There is a general rule in Regulus’ life, something important, a Rule™.
Regulus doesn’t drink.
It makes people sloppy, makes them unreliable, makes them prone to saying things they mean, and things they don’t, intermingling together in ways that confuse him. It blurs the rules, and Regulus cannot afford to be around people with blurry rules. Rules are blurry enough as they are without the influence of alcohol.
Sober people make him unsteady, and unsteady people make him uneasy.
In all of his years at Hogwarts, Regulus got drunk once. Hidden from view, he’d been so sure he would be safe. But of course, he should have known better.
Safe places have never been Regulus’ strong suit.
⏳
It’s James who finds him.
The door swings open silently, and Regulus first catches sight of the ornate eagle knocker, its brass surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. Then comes James' face, peeking into the otherwise deserted Ravenclaw common room. His eyes are focused, almost meticulous in their search, darting around the room. He is almost ready to close the door again and go on his merry way to find what he’s looking for, when his gaze lands on Regulus’ form.
The Christmas tree lights up at exactly the wrong time, bathing the room in a warm, festive glow and lighting him up, giving his hiding spot away.
The door closes with a soft click, but James is inside the room now, surveying the room with a perplexed expression. He turns this way, that way, eyes narrowing as he tries to piece together the puzzle before him. Trying to find the reason why Regulus is slumped against the wall, looking between James and the Christmas tree with a carefully blank expression that keeps on slipping.
The lights are flickering on and off, wrapped around the Christmas tree like a swarm of luminescent fireflies, casting dancing shadows across the room and playing across James' face, expression a little confused, but doing his best to add up things that won’t add up.
Regulus isn’t an add-up kind of person. Most of what he decides to do isn’t wired by any sort of conviction or desire to maintain appearances. Regulus is aimless, and as such his decisions aren’t made through an elaborate process of pros and cons, of will this take me where I want to go?
It’s apathy, he thinks.
Flat-lining before death, indifference before his time, Regulus knows he shouldn’t feel this lack of, constantly, this void where feelings should surge and ebb. Knows it’s a sign of something worse, something bad. Something deeper.
His days blend into one another like a colorless ocean, monochrome world in muted colors. His attempts at normalcy fit him like a poorly tailored suit, loose in some places, suffocatingly tight in others. He moves through his days watching life happen around him, disconnected from its pulse.
Regulus will either do things or won’t, and either will or won’t regret that decision.
Today’s decision was ill-advised, a realization that dawns on Regulus only when James doesn’t leave. He walks further in instead, eyebrows drawing together the more he takes in Regulus’ state. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, shoes making a soft scuffing noise against the stone floor. He looks out of place here, a Gryffindor amidst the blue and silver hues of the Ravenclaw quarters. He should go back to Gryffindor, where he belongs. In the light.
James rubs the back of his neck, voice soft and uncertain. “Regulus? Are you okay?”
Ah.
Ah, shit.
Regulus isn’t okay, actually.
He can feel the warm flush on his cheeks, the spinning room, courtesy of one too many Firewhiskeys. He’s ill-equipped to lie through his teeth like this, words likely to stumble and fall out without his explicit consent. The solution is evident: James needs to leave, so Regulus can be unhappy and drunk in the quiet darkness of the Ravenclaw common room.
He opens his mouth to say so, to please go away James, I’m clearly going through something, can’t you see I’m disintegrating, barely more than a pile of sand, I’m standing here, minutes away from a solid gust of wind sweeping me away. Unfortunately, what comes out is a warped version of it. What comes out is, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”
James opens his mouth to reply, except he doesn’t, the words get stuck somewhere on the way out, there’s a cough, right before James tilts his head. “Coffee spoons?”
Regulus fiddles with the hem of his shirt, feeling the lump in his throat grow. “'For I have known them all already, known them all—have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,'” he quotes quietly. “It’s from a Muggle poet. He's... he's just so weary of everything. He’s bored of his life, tired of the routine, seeks connection but can’t escape his own inertia. There’s this pervasive, gnawing loneliness eating away at him. He’s in a trap of his own making.” His voice trails off, eyes dropping to the frayed edges of his shirt, worn from the constant stimming. Better the shirt than his fingers, already red and sore.
The bottle of Firewhiskey, its label peeling slightly at the edges, finds its way to his lips again. Regulus takes a healthy swig. It burns on the way down, which is perfect. Burning, transforming into embers and cinders, getting whisked away by some unseen, merciful gust.
“Okay,” James says, tentative, and then doesn’t say anything else for a minute, seemingly at a loss. Finally, “Are you cold?”
“Yes.”
And that’s all that happens for a while, James busying himself with making a fire. Arranging kindling in the fireplace.
The awkwardness in the room swells, almost palpable, but Regulus refuses to shoulder it. James is the one who burst into the common room for no reason. It’s not Regulus’ fault, he’s not to blame for this.
He is to blame for a lot of other things, but not this.
Soon enough there is a new source of light in the dark common room, a Christmas tree and a crackling fire, it’s easier for James to watch Regulus’ face, which he goes back to doing. He stands close to the fire, its light reflecting in his eyes, and he moves uncertainly, taking a few steps towards Regulus, then hesitantly backing away—debating.
Eventually, James does something in-between, settling down with his back against the opposite wall, a few feet away from Regulus, and he. Observes. Gaze steady and searching.
The scrutiny makes Regulus uncomfortable, being seen like this, like James is trying to piece together a puzzle, turning the pieces he knows into the current image that doesn’t quite fit into James’ understanding.
Regulus remains where he is, doing what he came to Ravenclaw to do, which is drink and not be found.
It’s unusually empty this Christmas holiday, but even then, there are a few stragglers—none in Ravenclaw though. Regulus didn’t want to stay in the Slytherin common room—too easy to find him there. The Astronomy Tower was a non-starter, seeing as it’s the easiest place for James to find him, which—
Well.
James found him either way, didn’t he?
He has a tendency to do that, finding Regulus where he hides, wherever it may be. It’s a terrifying skill.
It takes a while—several shots of Firewhiskey on Regulus’ part—for James to put the image together, to draw a conclusion. He looks extremely sober, eyes drawn and face grave. It doesn’t suit him, Regulus decides. James’ face looks too lovely to be so ravaged. That, too, is Regulus’ fault. He is to blame for the fault lines on James’ face. His disappearing acts, his push and pull, the way he wants James one second and avoids him the next.
The fact that James is still around, hasn’t given up on him yet, isn’t reassuring. It’s equally terrifying.
Regulus doesn’t do well with situations where something gets to become a routine. To his defense, he’s tried.
That’s what the push and pull is all about, isn’t it, pushing James away and forcing him to never expect anything stable from Regulus; giving him hope and taking it away; promising maybes only to speak of an after that’s clearly defined. He’s been laying down traps and plotting his escape route because that’s what you do when you’ve lived Regulus’ life. You plan escape routes for yourself and for the poor people unlucky enough to want to get to know you, a habitual strategy born from a life filled with uncertainties.
Regulus has learned early on that it’s important, giving a wide berth, planning strategic routes for all parties involved. If you don’t, the people who want to leave will do so by stepping on your carefully laid plans.
And that. That isn’t something Regulus is willing to sacrifice.
The problem Regulus is facing now is that James hasn’t behaved according to plan.
He walked closer when Regulus allowed it, and steered clear when he clearly wanted to be left alone, gauging Regulus' mood. Never asked for more than what Regulus was capable of giving, never overstepping the boundaries set by his silent cues.
It’s what happens during interactions with skittish, terrified creatures. You hand them a few treats and you wait, little gestures of kindness, do it again and again, closer to your house until you can reach a hand, until the skittish creature accepts the treat directly from your hand, closer and closer until the creature’s on your doorstep.
Regulus, somehow, ended up in James’ house, feeding on James' offerings like a wary, wild bird, and still James never really relaxed.
It’s like he knows a skittish creature can never truly be tamed.
It must be exhausting, loving something that can escape so quickly, something with headlights constantly reflected in their eyes, something that looks like it could bolt at any moment.
Regulus slept in James’ bed twice. Both times, waking like slamming the magazine of a gun in place, sudden and rushed, breathing like fear and oh my god, James’ hand never tried to touch him. Twice, James woke up all at once, hands up in the air, eyes guarded, unable to tell what Regulus would do, unwilling to speak before Regulus.
Ever so careful.
How tiring it must be, to cradle something so dangerously breakable. No wonder James looks drained. His hands must be exhausted to hold something that doesn’t know how to be held. That could escape at any time.
“What are you thinking about?”
James’ voice resonates in the otherwise empty room, barely audible over the sound of the crackling fire. It breaks his heart to hear James so depleted.
He’s the vampire, he’s sucking out James’ lifeforce by being an anchor James refuses to let go of.
He’s dragging down the boy he loves.
Oh, it’s tragic.
And Regulus is thinking about so many things, all the time, thoughts crowding his brain like an ever-lasting fog of too much, and Occlumency is good but at what price, methodically erasing his emotions and leaving him barely more than a shell, detached from the chaos.
But.
But, well, all these thoughts have the same root, at the heart of it, don’t they.
Regulus takes another swig.
“I’m thinking that I want to be happy.”
He means for it to be done. He means to stop there, but his mind is running and his Occlumency is full of holes, dug in by the Firewhiskey. It’s a dangerous game, drinking in James’ presence. There are truths ready to be unearthed, mind wantingto serve them on a platter, wanting to give James the tools to help him. It’s a little late to ask for help now, though. “Could you show me how it’s done?”
“Oh, you are so pissed, love. If—”
But Regulus is on a roll, truths spilling out faster than he can catch them. “And you look so pretty—like—like the sun. And I—I could watch forever while you shine on everyone.” He needs to stop. Now, ideally. Now, he needs to stop—“I’m scared of forever ending.”
James’ back lifts from the wall, straight as a rod all of a sudden because ofcourse.
James has always been wonderful at reading in-between the lines, knows exactly what Regulus didn’t say, unraveling the unspoken words woven into the fabric of what he did say.
“Regulus.”
“Don’t sound like this,” Regulus pleads.
“Like what, love, scared?” James says, and he doesn’t sound scared. He sounds frightened, drenched in it. Terrified. A cocktail of all of the worst feelings a person can feel, each sip more bitter than the last. It compresses Regulus’ heart, his chest, his entire being. Pain coming from within is one thing, but witnessing it in the person you love is impossible to describe.
It hurts. The pain gnaws at him more because he doesn’t know how to make it better, he’s the artisan of James’ suffering. He’s the love dealer, handing out the needles James uses to puncture his own soul.
“I don’t want you to be scared,” Regulus whispers.
“Regulus…” James stops. Seems to weigh the pros and cons of what’s to come, what he wants to say, Regulus sees it coming from a mile away, knows what James is going to say. His hand instinctively goes to grip his forearm in a protective gesture, like one does when covering a child’s ear so they don’t hear the bad thing.
It’s kind of like this, really.
And James looks at Regulus’ gesture, chokes on a sob, the sound raw and unfiltered, and says,
“I love you.”
The reply forms on Regulus’ lips before he even realizes it, the truth spilling out as naturally as breathing. “I’m sorry I love you, too.”
It’s the wrong combination of words, or perhaps it’s in the wrong order. Either way, it’s wrong, because James doesn’t smile. He starts crying instead.
It’s the bad kind of tears, the quiet ones. James’ expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t start sobbing. But then again, one doesn’t start sobbing in front of a skittish creature. When the creature inevitably takes out its claws and escapes from your grasp, dramatics are futile. After all, weren’t you the one who lured it in in the first place? And isn’t all of this your fault, really?
Sobbing implies externalized grief, doesn’t it?
James doesn’t have anything to externalize, he’s the architect of his own sorrow. None of this is Regulus’ fault, he gave the other boy all the exit signs James could have wanted—asked for.
But Regulus is an anchor, he drags things down.
James is in the water now, getting tired of swimming. He’ll stop fighting soon, realize there is no lighthouse to guide him home. He goes on his hands and knees, starts crawling towards Regulus, and Regulus lets him. He’s too drunk to pretend he’s not desperate for James’ skin against his, a form of comfort he hasn’t found a dupe for.
James’ head ends up on Regulus’ thighs, and Regulus’ hands go to tenderly push the thick dark hair away from James’ forehead, tracing his temples in a gesture so full of love anyone walking by might wonder what the cause for the tears could be.
They make a perfect portrait, a loving couple, something solid. No one would know it’s a crumbling sham, falling to pieces, the killer and the victim holding each other.
And you’d be forced to acknowledge how hard it is to understand the scene happening in the otherwise empty Ravenclaw common room.
It looks like love, but it is grief.
James’ hands go underneath his chin, he doesn’t try to reach out to the other boy, which Regulus is thankful for. They’re facing the same direction, staring straight at the burning fire, and perhaps it’s easier for them to talk like this, while their eyes aren’t catching one another.
“You know, I never wanted us to be easy. I just—didn’t expect it to be this hard.” It’s a wet confession, drowned in so many silent tears it sounds almost toneless in an effort to not sound like anything.
It takes ages for the reply to come out, going through various options in Regulus’ mouth before it settles. “The worst part in all of this,” he replies, so carefully, “is that I can’t even hate you, because I know how much you tried.”
Made it almost bearable, this final year in Regulus’ life. But he’s branded now, on a downhill spiral. James knows it’s done, has suspected for a while but he knows now, should be disgusted, should be appalled—
“What if we don’t go back?”
“James.”
“What if we don’t go back, Regulus,” James presses.
“James, please—”
“Regulus, Regulus—do you want to go back?”
No.
No.
No.
Never.
Regulus wants to take James’ hand, wants to backtrack, wants to take his forearm back and his agency, wants to turn himself into a Muggle and disappear, James’ hand firmly clasped in his.
Oh, oh, this is tragic.
“You make everything so difficult, my love,” Regulus replies softly. Gently, prying James’ fingers open so he can walk away from James’ grasp. He wants nothing more than to stay nestled there. If only he could, but there is a place inside him where all his defeats fester, and James needs to join the pile, Regulus cannot be saved.
Still, James tries, and oh, he’s so good at it.
“I am giving everything to everyone. This, I want for myself.”
You, I want for myself.
Regulus could die from these words alone, but James isn’t done, lifting his head from Regulus’ lap and lifting to his knees, hands framing Regulus’ face, forcing their eyes to meet. “I want an Earth shattering reality where you hold my hand and it is not a dream.”
There are some moments that change a person’s life. James doesn’t think kissing another person should be part of it. It’s just a kiss.
Except lips matter. They form shapes and these shapes form words, these words lead to actions.
James is kissing Regulus, conveying what cannot be conveyed in language.
If Hell is a place, it is right there with you.
You are the only person capable of turning Heaven into a place I never want to see.
Regulus’ eyes are tearing up now, too. He’s kissing James back, salt-ending kisses and mostly silent words, though some manage to escape. “I’m not mad,” Regulus says. “I can’t blame you,” he says. “I’m upset by me too,” he says.
James is just as vocal in his voracity, vicious where Regulus is resigned. “Pieces of you keep coming out of me like draining blood, and we made plans—now I have to step on promises I made to you.”
“James.”
“But what I am most afraid of, is reaching the conclusion that I can live without the one I thought I couldn’t live without.”
This breaks Regulus down.
Everything else, Regulus could withstand, but not this.
This is the confession. It’s the truth laid bare, the fear of moving on.
They’re so young, still, moving on will happen regardless of whether James wants it or not, and this is the fear. Ten, twenty years down the line, James will be healed. Rage has an expiration date, and so does grief. Sadness cannot stick to a person’s skin forever. Eventually, you let go. Doesn’t matter, how strong your grip is.
Doesn’t matter, how impossible it feels in the moment.
Doesn’t matter, whether you think you never will.
This is time’s greatest strength, and its worst curse. It goes on.
Regulus is limestone, breaking down under the weight of James’ words. He’ll be forgotten, is what James is saying. James might hold on, might do his very best to remember, might rebel against time passing, it’s a futile battle. James will lose.
No one wins against time, and they are both so young.
James has decades in front of him.
Regulus is trying to breathe, getting choked by the realization that James is going to live an entire life after him.
That Regulus will become a chapter, when James is the entire story.
James rests his forehead against Regulus’, framing his cheeks with his hands, thumbs going to trace Regulus’ cheekbones, brushing the tears away. He swallows. “When I was little, I hated silence. My mom would sing me a lullaby until I fell asleep, put me in my crib and skitter out of the room without a sound. She would tiptoe to her room, slide under the blanket. On cue, I would cry,” he says, and Regulus starts shaking his head against James’ before he even realizes he’s doing it. “I think,” James continues, “silence was synonym of absence. I was terrified she would forget about me.”
And Regulus knows why James is telling him this, knows the tragedy of it all.
“I would never forget about you,” he whispers, it’s a vow.
“You’re going to d-d—Regulus, Regulus,” and it’s another breakdown on top of the one that’s already happening, a new rush of tears, the words battling, “You’re going to die.”
“I’m so sorry. I will never forget about you.”
“Regulus, I’m—I’ll do anything. I’ll beg, I’ll—I don’t know how to help, I don’t know what to do, love, tell me, please,tell me what to do, I don’t want to say goodbye.” And then the words are gone and all that’s left is full on sobs, James unable to breathe under the weight of tears.
Regulus brings his hands in James’ hair and lets it run its course. There is nothing he can say that will fix it. He holds on, hands curled around James’ hair, memorizing the shape of the boy he’ll never forget, the boy he disappointed, the boy whose heart he's eating in voracious bites.
It takes long minutes for James to calm down enough for Regulus to consider speaking again. It’s gentle, leading James’ head into the crook of his neck, one hand in James’ hair and the other wrapping around his back, holding the broken boy together. A little wild, how someone so broken could hold another one together after smashing him against the stone cold floor.
They’re exchanging roles, killer and victim being tossed between them like a scalding ember, too hot to hold.
“Have you ever heard of 52 Hertz?” Regulus asks eventually.
James shakes his head, quiet in the crook of Regulus’ neck.
“52 Hertz is a whale. It's known as the loneliest whale in the world." It’s quiet, so Regulus continues, voice low. "It sings at a frequency of 52 Hertz. That's incredibly unusual, most whales sing at much lower frequencies. It's like—it’s speaking a language no other whale can understand." His eyes skip to where he can see the nape of James’ neck, index finger dragging down. It creates goosebumps where his finger touches, and Regulus wonders about skin memory. Whoever touches James after him, will the body remember? What his touch felt like? Will it be the best, will James forget? How can he imprint himself into James without ruining him forever? The selfish need to live in James forever, versus the selfless need to see James blossom and bloom again once he’s gone. “It’s screaming into the void," Regulus adds, "but here's the heart-wrenching part: they've never detected a response. 52 Hertz is calling out into the vast ocean, yearning for connection, but there's just silence."
James’ hand goes to grip at Regulus’ shirt. “I hear you, though.”
Regulus nods. “You do.”
“Then why…”
“You’re just one person, baby. You alone can’t hold another person above the water.”
“I can, I can—” James insists, voice rising slightly, desperation creeping in. He is shaking his head again, and Regulus needs to nip this in the bud, can’t leave James with the guilt.
“I’m dying on the ocean bed.”
“…Please.” James’ plea is barely audible.
“I am so glad, James. So glad you were there. So glad you showed me what being alive is supposed to mean, the good that can come out of a life well led.”
“I can show you more, I can do better—”
“James. You can’t. You have done everything, I love you for this. Thank you,” Regulus interrupts, hands reaching up to cup James' face gently.
“I don’t know how to be okay with it. I don’t know how to let you go.”
And perhaps it’s too harsh, perhaps James doesn’t need the extra shot while he’s down—“You cannot hold on to something that was never meant to be held.”
His hands move to grasp Regulus’ arms, to grasp something, to hope for something better, to—
“You’re breaking my heart.”
“In another life, James, you are holding my hand and it is not a dream.”
“What?” James asks.
“There are thousands of lives we’ve lived, and there are so many more where we’re arguing in the grocery aisle.”
Regulus is dissolving into James’ hands, time is running out, it’s wet—
“Regulus—”
“You need to wake up, James, the water is rising.”
“What? Regulus—” There’s water in his mouth, he’s drowning.
“James, remember I love you.” It’s gargled now, sounds further and further away—
“Regulus!”
“I can’t stay. I love you.”
James jackknifes awake.
⏳
James opens his eyes to the sun filtering in through the window like a gift, soft and inviting. The pastel sheets are warm against his skin but he’s sweating, it was a bad dream, a bad dream, just a bad dream.
Shaking his head, he sits up in bed, looking to the right. The sheets have been carelessly tossed aside, the space is empty—someone had slept here.
Pushing the confusion aside, he swings his legs over the bed, the hardwood floor cold under his feet. There’s a pair of well-worn plastic slippers with some kind of synthetic fur lining the inside, the word ‘Crocs’ lining the edges of each shoe. There are quirky charms, too, adorning the shoe—as if such a monstrosity needs embellishment: A heart, a stethoscope, waffles, and the word ‘baby’.
Carefully, he slips them on, the details from the dream already fading. Still, the unease remains.
With a deep breath to steady himself, he makes his way downstairs. There’s an aroma—batter—wafting through the air, mingling with the subtle scent of freshly brewed coffee. The smells guide him, leading him down a sunlit corridor and through a door that opens into a kitchen.
A man is at the stove, his back to James, movements fluid and practiced as he flips a pancake with ease, which sizzles as it hits the pan.
Off to the side, a toddler sits in a high chair, his small fingers playing with his breakfast, creating little mountains and valleys in his food. He’s babbling happily about dinosaurs, and the man periodically interjects, ‘eat your food, love’.
It’s so starkly different from the chaos of James' dream that it feels like stepping into another world altogether.
It’s almost too fragile to touch, this moment he’s witnessing, James doesn’t dare walk in further into the room. Turns out, he doesn’t need to.
“Dada!”
The toddler has spotted him and is now making a ruckus, trying to get out of his high chair to reach him, face turning red when he realizes he’s stuck, he can’t get to James.
James can’t get to the toddler either, stuck in the doorway with wide eyes.
“James, do you mind tur—” the man stops half way through his sentence, words trailing off as he turns and catches sight of James. Turns off the stove, puts the skillet to the side, and strides across the kitchen with determination. “Baby, are you okay?”
Hands framing his face, decidedly dry, warm, it feels like a homecoming.
James shakes his head again, and Regulus tilts James’ head down so he can kiss his nose. “James?”
“I love you,” James says, because it has to, because it’s so vital, because it’s all James has in him, he’s breaking with it. “I love you,” he repeats, “I love you. Do I tell you enough? I don’t tell you enough,” kisses Regulus back. Forehead, cheek, lips, showering him. “I love you, I love you both,” turning to Harry, “I love you too, buddy,” walking to the toddler and deactivating the safety lock on the high chair, lifting him up and nuzzling into the warmth of his baby, “I love you.”
“Dada!”
“James.” It’s said seriously enough that James stops to look at Regulus, mouth half-open in declaration. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
And James thinks about dreams and nightmares, about Christmas trees and lake-cold hands. He thinks about waking up in a warm home surrounded by the sound of life and the two people who give his life meaning, and smiles.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right. I had a bad dream.”