Chapter 7
Sirius
Sirius opens the door to Regulus’s room as quietly as he can. Evidently not quiet enough, though, because Regulus is wide awake. Sirius freezes in the doorway.
Regulus is sitting straight up in bed, with his eyes squeezed shut and his hands raised protectively over his head. He’s grimacing and flinching against whatever is coming.
Sirius nearly drops the tea in his hands. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening to Reg.
“Reggie, it’s okay, it’s just me.” Sirius says, trying to keep his voice as calm as he can.
Regulus lowers his arms, his face drops its terrified expression and it’s replaced with a small, embarrassed smile. He ducks his head.
Sirius’s heart drops. “I brought you some tea.” He says, taking a slow step toward the boy. “I thought it might help you sleep.”
It isn’t true, Sirius thought Regulus was still asleep, but clearly Regulus needs to calm his nerves more than Sirius does.
Sirius walks over to the bed and hands Regulus the mug.
Regulus takes it gratefully.
Sirius sits cross-legged on the bed, facing his brother. He wants to get closer, to press his side into his Regulus’s, to prove that he’s here, and Regulus is safe, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to scare him off.
Sirius fiddles with the quilt a bit, smoothing and wrinkling it over and over. After a few minutes of silence, Sirius gives in and finally speaks.
“We—we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.” He says, carefully watching Regulus for a reaction. When Regulus makes no response, he goes on.
“I know you might not want to… to think about it. But you can tell me, you know. You can tell me anything. I just want to help.”
Regulus
Regulus nearly chokes on his mouthful of tea. He can tell Sirius anything. Of course he can tell Sirius anything. Sirius is the kindest, most lovable man on Earth. Regulus could tell him all about the last twenty-four hours, the last two years, and Sirius would listen and hug him, and tell him he was brave, and strong, and beautiful. But it would all be lies. Regulus isn’t brave, and strong, and beautiful. He’s horrible. He’s weak. Sirius thinks they are the same, that they went through the same horrors and came out the other side with matching scars. But it’s not true.
Regulus walked out of his mother’s house on his own two legs. No one had to stuff his writhing body into the fireplace because he wasn’t conscious enough to do it himself. No one had to hurriedly whisper the Potter’s name into the floo network for him because he was in too much pain. Sirius was hurt. Sirius was dying. But Regulus is perfectly fine. A little beaten and bruised, sure, but it’s nothing compared the years of torture Sirius went through. By all metrics, Regulus should be the one standing up for Sirius, putting Sirius back together. Yet, here Regulus is, broken and empty, while Sirius is as bright, and shiny, and resilient as he always was. Sirius is strong. Sirius is a survivor. And Regulus is nothing. Nothing at all.
Regulus puts the tea on the nightstand table and tucks his legs up to his chest, curling into a ball. He doesn’t want to think anymore.
He doesn’t want to breathe anymore.
Sirius scoots closer to Regulus and leans his head onto Regulus’s shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay, Reg. We’ll get through this.”
And Regulus wants to believe him, he really does.