"And then," Evan says through giggles, "He panics so hard that he snorts his coffee and spews it out of his nose, all over the breakfast table and Barty's essay!"
The room erupts in laughter as Regulus' cheeks darken, stained with red, at the memory. Did Evan really have to choose that particular story?
"Oh, you were so cute about it, love, always so nervous when we talked," James coos, grinning as Regulus shoves his face away with a scowl, "Reg was either bashful or downright mean, there was no in-between."
Regulus hadn't planned on doing anything for his twenty fourth birthday, other than hanging out with his boyfriend and maybe his brother if he was feeling generous, but upon coming home from a grueling day of work, he was greeted with a small surprise party and a handwritten banner that said, Happy 24th to everyone's favorite asshole. It was clear that somebody made the mistake of leaving Barty and Evan in charge of decorations, but it made him smile nonetheless. The flat wasn't crowded or overly loud, and there weren't so many people that he felt overwhelmed, only Sirius, James, Remus, Barty, Evan, and Dorcas were there, all of his favorite people, with the exception of Pandora, who was sick with the flu. The living room table was scattered with Chinese takeout and beer, and they all sprawled around the room lazily as music played softly in the background. It was perfect, or would've been, if they stopped choosing the most mortifying stories to tell about Regulus.
"Oh, I've got one!" Sirius speaks up, sitting up from where he was draped all over Remus, "When Reg was a toddler, he was absolutely terrified that there was a ghost in the loo—"
"Yeah, I'm not sticking around for this one," Regulus says, standing up to grab a soda from the fridge, never having much taste for beer, smacking his brother on the head as he walks past. He ducks into the fridge before pausing, his phone vibrating in his pocket. He pulls it out, half hoping and half dreading to see her name, and getting what he wished for, for better or worse.
Incoming call from Maman
He checks over his shoulder as he slips out of the kitchen and into his bedroom, easing the door shut quietly before answering the call with trembling fingers.
"Maman?"
"Reguluss, mm darling boy," She slurs.
She was drunk again, or manic, it was hard to tell sometimes. She had a bad habit of not taking her prescribed meds, and a worse one of drinking on them. Regulus knows he should hang up now, block her number like he told Sirius he had already, and rejoin the party. Instead, he stands there and lets her voice wash over him, lets himself feel young again, before he knew anything was wrong with his mother at all, before he understood why Sirius was always covered in bruises.
"Hi Maman, how are you?"
"Was thinking about you, you never visit me anymore," She sounds sad, but she was always good at that. Sirius says she does it on purpose, Regulus thinks that it's genuine, if only because he's heard his brother speak the same way. "My boy's birthday and he doesn't want to see me, was I so awful?"
Yes, Regulus wants to say, strands of Sirius' hair wrapped around her fingers, shards of Aunt Druella's fine china littering the floor, a manic look in her eyes as she held a knife to her chest one terrible night. But then, he wants to say no, walks on the rocky shore by their beach house, joined hands swaying between them, spoonfuls of honey to soothe his sore throat and pats on the head for taking his medicine, sharing the small piano bench in the music room, deft hands playing melodic duets in harmony.
"No," He says, he never could work up the courage to be honest, it was all so easily skewed with her. "No, Maman, I didn't even have plans today, but Sirius threw me a surprise party."
"Siriuss," She mumbles, rolling the name on her tongue as if it was unfamiliar, "Tell him to call m-me. My boys, they all left me, they don't want to see me. I gave you two everything you know? I tried so hard."
Regulus takes a deep breath, familiar with where this leads, and yet, he still responds, "I know, Maman. Maybe we can plan a visit sometime soon, Sirius is just busy, you know how he gets caught up so easily."
That was never happening. Sirius would never willingly step foot into their childhood home, but Regulus hoped to deescalate the impending breakdown he could see on the horizon, hoped to soothe with promises she likely wouldn't remember the next morning anyway.
"Don't lie to me, Regulus Arcturus," She snaps, the softness in her tone suddenly scalding, "I threw my life away to raise you boys, almost died giving birth, for what? For you to turn around and leave me to rot alone in this house to join your dead father? Do you want me dead, is that it, Regulus?"
"No, of course not! Please, Maman.." He trails off, sitting on the edge of his bed as his heart begins to race in earnest, "H— Have you been taking your meds? You know that your thoughts always get bad without them, and drinking only makes you feel worse. I promise, I'll visit soon—"
"I don't need your help or your charity, boy! My health is none of your business," She lashes, and Regulus can so clearly picture the expression she wears now, pupils swallowing her silver iris' in black, gray hairs stubbornly springing from their tight knot, lips trembling in fury. "I only called to wish you well, and look what you've turned this into. If you only had the barest amount of care for the woman who gave you life, I wouldn't have to be here, begging for a scrap of company from my ungrateful sons!"
"Okay, Maman, I really need to get back to the party," He knows by now to not argue, it would only get worse, and eventually his friends would wonder where he's been. "I'm sorry you're having a rough night. I love you."
Regulus waits to hear her response, bouncing his leg anxiously. The only response he gets is a string of muffled curses like she dropped the phone far from her before the line ends abruptly. He deflates, hardly noticing the tension he was holding until he exhales at once, dropping his head to his chest. He gives himself a few moments and several breaths before he stands again, leaving the bedroom with a sigh. He finds his friends in the same positions as before; Dorcas leaning against Remus' knees, Barty's right hand in her lap as she doodles on his palm with a sharpie, Evan with his legs dangling over the armchair, Sirius and James in a competition to see who could chug their beer fastest.
"Where've you been, birthday boy?" Dorcas asks, glancing up from her work momentarily.
Regulus shakes the phone still in his hand, "Dora called to say happy birthday, she's sad she can't be here and told me to make sure I set the moonstone by the window to absorb the moon's power to protect me this year, or something like that, I don't know."
It wasn't a complete lie, Pandora had called him to tell him that, only earlier in the day.
"Oh, was that what I was supposed to do with it?" Remus asks with a snort, "She gave me one for my birthday a few months ago, I've been using it as a paperweight."
"A paperweight, you toff," Sirius scoffs, wiping his mouth, evidently having beat James in their race, "Tell them what you really use it for."
"That is what I use it for," Remus says confusedly.
"I know, it just sounds so swotty and adorable when you say it," Sirius coos with a grin. Remus swipes at him half-heartedly in lazy retaliation.
Regulus sinks into the sofa next to James, melting into his side and letting the sound of his friends bickering and laughing wash over him, forcing his thoughts away from his mother. It's another few hours before they all leave, stumbling around to clumsily collect their belongings and bidding Regulus his last birthday wishes of the night.
It creeps up on him slowly, as it always does with him. It starts with the lack of sleep, his mind racing through memories and what ifs all night, leaving him a zombie throughout the days, overly anxious from exorbitant amounts of caffeine. He stops eating breakfast, nauseous in the morning, and then working through lunches instead of taking a break so he doesn't have to sit in his thoughts, surviving mainly on coffee.
Accepting the call on his birthday opens the door for more communication as his mother starts calling and texting him incessantly through the day, to the point where the buzz of his phone makes him feel preemptively sick and anxious. He spends longer and longer in bed each morning, finding it harder and harder to get up for work, until one day, he just doesn't.
Regulus hears his alarm go off, was counting down the minutes until it would sound because he's been awake all night, because this heavy feeling has settled into his chest and he knows, without a doubt, that he wouldn't be able to bring himself to being a human being today. It seems cruel to struggle to exist when so many people have no problem with it, their minds are clear and do not race, they eat when they're hungry and sleep when they're tired, they do not crumble like a poorly constructed sandcastle.
But then again, his mother has always struggled with these things, and so has Sirius, at times, they would always joke about a Black family curse because it sounded more fantastical that way. But really, the curse was mental instability and fragility. In their worst moments, Regulus knows both he and Sirius have worried that they are merely a twisted amalgamation of their parents worst traits. Their father's callousness and heavy handed punishments, his distaste for meekness in any form, his love of scotch. Their mother's wayward emotions, unmanageable and unpredictable, her quick temper and penchant for manipulation.
"Please turn that thing off, I was just having the best dream that I was eating candy floss on this rainbow cloud," James grumbles, turning around to face Regulus' side of the bed, but finding him unmoving, the only visible part of him, a few dark locks of hair spanned on the pillow. James wiggles closer, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend and pulling him closer, his back to James' front, "Still sleeping, Reggie?"
James frowns when he doesn't receive a response, lifting up on an elbow and reaching over his boyfriend to turn off the alarm clock. Regulus was such a light sleeper, he was normally awake by the first chime of his alarm, he never ever slept through it, even if he wanted to. But James has noticed how tired he's seemed lately, skipping breakfast for coffee and barely speaking to James when he gets home after work, utterly drained. He also hasn't eaten much as of late, pushing his dinner around on his plate before loading it into containers for leftovers without making much of a dent. James wonders if he might've gotten the flu from Pandora as he draws the blankets down to reveal his boyfriend, intending to check his temperature.
He nudges Regulus' shoulder to roll him over, but instead of lying on his back, Regulus rolls right into James, burying his face in his stomach wordlessly. James cards a hand through his sleep-mussed curls, "Are you feeling sick, lovely?"
Regulus shakes his head against him. James hums, unconvinced, Regulus was notorious for denying having any kind of sickness, even when he had a nasty sinus infection in secondary school and gave a presentation high on cough medicine.
"Are you sure? Does your head hurt? Your stomach?" Regulus shakes his head again and he sighs, tugging on his curls a little to make Regulus look at him, a sliver of his face appearing, furrowed brows and puffy eyes. "I'm not a wizard, I can't take the answers from your head, unfortunately, I need you to tell me."
"Not sick, just need to sleep," Regulus whispers, and James waits for him to elaborate, but he only puts his head back down and out of sight.
"Let me just check your temp, alright? You've been so tired lately, lovely, probably picked up the flu," He peels away from Regulus, who whines a little and curls into the warm spot left behind.
Regulus knows he should've blocked his mother long ago, knows that nothing good has ever come out of a conversation with her, at least, not over the phone. But there were good moments, when he and Sirius still lived there, moments of clarity, where spontaneity seized her and she would drive them to the coast for an impromptu beach day or take them shopping for whatever they wished for.
He knows that she's unwell, that she's been unwell his whole life, and that what she says shouldn't be taken to heart because of it. But Regulus can't help but think of her alone in that house, no one to care for her or keep her company in light of his father's death last year, no one to remind her to take her meds or to guide her to bed when she falls asleep on sofa, a tequila bottle inches from her limp hand.
Sirius has told him countless times that she made her bed, she's an adult and it wasn't their responsibility to care for her, but Regulus can't help but feel guilty for leaving. Regulus had gotten his first taste of freedom in university and didn't look back, didn't visit for holidays and permanently moved out after second year. He hadn't realized how awful it was living under the dark cloud of his mother's emotions and sickness until he wasn't anymore, until he didn't have to tiptoe around landmines in his home or endure her constant threats against herself and anyone who made her upset. It was easy to go no contact in the beginning, he was so elated to be free, he hardly remembered to feel guilty for it. That all ended when his father died. Regulus attended the funeral, Sirius did not, and he still remembers the heart rending sobs his mother let out as they lowered the shiny black casket into the ground, the way she clung onto him to hold her upright.
He was pulled right back into it after that, killing himself while he tried to aid his mother in her grief, and dealing with his own. It got so bad that Sirius had come to drag Regulus out of their childhood home, the first and last time he returned to the house after leaving, accusing their mother of being a leech, sucking the life right out of her son to make up for her husband's death. It was the last time Regulus had seen her, looking bony and childlike on the settee, greasy hair and glassy eyes. She'd thrown the bottle of vodka she'd been nursing at the door as Sirius ushered a protesting Regulus out, smashing it against the wall by their heads.
Regulus knew he should've had her blocked since then, but he couldn't make himself do it. Not when she wasn't completely horrible, she wasn't evil, she didn't hate them, she was just— unwell. He doesn't always answer the phone, only— when he misses her, or is concerned about her texts, or he is consumed with such loving nostalgia that he is helplessly softened toward her. That feeling always dissipates after he hangs up, but he never seems to learn.
James approaches the bed with the thermometer in hand, one knee braced on the bed as he tugs the covers down to reveal his boyfriend again. He's more than a little surprised when he finds Regulus crying silently, barely a hitch in his shoulders as tears collect under his cheek in a small wet spot.
"Hey lovely," James shifts to sit, rubbing his hand up and down his boyfriend's arm, "Hey, what's going on, huh? I think it's more than just a little tiredness."
Regulus shakes his head yet again, forming the words and speaking them feels near impossible around the lump of anxiety strangling his throat and the grief sitting heavy on his chest. He didn't miss his father much, he was a mean, distant man, it was his mother that he had the most good memories with. He didn't cry at the funeral, didn't feel much but sorrow for his mother, but now the tears flowed; for his horrible father who died and left his unstable mother alone in that house, for himself, who missed her gentle caresses and piano playing, but more often than not endured her abuse alone these days. He doesn't need to check his phone to know she's left dozens of messages on it, the sheer thought of the notifications on his phone makes him feel worse, it feels suffocating.
James watches helplessly as Regulus weeps silently into his pillow, passing a hand over his forehead but not needing the thermometer to know he wasn't feverish, so he probably wasn't sick, but James had no idea what could've caused this. Since the day after his birthday, Regulus has been off, with no indication as to why, or at least, nothing that he shared with James. So, James rubs nonsensical patterns into his skin until he calms again, wet breaths evening out until he falls asleep, tears still drying on his face. James slips away to call in to work for both of them.
For days this goes on, Regulus lies in their bed motionless, cries silently and sleeps fitfully, barely talks to him at all. James doesn't know how to help, so he keeps calling into work for them, keeps trying to comfort his distraught boyfriend and tries to get him to eat something or take a shower. He spends days watching Regulus, watching him sleep, cry, or stare at the wall, and he notices that he never checks his phone. His phone buzzes quite a few times a day, but Regulus does not move to silence it, and when James went to do it for him, seeing as he wasn't able to answer, Regulus batted his hand away irately.
Regulus thinks a lot in that time, about the similarities between him and his mother, about how he could've easily turned into her if he didn't have people that care about him. He thinks about every time Sirius has punched a wall in his anger, or thrown everything off his desk in a desperate grab at release; thinks about his father and his scotch flavored fury, thinks about his mother and the kitchen knife they'd caught her with often, thinks about every time he has wondered about using that knife on himself. He wonders at the ways the members of the Black family try to expel their demons and the way they keep them captive in their minds.
"Why don't you get a shower, love? I'll change the sheets while you do, it'll make you feel better," James' voice interrupts his thoughts, a strong arm banding around his waist, a kiss dropped on his shoulder.
James has been trying to take care of him the last few days, key word trying, because Regulus doesn't make it easy. He doesn't mean to worry James, but he can't muster up the strength to pretend to be okay when his existence feels like a curse rather than a gift.
I almost died giving birth to you, and for what? For you to turn around and leave me to rot alone in this house to join your dead father? Do you want me dead, is that it, Regulus?
Regulus is terrified to look at his phone. He has nightmares about picking up the phone and discovering her death, her last phone call to him going unanswered, because he is selfish and cannot handle what she dishes out. He's terrified that if she does die, he will feel relief rather than grief, and what kind of monster would that make him? He's paralyzed by it, the possibility of her death, the vitriolic words she undoubtedly has waiting for him on his phone. Her words always had the capability to cut him at the knees, uncaring if it hurt, uncaring if he fell, because she was always hurt.
"You hearing me, lovely?" James asks, squeezing Regulus closer to him, the edge of worry in his tone again. Regulus can't help but feel guilty for putting it there, he doesn't know how to stop making him worry. Like mother, like son, he supposes.
"Yeah, shower," Regulus mumbles, turning in the circle of his boyfriend's arms, soaking up his warmth, unwilling to move, he was still so tired. When he glances up at James, he find his boyfriend with the same depressing pout he always gets when he's worrying too much. It makes Regulus' heart twist uncomfortably and he decides he can do this one thing for James, despite how reluctant he is to leave the safety of their bed. "Oh, alright."
James smiles proudly when he slides out of bed, a little unsteady with the head rush of standing, cheeks warming at the loving expression on his boyfriend's face. Despite Regulus' current state, he can't help but smile a little too, a little lovesick with it, a little nauseous about it. He's about to shuffle toward the bathroom before his gaze falls onto his phone, facedown on his bedside dresser. He really, really doesn't want to touch it, knowing if he does, he'll read the texts, and they'll destroy him. But if Maman calls when he's in the shower, and James answers or sees her contact, he'll call Sirius, and that would be a whole other issue Regulus doesn't have the energy for. So, he slips the phone in his pocket without looking at it, hoping James didn't notice as he goes to dig through the wardrobe for clean pajamas.
James collects the sheets as he does, bundling them in his arms and stopping before he walks past Regulus, demanding he pay the "kiss tax", something James invented they moved in together. Regulus rolls his eyes but complies, standing on his tiptoes to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, the pile of sheets creating an awkward space between them, but it makes them both smile anyway, which was the point.
Living together was more silly than Regulus'd thought it would be, silly and saccharine and soft, their day to day lives filled with these dumb interactions invented to make each other laugh, to remind each other to do so when it feels too hard to. Regulus loved James and loved living with him more than he'd ever know how to articulate, not a poet by any means, but if he was; oh, if Regulus was a poet, he'd write soliloquies about James' hands, the lines and divots of his chest, would spin lines about his golden skin and honeyed eyes. For now, Regulus hopes James understands just by the smile he gives him, frayed and fragile, but there nonetheless.
The moment ends, and Regulus shuffles to the bathroom, dropping the fresh clothes on the toilet seat and starting the water. He catches his reflection in the mirror and nearly flinches, reminded suddenly of his mother with his greasy curls hanging off to the side, the purple bags under his eyes an identical shade of lilac that hers were after his father died, or maybe he just thought so, the same cheekbones, the same tightness in his jaw. He always looked a bit like her, and Sirius more so, but disheveled like this, broken like this, he is her twin, her parallel.
His phone buzzes in his pocket where it lay forgotten previously, and immediately, his heart begins to kick and gallop, off to the races because he knows, like he always does somehow, that it's her. Regulus aches for her often, fears for her always, and dreads her appearance as one would dread the plague. Yet, he looks. Of course he does, he cannot help it. For the first time in days, he checks his messages, ignoring the various nosy ones from Sirius, wondering where he's been, and going straight to his mother's. She's left him seven voicemails and dozens upon dozens of texts, not all of them coherent, but the majority of them consisting of, I miss you, I hate you, come back, you left me.
He tries to take the messages in stride, tries to let it roll of his back and do what Sirius does, but he is not Sirius, and he has always cared for his mother deeply. It's not Sirius' fault that he stopped caring, he didn't leave Regulus to handle her alone, Regulus wasn't supposed to be speaking to her at all, and Sirius had no idea he was. Sirius had little to no compassion left for their mother, due to being her punching bag verbally and sometimes physically their entire childhood, he left the house with no remorse or intentions to look back. Regulus just wasn't strong enough to choose that. So it all sinks under his skin until it is a string of memories he wishes he could forget with an underlying message of you left me you left me you left me invades his senses.
Regulus feels like his chest is caving in as he scrolls, as he sinks to the floor, phone pressed to his ear, listening to her slurred and frantic voicemails. The first time he'd called EMS for her during a particularly bad episode, she'd lunged on him, shoving him into the wall and scratching at him with her nails, furious and raw. There was such utter hatred in her eyes, such betrayal as they loaded her into the ambulance, you left me you left me you left me.
Regulus squeezes his eyes shut as he remembers his birthday, his last one with her at eighteen, beaming with pride, finally on stable meds and so fixated on giving him the perfect day. She was pink cheeked and happy for once, ignoring her husband's irritated grumbles about this or that, insisting that they play all their old songs on piano. He'd sat, elbows rubbing with his mother as they played, a lilting duet and then a brisk Russian one, and then a sad sonata. They'd played for hours while Orion sat, drinking his scotch by the fire, stoic and silent as always. It was a good birthday, even though Sirius wasn't there, it was a good day. You left me you left me you left me, he hears it in the voicemails, echoed in the texts, reverberating through every good and bad memory, a constant refrain.
He drops the phone to thread his fingers through his hair, the shower still running in the background, the clanging of the washer sounding from the other room. He tries to block out the thoughts, tries to force himself to stand and get into the shower, but he is rooted to the spot, pulled down like gravity is his despair and his guilt is the scorched earth upon which he walks.
"Stop, stop, stop," He groans, tugging his fingers through his hair harshly, willing his mind to slow, to stop tormenting him.
He is filled with so much, he is spilling over, and yet, he is still so unbearably full. Each second feels like an eternity, and Regulus desperately searches for an escape. His eyes travel around the bathroom before eventually landing on the razor resting on the shower ledge by his shoulder. In his frantic state he grabs it, not really knowing what he intends to do with it until he starts disassembling with trembling, unsure fingers. He releases the razor from its protective shell until a small, metal edge was resting in his palm, the memory of his mother's kitchen knife held at her chest clear in mind. Regulus just— he wants release, he wants relief, and something about the razor feels promising of it, tempting him.
James has been compulsively cleaning their bedroom, changing the bedding and smoothing the duvet over and over again, collecting the half empty tea mugs on the side table and filling a glass of water to place at his boyfriend's as well as a bowl of orange slices that will hopefully entice him to eat more. He picks up the dirty laundry littering the floor, which would normally drive Regulus crazy, but he's been too in his head to notice, and when there's nothing else to do in the bedroom, he moves to clean the living room too. He's cleaning for at least thirty minutes before he starts to get concerned. Well, he's been concerned the whole time, nonstop really, since the day after Regulus' birthday. But he's been in the shower for a long time now, considering how little energy he had to stand earlier, and James can still hear the shower running, but cannot help but inch toward the door, hoping to hear something.
He presses his ear to the door, hoping to hear the uncapping of a shower bottle, and instead picks up on a muffled gasp of air, a choked off sob. Immediately, worry bubbles over into real fear, and James is terrified he waited too long to call Sirius for help. He refrained from calling out of respect for Regulus' wishes, but he was getting desperate, finally giving in and contacting him the moment Regulus disappeared into the bathroom.
He knocks on the door, "Hey Reg, you've been in there a long time, are you alright? The bed's all changed if you're ready to come out now," There's a long moment of silence, and then the sound of something being knocked over. "Can you give me a shout back, please?" James doesn't know if he imagines the keening sound, high pitched and near silent, but it makes him straighten, determined. "I'm coming in, alright? Just need to see you, lovely."
James grabs a pin off the dresser, one of those that Sirius tends to leave all over their flat, grateful for it now, and picks the lock, trembling with anticipation. He's met with a whine as the door swings open, and he starts for the shower first, not even glancing at the floor as he's expecting Regulus to be behind the curtain, but he's stopped short by another gasp for air at his feet. He looks down in horror as he finds his boyfriend huddled next to the shower, still clothed and dry, a flash of silver in his hand and blood— under his fingernails, on his hands, and most of all, on his thigh, which is covered in a puddle of it, straight lines appearing beneath. He flies to the ground next to his boyfriend, hands hovering and unsure how to fix, stuck on the anguish in his face and the blood that continues to gather and drip down his leg onto the white tile.
"Regulus—" He chokes, stunned and terrified, struggling to be calm.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Regulus chants, hands squeezing into fists, blood running down the arm the razor is still firmly held in, not even aware he's doing it, too paralyzed by everything else going on in his head. "She always— I wanted it to stop."
James catches his wrist, the one with the razor in it, eyes tracking the blood, "Okay, okay love, open your hand. I need you to let go of it, give it to me."
Regulus opens his eyes to see what James is talking about, tears streaking down his face, panic etched into every harsh line of him, but he opens his hand, surprised to find a deep cut in his hand, blood pooled around the razor now dipped in crimson. He hadn't felt it, hadn't realized. James plucks the razor out of his hand quickly, throwing it in the trash behind him, and still holding Regulus' wrist, he pulls two towels down from the rack over his head.
"I think I'm going c-crazy," Regulus weeps, the admission like a secret he's held close to his chest, "I think I'm— awful. I l-left her to rot."
"You're not, you're not crazy, darling, you're having a hard time," James tries to reassure, his own voice shaky in his ears, grabbing Regulus' other hand to press against the towel and stifle the blood from the cut on his hand, "Hold this here for me, I need to look at the other cuts."
James swipes at the blood pooling on his thigh, trying to restrain his reaction, trying to grasp at calm for his boyfriend. He presses the towel firmly to his thigh, apologizing when Regulus whines in pain, one hand on his hip to prevent him from squirming away. While James' mind races for a solution, for a reason, Regulus continues to babble and sob.
"I d-don't care that my father's dead, but Maman, s-she's not even— and I try so hard but it doesn't help."
James didn't understand what he was talking about, his father had been dead for over a year, and Regulus hasn't had contact with his mother in just as long. Was this some belated reaction to grief?
"You're doing so well for me, love,” He says soothingly, at a loss for what else to say. He wipes at the tear tracks on his boyfriend’s distressed face with a free hand, “Just focus on calming down now, I’m here."
The door to their flat opens and closes with a distant bang, Sirius' voice calls out to them cautiously. Regulus whimpers, pressing himself further into the wall behind him, his panicked exhales loud and explosive in the small space. He didn’t want anyone to see this, let alone his brother, but he was rooted to the spot by James’ strong hands.
"In here!" James answers, wishing he could prepare Sirius for what he was about to see. He squeezes his boyfriend's hip when he takes a stuttering gasp, whispering, "It's alright, it's just Sirius, he's going to help, darling."
Sirius' footsteps approach, and he appears in the doorway, "Why are you—" James sees the exact moment he tracks the blood on the floor, when his eyes find his bloodied and frantic little brother. In the span of a breath, Sirius is at his side, face haunted, like he's seen this before, "W-What happened, Reggie? What's—"
"Grab the first aid kit in the bottom drawer, Sirius," James interrupts, lifting the towel to check if the blood has slowed and pressing his lips in a firm line before applying pressure again. Sirius scrambles to obey, dumping the entire thing on the floor, sorting through it for bandages and alcohol.
Regulus' head lolls back to the wall, dizzy from blood loss and panic, holding his breath to try to stuff the panic back down his throat, trying to stifle it. James and Sirius' voices buzz in his ears, overcome by the rushing of blood like the ocean, and if he glances down, it would be all he can see, crimson everywhere. He vaguely feels someone take over holding the towel to his hand, having gone limp at some point, forgetting he was supposed to hold it.
"Slow the bleeding first, then clean them, then bandage," Sirius says, a particular strain to his voice Regulus hasn't heard in years. A blurry memory of a twelve year old Sirius instructing their mother on how to properly clean her wound, a cut from a wine glass that shattered in her hand.
The bruising pressure on his thigh lifts for a moment, and Regulus compulsively looks down, a high pitched laugh falling out of his mouth, hoarse and thin with panic. Sirius can barely look at him, a film of hurt clouding his blue-grey eyes. James is steadier, though his voice wavers as he works and tries to soothe Regulus with reassuring words.
Regulus hardly recalls doing it, forming those lines, carving them, his mother's words were so loud, it was all he could hear or think. Regulus thinks about her and her knife, and wonders how old she was the first time she did this, he wonders if he's been showing the same symptoms as her for years and just hadn't realized it, wonders if somewhere along the line he's become her.
He stares at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to look at the evidence of his breakdown, at his brother and boyfriend. He holds his breath to mute the sounds of his struggle and panic, wishing to disappear underneath their hands, James and Sirius moving rapidly around him.
"Stop that, Reggie. Don't do that," Sirius says, the hand not holding pressure slipping to the back of his neck, squeezing lightly to remind him to breathe.
"I can't," He chokes out, black spots dotting his vision, he can't remember how to inhale properly, he can only exhale in strained increments.
"Regulus," Sirius pleads, voice strained and pulled taut, "Look at me, just take a breath."
Regulus opens his mouth to say he can't, when James mumbles a warning seconds before a cold, searing liquid pours over the cuts on his thigh and steal his breath, forcing him to inhale sharply. His head shoots up as the pain crashes over him. It wakes him up a little from where he was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, jerking away from the cause of it instinctively, only to be stopped by James and Sirius' hands.
"Good, love, keep breathing like that, almost done," James says, thumb rubbing circles on the blood stained skin of his thigh, hand swiping at the cuts with cotton. "Do you think these need stitches?" He whispers to Sirius.
Sirius shakes his head, swallowing thickly, "I'm not sure, but when Moony got that concussion it was deeper than that and he didn't need stitches, so I reckon it's okay."
"I'm sorry," Regulus whispers again and again as James bandages his thigh and Sirius goes through the same process with his hand, as he listens to them debate about stitches and his phone buzzes by his leg. Sitting in his boxers in his own blood, Regulus begins to work himself into a panic again as his phone continues buzzing, flashing his mother’s name.
Both boys seem to notice, pausing their hushed conversation. James wipes his hands on a towel and reaches for him, thumbing away the fresh tears, his own sparkling in his eyes. "Shh, shh, come on, lovely, I'm going to move you, alright? I just want to clean you up a bit."
Regulus nods absently, thinking about his phone, terrified and tired and haunted. James places careful hands on his boyfriend's arms, lifting him off the floor and moving him to sit on the toilet seat, leftover blood streaming down his legs from where he was sitting in it. He grabs a fresh towel, a growing pile of bloody ones by the open door, and wets it with warm water, wiping the blood off, starting with his leg and moving down his calf. The other leg is wiped clean, and then he moves to his arm, cleaning the stains under his nails and the cracks of his palms, kissing it briefly before moving down his arm, cleaning up to his elbow. He's gentle about it, reverent and precise.
Behind James, Sirius puts the first aid kit back together and scrubs at the remaining blood on the floor, lifting Regulus' phone to clean it as well, when he recognizes the name flashing on the screen. He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, tries to contain the protectiveness and rage that bubbles up, reminds himself to be gentle with Regulus when he asks, "Are you talking to Mother again? Is that the reason for— for all of this?"
Regulus freezes, eyes darting between James and Sirius and back again. His hands grip his knees, practically strangling them as he stalls, trying to think of a lie.
"Regulus," Sirius says sternly.
"I— she called on my birthday, and I picked up. It's nothing, really. She needed some reassurance, she's been— going through it."
"She's always going through it, Regulus. You know this, we've talked about this."
"I know, but you also don't give a damn about her, and there's nobody left in that house to care—"
"Why do you think there's nobody left? We have other family that could take care of her, but they don't because she's impossible, mental, and abusive!"
"She's our mother, Sirius. Father is dead, we are all she has left."
"What's your plan to care for her then? Let her suck the joy out of your life so you can be miserable with her?"
Regulus closes his eyes, "I don't know, I just— I don't know."
"I'm blocking her number on your phone," Sirius states, fingers moving across the screen, "A few days of talking to her and look at you, Reg, this isn't you. You don't— You can't let her do this to you, you may think it's love, but it's not."
Regulus flinches at the words, sliced open by them, "I didn't mean to. I couldn't stop thinking about it, and her, and everything good and bad and ugly about it. I don't want her to be alone, and I also want her to remain in that house where she can't hurt anyone again. I don't want her to suffer and I wish she felt everything she did to you then, every way she warped our minds. I love her and hate her in equal amounts and I can't stand it."
"I know," Sirius says softening, "I'm sorry. This is not on you, nothing she says is reliable or logical, it's just her venting, trying to get a response," He reaches for Regulus' hand, thumbing the edges of the freshly applied bandage, "This is why I want you to stay away from her, she breaks things, and you've always been so—"
Breakable, Regulus thinks. A small boned bird in the mouth of a rabid dog. There's a long silence as they sit with all of it, smears of red on the tile, wet towels on the floor, a broken boy, an angry one, a worried one.
"Let's get you a change of clothes," James says eventually, brushing a hand over Regulus' greasy hair, nudging his chin up gently to press a kiss to his forehead. When Regulus nods, he helps him up with a steadying hand on his forearm, leading him out of the bathroom.
Sirius pockets his phone, continuing to scrub at the blood on the floor. He'd find a way to protect his brother from the poison that was Walburga Black, but for now, he'd help take care of him.