Regulus barely remembers the funeral now.
He knows it was raining, and that it hasn’t fucking stopped since.
Not that he’s been outside, Grimmauld place is dark as it is, but the permanent gloom cast on the place from the windows has made time turn into a green and grey soupy mess. God had awarded little relief from His wrath this summer; rain violently banging on the windows, leaving a choking humidity in its wake. If Regulus was in a sounder state of mind, he might be able to ignore the glaring similarities between the weather and his soul.
When he was younger, he thought God was a friend of his father's, the way he talked about him all the time, now he wonders if that wasn’t true, and God is grieving right along with him. The old summers have been swallowed by the same entity that consumed his father.
Regardless of God's persuasion with his father, he’s pretty sure it all started on that day at the beginning of the summer. It’s coming back to him in flashes now, as he sits in a lukewarm bath in an almost dark bathroom on the second floor. He hasn’t taken anything for a few hours, and this keeps happening. He knows Barty is laid somewhere in the adjoining room, his mind probably much more sedated than Regulus’. The dark woods that backdropped the burial, a sea of black, his brother and his fucking friends. He thinks he’s been in this bath for a week. He sinks below the water, and it feels like the closest thing to a blessing that he has ever known.
After the funeral his mother hadn’t even bothered to go home, her stuff was already packed, leaving him to return to an empty house alone Though it wasn’t empty for long of course before Barty turned up piss wet through, grinning with a bag of something intriguing dangling from his bruised hand. Barty hadn’t attended the funeral because he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to himself. He was even worse off than Regulus, in Regulus’ opinion. Since summer swallowed the concept of time, he wasn’t sure how long ago it was now that Barty’s father had actually murdered his mother, but he knows it wasn’t long before his father died that they announced death row and Barty was on the front page of the papers.
He hadn’t spoken about it much at first, and only a few times in their hazy exile had he brought it up. He remembers they were watching TV on the old tiny screen they’d picked up and placed in the otherwise personality-less front room, the sole light being provided by an old episode of Twin Peaks that played silently, they hadn’t been able to get the volume to work. Regulus’ head drooped as he fell into a stupor of counting the individual pixels on the screen, occasionally jumping when the scene changed, having to start over again. There were needles strewn on the table and his eyebrow was throbbing from the piercing he’d let Barty give him earlier.
“I watched him do it”.
“Hm?” Regulus really tried but couldn’t get his head to move to face Barty, his voice was slurred and unbothered.
“I saw him, kill her”. Regulus turned now, finally finding the strength. Barty was almost completely laid flat, his head partially propped up against the sofa.
“He smashed her head against the desk. I told the police I wasn’t there, but I was. I’d got in right before that bit. I don’t know why I didn’t say that earlier.”
“Maybe you didn’t know if it was real.” On multiple occasions since the funeral Regulus had woken up unsure if his father’s death was a bad dream.
“I thought he was gonna kill me and I was gonna let him. Then I thought I was gonna kill him and I knew he’d let me. But we just stood there.” Tears were falling down his face, but his voice remained floaty and still; “I can feel his blood in my veins and I need to get it out.”
Suddenly Regulus had scrambled over to him, sitting on top of him and putting their foreheads flush together, overcome by the intensity of his affection for him, but also his sorrow. “I only see you.”
That was the most Barty had said, that Regulus could remember anyway, but it wasn’t all gloom, just gloom coloured, they’d laughed mostly, and experimented. They’d drawn silly things on each other’s skin permanently and pierced each other using his mother’s old sewing kits. They’d tried things they didn’t even know the names of, bathed together, mapped out each other’s bodies, gone into the woods a few times. They’d forgotten to eat for the most part and watched every episode of Twin Peaks in silence, making up the words. Regulus had never done anything like this before, he felt in a state closer to death than life where his breath was permanently shallow, and everything felt equally significant and insignificant.
He only left the house once a week, for church. It wasn’t his usual church, it was one his mother had deemed not good enough just down the road. Barty came sometimes, and because time had become an irrelevant factor in his life, only to be considered against the light and dark, it was a gamble whether he encountered people or not. They didn’t know him anyway, or they pretended not to, or they didn’t recognise him. He just prayed and prayed and prayed. More often than not he couldn’t even tell you what he was praying for, a mass jumble of words that he sent up to the big man for Him to decipher. But sometimes he did, and he prayed for Him to love him, he prayed for forgiveness, he prayed for Sirius, for his father. Rarely for his own mother, and always for Barty’s. He prayed for this endless summer, and for the blood in Barty’s veins.
It was these times most of all when the prayer seemed empty and got lost in the ether, and felt more like muscle memory than anything else, like the ghost of his father's hand had dragged him there. Sometimes he’d come back, and they’d lay in the rain, or lay in the bath, or lay on the bed, they’d sweat it out and play music and dance and kiss and shoot up. It felt like an eternity.
Now, he gets out of the bath, a few minutes or hours or days later, and does in fact find Barty on the floor smoking something. He’s shirtless and his new tattoo on his stomach looks infected, he smiles hazy and drunk up at Regulus. Regulus takes a hit of whatever he’s got and forgets all about the bath and the water and the flashbacks.
Until someone knocks on the door.
Sirius waits at least 8 minutes for the door to open. He timed it. He regrets wearing Remus’ big leather jacket, it’s sticking to his skin, and the shirt underneath is too tight. He should’ve worn shorts. James had the right idea he’s wearing dungarees. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about their fashion attire. He knows Regulus is in there, it’s an instinctive thing, he thinks, he can smell him.
He can sense James getting ready to talk about going, when the door clicks and opens ever so slightly to reveal a single tired, squinting eye. if Sirius didn’t know better it would be the eye of a vampire, sullen and allergic to the sun.
The door opens fully and Sirius was wrong, his brother isn’t home, because that’s not his brother. He’s deathly pale, and skinnier than most people. One eye has a dark tired mark underneath and the other one is almost entirely bruised, his hair is dark and limp and hangs to his shoulders, a large white shirt hangs off his frame, his wrists and legs snappably small. There’s ink in spots all over his arms and hands. Sirius assesses him. Only the eyes remain of what once was, stoic and dark as ever.
He rouses himself, “Well? are you gonna let us in?”
Regulus looks as though he’s just remembered that they’re there, rubbing his face and stepping back,
“Potter” he mumbles in welcome from behind the hand rubbing his face.
Sirius briefly glances at James who just looks plain scared. The house is dark inside, apart from a greenish light coming in from the few uncleaned windows, Sirius almost trips over a pile of letters in the doorway. Regulus is leading them into the kitchen, they walk past the living room lit up with the artificial light of a vintage television displaying static.
Regulus is hunched over slightly, the bones of his spine visible through the thin shirt. The kitchen is brighter, and almost entirely the same as Sirius remembers it, taken up by a large wooden table that Regulus is suddenly scrambling to clear.
"Shit,” he says, clearer now. But he’s not quick enough, and Sirius sees a few needles left, a few white lines, a rolling tray, and other illicit items.
“Is this what you’ve been doing all summer?” Sirius asks angrily.
“Not entirely” Regulus mumbles again, placing the items back on the table, realising the pointlessness of his attempted coverup.
He walks further into the kitchen, sighing, before turning back around to face them, “would anyone like a drink? we have erm.. tap water… oh”, he picks up a bottle and reads the label, “whiskey”, picks up another, “vodka”, “erm… whatever this is.”
“Water is fine.” James says kindly, at the same time as Sirius says “Whiskey.”
Regulus smiles evilly.
Sirius takes a seat at the table, “so, you look like shit.”
“My dad died.” Is all regulus says, bitterly.
“You haven’t responded to any of my calls or messages, or letters for that matter.”
“Phones off the hook.” He looks toward the entryway as explanation for the letters.
“Yeah no shit, I mean have you been doing all this shit fucking alone?” Sirius twiddles a needle between his fingers getting madder at the thought, though he isn’t sure if it’s at Regulus or himself. At that they hear a noise from upstairs and Sirius instantly looks toward it.
“No” Regulus says in mocking, as none other than Barty crouch comes in, looking even worse than Regulus in nothing but jeans and a spliff between his lips. His hair is at least cut, but badly, spiking up all over his head, his skin is bad and uneven and there’s a tattoo on his stomach that’s so badly infected Sirius can’t even tell what it is. He’s almost as skinny as Reg.
Barty moves toward them, shaking both Sirius' and James’ hands in turn, “Potter, Black”.
“Your tattoo is infected.” Is all Sirius says as Barty maneuvers around Regulus to chug a glass of water
“It’s not infected.” Regulus immediately snaps back, defensive.
Barty too takes a seat, having swapped his water for whiskey, “God this is lovely, we haven’t had company all summer have we?” Barty says looking toward Regulus.
“Shut the fuck up crouch.” Sirius snaps, his leg is bouncing under the table, he feels like he’ll blow any minute, he just needs to figure out exactly what about.
Regulus just laughs lazily at Sirius’ minor outburst. Barty starts rolling a spliff, adding, “Potter? How have you been?”
James clears his throat uncomfortably, eyes trained mostly on Regulus who leans against the counter, “oh y’know… same soup just reheated.” He murmurs weakly, completely aware of Regulus and Sirius who are apparently having a nonverbal argument through their eyes alone.
The energy of the room continues to charge until it’s Sirius who snaps, “WHAT THE FUCK REGULUS? You go MIA all summer? Nothing since our father's fucking FUNERAL? And it turns out you’re here just getting fucked up out of your mind on God knows what, rotting in this fucking house and shagging your best mate?”
Barty pipes up, holding up a finger, “actually we’re not shagging”.
Sirius doesn’t even look at him, eyes still trained on Regulus, “shut UP Crouch! You haven’t left the house, you look a fucking state, don’t even get me started on the shitty tattoos and the eyebrow piercing, you’re wasting away Regulus!”
Regulus just takes it, standing impassive, “What’s your point?”
Suddenly the conversation takes a turn as Sirius voice breaks, “He was my dad too!” His lip is trembling though he desperately wishes it wasn’t.
“you can have mi-“ Barty starts before Sirius turns on him, “and YOU! You think this is good for you either?? Have you read the fucking paper in the last month. Everyone’s looking for you. They care, Crouch, despite popular opinion.”
Barty seems shocked at being addressed. Sirius is standing now with his hands on the table looking even more insane than Regulus and Barty put together. James stands and puts his hand on Sirius' back, murmuring something that seems to disarm him, forcing him to sit back down with a sigh.
“Sorry.” Regulus says, head low, “but it’s not been all bad, I do feel happy Sirius.”
“Oh woopdiedoo, drugs will do that you know.”
“It’s just a summer thing, really”, Regulus replies, though Barty subtly betrays his belief on the matter with a look of annoyance.
Regulus is standing behind Barty, he moves forward and wraps his arms around Barty’s bigger frame, still in the chair, and places his chin on top of his head closing his eyes. A surprisingly intimate gesture in company, it disarms Sirius, who thinks back to Barty’s earlier statement that they weren’t even shagging. Sirius turns to James as a mirror, who looks back at him wearing a concerned expression.
“What do you suggest?” Regulus asks sadly, chin still resting on Barty’s head.
Sirius understands suddenly, that they’re two broken boys, finding solace in each other, entirely encased by the season.
The eternal hot sweltering summer nights, It’d been a humid sticky mess, the only relief being the cold wooden floorboards, or on Regulus' damp dirty mattress. They were innocent, really. They had both suffered bad trips and bad dreams and bad days. Regulus had woken up calling out for his father only to find Barty's sweaty body next to him, and on one occasion he’d woken on the floor confused, to find Barty's panicked face above him and out of breath. He guessed he must’ve passed out. But It ended, as all things do eventually.
As soon as Sirius had asked Regulus to come back with him, he knew it was over. And It was in that final night, when they lay, their bare bodies on the same bare mattress, that Regulus finally felt a chill come through the open window, forcing them further together as summer drew its final breath.
That summer only then became defined by the boy beside him, up until that moment it had been too hazy to be pinned down, something to do with grief that Barty just happened to be an accomplice in. But now he understood that it had everything to do with this shared feeling, and he knew that he’d never again feel for anyone the way he felt for Barty Crouch, and that he’d never be so deeply understood as he was in this moment.
Barty had left after that.
And secretly, Regulus hates Sirius for waking them up, and opening the door, and inviting in the autumn. I mean, what’s he supposed to do? He hates Sirius for being the one to stir the dust that had settled on them. He still cries most nights, and he still prays for Barty's mother, but most of all, he prays that wherever Barty is, that he’s alright.