Everyone has bad days.
When Regulus has a bad day, he spirals. When Regulus has a bad day, he loses grip on reality; loses grip on himself. When Regulus has a bad day he feels as though he’s shaking apart inside out and his skin is a prison he wants to claw right off. When Regulus has a bad day, he’s liable to blood flowing from places it shouldn’t.
When Regulus Black has a bad day, he needs to be grounded in his skin.
Thing is though, there are few people Regulus trusts. Really and truly trusts. He trusts his friends, of course. Or they wouldn’t have the honour of being called his friends. But there’s not —there’s a difference between knowing they would help him hide a body, no questions asked and asking one of them for— for a hug, essentially.
But not a hug; not really. It’s more, asking one of them to let him hug them. To hold on for a few minutes and shake apart and let the sobs free. Shed the skin clinging to him that refuses to let go and rot away for a minute and come back after. There’s really only one person he’s let see him like that. He’s let be that for him.
And well, it doesn’t often feel like he can go to him. Not anymore. Or maybe it’s the opposite. It’s the fact that he feels like he can go to him. Now, at least. Maybe last year his fear would be justified. But he likes to think they’ve come a long way since then. Not of course, without the help of a brown eyed bastard who couldn’t keep his nose out of people’s business if he was strapped to a broom and sent right out in the stratosphere never to be heard from again. But it’s charming on him.
So maybe it wasn’t some misplaced sense of bravery or even desperation that had him climbing those stairs. Maybe, just maybe —he wouldn’t admit it even if fucking Grindelwand came back specifically to threaten him— he climbed those stairs with the littlest part of him thinking he was safe. Thinking he would be safe.
Or maybe his hands were trembling and the skin at the inside of his forearm was itching something ugly; something that wanted him to tear his very nails into flesh and see it spill. Live in the momentary bliss of the sting and the pain and the giddiness that would take over before the all consuming guilt came crashing back in, forever fuelling the cycle. But it would be broken for a moment and he would be exhausted after and then he could rest —deep and dreamless— and not have to worry about the world for a little while.
Truth is, he can’t actually tell you the truth. Because his hands are shaking and his breath isn’t actually all that steady and he wants to tug at his hair a little; a lot —wants to feel it hurt. He wants to scream. He wants to scream about his parents and he wants to scream about his brother and he wants to scream about —well, about everything.
It’s what has his chest caving and his vision blurring; his throat is locked and his nose is stuffed and he can’t swallow; feels like he can’t breathe, actually. But then, that’s not actually anything new —the breathing problems. At least, not since school. He used to be normal; as normal with someone who has his upbringing can be. Normal on the spectrum of normal? He still can’t answer that question.
It probably speaks a lot to the leaps and bounds this relationship has actually established that the Fat Lady swings open as easily as she does. Maybe the tears pooling but not flowing has something to do with it. He’ll come back to threaten her later. Or leave her be. Maybe she’ll think she was hallucinating.
The Gryffindor common room always —it always smells warm for some reason. Warm in a way the Slytherin dorms won’t ever; warm in a way that has nothing to do with the fire in the hearth. There’s a laughter echoing that has no malicious undertones. In fact, there are no undertones. No whispers and snide remarks. Anything the prideful lions ever have to say —well, they’re not exactly known for their stealth; for their subtlety.
Something about it has the ugly anxiety digging its claws in; ripping him apart from the inside. The headache that had been a background beat is pounding into the centre of his skull; is banging against the back of his left eye. His hands are shaking so terribly now he knows he won’t be able to hold his wand without looking a fool. He doesn’t know how he’s not been singled out yet, probably some bastardised version of luck, but he’s not in the fighting mood right now. Not when his breaths can’t reach much further than his throat.
James finds him first.
Watching his previously smiling face fall as quickly as it does sends the guilt riling; an ugly slimy monster that wants to drape over him and suffocate. Regulus dodges him easily, even in his current state. It’s second nature —instinct. Usually a game between them. It’s not a game right now. There’s only one person who can touch him right now without inciting a complete meltdown. He can’t even think of what James’ face might look like if he deems it his fault when Regulus reacts the way he does. So he dodges him. Probably too aggressively. Nearly cracks his head clean open on the edge of the wall.
His heart is in his throat, and even the cool brush of stone against his back is too much. It’s always untethered him, the way James can read him so easily. He finds himself unduly grateful when James takes a step back, twisted sort of smile tugging at his features. “He’s in our room.”
Regulus doesn’t know if he nods or not, pure spite the only thing keeping the tears at bay. James only inclines his head in the direction of the stairs.
It’s a treacherous trek. His breathing won’t steady and the tears won’t clear and his nose still feels stuffed and his head is still pounding obnoxiously. Really, he can’t be left with his thoughts for more than a few hours it seems. Barty had gotten himself hurt doing an experiment he knew he shouldn’t be doing, so Evan had been with him in the infirmary since. Dorcas had recruited Pandora for some secret mission Regulus had only been half listening to.
Drip by drip the silence had crept in, coating him in darkness and smog, tangling his limbs and prying his jaw open to sink inside and grab hold of his heart; coat his throat in tar.
Seeing Sirius is —he doesn’t know if it’s alleviation or even more hurt. He doesn’t know if it’s the relief of the thorns unlatching themselves fiercely, making sure to take pieces of his flesh, of himself with them; or if they’re sinking in deeper.
He’s just —he’s just there. Tossing what looks like a ball idly, watching Lupin do whatever it is he finds Lupin doing so fascinating. It sort of crashes into him then, all of it. With more force than a fucking bludger.
He’d never gotten that at ho— their house. He’d never ever gotten to see Sirius so relaxed back there. He was always on guard, forcing some kind of smile for Regulus and hoping to keep the darkness at bay. Trying to be strong enough for both of them. And Regulus had —Regulus had paid back that bravery by choosing his parents. By choosing the monsters who made Sirius’ crooked little grin when he thought he’d gotten one over on them the brightest expression he could muster inside those walls.
When the tears fall, they sting his skin and Regulus has only a moment to wonder if they might actually be acid, before crawling into the bed and burrowing his way under Sirius’ shoulder; hiding his face. Latching on in the way he always has.
He senses more than hears the room being vacated, feels the way Sirius freezes before relaxing in stages —going limp, essentially. Regulus can feel his nails cutting grooves into flesh, but he can’t bring himself to think past trying to pull in air. It’s not exactly easy where he’s buried his head like an ostrich in sand; he’s always been a coward anyway.
He can’t even breathe anymore, large stuttering inhales that try to fight their way in. His entire body trembles, knuckles hurting from how hard he’s holding on. His head beats something bitter and the tears burn and sting and choke and still, Sirius doesn’t move.
It’s more than he can ever ask for, curling closer and knowing in the same breath that if someone else initiates a touch before he’s ready he might stop breathing entirely. So Sirius stays still, and he listens to the heaving hiccups as they force their way out of Regulus’ throat.
It’s all he can think about. Questions running through his mind over and over and over while he tries to regain control of his lungs. Am I a terrible person?
He thinks it and thinks it and thinks it and wonders if he’ll have the nerve to speak up. His throat hurts. It hurts and he can’t even snuff the mucus clogging his nose up, leaving only one means of drawing breath. And he wants to be closer, he just wants to burrow under his brother completely. Hide in his shadow and let him protect him the way he always has.
In the same breath he wants to run. Because he knows. He knows Sirius has always protected him and will still always protect him and he had been stupid. He had been so stupid. He’d thought his parents’ love was the love to chase. They were —are— his parents.
I’m sorry. He thinks it, but his tongue still can’t move. The words wouldn’t be legible anyway, past his tears. Am I a horrible person? Am I a horrible person? Am I a horrible person? Of course he’s a horrible person. The correct choice had always been in front of him and he’d overlooked him.
He’d not even overlooked —he’d ignored. He’d ignored all the times Sirius would take the pain for him; all the times Sirius would sneak him food; all the times Sirius had held him through some nightmare or other; all the times Sirius had twirled him around the ballroom in the dead of night those two months after his first year at Hogwarts, and taught him all about the world outside. The nights they’d sneak onto the roof and he’d show him the stars. When he’d learnt a soundproofing spell and had played violin for Regulus until his fingers were blistered and bleeding. The way he’d laugh and ruffle his hair when Regulus would painstakingly wrap a bandage around each one.
His big brother. The only person who’s ever protected him. The first person to ever love him.
He’d forsaken him to chase a love he knew wouldn’t be reciprocated. And he’d been fucked for it. Lost the first person to ever matter to him.
It’s relief when the arms finally wrap around him, pull him into a chest he knows and doesn’t; into a scent he knows and doesn’t. Mint tainted now by leather. A scraggly chest now firm with muscle. Hair so long it falls past his shoulders and tickles Regulus’ cheek.
It’s only belatedly he realises he’s been chanting, even through his tears. “I’m sorry,” it breaks on the way out; cracks and falls apart and falls right into the abyss that still has grips on his lungs. The feeling of lips brushing against his forehead —a sensation he’s known all his life yet it feels so foreign at the same time. The hand on the back of his nape; it still slots into all the same creases despite how he’s grown. Despite how they’ve both grown.
“I’ve already forgiven you,” and he repeats it. Every single time the apologies blunder their way past Regulus’ lips, Sirius reassures him. Tries to hold him even tighter, his nails probably leaving the same bruises Regulus is sure he’s left at this point.
It takes a strange amount of effort to actually inhale through his nose; to clear his sinuses and it escapes his throat in a cough. “Breathe,” soft and coaxing and gentle in a way Regulus knows is reserved for him. He’s seen Sirius with his friends, has tracked his every movement since they’d separated that day in the Great Hall. Six years ago.
Sirius is brash, he’s bold. He’s both unforgettable and unforgivable. He’s never one to mince his words, never one to lower his voice, to turn down his brightness. Sirius shines the way his star does. Unabashedly shameless. Almost disgustingly fearless.
Regulus gets his quiet.
Maybe it’s because they’ve always had to exist in the quiet; in secret patterns and subtle signals. They’ve always had to exist in the exact amount their eyes could quantify, the tightening and relaxing of their shoulders, the barest of whispers they could exchange.
They’ve always existed in silent explosions and dark paradise.
When the sun came, was when they’d be forced to separate. Heir and spare. But the heir ran away so the throne became the spare’s. But the spare was a spare for a reason; he could never live up to the legacy of the heir. He was nothing but a name and a face. But Sirius gave him new names; Sirius taught him all the different faces. Sirius taught him how to smile and how to cry and how to be brave when he needed to be. Sirius had been an amazing teacher. Regulus had never been the best student. Not in the physical. He could memorise and repeat. He could never take the initiative. Always a follower, never a leader. He’ll never understand why he thought the place of heir could actually be his.
It baffles him even to this day, but there has always been a part of him that lived to please. Desperate. Desperation was his key motivator and he let it guide him. Let the slightest crinkle near his father’s eyes be that straw. Be the thing which created the chasm between them. Maybe it was the challenge; maybe it was the thrill; maybe it was being able to accomplish something Sirius couldn’t —his own desperation. He loved his brother and despised him in the same breath. Depended on him and loathed his lack of independence. He’d wanted to prove that he could stand on his own two feet. Become an oak, an evergreen. He forgot he was once a little bud and his brother was the one who watered him and nurtured him and manufactured sunlight to warm him on the chilliest days and breathed life into him.
He remembered only the ones who gawked at his growth, forgetting and ignoring and forsaking the one who was responsible for it. Sirius was their parents’ child —born and bred and raised a Black. Their parents despised him the way they probably despised themselves but could never say. Regulus was not their son —he was their son in name; in blood, even in beauty. They were not his parents. If he had a parent, it was Sirius. And they hated that even more. Because Sirius had been taught hope by the outside, where he was taught to scorn something so naïve inside those walls. But Sirius had seen it and he’d latched on to it and he’d shared it with Regulus and he’d nurtured it. A Black through and through —prideful and ambitious. Accomplishing things the simple couldn’t accomplish.
Regulus had wanted to be that. Regulus had wanted to be just like him. Because their parents had been proud. Charming and wolfish and charismatic. Brilliant and strong and shrewd when he wanted to be. Regulus wasn’t any of those things. He had no charm, no want for socialising or sucking up to people. He had brilliance; but the type that was manufactured, not that type that was genuine. He was every opposite possible, and he hadn’t wanted to be.
Sirius’ only flaw had been that he cared. He cared about the people he bewitched and laughed with and ate with and wooed. He cared about them and not just about the power their names could wield. So Regulus —being his brother’s perfect opposite— had learnt not to care. If Sirius was warm like the sun, Regulus could be cold like the night. Just as the day had its admirers, so too did the night. Regulus would simply be a master of the dark.
He’d not realised how much he’d missed the light until the shadows were swallowing him whole. How much he’d missed warmth until his bones rattled from the cold. How much he’d missed life until only the lifeless stared back at him with cold eyes.
James Potter —meddling and annoying, pretty eyed bastard that he was. Shone brighter even that Sirius. Warmer. Cared more than Sirius could. Because where Sirius cared for those who mattered to him, James cared for everyone. Potters —perfect as they came— and still he’d chosen to take a Black under his wing. Provide sanctuary; provide friendship. No matter how hard he’d tried —and make no mistake, Regulus had tried— there was no way to actually hate the bastard. Not in any way that wasn’t superficial. Not in any way that could actually cut to the bone.
If anything, Regulus had to be grateful to him, really. It was only his pushing that had made either of them see sense.
It’s long before his breaths come anything close to even; long before he can pull them past his chest and hold it for a few moments. The tears are relentless yet, but his breaths, at least, are ease. They pull warm in his chest and sit there laced in mint and leather and herbs he can’t quite name. Warm in the way the Gryffindor common room is warm; something indescribable and brittle almost. Like he could break it. He forgets often Sirius won’t let him break.
It’s longer yet before Sirius rolls onto his back, knowing —always knowing; it’s scary how much he knows— that Regulus won’t exactly be able to face him when his throat has unlocked enough for words to come out as something other than a strangled mess. Regulus appreciates it, even if he remains silent, picking at a loose thread on Sirius’ jumper he’s pretty sure is Lupin’s, but he’s not judging.
“You’re gonna have to talk to me, Reggie.”
Regulus knows this, of course. James Potter again. He’s to be blamed for all the problems in Regulus’ life. Regardless, he had insisted it was important to speak to each other. About feelings and other such drab. Regulus isn’t the most fond of this speaking rule, but even he has to admit it’s solved many of their problems. Doesn’t make it any less torturous. He could always try to make a joke out of the situation, but his jokes tend to fall flat on a good day. And as he’s already established, it’s not really been the best of days. Apparently, he’s not really the humorous type. Who’d have thought?
He doesn’t know how long he’s gone quiet until there’s a thumb slipping beneath the sleeve of his jumper and pressing there; probably looking for moisture, probably looking for raised skin. It should have been easy to fix; some dittany, some magic shit from Pomfrey. Except. Regulus had been very adamant on them being a mark. He’d been very thorough. It’s not exactly something to be proud of.
He presses his face more firmly into Sirius’ shoulders, swallows a heavy breath as he lets his brother poke and prod, ensure he’s still in one piece. “I didn’t do anything,” he assures softly, closing his eyes tighter and focussing on the blooming swirls of colour trapped there behind his eyelids. He feels Sirius’ exhale more than he hears the sound of it; breathes softly and tries to let his fingers brush against Sirius’ where they’ve locked around his wrist.
“Then why are we crying?”
“Apparently,” and Regulus does let his tone run dry, going for humour despite knowing it’s going to fail. What can he say? He’s just not a funny person. “The silence isn’t very fond of me. Tends to make friends with the voices in my head. They’ve never heard of keep your friends close and your enemies closer it seems.” He hums gently when he feels Sirius’ wrist tighten, obviously not enjoying his efforts in lightening the situation. “Or they’re just shitty friends,” he decides to add, tone contemplative.
“Mm, and the voices are making you seek forgiveness?” Maybe his humour’s worked this once. He’ll have to give Barty a gift for his advice of always sticking to the bit. “Seems awfully religious of them. I didn’t know they partook in religion.”
“What can I say? I’m just a terrible person.” He doesn’t actually mean to say that; comes too close to what the voices in his head want him to say. But there’s a large, uncomfortable part anticipating Sirius’ response to this. An itch beneath his skin the curls like fire in his gut and threatens to rip through his very person if he’s not given clarity.
“No worse than the rest of us, I’d say,” he says, like he knows what Regulus is asking; like he knows what Regulus is hiding. “I say there’s no being a good person if we aren’t at least a little terrible. It’s like purity; purity can’t have ever existed in there didn’t exist things to purify. And there’s no being a fucking godawful person if there wasn’t even the slightest bit of good in there to begin with. Nothing can’t exist without something.”
“Pettigrew’s been teaching you the ways of philosophy again?” Because Regulus can’t actually speak past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t want to be here anymore and there’s no place else he’d rather be. It’s a risk, he doesn’t know if the tears have actually dried yet, but he open his eyes, adjusts so his chin rest high on Sirius’ arm and just —just looks at his brother for a moment.
Sirius eyes are barely open, staring up at the underneath of his canopy, hair splayed out beneath, the shorter strands curling near his chin tickling against Regulus’ temple. He looks relaxed like this. At ease in a way Regulus doesn’t see him in the Great Hall; doesn’t see him, passing through the corridors. His breaths are slow and even and his nails —long and dark and glossy and reminiscent of Marlene’s after Dorcas had done them which leads Regulus to wondering if Dorcas had done Sirius’ nails— are scratching idly at Regulus wrist, drawing against the length of his fingers and back down to tap against the dip in his palm. He looks for all the world like this conversation isn’t even happening and Regulus hadn’t come to him specifically with the intention of crying on him because he never comes to him unless he needs something and fuck— the tears will not leave him alone today.
“I’m not a good person Regulus,” and it crashes into him the way the waves crash into their home shores. Steady, inevitable. Washes over his feet and undoes his balance and sings him a little song of lure. Calls him farther into the ocean to sink beneath the waves and give in to eternal peace. “Despite what you think, you have a bias running for you and more guilt than you know what to do with,” Regulus sort of wants to bite him, because for a moment there —for a moment it sort of felt like this might have been going somewhere. “But I’m not a good person. I’ve never been. You’re not a good person either,” it should hurt. It should fucking sting coming from Sirius. But it’s balm cool; like burn cream on scorched skin. His eyes are still fixed on the canopy, his body is still relaxed where Regulus is pressed against him. But Regulus can feel his heartbeat, can feel the spike in it. It’s obvious and not in the way he drags a leg up so it’s flat against the bed. Regulus can’t see his foot, and he knows exactly the pattern his toes are pressing into the mattress with.
“We’ve never been good people.” Regulus shifts as subtly as he can because he wants to see Sirius’ face. Not just parts of it. “And we probably never will be. But we’re not all bad. There’s one thing we share, you know. One thing that makes us seem so much better than we actually are.”
“What?” Regulus asks, voice no more than a whisper, like a threaded feather; a disintegrating quill. There’s never been anything he and Sirius share. Nothing besides their love of flying and the way they look. Nothing.
“Our loyalty.”
Regulus blinks at him, can’t help it. Can’t help but be confused by the way Sirius says it; as though it’s something great and monumental. As though it should be something Regulus should be proud of; Regulus should hold onto.
When Sirius’ eyes finally meet his, there’s something grave there. Something that feels like Regulus should latch onto it and hold it forever. Something that feels like it should be cherished. Regulus cherished everything Sirius gives him, from the bitterest pomegranate to the sweetest grape. Keeps it all locked away in a little box in his heart. This feels more like something he should hide in a locket and keep strung around his neck.
“We’re terrible people,” he repeats it, and his voice dips with it, his eyes darken, the hand on Regulus wrist tighten in a way that’s nearly painful but not quite. Regulus is quite sure his breath stops entirely. “And we won’t ever be Regulus. We’re not good, not even to the people we love. We simply become what they need, because that is what we need.”
“I—“
“I’m a terrible person Regulus,” Regulus wants to dispute with him, refute it; it’s on the tip of his tongue, but Sirius is faster. Has always been. Will probably always be. “And still, you find good in your heart to see me as something else. You give me enough to be something other than terrible for you. You trust me enough to be what you need when you need it. You’ve used me all your life Regulus, and I’ve let you. And I’ve used you. We’ve never been good people. Good people don’t survive.”
“But—“
When Sirius smiles, it’s knife sharp and manic. It’s almost pretty. “He’s alive because we’re awful. That’s what balance means. Some of us have to be terrible for others to be wonderful. And that, my dear Reggie, is something to wear with pride. We work from the shadows because there can never be light without darkness.
He’s quiet while he lets it sink it; while he takes in the entirety of Sirius’ words. It’s —it’s strange. How it makes him feel. He’d come here for comfort, and he’d gotten it. But it also feels like he has so many more questions. It’s all so strange. He doesn’t even understand why Sirius is telling him this.
“So don’t ever,” there’s a venom there; an ice there that pulls Regulus right out of his thoughts and back into the weight, the rush of Sirius’ words. “Ever,” it’s borderline feral again. Mad in a way that threatens the integrity of his sanity; of both their sanity. “Apologise to me, Regulus. We’ve done what we’ve done and made our peace. Don’t ever think it was an easy thing for me, severing ties with our parents so completely. I hate them, Reggie. And still—“
“They’re our parents,” he says it like sin.
“They’re our parents,” if possible, Sirius’ voice is softer, uttering the words like something forbidden. “I’ve never faulted you for that. And there’s a part of me that takes pride in you choosing me, for all the wrong reasons. You even being here feels like one last fuck you to them. So thank you for that.”
It starts as a scoff, small and disbelieving and almost offended. Before he can actually grasp what’s transpired, they’re both laughing, holding each other and their stomachs and losing breath and losing tears. It’s —a weight off of Regulus’ shoulders. A contentment that curls warm in his stomach and settles there, purring. He’s an awful person, but he’s what he needs to be. He’s everything he needs to be for the people who love him. For the people he loves.
And some part of him; all of him, really —can live quite comfortably with that.
In that dark corner of his heart that still holds on to the light of goodness. That tiny part of him that balances the bad, he thinks, probably for the first time in longer than it should have been, he thinks that he loves his brother. He thinks that he always has, despite not having felt like that in so long. He thinks one day he’ll be able to tell him. One day it will feel like he’d never betrayed him. One day all those rifts and tears will be mended. Not perfectly, but good enough. Strong enough to withstand anything.
One day, he’ll have the strength.
But he’s not strong enough right now.
So he laughs with his brother, he inhales the scent of mind and leather and herb, and he lets himself believe that even terrible people with bad days can turn them around.
It’s still early; maybe this day won’t be so bad after all.
Because, everyone has good days.