Sometimes Sirius missed Regulus.
(That's a lie. He missed Regulus every hour, more than was acceptable. The moments when he envisioned impossible futures, if only the world had been kinder, if they had been luckier, if the family legacy had been less cruel, they threatened to break something that had been shattered for a long time. Those moments were the worst.)
But he doesn't admit it, partly because to admit it would be to betray everything they did for him, all the effort to save him, and partly because it's too humiliating.
Imagine leaving the house without shoes, with your bones burning from a recent crucio, imagine walking through the door knowing that your own brother did this to you. Imagine arriving at your best friend's house after walking for hours in the cold with bleeding feet and being greeted with so much love and concern that it makes your eyes burn and your body lose strength on the nearest couch. Imagine screaming as the kindest person you know heals you and whispers promises woven into wool. Imagine having your bones broken again to heal. Imagine trying to explain that you miss the person who did this to you.
So he never tells anyone, because it would be a betrayal of everything he is and everything they did for him. Betrayal of all the effort they put into getting him out of that house. But sometimes, when Sirius catches Regulus' gaze from across the common room and believes for a second that he was looking too, only to watch the polished silver of Regulus's eyes turn on him with as much indifference as one would expect from a real heir, Sirius can feel the weight of his eyes, old as the family tree, old as forks meant to be eyed and stab who comes too close.
Sirius never talks about it, Moony is too smart to try to overcome Sirius' unstable boundaries, but he's there watching Sirius pretend he doesn't care until they've had sex and Sirius breaks down crying under the tender, terrifying weight of being loved, and Remus knows exactly what hurts. If Remus wanted to lie, and he wanted to lie the very most part of it, he would say that didn't knew what to do. But his wolf did. An older, wiser part of his body always knew what to do. The older slice of his nature that was cruel and protective and unforgivable, In these moments, Remus tried not to think about anything other than Sirius. Sirius, his cub, his family, who had chosen him and was his to protect.
When Sirius finally fell asleep, exhausted and delicate like a child, and the wolf, the monster, was no longer in control, Remus felt angry. He was so little, his little dog. Little miracle of his. Sleeping curled up and hidden as if he was going to be attacked by a monster while he slept.
And all Remus can think of is when Sirius arrived at Hogwarts in his first year, eager and anxious and scared, walking like he was made out of stone, smiling like he was made out of stardust. Both of them never slept if they could help in the first days, fear pressing all the sides of their bodies. Instead, they talked. About everything. About nothing. About being an outsider. About the records they wanted to listen to and the concerts they wanted to go and the tattoos they wanted to get. And inside of it there was a promise of forward safety that grow larger every hour.
Remus learned to sleep after realizing he was a monster only once in the month. Sirius didn't make much progress before leaving home, his monsters chased him every day, but now they only chase him in his sleep. Thinking of it, he wrapped Sirius in a blanket, then opened a window and lit a cigarette. And then another. And then another.
The habits die hard. Remus has only so many secrets, but his bitterness, that raging thing in his chest that had the habit to take place on his stomach too, is the one he kept most for himself. This bitterness is empty and whole like a battlefield, more tiring than anything in the world. Remus is bitter and paranoid and lifeless and judgmental and angry all the time, of everything and anything.
Of his terribly flabby father who can barely look him in the eye because now he's a monster, and his depressed mother who fell on a knife “accidentally,” she said, but everyone knew the truth and gave him looks of pity, and everything else, everything else that was unfair with the people he loved happening now.
For Sirius that was there bruised and hurt and scared for his brother who had the nerve to use his wand against him. They would have hurt him if he hadn’t done that. He justified that day, his eyes empty. Remus didn't respond, instead he hugged him until he felt his bones and was sure he was still there. Hurt and sore and fragile and crying, but there. He doesn't know to this day whether he should care that Regulus was just a child, just like Sirius, or that he didn't want to be hurt. All he feels is hot, heavy anger that has been carrying him his entire life. But he doesn't say that. He never says.
Most days, Sirius misses who Regulus used to be.
He remembers the first time Regulus did magic, they were only three and four years old. They were playing in the sun and it was autumn, the flowers in the garden were fading for the next season, but Regulus loved them so much. Sirius felt his heart explode with pride at that moment. Proud of Regulus, his little brother, his family. He always liked flowers, which is why Sirius stole an old book on herbology from the library for his birthday as a gift. Now you can learn everything about them. He promised, even though neither of them could read. But Regulus hugged him and Sirius looked around so no one could see, and anyways, the flowers were fading and Regulus charmed them to life again. It was his first magic, the result of a kindness that couldn't grow there. Sirius was proud, but he said, don't do that around Mom, understand? And Regulus nodded, the flowers wilted again.
It's funny how much he remembers that garden the night he ran. The frozen grass burning the sole of his feet and pocking like needles. The frozen trees, the aching cold in his bones.
Once, when James is laid in the bed with Regulus, all sore and , after an exceptionally bad summer, he thinks about them. How they are different. How they are the same. How Sirius built himself on the emptiness of that house, but Regulus built himself in the emptiness. He has always been a solitary creature, prone to melancholy, like a slippery pearl made from the nactar of an infection. That, James knows, is the core of the hungry. His heart, starving and wanting heart. That's what makes Regulus so hard to leave, so easy to abandon.
Sometimes James sees him looking at Regulus from afar, laughing sharply with his death eaters colleagues. Not friends, Regulus doesn't have friends, only allies and enemies that he keeps close. You did everything you could. He says, quietly, trying to be reassuring, and it always ends up sending Sirius into a downward spiral. How could he have failed at the most important thing? Sirius doesn't say that. He nods and tells himself that he chose to stay, he could have left if he wanted to.
And then Regulus disappears, and Sirius's world shrinks to too-short breaths and expands again into a pain so deep it blinds all the rest of the world.
Sirius goes crazy. James looks empty and desperate and Sirius would have noticed if he wasn't drowning in his own betrayal and agony. He looks for Dumbledore who greets him as if he knew what he wanted, he gives him a sad and knowing smile. War is an orphanage, Mr. Black. He says a little too convinced, like he was mourning too.
The habits of that house never die. Sirius doesn't realize how close he is to a panic attack until Remus grabs him by the shoulders and forces him to breathe. They sit on the floor outside Dumbledore's office — Sirius lets his body collapse into Remus arms like a bag of bones and Remus lifts him gently — and smokes a few cigarettes together.
He can't explain why it feels like such a huge loss, Regulus hadn't been around for a few years anyway. But Sirius could still watch him from afar and make sure he was safe and away from that damned house. He still remembers how he came back the first Christmas after Sirius ran away with the Potters, bruised and angry and empty, limping on one leg. Not even the crucio saved him from being hurt in the end. And the worst of it is that Regulus who took the place of heir after that was the same one who had enchanted the flowers, just in a different stage of emptiness.
Then Sirius gets up and pretends nothing happened. The habits of that house never die. Indifference is your best friend. Sirius doesn't look for Regulus after that. He chose Voldemort when he was placed in Slytherin, sealed his fate when he stopped attending Hogwarts mid-year. Sirius tells himself that he didn't give up too soon.
Sirius has two years of silence in the radio before he wakes up after a sleepover with the girls and absentmindedly picks up the daily prophet, and Regulus' name is there. The words heir and dead next to it. The world shrinks and expands again and there is nowhere to go. The walls of the small apartment that Sirius had always loved for being small were suddenly too small for his own skin.
He can't breathe.
Suddenly Sirius is sixteen again and the world is spinning too fast.
Regulus, you wouldn't do that.
Crucio.
Crucio.
Crucio.
The world shrinks to the crimson red of Regulus' wand and expands to his laughter when they were still children.
See what I did!
Sirius, look what I've done!
The world shrinks.
Not him. Please, not him.
The world expands.
The flowers bloom in autumn.
The world shrinks.
The flowers fade again.
The world shrinks and expands in the rhythm of Sirius' chest. The words his mother whispered in his mind turned against him with all her might.
His little brother. Always his little brother.