My Brothers Keeper
SIRIUS
By the time Sirius was five years old, he could do four clean pirouettes without wobbling. His mother counted them out from the corner of the room, arms folded, eyes sharp as broken glass. “Again,” she’d say, as if the word had teeth. He would turn until his legs gave out, until the floor blurred, until the air pulsed behind his eyes.
At six, he could hold a développé with the kind of poise that made other mothers lean in during recitals and whisper to their husbands. “That one,” they’d murmur, “that Black boy. Look at that turnout.” He learned early that the compliments were for her, not him. Her reputation— Walburga Black, prima ballerina, the spine of the Royal Opera —loomed over everything. She didn’t raise children. She curated legacy.
The Black estate was an echo chamber of control. A long hall of mirrors and gleaming parquet floors, every room staged like a museum no one was allowed to live in. Chandeliers too fragile to breathe beneath. Velvet settees no one sat on. Piano music on loop, even when no one was listening.
Sirius’ days were regimented to the minute—wake at six, stretch until seven, breakfast (half an egg white, one slice of toast, no butter), followed by schoolwork, ballet practice, posture drills, and dinner that tasted like air. No cartoons. No loud laughter. No sweets. No second helpings. If he was lucky, he could sneak a grape from the fridge when the housekeeper wasn’t looking. Even then, he’d count the calories in pen on his forearm, a habit taught early. Their mother believed in discipline above all . Hunger meant you were focused.
Regulus was the better student. The obedient one. He folded himself into their mother’s design like tissue in a box—graceful, quiet, untouched by rebellion. He was beautiful, delicate in a way Sirius never could be. And he wanted it—the stage lights, the applause, the curated perfection. He earned gold medals, not for the dancing, but for how effortlessly he looked like a painting in motion.
Sirius tried. For years, he tried. Because he wanted to be loved, even if it meant carving himself into something unrecognizable.
But it was never enough.
At ten, he was told his arabesque looked lazy. At eleven, that his arms were too wild, his chest too proud. At twelve, he danced through a fractured toe because their mother said real dancers didn’t let pain show. He’d slipped on the marley floor during a pas de deux, landed hard. He knew the moment it cracked. Could barely breathe through it. But she watched from the wings, arms crossed, and so he got back up. He danced the next twenty minutes with a jaw clenched so tight it ached for weeks after.
When the blood finally soaked through the satin of his slipper, she didn’t gasp or worry or even look surprised. Just crouched beside him backstage, mouth tight, eyes sharper than any scalpel.
“She’ll never cast you again,” she hissed, dabbing the stain with surgical precision. “You’ll ruin us with your dramatics.”
He started stealing food that year. Not much. Just little things—an extra roll tucked into his blazer pocket during lunch. A spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar when the kitchen staff stepped out. Cold mashed potatoes eaten quickly, standing barefoot on tile in the dark. He wasn’t even sure if he did it to feel full or to feel in control. Maybe both.
But he was just so hungry.
Not just for food, though that was a constant ache—low and gnawing and always there, dull in the mornings and sharp by nightfall. They were kept on strict regimens. Measured portions. Grapefruit and cottage cheese. Skinless chicken breast and steamed greens. No carbs past 4 p.m. “Dancers must be light,” Walburga would say, swirling her wine like it was scripture. “You’ll never soar if you’re weighed down by weakness.”
But Sirius wasn’t built for smallness. His bones were too loud. His spirit, too sharp. And the hunger became more than physical. He craved the things that were forbidden—laughter at the dinner table, second helpings, love without condition. He craved softness. Mess. He craved being full.
Regulus found out about the food. Of course he did. He was always watching. Always trying to do everything right. He caught Sirius sneaking half a granola bar behind the wardrobe mirror and looked at him like he’d just drowned a kitten.
“Pathetic,” Regulus said, not with cruelty, but worse—with sincerity. “You’re going to get fat. You’ll ruin everything.”
He said Sirius was selfish. Weak. Ungrateful. That their mother sacrificed too much to let him throw it all away.
Sirius still remembers how calm his voice was. How sure. Like he really believed it. Like he really believed her .
And Sirius? He didn’t blame him. Not then. Not even now.
Because Regulus was so good at being what she wanted. Perfect posture. Soft voice. Polished shoes and downcast eyes. He could hold plié for longer than any of them, and he made it look effortless . He knew all the rules and how to bend them without being seen. He made excellence look like devotion, and maybe that’s what it was. Devotion born out of survival.
By thirteen, Regulus had stopped sneaking into Sirius’ room at night. Had stopped whispering questions in the dark about whether they’d be allowed to grow their hair out or if boys ever got to wear the gold shoes in Giselle . He was too busy being cast. Too busy perfecting every angle of himself. He’d chosen his side.
By fifteen, Sirius was cutting ballet classes. Hiding cigarettes in his pointe shoes. Wandering the edge of Camden in too-thin clothes, picking fights with older boys from the Academy just to feel the smack of contact. Just to feel something . The bruises didn’t hurt as much as the silence at home.
He’d come back limping, face split, and Walburga would only say, “You’ve ruined your lines,” before sending him to bed without dinner.
Regulus would watch him, silent at the dinner table. Hands in his lap, eyes unmoving. He never said a word. Not even when Sirius bled on the floor. Not even when he screamed.
And it wasn’t anger that finally made him leave. It wasn’t rebellion.
It was exhaustion.
He was tired. Bone-deep tired. Tired of moving like a puppet. Tired of sucking in his stomach every time she passed. Tired of mirrors and scales. Tired of the way his ribs ached from hunger and his lungs ached from silence and his heart ached for something he couldn’t name.
At seventeen, after a winter showcase where Regulus danced the lead and Sirius was made to bow from the wings like an understudy who’d never earned the spotlight, something broke. The crowd rose like a tide. The stage lights burned. And their mother looked at Regulus like he was divinity. Like he was hers
Sirius stared at the curtain.
At the soft bow of Regulus’ spine, the deliberate sweep of his arm as the music cued his final pose. He moved with textbook precision—every angle of him clean and rehearsed, elegant in that haunting, soulless way their mother prized. He looked less like a boy and more like an offering. Graceful, yes. But hollow. Like the dance had emptied him out. Like he’d carved himself down to nothing just to be worthy of the spotlight.
And maybe he had.
The applause thundered through the theatre like it was already leaving him behind. Their mother sat forward in her seat, eyes glistening, lips parted just enough to breathe him in like incense. Sirius could still smell her perfume—sharp and cold and too sweet—like rot hiding under roses.
He stood in the wings, still in costume, sweat drying on his back. His own part had been cut last-minute. Something about spacing. Something about tone. Something about how his body “disrupted the visual line.” He was told to bow anyway, quietly, from the shadows, as if being near greatness might redeem him by proximity.
Regulus stepped forward into the light and bent like he’d been sculpted just for it. And Sirius—hungry and sleepless, neck stiff from rehearsals, eyes raw from being unable to cry—just watched.
And thought: This cannot be my life.
It was a clean kind of thought. Cold. Final. No rage in it. No sting. Just certainty, like a thread snapping inside his chest.
So he left.
No ceremony. No final words. No begging anyone to understand. He didn’t even write a note. Just packed a bag before dawn—hands shaking, breath too loud in the stillness—grabbing only what mattered: a lighter, a pair of boots, a bus pass. He left his phone on the nightstand beside the framed photo of him and Regulus from when they were still small enough to sleep in the same bed. The one where Regulus was missing his front teeth and clinging to Sirius’ arm like an anchor.
He didn’t take it. He didn’t look at it.
He slipped out the servants’ door, through the back corridor where the plaster peeled and the walls held memories too tired to echo. The housekeeper—Elsie, soft-eyed, grey-haired, the only adult who’d ever really looked at him—caught him by the wrist as he passed. Her hand trembled as she pressed a protein bar into his palm like it was a sacred object.
“Run,” she whispered, and her eyes filled so fast he couldn’t bear to meet them.
She cried when he left. No one else noticed until dinner.
He didn’t make it two miles before it all caught up with him. Outside a corner shop near the station, some older boys clocked the coat. The boots. The posture. The way he held himself like he didn’t belong to the street he stood on. A rich boy, they must’ve thought. Or a snob. Or maybe just a target. It didn’t matter.
They didn’t take much. Just his dignity.
Black eye. Split lip. His ribs hurt when he breathed, and his knuckles were scraped raw from hitting back harder than he should’ve.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t run. He sat.
Slumped on a bench in the grey morning light, surrounded by empty chip wrappers and the sour smell of damp concrete. His bag tucked against his side like armor. His stomach hollow. His pride in pieces. Everything in him screamed go back , but he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Even if he starved to death on that bench, he’d never go back.
That’s where James found him.
James Potter, walking like he owned the bloody pavement. Rumpled hair, denim jacket, headphones slung around his neck, carrying a Tesco bag with chocolate milk and crisps like it was a peace offering from the gods. He clocked Sirius in a glance and crouched without hesitation.
“You look like hell,” James said, easy as anything, like he was offering a compliment. Like he saw through the bruises and didn’t flinch. “You hungry?”
And Sirius, for the first time in his life, didn’t lie.
He said yes.
James brought him home. No questions asked. No name, no backstory, no explanation required. Just a shrug and a tilt of his head— Come on then. His parents were out of town—some gala, Manchester maybe—so the house was empty and warm, full of music and bad art and the kind of silence that doesn’t judge you for taking up space.
The spare room smelled like clean sheets and something citrusy. Sirius curled up under the blanket without undressing, half-expecting someone to rip it away. No one did.
James didn’t push. Just handed him a mug of tea and showed him how to microwave popcorn. How to download movies without paying. Played The Clash loud enough to shake the walls and let Sirius sleep through dinner. And when Sirius stumbled into the kitchen after dark, looking for something to eat, James just passed him a bowl and said, “Fridge is yours.”
He didn’t count how many times Sirius went back for seconds. Didn’t raise a brow when he hovered by the sink eating pasta straight from the pot. Just let him. Let him be messy. Let him exist.
And that—more than anything—is how Sirius learned what safe could feel like.
That hunger wasn’t a requirement. That you could want and not be punished. That you could be full and still be loved.
He never went back.
He never meant to look back.
But he still dreams about Regulus, sometimes.
Dreams of the way he used to trail behind Sirius through the halls of the opera house, clinging to his arm and whispering secrets about what costumes they’d wear when they were famous. The way he used to tuck himself under Sirius’ coat when they snuck out to the courtyard, sharing a stolen orange under a streetlamp like it was treasure. The way he used to sob when the blisters popped on his heels, and Sirius would shush him, slipping plasters from his pocket and stories from his throat just to make him laugh again.
He dreams of Regulus looking up at him like he was the safest place on earth. Like Sirius could fix anything. Like love was something they could build if they just stayed close enough.
And sometimes—only sometimes—Sirius wonders if he could’ve saved him.
If he’d held on longer. If he’d begged him to run. If he’d said the right words that night.
But then he remembers the way Regulus looked after that final bow—hollow-eyed and glowing. Consumed by their mother’s praise. Wearing it like a second skin. Like armor. Like a crown.
Regulus had already chosen.
And Sirius—he’d been hungry too long to keep waiting.
But now, standing on a wet street corner with James and Lily, wind lifting wrappers off the pavement and the buzz of the kebab shop sign stuttering above them, Sirius sees it.
A poster. Large, glossy, nailed to the wall of a shuttered cinema like a warning.
Regulus Black. Starring in Black Swan.
It takes a moment to process the words. Longer still to process the image: Regulus, center frame, head tilted just so, back arched, arms soft and sharpened all at once. His face painted with restraint, lips deep red, eyes the kind that don’t blink. He’s beautiful. Inhuman. Regal in a way Sirius has spent years trying not to remember.
The city noise fades. The smell of fried meat, the slurred laughter of strangers, Lily’s hand catching James’ coat sleeve—they all fall away. It’s just him and that face. Blown up three meters high. Untouchable. Unspeakably familiar.
Of course it’s this production. Of course he’s the lead.
Sirius’ lungs tighten, and he tells himself it’s just the cold. But his hands are clenched in his jacket pockets, and he’s suddenly aware of the weight of his own body, the sag of his posture, the ache that’s never really left his spine. He wonders if Regulus still stretches at night. If he ices his knees after rehearsals. If their mother still sends him links to diets and vitamins and punishing schedules disguised as care. If she still visits the dressing room after shows with her eyes like scalpels and praise like knives.
He wonders—absurdly—if Regulus is eating.
If he’s sleeping.
If he ever looks at himself in the mirror and sees anything more than the shape she carved him into.
Sirius doesn’t notice he’s walked ahead until James’ voice reaches him.
“Mate?”
He stops, barely hearing it.
“You good?” James again, stepping up beside him. Concern softening the corners of his expression. He’s holding Lily’s hand, but his eyes are all on Sirius now. “You went quiet.”
Sirius shrugs like it’s nothing. A twitch of the shoulder. “Spaced out.”
Lily peers around James, follows his gaze, and her breath catches. “Oh,” she says, quietly. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
James exhales slowly, careful not to fill the silence too loud. “He looks…” His voice trails. “Yeah.”
“Intense,” Lily offers gently.
Sirius gives the smallest nod. “He always was.”
They don’t press him. Don’t ask if he wants to talk about it. James just slips his hand into Sirius’ coat pocket like he used to all those years ago, when Sirius couldn’t breathe right. Lily turns her face back toward the kebab shop, eyes suspiciously shiny, pretending to count the orders inside. The three of them just stand there, quiet beneath the streetlight, while Regulus looks down at them from the wall like a ghost he never buried.
Later, Sirius lies curled in the dark.
The flat is too quiet. The duvet doesn’t feel warm enough. The room smells like smoke trapped in laundry detergent and the faint sting of leftover gin. He scrolls with a kind of dread. Thumb hesitant. Chest tight.
regulusblackofficial.
Verified.
He taps the name without thinking, and the screen loads like a door he swore he’d never open again.
It’s a gallery of cool-toned perfection. Black and white portraits, rehearsal clips, carefully filtered moments that toe the line between vulnerability and performance. Regulus in profile, spine arched like a question, arms curved with impossible grace. In every frame, he’s the picture of discipline, of control, of someone who’s mastered the art of becoming untouchable.
He looks happy—or at least convincing. The kind of happiness that photographs well under stage lights, sharp-edged and tasteful. To most people, it probably looks effortless. Natural.
But Sirius knows better, knows those eyes.
He remembers them wide with wonder under the covers, when the hall lights clicked off and the world turned quiet and Regulus whispered, “Tell me the pirate story again.” He remembers them scrunched with laughter when they used to play-fight with wooden spoons in the kitchen, socks sliding on marble floors. He remembers a particular summer when Regulus spent three weeks trying to build a raft out of fencing wood and garden twine, and Sirius helped just because it made him smile.
But there’s no trace of that boy now.
Sirius watches a clip from rehearsal, muted, timestamped just a few days ago. Regulus wears a black tank, shoulders taut, sweat clinging to his collarbones like a second skin. He moves like he’s chasing something, or maybe outrunning it. His face doesn’t shift. His eyes stay locked on the mirror, not searching, not connecting, but locked—like he’s trying to see through it. Like he’s dancing for a ghost.
Sirius doesn’t follow him. Doesn’t like the post or save it. He just watches, caught in the eerie stillness of it. And he feels something tighten low in his chest, like an old scar flaring in the rain.
He tells himself Regulus made his choice. That he made his. That whatever was salvageable between them rotted years ago, buried under silence and pride and all the things they never said.
But none of that stops the worry.
He wonders if Regulus has anyone now—someone who makes sure he eats before rehearsals, who notices when he goes too quiet, who presses a hand to the small of his back after curtain call just to say: you did it. He wonders if their mother still calls. If she still controls him. If Regulus gets to sleep through the night without waking up feeling like he’s failed something invisible.
More than anything, he wonders if Regulus is lonely in that spotlight. If he’s still trying to earn a love that will never come.
And even though Sirius hasn’t spoken to him in years, even though he blocked half the family and swore off looking back, he knows in his bones that Regulus isn’t okay. Not really. Because those eyes—sharp and empty on screen—used to carry stories. Used to shine when Sirius made up bedtime adventures where they fought sea serpents and hid treasure in the rose garden. There used to be light there. And now it’s gone.
That night, Sirius dreams of the old studio.
The cracked floorboards. The sound of toe shoes scuffing the paint. The stale air of dust and discipline. Regulus sits on the bench in the far corner, knees pulled to his chest, tights torn, face turned away. “Don’t leave me,” he whispers into the space between them, like it’s just a habit now, like he says it every time he’s alone.
Sirius wakes with his jaw clenched and his eyes burning. The ceiling above him feels impossibly far away. He doesn’t tell anyone about the dream. He doesn’t talk about the profile, or the poster, or the way his brother’s face lives behind his eyelids now like a memory that refuses to fade.
He just lays there, breathing through the ache. And when morning comes, he pretends he slept fine. Just like he always does.
***
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and too much honey.
Sirius stood barefoot by the counter in one of James’ old shirts—soft with age, sleeves pushed up—methodically pouring milk into his tea like it was the most complicated task in the world. His hair was still damp from the shower, sticking in pieces to the nape of his neck. He wasn’t hungover, not really, but there was something scratchy in his chest, like he’d swallowed a dream and it hadn’t dissolved yet.
James hovered, trying not to hover.
He was in full parental mode—pajama bottoms, glasses sliding down his nose, stirring oatmeal like he was nursing someone back from war. Every few minutes, he’d glance over, trying to pretend he wasn’t checking on Sirius.
“You sleep at all?” James asked, voice casual in the way someone tries to be when they already know the answer.
Sirius gave him a look. “Define ‘sleep.’”
“Horizontal. Eyes closed. Not pacing or brooding or—”
“I’m fine, Mum.”
“You say that, but I heard you get up at three.”
“Just needed water.”
“And then again at four.”
“Still needed water.”
James hummed like he didn’t believe him, dropping a banana into the blender with more force than necessary. Sirius sank onto one of the stools at the island and reached lazily for a spoon, helping himself to James’ half-finished toast.
“I’m not fragile, you know,” Sirius muttered, chewing thoughtfully. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m about to spontaneously combust.”
“I don’t think you’re fragile,” James said, turning toward him with a look. “I think you’re… squishy. Inside. Like a marshmallow someone dropped in a puddle.”
Sirius squinted. “That’s worse.”
James grinned and handed him the good mug—the one with the chipped handle and the faded stag printed on the side. It was ritual at this point. The comfort mug. Sirius took it without comment, wrapping his fingers around the warmth.
They fell into an easy silence. The kind that only came from years of sharing space. James leaned against the counter, drinking his smoothie straight from the blender like a barbarian. Sirius watched him over the rim of his mug, grateful and irritated in equal measure.
“Seriously though,” James said eventually, soft now, not quite meeting his eyes. “If you wanna talk about it—about anything—I’m here.”
“I know.”
“I just—” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I know the anniversary’s soon. And the poster thing. I just didn’t want you to be alone last night.”
Sirius looked down into his tea. The liquid had gone a little too pale from the milk. He stirred it anyway. “Thanks,” he said, voice low. “For staying.”
James shrugged, but the tightness in his shoulders didn’t ease. “You’ve done the same for me.”
Sirius didn’t argue. Didn’t mention how many times that had been. How many breakdowns, hospital visits, panic attacks James had walked him through without flinching. He just reached for the honey, drizzled it messily over the corner of the toast, and took another bite like the conversation hadn’t just edged toward something raw.
He could feel James’ eyes flick down to his neck, to the place just behind his ear where the mark lived now, quiet and hidden.
But he didn’t ask.
And Sirius didn’t offer.
He wasn’t ready yet. Not for that.
So instead, he gestured at James’ smoothie and said, “That looks like pond sludge.”
“It’s mango and spinach,” James said, affronted.
“Sounds like punishment.”
“You’re just mad because your diet consists entirely of cigarettes and spite.”
Sirius raised his toast like a toast. “And I’m thriving.”
James rolled his eyes but smiled anyway, and the moment passed like a wave settling. Not gone. But gentler.
Sirius reached to grab the cinnamon from the cupboard above the kettle, stretching without thinking, shirt lifting slightly in the back. James was mid-sentence—something about Lily nearly knocking over a plant stand last night—when he went silent. The kind of silence that made Sirius immediately tense, sensing the shift in air before anything was said.
“What?” Sirius asked, glancing over his shoulder, palm still braced against the cupboard door.
James tilted his head, squinting. “Wait—turn around a second.”
Sirius furrowed his brow but turned slowly, uncertain.
James stepped forward, eyes narrowed in concentration. “You got more ink?”
Sirius blinked. “What? Oh—” He reached up instinctively, dragging fingers across his shoulder blade, where the edge of his spine tattoo sometimes peeked through the collar of his shirt. “Yeah, you can see the top of the solar system one from here. Got it last week, it’s the planets in order from the sun down my spine. I started with Mercury at the base of my neck and—”
“No, no—what are you on about?” James said, eyes wide. “I’m not talking about your bloody spine, I’m talking about this.”
He stepped in closer, and before Sirius could flinch away, James brushed his fingers behind his ear—right at the base of his skull, just under where his hair began to curl.
Sirius stilled.
James pulled back, already fishing his phone out of the pocket of his joggers. “Hold still.”
The flash went off before Sirius could object, and then James was turning the screen toward him, frowning. “What the hell is this?”
Sirius leaned in, squinting.
The photo was blurry from the angle, but clear enough to make out the shape—a small, finely-inked book. Not an obvious tattoo. The kind of thing you’d only see if you knew to look. Tucked beneath the wild spill of his hair. On the spine of the book, in precise, vertical lettering: R.J.L.
“What…?” Sirius said quietly, voice thinner than he meant.
James raised his eyebrows. “You got a secret book club now or something? What’s R.J.L. mean? Sounds like one of those pretentious literary abbreviations. Is this, like, your favorite novel or something?”
“I didn’t—” Sirius stopped. His mind scrambled, grasping at air. “I didn’t get that.”
James shot him a look. “You’re telling me someone broke into your flat and tattooed you in your sleep?”
“No,” Sirius said, still staring at the photo. “No, I mean—I didn’t ask for that. I don’t remember it.”
Which wasn’t entirely true. Not anymore.
Not with the photo staring back at him like a fragment from a dream. Not with James saying it aloud and the shape of that night beginning to reassemble itself in his head. Smoke curling in the tattoo shop. Music low and thick in the background. Remus’ fingers steady on the machine. The soft drag of his touch behind Sirius’ ear. Sirius laughing, warm with drink and weed, saying do something small , something secret.
Something no one else could see.
He remembered the ache in Remus’ expression now. The way his eyes had gone too still. How gentle he’d been, too gentle for someone just doing a favor. And the dancing before that, how close they’d stood, the way their bodies had moved around each other like they already knew the steps. He hadn’t wanted the night to end. He hadn’t wanted to say goodbye.
Sirius swallowed, mouth dry. “He must’ve done it.”
“He?” James said slowly.
Sirius set the tea down, clinking against the countertop too hard. “Remus. That night. At the shop. I told him he could give me something. I didn’t think he actually would—I mean I thought I’d remember it.”
James whistled low, leaning against the table. “So he gave you a secret tattoo behind the ear… of a book. With mystery letters on it.”
“I guess?” Sirius said, still staring at the image. “I don’t know what it means.”
James looked again. “Could be a title. Or a quote? Something symbolic?”
“Maybe,” Sirius said, softer now. But even as he said it, the ache behind his ribs sharpened.
The silence stretched a beat too long. James folded his arms. “You sure there’s nothing going on between you two?”
Sirius forced a laugh that didn’t land. “You think he’d tattoo the book he thinks I am if we were shagging? That’s worse.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Sirius dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I don’t know. Alright? I don’t know what’s going on.”
James didn’t look smug about it. He looked worried.
“Sirius,” he said, gentle now, “I’m only asking because I’ve seen you spiral for less. If there’s something happening—if you’re catching feelings—you need to be honest about it. With yourself, if no one else.”
Sirius opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Because he didn’t know how to name it. What it was. What it wasn’t. He hadn’t let himself linger on it too long. It was easier not to. Easier to flirt and joke and smoke and move on. But this—this small thing etched behind his ear, hidden like a secret meant to be kept—it felt so intimate.
He stared at the picture again. The book. The letters. The shape of something he couldn’t quite explain.
James spoke softer this time, voice low and steady in that way he only used when something truly mattered. “You’re not broken, you know. You can want things.”
Sirius didn’t move. His shoulders tensed like the words hit somewhere he didn’t want to name. “I don’t—”
“I know you think you can’t,” James interrupted gently, stepping forward, hands resting on the edge of the counter like he was grounding himself. “I know you think wanting makes you weak. Like it’s this indulgence you can’t afford. Like needing someone is a flaw.”
There was no heat in his voice. Just concern. The kind that came from watching someone hurt themselves again and again with silence. James looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. “But it’s not. You’re allowed to want things that don’t burn you alive. You’re allowed to need someone without it being a catastrophe.”
Sirius turned his face away before James could see too much, jaw clenched. He didn’t have the words. Not the right ones. Not ones that wouldn’t betray something he’d spent years keeping buried.
And then James, quieter still: “I just don’t want you chasing after someone who can’t give it back. If you like him, if this is… something for you—I need to know you’re braced for it. I need to know you’re not setting yourself up to get gutted.”
There it was. The fear, tucked under the empathy. The way James always tried to preempt the storm before it arrived. His protectiveness was suffocating sometimes, but it came from somewhere real. From having watched Sirius fall before. Hard. Fast. And publicly.
Sirius didn’t answer. Not because he was hiding, but because he didn’t know. Not really. It was all fog. Hints and smoke and the hollow buzz of what-if.
James sighed, stepping back. “You’ve got people, alright? People who care. You can talk to us. You don’t have to carry it all on your own like it’s some bloody war medal.”
Sirius nodded once, tight. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t honest either.
James didn’t press. He just clapped him gently on the shoulder, gave him a half-smile. “Alright, you miserable git. I’m off to meet Lily. Try not to brood too hard while I’m gone.”
Sirius managed a smirk. “No promises.”
“Didn’t think so.” James hesitated in the doorway, then added, “And seriously—if you ever wanna talk. About anything.”
“I know,” Sirius said. And for James’ sake, he made it sound like he meant it. “Don’t worry. I’m handling it.”
James seemed to have accepted that, and Sirius was grateful that he didn’t pry any longer, because honestly, Sirius did not believe he had the answers to the concerns he’d posed.
The door shut behind him with a soft click, and the kitchen went quiet.
Sirius stood still for a moment, then sank onto the edge of the counter stool like the air had thickened around him. His fingers drifted to his forearm. Scratched. A thoughtless graze at first, just nerves looking for purchase—but then deeper. Deliberate. A scrape meant to hurt. His body still remembered how to speak the language of pain, even when he pretended not to.
He didn’t stop until he hit the sore patch.
The skin there was tender, still healing, mapped in careful ink—stars arranged in a way no one had recognized yet.
Regulus.
He’d asked Remus for it without saying much. A constellation. That’s all. Remus had pressed the stencil down, gentle and professional, and Sirius hadn’t offered anything more. Just sat there watching the shape take form, and tried to keep his breathing even.
Later, Remus had asked. Quiet, offhand, curious. “Which one is it?” he’d said, eyes flicking to the bandage like he’d been thinking about it since.
And Sirius had lied. Or at least, avoided. Shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Just one I liked.”
He hadn’t told him the truth.
Because it wasn’t for Remus to know. Not then. Not yet. Because if he said it out loud— Regulus —then it might make something real again. Something he’d tried to bury. And Sirius wasn’t ready for that. Not even with Remus.
No one else knew what it was either. When people asked, he said it was something he saw in a book. Or that it just looked nice. No one ever fact-checked him. No one ever looked too closely.
But that one wasn’t for them.
He hadn’t realized how badly he missed Regulus until the ache started blooming in quiet corners. Until he started tracing memories like old sheet music—slipping through streets that smelled like resin and sweat and polish, catching glimpses of boys in warmup at dusk and feeling something crack down the center.
He told himself for years that Regulus had chosen his path. That Sirius had been the one to escape. That looking back was weakness. But when he gave Remus his arm and asked him to mark it, he’d known what he was doing. He’d wanted Regulus with him, in the only way he could bear. Wanted to carry him—not in apology, not in guilt—but because there was nowhere left for that love to live.
He scratched again, lighter now. More like tracing. The skin stung beneath his fingers. The stars didn’t move.
Remus had asked, and Sirius hadn’t answered.
Because it was just for him.
Because he was missing his baby brother.
And that ache—that stupid, unshakable ache—had nowhere else to go.
***
He pressed his palm over the fresh constellation, fingertips grazing the scabbing lines. The skin still felt warm. Still pulsed when he breathed too deep. For a while, that was enough.
But it didn’t stay quiet for long.
The restlessness came back like it always did. Crawling under his skin, moving too fast for him to catch. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. At some point, he realized his leg was bouncing. His nails scraped down his arm again, dragging over old lines and old ink. He told himself to stop. He didn’t.
There was something gathering in his chest, thick and knotted, like storm clouds pressing against the ribs from the inside. It wasn’t grief, not in the familiar way. It was denser than that, more serrated at the edges. Like something with claws had curled up beneath his sternum and was shifting in its sleep. He tried to breathe around it, but the air caught. He tried to sit still, but his limbs wouldn’t settle, vibrating with some animal panic that had no direction. The flat felt warped around him—corners too sharp, walls leaning in like they were listening. He’d already paced a hundred lines into the floorboards, worn the fabric of the rug thin beneath his heels. His hands twitched for something, anything. The itch just beneath the skin. The electricity of wanting to bolt and having nowhere to run.
He didn’t want to go for a walk. Didn’t want to call James. Didn’t want to journal or meditate or do any of the things he’d once been told might help. He wanted silence. He wanted precision. He wanted that feeling again—the sting, the buzz, the pressure that overrode everything else. The kind that made his body louder than his thoughts. That numbed the part of him that kept whispering things he didn’t want to hear.
He thought of the last time. How long it took. The spine tattoo—five planets deep before he even remembered to speak. Hours of sitting still, of being still, of feeling everything and nothing in equal measure. It had helped. Not fixed anything, not really, but it had helped. Like someone turned the volume down on the chaos for a little while. Let him float.
He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t known it could feel like that.
Now he did.
And that was dangerous.
He looked down at his arms. At the constellation. At the stars stitched into his skin like apologies and confessions and maps of places he could never go back to.
His hand moved on its own. Jacket. Wallet. Keys. The flat was suddenly too small again. The light too sharp. He had to move. He had to go .
By the time he hit the pavement, night was already looming, but he didn’t care. He walked like he had a destination, even if he didn’t fully admit it to himself yet. He told himself he just needed air. Just needed to move. But his feet knew the route. The muscle memory of needing something. Of needing him .
Of course he was going back to Remus.
He didn’t know what he’d ask for. Didn’t know what he wanted it to be, or where he’d want it. He only knew how long it could take. How long it could last. How long he could sit there and let someone dig into him while he floated above it all, tethered to pain like it was the only thing keeping him from drifting away entirely.
The closer he got to the shop, the steadier his hands felt.
He wasn’t calm. Not really. But he knew this trick now. He knew how to cheat the system. How to bleed without breaking the rules.
He could pretend this was art.
He could call it healing.
He could let Remus touch him without ever touching what hurt.
And maybe, if he stayed still long enough, it wouldn’t follow him home.