The kitchen sink is full. The plates are stacked up on top of each other and sooner or later, Regulus is going to have to take care of it. The cabinets are empty. He hates having to watch the same two plates on the top of the stack be reused over and over again, even though it’s really just him eating alone nowadays, so he doesn’t know why he bothers. He walks by it every single morning. His eyes never fail to stick to the way that the sun bounces off of the porcelain, never fail to savor the way the glare remains burned into his eyes long after he’s walked away.
He always wakes up early enough to see the sunrise. It was an excuse to make breakfast before the bus came around, but he doesn’t think anyone ever really believed him. He used to hate waking up before noon, and now he can’t bear to miss it. He doesn’t even go outside and properly feel the fresh air against his skin when he watches it. No, he stays in the kitchen and stares out of the foggy window from the other side of the kitchen, his back rested against the counter and a cup of tea in his hand that he never really remembers to drink. He slept through it once and threw up. Then he went back to sleep and threw up again. He hasn’t missed it since then.
Regulus doesn’t even need to wake up early for the bus anymore. He tries to understand why he has to wake up so early then, but if he thinks too hard about it, he ends up back in the bathroom, his knees falling against the cold tile and his forehead rested against the back of the toilet. He hates the feeling of it, of finding his way back there again and again, so it’s easier to just stop.
Still, he doesn’t need an alarm clock to rouse him out from under the covers when he wakes up that morning. There’s no warmth there, nothing keeping him underneath them, so he barely registers it when he pulls them off and tugs a shirt over his head.
The hallway leading to the stairs is empty. It’s so much duller than he remembers it being years before. He could’ve sworn it was brighter once, softer, but now it’s like all the color’s been drained from the drywall. The floorboard’s been stained by ocean waves that he always hears echoing behind him, even if he never quite turns around quickly enough to find them.
He doesn’t pause by the door at the end of the hallway anymore. He used to knock on it every other morning, laughing as he threw open the curtains and smiling at the sight of the walls around him, covered in poorly drawn pictures of birds and people and trees, always with a sun shining in the corner. He can’t even remember the last time he was in there. He can hardly imagine what it looks like now, but the lights are still off and he doesn’t dare go in there to open the curtains like he used to.
The stairs creak underneath his footsteps. His eyes flicker outside the screen door, distantly spotting a group of rabbits running in circles around by the patch of apple trees that have long since died in the corner of their yard. He stops at the sight of them, staring outside the door as he lets the coldness of the room properly seep into his skin. When they run into the bush, Regulus’ eyes stick there for only another moment before he forces his gaze away. He takes the top plate off of the sink, traces of grease on there from the pizza he ordered the day before, and runs it under the water for a few seconds before grabbing a towel off the rack and quickly wiping it down. He sets it beside him, then turns to the fridge.
By the time the eggs are sizzling in the pan, he’s taken one of the few mugs left in the cupboard and filled it with water. He’s long since run out of patience with the kettle; it sits in the corner of the kitchen now, collecting dust. He places the cup in the microwave and lets it sit there for a few minutes before taking it out, dropping a teabag inside. By then, the eggs are done, so he takes his plate and his mug and sets them on the edge of the island in the middle of his kitchen.
He takes a few bites of the eggs before giving up, sighing and dropping his fork on the counter beside him. He runs a hand through his hair, bunching up his fingers so that he feels the tug of it on his scalp, and shuts his eyes. Eventually he grabs his cup of tea, feeling the ceramic burn against his palm as he carries it to the other side of the kitchen to watch the run rise. He could see it from his seat if he wanted to, but it helps to stand. To separate the act from everything else.
Regulus sees it a few minutes later, the first sliver of orange making its way over the horizon. “Good morning,” he mumbles into his cup, taking a sip. It’s awfully bland, but the honey’s been out for days and he hasn’t been to the market recently enough to replace it. He watches the sun until it’s fully risen past the trees. Once it’s over, he stares down at his mug, finding that he drank much less than he thought he did. He tries for another sip, but when it tastes like ash in his mouth, he gives up and spills the rest into the sink, watching as it disappears beneath the mound of plates and fades down the drain.
He sits down at the island again, picking up his fork and dragging the eggs around the plate. It’s one of the ones he got custom-made a few years ago--there must be dozens of them spread across the house. There’s a picture of himself there, a few lines and a circle with a smile painted on it, a few curls sticking from the figure’s head and his name written above it. The ‘R’ is facing the wrong direction, but that was always his favorite part about it. He tilts his head as he stares at it, then, after a second, moves a piece of his eggs so that he can’t see it anymore. He doesn’t dwell on the rest of the design. It’ll just send him back to the bathroom, and that’s the last thing he wants right now. It was always more of a problem when he was a kid, the throwing up, but as he’s grown, it’s gotten better. Or at least it did.
Eventually, Regulus hears footsteps lightly coming down the stairs, and he turns his head just in time to find Harry turning the corner. He barely spares Regulus a glance as he heads for the door.
“Harry?” Regulus calls out, and he watches as Harry’s hand freezes just a few inches above the handle.
Harry turns, staring at Regulus blankly. Like he barely recognizes him. When Regulus doesn’t immediately continue, Harry tips his head forward like he’s trying to hurry it along.
Regulus has to force his mouth open. “What do you--um,” he shakes his head and blinks, only realizing he’s doing it when Harry sighs, turning towards the door again. “What do you want to eat for dinner?”
Harry looks back at him, his eyes landing anywhere but Regulus’ face. It sends his chest twisting, folding over his lungs. “Ron actually invited me over again, so I was just going to eat there.” He doesn’t ask for permission. He’s asked enough times to know that Regulus wouldn’t say no. He’s been going there more and more often now--for dinner, for breakfast.
Regulus just nods, watching as his son opens the door and slips outside before he can open his mouth again. He doesn’t know what he would say even if he wanted to.
Tears prick at his eyes and Regulus drags his hands down his face, fingers pausing at the corners of his eyelids to dry them. He’s slipping away. Regulus feels it more and more each day, and it’s like he’s losing James all over again.
God, James. Sometimes it’s like Regulus can still hear his voice in the windchimes outside, like he can still feel the warmth from his hands stained across the doorhandles and the distant noise of their mixed humming drifting past him from the laundry room. Regulus would wake up and find James outside every morning, stretching after his run and watching the sunset. Regulus would walk up behind him and grumble on about why they he was up so early to run of all things, and James would laugh and Regulus would roll his eyes and sit beside him, chin resting in his hands on the steps of their back porch until James would join him there, knocking their shoulders together.
Regulus takes a sharp breath, pushing those memories as far down as he can and forcing himself up onto his feet to dump the rest of his eggs in the garbage. He places the plate right back on top of the stack in the sink, then sinks back into his seat in the middle of the kitchen. He stares at the spot across from him.
Harry used to eat breakfast with him there after it happened. It was simple, and neither of them ever really tried to talk, but it was comforting, somehow, to know that they were there together. Regulus doesn’t know when that stopped either, but he knows it was after Harry got his license. If he had to pinpoint it to anything, it would be that little piece of plastic. One day it was going in early to take Hermione to get coffee before school, and now Harry’s unwashed plate is hardly used anymore, sitting uselessly in the sink.
Regulus can eat the leftover pizza from the night before. He hardly managed to eat a slice before leaving the box on the counter anyway, hoping that Harry would have taken one when he got home. He knows there’ll still be seven in there when he checks. He doesn’t know why he bothers anymore.
He takes his phone out. It’s sitting at eighteen percent because of course Regulus forgot to charge it, and it’s old enough to the point that he doubts that it’ll last an hour before dying on him. Still, he swipes it open and finds it empty of any new notifications. He finds his chat with Harry; the last thing either of them sent to each other was three weeks ago, and that was Harry asking Regulus if he could stay the night at Ron’s. Regulus sent a thumbs-up. Harry left it on read.
Regulus clicks it off and tosses it onto the counter behind him. He’ll find it if he needs it, but he hates the feeling of letting it rot in his pocket throughout the day.
Then, he sits there. It’s what he does most days. He sits there and stares out of the window, watching the birds flying around the sun slowly make their way out of sight. He watches the deer that occasionally come running through, and he tries not to remember how excited James used to get when that happened. He picks apart the clouds and watches as they fade in and out of sight.
His eyes always find their way back to the swingset. It’s at the very back of the yard, right before the edge of the trees. He remembers when James first came up with the idea for it, when he refused help from everybody but Regulus when he tried to build it, only giving in when Regulus asked how James could be sure it’d even hold Harry’s weight. He’d stared at Regulus for a moment, his mouth slightly open as the wheels turned behind his head, and Regulus laughed. He laughed so much then that thinking about it now makes him nauseous.
Regulus doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep at the table until he’s opened his eyes hours later, groaning at the pain spiking up his back. His eyes drift towards the clock on the wall, and it takes him a few seconds to properly wrap his head around what the two hands are trying to tell him. 1:28. He unsticks a few strands of hair from his face and slowly stands, drifting up the stairs again and towards the laundry room.
The load he put in there to dry last night must’ve been finished for at least half a day by now, sitting there and wrinkling. Regulus opens the door to the drier and tugs out the first shirt. It’s Harry’s, and he folds it as nicely as he can in a new stack on top of the washing machine. He’s given up with folding his own, so whenever he picks out one of his he just throws it over his shoulder and moves on. He keeps going through the motions. It used to be one of his favorite parts of the week, folding laundry. James would tease him endlessly for it, for loving what he thought was such a monotonous task. It wasn’t boring when James was with him there, not when they’d pay music and sing along to it underneath their breath as they folded in sync.
Regulus leaves Harry’s stack on top of the machine when he’s done, staring at it for a moment too long before reaching down and picking up his own clothing.
He opens one of his drawers with his pinky finger and dumps the load inside, not spenting another moment looking at it before shutting it with a light thud. He sits on the bed then, for a bit, staring at the drawers. They were going to repaint those. Regulus hated the oaky color of them, but now he doesn’t care much anymore. It all looks the same to him.
It’s a little while later he finds himself back in the kitchen. He continues to stare at the plates staked up in the sink. He was going to go to the market today, but he doesn’t think he has it in him to drive all the way there. He’s already slept most of the day away anyway. He can do it tomorrow. He doesn’t make it very far into that thought before it’s interrupted by the front door opening.
He glances at the clock again. 4:25.
Harry slips inside. He looks so tired. There are heavy bags under his eyes, and his hair is a mess. His backpack is slung over one of his shoulders and it’s so heavy that it’s visibly weighing him down. He looks up at Regulus once he shuts the door and it’s almost like he sighs at the sight of him.
He starts to make his way to the stairs, just like he does every day after school, but something’s different this time. He stops at the foot of the steps. Regulus watches his every move, soaking up every detail of his son standing there in front of him.
Harry turns and looks at him and it’s like a slap to the face. He hasn’t looked Regulus in the eye for weeks. “Have you even moved since I left?” He says it like he’s exhausted.
Regulus doesn’t know if the question surprises him or not. He nods. He folded the laundry. That has to count for something.
Harry scoffs, and he glances up the stairs as if considering whether or not he should leave. He looks back at Regulus, right into his eyes. “Dad.” He shrugs, and then he laughs like he’s about to start crying and it’s the most awful sound Regulus has ever heard. And he’s right there. He’s standing there, backpack halfway hanging off of his shoulder and all Regulus can see is his little kid that used to scream in joy when Regulus made him pancakes for breakfast. Harry sniffles, wiping his sleeve across his nose. “I’m going to stay at Ron’s for a while.”
“What?” It’s hardly a whisper, like it’s been punched out of him.
“It’s just for a little bit. I just--” he bites his lower lip hard enough that Regulus is surprised it doesn’t start bleeding. “I can’t watch you sit there anymore. I can’t.”
Regulus knew he was losing him, but he didn’t think it would be like this. He didn’t think there’d be a way to mark it on a calender, to assign a date to it. He thought it would gentle. He thought it would be easier, somehow.
The bag slides off of Harry’s shoulder. He runs a hand through his hair and then he’s laughing again. “You can’t even fucking say anything?”
Regulus shuts his mouth, biting his tongue. He can feel the bile rising in his throat. “Harry--”
“We never talk about him!” Harry shouts, like he’s been wanting to say it for years. He’s breathing heavily, and he looks so much older than seventeen. “You’re always sitting there when I wake up and you can barely look at me without forming that awful look on your face and it’s been years, Dad. It’s been years and it’s like you’re not even trying.” He stares helplessly at Regulus. “I’m the one that’s still here, and you never fucking act like it. It’s like--” he looks away.
“You don’t think I’m trying?” Regulus hates how his voice cracks. He knows Harry’s right. He’s been a shit dad, but he’s been trying so hard. He’s been trying so hard. “My world fucking ended when he died, Harry, and I’ve been trying so fucking hard since then. For you.”
“Really?” Harry locks his hands around the back of his head. “Because I’m the one that’s still alive and sometimes I feel like you don’t know that. Like you’re stuck in your own little world and I’m waiting outside of it for you to leave and you never do! You never fucking do! It’s just him, all the time and he’s still ruining everything and you can’t fucking admit that you’re not okay.”
Regulus’ face hardens. “I’m fine.”
Harry’s staring at him. There are tears running down his face and if Regulus was a better person, maybe he’d walk over there and try to brush them off his face. He’d hug him, but they don’t hug anymore. They don’t do that, they haven’t for years.
“Say my name, then,” says Harry. His eyes find Regulus’ again. “My full name, and I’ll believe you.”
Regulus can’t do anything but close his mouth. He screws his eyes shut, feeling the hot tears rolling down his face.
Harry can barely repeat it without his voice cracking. “Say it. Please, Dad, just say it.” He’s not doing it to be cruel, Regulus can hear that in his voice. He just wants an excuse to stay, and Regulus hates the way he sees himself in it.
He opens his eyes, training them on his son’s face. He remembers when they were able to take him home for the first time, when they could finally put a use to the spare room that had been sitting in the corner of their house for months. There were still stains on the floor from where Regulus used to paint in there, but it hardly seemed important when they were decorating the walls and assembling the crib and sticking stars to the ceiling. When Harry saw it for the first time, he giggled, and Regulus remembers it, he remembers it. James laughed and Regulus remembers thinking how similar they were, how beautiful.
“God, you’re looking at me like I’m about to kill myself, too.”
“Harry.” Regulus is standing now, staring at him in horror. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Harry shakes his head, staring at Regulus incredulously. “You’re stuck here, Dad. You haven’t even tried to move on and it’s been five years. You refuse to go to therapy, you refuse to even try to talk to Uncle Sirius anymore, and I haven’t seen you leave the house for anything but food in months. Maybe that’s what fucked me up. Maybe that’s why I’m like this now, why I can’t live here anymore because he’s fucking suffocating me.” He takes a deep breath, and Regulus can hear the hoarseness at the back of his throat. “I think I hate him. Is that an awful thing to say?” He tilts his head as if Regulus could possibly give him an answer. He wants one, even if Regulus knows the question is supposed to be rhetorical. Something inside of him is begging for that answer, even if he knows his father could never possibly give him one. “He made you this way. He’s the reason why you’re rotting in here, why you can’t even say my fucking name because his is in it, too. I just can’t understand why you care anymore. He left.”
Regulus hates it because he understands. He understands because there are days where he hates him too, where he wants nothing more than to just run to the edge of the backyard and take an axe to the swingset, to keep hitting at it over and over and over again until there’s no trace that James was ever there. But Regulus was never strong enough to hate anything, not his parents and not James, and so it always cycles back to a love deep enough that it stabs through his chest.
Regulus stares at Harry for a long moment, taking in the way that he’s staring straight back at him. It’s something the two of them have done since Harry was a baby. They’d stare at each other as Harry was squirming in his crib, but Regulus would always win because Harry would get distracted by Regulus’ hair or his finger and try to eat it. Regulus bites his tongue again, and this time he can taste the blood seeping throughout his mouth.
He stares down at his hand, twisting the ring that still sits around the same finger James slipped it onto all those years ago. It’s been five years and he hasn’t once thought of removing it. People used to tell him all the time that he’d move on sooner or later, that he’d find someone else, but Regulus hasn’t ever been able to believe them. Quite frankly, he used to laugh in their faces. No one would be able to be able to fit into his soul the same way, and he’d never be able to convince himself as deserving of it even if that person somehow existed. It was his fault. He should’ve said something. He noticed--fuck, of course he did --but whenever he’d bring it up James would change the subject and Regulus was always too much of a coward to change it back. He’s at fault, and maybe that’s why everyone hates him now. Why Harry can barely look at him and why Sirius stopped talking to him.
He looks back up at Harry. His son’s still staring at him, but there’s something faded from his face now. Regulus knows it’s over, even if it’s not today that it happens; they’re too far gone to fix. There are a million things he could say, but he doesn’t think he could put any of it in words. It’s all just bursting and spinning through his mind, so wildly that he feels as though his head could explode right now, all over the floor. The boy they raised, who they loved and love so much that it pains Regulus how he can’t put it into words. He was never the one good at that, good at comforting--that was always James.
And all of a sudden, Harry’s twelve years old again and Regulus has just picked him up from school. They’re both driving home and Regulus is grinning along to Harry poorly singing the songs on the radio behind him and they’re sitting on the couch together rewatching Star Wars and Regulus is peeling the skin off of an apple for him because he hates the skin and there’s a knock at the door and suddenly the apple’s rolling on the ground and the world ended as soon as it opened and he saw the pair of police officers standing behind it. He’d have killed himself right after the officers left if it hadn’t been for Harry sitting there, staring at him with wide, curious eyes.
Now he’s standing there, waiting for his dad to tell him it’s going to be okay, even when it hasn’t been anywhere near that for either of them for half a decade. He knows Harry’s right. He knows he’s pathetic, sitting here day after day for years, letting the dishes pile up in the sink and waking up early every day to say good morning to the sun.
It scares him now, how similar Harry and James are. He used to stare at the two of them for hours together, picking apart the little things about them and comparing them all over and over again. He remembers when he first mentioned that to James, how Regulus walked into the conversation smiling and how he faltered when James looked at him for a moment too long, how the smile that spread across his face didn’t quite reach his eyes. Regulus hardly thought anything of it then, but the memory has haunted his every waking moment since it happened. Every day it just gets worse. He’s seen that same look on Harry’s face sometimes, not only in person but in the pictures he posts online. Regulus has spent scrolling through them, picking apart every detail of Harry’s face and life, wishing he could talk to him without feeling an overwhelming wave of guilt crash into him every time he tries to open his mouth.
“Can’t you just say something?” Harry’s voice cuts through the silence, and somehow it surprises Regulus that he isn’t gone yet.
“I’m sorry,” Regulus whispers.
There’s the sound of Harry picking up his backpack, and then a few seconds later, the door clicks. A few moments later and Regulus is back in the bathroom, vomiting his breakfast into the toilet. He coughs and there’s no one there to hold his hair back anymore, so he has to do it himself. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but after a certain point, the retching turns into sobbing and he’s on the floor, his back flat on the cold ground and his eyes fixed to the ceiling.
It’s like he can hear the ocean outside the walls, leaking through the cracks of the windows, seeping in through the ceiling, pouring in from the space underneath the front door. He brought this on himself, and now he’s sinking with no one else there to keep him afloat. Maybe if he drowns there, he’ll feel better. The wind chimes won’t mock him with something he can’t ever have anymore and the laundry room won’t remind him of everything he’s lost.
He can’t give into the waves, though, no matter how much he wants to. He can’t do that to Harry, not a second time. Sometimes, some awful part of him thinks James got the easy way out, like he got everything he wanted and left Regulus stuck here to waste the rest of his life rotting away. Regulus envies him for it, and that’s enough to send him back over the toilet bowl.
When he finally picks himself up off the floor, it takes him a few minutes to grab the doorhandle, to slowly let himself out to the rest of the house. Even if he was never really here before, Regulus feels Harry’s absence now more than ever. He distantly wonders if it was like this for his mother when he finally left home, years after Sirius did. He wonders if her world ended because of it, too, or if it was just another small thing that happened. It feels like that for him now.
He stands in the center of the kitchen and he hates it. He hates the stupid wooden floor and the stupid cold marble counters and the stupid window and the stupid kitchen sink, and the next thing he knows, he’s in front of the front door and grabbing the handle just like Harry had a few minutes before and opening the door.
It’s warmer outside than he thought it’d be. It feels like just a few days ago that he was watching snow fall from the sky, so transfixed by it that he stood in front of the screen door for almost an hour just to look at it.
He stares down the street. Suddenly, he’s seventeen again, waiting for someone that he’ll never see again. Someone that existed so perfectly and easily in Regulus’ life that he took it for granted all of the years he had him. He dreams about it sometimes, a world where James wasn’t mad at the world around him and he was just the boy who lived down the street who brought Regulus flowers every weekend so that he wouldn’t have to watch the ones from the week before slowly die. It was a different house back then and a different street, but it’s all still so vivid against Regulus’ mind that it feels like a completely separate world, one that exists far, far away from what happened.
And in that dream, he could say everything he wanted. He wouldn’t be a coward. He wouldn’t lose James because that May would pass the same as it did every year, and nothing would happen because Regulus wouldn’t let it. Regulus wouldn’t be stuck in the endless world of guilt he’s in now. He’d talk to James-- really talk to him instead of taking the easy way out and pretending he believed James was telling him the truth. Even if James was happy and laughing, even if the idea of something being wrong seemed so incredibly stupid, Regulus would see through it. In this world James got what he wanted. He managed to convince Regulus that everything was fine, but in his dreams Regulus wouldn’t let that happen. He’d change it, somehow. He’d fix everything.
Regulus slowly sits on the bench hanging above the porch. He hasn’t taken a moment to sit out here in… well, since that May. He doesn’t know why he’s here now. Maybe it’s Harry. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
It was James’ idea to put this out here. He’d grown up with a similar one in his front porch and insisted on installing one here. He’d smiled when he explained it, Regulus remembers it so well. He’d wanted Harry to grow up with one, too.
Regulus doesn’t know why he’s sitting here. He can hear water rushing in his ears, can feel the hard wood behind him burning him through his shirt. He wants it to end. He wants to be done with it, to be able to stop trying so hard. He wants to see James again, to feel his arms around him, to be on the other side of the ocean, to be able to run away from it there because he’s on a straight line path and going towards it is the other option other than standing still and waiting for the tide to rise. He might drown on the way there, but if he can just get to the other side, things would be better. He wouldn’t be trapped in this ruined world anymore. He’d be able to live out his dreams. He wouldn’t feel the ache in his chest anymore. He’d never have to look at the kitchen sink again.
But Harry would. Harry would come home to a stack of folded laundry and an empty house. He’d have to clean the dishes. He’d have to watch the sunrise in the morning because Regulus wouldn’t be there to do it anymore.
Regulus can’t leave. He’d sit and rot here for the rest of time if he knew Harry was out there somewhere. He just can’t understand why James couldn’t see that, too. The note didn’t help him make sense of any of it. Regulus found it in his drawer, days later.
Why couldn’t they have been enough?
He wishes he was seventeen again. It was so much easier then, so much softer.
Regulus opens the door, and he goes inside. He walks over to the couch, refusing to look at his chair in the kitchen, and sinks into the corner of it, staring at the blankets folded neatly in the corner. Their house used to be a mess. There’d be pillows tucked underneath the coffee table and shoes scattered everywhere, and the blankets would never be put back after they were used even through Regulus’ efforts of trying to maintain a sense of organization. It never lasted. There was so much movement and light and life in that house that nothing could be kept still for very long. Now, the air hangs so heavy that Regulus can feel it pressing against his chest, choking him out from where he sits.
He only knows the sun’s begun to set from its reflection on the television. He wonders where Harry is. The thought of it claws through his gut, making him sick with worry. What if he missed the signs again? What if he fucked it up a second time? He feels the bile rising in his throat again, but he forces himself to swallow it. He can’t go to the bathroom again.
Harry could be dead in a ditch somewhere, for all Regulus knows. He could’ve made it only halfway to Ron’s house before being hit by a car. He could’ve lied to Regulus, could’ve gone somewhere else entirely, never to return. His thoughts keep spinning around him, so much so that he hardly hears the front door click open again.
He does, though. He hears it, and suddenly he’s being pulled out of the water and Harry’s standing there, tears running down his face and his backpack on the floor.
“Harry,” Regulus breathes, but he barely has a chance to try and stand up before Harry’s there on top of him, his head slamming into Regulus’ shoulder.
“Papa.” He sobs, his entire body shaking as he pulls Regulus closer. God, they haven’t hugged in years but it feels as easy as breathing for Regulus to wrap his arms around Harry, to lace his fingers through his unruly hair and to shut his eyes against his forehead. His son. His beautiful baby boy. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” whispers Regulus. They’re rocking back and forth, and even though Harry’s practically heavier than Regulus now, it comforts him down to his bones. Oh, he missed this. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.”
“Why did he leave me?” Harry cries and it’s like he’s twelve all over again. “Why did he go?”
“I don’t know, baby.” Regulus wishes he had a better answer for him, wishes he could say something that answered his question. “But he loved you more than anything in the whole world.” He brushes Harry’s hair back, gently moving his son’s face away from his shoulder so that he can look into his eyes properly. “Oh, he loved you so much, Harry. Every time he looked at you, I could see it. He stared at you every chance he got, even years after you were born, like he still couldn’t believe how lucky he was. You were the most important thing in his world.”
Harry’s gaze is stuck to Regulus’ eyes, his face still twisted in pain and his cheeks wet with tears. “I miss him.”
Regulus takes a strangled breath and then it’s the two of them there again, wrapped up in each other like they’re starved for it. “I do, too. God, I do, too.”
“I just want to talk about him,” Harry says, his face still against Regulus’ neck, and it’s quiet like he’s scared he’s saying something wrong. “I know it’s hard for you but… I want to know him more than just--” he exhales shakily. Regulus can hear his heart beating, hard and fast against his chest, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.
Regulus sighs, nodding slowly and swallowing. He shifts slightly, and Harry takes the hint and slides off of his lap. Harry watches Regulus as he makes his way to the hallway and disappears around the corner, and he’s still watching him when he returns with a small black box in his hand.
He sits back down on the couch and stares at the tape, at James’ messy handwriting scribbled over top of it, at the stars he decorated it with and the sun drawn in the corner of the label. Regulus purses his lips and makes his way to the television, sliding the little box into the device underneath it and clicking play. It takes a few minutes of fiddling around with it, but eventually, the screen bursts to life.
“ Good morning!” Video James grins at the camera. “Is this thing working?” He taps on the lens and flips the camera around, showing the empty backyard for a split second before it’s back on his face. He frowns, then glances at the open screen door behind him. “Reg?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Regulus’ voice is distant, like he’s somewhere inside.
Regulus slowly walks back to the couch, his eyes never leaving the picture of James on the screen. His back hits the cushion and then Harry’s there again, leaning his head on Regulus’ shoulder and tucking himself into his side. It settles something inside of Regulus’ chest, slightly, something that’s been fighting inside of him for as long as his mind can remember.
Video Regulus appears on the screen a second later, stepping out of the screen door and closing it behind him. Harry’s in his arms, asleep against his shoulder. “You’re going to let the bugs in if you keep it open like that.”
At his appearance, Harry takes a slightly startled breath. Regulus rips his eyes from the screen to look down at him, finding him staring at the screen with wide eyes. He looks back at the screen.
James tips his head back to look at Regulus, biting back a smile. “Since when don’t you like bugs?”
Regulus rolls his eyes, a smile fighting to make it’s way onto his face. “Fuck off.” He grabs the camera with his free hand. “Lemme see that.” The screen’s momentarily filled with a close-up of Regulus’ face, his eyes squinting at the lens.
“I’m telling you, it’s broken. And I thought you said no swearing in front of Harry.”
Regulus glances to his right. “He’s asleep.” His eyes flicker back to the camera for a second before they’re back on James. “Doesn’t this little red light mean it’s recording?” Regulus twists the camera around, landing it on James, who’s staring at him with wide eyes. His gaze isn’t focused on the camera, though, but behind it, filled impossibly full with love. “James.”
James blinks, then reaches out to grab the camera and immediately twist it around towards Regulus and Harry. The baby sturs then, and Regulus’ attention switches away from the camera to readjust him.
“There’s my boy,” James whispers, the camera shaking as he stands up. It gets close to Harry’s face, just far enough away that it picks up Regulus’ smile in the corner of the frame.
Regulus hadn’t been able to bring himself to watch this. He’d been aware of it, all these years, sitting in his closet. There have to be dozens more of these in there, all collecting dust. He was never brave enough to ask Harry if he wanted to see him, and Harry never asked. Until now.
The scene changes, and then it’s winter. Regulus is the one with the camera now, pointing it at James and Harry on a frozen lake.
Harry stumbles, but James catches him immediately, picking him up by his arms and placing him right back on his feet.
Regulus huffs a breath of laughter from behind the lens, and the camera wobbles as he walks closer to them.
James glances up at him, smiling softly. “Do you want to switch?”
“No, you two have fun. I was just going to sit.” He does, on the log beside the lake.
James steers Harry in a circle, and the two-year-old shrieks with joy.
Regulus remembers this tape. It was one of the first ones they ever bought, and after recording that first clip, James lost it somewhere. It was easy enough to grab a new one, and they didn’t think much of it, but when James found it almost two years later, tucked into a cabinet in the mudroom, they went right back to recording on it.
He starts playing with Harry’s hair as the videos continue to play out. Every once in a while it draws out a chuckle from one of them, and sometimes there’s a wonderful moment where it’s the two of them laughing there, together, with their past selves. Regulus doesn’t stop crying throughout the entire thing, but not once does that bile rise again in his throat. The two of them sit there, together, for what feels like hours until the recording ends.
There’s a long pause of silence, then, after that happens. They’re still tangled up there together, Harry’s head now resting against Regulus’ chest as he half-lays on top of him.
“Do you have more?” Harry eventually whispers.
“I do.” Regulus glances at the clock. 2:12. “Should we sleep or watch another one?” He doesn’t want to move.
Harry’s silent for a long time before he mumbles his answer into Regulus’ shirt. “I’m tired.”
Regulus’ mouth ticks up. He realizes with a start that that’s the most he’s smiled in…what, months? Years, even? “We can watch the rest of them tomorrow, then.”
Harry unpeels himself from Regulus’ side, rubbing his eyes and face. He stands, leaving Regulus to silently watch him as he pads over to the stairs. It’s just before he’s about to take the first step that Harry turns around, his eyes half-closed. “I want you to get better.” He rubs a hand over his face again, trying to stay as awake as possible. “Do you think…” he sighs, and for a second, it looks like he’s about to turn around and head upstairs. He doesn’t, though. “Do you think you could try to see a therapist?”
Neither of them makes a sound for a long moment. Regulus stares at him, at his son, and he opens his mouth. He almost refuses, almost says that he doesn’t need it for the dozenth time, but Harry’s right there and he’s trying. He came back when he didn’t have to. Regulus exhales slowly, his breath shaking as he does. He hates the thought of it, of sitting in a little room and forcing a person across from him to listen to all of his thoughts, all of his tragedies. “Okay,” he whispers, and he hardly believes he’s it until a little smile flickers onto Harry’s face.
The air grows awkward again. They don’t talk like this anymore. They’re out of practice for it, but something deep inside Regulus is telling him that maybe they don’t have to be anymore.
Harry turns and silently makes his way up the stairs, and Regulus stares at the last spot he saw him until he hears his door click above him. It’s only then that he lets himself cry,
And he does, folding over himself and shoving a pillow into his face so Harry won’t hear him. He cries for James, not only for the time he was cheated out of but out of anger, out of the resentment he feels because he left him alone with a twelve-year-old. Because how much much he misses him, because of how fucking unfair this all is and how he wishes more than anything that James was sitting beside him now, pressing a kiss to Regulus’ forehead like he always used to. Regulus cries for Harry, for the time they missed with each out and out of the sheer relief that he’s back now. He cries for himself. He sits there for a long time before he moves towards the stairs as well, so worn out that there’s barely a thought in his mind as he opens his door and collapses into his bed without so much as a thought to shower.
He dreams of James again. He doesn’t think that’ll ever change, not for as long as he lives. He hopes it doesn’t.
When he wakes the next morning, Regulus does everything the same. He pulls off the covers and digs around in his drawer for a shirt to put on. He does everything the same until he pauses outside of Harry’s door. Regulus doesn’t go inside or make a move to wake Harry up, but he stands there for a few minutes in silence, resting his head against the wood and breathing softly.
He goes downstairs, and it’s not as cold as it was the day before. He can still hear the tide around of him, calling out his name, but Harry’s behind him now, watching his every move. The walls don’t push down on him as he makes his way to the kitchen sink, as he picks up the top plate and stares at it, at the three figures painted there.
Regulus, Harry, and James.
He turns on the faucet.
By the time Harry’s downstairs, Regulus is standing against the counter as he always is, sipping on a cup of tea and staring at the sunrise. Except now there are two plates set out on the island, two plates of pancakes. They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then Harry sets his backpack down beside the wall. He pushes out the chair and sits, and so does Regulus.
The kitchen sink is empty.