Chapter 1: Just saw you loving someone else
Notes:
Let's do a little scene setting:
It's seventh year.
Voldemort is irrelevant. He is a speck of dust in the wind. He is probably very old and hopefully very dead- either way, he is not here and will not be encouraging Regulus to jump into a lake and drown. If Regulus does decide to jump into a lake and drown, it is entirely his fault for not using his critical thinking skills to remember that he cannot swim very well.
In the summer between 6th and 7th year, Sirius left Grimmauld Place. We do not like Walburga. Or maybe we do, idk you tell me.
We also absolutely do not like JKR. There is no idk about that one.
Ok. Great.Final warning: this is dead dove
You have been warned. I warned you.
Chapter Text
Sirius is stumbling, heavy breathing, tripping. Moving. There’s something in his mouth and he’s choking. Tangling his hair with the harsh grip of his hands, pulling on the strands as he runs, gasping thin breaths through the barrage of never tall thin pretty masculine good enough. Never good enough. The irony of telling himself this would happen, but being surprised when it did is kicking at his spleen. He doesn't even know where his spleen is supposed to be; he read the term in a textbook sometime in first year when he still wrote his little brother letters, when the worst memory they shared was the sight of Regulus smiling and waving from the train platform, looking back with a wide and toothy grin despite Maman’s best efforts to drag him away. Sirius had been trying to learn spells that might help him to protect Reg (or at least help to fix him up) when they tussled too hard during quidditch or chased doxies that nipped at them through the upper floors. Oh; now his spleen really is hurting, his whole body shaking at just the thought of his little brother's name.
There are much worse pains than a scraped knee, and Sirius never found the spells for those. Never remembered to look when returning from winter break with slight tremors in his hands and thin scars across his back that once bled Gryffindor red. Thought that if the wands weren't pointed at Regulus, Sirius didn’t need to know anyway. Somehow this is aching more than anything his Maman could ever do, far far worse than a scraped knee.
He saw them on his way to the great hall, pressed up against one another, hands buried in each other, well hidden within an alcove, but not well hidden enough for Sirius. His canine nose always chases the two of them. The one good thing Sirius ever did turning against him to bite his own tail. Like even Padfoot knows where good is, knows that it won't be found in Sirius, knows that Sirius should know it too- shows it to him –
– Regulus and James panting into each other, tangled together like Sirius’ tie that is knotted around his neck. He saw them, felt his throat forget to breathe, had tried to yank the red fabric off for some air but gave up after only pulling it tighter. A tie: a noose: their hands- around his neck. Sirius can feel them on his skin; the way they were breathing so tangible it ruffled his hair. And after a beat, after watching them kiss and consume and swallow each other, after locking eyes with Regulus, Sirius turned and ran: to the greenhouses, to the Gryffindor common room, to the empty classrooms on the third floor: somewhere, somewhere, anywhere that he couldn’t hear feel see them anymore. Somewhere he could find them without them. Somewhere he could forget them and have them.
Somewhere like the seventh floor; pacing pacing pacing, into a room he’s barely conscious enough to acknowledge, into his brother's bedroom. Running from the loud panting that must be coming from his mouth, the limping chase that must be his heartbeat echoing from his mouth to the corridors, the sound of the name he’s always run away from. Oh, how he hates the sound of his name. How it tastes like the curl of his mother's lip and tip of his father's wand unless it's falling from his brother's mouth, hates how it sounds like never good, never good, never good enough . How he hates hates hates. Hates himself into his brother’s bedroom, like all those nights he’d creep across the hall before he was branded with red robes and felt his Maman's quiet disapproval turn into loud curses. The room smells like the only home Sirius ever found within Grimmauld. Reflexively, he sinks to his knees before the fireplace, onto the soft plush of the carpet, head hung low, tracing his eyes over the swirling greens within the fabric that used to help him to breathe but now only make his eyes well.
Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, he can hear his name falling into the walls and hates himself for missing the way his brother would whisper it in the dark with childlike wonder. Tell me again, Sirius, tell me again about our stars, please Sirius.
It’s been years- only seconds- of blinking through the imprint of losing the two people he wished to never lose- two brothers- losing them to each other. Losing them both to better off without you, Sirius, stain on this house, Sirius, blood stain on the floor of the study, stain to the star from which you were named, Sirius, split lip staining satin sheets as his brother tells him it’s going to be alright, Sirius but never comes close enough to mend the cuts, to clear the stains of salt water from his cheeks, to make it- everything: his lip and all- alright, Sirius.
He can almost see his brother before him, the memory is so vivid, his little brother panting and red-cheeked, like his apparition translated seven floors upwards, kneeling before him. It could be real were it not for the fact that he’s wearing Remus’ clothes, on his knees with Sirius in the bedroom Sirius hasn't stepped foot in for years, taunting Sirius with all that has changed. Everything that Sirius has changed because he wasn’t good enough. Because for all that Sirius may have changed, he still hasn’t shaken the bad from his skin.
Sirius blinks, and his eyes distort the image. Sirius, Remus, Regulus. It’s a boggart and Sirius is staring into his own eyes; all that he isn’t, will never be, cannot feel. And the figure crouched before him presses its hand to his cheek and Sirius wails, wants, doesn’t know what he wants, wants to be held. Sirius wants to be held. He wants something, anything, give me anything Regulus, please. He wants Regulus to tell him it’s going to be alright, Sirius, and touch him this time. Hold him and maybe even wipe the tears from his eyes if he doesn’t mind getting his hands wet with all this blood and all his mess. This castle, this room, Sirius’ body all have one thing in common; they are all full of ghosts searching for a touch they never felt and will surely never feel again.
Sirius inches closer. Exhales “please” into the palm of the figure's hand. He just wants someone to hold him. He wants the apparition to press its hand into his cheek so hard it bruises, so hard he can feel it on the opposite cheek: like it’s pushed right the way through: like Sirius is so small he can be neither bad nor good, just small and nothing, with nothing to lose, neither brother to lose. He can’t remember what it’s supposed to look like: love, comfort, alright, good.
“Hold me,” he pleads, “just this time”. He’s cold, he'll be cold anyway; what difference will entertaining his insanity make? What is a hug between a brother and a figment of his other half? As he presses in, his motions slip from hug, hold, comfort, hold me like we did under your bed when we were six and hiding from Maman, please hold me into a lurching press of lips. It’s been years since he last touched his brother, and the wires must have crossed at some point: turned his body into a strange marionette, guided his motions to follow how he has seen others embrace, forgetting mid-motion that brothers should not make lovers. And the apparition feels solid, doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. Brothers shouldn't kiss but it doesn’t matter because Regulus said that Sirius wasn’t his brother the last time they talked, and this isn’t his brother anyway. This is air- solid air- in the shape of his brother. Solid and warm and tasting like warm skin. Everything is a held breath, right up to the point that Sirius exhales a name into the mouth of the apparition. “Regulus”.
The apparition jerks back. Sirius blinks.
No, not Regulus. This is not Regulus.
Regulus wouldn’t be here. Regulus is downstairs tangled up in James, like he should be: with the good he deserves.
It’s not Regulus. It’s Remus. It’s Remus and it’s so clearly Remus that Sirius suddenly doesn’t understand. Is this a bad dream? Is this a good one?
“Oh, Sirius,” this Remus breathes.
And he breathes it like something makes sense to him. Like he knows everything, epiphany-like. And Sirius so desperately wants everything to make sense too that he crawls- hands and knees gathering rug burn from the carpet- forward towards where the figure has collapsed against the wall, fingers pressed to its lips.
“Oh, Sirius, it was him?”
Sirius stills- is so very confused that he can feel himself begin to tremble, come back into his body. This apparition is wearing Remus’ clothes and smells like Remus and is warm and solid like Remus and Padfoot is beating his tail hard against the floor yipping Remus, Remus, Remus in the direction of the body that Sirius is inches from.
Sirius wipes his hand across his eyes, presses his fingers sharp into his eye sockets, lowers his hands slowly, looks up. This is Remus. From one blink to the next, Sirius remembers. Remus had been walking with him to the great hall. They were walking together when Sirius caught sight of Regulus and James. And when he turned and ran, Remus ran too. Fell right to his knees when Sirius did, waited and watched Sirius watching someone else within Remus’ skin. Remus is so good and is looking at Sirius like he is too. Even though Sirius just kissed his best friend and called out his brother's name. Why isn't Remus hitting him? Why are his eyes so gentle? And why is Sirius wishing Remus had kissed him harder- bit back with some of the violence that Sirius is used to- just to make the inevitable fallout of this mistake worth it? Where is his split lip and why isn't it bleeding yet?
Sirius is a mess, full of all this horror. It's eating him alive, opening its mouth wide enough to catch first Regulus, then James, and now Remus. Each of them caught between the jaws of all that Sirius is not and will not become.
Having hardly gained his breath back, Sirius pushes himself up and out of the door, not hearing if Remus calls him back over the sounds of bad, bad, bad that rattle through his ribs right where his heart ought to be. Sirius is not good and Padfoot is biting at his heels in a steady rhythm: bad dog, bad dog, bad dog.
Chapter 2: I don't want to know about it (bury all the magic)
Notes:
PSA: don't disrespect Regulus by thinking Reg sounds like R-egg. Don't be mean. Your brain voice should be pronouncing his name R-edge only please and thank you. At least do it for this fic. I think it really adds to the experience, the ambience, the atmosphere. Why would you start bringing eggs into this? What do you have to say hmm?
Chapter Text
It’s been around an hour and he’s starting to notice that the grass is making the backs of his trousers wet. Sirius is sitting against the glass around the back of greenhouse 8, head tilted up and looking at the stars. He’s decided to have a moment and self-reflect. Have a breather. Give himself a dressing down. Welcome in the voice of his mother that rattles around his head, let her brush her shoes against the doormat, throw her overcoat in the general direction of his shaggy black hair. Deep breaths between you are not my brother and you are not my son. Deep breaths through being nobody spectacular, nothing but his long Black hair and a body in Gryffindor red. Let the memory of his Maman spitting and splitting his skin with her silver rings and favourite Latin phrases hit him where Remus didn’t.
There is so much, and it is everywhere. Sirius is overflowing with the disapproval of his ancestors, with all of this knowledge and all of these thoughts, with being not quite– right, good, the lot of it. He is a cauldron steaming with images, sounds, his brother, his brother, his brother, screeching over and through his mind: all these things that make a life, all these things that break him.
He is consumed, rushing through questions so fast that Sirius can barely begin to formulate an answer before he’s already being barricaded into his head by the force of the next. Why did Remus not seem to care that Sirius kissed him? Why did his lips feel so warm and so welcoming- his mouth so-? Why has his quite calm- Oh, Sirius- left him reeling? And worse, why had Sirius’ body drawn him to kiss Remus while believing it to be some illusion of his little brother? Was it just that strange room, his brother's room, up on the seventh floor of Hogwarts, that turned Sirius' insanity into something a little wilder, a little less domesticated, a little more feral? Yet, why did Sirius’ restless energy lull, why did his not knowing not matter, for those few seconds he was pressed against the mouth of a phantom in the shape of his little brother? His little brother. Is the foreign flavour coating his tongue the remnants of Remus or the spirit of Regulus? Does every mouth taste so sweet; would his brothers?
Sirius wonders what would have happened had he run here in the first place- out into the open, into the fresh air. It’s a dangerous game: wondering. All of this wondering. How far back does he have to go to get to the root of the problem?
To three months ago, when Regulus said no, that if Sirius left, they would not be brothers anymore?
To Sirius leaving anyway?
To that first winter break that their parents switched from barbed words to hands and wands and curses? All to make Sirius’ skin mottled to match the colour of his new robes?
To that first time Sirius bled onto the white tablecloth, sitting opposite Regulus’ avoidant gaze at the dining table?
Is this all because Sirius was the first to look away from Regulus at the train station seven years ago? Is all this jealousy- this longing- because after that first goodbye, neither of them ever really looked at one another again?
It’s making Sirius’ head spin, it's getting him nowhere. There’s one common theme running through all of Sirius' problems and it seems to be him.
He straightens out his legs and rifles through his pockets until he finds his cigarettes: pulls one out, lights it up, takes a deep inhale that he holds holds holds, slowly exhales through his nose. Turn sweet spit into something sour, something familiar and bearable. Taste himself through the filter.
Looking at things objectively, Sirius knows that he likely overreacted. He doesn’t own custody of James. He doesn’t deserve to feel a sense of ownership towards Regulus. He’s aware. But being aware doesn’t dull the ache behind his eyes telling him that they won't need him anymore, that they never did, that he was just the stepping stone for them to reach each other. That he’ll never see the silver of his brother’s eyes again. The burnt wood brown of James’. It could have been a possibility before, before they found each other– but now he’s certain that there’s no chance. He could never measure up to them anyway. It’s nobody’s fault but his own that he’s selfish and they are so- sunshine and stars turned tangible; mortal.
It’s nobody's fault but his own that Sirius wants both Regulus and James- their eyes all for himself, on him, with him- regardless of the fact that Sirius and Regulus haven't spoken since he left, regardless of the fact that they shouldn’t associate with Sirius and all of his bad, bad, bad anyway. It's his fault that he wants Remus just as much, that he's already bitten through the neck of what could have been by mistaking one of the people he needs with another.
Padfoot may be the dog, but it's Sirius who has sharper teeth and a taste for blood.
The air that plumes around him tastes like Maman with shears to his head - there is something not right with this child, Orion - when his hair grows through the night, at its original length by morning. Sirius is a little boy and he is waiting for his little brother to look at him. Just not like this: not over someone else's shoulder. When was the last time Sirius had seen Reg with such warmth in his eyes, molten and dripping silver? When was the last time he had seen his eyes at all? His little brother is not capable of bad- James no doubt already knows this- that for all of Regulus’ mean, his sharp tongue, it is nothing comparable to the rot and the mould that grows from Sirius like the fungi that cling to the corners of his bedroom in number 12.
Sirius goes to take another drag from his cigarette- burns himself choking and scrambling for his wand at the crunch of someone coming around the corner.
“Fuck, Crouch!” Sirius whisper-shouts- there’s just enough light from the stars in the dusky evening that he can make out Barty from the wild hair and glint of metal.
“Black,” Barty nods, slouching over to Sirius, “want a toke of something stronger?” He asks, plucking a joint from behind his ear. He slides down the wall of the greenhouse, landing right next to Sirius, his back making an awful squealing noise against the wet glass.
“Fuck, Crouch.” Sirius repeats, exasperated, softer- “Could you be a little louder?”
Barty hums and leans up to Sirius, lighting the tip of the blunt placed between his teeth against the last embers that light the cherry on Sirius’ fag. Sirius can see that Barty is in a quiet mood tonight too. Outwardly quiet, inwardly ripping- skin, bones, muscles- apart. They have been meeting long enough to respect the silence between one another- to leave it to rest, let it settle into the grass like the ash they flick into dying patches of soil. Sometimes they’ll even coordinate their highs: catch eyes across the great hall, nod to one another, meet in the dark, light up, settle in, fade away.
Sirius found this spot in first year: a place where he would write letters to Regulus free from the eyes of James and Remus and Peter. Regulus was his; in this spot he could cut into himself and freely spill the words meant only for each other's eyes. Secretly, Sirius thinks that part of the reason Remus wanted to make the marauders map in the first place was to understand where Sirius would disappear every week. Then Regulus stopped reading Sirius’ letters, and Sirius stopped writing them, and the marauders knew where Sirius went but never followed.
He has continued to come to the greenhouses and sit and think of Regulus anyway: lean back, head up, tell Regulus about the stars, talk to his Leo like they hadn’t passed in the corridor earlier and ignored one another. It was during Sirius’ third year that a scrawny Barty found him, blue blooming from his right cheek up to his eye, and after a tense moment of prolonged eye contact, offered Sirius a smoke. And Sirius could see himself in the bruise, could tell that he and Barty were made from the same hands, could tell that whatever Barty offered him would fit right in with all that they both were. From his first coughing breath of Barty’s cigarette, Sirius knew he was right- they didn’t need to open their hearts to one another to see that they were made of the same stuff- the same twisty and coiling something.
Let this Black mass inside of me take form, turn me to tar– Black sticky cancer– Regulus won't look at me in shades of red, but he’s always loved the colour Black. Let him look. Please, just this time. I’d burn my lungs away entirely just for him to look at me.
Sirius’ cigarette has long gone out; he’s been holding the yellowed filter between his fingers long enough for his nails to begin to stain. His lungs are too empty- when there’s no burn on the way down, it doesn’t feel like he is breathing at all. So when Barty offers him a drag, Sirius gulps it down like a man drowning, straight from Barty’s fingers, right from the source. It’s intimate, Sirius suddenly realises. This ritual of theirs- they never pay attention to the laws of personal space or eye contact. They are close. But this does not feel like how close feels with James, or how it used to feel with Regulus, or how it felt with Remus earlier tonight. Tonight, Sirius is paying attention to the way things are shifting.
Like how tonight, Barty smells different. Sirius scans across Barty’s form. There is a perfume around him that isn’t coming from the smoke. The tie. Sirius reaches out to touch it; it is smooth and clean, nothing of the kind that Barty usually wears: there are no ink stains or burnt patches or loose threads, this tie–
“-- is it Regulus’?” Sirius asks, fingering the fabric.
Barty hums in assent. “Good eye, Black. Got something on it during potions. Regulus had a spare.”
“Good nose, Black.” Sirius corrects absently, continuing to run his hands up the material, wondering whether it’s freshly washed or whether it has spent time gathering aroma from around his little brother's neck. Sirius has heard the rumour that Barty and Regulus used to mess around together last year. His lips against his little brother's lips. His mouth swapping spit with his little brother's mouth. Is it still there inside Barty somewhere: his stomach, his lungs, his throat; is Regulus still coating his tongue? Is Regulus here with them, even now? Would Barty taste like him; Sirius knows that Regulus is strong, strong enough and stubborn enough to stay stuck to the roof of Barty's mouth long after leaving him.
He hasn’t paid attention to Barty’s scrutinising until he draws Sirius’ eyes up to meet his with a strong hand on his jaw and a gruff, “What?”
“Barty,” Sirius begins, eyes straight back down, firmly fixed to the green and silver in his hands, “would you– could we… could we try something?”
There is silence after Sirius stumbles through his request. Sirius suddenly can't stand their shared quiet, finds it too telling, already hearing bad, bad, bad in the beating pulse beneath his fingers- he begins to turn away- tell Barty to forget it- that it was silly anyway- when Barty stills Sirius' hand against his throat, pulls Sirius’ gaze up by the fingers still gripping at his chin, encourages Sirius to continue with a flashy smile, no doubt thinking Sirius is behaving slightly more dopey than he usually would after a mild high.
“Go ahead.” Barty nods. He’s always so curt with his words; delivers them like he’s used to having to keep his mouth shut. Sir, yes Sir. Sirius has only ever really seen Barty let out his words around Regulus and Evan when he watches them each gesticulate animatedly from across the great hall. It’s his silent surety now that gives Sirius the push to continue–
“Would you kiss me?”
Barty doesn't even hesitate. He’s almost too predictable: Sirius can taste the tang of iron before Barty goes to bite his lip. And it’s Sirius’ second mouthful of somebody else tonight, but this time without the flood of adrenaline; there is no disbelief, no surprises, all messy and teeth and full of the flavour of a childhood without warmth; there is no trace of Regulus here in this dark place that Sirius licks into, searching: it’s all Barty and his disregard for subtlety. All clashing and jagged movements of their jaws, crashing into one another, twisting their tongues together, letting wet squelches and heavy breaths fill the air. Barty has Sirius’ hair in a stronghold, and Sirius is sure that he’s choking Barty with his tight ripping grip on Regulus’ tie. It is not enough of Regulus to make the blood worth it. Sirius cannot find him here. And Sirius knows that he will not find any of Remus' painful softness here either.
Because what does blood matter if it isn’t drawn from someone who loves you? Who knows how to make it hurt, cut, bleed just the right shade? Barty knows Sirius, is made of the same stuff, but does not know Sirius well enough to strike him in the soft spaces of his body that make him really pour. His lip is bleeding- really bleeding- but it doesn’t feel like anything at all. Why does it not feel like anything at all?
A sticky string of saliva connects their mouths when they pull away, panting. It is red- but not Gryffindor red, not the colour that runs through Regulus' veins, not the colour that his Maman always draws out of him- it is diluted and disappointing. Barty is a good kisser, but he is too much like Sirius: not close enough to Regulus, not enough like Remus: to split Sirius into all that he is: turn him into blood and bones and a body again. Not good, not bad: small and nothing. Barty can make him bleed, but he can not stop that bleeding from turning into a longing for more blood.
“Did that help at all?” Barty smiles. He is so calm. He is so full of panting and apathy. His mouth is messy. Oh, Sirius.
“What?” Sirius asks
“Did that help you to sort out whatever it is that you’ve got going on in your head right now?" Oh, Sirius, it was him?
“Oh. Oh-” Sirius coughs- “No not really to be honest. Thanks anyway." Sirius stiffly removes his hands from Barty's- Regulus’- tie and tips his head backwards, upwards, over to the stars, again, away from a body he likes and knows, but not quite enough. Sirius knows he is selfish, should have known, should have known, could have seen all of this coming.
They breathe together for a little longer before Barty stands, gives Sirius the middle finger, throws him a “well that was lovely, see you next time," and saunters back around the greenhouse, back across the lawn, a dark shadow shifting in the direction of the castle.
Well.
Apparently, for all of Barty's bite, he can't cut into Sirius quite the way that Remus did- and Remus didn't even get his teeth out. How enlightening.
And apparently, he’s got a thing for ties. Specifically, his little brother's.
He'll go in just a minute; he just needs a moment to look up, find his little brother up there, see him seeing him, know he's seeing him, say nothing to explain tonight and the way that things are shifting- churning- inside of him.
He's going to stand up now, dust himself off, usher his mother to the door, hand her the overcoat left on the hook, close the door, go and find Remus.
Chapter 3: I don't want to see you now (throw away all the poems)
Notes:
PSA: any incorrect punctuation is actually a political statement about rejecting convention and defying expectations of the supposed norm. Of course, I know the difference between a dash and a comma: a colon and a semicolon. It's poetry, Darling. It's politics. It's fan fiction. Go outside, my love. Look at the state of the world. Be the anarchy you want to see. Rejoice with the queer.
Now: Regulus Regulus Regulus Regulus.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Before he was anything else, Regulus was Sirius’ little brother.
A child of the House of Black, the spare, the second, all of that: all of that came after.
Sometimes he thinks that his very being is more established upon Sirius than anything else, than himself. Like if you could break down Regulus into all that he is- veins, cells, molecules, atoms- his entire configuration would reflect an imitation of all that Sirius has ever been. Inside and out. Regulus still wears Sirius’ clothes, still talks with the words that Sirius taught him, smiles in the learned cadence of his older brother. He’s proud of that: he spent hours with the bathroom mirror until he got the flash of teeth, upturned lips, smart twitch of his eyes just right. Practising when he was four; trying on his brother’s mouth for size. He quite liked the fit.
After Regulus got that first fix, he started thirsting for more: it was a plain pair of Sirius’ socks that Regulus took next. Around that time, Regulus was becoming increasingly disinterested in and disappointed by his Maman’s stylistic choices. Indeed, Maman had told Regulus that he could not wear Sirius’ socks because they were boy socks. But that was silly! They felt comfortable on his feet and he liked the black heels and the grey toes, the soft fabric, the sight of them creeping up his calves.
Perhaps Maman just hadn’t noticed that Regulus had grown: that this pair of socks fit him so right. Perhaps he didn’t yet have the words to properly explain why it never looked right when she stuffed his small toes into small tights that ripped far too easily, into fabrics of deep greens and purple hues. Despite all of her talk about this House of Black, he was very frustrated with the lack of it in his wardrobe.
He would try to play along, indulge her in shopping trips: shrug his shoulders and nod flippantly when his Maman insisted that they just hadn't found the right frill pattern on the seams of his stockings yet. But they would return, and Regulus would find nothing of him in the bags that Kreacher would leave at the end of his bed; nothing even close to the comfort that he found when wearing Sirius’ socks. Would only wear the new pair of tights Maman had bought for him that week if Sirius would wear a pair of tights too. Maman especially hated that. There is something not right with these children, Orion. But Regulus still had all the youthful exuberance and tooth-gap confidence of a child who did not yet fear the hands of his parents; Regulus had conviction enough to transgress her many heavy sighs and strip off the robes she tried to decorate him in. And the blows Maman would direct at him would remain of breath for another six years. So Regulus began to test out other items from Sirius’ wardrobe: his pants, his shirts, his trousers, his jackets.
It was after another year of watching his mother almost splitting her teeth when he sat down at the dinner table wearing his brother’s trousers that Regulus realised the issue had nothing to do with frill patterns. No, it had everything to do with the body that those frill patterns were intended for: realised it was his brother’s skin he most craved to try on: crawl into. Make sense within.
He could tell it would be kind to him, could imagine how soft it would feel: so much better than the silks or velvets his closet was full of.
He began to borrow Sirius’ underwear and stand in front of a mirror; squish at his body and re-shape himself with hands just like his older brothers.
Sirius walked in on him doing this once. It was before Maman tried to cut Sirius’ hair. He came right up behind Regulus, long black hair and silver eyes tangling and blending and identical. Regulus could see that with their heads both cocked, both standing so close, their only distinction was the cloth at his hips.
He had been worried at first. Cautious that Sirius might disapprove of what were- at least according to Maman- Regulus’ idiosyncrasies. He should have known better. He was fashioned by his brother’s hands and they reached right within him; Sirius always saw right within him. Could hold tight to the fleshiest, messiest parts of him because he knew where to look; he let those organs set, he pumped them full of blood, he nurtured them under the covers, under the bed, on the carpet. A pressed bruise, a scraped knee plastered with kisses and a tight embrace. You're going to be alright, Regulus. It's just a little blood. I have it too. Blood is blood is blood is blood.
Sirius had looked him right within his eyes, right where he was bleeding, and said that if they were going to share clothes then that made them brothers, and if they were brothers then Sirius needed to give his little brother a star.
“Regulus.”
“Because I found my little brother in the spring.”
Maman was outwardly apathetic to the announcement of this change, but Regulus could tell that deep down, somewhere in the husk hidden beneath all of that fabric she was relieved that no more money would be wasted purchasing frilly socks and stockings and awfully coloured robes that Regulus would never wear anyway. He was still six and he was still the spare- only now Maman could pay even less attention to him, and instead reallocate her weekly funds towards a bottle of something strong, dark, woody to keep her husband quiet. Papa did not comment.
Life went on. Hurtling the first arrow towards the brothers by the hands of a wretched something called time.
Perhaps Regulus could have endured their separation had that been the only consequence of Sirius catching the Hogwarts Express for the first time. It does not need to be said that separation was the least of their worries by winter.
Let me show you, shame to this noble name of the House of Black, the shade of your brother’s new robes. Let this be the only time I see you with such a stain around your neck. And should you find yourself inspired by his actions- as you appear to have been by his virility- I shall bleed so much red from you that you will never be left wanting.
Maman had already learned of her preference for the leather belt with the silver buckle by November. Regulus did not share this discovery with Sirius when he arrived home. Did not share the irony behind her feeling most powerful using muggle methods. Did not look his brother in the eyes for the shame of what Sirius might see there: for the fear of what Regulus might not. Two sets of eyes changing hue with all that they had lived and blinked through during their time apart.
That winter Regulus learned that blood falling from one son of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black is just as red as any other. Blood is blood is blood is blood. If he repeated this mantra enough he managed to fool himself into thinking that all of the blood spilt by their Maman’s hands was/is/will be insignificant: is blood is blood is blood is blood. His brother and him: the floorboards by the fireplace of the study.
And by the end of that break, Regulus couldn’t bear to look into his older brother's eyes for fear of finding that nothing had changed at all.
Notes:
Decided to split this chapter into two parts because I found a fitting lyric for the title of the next part. Ooops. No happiness for a whole lotta forever it seems. My bad guys.
Chapter 4: Took the fight to someone else
Notes:
Regulus Regulus Regulus Regulus
This one was a bit of a beast to write- enjoy?? I guess??
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Telling yourself something that is categorically incorrect only works as a method of reassurance if you can reason with yourself to believe the lie. If you can insert some artistic license atop your circumstances: believe- truly believe- that you misheard, misspoke, misremembered. If you can convince yourself that you are okay, you are okay, you’re going to be alright, Regulus: you didn’t watch your brother walk out that door: or actually wait, you did, but it doesn’t matter because you told him to go: that’s what he heard: that’s what you said to Sirius as he left. What did you say to him?
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you: I’m sorry that I spent so long being so scared of what you might see but I need you to look at me now. Look: let me. Listen: so much time has passed and I don’t think I know how to talk to you anymore. So much has changed. We used to be huge; we used to be so much: we used to share so much. The only huge thing between us is all of this distance: I feel so small. Come and hide underneath my bed; I think that I could make us fit: I’m certain that we are more frail than we were at six: come into my room and we can be six again.
Did you tell him that? It does not matter: he left because he could not hear: look: there was so much blood: it does not matter because there was so much blood; you did not go with him because there was so much blood: Maman promised that there would be more. Why did you say that to him? It does not matter because the ultimatum - stay with me or you will no longer be my brother - is a paradox anyway. Without Sirius, were it not for his older brother, there would be no Regulus: no child to chase his tail: no little brother crafted after the impression of his older counterpart.
This fact has kept Regulus lucid after Sirius first left. He may have been beaten red and Black by Maman for letting Sirius run- for staying- but at least Regulus could still look into the mirror and see Sirius at eleven looking back. There is Regulus and he is wearing Sirius’ socks. He is still a little brother; he still carries the name that Sirius gave to him.
It was like a reprieve or an ostinato:
With this cut: You will bring no more shame upon this house, Regulus
With this strike: You will have no association with that boy, Regulus
With this blow: You are nothing, Regulus, an heir now, Regulus
With these hands: You’re going to be alright, Regulus
With these words: My little Spring lion: Regulus
With love: Regulus, Regulus, Regulus, Regulus
He came out of the summer knowing exactly who he was- more himself than ever before- his name bleeding crimson through the new lashes on his back. And the mirrors in his bathroom at Hogwarts seemed to concede: there was a little boy in his reflection and it was all him; Regulus, always. Regulus at sixteen, and six, and eleven: all of him looking back at himself.
Regulus was almost blinded by the realisation that at some point, long before now, the person that he thought Sirius to be had diverged from who Sirius had become: it had always been himself in the mirror.
Perhaps, more worryingly, that version had never existed at all. Perhaps, it was all Regulus all along- a projection upon a body; an ideal. Were their eyes ever the same at all? Had they ever seen each other, truly? When did they stop speaking the same language? Have they always spoken with the same decaying flavour of their mother’s tongue?
For Regulus, survival means staying: quiet, in place, still. But for Sirius, it has always seemed to look like leaving.
They have turned from two halves into two distinct wholes- from single stars into complex constellations. Two new clusters that were maybe never new at all.
It was a cosmic joke, then, when James decided to get involved. Pure sunshine that he is, or whatever.
The first time James plummeted into his orbit, Regulus had been having a terrible morning. Barty had commenced a new scheme to provoke Evan’s attention, and for some reason, it didn’t involve leaving Regulus well out of it. From the moment that Regulus sat down at the Slytherin table for breakfast, Barty had been on him like a barnacle. Full of far too much touching that Regulus' sharp elbows couldn't stab him out of. It did not help that Evan was glaring at Regulus like it was his fault that Barty was inept at navigating emotions.
Barty had dropped at least seven references to the mistake that was their entanglement in a non-romantic, unfortunately-intimate relationship last year in an attempt to get a rise out of Evan before the owls flooded into the great hall.
Regulus could tell before he had spotted Walburga’s Great horned owl, that Maman had written to him. Call it a sixth sense for the shattering of peace. Yes, there she goes–
“-- make sure that traitor to the House of Black will be strung by his ears from the rafters by Yule if you don’t… Salazar, she can be dramatic, can’t she?” Barty mumbled, huffing out a sardonic laugh as he continued to read over Regulus’ shoulder.
“Yes, well. She’s always loved the theatre, I suppose,” Regulus replied, already dismissing the letter’s contents with firm and decisive folds before promptly setting it alight and scattering ash all over the plate of toast that Evan was reaching towards.
“She’s not the only one,” Evan muttered, snatching his hand back and scowling. “Thanks for the lovely breakfast, Reg.” He yanked his bag from beneath the bench and stalked away with a pouting scrunch of his nose.
Regulus turned and raised his eyebrows at Barty.
“Right, yes, that’s my cue. I’ll have him by the belt before the end of the day, just wait and see!” He called towards Regulus, already twisting around to stand and marching after Evan. "Rosie.."
Regulus loved his friends dearly but Merlin, they could be frustrating sometimes. He had not told them about what happened over the summer: thought the shape he was in before he cast his glamours in the morning did all the talking for him.
And it was fine: he was fine: his shower water had been running clear: but Merlin, his thoughts were doing their very best to gut him.
He needed to see Sirius: needed Sirius to see: look at me damn it!! Don’t you know I didn’t mean it? Look at me: within me: right at me: Maman may have burned you off the tapestry, but what do you want me to do? Set fire to my clothes, my fingerprints, my blood? Look at who we are, have become, have been. I love you, I love you, I love you. You are so different and I hate you for it. You are so different and I am seeing you for the first time: I love you for it: look at me.
Exhaling, Regulus began readying himself to leave for class when he looked up and locked eyes with James Potter. He’d been aiming for Sirius: his ritual of scanning the Gryffindor table for his older brother unsettled by– Merlin... was Potter smiling at him? Why was Potter smiling at him? Had this day turned everyone into fools? Regulus needed to get out of the great hall before something even more disturbing happened. Which would have worked had the disturbance not decided to stand up and follow Regulus out in the form of Potter and his long, lean legs.
“Hey, baby Black, wait up!” Now he was shouting. Why was he shouting? Regulus quickened his pace and turned down the first corridor he could see, hoping to lose him to the morning crowd.
“Regulus! Where are you running to?” Potter was panting. Why was he panting?
“I think you mean to ask ‘Who am I running from?' The answer to that would happen to be you.” Regulus retorted. As James opened his mouth to reply, Regulus cut in, “And aren’t you on the Gryffindor quidditch team, why are you out of breath from a brisk walk?”
At that James, still with his mouth open, began to smile. Merlin, everyone really was going insane in this castle- why was he smiling now?
“Why do you keep smiling at me, Potter?”
“The sun is up, you're looking at me with those big silver eyes – and you look so very handsome when you blush.”
Refusing to respond to – any of that – Regulus began to walk again. “Well, this has been enlightening. I’ll be going now.”
Yes, someone should call St Mungo’s. There’s probably an outbreak of something. If Regulus’ cheeks were getting flushed he really must be unwell. That would explain the quickened heart rate. He should probably go and lie down.
But before he could create much distance between them James began speaking again.
"That was a letter from your mother, wasn't it?" Regulus kept walking.
“I don't mean to pry, it's just... You're always welcome by the way,” he started, only continuing after receiving the raise of an incredulous eyebrow from Regulus. “I mean. The manor has loads of rooms; you could probably take your own floor. I know from Sirius that your mother…” At this, Regulus stopped and looked at him, his whole face spoiling into something sour.
The Gryffindor coughed into a fist, rubbing his other hand through the hair at the back of his neck. “Right. No, yeah. You’re right. Sirius didn’t say anything, and if he did it wasn’t to me. But regardless of whether he did or did not say something, you can always come to us…” James paused. “To me.” He amended.
“What..” Regulus ground his teeth together, annoyed beyond belief that Potter had managed to set him off of balance, “Why are you telling me this, Potter? We don’t know each other? I’m your friend's little brother. Why would you want me to come to you? Why would I come to you?” He was throwing his arms around, motioning between them in exasperation as if to solidify the space between them: prove that it existed.
“I suppose that I just thought you should know.” James tried, slowly. Eyes bright and warm and holding onto something within Regulus that made him still.
“But, why?”
“Because you are a person too, Regulus. You deserve to feel love too.” A beat, and then, “and I think love tastes remarkably similar to my mother's cooking.”
And Regulus was so exasperated with Potter, with Barty and Evan, with his Maman and her damn bird, with Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, with this whole Godric forsaken school and its apparent lack of sufficient measures to prevent the spread of illnesses that he began walking. Towards Potter. Until they were chest to chest and his hands were gripping messy black curls, his nose smudging round glasses, his lips, tongue, teeth, feeling warm and like everything was going to be alright, Regulus for the first time since he was ten years old. Regulus had not realised he was going to kiss James until he was moaning into his mouth. As James had been talking, Regulus was crushed by the realisation that he was not seen as an extension of his older brother by outside eyes: that James was treating him like an individual: like Regulus had a choice: like Regulus could make them. The rush of this knowledge pushed Regulus into action: like he needed to confirm for himself his capacity for autonomy. That he exists, he exists, he exists.
And oh, does it feel glorious. Proof of life in the form of two tongues swapping the taste of coffee for tea.
When Regulus walked away after that, it took Potter a lot longer to follow.
At some point between the then and now, seeking each other out for arguments that ended with them tangled within an alcove together became something more deliberate: something scheduled with a raise of eyebrows, or a discreet note slipped between hands in the corridors. Something Regulus kept showing up because he existed outside of Sirius: could choose to exist, to be warmed, to show somebody who he was: look in their eyes: exist. Something that people like to give a name to.
It had been a fast progression. Of
“Regulus, stop walking away from me when you know you want to kiss me,” to
“You better start calling me James or so help me Godric,” to
“Call me Jamie again,” to
“We need to tell Sirius.”
Only, of course, Sirius managed to find out before Regulus even came up with an excuse to delay that conversation.
It really was an accident. A deliberately placed accident. It’s just– Regulus had been spending so much time with James over the last weeks– he was turning a little softer with the influx of care, warmth, existing. He was becoming… pensive? He was growing and changing: taking for himself. James was cracking him open and holding him through it: telling him to open himself to love. And he wanted Sirius to see. To notice that Regulus was not the discards of Sirius’ past- that he was becoming more himself by the day- that Jamie loved him all the more for it. He wanted Sirius to look and see all that warmth, care, softness, proof of life give it a name- Regulus: look at each other- right in the eyes: see each other for who they were, maybe for the first time: look within Regulus and forgive him for staying, for not saying what Sirius wanted to hear, for saying what Regulus never meant to say. Look into Sirius: see who he has become; he was desperate with the longing to see who Sirius has become.
Only, James has eyes that are strong, dark, and woody. The stuff Maman slips into Father’s tea. A tonic that lowers Regulus’ inhibitions, brings him out of himself, into himself, lusting after more, more, more of that taste of him: me and my name deep in your mouth. Which brings them to the circumstances of their current predicament.
An upper thigh pressed between Regulus’, two hands boxing him in, a firm body crowding him into the wall, a strong mouth moaning into his: this chaos of limbs: that was the accident, but on this stretch of wall, at this time of day: that was not.
Regulus had been so overwhelmed by the onslaught of James' affection, grinding down onto his thigh, chasing the build of euphoria that was climbing higher from his navel; he almost did not hear the sound of a quick inhale from further up the corridor. Almost.
Looking up, head dropping hard against the wall behind him, with a mouth open and gasping at the sensation of James’ mouth trailing down his stretching and bobbing throat, Regulus looked straight into the stunned gaze of his older brother.
Eyes diving into eyes: stars collapsing: lungs pausing: life stuttering: for perhaps the first time, they were bare to each other: they were nothing more than who they were to each other. Sirius was beautiful. Eyes of fear/ anger/ guilt/ guilt/ guilt/ fire/ anger/ love, it is alright, Regulus/ I have it too, Regulus/ my Spring lion, Regulus/ mine/ mine/ mine.
He was not perfect; he was everything. Sirius was seventeen when Regulus blinked and stayed seventeen when Sirius looked away.
“Sirius.”
But Sirius could not hear him through the sheen of glass forming over his eyes. He was leaving and he did not hear Regulus: was already turning away. Was not watching as Regulus blinked after him, eyes burning a stream of I see you now: did you see me like I see you: could you hear what I cannot say? into his back.
It was after Sirius turned the corner, out of view, that Regulus refocused upon James, noticing that at some point, James had stepped back enough to no longer be crowding Regulus into the wall, but close enough to prevent Regulus from collapsing from the onslaught of all that he had seen within his brother's eyes. There was so much guilt: so much love: he was seventeen. While Regulus slowly came into himself, James was having a silent conversation with Lupin, whose eyes were flitting between the lovers like he could parse out the meaning of the last few minutes if he just scrutinised them hard enough. It took only a moment, gaze lingering on Regulus, before Lupins’ brows lifted, and after a decisive nod, he turned with the flash of a smile, to trail after Sirius.
Once they were alone again, James pulled Regulus tight into his arms and began pressing words into the top of his head, "Everything will be alright Regulus. My love, I swear it. I'm here and you're here; everything will be alright."
Everything will be alright, Regulus.
Now, Regulus is a watcher: aware. He knows things that he knows he is not supposed to know. Like how Barty and Sirius would often disappear to smoke together behind the back of the Greenhouses. And how Remus has monthly ailments aligning with a great celestial event involving the moon. And how this whole group of so-called marauders enjoy incredibly indiscreet endearments involving animals. They would make awful Slytherins for all the blackmail material Regulus has gathered unintentionally.
But no matter how much he watched Sirius in the following days, his brother gave him nothing: acted like there was nothing to know: acted like he had not seen Regulus’ very soul in those moments that were earth-distorting for Regulus. And Regulus needed to know: to prove that something had shifted: prove that they existed: proof of life. Jamie is holding his body: making him exist: is stuffing him with ideas of trust: is tearing him open. And Regulus is ready, now, to talk- to be open.
Regulus has always known how to play the long game: has never been a quitter. Has withstood his Maman in silence for so many years: knows how to cross his arms behind his back and wait someone out and take it. Watched, watched, watched. Regulus watched his brother sit a little closer to Lupin at meal times tucked under an arm, spend a little longer behind the greenhouses, walk to the seventh floor each evening, and reappear in the morning looking… something that Regulus did not recognise. He was awed by the understanding that he was seeing- really seeing- Sirius: letting himself sit in the discomfort that they had both changed: craving the pain of it: the beauty of it.
Of course, Regulus had heard all about Jamie’s little map: had very politely blackmailed James into letting Regulus borrow that map with the fluttering of his eyelashes and a couple of well-placed please, Jamie‘s. In between lessons, under the table during potions, from the corner of his eye while straddling James’ lap- Regulus has been watching Sirius’ movements with pious concentration. Has memorised the pattern: the path up to the seventh-floor corridor, the pacing, the disappearance of his brother off the face of the map. Would trail after him, watch him walk back and forth and disappear into a door Regulus had never noticed before. Would wait and wait and wait just to reassure himself that his brother would return- that he was okay in that vanishing room. And Regulus had hoped that if he waited long enough, Sirius would one day turn around, see him standing there, and come to him as an equal: brother to brother: two separates: two whole people: two masses of stars.
But he is so tired of waiting. Of watching his brother always leaving. It is a Thursday evening and Jamie told him that everything would be alright; he does not stop to think before following Sirius right up to the door and jamming his foot into the swinging wood before it shuts.
Slips into the place that has been hiding Sirius from him these last few days.
Face to face in his childhood bedroom.
Notes:
I modelled Regulus' emotional development on the idea of Lacan's mirror stage (I do not know psychology I only know google pls don't come for me):
i.e. he admired Sirius when they were little kids but spent so long casting this idealised image onto Sirius that he did not realise Sirius is now something else entirely- and that he has actually always been a lot more complex than Regulus gave him credit for: his flaws make him all the more beautiful. And when he does, they are adult-ish and so much has changed, he is in awe of what they have both become independently without Regulus even noticing.
Chapter 5: My shabby heart was acting out
Notes:
Things have been hectic lately and I kind of lost the strand of this fic for a bit but here you go- I came back.
Chapter Text
“My room has not looked like this in years.”
Sirius turns, startled, eyes wide with his wand arm raised but empty: open. For a long moment, everything is still: Sirius’ chest does not rise and his lungs do not swell. He wants to be absolutely certain that with his next inhale he moves with clarity: sees with clarity.
It has been a few weeks since he first made his way to the room of requirement. So much has shifted: Remus has pushed into him: Remus has pushed him into becoming within his body again. Absorbed all of the emotional volatility that churns within Sirius and kissed it better with his mouth and his teeth and his wise, wise words about being and accepting. Breathe, Sirius, watch my chest. Can you feel me, Sirius? Feel your body- trace your way up from your feet, up your legs, up your torso, up your hands and arms- your chest, your neck, your head. You’re here.
Sirius is here.
Sirius is here, with Regulus.
He can feel his lungs expand, his open arms fall to his sides.
He is looking at his little brother. His not-so-little brother. His brother.
A Regulus that is wearing Regulus’ clothes, that talks with the same cadence as Regulus, looks and smells and stands and watches like Regulus. Is Regulus.
Sirius is seeing clearly, can say with absolute confidence that the body before him is not a trick of his mind, of the light, of the castle. Though she has been known to mess with Sirius’ mind, this is not a trick of Hogwarts’ doing. And Remus has not joined Sirius in this room since their first collision here; Regulus taking an almost identical position to that which Remus first occupied.
He is so close: enough to touch. Sirius’ arms stay limp at his sides.
“I think this would have been just before you left for Hogwarts. Likely around the time that I made that sign for my door.”
Sirius huffs, just to prove that he can make noise. To settle over the silence that rings like embarrassment for being found in a time capsule of his brother’s bedroom.
But Regulus does not look wary or disgusted: has not backed away; Regulus is walking closer, stepping closer to the fireplace, looking around at the walls, one hand sliding along the mantlepiece.
And he’s still talking, right over the silence that whispers Regulus, Regulus, Regulus. He’s still talking despite if you leave, Sirius. Sirius relishes in the sound of that voice, speaking without hostility or frustration or anger.
“I miss that carpet. I think Kreacher had to burn it.”
Regulus steps around Sirius, looking towards the bed such that Sirius can trace the profile of his face: the way the light halos around his sharp jaw and soft blink of eyelashes. He’s caught up in a whirlwind of realising that Regulus has grown into his features, made them his own: turned all that Black into something independent: softer. No harsh and jutting movements, but long fingers that flutter as he talks.
“Too much blood, I think.”
The peace that had been building between them fragments- a punch to the mirror- there are shards everywhere. Sirius doesn’t know where to step without cutting his feet: realises that maybe the only way they can talk to one another is by bleeding.
“Regulus,” Sirius pauses, enjoying the taste of his brother's name, the way it draws both the brothers’ eyes together. “Regulus, what do you mean by that?” Because Sirius only came home in the Winter of that year, and Maman never took him into Regulus’ bedroom during her fits of rage. They often wouldn't make it beyond the kitchen door, only sometimes venturing into the lounge or the library.
Regulus seems unfazed by the question, has seemed almost placid throughout their whole interaction so far and it’s starting to jar Sirius, remind him of all the ways that they don’t know each other anymore: can’t see each other anymore.
“Yeah, I was sad about it too. The new one isn’t as soft.”
“No, Regulus.” Sirius is not as stoic now, does not enjoy the pace of the conversation that Regulus has been leading anymore. “Regulus, what do you mean about the blood?”
There is a long pause. Quiet breaths break the silence- crashing waves, drowning.
“I never intended to say that. Or at least, not like this. It just slipped out.”
“What are you talking about, Regulus?”
Regulus, Regulus, Regulus: a refrain, an ostinato. Seven grounding letters through his mounting frustration that, while speaking, so little is being said. At last: they are in the same room, not running from one another, not avoiding one another’s eyes. Sirius wants to ask about James, about how Walburga is treating him now that Sirius has left, about whether Regulus really doesn’t think that they can be brothers anymore; does he stand by the words he spoke in a moment of anger? Does he not need Sirius anymore, or is it that he doesn’t want Sirius anymore? Instead, Regulus is weaving circles around the damn rug of all things, and Sirius is getting tangled up in the threads of all that Regulus is not saying.
“I just- well, I’ve been watching you disappearing into this room for a few weeks now and I didn’t really mean to follow you in here, and it’s not like I expected to find you-” he gestures slightly wildly around the room- “in a caricature of my childhood room. I’ve been wanting to talk. No, I need us to talk because, well. Anyway I suppose-”
“Regulus.” Sirius interrupts: a beat for breath, a bar of remembrance, “Breathe.”
They each inhale, watching each other, exhale. Everything feels messy, but also as if they have the time in this moment to pause and detangle the fraying threads together: neither of them is running, yet.
“Why did Kreacher burn the rug?” Sirius decides that this riddle is a good place to start. He walks over to the wall beside the fireplace and lowers himself onto the carpet, back against the wall. Hesitantly, Regulus follows. He sinks opposite Sirius, delicate against the foot of the bed frame, posture relaxing, legs crossed, fingers skimming over the patterns in the edge of the rug. When Regulus looks up, Sirius offers him an encouraging smile, offers everything within himself, bare, shares in this moment of magnitude between them- says with his eyes what will later be spoken with words I’m listening.
Regulus bites into his bottom lip, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile and begins.
“I’ve imagined telling you so many times, but it’s never seemed to come out quite the way I want it to.” As he talks, he reaches to undo his shirt buttons. Sirius’ eyes follow the creeping path of his fingers until Regulus’ torso is exposed. Sirius isn’t entirely sure where this is going, refuses to acknowledge where this might be going. Until Regulus twists around, giving Sirius a clear view of Regulus’ back, can see exactly where this has been going like a punch to the gut.
Regulus talks fast over the inhale of air- the wounded and breathy wail from the back of Sirius’ throat.
“The first time she hit me would have been just after we received word of your sorting. Something about ensuring that I wasn’t to follow in your footsteps. That I was not to further stain the noble name of the House of Black or some such nonsense. Anyway, she bled me pretty dry throughout your first term honestly.” He chuckles softly, and Sirius is stunned still, in shock that Regulus is able to find levity in this moment that feels soul-shattering.
He wants to reach out and touch the risen ridges of scar tissue that mottle Regulus’ back into thick and thicker skin- a skin that has become so scarred it is something else entirely. His hands pause mid-air, mid-motion, hovering uselessly between them, eventually falling into his lap when Regulus turns back around and begins redoing his shirt buttons. He is too afraid that his touch has now become so unfamiliar to Regulus that it will make him flinch.
“So just before you came home, Kreacher snuck into my room one night and replaced the rug for me. I think it was meant as an act of kindness, but really the feeling of being unsafe in my room wasn’t about to be fixed by a new fabric on the floor. And I’m sure you can remember, but I don’t think I let you into my room after that because I was so terrified that you would notice the change and ask me about it”
“But… but why, Regulus?” Why didn’t you tell me? Godric, had I known, had I known, I would have dragged you out of there years ago. Why are you telling me now, why did you not want me to know before? Why didn’t you tell me, Regulus? Sirius wants to lash out- scream- but he is reeling over the shape of his brother's skin, and all his rage has been tamed from wild hedges into neat rows by Remus’ gentle hands- his words come out brittle and quiet. This is not a moment for his anger or his loudness. This feels like mourning all that he could have changed had he known.
“Sirius. I know you.” And, Godric does that feel like the deepest nail, the heaviest scattering of earth above his head. “She was hurting both of us regardless- I didn’t want to watch you take any more pain for me, or to feel like it was your fault. I just wanted to feel some semblance of control.”
Looking at Regulus now, understanding all that Regulus holds within him- has held within himself for so long, Sirius is so aware of how strong his brother is: is monumentally proud of the person before him, the bravery. His brother, the closet Gryffindor, so Slytherin about his courage. Regulus has never needed Sirius for guidance, or for authority; sure, Regulus is his little brother but the prefix speaks nothing to their status anymore. They are almost the same height, now.
It doesn't change the fact that-
“I can't help but wish that you had told me earlier.”
“It was the only way I knew to survive.”
“I would never have left if-”
“That doesn’t matter, Sirius. It was the only way either of us knew to survive, I know this now. Really, I didn’t mean what I said on that night. I have always looked up to your strength and ease in being loud- you know, refusing to let Maman hit you without throwing a few punches of your own. We both have and always have had agency here, Sirius. Just because I prefer to survive quietly it doesn’t mean I’m not surviving.”
Sirius huffs a sardonic laugh, “When did you get so wise, Reggie?” The nickname slips out. It feels like a homecoming. Regulus notices and his eyes soften. There is a long moment where neither of them speaks, each watching the other, both aware of how much they have grown. A few years ago, Sirius is certain that his anger would have led this conversation in an entirely different direction. But they are still sitting opposite one another. He reckons Remus would be proud.
“What a stupid question, Sirius, you know I’ve always been the wise one out of the two of us.” Regulus quirks his lips and Sirius smiles back, flashing his teeth playfully. It’s true though, really. Wisdom has always found Sirius in the form of others; Regulus, Remus, and sometimes in the rare moment of sobriety, James. Sirius turns solemn at that line of thought, a flashing image of two bodies tangled together a few weeks ago wrinkles his browbone, a question that Regulus has yet to touch.
“Regulus, why won't you look at me?”
“I am looking at you?”
“No, I mean. I feel like the first time we actually looked at each other, locked eyes with one another for the first time in, like, ten years happened a few weeks ago over James’ shoulder. Why wouldn’t you look at me?”
Regulus blushes. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”
It’s a clear diversion, but Sirius decides to respond. Mostly because though he’s received a host of I promise I will treat him like a prince’ s from James, he’s eager to confirm that Regulus is, indeed, being treated as he deserves. “You seem happy with him.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I really am. It’s like, I don’t really know- he’s shown me that I can choose things for me, almost. That I can have warmth and be soft and don't have to be so self-reliant anymore. That I’m here, or that I’m somebody worth having for me. I think that's why I followed you here. Like, I know that you are best friends and so I want to make sure I don't cause any issues between the two of you, but also I just felt like so much is changing around us and within us- why shouldn't you and I give it a try?”
Sirius is silent in awe for a moment. Regulus is so grown- there's no other word for it, and that growth is echoing within every word Regulus speaks. Sirius' gaze softens and he reaches towards Regulus’ hand which is pressed into the carpet, interlinking their pinkies. “You're right, and I am so glad. He is lucky to have you: you are more than worth having, Regulus.”
When Regulus looks up through his eyelashes, Sirius feels a jolt of something strange in his abdomen, and he pulls his hand away suddenly to cough and wave his hand around as if clearing the air, physically pushing the topic away. “But Regulus, it’s time to stop avoiding the question. You stopped looking at me- why did you stop looking at me?”
“It’s going to sound silly”
“Please”
Regulus puffs out his cheeks, exhaling in a burst. “I’ve always thought you had lovely eyes. No I mean it, this is relevant,” He persists over a self-conscious sigh from Sirius, “And it’s always felt like something so intrinsic to you, to both of us I suppose. Like, when we were younger, I could look at your eyes and feel like you knew everything I was thinking or could see exactly who I was because we both saw from the same point of view. And then it was after Maman started beating me that I realised this was something I didn’t want you to see, or maybe I didn’t want to look at you and see how much you had grown out of me during your time away. I don’t really know how to explain the reasoning of an eleven-year-old, Sirius. I don’t think there was much logic behind it. But I’m looking at you now: you tell me, what can you see?”
Regulus always seems to be able to turn what Sirius believes to be simple questions into complex and multidimensional ideas, Sirius muses. What can you see?
“Humm. Well, I can see two lovely grey orbs and two large black circles- those are the pupils, if I’m not mistaken.”
“No, Sirius” Regulus waves his hands in front of his face and shuffles closer until their knees are touching, “I’ve answered your questions, please just entertain me with this.”
Sirius can tell that Regulus is beginning to feel self-conscious about this line of enquiry, as though he’s making something out of nothing, as though Sirius doesn’t understand entirely what Regulus is saying, but is too afraid for sincerity amongst all the heaviness heaving into the room- he drops his shoulders and returns his gaze to meet Regulus’.
“Your eyes seem brighter than they have in some time. Like you are returning to yourself, not just emotionally, but perhaps metaphysically too, if that makes sense? Like you’re becoming you again- or like the 6-year-old I remember- there is hope and child-like wonder and self-surety and maybe something else in there too. You’re right, I can tell that you have been in pain- I can see it in the darker hues striking through your radial furrows. But there is so much light in you. It is like you are simultaneously more you and more grown than I have ever seen you. You’re beautiful.”
Sirius didn’t really mean to say the last part. But thinking on it, he’s confident in its truth; Regulus is beautiful- beyond his eyes, within his character, deep in his bones and through his skin, to the tips of his pinkening cheeks.
“Thank you, Siri.” Regulus whispers. Sirius must have leaned closer while he spoke- they are nose to nose, Regulus’ words tickling across his skin.
Sirius can’t help but think back to that moment almost identical to this, all those weeks ago. After Sirius had collected himself behind the back of the greenhouses, he went and sought out Remus. They had a long and fleshy discussion full of Sirius insisting that he actually did want to kiss Remus- shuffling from foot to foot, his tail between his legs- while Remus insisted, rather academically, upon the complexity of human emotions and that he understood, no in fact accepted, the idea that Sirius would seek intimacy with his brother through perhaps less orthodox means: that he supported that, too. It took Sirius’ tongue in Remus’ mouth to get him to shut up with the rational thought. The moment they stopped, however, Remus made it his mission to find increasingly unconventional ways to drill ‘emotionally healthy’ responses into the very core of Sirius. Between slow and brutal thrusts You're here with me Sirius, can you feel it ? Counting strikes across the backs of his thighs You're good Sirius, say it with me. In the breath between bruising bites down his neck L ove comes in many forms, you're safe with me to explore it, Sirius.
And in this moment, Sirius feels so here safe good and bursting with love, so secure in his relationship with Remus, so complete and full with his brother a breath away from him that he presses forward and meets Regulus' lips.