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Chapter Text

“Regulus!” Pandora giggles, slapping his arm while simultaneously pulling him in so she can rest her head on his shoulder. Her delicate fingers are wrapped around a kouign amann, courtesy of Regulus Black himself, thank you very much.

“Yes, Regulus, what is wrong with you?” Evan laughs, holding an éclair that he’s already almost finished with, despite the fact that they just left the café a few minutes ago. One of his favourite things about France really is the pastries, perfectly textured and flavoured so beautifully it melts on your tongue. 

“I think the most important question to ask here, is what is wrong with you, Evan. We all saw that fucking hat, did we not? I am just the only one with the guts to tell the truth to that American tourist. They are like a disease.” Regulus scoffs at the mere thought. Loud, rowdy Americans usually keep themselves in Paris, the City of Love or whatever. All you can really find there is overpriced food and crowded walkways. But sometimes they make an appearance in Regulus’ quaint little town, and they think they’re all the better for it, when they’re really not. They don’t—despite what they might think and brag—fit in, because you can spot an American from across the fucking ocean, whether it be their terribly loud voices, heinous fashion decisions, proclivity to lean anywhere and everywhere, or tipping habits. No, you do not look like a local, Rebecca, you are screaming on the phone in the middle of a diner because your ticket to Versailles was postponed and ordering a croissant in a terrible accent. Might as well be screeching the national anthem with an eagle on your shoulder; even that would be less obvious.

Evan snorts, shoving the last of his pastry in his mouth. That means he’s going to be very annoying when they actually arrive at the meadow, begging and pleading for ‘just one bite, Regulus, don’t deny a starving man, Regulus, I’ll suck you off, Regulus,’ and more unhinged bargains. Regulus, very annoyingly, almost always seems to give in eventually. Very annoying. He hates his friends.

“You could’ve been nicer about it. I mean, what if some American came up to you scoffing in a language you didn’t understand, speaking in fast angry English?” Pandora demands. She’s probably the kindest person Regulus has ever known; too nice . A man could spit on her shoe, and she’d say ‘no Regulus! Don’t beat him up, he’s probably just having a bad day! ’ to which Regulus would go ahead and do it anyway, because he’s not gonna let someone talk to his friend like that, even if she’s too nice to do something about it. Evan, obviously, would hold the scum of a man down. 

“Oh, you mean all the time?” Regulus inquires with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, not all the time,” Pandora defends, scowling at him. “But you do run into them on purpose and do the exact same back, don’t you?”

“They deserve it.” Regulus shrugs. “Obnoxious, rude, and think the word revolves around them. They should thank me for keeping them humble. It’s a public service.”

“You’re impossible,” Pandora sighs with a small grin.

Regulus can’t help the twitch of his mouth either. He really does love Pandora.

Barely a few seconds pass before the predicted “Reginthfru, what did you order?” Comes from Evan as he slides open the small gate that leads to their destination.

He, on the other hand, is Regulus’ mortal enemy.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

Evan grumbles something in English; Evan and Pandora were raised bilingual, because their mother was British and their father French. 

They aren’t as fluent in English as their mother—seeing as they never use it anywhere but with her—but they know how to keep a conversation. Regulus had them teach him insults, but he never learned beyond that, refusing to entertain Sirius when he spent an entire year learning their stupid words in preparation for his exchange student program somewhere in the sewers of England. He was not interested in such things. Still isn’t. He’s not doing the program, so he sees no need. He’ll stay in France forever, in his quaint little town with a quaint little bookstore and an apartment on top. He’s content. 

Sirius left because he was desperate to get away from their parents; Regulus has no such problems. They’re assholes, they hit and scream, but he’s only got two years of school left before he can move out and get his inheritance. He simply just avoids his house as much as he can get away with. Evan and Pandora help with that. In fact, lately, he’s barely even been in his house except for obligatory family dinners where they glare at each other in tense silence or to sleep. Sometimes—though it never ends well for him—he even tries his luck and stays out all night. 

After a few minutes of walking a dirt path, the small townhouses of Regulus’ life get smaller and smaller, becoming small blobs of colour over the horizon. The trio discovered the meadow drunk off their asses on red wine after a disastrous dinner party sending Sirius off, stumbling into each other and giggling like most did at fourteen, when everything was big and they were just so small. They had a stolen bottle from the wine cellar, no glasses, and the uncomfortable dress clothes on their backs. Evan had tripped over the gate, folding like a lawn chair over the delicate metal, sporting a bloody nose and staining his white shirt. They absolutely died , ending up on the floor with those laughs so loud and cathartic that you can’t breathe and all that comes out is a wheeze.

They’d been chased away by old Mrs. Sinew and her broom, screeching so loudly the house lights came on and curiously annoyed townspeople poked their heads out of their windows. 

They ran and ran, still tripping over themselves with laughter as they left the miserable old woman in the dust, staining their black dress shoes that pinched their toes and cufflinks being forever lost beneath their feet. 

Regulus thinks that that moment, falling into the beautiful grass moonlit beautifully and leaning his head back to stare at the endless sky, with his lifelong best friends by his side still giggling and whispering to each other, was the last time he was really, truly happy.

The next day Sirius was off to England, with a host family who loved him like their own, and a boy his age who got him into endless trouble. Meanwhile, all Regulus had was this. This, and stilted bi-weekly phone calls where Sirius tries to downplay his antics while a low foreign chuckle is barely muffled on the other side. 

Surely you can see why he would prefer this.

Pandora smoothing out a trademark chequered picnic blanket, a basket full of snacks and pastries, and red wine, atop flowered grass overshadowed by a long-limbed tree; just on the outskirts of Annecy, hidden behind shrubbery and overlooking a vast expanse of beautiful land untouched by urban industrialism. Away from expectations and iron-rod spines. Away from phone calls you can tell your brother is only making because of a sense of obligation instead of the urge to talk to you after moving out of the country. Away from harsh ringed slaps and never being good enough. 

Evan laying his head in his lap with a wistful sigh, watching where the flowers dip down and staring at the massive mountains tinted blue from distance. Where Regulus cards fingers through the boy’s hair because he likes it and thinks too much. Where Pandora snacks on grapes while threading flowers into a flower crown, which by the end of the night there will be three of. Where nobody is looking for them, nobody is watching them, nobody is analysing their every move. Where Regulus pretends not to notice Evan sneaking small bites out of his pain au chocolat, because he’s a good friend. Where the sky is endless and bright blue, blanketing them in the comfort of a mildly cloudy day. Where nobody has to talk to be understood.

The meadow is comforting for all of them, but for different reasons. Evan likes it because the gentle quietness of the scenery helps him organise his thoughts; like being able to just press pause on the constant ticking clock of life for a few hours. Regulus likes it because there’s nobody around, and he can finally not think, because there’s nothing to think about; there are flowers and flower crowns, and he is a nameless young boy, soaking up the tail-end of his teenage years with his friends. He isn’t an heir, or a spare, or a son, or a brother or a friend. He is just a boy. Regulus thinks Pandora just likes to be able to tell her silly intriguing stories to an audience that wouldn’t ever dare to laugh at her, to be one with the ground and the trees and nature.  

Like they do every time, they stay for hours.

The golden sun gives everything an ethereal sparkling air, tinting everything a beautiful yellow. There’s dirt beneath his fingertips, edging beneath his fingernails uncomfortably because he’s been absently picking at blades of grass. A soft breeze musses his hair. There are dusty green flowers woven between his curls, tickling his cheek. Evan’s breathing is soft and level. Pandora’s smile is pearly white and beautiful, snow-white curls waterfalling down her shoulders, woven between small yellow flowers. Nothing is real or tangible. Beneath his fingertips is a simple sensation, the smell of wood and interwoven scents of nature are the air, and the swollen pluck of love in his heart when he looks at Pandora and Evan that weaves beneath his skin is blood, giving life to his head and keeping him upright. Evan’s sandy hair is soft between his knuckles. 

There is no heir or spare or son or brother or friend.

There is a boy named Regulus, lounging on a picnic blanket hidden in the French countryside. There is a beautiful girl named Pandora, with soft-spoken tales of elves and fairies that you have no choice but to listen to. There is a boy named Evan, who has strong yet gentle hands and speaks in well-thought out sentences. There is the soft laughter of teenagers who feel immortal twirling around in the air, with so much life to live.

There is Evan, whose mind never quits. Pandora, who giggles about her strange dreams and wears glittering jewels on her neck and wrists. Regulus, who always wants more.

Together, they are one soul, one blink in the grand passage of time, not to be remembered. In a few decades, nobody will remember the three kids who snuck away and finally felt happy. But they will. They will remember, they will come back with wrinkles and grey hair, and remember how this used to be their spot. Share stories of when they thought they’d never die, where underneath the trees they sat in a fissure of time, where the clock’s ticking was quieted down to a soft wind and everything was paused. Where there was no past or present or future, there was just them.

A girl’s head on a snarky boy’s shoulder, watching the sun slowly dip beneath the horizon, marking the end of their adventure when the moon takes its spot back in the sky, gently pressing kisses to the dirt in the form of soft white light. Where they gently nudge awake their friend, collect their scraps and trash in a basket, fold up their blanket with care, and remove the only signs they had ever been there until all that would be left was in the form of sideways grass, which would find its spine by the time the sun inevitably rose again to sing another good morning and whisk fathers off to work with a kiss to their wives and small children. To wake lovers tangled between soft white sheets, grinning and whispering sweet nothings to each other in voices thick with sleep and adoration. 

Regulus grabs the wine bottle, now empty, just as his phone buzzes in his pocket. Now that he’s a son, brother, spare, and a friend, his heart’s steady beat picks up momentum. Sirius calls on Sunday nights; probably so he can feign tiredness and the looming day of school to get off of the phone faster. It’s a Wednesday.

He slips his phone from his pocket and takes a deep breath. Mother .

“Yes, Mother?” Regulus greets, keeping his voice steady and bordering on bored. Evan looks over at him, with the same anxious expression he knows is on his face as well. Pandora’s eyes are reassuring and steady as she bends over the picnic basket, head tilted up to stare at him. It’s never good when his mother calls.

“ Where are you right now ?” She demands. She never wastes any time with casualties. Her voice is sharp and authoritative, like a large blade. 

“With Evan and Pandora,” Regulus answers, trying desperately to calm his heart. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t do anything. There is nothing for him to be in trouble for. 

“Get home. There are things we need to discuss.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight, Regulus.” His mother confirms, and then the line goes dead, and Regulus can breathe again.

“Alright?” Pandora asks, finally rising.

“I don’t know.” Regulus admits. “She said ‘ there are things we need to discuss ’ which could be anything from she caught me smoking fucking crack in her bedroom to she wants to go over the script for her next dinner party.”

“She’s a fucking witch, is what she is.” Evan sneers, battling between the instinct to comfort Regulus and express his distaste for Walburga Black. 

Regulus hums noncommittally.

Evan slings an arm over his shoulder, pulling him into a side hug as Pandora skips ahead. Evan is bright and steady, always there when you need a shoulder to cry on. His advice is generally kind of shit—that’s Pandora’s department—which is funny because he thinks so much, but he is always there , if and when you want him. Evan’s the kind of guy whose phone is never on silent, and who would hop out of bed without a second of hesitation if you rung him at three in the morning just because you had a cold. He’s the kind of guy who never pulls away from a hug first, and showers you in passive compliments just because that’s how he sees you. But he’s also the kind of guy to tell you when you’re being ‘fucking stupid’, and will call you on your shit without hesitation, which is precisely why Regulus needs him in his life. Regulus needs someone who won’t let him get away with self-sabotage, because it’s his favourite pass-time. 

Sometimes Regulus thinks that if there is anything or anyone up in the sky, that he and Evan were carved from one stone; their bodies were carved out in perfect shape with one another, so that when they came together, the fit was perfect. Evan is the reason to Regulus’ overthinking, the optimist to his pessimist, the extrovert to his recluse. Evan reaches so far past brotherhood into something that just can’t be described. It’s something that surpasses romance and friendship and love. Evan pulls him out of depressions, has seen every piece of his ugly, barbed heart, and has stuck around through it all. 

Pandora is- well, she’s Pandora . Ruthlessly loyal and so sickeningly sweet. Her and Evan are twins, so Regulus supposes he would be as dramatic to say that together, they are both carved out to fit him right in the middle. They are his soulmates. It never feels awkward to hang out with them; where in most cases siblings—especially twins—are either so close there’s just no room between for a third kid whose blood doesn’t even match theirs, or they’re arguing so often you can’t help but wince when they demand you step in. Evan and Pandora do neither of those. Obviously, they get caught in their fair share of petty squabbles and arguments that arise from being attached at the hip for their entire lives, but there are no sides . They can be mad at each other without making it his problem. They can still go on outings with him together, and within five minutes of semi-awkward conversation, one of them will sigh and offer to pay for the food, and then it’s like nothing ever happened. It almost reminds Regulus of him and Sirius when they actually knew each other, before Sirius started avoiding questions about Christmas and summer hols and ‘ when are you coming home ’s, because he wasn’t coming home, he just didn’t know how to say it. Sirius has been back to visit exactly twice since he left for year 10. Regulus hasn’t seen his face in person in two-and-a-half years. 

Regulus doubts that Sirius would even be calling once a week if they weren’t related by blood, which is why he loves Evan and Pandora so much. They’re not his siblings; they don’t hang out with him out of obligation or pity; they hang out with him because they like him , and they want to . It honestly means more to Regulus than pretty much anything. 

He sighs and relaxes into Evan’s embrace, resting his head on his shoulder and sending Evan a grateful smile. 

Evan winks at him.

—

Grimmauld Place looms. If you asked anyone in town to name one characteristic of the Black’s generational home, it would be looming and ominous . From the dark gothic-style architecture to the perfectly impersonal manicured garden without an ounce of life on the entire two acres of land, something about the house has always screamed danger. It’s the kind of house kids dare their friends to touch after exchanging ridiculous ghost stories about murders and suicides occurring inside. It’s the only house that makes Regulus’ palms sweat and his spine snap ram-rod straight. The kind of foreboding that echoes in his ears with every loud blood-rushing beat of his heart. The kind of house where you put your hands in your pockets when you enter, because hands are the one thing you could never mask and shaking hands is a sign of weakness. Where weakness means exploitation and beatings. 

“I’m home,” Regulus announces loudly. His voice is steady and blank. It took years to train. 

“Regulus, darling, in the sitting room.” His mother calls. Regulus takes a deep breath before pushing the door open. Walburga sits next to Orion, sharp features only refined with her expertly applied makeup. She has always looked menacing and powerful. She has the ability to just look at you and make you feel as worthless as the dirt stuck to her heels. A burden. There has never been a single hair greyed or out of place in the carefully crafted buns atop her head, she has never smiled, and her hands are only for hurting and intimidating. She sucks all of the air and positive emotion out of a room the second she steps inside, an almost physical change in the air when she makes an appearance; the air ripples and your heart sinks to your feet. When she wants to talk to you, and when your forever-sick father is with her, you are in trouble.

Regulus works his jaw as he takes his seat with all of the expected poise and elegance of a potential heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. He can’t think of his misstep. He can’t think of his mistake. If she asks, and he plays the fool, it will only be worse. If she asks, and he guesses wrong, it will be even worse. If she asks, and he guesses correctly, he is admitting guilt and that he knew what he did was wrong. The punishment will be her sick game of hell, for each and every outcome. There is no winning with Walburga Black. There isn’t even minimization. A shoe sideways on the mat might be no food for a week, or it might be a slap on the wrist and thirty minutes of degradation. She has no system. The whiplash is even scarier than the well-worn punishments by now, which is probably why she does it.

“Regulus. Do you know why I’ve called you in here?” Walburga asks, folding her hands in her lap atop her black dress. Regulus has never seen a hint of colour on her. Ever. It’s like living in a fucking black-and-white movie. 

“No ma’am.”

“You have nothing to repent for?”

“No ma’am.” A broken record.

“You have done nothing to displease the Lord? Your actions have been rooted only in devotion to your family?”

“Yes ma’am.” Regulus nods. She knows something. She has to know something. Regulus can never fucking read her. He can read anyone and everyone, but he has never correctly guessed what was going through his mother’s mind. 

A thick silence envelopes the room. Regulus counts his breath in sets of 7. She knows. She knows. She knows. What exactly, is what he doesn’t know. 

He hates the suspense. 

That’s exactly why she does it.

Walburga calculates him, eyes scanning him up and down. When her eyes catch his head, her gaze sharpens dangerously. Her eyes glint. 

The flowers.

He forgot to remove the flowers.

“Regulus, what is in your hair?” Walburga asks calmly. Regulus is fucked.

Breathe . “A present from Pandora, ma’am. You know how she is.”

“Why have you brought filth into this house, Regulus? Have you no respect for the life you live as the potential heir to the Black Legacy?”

Breathe. “I am very sorry, Mother. I tried to tell her no. I will remove them immediately.”

“Nonsense. Come here, boy.” She demands with a scowl. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe . Regulus prays he’s not shaking when he gets up to kneel before her. Her hands are ruthless and tugging as she frees the crown from his loose curls. “This behaviour is not befitting of a potential heir, Regulus, do we need to have words about your choice of acquaintances?”

“Sirius is the heir, Mother. Have you seen his choice of company?” Regulus asks. It’s a shitty thing, a very shitty thing to do, to throw your sibling under the bus. Sirius is safe, though, in another country. His lifestyle is not enforced by an iron whip like Regulus’. Regulus is on the precipice of a punishment. The worst thing she can do to Sirius is call to yell at him, but he simply hangs up the phone. Sirius can hang up the phone. Regulus can’t.

“Sirius is...a loose cannon, Regulus,” Walburga sighs, waving over a servant to pass them the flower crown and ordering them to burn it. Regulus tries not to let the wince of his heart show on his face. When her hands slide over his curls and cup his chin, it isn’t comforting or motherly like the action should be. It’s suffocating and entrapping. “His chosen path is leading him away from us, I’m afraid. It seems it’s only a matter of time before we must make a difficult decision, dear.”

Disown. She wants to disown Sirius. He’s safe.

She takes a breath, cupping his face in her hands. Further trapping him. “Regulus, you are our last hope. We have decided that as a family, we must send you to lead him onto the right path. I am not sure it can be done, but your father still holds out hope for him to find his way back to us.”

“What does that mean?” Regulus asks quietly. Not disowning. Are they bringing him back to France? Are they pulling him from the program?

“It means, Regulus, you must take on responsibility. You must do your duty as a potential heir by sacrifice.”

“Mother, I am not understanding.”

Walburga closes her eyes and clenches her jaw. Regulus is one question away from a slap, but he doesn’t understand . He doesn’t get it. What is he sacrificing? What is he doing? What is his responsibility, and what does it have to do with Sirius? 

“Regulus, do not be daft. It is not a good look on you.” She sighs, eyes blazing with annoyance. “You will be completing your final two years of school in England. You will show your imbecile brother sense, and you will not embarrass us as he has. You will learn English so that you can be well-rounded, as we should have done before. If Sirius can not pull through, we will need you to become heir, and my heir will not be an idiot who only knows one language.”

England. Heir. English. England. Heir. English. England. Heir. English.

“What?” Regulus asks, pulling out of her grip and falling back. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. England. England. England. Sirius. England. He is going to England. Regulus is going to England. He’s going to England because his brother won’t pull his head out of his ass and at least pretend to be responsible. They are going to make him leave France, leave his life , because his brother is misbehaving. His older brother.

“Surely you understand, Regulus. You are a good boy. You have good potential. If anyone can do it, it’s you. I believe you will not be selfish for once, and do something for the family. You may return when you graduate, and your inheritance will be given to you. Please, do not be dramatic.”

Dramatic . Regulus is being dramatic. Dramatic. He has to move to another country, learn another language, learn a different school system, all because of his fucking brother. He’s being dramatic. Selfish. His last sixteen years of life he has bent and folded himself into the perfect son for them. He has taken everything. He has sacrificed plenty of friends and not uttered a single word of rebuttal. He was perfect, and because Sirius isn’t, he has to uproot his entire life.

“Mother, that isn’t fair- please, please don’t make me move. I’ll talk to him, I’ll talk to him. He’ll be good!” Regulus begs. He’s not above begging. Not about this. He needs Pandora and Evan. He needs the meadow. She doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t here. This is where he belongs . He can’t move, just because Sirius is having a rebellious phase. They can’t make him move. It’s wild. Crazy. Extreme.

Walburga raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “Nonsense. Sirius is past his time of verbal rehabilitation. Your father has faith in him, for some reason unbeknownst to me.” She sighs heavily. “Please, save it. I don’t have time for this. Pack your essentials. You have two days to say your goodbyes to anyone unfortunate enough to have talked to you. Your last night will be a dinner party, I’ll have the script for you tomorrow—please behave. That is it. You are excused.”

Regulus doesn’t remember the walk to his bedroom. He only remembers leaning against his door with his hands shaking violently and his cheeks wet. He can’t breathe.

He’s pressing Sirius’ blurry name on the screen.

***

“But really , I mean, it’s a lot of chickens.”

“I can take a few little chickens. Easy.”

“One hundred chickens, Sirius!” James laughs, groaning dramatically and falling onto Sirius’ bed. Sirius falls right on top of them, and they’re reduced to gangly limbs and giddy laughter, poking and grabbing at each other with shit-eating grins on their faces. James is definitely Sirius’ platonic soulmate, through and through. They just get each other. The very first day they met, Sirius was 14 and scared out of his fucking mind about being in a new country with people who spoke a weird language, but also just so relieved he finally got out of that fucking house. He was a proper mess, shaking like a leaf and heart thumping in his ears. The Potters were waving one of those obnoxious large signs reading ‘Welcome, Sirius Black !’ with childish glitter and designs. He remembers thinking immediately, that Reggie would have died, and then speaking of Reggie, he needed to call him like he’d promised. Sirius shyly made his way over, laughing awkwardly. The Potters were a force . Effie tackled him into a hug, Monty clapped his shoulder and asked ‘ do you like books, lad?’ to which Sirius had replied ‘ no, but my snobby brother Reggie loves them’. Then, he’d turned to the tan boy with messy hair and golden glasses, and it immediately felt like the world actually stopped spinning. Sirius looked at him, shook his hand, and he knew . They were going to be best friends forever. James grinned at him with a twinkle in his eye, and had said ‘ oh, we’re going to have so much fun !’. 

Really, that was that. Best friends going on four years, and they still look at each other with that starry-eyed look you’d expect from lovers, not two teenage best friends. 

Sirius rolls onto James, propping himself up on his elbows with a shit-eating grin. James’ glasses are askew, terribly taken-care-of hair a rat’s nest, and a blinding smile for days.“Okay, and you really think you could take a bear ? Jamie, you are delusional . D-e-l-u..whatever I give up. Anyway , you’re not being logical. Look, they’re just chickens, mate! They’re like, the size of my shoe. A bear ? It’s like, twice as big as a human, and basically one-hundred times stronger, too. You would not take a bear.”

“I would !” James exclaims, shoving Sirius off of him with a loud laugh. “With the right weapon, you could totally take a bear. The chickens would be climbing all over you and biting you, and let me tell you mate, that shit hurts —my uncle has a farm, I fed them once. They tried to eat me ! And that was only, like, five.”

“Oh piss off , Mr. My-Ego-Is-So-Big-I-Need-A-Victorian-Mansion-To-Contain-It.”

“ Oi ! My ego is perfectly reasonable, seeing as I am a lovely miracle baby with great grades and a three-year winning streak in football.”

“‘ Miracle baby’ .” Sirius scoffs. “Laying it on a bit thick there, Prongs, no?”

James hums, pretending to actually consider it for a good minute. “Yeah, no, I don’t think so.”

“You’re such an arrogant prick.”

“Wanker.”

“Tosser.”

“Cunt.”

“Bit-” Sirius starts, but stops when he feels a buzzing between them. “Well look at that. The air is electric between us, baby!” He croons, smacking his lips obnoxiously. James shoves him away with another laugh. 

“Sod off. Is that yours or mine?”

Sirius hums, patting his pockets. “Me.” He pulls his phone out, frowning when he sees it.

“Who?” James asks casually, propping himself up on his elbow. “I thought Reg only called on Sundays.”

“Me too.” Sirius agrees quietly, finger hovering over the button. Look, he knows he’s kind of a shitty brother, alright? Abandoning his little brother and barely calling, but he asked Regulus to come with him— begged —but Regulus was and always will be a stubborn prick. Sirius thought it was stupid when Regulus opted to stay with their terribly abusive parents just for friends . Sirius couldn’t imagine meeting someone you love so much you’d be willing to live in agony for. 

That was before James. Too late, but he gets it now. If James was in France, Sirius would probably have stayed. 

If only the wedge hadn’t been cemented by Sirius’ train ticket the next day, and an explosive fight at his send-off dinner party. 

He’s trying, really, but it’s hard. It’s hard, when he can hear Regulus on the other end, sounding like he’d rather be anywhere else than making stilted conversation. Relationship mending is fucking difficult , when you only have thirty-minute calls once a week, and pretty much everything is a no-touch topic. Sirius loves his little brother, he wants to be in his life, but sometimes he feels like he doesn’t want that more than he despises his parents and loves the Potters.

He thinks that’s probably the part that makes him a shitty brother. 

With a breath, he presses answer. If Reggie’s calling, of his own free will, then Orion must’ve finally bit the bullet or something. It has to be serious to warrant a call.

The first thing he hears is frantic, furious French. Sirius’ first language is French. The majority of his life has been spent speaking French. Not even he can really understand what’s coming out of his brother’s mouth. All he knows is something is wrong . Like, wrong wrong .

“James. Get out.” Sirius orders sharply. James sends him a worried look, but scrambles away dutifully. Sirius switches to French. “Regulus, slow down. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Okay? Okay ?” Sirius hears a full on sob on the other end. To say he’s worried sick out of his mind is an understatement. “How could I possibly be okay , Sirius? It’s all your fault! It’s all your fault! I hate you ! I hate you ! How could you do this to me? I hate you !”

“Reggie,” Sirius exhales, fisting his shirt over his heart, which is working overtime. “Regulus, breathe, what’s wrong, Reggie? What’s wrong?”

There’s a long moment of silence, punctuated by heaving breaths and sobs. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong . Because of you- you- you can’t be a- you can’t do your fucking duty, Sirius! You’re slacking off with that stupid fucking Potter boy and dicking around like a fucking idiot! Don’t you see? You’re acting fucking worthless!” Regulus screeches, and something crashes to the ground on his end. “It’s all your fault! They’re sending me to England for you! To- to England , because of you! I hope you’re fucking happy , Sirius, because you’re ruining my life !” Another crash. “I hope you’re fucking happy . Fuck you !”

The line goes dead. Sirius stares blankly at his wall for what could be hours. His head is reeling . The room is spinning. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck?

You’re acting fucking worthless . That’s something for Walburga to spit. That’s something he’s built up defences against. That’s something that basically bounces right off of him, because she’s her , and once he saw what real family was, he stopped giving two flying fucks about what she had to say about him. Sirius would’ve gotten himself disowned, if it weren’t for Reggie. If he didn’t know they’d forbid Regulus from seeing him. Walburga is a beast; a blood-sucking beast. She says shit like that all of the time. Regulus? He’s never heard his brother sound so betrayed and hateful towards him. Regulus has never really insulted him, despite the casual sibling ones. This hurts terribly. Regulus meant that. He meant that, and it gets Sirius right in the middle of his heart, stabs through over and over like a dagger with every beat of his pathetic heart. I hate you . I hate you .

They’re sending Regulus to England because of him? Because Sirius isn’t being a good heir? Honestly, Sirius forgot about that title. He forgot pretty much everything to do with his shitty life the moment he got to rub that ticket between his thumb and knuckle. His literal and metaphorical ticket out of there . He had never been so happy. Evidently, Regulus does not feel the same. They’re sending him to England, to do what? Lead Sirius on the right path? Convince him to go back? Sirius doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get why they’d send Regulus after him. 

All he knows is that Regulus hates him for it.

All he knows is that this could very well have been the final nail in the coffin of his relationship with his brother, and fuck if that isn’t the most terrifying thing he’s ever thought.

Chapter Text

Pandora bursts through the door, eyes darting around the room anxiously before they finally land on their target—Regulus. Her eyes scan him, taking him in in all of his pitiful glory. He knows his face is probably red and puffy from crying, his hair a total rat’s nest above his head. His clothes are wrinkled and dishevelled, and he honestly probably looks like he just got back from a year-long bender in this state. He feels like he was just hit by one of those huge American trucks hauling boxcars. He heard those were very dangerous. Fucking Americans; the only people worse than Englishmen. 

Regulus looks, feels, and likely smells like shit. Which is probably why Pandora rushes over to him immediately, cradling his face in her hands and cooing over him like a mother hen. “Oh, Regulus,” She sighs, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “What happened, Reg, what happened?”

Evan finds his spot next to Regulus on the bed, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him close so Regulus can rest his head on his shoulder. He’s warm and comforting. By Friday, he’ll never feel that again. At least not for another two years. That’s almost enough to get him to start crying again; his nose stinging in that tell-tale sign. This time, he holds them at bay, even though they blur his vision and he knows Pandora can see. She gently lowers herself on his other side, careful fingers carding through his hair. They’re tag-teaming him. It’s almost funny, to be fussed over in equal measure by two people. It should probably be overwhelming, especially for him considering he usually hates physical touch. He just can’t make it, when they always touch so gently and lovingly, even when they’re trying to be rough. It’s not a crime to want to be loved, even though apparently the universe thinks that for Regulus, specifically, it is. 

“They’re sending me away.” He whispers. He notices that Evan’s grip on his waist tightens just for a split second. He doesn’t comment on it. Pandora’s fingers stutter on their way through his hair. 

“Where?” Pandora murmurs calmly, fingers resuming like nothing happened.

“England. With Sirius. Because he- he can’t be a good fucking heir.” Regulus sobs out, finally cracking. It’s not fucking fair . None of it is. It shouldn’t be his fault Sirius is a dumbass. It shouldn’t be his responsibility. Sirius is supposed to be the one guiding him , protecting him — he’s the big brother. If he didn’t want Regulus relying on him, he shouldn’t have fucking acted like his bonus parent for half of their fucking lives. “He’s- he’s getting in trouble. They want me to go put him on the right path. How am I supposed to put him on the right path? It’s so fucking stupid . Fucking stupid .”

“Reg..” Evan sighs sadly. “How long?”

“The rest of school. Can you fucking believe that? It’s such bullshit , Evan. It’s not fucking fair. What did I do to deserve this shit?” Regulus cries. He’s probably getting Evan’s shirt absolutely disgusting with snot and tears. He can’t even care, can’t even pull himself together. He remembers he was kind of like this—ironically—when Sirius left, too. He’s kind of always been pathetic about change; in 3rd year, Pandora had to talk him down from a meltdown because their teacher went on maternity leave for the remainder of the school year, and the sub acted absolutely nothing like her. The first day of secondary school, when everything was big and different and he was basically thrown into the deep end of being all on his own. He has never, not once in his life, ever been okay about anything new. And that was shit like a different flavour of toothpaste —anything but mint fucking sucks, and you can argue with the wall—not moving to another country and learning a new fucking language. Regulus Black was not made for change; the wire in other people’s brains that makes them okay with that was crossed with him. Or, maybe he just never got it, honestly. 

“It’s not that bad!” Pandora tries, rubbing his arm soothingly. “It’s just a train ride away, right? We can visit on breaks and stuff. We will . I’ll threaten the Potters with bodily harm if they say no.” She declares, and Regulus knows she’s serious. Pandora has never, not once in her life, lied to someone she cares about. Honestly, it’s fucking insane . She says she just doesn’t do it, like it’s easy. Says the truth is the truth, and she doesn’t see the point in sugar-coating anything or hurting people with lies. 

“What if we forget each other? Or we just drift apart? I don’t- I can’t lose you guys. I can’t .”

“You won’t. We won’t, Regulus, we’ve known you our whole lives. I could never forget you, don’t even insinuate that.” Pandora scolds seriously, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at her. “Regulus Arcturus Black, we will never forget you.”

The thing is, Regulus wants to believe that. He wants to believe it more than anything in the world. Because Pandora believes it, and Pandora never lies. But distance changes things. He’s seen distance change things, seen daily calls turn weekly, seen excited dials perfectly on time turn to him having to call otherwise it wouldn’t happen, enthusiastic and detailed accounts of things as mundane as fucking grocery shops turn to weasling out the fact that Sirius got a fucking boyfriend two months after the fact. Out of sight, out of mind, is real , and it’s happened to him, and it’s going to happen again. Pandora and Evan will call daily for maybe a few weeks—they’re better than Sirius—but eventually, school will start and life will get hectic and they’ll be busy, and eventually he’ll get the ‘ hey, Regulus, I’m so sorry but I just don’t have time anymore ’ text, and he’ll find out Evan met the love of his life when he gets the invite to his wedding or through Instagram, and he’ll find out that Pandora has a child because of a facebook announcement, and they’ll turn into those friends who text you on birthdays and comment congratulations, but do nothing more. They’ll also probably find another friend, one who fits the mould much better and completes their trio again, without batshit parents and bruises; someone who can go out whenever and laugh and smile easier. 

They can promise to stay in touch, everyone does. He promised to talk to kids from primary school over the summer, but eventually all of those matches burnt out and by the time school came again, they were just strangers. Promises are fickle, and Regulus knows that when he boards that train, he’s saying goodbye to the best friends he’s ever had for good. He doesn’t want that. Everyone always leaves, and when he finally thought he found the two people in the world who wouldn’t, he learns he’s going to be moving to a fucking island. Terribly ironic.

“Regulus,” Evan hums, turning his face into Regulus’ hair and clutching him like he knows. Like he knows it’s the last time. Like he knows nothing will be the same. It fucking sucks . It fucking sucks . If not even Evan Rosier has faith, then what’s the fucking point of even starting daily calls, what’s the point of making promises, what’s the point of those plans about getting an apartment together? What’s the point of anything? “We’re not Sirius.”

“What?” Regulus wheezes. He can’t breathe.

“We aren’t Sirius. We’re not gonna drift away, we’re not gonna leave you, we’re not gonna replace you, okay? There’s only one Regulus Black, and he’s mine forever. You’re gonna be the best man at my wedding, and Panda’s, and you’re going to be the godfather to her future kids— mine if I ever change my mind about them—and we’re going to be old and grey, sitting on that damn picnic blanket and watching the sun set. You will never be an obligated weekly phone call, Regulus. Not to us.”

“Yes,” Pandora agrees immediately, resting her head on Regulus’ shoulder with a barely audible sniff. When he looks over, her eyes are shiny but bright with such beautiful hope it almost single-handedly manages to cause all of Regulus’ insecurity to turn to ash right then. Her smile is small, but not sad. Not mourning. She’s not mourning what they had, because she knows they’ll have it again. “We’re in the stars, Regulus. I can feel it—we’re meant to be. But- but look at me, Regulus.” Pandora asks. ‘ Written in the stars’ has sort of become their thing over the years, because that’s always how Pandora describes them when asked. She’s very adamant about fate and soulmates, and says they’re hers, so when she pulls that card he can’t help but comply. “You have to fight for it, too. If you genuinely don’t believe it’ll work, it won’t. We have to believe together. We- we have to do this together. You’ve gotta fight for us, Regulus, tell me you’ll fight for us.”

Maybe. 

Maybe they will. Regulus isn’t so sure, but time will tell, and he’ll make an effort. He’s going to fight tooth and nail for this, and if it does rip from his hands, it’ll be bloody and scratched until it’s unrecognisable. 

“Okay.” If he can’t hope for himself, he’ll hope for Pandora, because she deserves to not be let down or given up on. He’ll hope for Evan, whose smile is so comforting it could make marching to his death feel relaxing.

“Okay?” Pandora and Evan ask at the exact same time—fucking creepy, they are—so happy and hopeful Regulus feels eight again, when nothing was wrong and life was bright. 

“I’ll fight.” Regulus agrees quietly.

Hope is a fickle, temporary thing, but it’s so nice to feel.

—

Pandora and Evan don’t leave his side. Not for a single second. He has to fight for a damn bathroom break, because they’re so insistent on spending every waking second with him. They’ve all agreed to pretend it’s because they want to relive Regulus’ favourite parts of France before he has to leave, but really they’re all just kids who haven’t known even a day apart since they met at five. They’re all scared, maybe not for the end of their friendship, but for the way things will change. Because they will. They won’t see each other every day, their homework won’t be the same, they won’t be a few blocks away at any given time. The move will change their friendship, and they’ll have to adapt. Regulus knows that they’re all equally nervous and all fucking terrified of the future. 

Pandora snaps so many fucking pictures she runs out of storage in her phone—she has a shit ton of storage—and has to use Evan’s. 

Evan is painfully overcompensating for the melancholy that hangs over them like a storm cloud by being so positive and happy it actually hurts. 

Regulus’ smile gets harder to keep genuine the longer they’re out.

All of them, collectively, ignore the gigantic elephant in the room, sucking the air from their lungs and draping over them like a depressing blanket no matter where they are. They joke and laugh and poke fun at each other like this is just an average day. They walk arm-in-arm around every inch of the town long past when their feet are terribly sore and aching, taking up the entire sidewalk shamelessly and hissing at anyone who dares look at them badly.

They visit their favourite shops and endlessly annoy shopkeepers by trying on so many outfits they lose count—performing ridiculous moves and donning terrible accents for each—and leaving without having purchased a single thing. They talk loudly and talk shit about anything and everyone. They make fun of Englishmen and their stupid accents and lives. They spend actual hours in a printing office at the end of the day, looking through both phones and deciding which photos they want to print out—so many the poor old man at the counter looks barely a string away from a mental breakdown—and having to buy a black box for each of them to carry their chosen prints.

They buy corny friendship rings—at the insistence of Regulus, who did not like the stupid necklaces Pandora suggested (nobody wanted the ‘friends’ third of the heart, because you couldn’t tell it was a heart when it was alone)—engraved with ‘ written in the stars’ per Pandora’s request as a compromise. They each buy a book from their favourite bookstore that interests all of them, that way they can exchange every time they meet. They reminisce on their endless childhood antics. They buy cheap wine and so many fucking pastries, desserts, and fruit it’s impossible to make a dent by the end of the day. They miss the sunset, but the stars are still so beautiful when they finally make it to the meadow they can't find it in themselves to be very disappointed. 

They lay out their feast and finally break down, sobbing to each other with cake-stuffed mouths about how much they’re going to miss each other, how much they love each other, how fucking sad they are even though they know they’ll still be friends. They hug and cry and weave more flowers into each other’s hair—which Regulus gently sets into the black box with everything else when he finally has to take them out. They lay on the blanket, hands entwined, holding so tightly. Holding so hard it’s almost like they believe they can stop what’s about to happen to them by sheer force of will. 

Staring up at the stars, three meaningless beings hold each other. They don’t matter, won’t last past their allotted time on the Earth, but their bond will. If Regulus stares hard enough, holds tight enough, he can feel himself slip away until he’s finally nameless and boundless again. He’s just a boy, with his two best friends, delaying the inevitable.  Delaying what he knows is coming, feels coming, is hopeless to stop. 

They stay, awake and clutching each other, until the sun has risen. Until a missed sunset turns to a witnessed sunrise. Until with the gentle cascade of gradual light, comes their names again, and their lives. Until with the light comes the clarity. Until they silently pack their things, no longer relieved of their stress like they usually are, and instead feeling much, much heavier with the knowledge that this is now the final day, and they won’t see each other after this. That with the meaningless dinner he has to attend, the last people he will see sending him off wouldn’t give less of a shit whether or not his train went off the rails and killed him. That he’ll spend the day being nagged and degraded by his mother, told how worthless and pathetic he is, how he’s not standing straight enough or his handshake isn’t firm enough.

That yesterday was their final day before everything goes to shit. Their hands wander constantly. They help fold up the blanket—not a three-man job but they make it one—they collect their trash together. They touch each other’s hands, backs, shoulders, faces. They exchange sad smiles and stare at each other with longing already, not wanting to miss a millisecond of their increasingly limited time together yet already mourning each other’s presence. Dramatic? Yes. But they’re teenagers, so drama is kind-of their whole thing.

None of them are ready to say goodbye when there’s nothing more to do. When the food is packed up and the blanket’s in arm, and the wine bottle is in hand—they’re still passing it around, decently sloshed which is only making them sadder, actually, but they can’t stop now. They walk back arm-in-arm, murmuring softly to each other and swaying. Halfway, things go back to being funny. Mostly because Evan trips over his own feet and full-out falls, practically going horizontal except for Regulus’ and Pandora’s grip on him, which rightfully makes them lose their shit, and then they’re all on the ground outside of a closed coffee shop, cackling with laughter at an ungodly hour and not giving a shit about whoever lives upstairs, because they’re young and they’re sad and their time is limited. 

They laugh and laugh and laugh some more, going breathless and gasping for breath between soundless cackles, in the way only the best friends can get. Regulus feels forever. He feels like maybe , maybe maybe maybe , this friendship will pass the test of time, because this is built on a sturdy foundation of endless love, trust, and friendship. Regulus’ and Sirius’ relationship was teetering precariously on a single leg for a while before he left, with Sirius’ increasing misbehaviour and Regulus’ refusal to admit his parents didn’t love them like they were supposed to. His insistence that Sirius was the problem, and if he’d just be good , they’d let up. They’d be nicer. They’d love them again. 

It’s probably not true. Regulus has had sixteen years to finally get that through his thick skull, but he’s still not ready to admit it. He’s still, even when they’re sending him away, grasping at straws to convince himself this is what’s best for him, even though it doesn’t feel like it is. They just want him to be the best version of himself, even if they don’t do it quite right. Even if, in the process, he has to bury everything that makes him him . He isn’t good enough anyway. 

Evan and Pandora love him for him. They are true love, wholesome and bright. His parents’ love is barbed and rough, but are they not both love ? Is his parents’ love not just a sick twisted version, tainted by the abuse they themselves endured? Love is love is love, in all of the different versions and manifestations. Regulus isn’t ready to believe that his parents are cruel just because. That they don’t even love him after all. That he’s spent countless hours kneeling on rice and praying for God to fix him and his sinful ways, not because it would make him stronger, a better Black, but because they were the parents, and they could make him do that. That maybe they just did that because they want someone to feel how they felt. 

It’s a cycle, isn’t it? Round and round, round, round. That makes Regulus start giggling again.

“Hey! What the fuck is going on?” A woman shouts, making all three of them jump and then laugh even harder, because really why not at this point. Maybe that wine had a little more kick to it than they thought. A few seconds later, the door across the street bangs open, and a lady in a goddam robe and hair curlers runs out, waving her arms around wildly. 

“Oh shit ,” Evan laughs, wiping tears from his eyes as he scrambles to get up. “Oh shit ! Oh fuck! I owe her money! We gotta- we gotta go, shit.” He slams into the glass, patting at Regulus’ shoulder frantically, who's too busy cackling against poor Pandora to be of any help, much less think about getting up. 

“Fuck did you do, Ev?” Pandora wheezes, shoving at Regulus and almost sending both of them slamming their heads into the concrete.

“I- fuck,” Evan laughs, tripping again and slamming a hand into the glass to keep steady. He leaves behind almost a perfect hand print on the glass. Regulus knows the owners are gonna be fucking pissed , and that’s one of the funniest things tonight. Tomorrow these people are gonna be worried about stupid drunk teenagers leaving smudges on their glass, while Regulus’ll be fuck-knows-where England reuniting with his long lost brother and contemplating killing himself. Or no, he’s got the dinner party.. Is today today or tomorrow? What is today? Fuck . Regulus giggles again. The woman is fast-approaching. Scary looking. Well, as scary as she can look with bright blue cylinders in her hair and oh, she’s even got eye patches, fuck Regulus. Pandora leans too close, her nose touching Regulus’ cheek while she giggles. She points dazedly in the woman’s direction. Regulus giggles back, because he knows she’s seeing exactly what he is.

“Ev, you’re about to get your ass kicked by a- by a middle-aged woman with fucking- fucking curlers in her hair.” Regulus chuckles, leaning his head back against the glass with a shit-eating grin. “I think you can take her. You can take her, Ev.”

“Like fuck I can!” Evan hisses. “There’s fucking two of her and I can’t put one foot in front of the other! Fuck !”

Regulus laughs again. Feels like everything’s funny right now, probably because he’ll never laugh again. Laughs probably sound weird in England. Oh god, what if he develops a british laugh from- from fucking exposure or something? Oh, that’d be terrible. An absolute tragedy. He heard the food sucks, too. Ugh, it’s gonna be miserable, especially with fucking Sirius giggling with his new brother. That James kid or whatever. This is Regulus’ last night—day?—can’t this woman respect that? But also, it’d be an awesome parting gift to see Evan get his ass kicked. Well, maybe not. Maybe he’d like to get in a fight, though. Feel something. 

Sirius used to get into fights all the time. Told Regulus it was because he wanted to stick it to their parents. Regulus thinks he just wanted to for the same reason Regulus wants to now; because his life has gone to shit, and nothing feels like it has meaning anymore. 

“I fucking hate you guys.” Evan grumbles, leaning heavily against the glass and trying to play cool. It’s not really working; he looks like one strong wind would knock him right off of his feet. “Hey, Mrs. Duboi! How are you doing? You look lovely !”

“Evan Rosier! What on Earth do you think you’re doing making this much noise so early in the morning?” The woman demands angrily, pointing an accusing finger. 

“Uh, that’s a great question. Has anyone ever told you how smart you are?” Evan laughs nervously. 

“Don’t be a kiss-ass, Rosier. If you and your hooligan entourage aren’t out of my sight in ten seconds, I will be calling your father. I’m sure he’d love to know his son is stumbling around wasted at six in the morning. And you , Black, I know your parents will be very disappointed in your antics.”

“Oh, don’t be a party pooper.” Regulus rolls his eyes. “They won’t care; they’re deporting me tomorrow anyway.”

Mrs. Duboi frowns. “Oh yeah? Why on Earth would they do that?” She inquires sarcastically.

“My delinquent brother.” Regulus scoffs. “So, seeing as this is my last night in France, can we please just.. Let bygones be bygones or whatever? We’re sorry and we’ll- we’ll be quiet.”

There's a brief, awkward few moments of silence that make Regulus regret speaking, before she finally pipes up again. “I- oh, I’m.. I’m sorry, boy. Yes, yeah, I’ll just.. I’m sorry to see you go, Regulus.” She pats his head before backing up. “Just keep it down, yeah?”

“Yes! Yes, of course.” Evan agrees immediately. “Shut up Pandora.” He hisses, kicking her arm because she’s still wheezing. 

“Very well. I’m going back to bed, then.” Mrs. Duboi gives a small smile before backing away.

“And that’s how it’s done. I accept payment for my services.” Regulus smirks, raising his hand for Evan to pull him back up, which he does with a grunt. “Maybe if I just drink all day I won’t get a hangover? I can already feel my head starting to pound. Don’t think I can shake hands if I’m worried I’ll barf on their designer suits.”

Pandora giggles as Regulus helps her up. “That won’t be setting a good precedent, though, Regulus.”

“Fuck precedents. If I wanna be drunk off my ass for my farewell dinner, I’ll be drunk off my ass for my farewell dinner. Might as well try to level the punishment with the crime.” Regulus grins.

—

Three hours later finds Regulus in the study with his father. 

This is one of the monumental ways that Regulus and Sirius are different. Sirius deals with his trauma by being a dickhead and refusing to ‘conform’, regardless of the scale of punishment he has to face. Sometimes Regulus wonders if he does that so he doesn’t end up like Regulus: questioning in the late hours of the night if they’re really that bad afterall. If maybe, the discipline and the harsh words really are their twisted-beyond-recognition version of love like they claim.

The thing about abusive parents is that they’re not always abusive; it’s how they lure you in. They’ll degrade and spit on you, punch and punish, but then they’ll cook your favourite meal and brush a hand through your curls, and tell you it’s for your own good. That they just want to see you succeed in life. They’ll squeeze your hand so hard you feel your bones crunch when you get it wrong, but when you get it right, they’ll almost smile and clap you on the back. It’s not fulfilling, but they plant just the right amount of seeds to get you coming back for more, always eager to please, to seek out that half-smile with everything you have in the hopes that eventually it’ll turn into a full smile. 

They’ll reach over your shoulder in the mirror, and pinch your chin with a threatening stare that you meet in the mirror because you’re supposed to, and then remind you how an heir is supposed to act—because even though you’re not the heir, in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, the spare acts the heir; especially when the heir is a ‘disrespectful and worthless leech’ like his mother so eloquently puts it—but afterwards, she’ll smooth down the shoulder of your suit, and you’ll almost feel the love in the gesture. She’ll meet your eye again in the mirror, and mutter a ‘ make your name proud’ because she’ll never be proud of you, but maybe your last name will. You’ll breathe through your pounding head because the wine is wearing off, and you’ll almost swear her lips do something, but you can never be sure because you blinked right as it was happening. You’ll never know if you almost did it. You’ll never know if she meant ‘ make me proud’ instead, but couldn’t bring herself to say the words. You’ll never know.

That’s how they get you. That’s why Regulus will don the suit, and shake the hands with perfect pressure, and smile at people he’d rather take a hammer to the head of. That’s why Regulus tells Bellatrix he’s excited for a new start, and tells Narcissa this is his duty. That’s why he toasts to his ‘lovely parents with endless devotion to his studies and future’. That’s why he sits quietly to the right of his father, wearing a passive face because heirs don’t smile or frown at the dinner table. That’s why he eats the fucking food, and goes gentle on the wine—just enough to quiet the endless pounding in his head—despite swearing to Evan and Pandora that he would wreak havoc, because he doesn’t want to lose this almost-love. Because if he has to be a perfect spare, he’ll be a perfect spare. He’s seen how his mother looks when she talks about Sirius. Call him a traitorous piece of shit with fucked morals, but they’re his parents, and he’s not Sirius. He’s not loud, he’s not eccentric, he can’t stand the taste of smoke, he can’t stand up to his fucking parents, and the thought of that look of disgust being on her face when she talks about him makes him sick.. If he could bear it, he wouldn’t be going off to England tomorrow. It’s probably why Sirius wants nothing to do with him. 

Regulus knows they’re not good parents. He knows not everyone’s breathing hitches when they feel a shift in the air. Not everyone memorises the sound of everyone’s footsteps. Not everyone gets panic attacks when they realise they left the goddamn silverware out, or chose the wrong fork. Not everyone feels the phantom pain of rice digging into their knees for an hour because you were out late. Sirius does, and he came to the logical conclusion that they’re not good parents . But they don’t sneer at Regulus most of the time, and the punishments are warranted, because if he didn’t want to pick rice out of his knees, he should’ve kept a closer eye on the clock, right? All parents get mad about missed curfews; Pandora and Evan’s parents ground them. It’s different, but it’s also not.

It’s hard to hate them when he remembers a time when he sat against his mother’s knees while her delicate fingers brushed out his curls and the television was singing the alphabet. He knows she looked at him with love once. He remembers her eyes tracing his features, ‘ you have my eyes, Regulus’ , before they hardened. He remembers a time when she made him tea after a nightmare, and she was never one for physical affection, but she prepared his tea with plenty of sugar because it helped her calm down when she was a little girl, and her hands would bunch up his curls while she reminded him to sit up straight and keep his feet off of the chair before her hands set out to hurt instead of nurture, and she would purposely spill the scalding tea on him for waking her up. He’s not sure if he looks too much like her, or not alike enough. Maybe too much like his father. He’s not sure if she screams because he reminds her of herself at his age, because she swore she’d be better than her mother, and maybe she was, but she wasn’t better enough. Sirius will have kids and say the same thing, and maybe he’ll break the cycle. But Regulus has a feeling that eventually his hands will hurt and his eyes will harden. Like mother like son. 

He sees so much of himself in her, it’s been the cause of more than one breakdown. 

When the dinner is over and goodbyes have been exchanged, he’ll sit in his father’s study for an hour while Walburga lists every single thing he did wrong, and better improve next time. Regulus will thank her for bringing them to his attention, and promise to work on them. Walburga will ask him to stay one more moment when he attempts to stand. She’ll grab his chin, and she’ll stare at him. She’ll stare at him for more than a few seconds, without saying anything, like she’s looking for chinks in his armour—or maybe, if he was delusional he’d say she was taking an actual look at her sixteen year old son—before blinking and building up the same shields she’s taught Regulus.

She’ll say “Regulus Arcturus Black, do not disappoint us. Do not let our sacrifice be for nothing. Be worthy of the title of heir. Be worthy of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.”

And Regulus will nod, and leave the study. He’ll wonder, when Pandora and Evan sneak in through the window to lay with him one final time, if her mother used to tell her the same thing.

—

Sirius is nervous. James can tell, because his leg is shaking rapidly while he waits for Effie to finish up the dishes. What for, James can’t say. It’s most likely something about his brother, who’s finishing his final two years of school with them, but honestly, James doesn’t understand why he’s so scared. If he’s anything like Sirius, he’ll be awesome. James is pretty fucking excited, truth be told. He knows Monty is too, especially upon finding out this Regulus kid apparently adores books. Sirius is apparently so nervous that he called a family meeting . James has never been to a family meeting in his entire seventeen years of life. Their family meetings are dinners. If this tension is part of the whole family meeting thing, James does not want to do more, because he’s practically suffocating underneath the weight of anxiety. It’s like they’re having a fucking silent showdown, honestly, and James has never gone this long without saying something. His dad keeps massaging his stubble, which means he’s just as nervous about this as James. The anticipation is only making the whole thing worse, honestly, because it’s leaving them to fill in the blanks themselves. Never leave a Potter boy to fill in the blanks themselves, because the result will be an outrageous hypothesis that is so illogical you wonder if they ever graduated grade school. 

Suffocating silence, a clock ticking ominously from the corner of the room.

Yeah, James can’t take this. “Jesus Christ, Sirius, are you pregnant or some-”

“Sorry about that boys! Alright, I’m here for the family meeting now,” Effie’s smile turns tight as she takes in the energy in the study. Sirius insisted it be held here; something about his actual family, who are absolute pieces of shit if everything Sirius has said is true. The only reason Effie and Monty haven’t filed for custody is because Sirius refuses if his brother is still in the house. Now, though, he’s going to be out of the house, so James needs to start bringing it up again. He makes a mental note. “I hope you’re not pregnant, Sirius,” she chuckles, raising an eyebrow in faux challenge.

“I- no , I’m not pregnant.” Sirius blows out a nervous laugh, wiping his palms on his joggers. “I- it’s about- it’s about Regulus, okay?” He blurts, chewing on his lip. Sirius came to them with a lot of bad habits, and bad behaviour that needed to be put in line, and he’s still in the process of kicking a few; namely smoking—he’s not actually quitting, just saying he is because he thinks they’re idiots and can’t smell it on his clothes—and accepting help when he needs it. It was bad over there. Took a month for Sirius to believe they weren’t lying about not needing to wear formalwear to dinner. The entirety of summer for him to stop pleading and having panic attacks when he broke a glass. It breaks James’ heart to know he came from that, which is why he’s tried so hard to make Sirius feel at home here. Sirius is very tight-lipped about everything, so James is sure the things he knows are what Sirius deems ‘ not that bad’ which is terrifying considering everything James knows. Really, all he knows is that their punishments were unpredictable and torturous, and that their parents delighted in mind games. Sirius broke down one night in James’ bed the first week, because he was so scared about what they were going to do to his little brother when he wasn’t there to protect him. Again the next summer after coming back from a few days, reporting that he was practically a corpse when he visited, and it was horrific. Sirius said talking to Regulus was like talking to a worn-down robot, and ‘ you should’ve seen his eyes, James, dead ’. 

James is an optimist, so here’s to hoping that having Regulus away from those demons could get his spark back that Sirius so eagerly claims he used to have.

“Is everything okay?” Effie asks, frowning. 

“I..” Sirius sighs. “Okay, remember how I was when I first came here? Scared and misbehaving?”

“Yes.” James' mum says with a cringe. James coughs to hide his snort. 

“Well, Regulus will be a hundred-times worse , and he won’t look scared .” Sirius explains bluntly. “He never liked change, is in love with France, and wears a scowl on his face that makes grown men shiver. I’m fucking serious, Effie,” James chooses wisely not to make the joke at this time, “Regulus is.. He’s a pretentious dick, alright? And that’s when he’s in a good mood , which I’m afraid he is not in at the moment, considering he’s being torn away from his one true love.”

Monty reaches over and pats Sirius’ shaking leg, staring at him meaningfully. “Sirius, we know, and we can handle it. He’ll learn proper love again, I promise.”

“No,” Sirius insists, shaking Monty off of his leg with a determined glare. “Monty, when he found out he called me and screamed that I was worthless, he hated me, it was all my fault because I was slacking off with that ‘stupid Potter boy’, and I was ruining his life. He’s known me his whole life. I raised him. Now, Imagine what he’ll say to you , Effie, please , you have to brace yourselves. He has a knack for hitting exactly where it hurts. He sniffs out weaknesses—one of the only things our mother taught us—and he’s so- he’s so fucking brainwashed by their- by their bullshit.” Sirius finally breaks, letting out a quiet sob and covering his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. James is immediately out of his seat and pulling him into a tight hug. His parents follow right behind him, enveloping Sirius at all sides. 

“We understand, son, we understand.” Monty murmurs, running a hand through Sirius’ hair. Monty’s always been amazing at comforting; James swears his hugs can single-handedly slot all of your broken pieces back into place, and while he’s not the most outwardly affectionate with words, his love is so strong. You can feel the love when he helps you with your winter jacket or you see that book you mentioned once in passing sitting on your nightstand as you’re getting into bed. Monty’s love is in the genuine advice he gives you when you’re in trouble—the perfect contrast to Effie, who will listen and comfort you. The pair of them together can make anything okay again, which is probably why it only takes a few minutes for Sirius to pull himself together and mutter about being smothered so they all scoot a few inches away. 

“So, should we ditch the giant sign we were going to make?” Effie asks after a few seconds, a playful smirk on her face. “Because that means I learned ‘ welcome to the family, Regulus ’ in French for nothing.” She sighs in faux disappointment.

“Oh,” Sirius laughs wetly, wiping at his eyes with a small grin. “He’d have your heads. As a native French speaker, when he screams at you in French it is fucking terrifying .” He genuinely shivers.

All four of them burst into loud laughter, dissolving into childish pushing and shoving and taunting shouts. James wonders, distantly, where Regulus would be in this scenario. He supposes he’ll be finding out tomorrow. 

—

James can’t sleep. Regulus will be here in approximately nine hours, and it’s all he can think about. Finally meeting this mysterious little asshole brother of Sirius’. Will his eyes be the same grey-ish blue as Sirius’? Or will they be bluer? Greyer? Does he wear his hair long like Sirius, or is his cut respectably short? Is his hair wavy or curly? Will he be tan or pale? Will he just be an asshole for a few weeks, or is he more of the grudge-holding type who can stay angry for months bordering on years? Is he as fucked up as Sirius is? Is he more fucked up? What happened in that house while he was there all alone? Is he going to think James is an annoying prick who goes around stealing brothers? Is he going to take part in their pranks, or will he turn a cold shoulder? Or, even worse, will he snitch?

Basically, James is fucked, because his brain is going a mile-a-minute with questions and it’s showing no signs of slowing. He’s had his eyes shut for over an hour, and all he’s accomplished is mental collages of features for this mysterious Regulus Black, and none of them look right, because he knows fuck-all about this kid. Basically all he knows is he’s going to be hot—those Black genes are something else —but that hasn’t gotten him very far, and is probably an inappropriate train of thought about his best mate’s little brother. Oh, and he’s a pretentious asshole, but James is very worried that he’s into pretentious mean assholes, considering his ridiculously long crush on Lily Evans that he just got over two years ago, and he needs to stop thinking about if he’s going to be into Sirius’ baby brother, for fuck’s sake .

With a groan, James gives up on sleep for the moment, eyeing the ‘2:47 ’ on his alarm clock with disdain as he resolves himself to fixing a hot cup of tea instead. Then , maybe he’ll be able to relax and stop thinking about Sirius’ little brother. He hasn’t even met the boy, and he’s already obsessing over him like a total creep. He sighs as he gently eases his door open, peaking around as if he’d get in trouble for being up at this hour—he wouldn’t; who do you think he got his borderline insomnia from—because it gives him an adrenaline boost. His socked feet quietly thump against the hardwood floor in the darkness of the hallway, only illuminated by his phone screen on full brightness. When he peaks into the kitchen through the doorway, he finds it surprisingly empty. He figured Sirius would probably be sleepless as well, considering all of his complicated feelings towards his little brother, but at the moment he’s nowhere to be found.

Just in case, he pulls two mugs out of the cabinet in preparation instead of one; if Sirius doesn’t show by the time they’re done brewing, he’ll bring them to his door. The likelihood of Sirius Black being asleep the night before a stressful event is nonexistent, so he’s probably just riding it out in his room if not the kitchen. It’s kind of their thing to make two mugs if they think the other is up. Actually, most of their bonding came from their late-night discussions illuminated only by the soft light of the stove hood, when secrets fall past your lips easier because nothing feels tangible at night, and with the knowledge almost nobody else is up except for you, it feels safe and tranquil.

James leans against the counter after he fills the kettle, scrolling mindlessly through various feeds. 

Funnily enough, the idea comes to him right after he likes a stupid pug meme. With a bated breath, he clicks open a search engine and types Regulus Black .

Articles about his family’s fortune and business ventures, charity gallas, public appearances. The most recent is a short article about them sending Regulus over here, to England, to finish schooling. Nothing of note; nothing that mentions the boy himself or even really goes beyond ‘ second-born son of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black ’—fucking stupid name—after he google translates the headlines. There are a few pictures, though, of him standing to the left of his father or mother, blank-faced and suited up even as young as seemingly five. In all of them, you can practically feel the tension between all of the family members, how eager they are to wrench their hands off of each other’s arms or shoulders. There’s nothing very recent—Sirius says he’s about a year and a half younger, so he’d be sixteen or seventeen and the latest publication that Regulus visually appears in was published a few years ago, around the time Sirius moved out, unfortunately. The Regulus in the pictures has not a hair out of place, and his eyes give absolutely no emotion to the camera, much less his face. None of the Black family are smiling, actually, in any of the photos. Sirius’ hair is a bit past his ears in most of them—probably as long as they allowed him to go—and Regulus’ is cut close to his head, barely letting his curls form. He looks sad, honestly. But at least he looks something , because according to Sirius, he looks nothing now. 

James almost gives up until he crosses an Instagram link, with a user ‘pandoras_box ’ and a profile picture of a girl with shockingly blonde hair—it’s practically white. She’s gorgeous, and the picture shows her leaning back from the camera, winking and smiling, behind her a boy who looks exactly like her with short hair who sticks his tongue out, propping himself up in a boy with dark hair’s lap. The dark-haired boy has a wine bottle raised to his lips, and he’s just turning his head to look at her at the moment the photo was taken, lips parted and eyebrows slightly raised. The tease of grey eyes are familiar, and the hair is longer—to the ears and curling at the base of his neck. It’s almost hard to recognize him as Regulus, when he’s not ramrod straight in a tailored suit and not a hint of a smile on his face. This must be Sirius’ Reggie . He’s leaning back, relaxed and free, atop a picnic blanket and surrounded by a field of stunning flowers, golden sun filtering through the tree leaves and making his eyes sparkle. It’s so fucking beautiful, that James takes way too many seconds just staring at it, and the way the light hits his clothes and his hair. He is fucking beautiful. The caption reads ‘ les âmes sœurs ne sont pas que des amants ’ which translates to ‘ soulmates are not always lovers’ , and beneath that there is a tagged mention of @rosiestrosier and an untagged mention of Regulus; just the first name.

Against his better judgement, James quickly screenshots it. It’s beautiful, alright? He saves it for the cinematography or whatever helps him sleep at night.

There’s a brief exchange in the comments, which takes years off his life copying and pasting into google translate and then fixing grammar so it makes sense, but roughly ends up as:

@rosiestrosier : I am making this my wallpaper. Career in cinematography when?

       @pandoras_box : when Reg lets me borrow his camera

              @rosiestrosier : So never, then?

                     @pandoras_box : *thumbs-up emoji* don’t tell him I posted this.

                            @rosiestrosier : And die? I am good.

James doesn’t gather much from it, and the rest of the comments he doesn’t even try considering the girl gives each a maximum of three-worded replies or just emojis. The kettle whistles before he can sleuth anymore, so he sets it down on the counter while he pours the water into the mugs, steaming and filling his nose with the pleasant aroma of chamomile. His muscles relax just from the smell alone. Maybe it’s a Pavlov thing. His mom made it for him his whole life; after nightmares or just restless nights, sometimes just because she could and James wanted some before bed. He adds honey to both, and begins to gently stir—opposite directions just for fun. Strangely, still no sign of-

“Morning.”

Nevermind. Sirius almost scares James out of his skin, making him drop the silverware—which makes a way-too loud clunk in the gentle and quiet atmosphere James has procured for himself—and flip around with wide eyes. “Jesus fuck, Sirius,” James gasps out in a murmur, clutching his heart dramatically. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Sirius—smug bastard—smirks in his plaid pyjama pants and band t-shirt. “I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not, so,”

James laughs quietly, wordlessly passing Sirius his mug as he takes a deep breath to calm his heart—which yes, is genuinely racing. For all of his loud bravado, he is actually a very jumpy person. Sirius and Peter make fun of him endlessly for it, but in his defence, it was mostly with how eerily quiet Sirius walked around the house; he never creaked a single floorboard or made even a dull thump when walking around the house for the first few months he stayed with them, and then he’d say something in his never-quiet voice and startle you to death without fail. He made it a game when he realised it got under James’ skin, because of course he did. For a week straight, James was scared so many times—around corners, beneath tables, right behind him, in his bed, nowhere was safe—he was worried he might develop a heart condition. Now, of course, Sirius practically stomps around just because he can, and James is a supportive friend who cheers him on no matter what. Unless, of course, Sirius wants to scare him. Then he summons his uncanny ability like he just did.

Sirius smiles around his cup, but it’s strained. James thinks he probably knows why.

“Nervous?” He asks softly, looking away so that Sirius isn't stressed about being observed—he gets like that sometimes; just can’t stand the thought of being perceived, especially when he’s uncomfortable. That’s why when they talk about heavy things, James always keeps his gaze steadily on the ceiling, or a poster, or in this case, the grocery list. 

“ Yeah ,” Sirius breathes out like he’s been holding it. “Yeah, I.. I have no idea what it’s gonna be like, y’know? If he’ll finally be different when they’re not breathing down his neck.” He admits. James sees his fingers tapping a beat against his cup while he stares at the floor tiles. “I.. Honestly, I’m fucking terrified he won’t be, and that’ll just be him, now. That me leaving him alone in that house caused irreparable damage.”

“It’s not your fault, though. He could’ve left, y’know?”

Sirius snorts bitterly. “Nah, he’s always loved France and those weird little twin-friends of his more than me, I think, but we were close, James, before. Now, he looks at me like I’ve betrayed him. It’s- it’s fucking terrible, mate. What if, I mean what if he just hates me now? What if I can’t fix it? I always fixed it.” Sirius’ voice breaks on the final two words. James immediately sets his cup on the counter and steps forward to pull Sirius into his arms, holding him tightly. 

“You’ll fix it, mate,” he promises. “I know you will. He doesn’t hate you. It’s complicated, yeah? But he’ll need you when he gets here—you’re the only one who gets what he’s gonna go through—and I know that you’re gonna repair your relationship. You can do a lot more damage control if he lives in the same house as you than you can during a stilted weekly phone call.”

Sirius cries into his shoulder, hands clutching the back of his hoodie tightly. He nods shakily. 

They stand like that for a while, even after Sirius’ breathing levels out, just holding each other like they’re sliding their pieces back into place one minute at a time. Hugs with Sirius have always felt that way; like they’re repairing your broken pieces and glueing you back together with the scent of floral body wash and a hint of that expensive French cologne he swears by. 

Eventually, Sirius’ soft raspy voice breaks through the silence. “Oh, and James?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s very mean, and I know you’ve got a few wires crossed so you like that shit. Listen, if I catch you falling in love with my brother, I will throw you off of a fucking cliff, mate, yeah?”

James swallows. Well, that certainly wasn’t what he was expecting, but it works too, he supposes. “Yeah, okay, then.”

That night, they retreat into Sirius’ room and finally do fall asleep, curling into each other with their legs tangled together. One of the only times James’ brain slows down.

—

The train station isn’t very crowded, surprisingly, but that might have more to do with the fact it’s a weekday than anything else. To his right, his mom and dad are being disgusting with each other, flirting and giggling with their heads close together like they’re teenagers. To his left, Sirius is fiddling with his jewellery and bouncing on the balls of his feet while breathing in sets of ten, face scrunched with anxiety. James keeps a close eye on him from the corner of his eye, worried about the very likely possibility that if they have to wait anymore he’s going to have a panic attack.

James’ least favourite thing to do is wait. From the time he knew what it was to be bored, he despised it. It’s- well, it’s boring . It sucks to have nothing occupying your mind, simply being left to your own devices while life trudges along beside you, offering no solution. This is a very boring activity, but James isn’t sure if he should be embracing the boredom because his life is about to be flipped on it’s head or not. James was never one to be selfish, or not share.

A kid on the playground’s truck broke? He had one, and didn’t even falter when he offered it, because he can always get another one anyway, so it’s not a big deal. His parents want to host a French boy with a bad home life? There’s plenty of love to go around. The result of growing up in a privileged and loving household, means he’s never worried about not having enough of something in his life. His parents love Sirius like a son, and they don’t love him any less. He gives his truck away to a kid, he’ll get a new one. Scarcity wasn’t really a thing he was ever exposed to, and he’ll admit he’s a bit spoiled with luxuries and maybe was a little piece of shit in his early teens because of it. Not at the fault of his parents; that’s kind of just what happens when you’re raised like that. It took him a while to realise not everyone had what he did, and not everyone could give and give and still have just enough.

That some kids at his private school were on scholarship, and worried about paying the water bill or eating that night, so it wasn’t nice to terrorise them just because they kept asking about a pencil they lended you in the previous class. 

It took meeting Sirius, and listening to his horrific stories, for it to be truly nailed into him. That the life he lives is very privileged, and there are things he won’t ever understand even if he tries. That his voice shouldn’t always be heard, because it silences the people he’s trying to speak for. He likes to think that with the help of Sirius, he’s a better person now. Because his parents could love him and spoil him endlessly, but they can’t—and shouldn’t —give him the experience of wondering where the next paycheck will come from. He will never understand what it’s like to be poor, because thanks to his parents he can never work a day in his life and still be set forever. He does work a shitty minimum-wage half-time job during the school year sometimes with Sirius at his own request, because he doesn’t want to be as ignorant as he was again. He hopes it can keep him humble enough , and he would like to hold his own job and not even need his parents’ help when he’s actually an adult. So, he won’t ever understand, but he doesn’t have to in order to be respectful and acknowledge his privilege.

“ Reggie !” Sirius yells loudly, gesturing wildly and startling the people around them as well as his parents. James glances up eagerly, scanning the dispersing crowd for this mysterious boy. “ Regulus !”

Finally, James catches him, shoving through with a scowl—just as Sirius described. He is- fucking hell , he looks even better in person than in that museum-worthy picture on Instagram, which James didn’t even know was fucking possible. He’s holding one of his wired earbuds in his hand, hauling a suitcase behind him and an instrument case on his shoulder, and he is fucking gorgeous. Pale, fair skin, stormy grey eyes, loose black curls falling down to his ears, and glaring unimpressed at everyone who dares bump his shoulder or stand in his way. James has to physically close his mouth, which fell open when he laid eyes on this angel-upon men ethereal being walking towards them. Seriously, his beauty cannot be understated, and he only gets hotter the closer he gets; James notices a light splattering of freckles on his cheek, the determined and sharp set of his jaw, the way his hair curls up at the nape of his neck, the flex of his lean but sturdy muscle, the expensive-looking silver watch on his left hand that glints in the light, the plush pink of his lips, the singular simple band ring on his right hand, the way his simple black t-shirt and black slacks hug his figure professionally and elegantly-

Oh, James is screwed. Don’t fall in love with him ; what else is there to do? Sirius was absolutely right, James has a thing for douchebags. This boy radiates pretentious snob from a thousand kilometres away. He’s so fucking hot.

Sirius tackles the mean boy in a tight hug. “Reggie! Tu m'as tellement manqué, étoile. Comment ça a été? Le voyage en train a-t-il été horrible?”

“Très. Où est le chauffeur?” The boy asks, and his voice. Smooth and heavily accented just perfectly. He points at James, and his heart skips a beat. “C'est lui? Il semble très heureux d'être à mon service.” But then he pushes his luggage towards him and waves a hundred pounds at him, and suddenly James has a feeling there’s been a slight miscommunication. Not that he wouldn’t be more than happy to lug this pretty boy’s suitcase anywhere and everywhere, and would gladly accept a hundred pounds any day, but with the use of chauffeur , he highly doubts that he’s just being asked.

“Jesus Christ, Reggie.” Sirius scoffs, snatching the bill from his brother’s hand, which he will most definitely pocket and Regulus will never see again as his form of penance. “Non, c'est pas lui le chauffeur! C'est mon ami, James. Frère d’accueil.” Regulus frowns at this, and Sirius continues. “Il n'y a pas de chauffeur. Seulement eux. Sois reconnaissant.”

“‘ Sois reconnaissant. ’” Regulus rolls his eyes. “Comment pourrais-je être reconnaisant alors que j'ai été arraché à tout ce que j'aime à cause de toi? Va te faire voir.” Regulus shoves Sirius away and glares straight at James. Bad first impressions are never good, but whatever is going on currently can certainly be salvaged.

Sirius clears his throat, glancing away to mask the hurt James knows threatens to show on his face at the cold greeting—whatever was said. Within a second, he’s back to wide grins. “Sorry about that. He thought you were the driver, James,” he snickers. “I told you he was a snob.”

“Oh. Oh !” James laughs. “That’s actually hilarious. Sirius, tell him he’s hilarious. Does he speak any English?”

“No,” Sirius answers before turning to his brother. “James pense que tu es hilarant.”

Regulus smiles. See? Already making amends. “Sirius, dit à James d'aller se faire foutre.”

Sirius hesitates, smile flickering. “Uh, he says thank you, James.” He translates. Then he mutters something in Regulus’ ear with a stern expression that has him rolling his pretty eyes again. “Regulus, Euphemia—Effie—Monty, and James.” He says, pointing to each of them in turn. Regulus’ face stays stagnant and he stays unmoving. “ Dis bonjour .”

Regulus heaves a sigh. “ Oui , oui. Eh, hello , Mrs. Potter. Mr. Potter. Potter boy.” He greets dryly, giving each of them a firm handshake like he’s doing them a favour just by touching them. James tries not to take offence when he wipes his hand on his trouser leg when he’s done. “Assez bien pour toi? Je dois appeler Evan et Pandora pour leur dire à quel point l'Angleterre a été terrible jusqu'à présent.” He asks Sirius.

Sirius pinches his nose. “ Oui , sure . You are insufferable.”

“Oh? Je suis insupportable?” Regulus demands, which makes Sirius go wide-eyed.

“You learned English?” He asks, grabbing Regulus’ arm. At Regulus’ confused frown, he adds “t'as appris l'anglais?”

“ Oh !” Regulus exclaims cheerfully, but then he goes deadpan again. “Non. Juste des insultes.” James doesn’t even need a translator for that one. This boy is already getting on his nerves in the best way. He’s so dismissive and arrogant, it’s wonderful. This is going to be extremely fun; James always has loved a challenge, and Regulus Black seems to absolutely hate his guts. 

“Well,” Effie chirps after a few seconds of awkward silence James didn’t even realise happened because he was busy staring at how the sun bounced off of Regulus’ hair, “Should we be going then?”

Sirius and Regulus seem to be in a very intense battle of wills through their eyes. By the looks of it, when Effie speaks, Sirius concedes victory with a clenched jaw and intense glare. Siblings seem very fun. “Yes.” He mutters with a huff. This earns the first genuine smile— okay , it’s barely even a quirk of a lip for a smirk—from Regulus, which is very beautiful, and James makes it a life goal to see the real deal eventually, because if it’s half as beautiful as Regulus himself, James may never be the same man again. 

As they all turn to leave, James chances one last look over his shoulder at Regulus. Sirius doesn’t miss it, unfortunately, saddling up to James and throwing an arm around his shoulder to bring their heads together, which is very normal for them, but James knows he’s in deep shit because of the clench of his best friend’s jaw. 

“You’re fuckin’ hopeless, mate. Give it a week for it to turn from endearing assholery to assholery assholery.”

James highly doubts that, but he nods anyway. Because if there’s one thing Sirius Black is known for, it’s making good on his promises, so James is going to stay away from tall ledges for the foreseeable future. He’s also going to make it his summer mission to befriend this mysterious Regulus Black, if it kills him. Which, judging by the look on his face, might actually be far more likely than he’s keen to admit.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, it has been a week, and James has to admit defeat to Sirius which is a true tragedy; never before heard of. The only upside is that those feelings of a developing crush have finally faded, he supposes, so he no longer has to avoid leaving the house with Sirius in fear of his life.

Listen, James doesn’t think he’s ever really disliked someone to the point of hating them, ever—not even Serverus Snape, who uses the line like a jump rope. But Regulus Black is toeing the line dangerously. When Sirius first came to live with them, he was scared and yes, a little rebellious, but he was sickeningly formal and polite when he wasn’t acting out. He was never mean to Effie and Monty, never damaged their things on purpose, and overall it was very obvious he was just waiting for the next shoe to drop. To be hit or screamed at, testing the waters with escalating outbursts. Eventually, Sirius learned. Rather quickly, too.

Regulus has not learned. And he is also making the ways Sirius acted out seem like child’s play compared to his. Where Sirius smoked in his room twice, Regulus has his bolted shut and screams in terrifying angry French at anyone who so much as dares to knock. James has seen him once since they came from the train station, and during that interaction James was quite literally spat on and sneered at. His crime? Asking Regulus if he was hungry—extremely valid, by the way, James is seriously concerned about how the fuck he’s eating—in the middle of the night when he creeped into the kitchen while James was brewing tea for himself and Sirius.

Not even Sirius has made a lick of progress, and he’s actually sat outside of his brother’s door for hours enduring his insults and French curses in silence. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t get angry, he just calmly says something in French whenever the boy takes a breath to prepare for more of his verbal assault. James doesn’t know how he does it. He has been told his whole life he has endless patience, an ungodly amount, and many more exaggerations. He cannot, for the life of him, tap into that supply for Regulus. There’s something about how utterly unlikable he is. James feels sick saying that, he really does, even just admitting it in his head makes his heart hurt, but it’s true. He’s told himself that he’s just struggling, he’s going through a big change, he comes from an abusive background, he’s said it all, Sirius has said it all, and yet every time he sees Sirius outside of Regulus’ door, he rolls his eyes.

The thing about Regulus is that nobody is safe from his wrath—not even James’ parents, who have taken to leaving a plate of food graciously outside of his door for every meal in Effie’s case, or in Monty’s case leaving a translated favourite book of his.

His parents, who come back each time, holding untouched plates on good days or plates with dirt or spit or grime mashed into the food on bad days—which are most of them—and books tossed carelessly against the wall that developed crumpled pages if they land wrong. James can take a lot of shit, really, he plays football, and Lily Evans was beautifully ruthless to him at all times yet he was still hopelessly smitten with her for years, but he will absolutely, unequivocally, completely, under no circumstances tolerate anyone treating his parents like shit. That is simply a thing he will not waiver on, and will not tolerate.

Hence, his crush has evaporated and he makes a large effort to avoid Regulus’ room all-together, dragging Sirius out of the house on the once-in-a-lifetime chance that he reluctantly agrees with a sad kicked-puppy look in his eyes—but when he can’t still going out with Remus and Peter the majority of the time, because something primal and angry churns uncomfortably in his gut when he witnesses that bright light in his mother’s eyes dim with every ruined plate when she attempts French dishes, and the sadness lingering in his father’s eyes when he gently presses creases out of his favourite books that he went out of his way to buy in the hopes to connect with his host son. He’s worried that the next time he runs into Regulus, he’ll do or say something he’ll regret.

Which is exactly why he’s keeping his distance, and won’t hear Sirius out anymore, despite his pleas. He wishes he could. This is as big of a challenge for Sirius as it is for him, and this is something he should be supporting his best friend in, but he just can’t. The mention of his name puts his teeth on edge and his fists clench. Makes him want to march up to that fucking door and pound ruthlessly until it’s answered and demand Regulus stop being a fucking brat, because it is not that serious, and it’s not their fault he’s moved. Or maybe just punch him in his ungrateful gorgeous face. James honestly doesn’t know what route he would go, which is why he refrains from knocking on the door.

Sirius warned him, he didn’t listen, and now he really wishes he hadn’t gotten his hopes up and seen that post. Now he’s beyond disappointed, and his hopes for another Sirius to cause mayhem with have been ruthlessly crushed beneath Regulus’ iron fist. It truly is a depressing situation all around. Sirius is upset at his brother’s behaviour, James is angry at his behaviour, his parents are saddened by it, and it has all made his once love-filled house feel down and suffocating. Like he’s walking on eggshells at all times. He’s even started refraining from nightly tea trips because he’s so worried he’s going to run into Regulus again. It all really fucking sucks. He can barely stand being in his own house because it makes him feel like he’s going crazy. Like he’s the only one who is fucking mad at Regulus, instead of empathetic or sad. He does not like feeling out of place, and that’s why he has adopted such a bright and loud personality where he confidently takes up space. Being unable to do that makes his skin itch and just fills him with discomfort.

For the first time in probably his whole life, James cannot stand someone. And that someone is Regulus Black.

***

England, as previously predicted, sucks. Everything sucks, and it was all Regulus could do not to jump out of his skin the second he stepped off of that train. He hung tight to the tether of the gentle classical melody serenading his ears because probably for the first time in his life, Regulus was afraid, and it wasn’t because of his parents. This time it was the towering station and the giant people that he didn’t understand, and the noise and the touching—so much touching. Shoulders or arms, feet and hands. It was all terrible. England was terrible. Sirius was terrible; he was too happy. The Potters were terrible; they were rowdy and cheerful. They didn’t even have a chauffeur. Regulus had thought it was the rather good-looking boy with gold-rimmed glasses and astonishingly terribly taken-care-of hair atop his head. He was wrong. Apparently, the boy who was nice on the eyes was unfortunately James, and Regulus was the rude one for assuming that. Sirius even took the money Regulus offered him as payback.

Did Regulus feel bad? No. Absolutely not. Get out of here with that rubbish accusation.

This boy stole his brother and had a voice that was way too happy to see him even though he couldn’t understand the words, and Sirius’ translation was even worse. ‘James thinks you’re funny’ what kind of sick and twisted compliment? Funny. Regulus Arcturus Black is not funny. The boy was clearly mentally incapacitated, which was unfortunate for him. Funny. Still makes Regulus scoff when he recalls it.

And then there was the Sirius of it all—loud and annoyingly excitable. Yes, Regulus was sort-of happy to see him, but also, he can’t just vanish the years of tension and avoidance Sirius put him through. No Christmas, no summer, no birthdays. Sirius stayed firmly in England, buying his new brother presents and being happy. Regulus was not about to let that go anytime soon, especially when the nail in the coffin was that he was the whole reason Regulus was sent away in the first place. Sirius just wanted him to squeal in his arms like a small girl? No, Regulus greeted him with the same scowl he greeted the Potters with, hoping Sirius got the heavy implication of Regulus viewing him as a stranger. If there’s one thing the Blacks are well-versed in, it’s hurting, and Regulus doesn’t have the same aversion to that skill that Sirius does. Hurting people gets you what you want, and that’s satisfying. Pain makes people fear you, and they won’t fuck with you if they fear you. Regulus isn’t afraid to wield it if he has to.

That’s why he takes a page from Sirius’ book, and he decides to be the terrible son for once. He ignores that ridiculous thing in his chest when Mrs. Potter attempts French cuisine, or Mr. Potter sets out a book he actually thinks would be intriguing. It’s ridiculous. When his fingers hesitate over the cover, or he lets himself try a tiny bit—multiple bites—of the delicious food, he has to remind himself that these people took him away from his home. These people stole his brother from him. They have fucked and fucked and fucked him over, and it doesn’t matter that they’re trying. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter. Not when Sirius never leaves his door no matter how loudly Regulus screams. Not the gentle things he knows just how to say. It doesn’t matter. He’s only trying because Regulus is here now. If he wasn’t, Sirius would have stopped calling eventually. He would’ve. Regulus knows he would’ve. Sirius was forgetting about him. He was well on his way to forgetting him, and his final act of brotherhood was screwing Regulus over, and now he feels bad, and now he wants a relationship, and now he wants Regulus back in his life, because it’s easy. Sirius only ever wants things when they’re easy.

He never wants Regulus when he’s 600 miles away; he only wants Regulus when they’re bedrooms apart. Sirius doesn’t want him when he’s stuck in that house. Sirius doesn’t want him. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The Potters are just trying to suck up to him because they feel bad, and Sirius has probably twisted stories and stories about how ‘horrible’ their parents are, and all they see is a stupid little traumatised kid with a bad home life, even though his ‘home life’ isn’t even really that bad! It’s not that bad!

It’s just different, and some people don’t understand that. His parents are just a little bit different, and they’re a little rough, but they’re still his parents, and he knows that means something to them. The Potters—they don’t get it. They don’t see it for what it is, because they only know Sirius’ side, and obviously they’re terrible from his point of view, he spent his days doing everything they told him not to. If he didn’t want to get in trouble, he should’ve just been good. They’re not bad to Regulus unless he deserves it. The Potters don’t understand that. They just want to take in a poor little charity case to make themselves feel better. They just want to take him away from his parents. That’s all the Potters want, that’s the reason for the cuisine, that’s the reason for the books, that’s the reason for it all.

Can you tell he’s going a bit mental? Being in this room—even though it is huge (it has a bathroom)—is suffocating, and probably not doing well for his mental stability at the moment. He’s pacing and pacing, socked feet thumping quietly against the hardwood floor. He hasn’t talked to anyone in a week. Not Evan and Pandora, whose calls he watch pile and pile up and texts bombard his phone and voicemails he listens to but doesn’t reply to. He gives it another week. Nobody wants Regulus when he’s difficult, or hard to reach, or far away. The time spent away from him allows for people to reflect, and say ‘hey, actually Regulus is a huge pile of shit. Can’t believe I associated with that waste of space’. Sirius realised that, his friends are realising that, the Potters definitely think that; they’ll probably be shipping him right back soon if he holds his ground.

He rubs his arms above his hoodie. His hair is wild and unbrushed—not unshowered, Regulus wouldn’t stoop that low (because of the in-suite bathroom)—and his skin thrums and thrums. A constant thrum. He can hear Sirius breathing on the other side of his door. Sometimes he sits there, just listening and counting his breaths. There’s not a lot to do. With hours upon hours of free time contained in a single room, you run out of things to do pretty quickly. He’s already read through the books he brought along, and he can’t take Mr. Potter’s recommendations on principle. He doesn’t know the wi-fi password and will not ask. He watches the Potter boy sometimes when he plays football in the backyard, occasionally joined by Sirius. He has a smile that is too bright, and his laugh is too happy to be in England, where the weather is cold and the sky is never blue. He can never watch for very long. Pandora and Evan are mad at him for ghosting them. He just can’t bring himself to pick up the phone. It makes him feel physically ill.

So, he walks and walks and he walks. He’s pretty sure he’s wearing the wood down, at this point. He just has so much anxious energy, and no way to expel it, and he’s afraid that every good deed is going to be the last. He knows Sirius is going to stop sitting outside of his door; it’s weird, and they both know it’s weird because they both know he’s there and they both know Regulus knows he’s there. Regulus knows he’s going to stop, he wants him to stop, he just doesn’t have the vocal capacity to scream for that long. His throat is already raw and scratchy, and he’s developed a cough. He’d blast music at ungodly hours, but he doesn’t listen to anything blastable, and anything that he could Sirius would just turn into an impromptu party.

Regulus can’t understand what any of them are saying, either. The room isn’t the only thing getting under his skin. It’s the fact he can hear people talking, but not what they’re saying, so he never knows if it’s about him. If they’re all just having a laugh about him together, making fun of him. Or if they’re all talking shit about him, and groaning about when they can get rid of him. The temptation to climb out of the window grows every day. Actually, they probably wouldn’t notice if he did. Would it be worth it? Sleeping on the streets and being nasty for however long until he could scrounge up the money for a train ticket right back to France? He’d use his card, but his parents monitor his purchases, and they’d hunt him to the ends of the Earth to deliver the harshest punishment he’s ever received. With Walburga, that could very well mean death. Actually. So, his endless supply of money is not helpful in this case. Regulus is a posh boy, and he’d never deny that. He enjoys cloud beds and scented showers and the newest whatever. He enjoys expensive food and nice clothes. He enjoys everything the lower classes hate him for, and he’s not going to apologise for having it or using it.

So, would he swallow his pride and bum it out for an extended amount of time?

Without his name, his inheritance, his title, he’s not much of anything. Regulus has never ‘worked hard’ a day in his life, which is something he would definitely have to do. He highly doubts the Black name means much of anything in England. Money talks nowadays, not titles. Black is just another last name without the finances to back it up. Is he willing to slum it and serve people instead of people serving him?

Yeah no, probably not. He’s not hit that point in his frontal lobe development yet, but he’ll let everyone know when he does.

Regulus groans—quietly, Sirius is still on the other side of his door—and throws himself back onto his very soft, very expensive bed. He’s not ready to leave this. Even though he’s in hell, at least hell has pillows. He snuggles into them on his stomach, hiding his face so he can groan louder. Pretty much the only thing that doesn’t get old in this room is sleeping, of which he has done an ungodly amount which doesn’t help with his anxiety at all. He’s going to do it right now, actually. The blankets and pillows are very comfortable, and with his eyes closed, he can almost imagine he’s in his bed at Grimmauld Place. Comfortable, and sleeping easy with the promise of seeing Pandora and Evan the next day. Maybe they’re next to him, softly giggling to each other. He imagines Pandora’s voice, soft and sparkling like a windchime. He shifts slightly, letting himself actually breathe, and even though the quiet in the Potter Manor or Whatever isn’t quite as fraught with tension as he’s used to, it’ll do. He can imagine the anxiety of hearing his mothers click down the hall, wondering if her anger is going to be directed towards him today.

Eventually, his breathing slows and the tension seeps out of his shoulders, slowly and methodically, like it’s seeping down and pooling around him. Melting, like ice. To be refrozen when he’s conscious again.

A grating ring cuts through the air, over and over, slicing his sleep dreams right in half and ruining everything.

Agitated, he peels an eye open and slaps his nightstand a few times trying to locate his phone, which is still incessantly ringing. When he finally finds and manages to flip it on the bed, it’s stopped. Good riddance. He’s going to go yell at Sirius once he figures out who the fuck is disturbing him. Can’t even sleep in England.

Mother.

Regulus isn’t tired anymore. He shoots up as his blood runs ice cold. Fuck. Fuck. She’s going to kill him. Fuck. He has to remind himself to breathe. She’ll call again, she always does, and he’ll answer, and he’ll apologise. She can’t do a lot from a different country. It’s why she sent Regulus to England to set Sirius straight for her. She can’t hurt him. Not physically. But she can scream, and Regulus isn’t strong enough to hang up like Sirius is. That’s kind of their thing. Sirius scoffs at her demands, Regulus complies. Sirius hangs up the phone, Regulus answers it. Sirius leaves, Regulus stays.

It rings again. She has her own ringtone, specifically so he can prevent what just happened. Apparently, in his almost-sleep stage, he didn’t recognize it, and now he’s fucked and everything is fucked. Okay, it’s not that deep, he just needs to breathe. He just needs to breathe. Everything is fine. He didn’t answer because he was practising his English. He presses answer with a bated breath.

“Regulus Arcturus Black.” His mother sneers through the line. “We have discussed that this behaviour is unacceptable, have we not? I am your mother. You will not ignore my calls. I taught you better than this. One week with your AWOL brother, and he’s already corrupting you instead of the other way around.”

“I am very sorry, Mother,” Regulus recites. Their conversations are always scripted. Accusation, apology, lecture, apology, agreement. “I should have not silenced my phone, however I think you’ll be pleased to know that the reason I neglected to answer was due to the fact that I was studying English with Sirius.”

Silence for a few moments. “Very well. I assume you are completing your task as ordered? Let me speak to him.”

Fuck.

Regulus lowers the phone, glaring daggers at his door. He’s screwed. He’s so totally screwed. He pretends to muffle the speaker. “Sirius, Mother would like to speak to you.” He waits a few moments. “Do not be like that. This is your duty; we’ve talked about this.” This is so humiliating. He can feel his dignity chipping. “Sirius. Your duty as heir is to comply. She wants to speak to you. Speak to her.” Another few moments, during which Regulus is terrified Sirius might actually be able to hear him, and he would never live that down. He would simply have to kill himself if it came to that. He brings the phone back to his ear. “I’m sorry Mother, he’s still currently refusing, but I have been making steady progress over this week. He has been more open to the idea of taking his title more seriously.”

His mother scoffs on the other end of the line. “Clearly you are not doing enough, Regulus. Can’t you do anything for me? All I ask of you is that you make him see sense, and you can’t even do that? Must I take every matter into my own hands? Perhaps I need to pay England a visit myself.” He can practically hear her nails gripping into her desk where they would usually be around his arm.

“That’s not necessary, Mother. I will do better, I promise. You are right, I have been neglecting my responsibilities in favour of settling in. I am aware my behaviour is unacceptable, and I will remedy it immediately.” Regulus picks at a strand at the seam of his trousers. Pick, pick, pick. Breathe. Keep breathing. Pick, pick, pick.

“You will, Regulus. I did not send you there to disappoint me. Do you understand? You will stop being worthless, and you will improve. I am appalled by your behaviour. Know that. Repent. You are disappointing your family and your religion when you act like this.”

“I understand, ma’am, and I am very ashamed. From now on, I will behave as a respectable Black would. I’ll focus on my responsibility to my family.”

“You will.” Walburga orders, and then the line goes silent, and Regulus can breathe again.

That wasn’t that bad. She won’t even know that what he said wasn’t true, because it’s not like she talks to Sirius. Everything is fine. That wasn’t that bad. He sets his phone down, and lets his feet hang off of the edge of the bed, pulling his head to his knees to calm his racing heart. He focuses on the soft fabric of his joggers, and the comforting weight of his hoodie around his frame. That wasn’t bad at all, in terms of what she can do. That was barely even anything compared to some of her other phone lectures. He doesn’t know why it’s shaken him so much, honestly. She didn’t even really yell, and she most certainly didn’t say anything he hasn’t heard about a million times before.

But, for some reason, his hands are shaking anyway. Maybe it’s because it was her first call since he left France? Maybe because he just talked to someone on the phone, so he could call Pandora and Evan, but they’d just tell him he’s being a fucking idiot and brat, which he already knows, he just doesn’t want to admit it. Logically, he knows the Potters don’t deserve his behaviour, but the illogical side of his brain is louder, and echoing around the four walls of this room every time he even looks at the door. Besides, they surely hate him by now anyway, so walking out of the room would just be daunting and embarrassing. He can’t do that after screaming and being an overall nuisance for so long, he’d lose even more of his dignity, and he’s not sure he has enough after pretending to have a conversation with his brother. Especially when that ‘conversation’ made him feel like he was drowning and it wasn’t even real.

Maybe the truth is that he doesn’t know how to be a brother anymore. Maybe that’s why he won’t leave this room. Maybe it’s because of the Potters and dignity, maybe it’s about all of that and none of it at all. Fuck if Regulus knows; his feelings are a very confusing and tangled mess, unable to be studied in the most basic of times, much less a time like this, when he’s been staring at the same four walls for an endless week and his estranged brother is on the other side of the door. If you want to tackle that beast, you can be his guest. Just leave him out of it. Ignorance is bliss, and when it comes to his emotions, he is very ignorant.

He’s still waiting on the bliss part. It’ll come eventually.

Huffing a breath, he thinks about how he looks right now, folded in on himself and pathetic, which does the trick satisfyingly because he immediately sits up and actually calms down, and then he remembers that position was actually kind-of the horizontal version of Evan that one night which almost makes him smile. His phone practically has an array of arrows pointing towards it, at this point, ones that have been getting progressively more difficult to ignore with every incoming call with one of the twins’ names attached. They call every day, twice, and send one text message. He remembers Pandora saying that for this to work, he has to try too. He has to pick up the phone, and answer the messages if they’re going to stay in contact. It’s always easier to say you will than to actually do it.

Like, theoretically, he could pick up his phone. It’s right there, within arms-reach, and there’s nothing stopping him. He could dial Pandora—she’s always better at answering her phone—and she would answer. She might not even mention the week of radio silence he’s put them through, because she’s nice like that and knows he’d probably never call again. Evan would mention it, but fuck he misses him so it’d probably be worth it. He could. He could russian-roulette it, and call Evan, who has about a 50/50 chance of answering, and if he doesn’t answer Regulus will just have to never pick up a phone again. Seems like a fair bet.

His hand hovers over the phone for a good few seconds, like he’s touching the steam coming up from a pot on the stove, waiting for the steady rise of temperature to get too unbearable. Honestly fuck him. He retreats his hand. Evan doesn’t want a call from him anyway. He’s probably mad. Regulus would be.

But Evan isn’t Regulus, is he?

Regulus unlocks his phone. He even goes as far to pull up Evan’s contact before he freezes again. This time, his brain doesn’t even inform him why; his hand just sits there, something preventing him from lowering his finger.

If his stupid brain won’t tell him, then he’s just going to do it.

He’s going to do it. He is. He’s going to press the button.

He is.

Yet his finger stays hovering. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. Regulus doesn’t need friends anyway. He’s been perfectly fine, and only driven moderately insane in this room.

He scoffs and brings his hand back, crossing his arms over his chest. Friends are overrated. Especially happy ones with dark tanned skin and sandy blonde hair and brains that think so much yet never have anything to say. Ones whose arms could be around his shoulder right now, warming him and bothering him for a pastry. Or ones with unblemished skin and pearly white curls and wise words with just a hint of magical whimsy attached to them. He doesn’t need friends, anyway. He really doesn’t. Nobody needs anything except food and water and sleep.

But people want things, don’t they? They want human connection and to like how they look in the mirror. Regulus thinks he wants friends. He wants a relationship with his brother, too. He can only have one of those, though, so before he can talk himself out of it he slams his hand down on the screen and tucks his hands back underneath his arms so he can’t hang up. His heart beats faster and faster for every full ring that passes.

Ring.

This is stupid. This is so stupid.

Ring.

Him and Pandora have probably already found some dramatic kid with a sad backstory to replace him. Maybe he’s nicer anyway, and knows how to smile without it feeling weird.

Ring.

This was so stupid. Why did he even do this? He’s not even picking up. Regulus is never calling anyone ever again. Actually, he’ll probably toss his phone right out of his window after this anyway, because he can’t even look at the thing. Phones are such a stupid invention anyway; all they do is disappoint. Who needs a screen in their pocket, really? People should go back to sending letters. Poor pigeons, losing their jobs to glowing rectangles.

Ring.

Yes, this was very stupid. Every agonising second of this grating sound takes literal years off of his lifespan.

Ri-

“Hello?”

Oh, shit. Oh shit. What the fuck is he doing, anyway? Oh, this was so stupid. Regulus is such an idiot, god.

“Regulus? Are you okay?”

Regulus can’t even look at his phone. He stares resolutely at the grey wall in front of him, taking deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He can barely even hear Evan over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

“...I’ve been waiting for a call, Reg. For, like, a week.” Evan says quietly, vulnerably, like Regulus’ absence in his life actually affects him. Does it? “Me and Pan were getting worried about you, y’know? She was about to book a train ticket.”

Maybe walking will help. He scoops his phone up, and takes off towards his pacing spot, an invisible line he doesn’t stray from. He still doesn’t speak, his voice stuck somewhere between shame and longing.

“I think the sun actually lost some of its shine when you left us. The café down the street doesn’t make their eclairs the same, but we can’t go into ours yet because it all just feels so wrong without you. And people keep giving us weird looks when they pass, because they know you’re no longer here. We miss you, Regulus. We all miss you.” Evan says like he truly means it, like his life is different when Regulus is gone but not in a good way.

Regulus breathes better, and he just listens. Evan lets a few seconds pass between sentences like he always has, trying to translate the abstract ideas in his head into words. He hasn’t changed a single bit. He knows Evan hears him breathing, and hopes its answer enough. He knows that just like he’s tuned into Evan, Evan is tuned into him. He’s listening, and he’s comprehending.

“Nobody is here to yell at tourists for us anymore, either. We saw this woman in a dress—it was so ugly, Regulus, orange, green, and red; It was so noisy, like fifty designs just meshed together—and she took her order in the loudest, most demanding voice ever. American, obviously, and her hat had a huge white feather on the top. I actually thought she was actually going to take flight the way it was moving around. Me and Pandora just smirked at each other, because we knew if you had been there you would have ripped it right off of her head. I took a picture, let me just…Yeah, okay, I sent it to you for a mental image.”

Regulus clicks open the text conversation and has to bite down on his cheek to keep from audibly laughing. The woman is just as Evan described; skinny and wearing an absolute war-crime of a dress, and the feather on her head has to be eight inches tall, obnoxious and fitting for the rest of the ensemble. Regulus definitely would have sneered at her, and maybe accidentally wiped that horrendous hat right off of her blonde head. The bird she accosted for it must’ve been absolutely huge. He still doesn’t say anything, but he does send a rolling-eyes emoji in the group chat in response. He can hear the victorious smirk in Evan’s voice when he next speaks, knowing that him and Pandora probably bet on how long his tantrum would last, and it sounds like Evan won.

“Anyway, actually, just give me like two seconds,” Evan says, voice getting distant and what sounds like feet slapping against grass. Knowing Evan and the current time, he was probably lounging in the sun like the burn-proof maniac he is, just laying in his backyard because that’s somehow enjoyable for him. He’s like a damn dog. A few seconds later, there’s the click of the door and a distant shout, followed by a soft-voiced reply. He thinks he hears a shocked ‘Regulus?’ that makes him feel even shittier for disappearing off the face of the Earth. The speaker clears, and he can almost perfectly picture Pandora cross-legged on her floor, braiding and unbraiding her hair.

“Regulus! Hi! Oh, we miss you so much, Regulus!” Pandora chirps, probably yanking the phone right out of Evan’s hand. Regulus isn’t a very emotional person, but hearing the palpable relief and joy in her voice puts a lump in his throat. He really has been a shitty friend. He glances over at his desk, a mug of multi-colored pens and a singular book sitting atop the dark oak that he sometimes wants to take a dagger to just for the principal.

He clears his throat, averting his eyes as if she’s standing right there. “Hey, Pan.”

“Alright Regulus, give us the scoop of the way of the Englishman.” Evan demands lightheartedly, and Regulus practically sees him taking a seat right next to Pandora, setting the phone perfectly between them so that they can’t fight over it. Regulus always had to sit in the middle, sometimes the exact spot in front of them. He eyes his own carpet with disdain.

“Terrible. They are all terrible.” Regulus informs them, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

“... Have they converted Sirius?”

Regulus scoffs. “Yes. The Potter Boy corrupted him. He said this English word.. Eh, ‘mate’ I do not know what it means.”

“It means friend, I think,” Evan cuts in. “Very Sirius word.”

“Sirius or serious?” Regulus asks genuinely. Sometimes it really is hard to tell which version someone is talking about. And ‘mate’ can either mean a very stupid and immature word, or it can mean someone you hold in high regard. Regulus hopes it isn’t the second, because that Potter Boy doesn’t deserve respect. He speaks at the volume of an American.

“The name, stupid.” Evan laughs. “It’s very informal, mate.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Regulus!” Pandora chirps. “Do we need to visit and stuff you in a suitcase? The other half of my soul is with you.”

“Yes.” Regulus answers immediately. “But also, that is very dramatic.”

“I’m never dramatic.” Pandora scoffs. “It is only true. I miss you. Did Evan tell you about the dress woman?”

“Yes, he did. Also about the new pastry shop and how bleary France is without my dazzling presence.”

Pandora laughs, a gentle chiming sound about as soft as her herself. Regulus longs to hear it unfiltered by speakers and distance. He wants to rest his head on Evan’s shoulder and bemoan about the heat, and traipse around town with the both of them. He wants to book a ticket right back to France and never look back. Fuck a relationship with his brother or learning a new language or experiencing a new culture. Hell, fuck his parents’ approval at this point. He just wants his friends back, and he just wants the Potters to stop trying, and he just wants his brother to stop making him feel bad by sitting outside of his door like a lost dog. Sometimes he stares at his sink for a bit too long and imagines filling it with water and drowning himself, but then he thinks the Potters probably wouldn’t notice for multiple weeks and he doesn’t want to start to stink. That would be embarrassing.

“All true,” Pandora confirms, still giggling even though the joke wasn’t that funny, and Regulus is starting to wonder if he should be offended or not. “Okay, now what have you been up to while you were ghosting us for a week? Anything less than a secret spy mission earning you billions and I’m going to manifest your early demise.”

Regulus huffs in his version of a small laugh, even though he’s very sure it’s not an empty threat. He contemplates if he should lie to her or not, before deciding she’d know if he did. “I really don’t know.” Regulus admits, because he doesn’t. He’s just so angry and spiteful all of the time that it feels like his heart beats with it. He just hates everything and everyone, and doesn’t even know why anymore. Just that he does. “I’ve been terrible to them, Pan, I’m just so angry. I hate them, I really do.”

Pandora is silent for a moment, probably telepathically translating Evan’s thoughts into actual words or something like that. Twins are creepy. “It isn’t their fault though, Regulus.” She says eventually, tone soft and disarming.

“Yeah, It’s Sirius’.” Regulus points out petulantly.

“Regulus.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Logically Regulus knows it’s not Sirius’ fault, that the things he’s been up to really aren’t that bad at all. That his parents just wanted him out of the house. That Sirius would’ve been more careful if he knew that his behaviour would have uprooted Regulus’ life. But he’s still the scapegoat, and he always has been. Sometimes, with how often his parents declared it, everything really does start to feel like Sirius’ fault. He scraped his knee? Sirius should’ve been paying closer attention. He failed a test (got a B)? Sirius should’ve been a better example. He has to move to a new country? Sirius should’ve behaved better.

It’s always easier to blame someone, to resent them, than to admit your own faults. Especially when that someone escapes, and leaves you to fend for yourself in a house of blood-thirsty vultures, becoming more of a figurehead who calls once a week than an actual person.

Regulus sees Sirius as a rebellious child, who unnecessarily acts out just to be spiteful.

Sirius sees Regulus as a conforming coward, bending to every whim and demand of their parents.

Two sides of the same coin. Two different products of their upbringings. Two forks in a long pathway. Two completely different coping mechanisms.

Sometimes it feels like staring at a mirror and sometimes it feels like peeking into an alternate reality.

It always fills Regulus with dread.

***

Sirius could be drunk off of his ass. Sirius could be checking things off of his summer bucket-list with his friends. Sirius could be literally anywhere else right now. But for some reason even he doesn’t know anymore, he has spent the first week and a half sitting in front of his brother’s room, who has miraculously dipped a single particle of his pinkie toe into the acceptance stage—he pulled it right back out, but it’s the thought that counts and when it comes to Regulus, that is huge—of living here. Sirius heard him a few days ago talking to Evan and Pandora. From most of what Sirius could hear through the door, it was a few hours of either steering clear of the elephant in the room, or degrading and insulting it endlessly. Baby steps. At least he actually talked about it, and by the sound of how the phone got hung up and Regulus stomped around for an hour afterwards, he’s guessing Pandora and Evan are trying to talk some sense into him. They will most definitely get to him faster than Sirius can; they’re kind of like the person who loosens the cap of the pickle jar before handing it to the next person so that they can open it.

He hasn’t heard Regulus on the phone since, but he’s hoping that they’re still speaking over text.

He’s hoping that they’re opening a door for Sirius to have a relationship with his brother.

“Yeah well you can go fuck yourself! Fuck Sirius, fuck the Potters, fuck you.”

Start to have a relationship with his brother. Build the foundation. Eventually. In the far future.

His point is that he’s going to sit outside of this door his entire summer if it means Regulus stops hating him, hell, even looks at him for two seconds. Comes out of his fucking room.

A loud thud jerks his head. Twice.

He will sit outside of this door, even if it means his brother is repeatedly punching it apparently. The things he does for family. Speaking of family, he’s giving Regulus the rest of the week to stop fucking with Effie’s meals and Monty’s books. Seriously. Regulus can curse, scream, punch, hurt all he wants, but he won’t be messing with Effie and Monty. Not Sirius’ parents, with hearts of gold that chink with every full plate carried to the sink or folded page pressed neatly into place. Not when he sees how much it’s hurting them, and how much it’s hurting James, who he knows is starting to resent him for sticking by his brother. It’s just that Regulus is Sirius’ brother, and Sirius knows where he’s coming from. James built up this image of Regulus in his head through biased stories and general optimism, because Sirius loves James with his whole heart, but that boy is naive as they come. James thought Regulus would be a hot and snarky cool kid from the movies, with a secret heart of gold.

He is, in a sense, but he really doubts the Potters will be seeing what he knows is there for a very long time. He’s talking months. Regulus has a heart of strong silver and sharp edges, armour built up his entire life to withstand the incessant lashes of Walburga Black’s tongue. Try as they might, James, as an only child, can’t understand, and his parents can’t either. They only know what Sirius shares, which is not a lot. They don’t get it; how that house sucks the very essence of life out of your bones, weighs on your shoulders unshakable, leaves you with invisible scars you can’t shake. Regulus, after Sirius left, bore the brunt. Sirius can hear the laboured breathing sometimes, when he gets up late at night and fixes himself a cup of warm tea to drink in front of his door. He hasn’t met for a late night drink with James since before Regulus came. In the process of mending a relationship with one brother, it seems he’s crushing his relationship with his other. Try as he might, it just doesn’t seem like he can ever really have both. One or the other, and isn’t that just the thing? His heart and his lungs. He can’t leave without either of them. His heart beats for Regulus, his gleaming smile, but James helps him breathe. James holds him through panic attacks, and listens to his long-winded rants, and reminds him to count to ten.

Regulus’ll come around, and James is too forgiving for his own good, so eventually he will make things right. For now, Sirius knows he has to choose his brother. He hears the cracks forming in Regulus’ facade with each of his declines of James’ offers, as much as it pains him to do so. He knows how much it means to Regulus, that he does love him somewhere buried deep beneath the hatred and betrayal and resentment. He just has to keep choosing him. Sirius knows that Regulus just needs to feel chosen. That the thing he’s so insecure about is feeling unwanted.

He pulls away to shield himself from what he feels is inevitable; he ends friendships and stops calling before you can, that way it feels like he’s the one in control. He’s the one hurting, so that he’ll never be hurt. This is Regulus acting out and pulling away so that he can't get hurt. He’s pretending he hates British culture, language, customs, so that he won’t get embarrassed if he doesn’t know something. He won’t listen to Sirius, and how much he struggled with all of the grammar rules and pronunciation when he first got here. That he got things wrong and embarrassed himself so thoroughly every time he opened his mouth.

Don’t even get him started on the metaphorical words and phrases that sound the same but have completely different meanings. He knows that it’s fucking hard. It’s hard to learn a complicated language so late in life. It’s hard being thrown into the deep end with the pressing issue of a host family and community that doesn’t understand you, that you have to sufficiently communicate in before the ever looming school year. Getting laughed at during presentations. People purposely asking you things they know you won’t understand, or speaking with really big words. Speaking quickly. Handing you old literature—fucking Shakesphere, Sirius has been fostering a bubbling hatred for that man since he read Macbeth his first year here—and expecting you to easily comprehend the flowery language and different sentence structure, plus whatever the fuck ‘iambic pentameter’ is supposed to be.

His point is that if Regulus could pull his head out of his ass soon and realise that Sirius knows exactly what he’s going through, he could help him. Regulus has a built-in-translator sitting right outside of his door, for fuck’s sake. One that considers himself decently fluent in the nuances of English by now. Regulus has a support system that Sirius lacked his first year, and all he needs to do is utilise it. Knowing his little brother, he’d even get English faster than Sirius with how fast his brain processes things. He’d be able to carry a conversation easily before school even started. He just won’t. Sirius will admit he hasn’t known—really known—his brother for years now. That there’s a very big rift between them that only ever seems to grow, and Sirius had to come to the very debilitating realisation that he really didn’t recognize Regulus anymore. That in leaving France and cutting ties with his entire family, he was cutting ties with his entire family. That with Sirius long gone, his mother would start to whisper into Regulus’ ear. Plant little seeds of doubt and resentment that have only grown without Sirius there to cut their stems.

You can’t destroy weeds through a phone. Not when you try, and by the time next week rolls around, they’ve only multiplied.

Sirius does know that Regulus is a fucking stubborn prick. He doesn’t doubt that if left alone, Regulus will be spending his entire summer inside of his fucking room, and even after that. He’ll foster and care for his resentment like a damn pet.

It seems that right about now is time for a scheme. A plan. Sirius needs to do something, needs to coax Regulus out of his haven and actually get him to eat something. He needs a plan. He needs to put his prank skills to an actually honourable use.

–

“I need your help, Prongs.” Sirius announces without preamble as he bursts into his best friend’s room without knocking. Sirius never knocks. “It is simply a matter of life-or-death.”

James glances up, unamused for probably the first time ever at Sirius’ antics. “Don’t you have a door to sulk in front of?” He asks dryly, pointing his attention back at something on his phone. He’s comfortably situated in his little nest of soft blankets and pillows, bed never made but always the most comfortable in the manor. Sirius thinks it might just be something only people with loving parents are capable of doing; always making themselves at home easily and carelessly, without worry of judgement. Sirius’ room still sits with a made bed and a modest amount of posters on the wall. So far, he’s amped himself all the way up to leaving trinkets and objects galore cluttering the surfaces of his room at all times, even if they all are carefully placed in organised chaos. It’s a recent development, and one that Sirius is unrealistically proud of. He even let a sweatshirt sit on the floor for a day. James’ room is always messy with clothes strewn around and a system of organisation that makes sense only to him. His bed is an amalgamation of acquired blankets and pillows stolen from various sitting rooms and couches around the manor. The maroon pillow he’s holding on his stomach with his arms resting atop is one that Sirius is pretty sure he snagged from the library.

“Taking a break. My back is killing me, mate.” Sirius tries to joke, suddenly worried that his recent disregard of bonding time with his best friend has made a deeper impact than he originally thought. He hopes that by putting this new plan in place, he’ll have much more time on his hands with Regulus and James. Together. As well as his beloved, lovely, handsome, sexy, otherworldly, stunning Moony whom he longs for endlessly and without ceasing, and Peter. Peter is the only one who understands his woes, and oh how Sirius would kill to see his lovely face that always has an answer. He just needs to get this speedbump over with.

James doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look up, either. Sirius is wilting in the lack of attention.

Sirius sighs in defeat. “James, Prongs, I’m sorry. I really am, but I know that Regulus is going through a lot right now, and I knew that you’d still have Peter and Remus if I had to take the backseat for a while. A backseat for a while. Going to the backseat?” Sirius stops for a moment. “Whatever. Point still stands, even if it could be phrased more elegantly. Trust me, what Regulus has been doing is not okay, and if he ever comes out of that damn room I swear he’ll be grovelling at your feet because you’re just sadly being caught in the crossfire of his issues with me and himself.” Sirius takes a breath, gingerly lowering himself down on the edge of James’ bed. “I need to choose him right now, because I’m afraid I’m losing the option.” He confesses quietly, staring James straight in his eyes so that he knows he’s being earnest, and that he isn’t just fucking around.

James goes quiet for more than a few seconds, eyes glued to the space next to Sirius’ head like he’s weighing his resolve in the face of Sirius’ dilemma, which in his opinion, makes sense. In the long run, these agonizingly boring few weeks fraught with tension will bloom, and Sirius has to put his brother first for those few weeks, even if he’s objectively being an asshole and it means the first week of summer vacation Sirius has spent without his friends and boyfriend.

Yes, even if it means hurting James’ feelings, as much as it physically pains him. The difference between James and Regulus is that James has an extensive support system, whereas Regulus just lost the only small one he’s ever had. James will be alright. Regulus could do something drastic. He begs James wordlessly to understand. Or, rather, to understand that he doesn’t understand, and he won’t, as an only-child miracle baby that grew up with loving parents and knees only scarred from playground mishaps. He’s begging James to give Regulus another chance, he’s begging James to forgive him, he’s begging James for help. He’s not an idiot; he knows James’ issues with Regulus won’t go away without proof and proper apologies, he’s seen the flaming anger in his eyes when Regulus sends another violated plate back to the kitchen. All he’s asking is for James to know that Sirius is doing this for the greater good, that he’s not even asking James to have a relationship with Regulus. He just wants one for himself. He just needs James’ begrudging help to get it.

James sighs, propping himself up and tossing his phone like he lost the mental battle in the face of Sirius’ best puppy eyes. “Very well. Get on with it, then.”

Sirius almost squeals with excitement, clamouring further on James’ bed eagerly, all knowledge and respect of personal space shed as he sits much too close to his best friend—-his brother—-grinning ear-to-ear like a child presented with a lolly. “Okay so I was thinking-”

“You can do that?”

“Yes, I can do that,” Sirius scoffs an offended laugh, “I do it quite often, believe it or not.”

“Not.”

“Oh, shut it already. I’m trying to lay out my foolproof plan. Operation.. Save a Hopeless Idiot Tactfully.”

“Are you aware of what that spells?” James asks, raising an eyebrow in blatant amusement. Sirius winks at him.

“Obviously.”

“Alright, so, what is Operation SHIT then?”

“So, we all know Regulus is a little asshole, who hates everything and everyone.” Sirius starts proudly. “He is also a stubborn shit—that’s the reason for the name—who needs his head forcibly removed from his ass if we ever want him to see sense. My proposal is that we kidnap him, and show him the beauty of lovely England, in all of its rainy glory. All we need is your truck and a good few bucks. Honestly, we might need handcuffs, I’m not going to lie to you Prongs, and something to chill him out. I would personally recommend you wear protective gear as well.”

“Sounds like you’re planning a war.” James points out a bit nervously, fingers fidgeting with the corner of his stolen pillow.

“Trust me, I am,” Sirius says seriously. Regulus is practically a nuclear weapon, and getting him to do something he does not want to do is akin to cutting the wrong wire or pressing the big red button. He will explode and lash out, and there will be bloodshed. James’ car might need child locks, too, because Sirius would not put it past him to jump out of the truck while it’s moving.

He did that, once, when Sirius came home the first year after he was gone and insisted on taking them on a drive. They got into an argument—Sirius was never home enough, he abandoned Regulus, he’s just rubbing salt in the wound, can’t he be respectful for a few days out of the year, would it kill him to not start a fight at Christmas Dinner—and right in the middle of Sirius trying to defend himself, and just make his baby brother see, Regulus actually got so angry he opened the door right up and jumped out. Sirius doesn’t think he’s been so terrified in his fucking life, swerving the car and causing a scene as he U-turned immediately careless of traffic. Regulus was fine; he just had a bit of roadburn, and Sirius hated that his first thought was ‘easily hidden’. The car wasn’t moving that fast—driving on a rural road and all—but it was still fucking terrifying to witness his little baby brother almost die all because Sirius started an argument in the car.

Now, Sirius always locks the doors when driving with anyone. He demands seatbelts. He tries not to start arguments in a car. He hates how much that immature and thoughtless action actually scarred him. He knows Regulus only did it out of spite to give him a brief fright, and honestly probably doesn’t even remember except reminiscing on stupid teenage acts with Evan and Pandora. He probably thinks about it fondly, with amusement, ‘remember that time I jumped out of the car mid-argument? Oh, you should’ve seen your face!’. Sirius doesn’t think Regulus thought that it could genuinely stick with Sirius for so long, harm him so much. That he would lay awake late at night, thinking ‘he hated me so much he’d have rather risked actual injury than be in the same car. All because I left him’.

Point is, that Sirius is most definitely double, triple, and quadruple checking the locks, and will handcuff Regulus to the headrest if he has to. The little cunt won’t be stepping foot outside of the car until it’s come to a full and complete stop. Of that, Sirius will make sure. His plan is Regulus-proof, down to James being the muscle to carry him around—Sirius is 99.9% sure that Regulus’ ego won’t allow it to go that far, but he really is so petty that Sirius is making sure he’s got assurance for that 0.1 just in case. Regulus will tour England, and he will be forced out of his little cave if Sirius has to drag him literally kicking and screaming. His hope, is that after being forcibly removed, Regulus will start hanging out in other rooms because he’s ‘broken the seal’ in a sense. He’s already been out, therefore it’s not monumental for him to be outside of it more often. Regulus’ logic is very flawed, yes, but also very predictable, at least to Sirius. Once he’s outside of his room, it’ll be easier to gradually warm him up until he’s pliable again.

Operation SHIT will be a success. He tells James most of this—keeping the details on the car incident and its consequences to a minimum—and by the end, with an all-suffering sigh and a defeated fall of his head, James mutters “That is actually so stupid, but if you think it’ll work, then fine.”

“I do, Prongs!” Sirius grins, “it’ll work, I swear it. Regulus’ moods are very predictable after you figure out which one he’s in. Of which there are obviously many-”

James takes a breath, grinning and leaning forward to set a grounding hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “Do you want to get to the point?”

“I did get to the point,” Sirius points out, because he did. He explained the plan—in detail—so he fails to see what further ‘point’ there is to be made at the moment.

James chuckles. “No, I mean, the only issue is how we’re even going to get Regulus out of his room. You know, to handcuff and kidnap him—which I totally support, by the way, wholeheartedly. However, I don’t see your brother simply waltzing out of his room anytime soon and holding his wrists out.”

Sirius hums thoughtfully, swaying a bit. That is a good point, but as a professional older brother who hasn’t yet lost the title and is hoping to stake a more solid claim on it soon, he likes to think he has a plan for that exact thing (he doesn’t). See, they need to get Regulus out of his room, somehow. The threat of starvation clearly hasn’t worked, and with his own personal bathroom there’s no way to lure him out like that. They could be extra loud and annoying in the hallway until he finally peeks out to scream at them. Pretend there’s a fire? Honestly, it’s less the actual plan and more the execution of the first step, at this point. Getting Regulus to show his stupid face is honestly the majority of the battle.

Then, an idea comes to him. One that could either be the best thing he’s ever come up with, or the stupidest suggestion ever to be uttered. In Sirius’ experience, it’s about a fifty-fifty shot, but you miss 100% of the shots you don’t try so.. “What if we get Effie and Monty in on it? Make a family day out of it. He’ll have to go if they ask—can’t risk it getting back to our parents—and maybe he’ll warm up to them, too. You know they’ve got like a magic touch for abused kids, I swear.”

James nods. This seems to lean on the former side, it seems, thankfully. Sirius almost audibly sighs with relief. “If he won’t be a proper prick to them,” he says solemnly, making direct eye-contact with Sirius to convey that he’s not joking about this, “I can’t promise you I’ll remain civil if he hurts their feelings.”

Sirius nods eagerly. “No, he won’t. Public acts of rebellion aren’t his style; he’ll probably just silently brood in the back and mutter or whatever.”

James goes silent for a moment, fingers twisting. “Yeah, okay. You know what? Yeah. Let’s show that asshole what England has to offer.” James says with petty determination. Sirius won’t comment, considering it’s in his favour for now. At least James is doing it, and doing something to help Regulus. Even if it is just to prove a point.

“Hell yeah, Prongs!” Sirius grins, wasting no more time before he tackles James to the bed, going down in a mess of limbs and shocked laughter. “We’re gonna show him the joys of England first hand! To the King!”

James laughs, shoving half-heartedly at Sirius with a lazy grin on his face. His glasses are askew on his nose, and his terrible hair is already even messier. He wacks Sirius with the maroon pillow before he can even open his mouth to comment on it, and after that it’s pretty much war. James’ nest quickly deteriorates as pillows go flying and knock various things off of shelves or smack against walls.

The battle escalates into the hallway, and then the sitting room, where Monty chuckles and quickly ducks out with his fragile newspaper and a fond smile. Pillows go smacking into faces, arms, chests, legs, heads, and Sirius realizes how much he fucking missed this. He hasn’t laughed in a week—certainly not with Prongs—and the bubbly feeling in his chest feels liberating. Sirius loves laughing, and he loves being happy, and he also loves his brother. Regulus could easily fit into this scene—scowling at them from the couch until he catches a stray; afterwards there would be catastrophic fallout with casualties galore and no less than a national danger alert.

When provoked, Regulus is an animal. Sirius remembers being eight and continuously poking and prodding at Regulus when he was trying to do his work, which ended with him locked in the bathroom with a crazed baby Regulus camping outside with an actual kitchen knife. Terrifying, that was. Regulus waited all the way until their parents came home, when nothing is funny and they can’t be divided. He hid the knife in a fake plant on his windowsill, narrowing his eyes at Sirius and telling him ‘next time, I will cut your hair off bald’ casually as he patted dirt over the silver weapon. Very effective threat. Sirius left working Regulus alone after that one, and also didn’t sleep a wink that night, running his hands through his hair and actually afraid that would be the last night he had it. Regulus delighted in the mind games of threats, though, so he was sleeping soundly the entire night. He was an adorable little kid, but shit was he psychotic. Got away with it, too, with his cute little cheeks and wide, innocent eyes.

Sirius’ and James’ battle slowly but surely winds down, until they’re both sprawled on the carpet heaving with their weapons discarded at their sides, devolving into childish laughter every time they meet eyes.

“What were we supposed to be doing again?”

“No clue, mate.”

They both let out identical huff-laughs of indignation, and accept that either the idea will come to them randomly anywhere between five minutes and five years.

—

It actually takes Sirius until the middle of dinner, as he’s chewing a lovely bite of Euphemia’s perfectly cooked steak, before he remembers. It comes to him slowly, as he thinks dejectedly that Regulus would be losing his shit to see James with his foot hiked up on his chair casually as he laughs through his bite of food, and then that he wishes Regulus would come out of his room, and after that it’s just an explosion of memory from there.

“Oh shit!” He randomly bursts out, forgetting there’s a literal square of food in his mouth that he sadly does end up choking on. He chokes for a good minute, smacking his chest and earning concerned glances from the other inhabitants of the dinner table. Monty slowly reaches over and comically slides Sirius’ glass of water closer to him, and then because Sirius is in a fucking sitcom, he chokes on his gulp of water as well.

Overall, it’s a good few minutes before Sirius has his bearings again, and an extra one that he takes to console himself after the humiliating fact, because seriously, can’t he have anything?

“Jesus, son,” Monty ventures cautiously, the warmth spreading through his chest at the title cancelled out by the fact that he’s clearly trying to keep the corners of his traitorous mouth from climbing up, “now some foods aren’t for everyone, but that was a bit dramatic, even for me.”

Sirius groans at the same time Effie scoffs in faux offence. James just laughs into his hand, because Sirius can never count on him to have his back.

“Sirius, is something wrong with your steak darling?” Effie asks in a joking tone, but Sirius knows she is a bit concerned.

“No-“ Sirius clears his throat, “no, Effie, not at all—-it’s lovely, really—-it’s just that I remembered what me and James were talking about earlier, is all, and I seem to have a proclivity for recalling things at the worst times known to man.” Sirius sighs, drinking the rest of his water because after all of those dramatics, it really is very scratchy and sore.

“Oh, yes!” James finally interjects, clearly having caught the memory as well. He’s perfect, though, so he remembers it with his fork safely on his plate and nothing in his mouth. “We were thinking that we should head out on a family trip—-me, Sirius, you guys,” he noticeably hesitates before adding “and Regulus.” Then he shrinks back like he’s just thrown a grenade into a firework tent and is awaiting the explosion. Really, his dramatics could rival even Sirius’. Probably why they clicked instantly.

There’s a brief moment of silence where Effie and Monty share an unreadable look, and then they both smile widely. “That’s a great idea, James! Oh, we were about to suggest the same thing soon, I reckon.” Effie smiles, as if Regulus hasn’t done everything short of literally spitting in her face. Her eagerness and kindness genuinely makes Sirius ache sometimes.

“Really?” Sirius questions wearily. Surprisingly, he’s not sure he likes that. That the Potters are still trying so terribly hard for Regulus, still showering him with affection like he deserves it. Sirius isn’t an idiot, and he knows that Regulus doesn’t deserve a crumb of any sort of kindness from anyone in this house except for Sirius himself. He also knows that Regulus will eventually prove himself worthy of it, if he’s just slowly nudged in the right direction, which is exactly what Sirius intends to do.

“Yes,” Monty responds. “It might brighten his mood a bit; getting out of the house, breathing some fresh air. We think a family outing would be perfect for warming him up to us. We know that moving to a new country can be a very difficult adjustment, and your previous environment certainly isn’t making things easier for the poor lad. Don’t worry, Sirius, we aren’t holding anything against him.”

“He has been a proper dick, though,” Sirius points out before James can put it less delicately. “You’re allowed to dislike him until he gets better; I certainly wouldn’t hold it against you.”

Monty smiles softly. “I find that holding grudges only cuffs us to the past. I can see the potential your brother has, Sirius, and I would love nothing more than to help him reach it. A few minorly damaged books can’t change that.”

Sirius chews his bottom lip for a few seconds, soaking up and absorbing those words, so much more mature than anything Sirius has even begun to think his entire life. Sirius loves holding grudges. He thrives off of it. In 3rd year a kid named Freddy stole his yellow crayon and then lied and said it probably fell on the ground, even though Sirius watched him slip it in his grubby little pocket. He still remembers Freddy. Prays on his downfall each and every night. He can’t imagine just letting someone walk all over him and still offering them a hand when they fall. He’d stomp on them in retaliation.

“.. Alright..” Sirius relents eventually, knowing that if he keeps going he’ll spiral.

After that, they work out the logistics of their outing, and simultaneously touch and avoid the fact that Regulus is joining at all. They suggest places they’ve all been to plenty of times, but nobody dares address the fact that they’re going there for Regulus. It’s all ‘I think I’d be nice to visit… again’ and ‘oh, we should stop by…’.

After the dinner, Sirius heads straight to his bed, as does James. Both of them seem to be on the same page: they’re going to need a lot of energy to get through tomorrow.

Chapter Text

After multiple bruises, bleeding cuts, and more than a few strands of hair lost, Sirius and James have effectively wrangled Regulus into the Potters’ car. He’s not happy about it. At all. They took the handcuffs off when the doors were locked, and sit on either side of him, chattering incessantly. Regulus hates them. He absolutely, unequivocally, hates them. The anger boiling in his veins, the fucking loud talking he doesn’t understand, the uncomfortable way the car bounces on the asphalt. He’s going to fucking lose it. He lost the battle, even though he really did put up a good fight—he’s impressed at how good of a grip he got on Sirius’ hair back there—two people who caught him disgruntled and tired ultimately overpowered him, and now they’re taking him to tourist attractions as if he gives a fuck.

Big Ben; who gives a shit about a big clock, really? It’s a clock. Even Paris’ tourist attractions are better, and Regulus thought those were ridiculously overhyped. The worst part is that he can’t even act out. As much as he wants to give the Potters utter hell, acting out in public is simply too far, even on his pettiest day. The only thing that he can do, as he’s being tortured at the hands of his host family, is turn the music up in his headphones—until the high notes start to make his ears ring, and he can barely stand the volume. At the very least, it prevents him from really thinking, because the violin plays so loudly in his ear that it’s hard to focus on anything else. It also does a decent job at muffling the stupid voices that are coming at him from all sides, and he can even almost forget about them if he closes his eyes. At least, until a decrescendo in a piece, or until the piece starts to fade out and he has to wait for the next one to queue up.

They are always, without fail, talking when that happens. He’s not even sure how they can manage that, honestly. He has never, in his life, met a family that can talk as incessantly as the Potters. In the short amount of time Regulus has been in the car with them, they have exchanged more words with each other than Regulus has spoken in his entire life.

Regulus has never been the biggest fan of words as a whole. He’s never been in an environment where talking was encouraged, instead of shunned. And even then, he’s never really felt the need or desire. He’s always been quiet, tiptoeing around Sirius as he stomped and skipped through the house. Whispering his words as Sirius shouted them. Relying on people deciphering his body language instead of telling them what he wants. It’s why he has always been so drawn to classical music. He’s in love with the way it so easily communicates the things that words simply cannot. With the way it transcends language barriers. Music doesn’t need translating, and it doesn’t need words. Music needs only emotion.

Music needs only be turned up to its highest setting, so that he can drown out the grating voice of his brother.

He knows that Sirius can hear it; he knows that they can all probably hear it, but it’s much too taxing to attempt to make himself care. Let them be exposed to some culture; they might even benefit from it. Maybe they’ll finally see how stupid it is to keep him here like this against his will.

He should jump out of the car again, but Sirius is keeping his hand covering the handle for some reason. Whatever. He refuses to comment on anything. Not the freezing temperature of the car—they have the AC blasting whilst the sun is barely even visible outside—not the way Sirius’ buckle is digging into his hip, and not the fact that he’s about to commit a heinous crime if he doesn’t escape this fucking car.

An agonising five minutes later finds Mr. Potter finally parking, and saying something which Sirius translates to ‘we’re gonna do a bit of truly Brit shopping’.

Seriously?

Regulus tries to refuse to get out, but he’s simply tugged out ruthlessly by Sirius. He curses him five times under his breath as he regains his footing, scowling at each of them individually. He doesn’t even know why he’s fucking here, considering they’re all carrying on as if he doesn’t exist anyway. He walks a few steps behind them, hoping to lengthen the gap gradually. He walks with his head held high with prestige, and makes sure his face is stony and untouchable. He’s lowered his music volume and switched it to a more pleasant and relaxing playlist for background, but keeps both of his earbuds in to put people off talking to him, just as an extra precaution. They take him into a stationary store; Sirius sadly gets in step with him so he can’t in fact run away. The Potters say something to him in warm tones that make him feel uneasy before letting him wander off. Sirius stays an aisle away, but he watches Regulus’ every move with truly alarming focus.

Despite himself, he notes that this store’s collection of notebooks is impressive. They’re leather and engraved intricately, pages thick and textured. He wishes his ego would allow him to purchase one, but he’s not about to let the Potters win. As far as he’s concerned, he’s here of his own accord and they just happen to be here. There’s a cup of fountain pens, swirling colourfully. A green-hued one catches his eye immediately. The tip is thick and spread into a V for calligraphy, and god would Regulus love to have it. The colors are so fucking beautiful, sparkling with subtle gold undertones. The craftsmanship is wonderful, and he can immediately tell this was hand-crafted. Matter-of-fact, this entire shop seems to be a small business. Everything is toned with subtle warmth, and the ground is a dark-patterned carpet, walls a dark oak wood. There’s an intricate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He’s so engrossed by twirling the pen in his hand that he doesn’t even notice the boy standing way too close to him until he’s being poked in the shoulder.

He jumps, jerking around with wide eyes as he attempts to calm his speeding heart. Fuck. Fuck. He’s safe. He’s safe. Breathe.

The boy has dark, textured hair and an evil smirk, eyebrow pierced with a silver dumbell against lightly tanned skin. His fingers are clad with a ridiculous amount of rings, and even his right wrist is decked out in jewellery. He looks like bad news. The worst news. A bad decision, sin made flesh. His black jeans are ripped and there’s a skull on his t-shirt with a wave of roses wrapping through it.

Regulus is immediately drawn to him. He takes one of his earbuds out, and raises an unimpressed eyebrow even though he’s everything but.

The boy says something in a cocky, sultry tone that doesn’t sound quite British. Regulus desperately wishes he could understand. All he can do is stare blankly as the boy glances to the side judgmentally. He’s leaning casually on the wooden table the sketchbooks are sat on. Inside his pockets, Regulus’ fingers twitch.

“Eh, hello,” He says awkwardly, this probably being the only time his heavy accent comes in handy, hopefully clueing the boy in to the fact that Regulus doesn’t speak English.

The boy chuckles, alluring hazel eyes glinting. The boy’s eyes scan him appreciatively, slow and obvious. He slips his phone from his pocket, opening up Google Translate of all things, and saying something into the microphone before handing it to Regulus. He changes the setting to French, and reads ‘where does a beautiful thing like you come from’. Regulus maintains intense eye contact with the boy as he murmurs his answer into the phone.

“I am from Annecy, France.”

“Exotic.”

As much fun as slowly speaking into a shitty speaker is, it really does take an awfully long time. Regulus has to be very direct and simple with his wording, and can’t even tell if there’s a mistranslation. The boy is still eyeing him with intense intrigue, arms crossed over his chest.

“Name?” Regulus asks.

“Barty Crouch. Junior.”

“Regulus Black.”

Barty repeats his name slowly, as if savouring the taste on his tongue. He takes the green pen and draws a star on the piece of parchment available to test the pens. He points to it. Regulus nods. Like the star. Barty grins. His name is unfortunate, but the boy himself is certainly not. Very easy on the eyes.

Barty types a single word into the translator. “Favourite?” Then he gestures towards the table.

Regulus points to the notebook with an intricate 18th-century architectural design sprawling across half of it, as well as the pen Barty is holding.

“Write a lot?”

“In a sense.”

Barty, interestingly, glances around before slipping the pen into his pocket casually. Regulus frowns. He doesn’t feel right about stealing from a small business. Barty seems to sense his apprehension, because he quickly types into the translator.

“This guy’s a pretentious douche who outsources all of his work and pretends we’re not all aware.”

Regulus shrugs, tilting his head to read the message. He huffs—the most he can express humour with someone he barely knows—and glances up at Barty through his eyelashes.

Regulus is about to reply, when out of the corner of his eye he sees Sirius look down, away from him.

Finally.

Regulus doesn’t think before he grabs Barty by the wrist and immediately makes his escape, dashing madly towards the exit and attracting more than a few odd glances. The wonderful thing about delinquents is that they never question it. If you’re running, they are too. Regulus is running, so this Barty kid is running too and he’s not even thinking about it.

They slam into the push door, flinging it open so harshly it rattles dangerously and Barty slams it shut just as Sirius starts after them, disbelief and agitation clear on his face. Regulus barely slows to turn down an alley a few stores up, heart beating in his ears and adrenaline coursing through his veins. It’s a dead end, and the red brick reaches multiple stories in height. Both of the grey metal doors on the end are locked too, and he’s almost giving up hope when he spots a rickety rusted ladder, and jumps up onto it without hesitation, taking the prongs two at a time. He pulls Barty’s feet off of the edge just as he hears the padding of rushed footsteps, and a shout of his name. Regulus puts a finger to his lips, communicating the need for silence to Barty, who is clearly holding in a cackle. He does stay silent though, until the feet retreat.

At that point, they meet eyes and devolve into wild laughter, falling onto their backs. Barty high-fives him with a manic look in his eyes, yelling something in excited English. Regulus laughs back even harder, the strange syllables only adding to the heady rush overwhelming his senses, because he just made a run for it. He just- he just ran, and he didn’t even know he was waiting for the opportunity until his feet were carrying him away. Holy shit, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this before.

It takes them more than a few minutes to pull themselves together, Regulus revelling in the aftermath of the worst he’s ever acted in his entire life, and just how freeing it feels. If this is what Sirius felt like, Regulus honestly understands why he was so bad all the time. It feels like an inexplicable weight has been lifted from his shoulders. The expectation of public perfection loosening its grip on him. It’s not let go—-Regulus doubts it ever will be—-but he now knows what it’s like to tell expectations to piss off, and consequences be damned. He knows that if he returns, there will be consequences. He knows physical punishment isn’t the Potters’ style, but when they do punish him, he’s still got a few snacks stashed in his suitcase and the security in the kitchen is abysmal.

It’s not like he lets them know he’s eating the meals anyway, so he’s prepared to see them stop. He’s most worried about the hell Sirius is going to raise. Knowing him, he’s probably going to take a screwdriver to Regulus’ door or literally glue them together at the hip, and take up the lecture role in his parents’ absence. Regulus prefers his brother’s lectures, but they’re still boring. Besides, how can Sirius lecture him on running away, when that’s exactly what Sirius did. Regulus isn’t stupid; Sirius didn’t come to England to fluff his Uni apps or learn a second language. Sirius came to England to get away from Regulus and their parents.

Regulus doesn’t want to think about that, though, so he pushes himself up to a sitting position, twisting his neck to look down at Barty. He is still just as gorgeous, hair windswept and cheeks tinted rose with the effects of prolonged laughter. His eyes are hazel and twinkling as he smirks up at Regulus.

Regulus wishes terribly he could understand the boy. That the boy understood him. His accent isn’t British, not like James’ and Sirius’, it’s strikingly American, though it also has British undertones that make it almost hard to recognize. Something uncomfortable stirs in his gut. This boy is bad news; he can feel it. He’s making Regulus feel things, notice things, that he should not be noticing. Regulus shouldn’t know that Barty has a light splattering of dark freckles on the bridge of his nose. Not when they’ve just met mere minutes ago, and not when he’s clearly sparked rebellion in Regulus, who hasn’t even thought a rebellious thought his entire life. Yet, almost as if he was crafted for it, Barty only makes Regulus want to do more. Looking at him, laying with an arm propping his head up and his stupid devilish smirk, only makes Regulus want to commit worse sins, and the distance between himself and his family seem all the more freeing,

Regulus has had an arguably shit introduction to Britain and all things related, but this boy. This boy makes it all feel silly. This boy makes him want to actually make good on his plan to run away.

Barty slips his phone out of his pocket. “What brings you to London?”

Regulus tunes his face to scowly disinterest. “Host family.”

“Enjoying it?” Barty asks as he glances up from his screen, like he already knows what the answer is.

“No.”

Barty grins. “You just haven’t seen the parts that are actually good yet. Come.”

And with that, Barty hops up, takes Regulus’ hand to help him up too—-which again does very weird things to Regulus’ stomach—-and leads Regulus back to the ladder.

All Regulus can think about is how the sun is making Barty’s hair glow, and maybe Barty is already making London a bit brighter.

***

Sirius thinks he’s actually having a psychotic break. He’s actually about to finally succumb to the Black family madness, because oh, he’s furious. He just- he can’t even- he knew Regulus was a little fucking shit, but this? They’ve been scouring the streets of London for hours, and there’s still fucking nothing. What if he’s been kidnapped? Hurt? Ran over? Mugged? What if he’s lost on the streets of London, phone dead, no way to find his way home?

Currently, they’re taking a break Sirius did not consent to in a corner café. Effie and Monty’s brows are furrowed with serious concern as they murmur to each other, heads close. They want to call Walburga and Orion. They think it’s too much for Regulus right now. Too big of a change. That it’s been two weeks, and he hasn’t gotten better, only worse. They don’t know that if they call Walburga, there will be hell to pay. They don’t understand. He didn’t think Regulus would do this. Regulus has never done this. He was approached by that annoying kid in the grade below him, and Sirius glanced down at a bracelet he thought would bring out Moony’s eyes, and then he was fucking gone with the boy. Just gone, in a clang of the push doors and blur of movement.

That was hours ago, and there has still been no sign of Regulus anywhere. He’s called and called and called after that—-well over a hundred times, surely—-and texted even more. None of them have been answered, and Sirius doesn’t know what the fuck to do. He doesn’t know what to do, and he’s been trying not to break down this whole time. His baby brother is somewhere in a big city, doesn’t speak a lick of English, and his scowls can only take him so far.

“He’s never done this.” Sirius tells the Potters over and over again. “This isn’t like him. It isn’t. Regulus is rash, and a vindictive asshole, but he’d never dream of acting out in public like this. I don’t know what is going on with him.”

James puts a hand on Sirius’ leg, which has been bouncing so fast it’s merely a blur of dark jeans. Sirius only bounces the other one. He needs an outlet of all of this anxiety twisting and churning in his gut. He’s going to kill Regulus. He’s going to kill him. Dead. God, what was Sirius thinking? He should’ve stood closer to Regulus, shouldn’t have assumed the fancy sketchbooks would’ve kept him too occupied to run. He shouldn’t have looked away.

He shouldn’t have looked away.

He presses his brother’s contact again. Listens to the ring. Waits, and knows it’s not going to be answered. He can only hope that wherever Regulus is, he’s safe. Please, be safe. Sirius could never forgive himself if something happened. He calls again, and swallows the lump in his throat.

It goes unanswered.

**

“Alright Baguette Boy, give me the scoop.”

“Scoop?” Regulus frowns, turning his head to face the boy next to him. They’re somewhere on the outskirts of the city—where, Regulus doesn’t care; it’s away and that’s all that matters to him—and Regulus has to admit that the view is very nice. They climbed a tall billboard, rusting from clear age and lack of care. It’s the perfect mixture of isolation and connection; it faces the city, and if Regulus looks hard enough he can make out the little blobs of people, but they can’t see him. Not unless they’re taking care to squint against the sun to stare at some miscellaneous billboard that hasn’t been touched in years. And even then, they’d see nothing more than two black silhouettes, legs hanging off of the edge and leaning against the low-prong of the railing. It’s been a while of just silence, both of them enjoying the view from so high up. Regulus rubbing his thumb against the smooth resin of the pen, and wondering if they even care that he’s gone. What they’re doing.

“Yeah. The information. The gossip. Why’d you hottail it out of there with the subtlety of a freight train?” Barty clarifies through the robotic voice on his phone. It’s not nearly as pleasant as Barty’s voice, and almost makes Regulus want to learn English just so that they can get rid of the inaccurate robot between them that makes it take way too long to communicate.

“I hate being here.”

“In Britain?”

“Yes.” Regulus says quietly, resting his chin on his folded arms. Barty regards him with almost relating sympathy. His back is against the rail, full attention on Regulus in a way that’s pure serotonin.

“I felt that way when I first moved here, too.”

What? Regulus’ eyebrows immediately shoot to his hairline, twisting to face Barty, and all of it clicks. The tour, the accent, the interest.

Barty laughs at his clear surprise, hazel eyes glinting in the sunlight turning golden with the approach of afternoon. He twists the lock charm on his neck between his fingers, which are painted a radioactive green. Jesus, Regulus needs to get a grip. Within the next few minutes, preferably, before he ends up losing his damn virginity on a billboard overlooking fucking London.

“Yeah, mom died, dad couldn’t stand Manhattan without her, doesn’t give a flying fuck about me, moved us when I was twelve.” Barty swallows, jerky façade cracking for a split second before his smirk is effectively back in place. “It’s a classic story, really. Now I do anything I can to piss him off, y’know? It’s not all bad. It means I get to hang with breathtaking beauties like yourself.” He makes a show of checking Regulus out—in grey sweatpants and a jumper, which is what he was abducted in—and licking his wolfish teeth.

Barty is like him. Barty moved here, from America no less, and adjusted seemingly fine. Here he is now, commandeering glorious spots and flirting around London. Barty doesn’t seem to mind England, certainly doesn’t hide away in his room. Barty has a life, and he’s adjusting. He’s hot, sexy, and knows what it’s like to be uprooted but still doesn’t let it define him.

Still, Regulus raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and pretends his gut doesn’t burst into flame at the foreign attention—literally and figuratively. Barty is objectively attractive, but Regulus isn’t easy. He’s certainly not putting out for some guy he doesn’t even know. Especially one that as respectfully and lustfully he can put it: looks like a walking STD. Still, he tilts his head just-so and kicks his feet a little bit. The Black genes weren’t good for much else except for looks and exceptional emotional manipulation, so fuck if he isn’t going to put his only advantages to good use.

“Honestly, though, if you know the spots, Britain really isn’t that bad. As long as you get out of London, that is. You don’t live in the city, do you?” Barty asks, but it’s not a question. More of an observation; an analysis. His eyes bore into Regulus’, golden and entrancing.

Regulus hums, resisting the random urge to chuck this nice boy’s phone off of the billboard. He doesn’t say anything to that, and he doesn’t really know why. It almost feels like he just wants to keep his complicated home shit away from this, where he’s finally away from it all. He just wants this to be a clandestine meeting, just a daytime adventure so he can dream what-ifs before he inevitably has to return to whatever punishment is awaiting him. He just wants to get the fuck away, for a day. He was dragged out here in an abysmal outfit to weave into random storefronts he doesn’t give a shit about, and instead he’s enjoying a beautiful view with a beautiful boy. It feels so nice to just breathe, for the first time in two weeks. To inhale fresh, breezy air instead of trapped air thick with two weeks of containment. The sun is on his face, there’s a nice breeze going, and he’s being allowed to people-watch for a few hours. Obviously, he’s going to return and reap the consequences of his careless actions; he can only hope Sirius is keeping them from phoning his mother.

Is this even so bad anyway? It’s not like he’s snuck off to do drugs. He’s snuck off with an admittedly sketchy boy, yes, but he’s simply sightseeing things that are worth viewing. Barty guided him from the glamour of the main city, and he was a bit hesitant when they ventured into a sketchy alley, but when this is the payoff? It’s simply fucking beautiful. There’s no other way to put it. The vintage brick, the architecture he’s got a birds-eye view of, the rush of being so high in the air. The rush of shedding expectations with each step up the ladder.

Having the attention of a boy.

He’s always been too scared to initiate anything in France. He knows the Lord looks down on these things. He knows his parents, who sunk so deep into religion they came out the other side, would have his head. He was all-too-aware that every boy looking at him, every person showing even a hint of what could be misconstrued as attraction, could be a ploy. A test. And after Sirius left, Regulus couldn’t afford to fail a test.

He’s never been allowed to look for this, but now it’s right in front of his face. It almost makes him as excited as it scares him. Barty’s a hot, alternative, boyish boy, and he’s looking at Regulus. Jesus Christ, he’s looking at Regulus. He brought Regulus to a gorgeous perch, talked to him, asked him questions like he genuinely cared about the answers. Knows what it’s like, moving from your home country.

Separated by a language barrier, but Regulus still feels like Barty is the only person in Britain who gets him. Who listens to him, and he doesn’t even know the language he’s speaking. Is that sad, or beautiful? Regulus can’t tell. Maybe, it’s a little bit of both.

He rests his chin on his arms, redirects his attention to the ground below him. It makes him a bit too warm, that Barty continues to stare even without Regulus’ attention. Surely he knows that Regulus can still tell, still see the glint in his eyes, the sharp point of his smirk, from the corner of his eyes. That’s probably why he’s doing it, in any case. Regulus isn’t very religious. He wouldn’t call himself a God-fearing christian. He’s about as seeped into it as he can be; he’s tried yanking free from the oppressive chains the faith holds him in, but it’s his entire life.

Regulus wants to believe in God, just like he wants to believe Barty is staring at him because he’s intriguing, and not because he probably thinks Regulus is an easy foreign fuck. It’s beautiful, to believe in something you don’t know, can’t prove. But, between the bruises on his knees from praying for so long, and the pleas gone unanswered, it only seems to leave a bitter taste in his mind. Regulus doesn’t want to believe in God, but a small part of him probably always will. Will always have that nagging voice in the back of his head, asking ‘what if?’. And then, ‘if’, can an all-mighty power truly be holy, all-loving, if they’re willing to let you suffer for eternity for the simple crime of scepticism? Why would he create him, and know exactly what it would take to convince him, and simply not do that? Knowingly create him, just for the purpose of eternal suffering.

And round and round it goes.

Real, not real, Regulus lives his life plenty for his parents. He doesn’t want to give the rest up for someone who let a five year old boy suffer at the hands of the woman who gave him his name.

Life is much too short, to be filled with worry about committing sin. Regulus worries plenty about actions and punishments, and carefully calculated risks. He hasn’t got the time to seek out something better, something bigger than himself. Space is plenty big to keep him occupied and away from religious turmoil.

He exhales a soft breath, into the world which is plenty beautiful on its own, and forces his thoughts to move on. Beside him, Barty is still staring like he’s much more beautiful than the view in front of them.

—-

About an hour later finds Regulus in much of the same spot: vigorously avoiding the increasingly intense eyeballing of a boy named Barty Crouch.

Just because Regulus knows he’s gay, does not mean he’s necessarily ready to accept it, or even knows how to. He’s repressed it his entire life; hidden it like a sinful secret, because it is. Was. He’d like to kick prejudices to the curb, he’d like to look to his side and smirk at the boy. Do things with him. But the mere thought makes him want to hurl. Embodies him with intense fear that somehow, when she calls again, she’ll hear it in his voice. Come for a surprise visit, and see it in his posture. He can’t let himself give in to temptation. Not yet, at least. Not until he knows for sure that he’s not going back to France, and not until he knows whether that’s a good or bad thing, because every day that passes slips an inkling of doubt into his subconscious.

He won’t give in to the allure of Barty Crouch, a boy who he’ll likely never see again. Regulus doesn’t do vulnerability.

This is why he ignores the gaze burning holes into the side of his skull, and slips his phone out of his pocket to distract himself. He lets it hang in the air, arms still perched on the railing.

36 missed calls. 78 texts. All from Sirius.

Shit. In literally running away from his problems, he kind-of forgot they existed. As in, now he has to go back. He can’t slum it in the streets with this random boy forever. He doesn’t even have any of his stuff.

He’s so dead. Cautiously, he types in his passcode to see the texts.

(1:35) Sirius Orion Black

Regulus, where the fuck are you? What were you thinking?

(2:00) Sirius Orion Black

Seriously, Regulus. I don’t know why you’re doing this.

(2:12) Sirius Orion Black

Come back right fucking now, Regulus.

(2:14) Sirius Orion Black

I’m going to kill you. Answer my calls!!!!

(2:23) Sirius Orion Black

Regulus. We’re at the cafe across from the thrift. Please come.

(2:35) Sirius Orion Black

We’re not even mad anymore, just text or SOMETHING.

Most of them range from that; angry, to pleading, to worried, to scolding throughout the few hours. Regulus bypasses most of them, ignoring the pit in his stomach, and scrolls to the very last one.

Sent five minutes ago.

They’re calling her.

Regulus knows what that means, before he even reads the text before it. He knows who, and he knows why, and he knows the consequences of it.

His blood runs ice cold in his veins, travelling until it’s fully enveloped him, and the warmth Barty provided him is sucked out immediately. Fuck. Fuck. No more playing. Regulus shoots up, scooping his phone with him and dialling Sirius as he jumps down the prongs two at a time, ignoring the concerned shouts of the Barty boy. Regulus’ feet reach solid ground within seconds. It took a good two minutes to get up there. His legs are shaking something fierce, barely able to keep him upright as he takes off through the shrubbery, the only sound being four pairs of shoes slapping against the dirt, because Barty is following him and still saying something. Not that Regulus can even fucking understand him, because somehow in his little fantasy land there would only be minor consequences of giving Sirius a mild fright for a few hours, because surely Sirius wouldn’t let them call Maman. That was always their truce, that was their promise. Their oath. Never tell Maman. She never knows, he thought that Sirius would stick to that, he thought- he thought-

“Regulus!” Sirius shouts through the speaker. “Oh my- oh my fucking god, oh my god,” he laughs with heady relief, wolfish but quiet. Like the laugh you give before bursting into tears. “You’re alright,” he says quietly. “You’re alright, aren’t you?”

“Did they call her?” Regulus demands, expensive sneakers skidding on the concrete when he turns sharply around the corner, back into the urban landscape of the outer city.

Silence.

“Did they call her?” Regulus repeats harshly, head spinning and lungs burning. “They called her. They called her! Why did you let them call her? You promised! You promised me!”

Fuck. Fuck, what is he going to do? Walburga is going to kill him, god, she’s gonna kill him. Oh, fuck, if he could be forced to starve for three days for missing dinner, she’s going to cut a hand off for running away. Getting called here, to another country—-taking a day off of work—-she’s going to kill him, she’s going to kill him, she’s going to kill him.

Shop windows flit by in a blur. He smacks unapologetically into people so often his shoulders are going to bruise. The fire in his lungs and the pain in his shoulder are the least of his worries, now, though. Not when they’ve called his mother. He doesn’t know if he’s lost Barty yet, only that he’s fucking scared. Regulus is fucking terrified, he’s so terrified. He’s so scared.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I tried- I tried and I begged them not to, but you wouldn’t answer your fucking phone, Regulus! They were scared!”

“I’m- I’m scared!” Regulus pants, running through an intersection and ignoring the honks and skidding tires with cars coming way too close to him. Regulus is scared, in a new country with some new perfect family and a new language; Regulus is scared. “She- she’s gonna-“

He’s going to throw up. Fuck, he’s gonna throw up. He smacks into a pole outside of that stupid thrift shop, wrapping his arm around it to slow his speed and come to a stop. He’s heaving or gagging, he isn’t sure. He can’t breathe, and even in the pathetic weather there’s still sweat beading down his back like he’s just raced Evan. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe he can’t breathe-

Regulus is sure he looks a sight; a French boy in pyjama pants and probably thousand-dollar shoes, red-faced and panting against a pole in London. But he doesn’t care, because all he feels is the ice-cold dread in his veins and the physical thing in his throat preventing him from breathing right, because he’s not getting out of this one, no, he can’t talk his way out of this. He can’t make promises, he can’t make a speech at a charity gala, he can’t redirect her anger at Sirius because now she can get him. He can’t get out of this. Regulus can’t get out of this. He can’t run, because she’ll know she always knows, he can’t call them liars, because he missed her call too, and why would the pretty perfect Potters lie about anything?

He gags again, the heat and the force and the toll of running more than a mile in about five minutes on sheer determination and no actual food in his stomach catching up to him. The world is still spinning around him, chipped voices contorted and drawling. A roughly placed hand on his shoulder.

Barty, worried and panting heavily, face pink with exertion. He says something, concerned. Regulus can’t. Regulus can’t Regulus can’t Regulus can’t.

He thinks- he thinks he knows the English word for this one: “Go! Go!” He yells, the words coming out a bit panicked and pleading. All over the place, an amalgamation of French and English. He points, in case he’s wrong, away. Go away.

Barty responds, still in English, pleading. Fumbling with his phone, but Regulus doesn’t have time.

“No! No, no, go, go,” Dazedly, he shoves at the boy. His words come out quickly, in both languages, nonsensically. Everything feels amplified and muted at the same time, voices and sensations and everything just coming at him all at once.

Barty’s eyes are so concerned, so confused, so wide. Still, he backs away, raising his hands. Regulus points to the café, where Sirius is rushing out, and Barty nods in understanding.

“Barty. Crouch.” He enunciates, pointing to himself. “Barty Crouch.” He wiggles his phone in the air, and Regulus waves him off even though he doesn’t understand. Barty’s gone the same time Sirius reaches him, kneeling in front of him to look up at Regulus and saying something. Regulus is going to pass out. His vision is dotting with black, and his head is heavy and airy, and fuck.

He sways dangerously, leaning heavily on both Sirius and the poor black pole he’s still leaned against. He blinks a few times, gets a small gasp of thin air in, and tries to force the nausea, and the cowardice, and the fire away. This is not befitting behaviour of a spare and likely heir to the Black Legacy.

Slowly, he rights himself, willing this stupid panic attack to pass, and for his heart to stop its whining. It’s embarrassing, really, at this point. In public, really Regulus? He asks himself. He thinks of what his mother would say, at such a display of weakness. He’d have to run three miles back to back, an added mile for every minute, maybe an extra one or two just for her enjoyment.

He sucks in another tendril of air, in quick succession, because the thing is still in his throat, and his mind is still whirling and whirling, even despite his attempts to make it stop. At least, he’s managed his back against the pole at this point.

“She- she- Sirius, what-” Regulus tries, but the damn words just won’t come out, heavy on his heart, causing the erratic beating. He can barely blink past the rushing and the sharp feeling accosting his ears and chest.

Sirius grabs him by his elbows, grounding him. Sirius always knows, he always knew how to help him, when he was like this. When he was just so scared, so small. When he would shake, and heave, and cry. When he simultaneously needed and couldn’t stand touch, so Sirius would grab his elbows, a light but steady touch, not confining or suffocating, just there. On an overlooked body part you can barely even feel. Sirius knew, and he still does, and Regulus hates that it fucking works. That the air comes through steadier, that the loudness dials down a notch.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Regulus, it’s okay.” Sirius says, eyes genuine and protective. “Breathe. Look, breathe. Breathe.” He demonstrates, taking an exaggerated and deep breath in. Regulus manages a small one. He focuses on the calloused feel of Sirius’ fingertips, scraping against his skin. The wave of his long hair, a star clip pinned on one of the strands he didn’t notice. The one Regulus found, on the playground, didn’t he? It was beat and dirty, but Regulus brought Sirius into the slide—-where they couldn’t be seen—-and pressed it into his palm. He assumed Sirius threw it out, because he never wore it.

Only now does Regulus know why, and only now does he realise Sirius probably kept it safe, somewhere. Hid it, where even the routine room-checks couldn’t discover it. Not even Regulus has managed to find a spot she doesn’t know, except for one small square hole, barely four inches in width, beneath a false bottom under a dislodged floorboard. He can only fit his contraband items—-a dehydrated flower crown of Pandora’s doing, a Polaroid of the three of them in the Meadow, and a silver pocket watch engraved with an iris flower; Regulus’ favourite. Evan engraved it himself, over an entire year, just because Regulus picked one from the Meadow and rambled on about the meanings for a few minutes. To this day, it’s the best fucking gift he’s ever gotten. It’s so intricately detailed; each sprawling petal engraved intensely and with palpable care.

Thinking about France, and Evan, makes the air come a bit easier, and slowly but surely he feels himself coming back into his body. The noise deescalates to a tunable sound, one that he can ignore again. He stops focusing on the feel of his sock in his shoe, and the way he can feel his organs in his body fades away.

He collects himself, carefully placing the pieces back together. He’s Regulus Black, second heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, and he needs to pull himself together and assess the situation. Calmly.

He shoves Sirius’ hands off of him, dusting off his trousers with a practised haughty air. He adjusts his hoodie like one would straighten a tie, closes his eyes for seven seconds, and reopens them.

He steps into the street, and pushes open the door to the café casually, and not like his heart is about to fall out of his ass. He even holds it open for Sirius, refusing to make eye contact with the boy. He spots the Potters, looking worried and relieved—-except for James, who’s shooting a surprisingly effective glare his way, almost on par with Regulus’ though his eyes are too soft, and the tilt of his mouth isn’t nearly sharp enough. Regulus lets Sirius slide into the chair by the window, and takes the one on the edge. He doesn’t like sitting in the middle of restaurants, but he can’t exactly verbalise that, can he?

The cheerful-looking waiter slides to their table with a customer service grin, presumably greeting him and asking him what he’d like to order. Regulus, blank-faced and neutral, points to the chamomile tea and opens his wallet to press a hundred into his hand absently before waving him off, because he looks like he’s about to cry and Regulus would feel very awkward being served by a crying waiter.

Effie looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

“They do not tip in this country?” Regulus asks dryly, nodding his approval when his drink is pressed into his hand. Big tips equal fast service, and Regulus is itching to get out of here.

Sirius hesitates, fingers dancing on the hardwood table. It has a nice varnish. “Not to that extent, usually.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow, stalling, stalling, stalling. “It is just a hundred. We have millions. So much, too much money. Couldn’t spend it if I ate out three times a day and tipped a thousand each time for the rest of my life.”

“Regulus.”

Regulus rubs the porcelain of his coffee cup, steaming nicely. The lace table runner looks to be handknit. He takes a careful sip, humming in apprehension disguised as appreciation. “What exactly did they tell her?” He asks, maintaining eye contact with Mr. Potter.

Sirius’ voice comes out strained as he relays the question and answer. “You were having a hard time adjusting, and had run off today on our shopping spree, and they were worried for your safety.”

Regulus clenches his jaw.

“She’s coming tomorrow. To ‘make sure you’re okay’, but we don’t have to let her in, Regulus, we don’t have to let her in.” Sirius pleads, more upset outwardly about the situation than Regulus is. There are tears in his eyes, and his voice is cracking like he knows exactly how large of a rift this is putting into their relationship, desperately clasping Regulus’ hand atop the table. It was already a canyon, and Sirius threw a few hundred tons of explosives inside of it. They never snitch. Sirius just did. “I- I know, and I tried to stop it, and I’ll take the fall, I will, I’ll- I’ll-”

Regulus raises a hand, taking another large sip of his tea to ease his nerves. It burns his tongue, but he pays that no mind. There are larger issues at hand. “Stop, Sirius. Just stop.” He swallows the lump in his throat, breaking his staring contest with Mr. Potter. “It’s my burden, and I will face it. These are the consequences I knew I’d face. I fucked around, and now I’m going to find out.”

He repeats that. Over and over again in his head. A mantra. He deserves this. He deserves punishment, he knew he’d be punished, he sullied the Black name. Walburga does not let insubordination go unchecked, and he’s not going to cower in fear. She loves him, but he’s done an evil thing that cannot go unpunished. This is what happens when you let your family name down, and you need to be cleansed so that you can continue to be an effective member.

Regulus sullied the Black name, knowingly, and now he must reap the consequences.

In front of him, Sirius looks at him like he’s just said the most devastating thing he’s ever heard. Regulus isn’t sure what, exactly, it was, but the weight of his stare makes him extremely uncomfortable. Sirius, after a few moments of tense silence, sniffs loudly and retracts his hand, clasping them together in front of his mouth, almost reminiscent of a prayer stance. Regulus resists the urge to mirror him. “Reggie, what did they do to you?”

“They set me on the right path.” Regulus recites softly. “They made me see sense in your absence.”

“That’s fucking bullshit, Regulus. Fucking bullshit.” Sirius insists, voice raising slightly. “Fucking- fucking bullshit. Fuck.”

“What?” Regulus demands, sipping from his drink once more.

“That you believe that. The ‘right path’- you sound like a- like a brainwashed robot.”

“I’m not brainwashed,” Regulus scoffs. “They’re our parents, Sirius, they only want what’s best for us. It’d be best if you could see some sense as well. You’ve become wayward.”

Sirius sputters, taking on an affronted expression. “Wayward.” He repeats incredulously, as if he can’t even comprehend the notion. “Regulus, they beat us. Starve us. Torture us. They only want what’s best for them, and you know it.”

“I know that you’re incorrectly speaking in present-tense. They used to beat you, starve you. Now, they punish me. Punishments only result from rebellion. It’s not like they discipline us for fun.” Regulus defends, shifting in his chair. The thing about Sirius’ words, is that somewhere deep inside him, he knows he’s right. But he just wants to cling to that love, that feeling of acceptance he’s always wanted to feel. Their methods are a bit unorthodox, but that doesn’t mean they’re monsters. They’re just people. They’re his parents. It’s just tough love. It’s just tough love.

“They abused us.” Sirius says, tone so suddenly devoid of emotion that it’s like he’s trying to verbally disarm a bomb.

“No, they discipline us when we deserve it. They steer us on the right path, so that we can have a fulfilling future.” Regulus retorts, shifting again in his seat. There’s a prickling unease that winds its way through his bone marrow at the thought. Abuse is a strong word; the line between discipline and abuse is thin, but the words have two very different meanings. Their parents aren’t abusive. Abuse would be, like, unwarranted discipline. Mother always tells him exactly why he’s being punished. That’s not abuse.

—

The car ride home is very quiet.

Regulus, who has been with the Potters for a few weeks now, knows that this is not a very good sign. The Potters are never quiet, and when they are, it almost feels like a punishment at the same time it feels like a miracle.

His headphones are blasting something classical yet again, in hopes that it will be enough to quell the anxiety burrowing in his throat. If he focuses hard enough, he can identify it as Tristesse. It’s calming, in his ear. Distracts from the very off-putting stares he’s getting from his brother; heavy glares, thick with apprehension and anger, as if Regulus is the one who fucked up. Which, really? Sure, Regulus ran off for a bit. Probably made the whole experience more enjoyable, really. Regulus doubts they cared all that much. Plus, Sirius allowed them to call Mother. He snitched. The number one sibling rule of any family is that you don’t snitch, much less one like theirs, where the punishment is a fucking beating so bad you can barely breathe afterwards. Regulus is lucky she can’t starve him from France, but he doesn’t doubt she might find a way in the Potters. He hasn’t been particularly nice to them.

His point is—Sirius has no right to be looking at him all offended and anxiously angry. Seriously. He’s staring so hard at the side of Regulus’ head over Potter that he can practically feel it. Regulus can only stare so intently at his phone or out the window, when he’s half worried Sirius will do something like push him out or punch him in the face, which he seems to really want to do.

Safe to say, the ride back feels like it takes ten times longer than it did going there.

—

Because Regulus can’t have anything, getting back isn’t a reprieve either. He gets out of the car, mentally sighing with relief—he’s never been so happy to see the Potter home before—and before he can even take a step towards the front door, Mrs. Potter’s voice stops him.

“She wants you to wait, because she needs to talk to you.” Sirius translates dully. Regulus was afraid he was going to go on strike because of their hostility, but apparently only Regulus would do such things. “Matter-of-fact, I need to talk to you as well.” Sirius adds, voice taking on a sharp edge. Regulus crosses his arms, turning towards him.

“What’s stopping me from ignoring all of you, Sirius?” He asks.

“Well, I’d think you owe it to us, after your little disappearing act.”

“I don’t think I do,” Regulus challenges petulantly. “Pretty even, considering you called Mother on me.”

Sirius’ jaw clenches. “Yeah, well what was I supposed to say when you ran off for the entire day, Regulus? You weren’t gone an hour, you were gone for the entire day. I tried, but you went missing! Obviously they were going to call Mother, when you’d been locking your door and hiding from all of us, cussing us out, ruining things, when you were here, and suddenly running off when we went out! We were worried! We were all worried sick, because we didn’t know when you’d last eaten, it’s hotter than hell out, we didn’t know where you were, and you were an angry fucking teenager on the run. You could’ve gotten hurt, Regulus! Someone could’ve-” Sirius cuts himself off, face flushed with anger. His fists are clenched at his sides, looking like he wants to throttle Regulus to showcase an example.

Regulus scoffs bitterly. “As if you give a flying fuck whether I get hurt or not!” He yells, body bubbling with anger and irritation, shame and anxiety. He feels all of it, an uncomfortable mixture churning in his gut and twirling through his veins, making him want to scream and throw things. “We both know you couldn’t care whether I lived or died! You’d be off with Potter and the other goonies the next day anyway, having completely fucking forgotten. The fucking Potters would probably host a damn party. I thought I was doing you a fucking favour, even if I did die.”

Sirius rears back as if he’s been slapped, mouth open in something like shock and horror. As if what Regulus said wasn’t true or something. Like it’s some horrible accusation, instead of the truth. Sirius barely called. He didn’t text. He surely never fucking visited. Regulus hasn’t looked his own brother in the eye for actual years. If he cared, he would’ve come back home. Even if it would’ve sucked, even if they might’ve screamed or hit him. If Sirius actually cared, he would’ve come home, instead of forcing Regulus out too. Sirius just fucking abandoned him. Sirius looks so fucking hurt, as if he has any fucking right.

Where was he, when Mother was angry, when she destroyed his room because he was out past curfew. When she burned his journal because he’d dared to write that he was upset about it. Where was Sirius, when he had to patch his own wounds? When she locked him in his room for days on end, without food? He wasn’t there. He was galavanting with his friends, without a care. He wasn’t there. He was never there. It fucking hurts, to look at your brother and almost not recognize him, because you haven’t seen him in so long. It fucking hurts. Regulus doubts Sirius even noticed anything about him. He hasn’t asked about Evan, or Pandora, or his other friends. He hasn’t asked about his studies.

“You don’t even know me, Sirius.” Regulus says resolutely, blinking away tears. “I don’t think you even fucking care. You just want me to clear your conscience.” He scoffs bitterly, shoving past a shell-shocked Sirius to get inside. “Tell Mrs. Potter to go talk to Mother, if she’d like to have a word with someone.”

Regulus can only breathe when he’s locked his door behind himself, and even then, it comes in gasps. Pitiful, grieving gasps for air, that don’t help as much as they hurt. They hurt, they hurt, it feels like all he ever fucking does is hurt. Everything hurts, all of the fucking time. His hand comes up to his chest, almost trying to massage the air out, or perhaps dislodge the almost physically painful thing nestled next to his heart that tastes of grief. His legs shake, as he moves his hand up to conceal the terrible keening sound that wretches from his throat. He wants to fucking sob, or scream, or at least break something. He wants to rip his hair out and stab Sirius as much as he wants to fall to his knees before him and beg why, why, why am I never good enough? Why, why, why didn’t you stay? Why don’t you try?

Regulus wishes Sirius would fucking try. What he doesn’t know, is that if Sirius came into his room—Regulus knows he can pick a lock—if he pleaded with Regulus, if he promised he still loved him, if he fucking just did something to actually try, instead of sitting outside of a door they both know he can fucking get through if he wants, Regulus would jump back into his arms in a heartbeat. Because Sirius is his big brother, Sirius is his fucking everything, and Regulus is just the stupid fucking pet he waters once a week with a stupid fucking phone call. It’s fucking stupid, that Regulus just fucking takes that. A fucking phone call. What a joke. And Sirius can’t even take it himself. He can’t bear to face the fucking truth. He just stares at Regulus like he’s some unrecognizable monster, and then begs Regulus to tell him why he refuses to exit his room.

Stupid, fucking stupid. Regulus waits like a pathetic little thing for the crumbs of attention Sirius provides him. He’s always waiting.

He doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for.

Regulus pushes the palms of his hands into his eyes, chest heaving as he forces himself to catch his breath. He just feels so fucking angry. He just wants to punch Sirius in his stupid fucking face. And he wants to punch the Potters, for being everything he isn’t. He wants to tear everything, he wants to ruin everything, he just wants to fucking leave. Fuck. His hands itch, his chest burns. He wants to punch a fucking hole in the wall, and ransack this stupid room that isn’t even really his.

He doesn’t even realise he’s overturning his suitcase, until it lands with a thud on the ground, and his things scatter across the floor. He doesn’t realise he’s at his desk, until the books are thrown at the wall and the pencil holder is shattered, and the chair is knocked over. The bed, until the sheets are scattered and he’s bashing one of the pillows against the bedposts, over, over, and over again, with all of his strength. He swings it until his arms are sore, until the pillowcase threatens to slip out of his hands. Until the stupid wooden post starts fucking leaning. And even then, the itching doesn’t leave, and his chest doesn’t stop burning.

In fact, he’d say his fingers itch even more, and his chest burns with thick shame mixed uncomfortably with the anger. He still wants to break things, and he still wants to tear his hair out.

He also wants to curl up and cry.

Fucking pathetic, isn’t he? Mother must be right; she typically is. Regulus leans against the unstable bedpost, swallowing uncomfortably through the stinging in his eyes. He wonders what she’ll do to him, when she arrives tomorrow. She’ll be appalled. Her hair will be flawless, her face sharp and eyes intense. He almost shamefully misses her, in some twisted way. He’s paralysed with fear, and he’s drowning in shame, and he still misses his mother. He’s always missed his mother, because he’s always longed for something he’s never had. A version of her that touches softer, smiles, reassures him. Regulus has always wanted a mother who would tie his tie before a school dance, or a formal event.

It’s hard, because sometimes he becomes aware of how one-sided their relationship is, yet he still can’t stop. He can’t stop trying to please her in any way he knows how. He can’t stop trying, and every time he does, she tells him he’s not trying hard enough. He knows he’s trapped in a cycle. He knows so many things, but knowing and accepting are two very different things. He can’t help that dark thing in his chest that whispers that getting her love is possible, he just needs to be different, and he’ll get it. He can’t shut it up. It never shuts up. It hurts, and it hurts, and it’s carved a painful path through his ribs, and he still can’t get it to shut up. He can’t pound on his chest, because it only screams. He can try all he wants to claw through his chest and rip it out, so that he can breathe, and still it will stay. Still, his lungs will be squished. Still, he’ll take gasps of breath instead of soft inhales.

Regulus wishes he knew how to breathe. He wishes he knew how to learn. He wishes he could be like Sirius, with his easy breathing and loud laughs. Sirius found his breath. Sirius, with the help of James, managed to gently extract the parasitic thing that their mother put inside them when they were born. Regulus wishes desperately to know how he managed that. Maybe it’s that it was never embedded that deep into Sirius. Maybe it hasn’t corroded his bones and smashed itself so deep inside of him that he can feel it try to claw its way up his throat, that he feels it beating with his heart as if they’ve merged into one.

Regulus takes a gasping breath, and he can feel his hair drenched with sweat falling against his forehead. His hand claws into his chest, and it still doesn’t do anything, just like it did absolutely nothing last time. It does nothing, but it feels like it should, and he can’t stop doing it. Regulus, with another gasping breath, climbs onto his bed, which is so soft. The feeling of the gentle fabric against his skin is so much gentler than the hands he can almost feel. He presses his temple against it, breathing. His tears soak into the silk, creating small dark spots that slowly widen. He squeezes his eyes shut, and digs his fingers into the fabric, trying to focus on the soft feeling instead of the gaping hole in his chest.

He keeps his eyes closed, and continues to until his heart stills, and his breathing comes more evenly, and his tears are sticky and dry on his cheeks. Until he gains the strength to ask himself ‘seriously? Now you’re just being ridiculous’ and ‘how embarrassing was that? Get yourself together’. Until he listens to it. Because, really, he’s an heir. This behaviour is unacceptable. Respectable heirs don’t cause scenes, and they don’t run away, and they don’t have meltdowns like a toddler. Honestly, the fact that he let himself do that is shame enough. He needs to get himself together. His mother would positively explode with disgust if she had seen that display, much less the reason for it.

Regulus pulls himself up, scoffing at himself as he glances around his room. It looks as if a tornado ran through, dislodging anything and everything. Pathetic. If only the Potters had maids, he would be able to hop in the shower and emerge to a spotless room. But of course, they pretend their riches are nobler than the rest, and refuse to hire live-in help, pretending a weekly service is enough.

They’d probably lose their fortune by over-paying their servants anyway; they’d insist on buying a whole house, because you can hardly have your servants living in quarters, and then, well, they’d need furniture to decorate their house, because you can hardly have a house without furniture, and then, obviously, their servants would need cleaners, because you can hardly have a person doing their jobs now, can you? And on, and on, it would go. At least the thought is amusing enough that Regulus can pull himself off of his bed and set about cleaning. He picks up his pens, and then he picks up his books. He tells himself the Potters would have their servants with the finest pens, and the most limited editions of books. Their bookshelves would be filled with their pick of whatever genre. Hell, they’d have multiple genres.

He picks up the chair, and he keeps going, and it gets easier after that. He gets out his headphones, and he shuffles his classical playlist, and things come much quicker. He finds his mind going carefully blank, as intricate melodies fill his ears and fuel his movements. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t let himself think. He just lets the music overwhelm everything. He focuses on the emotions the composers convey; quick melodies and gentle harmonies, contradictions and soft romance.

Sometimes, embarrassingly, Regulus swears that classical music is in his blood. His life is in dissonant chords, and syncopated notes, and crescendoing melodies. The soft hum of a fourth finger note on a violin, and a gentle swell at the climax of a sweet-sounding harmony. His life is a particularly harsh piece, with aggressive staccato in some places, and a longing C minor key in others. Sometimes, when he’s with Evan and Pandora, it’s in G major, with subtle vibrato and a sprawling legato melody. Regulus feels music the same that he breathes.

Every breath is in a key, every motion is in a specific articulation. Every sentence is a bow stroke, with slurred notes. He connects with music in a way he’s incapable of connecting with anyone or anything else. It pumps through his blood, and burrows deep into his bones. Regulus is made of music, from his very core to the skin that covers his raw muscle. Music just makes sense. Music doesn’t see language barriers, it doesn’t see prejudice, it doesn’t see borders. Music is a universal language, an expression. Not every note is called the same thing, not every technique translates, but everyone can hear it just the same. They can hear it and understand the meaning. They can understand how it makes them feel.

Regulus loves how music makes him feel. He loves playing it, listening to it, analyzing it. He loves speaking it and humming it. He loves connecting to it and making it. He loves seeking it out in the mundane routines of life. He loves listening to the clinks of mugs against wood, and the clanking of a dishwasher running through a cycle. He loves deciphering the beats that people tap out on tables or with their feet on hardwood floors.

Regulus loves the way music makes things just that much easier. Actions to come just smoother. Voices to be just softer.

He loves the way it blankets his worry and anxiety, and calms his heart. He likes the way it occupies his brain, as he clumsily sweeps shards of glass into the trash, unused to cleaning up such messes himself. As he sets his room right once again, unused to the feeling in his back at being bent over for so long, working. As he forces his bedpost straight again, hoping that he can just forget about its instability and blame it on someone else later.

He loves the way that he can stand, after multiple hours of meticulously cleaning after himself—courtesy of a stupidly privileged life that he longs for, stupid Potters and their nobility, as if their fortune is any cleaner in obtainment than Regulus’---and still not think anything as he notes the thin sheen of sweat sticking to the hair at the back of his neck, and prepares himself for a shower. He loves the way he can disconnect his headphones, and the music falters only for a moment before filling the room with one of Bach’s scores, softening every sharp corner of the room and making the overhead lighting less grating.

What Regulus hates, however, is the aftermath. When he steps out of the shower, when he dresses, when he brushes his teeth, and he lowers the volume to silence. The empty feeling, of a room once filled with melody suddenly becoming completely silent. He hates the immediate uncertainty, as he steps into a quiet bedroom. The wave of anxiety as he eyes the clock, knowing that despite his best efforts, he cannot slow time. She will be visiting tomorrow, and Regulus will have to repent. He will have to face her, when her nails have not broken his skin in what feels like so long, despite being barely a few weeks. Sirius will create more of a scene, in an effort to distract and create a less severe punishment for Regulus, to shift the attention towards himself, unaware that she knows. Or, maybe, he is aware. Walburga still knows, regardless. She knows that Sirius acts out of his guilt, and that her hurting Regulus is the most effective punishment he can bear. Sirius will act out, and it will only make things worse for Regulus.

But he doesn’t know that.

Regulus lies in his soft sheets, and he does not sleep. The anxiety squeezing his heart prevents even his eyes from closing. His fingers grip the duvet tightly, and he cannot relax them. The room is silent, aside from the soft whirring sound of the fan, and he cannot quiet his brain enough for it to relax him, when he knows what is coming. The darkness surrounds him, his eyes fighting to form the shadows around him into sensical shapes, and they start to look like long nails and stiff posture, perfectly maintained hair tied into a bun and a sharp glare, as harsh as a knife digging into soft skin. He cannot close his eyes, and keeping them open relieves nothing.

Regulus will picture all of the things Sirius will do to try and save him, and he will picture all of the ways that Walburga will rebel.

He will not sleep.

Chapter Text

Regulus jolts awake when he hears the melodic chime of the Potter’s doorbell. On the ground beneath him, Sirius groans. Regulus isn’t sure when he snuck in, only that he was laying in the dark trying to keep his eyes dry and calm his heart in the early hours of morning, when he heard the click of his door—-Sirius can pick a lock, apparently—and shuffling on the ground. Sirius didn’t say anything. Regulus didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t, but having his big brother with him did help his eyes shut easier. The feeling of being back in Grimmauld Place, both of them in the same bed, safer together. Again, crumbs. Just because he’s aware of how pathetic he is, doesn’t mean he can do anything about it

Now, his heart picks up pace and he stumbles out of bed, not feeling even a pang of sympathy when he inadvertently ends up kicking Sirius. He darts for his suitcase, ruffling through his clothes, looking for something he wouldn’t mind losing.

He grabs a simple black cuffed shirt, growing too small for him, and simple black trousers. Fancy enough, without looking out of place. He takes his ring off, tucking it between two shirts. Straightens his unruly curls. Breathes. Picks instinctively at the skin on his thumb, needing an outlet for his anxiety.

“Get out.” Regulus says, at the same time that he hears his mother’s distinctive voice greeting the Potters coldly. Sirius’ face pales, but he doesn’t object. He stands, straight for the first time since Regulus has seen him again, and starts brushing through his hair with his fingers as he wordlessly leaves. He knows better—than to talk.

“Regulus!” She screeches. Regulus’ breathing falters as he tugs the nice shirt over his head, the fabric hugging his figure too tightly. Choking his neck. Regulus breaths again, and exits his room.

She’s standing in the hallway, silver eyes glinting dangerously in the overhead lighting. The Potters look wary, standing off to the side. Sirius with them. Regulus pays them no mind, face a careful mask of indifference but inherent respect. “Mother.”

Her sharp nails cut into his cheek as she scans him with her judgemental eyes. Regulus feels her gaze as a physical crawling sensation. He forces himself to breathe. To funnel all of his anxiety to the point where his fingernail digs into the flesh of his thumb, and to keep his face blank. She scrutinises him for a few seconds, before dropping his face like it’s burned her.

“Now, Regulus, what were your specific instructions, dear?” She murmurs darkly, pupils dilated like she’s focused on her prey, preparing to pounce.

Regulus swallows. “Bring honour to the Black family name. Behave respectably, and bring Sirius back to Jesus.” He recites. It’s been playing in a constant loop in his head since he offboarded that train. He’s been constantly aware of his failing each and every minute that passes with him angrily holed up in his room.

“And, how, exactly, is that little stunt you pulled doing any of that?” She sneers, face contorting into righteous fury, barely concealed within her eyes. Her voice is low, likely so that she doesn’t attract the attention of the Potters. It’s a fruitless endeavor. His mother was never the one who had to keep quiet—that was always him. She’s not very good at it.

“It’s not, mother. My behaviour was childish and inappropriate.” Never contradict Walburga. She isn’t asking, even if her voice tilts up at the end.

“Exactly. You knew it was evil, Regulus. Your behaviour is so wildly reproachable, and not only did you disrespect the Potters, but you brought me here, I had to take off work, today, Regulus, that money is used to sustain your clothes, and your lifestyle, and your blessings. Everything I do, is for you. And still, you disrespect me!” She always has a way of making him feel so, so small. Regulus can tell she’s barely refraining from smacking the daylights out of him right here. “What do I have to do, Regulus? I gave you life, you eat the finest dishes, have the latest technology, and still, you’re ungrateful. Still, you insist on living a pathetic life of misbehaviour. You lie, and you sneak off. You lie to your mother, Regulus. You. Lied. To me.”

Regulus sucks in a sharp breath. She knows. She always knows. Her eyes glint with it, narrowed down and swirling with rage.

“Tell me one word in English, Regulus. Just one.”

Regulus can’t breathe. She knows. Of course she knows. She knows everything. She knows Regulus will be unable to produce an adequate word, because he does not know English. He has not been practising. He has not been speaking with Sirius. Her eyes are boring into his, and he can’t look away, and he can’t get his mouth to move.

Behind him, he knows Sirius is whispering a word to him, desperate to distract her, if not provide Regulus with something, but it’s too low to hear. It’s too low to hear. Regulus can’t hear it, not over the blood rushing in his ears. Every ticking second strengthens her resolve, fuels her anger. All Regulus can do is stare at her, plead with her uselessly with his eyes.

“Mother!” Sirius suddenly shouts raucously, voice cheerful and loud. A bit strained. It startles both Regulus and Walburga so harshly that his fingernail draws blood on his thumb. “Learning a new language is tough for anyone, yes? Give old Reggie a break, now, he’s been practising each day with me, and he’s getting better. Only reading, yet, but we were planning to speak tomorrow.”

Walburga snatches Regulus’ arm, digging into his sleeve with her nails. Her anger is turned to Sirius, now, whose hair somehow got even worse than when he woke up, and suddenly he’s sporting an eyesore of a patchwork leather jacket. He looks the picture of a delinquent. His mother would—is calling it the work of the devil himself.

With her attention elsewhere, Regulus can finally breathe. He blinks furiously, keeping the tears at bay, and placing his walls back up where Walburga tore through them. Between heavy breaths, as Sirius gets called increasingly unhinged insults, Regulus pulls himself together. Accidentally glances towards the Potters, who look shocked. Potter Boy looks almost angry, when he makes eye contact with Regulus, but it doesn’t seem like anger directed at him, anymore. Almost a sheen of sympathy in his eyes draped atop it. Regulus doesn’t have time to

unpack that, or even really register it.

Regulus tears his eyes away, breathing some more. His mother is red-faced and absolutely losing it, as Sirius leans casually on the wall and blows on his nails, looking almost completely indifferent. Regulus knows better, though. The corners of his lips are twitching downwards with every vile word she spits. He’s been away from her for so long, he probably assumed he’d never have to hear them again. Never endure her long-winded rants. He probably deconstructed her words, built himself back up with the Potter Boy week by week. Let the words lose their sting after so long of not hearing them. Regulus hasn’t. He won’t. Sirius may have gotten out, but Regulus isn’t foolish enough to think he could possibly meet the same fate. Her claws are dug too deep, punctured with just the right amount of care and attention to keep him desperate for more, like an alcoholic’s first drop of booze.

Sirius’ distraction is effective, but nothing can last forever. Through her anger at Sirius, and her rant, she slowly but surely circles back to Regulus.

“And Regulus, I send him here to you, I’ve moulded him so well, he was so perfect, and you’ve corrupted him! You’ve made him act out, through your vindictive and selfish nature! How dare you, Sirius! You just couldn’t stand to see your brother be more successful than you, could you? Well, he can still be saved, but I’ve lost all hope for you. I will save him.”

And with that, she’s tugging Regulus away, grip so tight she rips through the fabric of his shirt.

She tosses him into the study, and stomps in right behind him, thrashing around aimlessly and screeching.

The door is locked behind her, and when Regulus meets her eyes, he knows what’s coming for him.

***

It’s been an hour.

She’s still in the study with him.

Sirius has snapped at Effie and Monty, shoved James, and can’t move. He’s standing, right in the middle of the hallway, eyes glued to the double doors. Willing them to open. Sirius can’t hear anything, due to Monty’s noise cancellation. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing, or a very bad thing. All he knows is that the worry is eating him alive, and all he wants is to be in that room instead. All he wants, is for the fucking door to open. For Regulus to pop out, because he always was her favourite, with barely a scratch on him. For Regulus to scowl at him, tell him to stop being a baby. Comment that Britain’s made him soft, and did he really think she’d hurt her darling boy?

But Sirius knows that isn’t true. Walburga’s love is dependent on what you can do for her, and nothing more. If you’re not useful, you’re useless. A liability. Walburga Black cannot raise a liability.

And so, Sirius waits. Him and Regulus have always been good at putting each other back together in the aftermath of her fury. Sirius knows he betrayed Regulus, but all he wants is forgiveness. All he wants is to stomp through that damn door, and kick her out. Tell her he got a tattoo, that he’s had sex with a boy, that he smokes cigarettes. Anything. Anything to get her away from his baby brother.

God, he hates Walburga. Hit her, see how she likes it. He wonders if she’s ever knelt on rice for a whole day, if she’s ever nurtured a broken bone without proper materials. Sirius would like to see her try. Sirius would like to put her six feet under. He’d like to bury his fist in her cheek. He’d like to do a lot of things. Fantasises about all of the different ways he could get his own back at her. Matter of fact, he is. He’s going to do it.

The door clicks open. Walburga seems utterly unaffected except for two strands of inky black hair that have fallen from her tight bun. She meets his eyes—silver, and so much like Sirius’ own.

“Regulus, do be a dear and clean up your mess. I trust this was a productive intervention?” She asks, almost purposely goading Sirius.

“Yes, mother.” Comes the quiet voice from inside the study.

“Very well.” She responds coldly, but she doesn’t move. Not from where she stares into her son’s eyes. It’s almost a limbo, a challenge between them. Who will break first? Will you finally get your revenge, or will you care for your brother? And Sirius is frozen, stuck, where he stares into the same eyes he meets every day in the mirror. That plague his nightmares. That he spent so many years afraid of, because they were never filled with anything but discontent or anger.

So many years wishing that he would meet them and see love, or care. He’s her son, but in the Black family, that seems nothing more than a means to an end. A formality. Walburga Black, who likely swore to break the cycle, repeating it. Her son, Sirius Black, who vows to never have a child because of this. Her son, Sirius Black, who hates her so completely it’s hard to think straight. Not when her eyebrows twitch in amusement, because she knows she’s winning. Walburga always wins, always knows. She wants Sirius to act on the urges consuming him. She dares him to be so bold so as to attack her.

And Sirius won’t. He never will. It’s their own twisted game, a cycle that is only theirs.

They both know that Sirius is going to choose Regulus, and he’s going to tell himself it’s because Walburga isn’t worth his time. It’s because he stopped caring, stopped calling her his mother a long time ago. Walburga is dead to him.

Really, it’s because he’s terrified. Terrified of the darkness she makes him feel, the anger so similar. Sirius is terrified of becoming her. He’s terrified that the exact thing that’s in her is in him too.

He feels like he’s always angry, always upset, never enough. He’s a thousand miles away all day, thinking, thinking, thinking. All he wants, really, is to have been born to anyone else. To look in the mirror, and not see his mother. To look at his brother, and not see in detail every way he’s failed his only job. To be able to just exist, without that weight of betrayal hanging over him like a raincloud.

To not feel like every action he takes for himself is spitting at Regulus, shoving him ten steps backwards. To look back, and remove that distance between them.

They’re brothers, they’re two boys cut from the same cloth; they’re reflections in a mirror. There should be no distance, not when they’ve survived what they have. Not when they’ve cradled injuries and snuck food to each other their whole lives. Not when they’ve whispered to each other in the dark, spinning fantasies and sharing secrets. Talking wordlessly. Not when Sirius used to look at Regulus, and know exactly what was going through his head, what he was feeling, what he needed.

Now, Regulus’ eyes are blank. His posture is stiff, he’s constantly guarded. Sirius hasn’t known what Regulus was thinking for years, and he feels him slipping even further with every passing day, falling through his fingers like sand. It’s almost like the night Sirius left was a verdict, a bomb destroying their relationship. One more nail in the coffin—the downfall of the Black Brothers.

The thing about abuse is that it requires manipulation, and when Sirius left, Regulus was left completely to the mercy of Walburga and Orion. He was always softer, he was always giving them his best. And when Sirius left, he no longer had anyone to look towards. He no longer had someone telling him when something they said was harmful, or false, or mean. He no longer had someone to stand up for him.

It doesn’t make him weak. He didn’t know any better. It makes him human, and it makes him a scared little boy who just wants to know why his mother doesn’t love him. Regulus, deep down, only wants to hear Walburga say she’s proud of him. She whispers in his ear, pats his head, keeps him thinking there’s a possibility, but she never says it. She will never say it. To say it is to lose her leverage. Sirius isn’t stupid, and he isn’t immature. He doesn’t hate Regulus—he doesn’t think—for staying there. Not when Walburga knows exactly where to poke him, exactly when to meet his eyes in approval, exactly when to nod, and exactly how to speak to keep him crawling back to her.

Walburga lost one heir—it’s no use pretending any longer, Sirius left Grimmauld Place and his title with it—and she doesn’t intend to lose another.

She can’t have Regulus. Sirius will scream and cry and fight, until he dies, to prevent Regulus from meeting her fate. He’d never eat again, kneel on rice for days, break each of his bones individually for his baby brother. Sirius doesn’t care, not about her, when Regulus is right there. When he’s had to watch from a border away as Regulus slowly lost his shine; as he fell deeper and deeper into her trap, without even knowing it.

Sirius stays awake at night, shaking with the paralysing fear that he’s going to lose Regulus for good eventually. That he’s going to marry some wealthy girl—likely a cousin—and have an emotionless marriage. Pop out an heir or two, because it’s expected of him. That if Sirius doesn’t start working quickly, one day he’s never going to hear from his brother again.

Sirius would marry Bellatrix before he’d let that happen to Regulus.

Sirius won’t let anything happen to Regulus. Regulus is his baby brother, the only reason his life has meaning. The reason he hasn’t accepted James’ endless offers of adoption. Sirius won’t leave Regulus, not fully. Sirius will never be able to stand by, and watch Regulus lose himself. Watch Walburga suck the life out of him.

Walburga will not get them. She will not turn them, she will not die happy.

Sirius clenches his jaw, and pushes past Walburga roughly, purposely knocking their shoulders painfully together. He doesn’t look back at her, refuses to do anything of the sort. She isn’t worth it, not when Regulus needs him. He doesn’t acknowledge her farewell, or the harsh way the Potters usher her out of the house.

Regulus is sitting in front of the fireplace, ramrod straight and looking unharmed from an observer's view.

Sirius knows better. He sees the tight draw of his shoulders, the laboured breathing.

Slowly, he lowers himself next to Regulus. The study is almost untouched. One of Monty’s glass vases is shattered on the ground. The vintage rug is stained in a few places with dark spots. Regulus’ eyes are completely vacant, as he stares unseeing at the unburnt fireplace, arm cradled as he robotically plucks glass shards out of it. The shirt he’s wearing is ripped and torn, practically nonexistent. There’s sweat, unshed tears, and blood. Sirius blinks multiple times. He’s been so separated from this part, so blind, that seeing it again fills him with a sense of dread unique to Grimmauld Place. The kind that comes from clicking heels and sharp nails. Grey eyes filled with contempt.

Suddenly, Sirius is six, and trying to get Regulus to stop crying so loudly, lest she wake up and hear. Eight, and showing Regulus how to splint his sprained wrist with a stick and tape. Ten, and sneaking tiny parcels of food beneath the basement door, because Regulus’ fork scraped too loudly against his plate when he was trying to cut his tough steak at a family dinner. Thirteen, and being forced to watch Walburga give Regulus the punishment for his crime, because she caught on, unable to move from where Orion kept a hand on his shoulder, not even when Regulus cried out in pain, turned pleading, desperate eyes on Sirius. Fifteen, and listening to Regulus spit carefully articulated venom, asking why Sirius would just leave him like this, how he could get Regulus in trouble, and then leave him in this house all alone, with her.

Sirius inhales a shaky breath, taking Regulus’ injured arm into his own hands, careful to cradle it. Regulus doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him, but a singular tear falls down his cheek. Sirius doesn’t speak, either—the silence between them is far too delicate for something as loud as words. Rather, he pours his apologies into each careful extraction of glass from Regulus’ porcelain skin. Examines the wounds, gives the few likely to scar the most attention. Grabs the medical kit which was strategically placed just out of sight behind the fireplace poker.

Sirius chants an endless cycle of apologies into his work, every uncovered injury making him increasingly unsure how he can ever look Effie and Monty in the eye again. Regulus’ shoulder is indented with five little crescents, red and sore. His jaw is bruised. Both of his feet look swollen, the right looking sprained or worse, while the left should be only heavily bruised, possibly mildly sprained. Sirius has to close his eyes for a few seconds. Stop himself from doing, saying something he will regret.

The Potters don’t bother them, thankfully recognising their error, and giving both brothers space.

Sirius and Regulus sit side by side for a while after Regulus is as patched up as he can be, both of them doing their best to put off leaving this room.

Once you leave the room, it hits you.

However, it can’t be put off forever, and when one hour ticks into two, they both know their time is up. Regulus’ face, his numb façade, is cracking. Sirius can see the pain slowly ebbing into his delicate features, knows the aftermath of this all too well. Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet, taking his time. Regulus, when he tries, only winces and lets out a low whine. Sirius swallows, because now isn’t the time, and gently supports Regulus to his feet, arm wrapped under his arm to take most of the strain off of his feet. Fucking Walburga.

The walk to the bedroom is slow; Sirius not being very physically inclined and Regulus weighing about as much as him making the task harder. Still, they make steady progress, each step one less to do. When they pass the kitchen, Sirius notices Effie, staring at them with wide and teary eyes, hands clasped in front of her mouth. She sees. Sirius knows she does. Hopes that she learns, because she means well. Monty’s hand is reassuringly stroking his wife’s arm, eyes sympathetic. James seems to reevaluating something very intently, with a laser-like focus, something warring behind his eyes.

Sirius refuses to acknowledge them, until Regulus is better, simply for the principle. He knows, logically, that he’s already forgiven them. That they were just trying to do what was best for Regulus, whom they were unsure was safe or not. That it’s Sirius’ fault, really, for not sharing something of that importance with them. For not emphasising the damage that a phone call could do to someone in their family. That Walburga would punish them if she even suspected that they were planning to disobey her, let alone something of the degree Regulus pulled. Sirius loves Effie and Monty, so dearly; they’re his parents. His true family, is here. Complete, now, with Regulus. But, he needs to be mad at them for a little, because he’s losing people to be mad at, and he needs to put it somewhere. He needs to get it out of the way, so that he can be there for Regulus. Take his side, after so many years of failing to do that. Sirius needs to choose Regulus, so he has to put Effie and Monty in a metaphorical corner for a few days.

Sirius refuses to speak, when Regulus leads them into his room; pretends not to notice that when he sets Regulus down, Regulus’ shaking fingers stay curled around the worn leather of his jacket. Sirius lowers himself and shrugs his jacket off like that was the plan the whole time, whispering “don’t even think about telling me to go away.”

“Go away.” Regulus mutters half-heartedly, both of them letting the fake disagreement ease some of the tension between them. Knowing that Regulus wants Sirius to stay, but won’t say it. That Sirius will gladly say it for him.

Regulus turns away from him, laying down on one of his pillows with a soft breath. Sirius takes his spot behind him, curled as close as he can be without touching Regulus. He gently hooks his arm around Regulus’ chest, thumb brushing soft strokes against his torn shirt, right next to his heart.

And Regulus cries.

He cries, true, messy sobs. The kind that shake your body, and obstruct your breathing. The all-encompassing kind, that fills you with such palpable sadness the only outlet is through them. Regulus cries, and Sirius stays right there with him, not saying a word, because he doesn’t have to. Regulus’ hand grasps onto Sirius’. His baby brother, his family, his blood, in so much pain. Pain over his physical injuries, yes, but the emotional ones, are the ones that hurt the most. All Regulus wants is for Walburga to love him. Sirius would give anything to make that happen, do anything, just to force her to say the three words. All Regulus wants is a mother, but he won’t find that in Walburga.

Sirius hopes, desperately, that eventually he will stop trying. Every failed attempt chips away at the throbbing thing that is Sirius’ heart, filled to the brim with so much love for his brother that he can’t even stand it. Can’t bear the knowledge that this isn’t something he can fix, that Sirius can take for him. That he can’t do anything, and that he can’t stop it.

That all he can do, is hold Regulus while he cries and mourns the mother that Sirius declared dead long ago.

***

Regulus blinks awake to pain.

Refusing to let any more tears fall, he categorises his injuries. His right foot fosters the familiar feeling of a bad sprain, bordering on broken. The left one isn’t much better, but if he sucks it up he thinks he can work on it. The clock reads 7—too late. His body feels like it’s just been run over by a truck. Everything hurts. Him and Sirius spent the rest of the day hiding in his room, and Regulus spent most of that time trying to breathe past the gaping hole in his chest. Neither of them spoke. Effie dropped off something for lunch and dinner, setting it outside of his door like she usually does. Regulus doesn’t know what it was. He didn’t eat it. Couldn’t swallow it when it tasted like ash on his tongue, and made him gag. Regulus pretty much just laid in bed, trying not to cry as his body screamed, and his mind screamed, and yet he was not allowed.

Still, he pushes himself up, wincing at the wave of nausea that accosts him. Yeah, he’s going to throw up. He can almost feel the bone shifting in his foot with the movement, digging into his muscle. It’s been months since he’s had to endure that, and his lack of practice means that he can’t fight it off effectively enough. He scrambles over Sirius’ sleeping form, willing himself not to literally projectile vomit on his brother and further humiliate himself.

He hobbles on his left foot, trying desperately not to make a pathetic noise at the sharp pain that shoots up his leg. He reminds himself to breathe. Reminds himself of what his mother said to him, in that room, which is so hazy and blurred it’s hard to differentiate. It always is, in the heat of the moment. He just has to sort through the punishments and the reprieve, sort his mother’s demands into boxes when he can translate them in his memory. Right after she cracked her heel on his foot, she said something, but he can’t remember it. All he remembers is the blinding pain he felt, the tears betraying him. Trying to keep eye contact even though he could feel himself slipping away.

Carefully, he sorts that into the don’t revisit box as he collapses onto the toilet, pretty much only dry heaving considering the lack of food he’s consumed for so long.

Regulus hates throwing up. He hates the lurch in his stomach, the pull on his throat, the feeling of it climbing up. The scramble. When he’s sick, or after a punishment. It always leaves him heaving and sweaty. Feeling so, so drained and defeated. The contrast between his too-hot skin and the cold porcelain only ever makes it worse.

With a reluctant grimace, he unravels a piece of toilet paper to wipe his mouth. His head is begging to lay down, his feet are screaming. His entire body feels so, so heavy.

Regulus isn’t a Black for nothing.

With a set jaw, he pulls himself up again. He pushes everything away, and focuses on the sound of the running faucet and the minty taste of his toothpaste. Washing away the terrible taste in his mouth. Avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He already knows what he’d see.

He can’t brush his teeth forever, so with a steeling breath, he prepares his foot for another journey. The study needs cleaning. The sting in his foot dulls.

The nausea does not.

—

The stain won’t come out. It’s light pink, just barely visible on the plush white of the carpet. It won’t come out.

He’s picked up the glass, he’s replaced the trinkets on Mr. Potter’s desk, he’s found all of the strongest cleaning supplies; the stuff that burns his nose and makes him even more lightheaded. His wrist hurts, from how harshly he’s scrubbing, and scrubbing, just desperately trying to get it clean. He needs to get it clean. Regulus messed up their study, and that’s not befitting of an heir. He can’t go back, until he behaves respectably. He needs to learn. He needs to stop being so disappointing. If he’d just try, if he’d just try harder, then he would be worthy. He just needs to try.

It feels like he’s trying, but his mother says he isn’t. She knows better than he does. He needs to put effort in. Being a Black is a privilege, status is a privilege, food is a privilege. To be deserving of privileges is to be respectable. You earn respect. Regulus has earned some respect, simply by virtue of being born, but he cannot rely on that forever. If the respect comes easy, it’s not worth it. That’s what his mother says. Regulus needs to earn the Potters’ respect. Without it, he can’t go home. He can’t go home, until he’s fixed himself. She can’t always fix him, he has to be able to fix himself.

Regulus doesn’t know how long he’s on his aching knees, wrist throbbing as he digs it into the carpet, or how many fumes he inhales as he carelessly mixes, head too heavy to think about what he’s truly combining. Everything just fucking hurts, and still, he scrubs. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

“Do I need to break your wrists too, Regulus? Can’t you behave, just once, after all I’ve done for you?”

Back and forth.

“Walk, Regulus, walk. Walk on those, I dare you, you rotten child.”

Back and forth.

“How could you disrespect me, embarrass me, just like your terrible excuse of a brother?”

Back and forth.

“I expect better from you, Regulus. This behaviour is not worthy of the Black Empire. Don’t you want a family, Regulus? Don’t you want to be worthy of anything?”

Don’t you want to be worthy of anything?

He does. Regulus desperately, god, how desperately, wants to be worthy of his family. Of his mother’s affection. Of anything, that isn’t pain.

Regulus wishes to be worthy of his voice.

Regulus wishes a lot of things. You’d be kind to not point them out, because they’re childish and foolish.

“Regulus?”

Regulus freezes. He wasn’t supposed to be up, not yet, he’s supposed to be asleep. His study isn’t ready. Regulus still can’t get this stain out. He keeps his eyes firmly planted on the carpet, not daring to look up. Regulus isn’t prepared for company; he’s not presentable. He’s not even wearing a shirt, having forgotten it in his haze. It makes him suddenly and disorientingly aware of his body. Littered with old scars and new bruises. Disgusting; that’s what his mother called it, when she walked in on him shrugging on a dress shirt for a dinner party.

“You should be ashamed, looking like that. I suppose I don’t have to worry about you doing anything untowered, in any case. I can’t fathom anyone willingly touching that.” Walburga sneers, looking physically sick at the sight of him. He meets her eyes blankly in the mirror, keeping his shields up even though his heart is splintering in his chest. He wonders, distantly, if she knows that each of them are from her. Swallowing, he slides into the white button up, doing the collar completely. She ducks out, with one last shiver of disgust.

Regulus stops looking at himself in the mirror, after that, for a very long time.

“Regulus?” Mr. Potter says again, gently. Followed by something in English. Regulus doesn’t waste breath replying, seeing as they can’t understand each other. Carefully, he reaches up and wraps his arms around himself, tilting to his heels painfully. Mr. Potter’s strong footsteps get closer and closer, muffled by the carpet when he steps on it. The same carpet, that Regulus is practising humility on. It is not good to be too haughty, but you must know your place, which is high above most.

Gingerly, Regulus points to the stain, now barely visible unless you’re heavily scrutinising it, in which case you probably need a hobby, or perhaps a life.

Mr. Potter hums, and startles Regulus by kneeling down next to him. Regulus has to hold his breath, instinctively. His body still hurts, desperately. Monty is staring at him, and he won’t stop. Regulus’ skin is prickling with unease and apprehension. Is it not to his standards? Regulus can do more. What does he want? His brown eyes are studying him intently, like he’s a scientist and Regulus the experiment. Regulus hates being perceived. Studied. He doesn’t want anyone to know anything about him. Not of this magnitude, certainly. Regulus doesn’t know what Mr. Potter is looking for, and the fact that Regulus can’t hide it from him because of that makes him want to claw his skin off. He can feel his gut twisting uncomfortably, making him want to lash out. Scream. Hit. Anything, so that Mr. Potter will look away.

Regulus flinches embarrassingly intensely when Mr. Potter’s hands reach out and gently grab the scrubber from his hands, which he hadn’t realised he was choking. Everything hurts. His bones hurt, his heart hurts, his chest feels like it’s been impaled physically by his mother’s cruel words. He can hardly breathe, between the sharp fume of chemicals and the terrible pain where he sits against his feet.

“Walk on those, I dare you, you rotten child.”

Regulus watches with apprehension as Mr. Potter, with his uncomfortably kind eyes, reaches over for the cleaning basket Regulus brought. Slowly, Regulus pulls himself a bit away. Sirius said the Potters weren’t physical. Sirius said the Potters weren’t physical. Sirius said the Potters weren’t physical. Regulus keeps telling himself that, despite the rising anxiety in his throat as he watches Mr. Potter’s hand reach his goal.

His glasses—seemingly the same type that James has, despite the bigger lenses due to his prescription—rest against his nose, and he picks up the thing with the English label that smells disgustingly clinical. He thinks the maids back home used something like that, because he recognizes the smell from walking into his bathroom every once and a while, after they’d cleaned. He remembers his mother screeching about the foul odour endlessly, threatening the maids with termination, if she ever smelled it within her bathroom or kitchen again. Regulus, although he certainly did not find it pleasant, instructed the maids to continue to use it, if it was easier for them. He didn’t much care, as long as his bathroom was clean. The smell cleaned out eventually, and they always stocked his bathroom with pleasant lavender air fresheners.

Mr. Potter checks the other bottles, and Regulus knows he fucked up, somehow. His eyebrows scrunch together, and true visceral fear explodes from his stomach when Mr. Potter turns back to face him, expression scared and worried. Regulus did something wrong, oh god, he did something wrong. Mr. Potter says something, voice tight with tension.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Regulus says immediately, scrambling backwards. He can’t- he can’t take another punishment, he can’t. His whole body already hurts. He can’t breathe around his fear, knowing he’s wronged the Potters one too many times. “I swear, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry! Please, please-” Regulus doesn’t even know what he’s

doing, blindly moving backwards, gasping for his breath between pleas. “I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it, I can- I can fix it-”

There’s a loud crash in the doorway. “What the fuck is going on?” Sirius demands, rushing inside and surveying the scene. His eyes are wide and frantic, as he looks between Mr. Potter, whose hands are up in surrender as he talks, eyes equally as wide, and Regulus, a sobbing mess against the fireplace.

“Sirius- Sirius, tell them! Tell them please! I didn’t mean it, I don’t mean to- please don’t let them hurt me- I didn’t- I can fix it- I can- I can fix it-” Regulus can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He grasps hopelessly at his neck, and he can’t breathe. His head hurts so badly, and he’s blinded with lingering fear.

“Reggie-” Sirius starts, rushing over, falling to his knees in front of Regulus, grasping at his face. “You’re not supposed to- okay, okay. Regulus, Monty’s not gonna hurt you, He’s not going to touch you. Breathe. Breathe, Regulus.”

Regulus tries. Really, he does. But he only chokes hopelessly on the air in his lungs. “Don’t let them- don’t let them-”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Sirius promises, “Regulus, I won’t. I promise I won’t, okay, but you need to calm down. Breathe. Regulus,” Sirius says, one hand moving down to press against Regulus’ racing heart, while the other comes up behind his damp neck, pulling Regulus into his chest. “It’s okay, Regulus. It’s okay, I’m here, you’re safe, I’m right here, okay?”

Regulus pushes his head into his big brother’s shirt, and he continues to sob. He can smell the lingering scent of Sirius’ cologne, the familiar smell of him as gentle as the hand winding through his curls. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe. He’s always trying to breathe, and it’s always so hard. He lets his fingers curl into the worn fabric of the t-shirt, and keeps trying. It gets easier, as Regulus pulls himself together; as he focuses on Sirius. Sirius, and his gentle hands, and his never-changing cologne. Sirius, and the soft rocking motion that he’s doing. Sirius, and the nose he’s pressed into Regulus’ hair. His brother. His big brother; his everything.

In that moment, Regulus is not seventeen. He’s a toddler, waddling into his brother’s arms while their parents scream downstairs. He’s five, and clutching desperately at Sirius through terror-ridden sobs, even though Sirius was the one who was punished. Regulus is seventeen, and he’s two, and he’s five. He’s ten, and thirteen, and fourteen. Regulus is simultaneously every age he’s ever been, where he has sobbed into his brother just like this. Regulus is a boy—he’s not even a man yet; he’s a boy, desperately clutching the only positive paternal figure in his life. He’s a boy, digging his nails into his brother and his father and his everything. He’s a boy, desperately trying to put himself together, with his older brother’s arms securely around him, helping to find the pieces.

Regulus isn’t sure how long they stay like that, backs aching from the strain of the position. Neither of them willing to move.

All he knows is that eventually, Sirius pulls his head out of Regulus’ hair, saying something in English. Asking, demanding.

The answer comes immediately, tinged with concern and confusion. Regulus tries to continue to breathe through the spike of anxiety he feels as he hears Mr. Potter’s voice.

“Tell them,” Regulus forces out, quiet as he presses his face into Sirius’ chest, as if he’s trying to fuse into him, “tell them I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset him- I was trying to clean, Mother said-” Regulus swallows harshly, Sirius rubs another calming hand up and down his back, head back in Regulus’ curls. “Mother said to clean- she told me to clean it. Please don’t let them hurt me.”

“Okay, Reggie, okay.” Sirius murmurs gently, “I’ll tell them.” And Sirius does. Regulus doesn’t understand the quick, foreign words, but he trusts his brother. He has a quick conversation with Mr. Potter, before he switches back to French. “Not mad, they’re not mad at you, Regulus. Nobody is angry with you, nobody is going to hurt you. You mixed, eh, some toxic gas, and Mr. Potter is just worried. He’s very sorry. Extremely sorry. He did not mean to scare you like that. He says he will never hurt you.”

“Never?” Regulus asks in disbelief. “Sirius, is your French getting sloppy because of all the English trash you spit?”

Sirius chuckles softly. “No, Reggie. They aren’t like that here. They don’t hit, or scream, or take meals. None of it. It’s…It’s different here. It’s different.”

Regulus isn’t sure that he believes that. Something about it seems so suspicious. Parents who never discipline? How has James grown up, without discipline? Surely, he’s at least had a few smackings, or missed a few meals. He can’t grow up productively otherwise. Discipline is hard-handed love. He doesn’t say that, however. He doesn’t tell his brother that he doesn’t believe him. Regulus is sure, that maybe James Potter was always just a perfect son. Maybe he never needed to be hit to be loved. Maybe Sirius—loud, obnoxious, eccentric Sirius—fit so seamlessly into their dynamic that they didn’t even need to punish him. But Regulus is sure that won’t be the case for him.

He pulls himself together. With a deep breath, he unlocks his fingers from Sirius’ shirt, now wrinkled and disheveled. Sirius’ hands go slack, sliding down Regulus’ back. He wipes the dry tears off of his face, willing himself to quit with the dramatics. Embarrassing. His mother just came over to correct this very behaviour. Perhaps she needs to come back, if he reacts like this. He thinks it’s probably because he didn’t sleep well, and his entire body hurts. It almost sends him into another panic just thinking about being further punished, when his bones are still so weak. When every breath seems to come squeezed out with intense effort.

“Alright, Star?”

Regulus takes another breath, feeling it wind through his lungs and up his throat. “Yes. Change your shirt, it’s unbecoming.” He says flatly. Sirius blinks a few times. “Help me back to my bedroom so that I can freshen up for breakfast.”

Sirius immediately scrambles to stand, taking Regulus’ arm and helping him to his aching feet. Regulus fights the urge to wince, as Sirius’ fingers unintentionally press into a bruise on his shoulder. He purposely avoids eye contact with any of the Potters. Mr. Potter still sits next to the cleaning bottles, staring at the invisible stain on the carpet. Regulus leads them over, staring at it too. His eyes, courtesy of years of training, can easily spot the unnoticeable darker tint in that section of the carpet.

“Sirius, tell Mr. Potter that I provide him my utmost apologies, and that I will foot the bill for a new carpet, if he so chooses. I am also willing to provide monetary compensation for whatever else Mother has broken. Tell him my behaviour will improve, and that I have found the error in my ways. Exactly. Do not reword it.” Regulus says, voice devoid of any emotion despite all of it swirling through his gut. “I will know. You have to teach me English.”

Sirius sends him an odd look—almost pitying, but mostly sad—before nodding, and opening his mouth. Regulus still isn’t used to how the foreign vocabulary comes out of his brother’s mouth almost naturally. Regulus can still tell he spent the first sixteen years of his life in France because of the way a lot of his words stay towards the back of his throat, and they’re a bit rounded at the edges. However, the words still spill easily from his tongue. It’s almost like he’s still speaking French, with a bad accent, despite none of the words making sense to Regulus. He always liked the way Sirius spoke French; his sentences were almost melodic in structure, voice fluctuating up and down in a cadence that always brought Regulus so much comfort. He doesn’t like the foreign tongue Sirius has adopted, and he doesn’t like the fact that he’ll have to start speaking like that, too.

When Sirius has finished relaying the message, Regulus turns towards the doorway, willing himself to keep his eyes straight and not look at the other Potters standing around it. He knows they’re staring at him—he can see it through his peripheral vision. Still, he only marches forward. He tells himself that he’s not tired, despite the way his eyes beg to droop. He tells himself his feet aren’t hurt that bad, he’s just being weak. He tells himself he’s an heir. An heir to an empire with more fortune than most families ever make in generations. An empire with more wealth than multiple countries. He needs to be strong.

Regulus doesn’t look anywhere but ahead of himself.

He reminds himself what is at stake.

***

Breakfast is a quiet affair. James’ eyes can’t stop wandering to that fucking bruise on Regulus’ jaw. The boy himself stares dutifully at his plate, fork and knife (knife, how prissy) gliding soundlessly around his plate as he moves around his food. His hair is damp from a shower, black collared shirt buttoned high around his neck. He looks like he’s being choked by it; it moves when he swallows. His back is ram-rod straight, face neutral.

This is the first meal Regulus has shared with their family since he got here.

Effie was finishing up in the kitchen, the rest of them sitting around the table. The air was thick with tension and things unsaid. Regulus walked in, dressed for a formal restaurant instead of their dinner table, and glanced around in confusion. James felt underdressed, if he’s honest. Regulus had turned to Sirius, and his eyes grew wide.

“Pourquoi aucun d’entre vous n’est-il habillé? ” He asked, voice quiet but level. As he spoke, he slowly rounded the table and placed his hands on the back of his chair, thumbs massaging the old wood.

"Ils ne font pas ça ici." Sirius replied, swallowing. The way his mouth forms around the French words is softer than the way he speaks in English, James notices.

"Pour le dîner alors, n'est-ce pas?" Regulus retorted, hands squeezing the wood. "Est-ce qu'ils ne se lèvent pas non plus?"

Sirius looked at him, then, for a second. He seemed to be mulling something over in his head. Then, he stood. James watched him confused, before Sirius turned to him, switching to English. “Stand, James. Monty.” He instructed, stepping behind his seat and mirroring Regulus’ stance. James didn’t understand, but he rose anyway. His father did, too, both of them chuckling lightly at the absurdity of the actions. It felt unnatural. James didn’t even think he'd done this at the most formal of events. But he knew better than to question Sirius. He knew that the guilt was eating at his insides, and that he’d do anything to make it up to the both of them. He felt—feels— so stupid for the hostility and annoyance he felt towards the younger Black. So shitty.

When James glanced back at Regulus, his shoulders had dropped slightly. The brothers exchanged a look that James did not understand, and highly doubted that he was supposed to. They stood behind their chairs, James tapping against his subconsciously. Nobody said anything, until James’ mother popped out from the kitchen, carrying the last of the sides—perfectly-crisped bacon that made James’ mouth water—and she glanced around, raising an eyebrow. “What are you lot up to?” She asked lightheartedly. Regulus’ eyes darted to her, before he looked back down to the dark wood of the table.

Sirius cleared his throat, and lowly said “just go with it, please.”

Effie glanced at him, back to Regulus, and nodded. “Alright then. Fun!”

Monty chuckled as his wife stood behind her chair, glancing around cluelessly to try and figure out how to stand. Sirius waited for her to be ready before he smiled. “Sit, Monty. Assieds-toi.” Monty snorted awkwardly, moving back around his seat and plopping down in it.

“This is fantastic,” he said. “I feel like royalty. We should really do this every meal.”

Sirius sighed fondly, the rest of them chuckling under their breath. Except for Regulus, who remained completely silent, staring down at the table, and his pristine white plate sitting in front of him.

“Now the rest of us can sit.” Sirius narrated, lowering himself into his seat. James and his mum also took their seats, James relaxing into his and propping his foot on the seat. Regulus lowered himself formally, not daring to look up.

Now, they’re all eating in silence. The Potters have never eaten in silence, but this one is way too thick to break. Every once in a while, there’s the sharp scrape of a fork or knife against a plate that makes Regulus flinch. Sirius keeps stealing concerned glances between Regulus and his food, mouth full of words that he’ll never say. Regulus glances at all of them in turn every so often, staring like he’s looking for something. Like he’s waiting for one of them to jump up and tackle him to the ground. Or, perhaps, like he’s waiting for ample opportunity to stab them with a fork.

He keeps pointedly glancing at James' knee bouncing against the dinner table, but he doesn’t say anything. He filled his plate with barely anything, just an egg and singular piece of bacon, and James has seen him take maybe three total bites. The rest of the time he’s analyzing the rest of the table, and moving his food around his plate. James would think that if he has such a thing for table manners, that he wouldn’t play with his food like that. It makes James wonder. Regulus Black seems to be filled with so many contradictions and layers, that it’s impossible for really anything he does to make sense.

Breakfast is awkward. The food is heavenly, but the thick tension makes even his mother’s cooking taste a bit sandy in James’ mouth. He mostly just wants breakfast to be over. James doesn’t think he’s ever wanted a meal in his home to be over. Usually, it’s filled with loud laughter and delicious food. Inside jokes and clapping when they laugh, dropping bites of food onto their pyjama shirts or loungewear and resting their feet onto the table or chairs.

Now, it’s terribly formal and uncomfortable. Regulus is wearing a fucking dress shirt, for fucks sake. James wants to reach over the table and unbutton a button or two.

He takes shame in it, but James excuses himself as soon as it is appropriate. He just feels like he’s going to explode if he stays in that dining room any longer. James carries his plate into the kitchen, sighing in relief almost immediately as he gets out of view. It’s so stifling in there.

“James?”

James almost groans. He closes his eyes, holding onto the counter, and almost audibly groans at the sweet sound of his mother’s voice.

“James, come in just for a second, please, I have something to say.”

“Alright.” James replies, forcing himself back into the room. His chest immediately constricts when he enters. The air is almost physically thicker in here than in the kitchen. His mother waits until he’s sat once again. Regulus still stares down at his plate, looking the same as it did before James attempted to excuse himself.

His mother smiles, and it almost makes the tension in the room fade a bit. “Sirius, Regulus, I’d like to apologize to you. Both of you.”

Regulus glances up at the mention of his name, eyes blank. He straightens impossibly more in his chair. Sirius softly translates.

“We just- Monty and I, we didn’t… We weren’t aware of the situation you boys were dealing with. We knew she was a bit strict, but we didn’t know that they abused you. I- I’m so sorry, that we subjected you to that when we called her. I should have listened to Sirius, when he told me, but I was just so worried about you, Regulus, we were scared, and we thought something might have happened to you. We assumed—wrongly—that the best course of action would be to call your mother, and explain the situation. I swear-” Effie clears her throat, voice tight with emotion, “I swear that we didn’t know she would do that to you. I had no clue that- that a mother could do something like that to her children. I’m so sorry. I wish I’d listened- I’m sorry, Sirius, for not listening to you. I should have listened to you.”

“Yes, you should have.” Sirius replies quietly, after he’s finished recounting Effie’s words. He looks at her, eyes filled with affection and sadness. “You should have listened to me, but I should’ve said something. I should’ve told you about her abuse.”

Regulus scoffs. Loudly. At least he’s no longer a corpse in his chair. “Notre mère n'est pas violente.”

Sirius sighs tiredly. “si, elle l'est, Regulus.”

“Mère nous discipline, elle ne nous abuse pas. Elle agit par amour.” Regulus retorts angrily. “Vous racontez tous des conneries. Dis à Effie qu'elle ne devrait pas faire d'hypothèses sur ce qu'elle ne comprend pas.”

“Sirius?” Effie asks. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is swell, Euphemia.” Sirius spits, voice tight with agitation. “My mother beat the ever-loving shit out of my brother, and he still refuses to admit that she’s abusive.”

“Have patience, Sirius.” Effie instructs calmly, after a few seconds of shock, voice soft as she reaches over to put her hand over Sirius’. “A boy who knows only of manipulation does not know of love.” James’ mum always gives her advice like she’s reciting a poem. It’s comforting and nostalgic for James, who often finds himself repeating the phrases when he’s giving advice of his own.

“He knows of love!” Sirius hisses. “I love him!” He explodes, chest heaving with anger and sadness. He crosses his arms, glaring daggers at Regulus, who glares right back. Honestly, the ability they have to fit so much emotion within their eyes is terrifying. James always thought Sirius had the most terrifying glare he’d ever seen. Regulus easily proved him wrong within minutes of knowing him. “Regulus, Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime.” He spits, listing off the phrase like he’s attacking his brother.

Regulus flinches, hands twitching on the table. “Arrête , Sirius. Arrête.”

Sirius jumps up, eyes lighting up. "Non! Mère ne t'aime pas! Elle ne t'aimera jamais! Mais moi si! Je t'aime, Regulus! Pourquoi ce n'est pas assez pour toi?" He demands, pulling himself out of his chair. James sinks back, shocked at this part of his best friend that he’s never seen before. James has never seen Sirius angry. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, and it still feels like he’s the one being yelled at.

"Parce que je ne pense pas vraiment que ce soit le cas!"

Sirius goes silent. He looks… Horrified. Sirius looks pale, and shocked, and horrified. His mouth forms around slow words, falling out of his mouth like he’s barely aware he’s saying them. “Ce n'est pas... Ce n'est pas vrai. Ce n'est pas... Regulus, tu n'y crois pas.”

Regulus just stares at him. Everybody just stares.

“Regulus.” Sirius chokes out.

“Le repas était très bon, Mme Potter” Regulus murmures, slowly standing. “Merci.”

“Regulus.”

Regulus blinks, stumbling on his feet. He clenches his jaw, staring at the ground as he retreats from the room. Sirius collapses into his chair, hands coming up to run through his hair, around his face.

“Pads..” James whispers, immediately going over to his best friend, hands flitting around awkwardly for the first time ever. He’s not sure exactly how to go about this. It’s been a very emotionally intense few days, and it feels like everything he or his parents tries to do is wrong. They call their parents—wrong. They attempt to have a normal family meal—wrong. They try to apologize—wrong.

“Don’t- just don’t, okay, James? Please don’t.” Sirius whispers, voice thick as he curls in on himself.

“Pads,” James begs. “Pads, please, I don’t- I’m not sure what he said, but-”

“James.” Sirius gasps. “Stop. Stop- stop worrying about me, everyone always worries about me, okay? I’m fine. I’m fine. Regulus needs help. If you wanna help me, then worry about Regulus.” He pleads, hands shaking against his face. James feels like he’s just been shot in the chest, watching how much pain his best friend is in. His brother. He just wishes he could soak it all up and deal with it instead. James can’t bear to watch people he loves in pain. “Please worry about Regulus, okay? I’m so tired of doing it alone.” He confesses, and his voice breaks on that last word.

James doesn’t even notice his mother and father have come up to them until Sirius is being smothered with tight hugs from them. His mum’s arms wrap around Sirius, burying her face in his tangled hair. “It’s alright, Sirius. It’s alright, my boy.” She tuts, grabbing James by the arm and tugging him into the hug. Sirius seems to shatter at the words, letting out a soft keening sound as he presses into them. Their warmth. James would give Sirius all of his warmth. James would give Sirius anything, if he asked for it. The stars from the sky, the heart from his body, the air from his lungs. James would give it all. He wouldn’t even hesitate.

If he could bear the pain for him, James would. He would bear it all. He would march right up to France and beat their mother to a pulp, he would burn that mansion down. He would talk to Regulus, be there for him, even if he doesn’t necessarily like the boy. Honestly, he’s not sure how he feels about him anymore.

He still thinks he’s a pompous asshole, but then again he realizes that’s just how Regulus was raised. That’s how it’s been, for him. Regulus has been abused beyond James’ comprehension, and James cannot judge on how he copes. Regulus might not be a very good person, but he’s not evil. He’s not even bad. He’s just a boy, raised with teeth instead of love. Regulus is just a boy who has probably never been told he’s loved by his parents, or that they’re proud of him.

This is what James means. He can’t hate anybody, no matter their sins. Because the majority of people are just humans who were raised a certain way, and it reads in their movements. Mannerisms. James was raised with overflowing love and affection. His first instinct is to open his arms and hug people. He loves going out of his way to get things for the people he loves. He brings flowers to friends’ performances, he burns through half of his allowance on gift baskets. He loves to listen, and to help, and to nurture.

Regulus was raised with sharp nails and broken wrists. His first instinct is to snap at anybody who dares step too close. He hides beneath biting remarks and sarcasm. He hides within the pages of thick novels. He lashes out, and scratches. He finds where it hurts, and he presses on that wound without mercy. Regulus insults people and wouldn’t dare reach out with his own arm, fearing that it will be broken. Regulus thinks carefully about his words, and walks around as if he’s constantly being watched and in threat of immediate danger. Regulus tries to hurt, and scoff, and turn away from anything that resembles something as foreign as kindness.

James likes to observe.

James holds his best friend tight, and he promises. “You’re not alone. I’ll worry with you. I will worry with you.”

And Sirius clutches James' arm, and he says “Thank you. Thank you.”

James replies, instinctively, “me and you, mate.”

Sirius chuckles wetly.

James’ mum continues to murmur sweet nothings into Sirius’ hair. Monty wipes his tears; strong hands keeping him anchored to the ground.

James looks towards the archway, where Regulus disappeared barely a few minutes ago, and he tells himself that he will do anything to get Regulus to let him in. Because he really doesn’t need to be told to care; James cares like he breathes. There’s already a small space in his heart that he’s reserved for Regulus, and he’s ready to fill it.

Chapter Text

Things are… Weird.

It’s been yet another week, and so much has changed, yet it feels like nothing has. It almost physically hurts when Sirius looks at his brother, something deep in his chest clawing up his organs every time he meets those dead silver eyes.

Regulus is like a corpse.

He appears at meals. He cleans his plate, he dresses nicely, he says please and thank you. He treats every request or conversation with Effie and Monty as an order. He keeps his posture stiff and formal. He folds his hands behind his back when he talks, and he only ever does when he’s spoken to. He spends thirty minutes to an hour in the library with Sirius, reciting basic English phrases and words, arms crossed against his chest. Frowning around the clunky syllables as if he’s not sure Sirius is telling the truth. There is no more loud music blasting from his room, though the door stays firmly locked.

But his eyes never light up. He doesn’t rise to Sirius’ attempts at starting a fight that perhaps wouldn’t make him want to throw up afterward. He barely looks at him. When he does, it feels like Regulus has this heavy weight on his chest, and seeing Sirius makes it worse. He still doesn’t believe that Sirius loves him. Sirius tries to bring it up, and Regulus says he feels guilty, not loving. As if it’s unfathomable that Sirius could ever love his brother and know what it means. Sirius says it every day, every time they see each other. ‘Good morning, Regulus. I love you’ ‘hey, Regulus, I love you’ ‘good job, Reggie, I love you’. Sirius wants to say it so often it’s all Regulus can think of when they see each other. He wants to say it until his throat is sore. He wants to say it until Regulus believes it. But no matter how much, or which language he mutters the words, Regulus either sighs or ignores him.

It hurts. It’s a physical thing, the pain that curls through his bones every time he’s dismissed. Sirius loves his brother more than he loves anything. Sirius loves his brother with every breath he takes. Every word he utters. Every thump of his heart in his chest. Loving Regulus is what Sirius was made for. It’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.

Apparently, there’s more to it than just love. Sirius can love Regulus all he wants. He can say it, and feel it, and hear it, but he can’t make Regulus believe it.

Regulus hasn’t touched his violin since he got here.

Regulus has spent pretty much every waking moment Sirius knew him in their music room since he was five. He’s pretty sure Regulus breathes in music, or something poetic like that. He was always drawn to it, even before he knew what it was. He would instantly calm when Sirius sang him juvenile nursery-rhymes as he lay in his bassinet. He would hum as he learned to tie his shoes.

Regulus learned to sing before he learned to talk. He was always sitting in the music room, even before he began to play, just staring at all of the instruments that towered over him. The second Walburga relented, his chubby fingers were wrapping around the neck of a violin. Plucking the strings as he held it in his arms. He was pressing down on piano keys, giggling as they let out different pitches. Sirius was always bored, when Regulus would wander into the music room, tugging on his finger. He has never seen it like Regulus did.

However, they were attached at the hip, then. Regulus was never anywhere that Sirius wasn’t. Regulus was his little shadow, their nannies used to say. But really, Sirius was Regulus’ shadow. He was always chasing him, arms outstretched to catch, ready to answer questions even if he didn’t actually know the answers. Sirius was a brother before he was anything else. He would pretend to be just as ecstatic, skipping into the room and plucking terrible tunes on anything he could touch, while Regulus sat with a tutor at the piano, or learned to balance a violin on his shoulder. Sometimes he would just bring a few toys, enacting violent battles beneath the shade of the piano as Regulus played Mary Had a Little Lamb. Being shushed intensely when he laughed too loud or screeched.

Sirius would’ve much rather been outside, getting dirty and climbing trees, soaking up the sun into his skin.

Instead, it felt like he spent half of his time in the music room. Sirius never complained, not to Reggie. He’d tried once, saying “but Reggie, the music room is lame, and the sun is so bright!”. But Regulus had just turned wide, glassy eyes to him, and Sirius had ended up in that stupid room until dinner. He relied on the times that Regulus would agree to sit outside with him, plucking grass and humming softly to himself as Sirius fell repeatedly into mud, or scratched his knees climbing trees. He would giggle at Sirius’ pain, and Sirius would scold him before pulling him up and regaling him with intense tales of saving princesses from dragons. Regulus would ask to play along, and Sirius would let him, happily. Even if that meant the dragon was hugging the knight and whistling instead of breathing fire like it was supposed to. Sirius didn’t mind.

Sirius never minded anything when it came to Regulus. He would still be in that music room if he asked. Would never leave.

The issue is that Regulus hasn’t asked. Regulus hasn’t once said anything indicating that he wants to know if the Potters have a music room. Sirius hasn’t passed his room and heard the soft hum of a violin once. He sees Regulus’ fingers twitching, aching to get on an instrument, and he doesn’t know why Regulus is depriving himself of music. Of the thing he does with every breath.

“Common English greeting.” Sirius says, feet on the table as he balances precariously on two chair legs.

“Hello, how are you?” Regulus recites with a sigh, grimacing like he can’t believe he’s here. One would think that considering Regulus spends his whole life in either libraries or music rooms, he’d be happy to be here. The Potters have an endless supply of books. The room is huge, with dark wood shelves lining every wall. There’s even a rolling ladder, and a loft with more shelves filled to the brim with books. Sirius has scarcely been here, but he figured it was best to choose a more neutral and familiar place to study. It’s furnished with chairs, sofas, bean-bags, small side-tables, and a chess table, which is where they’re sitting right now. Sirius is being absolutely demolished. “Check.”

Sirius gasps, dropping himself back with a loud thunk. Regulus blinks at him, as Sirius surveys the board. “How do you keep doing this?” Sirius whines. Honestly. He’s down to two measly pieces, while Regulus still has the majority of his own. He unconsciously switches back to French. “You’re a dirty cheater, and I know it. There is simply no way that you have managed to do this to me.”

Regulus merely raises an eyebrow. “I am not cheating.” He says calmly, staring down at the board with barely visible satisfaction.

“Ugh, this game is terrible.” Sirius says as he moves his king, only for Regulus to immediately put him in check again. He’s about to move yet again, when Regulus glances at the clock and then stands. Sirius resists the urge to sigh in defeat. “Count to ten.”

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” Regulus hums, the words falling off of his tongue with elegance and a strong accent, coming easily once he gets in the groove. He sets about resetting the board.

“Seven minus three.”

Regulus thinks for a moment, hands stopping as they hold a white knight. “Four.”

Sirius nods, and Regulus resumes his task.

It’s hard to look at Regulus, because all he sees is the wall between them. The things they won’t say, the feelings they won’t unpack. The way Regulus refuses to talk to him. Really talk to him. Past objective small-talk. Sirius and Regulus don’t talk about the weather. They don’t talk about food. They have never, not once in their lives, been anything casual. There has never been anything small about them. Sirius isn’t used to his mouth opening around words he doesn’t say, or for the hesitation before he even does that. He isn’t used to the way he avoids his brother’s eyes, knowing all he’ll find in them is resentment. Everything feels so out of place, and once the only person he felt comfortable with was Regulus. Regulus made him feel like he fit perfectly into what he was supposed to be. He was a brother, he was responsible, he was smart, he was kind.

Sirius isn’t sure that he’s kind, anymore. He certainly doesn’t feel like it, when all he seems to do is claw at the sensitive skin at Regulus’ throat when he tries talking. Everything he says or does is just wrong. All of the time. He feels so mean, all of the time. Regulus stares at him like Sirius has just slapped him across the face, or said something vile, or committed some grievous betrayal.

Like now, when Regulus places the last prawn and he’s straightening to leave; probably to hide out in his room.

Sirius merely opens his mouth, and harsh gray eyes pin him in place, like a predator. Waiting for him to say something wrong. Sirius runs a hand through his hair, relaxing minutely as he feels the strands weave through his fingers. “...Reggie, there’s a- outside, at night, the stars. You can- if you go to the roof, you can see them really well.” He stutters, feeling his face flush as he grabs a piece of his hair to braid nervously.

Regulus doesn’t say anything. He just stares. He always stares like he’s looking for something, and he always stares like it’s something different every time.

“Just- well, if you’re still…Into that. That’s what I mean. The sky, it’s- it’s really clear. I go, sometimes, when I-” Sirius swallows. When I miss you, he doesn’t say. The words get stuck in his throat. It always feels like that, with Regulus. “I just- y’know, go or don’t go. I don’t care. I don’t even know why I’m talking, honestly-”

“Okay.” Regulus says blankly, cutting Sirius off. His voice is smooth and carries undeniable authority, just like they were raised. But where Sirius shed it, hating that part of himself, seeing it as an extension of her, Regulus seems to have kept it. Nurtured it. Sirius isn’t sure if it’s just because he’s used to it, or because he simply doesn’t see it like Sirius does. Regulus has always been better at accepting the ways that Walburga altered them. He’s always seen them as good things, strong things, respectable things.

“Yeah, great. Perfect. That’s- that’s lovely. Uh, okay what?”

Regulus stares at him, a bit like he’s stupid. A bit in that specific gaze that reads ‘I’m better than you, and I know it’, like the whole conversation is a one-sided joke. Sirius has it, too. Peter told him once, casually, as they were pouring drinks at a game night. He’d just said: “I don’t know, sometimes you get this look in your eyes, like you’re in on something that nobody else is. Kinda like you’ve stuck gum in someone’s hair, and you’re waiting for them to notice.” And that was it. Peter had chuckled, saying something about it scaring the younger years, and then he’d gone back into the sitting room like nothing happened. Like Sirius wouldn’t stare into the mirror for an hour straight, trying to find it and smother it. Not sure if he really wanted to. Regulus has it down to an art, the way his gaze makes Sirius feel so small. Maybe Regulus doesn’t notice he does it, either. Maybe he does, and he likes it. Sirius will probably never know. He can’t read his brother like that, anymore. Regulus sighs minutely. “Just okay.” He says, fingers twisting a small ring on his finger

Sirius nods, deciding to let it go. Best to quit while he’s ahead. He can already tell he’s said the wrong thing. He’s drowning in this conversation. “Fair enough. See you, Reggie. I love you.”

Regulus says nothing to that, looking towards the large bow window towards the edge of the room, padded with maroon and a small shelf just outside of it housing a fancy lamp and probably enough space for a book or something similar. Sirius wishes he could tell Regulus to just go sit over there. He wishes he could tell Regulus to just grab a book and sit down in the nerdy little reading nook, and he wishes he could tell him to just open his violin case, and he wishes he could tell his brother he loves him and have it actually feel true; not like something he’s tearing out of the ugly part of his chest, too little too late.

In the end, Sirius says nothing, and Regulus doesn’t head for the reading nook.

Yet another day passes, and not an ounce of progress is made.

***

Regulus stares at the case in front of him. The thin fabric coating fraying on the edges. He’s had it for as long as he’s had the violin, which is to say countless years by now. The wood of his bed frame digs into his back, the press grounding and sore.

He won’t touch it. He doesn’t know why. He just can’t touch it. His fingers buzz, and he aches to wrap his fingers around the neck, pluck the strings, but he just can’t. He can’t get himself to unclasp the case. He’s filled with this sense of dread whenever he thinks of it. He can’t get himself to pick up the phone, and he can’t get himself to play music.

He doesn’t know why.

He just can’t.

He stares at it every single day, willing himself to just get it out. He touches the case reverently, fingers dancing on the worn fabric, but they always stop when they get to the metal clasps. Something about music feels like it should stay in France. With Evan and Pandora and the Meadow. Sometimes Regulus worries it’ll sound different here, and he’ll lose yet another thing that wasn’t supposed to ever change. He knows he’s being ridiculous—but still, he can’t get himself to open it. He feels like it’s sucking all of the air out of the room, leaving him drowning. Like it’s mocking him, laughing at him and his cowardice. Rejoicing in the way Regulus is losing yet another thing he loves, clutching at it desperately but gaining no purchase. Leaving his fingernails bloody and broken.

His feet still hurt, more of a passive thing than anything at this point. He walks with a slight limp, and the skin is red and inflamed, but it’ll get better eventually. Most of his other injuries have healed or at least mostly healed by now. That isn’t to say he’s anywhere close to better, though. He still can’t breathe. He still feels that gaping hole in his chest poisoning his blood. He still finds himself clutching at the bathroom countertops desperately pulling himself together, tugging hopelessly on the strings that unravel with every labored breath. He still finds himself searching desperately in his eyes for the love he wants to feel. The things he knows are there, behind the steel gray, behind the sharp remarks, behind the barbed wire. He still finds himself picking apart his performance in everything, analyzing the ways he’s failed, and the ways he can be better, so that maybe she’ll finally let him come home. Regulus just wants to go home. He just wants to fucking go home.

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut. He’s a person. He has emotions. He knows he does, because they’re all he feels. And yet he can’t find them. He just can’t find them. They’re not in his eyes, they’re not in his mouth, they’re not in his face, or his movements. He’s a person. He knows he is, even if he can’t see it. He’s Regulus Black, he’s a person, and he loves music and his brother. He’s Regulus Black, he’s a person, and he loves music and his brother. It’s in there. It has to be in there. He just wishes he could claw through to his heart and see them for himself. He just wishes he could find all of the things that people say make life worth living, and pile them up in front of himself, and say ‘see? Just find this. Just do this.’. He wishes he could see what other people see in him. He wishes he could see past the rot and the gore, and into what he used to be, before he was mean. He was something, before he was mean. Probably not nice, but he was softer. He certainly didn’t stare into his bathroom mirror, desperately convincing himself he’s real and has emotions.

He certainly didn’t hesitate when it came to playing music. His fingers didn’t hesitate to press down on strings and create a pitch. His bow didn’t crunch or shake.

Would it, now?

His phone buzzes at his side, and Regulus eagerly takes the distraction.

(7:30) Pandora Rosier

Hello, Regulus, my long lost friend. Are you still hiding from your emotions? Are you still in denial that we could possibly love you, even if we’re far apart?

(7:31) Pandora Rosier

Open the box

Well, she was always blunt. Regulus’ eyes trail nervously towards the box in question: small and black, housing the photos they printed out on their last day together. Something is overwhelming about it, like he knows he’s going to give in and call Pandora the second he opens it. He’s going to fold, and he’s going to succumb to that thing deep in his bones that longs desperately for his best friends. He lets his head fall back against his bed frame, and stares at that instead of his violin case. Twists the ring on his finger, reminding himself of the message written within the band. ‘Written in the stars’.

He misses Pandora. He misses Evan. He misses marching into their house like he owned it, misses sitting between them, misses listening to the light-hearted arguments they would get into. He misses Pandora’s strange theories and Evan’s bright laugh. He misses braiding Pandora’s hair while some up-beat artist played in her bedroom, and Evan complained but eventually sang along terribly and loudly. He misses watching Pandora make flower crowns, and the way her cheeks would flush as they got deeper into a wine bottle. He misses the way Evan was always touching him somehow, a hand on his wrist or waist or shoulder. His spontaneous runs and the way he would randomly say something profound before immediately diving into a rant about something like the cheese caves in America.

Maybe he should open the box. Maybe he’s ready. Maybe he might be able to breathe a little easier, if he can talk to his friends. Actually talk to someone, instead of whatever he’s been doing with his brother and the Potters. Exhale, after holding his breath for weeks now.

He should do it, shouldn’t he? He should want to get better, he should want to do something, he should want to regain that spark, and he should want to get that feeling back in his chest. And he does. He really, really, does.

But he still doesn’t move. All he does is stare, and all he does is tell himself that he needs to get up and grab that box. And he doesn’t move.

Eventually, James fetches him for dinner, and Regulus stands up and tells himself he’s going to open that box when he gets back. He’s going to call Evan and Pandora, and apologize.

But he won’t.

—

The sticky summer air has his curls frizzing up before he’s even fully out of the window. It’s not as hot as summers in France, but Regulus always preferred the cold.

Sirius was right. The stars are starkly clear in the sky, not even a cloud obscuring his view. His feet are easily held by the rough shingles on the roof, preventing him from slipping when he presses his weight onto one foot to climb out. It took him a while to find an actual way up, between how little he knows about the layout of the Manor and the fact that he was trying not to wake anyone up.

The roof is a nice place. There’s a very light breeze, tickling his skin. The roof is painted in blue moonlight, draping everything in a blanket of calm comfort. It’s quiet, barely even the rustle of trees audible in the still air, and the light chipper of insects. It’s more of a quiet than Regulus has experienced in a long time, and something like a breath of release comes out of him as soon as he’s fully out, shutting the window and leaving a small gap so that he can get back inside. He’s careful, as he steps further onto the roof. Mindful of the slope of it. He tries not to really think about how high up he is, because despite his bravado, he is very scared of heights. Regulus is a very firm believer that feet should be firmly planted on a sturdy surface at all times, unless lying down.

However, he misses the stars. He misses the stars more than he fears falling. Carefully, he lowers himself until his hand is secured on the roof, allowing for him to lay down until he’s on his back, staring upwards at the vast expanse above him.

Sirius wasn’t lying. The stars are absolutely gorgeous. The secluded nature of Potter Manor keeps it from experiencing the light pollution from the city, and allows for the stars to span endlessly around him. They’re so bright against the stark black of the night sky. It immediately pulls a blanket over his anxiety, and everything he’s been experiencing for months now. He feels calm, and like he can actually, properly breathe for the first time in so, so long. He’s able to forget everything else, as he identifies the North Star, and the constellations. He twists his ring on his finger, and the engraving inside of it no longer feels like a chain weighing him down, but more like it was intended to be: a reminder, a reassurance. Written in the stars. Yeah, maybe they are. Maybe somewhere, up there, the universe has decided that Pandora, Evan, and Regulus are another simple fact of life. Grass is green, the Earth is round, and Regulus, Evan, and Pandora are meant to be.

Up on the roof, that theory seems much more plausible. The fact that he’s refusing to play his violin feels ridiculous. Regulus thinks maybe he’s trying to force himself to be miserable, as a punishment. Or, maybe, because he’s not sure how to be anything else. He should play music again. He should call his friends. He should open the box. He should talk to his brother. He should do a lot of things, and lying beneath the stars, it all seems so miniscule and easy. So simple. Just pick up the violin, just pick up the phone, just look at the photos, just speak. Just speak. Just breathe.

When he’s reminded how small he is, he realizes how little anything really matters. He can do anything he wants; he can wallow in misery, run away, turn to drugs, kill himself. The world will keep spinning, the stars will still shine, the sun will still rise in the east and set in the west. He could do literally anything, and eventually nobody would remember him. He would fade into obscurity. He’s a nano-second in terms of the timeline of the world. If he just got up and jumped off of this roof, nothing would change.

Regulus takes another breath, hyper-aware of the feeling of his lungs expanding with his inhale, and deflating with his exhale. He lets his eyes flutter shut, and he tries to let all of the tension in his body seep into the rough shingles of the rooftop. He lets himself relax beneath the cover of the stars. He sheds the mask, and he lets himself breathe in the muggy night air.

Regulus lets himself be. He just lets himself be.

It feels so, so nice.

—

He’s not sure how long he’s up there, only that he feels very light, walking the tightrope between sleep and consciousness. He’s not aware of time, or emotions, or expectations. He just is. He just breathes, and he just lays against the scratchy rooftop, beneath the stars.

He does, however, notice the exact moment the quiet of the night is disrupted. He hears the soft swish of the window opening, and immediately he tenses. He opens his eyes, and props himself up. Waiting for the intruder to make themself known. There seems to be a moment where everything stills; like even the wind decides to stop in anticipation.

Then, a head of terribly messy curls appears, holding two mugs and smiling nervously. Potter Boy. In raggedy pyjama pants and a hoodie. A terrible turn of events. His face is nervously happy for a few moments before it falls in recognition. Regulus is unfairly used to that reaction.

“Oh,” He says awkwardly. Regulus catches the words “I” and “Sirius” afterwards. The boy is speaking much too quickly for him to pick up on anything else, and it’s pretty much all foreign to him.

Regulus doesn’t say anything, scoffing and waiting for Potter Boy to take the cue.

Except he doesn’t. He waits for a few more moments, making the awkward tension physically painful, before he shrugs and puts the stupid smile right back on his face. And then, to Regulus’ utter horror, he walks towards him, instead of back to the window. Regulus is so appalled he can’t even say anything. He’s hopeless, as James carefully makes his way over, still holding the mugs. Regulus is in half a mind to push him right off. Who does he think he is—barging into Regulus’ quiet time and inviting himself over. Disgusting Englishmen and their lack of decorum, or manners, or respect.

Potter Boy, unfortunately, does not slip and fall off of the roof. Instead, he makes it all the way over to Regulus and even takes a seat without so much as jostling the liquid in his mugs.

Regulus sighs, pulling himself up so that he’s sitting too. He wishes he knew the English word for ‘fuck off’; it would really come in handy. Unfortunately, he only knows ‘fuck’. As a result, he’s forced to accept that this is just something that is unfortunately happening to him, and that he must accept. Just like the mug that James delicately hands him a few seconds later, once he’s comfortable. Even worse, when he has to thank him for it; the manners so deeply ingrained in his subconscious he barely even registers it.

The mug is warm in his hands, the creamy liquid sloshing around. Reglus, carefully, lifts it to his nose so that he can smell it. Chamomile and a truly ungodly amount of creamer. Sirius’ tea order, if Regulus remembers correctly. It makes sense, though, if James thought he was Sirius.

“Tea,” Potter Boy says slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler. Regulus rolls his eyes.

“Tea,” he mimics sarcastically, more out of habit than anything. He connects the mug in his hands to the word, repeating it in his head. Tea. He takes a sip, the warm, soothing liquid loosening his muscles. The sweet smell making him think of home, and the meadow. Of Evan and Pandora, and worrying about absolutely nothing. Tea.

“Chamomile.”

Regulus—through his truly remarkable self-restraint—refrains from strangling Potter Boy or shoving him off of the roof. Very nearly. Potter Boy is so lucky that Regulus cannot quite articulate the words he wishes to say. He doesn’t need another fucking teacher. It makes him feel like an idiot. Like he’s being tutored all over again, scrambling helplessly to catch up to his big brother. Sounding out words while Sirius wrote sentences. Always feeling inferior and stupid. Music was the only thing that he had, which made him different from Sirius. Better. And only because Sirius never much cared for the hobby. Regulus is sure that if he ever one day decided to, he would easily overtake his years of progress within weeks. The thought makes him sick to his stomach, and he forces it away before he can really dwell on it. It would be embarrassing to throw up right in front of Potter Boy. Instead, he turns the word around in his mind, sounding it out. Chamomile. Says it, quietly. Tastes the strange vowels on his tongue. Tries not to flinch when he has to repeat it, or stutters. Mouths it a few times, so as to not embarrass himself further.

Potter Boy doesn’t say anything after that, probably picking up on the somber shift in mood. He chooses to tug his legs up, and sip from his mug quietly, staring up at the stars with a peaceful look on his face. Regulus can’t imagine the boy ever feeling less than content. Something about trying to picture him upset, or really, truly angry—past annoyance—just doesn’t fit with what Regulus knows about him. Potter Boy seems to simply enjoy coasting through life, smiling and relaxed. Regulus wonders what it’s like; to live like that. To be like that. To look at the world and smile, instead of cursing it for putting you here—for giving you the shackles of life.

The tea is good. A bit hot, and not his choice of drink, but it’s decent. Relaxing. He should open the box. He will, when he goes down for bed.

“How’s it going?” James asks after a few pleasant moments of silence. Regulus almost forgot he was there. How unpleasant of a reminder.

Regulus ignores him, at first. He tries to pretend like he doesn’t hear, but something about doing that starts to make his skin crawl. He wants Potter Boy to leave, but he’s not sure whether answering would get to that outcome. He’s not sure how much he wants it, either.

“Fine,” Regulus murmurs after a much too long moment of silence. He tries not to cringe. It’s really the only answer he knows, at the moment. Sirius pretty much only taught him ‘good’ ‘bad’ and ‘fine’. It’s embarrassing, really, to be starting over on a language so late in his life. He feels like a toddler, learning to write and speak and listen. Being talked to like he’s an idiot. Most especially when it doesn’t even help him understand. It just makes him feel so fucking stupid. Everyone else can speak English, everyone else can listen and comprehend, everyone else can write. Venturing out of his room feels humiliating, because people talk to him and it takes much too long, trying to translate their words into French, and then formulate his response, and then translate his response into English. And by that time, everyone has already moved on, and he doesn’t even get to say it. Sometimes he wants to scream: It’s not fair that all of you can do it! It’s not fair that I have to learn your language! It’s not fair that my life is the only one being disrupted!

But Regulus doesn’t scream. He doesn’t have the courage that Sirius does; knowing that he will speak, and they will listen. Regulus doesn’t scream.

“Great,” James hums happily, seeming to take the hint that Regulus doesn’t want to talk, and not even being offended about it. In fact, he seems almost strangely relieved. It probably is relieving, to not have to watch what you say, and wait for an incorrect response, and pretend to not be annoyed. Regulus would be, if the roles were reversed. He always shit-talked with Evan and Pandora whenever tourists made a grammar mistake or had horrendous accents. More especially if they didn’t even know French at all. How the hell do you go to France, and not know French? He’d say, snickering or glaring at the tourist.

Well, he supposes he understands now, in a twisted way. How the hell do you go to England, and not know English, Regulus? Fucking idiot.

Yeah.

Regulus swallows, letting out a soft breath. His fingers are shaking a bit around his mug. He tries to focus only on the stars. He’s not in the sky tonight, and neither is Sirius.

Regulus has school in a mere few weeks, and he doesn’t understand a lick of English. Not really. He doubts he can get by through pleasantries and talking about his day.

Cygnus is up there, easily spotted against the stark black of the night sky. Regulus has to press the mug against his legs so that he doesn’t spill any of the tea inside. His hands are shaking terribly.

He’s completely and irrevocably fucked, is what he is. He can barely do anything. Fucking hell, Regulus can’t even comprehend English when he’s being babied. He should just get it. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Regulus is a Black; he’s supposed to just get it. It’s supposed to click into place, just like everything else. It clicked for Sirius. Fucking everything clicks for Sirius. He doesn’t even try. Regulus has to study his ass off, and gaslight himself into thinking it clicks. Sirius gets high the night before a major exam, and passes with flying colours. Regulus isn’t an idiot by any means. He has always been the very top of his class, easily. And a good chunk of that is just natural, but a lot of it is also because he studies, and revises, and works ahead. Regulus doesn’t think Sirius has ever studied for a thing in his life. It’s all natural, for him. From English to school, from people to crowds. He just knows how to navigate it all.

Regulus bets Potter Boy doesn’t have to study either. Something bitter curls in his gut, twisting his stomach into uncomfortable knots as he tries desperately to avoid looking over to Potter Boy, and expose how deeply envious he is of everything he has. He knows it would be written clearly on his face, and especially in his eyes. He fucking hates Potter Boy. He hates him, and he doesn’t know why he won’t let himself be rude to him. He hates the way James has everything that Regulus has ever wanted, and how he hasn’t even worked for it, and how he’s still so fucking bright and kind despite it.

Potter Boy is everything that Regulus is not, and will never, ever be.

Regulus thinks that might be why Sirius chose him over Regulus.

And why, if push came to shove, he would choose him again, easily.

It’s hard, to have Potter Boy sit next to him, and not explode with rage and hurt. To not burst into tears right in front of him. To not scream, or something equally ridiculous.

Regulus Black doesn’t scream, and sometimes he thinks that might be the reason that he is how he is. Why he always feels so full of everything all of the time, completely overwhelmed by the simultaneous emotion and emptiness, drowning in the weight of everything he feels but never says, and everything that he’s much too scared to name.

Regulus Black was born drowning, and he’s drowned every day since.

Potter Boy doesn’t talk, Regulus doesn’t scream. They both sit up there, until the sky starts to lighten, and eventually they both leave. Potter Boy offers him a smile, and Regulus drowns in the weight that drops onto his shoulders the second his feet are back onto hardwood.

Regulus Black is drowning, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to ask for help.

He still doesn’t open the box.

***

James can’t stop thinking about it.

He cannot stop thinking about it.

Regulus Black: the enigma.

The Regulus Black with a sharp jawline and a tongue even sharper, silver eyes that always glint and shift. The Regulus Black that uses two forks with dinner, and the Regulus Black that sits in a grey hoodie on James’ roof, fingers shaking around a mug of chamomile tea. The Regulus Black that rolls his eyes at you like you’re the stupidest person to step onto Earth in history, and the one who tastes English words on his tongue like they’re delicate and thick. The Regulus Black who can cuss you out in French with a scary amount of passion, and the one who thanks him with a soft voice, the shape of him softer beneath hazy blue moonlight.

James first saw Regulus, and he thought ‘holy shit, this is the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on’. He lived with him, and he thought ‘this guy’s such a fucking asshole, I can’t stand him’. He watched how terrified he was of his mother, and he thought ‘huh, maybe there’s more to him than the front he puts on’. He watched him stare blankly at his plate at dinners, murmuring quiet thanks with eyes scarily empty, and thought ‘he just needs someone to help him, and to guide him’. He stumbled upon him on the roof, and he thought ‘maybe that could be me, and his eyes are really pretty, aren’t they, sparkling like that-’.

Well, now that James has remembered that life is rarely so simple as to be black and white, his small crush has resurfaced. He’s had plenty of small crushes; people he sees, and thinks ‘wow, you’re stunning’, and ‘you’re kind-of an asshole, but I like it’. Usually, he tells Sirius all about them. A passing fancy to gush about when conversation dulls, mostly because it makes Sirius snort and groan loudly. It’s why the first words Sirius said to him about Regulus was an order to not fall for him.

Sirius would probably not like to hear about how the wind was rustling Regulus’ curls so perfectly, so effortlessly beautiful. How the humidity made it a bit frizzy, and how that simple fact made him look so starkly young, just his age. Just a year younger than James, who can still not really believe that he’s closer to being an adult now than he’s ever been before. James, who still finds himself sitting at the kiddy-table at family gatherings on instinct, when there’s a seat at the big table just for him. Who talks about ‘when I’m big’, and ‘when I’m older’.

Because Regulus is just a boy. He’s just a gorgeous boy, with a mean tongue that makes James smile when it’s directed to him. He’s a boy with perfectly maintained curls, and sharp, analyzing eyes, and a light dusting of freckles on his nose that are starting to fade the longer he stays out of the sun. He’s a boy that James could stare at for hours, and never bore, like a piece of art that you just keep finding different aspects of. He’s a boy who speaks the language of love with an ease that makes James swoon. God, the way Regulus speaks French. It just does something to James. It’s strange, because there are so many similarities between how Sirius and Regulus speak their native tongue, and James has heard Sirius speak it plenty of times over the years, but he’s never gotten those butterflies that he feels whenever Regulus speaks.

James could wax poetry about Regulus, honestly, and the forced proximity is not helping to smother his little crush. James is bad about it, because he feels like he’s always trying to find Regulus, and Regulus is always hiding. But James loves finding, and seeking, and watching. James loves bumping into Regulus in the hallway, just to be spat at and cursed violently. He always finds himself a bit maudlin when he passes Regulus’ bedroom door to find it firmly shut, and the boy himself nowhere else to be found.

And now, now James can’t stop thinking about the roof, and how happy he is that he mixed the brothers up. How happy he is, that he climbed up only to find Regulus, instead of Sirius. How happy he is, that he had the perfect excuse right in his hands, because he could hardly let the tea go to waste. How happy he is, that he got to see Regulus, if only for a split second,

with his walls down. The boy behind the mask. Whose hands shake and whose jaw is tight with tension that he’s trying to work through.

James hasn’t gone back up, because he’s trying to be cool and nonchalant about the whole thing. It’s been two days, and he thinks that tonight would be acceptable. He just wishes he knew how Regulus liked his tea, because he didn’t seem overly fond of Sirius’ concoction. Except that the lovely, annoying shit never drinks anything. He never makes himself tea—at least not when James can see him—and he never says how he enjoys it. Or, perhaps he does, and James just can’t understand because he’s too busy watching the way Regulus’ mouth moves when he talks, and the cadence of his voice, instead of the actual words coming out. Not that he would understand, because he very unfortunately doesn’t speak French—he’s never regretted choosing it to fulfill the credit just to have Sirius do all his work and goof off the whole class more. He should’ve paid attention. He would like to listen to Regulus talk and understand him. Probably get yelled at for his grammar or his accent. It would be so lovely.

Sirius told James that before he came here, Regulus used to be absolutely glued to his violin. That he would play these gorgeous, entrancing melodies, conveying overwhelming feeling without speaking a single word. James would sell a kidney to hear it. Apparently, though, he’s on strike at the moment, which is very unfortunate. That’s incentive in itself, to make Regulus happy. Not only just because he’s sure to be so, so stunning, but because he’s magic with instruments.

“Ugh, James,” Sirius laments, vaulting over the back of the couch to fall right next to James, who’s watching-not-watching some cable show. James startles a bit, but at this point he’s pretty much come to always expect Sirius to be literally everywhere all of the time, ready to pop up at any given moment. James hasn’t seen as much of him as he’d like, because he’s still trying desperately with Regulus, and directing all of his energy towards being the ‘best brother he can be’. James thinks he’s a pretty kick-ass brother, and it saddens him to think that Sirius doesn’t think so. He does so much, and his whole life seems to be just Regulus. Sirius lives and breathes, and everything he does comes from how fiercely he loves his brother.

He’s always talking about him, referencing him, showing him off. He hears a song on the radio, and it’s ‘oh, Reggie would fucking hate this’. He hears an orchestra piece, and it’s ‘Regulus can play this, guys, and it sounds so much better than whatever this hog-wash is supposed to be’. He sees something in a store, and it’s ‘I’ve gotta get this for Reggie’. He gets a text, and it’s ‘ah, mate, Pandora just told me that Reggie aced his final! He’s so bloody smart, I swear’. The way Sirius loves Regulus is something that James could never, ever hope to understand as an only child. He loves him so fiercely, but he’d never dream of saying it to his face. He talks about how they haven’t hugged in years. Sirius smacks his hand away if Regulus reaches for his food, but he’d give him his lung if he needed it. It feels like they scream at each other every day, and send things tumbling and crashing down around them, and then Sirius walks out unphased, mumbling about ‘little asshole brothers’ and sighing fondly, even while he massages pain from his scalp.

“What’s up, Pads?” James laughs, throwing an arm over his shoulder without even really thinking about it.

“You don’t want to know,” Sirius responds cryptically, a playfully pained expression on his face. James has no clue what he’s talking about, and he suspects that Sirius doesn’t either. “I need your presence in my life. I miss Wormtail, and Moony. Moony, my Moonbeam, oh, James, I miss Remus. It’s been so long, it’s like somebody’s ripped my heart from my chest and holds it beating, like in those haunting Aztec ritual things.”

“...Right.”

“Exactly. Oh, I need Regulus to get over his strop so that I can see my damn boyfriend again. At this point, I think I’ve just gotta beat him up. Maybe, like, carry him into the music room while he’s sleeping and set up his violin in his arms. Or, I can just bash his head into the wall. Stab him a few times. That’d do the trick, surely. Don’t you think, Prongs?”

“Well-”

“Yeah, you get it.” Sirius waves a dismissive hand. “Can’t coddle Regulus, can you. Just gotta shake him by the shoulders and scream everything into his face, otherwise he’ll miss it. So smart, yet so stupid. It’s a miracle, really.” He muses, not exactly talking to James anymore, he doesn’t think. It sounds more like a vocalization of his thoughts. James snorts, deciding that trying to interject is rather pointless. Sirius continues on for a bit, before he eventually gets sidetracked just like he always does. Talking to Sirius is kind-of like playing a game of I-Spy, trying to guess what he’s randomly brought up or what caught his attention. “James, what is this that you’re watching, mate? I mean seriously; what is happening right now? Does this make sense to you?”

James turns his attention back to the television, where some cheesy thing is playing. The man is chasing on his bare feet after an airplane, desperately professing his love to the woman inside of it, who stares out of the window with a conflicted expression on her face. Honestly, he’s not very sure either. He just turned the telly on so that he would have an excuse to zone out; he didn’t even bother changing the channel, so it’s most likely something that his mum was watching however much earlier. Regardless, he grins. “Obviously, mate, you don’t get it?”

“No.” Sirius says bluntly, squinting at the screen. “I mean really, I’ve got no clue. I can’t understand what this guy is bloody saying, because of that rain. And why’s she on a plane? Why’s he off the plane on the road part? Can you even stop a plane once it starts taking off?” He asks incredulously, as the woman sprints up the aisle to do just that. “I can’t understand what you English speak sometimes, I swear. All gibberish. You use too much of your mouth. Does it not hurt?”

James laughs, leaning his head on Sirius’ shoulder. “I’ve no clue, Pads. I don’t even know what’s happening right now, nor if it’s realistic.”

“Nor.” Sirius mocks, so similar yet so different from Regulus. Sirius, who makes fun of new words and laughs at the stupidity. Regulus, who rolls the words on his tongue, committing them to memory. Maybe it comes with being confident in a new language, or perhaps it’s just yet another stark difference between the Black brothers. Sirius, while learning, liked the hands-on approach. He wanted to be spoken to in English, respond in English, and receive feedback. He wanted to be taught by pointing out objects and their names, instead of learning by a book and translating the words into French. He wanted to learn the language, and not allow French to influence his understanding.

He said translating takes too long. It’s not natural. He should learn like a child, because it would make him more fluent. James was more than happy to oblige, because he didn’t know a lick of French anyway, and it was much more fun to slam random objects in front of Sirius at all times and demand their names, and to just talk to him instead of trying to learn how to explain it in French. Sirius caught on rather quickly, between speaking nothing but English almost each day—aside from phone calls from his family or times when he hesitated for a moment, reaching for a word and saying it in French to think—hearing nothing but English all day, and living in England.

According to Sirius, Regulus is learning even quicker, which is just inconceivable. James took the mandatory foreign language credit, and he did put a bit of effort in, because he thought it might mean a lot to Sirius, but even after the full year, he was still hopeless when Sirius spoke to him, unable to understand a single word when it was coming from his mouth. Sirius took immense pleasure in that, to say the least, when he was carrying full conversations in English with ease at that same moment.

He greatly enjoyed doing the same thing to James with French as James had to him with English. Slamming things in front of him randomly, demanding: “Now, what’s this, James?” In a posh French accent. Barging into his room and demanding James exchange pleasantries with him in French, or trying to get him to talk to Regulus sometimes, which James vehemently refused because even over the phone, the authority that Regulus’ tone held was absolutely terrifying. James could tell that he would make fun of him for ages if he dared to get any words mixed up or make a grammar mistake, or somehow worse, apparently, his accent was bad. That was what Sirius usually latched onto, much more than James’ vocabulary. He would laugh endlessly.

James shoves a hand into Sirius’ face, because he knows better than to give Sirius the definition. The freak prefers to guess what words mean based solely on context and when they’re used. Somehow, his essays are still better than James’. He only talks about using them according to ‘feeling’. When it ‘feels right’. He does the same with punctuation, too. Maybe James just needs to learn from him. James’ chest takes in a breath of fresh air as it fills with warmth, at the feeling of Sirius next to him again. And really next to him, not mentally still at Regulus’ door. Moments like these are few and far between, now. But every once in a while, James will do something like this, and Sirius will respond, and James will be able to tell that he’s actually present in the moment. For example, Sirius snaps at James’ hand like a dog, letting out a loud bark of laughter when James pulls away and falls backwards, almost going off of the couch, if not for his friend’s strong grip on his arm. Most especially, when Sirius’ eyes glint with humour and mischief with a brief pause, and then he drops James anyway.

James lands on the ground with a thud, head knocking against the coffee table as Sirius cackles above him, and then he reaches up and tugs on Sirius until he’s also against the coffee table, and they’re tangled on the ground in a mess of limbs and loud laughter.

This is when James is really happy. When he can feel Sirius shaking with mirth beside him, and when he’s gasping for breath between his wheezing giggles. When the sun cascades through the tall windows, and hits his face so that he has to squint in order to see. When his chest hurts fiercely from the force of his laughter.

When they never really seem to calm, continuing to burst into sporadic fits of chuckling, and never can get a full sentence out before they’re howling again. When they’re aimlessly slapping at each other, neither really knowing what they’re laughing at, but laughing anyway because it feels so wonderful and freeing, and there’s nothing quite like laughing with your best friend.

When Sirius manages to choke out “football?” On his side, hair tangled messily in his face, falling into his eyes.

And when James nods vigorously.

Definitely when neither of them can actually manage to get to their feet until much later, and they don’t even get very long on the pitch before Effie is calling them for dinner.

—

James is standing in the attic, and staring at the window. He’s just- well, if he’s being honest—and he tries to be; he’s a terrible liar—he’s a bit worried. He’s not even sure that Regulus is out there, much less that he’ll be willing to let James stay yet again. He might push him off the roof. James could tell that Regulus wanted to last time, if the way his eyes glinted with annoyance and he kept looking towards the edge of the roof and then back to James, as if heavily weighing the pros and cons, was anything to go by.

Honestly, though, now that he’s gotten a taste, he just can’t let it go. His brain’s a bit odd like that: once he sets his sights on a goal, or gets a taste of something new to pursue, it pretty much occupies his thoughts completely until he succeeds or fails. Sometimes it’s relaxing—during football games, he’s pretty much a completely different person, easily running back and forth on the pitch and not even feeling fatigue or breathlessness.

Sometimes, it’s annoying. Like now, for example, he’s been thinking about Operation Befriend Regulus ever since that stupid, boring, uneventful night on the roof. Regulus didn’t even like him being there, and it’s still the only thing that’s been running through his mind on a loop for the past few days.

So, he needs to do this. Just climb up there, and hope for the best.

Should he have made tea again? It feels like he should have made tea again. But he doesn’t know how Regulus likes his tea, and he clearly wasn’t really into the way Sirius has his, if his little disapproving face scrunch was anything to go by when he took a sip. He needs to figure out how Regulus takes his tea. New mission.

Okay, he’s going right now.

It’s going to be so embarrassing if Regulus isn’t even up there. What if James scared him off? Oh, that would be just terrible.

Alright, he’s actually going this time. His hands are empty, and he has no excuse, but he’s hoping that Regulus will let it slide. He wraps his fingers securely around the dingy little window, and it makes a soft creaking noise when he gets it to open. The thing is as old as the house, since nobody ever thinks to come up here and use it, and it’s clear in the way it takes so much strength to wrench it open. James didn’t even know about it until Sirius moved in, and James started finding him up on the roof instead of in his bed almost every night.

The air lets something deep inside the concave of his bones let out a gentle exhale, the muggy feeling so pleasant against his skin. James loves the summer. The air, the activities, the sun warming his skin, swimming laps in the pool. The humidity that hits at night, and the way it makes his clothes stick to his skin. The soft air, and the slight breeze. It’s his favourite season. He loves the fairs that they all go to every year, and eating so much junk food at the stands that he and Sirius end up vomiting into trash cans after the rides, grinning through it. He loves hosting pool parties, and having picnics, and going to the beach. He loves just sitting outside, relaxing in the warm sun.

There’s something so relaxing about it, and it gives him the confidence he needs to pull himself over the frame and onto the rough roof. He takes a breath, and stands to his full height, eyes going to the place Regulus was sitting last time. And there he is. He’s right there. Staring right back at him, looking thoroughly annoyed at his presence. James almost giggles.

“Est-ce que tu me traques, Potter?” Regulus asks, in his stupid, posh voice. It’s so, so pleasant to hear, even if he doesn’t understand anything he’s saying.

“You know me,” James grins, the words falling easily from his tongue. Regulus doesn’t understand him, either, and he likes that they’re on pretty even footing because of it. James could tell him anything, and he could tell James anything, and neither of them would be able to understand it. It’s comforting, and calming.

Regulus rolls his eyes—he clearly doesn’t see it the same way. “Leave.” He says sternly, enunciating the syllables like he’s talking to a toddler.

James chuckles, choosing to ignore that as he settles in.

Regulus rolls his eyes again. If he’s not careful, they might get stuck in the back of his head. “No chamomile?” He asks, level voice cutting through the silence with authority and a heavy accent.

“Don’t know how you like it.”

Regulus stares at him for a second, face blank, as his fingers mess with a thread on his joggers. He looks at the world like he’s haunted by it, always running, always hiding. Always dissecting everything like he’s waiting for bad intentions to surface. Like James simply saying that, could be a veiled threat or insult. Regulus thinks carefully about the world around him, and he’s even more careful when choosing what to say. It’s several seconds later—enough that James starts to doubt that he’s going to get a response—when he takes a breath, and replies “I like it.” He averts his gaze when he says that, as if he’s admitting something he tries to keep close to his chest. As if saying the words obstruct his airflow. Not for the first time, James wishes he knew how to help him, how to reassure him, how to be there.

James smiles, a bit lopsidedly. “Me too,” he agrees, trying to figure out how to better articulate his meaning in words that Regulus can understand. It’s his fault, really, he can see how the grammar in that sentence would be confusing. He’s not sure what words Regulus is familiar with, and which ones he isn’t. Now, again, he’s wishing he brought tea so that he had a physical prop to better articulate himself around. Or, that he actually took French class seriously. Something to work with. “What do you drink tea with?”

Regulus blinks harshly, staring down at his legs hopelessly. It tugs on something in James’ chest, to see the self-doubt and anxiety etched onto his pale face. He wants to reach out, and place a hand on Regulus’ shoulder, and tell him it’s fine, it’s cool, it’s not a big deal. But he’s not sure how Regulus would take it, if he did, so he stays silent. Even as Regulus pulls his knees up and hides his face in them, whispering a terribly quiet “I don’t understand.” As if it’s some major failure, something ugly and terrible. As if he hasn’t been learning English for a mere week or two, and made shocking progress already.

James swallows, letting the heavy silence fall over them like a weighted blanket. Usually, he knows what to say. He’s a very good comforter. Ask any of his friends, and that’s the first thing they’ll tell you: James is a fantastic comforter.

But here, with Regulus, with something that he can just tell cannot be fixed with a few kind words of reassurance, he feels helpless. Like he’s floundering aimlessly in the weight of conversation, and how everything he says seems to be wrong. He knows that the things that Regulus is dealing with go deeper than skin; they’ve burrowed deep in his bones, corroding his muscle. His words won’t help, here. Honestly, he doesn’t even think that Regulus is truly upset about the move, as much as he is just a teenage boy who has been drowning in the constant weight of expectation and uncertainty for a long time, and it’s all culminating in his sudden move from France to England.

Carefully, James lowers himself until he’s resting on his back, staring up at the sprawling expanse of stars twinkling above them. Racking his brain for the words he wants to say. The ideas he wants to convey across a language barrier he’s not sure how to bridge.

Slowly, James scoots towards Regulus’ hunched form, black curls glowing a pale blue in the moonlight. He gets close enough that there are only a few inches of space between their bodies, watching sadly as Regulus’ shoulders shake. He wonders how long this has been coming. How long he’s been keeping all of this in, his only outlet through anger, which is terribly unsatisfying and only ever seems to make things worse, at least in James’ experience. It just makes everything churn in your stomach, and bubble more intensely, and then the guilt slides down and causes things like this: Regulus, curled in on himself, making soft gasping noises like he can’t breathe. Regulus never seems to be able to breathe.

James doesn’t touch him—he wouldn’t, not without permission; he learned that with Sirius, before they were so comfortable they could read each other’s minds—but he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, trying to get him to look up. His mind flashes with an idea, almost physically forming above his head like a lightbulb in cartoons. He clears his throat again, whispering “Regulus,”

The name seems to flip a switch in Regulus so abruptly that James physically startles. In an instant, his back goes ramrod straight, knocking into the hand that James didn’t even know he was holding barely an inch away from him. Quickly, James withdraws it, mentally cursing himself. Regulus’ face is a careful blank mask, despite the tear tracks on his cheeks, and the way they are flushed. His hands come up, cupping his face, scrubbing away the tears. He looks angry again. Though, James isn’t sure if it’s mostly at him, or himself.

Regulus’ hands move quickly—so quickly, that James doesn’t even notice them until they’re curled dangerously around his wrist, which is still stupidly hanging in the air. His fingernails dig deep, and the look he fixes James with is murderous. He’s angry with James, then. His silver eyes are hard and threatening, like a predator locking on its prey. Or, maybe more accurately, an emotionally constipated teenage boy, who just cried in front of a virtual stranger, who is also his brother’s best friend, and the one he abandoned him for.

James tries for an awkward smile, even as his wrist aches something terrible.

Regulus stares at him. Just stares. His eyes are a bit red-rimmed, and they’re a bit shiny, yet still no less terrifying. Seriously, James is starting to think Regulus is actually going to push him off of the roof. He mutters something, in quiet, threatening French. It’s long, and doesn’t waver. Regulus speaks for a long time, as his eyes stare right into James’, and when he’s done, he squeezes James' wrist yet again, before sweeping James’ feet out from beneath him.

Immediately, James lets out a surprised yelp, as he slips dangerously down. The roof is textured, and sturdy, but Regulus got him just perfectly that if it wasn’t for his painful grip on James’ aching wrist, he would’ve tumbled off as if rolling down a hill. His heart is racing, and it’s in his throat, as his feet desperately search for purchase, even though he’s gone sideways. He might genuinely fall, he could very easily go tumbling right off of this roof, right now. Less than a year from his graduation, from his final, best year of school. All because he made a very, very stupid decision to come up here on this roof. Fuck, he’s never regretted anything more. Literally ever. He’s such an idiot, actually. His heart is beating so fast it’s all he can hear in his ears, sure that Regulus can hear it too from how loudly it’s assaulting his ribcage. His feet still can’t find any traction from his angle, and he’s terrified. The point that Regulus is trying to make? He hears it loud and clear. No miscommunication at all, as a matter of fact. He’s very effectively communicating without even speaking. James finds himself shockingly pliant, when he’s suspended by only his wrist and at risk of free-falling into his mother’s garden.

“Totally- whatever you want- yeah, just- I won’t say anything, yeah? Not a word from me. None.”

Regulus, who probably didn’t understand any of that yet seems to take a sick enjoyment out of how high James’ voice is, and how quickly he’s speaking, nods once. With a swift kick, James is vertical again, and Regulus drops his wrist at the same moment. James skids against the shingles for a terrifying few seconds before his shoes finally get enough friction to stop him, the distance between his foot and the end of the roof enough for him to have to take a steadying breath, and thank the universe for his luck. His heart is hammering, and his hands press harshly into the rough material of the roof, steadying him. He could’ve died. He genuinely, seriously, could have died. Fucking Regulus. He’s a fucking psycho.

James lets his head thud against the roof, letting out a long stretch of curses as he stares up at the twinkling stars above him. He hears the screechy sound of the window opening, but not closing. There’s hope in that, and James thinks he can work with it. Yeah, he can work with that. So long as he stays a minimum of two arm-lengths from Regulus next time he comes to the roof for their nightly rendezvous. His wrist aches, and his heart is racing, and he’s already brainstorming his next move.

A little hostility never deterred James before.

He really likes a challenge. Especially one with pretty eyes and murderous tendencies.

Chapter Text

Regulus almost startles out of his skin when someone abruptly appears, right next to him, as he’s heading back to his room after yet another suffocating study session with Sirius. Being in the same room as his older brother seems to bring everything he wants to ignore right up to the surface. All of the betrayal, all of the resentment—all of it. It makes him want to tear his skin off of his bones. It makes him want to dig through veins and tawny muscle and blood until he gets to his heart, and tear the god-forsaken thing out.

Regulus figured that the fact he almost killed him a mere few hours ago, he’d be a bit more hesitant to continue harassing him. Apparently, he was wrong. Apparently, Potter Boy’s nerve far surpasses the average person’s supply.

“Hello, Regulus.” Potter Boy grins, easily falling into step with Regulus very much against his will, who is trying to speed up but Potter Manor is fucking huge, and Regulus hadn’t noticed before, but Sirius seems to have chosen the room farthest from Regulus’ room. Oh, Regulus hates him for that. This walk has never felt so long.

“Potter Boy.” Regulus says flatly, sighing heavily as he delicately moves up the stairs, careful to avoid any creaky floorboards.

“Yeah, see, you call me that so much I’m afraid that you may have forgotten my actual name,” Potter Boy laughs, “it’s James, by the way. In case you actually forgot.”

Regulus blinks. “Too many words, Potter Boy.” He admits, voice quieter now, though he tries to infuse it with arrogance and disinterest. He hates saying that. He hates that Sirius taught him that, even though he asked. It’s just that ‘I don’t understand’ seemed so…vulnerable. Regulus hated having to say it. So he approached Sirius, and demanded an alternative. One that made him feel less stupid, unworthy, and one that didn’t make him feel like he was standing naked in public, asking for pants.

Potter Boy nods. It makes Regulus feel weird, that he doesn’t show how annoying he must find that. Though, to be fair, this is like their second conversation. Maybe he just hasn’t experienced it enough for it to actually get frustrating. “You call me Potter Boy, but my name is James.”

“Okay.”

“Will you start using it?”

“No.”

Potter Boy makes a playfully exaggerated motion with his hands. Or is it genuine? Regulus doesn’t know, but he gestures with them exasperatedly. “Just- why?”

“I don’t care. You are Potter Boy, I say Potter Boy. All is well.”

“But it’s James, though,” Potter Boy whines. “My name.”

“Okay.”

“Just-” James huffs in frustration, “my parents gave it to me.” His eyes trail off to the sides of the hallway, scanning the scattered, warm decor, before they return to Regulus again.

“As well as Potter Boy. Your mother is Mrs. Potter, father Mr. Potter, you are Potter Boy.” Regulus explains, brain working overtime to keep up with this conversation.

“Can I be sir Potter, at least?”

“No.”

“But why?”

“Because. Goodbye, Potter Boy.” Regulus turns his relieved sigh into an annoyed one, when he finally lays eyes on his door. It’s truly a lovely door. It’s a pretty red hue, with golden accents. The whole of Potter Manor is beautiful, really. It’s very warm, and homey. Like how Regulus imagines the homes of the characters in his books. Like Evan and Pandora’s house, which was his first experience in a home where he wasn’t suffocated, or screamed at. Even though their parents aren’t really home, the few times he’s actually met them, they were nothing like his.

He remembers his first playdate there—after being interrogated, screamed at, and threatened to not embarrass his family or soil the Black Empire—and meeting their mother. She baked with them. Regulus remembers that vividly. It was one of his first memories; baking with her, and listening to her sing some slow English song under her breath as she rolled the dough. The warm smile she gave him when he was much too scared of the flour, of being in trouble for getting messy. He remembers her gentle, melodic words as she guided him over, and handed him a gingerbread man cookie-cutter. She had pale, frizzy hair—so much like Pandora’s now. He vividly recalls thinking ‘I didn’t know it could be like this,”.

“Oh- well-” James starts, blinking like he just now realized that he had trailed Regulus all the way across the Manor, “Yeah, but-”

Regulus shuts the door in his face carelessly, rolling his eyes yet again, but also feeling himself relax a bit because he no longer has to drown in the conversation. That was absolutely terrible. He just couldn’t keep up. Potter Boy kept talking, and by the time he actually decoded the first sentence and an appropriate response, he was ready with another one. Terrible. Absolutely terrible.

“What about just Potter?” A muffled voice shouts through the door.

Regulus, very calmly, very casually, walks towards his bed, lowers himself down politely, curls his fingers around a pillow, brings it to his face, and groans into it until he’s worried he might suffocate.

—

Regulus enters the library the next day, glancing around casually. There’s a small reading nook towards the side of it, warm light cascading through the paneled windows at a perfect angle. The cushion seems soft and worn with age, a small dip like someone sat in that exact spot extremely often sometime in the past. The wood surrounding it is dark and warm, glowing where the light teases it. Regulus would like to sit there, and read. But that’s yet another thing he refuses himself, even though he's not sure why.

“Reggie, early again, are we? You must be eager to see me.” Sirius’ loud voice comes from behind him, causing Regulus to jump a bit. Sirius walks so quietly at times, but he always talks loudly. He’s grinning casually, the low neck of his t-shirt hanging loosely around his neck and his joggers pooling on the ground. Both of those things are much too large for him. Mother would have a heart attack. Regulus is a bit uncomfortable seeing it, because it’s been so ingrained in him since birth that night clothes are for sleeping in, and day clothes are for wearing. Seeing anyone in the family in their pajamas was case for a beating, or at least a very colorfully-worded lecture. He has literally never seen either of his parents’ pajamas, and he only saw Sirius’ when they would sneak into each other’s rooms late at night.

Now, Sirius wears them so casually that Regulus almost doesn’t notice. In fact, all of the Potters wear pajamas throughout the house. It’s startling, and makes Regulus want to sneer in disgust just as much as it makes him want to join in. Mrs. Potter makes breakfast in her pajamas, and everyone eats it in their pajamas as well—minus Regulus. James and Sirius honestly only ever change if they’re going somewhere or doing something.

Sirius stares at him for a few beats before his smile flickers. It’s brief, and almost unnoticeable, but Regulus is his brother. He notices. He always does. That doesn’t mean his mouth will open around a greeting, though, despite how much he wants to force it out.

“Right, well,” Sirius flounders, a hand carding through his hair. “I figured, you know, we’ve gone over the basics. I’ve got a- okay, don’t be weird about it, Reggie. It’s what I started with, too. Just hear me out.” He says, which means that Regulus already knows he's going to feel so dehumanized whenever Sirius reveals this plan.

Regulus doesn’t say anything, walking over and taking a seat on one of the sofas scattered around. He brushes off his pants and tries not to look as nervous as he feels.

Sirius follows him eagerly, flopping down next to him with absolutely zero class or respect for human decency. He bounces off of the cushions when he lands. “Right, well, I figured you’re pretty good with the conversational stuff, right? Well, I thought that you could start trying to read, too.”

Oh God, is Regulus’ first thought. Directly following is a plea for Sirius to not do what he thinks he’s about to.

Sirius, completely oblivious to Regulus’ turmoil, reaches towards the small end table closest to him, and pulls out a colorful, loud, huge book. It’s exactly what Regulus was afraid of. Literally the exact thing. The letters on the front take up half of the wooden front page, in a very legible font. There’s a huge sheep on the cover, one with a soft fabric that’s supposed to feel like fur. It’s a children’s book. More accurately, one for extremely young children, as apparent by the entire style of the god-forsaken thing.

The worst part? Regulus can’t read half of the words. He can read ‘Mary had a’ in the middle. He assumes that the whole title is that stupid ‘Mary had a little lamb’. Regulus finds himself scowling immediately. “No. No. I am not a child. No.”

“Reggie,” Sirius pleads, “look, I knew you’d react like this, okay? It’s not- it’s not shameful to read it. I read it. Multiple times. And other children’s books too.”

“I am not a child.”

“I know that! I know, it’s a bit embarrassing, but it works, okay? It works. Honest, Reggie.” Sirius says desperately, hands reaching out to grab Regulus’ arm in a comforting gesture. Regulus, subconsciously, shifts away. He doesn’t mean to do it, but everything about this situation is so embarrassing, and dehumanizing. He can’t stand to be touched. Sirius’ hand falls quietly between them. Sirius tries to play it off by pressing it into the cushion, leaning a bit closer. “You read this, and you can start to read other books, too. Bigger ones.”

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, fingers curling into fists on his lap. Fucking humiliating. Absolutely, irrevocably humiliating. He has to look away from Sirius, because of how much shame is bubbling in his stomach and weaving up his throat. A children’s book. Regulus is so stupid, that he has to read a children’s book. Learning a new language fucking sucks.

“Just once, Reggie, with me. I’ll never ask again. I just want to be here in case you need help, okay? I’m not going to judge you. Nobody else is going to know. After, we can move right back to the boring grammar stuff.”

Regulus sighs, crossing his arms petulantly. He doesn’t want it to come off that way, but he knows that it does. Sirius goes quiet, knowing that he can’t push anymore and that Regulus will have to make the decision himself. Now the decision is in Regulus’ hands, and it’s his choice whether or not he will give in. Sirius feigns nonchalance, turning his attention to braiding small strands of his hair while he awaits Regulus’ answer. Regulus is grateful. He lets his head fall against the cushion of the sofa, and closes his eyes again, this time trying to keep relaxed. Listens to the soft ticking of the clock. Of the muffled sounds of shuffling outside of the door every once in a while, as the Potters come and go from various rooms. He lets himself melt into the soft, aged cushions, feeling them against his neck, and his back, and his arms. Feels the soft stream of sunlight filtering into the room, warming his face pleasantly. He lets himself tune in on the soft, calm sound of this brother’s breathing.

And he knows what he’s going to say.

With a quiet swallow, he reaches over wordlessly and lets his fingers curl gently around the large book. Sirius makes no indication of noticing him. Regulus pulls it into his lap, and stares at it. It’s so stupid. Regulus can read a damn book. He reads literally all of the time; it’s quite honestly the only thing he really does, lately. Regulus should be able to read some stupid book. He brushes his thumb against the soft ‘fur’ of the lamb, the texture soft and ticklish. The thing is childish. He stares at it, walking himself through the words. Sounds them out in his head. He continues to rub the lamb, letting the gentle fabric calm him.

“Mary had a little lamb,” he says quietly.

“I want a little lamb.” Sirius mumbles, still not looking at Regulus. “They’re so cute, have you seen one? Oh, I can hardly handle the visual.”

Regulus releases a soft breath, and opens the first page. Sirius stays next to him the whole time, making small comments or helping him when he comes across an unfamiliar word. It reminds Regulus so starkly of times in Grimmauld Place, when Sirius would sneak into Regulus’ room with a book, and would read to him until he fell asleep. Regulus would scoot as close as he could get—always trying to mold them together, always trying to touch him, and talk to him—and would rest his head on Sirius’ shoulder, face being tickled by strands of his hair.

In Grimmauld, Sirius’ hair was always shorter; he mostly kept it as Regulus keeps his now, isn’t that hilarious. But it would still brush against Regulus’ nose and make him sneeze. Sirius’ young voice would murmur fantastical stories and fantasies, oftentimes swaying from the original subject matter of the book, though Regulus hadn’t noticed until he was older, and could read the pages for himself. Sirius would open a book about family, and start spouting off about evil warriors and dragons. His tiny hands, which were so big to Regulus, would gesture and grab at him, or ruffle his hair. And he was always grinning.

Sirius was always grinning, when they were alone. Giggling softly, and gently shushing Regulus if he got too loud. When the book was finished, Sirius would cup Regulus’ cheeks with his hands, and press a kiss to Regulus’ forehead. He would curl a finger through one of Regulus’ curls and tug at it playfully, flashing his toothless juvenile grin. And then he would tuck Regulus in, and whisper gentle words in his ear until he fell asleep, warm and happy, and completely unaware of the arguments, and the hurt, and the punishments. Because Sirius shielded him from all of that. Sirius took everything for Regulus, and that’s why it hurt so much when he just suddenly…stopped. When he only told Regulus about his plans to join the exchange student program once Regulus brought up their schedules for the following year.

And just- the way he talked about it as if he was just so excited to be free from the shackles of his family—of Regulus—got to something really deep in his chest. It left it bleeding and bruised, seeping further into his blood every time Regulus had to watch him put all of his effort into learning English, and when he finally stopped coming into Regulus' room at all—at that age, they had mostly migrated to the dining table and oftentimes they would only sit there as their resentment bubbled and boiled; a space already forming between them, though sometimes, on good days, Sirius would still venture in.

When he stopped coming into Regulus’ room at all—that was when that softness that Sirius had carefully nurtured in Regulus hardened. Sirius was only more rebellious, and only got into more fights with their parents after his acceptance. Would scream at them about how horrible they were, and then look to Regulus, pleading for support, and that spark of love in his eyes would dim every time Regulus stayed silent. Every time Regulus averted his eyes. Until it was the night of his departure, and everything they had ever been had crumbled right in front of them. Until Sirius didn’t even say goodbye when he left.

Until Sirius didn’t come back home.

And now, there seems to be an endless expanse between them. Each attempt to bridge it only pushing them further apart. Regulus reads to Sirius, his voice soft, and his brother’s breath puffs against his neck, and he still feels like they’re so, so far from each other.

Sirius whispers “I love you, Reggie.”

And Regulus still doesn’t believe him.

—

“Just hear me out-”

“No.” Regulus scoffs, for the millionth time, rolling his eyes. He pushes himself faster, desperate to escape from yet another Potter Boy attempt at conversation that makes Regulus want to rip his hair out.

“Oh, come on-”

“No.”

“Not even, like, a little?”

“No.”

Potter Boy chuckles. “Is that the only word in your vocabulary, Regulus?”

Regulus opens his mouth to say ‘no’ again, but stops himself. Instead, he chooses to continue walking and make an attempt to ignore the insistent chattering of Potter Boy. It’s a very difficult task. He doesn’t even stop to breathe. Ever.

“But, like, just think about it! It would be fun, and you could meet our friends-”

“No!” Regulus says again, firmly. Trying to keep his voice steady. He’s almost to his room. He just needs to hang in there a bit longer. He can do this. He can do this without saying something mean. “I do not care! I do not care.”

Potter Boy huffs in frustration, almost having to sprint to keep up with Regulus’ pace. “Look, I don’t care if you wanna continue being a little- being what you are, but you can’t stop Sirius from having friends just because you’re addicted to being miserable!”

Regulus, who only understood about half of that sentence between the extremely fast talking, and foreign words, got the gist. And it’s enough for him to spin on his heel, just outside of his door. James skids to a stop, eyes dark with annoyance and anger. Regulus fixes him with a deadly stare. He doesn’t bother trying to stay in English. “I’m not stopping my brother from anything.” He spits, fist curling around Potter Boy’s collar. “You want a party? Have one. But I will not be insulted by someone like you, I’m the second heir to the Black Empire. You? Nothing. You have nothing. Not worth the dirt on my shoe. If you dare make those assumptions again, I’ll rip your hair strand by strand from your scalp and force you to eat it.” With that, Regulus shoves Potter Boy away, who is now looking a bit nervous. “Go fuck yourself, stupid boy.” He spits, turning back on his heel and stomping into his room, making sure to slam it closed.

His hands are shaking, and his skin is thrumming with anger. Potter Boy thinks he can just walk in, and all of a sudden he knows everything. Stupid fucking brother stealer. Potter Boy doesn’t know anything about him; he has no right to be walking around making assumptions and trying to psychoanalyze Regulus. Looking down on him just because Regulus has no interest hanging out with a whole bunch of losers. Why would Regulus want to? It’s enough being around these people every day, he doesn’t need more stupid English things invading his life. Regulus thinks his life has been invaded enough by now. He’s never fucking known privacy. Not in France, and definitely not here, where he’s looked at like a damn science experiment. Everybody always tries to fix him, tries to look for the faulty wire that makes him the way he is, and never stops to think maybe there isn’t anything wrong with him. He’s just like this, and he doesn’t need fixed. Regulus doesn’t need to be fixed. He’s fine. He’s absolutely fine. He’s always fine.

Regulus scoffs, curling his hands into fists and digging his nails into his palms. He doesn’t want to break anything. He doesn’t want to break anything. He tries to funnel all of this anger—this rage—into the point where his nails dig into his palms. That sharp sting, the way his hands shake with the force.

Outside, he hears the soft click of a door, and then his brother’s voice. “What was that?”

“Regulus isn’t on board with the pool party.”

“You asked him? I could’ve told you how that was gonna go, Prongs, and it was the exact way it just did. What were you thinking, mate?” Sirius laughs, voice getting quieter as he gets further away.

James huffs, but doesn’t reply. Good. Regulus might rip open the door and claw his face off, if he had to hear his grating voice again. His self-restraint is commendable. Still, he can’t resist slamming his clenched fists into the door a few times.

“Oh, Reggie!” Sirius yells in French, “James didn’t mean it, he’s just a bit slow sometimes.”

“All of the time!” Regulus screams back. “Make sure he knows I fucking hate him! Tell him he’s a spineless, small-dicked, loudmouthed piece of fucking shit!”

Sirius cackles brightly.

Regulus rolls his eyes, hating to admit that screaming that did release some of the tension dug deep in his bones. He still needs more, though, that small reprieve only making the ache itch more. He can’t get it out through music, and he’s not quite sure how else he can. God, he really wishes he could get out his violin right now. Make the bow crunch against the strings, loud and angry. Because that’s what he is. He needs his instrument to be loud, because he can’t. He needs it to scream for him, because his mouth has never opened around the noise quite right.

Instead, he stomps over to his bed, and punches his pillow until he collapses. Until he wraps his blanket tightly around his neck, secretly hoping, just a bit, that it might suffocate him in his sleep. That it might relieve some of this burning thing corroding his bones, filling his lungs, drowning him.

The ache continues to fester beneath his skin, bubbling and churning, a ticking time bomb.

***

“Not sure what you wanna hear, mate.”

“I want to hear that your brother will stop being a prat.” James sighs, letting his head fall back into Sirius’ lap with an exaggerated groan.

“I could tell you that…but I’d be lying. Reggie’s been a prat since he came out of our mother’s womb.” Sirius tells him, just as they hear something thud against the wall a few rooms down. Regulus, most likely. “He’s also been a very dramatic prat for an equally long time.”

James pouts, crossing his arms over his chest as he stares up at his best friend, who is swiping mindlessly on his phone. James was on his own a few seconds ago, but threw it dramatically across his bed halfway through a heated rant about Sirius’ brother and his stubborn rudeness. He can testify that it’s very hard to complain about the matter to his best friend, since said matter is his very beloved brother whom he loves more than oxygen.

Everything about Regulus is just fucking frustrating. He has no give. James approaches him, and tricks him into conversation, and Regulus pulls the rope between them with each word, leaving James oblivious until the conversation comes to a close, and he’s stuck with significantly less than he came into the conversation with. He never feels like he gets a good tug in. English is his first language—and, he’ll be honest, his only language; he does not pay attention in French—and yet he’s still left fumbling for his words while Regulus easily tears him to verbal shreds without even faltering in his sure but quiet steps.

Regulus has this quiet confidence about him, that nobody quite notices until they’re talking to him and realising with a start that they’re losing a verbal spar they never even noticed they’d entered. He doesn’t stutter, or go quiet. He doesn’t fumble or use filler words. His sentences are calculated and sharp, with an edge that can and will cut if he so wills. For someone like James, who’s all rounded edges and easy smiles, loud talking and disregard for proper grammar; who easily fills space in rooms with pointless words until he finds his point, talking to Regulus is so startling that he can never really keep his wits about him. He finds Regulus, stares into his piercing grey eyes, and his pristine black curls, and the light splattering of freckles on his cheeks, and suddenly a door is being slammed in his face, he’s not quite sure what he said, and he’s losing him again without ever really having him. It bothers James. He’s never had to try to get someone to like him; people have always either fallen to his feet, or he hasn’t cared to get their approval. So to speak to Regulus, and be called ‘Potter Boy’ like it burns the tongue, puts him on edge like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

He just can’t let it go. It consumes him. Questions, theories, rejection, and frustration. All of it culminates and turns into sleepless nights and agitated rants. Into staring at Regulus’ door, into always seeking him out like a bad habit that always leaves him feeling worse than he did before, yet he can’t force himself to stop.

“Lie, if you must.”

Sirius shoots him a wolfish grin, canines flashing. “Reggie will stop being a prat soon, Prongs, you just have to wait him out.” He says, squinting at something on his phone. His tone is almost so convincing that James starts to gain hope before remembering the last few seconds.

Still, he can’t help but ask: “you still lying?”

Sirius snorts. “Yep. Though, if it makes you feel better, you do get used to it eventually. Shocker, it almost becomes endearing.” He explains, voice taking on a softer, more genuine tone. He gets a far-away look in his eyes, one that James has come to call his ‘Regulus stare’. “It’s annoying, but it’s been so long since he’s annoyed me. He stopped annoying me—he stopped doing anything to me—when I moved. I was almost afraid I’d forget how to take it, or he’d stop, or something, y’know? It’s refreshing to hear him throwing his little fits again, to argue with him over pointless shit, to complain about him.”

“Yeah,” James says quietly, staring up at the ceiling. A gentle blanket of silence comes over them, weighing their limbs down with a calm stillness. Not awkward—silences between them never are, even if they’re few and far between—but a comfortable thing where it’s simply that neither of them are inclined to break it. James can tell Sirius is in his head a bit, and he’s happy to sit there and kind-of just not think. Just stare blankly at the ceiling, letting his senses come together and comfort him. The smell of Sirius’ expensive cologne and the fresh linen of his recently-washed sheets. The feel of his soft comforter against his bare legs and arms, cradling him in his small cocoon in the mattress. The sight of that almost-invisible stain on his ceiling that nobody has noticed but him—and Sirius, because he’s a freak that he swears can see a wider range of color than the average human—that came from trying that mentos and coke thing as a kid.

There’s another dull thud, and a muffled French curse. Sirius laughs, voice a bit thick. When James looks over, his hair is a bit frizzy around his head, strands hanging in his face. Sirius brings his hands up to his face, running them over it as he continues to laugh quietly. “God, he’s so fucking annoying. I hate him.”

James, who, as an only child—despite how badly he would like to claim Sirius as his brother—does not get the nuances of having a sibling, is a bit confused. Though, at this point, he knows better than to question Sirius, who would just laugh at him. Sure, Sirius hates Regulus as much as he loves him. That makes total sense. James definitely gets it.

Sirius takes a deep breath, before taking his hands away from his face. He then proceeds to very rudely poke James’ eyeballs, and then kick him over so that he can roll over onto his stomach, even though Sirius has at this point claimed more than three-quarters of the bed, and could have very easily rolled over the other way, and gotten the same result. James huffs, repressing the grin that wants to grow on his face.

Sirius brushes his hair out of his face, and grabs his phone again, opening the camera app. He very frequently abuses that poor app, using up the majority of his truly abhorrent amount of storage with photos of anything and everything. He uses his Instagram as extra storage when he needs to clean it out. Has a private account and everything, for the photos he wants to keep but doesn’t deem ‘worthy’ of being on his main. He winks at himself, moving his hair around and making a few faces into the lens. “Yo, Prongs, just invite them anyway, yeah? Reggie can throw a hissy fit if he wants; I must see Remus again, or I might perish.” He says as he tugs on his bottom lip, puckering them ridiculously.

“Yeah, alright.” James replies, locating his phone and letting out a sigh when it’s much too far for him to reach with his hands. He, very maturely, opts to get it with his feet and spends the next few minutes trying to maneuver it close enough for him to grab. Sirius takes great pleasure in watching him, he knows, because he can hear him snickering every few seconds. Once it’s safely in his hands, he gives Sirius a kick in the shin as retaliation. Then, he drafts an easy message to send to Remus and Peter, relieved that he no longer has to be having these secret rendezvous like they’re in some coming of age movie, and instead, can finally have them over at his house again. And their pool can finally get some use. He chooses to send ‘everyone + my pool tmr??’.

When Sirius gets the notification, he raises an unimpressed eyebrow through his camera. “How original. You’re like this terrible mix between a teacher and a 6th year.”

James’ phone buzzes, and he glances over at it again.

(4:25) Wormy-Wormtail

I’ll be there

James grins. A few moments later, Remus’ reply comes as a simple thumbs-up emoji. He abuses that emoji about as much as Sirius abuses his camera. Sirius sighs wistfully, like a wife whose husband has gone off to war. He instantly hearts Remus’ text, and James lets out a very loud gag. “Absolutely disgusting, you are. Get a room.”

“I’m trying,” Sirius retorts. “My dickhead of a cock-blocking brother hasn’t been letting me.”

“You inserted a gay amount of dick-related terminology in there, Pads.”

“Yes, well, if the shirt fits or whatever.” Sirius dismisses, waving a hand carelessly. James chuckles.

“Right on, then. Fear not, shirtless Moony will save you from the depths of your melancholy.”

“I sure hope he does,” Sirius replies, twirling a strand of his hair around his finger. “If he refuses to get into the pool, I will be pretending to drown, so don’t save me, yeah?”

“Oh, I’d never.”

—

The next day comes quickly and without preamble, the bright sun shining into James’ face and waking him up. He pushes himself up easily, never being one that had trouble getting up in the mornings. Most especially not when he had a gathering to prepare for. He wakes with a grin, padding down the steps with familiar, quick steps.

His father turns from the stove just as he comes into the kitchen, which smells faintly of chocolate and pastry. James smiles at him, settling onto the island chair. “Big day, pops.”

His father gives him a playfully exasperated look. “Yes, you and your goons are sure to give me quite a stir, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes, Jamie.” He says, patting the rim of his glasses. His father is a big man, still taller than James and strong, but also soft in all of the ways that matter. James has never been scared of his father, never even heard him raise his voice.

“You see nothing in my eyes,” James defends with a laugh, “but fear not, you’re safe for another day. Remus keeps us all in line.”

“Love that kid.” His dad says, nodding as he fills a plate for James. “Light breakfast today—Sirius told me it’s typical over in France. Think Regulus’ll like it?” He asks, placing the plate in front of James. It houses a large, golden-crusted croissant and a small cup of yogurt. His father stares at him expectantly, patiently awaiting a review seeing as James is the first person aside from him, who gets up at ‘ungodly hours’. “Well, he was of the assertion that actually, they have coffee and cigarettes, but if I tried serving that your mum might skin me alive.” He continues with a soft chuckle, passing James a napkin before turning back to the stove. “Talk to me, Jamie.”

In the early hours of morning, when nobody else is quite awake and the air is gentle and quiet, and the day moves forward with that slow, relaxing lull, James will pad down the steps, and greet his father. They’ll relax around the kitchen, usually with his dad hovering around the stove and James inhaling the food he makes without question. And they’ll talk. About anything and everything—James will ask things ranging from his prediction of the weather to how he can deal with existential fears. It’s easy in the mornings, in a way it isn’t at night for James, because everything in the morning is tinged with that soft golden glow of a day to come that hasn’t quite started yet, with plenty of time to unwind and prepare yourself. The mornings are a time where James unloads the things he needs to get off his chest, or simply talks through his plans for the day with his father, just because he can, and they’re both awake. Where the things he says don’t feel quite as daunting to confess when he’s got a warm plate of food in front of him and he’s faced with his father’s warm grin that’s never held judgement.

“I think Regulus will love it, and he’ll pull one of those ‘it’s adequate’s that really mean he’s astounded with the quality.” James replies, smiling through his bite of the croissant. It practically melts in his mouth in a way that almost makes him groan aloud. “Shit, this is- Dad, this is fantastic, oh my god.”

His father flashes a grin over his shoulder, “yes, well it only took multiple failed batches and more than one burn. You’d better enjoy it. Literal blood sweat and tears went into the production.” He warns, pointing a spatula at him. He’s making his mother an egg, because she insists that she have one each morning when she wakes up, and it has to be made by his father. James loves that about them. He loves how easily they love each other, and how everything fits into place in that perfect way that most people dream of for their whole lives.

James waves him off, immediately digging right back in. Nothing ever has, and ever will, rival his father’s breakfast. It’s made with such obvious love and palpable care, that you can practically taste it. No matter if it’s a typical English breakfast, something new, or pancakes, it’s always fantastic. A start to James’ day that makes him feel like everything can be okay.

“Did you invite Regulus to hang out with you, James?”

James swallows his bite, sighing heavily. “Well, yeah, ‘cause Sirius made me ask permission. Obviously, he was of the opinion that I should crawl into a ditch and die, rather than ever bother him with my presence again.” James explains, shrugging, “didn’t even hear me out, just kept saying ‘no’ in that stupid, stupid accent. His favourite word. Anyway, Sirius told me to invite them anyway, so Regulus might be in a pissy mood when he finds out.”

“Right,” His father nods thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a good thing I tried to make a familiar breakfast, then, at the very least. Poor kid.” He pauses for a moment, spatula hanging in the air as he stares off at the fridge. “They’ve been through a lot more than I think we’ll ever know, Jamie. Just…I just want you to know that, when you get aggravated with him.” He says quietly, something a bit haunted in his eyes. James thinks, that, like him, he’s probably revisiting that day. When Walburga came, so much scarier than Sirius could ever have conveyed. The way she held Regulus’ arm as if she owned him; as if making sure he couldn’t run away. Regulus looked terrified of her.

Her presence was commanding and suffocating, sucking all of the air out of the room with the simple clicking of her high heels. James has never felt so uneasy in his own home, than he did when she entered. She stared at everything as if it were absolutely disgusting. Them as if they were disgusting. And, according to Sirius, that was her trying to maintain appearances. She beat the shit out of her son, and that was her trying to maintain composure. The thought is terrifying, and, suddenly, all of his vague annoyance with the other boy is gone. The things that Sirius and Regulus have been through…James can never—will never—comprehend. He doesn’t think he’s supposed to, though. He might just be there to provide support, to distract and do anything in his power to help. James can help; it’s one of the things he’s best at.

His father, James thinks, might be taking that revelation harder than all of them. Especially after the scene in his study. James isn’t sure that he knows none of that was his fault, and Regulus was just responding to trauma. He isn’t sure his father knows that there was no possible way to know that she would do that, when Sirius refused to talk about her, and he can’t hold himself accountable for her actions. He isn’t sure his father knows how not to take everything to heart so deeply that he hardly has room for anything else.

James most definitely knows where he, himself, gets it from.

“Yeah,” James replies, equally quiet, and he lets the moment hang between them; that silent understanding that passes between two people who feel far too much and love far too hard for their own goods. He knows there’s not really much more to say. There’s no more that he can say. There’s nothing either of them can do to dislodge that tiny hole of guilt in their chests; those things they’ll carry with them for, likely, the rest of their lives. There’s not a lot to be said, and between two people who don’t exactly know the definition of silence, there’s a bit of something undefined that hangs between them. An unsure silence, waiting for a segue to be resolved.

Luckily, the segue doesn’t need to be made, because Regulus walks into the room, scowling and generally looking angry at life, as per usual. Unluckily, it’s Regulus, whom they were just discussing, and who makes James feel hot all over with discomfort.

“Good morning, Regulus,” James’ dad greets, pulling on a friendly smile as he balances his focus between depositing the egg on a plate, and giving Regulus his attention. “Sleep well?”

“Good morning. Yes.” He says dryly. His hair is a bit frizzy, something he only allows in the mornings. Sirius says it’s because their parents are usually out in the mornings, so he doesn’t worry about appearances quite yet, when it’s so early in the morning and there’s not any point. Sirius told him that Regulus had asked him many times whether or not the Potters would get angry with him, if he didn’t dress up for breakfast. Despite Sirius’ assurances, Regulus never seems quite at ease, as if he’s waiting for them to finally snap about it. It’ll be perfectly smoothed out within the hour. Regulus starts about making himself coffee, quiet and a bit unsure in each of his movements.

“Dad, can we get out the-”

“No.” his dad says immediately, as if he already knows that James is going to ask to get the slip-n-slide out. It’s impossible, seeing as James hasn’t even fully asked the question. He could be asking about the board games.

He’s not, but that’s not the point. James deserves the privilege of the slip-n-slide, or at least the ability to get his sentence fully out.

“But you don’t even-”

“Oh, I know what you’re going to ask, Jamie. The answer is no, because I quite like my head attached to my body, and your mother loves her garden more than she loves me.” His dad replies, providing him a sympathetic look and shrugging playfully.

“That was one time! We can keep it away from her garden this time! It’s not my fault I slid right into her tomatoes anyway; I couldn’t stop.” James defends, “you try coming to a stop as you're speeding towards vines, covered in soap and water.”

His father chuckles fondly at the memory, likely reliving it. “Oh, I thought it was hilarious. Your mother, however, did not, and I’m afraid she’s the man of the house, my dear Jamie. Talk to her about it.”

James groans. He’ll never live that down, in his mother’s eyes. She’ll probably work it into her speech at his bloody wedding. It was a massacre. He’d managed to crash into every single vine, smashing the tomatoes and spreading them throughout the entire rest of the garden. His mother found pieces in various stages of rot for weeks after that. She’d made him replant every single one, and take care of them, all the way until they were ready to be harvested. James thinks it’s a wonder there was anything to harvest, considering he has the exact opposite of a green thumb, and couldn’t keep a cactus in his room alive (he knows, he tried). It was not a fun period. Sirius literally laughed so hard he almost suffocated, and the rest of the guys just can’t let it go, bringing it up every time they’re around soap, water, a tarp, or—heaven forbid—tomatoes.

He knew the answer before he asked, but you can’t knock a man for trying now, can you?

James watches as Regulus grabs his mug, steam clouding around the top. It must’ve finished during James’ conversation with his father. Suddenly, James kicks himself for not paying attention to how he made it. He never thought he’d be so eager to learn someone’s tea order, for christ’s sake, yet here he is. He hasn’t been up at the rooftop for a while now, having hoped to appear bearing steaming gifts of chamomile next time so that Regulus wouldn’t push him off again. It seems that it might be the only time Regulus is open to conversation with James is in the late hours of the night, beneath a blanket of twinkling stars and blue moonlight. Otherwise, James gets his head bitten off when he dares look at the boy with intentions to conversate.

James expects Regulus to stalk back up to his room as he usually does, not to be seen again until dinner.

Except, instead, he leans against the counter, flexing his fingers around the handle of his mug and keeping his gaze aimed at the ground.

Even more shocking, he speaks. “Mr. Potter,”

James’ dad freezes for a brief moment—one James is pretty sure only he catches, but you never know with Regulus—before relaxing again, turning towards Regulus and providing him his attention easily. “Yes, Regulus?”

“I’ve been told to ask you about school. If you could enroll me in classes. My mother—she does not care for the process, and our servants don’t know enough English to assist her.” He explains, the words coming out easily and maybe a bit rehearsed. Throughout it all, Regulus’ gaze remains firmly on the tiled floor, posture tense like he’s expecting to be slapped.

James’ dad grins. “Oh! Yes, I can help you, Regulus. Of course.” He nods immediately, eyes absolutely lighting up and a wide smile growing on his face. “I’d love to help. Do you know what classes you’re interested in, then?”

“It’s your choice, since I’m under your care. That is what Mother told me.”

His dad makes a bit of a face, but quickly schools it. “My choice. Well, I’ll tell you what: let me write a website down for you, and you can look through course options. Come into my study after dinner, and I’ll enroll you while I do the boys.”

Regulus takes a breath, “your study?” He asks, slowly bringing his eyes up to meet James’ dad’s, as if looking for signs of deception, or malintent. His gaze is heavy with apprehension and suspicion. A bit of confusion. “Why do I need to look at course options?”

“So you can find the classes that you want to take.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

James’ dad softens a bit, voice taking a tone of sincerity and the kind of assurance that can only come from a parental figure. “It matters to me, Regulus. I can hardly tell you the classes you’d succeed in.”

Regulus just seems…scared. He’s clenching the mug in his hand so hard that his knuckles are white, eyes searching desperately like he’s trying to find a hidden meaning beneath the words. Like the notion is so incomprehensible that it must be a false façade to cover some alternate intentions. “Why do you do this? What do you want from me?” He asks, words barely coming out as a breath. “I don’t understand. I know nothing. I cannot make these decisions; I choose in sin. Why do you trick me?”

And that’s just…well, that’s probably one of the most heartbreaking things James has ever heard. His father has to glance away to compose himself, hands clenching around the countertop. James just wants to pull Regulus into a tight hug, holding him until he stops fighting back and just lets himself be comforted. He wishes he knew how to help Regulus, who always walks around like he’s drowning beneath the weight of some expectation that nobody else can see. Who says things like ‘I choose in sin’ like they're a simple fact. Who can’t understand that an adult would act towards him in kindness, with no ulterior motives.

James’ dad swallows at the same time that James does. He pushes his glasses up, and looks back to Regulus. “I don’t want anything from you, Regulus, I promise. No tricks. I just…I just want you to know that things are different here.” He explains, voice a careful balance between authority and gentle reassurance. “You don’t ‘choose in sin’, you choose what you think is best for you. You’re the only person who can know if something is truly good for you, Regulus. Your opinion matters to me.”

Regulus rips his eyes away from Monty’s again, gaze finding the floor like it’s the only comfort he has, frame held tight with tension. He doesn’t seem content with that answer. When he speaks, his voice is so blank it’s uncanny. All of his previous emotion is wiped away so quickly it’s almost like it was never there at all, almost leaving James wondering if he’d ever actually seen the emotion before, or if he’d made it up. “You are right. I’m sorry, Mr. Potter. I don’t question you.” He recites, as if reading the lines from a script. It’s evident that none of Monty’s words have actually reached him, only causing him to shut down and retreat even further into himself, like a scared prey animal when you move too fast.

James’ dad is very clearly not happy with the answer, a small frown creasing his face as he taps against the counter, staring at Regulus like he’s realizing several different things at the same time, and that he’s not happy with any of them. Still, he lets out a small breath of defeat. “Don’t apologize, Regulus. Let me write down the website for you, and you can take a look at it, yeah? We can talk through your choices and get you signed up, okay?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Potter.” Regulus says.

“I’m sorry.” James’ dad murmurs sincerely. Regulus shifts on his feet, eyes darting to the archway like he’s begging for a distraction, or to escape from the hold of this awkward conversation. “You’re a good kid, Regulus. Don’t you forget it.” He says, as he hands over a yellow sticky note with the website scrawled messily on it.

“Thank you.” Regulus says, in a manner that someone would agree with you if you told them that they were perfect; like it’s a kind thing to say, but obviously untrue. He grabs the sticky note like he’s expecting it to transform in his hand.

Before any of them can speak again, there’s a quick succession of thuds moving down the staircase. Regulus’ shoulders drop imperceptibly, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second like he’s collecting himself.

Sirius enters with a tired grin and a presence that clearly exposes his comfort in the house, moving around with the ease of familiarity. “Morning, Monty, James,” he greets, eyes scanning the room. He falters in his steps when he lays eyes on Regulus, shoulders immediately gaining a bit of tension like the simple fact of his brother in the room can suck the ease from his motion. “Reggie.”

Regulus swallows, nodding in acknowledgement. He doesn’t speak another word as he glides out of the kitchen, footsteps silent and careful on the tiled floor until he’s out of sight. Sirius murmurs something to him as he passes, but Regulus continues on as if he didn’t hear a thing.

Sirius looks towards the floor, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and nodding a bit, as if he expected that. His shoulders drop, though instead of regaining their previous calm stature, they just sag in defeat. There’s a careful silence that surrounds them for a few moments, Regulus’ brief presence enough to unnerve everybody in the room, leaving their mouths dry and their frames heavy with an uneasy awkwardness—that kind that comes from an understanding that there’s a problem, but also that none of them have the tools to solve it. That hopelessness that comes from watching a disaster approach, knowing that you cannot prevent or minimize it, and simply have to brace for impact.

Looking at Regulus is like watching a car crash; you know what you’re going to see, you know you’re not going to like it, yet you just can’t tear your eyes away from the gruesome scene.

Regulus Black is a car crash born into flesh—inevitable, gruesome, and catastrophic. His crash will leave behind casualties and a bloody massacre, and all anyone can do is wait.

Perhaps that’s why James is addicted to him; he’s addicted to that inevitable disaster, addicted to trying to fix it, knowing that it’s hopeless yet not quite ready to admit it to himself.

Later, in the afternoon, Remus and Pete will arrive with swimming trunks in tow, soft grins, and loud scolding towards Sirius, for his lack of presence around the summer hols. A brief, gross kiss from Remus to Sirius, letting him know all is forgiven.

James will beg his mum—on his hands and knees, no shame—to let them get out the slip-n-slide, and her answer will still be a firm but amused “absolutely not”. Sirius will insist that there is still fun to be had, seeing as they are still allowed to use the pool—“as long as there are no more tomato casualties”. James will groan, and smile, and begrudgingly promise to be on his best behavior. They’ll head into the backyard, set their things down in their chosen chairs, and James and Peter will waste no time jumping into the pool and soaking Sirius and Remus, who will be standing on the ledge and looking at each other with those annoying ‘I’m so in love with you’ eyes that make James and Peter share a look of exasperation, seeing as they weren’t even noticed. Eventually, Sirius will get in, and he’ll waste an entire fifteen minutes trying to coax Remus into the pool, who pretends to need coaxing as their disgusting form of flirting, the clear blue water pooling around his shoulders. They’ll all whistle and cat-call when Remus finally sheds his shirt to get in, and after that there will be a lot of laughter, flirtation, games, and most importantly, his mother’s lemonade.

The sun will shine brightly, and James will be smiling the entire time.

Still, there will be that nagging thing in the back of his head—that part that will never shut up, that part that causes his eyes to wander towards the room he knows Regulus is in. And it’ll be hard to focus, when the majority of his thoughts are filled with tense eyes and sharp, blank expressions. Curly hair, and straight shoulders. A smooth, low voice, saying ‘I choose in sin’. He’ll feel that prickling unease that comes with inappropriately timed thoughts, that discomfort that comes when his thoughts drift into the territory of elegant fingers clenched tightly, and grey eyes swirling with so many emotions so much of the time, that it’s hard to focus on much else, when they’re staring right at you. Analyzing your every move, and storing it carefully. Calculating.

James will force those thoughts away, many times. He’ll hold Sirius up for chicken fighting, splash Remus, and try to drown Peter multiple times—though he’ll end up being drowned himself. He’ll drink his mum’s delicious lemonade, hair dripping onto the concrete poolside and leaving behind a wet spot that will disappear within seconds of him moving back into the pool. He’ll submerge himself in the water, exhaling and letting himself float to the bottom of the pool, relaxing into the weightlessness for a few seconds before coming back up for air.

He’ll spend the entire day surrounded by his friends’ laughter and teasing, his mother’s food, and the golden warmth of the sun on a rarely sunny day, the beams kissing his skin in that gentle and addicting way that makes him love summer so much, as a stark contrast to the cold of the pool. He’ll be so happy that he can’t hardly contain it, unable to wipe the stupid grin off of his face for the entire afternoon, and even after.

And still, his mind will wander towards straight spines and perfectly maintained black curls contrasting delicate, pale skin. Pale skin hiding bruises and scars, if it’s anything like Sirius’. He won’t be able to help himself, the thoughts so passive he hardly even notices them until he’s back in his room, changing, and is overwhelmed with the urge to knock on Regulus' door. Just talk to him. Pointlessly, stupidly.

And he won’t, but it’ll take much effort and Sirius barging in loudly and rudely, to make him disregard it.

That doesn’t mean the idea won’t linger in his mind, and it doesn’t mean that he’ll be able to hold himself back forever.

—

In fact, that night finds James venturing outside of the quiet of his room, in the late hours of night beginning to transform into the early hours of morning. That night finds James taking careful steps up the old staircase that leads to the window, footsteps careful and memorized in a way that comes from spending his entire life in the house; his movements mindless and instinctual. That night finds James squeezing through the rickety old window, and into the humid moonlight, with still no mugs in hand but an insatiable desire to learn and understand and help.

Regulus is up there; James knew he was because the window was cracked, but it’s all confirmed when he lays eyes on his silhouette, hunched over and staring upwards at the stars. He knows Regulus sees him, and he also knows that he’s being ignored. Regulus probably wasn’t expecting him to be back after his little stunt on the roof, but he underestimated James’ stubborn will-power when he’s being driven by curiosity, and his general disregard for safety.

This time, James wisely chooses to stay silent. Despite the general consensus, James is, in fact, not that much of an idiot. He doesn’t want to risk another roof incident, and James is very aware that he’s on extremely thin ice, what with having his mates over today despite Regulus’ very clear opposition to the idea, and also hogging the pool—which he knows Regulus will go dip his feet inside when he thinks nobody is watching sometimes—for the entire day.

Safe to say, he is overly aware that he’s not Regulus’ favourite person at the moment, yet that still doesn’t stop him from lowering himself down nonetheless, coming to a comfortable rest on his back, hands keeping his head from rubbing against the uncomfortable roof. It does, however, keep him from daring to open his mouth.

Which actually seems to work more in his favour than the tea, surprisingly. It takes Regulus what feels like hours to a man as impatient as James—but what is really only give or take ten minutes—to finally let some of that tension out of his shoulders. It’s not all gone; James isn’t quite sure if it’s always there, or if it will always be there when there are people around. If some of that tension is so ingrained in Regulus’ shoulders, that he will never be able to quite shed all of it. Regulus’ face remains angled up at the sky, eyes shining with the light of a thousand stars, a relaxed expression on his face; something more open, and raw. Something that isn’t hidden beneath sharp remarks or cutting glares. Something soft; the weak underbelly of an animal, protected and hidden from the view of people they deem unworthy.

James makes a point not to stare, the act feeling like a violation of Regulus’ privacy. It’s only polite, because he was the one to come up here. He invaded Regulus’ space, and he’s very conscious of that. He’s very conscious of the fact that one wrong move will send Regulus sprinting right back into his room, to throw more things around and curse some more. Possibly even land him on the ground, if he’s not careful.

James realizes, a bit slowly, that Regulus is a long-term investment. That he won’t see Regulus smile until school at the earliest, and honestly possibly years at the latest if he doesn’t get his act together. He can’t charm Regulus with well-timed smiles and cheeky jokes like he can everyone else. Regulus won’t fall for his extroverted personality. Regulus doesn’t care if he’s the life of the party; he doesn’t even like parties. Regulus is a stern, no-bullshit kind of bloke who glares with the power of a thousand stars, who looks at people as if they’re so weak and pathetic that his mere acknowledgement is a blessing. Regulus is someone who prefers a quiet night beneath the stars, with no words exchanged and no acknowledgements. Regulus is someone who likes secrets and playing 4D chess while everyone else plays checkers. Regulus is someone who spits words sharpened like blades when he’s angry, or sad, or simply a bit peeved off in the mornings.

James is going to have to play the long game if he wants to win over Regulus.

And hell if James doesn’t enjoy a good game.

Chapter Text

Regulus wakes with a groan, thin rays of sunshine peeking mischievously through his curtains, which he could’ve sworn he’d closed. He’s tired. He stayed up until three in the morning yesterday, Potter Boy at his side, in complete and utter silence. He’s just so bloody confusing. One second he’s being so loud and noisy with his friends that Regulus wants to tear his ears off, and the next he’s climbing onto the roof with a sheepish grin on his face, and plopping right down like he belongs there or something. And then he doesn’t talk. For multiple hours.

Honestly, Regulus had started to think that Potter Boy had been replaced with a clone, or something. He didn’t even know the boy was capable of shutting up.

That was, of course, before there was an extremely loud crash followed by a bark of laughter—Sirius—and a cackle—James—that woke him up from an extremely pleasant dream of silky flowers, cheap wine, and pale blonde hair.

Now, he knows that James was not replaced, hit in the head, or otherwise harmed mentally. He’s just up to something.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up I’m going to stab you in the fucking chest and push you out of the window!” He yells, cussing violently under his breath. He just wants to go back to sleep. He’s tired all of the time, this non-physical exhaustion weighing on his shoulders and suffocating him. He just wants to crawl into his bed at home. He just wants to sink into the soft silky duvet, bury his face into the pillow, and fall asleep in his house. With the promise of Pandora and Evan waiting for him once he wakes up, eager to see where the day takes them.

“Sorry Reggie!” Comes the gratingly happy reply, choked out through loud, joyous laughs, “love you!”

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face into his pillow. Trying to breathe through the thing that lodges in his throat every time that word slips from his brother’s mouth; four letters, one syllable, and he still can’t choke it out. Much less the even greater one; three words and claiming. Undoubtable. An unshakable statement that he’s not used to hearing, much less speaking. God, he hates when Sirius says it. It claws up his ribcage and corrodes his bones, itching the underside of his skin.

Hearing Sirius speak them so casually, as if they don’t tear his throat to cough up, makes Regulus wonder if that’s just yet another thing that comes so easily to Sirius—something that Regulus can’t quite measure up to. If I love you means something different, something watered-down, something casual, to everyone else. Because if it means to them what it means to Regulus, then how could they bear to say it so often? How could they rip their ribcage open, and leave their beating, bloody heart out for the taking? How could they deposit their trust, their undying devotion, their respect into the hands of someone they barely even know?

How could they bear exposing themselves like that, not knowing how the other person might use it? How could they trust someone with the ugly, the deformed, the bloody parts of their soul that are never supposed to see the light of day? Those parts meant only for the brain to worry over, and mull over, in the pocket of time between the late hours of the night and the early hours of morning.

Regulus sighs into his pillow, hopeless to get more sleep now that he’s awake. He bangs his head against it a few times, cursing Sirius under his breath. If he gets up, he’s going to have to get coffee. If he goes to get coffee, he’s going to have to speak English to the Potters. If he has to speak English, it’s going to be a constant guessing game that makes him feel so stupid and worthless, and then he’s going to be angry. It feels like he’s always angry. A bubbling rage simmering in his gut, every time he has to process an English sentence. Every time he walks in a room, and the conversations stop, or they get noticeably slower so that he can catch up. Every time he wakes up in a bed that is not his, in a room sheltered from the gloomy overcast of Britain. Every time he hears those three words fall from his brother’s mouth with enviable ease. Every time he catches sight of that stupid head of messy curls, golden-rimmed glasses, and a blindingly happy smile.

Every day that passes, where he doesn’t call Evan and Pandora. That he doesn’t open the box. Every day his phone chimes with a notification labeled ‘Mother’.

Instead of allowing it to fester, he chooses to push it away. He’s good at that. Regulus decides, as he tugs at the neck of his worn t-shirt, that he’ll be ignoring that, the same way he ignores everything else. The same way he pretends not to hear his brother’s confessions when they cross paths.

Regulus pushes himself up, and he puts his feet on the cold floor, and he forces himself to stand. He thinks: God, I need coffee. He stretches, and he goes downstairs, and he ignores the weird feeling he gets when he enters the kitchen in only his pyjamas, even though everyone else does it too. He starts the coffee maker, and nods at Effie in acknowledgement when she greets him—yes, he gives her a bit of a glare, he’s seriously trying to work on it—and he gets out his mug.

He sighs when Sirius enters, and they exchange a bit of small talk that’s much too light for the heavy things on their shoulders, and they both pretend like they can’t feel it. They both pretend their shoulders don’t ache with the weight of things unsaid and resentment they’re too afraid to let out into the light, for fear that they’ll never be able to reconcile.

“Alright, Reggie?” Sirius asks, brushing his hair out of his face.

“Fine.” Regulus responds, tapping open his phone just to give his fingers something to do.

As always, they hover over the message app for a few seconds before he, inevitably, opens any other app instead. This time he chooses his already vacant camera roll, pretending to clear it out. Something uncomfortable claws at the inside of his ribcage, begging to be released.

“Any specific plans for the day? There’s endless potential.” Sirius grins, a little strained around the corners.

“You’re not having those goons over again, are you?”

Sirius makes an odd face, “no, they’re not coming today. But I was thinking, maybe you’d actually appear next time. Y’know, so they can actually meet you.”

Regulus scoffs. “Why would I want to meet more of you? I don’t even like the original.”

Like things always do between them, the atmosphere takes a sharp turn, so quick that it’s hard to pinpoint where exactly it started. Sirius’ eyes light up with ‘you asked for it’. “Well, I’m picking up most of the brunt in the friend department at the moment, what with your boycott of everything that makes you happy.”

Regulus clenches his jaw, tearing his eyes away from his phone to glare at his brother. “Shut the fuck up about things you don’t understand.”

“I do understand—you just keep trying to gaslight yourself into pretending I don’t, because it makes you feel better about your self-sabotage.”

Well, it’s a bit difficult to put things out of mind, when someone insists on bringing it up, isn’t it? It’s hard to ignore that thing inside of his ribs when Sirius keeps poking at it, keeps talking about it. “Just- just shut up, Sirius.” Regulus warns, because he’s really, really trying not to start the day off with an argument. He’s really trying to keep the things he wants to say inside of his head; he’s clenching his jaw, feeling the words bang against his teeth, keeping them at bay. Because the second they come out, everyone will look at him like he’s the problem. Sirius will get that stupid kicked-puppy look in his eyes, and he’ll go sulk, and then he’ll make Regulus feel like a fucking asshole—even though he literally asks for it.

Sirius’ eyes flash, and he takes a step forward, baring his teeth. “You know what? No. No, let’s flesh this out. Let’s talk about it, Regulus. Let’s talk about how it’s been a month, and you’ve spent so much goddamn time in your fucking room, that you’ve lost your freckles. Let’s talk about how it’s been a month, and you stare at your fucking phone like it’s about to bite you. Let’s talk about how you haven’t picked up your violin since you’ve gotten here. Let’s talk about the way you walk around this fucking house like a ghost, because you’re too scared to speak above a whisper. Let’s talk about the bullshit glares you give Effie and Monty, let’s talk about what an asshole you are to James-”

“Maybe we should talk about how you feel the need to insert yourself into their family, because you hate your own! Maybe we can talk about how you’re so fucking scared of being alone, that you’d rather shove yourself into a family that doesn’t want you than admit that your home is in France, and you’re the one that doesn’t want it! Maybe we can talk about the fact that you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that the Potters actually care about you, when you know deep down they’re only doing it for that fat check that enters their bank accounts each month-”

It’s barely a split second before Sirius is so close to him that their noses are almost touching, eyes blazing with twin flames. It’s barely a split second before a heavy hand is wrapping around his arm, suffocating and entrapping. The clench of his jaw is sharper than a knife, the sharp angles of his face coming into intense focus with their proximity. “I’m sick of your fucking bullshit, Regulus. I’m fucking sick of it, you hear? I’m done watching you traipse along like you own the fucking place, insulting the Potters when they’ve done nothing but feed you, and try to talk to you, and take all of your fucking bullshit, all of the time, just for you to spit in their fucking faces all over again. Maybe, they don’t like you, because you’re nothing but a constant dick to them! It’s so fucking exhausting to have to apologize for you all of the fucking time, it’s so fucking exhausting to be constantly playing the middle-man, it’s so fucking exhausting to deal with you!”

That’s just it, isn’t it? Regulus feels himself straighten immediately, feels the way his throat tightens to spit fire, that Black authority spinning through his veins, that authority that makes his words cut like sharp knives. Once he starts, he just can’t stop. He carries everything on his back, constantly choosing his steps with careful precision, and when he unloads a bit of it, he simply drops it all. Things fester and fester beneath his skin, until they break through and leave a bloody massacre in their wake. No survivors.

“Nobody asked you to! I haven’t asked you for a single fucking thing since you left! Because I know! I know loving me is a fucking- a fucking chore, that’s why I never asked you to do it! All I’ve ever been, my whole fucking life, has been a goddamn burden! I burden you, I burden mother, I burden father, I burden the Potters! Have you ever stopped to think maybe it’s not all that fucking nice to ask for something and hear that stupid motherfucking sigh?” Regulus demands, stepping even further into Sirius’ space, daring him, baiting him. He’s taller than his brother—just barely, but so close that the difference makes his shoulders hold easier; an advantage. “Why is it some huge thing, that I dare to want to be loved? How could I, right? How could I not make myself palatable, so that it’s easy to love me? I’ve been quiet and meek and obedient my entire life, and it’s still not enough! You still left, Mother still sent me off! If you want me to be a certain way, maybe you could just fucking tell me so that I’m not failing everyone at all times! I’ve been everything that everyone has asked me to be, my whole fucking life, and it’s still not enough! So why, Sirius? Why the fuck would I keep trying when all it’s ever gotten me were bruises and abandonment?”

And: silence.

The aftermath of things said that were never meant to be spoken aloud, much less yelled. That quiet shock that comes from a revealing outburst, that stare as you wait for the other shoe to drop. The clench of fists, knowing that what was just said can never be taken back. Regulus feels sick. Oh, he feels physically sick—bile climbs up his throat, the slimy trail of the creature that’s been clawing at his ribcage for so long now, finally released, leaving only nausea in its wake. He was never supposed to say that. Nobody was ever supposed to know. Nobody was supposed to know that he can tell. He wasn’t supposed to be able to tell.

He was supposed to accept Sirius’ bullshit excuse of their mother driving him away, not know that it was his own clinging, nails dug into skin and chipping, that led Sirius to tear away so violently.

He was supposed to think Mother only sent him to England to rehabilitate Sirius, not know that she sent him away for the simple fact that he’s much too clingy and disappointing for her to look at.

He was supposed to believe that the Potters took him in because they feel for him, not know the way they sigh and purse their lips when he enters a room, not see the way their smiles dim and tighten.

But he knows. He knows. He might be the baby, he might be the little brother, he might be a petty bitch. But he is not as stupid as everyone else seems to think. He’s not naive enough to think that his presence is generally appreciated, he’s not even naive enough to think that it’s easily tolerated. He knows he’s hard to love; it’s the same parts of him that he tried to mold into something palatable, only resulting in harsh lines and points that cut, that make people turn their noses up when he enters a room. That makes them let out a small sigh when they lay eyes on him.

Regulus knows, and he knows that it’s the simple fact that he’s him. It’s the way his eyes sparkle; it’s the silvery gray that shapes the way he views the world, the eyes which he tries to soften in the mirror, after coaching himself to make them harden so that Mother would nod at him in approval. It’s the veins that stick out of his hands, forming sharp angles and lines that he tried to soften, because people at school thought they were odd, even though he worked them so that they might stop calling him girly behind his back. It’s the sharp, apathetic tone of his voice that he tried to morph into something softer, because Sirius looks at him like he’s a fucking corpse every time he speaks, after training for years to remove emotion from it, because Sirius thought he was whiny. It’s the confident way he carries himself, shoulders back and chin high with an easy arrogance everyone hates, because Blacks must never be overlooked, and being overlooked is a weakness, and his father hated the way he slouched in his chair as a child.

And, when he stops trying—well, that isn’t right either.

Regulus has spent his whole life jumping from neat box to neat box, and being told he’s in the wrong one, and moving, and now he’s not even sure which one he actually belongs in.

Sirius drops his arm, hand retreating like he’s been burned.

Though now that Regulus started, he has to finish it.

“Stop trying so hard and then blaming me for it, Sirius.” Regulus sighs, hands coming up to hold his elbows, holding himself together. The kitchen is empty; Mrs. Potter must have ducked out when their voices started raising, knowing that it wasn’t her moment to intrude on—even if she didn’t understand the words. Regulus hasn’t seen Mr. Potter or Potter Boy this morning. Granted, he’s been out of his room for less than fifteen minutes. “I’m tired of everyone- everyone trying so fucking hard, and then resenting me for it. I’d much rather you didn’t try at all. It hurts too much, when you do it. I can hardly stand it.”

Sirius doesn’t say anything, staring at the kitchen counter blankly. Regulus doesn’t expect him to. He’s sure having all of that dumped on him is probably a bit much to process, especially freshly woken-up and without coffee.

Absently, Regulus wants Sirius to say something. Just…something. Regulus has spent his whole life wanting Sirius to do things: play with him, catch him, smile at him, hug him, love him.

But the thing about the Black Brothers is that they’re always too little, too late.

Sirius won’t speak. Regulus will stare, for a few seconds, and then he’ll walk upstairs. He won’t even grab his coffee. Sirius won’t speak, or move, and Regulus will get tired of waiting.

Then, and only then, will Sirius find the words.

But by the time he’s ready to speak them, Regulus will already be pressing his bedroom door closed, fist held tightly against his mouth as he tries not to make noise, thick tears running down his cheek and desperate, childish longing stuck in his throat, pushing against his teeth, pushing and pushing. And eventually he’ll end up hunched over the toilet seat, gagging hopelessly, empty and broken, the messy pieces of his soul pooling in a muddy mess on the shiny tile.

And Sirius will be in the kitchen, staring at the doorway, hands ready to cradle. Heart ready to fix. Eyes glinting with determination.

But he’s too late.

Sirius is always too late.

That, is the tragedy of the Black Brothers.

***

Sirius has had enough. He’s not sure if he can take this anymore—this push and pull that they do, over and over again. Saying terrible, terrible things because they know just where to dig their fingers into soft flesh to cause the most pain. Sirius is absolutely done with hurting. If the Blacks are good at anything, it’s hurting. Sirius hasn’t spent the entirety of his teenage years trying to separate himself from his family for nothing. He just- he just can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep watching the hurt flash in his baby brother’s eyes each time they lock eyes. Regulus haunts his nightmares. His eyes, his silver, blank eyes, always feature at the forefront. Sirius never remembers what happens in his dreams. He doesn’t know the who, how, when, or where. All he ever remembers are piercing grey pleading with him, only to flinch away when he reaches out.

I know loving me is a fucking chore, that’s why I never asked you to do it!

The voice is Regulus now, deep and cutting—matured. But it’s also thirteen-year-old Regulus, asking why Sirius is leaving. Why, why are you leaving? Why, why, why? It’s also eight-year-old Regulus, with his two missing front teeth and a wide, but already reserved grin as he crawled into Sirius’ bed late at night, whispering about the stars. It’s also three-year-old Regulus, scraping his knee and toddling straight over to Sirius for help, rather than their mother.

Sirius thinks those words might haunt him for the rest of his life. Loving Regulus was the only thing that ever came easy to Sirius. It was the only unshakable truth that Sirius had. The grass is green, the sun rises in the east, and Sirius loves Regulus. Loving Regulus is like breathing. Holding it, bottling it up, makes his face change color and makes him lightheaded with panic. If Sirius doesn’t love Regulus, then he doesn’t love anything. That’s his baby brother.

Loving Regulus is the easiest thing Sirius has ever done.

It’s the showing it, the feeling it, that is the hard part.

It’s refraining from just screaming into his face, because Sirius hates Regulus as much as he loves him, and how can he not see the love bleeding out of his body, leaking down his legs and pooling at Regulus’ feet. How could anyone not see the way Sirius loves Regulus? Sirius feels it all of the time, bubbling out of him unstoppably. Seeping into his words, and his smile, and the very cadence of his heart. His heart beats the cadence of Regulus’ baby feet slapping against the ground as he took his first steps, right towards Sirius.

Sirius would do absolutely anything for his brother. He doesn’t understand how Regulus doesn’t see that. He doesn’t understand how he can feel his love so fiercely, and yet Regulus is completely oblivious.

And yet Regulus somehow thinks it’s fake, from a sense of obligation or guilt.

Sirius needs Regulus to see. He’s not sure he can bear to ever hear Regulus say the words ‘I’d much rather you didn’t try at all’ again, as if loving Regulus isn’t the only thing that Sirius is good at. The only thing Sirius doesn’t have to try to do. He can’t continue to make himself coffee, if Regulus doesn’t know how much he loves him. He can’t continue to wake up in the mornings, if Regulus thinks his love is fake. He needs Regulus to know, because he can’t be spilling love like water and have nobody to catch it.

It’ll drown them both.

Regulus is terrified of drowning. Sirius can’t let it happen.

Sirius has never been great with words. Not in French or English. He’s never been the kind of person who can spout poetic advice in the moment, or come up with those really witty comebacks. He’s never been able to monologue or speak eloquently, the way his parents tried to force him to. He often either babbles on senselessly or goes completely silent when experiencing a tense environment. Most of the time, words lodge themselves in his throat, refusing to budge until it’s much too late for them to have the impact he wants them to. Most of the time, he speaks and gets odd looks, as if he’s speaking completely senselessly, even if it makes sense to him. He’s gotten his fair share of ‘right..’s or ‘yeah..’s in his seventeen years of life.

Words often fail Sirius when he needs them the most, which seems to be the case with Regulus. Every time his mouth opens, it says the wrong thing. He picks a fight when they’re actually getting along, he says ‘I love you’ at a moment where that’s the last thing Regulus wants to hear, he brings up a ‘no-touch’ topic. Regulus storms off, and he’s left fighting the urge to bang his head against the nearest surface, because really, why would that ever be a good thing to say?

He fumbles more in conversation with Regulus than he did at his most nervous around Remus Lupin.

Clearly, words aren’t the things that work between them. They need a buffer. Sirius needs something that can buy him even a few extra seconds to actually formulate his thoughts into something coherent. To run them through his brain and make sure they’re actually something he can say. Because he knows they can’t fix this without words, so he needs to figure out how to speak them.

That’s what he’s pondering while he stares at his ceiling, fingers fidgeting incessantly with his shirt. He’s laying on his back, hair sprawled messily around his head and occasionally being blown around by the wind generated from his ceiling fan, and wondering just how he can figure out how to fix something that’s been broken for his entire life.

It’s not the simplest task, he’ll say that much.

Which is why he starts to develop other parts of his plan, instead. Easier ones.

He needs to get Effie, Monty, and James out of the house, because he’ll hardly be able to crack Regulus if they’re peeking through the doors every five minutes, disguising their eavesdropping as favours. He loves Effie and Monty, and their unabashed curiosity, but it’s not very helpful when dealing with someone as skittish as Regulus Arcturus Black, who will lash out and flee if he breathes wrong, much less suspects he’s being watched.

He can probably just straight up tell them that he’d like for them to vacate the house for a few hours; they’d most likely be very responsive, because they’re kind like that. But it still feels a bit wrong to kick them out of their own house. Then again, Sirius highly doubts he can find a good buffer if they leave instead, because it needs to be something that grabs just enough attention to fill the long silences between them, but something that they can easily ignore when they need to talk. Like a movie.

A movie.

Sirius almost feels a lightbulb materialize above his head, lighting up with the force of his idea. A movie.

Okay, Sirius has his buffer. A movie—something they’ve seen before, preferably. He can work with that. Yes, he can work with that. He just needs neutral territory. Somewhere private, but not somewhere they’ve gone to hide. Perhaps the backyard? He thinks Effie and Monty have an old thing called a projector, or something, in the attic from a while back. He can grab that, and project the movie onto the side of the house, or a tarp, or something. Having the movie in the backyard is neutral ground, and the Potters will be less tempted to eavesdrop if they’re separated by a wall and Sirius’ implicit instructions.

He’ll ask Effie, later, if he can borrow the projector. Explain his plan. Or, at least part of it.

So, Sirius has a plan. That’s good. It eases the tension in his fingers, sparing his shirt from the abuse. Sirius has a plan—though he’ll admit most of his plan is stick to the plan and there is no real plan—and with that, he can better ensure his success. He has the setting, he has a vague thought of the things he’d like to say, and he has the boy he’d like to say them to. Honestly, he thinks—naively—that Regulus might just accept it. Granted, he has let him simmer in his anger for an entire day. Sirius thinks that if he knocks, uses his manners and proper grammar, and emphasizes the lack of Potter, Regulus might just say yes.

Sirius loves his planless plans.

—

Sirius carefully brings his hand to the door, giving himself a mental countdown. Effie and Monty were supportive, and promised they wouldn’t interfere or eavesdrop. Sirius thinks they saw how desperate he was to repair things with his only brother, and realized the gravity of the situation. He got the projector all set up, sitting in the grass and pointing at a makeshift screen that Monty helped him make with a bedsheet and wooden posts. Sirius decided that having it pointed at the house was too risky—Regulus might get uncomfortable watching people walk past the windows—and he’s hoping that was a good call. There is a plate of food sitting neatly on a picnic blanket, simply a few finger foods that Effie surprised him with, and a large pitcher of lemonade with two glasses. The weather’s pleasantly warm, with a perfect breeze that will provide a nice chill.

So far, everything has gone according to plan. Sirius has been, admittedly, actively avoiding how to phrase the things he wants to say, telling himself that he can wing it; easy. It’s just talking, and if you ask anyone he knows, they’ll tell you that talking is Sirius Black’s most prominent talent. It’s making it have substance that’s the problem.

So, knocking on his brother’s door should be easy. Because Sirius shouldn’t be afraid that he’s going to, again, say the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. Because talking is his strong suit. Talking is his thing. He knows two languages, because he’s so good at talking. Talking is easy; it’s just opening your mouth and letting sounds come out.

Talking is easy. Talking to Regulus should be easy.

Okay, he’s knocking. He counts himself down from three, and then he forces his knuckle to rap against the door a few times; loud enough to be heard, easily, but not pounding. So far, so good.

“What?” Regulus says, the English coming out almost perfectly.

“It’s me,” Sirius replies, shuffling closer to the door so that Regulus can hear him.

“Okay,” Regulus sighs, switching back to French immediately. His next words come out strained, thick with a special tension that only brothers can infuse. “What do you want?”

“I want…will you open the door, please?” Sirius asks, knowing that if they’re face-to-face it increases his odds.

There’s a long stretch of silence on the other end. Sirius waits. Patiently. He waits, and he’s rewarded with the soft thudding of approaching footsteps, and the click of a lock.

“You’re not going to scream at me again, are you?” Regulus asks, voice a bit quiet. “Because I’ll slam the door shut in your face.”

“No, Regulus. No screaming. I’m sorry about that, by the way.” Sirius almost adds ‘I didn’t mean any of it’, but the words get stuck on his tongue. Because he did mean it, really. He carefully chose his words because of how much he meant them, actually. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel guilty for the way they sounded on the way out.

Sirius almost sighs in relief when the door cracks open, Regulus’ pale face illuminated by the golden hall lights. Sirius, unconsciously, straightens up a bit. His old habits always seem to resurface, with Regulus around. Shoulders back, arms straight, head up, salad fork, shake hands like you’re better than them, because you are. You’re a Black, Sirius. There’s no higher honour.

“Now what?” Regulus asks, like he’s afraid the answer might be a slap to the face, as he opens the door fully. He’s in slacks and a loose button-up, like his wardrobe’s run out and all he’s left with is his formalwear. His curls are expertly maintained, likely fresh seeing as it’s a bit past eight, and Regulus was probably getting ready for bed. Sirius’ heart clenches just at the sight of his little brother. He looks so much older, all dressed up. It’s hard to explain the thing that claws at his ribcage at the sight of his brother, who he barely knows, yet feels like he knows too much about still. It’s hard to explain the pain of seeing someone, and knowing them, yet not knowing them at the exact same time.

“Effie will throw your clothes in the wash, if you ask.” Sirius says, the stupid filler falling from his mouth before he can stop it.

“Feels a bit presumptuous.”

“She’ll do it. She doesn’t care, not about any of it, Reggie. She doesn’t care about the food, or- or the screaming, she doesn’t care about any of it. Because she cares about you, and she cares about me.”

Regulus glances away for a second, hands coming up to hold himself, eyes swirling with countless emotions. “I’d rather not talk about her, please.”

“Okay. That’s fine, okay.” Sirius backpedals immediately, buying himself a bit of time. Effie’s a no-touch topic until he’s got Regulus in front of the projector. Really, everything is. “Well, I came up here to ask- to ask you, if you’d fancy a movie. With me. Just me. Out in the backyard. I set it all up—with a bit of Effie’s help, but mostly myself—and, well, I was hoping- I’d like to apologize. To you. For yesterday, and- well, and for the past few years. For everything, really- it’d be much better if you’d just come with me, so that I can stop speaking.” Smooth, Sirius. He internally smacks himself.

“A movie?” Regulus asks. He’s a man of few words now, apparently. Very few words. He gives absolutely nothing to work with.

“I’m just going to say ‘yes’, because if I say any more I’m afraid I’d never stop.”

“Just us? In the backyard? A movie?”

Sirius nods, this time, not trusting his stupid mouth to not make a complete fool out of him.

Regulus stares into his eyes, like he’s waiting for Sirius to say ‘just kidding’. But Sirius won’t, because he can’t. He’s being completely genuine. Is it really so odd, so suspicious, that he wants to spend time with his baby brother? That he wants to curl up in front of a movie, and run his hands through his brother’s hair, and take this stupid fucking weight off of his shoulders? All Sirius can do is wait. All he can do is wait, and hope that the things he’s thinking are decipherable enough to Regulus. He hopes they say what he’s thinking: I miss you, I don’t want to miss you anymore. I love you, for real. I want to fix it. I want to fix us.

“Do I need to dress up?”

Sirius almost raises a fist in victory. Almost sighs in audible relief. “No- no, just come as you are.”

Regulus nods, getting a bit of a far off look in his eyes. “Evan and Pandora’s mother says that.” There’s more, that he’s choosing not to share. Sirius can see it warring in his eyes. He can see the heavy unspoken things that lie in Regulus’ eyes. He just wishes he knew the language. He knows two, he can learn another.

For his brother, he can move mountains. He raises a careful hand, resting it on the doorway next to Regulus’ head. Not touching—he hasn’t earned that yet—but a thing that says I’m here, when you’re ready. “Do you miss her?” He asks softly, the words coming out too eager, too curious. Too desperate. He’s never met the woman, only heard her occasionally in the background of a phone call, but this is the first piece of information that Regulus has given him, and he latches onto it like a dog with bone. He sinks his teeth into it, jerks it around.

Regulus slowly moves his eyes to look into his. He seems to be thinking something. Mulling it over. Chewing on it carefully, with a strong elegance. “In a sense,” he says critically. His words are so quiet that it’s obvious there’s more to the story; there’s much more to be said, than ‘in a sense’. They both stare at each other, Regulus aware that he’s keeping something, and knowing that Sirius knows it. But there’s also a bit of pleading in Regulus’ stormy eyes, something that begs please. Please, listen to me. Please, let it go. Just let it go, Sirius. Just say the right thing.

So, he listens. Sirius reluctantly lets the bone slide out of his mouth, depositing it at Regulus’ feet. He’ll wait for him to throw it again. It’s alright. “Makes sense. I’ll be waiting for you, Regulus. In the backyard. Come when you’re ready.”

Regulus nods, stepping backwards and letting the door fall shut in front of him. It lets out a soft click, loud in the silence between them.

Sirius has no way of knowing that Regulus will show up, but he feels something deep in his heart wiggling around. Something that says he will. And Sirius chooses to believe that. Because if he’s choosing Regulus, Regulus has to choose him. And he has a feeling that this thing lying bloody and broken between them is something that both of them want to be fixed. Something that both of them want to kneel down and pick up the pieces of. Something they want to take their time with, because it’s oh so fragile.

Sirius wants to do it, and he wants to do it well. He’s not known for doing anything halfway.

That’s why he waits in the backyard, nodding to Effie as he passes her, saying the quiet part out loud. His face says it all. It says all of the joy, all of the anxious excitement, all of the hope that’s winding through his ribcage, chasing away the dark. He can try to muffle it, or suppress it, but it won’t get him anywhere. What’s the point of hiding, anymore? What’s the point of waiting? The hope is right there in front of Sirius; you can hardly blame him for reaching for it.

The night outside is just the same as it was when Sirius left it, but it feels somehow lighter. Like there’s something softer in the air, something easier to breathe. The blanket is softer to touch, the food smells better. His brother is going to watch a movie with him, and they’re finally going to talk.

It feels like hours upon hours that Sirius sits there, waiting. He queues up the movie, he pours them both a generous glass of traditional lemonade, he wafts through the snacks, and still, he’s waiting. His phone tells him that it’s been barely an hour, though Sirius is starting to doubt that could ever be true, because it feels like a lifetime. Regulus must be testing him. He must be gauging how long Sirius will wait for him. How long it will take for Sirius to give up.

The answer is simple: Sirius will never give up. Sirius will never stop waiting. It’s written on his bones, beneath his skin and muscle. It pumps through his blood with every beat of his heart. Sirius will never stop waiting for his brother. He’ll always be a few steps behind, hands outstretched to catch him when he falls. He’ll always take the blame. He’ll always wait for Regulus’ stern face to appear in his vision. That’s what big brothers do. They wait. They wait, and they don’t care how long for. Because they would wait for entire lifetimes, if they had to. They would wait until the skin flaked off their bones, and their bodies became one with the dirt.

It’s just as Sirius is resigning himself to a hopeless night all by himself, that he hears the quiet swoosh of the sliding glass door. The slow footsteps approaching. And he knows who it is, before they even sit. He knows the beat of his heart and the sound of his toddler feet tapping against hardwood. He knows his brother deep, deep in his soul. That screaming thing finally quiets. Because Regulus came, just as Sirius knew he would. Regulus came, and Sirius waited.

“I thought you would’ve left by now.” Regulus greets, voice much too soft for the loud things between them. But Sirius doesn’t care. He never has. Because he loves his brother like lungs love air.

“I will never leave again.” Sirius replies, the words falling easily off of his tongue laced with complete truth. “I’ll always wait for you, Regulus.”

Regulus makes a soft, disbelieving noise. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. It’s weak.”

“I’m not a man of empty promises.”

“You weren’t a coward, either. When I knew you. Before you ran from your responsibilities with your tail between your legs, at least.” Regulus retorts. And Sirius knows this trick. He knows this trick because it’s in his blood, too. To make his words hurt when he’s scared. To bite, when he’s unsure of the nature of the hand being offered to him. It’s a habit he doesn’t think he’ll ever overcome, but when he’s sitting next to Regulus—when he’s sitting next to his baby brother—he can suppress it. He can be big, when Regulus wants to be small. He can be calm, when Regulus wants to be mean.

Sirius lets his head loll to the side, forcing an easy smile onto his face. “Well, when you put it like that.”

Regulus glances over at him, unimpressed by his attempt at humour. “You left me.”

“I’m sorry.” Sirius says instinctively, the words far too familiar on his sinful tongue. Far too smooth, for someone who used to view apologizing as admitting fault and being far too vulnerable.

Regulus nods, like that’s the response he was expecting. “But that’s not why we’re here, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“I don’t want to argue anymore. I don’t want to hate you anymore. Fix it, Sirius. I want you to fix it.”

“I…” Sirius croaks, blinking a few times to orient himself. Fix it, Sirius. Because that’s what he does. That’s what big brothers do. They fix things. They always have an answer, they always have a solution. Except that this isn’t something that exactly has a solution. This isn’t something he can take into his hands, and find the broken piece of, and fix with a bit of pizzazz. Because this is real. This is real, messy life, and there isn’t just one broken part. “I’m trying. I’m- I’m trying to make it better. But I think we might always hate each other—just a bit. I think that’s what siblings are. An amalgamation of hate and love. Of sacrifice and resentment.”

“Can we try together, then? Can we try to quiet the hate? Because I love you; I know I do. It’s just so…tangled up inside of me.” Regulus murmurs, hands fidgeting with the seam of his trousers. “I don’t know how to untangle it, Sirius. Will you help me?”

“Yeah,” Sirius breathes immediately. “Yeah, I’ll help you. I’ll help you, if you’ll help me.”

“Okay.” Regulus says, nodding.

“Okay.” Sirius parrots, the lump in his throat forming.

And there’s a fragile peace that forms between them. Sirius reaches out his hand, and Regulus takes it. His grip is firm; steady and older in a way that Sirius hasn’t gotten used to. But it’s his brother’s hand, so he takes it. And when he stares into the eyes of his baby brother, he can tell they’re both doing the same thing: holding hands, as they run back through time, losing years like coats falling from their shoulders. Left on the ground to be abandoned. Running back to where life was simple, and life was easy, and the only time they were out of breath was when they had just skid to a stop after an intense race, grinning and laughing like nothing in the world could ever touch them. Like time was infinite, and they were infinite, and they were easy. They both go back to when Sirius patched up Regulus’ scraped knee, and Regulus came to him when his toys broke.

But they also go back to when Regulus was a bit older, and he would smash the piano keys in a grating chord if he saw the tutor stealing annoyed glances at Sirius’ presence in the room. When he would speak so diplomatically to their parents, promising that it was merely an accident, that he’d pushed Sirius into it, so they shouldn’t punish Sirius for breaking that vase, and he’d managed to make it seem so logical, so obvious, that sometimes they would buy it. When he would crawl into Sirius’ bed after a punishment, and hug him, and give him one of his toys to hold. When he would climb onto the windowsill and entertain Sirius’ nonsensical ramblings about running away, knowing they were trapped like birds in a golden cage but playing along anyway.

Regulus shakes Sirius’ hand once, like they’re making a business deal. And the spell is broken. He’s got a bit of a relieved glint in his eyes, when he asks, “so, are you going to play the movie now?”

And Sirius laughs wetly, because it worked. Because there are still so, so many things between them that they need to fix. There is still a weight on his shoulders and a fire in his eyes when he looks at Regulus, and his gut still squirms and churns at the mention of his name. But they’re holding hands, now. They’re holding hands, and everything seems much less daunting, when he can glance to the side and see Regulus standing there, too. Regulus trying, too. The solidarity of siblings. The walls aren’t as tall, and the weight isn’t so heavy, with Regulus’ steady hand in his. “Yeah, yeah,” he waves off, pretending to be annoyed. Regulus’ lips twitch, but he doesn’t quite smile. Sirius figures he hasn’t earned it yet, but that’s alright because he will.

Sirius reaches for his laptop, and he hits play. He takes a sip of lemonade, the liquid so refreshing after such a heavy conversation that he almost makes a soft noise at the taste.

The movie drones on, and Sirius isn’t really paying attention. He digs through the snacks and takes a few every once in a while, but for the most part he stays inside of his head. He thinks about Regulus, and about their phone calls, and about all of the resentment forming a brick wall between them. He thinks about the light flickering in Regulus’ light, so close to being revived. He thinks about the feel of their hands as they hold each other. He thinks about the grey of his eyes, so much like their mother’s yet so distinctly Regulus that the thought seems stupid.

And when he notices Regulus taking slow, intermittent moves towards him, he pretends he doesn’t. The air between them is thick, but lighter now. It doesn’t need to be filled with words, but it’s not filled with awkward silence, either. It’s filled with their handshake, and their promise, and their hope. It’s filled with the silent solidarity that only a sibling can give. Sirius doesn’t say anything when Regulus rests his head on his shoulder, curls tickling his nose, because it’s been far too many years since they did. It’s been so many years since Sirius has had the privilege of trying not to sneeze into Regulus’ hair. It’s been far too long since his shoulder went sore from the weight of a head pressing into it. Sirius wouldn’t dare jeopardise it.

He would sooner cut his arm off, than pull away from Regulus. From this olive branch. From this hope. This snippet into what could be their future, if they try hard enough. And hell, if Sirius isn’t going to try.

Instinctively, his hand comes up to carefully cradle Regulus’ head, thumb brushing gently through his hair. And he doesn’t say it; he doesn’t think the words have a place here, in this quiet silence they’ve gathered between them. He doesn’t say it, but he thinks it. He thinks I love you. It seeps into Regulus’ head, leaking from his fingertips. It warms his blood and quiets his heart. The movie plays on, the ice in their drinks melts, but they don’t care. There’s no room for it right now. There’s room only for them; two stars clutching each other. Two boys from a broken home, finding comfort in the way they melt together like it’s what they were made to do.

The air is warm, with a relieving breeze, and the last dredges of summer kiss their skin.

Sirius rests his own head on Regulus’ making sure that he moves his hair out of the way so that it doesn’t bother him. Something about the way their heads fit together like this makes the knots in Sirius’ chest unravel, his heart finally beating freely.

I love you.

—

Sirius feels so much lighter when he wakes up the next morning, head in the grass and hair terribly dirty and tangled. He’s alone, but that was expected; Regulus would never be caught dead sleeping on the ground. Usually he wouldn’t either—he hates bugs—but he can hardly find it in himself to be annoyed. It doesn’t matter, not when they’ve both agreed to try.

He gathers up all of the supplies he’d set out, pouring the remaining lemonade into the grass. He’s folding up the picnic blanket when he hears the sliding door whoosh open, and he glances up to see Effie heading towards him. She’s wearing a bright, gentle smile, just as she always is. Sirius would never tell, but she’s his favourite. He has nothing against Monty—he loves him like a father—but there’s something about Effie that is so easily soft and comforting, that her presence can immediately put him at ease.

“So, Sirius, how’d it go?” She asks, tone light as she grabs the projector.

“Well, I don’t know that you should expect him to come out of his room and strike up conversation anytime soon, but we made progress.” Sirius explains, grinning, “we both promised to try.” He can hardly keep the giddy excitement and hope out of his voice, resisting the urge to start jumping around and shouting. He did it. They’re doing it. He’s going to get his brother back.

“That’s wonderful, Sirius.” She says, like it’s true, “that’s really wonderful.”

Sirius nods. “It is, yeah.”

Effie shoots him her signature grin, standing straight as she curls the projector cord around her hand, wrapping it at a steady ‘tempo’, as Regulus used to go on about. Sirius never really got all the music terminology, or all of the hype. He’s more of a person that listens to the vibe and sound of the song, instead of the lyrics. He puts a greater focus on what the music makes him feel, rather than how it makes him feel it.

The sunlight is bright and warm against his skin, the grass green beneath his feet, and his brother is giving him another chance. Could life get any better? He has everything. He has Regulus now, and he has his family here, what else is there to want?

Sirius walks back into the house, blood pumping with I love you. With hope.

When he walks upstairs to gather his clothes for a shower, and passes Regulus’ room, for the first time the squeeze in his chest isn’t as painful.

I love you.

It’s much later, after he’s had a thorough shower, as he’s pushing into his t-shirt and dragging a toothbrush against his teeth, that his brain sparks with another great idea. And it could work. It could really work. He’d be doing Regulus a favour, so they’d be closer, and Regulus would warm up to the Potters, too.

It’s safe to say Sirius doesn’t brush for two entire minutes. He’s spitting into the sink and washing out his mouth with striking speed before he rushes out of the bathroom, bare feet smacking loudly against the wooden staircase.

“Effie! Monty-” He yells, loud enough that no matter where they are in the house, they’ll hear. They always hear.

Sure enough, Effie peaks her head out of the kitchen with a small frown on her face, and Monty resurfaces from his study, staring at him fondly.

Sirius comes to a screeching halt right in front of Effie, gesturing for Monty to follow them into the kitchen. He can’t risk being overheard.

“All good?” Monty asks, flashing him a smile as he adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses.

“Yeah, yeah-” Sirius chokes out, barely able to breathe after running halfway across the house, “yeah, all good. But- okay, shit.” He holds a finger up, gasping and making an effort to calm his heart. It takes a few seconds, but he gets it. Once he does, he straightens and sombers up a bit. “Look, I’ve got an idea, and I’ve got the money to do it, but I, obviously, need to ask you for permission, because you’ll be the ones carrying a bit of the ‘burden’, in a sense.”

Effie blinks at him blankly.

Sirius clears his throat, trying to speak with less of an accent. “It’s about Regulus. Effie already knows about last night, so she can fill you in, Monty. But I need a favour, and it’s kinda big, I suppose. It’s for Regulus.”

“Well, don’t leave us in suspense, Sirius.” Monty chuckles.

Sirius grins, wide and hopeful, and pitches his plan.

The whole time, he thinks ‘I love you’.

Chapter Text

Regulus comes down silently and frowning, hair frizzy around his head from sleep. He’s very obviously in a bad mood, which does not bode well for James, but alas. He grabs a chocolate croissant and plops down across from Sirius, grumbling something in French that has Sirius snickering from behind his coffee.

“Good morning, Regulus,” Effie greets cheerily, sliding him a mug. Regulus gives her his ‘why the fuck are you talking to me’ look, and before James can speak, Sirius is bending over the table and actually smacking the back of his head. James has to cough into his arm to disguise the punched-out laugh he lets out immediately. Monty from across from him raises his eyebrows with an ‘oh shit’ grin.

“C'est quoi ce bordel, Sirius?” Regulus screeches, stormy eyes glinting dangerously. “Touche encore mes cheveux avec tes doigts gras et dégoûtants, et je te couperai les tiens pendant que tu dors.”

Sirius’ mouth drops open—dramatic as ever—and he slams his hand against the table. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oui. Je couperai cinq millimètres toutes les deux semaines. Tu ne le saura jamais tant que tu ne sera pas chauve.” Regulus smirks, making his index and middle fingers click together like scissors. His eyes are narrowed in challenge. James thinks based on Sirius’ over-the-top reaction and the gesture, the threat probably has something to do with Sirius’ hair. Honestly, it’s pretty entertaining even when he doesn’t know what’s going on.

Right as Sirius is opening his mouth with a retort, three loud knocks interrupt him. James’ heart immediately picks up, and he and Monty share a giddily nervous look. Effie’s poker face is truly remarkable, because she glances up from her newspaper with impeccably believable curiosity and confusion.

“Could you get that, Regulus?” She asks casually, relaxing into her chair and shaking the newspaper. “Probably just the postman.”

Regulus sighs, but he still lifts himself from his chair and marches through the archway with attitude. The few remaining in the kitchen only wait a few seconds before scrambling out, giggling and shushing each other. James’ heart is thrumming with nervous energy, because there are not a lot of ways this can go, especially with Regulus’ random mood swings.

Regulus swings open the door lazily, and then he almost falls backwards when a girl with almost-white hair jumps onto him with a loud squeal, pressing quick, loud kisses to his cheeks.. The noise he lets out is- is a laugh. Regulus Black laughs. Moody, perpetually frowning, disrespectful French Boy, laughs. It’s silky and warm, like the tinkling of wind-rustled bells. It’s gorgeous and addicting, and James cannot believe he’s never heard that before, because it is the absolute most over-joying sound he has ever heard.

“Dora! I told her, Regulus, I told her no.” A male voice says, still obscured by the door. His French accent is barely noticeable, shockingly.

Said Dora does not even hint at being embarrassed as Regulus spins her around, still laughing. He is glowing. Yes, this is the Regulus Sirius told stories about. This is the Regulus whose friends are light reincarnate. This is Reggie.

“I missed you! Tu m'as tellement manquée, Regulus! Oh, how are the ‘despicable English’ treating you? You know English?” The small girl asks excitedly as she’s lowered down, taking Regulus’ face between her hands. “You have stubble now! Evan, Vite, viens ici!” She squeals, turning his face this way and that. It’s so sickeningly sweet James honestly understands Regulus’ hesitance to move. He could watch Regulus actually smile for hours, honestly, right against the archway, just staring at Regulus finally in his element.

“Ah, Dora, un tout petit peu seulement.” Regulus laughs nervously as he tugs her wrists away.

Pandora gasps. “Ils ne t'enseignent pas bien, n'est-ce pas? Je peux appeler ma mère, elle t'aidera beaucoup mieux.”

Regulus goes serious for the first time since he opened the door. “Ne t'inquiète pas, je peux me débrouiller. La langue n'est pas vraiment civilisée de toute façon. Çela craint ici, putain.”

Pandora frowns, which looks very out of place on her face. She pulls him into a tight hug, patting his head like a dog. “Bien sûr que je vais m'inquiéter. Et eux? Comment te traitent-ils?” She slips her gaze towards the group awkwardly standing in the hall, squinting at them in suspicion. James glances helplessly towards Sirius, who’s also watching with a frown.

“She asked if he knew English now. He said ‘a little bit’. Uh, she said ‘they’re not teaching you here’ and then offered to call her mother to help instead. I guess she knows English? He says not to bother, because the language is ‘hardly civilized anyway’ and that it sucks here. She asked how we treat him. ” Sirius translates, leaning in close to James’ ear.

“Bien. Toi et Evan me manquez. C'est vide ici.” Regulus murmurs, twirling a strand of her curls around a finger.

“We treat him fine. He misses her and Evan. He says it’s ‘empty’ here.”

“Tu nous manques aussi. Terriblement.” Pandora tells him. “Nous ne sommes pas allés dans la prairie depuis que tu es parti. Ce n'est plus pareil.”

“They miss him too, something about not going to a meadow without him.”

“Vraiment?” Regulus asks softly, almost seeming hopeful.

“Vraiment.” Pandora confirms with a smile. “Pas besoin d'être triste ! Laisse-moi rencontrer vos ravisseurs pendant qu'Evan fait son tour.” She says with one last pat on Regulus’ back before she’s turning towards them with another sweet smile.

Sirius sneaks one last translation: “No more being sad. She’s going to ‘meet his captors’ while Evan talks to him.”

Pandora bounds over cheerily. She’s wearing a frilly white dress cut above the knee, numerous pieces of jewelry glinting against her pale skin. She’s ethereal. She eagerly grabs Effie’s hands in both of hers. “Hello! Effie, thank you, thank you, thank you!” She chants, almost hopping with her excitement. She plants two light kisses to her cheeks in quick succession, grin blinding. “You’re so generous to offer us your home, and we know he’s been so very bad to you, but really we are so thankful for giving us a chance to see him! I promise, I won’t allow it anymore.”

“It’s an adjustment,” Effie responds simply, smiling softly back at the girl. “Hopefully this helps our case.”

“You don’t seem mean.” She observes, searching her face. Then, she drops her voice to a whisper. “I am very worried for him, Euphemia, he’s very sad and angry all of the time. He is not good with change, but this is scaring me. How he treats you guys, it’s not fair. He has never been like this.” She explains, eyes wide and sincere. James thinks she’s probably right, considering just behind her Regulus and Evan are hugging and laughing in French. James is having a very hard time merging what he knows about Regulus and how he’s being now, like they’re two separate people.

“We’re trying, and we’re getting there, I think. Don’t stress about it, darling.” Effie placates, pulling Pandora into a hug. The girl melts into it, sighing and blinking rapidly. James wonders if she’s having the opposite problem as him: Regulus now, smiling and laughing, with the Regulus of the last two months, angry and swearing.

When Pandora pulls away, she gives Monty another baggage-less hug and tells him “don’t give up on him, please. He needs the both of you more than he could possibly imagine.” which makes James have to blink away tears of his own.

Sirius gets barely a glance when she moves to him. “Hello, Sirius.” Are the only words he gets, with an annoyed side-eye, because she’s already moved on to James. Sirius shrinks back a bit, but his gaze remains firmly on his brother, something warring in his eyes.

“You are not bad on the eyes.” She says, holding her hand out. James laughs awkwardly, face heating up immediately. Not bad on the eyes. He’s heard worse, but also better. She frowns for a second before her eyes go wide again, and a pretty pink blush spreads through her cheeks. “Oh! I’m sorry, that is what me and Evan have been calling you- I am sorry, oh dear. Just- that’s how Regulus described you when he first came.”

“It’s alright,” James chuckles, shaking her hand and shaking off his nerves. Not bad on the eyes. Definitely something Regulus would say, and if James’ ego was inflated any more it would probably burst. In Regulus-speak, he might as well have been called a god.

She gives him another good-natured smile, glancing back to where Evan is holding a phone out far in front of him, both him and Regulus grinning with their tongues out. Regulus’ smile is still smaller, and less noticeable than the blinding one Evan is capable of, but it’s still more than James has ever seen. She gasps playfully, rushing over and quickly forgetting all about formalities as she shrieks something in quick French, giggling playfully. She jumps into the photo, jumping up and down as Evan purposely keeps it too high for her.

When James tears his eyes away, there’s something like sadness swimming in Sirius’ eyes, which are firmly planted on his brother. James feels his heart ache for him.

“Alright,” Effie declares with delight, voice carrying enough that the three teens stop and glance over at her with curiosity. “I’ve slaved away over the stove for you lot, so you better eat the breakfast I prepared.”

“I am starving! Come, Regulus, I will sit next to you.” Pandora declares happily, looping their arms together and skipping into the dining room. She shoots a funny face back at Evan, who follows while rolling his eyes playfully.

James hears him mutter “‘You lot’. Je vois ce que tu veux dire dire, Reg. Ils sont vraiment terriblement britanniques.” Regulus just nods, sighing as he’s led to the dining table by an incessantly chattering Pandora.

“Are her and Regulus..” James whispers once everyone else is out of view, attempting to distract Sirius from his melancholy.

“No.” Sirius says immediately, then seems to hesitate when they step into the dining room, where Pandora, Evan, and Regulus’ hands are sprawled on the table, drawing James’ attention to the fact that they’re all wearing the same ring, on their right hands, the middle finger. Pandora’s phone is hovering over all three of them, where Regulus’ pinky is curled with Evan’s thumb and his thumb is curled with Pandora’s pinky. “I don’t- I don’t think so,”

James nods, taking his seat and pulling Sirius’ out for him instinctively. It seems so strange, that throughout all of breakfast, both of the twins hang onto Regulus the entire time, staring up at him with so much love it toes the line of romantic. They soak in his every word, attention never wavering as if they’ve been starved of him, conversation never stumbling. Frankly, James can’t tell if Regulus is genuinely involved with one of them, or both. One second he thinks it has to be Pandora, with the amount of times their hands touch and he curls a finger through her hair, and the next he’s certain it’s Evan, who ruffles his hair and whose hand doesn’t leave Regulus’ shoulder the entire meal as he leans in close. Weirdly, it makes James uncomfortable, and he assumes that’s because he’s not at all used to this Regulus, so seeing him so touchy is strange. He wishes Regulus felt comfortable enough with him, to not flinch away when James laid a passing hand on his shoulder.

The conversation around the three is mild at best, smiles and quiet laughter. It’s still nice, and when the food is eaten Pandora and Evan sing Effie’s praises, saying something about needing to move their suitcases as they go scrambling off, bumping into each other the whole while. Regulus watches them go fondly, a softness around his edges. His gaze is still sharp, though, when he scans the rest of the table and stands.

There’s a long stretch of silence, during which James can’t tell if Regulus is about to scream at them or thank them, or both, knowing him.

In the end, he looks Monty directly in the eyes, as he says simply: “Merci.” and repeats the same to Effie, and then, shockingly, to Sirius. Both of them beam at him, waving the minimal praise off. Regulus’ face is blank, but he does nod once before walking out of the kitchen and disappearing as well.

The table lets out quiet, relieved sighs at the exact same time, slumping into their chairs.

“Well, that went well.” Effie observes.

“Shockingly.” Monty agrees, grinning.

Sirius braids a strand of his hair, unable to keep the hopelessly wide smile off of his face. “I’m getting my brother back. I’m seriously, actually getting my brother back.”

James reaches over and shakes his best friend’s shoulder. “Hell yeah, you are!”

***

Regulus ducks into his bedroom, heart feeling so heavy yet so light at the same time. Because they’re here. They came, and they’re here, and they’re laughing with him. But he also completely ghosted them, completely ignored them, and has just been an overall nuisance to everybody around him for weeks now. He missed them terribly. He misses them terribly, even though they’re here. Because there isn’t supposed to be this space between them, there isn’t supposed to be tension. Their reunion isn’t supposed to be in a dark room, it’s supposed to be at the Paris train station, with the Potters finally sending him back to France where he belongs. Because that’s where he belongs.

And he can’t quite let it go yet.

Despite his promises to Sirius, despite what he’s told himself, he still isn’t ready to accept that this is simply his life now. He isn’t ready to accept that his life is going to become English sentences and flavorless food. Gloomy weather and tense silence.

His room is a mess.

Well, a Black mess. In the sense that the bedsheets are smoothed out casually and aren’t tucked in the corners, and in the sense that his clothes are neatly arranged in the wardrobe but not coordinated. A contained mess.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, heavy and tanned and comforting. “Bit dark, isn’t it?”

Pandora snorts. “Well, Evan, there is a lightswitch. Do you know what that is, or do I have to explain it to you?”

Evan sighs. “You know what I meant. It’s nice, Regulus. Just plain.”

“Yeah.” Regulus says, staring at a wrinkle in the duvet.

“Ma misses you. She loves you more than she loves us, I think. Was gonna send buscuits, but they burnt in the oven without you there to remind her, ironically.” Evan offers, taking the conversation into his own hands with the ease of an extrovert. “She burns a lot of things because you’re not there.” He adds, tone becoming a bit more somber. It’s the silent it’s not the same without you in his words, the implied fact that Regulus not being there means a significant shift in routine, that makes Regulus’ heart clench painfully. Their mother was always baking something while Regulus was in the house, and she would always turn to Regulus with that gentle smile playing on her lips, saying ‘Remind me now, Regulus, or I might forget it’s in there’ as she wiped her hands on a flannel.

And Regulus would, right on cue, find her and let her know. And, no matter how old he got, she would lightly tap her head and call him a life-saver, before taking them out and letting him have the first one.

Regulus always thought it was just her way of compensating for the bruises that he always showed up in. Her way of giving him something nice before he had to return to his bleak life.

He misses her. She was one of the only good things in his life, for most of it. She was almost like the mother he never really had. At sleepovers, she would turn on a film of their choice and have each of them sit in front of her for a few minutes, just running her hands through their hair and massaging their small heads. Say she was taking out the chaos of the day, so that they could relax and sleep easier.

It took him a while to notice that she gave him much longer turns, and he wonders if she knew that the gentle scrape of her fingertips against his scalp on those nights were the only gentle touch Regulus ever felt from an adult. That sometimes he would have to wipe away tears that fell, because why couldn't she just be his mum? Why did Evan and Pandora get smiled at, and told how much they were loved, while Regulus had to go home to itchy suits and sharp nails?

And sometimes Regulus just wants to go back, to feel her hands against his head again. Sometimes he’s angry, and betrayed, and upset, because she knew, so why did she never say anything?

The simple answer, Regulus knows, is that she isn’t his mother. She has no right, and it’s not like Regulus would listen anyway.

Regulus just wants to be loved. He wants to be loved by a mother. He wants to be held and assured and loved, and he wants to be told that everything is going to be alright even if it isn’t. He wants to be loved by a mother, but he wants to be loved by his mother.

“She should get an alarm—to remind her.” Regulus finally says, stupidly. He tries to force all phantom touches and memories of warm smiles out of his head.

“Maybe.” Evan replies, absentmindedly.

There’s a brief stretch of silence, before Pandora gasps. “We forgot our suitcases outside.”

Evan laughs. “How? That’s literally the whole reason we came up here,” he observes as he glances around to find that, in fact, their suitcases are nowhere to be seen.

“Your fault! You distracted me as I was heading to get them, because you were trying to keep Regulus all to yourself!” Pandora scoffs.

“How is that my fault?”

“I don’t know, I just know I’m not about to go down there to get your suitcase, best-friend-hogger.”

“Last one to get them into the room has to unpack both.” Evan challenges, and then he’s running off with the speed of a practiced runner.

Pandora yelps, chasing after him without a second thought. “You’re such a cheater!”

Regulus waits in the room, unsure whether or not he’s supposed to follow them. The air is thicker inside of the room than he remembers it being. Heavier. Every corner crawls with unsaid words and every surface reeks of desperation.

There’s that itching thing again, scratching against his ribcage. Growling, and vibrating his skeleton. He digs his nails into the palm of his hands, trying to think past the way his mind screams like it’s been scorched by flame. His soul begs to be released from the monotony, from the cycle. Hope, anger, hope, anger. He doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t angry. Angry at his parents, angry at everyone who sits and stares, angry at his brother, angry at himself.

Regulus can feel his body molding into the version of himself that people find more palatable. It aches, and it pulls. His whole life has been a carefully-crafted performance, glamorous sets and expensive suits, well-timed smiles and firm handshakes. He knows how to dazzle anyone; he knows how to locate a weakness, and how to latch on to exploit it. The thing is that he just doesn’t want to do it anymore. He wants to be the version of himself that he is—was—with Evan and Pandora. The one that can smile easier, and relax.

He wants to be himself. He wants to stop the ever-present shifting of his body. Regulus wants to be himself, and he wants to do things for himself.

He just isn’t sure which version is him. He doesn’t know what he wants. He wants money, he wants to step away from the cameras. He wants to be feared, he wants to be loved. He wants to laugh, he wants to cry. He wants to tear the skin off of his bone until he gets to his heart, and he wants to finally figure out who he actually is. He wants to scream ‘who am I?’ into the sky, and he wants it to answer back ‘you’re you’, and he wants to know what that means. He wants to like the answer. He wants to be able to look into the mirror, and recognize the person staring back at him. He wants to look into the mirror and see Regulus, Reggie, and Reg, and he wants to say ‘that’s me. That’s me, and I know what I want.’.

But he doesn’t, can’t, and won’t. Because he might not like the answer, and he’s not sure what he’d do with that.

Evan skids to a stop, bumping into the doorframe with a goofy smile on his face, breathing a bit heavily from the trek up the stairs. His suitcase is next to him, and his hair is windswept from the running. With him, comes the scent of his rose cologne, and with him comes the smell of home. Pandora flies up right after him, mouthing off about cheating and idiots and men. She smells like flowers—not any specific ones, simply a meadow of intermingling scents that should be overwhelming but just isn’t, because it’s so soft and subtle. She smells like home, too. They’re his home, yet he’s not at peace. He’s unsure whether he should sit or stand. Laugh or stay silent.

“I call the bed.” Pandora says eventually, after she’s finished her rant. She looks so innocent that anyone else might be hard-pressed to believe that she had been swearing like a sailor a mere few seconds ago. Her platinum hair curls around her shoulders and sits beautifully, a few braided pieces blending seamlessly into the look. She’s curling a strand around her finger, and staring straight at Regulus like she knows everything. She’s quiet, which is why most people underestimate her. But she’s scarily observant, and can read a person’s life story by the way they breathe or wear their hair.

“Uh, you can’t have the bed. It’s the size of a small house.” Evan retorts. “Jesus, Reg, both of your families are painfully posh.”

Regulus cracks a bit, a small thing that could be considered a smile tugging on his lips. “They can hardly let the spare live in squalor. Imagine the controversy.”

Evan snorts. “God, the life of the one-percent. I love you, Reg.” He skips over and plops down onto the bed, as if his parents don’t bring in almost millions a year themselves. Words with meaning fall from Evan’s tongue like they’re pleasantries. Not because they have less meaning to them, but rather because Evan is such a bright presence in the world that he has too much love to possibly spend it all. Evan loves people like he’s never known the scarcity of it. “Come, lay down with me while Dora empties our suitcases.”

“I actually hate you. And Reg can’t, because he’s going to help me since he misses me and loves me terribly, and I’ve been such a good best friend, and he’s been ignoring me for the past few weeks so I deserve it. Isn’t that right, Regulus?”

It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Regulus answers, because it’s the only answer. His stomach pools with dread, because when Pandora wants to talk alone it’s never something you’d like to hear.

Sure enough, when Evan starts snoring, she zeros in on him like a predator to prey. “You didn’t open the box.”

Regulus swallows. “No, I didn’t.” He reaches into Evan’s suitcase, picking up a maroon jumper.

“Well-“ she abruptly cuts herself off, glancing off to the side like she’s trying to calm herself down. Her hands flutter at her sides, like she’s trying not to clench them into fists. “Why not, Regulus? What are you so afraid of? Because you’re our best friend, and you’ve been radio silent basically the whole time you’ve been here.” She’s angry, and it takes a lot to make someone as calm and pleasant as Pandora really, truly angry. “You’re not the center of the universe. This move has been tearing me and Evan apart inside, because you’re our best fucking friend, and we haven’t heard anything from you. It hurts, Regulus. Your silence hurts. We don’t know how to act, or talk, or walk without you there, and every time we reach out you crawl further into the pit you dug for yourself.”

He doesn’t have a defense for that.

“I just- why? Why are you so afraid to let yourself be happy?”

Regulus swallows, placing Evan’s jumper into the drawer. He feels the words crawling up his throat before he knows what they’re going to be. “It hurts less. If I don’t let myself hope for it to begin with, then when I don’t get it, it doesn’t hurt as much.”

“Stop saying when!” Pandora explodes, hands coming up to hopelessly grasp the air between them, like she’s trying to sift through the distance. She looks hopeless. So, so hopeless. When Evan grunts, she consciously lowers her voice. Luckily for her, he sleeps like a log. “Stop- stop saying it as ‘when’. It’s not. It’s not a when we’ll leave you, because we won’t.”

“I know.”

She rolls her eyes, clearly resisting the urge to scream. “You don’t! No. No, look at me, Regulus. Look at me.” She murmurs, stepping closer and cupping his face in her gentle hands, pleading desperately with him. And he looks. He looks, and he can hardly bear it, but he does it anyway. Her eyes are glassy with tears of frustration, bright and shining.

“I’m looking.” Regulus whispers, barely able to breathe—oh, how he’s looking. He’s looking at the way her blue eyes flit around his face, refusing to let her tears fall, such a raw form of desperation inside of them that it chokes Regulus. Because he did this. This was him. She is his best friend. She’s his sister. She was there when absolutely nobody was, and she was there when he didn’t need her but wanted her anyway. She’s ran her fingers through his hair and smiled at him like he was the only one worth smiling for. She’s painted his nails at sleepovers and suffered through his agonizingly posh movie picks without uttering a single word of complaint. She’s kissed his cheeks when there were wet trails of tears falling down his face and giggles like the soft swish of the wind over their meadow. She’s woven flower crowns for him knowing they’re always eventually thrown away, and she’s stored his brother’s shirt in her closet when his father ransacked his room for a week straight after Sirius left.

“Do you see me?” She asks, her voice small and frail and scared.

“Yeah,” Regulus croaks, “I- yeah-” because he does. Oh, he sees her. He sees all of the things she’s done for him and all of the things she’s admitted under the blanket of stars and bed of flowers. He sees the pure, raw desperation echoing in her features, because of him. Because he’s not the only one that can be hurt. He didn’t call and it didn’t only tear him to pieces, it’s been breaking her in a way he’s never seen her break before.

“You’re going to let yourself have what you want. Your parents aren’t here to tell you what that is anymore, and I want you to figure it out.” She tells him, voice authoritative and stern, as if she’s not one blink away from a flood of tears. It works. When Pandora speaks, he listens. He’s going to listen. She always knows best for him, even when he doesn’t know himself. “Say it. I- I want you to say it, Regulus: ‘I’m going to do what I want’.”

“I’m going to do what I want.” He whispers, the words clawing at his throat. Feeling intangible and unreal, as if he’s declaring that there are pigs flying right outside of the window, but he says them anyway. When Pandora demands something, the only thing he can ever do is provide it.

“Because only you can know what that is. I can’t do it for you—I would’ve done it years ago, trust me, if I could’ve bore it for you.”

Regulus grabs her hands, still cupping him, looking into her eyes and hoping against everything else that it shows on his face. All of his gratitude. All of his apologies. He blinks away his tears, and he pulls her tight against his chest, hands coming up to clutch at her hair like he’s afraid she might run away, because he is. He cannot lose her; he realizes this now. He couldn’t bear it. He would never be able to bear her missing presence in his life. Seeing her texts on his screen were the only things that got him up in the mornings, when the rest of his body begged to stay in bed. The memory of her fingers pressing through his hair was the only thing that kept him from breaking when he was lying in bed, bloodied and broken in the aftermath of his mother’s fury.

“I love you, Regulus. We’re written in the stars, okay? Stop forgetting that.”

Regulus chuckles wetly. “I see it now.”

Her delicate hands clutch him just as tightly, hair tickling his nose and face pressing into his neck as they gently sway, standing in the middle of two suitcases and finally meeting in the middle of a distance that was far deeper than physical.

“Now you need to talk to Evan, when he wakes up. You know he’ll never bring it up to you, but he’ll know. He’ll sense it.”

“Yeah,” Regulus agrees, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his head fall down to her shoulder. He knows the conversation is going to be terribly taxing on his emotional health. This one about took him out, and he knows that Evan with his stupid puppy-dog eyes will wipe his emotional bandwidth clean for the month, if not for the year. Speaking of, he turns them just a bit so that he can see the man in question, who is snoring and completely knocked out. Regulus brushes his thumb against Pandora’s temple, feeling the way that the motion has her relaxing even further into his embrace.

He knows she needs to be hugged, for once. That he needs to hold her and allow her to break and put herself together, because she needs it too. She seems so small, so delicate in his hands. Like she could break any moment.

They stand there for what is most likely far too long, just breathing together and holding tightly.

When they do eventually break apart—slowly, with lingering touches and soft smiles between them—Pandora grabs his hand, and murmurs, “will you braid my hair?”

Regulus feels like he can finally breathe, like a significant weight has been lifted from his chest, when he says, “yes.”

—

It’s been a few days of carefully ignoring the elephant in the room. A few days of loud laughter, tours around the sprawling grounds of Potter Manor, movie nights, and feeling full. The light that Evan and Pandora bring to his life is something that is so incomprehensible to Regulus, that it’s easy to forget it all. It’s easy to forget how much easier it is to breathe when he turns his head and sees Pandora’s platinum blonde hair waterfalling down her shoulders as she giggles, and when next to her is Evan’s bright grin. So easy, he forgets what it felt like when they were gone.

The time passes much quicker, too. When Evan lays his head on Regulus’ lap, it’s so easy to simply forget about the wall that’s been set between them. Spending a whole week looking through the small window set into the brick makes it much easier to forget that it even exists.

The thing about Evan is that he’s good at masking. He’s good at throwing on a blinding smile and being so large and loud and distracting. He’s good at running his hands through hair and teasing without a care in the world, easily navigating past any conversations that could become awkward or unpleasant. It seems that every time Regulus makes up his mind to speak to Evan about it, he has something he wants to do. He wants to take his run, or lounge in the grass, or annoy Sirius.

Evan’s good at masking, when he wants to. The only thing he’s never masked is his hatred of Sirius Orion Black. Probably because he’s one of the only people Regulus has spilled his guts too. Who has ever seen him cry, or plead.

Sirius has pretty much left the trio alone, seeing as every time he and Evan or Pandora have had a run-in he’s received deadly glares. They’ve talked for a bit in quiet pockets of time when Regulus ends up wandering off alone. Lighthearted, casual conversation with a bit of English instruction sprinkled in. There’s far too much between them for it to dispelled in a few minutes, especially with the imminent threat of interruption and leaving things worse off than they were before.

That is to say, it’s good that he’s kept his distance for the majority of the week, with the exception of family meals and other meetings that result from living in the same house.

Evan is one of the only two people that heard his desperate sobs, that night when Sirius left. Because he didn’t say goodbye. They went to bed angry—oh, Regulus was so fucking angry—and Regulus woke up to him gone. To him having taken an earlier train. Regulus was going to apologize, because Sirius was—is—his brother, and he was going abroad for the school year.

And then he was gone.

No note, no whispered goodbye, not even a pillow to the face, or a scream about how worthless Regulus was.

Nothing.

But Evan was there. Evan glued his pieces together one at a time, with steady hands and a voice that held the warmth of a campfire in fall. Evan told him that it wasn’t a lost cause, Evan told him Sirius would realise and reach out. Evan held his shoulders like he knew it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing beneath the crushing weight of his regret. Evan made sure he knew it wasn’t his fault. Evan told him that Sirius was an asshole who probably just needed a bit to cool down.

Evan was his brother when he thought he’d lost his own.

Regulus needs him like he needs his heart to beat blood to his organs.

He ducks quietly into the study. The few weeks he’s been at Potter Manor have granted him the ability to navigate without making a sound. Sirius insists that he doesn’t need to, but it’s so ingrained in the way Regulus moves that he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Evan is sitting in the exact spot that Regulus had noticed, when he’d first come into the study to practice his English with Sirius. Those sessions have been put on a temporary pause. He’s staring out of the window, the temple of his head pressed against the glass.

They’re leaving tomorrow—Evan and Pandora. Regulus isn’t sure how he’s going to exist again when they’re gone. He knows he did before, but once he felt how much easier it was to get out of bed when Pandora’s hair was ticking his cheek and Evan’s leg was thrown over him, he’s not sure how he’ll be able to sit up without it. He’s not sure how he’ll fare when that weight is pressed onto his chest again. That thing stuck in his throat.

Evan is leaving tomorrow, and as he stares out of the window, there are glassy tears falling down his cheeks. In rhythm with the heavy rain falling against the glass. Regulus can hardly stomach the sight. He can count the amount of times he’s seen Evan genuinely cry on a singular hand. He hadn’t even cried when Regulus boarded the train to come here.

Well, not that Regulus could see. It plants a bit of guilt inside of him—the thought that he might’ve not noticed when Evan was struggling.

“Relaxing weather?” Regulus finds himself asking, as he slowly comes towards Evan.

Evan jumps, hands coming up to wipe away the tears on his cheeks as if they’re some shameful secret. “Yeah, I- yeah.”

Evan’s not a very big boy. He’s a bit taller than Regulus, obviously bulkier, but not by much; he has the added benefit of stunning genes that distribute his weight perfectly on his frame. Here, right now, he looks so small. He looks his exact age: seventeen. Seventeen and young.

“Nobody’s really come in here, so I thought it would be free. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing to me.” Regulus says. “You don’t need to.”

Evan flashes a small, playful smirk at him. “Where’s Dora?”

“Telling Mrs. Potter about her rain-gnome theory.”

“Sounds like her.” Evan chuckles, wiping at his cheeks again. Regulus copies him, biding a bit of time to let the awkward air flow out of the room before he drops his bomb.

A laugh can only go on for so long, and staring at the tear tracks on Evan’s cheeks strengthens Regulus’ resolve. “Evan.”

“Yeah?”

Regulus stares into the eyes of his best friend. He stares, and he sees. Just like he did with Pandora. The similarities between them truly are astounding. “Scream at me.”

Evan frowns at him, the concern on his face better saved for if Regulus had just asked him to shoot him, not to yell a bit. “What?”

“I’ve been a fucking dick. Seriously.” Regulus starts, sighing softly. “I have, don’t look at me like that. I fucking- I fucking ghosted you for a month, after explicitly promising I wouldn’t. I’ve let your entire visit go by without apologizing, or saying anything to you about it.”

“Yeah, but that’s- I mean that’s just you.” Evan defends, prickling a bit.

“That’s not an excuse,” Regulus murmurs. Because it isn’t. He knows, somewhere in his stupid, fucked up head, that the way he treats the people around him isn’t fair. He knows his hands hurt instead of cradle. He just doesn’t know how to fix it.

Evan glances back out of the window, foot tapping a bit. “Okay.”

Regulus swallows, looking out the window as well. He lets the muffled pattering of the rain ease a bit of the panic in his heart. He focuses on that, instead of the tired boy in front of him. “Why are you crying?” He asks, bracing for the answer like he’s just unhooked a grenade, and he’s waiting for it to explode in his hand.

Evan glances at him, and then back to the window. He knocks their feet together. “Honestly? Because we’re leaving tomorrow, Regulus, and I’m scared absolutely shitless that once we get on that train you’re going to disappear again.” He spits, wincing afterwards like the small display of a negative emotion hurt even him.

“Okay.” Regulus says, keeping himself steady despite each of the words lodging a small dagger into his heart.

“And I can’t even be fucking mad at you, either, because I know your family just messed you up like that.”

Regulus nods in understanding, looking away but making sure he hears each and every word, because he needs to.

“Everytime I try to be angry with you—which you deserve, by the way—I think about the way you cried into my arms the day your brother left. I think about the way you look at your mother. I think about all of the people who failed you, and who made you like this. But I’m still just so mad. It hurts. Looking at you hurts, hearing your laugh hurts, seeing your smile hurts. Because I have to leave again soon, and I just can’t be sure that you’re going to speak to me again.”

Despite the anger in his words—the anger directed at Regulus—Evan’s foot presses firmly into Regulus’, like an apology. Like if Evan is going to say these ‘mean’ words, he needs to lessen the impact.

“I love you, Regulus, and you’re not the only one that’s trying to figure out how to breathe without your best friend around. I have Pandora, obviously, but she’s only half of the puzzle. She’s not you. Nobody is you. I just can’t focus on being here, because I know it’s about to end again. And then I’m angry at myself for not savoring the time that I do have with you, but I’m really angry at you because I just want to be able to spend my time here having careless fun before school starts up, and before I have to bear that weight on my chest when you’re not at my side, and then we’re watching a movie and it feels like I blink and then it’s over, and I lost all of that time. It just goes around and around.”

The weight of Regulus’ failure presses into his chest like the sharp edge of a knife. Evan isn’t one to be angry; sometimes Regulus is sure that the word isn’t even in his vocabulary. It’s one of the many things that Evan and Pandora share; one of the many things that makes them so, so alike. Neither of them are quick to anger, and when they are, they’re easily forgiving. But Regulus doesn’t want to be easily forgiven. Regulus wants to fight for it, so that he can come through the other side knowing that he’s truly earned it. Transgressions can only be mended by punishment.

Except he doesn’t know how to mend this. A simple ‘sorry’ would be akin to slapping Evan in the face, after he’s unloaded and confessed all of this. Evan won’t hit him, so it can’t be mended through physical punishment. Evan obviously hated the idea of yelling, when he pitched it before all of this. But, maybe having ripped open the scabs, while the wounds are fresh, he might’ve changed his mind.

Evan stares at him like he knows exactly what’s going through his head, an exasperated expression on his face. “I don’t want to be angry, I don’t want you to grovel. I just want you to change.”

Regulus can do nothing but stare at him. He wants to speak; he wants his lips to move and the words to come from his throat—anything. But they don’t. His lips stay sealed, and his throat stays dry.

“I want you to be better, because you deserve it. I know you can.” Evan leans forward, hands grabbing his shoulders. Just like Pandora. “That’s why watching you isolate yourself makes me so angry.”

“I- I don’t-” Regulus chokes out, but Evan interrupts, gaze stern and serious.

“You can. You can, and you will. If not for yourself, then for me and Dora.”

And, well, he can’t refuse Evan. Even though he’s choking on the weight of the expectation and the conflicting thoughts of becoming a better version of himself and feeling as though he’s simply morphing himself into what another person wants of him, he finds himself nodding. If he’s not sure who he even is, then he supposes working upwards is the best way to start looking. Maybe he can just be what Evan and Pandora want, even if it’s not himself. It’s sure to be better than whatever he probably has in store, in any case. They’ve never led him astray before.

“I love you, Regulus.” Evan sighs, smiling softly. He tugs on a strand of Regulus’ curl, and then pats his cheek in consolation. “Now go on and lick your wounds and brood by yourself for a while, so that you’ll stop glaring at me like that.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “I don’t brood.” He mutters, but squeezes Evan’s leg and stands none-the-less. “You’re brooding. It’s so fitting that you’d cry while it rains, you stupid ray of sunshine.” He scoffs, stalking off to his bedroom to shut the door and, unfortunately, brood for a while. Though he prefers to call it pondering, or simply thinking, as most people are incapable of.

He marches upstairs, the sound of Mrs. Potter’s kind but confused voice as Pandora eagerly chatters on. He can hear Potter Boy running through the backdoor, most likely to practice football, though sometimes he just runs around the pitch for some odd reason that Regulus doesn’t care about. He purposely doesn’t think about where his brother might be, because his head is already about to explode with all of the vulnerability and introspection he’s been forcibly shoved into; he simply can’t handle it.

One of the things that Regulus hates the most in the world is unlocking the boxes inside of his mind that he’s purposely packaged and sent away. He hates thinking back on his past actions, even more how they affected him and the people around him. He hates thinking about the faulty wires in his brain that made him act. He hates wondering how to fix them. How to fix himself.

He absolutely loathes it.

Which is why, even though he loves Evan ten times more than he loves himself, he’s very angry at him right now. He mutters himself all the way upstairs, cursing Evan and his entire bloodline as well as everyone else who has even looked in his direction throughout his whole life. He wants to break something again. Desperately. He wants, really, to scratch through his chest and pull out that itching need to hurt and break when he’s upset. He wants to tear it out harshly, and watch as the thin, long tendrils detach from his veins and fall out of him, finally freeing him from the agonizing sensation of an itch that can never be scratched. He wants to be normal.

Slamming his door once he’s inside of his bedroom, shockingly, does not help at all. As usual, it makes the itch grind against his nerves a hundred times worse. His fingers wrap around one of his pillows, and he gives it a pretty good beat-down complete with punching, and throwing around before he falls onto his bed and just screams into it. It doesn’t help. It never helps. But there are only a few ways that he knows to dispel anger, and he’s out of options after sixteen years of trying absolutely everything. He’s learned to simply adapt into the itching anger that he constantly feels rubbing against his bones. He’d rather feel that than any other emotion, because at least anger is somewhat dignified and powerful. It at least distracts from the glaring mental issues that he pointedly makes a large effort to ignore.

He can’t believe Evan has done this to him. He can’t believe Evan would be so bloody aggravating as to speak the very things that Regulus has been trying to ignore, and throw them, unavoidably, right into his face. He can’t believe Evan would dare ask him to change—again, as if that isn’t all Regulus has been doing for his whole fucking life. Maybe Regulus doesn’t want to change. Maybe he’s happy how he is—miserable and worthless. If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it. Has Evan ever stopped to think that maybe this Regulus—the one who shuts everyone out and snaps—is the real him? Regulus can’t help it if he doesn’t like what he sees; he can always look away.

He can always leave, just like everyone else does.

Regulus screams into his pillow again. He knows exactly what it is. He knows exactly what the problem is, he hears it, he sees it, he feels it. He knows Evan is right just as much as he knows that his mother and father will never give him the love he so desperately craves. Which is to say: he knows it, in the back of his mind, but refuses to acknowledge it.

Regulus would give absolutely anything if it meant he could be fucking normal for once. Just for his emotions to be regulated a normal amount and for his overall intensity to decrease. Just for his eyes to open in the morning without the pressing weight on his chest wishing they didn’t. Just to be able to look at his brother and not see all of the things he’s changed of himself to no avail, to not see the flashing lights of his failure.

But, he’s very painfully aware that his wishes are nothing but childish, delusional fantasy. As delusional as him and Sirius, young and bright, staring out of the window and declaring that they, too, would fly into the sky just like their stars, and finally escape from the harsh hands of their mother. Regulus knows that he’ll never be normal, so the next best thing is to learn how to cope with himself.

He just wishes he knew how to do that.

***

Sirius sighs as he thumps his head against James’ leg, his focus on everything but the movie that they’ve put on. Really, they only did it to claim the sitting room to themselves, seeing as every other night this week it has been overcome with Regulus and his friends.

Sirius is happy for him, obviously. It’s nice to see a smile on his brother’s face, and for his friends to bring a little bit of France back with them when Sirius knows how homesick he is. It’s nice for Sirius, too, to be able to exercise his French much more this week than he realistically has in years. Sirius never really felt at home in France. When he was told about the exchange program he literally jumped at the chance. He never had real friends—only the prissy ones that his parents deemed acceptable, and a few on the side just to give her the middle finger that he would rebel with. None of them cared about anything that came out of his mouth, and none of them reached out after his move.

The prissy ones moved to suck-up to Regulus, which didn’t get them very far. The others just closed their group right back up as if he’d never even occupied the space. Sometimes Sirius isn’t even sure that they knew he did in the first place.

Everyone he talked to in France had the proclivity to see right through him, no matter how loud or how obnoxious he became. It wasn’t very hard to miss. He was just Sirius, the snobbish boy from that billionaire family, you know him—or Sirius, that wayward child hopelessly rebelling as they all do, hopefully they get him back on track considering his father’s health.

When he got to England, he was Sirius. He was the funny boy with a sexy accent. He was the foreign rebel, loaded with generational wealth beyond imagination. He was a great friend and loud, but sincere. He was James Potter’s other half, and Remus Lupin’s boyfriend. He was the French boy with ‘glorious’ hair that all of the girls were jealous of. He was more him than he’d ever even thought he could be. He was finally free to find that golden middle between rebellion and submission. Between his studies, expectations, and social life.

He doesn’t exactly get what it is about France that makes Regulus so happy, because for him everything that he appreciates about it is overlayed with the golden tint of nostalgia from the early years of his life. All of it involves Regulus, in some way. And now that Regulus is here, he doesn’t find himself missing France at all. Well, except for the food.

However, just because he doesn’t get Regulus, doesn’t mean he won’t support him. There’s nothing quite like the way Regulus’ face lights up in the mornings when one of the twins comes bounding down the steps, yawning and mumbling nonsense. It’s a shine that Sirius hasn’t seen in years, and one that he’d surrender almost anything to have directed at him. He hopes that with enough work, he eventually will.

“Oi, quit that. It hurts, Pads.” James grumbles through a mouthful of popcorn, entranced with the movie, not a care in the world. Sometimes Sirius wishes his brain could be so consistently blissfully ignorant as his best friend’s. James’ resentment towards Sirius’ brother lasted all of two seconds before it was promptly forgotten about, instead replaced with the disgusting fixation of becoming his friend.

“My bad,” Sirius mutters, turning his head to the television again, even though he knows he’s not going to pay attention. “What even is this?”

James smacks his head. “You literally picked it, you knob.”

Sirius almost jumps five feet in the air when he hears a light voice come out of literally nowhere. “I thought you were dating that tall guy.” James jumps, too, half of the popcorn landing on his shirt and, subsequently, on Sirius’ face.

“Jesus, Pandora, give a guy a bit of warning, could you?” Sirius grumbles, pressing his hand against his racing heart as he sits up, popcorn falling onto his lap.

Pandora hums.

“How the fuck did you even know that, by the way?”

“I have my ways. Your social media presence is surprisingly abundant. You might want to revisit internet safety.” She supplies airily, as if she’s not admitting to extensively stalking him online. “And also not a good look to your brother’s best friend, by the way.” She adds, as if it’s a simple observation. Sirius thinks he sees a flash of something dangerous in her eyes as she stares at him, but he chalks it up to the television light.

“Right, I should’ve snapped a few pictures of me crying in my bed when I missed Regulus now, should I? Would’ve made wonderful content. I’m sure you and your twin would’ve had a great laugh.” Sirius bites, the dig hitting deeper than he—and likely Pandora—thought it would. Feels kinda like he’s just been kicked in the stomach with the reminder of how everything probably looks to Regulus. Beside him, James tenses.

“You could’ve done anything.” She says, dropping her pleasant tone and becoming somber, “a weekly phone call is less than the minimum, Sirius.”

“Hey now-” James starts, gearing up into his stupid protective mode.

“Shut it, James. Please.” Sirius sighs, curling around so he can look his brother’s best friend in the face. Her hair is, shockingly, tied into a simple bun atop her head instead of her usual intricate style. Her blue eyes pierce him, the type that are uncomfortable to look at because it feels like they’re peering right into your soul. “I know that, okay Pandora? You don’t have to beat me up about it; rest assured that Regulus and myself have done it plenty.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I don’t think you have. You haven’t fully grasped the effect that your leaving had on Regulus. I know he hasn’t told you—I can see it in his eyes—and you’re walking around like avoiding the serious things will eventually mend things. If you want us to stop walking around and treating you like dirt, maybe you should stop treating Regulus like it. We’ve been better siblings to him than you have, and I’ll tell you right now it wasn’t very hard.”

When she puts it like that, it’s hard to think of a rebuttal. Or, to think about pretty much anything that isn’t his extreme failure in the brother department.

“You’re lucky that it’s me who decided to say something, because Evan wouldn’t have been as nice about it.” She says, tone immediately taking back her usual upbeat softness. “Boys have the emotional maturity of walnuts, the lot of you. Also, for the record now that I’ve thoroughly chewed you out—I did give Regulus a similar talk, and also I do think that you can do it. It’s just going to take more effort than I think you realized.” She’s polite enough to end her observations with ‘I think’ most of the time, because simply saying exactly why and how people express themselves is generally viewed as taboo, and Sirius definitely subscribes to this belief. It’s fucking creepy.

With that, she prances off and an awkward silence falls over the two remaining boys. James scoops up the final popcorn kernel and deposits it into the bowl, and Sirius avoids eye contact. After an agonizingly long time of James staring at the side of his head, and Sirius being fully aware yet refusing to meet his gaze, James huffs.

“I don’t think she’s totally right, by the way.”

Sirius grabs a strand of his hair, staring unseeing at the television which is still playing.

“It’s not all on you. You know that, right? You and Regulus are both just products of your environment who developed coping mechanisms that weren’t the most healthy. It’s not like you single handedly nuked the relationship, and I’m getting kind-of fed up with everyone—including you—assuming that. The phone works both ways, same as a relationship. He could’ve called more, too—and I know you’d answer. He could’ve made compromises and visited for holidays.” James explains, staring at Sirius with that hopelessly earnest expression on his face that makes Sirius’ heart clench. James is so sincere it hurts, but he just doesn’t understand.

Sirius knows Regulus isn’t the person to do the reaching, because he’s terrified of rejection. It was his responsibility to bridge that gap. He doesn’t think he’ll ever regret something as much as he regrets leaving that morning without as much as a goodbye.

They were never the same after that.

Trying to get into Regulus’ head was always a difficult task. He was a quiet child, always trying to lurk forgotten in a corner. For the first few years of his life he only talked to Sirius, and even then it was barely sentences and he was always looking up like he was expecting to be slapped. Regulus guarded his thoughts like they were a haunting secret that he wouldn’t dare expose to the world, no matter how desperately anyone else wanted to understand him. It was rare, and only under the heavy blanket of stars in the sky, when he would crawl into Sirius’ bed and whisper secrets to him.

It stopped happening after Sirius boarded that train. Forget about secrets; Regulus didn’t even speak to him. Not more than a few words. Unless, of course, he was yelling.

In that case, he wouldn’t stop.

Regulus has always been brutal. He’s not the kind of person to stop, or to abide by the adage ‘don’t kick a man while he’s down’. Regulus would shove you down, and tear at insecurities that you didn’t even know you had. He wouldn’t stop until he was surrounded by destruction, the brittle pieces of everything you are lying scattered at his feet. When Regulus was hurt, there was nothing and no-one that could stop him from going for blood.

Most of their conversations consist of screaming. Of both boys needing to take a while in separate rooms to patch up their wounds before they’re ready to lay eyes on the raw thing between them.

“I was the one who fucked everything up, though.” Sirius mumbles, unable to look James in the eye, lest he be forced to meet that stupid patronizing gaze.

“Oh, really? You walked up to Regulus—no prompting—and told him he was dead to you, you hated him, and would never be coming back because of him, and then boarded a train. And Regulus was a perfect little sweetheart the entire time.” James says sarcastically.

“Well- no. But you make it sound so simple.” Sirius scoffs. “Obviously he’s never been a little angel, but he told me- he begged me to stay, and then I took the opportunity anyway. That was pretty shitty.”

“Right,” James humours, “and I’m not saying you’re right for that, but what happened before? Like, in the years or months leading up.”

Sirius picks at a loose thread on the sofa, glaring at the television. “I acted out, disrespected our parents, picked fights. Reggie just wanted me to be good. He said they were our parents, and they loved us, and I would be free at seventeen anyway. He hates conflict, and yelling even more. Sometimes I wish I just shut up every once in a while, honestly. When I was there, the house was always hell for him.”

“You’re a child, Sirius. You were then, you are now. You’re a child who has endured abuse and practically raised a child before you even knew what a noun was. Heaven forbid you don’t deal with it in the most mature and healthy way. Even now, you think about him. Even when you left, you still called. You care, Sirius. You care a whole lot more than anyone else I know would’ve in your situation. The fact that you’re so torn about leaving—despite the fact that you would’ve died in that house—and being selfish once in your life, is proof enough that you’re not the only one who needs to apologize.”

Sirius groans, pressing his head into his lap. “I fucking hate it when you make sense, Prongs.”

James laughs, loud and joyous. “Me too, mate, me too. Don’t make me do it again.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t wanna talk.” Regulus says, as soon as he hears that ding indicating that the call has been connected. There’s a lump in his throat that he can hardly speak through, his hands shaking with the force of everything.

Pandora and Evan left this morning, with bright smiles through their tears and threats of bodily harm if he destroys the progress they’ve made. They spent the entire night before whispering to each other, exchanging their books and sifting through the box. It felt relieving. Something foreign bubbled in his stomach when the lid was lifted, almost hopeful in nature. The hole was still there, but it was easier to breathe around squeezed between two shoulders and identical smiles and laughs.

Regulus was very careful to steer clear of absolutely anything that might cause an argument, barely able to focus through the threat of losing them with one wrong move.

That morning, sleepless yet hopeful, Regulus said goodbye to the twins. He let Pandora snap another photo, and he let Evan hold his hug for an extra minute, and then they left. No dramatics, no holding on extra tight as if they’d never see each other again, no giant pit of anxiety in Regulus’ stomach. Somewhere, inside of him past all of the blood, muscle, and gore, he knew he would see them again.

For the first time in Regulus’ entire life, he had a feeling that everything would be okay. It wouldn’t be great, or perfect, but it wouldn’t be horrible. It would be okay. The part of Regulus’ soul that latched onto them would be missing for a while, but he knew he would get it back.

And, if Regulus played his cards right, he would be back in France for his final year of school. He had a plan.

Regulus was feeling alright when they disappeared from sight to board a train Regulus wished desperately he could board as well. If his mother would let him back, if he fulfilled his duty, then everything would be okay. All he had to do was please her. He could be perfectly diplomatic, get good grades, and get through to Sirius. Surely, that would be enough for his return. Surely, that might even gain a small smile of approval. He knows better to wish for anything close to an ‘I love you’, but he’ll take anything from her. Because she’s his mother. Even if his foot still aches sometimes, even if it’s hard, even if he sometimes cries at night wishing that she would just say it, or just run her fingers through his hair one last time, or just bloody see him; look into his eyes, just once.

He was feeling alright, until he turned and made eye contact with his brother, and everything got muddy and complicated again. He just felt the weight of everything pressing onto him in an instant—the twins’ departure and the broken pile of a relationship that lay between him and his brother, the terror of the unknown, his failure.

So, now he’s locked up in his room again, about to tear his own skin off. He waited, diligently, for the few hours that he knew it would take Evan and Pandora to get home.

“Okay,” Pandora hums. “Do you want us to talk?”

“Yeah,” Regulus sighs, relief coursing through his veins. He knows it’s a bit stupid to call when he doesn’t want to talk—an invention specifically made for mutual talking—but he just can’t speak right now.

“Alright,” Evan replies. Regulus can hear the smile on his face. There’s always a smile on his face. “I’m glad you kept your promise. I hope you continue to.”

“Not that mushy stuff. Just fucking speak.” Regulus groans. He might implode.

“Fine, uhm…Pandora, what happened on the train that we said we needed to tell Reg about?”

There’s a few beats of silence, before “Oh! There was this guy, Regulus, oh my. See, we got in our train car, and this large guy—easily six-foot—came in, too. And he was on his phone-”

“Arguing on his phone, calling someone-”

“And he was so stressed, Regulus, poor guy looked about ready to tear his head off-”

“Kinda like you, actually-”

“And he was obviously trying to keep it down, because we were right there-”

Regulus feels his shoulders sag a bit in relief, letting himself get absorbed into the story as he sits himself down on his bed, phone cradled in his hand. It’s a bit stressful, the way they finish each other’s sentences, but it’s also comforting in a way. They don’t do it a lot; mostly just when they’re really excited, or feeling any kind of intense emotion. They’re so interconnected, Regulus swears they can speak to each other without even looking or talking. Evan says that when Pandora gets sad, he can tell instantly. Something in him just knows. It’s hard for Regulus to really comprehend that—to be so connected, so close to somebody else. He can hardly handle his own emotions; he might genuinely go mad if he had to feel someone else’s on top of that.

Regulus is so thankful for them, letting his eyes flutter shut and the twins’ voices meld into one as he focuses on their story.

“But we heard anyway, obviously, and oh my god, Regulus, this guy slept with his wife’s sister! Her sister! And he was freaking out, because he’d just walked out of her flat and got on the train back home, and he didn’t know what to say. But here’s the kicker: he thought it was her! He said that they looked so similar, they must’ve been twins, and he thought she’d just surprised him at the restaurant; he didn’t really look at her face and the lights were dim, so he had no idea. Oh, Regulus, it was an absolute shit-show.”

Regulus feels his lips quirk. Hearing about everyone else's lives going to shit never fails to make him feel better about his own. It’s a good distraction, because he can get up on his snooty pedestal and turn his nose up at them, pretending that he would never do such a thing, would never stoop to their level, is so high above it all. Even if he knows he’s not. He lets himself get swept into their story, finally relaxing, and he feels so safe in a way he hasn’t felt in so long. When their story is over, they easily transition into other conversation like they don’t even notice he’s there anymore; the only indication that they do in their occasional ‘isn’t that crazy, Regulus?’ or ‘right, Regulus?’.

He doesn’t respond, but they know he’s listening anyway. They always seem to get things like this without him having to say anything. Their friendship is so easy that now that he has them again, Regulus can’t fathom why he’d let them go for so long. Why he’d attempted to make himself miserable, refusing to do anything that makes him happy. It makes him want to get up and grab his violin case. It makes him want to get up and hug his brother, finally letting go of all of the shit and resentment between them. Because it doesn’t matter. Why would he make himself miserable, when he has the chance to be happy?

The simple answer is that it’s easier said than done.

—

Regulus blinks awake a few hours later to his phone dead next to him and that heavy feeling of exhaustion that comes from sleeping so heavily for so long. He’s not sure if it’s morning or night, and looking towards his window is no help because the sky is that light dark that can either precede morning or night. With a light groan, he grabs his phone and plugs it in, dragging a hand down his face and cursing himself for falling asleep.

When the screen finally lights back up after a few minutes, and Regulus catches sight of a three on the screen, he slams himself down onto bed again with a louder, more agonized groan.

He’s so tired. Really, he is, and it’s not the kind of tired that can be fixed by sleep. Although, he really does wish he could sleep.

He goes into autopilot after that, only truly blinking back to himself in a steamy bathroom with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth however later. He’s in a bit of a trance, if he’s honest, spitting into the sink and washing his mouth out, staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t really feel anything, or think anything, he just stares for a few moments. At the curl to his hair, at the shape of his nose, at the light dusting of freckles on his skin, finally reemerged after a day outside by the pool with Pandora and Evan, because ‘you can’t be like those other people with pools who never use them. Who has a pool available at all times and just doesn’t use it?’.

He looks like his mother. A bit like his dad. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to not like it. It’s always been a privilege; anything and everything that connected him to the Blacks was a blessing by God, because the Blacks were powerful, and it meant something. It meant the ease of life at his fingertips. But life as a Black is everything but easy, and more like the pressing of sharp nails into his arm that will never lift so long as he possesses his mother’s cheekbones and his father’s eyebrows.

He tears his eyes away, forcing himself out of the bathroom and willing himself to find absolutely anything to do until the sun rises. Unfortunately for him, he finds a special kind of comfort in the dark. A sense of security, of less weight and no observation. So, his feet carry him down the stairs and into the kitchen, feet padding softly against the hardwood and unconsciously avoiding any creaking wood.

That’s how he ends up standing in the kitchen, staring at his brother, knowing somehow that he was going to be here before he even opened his door, and still finding himself unsettled. Back home, Regulus would always find Sirius sitting in the dining room in the early hours of morning, before their parents woke up and before there were sharp nails and barking orders waiting for them. He never could sleep very well, and Regulus was young and carried around that pit of dread in his stomach because he was slowly becoming aware that they were drifting apart and denying it fiercely, so most nights he would sneak in too.

When Sirius stopped sneaking into his room, Regulus started meeting him in the kitchen. He never was sure if Sirius wanted him there, or only tolerated it, but he was at that age where he was clinging desperately to innocence and his brother and feeling both slip through his fingers at the same time so he did it anyway. Even when something in Sirius shifted and he gave up hope for their parents, even when he started rebelling, even when he started talking about an exchange program. By that time, they would just stare at each other and wonder the same thing: ‘who are you?’, just sitting at opposite ends of the table and trying to find any semblance of the bond they used to carry. Sitting around heavy words and heavier emotions and speaking about none of it.

They’re doing it again, now. Sirius is standing in the kitchen with two cups of tea, and Regulus is at the doorway, and they both just go still, staring.

Regulus stares at him with the weight of knowing that he was not who Sirius wanted to see, and Sirius stares back with the weight that he knows it. He can’t back out now, but he also can’t pretend that it doesn’t sting, connecting the tea on the roof and the tea in the kitchen now as something that his brother does with someone else. They used to be the only ones to have things; to have little traditions and inside jokes that only they knew about—it was them against the world, and they were fine with that.

They don’t have anything, now. Not even tense dining room meets, really not even heated arguments that lay forgotten a few hours later. They have nothing but resentment and pain and a mutual desire to fix it but no way to know how.

“You’re not supposed to be up.” Sirius mutters, a bit strained.

Regulus frowns. “What?”

“Not- well, obviously you can be up if you want, I just mean like- like usually you aren’t up this late at night. Not that I would know, because I don’t, I just haven’t personally run into you or anything and I wasn’t, like, waiting for you or anything, but you can still be here. In the kitchen. With me. Because that’s cool. I’m cool with that. I’d offer you the tea but it has a lot of fucking shit in it because James is a freak, and I know—well, I don’t actually know, but I’m assuming because before this you- y’know. Yeah.”

Regulus is far too tired for this bullshit. “We need to talk.”

Sirius swallows, eyes going wide like he’s actually scared Regulus is about to stab him or something. “Right, I know that. Obviously. Just, now’s not really-”

Regulus scoffs. “There’s never going to be a right time. You never talk to me, you never want to talk to me, you just want everything to go away on its own. It won’t go away on its own, because you fucking abandoned me in that house long before you ever took that fucking exchange program, and I’ve been single-handedly clutching onto any semblance of a relationship with you for half of my fucking life! But yeah, now’s not really a good time. Let me know when you can fit caring about me into your schedule.” Regulus is so fucking hurt. It hurts so much to plead and reach out and grab onto things that only leave your hands bloody and bruised in the end, long gone no matter how hard you hold on. It hurts so much because he cares about Sirius more than he cares about anyone on the planet; Sirius is his idol and his parent and his older brother. Sirius is his everything, and Regulus is just his little brother. Just an obligation.

“That’s not what I meant, Reggie. I just mean that Effie, Monty, and James are all upstairs right now, and we’re both tired, and I don’t wanna fuck things up. You know how easy it is for us to fuck it up.” Sirius says immediately, eyes still wide but sincere, hands reaching out—one still holding a steaming mug—like he wants to grab Regulus. It makes Regulus want to thrash around and scream.

“You said you were going to try, Sirius! You said you were going to try. You said that.” Regulus practically pleads, almost sure that he must’ve misheard, or imagined their movie night, or something, because Sirius has done absolutely nothing since. His voice cracks pathetically on the word ‘you’, tearing out of his throat and leaving him raw and gasping. “Instead you just brought Evan and Pandora so you didn’t have to.”

Sirius practically teleports. One moment he’s leaning against the counter, gripping his mug so tightly his knuckles are white, and the next his hands are empty and he’s standing so close to Regulus that he can smell the familiar scent of his cologne. “That’s not true. I meant it. I swear, Regulus—I swear I meant it, alright? I love you, I love you so fucking much it hurts to breathe around it sometimes.” He whispers, right before his hands are wrapping around Regulus’ shoulders and he’s being pulled into an embrace so tight that it feels like Sirius is trying to meld them into one. “I love you, Reggie, fuck, I love you.”

“You’re shit at showing it. Really shit.” Regulus mutters wetly, forcibly keeping his tears at bay as his hands come up hesitantly to hold his brother back. He can’t remember the last time they hugged. “I’m so mad at you for not trying. God, looking at you makes me feel like I’m drowning all of the time.”

“I’ll save you,” Sirius whispers, only holding tighter, “I won’t ever let you drown—I swear it.”

It’s far too late, Regulus thinks, though he won’t say it. He can’t breathe, and every word exchanged between them feels like a phantom hand dragging him back down. Every time he thinks his fingertips are about to reach the surface, those hands pull him back down. It’s an endless cycle that Regulus has yet to become numb to. He probably won’t ever stop reaching up, even if he always gets pulled right back down. He’ll never manage to break free, but he’ll never succumb to the hands. He wants to cry and beg and plead for Sirius to reach in and save him, just save him, but every time he tries he only manages to choke on the water.

Sirius holds him like he’s afraid that Regulus might disappear at any second, and Regulus doesn’t have the breath to be honest and tell him that he’ll never be able to, no matter how hard he tries. Chasing after Sirius is written in his DNA right along with the curl to his hair and the grey of his eyes. He can hate it and fight it all he wants, but he’ll always end up staring at his phone and waiting for it to ring. He’ll always find himself picking fights just to speak to him, and he’ll always end up clinging like he’ll never let go again.

Regulus can thrash and gnaw and scream until he’s raw and bruised, and he’ll always end up here: clutching his older brother so tightly it hurts, and begging him to fix it.

It’s that, that makes Regulus exhale, turn his face into his brother, and whisper “are you going to try?”

And it’s something similar, that makes Sirius rest his head on Regulus’ shoulder and say “yeah, Reggie,” like he means it. Like he really, truly means it.

As little brothers often do, Regulus takes his older brother’s words as gospel; as the only undeniable, unshakable truth.

Something heavy eases a bit on his chest, just enough for his chest to stutter out a small, long-awaited inhale of air. It tastes like relief and timid hope, and a little of love. Sirius says he’s going to try, and Regulus believes him, so really that’s all there is to it.

“I’m sorry for leaving you in that house.” Sirius murmurs, after a few moments of delicate silence.

“I’m sorry for hating you for it.” Regulus murmurs right back. “I’m sorry for making you apologize at all.” Because Sirius shouldn’t have to apologize for finding a place where he could finally breathe, even if it meant that he took Regulus’ air with him. He didn’t know, and Regulus sure wasn’t about to tell him.

“I’m sorry for pushing you away because I couldn’t bear to see how I failed you.” Sirius confesses, like the words that he’s been dying to say for so long have finally been uttered. “I’m sorry for only calling once a week, I’m sorry for lashing out at you, I’m sorry for not being there when you needed me. I should’ve been there.”

“I’m sorry for being so fucking mean and angry all of the time.” Regulus sighs, because he really is so tired of it. He wants to exist without a weight on his chest and water in his lungs. He wants to put out that fire that burns so bright and harsh inside of him, always in his blood and shaking his hands—always building, building, building.

Sirius laughs wetly, rubbing a soothing hand up and down Regulus’ back. “It’s good that you’re mean; you don’t take any shit, especially not from me. It’s a good quality, if a bit annoying at times.”

Regulus hums, letting a gentle blanket of silence fall over them again. He lets his eyes fall shut, leaning in impossible closer to the warmth, the security, the safety of his brother’s arms. He lets the scent of his brother’s stupidly expensive cologne, and the freshly laundered smell of his clothes, and that touch of just plain Sirius, massage his nerves, easing the shake like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He lets his brother hold him and keep all of his broken pieces together, he lets him put them back in their rightful places, he lets Sirius sway them a bit in place, and he lets it soothe him.

He lets himself believe that everything will be okay, and he lets himself be held by his brother. Something inside of him whispers that everything will be okay, because Regulus cannot fathom a world where he gives up on his older brother. That something whispers, and Regulus believes it.

It feels so nice when he finally lets himself believe it. Even nicer when he knows it’s true.

—

The next few days are filled with difficult conversations and awkward ‘bonding’ activities. Because they have to talk, even if talking makes Regulus want to rip his skin off.

They have to talk about everything. They have to talk about that night, but that’s not it, either—no, they started drifting apart long before Sirius walked out, and they continued drifting after. Regulus has to open up about how utterly alone he felt in that house, how terrified he was every day because Sirius was only getting worse and their parents were only getting stricter. He has to talk about that deep void in his chest, that horrid thing that only grew each time Sirius met his eyes after an argument and loved him a little less. He has to talk about so many things—he has to tear his chest open and bare it to his brother so many times, and there’s always more to be said. There are still words that get stuck in the back of his throat; confessions that he doesn’t yet have the gut to spill.

Sirius has to tell him about how he felt alone in that house, looking for backup in the only person he thought would be on his side—Regulus—and feeling so betrayed every time Regulus stayed silent and stared. He had to talk about how much he started hating Regulus, because how could Sirius make so many sacrifices, how could he take so many punishments for him, and how could Regulus remain unmoved throughout it all. He talks about how relieving it was to finally be free from the shackles of their parents, and he even confesses—late into the night, with the television droning in front of them but long forgotten, casting stark shadows on Sirius’ tear-stained, pale face—that he was also a bit happy that he no longer had to be Regulus’ protector, his older brother, and instead got to be Sirius.

There’s a lot of hugging, crying, and more than a few good fights. There’s a lot of miscommunication, a lot of things to be cleared up, but steadily and surely they make their way through the list. Slowly but surely, they lay down a foundation of love in that canyon between them, building closer and closer to the middle to finally meet. Because there are some things that they’ll probably never come back from; Regulus will always hold a bit of resentment because Sirius left him behind, and Sirius will always hate him a little for forcing him into a parental role he never asked for. Neither of these things were something that either of them had any control over, but that doesn’t mean that they sting any less. It also doesn’t mean they’ll let those things stop them from rekindling their relationship.

They’ll probably never be as close as they were as children again; Sirius won’t make sacrifices for him, won’t always be there to catch him when he falls, and Regulus will never be able to fully let his guard down around him like he did so easily before, he won’t trail hopelessly after Sirius everywhere he goes, doing everything like him and everything he says. But that doesn’t mean they can’t find a tentative peace; somewhere on that bridge between complete estrangement and dangerous codependency. Sirius won’t be there to catch him when he falls, but he’ll be there to bandage him up and comfort him afterwards. Regulus won’t completely submit to Sirius’ whims, but he’ll still go to him for advice first, and make his own informed decisions afterwards.

For everything they do talk about, there are still things neither of them are ready to touch, for fear of shattering this delicate thing between them before it’s even fully built. They can’t talk about their parents, or that night that Sirius left quite yet. Regulus lacks the voice to communicate how fucking devastated he was when he learned he’d been replaced by Potter Boy. He still hasn’t forced adequate words out to convey how thoroughly betrayed he’s felt by Sirius throughout the second part of his life, nor how he doesn’t think he’ll ever really be able to get over it. But he’s consoled by the knowledge that eventually, through hard work, movie nights, and reciprocated ‘I love you’s, he’ll be able to meet Sirius in the middle.

All of this is to say, when the door to the library opens—Regulus had finally sat in the reading nook, making his way steadily through Pandora’s book choice, his skin warmed by the sun through the window—Regulus assumes it to be Sirius. They’ve already done their English lesson, but it’s not all that uncommon for Sirius to somehow find him just to annoy him a bit because he can, now that there’s something more solid between them. Sometimes it even means Sirius has thought of something and he refuses to let it go until they flesh it out right there together.

Regulus, for the first time in his life, feels heard by his brother. It gives him a bit of a rush every time Sirius shows up, ready to tackle whatever road block he’s come across in their relationship. Because he finally listened. Sirius finally heard the pleas that had been silent for so long. He heard, and he listened. He changed.

It’s a bit annoying at times—Regulus hates being emotional, he’s not even sure he really has them and he certainly hates talking about them—but to turn Sirius away would undermine all of their progress lately, and Regulus is terrified of losing what he’s fought so hard to have. So, he lets Sirius have his mentally taxing conversations, and he retires early each night to give himself space to recharge and recover so that he can have them again the next day.

Regulus looks up from his book, mentally preparing himself, but he almost drops it when he meets the eyes of Mrs. Potter.

For all her son has been a nuisance, and he’s had more than a few awkward interactions with her husband, she has had the grace to leave him alone for the most part.

If he’s honest, he’s a bit frightened of her. She’s everything he’s ever wanted in his own mother, and the thought that he comes so close but can’t quite have her gets to him in a way most things can’t. He’s frightened of all the things she makes him feel, he’s frightened of that longing in his chest when he sees her joke with her own son and ruffle his hair. He longs for it so bad he’s choking on it.

Regulus expects her to leave after she notices he’s there, or grab a book and make a hasty retreat, but she doesn’t. She stands there, staring at him, for such a long time that the air between them gets so awkward that Regulus is forced to break the silence.

“Hello, Mrs. Potter. Can I help you?”

“Do you like gardening, Regulus?” She asks, only coming closer and closer. Regulus feels his throat drying up with every step she takes, sure but gentle.

“Gardening?” Regulus asks, voice only coming out as a whisper. His hands are shaking, so he quickly shuts his book and holds them between his knees.

She smiles softly, finally coming to a stop when she meets him at the reading nook. Slowly, Regulus pulls his legs up, and she takes a seat. Her hair is tied into a low bun, but hers is messy and clearly tied up absentmindedly, so startlingly unlike his mother. Even more startingly, the next time she opens her mouth, the words that come out are in French. “Gardening. With flowers and fruit and such. I enjoy it because it gives me something to do with my hands.” The accent and pronunciation is a bit off, but the words fall from her tongue with ease.

“You know French?” Regulus asks, astounded.

“Only a bit, really. I learned for Sirius, because it comforts him to be spoken to in French when he’s upset, and it also just felt necessary at the time. Now I think I know why.”

Regulus can’t get his mouth to move. He’s afraid if he does, the only thing that will come out will be a garbled sob. Mrs. Potter learned French. For Sirius. She learned an entire new language, just because she agreed to host a child from France, and she discovered that it comforted him. He can’t imagine someone ever loving him enough to go through all of that effort for him. It’s shocking, but if anyone deserves it, it’s probably Sirius.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t seem deterred by his lack of a response. “If you’d like, you can help me out in the garden anytime. Sometimes Sirius and James will pop in for a few just to chat, and that’s fine too. Or, you’re welcome to join me in the kitchen as well. I have a feeling you’d enjoy it.”

Cooking and gardening are two of the biggest ‘absolutely not’s of the Black family. It’s been drilled into Regulus’ head from infancy that cooking and gardening are the jobs of the poor, and to do either one would be such a stain on the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black that it would spark controversy for decades. The fact that Mrs. Potter is asking him of his interest in the subjects takes all of the wonder from learning she spoke French and transforms it into suspicion.

He knew it. He knew it was too good to be true, and he’s finally gotten what he’s been searching for. The Potters set a trap of kindness and gentle coaxing so that he would let his guard down and confess to something. It’s another test from his parents. Another test to make sure that he’s loyal to his family after his incident a few weeks ago. He knew there was something about the Potters—nobody would be that nice for no reason. Now he knows. He knows, and it stings that he was right, because Sirius said he was wrong, and Sirius has never lied to him. He lied about this, though.

“I have no interest in such abhorrent activities. Cooking and gardening are a peasant’s pastime; I would never stoop to such levels as an heir to the Black Legacy. ” Regulus spits, grabbing his book and standing. He can’t bear to be around her, after he’d almost let his guard down.

Mrs. Potter looks genuinely stunned, mouth opening soundlessly as if she hadn’t expected Regulus to see through her trap so easily. She must be daft—it wasn’t as if she’d tried to be subtle, what with directly asking him if he liked two forbidden activities without preamble.

“Regulus, I-”

“You can’t fool me. I may be a lot of things, but I am no fool. Punish me if you must for my tongue, but you cannot trick me.” Regulus spits, anger and fear pumping through his veins with every rapid beat of his heart. He says the words because he’s trying to convince himself, too, this situation unlocking a memory buried deep in his subconcious. “I will not be tricked into sin. I will not be tricked into sin.”

“Repeat after me, Regulus,” Maman says, her eyes sharp as she positions his curls just right. There’s a dinner party at seven, Sirius said, with their cousins and such. He’s young enough to still need help dressing and maintaining his curls, but Maman trusts nobody but herself with his hair. Sirius told him it’s because she wants to spend time with him, because she loves him and just wants an excuse. Regulus wants to tell her she needs no excuse, but he’s not supposed to speak out of turn. “I will not be tricked into sin.”

Regulus flashes her a grin, resisting the urge he has to move. She’ll slap him if he moves. “I will not be tricked into sin.”

“Don’t smile until you grow back your teeth, foolish child.” Maman scolds, nails retreating to grab onto his chin. He resists the urge to wince, trying to breathe through his fear like Sirius taught him. “I will not be tricked into sin.”

“I will not be tricked into sin.” Regulus repeats. It’s hard to speak with her holding him so tightly. She’s mad. He wants Sirius. “I won’t, I won’t be tricked into sin, Maman, I swear it.” His heart is beating in his ears, and he can feel the sting of tears welling up behind his eyes, just waiting to make an appearance. But if he cries, it will only be worse. Where is Sirius?

“Remember that. Live by it. You’re a Black heir; it’s time you start acting like it. Do you hear me, Regulus? Don’t bring shame to our family name.” Maman spits, eyes blazing with the untold threat. Mere seconds ago, he’d wanted nothing more than for her to stay. Now, he wants her to leave him alone. Why does she always have to be so mean? Doesn’t she love him? On the television, mothers are nice and coo in their childrens’ faces. They pat their heads and give them hugs. Maman does none of these things.

“I won’t, Maman, please stop. I will not be tricked into- into sin-”

“Stuttering is unbecoming.” Maman hisses, right before the back of her hand swings into his cheek, leaving a burst of fiery pain in their wake. He cries out—he can’t help it—curling in on himself with a quiet sob. She’s so mean. Why can’t she be like the television mothers? Regulus wishes he had a television mother who was nice to him. Who let him and Sirius eat ice cream and play in the mud. He hates her. He hates her he hates her he hates her. She scoffs above him, visibly agitated. “Weak. Both you and Sirius are so weak. Stop your incessant whining, child. I only punish you when you deserve it. If you wouldn’t like to be punished, then be a good son.” Her hand is grabbing him again, tilting his head up so he looks at her through his blurry vision. He hates her he hates her he hates her. “Compose yourself, or I’ll get your father. He’ll be worse than I am. I only punish you when you deserve it, Regulus, because you must be good. It’s discipline. Repeat what I told you again.”

Regulus sobs again, desperately wishing her away—for some magical force to disappear her from his life. He only wants Sirius, who is nice to him. He wants Sirius.

She slaps him again, this one stinging more than the last. “Say it!”

“I won’t be tricked into sin!” He shouts through his tears. He just wants her to go away. Go away, go away, go away.

“Stuttering is sin, crying is sin, being weak is sin. If I catch you crying again, I’ll be forced to punish you. Clean up before dinner. You don’t get help this time.”

She leaves him a sobbing mess in his chair, wishing everyone but Sirius away as he holds his burning cheek in his chubby hand. He wonders through his tears what he has to do to get a television mother. In the haze of pain, only one thing sticks out:

“I will not be tricked into sin.”

“I’m not tricking you, Regulus.” Mrs. Potter murmurs, eyes sad and soft and confusing.

“Did you do this to Sirius, too? Or only me, because I’ve been a nuisance?” Regulus demands, clutching his book so tightly he has the absurd thought that his fingers might just bust through it if he doesn’t relax. But his hands never really did listen to him. “Are you afraid I’ll betray you? I won’t; I’ve learned my lesson.” He promises, unable to stop the flood of words from his mouth. All he can think about is sharp nails and sharper voices.

“I’m not-”

“I’ve been good, haven’t I? I’ve been good,” Regulus gasps, heart racing and throat constricting and mind muddled with the mantra of ‘I will not be tricked into sin’ carved into his bones. “I’ve been good, I’ve been good, I will not be tricked into sin, I’ve been good-”

“Regulus- Regulus, you need to breathe. Stop it, Regulus, you need to breathe—take a seat, dear, come, take a seat.” There are hands guiding him, pressing into his skin. They’re gone as soon as they come, and his own hands press into the soft red cushion beneath him. He’s gasping for air, coming up utterly empty like all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room within seconds. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t even see. Oh, he can’t even see, everything is blurry and tilting and then the hand is back, grabbing his and pressing it into a chest.

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, trying to follow the rise and fall. It’s hard to think, it’s hard to do much of anything. Regulus can’t breathe, but the hand provides an anchor, it gives him something to grasp at, it gives him something to anchor himself with.

Slowly, Regulus feels his throat relax, letting small slivers of air through, letting him breathe.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for his breathing to even out, but Mrs. Potter stays the whole time. Long enough for Regulus to be mortified when he discovers it’s her, and long enough for him to breathe through that panic, too.

“You’re alright, Regulus. I’m sorry for scaring you. I don’t really know what happened, but I’d never trick you.” Mrs. Potter murmurs, like speaking above a whisper might trigger Regulus all over again. “You’re safe here, do you know that? It’s important that you know that, Regulus. Nothing can touch you here.”

She speaks the words that Regulus has been longing to hear for his entire life so easily—as if they’re nothing more than simple fact. Nothing can touch you here. Like it’s easy. Like as long as she says it, it has to be true. She just tried to trick him, but now she promises no harm will come to him. Or did she try to trick him? If she did, why did Sirius not get in more trouble? Has she only tried with him, because he tried to run away and she was worried he’d embarrass them further? Should he embarrass them further so that she might send him home, no matter the cost? Why would Sirius not warn him?

Regulus doesn’t know. There’s nothing scarier than not knowing.

When he speaks, his voice comes out far too shaky for his liking. “If you claim you would never trick me, why would you ask me about gardening and cooking?”

Slowly, Mrs. Potter moves her hands towards Regulus’ grabbing it where he’d left it pressed against her heart, feeling the steady beat beneath his palm. He’s scared she might break it, but he can’t get his hand to work to pull away. She smiles at him, as if she’s so pure and kind she’s never looked at anyone any other way. “I thought you might take a liking to it. I have a feeling. Why else would I ask?”

“Because you’re trying to deceive me.” Regulus mutters, staring into her eyes and hoping to find any answer to her behaviour—any at all. “You want me to admit to sin so that you can punish me.”

She looks genuinely confused once Regulus says this, as if it’s unfathomable. “Cooking and gardening?” She asks, as if trying to clarify that he’s talking about something else.

Regulus nods, searching and searching.

“You think cooking and gardening is a sin.”

“I know it is. It’s a peasant’s work.” She has money—the Potters have a lot of money, just not as much as the Blacks. It’s why Regulus didn’t really see too much issue in her interest in the crafts. He knows it’s available for her, but it’s always been that forbidden fruit for him.

“Regulus, anyone can cook and garden if they so choose. Some—myself included—even find joy in it. I swear on the lives of everyone in this house, I’m not deceiving you nor trying to. I simply think you might find enjoyment in it, if you’d try.” Mrs. Potter says, and the only thing Regulus comes up with is how annoyingly sincere she is.

“No, thank you.” Regulus says anyway, just to be safe.

She doesn’t seem very pleased with the answer, but the only indication is a slight purse of her lips. “Well, Sirius tells me you have a talent for music. Viola, was it?”

“Violin,” Regulus mutters. The mention of his instrument sparks a chord of longing in his chest like no other, wound tight from so long without touching it. Oh, how his fingers long to dance across the fingerboard again.

“That’s a lovely instrument. Although, I hear it’s very hard to play. Sirius claims you’re the best, though I’m not sure I believe him—he likes to spin tales.” She laughs softly, thumb running back and forth against the back of his hand. “I had a friend who played violin. Oh, she was awful, it was like nails on a chalkboard when she would grab it.” She shudders. “I’m afraid she scared me away from the instrument. Would you say you’re any good?”

Regulus practically scoffs in her face. Any good. Regulus isn’t haughty—he knows there are things to learn forevermore, techniques and styles—but he’s not one to be falsely humble. He’s talented, and he knows it. He’s played for almost his entire life, and he doesn’t see the point in selling himself short for appearances. Regulus took to the violin with the same ease he took with blinking. It was almost natural for it to fit in his hands and for the bow to slot into his fingers like it was specifically crafted for his touch. That may be because it was, but there are not many liberties to be taken with such a fragile instrument.

He enjoyed the way it grew with him. It felt like an accomplishment when he was asked to stick his arm out and touch the scroll, especially when he was handed a larger violin to compensate for the distance. He remembers how pleased he was when he completed his journey, holding his 4/4 violin like it was precious. It’s stayed with him since he was handed it at twelve. It’s the one in his case now; it may have undergone string changes and a few mishaps, but it’s been with him longer than anyone else has, really. He takes comfort in the fact that it’s the one thing that cannot leave him for any reason.

Good is an understatement for his abilities, and the fact that Mrs. Potter doubts even that lights a fire inside of him. “I would say I have a great talent for it, Mrs. Potter.” Regulus says, even though he really wants to ask her if she’s good at absolutely anything that isn’t cooking and being an overall nuisance.

“Well, I’m sure you would,” she hums, with that tone that Regulus has seen taken with children spinning wild fantasies as truth. It lights that familiar spark inside of him. That one that screams to be challenged, to be underestimated where he knows he is not. Regulus knows his abilities. To hear someone so blatantly condescend to him is so infuriating he can hardly stand it.

“I am.” Regulus corrects harshly, tearing away from her. “I am very talented. I have used the instrument for my whole fucking life. I would know if I was shit, and I am definitely not.” Belatedly, he adds “pardon my tongue.”

Mrs. Potter looks like she wants to laugh again, and it’s enough to make Regulus stand, fury pumping through his veins with his blood until he can hardly stand it.

“If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you. Come. I’m nothing like your stupid friend, I can tell you that for certain.” Regulus demands, stomping off and leading them all the way through the house. The journey does nothing to calm his anger, mind blank as he enters his room to grab his violin, and then heads for the music room he knows they have. He’d found it while exploring the house around the time he first came. It’s stunning, but he hadn’t really let himself look, too afraid he might break down when the move was still fresh. Too afraid he might give in to temptation.

He doesn’t really look now, either, unpacking his violin with the ease of familiarity and going through the motions without even thinking. He pretty much blinks and is sounding the E-string, perfectly in tune, just as he knows the rest of them are.

Some part of Regulus shifts when he finally feels his instrument in his hands again. A string that had been holding him so tightly suddenly snapping and providing instant relief. He can feel the wave traveling throughout his entire body, reaching even his hands as they finally relax for the first time since he came here. He relaxes, as his fingers position themselves instinctually. For the first time since he came to Britain, he feels genuinely alive. He feels like he belongs; the air thins to filter easier to his lungs, the floor shifts to accommodate his weight, the world perfects its spin.

Why would he ever deny himself something so right? He can’t think of it now, as he meets Mrs. Potter’s eyes and thinks of his piece—one of those that sounds and looks difficult to the untrained ear, but is quite easy in reality. He has a point to prove, and damn if he won’t prove it. He knows he’s good—he hardly needs Mrs. Potter's approval, really—but he’d like to watch her eat her words.

When the bow moves, and his fingers dance, Regulus is finally at peace with himself. His melodies fill the air, and they’re sweet and intense in all of the right ways. He quickly loses himself in the tune, giving all of his focus to the way he has to shift and press. All there is is the smooth glide of the bow against the strings, and the shake of his hand on vibrato. The entire world melts away in an instant, and Regulus missed the feeling. It’s addicting; it’s a breath of fresh air after drowning for so long. It’s free of the stress of any language, it’s free of suspicion and tense silences, it’s free of name and title and responsibility.

Regulus loves playing the violin because there are no rules—not really. He can play as horribly as he wants, he can play fast or slow or intense or romantic. Playing feels like flying after being tethered to the ground with chains. It’s the one thing he can’t be bad at, it’s the one thing that’s just for him. Even in Grimmauld, the music room was his space. It was soundproof and had so many instruments—it was the one place his mother wouldn’t invade. It was his only indulgence, the only pleasure they allowed him. It was everything to him, especially after Sirius left. It was the one thing that stuck with him as he grew, as he changed, as he got mean. His violin didn’t care. The music room didn’t care. The room didn’t care if he played with so much passion he broke a string or if he played slow, mournful melodies. The room didn’t care if he couldn’t hit the perfect pitch after shifting, or if he hit it so perfectly he had to stop for a second and marvel in the surge of pride.

Music has always been judgement free for him, mostly because he’s never played for anyone but himself. It’s always felt too scary—like baring his entire soul and depositing it in hands, unsure what they would do with it. The closest he’s ever gotten was letting Pandora and Evan inside of the music room, letting them tap and pluck on various instruments as he played along with his violin. But he wouldn’t play alone. That was the one thing he refused—that was the one thing that has always only been his. Sirius heard, tutors too, but only because he was always in the room when he was learning, and they had to teach him. Once he was old enough, and actually good, Sirius had been banished and tutors were fired by his father for being a ‘useless expenditure’ because he already knew how to play it, what else was there to learn.

Regulus doesn’t think until the final note is fading out, and he’s lifting his bow.

Not until he’s suddenly, viscerally aware that he’s just played in front of Mrs. Potter. A woman he barely knows.

He’s drowning again. Paralyzed with fear as he lowers his violin, holding it by the neck. She’s crying. Surely he wasn’t that bad. Why would she cry, when Regulus just bared his soul to her? He should be crying. He’s pretty sure he will, once he’s alone. He just played in front of Mrs. Potter. His thing. It’s ruined. It’s ruined, and Mrs. Potter has seen all of him, and she’s going to go running. Regulus would go running if some random boy he had to take in played the violin at him, with far too many emotions for the relationship. He was just accusing her of setting him up, and then she goaded him into playing for her. He was so blinded by his anger at the slight to his abilities that he’d only been able to think about proving her wrong. He hadn’t seen past that.

He has the brief, hysterical thought that he might have to kill her. She knows far too much, and when that happens there’s only one logical option.

Regulus is trying not to pass out, when she breaks the silence. “Oh my God,” she says, in English, probably too appalled to speak his tongue. “Oh my God,” again. His mother would scold her for taking the Lord’s name in vain, especially twice. “Regulus…”

Say literally anything, Regulus begs her silently, thoughts a jumbled mess of aimless desperation. Look away. Close your eyes. Tell me you won’t leave. Walk out, and pretend that didn’t happen. Tell me it’s okay. Get out. Hug me.

She switches clumsily back to French, clearly trying to find words. “That…This is- you are everything. This is your calling, Regulus, this is huge. I have never- I have never seen something like that in my life. You’ve found your spark, I don’t know how else to say it.” She says, eyes wide and hands reaching out but not touching. “Can I- oh, can I hug you, darling?”

Darling. One word, two syllables, and it’s enough to break through every single one of his walls. He nods, and she crashes into him, holding him like he’s precious and unreal. Like she’s trying to pass on some of her warmth to him. He can’t hold her back, hands still clutching his instrument and bow, and he’s probably getting rosin on her dress, but it doesn’t seem like she cares at all.

He relaxes into her, feeling like all of his strings have been cut abruptly. Some small part of him—that part that will always be five and seven and eleven, sings, because this is a television mother hug. This is everything that Regulus has ever longed for in his life, every time he’s stared at his mother and begged her silently to hug him, just once, so that he’d know what it felt like. It’s every time Regulus walked by and watched mothers at parks scold their children lightly and pull them into a tight, giggling hug, while his dug her nails into his arm and told him he couldn’t play, because he might get dirty, and an heir could never be dirty. It’s every time he cried in front of her, wishing she would comfort him, and instead she scoffed and slapped him.

Mrs. Potter holds Regulus like he’s never been held before, and it’s magical and terrifying and everything that Regulus wants, but it’s so fucking wrong.

She’s not his mother; she’s some random woman. She shouldn’t be holding him like this, she shouldn’t be holding him like he’s a miracle reincarnate, she shouldn’t be touching him at all. He has a mother. She calls sometimes to scold and threaten him because that’s her way of showing that she cares. Regulus has a mother, and she’s not all nice, but she’s still his mother. Just because she’s absent doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist. Just because she shows it differently doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him.

Mrs. Potter is completely oblivious to the way she makes Regulus want to tear his skin off. “I see it now, this is it for you, Regulus. This is your thing, I’m so proud of you for finding it. Are you enrolled in lessons? Music programs? What did Monty put you in? Our school has great music programs—they can take you far.”

I’m so proud of you.

I’m so proud of you.

The words his mother has kept away from his ears like uttering them might kill her on the spot, Mrs. Potter speaks like an easy truth. Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, fearing that he might burst into tears if he doesn’t. He hates this—he really, really hates this. He feels ripped open and raw in the worst way, like he’s given and given and given unwillingly, receiving nothing in return. Like he’s revealed his hand too early in the game, having no leverage and no power. He feels powerless, and there’s nothing Regulus has been taught to fear more than losing his power.

He tears away jerkily, trying to think and coming up blank. He has no power, how does he regain power? He needs his power. He needs to speak. He needs to deny—what, he doesn’t know. He needs to pull away, he needs to scream, he needs to leave.

But he can’t do any of these things. Throughout it all, his feet stay firmly planted on the ground, and his mouth remains shut. That part of him that wants this so desperately he shakes with it, that part of him that cries and begs and reaches out, needs this. It needs to feel wanted, it needs to feel the gentle touch of any mother, even if it isn’t his. He can’t move, because he knows as soon as he does, he’ll never feel this again. He stands there, hopelessly grasping for that feeling to catch it like a firefly, cataloging every point of contact in his mind so that he might be able to recreate it. He stands there, pathetically memorizing the weight of her hand on his back and the sweet smell of her perfume and the press of her cheek against his curls. He stands there, trying not to cry even though his hands are shaking so hard that he’s worried he might drop his violin, and Mrs. Potter can very likely feel it, and he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t move. He knows he will have to, after she leaves.

The minutes stack and stack higher, and neither of them move. It could be hours, days, or merely a few minutes, Regulus isn’t sure. The only thing he’s sure of is that she’s probably one of those people that refuses to pull back from hugs first, so it’s going to have to be him—but every time he tells himself he’s going to do it, his eyes start to burn again and his hands shake harder.

I have a mother, I have a mother, I have a mother, Regulus chants to himself, but his mother has never hugged him. He’s never felt the all-encompassing safety of his mother’s arms. His mother gave birth, handed him off to a nanny, and didn’t see him again until he was potty-trained and could walk. His mother has never touched him like he was something to be proud of. His mother isn’t even here. She’s not even here.

Mrs. Potter’s arms make him miss his mother, even though he doesn’t really have anything to miss. He turns around every memory he has, desperate to find just one in which she showed him softness. Surely, in sixteen years, she has done something. She’s looked at him with a softness in her eyes, or spoken gently when he was scared, or even just been with him while he cried. Anything.

But she hasn’t, and that’s what breaks him. Because here is a woman who has shown him so much kindness, even when he’s done everything but spit directly into her face, who has spoken softly and embraced him despite it all. He’s tried so hard, for his entire life, to be good, and loyal, and responsible, just to get her to notice him, and she’s never even looked at him with anything that could be misconstrued as care.

Why? What does she earn, watching him tear himself apart for her approval? What does she lose, if she dares to truly look at him? Why does she treat affection like an impossible prize to serve only as incentive? What does he have inside of him that makes him so unlovable except by strangers? Why can she only look at him and see an heir, an object, a formality? Why does she treat her mere approval like a finite resource only to be given when absolutely necessary?

Regulus breaks, and that’s the push he needs to step back from Mrs. Potter. He feels something in him just snap, setting a thousand things loose inside of him that eat away at his muscle and his bone and his heart. “Go, please,” he manages, almost crying out when she actually does, because with her touch goes all of the warmth and all of the protection.

She looks at him, and she knows. She fucking knows, she fucking knows. She knows he can hardly breathe and his eyes sting and his hands are shaking. She knows, she knows, she knows. “You have something special inside of you, Regulus. I hope you let it out some day.” She says, and Regulus about fucking loses it. “The walls are soundproof, if you ever want to play in here. You’re always welcome—nobody else uses it.” She tells him softly, and Regulus gets it, he so gets it. He gets why Sirius latched onto her and he realizes why he chose her over him and he realizes how unworthy he is of her love.

She leaves, giving him a meaningful look over her shoulder before she leaves. She leaves, and she shuts the door, and that’s when Regulus lets his tears fall.

He doesn’t sob, he doesn’t scream, he just lowers himself to the floor, sets his violin in his lap, and lets the tears fall.

The heartbreak he feels is too monumental for sobbing. It feels like a shockwave that disrupts the entire rotation of the Earth, like something in the foundation of life just—cracks. Shatters.

His mother doesn’t love him. Regulus’ mother doesn’t love him, she probably never will love him, and nothing really changes. Regulus implodes in on himself, just like his namesake will eventually, and nothing really changes.

***

Sirius scoffs, glaring up at James from where he has his head propped up on his lap, sprawling on his bed and arguing with him about absolutely nothing, just enjoying the way his eyes light up and he argues back. Sirius could talk to James forever, never stopping, and he’d never get tired. It just feels as though there’s never any shortage of conversation between them. It flows as easily as water through a creek. It’s not all of substance, it’s not always lighthearted, but there’s always something to be talked about between them, and that’s what Sirius thinks makes them fit so well together.

“Really, Sirius, you can hardly talk, you know.”

“I can talk, actually—in two languages, fluently, nonetheless.” Sirius retorts, grinning widely. His cheeks hurt with the effort of smiling for so long, and he never wants it to dull. “And I’m equally qualified to speak on the subject, seeing as I have eaten my fair share of cereal in my lifetime.”

“Oh, come off it. You didn’t even know what cereal was until you were like, twelve-”

“Eleven-”

“And what was your first thought, Paddington Boy?” James demands, grinning even as he glares, “I remember; you told me, you said—and I quote—’I thought it was soup, mate,’.”

“And then I learned. It’s an entirely separate thing. You don’t mix cereal together, you stupid fucking prick, so why would it be a bloody soup?”

“You do, technically, if you think about it! You put the cereal in the bowl, and pour the milk, and it’s mixed! Two things, one bowl—mixed.”

Sirius reaches up, miming strangling his best mate with his hands, “you don’t. You know what else you don’t do to cereal, that you always do to soup? Fucking cook it. Have you ever seen anyone, in the history of humanity, cook cereal?” He demands, with much more passion than he knows is likely appropriate for the situation. He didn’t even have an opinion on the question until about five minutes ago, when he’d seen the question posed while scrolling on his phone. He’d promptly asked James his thoughts on the debate—“well, I suppose when you think about it, it’s an odd sort of soup”—to which Sirius decided he had the exact opposite opinion just because he could, and James decided that his answer was the only appropriate one also because he could, thus leading to their heated argument.

“Don’t pretend to strangle me when you’re so utterly wrong it’s deplorable.” James mutters, poking Sirius in the head. “What went wrong in your head, Sirius, at some point in your life, that made you have such a wrong opinion? Were you dropped as a baby?”

“Probably—I don’t think Mrs. Durand liked me very much.” Sirius muses, “she told me I cried far too much and far too loud about a year before she was fired for my fifth birthday.”

“You probably did, you seem like one of those people who would cry a lot as a baby,” James agrees, not addressing the soft sadness Sirius can see in his gaze, which he’s very thankful for. He hates being pitied for his shitty childhood. It’s so uncomfortable when he makes a joke and suddenly everyone gets a sad look in their eyes, mood being ruined in an instant. Makes his skin crawl. He’s so glad that James can see it and move past it. “Either that, or you would’ve laughed a lot. Like, all of the time.”

They settle into soft laughter, letting the moment fall over them like a soft blanket, basking in the feeling of one of those moments where everything just feels right. James starts to braid some of Sirius’ hair, and Sirius relaxes into the gentle, methodical pull on his scalp, staring up at the ceiling and just letting himself feel the moment. Their pretend argument is long forgotten between both of their short attention spans and another topic being introduced.

That is, until it slips away when there’s a soft knock on the door. Neither of them cling or grab at it; they just let it fly away, sure in the way only experience can bring that another will come. Sirius hadn’t ever thought he’d have that, before he left France. With Regulus, he was always holding onto every moment and every soft thing exchanged between them until his fingers were raw and bleeding, because afterwards it would be back to sharp smirks and dead eyes, and there was never a guarantee that it would ever come again.

“Come in,” James prompts loudly, fingers halting.

Effie peeks in, looking a bit worried, a bit dazed. Like she’s a bit unsure whether the world is real or not. “Sirius?” She asks.

Sirius sits up, feeling something heavy settle in his stomach. “It’s Regulus, isn’t it?” He murmurs, feeling that familiar worry and anxiety curling in his gut. He consoles himself with the fact that if it was bad, Effie would be more worried. Beside him, James presses a comforting hand onto his shoulder, squeezing a bit like he needs the anchor, too.

“He’s alright, don’t worry.” She quickly assures him, “but he- he played his violin for me, in the music room, and then I hugged him, and I think there was something big weighing inside of him, and it snapped. I’m just- I’m not sure if he might need you, or not. I don’t know him like you do, so I thought I’d bring it to you.” She says quietly, patting at the front of her dress.

Sirius doesn’t remember getting out of the bed, only that he suddenly is. “He played his violin? For you?” He whispers, sure he’d misheard. Regulus hasn’t played for anyone—well, ever, as far as he knows. Not truly. But Effie has never lied, and she claims that he played it, in front of her. “And then you hugged him?”

“He has a great talent, but I don’t think he meant to play for me. I sort of…” She swallows, like she’s ashamed, “I sort of goaded him into it, a bit. I didn’t think it meant what it did to him, I didn’t know. I thought it might help him to release some of that tension he carries around like armour.”

“Oh, Reggie,” Sirius practically whines, because he knows that there is nothing Regulus hates more than exposing himself—than shedding his armour. He doesn’t wait around after that, saying something that is probably an assurance to Effie before bolting out of the door. He’s pushing open the music room door before he even fully registers his departure. Regulus is there, in the middle of the fancy room, just sitting. His violin and bow are held loosely in his hands, touching the floor like Regulus forgot he was even holding them. He’s staring, blankly, at the floor like he’s looking for something. At Sirius’ entrance, he looks up, gaze empty and cold with something heavy. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, but if there weren’t, it’d be impossible to tell that he’d ever been upset at anything in his life.

“Mother doesn’t love me, does she? She won’t ever love me.” He whispers, blankly, as if describing the weather outside.

Sirius swallows, feeling as though he’s stepped into the water and immediately lost all sense of direction and security, completely helpless and unsure. The easy answer, the one Regulus wants, is ‘of course she does’. That’s the one Sirius has always gone with, in the past, even when he discovered the truth. Reggie was far too gentle to be destroyed by it, and by the time it mattered for him to know, he’d already taken it as gospel. Nothing Sirius had said after that point mattered. Sirius shielded him, and they sunk their claws into him so deeply that Sirius couldn’t reach him anymore. Regulus is asking because he wants Sirius to tell him she does. He’s vulnerable, and upset—devastated—and all he wants is to be secure in the knowledge that his own mother loves him.

The hard answer, the one Regulus needs, is ‘no, she doesn’t’.

Sirius flails in the depths of this conversation. “Regulus,”

“Tell me the truth, and don’t- don’t lie, please.”

Sirius swallows, walking forward and kneeling before his little brother, his everything, his purpose, his life, and he whispers three words that lay like a physical blow between them: “I’m sorry, Regulus.”

Regulus sways, like he’s been punched right in the gut, a terrible, horrible, tiny keening noise escaping from his lips. “I don’t-” But he doesn’t say anything more. It’s everything, all of the things swirling through Regulus’ mind. It’s I don’t understand and I don’t want this and I don’t know how to feel and I don’t know what to do now, and still so much more that falls deaf on Sirius’ ears.

“I still love you. I’ll always love you more than I’ll love anyone, okay? That’s true, too.” Sirius carefully grabs the violin and bow out of his brother’s hands, setting them aside with the care he knows his brother is anal about. “It’s a lot, I know, but you’ll get through it. Don’t close up, talk to me, and we’ll be okay.”

“Not tonight.” Regulus whispers, like the words take effort to push out.

“It doesn’t have to be tonight.” Sirius confirms.

And that’s all there is. A music room, a tentative compromise, and the weight of a realization far too heavy for two boys to carry, though they try anyway.

Chapter Text

Anxiety sits heavy in Regulus’ gut at all hours, now. It’s as present as the push and pull of air moving through his lungs, as the steady presence of the floor beneath his feet. He feels off-kilter, and he has ever since the music room. The knowledge that nothing he could ever do would be enough for his mother settles a heavy weight on his shoulders, only lifted when Sirius meets him and carries a bit of it for him. Not even the vibration of his violin can expel it for long.

Despite it all, he still finds himself hoping to please her, hoping to take any scraps of affection she’s willing to give like a homeless dog, uncaring how many times it gets kicked if in the end there’s always a bit of food waiting for him.

She called yesterday—the usual expectations and threats and such—and Regulus spent the whole time choking on the I love you beating against his teeth. He wants to ask her, why don’t you love me? She told him about the upcoming semester and what he was to do to prepare as it’s so close now, and all he wanted to scream was love me, love me, love me.

But he won’t. He’s much too afraid of the answer to ever build up the courage. He’s too scared of being denied. Regulus has decided that since his mind will no longer let him deny it, he just has to pretend it doesn’t bother him. So what, his mother doesn’t love him? He’s an heir to the House of Black. He hardly needs love to fulfill his responsibility, not when he has plenty of money at his disposal.

It hasn’t worked, yet; he hasn’t stopped longing in the late hours of the night for a mother he will never have, he hasn’t stopped the envy from surging inside of him when he watches Mrs. Potter kiss her son on the forehead, love painfully palpable between them.

He spends most of his afternoons either in the reading nook or sitting by the pool, legs dipped inside of the clear water and staring like it might reveal answers. Mrs. Potter brings lemonade and he doesn’t object, because he can’t find a reason to. Regulus hates that he’s almost growing fond of her. He hates that warmth that grows inside of him when she’s near, and the childish wonder inside of him knowing that ‘television mothers’ are real, and the bitter sting in the fact that he just doesn’t have one. But it’s not like she’d leave him alone even without the excuse; he’s found that the Potters are annoyingly persistent like that. She doesn’t linger, at least, seeming to know exactly where, when, and how far to push before retreating. He can’t say the same for one particular Potter, though.

“Oi, Regulus!”

Speak of the devil. Potter Boy comes out of the sliding glass doors sporting a stupidly bright smile and obnoxious teal swimming shorts with rainbow fish. God, Regulus hates him. He pushes too far and pushes further, oblivious to any social cues or hints like he gets paid to ignore them. He hates the way he makes rooms brighter and makes everything feel less horrible. There is nothing that agitates Regulus more than someone who is blissfully unaware of the horrors of life—than someone who walks like the weight of the world lies easily on their shoulders.

“Oh, don’t be like that, mate.” Potter Boy scolds lightly at Regulus’ scowl.

“What do you want, Potter Boy?” Regulus asks, already fed up with the conversation.

“I want you to start using my actual name, Black Boy.” Potter Boy quips, settling down and dipping his own feet in the water next to Regulus’. He makes Regulus look translucent when they’re close like this, legs practically touching.

“I want you to leave me alone.”

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” James hums, winking.

“There is no use for fun in the world.” Regulus retorts.

Potter Boy squints at him, playfully exasperated, “what a depressing outlook on life. All these new words you learn, and you can’t make room for a new perspective?” He asks, slipping his glasses off of his face and setting them aside.

“No.” Regulus says, right before Potter Boy tilts himself right into the water, and Regulus has to quickly move back to avoid being soaked by the splash of impact. He scoffs, lamenting the lack of class this boy seems to possess.

He stays underwater for a few seconds, eyes closed, before resurfacing. His mess of hair sticks to his forehead, dripping water as he grins maniacally. “Fuck, it’s cold,” he hisses. Regulus tears his eyes away from where he was watching a drop of water fall down his unfairly-defined back.

“Yes, perhaps you should have thought of that.”

Potter Boy shrugs, letting himself fall back into the water a bit. “Perhaps,” he mocks, “but life is boring without risk.” A sentiment Regulus could not agree less with. No risk means no danger, which means safety. It makes sense that someone as simple as Potter Boy wouldn’t grasp that, as the complex idea of future consequences is far too much for him to comprehend. The most risk Regulus is comfortable taking is dipping his feet back into the pool.

“Safe isn’t boring.” Regulus mutters.

“Debatable.” Potter Boy chuckles, “you’re too young to act so old.”

Regulus pins him with a glare. “I don’t act old. I have sense.”

“Okay, grandpa.” Potter Boy laughs again, so bright and bubbly. His eyes are brighter than Regulus has seen on anyone in his entire life, and not just because of the sun’s reflection in them. They’re bright with the kind of joy and placid light that most lose as they age. Or, in cases like Regulus’, probably never had. It’s remarkable, in a way, that this boy has managed to stay soft in a world that’s all sharp edges and danger. Regulus wants to look into his mind and find what he has that almost nobody else does. What his secret is.

The sun is bright, shining down there with the dual threat of a kiss or burn. Regulus supposes that’s the thrill of it. The water shines brightly, rippling where Potter Boy wades through, bright blue and dazzling in afternoon light. For an hour, almost into two, Regulus forgets all about mothers and anxieties and expectations. He doesn’t get in the water, much too afraid to drown in it, but he entertains himself with light bickering and that spike of agitation in his stomach when Potter Boy opens his stupid mouth to spout something stupider. If he was braver, stronger, someone else, he would admit to enjoying the way Potter Boy’s muscles flex, and the water pools and slips down his back when he comes up from a dive.

But he’s Regulus Black, and he’s not brave, or strong, or someone else.

He’s Regulus Black, and much too afraid to explore what it might mean that he has these feelings for a boy. He’s much too afraid, even though he knows his mother doesn’t love him, to do something irreparable. Something like that would be grounds for being disowned, in his family. Conversion camps, if he’s lucky. It would never stand for a Black heir to be homosexual.

He’s Regulus Black, and in the threat of losing everything, he’s willing to do anything. He’s far too close to the edge to take another step.

Not yet.

***

“Keep your hand on the trolley, Regulus.” Sirius says, with laughable seriousness. James, trailing closely behind with his parents, can’t help but grin at the scene.

“I’m not a child—I won’t run off again.” Regulus mutters, but his hands stay firmly on the trolley. He walks like he’s carrying books on his head; his posture is so refined and almost stiff that it looks out of place in a convenience store. Or, really, anywhere that isn’t a ballroom or otherwise fancy establishment. He’s wearing a pristine black collared shirt and trousers, silver watch and shoes likely worth more than James really wants to guess. It’s a bit of an odd sight, because he’s dressed up while the rest of them are all in casual t-shirts, jeans, and in Sirius’ case, a hoodie.

“Well, you clearly cannot be trusted to make good decisions, can you? Stores and cars, you’re always making a fast exit.” Sirius says pointedly, grabbing two packs of multi-coloured pens. “So, hand on the trolley.”

Regulus rolls his eyes, and James’ dad snorts. They’re school shopping, which is usually a relatively quick deal, but the brothers make everything take twice as long because they bicker so much. They’ve already gotten into two arguments—one about pen brands, the other on folders—and nearly torn each other’s hair out. It’s entertaining, but it’s also nearing one in the afternoon and James hasn’t eaten since seven this morning. He’s bloody starving, so not much is funny at the moment.

It’s barely another few seconds before Sirius grabs an emerald green binder and holds it out to Regulus for inspection, “thoughts?”

“And prayers, if you think you will catch me carrying that.” Regulus retorts. “The black one.”

Sirius groans so loudly that a woman perusing the aisle as well glances over. James’ mum rubs his shoulder, suppressing a laugh. Monty doesn’t hide his at all. “You need a pop of colour in your life, Reggie! Everything is black, black, black, you’re going to go colourblind if you never use your bloody eyes to look at anything that isn’t grayscale.”

“I don’t know what half of those words mean.” Regulus scoffs. “I don’t need colour; I need respect, power, and for you to shut the fuck up.”

“I could just throttle you, right now,” Sirius grumbles petulantly.

“Do it, whatever that means.” Regulus dares, reaching out to grab a black binder for himself. James just wishes he had popcorn, or a snack, or a sweet—practically anything. He’s about to start gnawing on the cardboard of the pen package. Sirius stands down, still grumbling under his breath, but he tosses James the binder with a wink, and James dutifully catches it. This could’ve been over so long ago—really it could’ve been in and out extremely quickly, but Regulus is pompous and wants everything high-class and expensive—pens, for fifty pounds, they’d better write the essays for him costing that much—and Sirius has to keep reminding him that things are different here, and guide him towards a compromise. It doesn’t help that Sirius refuses to speak French with him, either, claiming that this is perfect opportunity for him to exercise his English outside of the home, and more that James didn’t care to listen for. “You should have more decorum in public.”

“Who taught you that word? I did not teach you that word.” Sirius demands, narrowing his eyes. It’s fitting that a word like that would become so out-of-place in Sirius’ vocabulary that he would snag onto it. Everything about Sirius Black defies decorum.

Regulus, ignoring him, reaches for another item when Sirius stops him, “Reggie, be serious.”

“It’s a planner!”

“It’s a hundred pounds! The Potters have money, but not enough to be spending it like you’re used to.” Sirius explains, and it’s true. James’ dad owns a large cosmetics company, contributing more than enough passive income to the household—enough for his parents to retire today and still be set for life, as well as a sizable inheritance to James and his potential children—and there’s also whatever financial gigs he can get on the side. His mum used to work as a nurse—and a damn good one—but she decided to take a step back to care for James after her difficult pregnancy with him, and she simply decided that she was much happier watching him grow up than working. With all of the money they have, it’s absolutely no problem. However, Sirius has had to warn him that Regulus is used to a much more frivolous lifestyle, seeing as if the Potters are loaded, the Blacks are fucking loaded.

James didn’t get it at first; he’s had incomprehensible wealth since he could remember, how could someone be used to spending more?

Now, he gets it.

“I hate broke people.” Regulus sighs, patting down his trousers like being in the very air of a convenience store is tainting him. Sirius smacks him on the head, but doesn’t speak. Regulus glares at him, then up at the sky. “Sure, take my home, my brother, my friends, my life, and my planner. Take it all. What’s the use in planning a life I no longer have?”

“You’re so dramatic. It’s a planner. There are ones that do the exact same thing for less.”

“Back in France, I could’ve had an entire island if I argued for it well. Now, I buy the broke person’s planner and do my own shopping.” Regulus bemoans, like he’s undergoing torture, staring mournfully at the planner—thick and heavy leather, pristine black with gold accents. James snickers, just a bit, at the sheer absurdity. He’s only seen the level of arrogance in exaggerated movies and shows. “I hate England.”

“Tu sais ce que tu faisais d'autre en France? Mourir de faim. Ayez de la chance qu'on ne fasse pas ça ici, et montre un peu de reconnaissance.” Sirius mutters, something low and threatening in the way he stares at Regulus.

“Pas encore.” Regulus retorts, clenching his jaw. “Je dirais que j'en suis assez proche.”

”Jamais, Reggie.” Something flashes in Sirius’ eyes, too quick to name before it’s concealed again, and then he’s reaching up and patting Regulus’ curls softly, completely changing his demeanor in a second. “I’ll buy you the bloody planner, fuck.”

Regulus’ lips quirk a bit, something passing between the brothers that clearly isn’t for James or his parents’ understanding.

Sirius grabs the planner, smiling like nothing happened, and tosses it into the cart. “That’s it, then.”

James sighs in relief, “Sirius, I could kiss you, mate.”

Sirius laughs, coming back to punch him in the shoulder, “go on, then.”

“Moony would have my head.”

James realises that was the wrong thing to say when Sirius’ face gets soft, a sigh escaping his lips, “oh, Moony,”

Regulus gags. Very loudly.

Sirius side-eyes him. “I’ll remember that when you fall in love.”

“That will never happen.” Regulus scoffs, as if he’s just been told there are pigs flying outside at this very moment. He sounds so sure, that it makes James curious. He’s never heard anyone swear off love so vehemently yet casually. As if insisting that the grass is green. Granted, James has been raised in an environment where love is infinite and spending it is free, so he’s never seen an absence of love. Still, though, it grabs his attention. “I hate all people. I have too many responsibilities and no time to fall in love.”

“Love has no timeline.”

“That’s what Pandora says,” Regulus shrugs, “I’m confident I can beat those odds. Marriages do not need love, anyway.”

Sirius sighs, eyes flickering again. “We’re talking about that later.”

“I’d rather we didn’t.” Regulus mumbles, pulling his sleeves down in an elegant, precise motion.

“Well, what can you do,” Sirius winks at him, then looks back at them again. “Same place, right?”

“Yup.” Effie responds, smiling softly like she always does. James loves his mum.

Regulus watches them, eyes sharp and calculating, wordlessly judging and thinking. It’s a bit awkward, because he never really makes an effort to join in, so James always feels observed, as if he’s on a show and every gesture is seen and focused on, every laugh torn apart and analysed. It feels rather like he’s got a constant audience following him.

It’s better when they’re alone, because at least then Regulus speaks—even if it begins with Potter Boy and ends with an insult almost every time. James doesn’t really mind, because at least he contributes instead of watching him like he’s an animal inside of an exhibit. He likes the way Regulus’ eyes shine and flash when they speak, and the way his mouth curls around his words like they’re chosen and spoken with care.

The Regulus that is soft beneath the white-blue glow of moonlight is almost completely different from the Regulus that walks the halls of James’ home like he’s expecting the floor to fall from beneath him any moment, and the one that stands spine-straight in public like it’s instinct. James much prefers the one that doesn’t always seem like he’s trying to run away from himself. He hasn’t seen it in a while, so long that the memories are getting a bit fuzzy and blurry around the edges, and he makes a mental note to visit the rooftop again.

When they eat, Regulus sits across from him, and there are so many unexplained things about him, so many things that James desperately wants to know. He wants to know why he feels the need to hold his forks so properly, and why he rearranges his silverware before he does, and he wants to know what has Regulus so tense, and why he keeps his gaze firmly on his plate the entire time. James knows enough from Sirius to be aware that most of Regulus’ mannerisms are just his upbringing, but James wants to hear Regulus’ take. He wants to develop that intrinsic knowledge of his behaviour that comes from truly knowing a person.

Regulus Black is a damn good mystery, and James is sure that he’ll be an even better one solved.

When they finally arrive home, Regulus thanks James’ mum and dad for the meal quietly and then stalks upstairs, and Sirius starts following him. Before he can really think about it, James is blurting out “wait!”

Both brothers turn at the same time, one pinning him with a hard glare, while the other flashes him a grin. James appreciates the sight of both, even if Regulus’ response makes him a bit nervous. James knows that they spend a lot of time bonding, as Sirius cryptically put it, which for all James knows could entail playing games and whatever or tearing each other’s hair out. Sirius is tight-lipped on the subject, citing that their relationship is so complicated, so tense, that he doesn’t want to share it with anyone else for fear of shattering it. James is respectful of that, of course, but he needs to talk to Sirius.

James chuckles awkwardly, glancing around to unfortunately find his parents having made a quick exit, leaving him all alone. “Sorry, just Sirius. Or- well, you could come too, if you want, I just don’t know if you care, y’know.”

“I don’t care.” Regulus replies monotonously, as if even being asked is some grave annoyance. He turns to move back up the steps, but Sirius grabs his arm.

“Reggie,” Sirius says, as if trying to convey hidden meaning in the name.

“I already shopped and ate with them!”

“Reggie.”

Regulus sighs, muttering something under his breath. Both of them come down the stairs, to James’ shock and mild horror. He wasn’t exactly planning on Regulus actually being there, because when he’s around Sirius almost always gives in to whatever he wants, and James doesn’t want that to happen this time. However, can he even call himself a man if he can’t manage to persuade Regulus Black? He likes a challenge, is what he tells himself, swallowing before he enters the sitting room. He thinks he can almost see a smirk on Regulus’ face when he looks back to see him staring, but it’s gone before he can really tell.

“What’s up, Prongs?” Sirius asks, lowering himself on the sofa easily.

James clears his throat, overtly aware of Regulus’ silent commanding presence in the room. The kind that comes from having unthinkable power and money, and knowing it. He carries the haughty atmosphere around with him like armour. James can feel his stare like tiny pinpricks on his skin. The way it looks him up and down, from the mess of his hair to the casual arch of his back in his chair, analysing all of it. It makes focusing rather difficult, if he’s honest. It’s even worse, because it feels like he’s the only one who really notices or cares. “Well, you know that school is starting up soon,”

Sirius’ eyes light up. “Campfire Night.”

“Campfire Night.” Regulus repeats dully. He’s next to Sirius with his arms crossed a bit petulantly, and James is making an effort to avoid really looking at him, afraid he might lose track of his thoughts.

“Exactly.” James grins, “Campfire Night. I mean, we’re still doing it tomorrow, right? I’ve got the guys, girls are pending.”

“Obviously we’re still doing it, Prongs.” Sirius assures him. “Reggie can meet the guys—and girls, if they show.”

“I do not remember agreeing to that.” Regulus grumbles. “I don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“It’s our tradi- it’s our thing. Before school starts, we all get together and have a campfire in the woods out back. We sleep there and everything.” Sirius explains, gesturing a bit wildly with his hands, like he’s trying to convey his meaning through them instead of his words.

“Your thing. Not my thing.”

Sirius rolls his eyes playfully, “what’s mine is yours. You actually don’t have a choice in the matter; you’re going.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t care about your friends or your traditions. I’m not going.” Regulus says, body going tense. “You can’t make me, either.” He hisses, right before he gets up and storms out of the room, once again muttering in French.

Sirius watches him go with thinly veiled affection, almost bloody smiling, as if his brother didn’t just storm out of the room at the insinuation that he would meet his friends. Siblings, apparently. James is almost glad he doesn’t have them; they don’t seem to make much sense at all.

“Are you not going to follow him?” James asks.

Sirius shoots him an odd grin, like James is completely missing something. “Nah, he’s just in a strop, he’ll get over it—he always does.”

“Is he going to come?” James asks, unsure which answer he really wants to hear.

“Obviously. I just need to work my magic on him, and he’ll agree.” Sirius winks. Then, he gets more somber, “do you think Moony might be a bit cross with me? For sort-of brushing him off all summer?” He seems to lose all of his easy bravado, eyebrows coming together in nervous concern.

“No, mate. He knows how you are about your family, especially Regulus. I’m sure he gets it—if it helps, he’s only ever talked about you when asking if you’re doing alright and such. Honestly, he’s trying to make me a bloody carrier-pigeon; keeps trying to get me to communicate his love and yearning or whatever.” James chuckles. “I told him to tell you himself, because I am no man’s carrier-pigeon.”

Sirius laughs, cheeks flushing. “Shut up, Prongs. I’ll talk to him at the campfire. Explain more, apologise, whatever. Anyway, you said the girls were pending?”

James notices the way Sirius shifts the conversation so easily, so casually, from the topic like he’s getting paid for it. He can recognize when Sirius doesn’t want to speak about something anymore, so he lets him. “Well, Marls is in America, not sure when she’s getting back, she says. Er, Mary is visiting family down south, Lily is…” James thinks for a second, trying to remember all of their responses, “I think she’s just with her family, but you know how they are.”

Sirius nods. “They haven’t given any firm answers?”

“Nope.” James shrugs, “but Moony and Wormtail are definitely coming, and I’m pretty sure Lils will probably show up, if not the rest.”

“Ugh, I can’t wait.” Sirius groans, “I hate and love it. Hate, because it means school, but I love it because it’s- well, it’s Campfire Night.” He says, as if it has some grand meaning to him. Like it’s something special, something only he truly knows the gravity of. James is always curious, but he knows when not to press. He shoots finger guns at his best friend, laughing as Sirius tosses a pillow at his head.

Campfire Night.

***

“I hate you.” Regulus mutters, swiping at the board.

“I hate you,” Sirius retorts, smiling as he basks in his victory. The words slip off of his tongue almost easily, having lost so much of the weight they used to carry. It’s so freeing to look at his brother and not see all of the ways he failed, but rather the physical manifestation of his efforts. Every time he looks at Regulus without feeling like he might throw up calms something deep in his stomach. Every time he thinks back to just a few weeks ago, when Regulus’ glares had a lot more heat, a lot more resentment. They’ll always hate each other a little bit. It’s the curse of siblings. But they can choose how fierce that hatred is. Hatred can only be born out of intense love, after all, and the line between them is thin and blurry.

Sirius knows he’s going through quite a bit. He’s been sadder recently, since the music room. Carrying around a weight on his shoulders that Sirius thought he’d helped with, only for it to come right back. It’s as if Regulus doesn’t know how to go about without being weighted down. Like a bird so used to being chained to the floor it doesn’t try to fly, even when it’s freed. They were finally getting somewhere—really getting somewhere, instead of just dancing around the problem like they’re so used to doing—and Regulus didn’t flinch when Sirius told him he loved him.

And then: her.

It’s always her. Everything wrong with Sirius, everything wrong with his relationship with his only brother. Fucking Walburga. His father has been worthless and absent his entire life; but she’s the source of it all. God, he fucking hates her. He hates the way she sucks the soul out of his brother, and the way she knows exactly where to press to hurt the most. She has a unique sense for when things in Sirius’ life are going alright, and she always comes right in to shit all over it. Regulus was finally getting better, he was warming up, and then she did her thing, and he’s quiet again.

Sirius just wishes Regulus would listen when he says that they need to cut her out. He just wishes Regulus would hear him out, instead of shutting down every time Sirius tries to start the conversation.

Regulus starts to get up, seeing as their little lesson ended about thirty minutes ago, but Sirius holds up a hand.

“Stay back a minute, Reggie,” He says, because Regulus can push him away a million times and he’ll still keep trying, “how about a film?”

Regulus stares at him. He’s softly illuminated by the setting sun and the few lamps scattered around. They started their lesson a bit late, and then stayed to play chess a while longer, and he’s been trying to work up the nerve to ask Regulus practically the entire time. Sirius can tell he wants to say yes, which either means it’s a good day, or a really shit day. Sirius hasn’t learned to tell the difference, yet, but he’s confident he will. Just the mere thought that he can read even a few of Regulus’ expressions now would’ve sent him into a coma a few weeks ago.

“It’s been a while, alright? We’ll make it one of your stupid moody, niche things.” Sirius offers. It’s a testament to how hard he’s trying, because he bloody hates those things. Absolutely nothing happens the entire time, they’re always like three hours long, and frankly they just make him want to tear his eyes out. But, Sirius really wants to crack him so that Regulus can let go for a bit.

“Fine,” Regulus sighs, as if he needed convincing really, and then he’s walking right out, not even bothering to look over his shoulder to make sure Sirius is following. Pure business.

Sirius follows him, plopping down onto the couch and immediately relaxing into the familiar cushions. Regulus retrieves the remote and shuts the door, always so private. It’s better than him running off, at least. The Potters know by now that the shut door means Sirius and Regulus time. The kind that shouldn’t be interrupted or intruded on. The kind for only the familiar cadence of their native language to fill the room, to speak harsh truths and harsher confessions. For unpacking years of resentment sometimes, and sometimes just to sit together and know that they’re making it through. Sometimes, one or both of them is angry; sometimes because of valid reasons, sometimes just because of a petty argument a bit earlier. Sometimes, they don’t say anything, glaring at the television screen as it plays a movie until they eventually give in and let go. Sometimes, they don’t let go, and that’s fine too. Sometimes, they sit in the weight of something they’re not ready to unpack yet, and they let it sit between them until they’re ready to start.

No matter what, they always end up back here. They know each other well enough by now to know when to ask, and when to refrain, because they never tell each other no. Sirius has made a vow to himself, that when Regulus comes to him, he’s never going to say no again. Whether he needs help, or just to talk, or just to yell a bit. When Regulus calls, he’ll answer.

Regulus casually tosses Sirius the remote, and Sirius knows better than to speak about it or press his luck. Bad day, then, if he won’t even gloat about choosing a movie. Sirius puts on the first thing that catches his attention, some thriller-action thing with trashy acting and a nonsensical storyline. It hardly matters. The actual movies aren’t what matters. What matters is the way they both relax into the sofa as they watch.

The way Regulus moves over so slowly that if Sirius wasn’t waiting for it, he wouldn’t notice, until about thirty minutes in his head is in Sirius’ lap, eyes staring at the movie but not seeing it.

Regulus lets out a heavy sigh when Sirius drags a finger through his curls. “Sirius, do you think Mother ever loved me?” He whispers, eyes glassy like he knows the answer without even having to ask, but still wants to hear the opposite.

“I love you,” Sirius whispers back, “what matters isn’t the family we’re given, but the family we choose. You have to choose to love somebody, and I think Mother was too damaged to make that choice.” He pretends not to notice the way the tears in Regulus’ eyes spill over, continuing to run his fingers through his little brother’s hair. “I think she cared for us, in her own twisted way. I think she wanted to be better than her own mother, and she probably was.”

“But she isn’t better enough,” Regulus finishes, quietly and wetly. It ignites that fierce protectiveness inside of Sirius. The one that screams at him to get up and do something. His baby brother is crying in his arms, and he needs to do something about it. Burn the entire world down, bring entire cities to their knees, anything to ease the ache.

But there’s a time for anger, and there’s a time for gentle hands, and this is the latter. “No, she’s not. But we are, Reggie, we’re better. I choose to love you every day, even when it’s hard. Even when you take the last of Effie’s biscuits, I still choose to love you.” Sirius tells him, smiling softly as he curls Regulus’ hair around his finger. “That’s the difference between us and them.”

“I still hate you,” Regulus confesses, “I’ll probably always hate you, even though I love you. Even though I don’t want to.” He pauses for a moment, swallowing, “I think that’s why mother doesn’t love us. Because she hates us.”

“Yet through it all, you still sit through my horrendous movie choices, and you still listen when it matters, and you still love me. That’s what matters. If she’s too blinded by her resentment, that’s her problem. When she’s taking her last breath—nobody around but our shit of a fucking father at her side, if he’s still kicking—she’ll realise that she has to love to be loved, and she’ll be all alone.”

“I love her.”

“Do you? Or do you love the idea of her?” Sirius counters softly, staring down at his brother who loves so much—far too much for his own good. Whose heart is so soft he had to wrap it in barbed wire and iron gates to prevent himself from being hurt all of the time. Who hides his emotions beneath a blanket of sarcasm and sharp glares.

Regulus presses his lips together, still keeping his eyes firmly planted on the television. He doesn’t answer, which is enough of a response on its own. Sirius uses his thumb to gently wipe a tear from Regulus’ cheek. There’s a few moments of extended silence, before Regulus finally breaks it. “You make it seem to easy to let her go, but whenever I try, I just find another piece of me that’s clinging.”

“Nothing is easy about losing a mother.” Sirius replies, “I still feel her absence nestled into my ribs, sometimes heavier than usual, sometimes lighter. Always there.”

“How?” Regulus croaks. How do you cope? How do you ignore it? How do you fix it?

“I remind myself it’s not her I miss, but the idea of her, and then I remind myself that I have everything I’ve ever wanted in Effie,” Sirius explains, the words flowing easily when it’s his brother who needs to hear them. “I’ll bake with her sometimes, or maybe just sit with her and let her fuss. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes, it helps to have a reminder that somebody’s mother loves me, even if it’s not mine.”

Regulus nods, like he’s trying desperately not to completely break.

“When it feels too heavy to bear, Regulus, you come to me. I’ll carry it for you. When it’s so heavy that Effie can’t help, or lying down can’t help, you give it to me.” Sirius says sternly, meaning every word. He never wants Regulus to feel how he did when not even baking with Effie could satiate that ache of longing, when getting out of bed was an impossible task and everything felt utterly hopeless. He never wants Regulus to feel like the burden that he’s been made to be his entire life. He never wants Regulus to wrestle with those dark thoughts of being unlovable and ugly inside, because if the people who created him couldn’t stomach the sight, how was anyone else supposed to? He swallows, forcing himself to keep it together for his little brother. He’d wrangle a star to the Earth if he asked. He’d tear every other person to shreds just to ensure nobody could hurt him—just to keep him safe.

They go quiet again, the quiet sounds of punches and gunfire filling the air around them, the gentle press of Regulus’ head in Sirius’ lap and the soft tug of Sirius’ fingers in his brother’s hair. They relax into that light feeling that comes from baring your soul and watching reciprocation. They let the movie play, and they let themselves chase the comfort in one another that they’re always seeking.

They let themselves find it.

It’s when Sirius finds his eyes getting heavy and his fingers going slack, that Sirius hears the words, cutting through the haze of sleep like the smooth press of a knife through sweet fruit.

“You’re a good brother, Sirius.”

And god, if that isn’t the only thing he’s wanted to hear his entire life.

Sirius falls asleep with a smile on his face and the warmth of his brother surrounding him. He falls asleep with the words ‘you’re a good brother’ dancing through his mind.

—

The next morning brings chaos and excitement in a twisted bundle. He wakes up when a pillow is chucked into his face, and when he lifts his head from the couch which he fell asleep on again, he’s got a crick in his neck. That pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the day, if he’s honest. James takes Campfire Night very seriously, which is part of the reason Sirius enjoys it so much. When Sirius opens his eyes to glare at him, he’s grinning so wide his canines are showing and he’s already hopping a bit on his feet.

“I tried to wake you gently, but you’re you.”

“Bloody hell, Reggie’s such a prick,” Sirius groans, massaging his neck, “I can’t believe he left me here again, little fucker.”

“Alright, mate?”

“Peachy,” Sirius grumbles, pressing his eyes shut again. He knows he can’t go back to sleep—even though he really wants to—and has to help set up. Campfire Night means a lot to the both of them, and James always wants to get the set up early so they can party earlier. However, early in James Time does not equate to early in Sirius Time, and Sirius Time dictates at least another hour or two of sleep before he’s forced to endure an entire day of activity.

“Well, I let you sleep a bit, so I’ve already got the tents out there—those just need set up—and then I’m looking for the table. Mum said she’d help me look.”

Sirius nods, lifting a thumbs-up into the air to placate James. “I’ve got you, Prongs, I’ll grab the blankets and stuff, and help you with the table when you find it.”

James snorts, “sleep tight, mate.”

“I’m not sleeping. I’m resting my eyes.”

“Right.”

“I am, dickwad.”

“I believe you.”

“Oh, just bugger off!” Sirius laughs, running a hand down his face. He was just resting his eyes. If he had ended up falling asleep, that would’ve just been a happy accident. Now, though, the last dredges of sleep have finally been swept away, and he’s actually awake now. Just as payback, he chucks the pillow next to him into James, who catches it with annoying ease. At least the sentiment remains.

James jogs off, throwing the pillow behind him and uncaring where it might land. Sirius pushes himself up with a sigh, stretching his arms out above his head with a yawn.

Then, he sets about gathering supplies.

Campfire Night means a lot to James, but it means practically everything to Sirius. It was the night he finally decided to let James in. It was the night he stopped fearing the worst at every turn, the night he started to trust Effie and Monty, the night that Sirius finally let go and decided that he was done living for everybody else. It’s also—arguably more importantly—the night he first met the Remus Lupin. That’s what Campfire Night is to Sirius.

It’s the golden light of a campfire that warmed more than his skin a mere few years ago. It’s the gooey sweetness of s’mores with marshmallows—sometimes perfectly golden, usually charred. It’s a night of laughter and easy smiles, of hugs and starry nights and relaxation. It’s ‘everything is going to be alright’ and ‘this is the meaning of life’ when he sits there surrounded by his chosen family, watching them smile and laugh and excitedly ramble about their summers.

It’s getting dirt in his hair and not even caring, because what does it matter when everything feels so good.

Now that Regulus is here, it has to be absolutely perfect. Sirius has to prove to Regulus that the life he can have, the things he can do here, are so much better than the chains of expectation back in France. He has to prove that he’s worth staying for, that the Potters are worth staying for, because Regulus remains unconvinced. If he can’t prove himself to his little brother, and he loses him to their parents once again, he thinks it might completely break him.

—

“Oh, it’s looking good mate,” James knocks his shoulder into Sirius’, staring approvingly at their little set-up. Sirius grins at him, preening. It does look pretty good. Sirius always puts effort into their Campfire Nights, but he may have put a little bit extra into this one. There are two medium-sized tents set out, both filled with an amalgamation of tons of pillows and blankets from various rooms and soft twinkle-lights that create a soft, relaxing golden glow inside of the tent. Outside of that, there are two mats outside of each tent for people to put their shoes onto before getting in, that way there isn’t any mud or dirt getting tracked in, a table with bowls and plates ready to be filled with a shitload of food—and, once everything is finished and the adults will leave them alone, plenty of alcohol—as well as a circle of stones with large pieces of wood in the center, ready to be lit. They also strung the remaining lights throughout the branches above them to give themselves more light.

The sun is lower in the sky, and Sirius estimates it’s around three in the afternoon—meaning they have three hours to burn before everyone will be here. The thought of seeing Remus again sends a pang of longing through his chest. He hasn’t seen his boyfriend as often as he’d like to, with all of the Regulus shit going on, and he hadn’t really noticed until he was about to see him again just how much he’d been missing him. He misses Remus, and he misses Pete, too. They’re a bit of a co-dependent friend group, and it might be a bit unhealthy, but they’re his best friends, his mates, his boys. They’re his family, and Sirius hasn’t ever properly known what it means to miss family until this summer.

He’s ready to put this summer behind him. Shockingly, he even finds himself ready for school to start up again, that familiar boredom creeping in that usually accompanies the last few weeks of summer; where he’s ready for the routine again. He’s ready to walk the halls and advise Regulus on everything—from the dynamics, which hallway the professors don’t patrol if he’s ditching, which bathrooms he shouldn’t enter, which professors he should suck-up to and which he should ignore, to which people he needs to stay away from and what work he should expect.

He’s ready to be the guide that he never had when he was first starting school. James was a large help, but there were plenty of things that he just didn’t have the experience dealing with to be properly helpful. He couldn’t help him when he felt so, so overwhelmed—because he’d practiced his English, and well, but never in such a loud environment, with multiple people talking at the same time, so fast. He couldn’t help translating a French word that Sirius knew into English for his assignments. He couldn’t help how stupid Sirius felt doing verbal presentations when he would stumble and stutter and forget every English word he’d ever known. He couldn’t help the adjustment from his previous school, being far ahead in some subjects and far behind in others just due to different curriculums. Sirius can help, because he knows. He knows the feelings, he knows the struggles, he knows the things that eat away at the inside of your bones but never venture up your throat.

He wants to ease them up his brother’s throat, he wants to be that person that he never had. He wants Regulus to be able to come to him and vent, ask for help, just speak to speak. He wants to be his audience for verbal presentations if he needs practice and the person who speaks a familiar language in the overwhelming noise of the cafeteria. He wants to be the soft landing after a rough day, the quiet after the noise. He wants to be a big brother.

James clicks his tongue, nodding a bit like he’s talking simultaneously to himself and Sirius, “mum says we’ll get the food closer to six, that way it doesn’t get eaten while we’re gone. Theoretically, we should head into the kitchen and help her prepare it, now that we’ve found ourselves with free time.”

“And it would be extremely distasteful if we were to, say, play a game of footy instead.”

“Exactly,” James snaps, the motion easily morphing into a point, “which is why we would never do that.”

“But, if we just so happened to come across the ball-”

“And lose track of time-”

“Then that could hardly be seen as our fault.” Sirius finishes, smirking.

“Right again, Pads. You’re a smart one.”

Sirius twirls his hair, faux bashful, batting his eyelashes, “oh, please,”

James snorts. “Whoever wins…” He glances up for a second, thinking, “Oh! Loser has to be the winner’s personal waiter for the night.”

“You’re on.” They shake on it, nodding at each other somberly. Then, Sirius is off, the sound of laughter and footsteps on his heels.

The night comes quicker than expected, but not necessarily in a bad way. Their game of football lasted about an hour—very unfortunately, Sirius lost by one, and he’s still grumbling about it—and after that James was banished to the kitchen with his mother since Sirius couldn’t bear to look at him, and Sirius took on the extremely difficult task of persuading his brother to spend a night in the woods with people. Arguably his two least favourite things.

That took the entirety of the rest of their time, Sirius having made so many bargains and deals and pleas that when Regulus finally rolled his eyes, sighed, and muttered “fine, just for a few hours, and I’m not sleeping in a tent like a homeless person”—to which Sirius smacked him on the head for, because he really has to check his privilege and shed those harmful familial views—Sirius wasn’t even entirely sure what he’d agreed to in the end. He’s not sure about any of what he offered after ‘I’ll let you pick the movies for the next month’ but he’s relatively confident it was extremely pathetic and is going to come back to bite him in the ass very soon.

Though honestly, what’s the point of dwelling on that when he walks downstairs to find Remus Lupin standing in the hallway, which is much more important than how he signed his life away a few minutes ago. Sirius is pretty sure an embarrassingly excited noise comes from his throat, because his brother shoots him a disgusted, utterly horrified look right before Sirius is scrambling down the steps and into his boyfriend’s arms.

Remus opens his arms and pulls them tight around Sirius, the familiar scent of coffee and chocolate filling Sirius’ nostrils as he buries his face in his neck, breathing in the fresh air like a man discovering something holy. He’s wearing a thin, loose-fitting brown sweater with various dull patterns woven into it and blue jeans that hug his frame just right. Sirius literally feels the tension dissipating from him in an instant.

“Oh, I missed you terribly.” Sirius bemoans.

Remus’ fingers find their way to his hair with that familiar weight, scratching at his scalp soothingly. “I missed you, too,”

Sirius takes a deep breath, preparing himself, “I’m really sorry about going ghost this summer-”

“Sirius.” Remus interrupts, voice just as soft and soothing as it always is, commanding but gentle at the same time. Sirius, of course, goes silent, prepared to hear the verdict. “Don’t apologize. I’m not upset at all.”

Sirius huffs, lifting his head a bit to stare incredulously up at Remus, “but-”

“No ‘but’s, Sirius,” Remus sighs, hazel eyes opening up like they always do for Sirius, letting him in to see the raw, honest soul of him, “It’s your right to focus on things that aren’t me, and take a step back for a while. I’m more than happy to wait while you figure shit out.”

“Yeah, obviously, but I should’ve communicated with you.”

Remus hums, patting Sirius’ head like he’s soothing a dog. “I won’t argue with you on that. Prongs kept me in on the loop, but it would’ve been nice to hear it from you. Next time, even if you don’t want to or can’t talk to me about it, just a small heads-up would be nice, maybe a check-in every once in a while. But I’m really not peeved otherwise, I know how difficult things with your family are. How you deal with it is none of my business.”

“I love you,” Sirius breathes. God, the way Remus just understands him. In a way nobody else ever has.

“I love you,” Remus grins, placing a quick kiss to Sirius’ cheek, “now, don’t be rude and introduce me to your brother, Sirius.”

Sirius nods quickly, recovering. When he lands eyes on Remus, absolutely everything else fades away. It’s very easy to get side-tracked when he’s around. “Right,” he agrees, reluctantly stepping back to Regulus, who looks extremely uncomfortable—though from the homosexual affection, just affection in general, or meeting a group of complete strangers, he’s unsure. Sirius places a hand on his shoulder, smiling at him, hoping to put the silent it’s alright, I’m here into it.

Regulus stares at him for a second, then glances back to Remus, expression completely emotionless.

“Right, Remus, this is Reggie, and Reggie this is Remus.”

Regulus sighs, “is this the moon-boy?”

“Moony, yeah,” Sirius confirms, smiling at Remus, who smiles back.

“Very stupid name—Moon-Boy.” Regulus shakes his head, but steps forward and offers his hand anyway. The only tell of his nerves is the way his accent is coming out a bit thicker than it usually does. “Sirius says you read.”

Remus takes his hand, shaking it firmly, “I do, yes.”

“Are the books good? In England?”

“Well, I’d say so, though I haven’t read anything in French to really compare.”

“Okay,” Regulus says blankly, taking a step back and releasing his grip on Remus’ hand. “We’ll see.”

It feels a bit absurd. These are two of the people he loves the most in this world, his priorities in life, shaking hands. In the same room. Two of Sirius’ worlds are colliding, coming together in a way Sirius never really thought possible.

Sirius never really thought that this would happen. He never really thought he would ever get to see his brother interacting with his boyfriend. He’d never bring Remus around his family, never subject him to that particular pain, because that was something of his own to bear. He couldn’t sit there and watch his parents sink their claws in, twisting and turning until they find that part that is so vulnerable, so soft, and dig in until there’s nothing left of you but a hollow husk. He couldn’t risk even Regulus, because he was afraid that they’d morphed him beyond saving, right in front of his eyes yet too subtle to be seen until he was staring at his brother across a dinner table, and suddenly realised he didn’t know the person sitting across from him. That was something for him to bear, his guilt, his chain.

And now, Regulus is here, and he’s just shaken hands with the love of Sirius’ life, and the world didn’t implode. Regulus is here, now, and he’s safe, and they’re working through their problems. He’s taking small steps, but the important part is that he’s taking them. Sirius no longer feels that pang of shame when he speaks about his family, no longer feels his throat going tight when his friends ask about his brother, ask why he was so tight-lipped about it, joke about him keeping him a secret.

Sirius clears his throat, “any word on Peter?”

“He’ll be here soon—on his way, I believe.” Remus answers.

“The girls?”

“Just Lily.”

“Even more?” Regulus grumbles, glaring at Sirius. Sirius smiles mockingly at him.

“Oh, there’s more. Luckily for you, Pete and Lily are the nicest.”

It’s then that James’ head pops out of the sitting room, a wide grin spreading on his face. “Oi, what’re we talking about?”

“Like a moth to flame,” Sirius mutters.

James narrows his eyes playfully at him, “what’re you on about?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He waves him off dismissively, turning to Regulus, who looks about like he’s witnessing something disgusting transpire as James and Remus immediately gravitate towards each other, James talking quickly while Remus sits there and smiles at him. “He carried a torch for Lily for years. Literal years—he was convinced from eleven until, like, last year that he was going to bloody marry her. I’m still not convinced he’s over her, between you and me.”

“Wonderful. Now I have to witness two people make fools of themselves. I hope this Peter boy is quiet.”

“Quiet?”

“So that I don’t have to speak to him, and can preferably sneak out sooner.”

“I won’t abandon you for them, Regulus. I’ll stick by you the whole time.” Sirius swears, and he means it. He knows how much Regulus hates gatherings, how they get under his skin, and he’s going to make sure that this one is as enjoyable for him as possible.

“Second time’s the charm,” Regulus mumbles, wandering off into the sitting room, probably to seek Effie or some quiet.

Sirius chooses not to let that one sting, and instead chooses to march over to James and Remus, throwing an arm over each of their shoulders and tugging them in, feeling the warmth of home and the way the very Earth seems to shift to accommodate them. “I’m going to get pissed tonight, lads, it’s going to be glorious- oh, I’m going to get Regulus pissed, that’ll be hilarious, I’m sure. I’ve actually never seen him drunk, believe it or not-”

***

So-called ‘Campfire Night’ is well in swing, and it didn’t take more than a few minutes before Sirius practically forgot he was there. Once the alcohol came out, there was no saving him. He’s been close, tries to include him in conversation most of the time—when he’s not being obscene with Remus, that is—but overall, Regulus has been left to his own devices. Peter arrived a bit ago, though there has yet to be a formal introduction, and this Lily girl remains unseen. The way the four of them interact is startling. They coexist so seamlessly it’s hard to tell where one’s energy starts and the other’s ends. They all gravitate towards each other as if there’s some invisible pull, touching and pulling and laughing.

Regulus simply cannot imagine a world in which he fits anywhere between them, any world where he carries conversation with them as easily as they do. He can never imagine his shoulders being held like that or his commentary being appropriate. He can’t imagine sharing any of their inside jokes or knowing things about them that nobody else knows, which they obviously do. He can never see himself being vulnerable enough, wild enough, loud enough to exist between them without losing his space. Trying to fit into this group would be like trying to force a rectangular block into a circular hole, and Regulus is tired of morphing himself to other people’s whims.

“Reggie!” Sirius shrieks suddenly, making Regulus jump. He’s been standing next to the food and drink table, nursing a lemonade and just watching his brother make a fool of himself. He feels as he always does in public situations—alone and isolated, as if he’s on the outside of some societal bubble. There’s not much he knows about the quartet, except for the glaring fact that they’re people he doesn’t care about and clearly doesn’t belong with—people whom he never would’ve crossed paths with if it weren’t for his brother. He can tell his brother loves them a lot; can tell they mean something greater to him than he’ll probably ever truly understand, but there is simply no space between them to occupy, and he doesn’t care to carve any out, either.

“Yes, Sirius?” Regulus sighs, taking another sip of his drink. He’s not partaking in any of the actual drinking, too anxious around all of these new people to show weakness. He’s very much the only one, and the only thing he dislikes more than people is drunk people. Sirius kept trying to pass him drinks, but gave up a bit ago because Regulus remained firm in his stance. The Peter guy nodded and said ‘respect’, though Regulus isn’t sure if he knows that it’s not the alcohol Regulus hasn’t tried before, but rather the with strangers part. It doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t know the guy, but Regulus does find himself a bit uncomfortable at the very blatant knowledge that he’s being misunderstood and can’t exactly correct it.

“Come- come here, come to me.” He beckons, words slurring. Regulus doesn’t even think he realises when he suddenly switches to French, “You need to meet Peter, he’s a great guy- I love him, he’s awesome.” Once again, Regulus spoke too soon. He thought he might get away without an actual introduction, without having to force a smile and hide all of the resentment, the way ‘you’re the one he left me for’ plays on loop in his head. Without playing friendly with people he doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know.

James, standing behind Sirius’ chair, equally as sloshed, laughs loudly, grabbing Sirius shoulder as if to shake it in a friendly gesture, but more-so just leaning on him. “English, Padfoot.”

Regulus, begrudgingly, walks over to where his brother and co are sitting in chairs around the campfire, Sirius and Remus’ chairs squished together, Peter’s only a bit away.

“This,” Sirius explains loudly, pointing to Peter next to him. “Is Wormtail.”

“Wormtail.” Regulus parrots. The nicknames just get worse and worse, he swears. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Peter confirms, waving a bit. He’s not nearly as drunk as the other two, and he seems to be quieter, gentler in his words. As if he’s the grounding presence of the group, though very willing to indulge.

“That is the stupidest fucking name I’ve ever heard in my life.” Regulus says bluntly, massaging his temple, having lost his filter somewhere between his brother’s third and fourth drink. “Moony, Padfoot, Wormtail and Prongs. Why, just- you know what, I don’t even want to know.”

“You most definitely do not.” Sirius giggles.

“I’m not calling any of you any of that.”

“Well, how will you get our attention, then?” James asks, sporting a lazy grin. Regulus knows exactly what he’s trying to do.

“I’ll use your names.”

Potter Boy perks up immediately, “really?”

Regulus realises his mistake immediately, about to speak again, when Sirius interrupts him. “You have to give us nicknames—it’s our thing! If you’re going to be a Marauder, you’re going to do nicknames-”

“I’m not going to be a Marauder. Sirius, are you mentally ill? Why do you have so many nicknames?”

“Reggie, you’re an honorary Marauder, as my brother. No choice.”

Something about that just…gets to him. There’s something about the way that Sirius has made it his mission to make his own friends Regulus’ just hits him the wrong way. It feels like he’s a kid again, trailing Sirius and the child on the playground who only wanted to play with his older brother, but is suddenly stuck with a little kid too, just because Sirius made it ‘all or nothing’. On the sidelines, watching as his brother laughs and plays and climbs where he can’t reach, wishing he hadn’t asked at all. There’s something about this whole night being Sirius trying to force him into his friend group, something about being on the outside of every inside joke and the origin of every stupid nickname, something about being pressed into a space he knows he doesn’t belong. It’s an all too familiar feeling, and he wishes that he wouldn’t have to feel it anymore. “I don’t need you to make friends for me, Sirius.” Regulus spits, that itching anger coming back in full force, “I’m not a child anymore. I can make my own fucking friends. I have. I don’t want your stupid fucking Marauders or your stupid fucking nicknames, I don’t want you to keep trying to fit me somewhere in your life when you know there’s no space. Just be fucking honest, just admit that there isn’t space here!”

Sirius winces, the atmosphere around the fire shifting so suddenly it’s hard to even tell when it happened. Regulus sighs, clenching his jaw to keep himself from speaking any more. The anger festers and bubbles inside of him, clawing and clawing, and back again, after being almost dormant for what felt like so long. He thought he was getting better, foolishly. He should know better than that, though; Regulus isn’t the kind of person who really gets better. Sirius swallows. “Reggie,” he murmurs, trying to push himself up but failing. It’s almost laughable, honestly—Regulus would probably take humour in it if he wasn’t so angry right now—the way he sways.

Regulus presses his eyes closed, suddenly very aware of their audience. “I…” He whispers, but he doesn’t dare finish it. I still hate you, don’t I? More than I realised.

It hangs in the air, anyway, dropping between them once again.

“I’m going back to the house.” He says instead, the plastic cup in his hand crinkling with the force of his grip. “I can’t do this right now.”

Sirius runs a hand down his face, like he’s trying to wipe his intoxication away. “Yeah, alright.” He practically whispers, defeat dripping from the words.

Regulus takes a few steps, but that’s as far as he can get before the nagging thing in his chest becomes unbearable. He feels tense, and awkward, and dirty, and his throat is terribly dry, but he mutters the words anyway. “We need a movie night tomorrow.”

There’s a beat of silence, before “I’ll be there, Reggie.”

Chapter Text

It’s been a cloudy day, and the night seems to be no different; a blanket of dull darkness replaces the stars and bright moon that usually reside in the sky. Regulus supposes it serves the same purpose, but he can’t help the slight disappointment he feels when he glances up at it while he’s stepping out of the window, not able to calm some of the ever-present anxiety in his stomach with the calming ritual of pointing out and naming the stars, planets, and constellations.

Regardless, he still walks up to his usual spot, lowering himself and letting out a deep breath. He’s tired; today their movie night was long and hard, seeming to stretch on forever, and all they came out with was the knowledge that they just needed to keep trying. It left him frustrated and antsy, like going to the doctor and only being told ‘all you can do is let it pass’ because he knew that, he was just hoping for a faster solution. It’s fitting that the stars chose to be absent on the one day that he needs them most. He’s got school in the morning, and the very thought deepens the pit in his stomach dreadfully. The prospect of starting over—of no longer having the safety of Pandora and Evan by his side, no longer being easily able to understand the words spoken around him, just himself and his limited understanding of the English school system—terrifies him so much that he’s not even able to sleep without his mind conjuring up horrible ways that everything could go wrong.

Which is why he’s here.

Even the stars have sought shelter from him, though, and he’s afraid to think of what an omen that might be.

There is probably only one person on this Earth whose brain is too addled to have the sense to hide from him. Who refuses to be pushed away, no matter how many times he’s shoved. Who always manages to show up at the exact wrong time, and what a fitting time this would be for him to appear.

The quiet creak of the window confirms his suspicion, followed quickly by a wild head of hair. Potter Boy.

“Hello,” Potter Boy greets, grinning.

Regulus sighs, in no mood to deal with him at the moment.

“Ouch.” He sighs dramatically, clutching a hand to his heart, “the silent treatment.”

“I’d like the silent treatment from you.” Regulus mutters despite himself as Potter Boy sits down. It’s hard to keep silent around him, for some reason. He always tells himself he won’t engage, yet the words end up coming out of his mouth before he even thinks about what they’re going to be.

“Yeah, that’ll never happen, I’m afraid. It was an odd, one-time thing.”

“I should have known.”

“Absolutely. That’s on you.”

“Whatever,” Regulus grumbles, staring up at the starless sky and hopelessly begging that a miracle will part the clouds and reveal the stars, just so that he has something to do that doesn’t make him want to scream. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them when a particularly harsh gust of wind nips his skin. It’s getting colder, now that summer is coming to a close. Though nobody else seems to notice but him. England is always cold even when it’s hot, the very heat lacking the warmth and burn of the French summer. It doesn’t feel like summer, and Regulus thought maybe fixing things with his brother would help, but Sirius’ warmth is just as fleeting.

Evan and Pandora were the only consistent source of warmth in his life, unless counting Potter Boy who makes him warm with agitation and annoyance.

Potter Boy lolls his head onto his shoulder, having laid down a bit until he was propped up on his elbows. He flashes a dopey grin, whispering, “I’ve a bone to pick with you, y’know.”

“Sure.” Regulus replies monotonously, completely oblivious to what that sentence means at all. He wonders, dully, if Potter Boy is making up sayings just because he knows Regulus can’t call him on it. He hopes not; he feels stupid enough in English as is.

“Yup. Everybody else has their nicknames, but I still don’t have one.”

“You have the stupid one.” Regulus retorts, raising an eyebrow.

“From you.” Potter Boy clarifies quickly.

“I specifically mentioned that I was not partaking in your nicknames. I said those exact words, I think.”

“You didn’t. You said, and I quote, ‘I’m not calling you any of that’. Very rude.”

Regulus ignores the fact that Potter Boy somehow managed to remember the exact words he said two days ago—he’d assumed his memory was closer to a goldfish’s than a human’s—because he doesn’t like being wrong. “So what is your point?” Regulus groans.

“You also said you’d call us by our names, I remember that.” James taps the side of his head a few times, shrugging as much as he can in his position.

Shit.

Regulus was relying on Potter Boy being too inebriated to possibly remember the slight slip of tongue. He’s about to respond, when he’s interrupted again.

“I thought about it a bit, see, and I realise that ‘Potter Boy’ is technically your nickname for me, but I’m still not happy with how impersonal it is. I figured we should workshop some compromises, don’t you think?”

Regulus presses his eyes shut, wishing he could be anywhere in the world but here. “I can call you Potter.”

James clicks his tongue. “Nah, I’m not a fan. That might be worse than Potter Boy, I think.”

“Then keep Potter Boy.”

“Regulus, we’re opening a new chapter on our friendship. I need a new nickname, because we are not the same people we were in that train station, are we? We’ve grown,” he pretends to swoon, “we’ve been made anew, we’ve become friends.”

“You are not my friend.” Regulus says, which is true. Pandora and Evan are his friends. He has no other friends.

“You’re my friend.” James mutters petulantly. “We speak when we see each other, we know each other’s names, and we have inside jokes, we like each other. That’s a friendship, mate.”

“You are not my friend. I don’t like you.”

James snorts. “Of course you like me.” It’s as if the thought that someone might meet James Fleamont Potter and not like him is completely impossible to him. As if he’s never met someone who didn’t like him once they got to know him. Regulus doesn’t deign that worthy of a response. Unfortunately for him, Potter Boy doesn’t care. “C’mon, Reg, admit it,” he goads, knocking his leg into Regulus’. His eyes are so stupidly big and earnest, staring up at Regulus like saying ‘no’ would be kicking a puppy.

Regulus wouldn’t consider them friends, barely acquaintances. Potter Boy is his brother’s best friend, the better brother. It’s hard to see him as anything else, no matter how many times they talk and how many times Regulus doesn’t even realise his animosity has faded until it’s back once Potter Boy retreats. That can hardly be called friendship; at most, tolerance. He searches for the word, the translation of his thoughts into English, racking his brain for what he knows is there. It’s not satisfying when he has to mutter “I…accept you.” It doesn’t scratch the itch of the word that he knows exists, he just can’t remember it.

“Close enough. Here, what’s the first thing you noticed about me?”

The answer is immediate. “Your hair.”

Potter Boy raises his eyebrows, “my hair?”

“Yes, it’s…” He makes a swirling motion with his finger, the trick Sirius taught him to remember hair. “Curly.”

“Huh,” James breathes, like he’s never thought of that before. Or, perhaps, never thought that his hair would be the first thing people would notice about him. “Most people say my smile, or my laugh. Sometimes my eyes, ‘cause they’re big, apparently. Dad’s always on me about my hair, though, he says it’s a bird’s-nest. He doesn’t understand that a bird's nest is how you attract birds.” He giggles, as if he’s just made a profound joke. Regulus doesn’t get it, but that’s just another common theme in his English journey.

Regulus hums, twisting his head to lay it on his arm. “I get your eyes. They’re loud.”

“Loud?” James asks incredulously.

“Loud with emotion.”

“That makes sense,” James nods slowly, “I’m sure they are.”

Regulus lets that be the natural conclusion to their conversation, turning his head back up towards the sky. The moon is lower in the sky, warning of the approaching day ahead. Even James’ presence can’t smother the dread that quickly pools once he registers it. He tries to breathe through it, nails unconsciously finding the skin of his thumb.

New school, new people, new language, new classes, new professors. He’s going to be a complete nobody, last name having no weight so far from home. Back home, people were either scared of him, wanted to be him, or tried to suck up to him. Most fell into the first category, finding his glares and overall presence unsettling, which he didn’t mind. It meant they all left him alone, save for a few people who wanted to be his friend just for the money, or tried to get close because of his connections and social standing. Regulus didn’t care to converse with them, often delighting in the way he meticulously got under their skin without ever saying anything.

Here, he’ll just be another kid walking through the hallway. Sirius Black’s little brother, most likely. Forced into the shadow of whatever reputation his brother procured for himself at this school just like he was in France up until Sirius left. Another nameless face in a crowd, if he’s lucky. He isn’t sure whether he wants that or not, only that he doesn’t want to feel that inferiority like he did when he would walk into class and get a ‘Regulus Black? Like Sirius Black? Oh, he was terrible. Are you going to be like that too?’ even though he knows he probably will. Everything Sirius has told him about school does not indicate Sirius being anything less than an overall nuisance.

He’s most worried about the language barrier. How can he maintain his grades if he doesn’t understand what the professor is saying? How will he navigate presentations, introductions, lectures, when his vocabulary is limited and sometimes completely forgotten? He’ll fail, that’s what. He’s going to fail, and his family is going to disown him, and he’s going to bring shame upon the Potters and the Blacks-

“Alright?” Potter Boy whispers, bringing Regulus back. His hands are shaking, and he quickly pulls them back.

“Fine.” He replies, even though he’s everything but. His heart is beating in his ears, lungs fighting for the slivers of air that he can manage to get.

There’s a beat of silence, before “I always get first-day nerves. There’s this worry in my mind that this year will be the year things will go wrong for me—I’ll get all the worst profs, my friends will have changed over the summer, I’ll mix up my schedule, not understand any of the material and fail.” He confesses, staring down at his finger, tracing circles on the roof shingles. “Things like that. Little things that don’t feel little when they’re attached to your life.”

Regulus looks towards James, surprised to see how vulnerable he looks, not sporting a flashy grin or playful expression as he usually does. Just…James. A James that never worries about seeming stupid or saying the wrong thing, but rather small things out of his control that add up until they’re unbearable. A James that might be naturally pure, naturally happy, but isn’t always so. A James who can’t sleep on the first day of school, just like Regulus.

“Honestly, sometimes I worry I’ll return and nothing will be the same. I won’t have a space between my friends again, I won’t find my way through a year of stress and harder work than the year before. But I always do.” James finally looks up, gentle reassurance for all of the things Regulus never said bleeding from him like sweat on a sunny day. “I’ve made it through every other term, I’ve maintained my friend group for years, now. Sometimes it’s hard, sometimes it’s easy, but I always get through it. My dad taught me that.”

“I don’t have any of that.” Regulus murmurs. He doesn’t have previous years to look back on at this school, no lunch table to sit at, no friends to cling to, no work to reference.

James smiles—a soft, private thing. “You do, you just don’t see it. You have a brother who knows exactly what you’re feeling, you’ve got a group of friends who’d love to make you part of their lives if you’ll have them. You’ll have others, too, if you’d rather make them yourself.”

Regulus lets out a soft breath, almost disbelieving that the same boy who shouts and scrambles and pushes is the same one on this roof with him right now, offering words of wisdom like passing observations.

“You’ll be alright, Regulus. Sirius will move Heaven and Earth to make sure of it, trust me.” Potter Boy is back with the odd phrases, and the vulnerable version of him seamlessly shifts back into the loud one, though Regulus isn’t sure it has the same effect, anymore. His words do little to assuage the dread for the coming day, but they leave it lighter than it was before, which is all he can ask.

***

The school, unfortunately named Hogwarts—Regulus thought Sirius was lying all the way until the uniform was pushed into his hands, because why would anyone name their school that—is almost twice the size of Regulus’ school back home. He supposes that makes sense, seeing as his previous school was private, expensive, and very prestigious, whereas this one seems to be public, or at least not private to the calibre of his old one.

Regulus didn’t register most of the journey, far too nervous to do much more than dissociate. His uniform is new and stiff, white shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin because of his sweat. He can tell it’s made of expensive material: the blazer is heavy and the trousers are thick, the school emblem emblazoned on the jacket in high-quality thread. Sirius told him that shoes are free game and every Friday is non-uniform—most leave the blazer in their locker or on their chair. He also says they do something called a ‘sorting’ where you’re put into one of four houses after taking some personality quiz, though all it really influences is the color of your tie and what team you’re on if you do an extracurricular according to him.

Both Sirius and James are wearing red ties, striped through with yellow. Sirius’ is lying untied on his neck, while James’ is tied around his head, swaying in the wind as him and Sirius laugh about something, bumping into each other and pushing and shoving, just barely avoiding Regulus most times. It’s odd to see how instead of maneuvering around the people in front of them, everybody moves around them. They step out of the way or pull each other out of their path or swerve to avoid them. They get a lot of waves and smiles and names called as they walk through the halls, people usually doing a double-take when they catch sight of Regulus just a step behind.

It’s loud. The corridors aren’t terribly full, but what they are missing physically they more than make up for in the sheer noise they create. There’s screaming and rapid talking and shouting and shoving as people reunite, crashing into each other with wild laughs. It’s absolutely terrible, the way there are so many conversations happening around him and he understands none of it. He keeps seeking comfort, looking to his left and right and expecting Pandora and Evan to be there, only to be left emptier and more disappointed than before. He swears he can feel Pandora’s hand brush against his own, but she’s miles and miles away at their school

It feels like he blinks and there’s a green tie being pressed into his hand, though he doesn’t even remember taking the test. He blinks again and he’s clutching his schedule, and then it’s being snagged out of his shaking hands by Sirius, who makes random noises at it as they walk. Sirius tells him something, clapping him on the shoulder and smiling, but it quickly falls.

“Are you okay?” He asks, finally in a language he understands. “It’s alright that you’re in Slytherin, it fits you, I was just joking around-” he chuckles, a bit awkwardly.

“Sirius,” Regulus gasps, “I can’t understand them.” There’s so much more, but his throat is dry and his heart is beating too loud in his chest and everything is so loud.

Sirius drops his act immediately. “Prongs, go find the girls, yeah? I’m gonna show Reggie around.” He instructs,

James gives him a thumbs-up before disappearing down a hallway.

Sirius grabs his arms, dragging him to some secluded bathroom where it’s blessedly quiet and empty. “It’s alright, Reggie, it’s alright.” He murmurs, almost knowing instinctually what to do. His fingers find Regulus’ tie, loosening it and unbuttoning a button on Regulus’ shirt, and Regulus inhales a much, much needed breath of cold air. “See? All’s well. It’s a lot, isn’t it? If there’s one thing about the English, it’s that they’re not known for their slow-paced language.”

Regulus nods, still reveling in the relief he feels from simply loosening his uniform, hand rubbing his neck.

“They use a lot of words, they use them quickly, and it’s a bit hopeless if you get lost, because most of the time nothing they say makes sense. And then there’s the multiple people talking at once—don’t even get me started; oh, it feels like drowning. I smile and nod most of the time, between you and me.”

Regulus nods again.

“Exactly, but you smile too.” He grins, tapping a finger against it. “That’s the key.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “Do we have any classes together?” He asks, now that he can actually breathe again. He just wants to think about anything that isn’t this. That isn’t English and Britain and school and people. If he does, he knows he’ll just go right back to spiraling, and he really doesn’t want to tarnish his reputation by doing something stupid and emotional on the first day of school.

“No,” Sirius sighs in disappointment, “but we have lunch together, so you can sit with us then. We just take a table in the cafeteria—I’ll walk you there.”

Regulus isn’t particularly looking forward to meeting Sirius’ friends again, considering how it went last time and how stupid it made him feel, but he knows better than to voice his concern. It would likely go unheard by Sirius, anyway. Once he has his mind set on something, it’s almost impossible to tear him away from it. “Can I have my schedule? I didn’t really…look at it.” Regulus says awkwardly.

Sirius hums, grabbing the wrinkled thing out of his pocket and smoothing it out on the sink. He makes faces and poses at himself in the mirror, holding his phone out and snapping far too many pictures. It’s a sin to be vain, Regulus thinks absently as he steps closer to view the piece of paper.

The first thing Regulus’ eyes are drawn to is the word ‘Orchestra’. His stomach clenches, and he hopelessly looks towards Sirius. “Did you do this?” He demands, only barely able to keep his voice from shaking with anger.

Sirius glances over, raising an eyebrow, completely oblivious. His phone pauses in the air, still pointed at the mirror. “What?”

“Put me in orchestra. I didn’t fucking ask for that.” He spits, crossing his arms. The thought of Sirius going behind his back like this—after they promised no more secrets, no more betrayal—is far too much. Sirius knows what the violin means to him, knows how raw and clawed-open he feels after playing. Why would he ever try to gain Regulus an audience for that horrible act?

“It wasn’t me,” Sirius raises his hands in surrender, giving him a look that clearly communicates that he doesn’t see why this is such a big deal. Maybe Regulus doesn’t know how well Sirius understands him after all, if this is nothing concerning to him. “But it’s alright, isn’t it? You love the violin.”

“Exactly. I love it- it’s mine. Nobody’s even heard me except for Euphemia, and Mother’s going to be furious if she hears!”

“Monty probably thought you’d like it. James gets his boundary-pushing from him.” Sirius shrugs, “you should try it. Worst-case scenario you just get it changed. Also, you do know you could just…not tell her.”

Not tell her.

Regulus has only successfully hidden one singular thing from her—his suspicions of his sexuality. Sometimes she looks at him and he swears she knows even that, too. Sometimes he thinks she might’ve known before he even knew himself. He can never be sure, but it’s kept him on edge since he can remember. The tone of her voice when she talks about future betrothals at dinner, the sharp sting of her stare as she observes him during the most mundane of tasks. The way she says ‘your duty to the family’.

Violin is something so, so special to him. Playing feels like baring his soul—all the good, the bad, the ugly. He plays to get the terrible emotions inside of him out, to bare the worst parts of himself in the safety and privacy of a room only for him. He can’t imagine ever being comfortable enough to play in front of an audience, much less to play in front of strangers when everything else in his life has already gone to utter shit, every other part of him left outside for the viewing of far too many people. Not to mention the fact that Mother would combust on the spot if she found out one of his electives was something he actually enjoyed. She never really bought into the idea that music makes people smarter, seeing it more as a useless distraction. If it can’t make money, manipulate, or push him forward in society, it’s an abhorrent activity that should never be practised in public; he was lucky she even let him play in the house.

Violin is his and his only, and he’ll keel over and die before any of the raucous, aggravating people in this school ever hear him play.

“How do I change it?” Regulus demands.

Sirius, who seems to surprisingly have not expected the pushback, glances at him. “Er, you have to wait a week, and then get an appointment with the Headteacher with permission from your guardians—Effie and Monty—and have an alternative class picked out. It’s a whole process. Really, Reggie, just give it a chance.”

“No,” Regulus responds quickly.

“Well, you’re stuck with it for the week anyways, so.” Sirius shrugs, “we’ve gotta go—first day is a quick run through the schedule. That’s the bell.” He explains, and right on cue a shrill ring pierces the air between them. “Come, I’ll walk you to your first. I have maths—can you believe it? Fucking ridiculous.”

The way Sirius brushes him off, as if the class is nothing more than a minor inconvenience, makes Regulus want to scream. He thought they were past this—he thought that Sirius finally saw and understood and knew the parts of him that he’d been forced to hide away for so long. He thought Sirius would listen to him and help him any step of the way. That’s what he was promised, but yet again, Sirius has failed him. It stings harsher than it did the other times, and he wonders if Sirius ever will understand him, or if Regulus will spend the rest of his life screaming into an empty void.

Regulus wants to beg Sirius to find another way, plead with him to see how utterly terrified he is at the prospect of being forced to play his instrument in front of the school, but all he can do is button his shirt back up and follow Sirius, swallowing down his anger and his resentment as he’s led down imposing corridors filled with students milling about and walking with purpose, his brother walking confidently and completely unfazed by the attention he gets throughout the journey. Regulus can’t ever imagine walking without feeling the weight of any and every stare on him at all times.

It feels like everyone is looking at him, judging him, seeing through his blank facade. Like they all know that he just broke down in the bathroom and his brother doesn’t understand him. They all know how entwined he is with the violin and how scared he is to show any of that to the world.

Sirius deposits him in a classroom labeled with ‘205’ outside of the door, and an inserted ‘World History - Ms. Brown’ in the space beneath it. Ms. Brown is peppy, with an assortment of rainbow jewelry and a high-pitch voice that talks so fast that it’s practically impossible to understand her. She does some introduction game that Regulus doesn’t participate in, talks about having his brother and jokes that she hopes he’s not so ‘mischievous’ while Regulus just stares at her, throat dry and mouth dryer. The rest of the day passes much the same. He doesn’t think he utters a single word after the bathroom, too focused on trying to keep everything inside when all it wants to do is crawl out.

Lunch is awkward. Sirius’ friends look at him like he’s a science experiment, conversation stilted and clearly different when he’s listening in, which doesn’t help him feeling like he doesn’t belong, nor does it do anything except make him clench his jaw tighter. The food tastes like sand in his mouth, and he can’t hear anything around him. All he wants to do is leave.

He wants to go back to the manor, lay down, shut all of his curtains, and scream until his throat is raw. He feels so out-of-place in this school, like he’s watching an alternate reality that was never supposed to come to fruition. Here is the table where his brother sits, laughing and talking to his friends that he replaced Regulus with. Here are the teachers that helped Sirius with his English and taught him things and distracted him from thoughts of Regulus. Here is the school that Sirius spent the second half of his teenage years in, running through the halls and growing in ways that Regulus wasn’t able to witness.

It just feels like Sirius has made his life here, he’s changed and spoken and been here, carving a path for himself. One that Regulus can’t fit in. It’s all Sirius’ friends and Sirius’ parents and Sirius’ school and Sirius’ place in the world while Regulus stands awkwardly in his shadow, limbs sticking out awkwardly no matter how much he pulls them in.

He just wants something that’s his. Something he can have and he can create for himself. He doesn’t want to feel like Sirius’ annoying little brother anymore.

Not even Orchestra gives him anything meaningful. He doesn’t really check in on his life again until he’s in his fifth period class, and there’s a hand slamming down on his desk. He jolts, following it quickly to a shockingly familiar face.

The boy from his outing. The boy who took him to a billboard and had a strange accent and made him feel so, so much stranger. Regulus, between everything with his mother, brother, and literally everything else, had pretty much forgotten about him.

“Holy shit, you’re the French Boy.”

“I told you not to do that, Barty.” The girl next to him sighs. Her braids cascade down her back past her waist, a few tied together to make a braid crown. She’s got golden bracelets on her wrists and rings placed in a casual but sophisticated way. She carries herself with an easy confidence, manicured nails tapping against her arms while she rolls her eyes at—what Regulus presumes is—her friend’s antics.

Barty grins, eyes zeroing back in on Regulus. He looks exactly like he did the day they ran away together, a different assortment of rings but the same amount—if not more—mischief radiating off of him with the same intensity as the scent of his cologne. “Oh, go fuck yourself. It’s, uh…Regulus, right? You remember me, don’t you?” He asks hopefully.

“Barty Crouch.” Regulus says quietly. Barty scans him just like he did the first time they met in that small shop, and it ignites the same fire under his skin as it did then. Shit.

“Exactly,” Barty winks, falling into the seat next to Regulus like he’s never been told ‘no’ in his life, and he wouldn’t listen if he was. The girl—Dorcas—lowers herself gently into the chair next to him, stare pinning him in place as she observes him. Her tie is the same green as his, and she grabs some of her hair to run her fingers through. She’s beautiful, and Regulus likes the way she holds herself with that easy borderline arrogance as if she knows it, too.

“You have this class?” Regulus asks after a few minutes, swallowing. Barty’s piercing glints when he moves to face him even more, making a significant face at him.

“You know English now.”

“A bit,” Regulus mumbles, face heating up. Their conversation comes to a quick end when the professor walks in. He’s middle-aged, with a monotone voice and large glasses, practically begging to be forgotten in place of a boy with tanned skin and a permanent smirk on his face. Barty tries a few times to speak to him, but when Regulus doesn’t reply, he gives up.

Barty doodles in his notebook the entire time, not even pretending to pay attention as his pencil scratches against the paper or he blatantly stares at Regulus. Dorcas rests her head on her arms, shutting her eyes and probably sleeping through the whole thing. None of them really talk, just sitting there as the professor drones on and on about class rules and rubric and such. It’s hard for Regulus to stay present, dark corners of his mind begging for attention he doesn’t want to give.

Regulus’ heart doesn’t stop racing the entire class period, an addicting thrill coursing through his veins every time Barty glances over at him with that same appreciation he did on the billboard. It makes him want to run again, makes him want to climb billboards and sin and laugh manically. He hardly seems to care about the awkward way they parted, far more interested in pushing buttons to see which one makes Regulus whirr to life.

Regulus can’t wait until he finds the right one. He just hopes Barty finds it before he finds it himself, because he’s worried that if he has to go through another day like this again, he might find it himself and tear it off.

***

Regulus is completely silent as they walk through the door, unresponsive to any of the greetings and questions that Effie and Monty throw their way.

It worries Sirius. He seemed alright in the bathroom, snarky with just the right amount of adversity to change, but when Sirius saw him again at lunch it was like he wasn’t even there, moving the cafeteria food around on his plate but not bringing any of it to his mouth except for a few small bites. Sirius had hoped that being pulled off and talked to in a familiar language would help him calm down and get through the day, but it clearly didn’t work like he was hoping it would, and the familiar weight of failure presses down on his chest like an old friend.

He’s filled with the instinctual need to fix, but he just doesn’t know how. Does Sirius ask him for a movie night tonight, or does he let him have the night alone and just hope that things are better tomorrow? Should he reassure him or let him navigate and get comfortable himself? He doesn’t know what Regulus needs, especially not when his younger brother kept sending glares his way like it was his fault.

Sirius threatened everybody at the table to be nice to Regulus and include him in conversation—or else ‘bad things’ would happen, which he would not clarify because he wasn’t quite sure and figured the mystery was scarier. It didn’t go very well, because Regulus wouldn’t respond at all when anybody tried. Sirius even tried murmuring to him in French a few times, just to ask if he was okay or if he wanted to go somewhere quieter, but all Regulus did was stare at him for a few seconds before turning back to his food.

James grumbles beside him, letting his backpack fall to the floor on his room and throwing his jacket and tie behind him carelessly. “Can you believe we got maths with Callaway? Callaway! That guy’s got a stick so far up his ass it’s practically in Narnia, I swear. I mean, Remus told us, but homework on the first bloody day is such a joke!”

“You’re preaching to the choir.” Sirius sighs, “we’ve got to find a way to break him.”

James snaps his fingers in agreement. “Absolutely.”

Sirius busies himself wrapping his tie around his hand shirt already half-unbuttoned as he flops down onto his best friend’s bed. James follows closely, sighing into a pillow. They pretty much just lay there, the first day of school always taking the most energy between greeting everybody, meeting new teachers plus sitting through their horribly boring introduction presentations and games, and being forced to actually change their horrendous sleep schedules—at least in Sirius’ case; he’s pretty sure James is an alien because no human could wake up at the same time as him and have that much energy every day. Sirius, on the other hand, fell asleep at approximately three in the morning and got up at seven. He’s fucking exhausted. Everything with his brother certainly didn’t help; worrying about Regulus has practically become second nature to him, and it never gets easier nor less tiring.

He hardly knows what to do to make things better. Regulus seemed upset about the orchestra thing, Sirius tried to pull the ‘who-cares’ approach to make it seem less daunting, Regulus shut him out again.

Regulus is like a puzzle, except it feels like every other piece is missing and he only has half of the real picture with no assurance that he’ll ever even be able to find the rest.

He just wishes he could talk to his brother without always saying the wrong thing. He tries so hard—he even takes a second to think about what he’s going to say before he says it—and it just never works. Every time they start to make progress, Sirius opens his stupid fucking mouth and sends Regulus running right back.

Little brothers are a terribly taxing ordeal.

Sirius can’t even really focus on whatever James is talking about; not when his brother is across the hall and upset because his first day was clearly a shit-show and he won’t even talk to Sirius about it. James speaks, and all Sirius wants to do is go across the hall and try his hand at knocking, even though his eyelids are heavy and sleep beckons him like a gentle lover. He just wants to know what happened. He just wants to know if it was him, or if it was something—or someone—else; something he can take care of. If it was a ‘somebody’, Sirius can and will beat the shit out of them without hesitation.

“Did Reggie seem off to you at lunch?” Sirius asks, watching as James twists to look at him.

“Eh, he’s always off.”

“But like—more off.” Sirius clarifies, “do you think I should say something to him?”

“You know him better than I do,” James shrugs, “I mostly just get glares and sarcastic remarks. It’s your choice.”

“You’re a right help, thanks,” Sirius grumbles sarcastically.

“Anytime.” James winks, wiggling his phone out of his pocket. “Football?”

“Sleep.” Sirius retorts, in no mood to get up, much less to play a physically demanding sport. “After though, mate.”

“It’s gonna be dinner, though,” James whines, “you sleep for a millenia once you get started.”

Sirius is pretty sure that if he was put in a cold, dark room with a fan and comfortable sheets he could sleep for days if not years. He’s never been one of those people who necessarily feels the need to get up because he’s awake more than he gets annoyed with the sun in his face or can’t continue to sleep because going any later is not socially acceptable. He sees no issue with it, because he greatly enjoys sleeping—almost as much as he loves football. “Wake me in an hour, then,” he says, both of them knowing that if James actually wakes him he’ll get pissy.

James accepts his defeat, and Sirius forces all thoughts of Regulus out of his mind until he has more energy to think about it and come up with a game plan.

—

Dinner goes pretty well, all things considered. Regulus comes out and eats politely, even though Sirius can tell he’s not really present. He’s not exactly quieter than usual—even on good days he’s usually pretty much or completely silent—but he’s got that look in his eyes that means he’s overthinking and not reaching any good conclusions. They discuss schedules and teachers and Effie tells them to study hard and Monty interjects with a ‘not too hard, though’, to which Effie throws a playful glare and swats at him. Sirius leaves it feeling satisfied—and rejuvenated after his nap—because he’s pretty sure he knows what to do about Regulus now.

Just as Sirius is about to follow Regulus, there’s a tap on his shoulder. “Footie?”

“Yeah, one second, Prongs, I’ve gotta talk to Reggie first.” Sirius says, reminded of the promise he made before he went to sleep. A nice game of football will be relieving after the day he’s had; worrying about Regulus is a full-time job, so he needs something to relax his muscles and distract his brain. There’s no person he gets happily distracted by more than James Potter, and no thing that does it better than football, so the combination is a perfect way to unwind this evening before bed and yet another day of getting up early and pretending to give a shit about what the professors say while he’s really just worried about Reggie.

He follows him up the stairs, trailing a bit behind for plausible deniability, and only once Regulus’ fist wraps around his doorknob does Sirius clear his throat. Regulus doesn’t seem surprised, only a bit disappointed when he looks at Sirius. “I thought I could get away.”

Sirius mimics a buzzer, grinning shyly as he says “wrong.”

“Really?” Regulus sighs. “I’m not in the mood, Sirius.”

“I know, I’m not going to ask to watch a movie, I swear.” Sirius puts his hands up, “I just wanna talk.”

Regulus eyes him warily. “About what?”

“I’m sorry for brushing you off in the bathroom.”

Regulus stares at him. His hand is still on the doorknob, making his intention of leaving if Sirius gets this wrong obvious.

“Really, I am. I know what the violin means to you, I shouldn’t have minimized that just because I don’t really get it.” Sirius tugs on a strand of his hair, trying to will the correct words to come to him.

“You were a dick. I told you I didn’t want to do it and you just told me to do it anyway.” Regulus points out, scowling.

“I know, that was shitty. Properly shitty.” Sirius admits sheepishly. “I should’ve listened to you, and heard you out and shit and I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

Regulus rolls his eyes, but Sirius can see how his shoulders relax. He practically fist-bumps the air when Regulus enters his room and leaves the door slightly ajar, meaning clear.

“I stand by my advice of taking it anyway just to see,” Sirius explains as he shuts the door behind himself, falling easily into the habit like it never left. Back home, they always shut their doors. Shut doors meant safety and secrets and that small bit of hope that their parents would forget about them for a while if they were quiet enough. It meant they could tell each other things and sit together and exist without the weight of expectation and abuse on their shoulders. “But, if you still don’t want to do that, you can always skip with me. It’s my free period.”

Regulus nods slowly, lowering himself onto the floor in front of his bed. Sirius follows, seeing as he hasn’t been kicked out yet. “It’s just scary.” Regulus whispers, pulling his knees to his chest and looping his arms around them, “everything is.”

“Do it scared.”

“I know it seems that way, I know it seems easy, but I played in front of Euphemia and I felt paralysing fear for hours after. I can’t play in front of the school.”

“I’ll beat anyone who dares say anything to you about it if you do.” Sirius promises, “and I won’t be mad if you decide not to, either. At the end of the day it’s your decision and I can’t tell you which one you’re supposed to make.” He pauses, then adds, “but it won’t always be scary if you do it.” He hopes it’s enough to make Regulus see how good this would be for him, how freeing it will feel to finally express himself without words, but he also knows that even if Regulus decides he’s not ready, he’ll be there for him no matter what.

Regulus sighs, leaning his head onto Sirius’ shoulder. They don’t speak; there’s nothing left to be said. Only a decision that Sirius has no control over except for how he chooses to be there for Regulus in the aftermath of it.

—

The next day, Sirius looks up during his free period to find Regulus clutching his violin case and staring at him, and Sirius does nothing more than scoot over so that his little brother can take a seat next to him. He offers him a reassuring smile as he watches Regulus sit down, a bit stiffly, before looking back down at his homework—a present from Callaway yet again—and continuing to scrawl half-assed answers beneath the questions with more than a few jokes sprinkled in.

“Maybe tomorrow.” Regulus whispers as he reaches into his bag.

“Okay,” Sirius replies, knowing that either way he’ll keep the spot next to him open, and he will for the rest of the year, just in case his brother ever decides that he needs him.

Chapter Text

“Humour me, now,” Barty grins, completely oblivious to the sharp glares the professor is sending his way. It’s been two weeks and she’s given a seating chart, sat Barty across the room from Regulus and Dorcas, gave him detention, cold-called him, and threatened to call his father. No matter what she does, Barty always ends up back in the same seat right in front of them, leaning back in his chair and chatting away while the professor tries to teach. If she poses a question, Barty has an answer ready easily. He’s gotten full marks on every assignment handed out and barely even glances at them. “You need to sit with us today instead of those dumb Gryffindors. House loyalty and all that.” Regulus finds it amusing that Barty practically spits the name like a curse. Like it corrupts him just laying on his tongue.

Barty has been trying to crack Regulus since the first day of school. Regulus hates to admit it’s working. It’s simply hard to focus when Barty looks at him, smirking, making Regulus want to do whatever he asks. There’s something so alluring, so magnetic, about the way it pulls the corner of his lips. Like you can’t look away, can’t help but agree to anything it says. Then there’s that fucking eyebrow piercing. It’s as if everything about Barty was sent to tempt him, pull him in with the soft hiss of the snake leading towards forbidden fruit. God, he needs help. All of this is so, so wrong, yet he just can’t seem to stop. He tells himself he’s not going to respond, and then Barty mumbles some stupid remark under his breath and stares at Regulus like he’s just waiting for him to laugh, and then Regulus does.

It’s a sin, he reminds himself, over and over, like a broken record. Mother would disown me.

Who’s here to tell? His mind retorts every time.

And really, who is here to tell? Not Sirius, who’s been in a relationship with that tall guy practically since he moved here. Certainly not Barty, who has made it very clear he’s no amateur or prude. The Potters—allegedly—don’t care for his parents at all, though Regulus is still a bit suspicious. Still, part of him feels as though his mother will just know, just as she knows everything else.

Beside him, Dorcas’ braids fall in a wave onto her desk, thrown over her shoulder with her head tilted to see. Her face is uninterested and blank as she jots a sentence from the board down in a purple gel pen. Regulus knows she’s most certainly listening. Barty leans even closer, chair leaning dangerously on two legs. Regulus has half a mind to kick them down just to break the spell. “Come join us in the courtyard; we commandeer this gorgeous maple oak tree, Regulus. And nobody bothers us, because they hate us.”

“Everybody hates you, Crouch, I’m quite beloved when I don’t associate with you.” Dorcas cuts in smoothly, talking at the same time that she copies the sentence down in perfect handwriting, this time in blue. She’s truly a marvel. Regulus wishes he could be attracted to her, instead. It would be much easier. She’s beautiful, smart, and funny in a dry way.

Barty gives her a glare. “Okay, sure, they hate me. Only ‘cause they can never be as hot and sexy as me, Regulus. I’m afraid that together, we would be the sexiest, most unstoppable trio to grace this campus since it was built.”

Regulus sighs inwardly, copying the words from Dorcas’ notes down because he just can’t listen to the professor and Barty talk at the same time. When she notices, she wordlessly scoots her notes closer. Her handwriting is stunning and almost font-like; easily legible and swooping, the perfect candidate to copy. He gives her a small, thankful smile, quickly jotting them down. He would like to sit with them, really. It’s unpleasant to be stuck to his brother’s side, listening as the people around him talk unnecessarily loudly and quickly, about a thousand conversations happening at once. Lunch is his least favourite time for that exact reason, but his brother always looks so happy to see him when he walks through the archway, always has the same spot open for Regulus no matter how many times the first few days other people tried to sit there.

He just wants to be able to do what he wants without always hurting someone else in the process. He wants to be selfish without that suffocating guilt wrapping around his chest. He wants to be normal.

That’s why, even though his heart is beating in his throat and his hands are shaking a bit, he mumbles “fine.”

Dorcas nods casually, while Barty acts like he’s just won the damn lottery with how excited he gets. He goes on and on about how he’s finally going to have the sexiest friend group in Hogwarts, how they’re going to be such evil casanovas, how they’re going to rule the school. Regulus isn’t quite sure about all of that—though it’ll be nice to be somewhere quieter, with people who share his humour and sarcastic nature and understand his quietness and don’t interpret it as being rude. To sit with people who he actually feels like he belongs with, who actually feel like people who could be his friends, instead of his brother’s friends who have been threatened—he’s sure—to be nice to him.

Honestly, Sirius probably won’t miss him anyway. Regulus isn’t blind to the concerned looks he gets from his older brother, probing questions about his classes and the people in his classes and the professors and the work that never seem to come to their natural conclusion. It’ll surely be nice to be able to eat and chat without being forced to worry about him. It will be nice to stop being coddled and treated like a toddler, which is what Sirius makes him feel like when he asks stupid questions like ‘do you need me to translate any of your homework’ as if Regulus hasn’t spent months now learning English for sometimes multiple hours a day, and a phone readily available to translate for him if he needs it.

Having someone who seems so genuinely excited to see him, who doesn’t see him as helpless or an extension of his older brother, is so refreshing after being only that for two weeks of school. Barty doesn’t know—or at least doesn’t care—about his older brother, about the legacy he left for Regulus to step into even though Regulus wants everything but. Barty seems so excited for his company at lunch, that Regulus and Dorcas share more than a few amused glances throughout his tirade, which goes on for the rest of class.

Professor Sprout cuts in once, but Barty turns around for all of two seconds before twisting right back around and continuing like he was never actually interrupted. When the bell rings, her shoulders drop in relief. Barty swipes his unused notebook and pencil into his bag without even a second glance, popping out of his seat with a wide grin. “Go through the back doors, towards the football field, and you’ll see us. I can walk you, if you need.”

“I’ll be okay.” Regulus assures him, methodically placing everything back into his bag.

“You’d better be there, Star-Boy.” Barty says seriously. “I’ll hunt you down.”

“I will.” Regulus replies, equally as serious. He won’t sabotage a chance to be a separate entity from his brother for once.

Barty smirks, saluting him as he walks out. Dorcas gives him a small smile, bracelets clinking together as she swings her backpack over her shoulder with easy grace.

For once, oddly, Regulus isn’t sure what version of himself he’s supposed to be for them. He has a chance to be whoever he wants to be, and he just doesn’t know who to choose. All he does is stare as they disappear, swallowing. He doesn’t want to scare them off. He wants Barty to keep staring and Dorcas to keep looking at him with approval.

By the time fourth period is over, he still doesn’t have an answer. His stomach is in knots when he turns in his worksheet, and he mumbles something probably unintelligible when she compliments his handwriting. His backpack digs uncomfortably into his shoulder, and as he walks into the cafeteria he can’t hardly breathe.

His eyes catch on Sirius immediately, because he’s out of his seat and waving dramatically. He has a tray next to him where he’s expecting Regulus to sit—because that’s where he has sat—and now it just feels a bit awkward. He grabs the tray, glancing down at it hopelessly but not actually registering what’s on it.

“Well, sit, then,” Sirius says, tapping the table with his fingers.

“I’m taking my lunch elsewhere.” Regulus responds carefully, feeling a bit like he’s disarming an active bomb.

Sirius looks at him like he just said he’s about to walk out of school and into incoming traffic. “What? With who? Where? No, you’re not.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “That’s not a concern for you.”

“Of course it is.”

“It really isn't. I’m done eating here while everyone walks on eggshells around me, and I was invited to eat somewhere else, so I am.” Regulus retorts, anger flashing. Sirius doesn’t get it, he just can’t understand. Sirius finds it easy to claw his way into the world, to tear a spot open for him to exist in. Regulus’ nails are cut, his arms too weak. Trying takes too much energy and the space is always too small for him. Sirius doesn’t notice the awkward silences when he enters a room, or the stilted way the conversation flows around him. It feels like everyone watches him eating and drinking, silently judging.

“But where? Who invited you, Regulus?”

“You wouldn’t know them.”

“I know fucking everybody! And if I don’t, Prongs will, or the girls will.”

Regulus just wants to scream. “Barty Crouch and Dorcas something! I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.” He scoffs, stomping off. Fuck Sirius, is it so unbelievable that he could make friends? Is it so baffling, so odd, that someone would enjoy his company and tolerate him? He’s not some troll. He’s just a little rough around the edges, a bit sharp in places he should be soft. That doesn’t mean people can’t like him. Evan and Pandora like him. He’s likable.

He tosses his tray, his non-existent appetite certainly not coming back after a row with his brother. He probably wouldn’t have eaten it anyway.

The Hogwarts grounds are sprawling, large enough to fit several soccer fields and several other sports fields with plenty of area to lounge. The grass is expertly maintained, so freshly-cut that Regulus can smell it. There are far less people out here—one group on the football field kicking around a ball, another lounging in the stands. Regulus walks towards them, eyes flitting back and forth as he tries to figure out where Barty and Dorcas are.

“Regulus!”

Nevermind.

Barty is holding his hand up, back propped against the tree. It’s large, stretching and stretching above them and blanketing them in spotty shade, with twirling limbs reaching down and out as if trying to make contact. Regulus sets off towards them, eager to get his backpack off of his shoulder and distract his mind. Dorcas gives him a small wave as she slips a cucumber into her mouth.

“Hey,” she greets once he’s close enough, “he was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“Lies,” Barty scoffs, “I had faith in him the whole time.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“I really don’t care either way,” Regulus interrupts, sitting down on the opposite side of Barty from Dorcas. Barty pats his shoulder sympathetically, nodding.

“Apathy is a curse, my friend,” he says somberly.

“Oh, don’t you start.” Dorcas groans, “you’ll scare him off.”

“You’ll scare him off.”

“I feel like you’re just disagreeing with me because you can.” Dorcas observes tiredly.

“I am.” Barty agrees with a shrug. “Diverse perspectives promote intellectual growth.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“Case in point,” Barty whispers loudly, staring at Regulus with a significant look. Regulus has to try very, very hard not to laugh. “I’m fostering her education, and she doesn’t realise it yet, because her IQ is heavily lacking.”

Regulus chances a glance at Dorcas, who is rolling her eyes and tossing various vegetables at Barty’s head, who ignores her in favour of staring at Regulus. Her jewelry glints in the sunlight, practically glowing against her skin. “Regulus, don’t listen to him. He’s nothing but trouble.”

“I can see that,” Regulus hums, feeling the burn of Barty’s stare against his skin. What she doesn’t know, is that all Regulus wants is trouble. He wants to feel that freedom that comes from doing something he’s never done before, that adrenaline rush from breaking the rules.

Dorcas nods in satisfaction. “I like you.”

“Okay,” Regulus mumbles a bit awkwardly.

“Do you like me?” Barty asks her, moving his foot until it just barely touches Regulus’. He does it so easily, so nonchalantly, even though the action makes Regulus’ brain go completely blank.

“Ask me later,” Dorcas replies vaguely.

Barty sticks his tongue out at her, foot tapping and tapping and tapping as he picks at his own lunch sporadically. Both of them set their lunches so that they can all pick at them, not commenting on the fact that Regulus doesn’t have food himself to share. Dorcas begs him to try one of her cucumbers dipped in this sauce, going on and on about what a delicacy it is and how if she could only eat one thing her entire life it would be that—to which Regulus asks if that would not technically be two things, and Barty snorts while she splutters her defense.

The tension dissipates quickly, and Regulus finds himself almost completely relaxed around them by the time the bell rings.

—

The first time Regulus lets Barty visit the house, it’s a quiet, windy day with the chill of autumn quickly settling in. Dorcas follows close behind, hair tied up intricately in a way that Pandora would definitely approve of. Sirius comes down at the commotion of Euphemia and Monty, who have made it their mission to make sure they know there are plenty of snacks and they’re practically the loveliest, most polite people they’ve ever met, and how wonderful it is that Regulus found them—though he knows they really mean we’re shocked that anyone would willingly hang out with him. Sirius, to Regulus’ amusement, is so put off by it that his eye literally twitches, and he grumbles angrily the entire time the Potters are fussing. James nods in agreement with his brother, of course, face somber, though Regulus catches the wink he throws when Regulus finally manages to pull Barty away from Euphemia, right as his mouth is opening in what Regulus can just tell is a very inappropriate comment.

They spent the entire day in Regulus’ room, Barty going straight to the window and, upon discovering the small bit of roof outside of it—barely enough for his foot to grip—climbed right out without hesitating. Regulus was horrified, to say the least, but Dorcas just looked jaded and told Regulus there was no point in freaking out because Barty would do it anyway and be much more reckless just to spite him. “He hasn’t died yet,” she commented dryly, finger running across the dark wood of Regulus’ desk, “and I probably wouldn’t be that peeved if he did.”

Barty cackled in response, sticking his middle finger through the window. He made no move to get back inside, despite the fact he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and the wind was picking up. “You didn’t tell me your parents have a whole-ass football field.”

“Host parents,” Regulus corrected absentmindedly, watching the way Barty’s shirt rippled in the wind, the way the muscles in his arms flexed when he shifted to get a better grip on the window, “but yeah. Sirius and James are out there a lot. Do you play?” He asked, forcing his eyes back up to appropriate places.

“Yeah, I like being able to get physical without social backlash.” Barty replied distractedly, waving his free hand dismissively, “who are your real parents, then?” He questioned, looking back to Regulus curiously.

Regulus swallowed, stomach going a bit queasy. He never really liked speaking of his family, because the last name always came with a heavy weight and expectation that he was supposed to find privilege in. Now, because of the heavy weight of the knowledge that they’re not exactly a family and never were. “Walburga and Orion Black. They live back in France”

“Star names run in the family, then?”

Regulus shrugged noncommittally. “Are you on a team?” He asked instead.

“Huh?”

“For football,” Regulus clarified.

“Oh, yeah, we have our first game next week—against Ravenclaw. You should come watch me kick ass.”

Sirius also wasn’t lying about the fact that the sorting applies to extracurriculars. Every after school activity has four teams, which play against each other. Apparently, the team with the most points—compiled after each game—at the end of the year wins some prize for their entire ‘House’. Both Sirius and James play football, too. Somehow, Regulus is like a magnet for people who play physical sports he has no interest in.

Dorcas huffed a laugh at that, crossing her arms and leaning against Regulus’ desk. Her low-rise jeans hugged her hips perfectly, but she pulled them up absentmindedly as she spoke, staring unimpressed at Barty. “He doesn’t kick ass.”

“I definitely kick shins, though, and I haven’t gotten carded yet.” Barty points out, finally sitting down on the window ledge and leaning inside.

“You’ve gotten carded once or twice,”

Barty rolls his eyes, “not for kicking shins, though,” he clarifies proudly, directing his boyish grin straight towards Regulus as he blows his hair out of his face. “Do you play sports?”

Regulus shakes his head. “Not my thing.”

Barty nods, while Dorcas turns to him curiously, fingers wrapped around the pen that Barty stole for him that first day they met. “What do you do for fun?”

“Violin, mostly.” Regulus shrugs, his attention span is in tact, so he doesn’t need a million things to keep him occupied in his spare time. Not that he has a lot; the workload at Hogwarts is extensive and neverending. He spends most of his afternoons doing homework. Plays when he can, calls Pandora and Evan if he’s not watching a movie with Sirius. He spends a fair amount of time staring into the distance, but he’s pretty sure that’s not considered a hobby.

“At school?”

“No.” Regulus says resolutely. Dorcas seems to be able to tell that it’s a sore subject, dropping it with a special grace.

“Well, I dance ballet.” She smiles, a hint of ego hidden beneath the sweet exterior, “Barty thinks it’s boring, but maybe you could help me practice sometime, since you can play.” She offers, and suddenly her ease of movement makes sense. The way she walks like she’s practically floating above the ground, the smooth motions she maintains constantly. Regulus could bet she’s an excellent dancer.

“Maybe,” he replies non-commitally, not ready to voice the fact that he doesn’t, can’t, and won’t play in front of an audience in the foreseeable future.

They don’t stay for dinner, but Regulus finds himself much more relaxed around them by the end, a bit of hope that he can make these people part of his life. Something to make school more bearable and England less harsh.

The third time Barty visits, the crisp autumn air has set in, and rain is pattering incessantly against the windows. Regulus runs in cursing under his breath, tugging his beanie down, because that’s just his luck. Dorcas is absent, her ballet recital running far too late and probably being far too physically demanding to allow her to do anything but go straight home and sleep. It’s the first time Regulus has been alone with Barty, and he’s worried that without Dorcas there as a buffer, he’ll end up doing something he’s going to regret. If the weather is any sort of omen, Regulus reckons he’s probably fucked.

Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it, he tells himself, watching as Barty falls in behind him, laughing maniacly. Sirius and James are peeling their soaked jackets off of their shoulders somewhere, but Regulus’ attention is hopelessly taken by the mischievous glint in Barty’s eyes. Sirius wasn’t happy when Barty joined them on their walk home, and he actually blamed him for the rain, absurdly, as if Barty saw the clouds forming above them and said ‘you know what would be funny?’ and squeezed the water out of them himself.

Barty’s shirt has gone a bit see-through where it’s been abused by rain, the lean definition of his chest doing absolutely nothing to help Regulus’ self control. When Barty is standing there, chuckling and running a hand through his hair, his mantra of ‘it’s a sin’ is quickly diminished by the retort of ‘who really cares?’. Regulus isn’t sure he does, anymore, and all he can think about is that whether he’s attracted to boys or not, his mother won’t love him anyway, so why is he even holding himself back? A big part of Regulus wants to jump Barty’s bones just because he’s there, and he can, and he wants to spite his mother. She never will love him, why does he have to love her? It’s practically torture. A hot guy who has made it very clear he’s interested is standing right in front of him, smirking right at him because he knows exactly what Regulus is thinking, and he’s still holding himself back.

Regulus is leading Barty up the stairs when Sirius clears his throat, “door open, Regulus!”

Before Regulus can reply, though, Regulus literally sees a terrible idea forming in Barty’s eyes. He can only brace himself as he watches the boy open his mouth to respond with “you do not want the door open, trust me!”

Regulus presses his eyes shut. He swears he can hear the sound of his brother grinding his teeth, and he already knows exactly what expression is going to be on his face when he turns around.

“What are you insinuating, Crouch?” Sirius asks, eerily calm. Regulus turns and shares apprehensive eye contact with James.

“Pads…” James tries.

“No, no, what, exactly, are you implying?” Sirius demands, a very clear forced smile on his face.

“What do you think I’m implying?” Barty responds calmly, stupid smirk not even flinching. Regulus sighs.

“Come on, Barty.” He grumbles, grabbing him by the sleeve. “Don’t you start.”

Barty drops his head back, rolling his eyes. “You’re no fun,” he mutters, but he lets Regulus guide him up the stairs nonetheless.

“Door open, Regulus Arcturus Black! Wide open!”

“Regulus Arcturus?” Barty questions as they enter Regulus’ room, dropping their bags by the door.

Regulus nods, loosening his wet tie and letting it fall open on his shoulders. “Yes.”

“I can call you Archie, then,” He grins, dropping down on Regulus’ bed with a plop. Something about the nickname warms Regulus’ chest. He’s been called a plethora of things: Regulus, Reggie, Reg, Black, Spare. Nobody has ever used the nickname Archie—nobody has ever thought of it, much less used it. But he likes the way it sounds on Barty’s tongue, a bit foreign but the affection clear.

“Get off of my bed; you’re wet and gross,” he says, because that’s all he can manage to get out. He shoves Barty a bit for good measure. “You can’t study on there, anyway,”

“Oh my god, you actually brought me to study?” Barty groans, tossing his hands into the air, looking as if he’s physically pained, “Archie, seriously?”

“Yes,” Regulus scoffs. As if it would be anything but. Regulus might be pretty far on his journey to self-discovery, but he’s not ready to take the full plunge yet. Not even when Barty looks at him with his attempt at puppy-dog eyes. “We’re studying.”

“I want to study human anatomy.”

“No.” Regulus actually laughs, unable to keep it in any longer.

Barty smiles at him, playfully exasperated. Regulus likes that he doesn’t push. He makes his wants clear, and leaves it to Regulus to give in—or not, and he’s seemingly fine with that too. Regulus likes his wit, and the few screws he’s very clearly missing in his head, and the way when he smiles he always does it so wide his canines show. “You’re no fun, Arcturus.”

“Full middle name, now?” Regulus can’t help but indulge, unconsciously leaning forward.

“‘Cause I’m mad at you.”

“How terrible.”

Barty, still smiling, starts leaning in.

Regulus’ stomach swoops, and he shoves him back down with enough force that he bounces slightly on the mattress. “Study.”

Barty sighs in defeat.

—

“Stop moving, jerkwad.” Dorcas orders, raising an authoritative eyebrow at Regulus.

Regulus rolls his eyes, but wordlessly complies, and she lowers the nail polish brush back down to his nail with careful precision. Her hands are steady, and she applies the polish with the same precision one would approach open heart surgery with. Dorcas is easy to hang out with—sometimes more so than Barty. She’s pretty quiet, like him, speaking when she has something to say and otherwise letting the comfortable silence between them speak for itself. Being with her is always comfortable in a way that he enjoys. Regulus thinks he found himself a good pair of friends here. Barty brings the chaos and distractions, while Dorcas balances him out perfectly with level-headed responses and enviable focus. She does practically everything like she’s getting a grade, putting her entire person into something as mundane as painting Regulus’ nails black because they finished their work and she got bored.

They carry easy conversation when they want to, sharing roughly the same opinions on fashion and lifestyle. He loves Evan and Pandora dearly, but neither of them care much about fashion or his hatred when it’s done incorrectly. It’s nice to see something and be able to look over at Dorcas, knowing she’s thinking the exact same thing he is.

Her school skirt pools on the floor, both of them having come straight from school. Barty was doing something with his dad, which left it just the two of them, but it wasn’t ever awkward. Something about Dorcas as a person repels the very idea of awkwardness; he’s never seen her look so much as uncomfortable in any situation. They said goodbye to Barty, and conversation flowed easily after that until they got here. She’s a good study-buddy because, unlike some people, she actually has the capability to focus and work diligently, asking questions occasionally or answering them.

She doesn’t make Regulus feel stupid about not knowing some words, answering calmly and quickly with a speed that implies great intelligence Regulus is certain she possesses. She’s quick like a whip, catching onto things that even Regulus can be oblivious to sometimes, always ready with a witty retort to any insult or question thrown her way.

Both of her parents are therapists, and while she’s very vocal about how annoying it can get sometimes with the ‘what are you feeling’ and ‘what outlet have you been using for your emotions’ pestering, she’s also come out very well-rounded because of it. One would have to be, to spend so much time with Bartemus Crouch Jr. and not unravel. She’s quick to solve conflict before it even arises, reading people like books with a quick glance.

Regulus has come to really, really like her.

“I don’t get why you’re dancing around your feelings for Barty.” She says abruptly, causing Regulus to flinch harshly. She glares at him.

Most of the time.

“I’m not dancing around my feelings,” Regulus files the saying away for later, quite liking the mental image. And he’s not.

“Then why haven’t you slept with him yet?” She asks bluntly, stare unapologetically disbelieving.

“Because I like to think I have more dignity than that.”

“Do you, though?”

Not really, Regulus sighs to himself. He never thought he’d be the type of person to be so intrigued by stereotypical ‘bad boys’—which Barty absolutely, unequivocally is. He always thought he had more class than that. But Regulus is finding out he was wrong about a lot of things; mainly, the depth of his mother’s affection for him. Having a rebellious phase is hardly out of the question now, and Sirius has assured him it’s well within his right, so long as he stops taking it out on innocent Potter people. At least he can still be mean to James, because he’s unsure whether or not it counts as being mean when the recipient enjoys it so much.

Dorcas nods, his silence being all the answer she needs. “Please, for my sake, do it soon. Hanging out with the both of you is suffocating with all of the sexual tension in the room.”

“As if you’re not just as bad,” Regulus retorts. Dorcas, because she’s Dorcas, shares mutual sexual tension with everybody with an interest in girls. There’s one particular girl, however, who she’s painfully smitten with.

“I’m not denying the fact that I share sexual tension with plenty of people—one girl in particular—however the difference between us is that I’ve admitted it to myself, and have resounded to do something about it.”

“You did?”

Regulus has known Dorcas fancies Marlene for practically as long as he’s known her. If they didn’t fit so well together, and if he hadn’t made it extremely clear he doesn’t know Sirius and James’ friend group at all, he’d be worried she was just using him to get to her. Marlene, a brutal blonde with heavy eyeliner and an ego the size of a lake, is practically a female duplicate of Sirius. Or, really, Sirius is a male duplicate of her. Sirius could talk for ages about how much he despises her, and anyone with working ears and a lick of common sense could tell he’s really just jealous of her. She can easily bench more than him, run faster than him, and possesses even more of a commanding presence than him, and there’s nothing Sirius hates more than losing. Regulus likes her pretty much just for that reason.

Regulus doesn’t know her very well, just as he doesn’t know the rest of them, but her brutality is commendable. He’s seen her practising football sometimes in passing, and she’s a well-oiled machine on the field.

It’s strange to picture someone as put-together as Dorcas with somebody who he witnessed chug half a jug of milk—being lactose intolerant—to ‘assert dominance’ over Sirius once when they were all over at the beginning of the school year, but he’s sure that Dorcas is so stubborn she’d make absolutely anything work.

“Yup. I’m going to ask her out at your brother’s party.” She grins proudly.

“Sirius’ party?” Regulus questions, and at her nod, he’s completely confused. “Sirius is throwing a party?”

Dorcas raises her eyebrows, “you didn’t know? It’s practically all he’s been talking about. Effie and Monty always go out for the day on their anniversary and Sirius and James throw a rager in their absence. They’ve done it every year. Literally how did you not know?”

“Fucking Sirius,” Regulus groans. All he wants is a whole bunch of sweaty teenagers blasting music and trying to get into his room when all he wants to do is sleep. Regulus hates parties. He’s never been to one and doesn’t care to. In France, Evan and Pandora would occasionally be invited, but Regulus made it clear that was something they were to do alone. He wasn’t invited to many himself—his status scared most people off, and he was far too high-profile to risk being seen somewhere like that anyway.

But he should’ve known his brother never could resist a good party.

***

“Uh uh, swoop needs to be lower.” Sirius comments, arms crossed. James’ parents left two hours ago, and they have thirty minutes left to get the place ready to party.

“You do it then,” Marlene spits, glaring. Everybody is here to help with the preparations; Lily and Mary on snack duty, Remus tucking away the valuables, Pete and James on alcohol duty, and Sirius and Marlene on decoration duty because she drew the short straw.

Him and Pete, because Peter is cunning in this quiet way that one could never see coming, barely wasted any time on their mission. All it took was Peter talking to a few people for a few minutes at a time, before they were volunteering to buy them stuff without even needing to explicitly ask. They hid what they’d had, Pete turned the sob story up to eleven, and they had ten whole bottles of various liquors at their disposal by the end.

Lily and Mary are scarily efficient, an assortment of snacks arranged beautifully on the table in colour order. If James hadn’t finally let go of his crush last year, he would’ve started swooning. Lily is a force. The type of person who’s easy to fall in love with. With the way her fiery red hair compliments her fiery temper, the way she cares about everything so deeply, and the softer voice she takes with the younger years, she’s just one of those people. Obviously, it doesn’t help that she held a deep-seated resentment of him until about two years ago and used any opportunity she saw to insult him, which only made James like her more.

He also likes her not insulting him anymore—mostly because he took a look at himself and decided that he didn’t like who he was becoming. Chasing her without respite, without caring what she wanted, making her the object of his affections and declaring they’d be married at the mere age of twelve before he’d even talked to her, did not fit the version of himself he thought he was. So, he took a step back, sincerely apologized to her, and let his dreams go. It helped that most of his love for her was an idealized version of what they could be. He wanted to get married and have kids and a white picket fence with a huge dinner table to host all of their friends, and there was a beautiful girl right there in his first period class, with a heart of gold and a smile worth a thousand words.

But that girl didn’t want any of that, much less with him.

Now, he can listen to her dreams about traveling the world, living a carefree life and maintaining an adventurous career that she enjoys, closer now than ever, and feel only the hope that she gets everything she wants in life.

“You guys do realise everybody else got their jobs done thirty minutes ago, right?” Peter asks from his spot beside James leaning against the wall.

“Hush, Wormy.” Sirius scolds. “You don’t understand the art of decor. Why do none of you understand the art of decor?”

“Because we have lives.” Marlene says.

Sirius glares at her, and James is pretty sure that it’s spite that makes him say, “now you’ve gone too low. Go up again.”

There’s a hand on James’ shoulder, pushing him lightly from his place in the doorway. Everybody is in this room, so he’s a bit surprised. He glances over just in time to see Regulus passing him, and his heart does a little jump in his chest.

“What is this?” He demands, scowling.

“We’re getting ready for the party, Reggie, what does it look like?” Sirius quips, twirling around and grinning at him. Marlene, recognizing her chance, quickly hooks the ribbon strip and steps down.

“It looks like shit.” Regulus comments dryly. “Your incompetence astounds me.”

“Stop using big words. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like parties. Don’t throw one.”

Sirius narrows his eyes at his little brother.

Marlene clears her throat, skipping up and hooking an arm around Sirius that looks more like a chokehold than a friendly gesture, especially combined with the very harsh smile on her face. “Reggie-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“A little birdie told me that you’re friends with Dorcas Meadowes.” She hums. James immediately knows where this is going, because you barely have to speak to Marlene once to know she’s borderline obsessed with the Slytherin. She’s carried a torch for her since mid-last year, surprisingly at James and Sirius’ party actually, when she was stumbling through the crowd drunk off her ass and ended up running into Dorcas, spilling half of her drink on her dress. It was terribly cliché. They ended up in the bathroom, Marlene profusely apologizing for the accident and trying to clean the dress with water, while Dorcas just let her fuss and practically ignored her. James doesn’t get the hype, because he prefers the meanness to come through sarcastic remarks and insults, but to each their own.

“I am.” Regulus says slowly. “Whatever you’re about to ask, it’s a no.”

“Relax.” She shrugs. Sirius’ face has started to go a bit pink, and he’s clawing at her arms pitifully. “I just want to know if she’s seeing someone.”

Something shifts in Regulus’ eyes, that calculating glint appearing. His curls fall back when he tilts his head up a bit, easily shifting into that haughty stance. “She isn’t.”

Marlene grins like a fool, completely unbothered by Regulus’ animosity. “Wonderful.”

“Okay.” Regulus mumbles. “Let my brother breathe,” he adds belatedly, as if he’d completely forgotten that she was choking his only brother. Regulus is a perfect example of the mean that James likes. If he wasn’t Sirius’ brother, and had Sirius not threatened severe bodily harm, James would probably be completely besotten.

Marlene complies, patting Sirius on the head like she’s consoling a dog. She’s positively beaming as she walks over to Mary, pretending to play it cool while Mary and Lily do that high-pitched squealing thing girls do when they’re excited, grabbing at each other like Marlene is about to fly away or something.

James turns his attention back to Regulus. He could’ve told anyone after his first meeting with the boy that he wasn’t into parties, and he was almost worried about Regulus convincing them not to do it—or worse, threatening to snitch. But Sirius assured him that if there was one rule of their relationship, it was that they never snitched on each other. Not that James’ parents would really care, but they’d definitely have to sit through a ‘responsible drinking and choices’ lecture that’s pretty boring and probably get grounded.

Regulus, for his part, hasn’t threatened to snitch. He’s just made it very, very clear he’s against the whole idea.

James hopes, if he’s lucky, they’ll make enough noise down here that he’ll go out onto the roof and James can catch him there. Something about their late nights are special to James, whether they talk or not. He always just feels grounded—ironically—when he’s with Regulus, nobody but the stars intruding on the moment. He looks just as put-together as always, expensive silver glinting on his wrist, black curls perfectly maintained, but there’s a late-night softness to him that dulls his usually sharp edges and makes his eyes glow a bit brighter.

“Hey, Regulus,” James greets.

Regulus turns, raising an eyebrow. “Hi.”

James smiles. There’s something about having Regulus’ attention that makes him self-conscious of every move he makes, and despite knowing him and experiencing it for months now, it hasn’t faded at all. James would even argue it’s gotten worse. “You should come down for a bit.” He offers, knowing the answer before he even finishes the sentence.

Regulus bristles a bit. “No.” Regulus says simply before walking away. Presumably back to his room. His curls bounce just the slightest bit as he takes the stairs.

Worth a shot, James sighs to himself. He figured it was a lost cause, but he’s never been known to be pessimistic. He’d like to see how Regulus would behave when he’s drunk. Would he be giggly? Would he be even meaner? Would he just fall right asleep? Remus is fun for about five minutes when he’s drunk, and then he’s completely passed out after that—usually on Sirius. Pete gets giggly, which is very fun for James because all of his jokes land and also Peter’s laughter is contagious, so James always ends up laughing with him.

When James glances back, Sirius is looking at him oddly. Matter of fact, everybody is looking at him a bit oddly at different intensities. “What?” He asks.

“Nothing.” Lily says, tearing her eyes away. The rest of them do the same, so James just shrugs it off. Maybe they were looking at Regulus. It’s very easy to lose track of whatever is being said when Regulus enters a room, so he doesn’t blame them.

“I think we should pregame,” Sirius announces, clapping his hands together.

“Hell yeah!” James shouts, already heading for the kitchen. Sirius is a very fun drunk; the type to sing terrible karaoke and dance until his legs give out, which is perfect for James because he also likes to do those things.

—

James is several shots and some mystery concoction of Mary’s making deep into the night, and he’s having a great time. The whole thing has gone very smoothly—unless counting that entire bottle of whiskey Bartemus Crouch Jr. took for himself about an hour ago—a nd the music is loud and pleasant. He’s danced with Mary, sang two duets with Sirius, and had a very lovely conversation with Peter who giggled every other word out of his mouth.

The night has been an overwhelming success, if he can say so himself. The only thing missing is gray eyes and short, dark hair. He doesn’t let himself dwell on that, though, especially not when he’s sitting in front of Marlene’s legs and getting an absent-minded head massage. Marlene gets much nicer when she’s drunk; she would never, on threat of death, touch anybody’s head with the intent to relieve tension if she was sober. When she’s drunk, though, it’s a different story.

“Prongsie Prongs,” Sirius croons from his place on the floor across from James, Remus fast asleep on his shoulder.

“Paddington,” James mumbles, too relaxed to give much more.

“What’s your deal with my brother?” He asks, and James thinks there’s a slight shift in tone, but he just can’t focus enough to tell. The only problem when James is drunk is that he tends to have no filter. He has a very loose tongue after a few drinks, and it’s gotten him into a few tough situations. Sirius knows this about him—he’s fallen victim to it a few times. James should probably be suspicious, but he just doesn’t really care.

“I don’t know,” James says truthfully. “He’s very mean to me.” He misses him. Once he can muster the strength to pull away from Marlene, he’s going to go up to the rooftop and see him. Hopefully he’s there. It’ll be dreadful if he isn’t, because then James will have to sit up there all alone in the cold.

“Prongs, you don’t like that, do you?”

“I think you’re about to get mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad? It’s not like you have a crush on my brother, right?” Sirius shrugs, but his eyes are sharply focused on James, even despite the alcohol. Sometimes it feels like Sirius can sober up at will, the way he can go from blurry-eyed to a staredown in a split second.

James shrugs, “I dunno, mate, he’s your brother.”

“Exactly,” Sirius nods, seemingly pacified—at least for the moment. James doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know why Sirius is questioning him about Regulus. Unless he knows about the rooftop, but James is pretty sure he hasn’t told anybody about the rooftop. It’s highly unlikely that Regulus did, because he’s secretive about literally everything. Asking him about his day is like pulling teeth. “My baby brother.”

“Yeah,” James sighs, “It’s a bummer.”

“Why-” Sirius starts, alert once again, but he’s cut off by Dorcas Meadowes’ sudden appearance right next to their group.

In James’ hair, Marlene’s fingers clench painfully. He has to try really hard not to let it show on his face, because she’s really tugging.

Dorcas clears her throat, not looking anywhere but Marlene. “Can I talk to you for a second, Mckinnon?”

“I-” Marlene stutters, going pale like a deer in headlights, “I mean, yeah- yeah, totally!”

Dorcas nods once, stepping over a bit until she’s far enough away from the group to have the illusion of privacy and for the music to drown out any noise. Marlene releases James suddenly, and he yanks himself further just in case she decides she needs to ground herself. His head hurts, and he’s convinced she’s got two handfuls of his hair in her fists right now, with how hard she was pulling. He looks to Sirius for sympathy, but weirdly finds none. He actually seems to be a bit cross with him right now. James isn’t sure what he said, or that he even cares. He just wants to know what Marlene and Dorcas are going to talk about.

Marlene moves robotically towards Dorcas, eyes wide as Dorcas scans her and then says something.

“‘You clean up nice’,” Mary translates. She’s the queen of eavesdropping and gossip, possessing superhuman hearing and a surprisingly accurate skill of lip-reading. When she wants to know something, there’s absolutely nothing and nobody that can get in her way. She knows absolutely everything, sometimes before people even know themselves.

Marlene shifts awkwardly on her feet. Mary giggles slightly as she translates “‘er, thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself. Or- well- you look great, actually. Obviously’ yikes.”

“I have faith.” Lily assures her.

“Me too.” James chimes in, just because he can. “Regulus said Dorcas isn’t seeing anyone, maybe she’s going to ask Marls out.”

“Don’t talk about my brother, Prongs.” Sirius grumbles. James wonders if he’s aware that that’s physically impossible for him to do considering they live together and interact daily, but decides at the look on Sirius’ face that he probably shouldn’t push his luck.

Dorcas smirks, “‘I know’.” When she speaks again, and Marlene responds, Mary’s jaw drops, and she starts aggressively shaking poor Lily.

“What? What did she say?” Sirius demands eagerly.

“She asked her out! Dorcas asked her out! Oh my god, Lily, it’s happening!”

Lily grins wide, grabbing both of Mary’s hands, and they do a terrible job of trying to play it cool when both Marlene and Dorcas glance over at them—so bad, that James has to hide his laugh in his sleeve. Dorcas rolls her eyes, a small smirk playing on her lips, but all she does is wink at Marlene before disappearing into the crowd.

Marlene, eyes somehow even wider than when she first walked over, comes towards them as if she’s in a trance. “She…”

“We heard!” Mary squeals, jumping up and practically tackling her. Marlene absently wraps her arms around her, looking shellshocked.

“Right on, Marls,” Sirius nods, smiling. He holds his drink up in toast, “you totally bombed that interaction and she still asked you out.”

“Your pull is unparalleled,” James congratulates her, though he’s pretty sure she’s not listening. He’s not really, either. Romance is blooming, and it’s the perfect opportunity for James to sneak out while everybody’s focus is on Marlene. He tries to get up slowly so as to not attract attention. It helps that Lily and Mary are completely zoned in on Marlene and what she’s going to wear, where she’s gonna go, what they’re going to do, what she should do with her hair and all of that. James appreciates the effort that girls seem to go through in order to maintain their appearance. Before he became friends with them, he thought it was much easier than it was—like it usually was for him. When he finally became friends with them, once they started talking to him, he discovered that no, it definitely wasn’t that simple; they spent hours in front of the mirror every morning applying their makeup and doing their hair, and they planned every aspect of their outfits in advance.

James just rolls out of bed and throws his uniform on. Sometimes he even forgets his tie. If it’s not a weekday, he throws the nearest combination on and calls it a day.

James takes his window when Sirius chimes in on the hair debate—he’ll be occupied for hours—giving James prime time to make his escape. It’s easy once he’s shouldered through enough people to disappear, finding his way clumsily up the stairs and dodging the couples sporadically placed in the hall. All of the doors are locked, because James couldn’t stomach the thought of anyone getting it on in his room—or worse, his parents’.

Just to make sure, he tries Regulus’ door. Knocks for good measure. He told him to lock it, and it seems like he did. The music is quieter up here, but probably not to Regulus’ standards, which means he might just be on the roof. James grins at the thought, eagerly making his way up the attic stairs. They locked this one too, but James made sure to sneak the key into his pocket. After a few tries of missing the lock completely, he finally gets it in, and practically falls inside because he’d stupidly placed his weight on the door to stop everything from spinning.

He giggles absurdly, quietly pressing the door shut again. Hopefully nobody comes in here. That would be a bummer. It would really suck, because this is James’ and Regulus’ spot.

The window slides open with a creak that feels louder than usual, but he can’t really tell.

It’s very hard to get his foot through the window. Harder than he remembers it. He keeps missing the bloody window and leaving prints on the glass, but he’s determined. It’s open, which means Regulus is out there.

When his foot is finally planted firmly on the other side, he’s able to pull himself through. He doesn’t fall. He almost does, but he doesn’t.

“How pissed are you?” A bland voice asks. Regulus.

James grins, feeling the pull in his cheeks, the way it stretches across his lips. “I’m not pissed.” He mumbles. Regulus doesn’t give off the impression that he likes drunk people very much, and James really doesn’t want him to leave.

“Right.” Regulus sighs.

“‘M not. I only had a bit.” James shrugs, knowing that’s probably not true. He pays special attention to his feet, because he doesn’t want to fall. Regulus probably wouldn’t catch him, because he’s mean like that. And he also almost pushed him off himself that one night. “D’you remember when you almost threw me off the roof?”

Regulus rolls his eyes, but once James is close enough he reaches out and grabs his pant leg, pulling him down to a sitting position a bit harshly. “If I wanted you to fall off the roof, you would have.”

James snorts, “you can’t just dangle people off roofs, psycho.”

Regulus shrugs, glancing back up at the sky. “Well, I’m…sorry.” He grumbles. James half expects him to gag, the way he says it with so much disdain. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

“You should not have.” James agrees, nodding, “but it was kinda funny.”

“Was it, though? You thought you were going to die.”

“Yeah, but I knew you wouldn’t do it.”

“James, are you sick in the head?” Regulus asks, his tone so serious James almost thinks that he’s actually asking for a second. His silver eyes stare right into James’ soul, as if he’s determined to find out the answer himself. “You thought I was going to kill you, and you thought it was funny.”

“The jury’s still out.”

Regulus shakes his head, “you're drunk.”

“Drunk is a nuanced term.” James informs him, liking the way the wind musses Regulus’ curls, “like, I’m drunk enough for my filter to be gone, but not enough to lose my footing on the roof.”

Regulus gives him an unimpressed look. “If I didn’t pull you down, you would have gone right off of the roof.”

“Would I have?”

“You were leaning so far back you were practically horizontal.”

“I guess we’ll never know what would’ve happened, because you like me so much you couldn’t bear the thought.”

“I do not.”

“You didn’t want me to die,” James sing-songs, poking Regulus’ shoulder. “Because you like me.”

“Whatever.”

James basks in his victory, letting his head rest against the shingles. The stars are bright tonight, peeking out from the blanket of black in sharp pinpricks. They’re very pretty, a stark reminder that nothing is forever so you’ve got to make it count. Honestly, James doesn’t know why he didn’t think about it before, but is Regulus technically a star? Does looking at him count as stargazing? He glances to the side to test the theory, just watching. Regulus is staring up, gray eyes fixated somewhere in the vast expanse above them. It definitely counts.

“Why are you staring at me?” Regulus asks. He didn’t even look—James would know, because he has, in fact, been looking for longer than he realised, with a special focus on his face and the soft pink tint to his cheeks from the dropping temperatures and the wind.

“Stargazing.”

“That’s terrible,” Regulus gags, cringing. “Terrible pun.” James wasn’t really aiming to make a joke, really, and he was—shockingly—being genuine in his observation. But he can definitely see how that came off as such, and honestly he’s not terribly dissuaded. At least Regulus is acknowledging him.

“I guess you could say I’m not very…punny.”

Regulus sighs deeply. “I hate you.”

“I know.” James giggles. Of course Regulus hates him, that’s his love language. And speaking of love, “what’s the deal with you and Barty?” James doesn’t like the bloke very much, mostly on principle because Sirius hates his guts, but also because he stole Regulus from their lunch table, and James feels weirdly put-off when he sees them together. It’s no secret Barty is at least extremely attracted to Regulus, but James nor Sirius has been able to get a read on Regulus or his potential reciprocation. James, several drinks in, doesn’t see why they haven’t just blatantly asked.

“Fuck off.” Regulus retorts, face twisting into a scowl, and that must be why. James frowns.

“I just wanna know. My love life is supremely lackluster at the moment.” James almost whines—he doesn’t actually whine, because he hasn’t gotten to the sacrificing dignity part of the conversation yet. He’s not above it, but he prefers to save it for special occasions that really call for the need.

Regulus turns his head on his shoulder, fixing him with a very, very unamused glare. “Well stay out of mine.”

“So there is one?” James questions, and for some reason he feels a bit disappointed.

“I don’t know,” he admits cryptically. A gust of wind pushes one of his curls into his face, but instead of moving it Regulus just lets it sit there.

“Well, do you like him?”

Regulus stays silent, pursing his lips.

“Then do something.” James says, poking him again even though he knows it’s probably a bad idea. Regulus doesn’t do something like bite him or break his finger, so he counts it as a win.

“And what if my mother finds out?” Regulus asks quietly, voice soft and practically lifted away by the wind. Luckily, James has found himself staring at his lips, making the words much easier to decipher.

“Fuck her.” James swats at the air a bit, shooing the mere thought of her away. He won’t let her ruin his fun, Regulus shouldn’t either. “If we all did what everyone else wanted us to do, nobody would ever do anything.”

“Did you steal that from your dad?” Regulus questions, but he’s got a look on his face like he’s genuinely considering the advice.

“No, actually, I came up with it right now, all by myself.” James tries to grin proudly, but in the process he discovers he’s already been grinning.

Regulus shakes his head, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Okay,” he humours.

“Okay.” James mocks, head hitting the roof a bit hard, but he just feels so good he can’t find it in himself to care. Why should he worry about a bruised head when he’s on a rooftop beneath the stars with a star whom he’s very close to getting to laugh. It’s hard to imagine ever being upset again. “Okay, James, and might I say you look ravishing today?” He continues, voice high-pitched even though Regulus’ voice is deeper than his own.

“I don’t sound like that.”

“You do, I would know.” James says seriously, turning onto his stomach.

There’s a few seconds of silence—James almost thinks Regulus is about to leave for a second, or he’s declared their talking time over—but then he finally breaks it. “If you fall asleep I will leave you up here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” James dismisses, though he makes a mental note to not, in fact, fall asleep. He knows Regulus will because of how many times he’s done it to his brother, and James doesn’t feel like explaining why he’s on their roof—and why he was sleeping on it—to his parents. He rests his head on his arms, feeling so, so relaxed. He could definitely fall asleep, what with the combination of the alcohol numbing his senses to the way Regulus’ presence makes him feel so, so calm. But he won’t, because Regulus would leave him up here and he’s also just enjoying talking to him. “Your friend asked Marlene out. She doesn’t care what other people want; I think I saw at least three people looking utterly dismayed.”

“Dorcas has that effect. I spoke to her for a bit, but parties are much more her and Bary’s thing than my own.”

“Not even the alcohol?”

“Not around people I don’t know.” Regulus shrugs. That checks out, James just wishes that he could be one of those people Regulus felt comfortable drinking around. “I’m serious, James, don’t fall asleep.”

James forces his eyes open where they’d blearily fallen shut. It’s got to be two in the morning coming on three. He can hear more chatter outside as people wait for their rides and the slamming of car doors as they leave, the party finally winding down. He’s very tired, but he’s determined not to leave before Regulus. “No, your brother is Sirius.” He mumbles.

“Oh my god.”

***

Barty crashes into him, wild grin on his face and eyes wide like saucers.

“What the fuck?” Regulus demands, almost falling over.

“Run,” Barty says breathlessly, “you're really gonna want to run, Archie,” he says as he shoves two bottles into his hands. He was supposed to go in, buy the stuff, and come back out so that they could leave. Apparently, he did not do that, and instead did something else. Something that warrants an exit suspiciously like the one Regulus made that one summer day. It feels like forever ago, now.

“What did you do?”

Barty just winks at him before taking off, two identical bottles clutched in his fists, and Regulus has no choice but to follow him. Barty runs into alleys and streets, uncaring of any of the people he has to shoulder out of his way. Regulus runs and runs, but it’s so hard to keep track of Barty’s head in the crowd when it weaves throughout it so smoothly and takes such sharp turns. Regulus’ heart beats in his ears, feet slapping the pavement, shoulders hitting people like he’s in a pinball machine. Behind them, a disgruntled shopkeeper is chasing after them, shouting.

Regulus skids on the concrete with every turn through an alley, momentum almost throwing him off of his feet, but he can hear the shopkeeper getting closer and closer, and Regulus just knows he can’t, under any circumstances, get caught. His mother would quite literally kill him, he’s sure. He’s trying to keep pace with Barty, but he’s never really done this before, and he’s already feeling the heavy weight of exhaustion weighing his feet down, and all he wants to do is fucking stop as alleys flash by him.

When Regulus watches Barty vault over an extremely high fence, feet catching and propelling him over with ease, he has the very distinct, blood-chilling realisation that he’s truly irrevocably fucked. There’s just no way he can do that. Natural selection dictates Barty is going to keep running, and Regulus is going to get caught and killed.

“I can’t!” Regulus shouts. Barty turns, hair completely wild from the whipping wind, and mouths ‘shit’. Regulus can hear the shopkeeper closing in on him as he reaches the dead end.

Barty looks around hopelessly, as if he’s waiting for a gate to suddenly materialize. It takes him a second that Regulus does not have before he yells “throw the bottles!”

“What?”

“Throw the goddamn bottles at him!” Barty repeats, pulling himself back up the fence until his foot catches hold high enough, bottles discarded on the ground. “Jump and I’ll pull you up!”

“Fuck,” Regulus curses, the side of his stomach hurting from overexertion, but he does just that, carelessly shedding the bottles behind him. He hears a sharp curse, indicating he probably hit his target at least once, right before he’s making his leap of faith.

He’s in the air for less than a second before there’s a hand slapping against his forearm, clutching tightly, and Regulus’ feet instinctively seek purchase on the chainlink, fingers grabbing at the fence. Barty grunts with the force of his weight, eyes darting behind him and widening impossibly before he gives him a sharp yank. “Pull up,”

Regulus does, using the fence to propel him up higher until he’s at the top. Barty drops back down, and Regulus gets his leg on the other side and does the same, landing heavily on the ground.

“Are you good?” Barty asks, already grabbing his bottles and hopping backwards.

“I-” Regulus gasps, because he just can’t really think right now.

“We’re good now, just gotta get out of sight, okay?” Barty assures him, reading his hesitation.

Regulus nods, sighing heavily. There’s nothing he wants to do less than run again, but he still forces his legs to move, trailing Barty as he makes a few more turns and then eventually stops.

Regulus hears a “goddamn you motherfuckers!” as they round the last one, their pursuer finally giving up. Barty is collapsed against a wall, face red as he heaves, head laid back against the brick. Regulus comes to a stop next to him, hunched over as he gasps for breath that isn’t quite reaching his lungs. His legs feel like jelly, heart beating so fast Regulus is sure it’s about to burst from his chest.

“Holy shit,” Barty breathes after at least a minute where the only noise in the air was the sound of their heavy gasps for breath against the cold air.

“Holy shit,” Regulus parrots, equally as breathless.

“He was fucking persistent as shit! God- goddamn-”

“I thought you were going to leave me.” Regulus confesses, tilting his head to look at Barty.

Barty frowns at him, stray piece of hair falling into his flushed face. Regulus wants to brush it away. “I would never leave you.”

And, well. Regulus is high on adrenaline, feeling on top of the whole fucking world, his force of gravity left somewhere in a miscellaneous alleyway, so he doesn’t even think about it when he reaches out to Barty and smashes their mouths together.

Barty gasps in surprise, and Regulus swallows it, pulling and pulling. It feels like he’s breathing for the first time in forever as their lips slot together, spit-slick and tasting like adrenaline and bad decisions. Kissing Barty feels like nothing Regulus has ever felt before. It feels like the sharp boom of fireworks and the drop on a rollercoaster. It feels like what he’s sure the apple tasted when Eve took that first, juicy bite. It’s nails scraping and digging, it’s teeth cutting across lips. Barty grabs him by the waist at the same time Regulus’ fingers bunch up in his hair, tilting Barty’s head back against the brick as their kisses quickly turn open-mouthed and messy, the brief sound of Barty’s sigh as he slots their bodies flush together, hands clutching at Regulus’ shirt and most definitely leaving wrinkles in their wake, but Regulus doesn’t care about anything that isn’t chasing that addicting thrill of their lips pressed together.

Regulus has Barty trapped against the wall, hands grabbing and grabbing, sliding down his neck at the same time Regulus connects their lips again, noses knocking against each other. His hands drift over Barty’s defined shoulders, tracing the definition of muscle beneath thick fabric, touching and taking greedily before they move back up to his neck, connecting at the nape and bringing Barty closer and closer and closer.

Regulus doesn’t think he’s ever quite felt a thrill that measures up to when Barty’s hands sneak beneath his jacket and shirt, skating up his back like he’s committing every dip and every inch of pale skin to memory. He’s sure no rollercoaster could ever feel the same—he’s sure he could take the largest fall, go at the fastest speed, and nothing would ever even come close to the visceral thing he feels beating in his ribcage, begging to be released, moving wildly around inside of him.

When Barty breaks away to breathe, pressing their temples together as he laughs breathlessly, squeezing Regulus’ shoulder blades like he’s checking he’s actually there, it does a summersault. “Holy shit, Baguette Boy,”

“Holy shit,” Regulus agrees, feeling a bit disoriented. He can’t believe he just did that. He seriously cannot believe that he just did that. He moves off of Barty in a single jerky movement, watching the rapid rise and fall of the boy’s chest and the way he brushes his sweaty hair out of his face. The wind whips against Regulus’ face, feeling magnificent on the burning skin. He lets himself breathe it in, the sharp sting of the cold, the musty smell of the secluded alleyway.

Barty, still laughing, lips swollen and spit-slick, leans down and grabs one of the bottles—which Regulus notes are vodka, now that he has the time to read the label—quickly uncorking it and taking a long swig, eyes glinting as if he’s just gotten to the ground after flying. Regulus can’t help but let out a soft, breathless laugh as he takes the bottle from Barty’s offering hand, taking a swig of his own and only wincing a bit at the terrible taste.

It’s been a bit of a learning curve; back in France, Regulus was used to the smooth, sweet feel of wine going down his throat. Here in England, the youth’s drink-of-choice is hard liquor that tastes like cleaning products and burns on the way down. It’s not meant to be savoured, but quickly swallowed to taste the least amount possible. The upside is that it gets him wasted much quicker and much more.

Barty takes the bottle back, taking another drink. “You’re a good kisser, Archie,” he mumbles, stupid grin on his face like he’s already drunk.

“Fuck off.”

And Regulus has the sudden, visceral thought that it’s far too late to turn back now, so he might as well make the most of it. The hard part is over; he’s climbed the hill and now all that’s left is to roll down and hope he doesn’t get cut on any rocks.

That’s how he finds himself, however many hours later, laughing loudly at something Barty said, the actual thing already forgotten but not the bubbly feeling it gave him. Legs stretched out in front of him and his back pressed against the thick wood of Barty’s bedframe. A half-finished bottle sits between them, the other stashed for what Barty ominously declares ‘a rainy day’. All days are rainy in England, so Regulus isn’t exactly sure of the meaning, but he’s too drunk to decipher it. Every once in a while they’ll go quiet, staring and grabbing at each other to clumsily connect their lips—most of the time only managing to click their teeth or noses together painfully, but neither of them care in the slightest, eventually pulling apart to try—emphasis on try—to resume their talking.

Every time Regulus talks, Barty cackles and doubles over, so he thinks he’s probably only talking in French, but Regulus does the same when Barty talks because the English accent is just so stupid, and the American one is worse, and he just can’t take anything Barty says seriously because every time he opens his mouth all Regulus can hear is that ‘I’m walkin’ here’ from the television shows based in New York.

Barty’s hand slaps his shoulder, tears in his eyes as he tries to squeeze a sentence out through his giggles.

Regulus grins as he grabs it, using it to pull Barty into him, chasing that feeling once again. He hasn’t stopped. He doesn’t think he can. He’s never kissed a boy before this, and it’s got this addictive feel to it, electric and buzzing beneath his skin. Finally something beneath his skin that doesn’t itch, just thrums with energy.

Barty certainly doesn’t complain, in any case, one hand coming down to steady himself as the other grabs Regulus’ chin to pull him in. He catches Regulus’ lip in his teeth, a sharp sting preceding the flood of iron into his mouth, but it’s so inconsequential when he can instead focus on the soft feel of the strings of Barty’s hoodie in his hand as he tries to use it for leverage.

When kissing a boy feels like this, it’s hard to imagine why it could ever be wrong. It’s hard to care about being disowned, or the sharp hand of his mother, when she’s kilometers away and Barty is right here. It’s hard to care about much of anything when he parts his knees, lowering himself to the ground, and Barty follows eagerly.

“You know…what British people call ‘fucking’?” Barty slurs, knocking their foreheads together and staying there. His eyes are bright despite the intoxication, crinkling at the edges where he’s grinning. It’s helpful that he’s speaking slow, words falling clunkily off his tongue, he’s much easier to understand through the haze of alcohol even despite the muddled pronunciation.

“What?”

“Shagging.” Barty snickers, the cool metal of his eyebrow piercing pressing relievingly against Regulus’ when his lulls a bit to the side. Regulus has been burning since they started running, not even the frigid cut of the wind across his face managing to cool him down. Not when their shoulders bumped together as they walked to Barty’s house, the mutual understanding of feelings that have finally been confirmed walking right along with them.

“Ugh.”

“I know. And they ‘snog’ each other, too.”

“Disgusting,” Regulus replies distractedly, much more focused on the swirl of colours in Barty’s eyes. The way the brown spikes out into the dull green, the flecks of gold. He likes the way they stare at him, full of all of the things that Regulus has needed. The want, the desire, the affection.

“Totally.” Barty mumbles, eyes darting pointedly down, lip pulling into a dangerous smirk.

“We’re not doing anything more than kissing.”

“Whiskey dick?” Barty asks, fingers digging into Regulus’ jaw. Regulus never thought he’d be okay with pain, never thought it’d be something he could stomach, but something about the way Barty’s fingers dig into his flesh feels so much different than it ever has before.

“It wouldn’t be good.” Regulus corrects. He will not have his first time pissed off his rocker and on a bedroom floor. He’s not so opposed to having it be with Barty, anymore, but his point remains. He’s never settled for anything less than perfection, and he’s not about to start now. He’s confident that he’ll know when he’s ready, and until then, it can’t hurt to build a little tension.

“It’s…” Barty trails off, eyes going a bit unfocused for a second, lost somewhere beneath his nose, “it’s always good with me.”

“That’s a lot of ego put in a small sentence.” Regulus teases, hand rising up to grab a piece of Barty’s hair, twirling it between his fingers. It’s surprisingly soft.

“True, though.” Barty shrugs. The words come out with the easy confidence of someone who knows—or at least believes—their words to be true.

“We’ll see.”

“We will.”

Regulus pulls him back in, and they miss, but it doesn’t dissuade them from finding their way back to each other. It doesn’t make it feel anything less than totally electrifying, nor any less momentous.

Chapter Text

Barty has been coming around far too often for Sirius’ tastes. James thinks it’s good that Regulus made friends so quickly, but Sirius just wants to sock him in the face. What business does that low-life have with his precious baby brother? None, that’s the answer. And he would be less wound-up about it, but he can’t help but feel uneasy when Dorcas is missing from their group—or worse, Regulus goes over to his house.

Sirius is torn between wanting the door open at all times when he’s around and wanting it shut because he wouldn’t put voyeurism above Bartemus Crouch. God, he hates that guy. He can just tell that he’s tainting Regulus with his stupid eyebrow piercing and jewelry and hair—especially that god-awful smirk. There are so many ways Regulus could choose to rebel—why must he pick the only one that Sirius is vehemently against?

“...Sirius.”

If he could make Bartemus Crouch Jr. disappear without a trace, he certainly would. Why does Regulus prefer his company over Sirius’ and his friends’? What could Crouch possibly provide him? Sirius most definitely doesn’t want the answer, but it plagues his thoughts anyway, a persistent itch in the back of his brain no matter what else he has to focus on. His friend group has practically every person and dynamic possible. The only thing they’re missing is a plain bad influence, which is all Barty is and apparently all Regulus wants.

His rebellious phase mostly included cigarettes and a bit of an attitude. Regulus is apparently going for broke, with the way he’s been acting and the company he chooses to keep. Sirius has no issue with Dorcas Meadowes—she’s actually quite lovely and is in a few of his classes—but he just bloody hates Crouch. Everything about him is bad news; from the way he wears his hair to the stink of strong cologne that follows him everywhere and the god-awful clothes he wears. Don’t even get him started on the trouble Barty is literally always in, from stealing to trespassing to practically every misdemeanor.

Now, Sirius respects a hustle. But Barty gets caught almost half the time, and the only reason his record stays clean is because his father is a politician. Sirius, as a nepo baby, has no respect for nepo babies who use their connections to get out of absolutely everything. If his father didn’t pay for the gym, Barty would’ve been expelled years ago.

“Sirius Black.”

If he could find a way to make Regulus see that the only thing Barty will get him is in trouble, he’d see sense. He would understand that if he wants to try everything he was never allowed in France, Sirius will be there and help him do it safely. The last thing he wants is for Regulus to go down for something Barty did. He’d probably actually kill the guy. Luckily for Sirius, Regulus is usually a very sensible bloke.

Well, in certain subjects.

Some of the time.

If he wants to be sensible, he can be and he is. He gets good grades—straight A’s already, and they’re barely a month into the school year—and Sirius swears his brain is insane. Regulus is so sensible that he knows exactly how to not be. Honestly, Sirius is kind-of proud of him. It just sucks trying to get absolutely anything through his thick skull, because the more Sirius pushes, the harder Regulus digs his heels in.

“Sirius Orion Black.”

“What?” Sirius demands, blinking his way back to reality. He wishes they could see he’s having a dilemma at the moment; he’s trying to save his brother. Again. He really cannot let himself fail this time. He needs to know that he’s finally been a good brother.

“Pick an outfit, wankstain!” Marlene demands, phone outstretched for his viewing while she rolls her eyes. James snickers next to him, but Sirius cuts him a sharp glare that has him shaking his head in disapproval at her antics. Sirius glances at the options—a short off-the-shoulder red dress or a fancy black lace top with matching slacks. He could care less about Marlene’s fashion, but she won’t leave him alone until he answers. She’s annoyingly stubborn.

He supposes he could let it go for the night. Regulus is already in bed anyway, so he can’t get into any trouble. “Where’s she taking you?” He asks.

Marlene badly hides her giddy grin. Sirius is happy for her. Even his faux-annoyance can’t blanket how excited he is that she’s got a date with the girl she’s been obsessed with for a year and a half. It’s pretty hard not to show it, but he knows she would absolutely never let him live it down. “That really expensive place a few blocks off, and then to a horror movie.”

“Damn,” Sirius whistles, “I’d go with the black. Give the patrons a good fright.”

She smirks, “I knew you’d say that.”

Lily sighs, clearly having placed her bets on the red, but Mary pats her on the back soothingly. “You should’ve known Marlene isn’t the sensible type.” She says softly. Lily gives her a small smile. Sometimes it’s hard to read the lines between them. He knows some girls are just always close like that—whispering and touching and sharing private smiles—but sometimes he swears there’s some tension there. He just can’t tell.

“How come you didn’t ask me?” James frowns petulantly from his spot.

Marlene raises an eyebrow at him, before trailing her eyes pointedly across his ratty gray sweatshirt and spiderman pyjama shorts.

“Oh, whatever,” He mutters, crossing his arms like a child. “Spiderman is for all ages, Mckinnon.”

“You’re wearing shorts in November. In England.”

“Does it look like we’re outside?” He shoots back. Sirius nods in support. They are not, in fact, outside. They’re gathered in the sitting room next to the fire, sun having fallen hours ago but none of them tired. They’ve passed the point of surface-level talk and jokes, and finished their first movie like fifteen minutes ago, which means they’re in the roasting and arguing part of the night. James keeps begging to get Uno out, but nobody is listening to him.

“Exactly.” Sirius says.

Marlene shakes her head, grinning as she shuts her phone off. Sirius assumes that while he was spaced out, they already figured out her hair because it’s a bit messier than it was when she arrived, as if the girls had been playing with it to get an idea of what they wanted to do. Her face is starkly illuminated by the fire, painting her pretty hues of orange and gold and making her hair glow. Mary is braiding Lily’s hair, fingers working quickly as she barely even pays attention.

Peter and Remus are being boring, having brought out the chess board to have one of their long, tedious matches that almost always have to end in a draw because they just take so bloody long.

Sirius is lounged on the ground at James’ feet, close enough to Remus that he can poke him every once in a while just to be a bother. When he’s lucky, Remus looks over at him in exasperation, patting his head like a dog before turning back to his game, and Sirius’ thirst for attention is sated for a few minutes. Honestly, if he could, Sirius would crawl into his sweater and just share all of his clothes every day. He doesn’t think it’s possible for him to ever be sick of seeing Remus’ face, ever not get all warm inside when he smiles at him. He loves the way he always smells like chocolate and the soft worn quality of all of his clothes.

It’s been a good night; warm and comfortable. It’s one of those nights that makes him so, so grateful that he found this group of lovely people and they all took him under their wing. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that they all like him even on his worst days. Even when he freezes them out over the summer, even when he’s being an asshole. They’re all still there when he gets over his strop. The study is glowing soothingly, the moon peaking through a window, and there are blankets and pillows scattered everywhere on the floor that smell like fresh linens and Effie’s fabric softener.

“Lils,” Sirius calls, waiting until she turns to him expectantly, “what shampoo do you use?” She changes her shampoo every few months, and this one has her hair looking as soft as silk. He definitely likes it.

“It only works if you’re pure of heart and soul. You’re shit out of luck.”

“Gatekeeper.”

She shrugs, unbothered.

“Regulus,” James whispers suddenly. Sirius turns to him, confused.

“Huh?”

“Regulus just walked past.” James says, eyes glued to the small crack they left in the door. Sirius has the brief, interrupted thought of how did he even-

“How the fuck did you see that?” Mary asks, bewildered, finishing Sirius’ thought exactly.

“Did he look like he needed something?” Sirius questions, choosing to ignore the nagging question of how James even saw that through the small crack and heavy darkness of the hallway, already moving to get up. If his brother needs him, he hardly cares about how James even knew he was there.

“I don’t know, I just saw him. Let’s go check.” James shrugs, following Sirius as he walks towards the doors. When he hears the distinct click of the front door, he moves faster. Whatever has Regulus up this late is probably not good news. He usually eats dinner, sometimes sits outside for a bit, and then disappears for the rest of the night. Sirius can count on one hand the amount of times they’ve crossed paths in this house. If he’s up, something is happening, he’s having a bad night, or maybe mother called.

Sirius peeks through the crack in the door, the rest of their group already resuming conversation and leaving them to their whims. They’re used to Sirius and James’ scatterbrains. The first thing he notices is that Regulus is letting somebody in. As in inside of the house.

Please don’t be him, please don’t be him, please, please, please don’t let him in.

“All good?” Bartemus fucking Crouch whispers. Of course. Whatever he’s doing here at night is absolutely nothing good. It’s as if Sirius summoned him through excessive thought.

Regulus nods once, stepping to the side and pressing the front door closed with barely a click. Sirius can see Barty’s teeth even in the dark.

Somehow, Barty’s eyes find him immediately. So quickly and accurately that Sirius jumps a bit and James raises his eyebrows. “Hey, man.”

Sirius curses and then opens the door enough to step out. “Why the fuck are you here?” Especially at night, he adds silently.

“One guess.”

“Barty.” Regulus scolds, smacking his head. “That’s not why he’s here, Sirius.”

“Then why?”

Regulus stares at him for a few seconds. Exactly. Sirius inwardly groans. Fucking disgusting. “We weren’t going to have...” Regulus tries, looking a bit lost. Sirius is just so glad he doesn’t have to hear the word. He’d probably do something crazy if he heard that word coming out of his baby brother’s mouth. He shudders at the mere thought.

“Fuck you weren’t. James, get the bloody Uno out, mate!” Sirius calls, and he hears the muffled sound of a ‘whoop’. Win, win. “You two,” he squints angrily, “are not, under any circumstances, to be alone together. Ever.”

“That’s never stopped me before.” Barty mutters, and Sirius has a very vivid thought of strangling him until he goes limp. Regulus just rolls his eyes, grabbing Barty’s wrist and leading him over, knowing a losing battle when he sees one. Sirius opens the door and steps to the side, swinging his arm out. When Regulus is inside, Sirius stops Barty and mimes a hand slicing slowly across his throat, throwing him the nastiest glare he can muster. If that doesn’t get the message across, he’s not sure what will.

Barty seems vaguely terrified, but not enough to satisfy Sirius’ thirst for blood.

James has everybody dealt except for Remus and Peter, who have opted for their boring game of chess instead.

“All of you are going down.” Marlene says coldly. She has no mercy.

Regulus and Barty go to sit by Lily, but Sirius shakes his head. “Uh uh, you over here, and you here,” he points to either side of him.

“Sirius.” Regulus sighs.

“I told you I should’ve gone through the window.” Barty grins, taking his cards and organizing them while he waits. He turns to Lily, winking, “hey,”

“Nope.” She shakes her head with such force Sirius fears its place on her shoulders. Her newly-braided hair smacks into her neck, about to start coming loose, but Mary reaches over and grabs it to still her, fingers curled gently around the two strands. Lily smiles at her, blushing a bit. It’s exactly that that has him so confused.

Barty shrugs, unaffected by the blatant rejection. “Worth a shot.”

Sirius has to close his eyes and take a deep breath because if he doesn’t, he’s going to slit that motherfucker’s throat. Regulus looks a bit uncomfortable next to him, so he chooses to focus on him instead. “Pick up your cards, Reggie,” he nudges.

“Regulus, let's team up,” James offers, staring at his cards. He likes forming alliances—though usually they’re with Sirius or Mary, if she plays—until the game is close to the end. Or until his partner betrays him. Sirius always feels a bit bad when he starts making him draw cards or skipping him, because it feels like kicking a puppy sometimes, but he’s not above pretty much anything in Uno. Friendships or relationships don’t exist in this game. Only cutthroat competition.

“Why do you want to team with my brother, Prongs?” Sirius asks, voice dripping in suspicion. Last night Regulus was a topic of conversation for much longer than he would have liked. He doesn’t like the direction James seems to be going in, but he can’t be quite sure yet that he’s right about it. For all he knows, James’ intentions could be completely platonic. But he fears that Regulus is the perfect type of mean for his best mate, and he just can’t let that happen. It doesn’t hurt to test him.

James grins nervously, “because he looks like he’d be good at this game!”

Barty leans back, almost toppling over. Sirius hopes he falls. “Archie, are you good at this game?”

“I’ve never played,” Regulus shrugs, “I don’t know what any of this means.”

Sirius quickly explains the rules and cards, and then declares that it’s very easy to pick up—which it is—so they should just play and he’ll understand as they go along. Regulus nods once, face set with determination, and they start.

—

“I feel targeted.” Barty mumbles after a few rounds, during which Sirius has made it his mission to make him draw or skip as many cards as physically possible. It’s his fault, really. He keeps making comments and flirting with his brother shamelessly, all with that stupid smirk on his face. Sirius is practically gagging on his cologne.

“You are,” Sirius hums as he skips him yet again. Barty has half of the deck in his hands at this point, and Sirius recruited James to his cause—who switched with Lily to be on the other side of Barty for that specific purpose.

Marlene, who has won twice, is grinning triumphantly as she places down her wild. “Yellow.”

James groans, “literally any other colour.”

Lily has practically given up, head in Mary’s lap as they whisper to each other in their own little world. She plays passively, but she hasn’t won. They’ve mostly made a silent agreement to leave her alone if she misses her turn. Regulus is surprisingly the only person aside from Marlene to win, and he looked just as shocked when he laid his last card down. Sirius would’ve won at least once, but Marlene always beats him to the Uno declaration and makes him draw cards.

“Sirius, reverse,” James calls.

“Don’t have one, mate.”

“Regulus?”

“I’m not going to help you two bully Barty.” Regulus scowls. If he wouldn’t try to sneak boys in the house, he wouldn’t have to hang with them. But bad decisions have consequences.

“It’s hardly bullying,” Sirius points out, playing a yellow zero, “he deserves it.”

“When can we leave?” Regulus groans, three cards clutched in one of his hands.

“When Barty walks out of the front door. And don’t even think about the window, either. I’ll sleep in your bloody bed if I have to to keep him out.”

“We weren’t going to do anything.”

“It’s true.” Barty shrugs, “but I was hoping to change that.”

“Barty. Sirius, he just needs a place to stay tonight while his father cools down. That’s all.”

“Then he can stay in my room.”

“You’ll smother me in my fucking sleep.”

“And?” Sirius questions.

Regulus shakes his head, glaring down at his cards. “We need a talk about boundaries.”

“Our boundaries are very nice boundaries. I like them where they are.” There’s nothing wrong with their boundaries. Regulus is his baby brother; it’s Sirius’ job to make sure he stays safe. Hanging out with Bartemus Crouch Jr. is the opposite of safe, so Sirius has to change that.

“I don’t.”

Sirius shrugs, skipping Barty, and Regulus sighs heavily.

—

“Alright, Pads?” James whispers, shooting Sirius a concerned look from his seat next to him. His eyes flick to Sirius’ worksheet, where the pencil lines are dark with how hard he’s been pressing the graphite into the paper. Sirius hadn’t even noticed. There are crudely-drawn nooses and cuss words in the margins that he makes a mental note to erase before handing it in. He shoots a look at McGonagall, grading papers at her desk, to make sure she’s not looking. They haven’t had a single detention this year—saving it for a huge prank—and she’s getting antsy.

“I walked in on my only brother kissing Barty fucking Crouch.” Sirius grumbles in response.

“Shit,” James nods, “is he still…with us?”

“Not for long.” Sirius replies. He’s absolutely scarred for life. He’d walked into the bathroom, and there they were, sticking their tongues down each other’s throats with no decency in sight. See, he knew, but knowing and seeing are completely different things. He’d let out an embarrassingly high-pitched scream, but Barty had no shame. He walks around like he’s never felt ashamed in his life. He shudders at the thought. That shameless grin on his face. Regulus at least had the decency to be embarrassed. “Prongs, would you care for a game of footy during lunch, mate?”

“Hell yeah,” James grins.

Sirius shoots him a wink, turning his pencil over and getting to work erasing the threats on Barty’s life. He’s not sure what’s on the sheet answer-wise, but he hardly cares about that. It’s filled in, which is all he can ask for. What he can’t get to completely disappear, he scribbles more innocent doodles over.

—

With a half-hearted excuse to their friends about making up a test, Sirius and James set off towards the football field. Sirius knows they eat outside because Regulus mentioned stuff getting in his hair in passing, so they either leave campus or eat somewhere out here. Sirius wouldn’t put it past Barty, but Regulus is too much of a goody-two-shoes.

They’re getting close when Sirius finally sees them, relaxing in the shade of a large tree. Dorcas has Regulus’ face in her hands, examining it like she’s looking for something. They’re acting more coupley than Regulus and Barty. Barty isn’t even looking over, on his back in the grass as he stares upwards, snickering at something.

“one o’clock.” Sirius mutters as they walk towards to football field.

James, the idiot, swings his head to look behind him. “Huh?”

“One o’clock, you knob. As in forward and a little to the right.”

“Oh,”

“Yeah. You’re the worst spy partner ever, Prongs. Subtlety of a freight train.”

“Oh, whatever. You didn’t tell me we were spying! I thought you wanted a game of footie. You lied to me.”

“Oh, Prongs,” Sirius hums sympathetically, patting him on the head, “you just can’t take a hint. The footie is the excuse so I can watch my brother and make sure nothing untoward is going on.”

James snorts, shrugging. “Sounds like an easy win to me.”

Sirius shakes his head and smiles. James runs off to fetch the ball while Sirius pretends not to be staring at his brother, who probably knows he’s being watched with his freaky senses. All Sirius can hope is that he doesn’t try anything just because he knows Sirius is watching.

Barty says something, to which both Dorcas and Regulus swivel their heads to look at him with a ‘what the fuck’ face. Barty grabs Regulus’ shoulder, becoming more and more energized as he argues whatever stupid point he’s trying to make-

Something hits Sirius in the head so hard he’s almost knocked clean off of his feet. He yelps in pain, clutching his head as he turns a deadly glare on his best friend, whose eyes are comically wide and hands are clasped over his mouth. The ball bounced halfway back to him, because the bloody fool kicked it so damn hard. Sirius practically saw his ancestors on the other side. If he wasn’t busted before, he most definitely is now. Almost everybody has turned to look at the commotion.

“I thought you were watching!”

“I was clearly not fucking watching if I let that sodding thing give me a concussion! Oh, I think I’m about to black out.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” James, the traitor, can’t hardly speak because he’s laughing so hard.

“You’re laughing! You could’ve killed me and you’re laughing!”

“I’m not laughing!” James exclaims, laughing.

“You’re heartless,” Sirius groans. His head is throbbing painfully with every beat of his heart, the skin tender and no doubt bruising. “I’m gonna be sick.” He’s not lying, either, his head is still spinning from the impact. There’s a reason James scores so many goals—his kicks are lethal. A quality that Sirius once admired now leaves a sour taste in his mouth—and a throbbing in his head.

James jogs up to him, patting his back. “I’m really sorry, mate, shit,” he giggles, “I thought you were gonna look back.”

“If I had looked back, it would’ve hit me square on the face.” Sirius grumbles. “Was that your goal?”

“I may have given it a bit too much force, and I’m sorry for that—really, I am. Honest.” He replies, hand running up and down on Sirius’ back in a soothing motion. “Do you need the nurse?”

Sirius shakes his throbbing head.

“Don’t look right now, but Barty is losing his shit, and even Regulus is laughing.”

“Oh I bet he bloody is.” He’s not sure which is worse—being laughed at by his arch nemesis, or by his little brother. Both are humiliating. “I’m alright, just give me a moment.”

James pats his back, “alright.”

***

Sirius comes to him looking for sympathy once they get home, but Regulus has none for him. That’s what he gets for snooping. He was acting as if Regulus would truly believe he wanted to play football, and he just so happened to need the field right next to where Regulus eats lunch. He knows how violating that feels, right? That’s their mother’s behaviour. The sneaking and the sharp watch, just waiting for him to step out of line. Dissecting every detail of every interaction, tearing nuance and hidden meaning apart to find something to use.

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, knowing that he traded one cage for another. His mother’s cold and metal and sharp, his brother’s warm and golden, yet a cage nonetheless. Regulus knows he just wants him to be safe, he knows he’s just trying to make up for the time they lost hating each other, but it feels like he’s being shoved into yet another mold that he doesn’t fit into. The role of the innocent baby brother, hanging onto every word and never doing wrong.

Back in France, his mother’s iron fist kept him from ever daring to act on the suspicions he had about himself so early in his life. They kept him from staring too long, for fear it would get back to her. They kept him from making friends, for fear she might misinterpret it. They kept him from dating, because any choice—even if it was a girl—might be a dead giveaway to the one thing she would consider utterly unforgivable. They made him paranoid and scared all of the time, because every person could be a test of his loyalty and every answer might be wrong.

He refuses to live in that fear here. He’s done letting his life be dictated, and his brother is no exception. He’s not a ten-year-old anymore, following his brother everywhere and hiding in his shadow. He’s not even the angsty thirteen-year-old that Sirius left, that covered his longing with sharp remarks and cold glares. Sirius needs to see him as who he is now, even if that’s not what he wants to see.

Regulus isn’t in France anymore, as much as the thought pains him, and the only thing he can do is accept it. He’s had to accept a lot of things here, the least his brother could do is hide his disapproval a bit better. If he wants to be with Barty, Sirius doesn’t have to be happy about it, but he doesn’t need to beat a dead horse, either.

It was a bit amusing at first, watching the steam come out of Sirius’ ears when he mentioned Barty or when he came over. Now it’s just annoying watching Sirius shit all over his character, and a bit disheartening. Because if Sirius truly believes all of that shit about Barty, what does that mean he thinks about Regulus for being around him?

Yes, he’s impulsive and wild and a bit rude and his cologne is a bit strong. No, he’s not cruel, he’s not insane, he’s not some good-for-nothing loser. He’s just a kid with a shitty dad that doesn’t know how to seek attention if it isn’t negative. Regulus can see through all of his facades. He can see someone who really cares, who likes adventure and taking risks and living life to the fullest because what’s the point of having it if you don’t use it. He can see someone who just wants approval, who just wants to make people laugh, whose hazel eyes sparkle when he’s excited.

“I just don’t want you hanging around him.” Sirius mumbles, clutching his head even though there’s no way it still hurts.

“I can hang out with anyone I want.” Regulus scoffs, “isn’t that what you said when I came here? I was free? I don’t feel very free right now, with you breathing down my fucking neck.”

“Of course you’re free, Reggie! But that doesn’t mean I have to like what you do with that freedom.”

“You don’t, because it’s mine! It’s not yours, it’s mine, and I can do anything I want with it. Anyone.” Regulus spits.

Sirius shakes his head violently. “Please don’t do Barty fucking Crouch. Please-”

“I will do it just to spite you if you don’t shut the fuck up right now.”

Sirius’ mouth slams shut, fixing him with a sharp glare.

Regulus rolls his eyes. He doesn’t say the words on the tip of his tongue, because they’re needlessly cruel and resentful, but they bang against his teeth as he stares at his brother. You’re much more like Mother than you realise. He wants to say. She’s in the way you hold yourself and the way you smile. She’s in the way you look at the world. She’s in the way you can’t stand things being outside of your control. He wants to say it so bad—he really, really does. He wants to know if it would knock some sense into his brother.

But he won’t, because that would nuke the fragile stability they’ve developed. His fists vibrate with the weight of the words, with how badly he wants to say them, but all he does is clench his jaw tighter and exhale slowly. Pandora taught him that. It helps minutely to calm him down, to release the venom his mouth is trying to spit. “Movie night.” Regulus says curtly.

Sirius, who still doesn’t want to chance speaking, nods once.

Regulus walks away, lighter with the knowledge that he was able to stop himself. Maybe he isn’t like them after all. Maybe they’ll always be in his bones, in the way his love leaves bruises, but at least he won’t let himself inherit their needless cruelty. At least his brother is downstairs, and their relationship is fine because Regulus held his tongue. There’s no heavy tension in the air, no glassy eyes, no shaking. His brother is downstairs, they’re going to have a movie night to talk about this, and their relationship will endure. Regulus made it out on the other side of a confrontation without wanting to tear his heart out.

He made it out without becoming his mother.

—

A bowl of popcorn—Sirius’ olive branch—sits between them, untouched. Regulus keeps his eyes glued to the screen, arms crossed petulantly as scenes flash and illuminate his face. Sirius is mirroring him, glaring at the movie Regulus chose like it’s a personal offence. Sirius is sore about Regulus’ earlier behaviour, Regulus is mad that he thinks he has the right. So far, about an hour in, neither of them have cracked yet.

Every minute is a chip on Regulus’ belief that they’ll get through this. Black blood is stubborn, and stubbornness isn’t considered a positive trait—especially in situations that need communication, such as a delicate relationship between two brothers.

Regulus purposely picked one of those black-and-white indie things that are three hours long and full of abstract meaning yet boring on the surface, because he knew those were Sirius’ least favourite films and he’s very petty. Tension sits heavy between them like an extra party; neither of them daring to so much as sigh to disrupt it. They’re in a silent stand-off, neither wanting to admit defeat, to seem weak, to lose. Losing sits very high on the lists of things they both abhor, which becomes a bit of a problem when there’s an issue between them that needs to be solved.

The room is completely quiet except for the quiet drone of a monologue. Regulus’ skin itches too far below the surface to be satiated by the scrape of nail.

Just apologize already, he implores, just admit defeat.

But Sirius does not admit defeat. He gives no sign that he ever will. His arms are wrapped tightly around himself, knuckles white with force. Their mother’s knuckles would go white when she was exceptionally angry. She would clutch them in her lap, or sometimes one of their shoulders, as she gathered herself enough to deal a punishment. Those ones were always the most severe. The walk on hot coals kind of severe. The kneel on rice kind. The sight puts a lump in Regulus’ throat that he has to forcibly swallow down.

As if he can sense it, Sirius’ grip loosens the tiniest bit, eyes darting to the side for half a second before returning to the television.

When the shaky camera focuses on a rainbow, Regulus can’t take it any longer. He’s usually pretty good at maintaining silences for an extremely long time. He can outlast practically anybody, at any time, for any reason. But this silence—the one between brothers, brothers with shared trauma and far too many memories—sets his teeth on edge in the worst way. It reminds him of the late nights on opposite sides of the dinner table, staring at each other, losing each other. It reminds him of sitting in the study as his mother pondered a punishment, of Regulus knowing Sirius would take it—because he refused to do anything else—and hating the guilt that would pool in his stomach as he forced himself to listen. Of the resentment that gained its roots there, on opposite ends of a door, cracking the foundation of their love so subtly before either of them realised.

“Just let me, she’s gonna be so mad.” Regulus pleads, staring hopelessly up at his brother, who seems so big despite there only being a year and a half between them. Sirius always seems larger than life, he always walks right up to the kids and tells them they’re going to play. He’s so brave, but Regulus hates having to listen to him be punished when he knows it was his fault.

“I will never let her touch you.” Sirius insists, curls moving in his face. “Never ever. It’s fine, Reggie, it’s just a vase. It was ugly anyway.” He says, eyes fixed on the mess.

“I didn’t mean to.” Regulus sniffs, staring hopelessly down at the broken shards at their feet. He clutches his brother’s hand, terrified of what she’ll do when she finds out. He really didn’t mean to. They were just playing tag, and Regulus took the corner too sharp, and then it toppled over. “She’s gonna be so mad, Sirius, she’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care.” Sirius shrugs, smiling mischievously despite the flicker of fear in his eyes. “It’s okay, Reggie, don’t be scared. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want her to hurt you.”

Sirius shrugs, shuffling his feet. He’s so mature, even though he’s only eight. He’s nicer than Maman and Papa, too. He doesn’t hit or scream. He makes Regulus feel safe all of the time, not just when he’s alone.

“Let me take it this once,” Regulus tries one last time, desperate. The only thing he hates more than Maman when she screams is Sirius when he’s being hurt for something Regulus has done.

“No.” Sirius declares with finality, standing straighter as they hear a door click open in the distance. His face sets with determination as the tell-tale heels click closer and closer. Regulus is shaking, so scared of what she’ll do this time. She’s gotten meaner every birthday. “Don’t listen, Reggie.” He orders quietly, his last words before their mother starts her rampage.

She screams and screams. Regulus hates it when she screams. It’s shrill and loud and scary no matter how many times she does it. It always comes before the hitting and punishments, which are even worse. Sirius barely even flinches when she calls for their father, who sluggishly appears from his office with disinterest, and grabs Sirius by the shoulder to drag him into the sitting room. As she passes, she pins Regulus with a sharp glare, pressing her hand into his head too harshly in warning. He hates her. He hates her, he hates her, he hates her. He hates her when she hurts Sirius, because he’s his brother. She shouldn’t hurt them.

“Misbehaviour is a disease that must be expelled!” She screeches as she steps into the sitting room. Regulus doesn’t know what those words mean, only that they must be bad. Their father follows slowly, heaving a sigh as the closes the door behind them. Regulus can’t help it, he can’t quench the fear that bubbles in his belly when his brother is on the other side of the door. It hurts like Maman’s nails on his insides when he has to listen to his brother’s pain, but he can’t ever get himself to not listen. He’s afraid if he doesn’t, something really bad will happen to him. Like she might kill him.

His brother’s whimpers and cries are horrible, heartbreaking. Regulus presses his head against the door, shaking like a leaf, curled into himself as he sobs quietly. Sirius, Sirius, Sirius. He wants to cover his ears so bad, drown out the horrible noise, but he can’t. His brother is in there, his penance is listening to him. He’ll never misbehave again. He’s never going to be bad ever. Not anymore. He can’t let his brother get hurt like this just because of him.

That night, once Regulus has retreated to his bed, wiping his snot and tears with the sleeves of his pyjamas, his brother comes in, slightly limping as he brings himself to Regulus’ side, slowly climbing in. There are dried tears on his cheeks, hastily wiped away halfway.

“Don’t cry, Reggie, I’m okay.” He murmurs, grabbing Regulus’ heaving shoulders to tug him close. He lets out a soft gasp, but he doesn’t let Regulus pull away. “It’s okay, Reggie, everything is okay, stop being sad, please.”

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s fine,” Sirius dismisses, running a hand up and down Regulus’ back. “It wasn’t that bad. I just need you to sneak me food for a while, okay? Remember how I showed you?”

Regulus nods, sniffling into his brother’s shirt. “You should’ve let me take it. She would be nicer to me.”

“I won’t let her touch you. Don’t say that anymore. Go to sleep, Reggie.”

“Sirius.”

Sirius looks at him, face blank. Regulus tugs his legs up to his chest, forcing himself not to look.

“Please stop, Sirius.”

Sirius drops his head against the back of the sofa, “You’re so hard to stay mad at, shit.” he mumbles, shaking his head. “I can stay mad at Moony way longer than I can you. Feels like…like trying to stop my heart beating.”

“Yeah,” Regulus whispers. He hates distance between them more than he hates his mother's cruelest punishments, saying something completely stupid in front of people. It’s so hard to be mad at Sirius because it feels like they’ve shared far too much, shed far too many tears, for being mad. It feels pointless, unnecessarily cruel, childish. It feels like falling into their parents’ trap, treating love like a reward instead of a requirement.

“Are you sorry, then?” Sirius asks, voice laced with confidence and smug victory, reminding Regulus why he was holding out.

“No.” Regulus says immediately. “Why would I be sorry? You’re the one being a dick.”

“You’ve been mean! You threatened to sleep with my arch nemesis to spite me!”

“He’s not your arch nemesis. He’s a guy.”

“Exactly! A guy who’s going around kissing my baby brother and smirking about it.”

“I’m doing an equal amount of kissing, in case you forgot. Not that it’s any of your business at all.”

“It’s my business when I’m going to be the one consoling you when he cheats on you, or hurts you, or- or gets you into trouble.” Sirius rants, practically fuming at the thought, “I’ll kill him. I’ll just have to kill him, then, and that’ll be a whole day of my life I lose because of your decision.”

“He’s not like that, Sirius. I know you don’t see it, but he is actually sweet, and funny, and interesting. He won’t hurt me.”

“Regulus Arcturus Black,” Sirius says somberly, grabbing his face with both hands, staring into his eyes to punctuate his point, “my Reggie. They always hurt you.”

“Sirius,” Regulus replies, mocking his tone, “I’m sixteen years old. I can handle it.”

Sirius visibly hesitates, shaking his head.

“Sirius. If this is going to work, you have to trust me. You have to let me make mistakes, you have to let me take risks, you can’t keep me tucked under you forever. I’ll suffocate.”

“I just can’t lose you again, Reggie.” Sirius swallows, eyes welling up. “I couldn’t bear it.”

Regulus raises his hands to cup Sirius’, which feel much bigger than he remembers. They feel stronger, firmer, longer, than the chubby ones he remembers clutching so long ago. “You won’t.”

Sirius pulls him into a hug, hands patting the back of his head strangely. Regulus feels like he’s making progress, so he lets it happen. He clumsily grabs the popcorn bucket to set it out of the way, awkwardly supporting himself on one hand while his brother tries to morph them together. No matter the context, no matter the hold, his brother’s arms always feel warm and safe. Like a port in a storm, like a hot bowl of soup in the snow. It feels like an everything will be okay, and I’m here for you.

It feels like exactly what Regulus has been searching for in someone else.

“Are you officially dating, then?” Sirius asks reluctantly, hands still holding Regulus like he can’t ask the question otherwise.

“Er…”

Sirius takes a very deep breath, humming a steady note like he’s meditating, hands holding tighter like he’s reminding himself why he agreed to this. “That’s perfectly fine. That’s wonderful. I fucking love that.” Sirius gets out through gritted teeth, “wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.” he adds with harsh pats on Regulus’ back that feel a bit like hits with their force.

Well, it’s a start, he supposes.

***

James is bored.

His head hangs off of his bed, the occasional noise escaping his mouth as he stares at his wall. They have practice at five, which means there’s an awkward thirty-minute timespan that James has to just…wait through, because by the time he could get anything started, it’d be time to leave. Sirius has decided that this is going to be his weekly worktime allotment, leaving James adrift in the ocean of his absence. He doesn’t do well with being bored or being alone. Something about it gets under his skin in a way that he hates. It makes his mind spin far too fast.

He’s pondering whether or not he should try Regulus. There’s about an eighty-percent chance he’ll get the door slammed in his face, because Regulus seemed to be in a pretty good mood on their walk home. However, if James starts with Regulus, he’ll lose track of time and end up getting yelled at by the coach, and then he’ll probably get benched for the first game, which is something he does not want to happen because it’s Gryffindor v. Slytherin. He can’t lose the first game in front of Regulus, that would be utterly humiliating. If he wants to convert Regulus to his side, he can’t become a loser. He has to stay focused and serious.

But also, Regulus.

What a dilemma.

He’s thinking through his options when two quick knocks interrupt his thinking, and he lifts his head a bit to look. He usually doesn’t close his door because he doesn’t remember to, which makes it easier to assess who’s there in times like these. Sometimes the idea of saying ‘no’ is funny, because there’s only an invisible barrier preventing anybody’s access. He hasn’t tried it yet, but he thinks about it.

Speak of the beautiful bloody devil.

Regulus is there, arms crossed and eyes sharp. James scrambles up, patting a hand on his hair to try and tame it a bit, because he already knows it’s horrendous. His hair defies gravity on its own; it doesn’t need any help.

“Hey,” James greets, grinning. He looks lovely. He’s in a soft grey sweater that matches his eyes and black slacks, hair falling into his face in perfectly maintained ringlets.

“You used my shampoo.”

“No I didn’t,” James says, even though he most definitely did. In his defence, his and Sirius’ bathroom was out, and Regulus’ door was shockingly unlocked. It was like fate.

“Yes you did. You left large puddle footprints on the floor and replaced them backwards.”

“It was Sirius.”

“Sirius may be an idiot, but he knows how to not get caught.” Regulus retorts, silver eyes narrowing. “You are a horrible liar anyway.”

James sighs, knowing a lost cause when he sees one. “Yeah, alright, I did. We were out though, and I was already in the shower, and your door was super close and open, it was just a series of unfortunate events. If it helps, your stuff smells bloody amazing.”

“Because it’s ninety pounds a bottle.” Regulus states calmly, leaning on the doorframe with the ease of someone with so much money they’ve never heard the word ‘no’.

“Ninety-”

“Pounds. The conditioner is one hundred, but you did not use that one, which is very clear,” He shrugs, eyes flicking pointedly to James’ hair. “Curly.”

James’ jaw hangs open. Ninety pounds. It’s almost enough to overshadow the fact that Regulus called him ‘Curly’. Granted, he was being a dick about it, but Curly is most certainly a step above Potter Boy no matter the context.

“I am going to charge you if you do it again, Potter Boy.”

“Why am I ‘Potter Boy’ again?” James whines. “I was just ‘Curly’.”

“Because you are a thief.” Regulus says simply. “I don’t like thiefs.” The word comes off of his tongue endearingly accented. Regulus has been getting so good at English that James forgot how much he liked hearing his accent peek through his words. He forgot how nice it was to hear Regulus’ native tongue.

“Objection! Innocent until proven guilty, your honor.”

“Overruled. Evidence overwhelmingly suggests guilt.” Regulus retorts quickly. Far too quickly. Far too eloquently.

“How did you know that?”

“Sirius chose a movie. It was about a girl who went to Harvard.”

James snorts. The mental image of dark and gloomy Regulus sitting through a film with so much pink in it is far more entertaining than it should be. “That’s a good movie.”

Regulus shrugs, eyes glinting with thinly veiled amusement. James is just happy he’s distracted Regulus enough to keep him here for such a long time. No better pastime than a sarcastic curly-haired guy to verbally spar.

There’s a loud cough from the hallway. Regulus looks towards it and immediately rolls his eyes.

“qu'est-ce que c'est?” Sirius asks, eyes narrowed.

“Ça ne te concerne pas.” Regulus retorts.

“Ça ne me regarde pas? Pourquoi flirtes-tu avec lui?”

“Je ne flirte pas.” Regulus scoffs, turning away. Awful timing, Sirius. Completely horrible.

Sirius turns a sharp gaze on James. “Why are you flirting with my brother, James?”

James swallows. “I’d hardly call it flirting. More like a friendly conversation between mates…a chat, if you will.”

“We have practice.” Sirius says sharply. “Get up. Now.”

“I’ll do that.” James chuckles nervously, sliding off of his bed. He has a feeling that his first practice isn’t going to be a walk in the park, what with the deadly glare Sirius keeps pinned on him. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have a broken ankle by the end of it.

—

As predicted, practice is brutal. Coach made them do suicides for so long James worried his lungs were about to fall out because he “wanted to make sure everybody had been practicing over the break”, and then they paired up for passing and Sirius spent the whole time aiming less for James’ feet and more towards his head.

By the time Coach calls for a break, the sun is setting over the horizon and James is sweating buckets and heaving like he’s never known a full breath. He loves football, really, he does, but god can it get tiring. Especially after a school day and verbal spar with Regulus Black. He can’t wait to collapse into bed.

Sirius falls next to him, squirting his water onto his face and neck. His hair is stringy and sticking to his face in a few places, cheeks flushed.

“Are we good?” James mumbles, limbs already aching and head hanging back.

“I don’t know,” Sirius breathes, something calculating in his tone, “are we?”

That means yes, then. James just isn’t sure what he did to deserve that; he was pretty sure they moved past the ball incident because Sirius had started acting normal again. Though he can’t think of what else he would’ve done.

Sirius not-so-accidentally makes sure James gets sprayed a few times with his water, somehow managing to get it directly in his eyes every time despite the fact he’s wearing glasses.

“Okay-“ James sighs after the third time, “What did I do, Sirius?”

“You know what you did.”

“I really don’t, mate.”

“Oh really? You, my brother, ‘that’s a good movie’.” He says, voice purposely high-pitched and mocking. He even twirls his hair around a finger and flutters his eyelashes.

“That’s not what happened!”

“That’s what happened and you know it.” Sirius rolls his eyes. “He got you. I knew he would get you, he’s so bloody mean. You were doomed from the start.”

“I don’t like him, Sirius,” James mumbles, unsure of the words even as they’re coming out of his mouth. He’s pretty sure they’re true. Almost sure they’re true. Does an appreciation of personality and looks always have to be romantic? So what if he loves Regulus’ hair and his lavender shampoo and the way his eyes flash? Regulus is a very attractive bloke. Anyone would have to be completely blind not to see it—James is almost blind yet he still can. Just because James appreciates looking at—and arguing with—pretty people doesn’t mean he likes likes him.

Sirius stares blankly at him for so long it goes from confusing to awkward to scary and back to confusing.

“I don’t,” James tries again, trying to make it sound less like the lie it feels like.

“Every time you think about him your face goes all mushy. Your eyes trail him in every room. You get all agitated and grumpy if you go a day without him insulting you.” Sirius lists clinically, like he’s trying extremely hard not to think about it too hard for fear he’ll barf all over James. “Are you picking up what I’m putting down? Please don’t make me say more.”

“It’s still on the floor.” James shakes his head. Surely he can’t like Regulus. Not to mention he has a feeling that admitting it if he does might get him punched in the face.

Sirius presses his eyes shut. “James Fleamont Potter, love of my life, apple of my eye—I’m trying so hard to be calm about this but you’re making it extremely difficult. Pick it the fuck up.” He grits out quietly, like talking above a whisper might set him off.

“I mean, why would I like Regulus? He’s your brother.” Your extremely funny, extremely hot brother, James doesn’t say. That would definitely get him punched in the face.

“Dont-” Sirius inhales sharply, “say his name, please. Look, you stare at him like he’s the light of your life, James. Be a man and admit it before I throttle you.”

James sighs, sinking even further back into the bench. “I do, don’t I?” He likes the way Regulus’ eyes flash at him because they make his stomach swoop. Arguing him is exhilarating and wonderful. He doesn’t think either of those things about Sirius.

“Yup,” Sirius nods, patting his shoulder. “Now I’m going to get up before I do something I’ll regret.”

Coach yells for them to huddle up, but James isn’t mentally present for the rest of practice.