It’s a chilly day in late autumn, and Regulus doesn’t know what he’s doing. This is a terrible idea. He could have stayed home, in his quaint little apartment, studying for his exam tomorrow, telling Barty to be quiet. He could be out with Dorcas, walking to that pretentious, overpriced coffee shop down the street, buying a $10 coffee. He could be doing anything else, anything, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is the voice reading out directions in his headphones, telling him when he should turn and how far away he is.
By all meanings of the words, he is wandering through unfamiliar territory, yet he’s still in the same place he’s always been. Not lost, just on the opposite side of the city from where the rest of his life is.
Turn right.
So he does. He doesn’t even know if he’s heading to the correct place. The address is from three years ago, written on a crumpled piece of paper that remained hidden in his sock drawer, burning a hole through the wood up until last week.
For three years, he tried to pretend it didn’t exist. He tried to pretend that every morning when he grabbed out a pair of socks, the thought of that note, the note he knew was sitting in there, wasn’t eating him alive. He lived by “out of sight, out of mind” hoping that maybe he could convince himself. If he kept it in there for just one more day, maybe he would wake up and have forgotten. Forgotten what the letter was, what it contained, who it was from, what it represents- but he didn’t.
“Out of sight, out of mind” never worked, not really, but that’s not how the proverb began anyway. The first origin of the phrase can be translated more closely to “out of sight, out of heart.” That rang more accurately. Hiding the letter only meant his heart was protected from the contents- from what it meant and the feelings it brought up. The way it would make his heart skip before plummeting into his stomach, filling him with a guilt induced rage, or a rage induced guilt, he was never sure how to tell the difference. His mind was never protected though, never as easy to fool as his heart.
Each passing day, Regulus would get dressed, waiting until the absolute final moment to put his socks on because he knew what lay beneath them. One wrong move and every last ounce of his faux composure would come crashing down. Out of sight, but always on his mind.
You’re always on my mind, he thought.
The city passes him by, it always does. That’s part of its appeal if he’s honest. Everyone is so busy here, all with things to do and places they need to be, no one has much time to pay him any attention. His existence here is insignificant, and as nihilistic as it sounds, it gives him peace of mind.
He doesn’t have to be anything here, no one cares. They don’t care about what he does, who he’s seeing, how he grew up. To them, all he is is another body taking up space on the sidewalk. Sometimes that’s all he needs to be, just a body.
Turn left, and your destination will be ahead on your right.
Regulus stops in his tracks.
What is he doing? Is he just going to walk up to the door, knock, and say “Hey! Sorry I’m three years late! Let’s pretend nothing’s changed!” What is he even expecting from this?
The air entering his lungs suddenly feels extremely insufficient. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should just go home, continue on as he has for years, he’s made it this far anyway.
He takes in a shaky breath, you’ve made it this far anyway.
He heard the GPS, “his destination is on the right,” and sure, he can’t breathe and he can feel his legs getting shaky, but there’s no use in turning around.
Instead, he walks a few paces back down the street and into a cafe.
It’s a cute little place, busy, but cozy nonetheless. Plants hang in the windows, while a slew of records and books line the walls from floor to ceiling. There’s a combination of new and preloved media, sorted by decade and genre. Paper and vinyl coexisting, sitting side by side with little signs reading Liked this? Listen to that! and vice versa. The whole place is marvelous, but as Regulus looks up to remove his hat, the little breath he had just regained is stolen from him yet again.
A stunning, hand painted mural covers the entirety of the ceiling displaying constellation upon constellation, completed with a moon light fixture hanging from the center. It’s breathtaking. Every star is painted with careful precision, each constellation expertly placed, each color meticulously picked. Regulus doesn’t know how long he stands there, headed craned back, gawking at the ceiling. Long enough for his neck to begin to ache, but that’s not enough to pull him from his trance. Not when he has just spotted the Leo constellation, with his namesake painted just slightly bigger than every other star in the mural.
The bell rings and a man entering the shop bumps into him before he can think deeper, knocking him out of his haze and back into reality.
“Oh shit, I’m so sorry, are you okay?” asks the frantic, disembodied voice.
Regulus jerks his head to the side, fully ready to scowl at this man like no other, but then he’s met with deep honey skin and crooked glasses, and every ounce of annoyance briefly leaves his body. For a moment, he just stares because who looks like this? His annoyance then comes back tenfold, because who looks like this?
His hair is a mess of dark chestnut pieces, so chaotic on his head that it shouldn’t work, but it does. Brown eyes speckled with amber flecks sit behind his gold rimmed frames, scanning over every inch of Regulus- to check for injury he imagines because he still hasn’t responded to his question. How could he when he’s still reeling over the shadow of subtle lining the clumsy man’s jaw.
His guard dropped for no longer than two seconds, but that was two too many for him, “I’m fine,” he spits, possibly a bit sharp for the exuberant man in front of him.
He doesn't seem to care though, instead he looks at him with a beaming grin and gestures to the growing line, “After you.”
Regulus doesn’t say anything more, just steps into the line with his back to the stranger.
He scans the menu and decides it’s probably best he doesn’t consume anymore caffeine for the day- he’s on edge enough as is- so when he eventually reaches the front of the line, he orders a large hot peppermint tea.
The barista has just gotten the cost out of her mouth when Regulus hears a, now familiar, voice from behind him cut in, “Add a caramel latte and pistachio muffin to that, would you Marls?”
Regulus shifts his eyes, brows pinched together. He doesn’t particularly want anything from this man, but it’s obvious he knows the barista and Regulus doesn’t exactly feel like causing a scene.
“It’s on me,” the messy haired man shrugs, “consider it an apology.”
“Harassing the customers already?” Marls, presumably, cheekily remarks.
“Just paying my dues,” he grins, gaze grazing over Regulus once more.
Marls just scoffs, rolling her eyes fondly as she rings him up.
Regulus is a bit unsure of what to do at the moment, aware that he is more uncomfortable in his body than usual. Does he stand with the man? He has to wait for his order anyway and he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go if he actually wants his tea, especially when he doesn’t know the stranger's name.
Ultimately, he decides to push over to the side, standing near one of the many small wooden tables adorning the cafe. He has all of ten seconds to himself before the man struts over to his direction.
“What do I owe you?” he asks before the man can say anymore because he did intend to purchase his own beverage.
The stranger looks genuinely confused by this question, eyebrows furrowed together like he cannot decipher what it is Regulus could possibly be referring to. “What?” he asks.
“My tea.”
“Oh!” realization washes over his face, swiftly changing into something nonchalant-adjacent, “Nothing. I meant it, it’s on me.”
Now whether it be how Regulus grew up, or his general untrusting demeanor, he has a difficult time simply accepting things from others. Help, money, favors, you name it.
“I don’t like being indebted to people.”
“No debt here,” he brings up his hands in a stance of surrender, “I just figured it was the least I could do considering, well, I- I almost trampled you coming in,” he adds, briefly sheepish.
Regulus tilts his head up ever so slightly, scanning the man’s face for any sign of deceit, any trace of ulterior motive.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you my best friends own the place?” he offers.
“No,” he retorts. Slightly, he thinks. He looks away, moderately peeved that he couldn’t find any traces of malice in the man’s demeanor. Stupid nice man, with his nice face, and tender eyes- buying me tea.
Marls gestures with her head in his direction. Without a cash register and stacks of cups in his way, he can fully take in her appearance. A long, shaggy, bleach blonde mullet, is paired with a white tank top dawning the words “BUT DADDY I LOVE HER” in bold black letters. She must be a brunette naturally because he sees dark brown peeking through at her roots. Whether it be the ungodly amount of bracelets and necklaces she has stacked up, or the easily 2.5 inch platform boots she’s wearing, she makes it work.
She holds out a hot cup, ornamented with the shops’ logo; a black dog curled up inside a full moon, “Your tea,” and Regulus could swear there’s something of a mischievous glint in her eye.
He offers a small smile and grabs the cup before walking towards the door, stopping by the dark eyed man along the way.
“Thank you,” he offers, biting at the inside of his cheek and gesturing to the tea in his hands.
“Yeah,” he says softly through a smile, “anytime.” The last word comes out pointedly, complimented by a wink and a growing smile. Maybe in some other universe, Regulus gives him his number. Maybe they text and they flirt, they’ll date and fall in love, but Regulus has no time for that in this one. To fall in love is to fall out of it, and he doesn’t have enough love to lose. So instead, he takes one last look at this insufferably gorgeous man, doing everything in his power to commit him to memory, before turning on his heels and going back out into the cold.
Outside, he resumes the GPS directions, but he doesn’t move. There’s nowhere else to go now. No stops he can find along the way, no places to waste time and distract himself, he’s five minutes from his destination and the only option he has is to start walking.
His strides are shorter than usual and his legs feel heavier with every step, like a cat being corralled into the bath. On some level, he knows this will be good for him, that he needs this. He needs to heal and he owes it to himself to make room for that opportunity. At the same time, his heart is racing and his palms are getting progressively sweatier and all he can think of is how he would rather be any place other than here. So what if he has to live with the guilt, with the anger. He’s made it three years already, surely he can handle an eternity more. He reluctantly trudges along.
His tea is providing a good outlet though. Something to do with his hands, even if it means he’s scorched every inch of his mouth in the process. In a way, it’s nice. The burning on his tongue and the ache down his throat, it gives his brain something else to concentrate on rather than the looming moments ahead.
A few more steps and he’s here. He knows he’s here. He feels it in his bones before the GPS even has time to tell him he’s arrived. So he tosses his mostly empty to-go cup in the trash on the street and he just… stares. He stares at the building in front of him, imagining all that has gone on inside. The stories these bricks must know, all ones Regulus does not.
There’s a twinge in his chest and a catch in his lungs at the acknowledgement that life has continued on. Not only for himself, but also for those known in nothing more than memories. Life didn’t stop for them just because Regulus wasn’t a part of it anymore. What a shit feeling to sit with.
He turns to walk back where he came from. No going inside, no climbing up the stairs, he just leaves. How can he walk in there? Insert himself back into their life?
He takes a seat on a bench a few houses down.
Part of Regulus is bitter. Bitter that he has to be the one that comes walking back, tail between his legs like he’s begging for forgiveness when he didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t leave, he couldn’t leave. Why does he have to be the one to reach out?
The burst of anger fuels something in him. He doesn’t have much time to think about it, or to acknowledge the faux certainty in his steps. He doesn’t have time to register what he’s doing when he bangs his fist against the door, all he registers is the familiar sting burning behind his eyes. The “almost tears” he calls them. The ones that never quite fall but carry the same weight regardless. His fists are shaking, and his jaw is clenched so tight his teeth are beginning to ache, and “I swear to God if someone doesn’t open this door.”
He raises his arm to knock again, movements too jerky to even appear composed, but he hears the door handle turn and his anger all but dissipates.
“Did you forget your ke-” the words seize the moment the door opens wide enough.
Piercing blue eyes stare back at him, a pile of perfectly kept black curls stacked on top of their head, sparkling silver jewelry through the pale skin of their eyebrow and septum: Sirius. They look different now, of course they do. Their hair is longer, their eyes a bit brighter, their general composure is less…haunted.
Silence surrounds them as the two stare back at each other in perfect mirror. Jaws slack, eyes flashing through such a range of emotions like watching a wheel spin in an arcade. They don’t blink, they just stand and wait to see where the spinner will land. Anger, regret, guilt, betrayal… relief.
Relief that Regulus is there on their doorstep. Relief that Sirius hasn't slammed the door in his face. Relief that somehow, here they are- together.
“I’m a bit late,” Regulus jests because what else is there to say?
He shifts his weight awkwardly on his feet, not enough for the movement to be noticeable, but enough to release some of his pent up energy as Sirius continues to stare at him. Inspecting him like he’s some new species and they’re not quite sure their discovery will be believed.
“Regulus,” he whispers somewhere between a statement and a question.
“Yes,” he deadpans, because they’ve been standing in the doorway for at least four minutes now and he is not getting any warmer, “It’s cold out here, y’know.”
“Yeah… yeah.” Sirius gapes, shaking their head and fully opening the door, allowing Regulus to step inside. They run their hand up and around the back of their neck, still staring at him as the door falls shut.
“Tea?” Sirius asks as Regulus looks around, examining the place his brother calls home. It’s not the reaction he was expecting if he’s being honest, the hospitality. He was expecting something more down the road of hostility, more yelling, more anger. Right now though, there is only fragility. Both of them moving so delicately around one another, nervous at any moment the other shoe may drop.
“No,” he murmurs, “just had some.”
Sirius just nods, watching Regulus take in all that surrounds him. Sirius’ home is beautiful, warm. Books, instruments, and vinyls all lay haphazardly on tables and shelves. Plants are in the windows, and big cozy blankets hang off the side of the chocolatey leather couch. Briefly, Regulus is reminded of the cafe, but the thought escapes him as he focuses on walking further into Sirius’ townhouse.
There are papers scattered on the cherrywood table in the kitchen with a half drunk cup of coffee, once warm now likely ice cold. He catches a glimpse of dishes still sitting by the sink from breakfast and it hits him all over again. This place is lived in. Sirius has a life here. A life with someone if the two plates are anything to go by. He picks at the skin on his thumb and turns back towards the way he came. He walks down a singular step and into the living room area, who has steps in the middle of a floorplan? he thinks to himself, Sirius would.
Sirius is trailing behind him, not saying a word, still just watching. They fidget with a moon shaped ring on their finger, pushing it off with their thumb, twisting it as it comes back down.
An oversized deep carmine rug covers the expanse of wooden flooring, completed with a large rustic table set in the middle of a spacious u-shaped couch. Bookshelves filled with everything from old dvds, to board games and records surround the wall around the television. It’s a space meant to entertain and Regulus feels that familiar stinging pain in his chest once more.
He blinks repeatedly and clears his throat, “Is that yours?” he gestures to the black Yamaha bass guitar laying abandoned on the couch.
“No,” Sirius replied, a precarious glint still present in their eyes. “I play,” they add, “but that’s not mine.”
Regulus recalls the stories he used to hear in their youth of all the “fun instruments” Sirius was going to learn one day.
“No more of that stupid fucking piano,” they would say, “or the violin,” followed by a mocked gag.
“You’ve gotten more ambiguous with age,” he jibes.
Sirius snorts, “No,” a chuckle, “no I’m uh just… processing,” they reply, still not telling Regulus who the mysterious bass player is.
And yeah, Regulus gets that. He’s not quite processed himself yet either.
“Sit,” Sirius gestures to the couch. They plop down, “my fiance’s” they say as they move the bass towards the end of the couch.
Regulus nods at that, trying to ignore the omnipresent tightening of his lungs as he sits. He looks back at Sirius’ fingers, and sure enough there sits a silver band on his left ring finger. From what Regulus can see, it’s beautiful. A polished silver with what appears to be diamonds embedded throughout, alternating shapes between stars and moons. He inhales shakily.
They sit in the silence for a while. Not necessarily the uncomfortable kind, but tension is undeniably palpable in the air. He is meant to know the person sitting next to him. He did know them at one point, and maybe the crushing weight of the past tense is why it feels worse.
Sirius must be thinking the same thing because they turn to Regulus, “I didn’t think you’d ever come.”
“Neither did I,” he admits, avoiding Sirius’ gaze.
“Y’know I almost fell into the stream that night,” they let a small laugh escape at the sound of their own words, “yeah, those stupid rocks nearly killed me,” a pause. “I don’t really remember much of it, honestly. I got fucking wasted beforehand. How I even managed to actually find the place is beyond me. Some type of muscle memory I guess? I don’t know. I remember waking up and wondering if you were even going to find the letter, if you even wanted it.”
“Felt like an idiot,” they add on, just a little too long after having finished their last sentence.
It’s Regulus’s turn to say nothing. Instead, he stares at the floor until his vision doubles and he fiddles with said letter in his pocket.
Deep in the back of their parents’ property, nestled far into the woods there is a brook. Moss covered rocks surround the edges, with towers of trees and branches filling in the gaps. When they were little, he and Sirius would sneak out back to the stream and pretend they were pirates. Crafting a raft they would use to sail away on particularly ruthless nights where the house was filled with screaming insults and their stomachs were left to rumble as their skin began to bruise.
Sirius managed to sail away long before Regulus ever could, and in those passing years Regulus continued to find reprieve by the stream. Sneaking out when the tension was particularly suffocating and he was certain the weight may crush him. He would sit in a small Earth formed alcove, always his favorite spot, and speak to a star.
Sometimes he spoke words of apologies. Was it him that made Sirius leave? Was he not enough? Could he have done better?
Other times he spat words of fury. How could Sirius have left him here? Alone. In that house. Why would they do that to him? Nights of fury tended to turn into nights of regret. Regulus would sit, cussing out the sky until his lungs grew tired and his brain caught up. I was just a child, he would think. But then again, so was Sirius.
More often than not, he spoke to the star in pleas. Tears burned in his eyes as he begged for Sirius to return. To take Regulus with. Anything to feel the warmth of his brother’s hand, the comfort of their voice. Because even in these moments when he could pretend Sirius was near, they were still so very far. No matter how hard he tried, light years gaped between them, measures of time and space far too wide to comprehend. All he could do in these moments of tearful desperation was hope Sirius could hear. That his cries could somehow travel across the distance and weasel their way into the ears of his brother, I wish that you were here.
He snuck away less as he got older, sometimes the sacred space felt cursed more than anything.
On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, he awoke to his parents breathing down his neck. Flooding him with the plans of tomorrow, what his cross into adulthood meant, how he must act, all that his aging entailed. His lungs began to shrink, faulting under the weight in his chest, familiar even then. His breath caught in his throat. It all became too much.
So when night rolled around and his impending doom inched closer, he crept into his alcove to talk to that star one last time. Pen and paper placed on the ground next to him, he closed his eyes and listened for the memories. The laughter that once filled this space in spite of what existed outside of it. The knowledge that even while they were both suffering, at least they were in it together, and as long as they were together, maybe there was a way out. A tear rolled down his cheek and he could swear it felt like Sirius splashing him with water, “It’s just a little splash Reggie.”
He breathed it all in for a minute longer, before allowing his eyes to flutter open. Vision clouded, he remained focused on the night sky, fumbling his hand across the jagged surface for the smoothness of paper.
The note was an homage to his hope more than anything. A feeling he once felt with such ferocity, now nothing larger than a star in the sky. Still, that tiny glimmering spark held on to the hope of Sirius. Hope that maybe the news would find them and they would sneak away, back to this place, to these moments in time, and they would look for their brother, just as Regulus had all these years.
They would stumble into the alcove, curl in on themselves as they listened to the brook bubble by. They would stack the smaller rocks, tucked in the back of the clearing one on top of the other just as they had years before; and in the mountain of it all, would be a withered piece of paper. One last piece of Regulus- a hope that he wouldn’t be forgotten.
Regulus closed his eyes again, willing the tears to suck back into his body. Eventually the tears settled, only to be replaced by shuddering breaths and a sniffling nose. He opened his eyes regardless, preparing to write, but the paper was already filled with words. Words that were not his own, in a scrawl that was not his, but one we could never forget.
An address laid amongst the jumble of words, words from his brother. His eyes darted across the page, taking in each and every character. At the very last line, the tears he had just managed to contain came bursting through yet again: Happy Birthday Reggie.
Streams of salty water poured down his face, until they seeped into his mouth. He was a mess, but he didn’t care because his brother had been here. In this spot, right where Regulus was now and the tear stained paper in his hand was proof of it. Proof that they existed within the same timeline, always at different ends and always trapped in different parts, but they existed.
Regulus looked back up at the sky, ready to cry out yet again, but the Earth had rotated and the stars had shifted. Sirius had disappeared, but Regulus was still there. He was still there.
“I almost didn’t- find it, that is. I went out late that night, just hoping that my eighteenth birthday wouldn’t come,” he still doesn’t look up, “I found it by mistake, thought the paper was mine.”
Sirius is still listening, so he goes on, “I contemplated throwing it in the stream, don’t remember why I didn’t,” he lies. “I didn’t look at it again until last week. It’s been with my socks.”
“With your socks?” Sirius asks with a slight smile.
“Yes, with my socks.”
They just scoff and shake their head, and the silence resumes.
Regulus doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. On the surface, he wants to ask thousands of questions. He wants to know what Sirius does, who his fiance is. He wants to know if they’re happy, if they still get nightmares, too. He wants to know the mundane things like what they eat for breakfast and how they take their coffee. He wants to know everything he used to and all that he should now, but he wants to know more than that too. He wants answers as to why Sirius left. Why Regulus didn’t get to go with. Why even though he’s had this stupid fucking letter for three years, he hasn’t seen Sirius in five.
Regulus is relieved- of course he is- but he’d be lying if he said the bitterness was gone.
“I never minded being on my own,” he blurts, throwing it out there because he just couldn’t stand to hold it in any longer. It’s not all he wanted to say, but it was a start.
He was fine without Sirius. Sure, there were moments when all he wanted was the comfort of his brother, but he was fine. He made it. He made it alone, in that place, with no one else there for him. No comfort, no distraction, no escape from the wrath of their parents. He worked himself to death, exhausting every inch of his being, but he did it, and he didn’t mind. Because he was going to get out, he was going to be something, make a name for himself, not for his family. He was going to do it all, if not driven by love, than by spite, and Sirius was going to see.
That was the plan at least.
“What changed?”
He broke. His eighteenth birthday was merely the start of a long tumultuous road of longing for the end. He hung around with shady people, fell into even shadier things, then faced the repercussions from his family. The money they spent keeping his name out of headlines, buying off anyone who dared to speak on the “extracurriculars” of the Black heir. Every dollar was a bruise, a skipped meal, a slew of words that still haunt him; and they’d repeat the next day.
Eventually, came Barty. A face amongst his regular dubious crowd, having escaped a situation not much different than his own.
Regulus owed Barty his life, in the bluntest of terms. He got him out and took him in. Two nineteen year olds bonding over shitty hands’ of cards, finding comfort in each other amongst it all. Neither of them really knew what they were doing, but they did it together. Regulus’s plans of his name in lights no longer seemed to matter. He was driven less by spite and more by survival. Everyday was an endless loop of “I just have to make it through. I just have to make it out.” Out of the hole he dug himself into, out of the treachery of his mind, out the horrible darkness residing in his chest. He was completely shattered, and still at the end of it all, every thought, hope, and dream led back to Sirius.
Regulus finally turned towards Sirius, smokey gray eyes no longer staring into the abyss, but rather being met with the most striking blue, “I just wanted to go home.”