself to—

Oh.

Oh, shit, fuck.

The mirror cuts off at his collarbones. Just underneath it, on the skin in the middle of his chest, is a stain. Light-colored, skin less white. Just as pale, but something else, now, too. Right where his heart resides.

A colorful stain.

 

---

 

Pandora dies on a Tuesday.

It’s Regulus fault.

After all, he is the one who tattles on her.

It’s just that he didn’t know. How could he? Political scapegoats rarely are logical choices. They are just there at the right time.

It all happens rather quickly, Regulus isn’t entirely sure he didn’t dream it, until he wakes up to find she is gone.

It’s just that she has an intuition unlike anything Regulus has ever seen, so when she wakes up one day and goes to find him, sweat dripping down her temples, “I think people are going to die today,” Regulus doesn’t think to ignore it, or better, keep it to himself. He doesn’t think to tell Pandora, are you sure?

He believes her. Instantly. And he thinks, I am a Black. My family has influence. Perhaps they know.

He doesn’t expect his father’s eyes to harden on him. The quick look he exchanges with Walburga. The quick dismissal, followed by ‘Who told you this’, and Regulus is fifteen at the time. He doesn’t think to lie.

She dies in the night; airlock incident. Her and three workers. A freak incident, he’s told.

Regulus doesn’t learn about the trial until later, much later.

There are consequences for being useless. But there are consequences, too, for being overly perceptive.

 

---

 

“You’re going to explain everything to me,” are Regulus’ first words to Remus. Their conversation feels like forever ago and at the same time, like it just happened.

“You look tired.”

Regulus sits down. “I—”

The truth is, Regulus is tired. His brain is confused, treating dreams like reality, reality like dreams. He sleeps more yet wakes up exhausted.

And—

“Something’s happening to me.”

Remus, who is in the process of looking at him with shrewd eyes, widens them. So, Regulus lifts his shirt, starts pointing where the color is staining the front of his chest, to explain, to showcase—

He expects a lot of things.

What he doesn’t expect, is for Remus to start mumbling.

“From the shadows of a colorless dawn, the new God will see through the heart. Shades of gray, the essence of color within—” Regulus doesn’t hear the rest, because Remus mumbles the end, and then.

Then.

He bows.

 

---

 

Regulus has always been important, even more so when Sirius decided to bail. Spare to heir, new responsibilities on frail shoulders. Still, no one has ever bowed to him.

“Please get up,” he stresses, one hand going to Remus’ shoulder to pull him upright. “Get up,” he insists when Remus doesn’t immediately get up. “I’m not—this isn’t—”

“Regulus, I can see it.”

“I don’t understand.”

Remus eyes Regulus’ chest. “I can see your skin color. The spot on your chest. I see it.”

“You can see—”

“Yes.”

They stare at each other. Until, “How?”

Remus sighs, and he is all at once back to his original state, spine bent and shifty eyes. “I told you about the legends and soulmates—”

“I know about—”

“But there is a prophecy, too.”

 

---

 

He crashes into the dream and starts running, steps like heartbeats.

His feet are taking him forward, he barely pays attention to the scenery—some kind of scenery, doesn’t matter, nothing matters, thick air pressing against his skin like an unseen force, feet pummeling the ground as he sprints towards the place he knows James will be. The place where James always is.

He needs him. He needs James, James, James—

“James!”

Empty air swallows his cry. No one, he’s running and James isn’t here, isn’t waiting with open arms, isn’t here—

“James!”

He tears through the dream, searching, but James doesn’t come.

He wakes up a few hours later to the sensation of falling and a strangling urge to cry.

 

---

 

He thinks about it all day. His thoughts keep redirecting him towards James and the lack of him, towards the first night in months that James hasn’t shown up and he’s frustrated. Tired. Upset.

He wants to talk about the prophecy. About them. About Earth.

He wants—

His hands are empty and he wants them filled with something more tangible than dreams.

He goes about his day like a ghost until he remembers Remus’ words.

You don’t have to dream to talk to him.

And so, he goes into his pod, closes his eyes, and focuses.

 

---

 

He doesn’t know what he expected. For it to feel like a dream, perhaps. The reality of it is that it feels like being awake.

Awake in another world, and James is in front of him, facing away, with some kind of head contraption on, bobbing his head and flinging colors at the wall with wild, frenetic energy.

So. Much. Colors. The wall is a chaotic explosion, a lovely riot.

James hasn’t noticed him. He’s speaking, though the tonality of it feels off. Like speaking but wrong. He is bobbing around, shimmying his shoulders, turning around and—

“—Motherfucking shitchrist, Regulus?”

Eyes wide and mouth agape, color dripping from his brush, splattering onto the floor.

Regulus stands frozen, feeling somewhat caught, like he shouldn’t be standing where he is. Like he should disappear somewhere and not be found. Like what he is doing is wrong. His face must be showing as much because as quick as James’ surprise had come, he shakes his head and steps forward, paint-splattered and disheveled, the contraption slipping from his head, emitting strange sounds.

His expression has shifted from surprise to something Regulus cannot quite measure. James reaches out, fingers trembling slightly, as if afraid that Regulus might disappear if he blinks.

Regulus’ instinct to back away, to move back, to stop this—projection, whatever it is he is doing, comes to a stop the moment he realizes James is no longer standing a few meters away but eating the distance rapidly instead. One moment James is away and the next he is here, right here, hands coming up to frame Regulus’ face, forehead leaning down to rest on his, moving his head to the side to brush his nose against Regulus’.

Regulus has never had this kind of intimacy bestowed upon him. Not so directly, not so effortlessly, like James is sure. Of himself. Of Regulus. It’s simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying, and Regulus doesn’t know how to feel. What to feel. His chest is tight, heart too big, something titanic-large crushing his chest and loosening it all at once.

His chest is tight and hot, as if something titanic is crushing him, severing all the chords of fear.

So, he lifts his eyes to James’, hoping to find guidance. Instead, he finds the gentlest gaze and a question.

“How are you here?” Immediately followed by, “Can I kiss you?”

And Regulus is here and there, in space and on Earth, there are so many more pressing matters to address, and James is touching him, spreading some kind of foul smelling viscous liquid on his cheeks, and he doesn’t care.

He lifts up on his toes, hooks his arm around James’ shoulders to pull him down, and initiates the first kiss of his life.

It really is unfair, how something so mind-bendingly good could have taken him twenty-eight years to find. It really is unfair, how quickly James pulls away. He laughs at Regulus’ half-attempt to stop him from pulling back, arms refusing to let go.

“I really would kiss you more, but you’re here.”

He speaks like a wreckage, like Regulus is something unreal. Someone who couldn’t possibly step foot on Earth. Like Regulus is a deity to be worshiped from afar, who shouldn’t show his face anywhere, who should be stowed away for safekeeping, who should be in a—

“I’m not,” Regulus says.

“You’re not?” James presses his hands a little more firmly on Regulus’ cheeks, testing his realism, coming up roses. Spilling out of his hands. Roses everywhere on the concrete floor. Roses and roses and Regulus between his fingers. “You are, though.”

“I think…” Regulus doesn’t exactly know how to voice what he thinks. Doesn’t really know if he’s right. I think I can project myself here, and you can touch me, only because we have a bond. I think I can dreamwalk into your reality, but I’m not real real. I think if you tried to reach into my body, you’d find empty space, filled by you. I think I only live in your mind, and what a beautiful place to live. I think I’d like to know what it feels like, to have you touch me with real hands. “I don’t think I can stay here for long.”

“Stay forever.” Eager. “Don’t go back.”

“James.”

“Regulus.”

Regulus pulls away a little, and James’ hands drop from Regulus’ cheeks. It feels so wrong, instinct has him reaching out to grab James’ hand immediately. He squeezes it reassuringly, turning to the wall. “What is this?”

James follows Regulus’ gaze, confused for a beat before it clears. “It’s art.”

Regulus tilts his head, testing the word. “Art.”

James shrugs, pulling Regulus’ hand up in the process. “Abstract art for now, I suppose. I’m only the first few layers.”

“Abstract art.”

There is a pull in Regulus’ chest, urging him to let go of James’ hand and go back to where he comes from. It’s weak though, and Regulus ignores it.

James looks at the art, then stares, like he might be able to view it with a new perspective if he looks hard enough. Like he might be able to explain something so logical to him that he would be hard-pressed to convey it in simple words. Like ‘simple words’ wouldn’t do art justice. Then, the tone of Regulus’ voice catches up to him, and James gets it.

“You don’t know what art is.”

Regulus shakes his head, and the motion brings the scent of the strange-smelling liquid drying on his cheeks to his nose. He wrinkles it, raising his free hand to brush against his cheek. The texture is different now than when James first smeared it on him. The smell unlike anything he’s ever encountered before—intense and pungent, like chemicals.

“It’s paint.”

Regulus nods, though it doesn’t mean much to him, until—’Paint is—well, paint is pigment. You can’t have paint without pigment. And pigment is—it’s old.’ And the conversation floods back. “You’ve had stains like this on your clothes before. On your hands.”

James gives him a hesitant, sheepish smile. “I get carried away.”

“You get carried away… being art?”

“Making art,” James corrects. He picks up Regulus’ other hand, smearing the drying liquid on his palm. “This is paint. The pigment I told you about before. I’m a painter,”—he points to the wall—“and this is a painting.” Regulus doesn’t reply, looking back at the wall, taking a step towards it. James stops him with a soft pressure on his hands. “You have to take a few steps back, actually.”

“Oh?”

James gently tugs on Regulus’ hand, leading him further towards the back of the room.

He’s right.

The farther they walk from the wall, the more the blobs of color begin to take shape. James rubs the back of his neck, a hint of nervousness in his gesture. “It’s not finished yet. I only started a few days ago; I’m on the second layer. It needs to dry, and then—” But Regulus isn’t listening anymore. Something’s happening in his body, to his body. He’s felt it before, looking at James. He’s never felt it looking at something, doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels James’ hand reaching up to wipe his tears away.

“—I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

He can feel James’ sudden quietness, the weight of his stare heavy on Regulus’ face, but James remains silent for a long time. He simply holds on to Regulus’ hand, allowing him the space to fully absorb and understand what art means.

It takes Regulus a surprisingly long time to come down from what he feels was a high of some kind. He doesn’t understand what the painting is supposed to be, only that it awakened some kind of emotional response.

“That's why I do it, you know?” James says eventually. It’s not quite a whisper, nor quite a statement. It hangs in the air with the soft quality of a moment turning into a core memory before James continues. “I’ve always liked colors, they—speak to me, I guess. And when I realized I could wield them to speak to other people…” He’s silent for too long again, before, “It’s like speaking another language.”

Regulus nods because this, he can relate to. “I feel like I’m seeing you, just… different.”

“It’s going to be a trompe-l’oeil.”

Regulus nods again, refusing to take his eyes off the painting, despite the growing pull from his stomach. It’s becoming harder to ignore. “Whatever it is, it’s beautiful.”

“You don’t know what a trompe-l’oeil is either, do you?” James asks. There is a smile hiding behind the question.

Regulus shakes his head, letting his own smile peek out. “No idea.”

“It’s french for ‘eye deceiver’, I think. I’m not a very good linguist though, so my translation might be wrong. We kind of all call it trompe-l’oeil, just with a terrible accent.”

“Eye deceiver…”

“Deceive the eye, maybe? Either way, it’s an art technique. I’m going to create an optical illusion.”

“With paint?”

James hums agreeably. “I want it to be the place where we met.”

With the hint, the wall starts making more sense to Regulus. It’s the blue of the sky, the blue of the ocean, the yellow of sand and the yellow of the sun.

He doesn’t know why he starts crying again. He isn’t sad, he doesn’t—his people don’t cry. Nothing is important enough to cry over. Yet there is an influx of too-strong emotions to bear, the realization that he’s going to be pulled back, that the tug in his stomach isn’t going anywhere, that he’s going to leave James here, alone, and he’s going to be thousands of miles away, alone, and that it never used to bother him before.

That it’s bothering him, now.

“Please don’t cry.”

Regulus doesn’t. “I’m sorry.”

James’ voice cracks. “Don’t be sorry for emoting.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he repeats.

There are arms around him, gathering him so he doesn’t break apart everywhere on the concrete floor. He isn’t sure his breakage would make a very compelling piece of art. “You’re a sensitive soul, that’s what’s happening. You’re feeling an emotional reaction to something you find beautiful. It’s—” he stops himself, but Regulus hears it. James, too. The ’normal’, almost thrown away carelessly. But it’s not, of course. Normal, that is. Regulus isn’t feeling normal emotions, because he’s never been taught to feel any kind of emotions at all. This is baby new, fresh and light and terrifyingly strong.

“It’s you,” Regulus says eventually, looking up at James, who smiles enigmatically, shaking his head.

“I don’t think it’s me, tara. I may be the catalyst, but this is all you. It’s been hiding in there,”—he presses his hand on Regulus’ chest, where Regulus has spent years trying to rub away the empty—“the whole time. I’m just lucky to be able to witness it.”

Regulus’ mouth opens on instinct, the urge to say something back, to speak up, to voice the torrent of emotions James keeps pulling out of him with expert fingers, avoiding all the painful threads and focusing on all the lovely chords instead. He isn’t sure what he is going to say, what exact words will make it out of Regulus’ chest, out of his crowded, love-filled mouth—

Which is right when things go horribly wrong.

Instead of what he wants to say, which might be a combination of thank you, of don’t let me leave, of IthinkwhatI’mfeelingislove, what escapes is a garbled scream as a sudden, excruciating pain balloons within him, gutting him in one smooth motion. Panic seizes his chest like a deadly storm—and he’s ripped from his trance and thrust back into the ship.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Regulus,” is the last thing he hears before the pain unhinges its jaws wide open and swallows him into darkness.

Notes:

Mar's writing corner:

uh-oh what now

ANYWAY 😌

I researched a bunch and I might be wrong but I THINK "tara" means Star in hindi, and is kind of universally understood as star no matter where you're from in India? But please if I'm wrong tell me.

 

anyway kiss kiss see you soon for more bullshit x

Chapter 13: (’swan’;’song’)

Summary:

Should James get hurt—should Sirius, Regulus will eat Riddle. Avery. The God room and all of its filthy lies. The Upper Levels. The entire ship, swallow the universe. Nothing will survive, not even matter, if something happens to one of them.

Notes:

TW: sort of graphic depiction of violence/torture. Vomit and other fun stuff. It's not as bad as it looks I promise but it's also not great.
See notes at the end for skipping stamp.

 

The other title of this chapter would be "Sophie's choice"

Regulus wakes up in a room he’s never been in before, temple throbbing with a dull, insistent ache. It feels as though he’s been pulled through a black hole, every bone unhinged from its socket, leaving a sense of disjointed emptiness. It’s a sensation like phantom pain—he isn’t really in pain, but his body remembers. You were, before. You were in pain. You don’t remember, but I do. We were in pain, pain, such pain.

With a monumental effort, he pulls himself half up, arms shaking and threatening to give way beneath him. The weight of his body feels foreign, like double gravity pulling him down, and opening his eyes feels like wasted effort—for minutes. When he finally does, the room that comes into focus feels wrong. Because he’s dreamt about entering this room before. It’s the God room. Where the Gods reside.

The room is far larger than regular pods but stark, walls smooth and metallic. There’s an unsettling sterility to the space, even in the dry and cold air. No furnishings, though there is a large transparent chamber filled with ice, and a body encased in it, its features distorted by the frosty haze, yet unmistakably human. Riddle is standing next to it. Beside the only door, standing ill-at-ease, is Avery. His posture is rigid, eyes darting between Regulus and Riddle. Unmoving.

There are no Gods, their absence palpable in the hollow room.

There are no Gods.

 

 

 

No Gods.

 

 

 

 

Of course, there are no Gods.

 

 

 

Of course.

 

 

 

There is, however, a frozen body; its eyes open and unseeing, staring into the void. Riddle stands too close for comfort, looking at the body in the ice like one gazes at a particularly beautiful solar flare. It’s a look Regulus recognises, a look he knows well. It’s how he looks at James. How James looks at him.

And oh, oh.

Oh, gods. Riddle looks at the frozen body like Regulus looks at his soulmate.

This is when Regulus realises that Remus wasn’t completely wrong—Riddle isn’t, in fact, a great character.

“People who cannot have soulmates; they are called Muggles. Riddle is one…or at least, that is the running theory. We believe…he does not like that. So he’s depriving everyone of the option.”

However, Remus wasn’t entirely right either—Riddle is also not a Muggle.

“It’s lovely, having a soulmate, isn’t it?” Riddle’s voice is soft, almost gentle, but the words send a chill through Regulus, gut tightening in fear. He doesn’t want Riddle to invoke James’ name out loud, doesn’t want that desecration.

He stays silent, though he doesn’t have to. Riddle continues, unbothered by the lack of response, “I was wondering how long it would take for your bond to grow strong. I never expected it to grow quite so fast.” He pauses, lifting a hand to his chin in mock reflection, before smiling down at Regulus. “Wouldn’t you like to meet them, for real? Here?”

He asks questions in a way that sends a chill down Regulus’ spine. His tone is effortlessly casual, yet there’s an underlying cruelty in his words, like hiding his malice in parentheses.

The chill at his spine congeals into frost when Riddle leans down a little, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I know you’ve been sneaking into my library, Regulus.”

This is the moment Regulus realises something else.

This entire time, he was never ‘good’ at being sneaky. He’s just been left alone, observed like a fish in a bowl, blissfully unaware of the eyes on him. The sensation is like a cold hand between his shoulder blades, invasion.

The room constricts around him, the ice radiating cold that seeps into his bones, and Riddle’s eyes gleam with satisfaction and a predatory light. Riddle’s gaze flicks back to the frozen body, smile widening like a chilling mimicry of genuine affection. “Imagine,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “the power of such a bond, fully realized. Anyway, none of this matters anymore,” he continues, eyes hardening. “Call them.”

Call them.

Call them.

Regulus must be staring from the floor, quietly defiant, because Riddle insists, eyebrows lifting. “Call your soulmate, Regulus.”

He doesn’t speak up to be heard. Doesn’t move, but the word flows out easily.

“No.”

No. Absolutely not.

No.

A simple word, large enough to carry all the meaning Regulus really wants. No, he will not call James.

No.

“I apologise, Regulus,” Riddle says, and the temperature in the room drops several degrees from the chill in his voice, “for making it seem like I may have been bargaining somehow.” He takes a few steps closer to Regulus, the sound of his boots echoing ominously in the metallic room. He squats down to eye level, and backhands Regulus with a swift, brutal motion. Regulus’ head snaps to the side, pain exploding across his cheek. Satisfied, Riddle smiles, and repeats, “Call them.”

The shock and violence of it makes Regulus’ stomach churn, arms shaking as he dry-heaves, head close to the cold, unforgiving floor. He hasn’t fully recovered from the first temple blow that sent him into darkness. He’s in pain, disoriented, and reeling from the pain that echoes through his bones. Still, he isn’t insane. Preposterous, for Riddle to even think Regulus might stoop this low.

“No,” he croaks out again, the defiance in his voice unwavering despite his physical weakness.

But, it seems, Riddle and his family didn’t lie to this entire ship for thousands of years without gaining a few skills.

The Messenger starts playing with an invisible thread on his black clothes, the picture of carelessness.

“Do you not love your brother, more than your soulmate?”

Which is about the time he waves his hand, signaling Avery to open the only door to the God room—and drag in Sirius.

 

---

 

Regulus hasn’t had a lot of time to think about what would happen, should he find Sirius again. In truth, he’s spent the majority of his life keeping that idea far at bay. It might partly be because of his upbringing, you do not question what could be, only what is. Or perhaps it was the fear of pain—of never seeing him again, that pushed Regulus to not think about his brother at all. Perhaps it was the pain of the betrayal, a deep wound that time cannot heal. And more recently, the pain Regulus felt from being given up by Sirius for Remus.

The point is, Regulus is not prepared for the sight of his brother.

Something has happened to his brother, visible from the black and gray bruises that litter his skin.

And yet, he looks like his brother. His hair is longer, down to his shoulder, some strands curling around blood, matted with grime. His nose has been displaced, twisting painfully to the right, and his upper lip is split wide. His eyes are hooded and lined with pain, but he looks paradoxically happy. Pain and happiness, coexisting together.

“Regu—” he’s interrupted by a swift gesture from Riddle, which immediately seems to target Sirius’ vocal cords, preventing him from producing sound and finishing his sentence.

Riddle shakes his index finger in the air like one does to a disobedient child. There’s a smug satisfaction in his eyes that makes Regulus’ skin crawl.

“Ah-ah. No speaking.”

Regulus takes a crawl closer, attempting a rise on his feet, mouth opening to contest, and promptly finds himself voiceless, too. The sudden silence is deafening.

“No words from you, either,” Riddle declares, and he’s… manipulating Regulus somehow, from afar. Cutting off his voice, the sensation alien and invasive, like invisible hands gripping his throat. “No,” Riddle continues casually, like this isn’t a problem, like this is possible. “Not a peep. Just—” he makes an impatient gesture with his hand—“Call your soulmate, or your brother dies.”

Call your soulmate, or your brother dies

                                       Call your soulmate

                 or your brother

     dies

No sooner are the words out of his mouth that Avery is carefully placing a molecular disassembler under Sirius’ chin, the device humming with energy.

A molecular disassembler.

Disassemblers shouldn’t be this close to people, ever. They are supposed to help with precision repairs by unmaking matter at a subatomic level, they—disassemble waste and convert it into useful resources, like nutrients for hydroponic farming. Regulus’ mind sharpens and spins at the same time, thoughts colliding chaotically. The disassembler was designed to heal and create, not destroy, yet it’s been perverted, turned into something evil. Disassemblers shouldn’t be—this shouldn’t—

It’s instantaneous, the images start running amok through Regulus’ brain—cellular disruption, the alteration of Sirius’ biological structure, burns, burns, burns, the complete meltdown of his brother through exposed radiation, and the disassembler is right there. Underneath Sirius’ chin. One wrong move, one hesitation, and Sirius will turn into scattered particles. By Avery’s hand.

“I know you have activated the prophecy, Regulus,” Riddle says, and the words struggle to make their way through Regulus’ fear-addled brain, like passing through a veil to reach their destination. When they eventually pierce through the fog of his panic, Regulus doesn’t understand. He hasn’t. He hasn’t. He hasn’t done anything. He can’t say that though, and his eyes keep fleeting between his brother, Avery holding the disassembler, and Riddle.

When he doesn’t do anything, Riddle rolls his eyes, walks to Sirius, pulls his brother’s right hand forward, grabs the ring finger and—pulls.

Hard.

Until it pops, then harder.

Until it breaks.

The sickening sound of bone snapping echoes in the air, and Sirius’ face contorts in agony, eyes squeezing shut as he grits his teeth, stifling a scream.

Riddle doesn’t stop.

Pulls harder.

Someone is screaming.

People are, perhaps, more than one. Regulus doesn’t know who. He’s entered a new dimension where he just got his brother back whole, only to stare at his disfigured finger dangling from his hand, and Riddle is too closetooclosetooclose—

The room tilts around him, there is static fuzz between his ears. He can’t compute—he can’t understand—what’s happening—he keeps looking at the grotesquely swinging finger.

He can’t look at Sirius, who has collapsed at Avery’s feet. Avery, who is still holding the disassembler so, so close. Avery, who doesn’t look ready to pull the trigger. There’s something in his eyes that’s just a little too blank, like a carefully constructed mask.

“Now that we have determined I am not entertaining drama,” Riddle starts, casual, lifting his hand to Sirius’ face as he speaks, pushing the bloody strands of hair out of his brother’s face—and perhaps Regulus was wrong. Perhaps Remus was right. Perhaps he does want to kill Riddle, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll—“Call your soulmate, or your brother will lose other fingers. If you wait too long, I can’t guarantee he might not lose his life, too.” For good measure, he slaps the dangling finger.

Sirius does throw up then, emptying his stomach and dry heaving a moment before his eyes fleet up to meet Regulus’. He’s gray, sweating, there is a pool of blood and vomit accumulating at his feet, and it’s all Regulus’ fault.

Regulus mouths something, tries to speak, and Riddle seems to find enough mercy in himself to unlock Regulus’ vocal cords. The sudden ability to speak feels foreign, and when he speaks, it’s barely loud enough for himself to hear. He doesn’t even know if he’s spoken aloud when Riddle interrupts, “Louder, boy.”

“—don’t know how.” The admission is a dagger.

Riddle’s eyes narrow, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. “Now that,” he says, voice dripping with contempt, “seems unlikely, seeing as you were with them twenty minutes ago.

“I wasn’t, I wasn’t—” Regulus’ voice trembles, the panic rising in his throat like bile.

“Then learn quickly. Your brother’s life depends on it.”

“I don’t—”

“If you insist on lying to me,” he takes a step closer to Sirius, who cowers, and Riddle takes

  he takes

   he takes Sirius’ finger

    he takes it

     in his own hand—

“No! No, please.” Regulus’ voice cracks.

Riddle stops, and looks back at Regulus, something between pity and satisfaction in his eyes, a twisted parody of kindness. He’s looking at Regulus like he’s pathetic. And perhaps Regulus is—pathetic, that is. He isn’t interested in pretending otherwise. But his brother is on the floor, lying in his own vomit, and Regulus isn’t strong enough to pretend this doesn’t bother him. That he wouldn’t do anything to make this go away. Anything but—

But.

      Almost anything.

  No, anything.

He looks up at Sirius.

 

             Yes, anything.

Thinks about James and his clawed love.

 

     No.

 

Not him.

Looks back up at Sirius.

 

    But.

 

But, but,

            but.

“I can see you are quite torn up about all of this,” Riddle says, and it’s so dismissive of him and his feelings, which he has in abundance now, and—“I’ve said it once. I will say it one last time. Call your soulmate or watch your brother get dismembered.”

The word is enough to make Regulus dry heave.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I,” Regulus swallows, trying to force down the panic. Repeats, “I don’t know how.”

Riddle raises his eyebrows thoughtfully. “And what does one say, when one doesn’t know how to do something?”

“Please.” It comes out easily. Riddle is too close to Sirius, and Regulus understands what happens now when he disobeys. He won’t make the same mistake twice.

“Good. And…?” Riddle’s voice drips with expectation.

Regulus doesn’t care about pride. About humiliation. This is his brother. “Teach me, please.”

Riddles smiles, posture relaxed now that he’s gotten what he wants. “You’ve always been better than the rest of this hoi polloi.”

He takes several steps away from Sirius—and the air seems to regain some amount of oxygen for Regulus, a better quality of life. Riddle, away from Sirius, is better than oxygen. And if Riddle comes close enough to Regulus, he will sink his blunt teeth into Riddle’s neck and pull.

Bloodthirst, as it turns out, can be acquired. Regulus just did. He wouldn’t mind sipping Riddle’s blood out through his veins like a straw. Thinks he might get off on the coppery taste, because that’s his brother.

Sirius isn’t at fault for disappearing for ten years. Riddle is.

Sirius isn’t at fault for losing the use of his finger. Riddle is.

Sirius isn’t at fault for rebelling against the system. Riddle is.

Everything, Riddle’s fault.

“I’m going to teach you how to do this, Regulus, and you will be good. You will listen.” Riddle’s voice is venomous. He stops, waiting. His face goes blank again when Regulus doesn’t speak, and he dismissively orders, “Say yes.” His voice is strong and carries the threat in the background. Regulus isn’t behaving to Riddle’s standard, and he has seen what Riddle does when someone doesn’t do what they’re asked.

“Yes.”

Riddle nods curtly. “You will call them.”

Silence.

“You will call them,” he repeats, taking a sudden step back towards Sirius, and Regulus is off his knees and on his feet in an instant, taking a large step towards Sirius—before Riddle forces him back to his knees with a wave of his hand. The invisible force slams into him, driving him down with an almost physical pressure. He doesn’t repeat himself this time, opting to stare down at Regulus until he bends.

“—Yes.”

“Harder to muster, this one, wasn’t it?”

Regulus doesn’t reply, though he doesn’t expect Riddle to care. He looks up at the Messenger, meeting his gaze with a futile defiance he cannot suppress.

Riddle’s smile widens. “It comes from your chest, this pull,” he explains. “You have to follow it. Tug at it. I’m sure they’re sufficiently spooked from your sudden disappearance, they’ll be tuned to you.”

Regulus looks at Sirius, and ten years worth of lost brotherhood passes between them.

He looks at Riddle, who shrugs nonchalantly. “There isn’t much more to this than instinct.” As an afterthought, he adds, “They will come.”

Riddle’s eyes flick briefly to the frozen figure in the ice, and Regulus’ instinct wakes up, remembers his earlier observation, eyes widening when the realisation fully sinks in—

He does throw up, then, on his hands and knees, mind bending over the sheer impossibility of what he knows to be true. The bile burns his throat, and Riddle starts laughing.

“Ah, you understand,” he says, tone almost mocking, and Regulus thinks it isn’t possible for two people to be so fundamentally different. Because as it becomes crystal clear who the body in the ice is, Regulus thinks it preposterous to think that he might—

“Do not worry, I won’t hurt them,” and Regulus doesn’t believe it for one second. His eyes fleet back to Sirius’ mangled hand, and Riddle laughs. “This was precaution. I wouldn’t want you to think you have a say in what is about to happen. We will call it a reminder.”

“What did you do to—?” Regulus starts, fails, and tries again, looking at the body in the ice. The words catch in his throat.

“I do believe I’d like to wait for your soulmate to arrive now, I’m running out of patience,” Riddle dismisses, and he just has to eye Sirius’ form for Regulus to fold.

“No, please.”

Regulus’ eyes close on Riddle’s satisfied smile.

Call your soulmate.

There isn’t much more to this than instinct.

They will come.

He blocks Riddle out. Avery out. The frozen body in the ice. The Disassembler. Sirius.

His body is vibrating with tension, and he tunes it out, too. There is an ache in his chest, that has been around forever.

It quiets down when he reaches in.

Riddle is correct, there isn’t much to do but instinct.

Regulus thinks about James, empties his head of anything else, and thinks about veins and straws, water and blood, and how should James get hurt—should Sirius, Regulus will eat Riddle. Avery. The God room and all of its filthy lies. The Upper Levels. The entire ship, swallow the universe. Nothing will survive, not even matter, if something happens to one of them.

It’s on these happy thoughts that something starts to happen.

Earlier, he had been able to go into James’ reality. He thinks about it now, a starting point. He thinks about the room, the smell of paint. He envisions the cluttered room, the warmth of James’ presence,

James,

and falls.

Notes:

If you don't want to read the torturish scene, you can stop reading here: "He can’t say that though, and his eyes keep fleeting between his brother, Avery holding the disassembler, and Riddle." --- and start again "He can’t look at Sirius, who has collapsed at Avery’s feet".

If I missed any triggers I should add, please let me know!

Chapter 14: Dementor

Summary:

Spine, ribs, stupid little lungs. This is home base, love.

Notes:

Some housekeeping

 

I do want to say that I have been talking to a very dear friend of mine about giving my HP fics an ending, even if it's just bullet points and explanations of what would have happened, which I consider to be better than just deep diving into the ether forever. This is what will likely happen for all HP works, as I've fallen off the wagon and also, ya know, the whole JKR being a dickaphobe (eat rot and perish, why don't you?).

So this is the final chapter, condensed with everything that was supposed to happen, but the "lite", not very polished version. As some of you know this should have been at least 5 chapters, so there might be some loose ends, and some kind of thrown over the shoulder explanation, but also it's fanfiction, it's not that deep.

Hope this gives you, at least, a somewhat satisfying closure on this. Definitely not my best work, I apologize for that. This is mostly for me (and for the 4 people who have really enjoyed this while it was being updated).

--

I do want to say, also, that while I am fascinated by religion (like, as a concept), I am not religious at all. Love the idea that people believe there is stuff out there in the sky/universe/etc to guide us. I think it's neat. But every time religion comes up, all I can think of is this quote

“At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this?
And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?”
― Ilya Kaminsky, Deaf Republic

You feel me?
Anyway all this to say this isn't by any means an endorsement of religion. If anything, it's a commentary on it? An exploration? I dunno.
okay bye

 

The reality he falls into isn’t James’, this much becomes abundantly clear right away. There is a familiar bench, white everywhere, and nothing else.

Nothing else but James, sitting on the bench, talking to a man.

He turns when Regulus makes his presence known, and smiles up at him. It’s mostly relieved, sad at the corners. “Hello, love.”

It’s…unexpected.

He thinks of Sirius and Riddle, Avery and the God room, and wonders where he is, now. The man stops talking long enough to turn to Regulus, and pats the empty space next to him.

“Join us, Regulus. We have much to talk about.”

 

---

 

Remus is uncomfortable, something scaly and dangerous slithering around and around in his gut, telling him it’s all wrong. He’s always been good at trusting his instinct, but this is different. Sirius should be here.

Should have been here, thirty minutes ago.

Thirty minutes isn’t a large chunk of time, and any benign thing could have happened, except it didn’t. Sirius said he would be there, yet he isn’t. And that. That sends Remus’ blood boiling with something hot and viscous.

If something has happened to Sirius.

If something has happened.

Oh.

Remus hasn’t gotten in a fight in many years. Right then, he doesn’t think it would matter. So he closes his eyes, and visualises Sirius.

Then, he lets his feet guide him.

 

---

 

“Who are you?” Regulus asks, and it’s too violent in nature, he’s vibrating too much for a conversation. The man doesn’t seem at all bothered by Regulus’ barking, answering pleasantly instead.

“Percival Avery. And you must be Regulus Black.”

Regulus’ eyes flit to James’, who blinks several time, like awakening from a trance. It takes a few more seconds than it should, but then Regulus is swallowing the space between them with his feet, filter lifting from James’ eyes as Regulus’ hands come to frame James’ cheeks.

“You’re okay? You’re okay. You’re okay, tell me if—” Regulus’ eyes are roaming James’ face, neck, his hands padding James’ contour in near frenzy, until James’ hands come to capture Regulus’ hands in his.

“I’m okay,” he says, and Regulus almost collapses in sheer relief.

Then, he does.

James has Regulus’ wrists trapped in his hands, which doesn’t stop Regulus from dropping to his knees and heaving shallow, relief-logged breaths. He finds it poetic somehow, ending up at James’ altar, hands up in submission. Giving it all up.

“…Regulus?”

Regulus’ head is still bent, the crown of his head against James’ tibia.

“Give him some time, young man. Mr Black needs to gather himself.”

“I…” James starts, but when he makes a move to drop the other boy’s wrists, Regulus stops him.

“Don’t move,” he whispers. “Please just…let me.”

It takes Regulus a few minutes of deep breaths to get himself under control. All the while he focuses on James’ breathing and Percival, the white room and the little time he has before he needs to change.

And he will need to. Change, that is. There is not a version of life where Regulus exits the God room unchanged. Something will happen, and it will affect him.

This is the start of the rest of his life, changed.

But if his life is going to change irrevocably, now might be the time to say something important that isn’t tainted by whatever action he will have to take moving forward.

When he feels ready, the moment clawing at him with golden teeth, his fingers climb like vines, wrapping around James’ hips, and he lifts his head, looking up reverently into James’ blown open eyes.

“I love you,” he says, and it feels sacred and real, saying it from his kneeling, worshipping position. An worthless offering for a worthwhile god.

James visibly balks, taken aback. “Oh, you—”

He glances toward the man on the bench, almost sheepish, then he draws in a breath deep and says, “I love you, too.”

This is the part of the story where the hero kisses the hero, where the sun catches fire. In any other story, they would be smiling.

Regulus says, “I’m going to kill someone.”

These aren’t the words one would expect to hear after a heartfelt declaration, but they need to be said, and time is of the essence. There is a noose around his neck, after all.

“You—”

“James. Mr Black,” Percival interrupts. “Join me.” He lifts one elegant hand, and a second bench ripples into existence opposite his own. “I believe we have much to talk about.”

Regulus shakes his head. “I don’t have time, I—”

“You have time, young man. There is time elsewhere, and it will pass, but not right here. Sit.” It is less of a suggestion and more of an order. Regulus blinks, and all of a sudden he is sat next to James.

Seemingly unbothered by feats of magic, Percival nods to himself, satisfied, and looks at Regulus. “I’m glad to finally meet you. I’ve been sensing your presence for years.” He then turns to James. “I am truly sorry that these are the circumstances in which we meet for the first time. It certainly would not be my first choice, either.”

It’s James who asks the question Regulus wants to ask.

“Who are you?”

Percival smiles.

“Why, I’m the body in the ice.”

 

---

 

If Regulus hadn’t been sitting down, he would have fallen. As it is, something must happen, a sag of some kind, because James’ hand goes to right him, before settling on his hip as support. Regulus doesn’t know how to thank him for understanding, knowing what Regulus needed without prompt. But then again, James has always been the less emotionally stunted one, seemingly able to read the room a lot better than Regulus ever could.

Still, Regulus turns to eyes James, a grateful smile on the corner of his lips, before he turns back to Percival.

“You are Tom Riddle’s soulmate.”

Percival’s lips thin, and he nods. He’s quiet for a long time.

“What did he do to you?” Regulus asks.

The smile that graces Percival’s face is painful to watch, though nothing compares to the horrifying words that leave his mouth next.

“He ate me.”

Regulus is going to be sick—again. He’s going to throw up the pain in his gut and the fear balling up in his throat and the urge to protect James, to protect Sirius.

He is good at math, has always been. Riddle and Avery aren’t here to make idle threat, and Regulus is but one person. He cannot be both the person who saves Sirius, and the person who saves James, doesn’t know how to reconcile the future he can envision in his mind, where one of them will get injured or fatally wounded because Regulus doesn’t have four arms. Doesn’t have four legs. Cannot run in both direction to save both the people he loves.

James’ hand squeezes Regulus’ thigh. “What?”

Percival waves it away. “Regulus,” he tilts his head, “what level of sacrifice would you be ready for, if it meant saving your brother?”

 

---

 

“You have a brother?” James asks, and isn’t it ironic, how they’ve said I love you and haven’t told each other about their families?

“I—” I’m not sacrificing James for Sirius, is what Regulus wants to say, except the words aren’t escaping his mouth, he isn’t speaking them out loud. They stall in his throat, molten and heavy.

Because he doesn’t know if he is being truthful.

If a choice has to be made.

 

 

If a choice

 

     has

              to.

                     .

                         .

 

 

Choices.

 

 

 

What interesting concepts.

 

It’s an age-old question, free will versus determinism.

The brother wins, of course, it is his brother.

Of course.

 

 

 

Of course.

 

(And the dead gods are leaning forward now, interested.)

 

Of course,

 

                      but

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s torn from his wayward thoughts when Percival’s face stretches into something not quite a smile. Not quite a frown either. It hovers, gingerly settling somewhere in between.

“What does it feel like?” he asks James, who reluctantly tears his gaze away from Regulus.

“Mhm?”

“Being in love?”

James is silent for a long time, eyes focused on Regulus and absolutely nothing else. “I think…it’s kind of like if poetry had a knife?”

Percival nods like he understands. Regulus thinks back to the body in the ice, and ah. Perhaps he does.

He turns his attention from James to Percival. “You’re a primordial pairing, too.”

Percival smiles, pleased. “Oh, you’re smart.”

“What—” there is sand in his mouth, too much air and not enough oxygen. “What happened to you?”

“Did you know,” Percival asks instead, “that your dreams are malleable?” The both of them nod, and the man smiles. “Yes, I should have guessed.”

He lifts his hand the bench vanishes, light collapsing in on itself like a dying star. They’re back in the God room, though there is no sign of Sirius, Avery, Riddle, or body in ice. It’s just the three of them.

And then, the door slides open, and Percival enters. It’s not the one beside them, but a younger version, his face more elastic, panic wound tight across his limbs, visibly shaken.

Dream-Percival does not turn, does not acknowledge the observers, but the older version stage whispers, “You were asking what happened to me,” right as James whispers,

“Where are we?”

Regulus opens his mouth, but is cut off when Dream-Riddle enters. He looks entirely different, too. Younger, impossibly agitated, looking around and settling on Dream-Percival. There is relief in his eyes then, swiftly replaced with anger. It’s wrinkled at the corners, bleeding love from the side. He looks like a man torn apart.

“I need you to listen to me,” he says.

His hand almost closes on Dream-Percival’s arm, who steps back at the last moment.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You want to lie.”

“We need people to form a cohesive unit*—”*

“There are other ways.”

Dream-Riddle’s arm closes in on Dream-Percival’s. “You don’t understand.”

Dream-Percival rips his arm away, voice hardening, dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I don’t understand.”

A sigh, “You know what I mean.”

“This is the problem, Tom. I understand exactly what you mean. You want to create a pretty lie to feed to everyone, put us on top, and repeat the same cycle we just escaped.”

“It’s not the same—”

“How? Tell me. How is it not the same?” Dream-Percival asks.

“I—”

“No,” Dream-Percival cuts in. “Let me tell you, perhaps I have it all wrong after all.” He puts his chin between his thumb and index finger. “You want to stage a coup, turn the ship around, and go back to earth, which we have just left, because you think we’re better than humans?”

“We are soulmates. Of course we’re better than humans.”

“They don’t want us there, Tom!” Dream-Percival’s voice cracks. “We can go somewhere new. They’re destroying their own planet anyway. Maybe this is our chance.”

“Our chance?” Dream-Riddle repeats coldly.

“To start something new, somewhere. We can find a new planet, we can live without these—these restrictions humans have been setting for us.”

“That makes us weak,” Dream-Riddle’s face folds into something dark. “We are a thousand time stronger than them, and you’re letting humans boot you out? This is our planet, too.”

“We’re not welcome there, Tom. We’re already on a ship, let’s just go. I don’t want to…I’m tired of fighting, Tom. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Dream-Riddle sneers. “They took our home from us.”

“We can make another.”

“We should eliminate them.”

Dream-Percival frowns, unimpressed. “All eight billion of them?”

Dream-Riddle shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you’re defending them. We can rule over them, we can be kings. Gods.”

“I don’t want to be a god, Tom. I just want to be with you.”

For a moment, Dream-Riddle looks conflicted, teetering on the edge of a possible future, where I just want to be with you is enough.

And then, the moment dies. What rises in place of conflict is cold, calculating, and certain.

“I know,” Dream-Riddle says.

He lunges.

Dream-Percival barely has time to gasp before the other man’s hands close around his face—one cradling the jaw, the other latching to the back of his skull. In any other context, this would look romantic, like holding something precious. And perhaps, to him, he is.

But his mouth opens, hungry.

“No—” Regulus recoils, instinct pulling him backward, hand to his mouth, colliding into James, who instinctively reaches for his hand.

Dream-Percival’s body seizes, eyes going wide—then wider, glowing so white they nearly eclipse his pupils, and Dream-Riddle devours.

The process is not bloody, but it is hideous.

Everything Dream-Percival is—his essence, his soul—folds inward, collapsing like a dying star into Dream-Riddle’s body, enhancing him, making him bigger. Uglier, more vile. More powerful.

When it’s over, Dream-Riddle lets go, and Dream-Percival’s body drops.

Just… drops.

Empty.

Lightless.

Dream-Riddle straightens slowly. He looks transformed, like he’s carrying energy too dense for his human body, adjusting. He doesn’t look remorseful, nor pleased.

He looks like a man who has swallowed every warning.

Regulus wants to scream, wants to claw at his own skin. He cannot breathe.

James is shaking beside Regulus. “He killed you.”

Percival shakes his head. “I became him,” and Regulus understands what Percival has been leading him towards, this entire time.

The space flickers, glitching, and all of a sudden they are back in the white room, sitting on benches, shaking.

“Riddle built the caste system,” Regulus says. “The Chosen. The Gods. He used his power to fabricate divinity.”

Percival nods. “Yes. He thought we needed structure. That without it, we would have descended into chaos.”

“He…” Regulus swallows. “What did he do to you?”

All he keeps seeing is a god with an aching, hollow mouth.

“Regulus. Listen. When Tom consumed me,” Percival says, “he broke the oldest law of our kind, crossed a boundary only monsters have crossed. Soul‑eating is a blasphemy so ancient that the last to commit it was cast into exile four millennia before this ship ever left Earth.”

Regulus’ throat closes. “And Tom—”

“He did it, knowing exactly what it would make him.”

His eyes meet Regulus’. There is no softness left in them.

“He used the power he stole from me,” Percival continues, “and became the ‘Gods’. All of them. It was never divine. He carries my abilities, my instincts, my knowledge. But not my conscience. When he ate me, he also killed the part of himself that could have loved anything.”

Regulus shivers. “Then how do we stop him?”

Percival closes his eyes for a moment. “You can’t outfight him,” he says. “He’s stronger than any primordial who ever lived.”

James swallows. “Then—?”

“You outsmart him.”

Regulus stares. “What does that mean?”

“You do what he refused to do,” Percival says. “You merge with your soulmate.”

Regulus’ heart slams hard enough to bruise bone.

“Merging isn’t the same as consuming,” Percival goes on. “One is obliteration, the other is creation. Merging is mutual, cooperative. Equal. You become something new together—a being with four arms, four legs, one spine, one soul in two voices intertwined.”

James shifts, visibly unsettled. “I’m confused,” he says, though he doesn’t sound confused, per se. More so, scared. “You want us to become…?”

“An eight‑limbed primordial,” Percival says simply.

“We can’t,” Regulus whispers. “We don’t—”

“You must,” Percival replies. “That is the only thing Tom fears, why he isolated every primordial soulmate he could find. You are the only thing in existence that can match him.”

Regulus feels his pulse in his fingertips. In his teeth. In his spine. Beating like wardrums. James grabs Regulus’ hand, holds it tight enough to shake.

Regulus looks at him, and in James’ eyes he finds terror, and something else. Something stubborn. Unyielding.

Percival sees it too. “It’s time, Regulus. You need to go back, you don’t have much time.”

Regulus doesn’t move. His hands twitch at his sides and in James’ grip, and for a moment, it seems he might shake his head. Instead, he whispers, “I’m scared.”

“Yes. You should be.”

Regulus exhales a dry, terrified laugh. “What if I’m terrible at it?”

“You will be,” Percival replies sympathetically. “At first.”

“I wasn’t made for this.”

Percy stops him with a hand of his arm, and it is not comfort he offers, but clarity. “That’s where you are wrong. It’s precisely because you weren’t made for this, that you’ll do wonderfully. Just trust your instincts.” He looks at them both. “And each other.”

Regulus huffs. “My instincts are telling me to bolt.”

“That’s your fight-or-flight response. Right next to it is the ‘caught-in-a-bear-trap’ instinct. That’s the one you want to listen to.”

Regulus stares at him. “I’m sorry—the what instinct?”

“The one that says you’re rather gnaw your own leg than let yourself fail.”

Regulus is silent for a bit. Then he murmurs, almost to himself, “It’s telling me—”

“No,” Percival cuts in. “Do not tell us. If it’s true, you’ll know.”

Regulus hesitates, glances at James. “And if I don’t?”

Percy purses his lips. “Then we will all die, and none of this will matter anyway.”

This, objectively, isn’t the most reassuring sentence Regulus has ever heard. In fact, it may rank quite high among the least reassuring, but he doesn’t have time to reply. The dream starts collapsing, light peeling back from the edges of the room, and Percy is suddenly shouting, “Grab James’ hand.”

Regulus doesn’t hesitate.

He reaches.

The dream vanishes.

 

---

 

The warmth of James’ hand is still present against his palm when he opens his eyes, which is both a blessing and a curse.

He knows James is here, is here, is here, and under no circumstances is that good news. Regulus never planned on showing James where he lives.

What’s a spaceship to an entire planet?

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. Facing reality seems awful. But the hand in his squeezes gently, and Regulus has to let go of the dream once more.

“Well, well, well,” an amused voice taunts. “Good job.”

Letting out a steadying breath, Regulus opens his eyes, head turned toward where he knows James is.

James, who can now dreamwalk straight into another dimension.

James, who left Earth to stand here. In the ship.

“So you’re the soulmate,” Riddle says, derision and admiration braided tightly together. His gaze flicks to Regulus, bright with something triumph-shaped. “I always knew you would do well.”

James isn’t speaking, and Regulus has the realization that it’s the first time he’s heard anyone speak Scigua in the standard fashion. Not the way Regulus had, in slow stages, pronouncing all the lilts.

James’ eyes roam the room: the body suspended in ice, the brother on the floor, Avery, the man in front of them looking like he’s won a game, and the rest of the God room. Finally, he turns to Regulus.

“This is Riddle?” he asks in English, nodding towards Riddle.

Regulus barely nods, still reeling from the dream experience. He doesn’t see it coming.

James’ lips tug downward, something like understanding—resolve—settling over him like warpaint. He steps in front of Regulus, positioning his body between him and Riddle with the casualness of someone who has decided to stand between a god and the person he loves.

“Nice to meet you,” James says in Scigua, smooth and almost friendly.

He extends his hand.

Riddle smiles, before he arches a brow and takes the hand.

It’s a second at most.

The moment their palms touch, James yanks Riddle forward with brutal force. Riddle’s body lurches into the empty air between them, and James drives his knee upward directly into Riddle’s nose.

Bone gives with a sick, convulsive crack.

James bends with the motion, following through, and drives his elbow into the side of Riddle’s neck in an executioner’s strike.

There’s a sick crunch, and Riddle’s body drops to the floor like a rag doll, a god felled by mortal hands.

James stumbles back, hand braced on his knees. He looks at the body for a moment, startled, almost surprised, before reality catches up to him.

He doesn’t even make it upright before he starts gagging, turning away from the body. He’s dry heaving by the time Regulus comes back to himself and realizes that James has just killed Riddle.

Just—like this.

By snapping his neck.

Regulus watches him, breath caught somewhere deep in his chest, then shifts his gaze to the figure collapsed on the floor.

Riddle’s neck is twisted at a grotesque angle, dead.

And yet—

Regulus doesn’t move.

Something inside him is ringing.

Foolish idiot.

As if you could ever kill me.

Then—Riddle laughs.

It starts as a low sound, like bones grinding together, but then his body twitches, jittering, and his head lolls back, neck snapping itself back into place as he laughs and laughs and laughs—

Regulus takes four steps, grabs James and yanks him back, just as Riddle pushes himself off the ground like rising from a grave, flexing his fingers.

“Well,” he says, brushing imaginary dust from his chest, “I’ll admit I didn’t see that one coming.”

James stumbles behind Regulus, mouth parted, eyes wide.

“You—” James begins, voice ragged.

Riddle lifts his chin. “Immortal, remember?”

He steps back, hands clasped loosely behind his back, posture open, utterly fearless.

“You are children,” he says, voice calm. “Dreaming of utopias, like Percy did. Foolish little boys playing with legacies you barely understand.” He glances between them. “You don’t control a people with fear. That’s what humans never understood. The weapon is the word. The language is the threat.” He paces slowly. “Strip people of their ability to speak—really speak—and you strip them of their power to dissent. You do not subdue a people by terrorizing them. You subdue them by giving them something to believe in.”

James swallows. “The Gods.”

Riddle lifts his hands up to the ceiling, head thrown back in mock prayer. “The Gods. This is the problem with their kind, you know,” he addresses Regulus now. “Gods are old, they are far, they are unreachable. They speak through prophets.” He looks around the God room. “Our Gods used to walk among us. We used to know them. They could have been anyone. You,” he gestures to Regulus. “Me.” A beat. “Him.” His eyes flick to James.

“But did they ever exist?” Regulus asks.

Riddle laughs. “Does it matter? Everyone believed in them. Does it not make them alive?”

“Not if it’s a lie.”

Riddle’s smile flattens. “Lies are only lies if you can prove them false. No one on this ship—except me—knows if the Gods were real. That makes it a question of faith, not fact.” He steps closer. “And on a ship full of the faithful, a non-believer isn’t just inconvenient.” He leans in, gaze narrowing. “It’s dangerous.”

Regulus straightens, anger blooming. “They’ll believe me. If I show them this room—if they see the truth—”

Riddle tilts his head, lips curling into something almost amused. “Will they?” he says softly. He turns, takes in the God Room—his cathedral of lies—and looks over his shoulder. “Or will they call you a God Eater?”

Regulus exhales sharply, the sound half-laugh half-fear. “Isn’t that what I was always meant to become to them? Isn’t the Ascendancy just a glorified assassination?”

Riddle’s eyes sharpen. “The Day of Ascension,” he replies, “is the sacred preparation for your elevation—should the signs point to the death of the Gods. A contingency.”

“There are no Gods!” Regulus explodes. The words echo off the walls, ringing like bells, followed by Riddle’s laugh.

“Aren’t there?” he asks, the type of question that can only ever be rhetorical. He turns to Sirius, and tilts his head. Takes a step closer. “Show me.”

Regulus closes his eyes just as Sirius starts screaming.

 

---

 

Somewhere in the ship, a few feet away from the God room, Remus falls to his knees, and starts crawling.

 

---

 

Symbiotic biomes need each other to survive. What a mighty end, to go hand in hand.

Regulus turns to James, squeezing his hand.

What a mighty end, to go hand in hand.

“You have to,” James murmurs. “He will not stop at your brother. You know this. You know. You know.”

Sirius screams, and Regulus doesn’t reply, which is answer enough. James lifts a trembling hand, cups Regulus’ jaw.

“Take me from, Regulus. Please.”

So Regulus obeys.

After all, this isn’t a suggestion. It’s an order.

James closes his eyes, and presses their foreheads together. “If it has to be someone,” he whispers, “let it be you.”

Regulus leans in, and lets himself do what his body has always wanted, stops fighting the urge.

 

---

 

It’s a feeding of the soul.

The body is a conduit, an incidental vessel. Nothing matters but the eyes.

Regulus does not look away from James. Not when James’ body starts to arc and twist under him, not when the life is dragged out of him in slow, shuddering waves and funnelled straight into Regulus’ starving core.

It is demented, for Nature to invent such a gruesome practice for the sake of power. That’s how Regulus feels like.

A Dementor.

He also feels resplendent, youthful, re-strung. There are thoughts, fragments coming from James, all of them presenting him through a lens Regulus refuses to believe is true. And yet. It feels real. He feels James weakening under his bite, unbearable, glad to be giving it all up for Regulus.

That might be the worst part, the most deranged thing about all of this: under the pain and the dying and the devouring, Regulus is at a banquet, feeding, clairvoyant. There are possible futures expanding all the lives Regulus and James could have lived.

And there.

There.

The present opens under him like a starfish, a thousand arms stretching towards a thousand choices. He could stop. Could feed to bursting. To bruising. He could feed on James and then on the rest of the ship, a black opening in his chest if James goes.

If James goes, all the places that had him will need to be filled, and what will take his place?

Unless—

Unless.

Regulus is eating, but only because James isn’t. If he can just—if he can reverse the current, if he can feed and be fed on, then what?

Isn’t the entire concept of symbiotic biomes that they need one another to survive? And what are soulmates, but symbiotic biomes in atomic action, devouring and remaking each other at the same time?

So Regulus does the most logical, most deranged thing he can think of.

He starts to feed himself to James, too, pushing back. There is pleasure in the exchange, sharp and shocking, eclipsing the first rush of taking. It feels good. Better than the one-way feeding.

It feels like touching the sun and eating God, like knowing all the answers to the universe. There is a moment where Regulus loses the outline of his own body, his own name, and then finds it again like surfacing, only for it to happen again. And again. And again. And again. Flickering in and out.

He fights it, at first.

This is what you do with the unknown. You fight it, spit in its eye.

Except the unknown is James, and threaded through the roar he hears Pandora’s voice:

Give in…

So Regulus does.

He pours himself into James, lets his soul run red-gold and reckless, and when he finds himself bleeding out too much, losing touch, he gives in, and lets it happen.

James swallows him, just as he swallows James.

 

---

 

3D consciousness, that’s what it feels like, like slipping into a cathedral built inside a skull.

Regulus opens their eyes to new colors no human eye is equipped to name, shapes, and an entire catalogue of brand new thoughts, everything jumbled, everything theirs.

They don’t know whose mind they’re swimming in; only that they have control over it. Only that it is theirs. Two modes humming at once: looking in, but aware that they could look out and rearrange the universe if they wished.

And there is something waiting in the corner of their awareness, a door they don’t want to open.

They don’t get a choice.

The door opens, and a body is on the floor. Theirs. The room is dead quiet, peopke are looking at them.

Regulus likes it, seeing the fear in their eyes. And there is fear, in everyone’s eyes, no one is exempt.

It pleases them, this fear. Makes them feel tall, even while sitting. They feel infinite.

The brother is the first one to react. “By the Sun’s—”

They tune him out, start sifting through the auras in the room, contemplative. It feels like they could stay here for decades, parsing through all of the emotions available. There is violence here, certainly.

And someone waiting to be let in.

“Open the door.”

The voice is uncanny in their throat, less singular than usual. Their voice sound dual, like a pair, like their thoughts, like a two.

And someone obeys, of course.

One always has to obey a God.

Avery moves, jittery with fear, and pulls the door open, revealing—ah. How fun.

Remus looks different than what Regulus remembers. Foreign with the familiar. A stranger made out of a friend’s bones, crumbled by the door, hand extended.

Remus crawls in, and his eyes find the brother first. The brother, on the floor, a god above him, eyes wide, blood at his temple, blood on his hand, blood blooming through his hairline, mouth opening on a croak, “Remus?” A question and a prayer, a relief so violent it nearly knocks him over. The brother drags himself closer, breath hitching. “What have they done to you?”

It’s the first time Regulus thinks Remus might not always have had these scars.

Riddle clears his throat delicately, and lifts his foot to trap the brother’s broken hand under it, stopping his forward motion on a whimper. “Touching,” he says.

His gaze slides over Regulus, then stops.

“Ah,” Riddle says, pupils dilating. “There you are.” He tilts his head, studying them. “How does it feel?” he asks, mock-gentle. “Has it sunk in yet, Regulus?” His smile widens. “You are just like me.”

Sirius tries to force himself up onto an elbow, blood slick on his wrist, and gasps when Riddle bears down.

Remus crawls. “Get away from him.”

Riddle doesn’t even look at him. “Stay down, Sirius,” he says, and looks into Regulus’ eyes. “This is what your brother was born for.”

They tilt their head.

A beat, and Regulus lunges at Riddle.

Their hand closes around Riddle’s wrist, electric, and through it, Regulus feels everything: Riddle’s immortality, his knowledge, his ruthlessness, his utter, unflinching belief in himself, and Percival’s dead spirit.

Riddle’s eyes flash. “You can’t kill me,” he says, and Regulus laughs.

What a mighty end, to go hand in hand.

Regulus laughs, and laughs, and laughs. And then, they opens their mouth, and feed.

Riddle gasps, buckling.

“You can’t—” he chokes.

“Oh, shut up,” Regulus says. They shift, slamming him bodily back on the ground, feeding once more.

Riddle is peeling over, layer after layer, eyes sinking, and still they feed.

Riddle screams.

It’s a raw, very human sound.

He clutches his chest, eyes bulging, and Regulus sees the moment immortality leaves him.

For the first time in decades, Riddle’s timeline moves forward.

Regulus closes their mouth and slumps to the side, breathing heavy.

Riddle stares at them, aghast. His hands shake as he braces them on the floor. “What have you done?”

Regulus burps, eyes bright and void. “I’m doing what you’ve always prepared me for: I’m ascending.”

Riddle screams, and lunges. He’s fast. Even mortal, his hand goes for Regulus’ throat with terrifying accuracy.

He never makes contact.

The brother moves first.

Regulus doesn’t even see him get up. One second Sirius is slumped on the floor, bloodied and shaking; the next his uninjured hand has closed around Riddle’s wrist, arresting the strike inches from Regulus’ neck.

The brother twists. The move is ugly and efficient, and Riddle’s wrist cracks.

Regulus crouches, throwing a grateful glance at the brother, then back at Riddle.

“You told me the weapon was the word,” Regulus says softly. “So here’s mine.” He leans in, and James’ voice peeks through. “I name you finished.”

It is not in Scigua, nor in the God Tongue. It’s in English, clumsy and earnest and so painfully human.

A hand around Riddle’s neck, again and again and again—

It’s Regulus’ hand, but it’s James who crushes the pipe.

His eyes roll back. His chest rises, falls—

—and doesn’t rise again.

Regulus waits.

James waits with him, in him, and Tom Riddle lies very still on the floor of his God Room. For the first time in forever, he looks exactly what he is.

Dead.

Regulus’ knees hit the floor without their permission. For a long second, they forget what a body is.

Let me go, James says. Stop holding on, I’ll be okay.

Regulus’ grip on James’ soul loosens, and they let go.

 

---

 

The floor is cold under his knees.

He can hear Sirius’ ragged breathing somewhere on his left.

Opening his eyes, the first thing he sees isn’t Riddle’s corpse slack-jawed on the ground but James, crouched in front of him, a whole entire, separate person.

Not a god.

“Hey,” James says softly. “You with me?”

Regulus exhales. “I feel—so small.”

“Good,” James murmurs fondly. “Good. We were never meant to be anything but.” He presses his forehead against Regulus’.

Come back here.

Spine, ribs, stupid little lungs.

This is home base, love.

Spine. Ribs. Stupid little lungs.

Regulus opens his eyes again, and he’s a whole entire, separate person.

“Better?” James murmurs.

Regulus swallows. “I pulled you in. I—where’s—”

“Hey.” James’ fingers tighten on his jaw, butterfly soft, a suggestion. Regulus looks, and can count the flecks in his irises. At the same time, James is also settled somewhere behind Regulus’ sternum. “I’m okay. You’re okay. Look, everyone’s okay.”

Regulus blinks, everything soaking back into him, and all of a sudden he’s frantic, looking for Sirius.

Sirius.

Sirius, who is half-sitting, half-collapsed against Remus, hair is matted to his forehead, his injured hand cradled against his stomach, very much alive and not disassembled. The weapon is discarded, several feet away.

James makes a startled sound as Regulus shrugs him off and all but launches himself at Sirius.

“Hey, Reggie,” Sirius croaks. “How’s god mode?”

Regulus finds he doesn’t have words in Scigua to express what he’s feeling. The language of gods has no words for this. These are such human emotions, all-encompassing feelings of love and sorrow, and it becomes so obvious for Regulus to simply wrap his arms around his brother.

Sirius smells like old love. Like brother, and family, and hope.

Regulus looks up, finds Remus.

“Hey, Remus.”

They move, and suddenly it’s a mess of four bodies in various states of hurt hugging, carefully maneuvering around a very broken hand.

Regulus’ shoulder is somewhere in Sirius’ throat, Remus is half-kneeling, and James is leaning in from the side, one arm curled instinctively around Regulus’ waist.

“Careful,” Remus grits out. “Some of us have broken hands.”

“Yeah, well some of us,” James replies lightly, “just killed a god, and would like a long hug.” He looks up at Remus. “Hello, by the way. I’m James, nice to meet you,” he greets, and Regulus thinks they’ll be all right.

They’ll have to show the ship—all of this, dismantle this elaborate web of lies, deal with Avery, deal with—everything.

It’s going to be a mess.

But James is beside him, and Earth is so close, and they can let go of the ship. Start something new.

I don’t want to be a god. I just want to be with you.

Regulus squeezes James’ fingers.

“Okay,” he says, almost to himself. “Let’s see what we build now.”

 

 

Notes:

This is for SeaingStars.

I truly wasn't going to ever finish this. But I did have a full chapter written (unedited), and you reminded me of me with that one fic that last updated in 2020 that i'm still holding on to dear life will one day update.

Proof that comments truly do wake the artists up from their slumber.

This one's for you *mic drop*

 

Thanks for the ride, if you have any questions about loose ends, you can ask me on Tumblr, you know where I am.