"To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten ton truck kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine"
There Is a Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths
James is stuck in the biggest dilemma of his life.
He’s faced with the three most beautiful and cruel paintings he’s ever seen — not that James has seen many paintings, but he’s sure that if he had, these would be the most stunning of them all. James doesn’t know whether he should keep staring or close the door and pretend he never invaded Regulus Black’s art room.
You see, he didn’t want to do this. It’s not like there was a sign on the door saying, “Property of Regulus Black – Do Not Enter.” James had been looking for Sirius’ room to drop off his Christmas present, as Sirius wouldn’t be spending the holiday at the Potter Mansion this year, but his plans were derailed when he entered what he thought was “Sirius’ room” and found several covered paintings on easels, as well as four uncovered paintings. He hasn’t seen the fourth one yet, which is turned away from him, but judging by the three he’s looking at, it’s probably just as beautiful.
The first painting isn’t what James would describe as something you’d expect to like. If someone gave him a description of the painting, he’d be willing to see it, but he’d do so with the plan to just compliment it and look at it for the bare minimum time required, before turning around and leaving. However, now that he’s in front of it, he can’t stop staring.
There’s the head of a woman on the canvas. Her cheekbone skin is like porcelain, and her hair is styled in braids, forming an elaborate updo atop her head. It could be an ordinary painting, but the woman is holding a broken mirror, and when she looks into the mirror, her flawless skin begins to fade. Instead of eyes, there are only empty sockets where they used to be. There’s no nose or lips, only the lines of her skull. The woman is no longer a person, just pure bone, her skull exposed to the world because of a mirror. The transition between porcelain skin and exposed bone is breathtaking, as if the mirror is a barrier between what the world sees and what the woman sees. Beneath the Surface is the name Regulus gave to this work.
James could easily spend hours just looking at the woman, trying to guess what her eyes would look like without the mirror in front of her face — if, indeed, she even has a face when the mirror is gone — but the second painting captures his attention just as much as the first. Again, there’s a woman, but this time, her skull isn’t exposed. Her face is tilted upwards, her back slightly arched to follow the motion, her eyes glazed over while a tear falls down her pale cheek. Her mouth is open, as if in prayer, pleading with a higher God. She clearly receives no response, as the fingers of her hand seem to be melting, drops of blood splattering onto her white dress. The Fall of Purity is the title.
James feels the need to know if she’s really praying, he needs to know if she’s looking at someone or at God. He doesn’t know whether he wants to look more at Beneath the Surface, The Fall of Purity, or For the Dark Lord, which is the third painting.
Spending enough time observing Regulus has given James the ability to recognise him anywhere, including in his own painting. Regulus is underwater, but the water is dark enough to still see him. His hand is stretched upwards, fingers almost reaching the surface, but he’s being pulled down by hands that are clearly inhuman. They have a greyish hue that almost looks like a strange blue, and their nails are far too large. The hands not only grab Regulus but also tear at his skin as they drag him under.
James doesn’t know whether to keep looking at the painting or throw up. Maybe both.
He knew Regulus was an artist, but he didn’t know his paintings were so… he doesn’t have a word to describe what he’s looking at, and he doesn’t think any language does.
James sticks his head out, checking both sides of the corridor, and when he sees no one, he goes back inside, closing the door behind him carefully, making sure it makes no noise. He throws any politeness his mother ever taught him out the window and slowly walks towards the painting, which is turned towards the easel. Well, James thinks his education wasn’t entirely in vain, because he didn’t try to look at the paintings under the covers, and he’s not going to try now.
There is no hesitation as his hands grip the side of the painting and he turns it towards himself. That was the greatest mistake and the greatest triumph of his life. James’ breath catches in his throat, and his feet take a few steps back against their will as he looks at the boy in the painting. As he looks at himself. His heart is beating so hard against his chest that he’s afraid a hole might form there — not that James cares, because Regulus Black painted a picture of him and titled it No One Knows What Happens When the Sun Doesn’t Rise.
In the painting, James is sitting on the edge of a beach, the waves gently breaking at his feet. The setting sun colours the sky in shades of gold and crimson, but it seems to fall only upon him, illuminating his hair and highlighting the smile that dances on his lips. His eyes reflect something he can only describe as pure happiness, as if all the joy in the world had found a home in them. Around him, the world is a blurred painting, the rest of the beach as dark as possible, but he’s sharp, vibrant, alive.
The sun.
Regulus painted him as if he were the sun. The bloody sun.
James doesn’t know what to do with that information.
He’s been in love with Regulus since he was 15, when he was in the football team’s changing rooms, getting ready for practice. He was the only one there because, believe it or not, James Potter likes to be alone. Regulus entered the changing room and immediately froze under James’ gaze. Then, he muttered hurried apologies and turned around, running out. James isn’t sure, but he swears Regulus’ cheeks were a little flushed.
From that day on, the next two years of James’ life revolved around trying as hard as he could to catch glimpses of Regulus when he wasn’t looking or when Sirius wasn’t paying attention.
God, Sirius. Sirius Black, his best friend, his soulmate, and Regulus’ brother. How did James develop feelings for his best mate’s little brother? What kind of betrayal is that? Definitely the cruelest kind. Not only cruel to Sirius, but also to James, who can’t get close and suffers alone the consequences of loving someone he shouldn’t.
James is an open romantic. He likes to show how he feels and, even though he knows it’s unrequited, he likes to make moves. But, in this situation, where he’s in love with Regulus, he can do nothing but watch Regulus with his friends and see how perfect he is.
Well, not anymore, because now James is standing in front of a painting of himself, painted by Regulus Black.
This means Regulus spent hours just thinking about James while painting, forming him, immortalising him in warm colours, something that definitely isn’t present in Regulus’ other works. Maybe his feelings aren’t entirely unrequited.
James is still staring at the painting when he feels all the blood drain from his body at the sound of a voice behind him. The voice he knows so well. The voice of the one he loves.
“Well, this is interesting.”
Slowly, James turns around, face to face with a boy with pale skin and dark hair in all his glory. His expression is unreadable, and his grey eyes are fixed on James, which shouldn’t have the effect of making his legs go weak, but it does. Regulus Black, ladies and gentlemen.
“Hey, Reg,” James laughs awkwardly and runs a hand through his neck for a moment, unsure what to do with it. The silence hangs heavily while Regulus remains there, looking like a god. James breaks the silence. “Quite the surprise to see you here, huh? How’s your day going?”
Regulus raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing here, Potter?”
James flashes him an uncomfortable smile. “Art exhibition?”
Shit, that wasn’t meant to sound like a question.
“Potter. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” His voice crackles with electricity, like thunder about to strike. James wants to jump him.
“I was looking for Sirius’ room to leave my Christmas present,” he says, waving the package in his hand, which he had forgotten he was holding.
“Seems you didn’t find Sirius’ room,” Regulus says slowly, his eyes narrowing.
“Hmm… looks like I didn’t,” James takes a small step towards the door, wondering how awkward it would be if he just ran off.
At that moment, Regulus’ face turns impossibly paler than usual, and his eyes widen. His gaze is fixed on something behind James, and when he peeks over his shoulder, he sees his own painting, that blinding smile shining back at him as if saying: “Yes, mate, you’ve got a lot to explain. Good luck with that.”
“James, what…” Regulus murmurs, his voice an octave lower than before.
James is on the moon. Why does his name sound so good in Regulus’ mouth, he doesn’t know, but he wants him to never stop saying it.
“What what?” he asks embarrassingly. His mind’s drifted to another planet. A planet where Regulus never calls him by his surname.
“Oh, God, this is a disaster.”
James snaps back to reality at the panic in Regulus’ voice. The boy continues to stare at the painting of James, and James doesn’t understand where the disaster is. It’s so beautifully painted.
“I thought it was great,” he says, because it’s the truth, but Regulus doesn’t seem to like his response, as his head spins so quickly that James fears it might snap, and his eyes shoot daggers at him.
“Why? Because it strokes your ego?” Regulus’s voice is now irritated, yet cruelly attractive.
James needs to check with Regulus if he’s got some issues with his emotions and perhaps—ideally with Regulus, too—look into what this attraction is that he feels towards people who treat him badly. Is he a masochist, maybe?
“It doesn’t stroke my ego,” he blatantly lies.
“Oh, no? So, seeing yourself on a canvas isn’t stroking your ego?” Regulus seems deadly. His fists are clenched, and his eyes are frighteningly dark. He looks lethal, and James loves it.
Maybe he’s suicidal too.
So many discoveries in one day.
“Not at all,” James vigorously shakes his head. Reluctantly, he wonders if he’s a good liar.
“No?” Regulus’s voice is slow, drawn out. He’s pushing James towards the abyss, and he knows it. He knows James will fall. And James really does fall.
“Alright, yes, it strokes my ego a lot, but only because you painted me,” the words come out of his mouth so quickly he doesn’t have time to think, and he immediately regrets it when Regulus looks shocked by what he said. James has never seen Regulus look anything but apathetic or lethal.
After twenty long and torturous seconds of silence so awkward James wants to rip his guts out, Regulus speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”
Now James isn’t on the tightrope anymore. He’s already jumped, and so he can’t avoid speaking. “You’re you. And you painted me. The painting’s called Nobody Knows What Happens When the Sun Doesn’t Rise, for God’s sake.”
James immediately regrets it. What the hell is he doing? He just named the painting as his argument? James is a disgrace.
He’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other when Regulus speaks again, so slowly it hurts, as if testing the waters. “If you ask anyone if the sun will rise tomorrow, you’ll get a ‘yes’ without hesitation. However, if you ask what will happen if the sun doesn’t rise tomorrow, you won’t get any answers, because no one knows what will happen, but no one wants to find out.”
It’s enigmatic. It’s poetic. It’s cruel. It’s Regulus Black.
It’s so Regulus that James wants to crawl over to him and shake his shoulders. Demand answers. He’s the sun, right? That’s what his painting suggests, but what if he’s just talking about the regular sun? The one above our heads? Then, James doesn’t know what that means. In fact, he doesn’t know what that means, even if he is the sun.
“I know what will happen,” James replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
Regulus painted him, and he wants to talk about it, but he doesn’t know how to start.
“God…” Regulus buries his face in his hands, groaning with so much disgust that James wonders if he can take back his words, but since he can’t, he continues.
“We’d be left in the dark,” he tries to force a wide smile, but only gets a groan in response from Regulus.
A few long seconds pass before Regulus removes his hands from his face and looks at James so deeply it leaves him unable to think.
“Shit, Potter. You are the sun! If you didn’t shine tomorrow, I’d be ruined. That’s what would happen,” his exasperation is so immense that James feels like he should’ve known that, because Regulus speaks as if it’s obvious, and definitely not…
Wait.
Oh.
Oh.
James is Regulus’s sun.
Regulus would be ruined if James didn’t shine tomorrow (whatever that means).
James feels like he could run a marathon around the world just with all the energy building up in his body. He definitely feels like the sun, because he’s sure he could light up the damn world just with his happiness.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Potter. That stupid smile of yours that makes me feel—”
Regulus never finishes his sentence, because James presses his lips against his.
Kissing Regulus Black is like kissing a star. It’s warm. Passionate. Intoxicating. For someone like stone, Regulus kisses like a damn furnace.
James is touching every part of Regulus, and at the same time feels like he’s not touching any at all, and Regulus must be feeling the same, because he can’t decide whether he wants his hands on James’s chest, neck, or hair. Fuck, he’s not complaining. He’s Regulus’s, and Regulus can do whatever he wants with him.
He’s never felt more certain in his life.