Determinations and close discoveries
Regulus Black has always held himself to a high standard, to a standard he knows he shall never reach but will always look for with an outstretched hand - even as his muscles tense and beg for release. In this idealistic life, the duty he labels as Good Brother is tucked cozily next to Good Son.
While Regulus might not think particularly highly of himself, he knows he’s observant. It’s a side effect of the house he’s grown up in; it’s a side effect of years of constant vigilance and nearly two decades with no rest. However, it takes him an hour-long conversation with his brother — which is an exhausting task, thanks to his sickness and the emotional burden of being a Black — to realize that Sirius had had a very different view of how the night he left had gone. Regulus had never entirely understood why Sirius stopped talking to him, especially since they both knew that Regulus was doing what needed to be done to be a good brother, having learned from the best.
It’s through the aforementioned exhausting conversation that Regulus concludes that no, they did not both know Regulus was following the steps outlined by his mind to be a good brother. Apparently, Sirius had been under the impression that Regulus wanted to stay, that he yearned to be the heir of the House of Black, and that he’d willingly stepped aside and watched as his parents - his mother - tore Sirius apart for wanting to leave.
- - -
Regulus was not brave. He was not brash or bold; he was just a boy and trying to be a good brother. He was smart, he was cautious, and he knew what had to be done. That Sunday, Regulus spent the morning listening to his mother's complaints and criticisms while they set up for the party in an effort to distract her from looking for Sirius, who would be packing up his things for his ‘Grand Escape.’ He stood still and took every judgment she had, trying not to crack under the pressure of her never-ending unhappiness. When he noticed she was growing complacent and happy with his obedience, he did something wrong for the sake of keeping all her attention (eyes like daggers to his skin, hands like vines fracturing and suffocating his very foundation) on him and away from his brother.
That’s how the morning was spent, so when his cousins began arriving, he took the much-desired respite to sneak off to the library and breathe. On his way there, a hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged him into one of the many hallways Grimmauld Place had to offer. He shot up in a panic, heartbeat spiking to a truly concerning level. “Circe Reggie, relax, will you?” It was Narcissa, his most beloved cousin. With her long blond hair tied neatly into a braid that swung around her shoulders, a black dress with lilies embroidered hugged her and barely let her stand out from the dreadful wallpaper that surrounded them. She was turning seventeen in a week, an engagement ring catching the light of the hallway's floating lamps.
“Breathe? You almost killed me!” He allowed himself to be a little silly with his cousins, and for just a moment, it felt like he did with Sirius. In that moment, he believed he would be happy as the sole heir. As if he could ever be happy without Sirius. Well, it was a nice delusion. Narcissa giggled, covering her mouth immediately, “You prat!” She had said in a hushed imitation of a reprimand, “You’re already running off and leaving me to fend for myself.” She frowned, and Regulus almost felt terrible until the emerald of her ring glistened again. He remembered Narcissa would never be alone again, but not really. He wasn’t needed. He muttered a rehearsed excuse for a migraine and was only slightly saddened by Narcissa’s expected response that she’d just find Lucius.
With distractions out of the way, Regulus was able to get to his safe haven, only briefly stopping by Sirius’s door. He tried not to peek inside but just as curiosity killed the cat, the sight killed Regulus' hope for his brother to stay. Inside the bright room that Sirius lived in, really the only bright spot in the entire house, Regulus found his brother giddily packing away their entire childhoods like it barely bothered him. Regulus, in turn, was very bothered when he saw Sirius move his stuffed lion from its place on the windowsill. He wiped a tear, inhaling sharply as the sharp edge of his nail scratched against his cheek -- he moved on. He wouldn’t change his mind, and he wouldn’t run into his older brother's arms. He had a role to fulfill. Good brother. Good brother.
Speeding his way to the library, Regulus immediately crashed onto his favorite couch in the hollowed room. The velvet material was comforting against his skin and served as a tether to reality as he picked up a book and focused on the small patch of peeling wallpaper behind the corner of the tallest bookshelf. It had gotten there after Sirius excitedly showed his brother the first spell he learned at school years ago, never to be found by either of their parents. It brought him some joy, the distress of this loveless home, the secret he shared with his brother.
As usual, Sirius’ loud and boisterous attitude shattered Regulus’s peace as he stood in the library’s doorway. “C’mon then, we haven’t got much time,” he’d said. Regulus had fought hard to keep his expression in its practiced neutral place – he’d known Sirius was leaving that night, but reminding Regulus that they would never meet again just for a quick goodbye seemed cruel.
“Have fun.” was all Regulus could force himself to respond, slightly turning his face onto the couch so his tears would not catch on the light in the room. Sirius picked a fight, and Regulus tried not to be surprised. It was all they knew how to do at that point. He didn’t understand why Sirius couldn’t just leave, why he had to do this entire show of pretending to want Regulus along. It had been frustrating, and in a flash of anger, Regulus let his frustration take form by repeating the cruel words he often heard his mother use against both of them. He fought until his voice was raw, and the prospect of his mother coming upstairs no longer frightened them because their words made it feel like she was already in the room.
It was Sirius's taunting by asking him to come along that kept Regulus at bay when Sirius moved out, that kept him from realizing he could be free from the Black legacy, too. That night, he lost his brother but every time he saw that boy that used to be his brother he would be reminded of the smile on his face as he left. It was worth it, Regulus tried to remember, he remained a good brother in his own twisted standard—and that was enough to keep him home, shackled to the title of heir.
- - -
Regulus looks at his brother now, wondering how the icy blue eyes that stare at him are the same that had looked at him with so much betrayal that night – wondering how, with such observant eyes, he could’ve possibly missed that Regulus loved him more than he loved a worthless Toujours Pur motto.
Sirius was still rambling as Regulus struggled to focus back on reality; only a few words managed to break the fog that was currently in the sick boy’s mind. Something, something Remus, something to do with a potion, Regulus really struggled to get the gist. The only parts he hung onto were “James” and “Soup,” letting everything else slip through the cracks of illness as his stomach grumbled. Not feeling like explaining himself or talking at all, Regulus stood and tried to make his way to where the previously mentioned “James” and “Soup” would be.
Here, tried would be the keyword. Tried because Regulus seemed to have forgotten that making himself ill to con his older brother into loving him again involved actually being sick and was hit with knee-buckling waves of nausea as he attempted to get further than two steps away from the bed he’d apparently fused to in the last few hours. Behind him, Sirius made a series of unpleasant sounds. “Idiot,” Sirius said, which was not nice and made Regulus pout, “Where are you going? You can’t walk.” he continued as if he had not just insulted his brother, who was sick and just wanted soup (and Potter.).
“Reg – Merlin, Regulus, get back here!”
Regulus huffed, no, thank you. ‘Back here’ was not soup, and it was not Potter. Regulus saw absolutely no reason to stop. He grabbed a jumper that was peeking from underneath the bed in an effort to replace the warmth the mound of blankets had surrounded him in; it did well enough, mainly because it smelt like a forest after rain and made him think of nights spent in the Astrology Tower removed from time and space. He could even ignore it's frayed edges and horrible mustard yellow coloring. Look at that, he huffs, growth.
Getting out of the dorms was easy enough, though the two steps down were a bit more than he was prepared to handle, and he ended up succumbing to his weakness – by letting Sirius lead him for two seconds. “You’re such a little–” Sirius’ insult was cut short by something else grabbing his attention. Regulus looked up from the spinning floor to see a tall boy with curly brown hair, an undistinguished outfit, and a dopey smile. Almost instantly, Sirius's attention snapped from his brother to the new person (Regulus would’ve been insulted, but the boy was helpful in getting Regulus close to his goal, so he let the preference go uncommented.).
Sirius and the undistinguished smile boy, who Regulus eventually recognized as Remus Lupin which answered all the questions he had regarding Sirius’s reaction, started chatting by the stairs. Again the words became muddled in Regulus’s mind and he regarded them with little importance. He was swimming through the thick haze of his mind and stopping to wonder what his brother and his brother’s boy were doing would be no help.
In a flash of wit, Regulus used the boy-shaped distraction to stop leaning on his brother and resume his vital mission. He saw Sirius’ multiple and fruitless attempts at peeling himself away from Lupin and grimaced, this was a very unnecessary boulder in his path towards the kitchen. Before turning to leave again, he made sure to make his intentions very clear to his brother:
“Soup.” He mumbled, pointing to himself. He swore he used to be more eloquent than this, but sacrifices must be made on the road to reconciliation (or something like that.).
“Not soup.” Regulus continued, pointing at his brother and feeling like he was wasting valuable time of clear-headedness that would be better spent finding the kitchens and the Potter. He looked at his hands then and wished he'd started wearing black nail varnish like his brother, that would match his rings much better than they did Sirius. He frowned again – or continued frowning? He wasn’t very sure he’d ever stopped.
Sirius finally managed to look at his brother, and his pout was almost strong enough to rival Regulus. “Do you think you’re making sense?” Regulus nodded because he obviously was. Satisfied with his explanation, Regulus made one final turn towards the portrait hole and desperately hoped that the room would stop turning with him, stupid Gryffindors, and their spinning common rooms.
“Right. Well, fine! I’m going to help Moony fix you.” Sirius shouted after him, adding on a soft “Ungrateful prick. Missed him,” That just barely registered in Regulus’ hazy brain.
After years in this god-awful castle, the last of those being filled with drunken nights where he’d been able to find the dungeons with no difficulty, Regulus was confident in his sense of direction. That confidence was effectively shattered about three seconds after stepping out of the common room. Regardless of whether a student is high on potion toxins or not, Regulus is sure that no one could ever get out of the labyrinth the moving staircases cause. He hung on tight to the railing so the sharp turns wouldn’t unsettle his stomach and hoped for the best as the stairs decided where they wanted to leave him. Regulus had never been so glad to be a Slytherin as he was when he imagined having to take these stairs every day.
The trip to the kitchens was… well, Regulus survived. He only had to stop a handful of times and managed to scare at least three students off with his loud coughing and following grumbles. All in all, it was not very different from his usual treks around the castle. A few people stopped to talk to him, seemingly unaware of his current decline in health – which Regulus had to take as an insult because, really, how sickly does he usually look? – But they left when it became clear that they weren’t getting anything from the boy today. He thinks one of the people who walked alongside him was a teammate, but it wasn’t like he was known for winning sportsmanship, so he could not quite manage to be fussed about potentially offending them.
It was when he made it to the brown doors that Regulus realized another obstacle, and Salazar he was exhausted. He stood in front of the kitchens and seriously considered sitting down for a nap, but a nap was not soup, so that idea was quickly dismissed. The issue, which could have definitely been avoided had Regulus given this mission more than a second's consideration, is that the kitchen is kept locked from the inside and guarded with many anti-alohomora charms. Usually, if he’s feeling peckish in the middle of the night, he drags his best friend Barty out of bed and lets the crazed boy work the magic of muggle lock picking. Presently, Regulus does not have a Barty or the mental capacity to find a charm strong enough to break the doors' protections.
Instead of giving in to the urge to sit against one of the hall’s windows and sleep, Regulus employs all his strength and knocks on the door.
Had it been anyone else inside, they would have realized that opening the door to the kitchens that students are explicitly not allowed into as a student is quite possibly the dumbest idea. James Potter, however, happily opened the door with a charm and continued his cooking as if he feared nothing, especially not being caught.
With the obstacle of a closed door being gone, Regulus knows that, logically, he should step inside and get to the soup. Instead, he finds that he’s pretty happy to stand in one spot and watch as Potter works – concentration completely uninterrupted even after his slight pause to shoot a spell at the door. He’s humming and bopping his head to nonexistent music, his messy curls bouncing. The tune is nothing Regulus would recognize from his home but definitely something he’s heard recently. The vapor of Euphemia’s soup recipe flows in the air like particles of magic and practically leaves Regulus melting when it finally reaches his nose. He smiles helplessly like there could be no greater joy than sitting here and watching the boy he’s meant to hate make him soup.
A house elf materializes in front of Regulus and tries to offer him a glass of water, ever so fond of the boy who always folds his roommate's dirty laundry in a pile and ensures the elves never have to do any searching around the room. That catches Potter’s attention, and finally, the two boys meet. Regulus can’t stop smiling. He wants to think it’s a side effect of the fever, he knows it’s just Potter.
The boy looks at him with sunshine in his eyes (or maybe that’s the reflection of a candle’s light against hazel eyes; either way, Regulus adores the golden hue that lets itself get enveloped by expanding pupils.) and a smile that rivals love-struck Remus Lupin in dopey-ness. Almost.
Inexplicably, Regulus feels significantly more clear-headed now that he’s here – though whether it’s because of the presence of food or because of his pseudo-nurse is unclear. He’s able to make more rational decisions and finds the same urge to stay rooted in his place and stare at Potter. It must be something in the soup.
“Regulus,” Potter sighed, coming forward to grab Regulus’s hand,“I was going to bring you the soup,” says his pseudo-nurse, with a fake frown overtaking his stupid grin. Regulus is only momentarily thankful as he feels his resolve strengthen when he’s not looking at that blinding smile. Though he just as quickly misses it. Merlin, poison makes him a proper sap. Or maybe it’s the soup. Or maybe it’s Potter being stupidly pretty. Regardless, Regulus reaches out and tries to manipulate a smile back into the boy's face with his thumbs.
Potter drops the frown immediately and giggles, “Hm, you’re very sick, aren’t you, angel?’” Oh, James. Regulus doesn’t respond - he’s still thinking about the soup just as much as he’s thinking about James. His stomach betrays him with a soft grumble. “Well,” James says, holding tighter into Regulus’s hand and playing with his fingers. “Can’t have you starving now.” with that soft declaration, James leads him to the counter in front of the fire and helps Regulus sit on the cool marble.
As the food continues to heat up and Regulus is assured that it will be ready in five minutes, James makes himself at home, slotted between Regulus’s legs against the counter. James surrounds him like he could die if he stopped having hands on Regulus. First, he plays with the yellow jumper Regulus is wearing and then moves back to the rings on his fingers. Nothing, not even periodically checking on the pot of soup, deters him from having a point of physical contact with Regulus. “How’d it go then? With Sirius, I mean.” James asks because as much as he insists he doesn’t want to get involved in ‘Black family madness’, Regulus knows how much this weighs on him.
“S’ okay. I think we’re okay.”
“Better be. Ruined our bloody date, the third time this week.” Is James’s eloquent reply, "I am truly starting to think you love Potions more than your own boyfriend," Usually, Regulus would be happy to poke fun with a comment like “Oh, Woe is you, Potter. Whatever shall we do.” But apparently, it takes Vertigo fever to snap all of Regulus’s snark out of him. Instead he runs a hand through James’s mess of hair and watches as the boy melts, muttering a soft apology.
“Don’t apologize, I like nursing you back to health.” He says, eyes lighting up like they only do when he’s about to say something exceptionally stupid. “Do you think I’d look good in a nurse uniform? Like those proper slutty Halloween ones. I bet the white makes my backside pop.”
“I may be sick, Potter, but I am not above kicking you.”
James leans up to kiss him in a fruitless effort to shut his complaints up. Belatedly, he realizes that his boyfriend is still very much sniffly and puffy and settles for planting a kiss on his warm cheek. “Sure, love, whatever you say, angel.”
Regulus’ complaints about James’s terrible timing are soon silenced, but not by the kisses James leaves all over his face – each sloppier than the last and coupled with a comment on how cute the red cheeks and pouty lips are. In the end, the delicious soup being plated up by two house elves renders him speechless.
They eat in silence. Or rather, James eats in silence and watches Regulus mumble incomprehensive comments ranging from insults to his brother’s pathetic crush to praises of the deity that granted Euphemia such a gift in the kitchen.
“M so glad.” Regulus hears himself saying, alongside sniffles and coughs, “That you can cook. Proper housewife.” In between praises, he says something like, “D’you think me and ‘irius share a queer gene?” and the laugh he receives from James must carry some kind of healing magic for the way it makes him feel.
Regulus never quite had the way with words that his brother has. Hence, he felt the need to destroy his defenses before attempting to contact Sirius. But it’s different with James. Even through the haze of illness and uncontrolled stream of consciousness, Regulus talks and feels understood down to his bones. Feels known in a way that should feel terrifying and impossible, but it really just feels right. He tells James about the misunderstanding, tells him that he was so dedicated to being a good brother that he forgot how to be anything else. James has heard this all before, in soft confessions scattered throughout the last few months, between kisses and secret meetings. But he doesn’t interrupt; he just lets Regulus repeat himself as if he could never fathom wanting him to stop.
The adventure back to the Gryffindor tower is much easier the second time around, with James’s leading hand and distracted rambling and Regulus’s stomach full of warm soup. They get through the portrait hole in record time, or at least what Regulus assumes is record time, though he was admittedly distracted trying to follow his boyfriend's scattered trains (plural) of thought on the way there. He knows he should probably keep talking to his brother lest all his efforts (which started and ended at poisoning himself and getting outstanding marks in his following potions assignment) go to waste. However, Regulus finds that he can’t be bothered to think of much else than James’s hand in his. He idly wonders if James would paint his nails for him, thinks that would be nice.