His parents are dead, and he waits for the reality of it all to greet him in full force.
He must be in shock, he rationalizes, because he keeps waiting. Waiting for the world to fall apart. For the knife to twist. For the tide to come and pull him under. Isn’t that what children do when they become orphans? They drown, splashing and screaming as they barely keep their heads above water.
It doesn’t feel like he’s drowning. He feels quite light, actually. Floating. Weightless.
The funeral is a decadent affair in his mother’s favorite cathedral. The stained-glass windows paint the ceremony in a myriad of color and light that seem livelier than called for, and his hands shake as they trace the wooden beads of his father’s old rosary.
Neither he nor his brother offers any words, but their cousin does, her blonde curls tied back with a silky black ribbon as she speaks of how accomplished and respected her aunt and uncle had been. Not admired, not loved. He finds it fitting, following along with the hollow words from his seat in the back. He doesn’t cry, and any guilt he might come to harbor is overshadowed by the fact no one else does, either.
They go to the cemetery. They toss in their respective handfuls of dirt. They ignore the odd looks of distant family members and acquaintances.
His parents are dead, and no one expected him at the funeral.
A year ago the thought might have offended him, but a year ago he still lived with his parents, expecting something from them that they did possess the ability to give. It’s been months since he moved out and found his place with his brother and uncle, and it’s been months since he last spoke to them.
He still hasn’t cried. Like rain in a desert, the tears just won’t come, no matter how much he wants them to. He wants it over with. Wants the gates to flood so he can promptly seal them shut once more.
Instead, he waits. He lets James grab his wrist and lead him to the kitchen. He waits for tears, for the sadness and grief to drag him under. He waits to drown.
Regulus is 16 years old. He's been an orphan for 15 days, and two hours ago he was kneeling in a church praying to a god that won’t listen to him at a funeral for a mother and father that never loved him. He's still in his suit, head still aching from the incense, and yet all he can think about is how his friend’s shirt rides up his torso as he reaches into the cupboard for a glass.
(His parents were right. He is going to hell.)
It's a small but welcome collection of people in his uncle’s home. It’s mostly his brother’s friends, and one or two of his own, crowded in the sitting room, exchanging subdued small talk while his uncle hands out refreshments. His uncle who, despite not speaking to her in years, just lost his only sister. He should find him, hold his hand, and have an eye-opening, earth-shattering discussion on love and grief, but he remains unmoving in the kitchen, saying nothing but a soft thank you as James hands him a glass of water.
James has a tattoo— a small black heart on the fleshy part of his thumb near his palm. He lets his gaze linger on it as James pulls away, leaning against the kitchen counter with a short sigh. It's a problem. He wants to reach out and touch, to trace the shape with the tip of his finger until it’s the only thing he remembers. He sips at his water instead, ignoring how empty his hand feels without James' to hold.
His parents are dead. They're dead and yet he still feels the weight of them. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but his parents have haunted him for a while now. Long before any tragic accidents. Long before any dirt spilled over their graves.
“It would be stupid to ask you how you’re feeling, wouldn’t it?”
He looks up, finding James’ brown eyes behind his wire-framed glasses.
He shrugs. “Stupidity never stopped you before.”
James smiles, head falling to one side. “No, I guess it hasn’t.”
Silence falls over the kitchen like a heavy blanket. Not uncomfortable, not unbearable, but there, present and tangible. He feels it settle between them, something utterly fragile waiting to be broken.
He wonders if James feels it too. A part of him hopes for it, another prays he never will.
A bead of water falls over the rim of the glass, and he catches it with his thumb, rolling it between his fingers. He can’t look at James, so he looks anywhere else. He looks at the floor, at the granite countertops, at the golden midday light filtering in through the blinds above the sink, clinging onto specks of dust like stars.
“My parents are dead,” he murmurs.
He does not look at James.
“And how do you feel?”
There’s a grocery list stuck to the fridge and next to it a calendar. He stares at the red ink penciled across the glassy paper, at today's date left untouched.
“It feels…” he says, tentative, “It feels like just another Friday.”
It’s an awful confession— something he should be ashamed of, really— but he can’t lie to James, won’t lie to him, so he says it anyway.
“I get it,” James says.
He thinks of James’ delightful parents, of their open hearts and their giving hands.
“No, you don’t,” he scoffs, feeling a little mean. “That’s a good thing. I don’t want you to get it.”
He tries to remember the last time he told his parents he loved them, and, predictably, fails. There is no love lost in the death of his parents. The only thing he lost was a chance for reconciliation, something that even his childish delusions never hung on to. Maybe that is what he should grieve, that impossible future instead of an unforgettable past, but all he feels is relief that he will never have to see them again.
The water trembles in his glass. He takes another sip.
“I’m sorry that you get it.”
He looks at James and his crooked glasses, the freckle on his jaw, the little black heart on his hand. There is a kindness in James; It took up residency long ago and has yet to leave, despite how tiring it must be. And, as selfish as he is, Regulus wants a piece of it, all for himself.
“Yeah,” is all he says in return, “I’m sorry too.”
It feels like lying. He isn’t sure why.