The Sun
Regulus was lying on his back on the mown grass of the Quidditch pitch, his chest rising and falling in sync with his frantic breathing. Sweat was beaded on his forehead and his hair was plastered to the base of his neck.
Slytherin practice had ended just five minutes earlier and Regulus, who had collapsed with a grunt when the whistle blew, had not felt the strength within him to abandon his position.
One leg was stretched out straight and the other was bent inward to form a triangle at the knee, his hands clasped at the base of his chest and his handsome face turned skyward. His eyes were tightly closed, the shadows of his black lashes resting gracefully on his rosy cheeks. His skin was itchy, red and burning. Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was the effort he had made in flying non-stop over the field for more than two hours.
He felt it on him, the sun, immensely beautiful, lit kissed his features in a golden sunset on his skin. It was hot and indelicate and invasive, yet Regulus liked it. He liked it because he felt it on him, bold and so real. It made him feel full, at peace with himself.
He loosened the tangle that were his hands, letting them slide gently along his sides, palms facing the ground, tickled gently by the grass, shining like a reflection of liquid emeralds.
However, his peace was short-lived.
«Hey!» Was the din he heard in a vague echo to his left. He pursed his lips, ignoring the call in the belief that it was not directed at him.
«Hey!» It was the same voice, closer now. It was a clear, crystalline resonance. Regulus labeled the voice as familiar. It made his skin itch with annoyance. Yet, he insisted on keeping his eyes closed. In the odd case that the voice had actually been addressed to him, the person would surely have let it go by now.
Absorbed in the quiet contemplation of that moment, he did not catch the sound of the quick footsteps and heavy breathing that approached him.
A hand rested on his shoulder with such careful consideration that it made his skin tingle. It was warm and large and layed on his shoulder in an open-palmed caress. It was a gentle touch. It made him want to doze off.
The slap he received on the cheek, however, stung. Regulus was certain that whoever had had the clever idea of annoying him would have left the imprint of their fingers on his skin.
His eyelids opened in an angry sigh, already grasping the wand he had pulled from his left pants pocket. It took him only a moment to focus. A moment Regulus would have preferred never to end.
When James Potter crashed into his eyelids, Regulus froze. He peered into what was an alarmed iris at James, lips sealed tightly, and his body all numb.
Brown curls slid jauntily across his forehead, just reaching the threshold represented by his round glasses, a little fogged up by the gasping for air. They framed his eyes, two placid and welcoming irises; an intricate sweetness in the branching of the amber filaments within it. His cheeks had become red from running, reddening his high and graceful cheekbones. His lips, two cherries from the first days of July, were now slightly parted.
Suddenly he could feel James's hot breath tickling the base of his neck, the place where his fingers slid under his shirt, squeezing it in a firm grip. His gaze was unwavering, his pupils boring into him with a simple, curious firmness.
Regulus felt sick to his stomach. He pointed his wand at James's jugular.
«What the hell is wrong with you?» Potter just looked at him, big doe eyes peering up at him from beneath the shadows of his lashes. It was an insubstantial look, an iris that studied him with an annoying simplicity. Then, he bursted out laughing.
It was a bulky laugh, it emptied the boy's lungs, welcoming and sweet as much as unruly.
He raised his hand in surrender, the ghost of a smile as he spoke, showing off a row of perfect teeth.
«Sorry—sorry, I thought you were unconscious,» was his explanation. «Who the fuck says the hell after being slapped? Like, you know you're allowed to swear?» He muttered, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing in his face a second time.
They remained like that, just for a moment. James's hand was still clutching Regulus's shirt, the fabric bunching under his grip. He was balanced on top of him, spreading into the boy's vision, mirroring himself in the reflection of his irises. It was too much.
«Get off me,» said the younger one, ignoring the question, his tone stern.
James raised an eyebrow, his smile veiled as the other's hostility rolled off him without affecting him. He found it more amusing than threatening.
He took a moment to study Regulus beneath him: sweat was running down his neck and his cheeks were red from being out in the sun for so long.
«You're rather funny when you're angry.» He scoffed, his voice tainted by the playful grin that spread across his lips.
With a huff, he let go of Regulus's shirt, but he didn't make the slightest effort to actually walk away. He just didn't think it was necessary.
The younger boy wrinkled his nose, pouting. «I don't think Sirius would be happy that you are talking to me, Potter.»
James's face suddenly darkened, his features hardening. «Well, Sirius isn't here though.» He replied, adjusting his glasses on his nose.
Regulus faltered, his jaw muscles clenching, the grass tingling at his ankles.
The Gryffindor began to speak, registering the boy's lack of reaction as an invitation. «So, if you don't mind—»
«Oh, I do mind.» Interrupted the other, cocking his head to the side and tilting his profiled chin at him. A ray of sunlight crossed his face, splitting the air and gilding his skin. They both got up from the ground.
«I just wanted to—»
«Leave?» James snorted heavily, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. His arms tensed, flexing his muscles. Regulus's gaze fell there for a moment. When he looked up again, he regarded James in dismayed repudiation. He bit his lip.
«We need to come to an agreement.» The eldest finished, crossing his arms. Regulus forced himself to look away, his irises feverish with guilt.
«An agreement about what?» he asked, his tone devoid of nuance. He threw two icy irises at him, synthetic in their stillness.
At that, James burst into a laugh, hot and loud and uncontrollable. It spread through Regulus as the air swelled. It was hot and rude and intrusive. Regulus found it unbearable.
«What for? For tutoring.» The other did not move, his gaze questioning.
«Professor Vector asked me to help you with Arithmancy.» Potter explained.
The Slytherin parted his lips, sucking in air in a tense urgency. Breathing was like inhaling ice crystals, scratching at the pit of his stomach in a cold affliction.
«No.» He croaked.
James ran a hand through his hair. «It's already decided. It's not like you have much of a choice, so—»
«No.» He asserted a second time. He couldn't.
Disobeying his mother in reading a few pages too much or in the way he styled his hair was a necessary transgression for Regulus to maintain his integrity. It allowed him to suppress the first semblance of a greater, lived desire within him, to prevent it from spilling over. It allowed him to be in complete control.
Conversing with Potter or allowing him to be of assistance was not only a desertion of his name, but of his parents. He could've never done that.
James' lips tightened. «Listen—»
Regulus shook his head, composing himself. «No, no way.» He turned away.
«If you could just let me fi—» The younger man quickened his pace, snorting loudly.
«Bloody hell! Just let me—» The Gryffindor had to bite the inside of his cheek when he was interrupted a fourth time. He sucked in a lungful of air in the frailest attempt to keep calm.
Black cursed him to silence, flicking his wand in a faint curve of his wrist.
«Oh, fuck you!» the other bellowed, his voice childish in tone.
Regulus ran off in a vibrating run, the echo of James's voice floating in his bones. The wind cut through the air and ruffled his hair, as if to mock him.
The paintings quieted as he stormed into the building. He stomped up the stairs, his features hard even under the dim candlelight.
He slammed the door behind him as he entered the Arithmancy classroom.
Professor Vector sat at her desk, her head bowed, her half-moon spectacles slipping down the tip of her hooked nose. She was reading, her face lit by the dim candlelight that danced around her.
«Potter? You assigned me Potter!» the boy bellowed.
Semptima jumped in her seat, looking up. She looked at Regulus through the glare of her glasses, her eyes stern. «Don't talk to me like that, Mr. Black.»
Regulus grinned darkly, scratching the bridge of his nose. «Oh, I'm sorry, Professor, for upsetting you. Perhaps if you hadn't had the indecent idea of assigning me James Potter, then I could tone it down.» He began, eyeing the woman in what was a calm sarcasm.
Septima's lips pursed, stiff. She gave him a hard smile, her black eyes mirroring the light in silent resentment, her pupils as thin as a those of a cat. «Mr. Black, I consider that to be a total lack of respect. It is not acceptable for you to address a superior this way, much less do I approve of your insolence.» She raised her chin, resolute. It was a confident look, hers, fulfilling in reflecting the certainty of her resolve.
The boy inclined his head. «Insolence, you say?» He said, the words vibrating in the center of his chest with disbelief. «No, Professor, that is you. You are insolent.» He folded his arms, crossing them in the center of his chest. A deeper breath broke from his lips in a strident bitterness, flagellating his voice. «The Potter family not only represents everything that my name, that my family repudiates. Not only, at least. They are also the ones who sheltered the deserter, my brother, Sirius. I doubt you are unaware of that.» She paused for a moment, the silence spreading into a blur of memories.
«If there is any disrespect here, it is yours. And, I might add, that my parents would feel the same way.» He finished.
Vector stood still, resolve tattooed even in the faint movement of her lips. «Is that a threat?» she asked, numb.
Regulus smiled with icy affability, his mother's shadow crystallized on his face. «No, it's a statement.»
The smirk that played on the professor's lips was a thin line, a hint of effrontery. «I'm sorry, Mr. Black, but I have no intention of reconsidering my choice. Potter is an excellent student, but he is also respectful, a term you may not be familiar with. I think he can help you in either case. What your family or anyone else has to say about it is of no interest to me whatsoever.» She looked at him uncompromisingly. «Now go.»
Regulus felt the tension rising. He let out a cathartic sob: «But—»
«Go,» the professor interrupted, her tone rough with finality. «Or I'll have to take 20 points off your house.»
The Slytherin clenched his fists in a desperate attempt to suppress his indignation. It made his skin itch. «Professor—»
She glared at him furious. «30 points.» She barked, her gaze oozing with authority.
Regulus gritted his teeth, his face pale with anger. Then, he walked out of the room.
There was a restlessness in his breathing, a tremor in his hands. It was eating away the air. He gritted his teeth in a furious frenzy, the same frenzy that made him press his hand to his chest. Hard. He rubbed it frantically, ferociously gasping.
And his skin reddened, the touch bristly. The frenzy, however, did not go away. He felt it tearing at his stomach, dilating in his blood.
It did not stop, stubborn as it was. It blew in Regulus' ear. Why? It teared away one more breath from him. Why does your skin start to burn when he touches you?
He rubbed harder, in the hope of being able to tear it off, that same skin, to deny it. And yet it remained there, in silence. Proof of his sin, spectator of his faults.
It remained there, real in a repudiation that made his nerves bristle. It remained there, and Regulus wanted it to go away, for someone to take it away from him.
He would have torn it open himself, if it were of any use.
But it wasn't. Regulus knew it.
Why does it make your skin burn when he touches you? A poisonous whisper from the deepest shadow of himself. He shook his head grievingly.
The truth was that Regulus had felt an intimacy in that touch, a sickening awareness.
And now his own skin accused him, mercilessly.
His hands shook harder, soaked in his sin, soaked in the fever that was eating his body. Under his touch, his red chest revealed itself in contemptuous guilt.
He breathed in gasps. The air had become thick, a dull veil that twisted in his lungs and refused to dissolve itself.
That’s how he began to cry, collapsing against the wall. Those were tasteless tears. Just tears. Only tears. Yet they burned on him, tattooing themselves inside of him; the ghostly echo of James's touch still there.
Every glimpse of breath expanded into an improper craving, as if the soul itself was demanding a truth it couldn't decipher. The trembling of his hands was a silent, useless protest.
Because that burning remained there, remained on him.
He abandoned himself against the wall, the contact cold against his back, seeking a respite that not even the darkness was able to grant him. He slid until he touched the ground.
A breath of wind, or perhaps just the illusion of it, crossed the deserted corridor, moving the light in the background in an uncertain tremor. Light that swayed, fragmented and restless like Regulus's heart. It hurt his irises with the cruel sweetness of something he wanted to chase away but that continued to be a part of him.
Everywhere he turned, the sense of dissonance did not fade away; it rader crawled inside him like a dull echo, a vibration that filled his chest until he was breathless. He felt his skin pulling, burning, as if every fiber of his body was trying to rebel against an invisible cage, a bond carved into his very blood; the restlessness sinking into his guts, every gasp a call that he refused to claim.
His fingers slid slowly along his chest, a throbbing furrow.
Why?
He bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to scream at himself to stop, but what echo would that have had in the vastness of nothingness?
All he had left was the kiss of his own tears in the silence of the evening.
Why does your skin start to burn when he touches you?