Regulus’ life has, so far, been one full of regrets. He regrets many things, too many to count almost.
He regrets small things, small moments in his life that should not run as rampant in his brain as they do. He regrets letting Sirius into his room before hiding his journal when he was 13. He regrets buying a ring that ended up being too big for him, having to give it to Sirius, as much as it pained him. He regrets not having his bed in the left corner of his room at home, which would have left him far more room to move around than it being in the middle.
Yet, Regulus regrets many things. Things that are indescribable, and confusing to anyone who does not know his mind. Does not have it memorised like a map, like the path you can unconsciously take home. Regulus regrets not looking at the stars with Sirius as a child. He regrets not letting himself feel pride. He regrets allowing himself to only accept praise when the words fell from the mouths of his parents. He regrets himself. He regrets Sirius. Most importantly, he regrets James.
He regrets every choice he made that lead to the moment he stands in. His back to the door, facing the mirror. James in the reflection, meeting his clone’s eyes. He regrets not pulling his shirt fully over his body five seconds sooner. He regrets the fabric that crushes his ribs and flattens his chest. Fabric James has repeatedly glanced at in the past thirty seconds.
They are uncomfortably still. Uncomfortably quiet. There is something lingering in the air, floating between them like stars in the solar system. Like the damp, tough sand between the tide and the soft beach. Before crossing over into acceptance, there must be a struggle. There must be a moment of harshness, of confusion, of an inexplicable feeling of loss. Regulus does not feel like he will ever reach that acceptance. The more seconds that pass, he feels as though he is sinking deeper into the damp sand below his feet. He feels his lungs become flooded with water, can almost taste the salt flooding his bloodstream, aching to allow the tide to crash out of his mouth. The tides of his words cannot form, they just crash and crash and crash, and oh. Oh, he has never been so fearful of the power a rough tide can hold.
“Shit. I’m sorry, Reg. I'll go. I'm sorry.”
James stumbles over his words, after taking a swift inhale. He turns quickly, fumbling with the door handle. Suddenly, it appears that opening a door is incredibly tasking, so much so that James is muttering curses under his breath. He's halfway at the door, almost away from the unbearable silence. Regulus regrets letting the tide take control of him. Regrets calling out to James, stating his name with a hint of urgency. Desperation.
James stops in his tracks, looking at Regulus over his shoulder. James is not made up of regret, not made up of tides. James is fire. But not a roaring, violent fire that burns anything in its path. James is the fireplace in the homely living room. James is warmth, he is comforting. He is the soft orange glow that lights up the skin and eyes of all those around him. Regulus is harsh. Cold. Battling at what surrounds him, using his ability to shut out those around him as his only defence. Fire and water cannot work, but Regulus hopes, no he prays, that this fire will hear him out.
He turns from his reflection, fiddling with the end of his shirt that he yanked down mere moments ago. He tilts his head towards the bed in the corner of the room. James catches on and moves across the dormitory to take a seat. He is clearly anticipating Regulus joining him, but Regulus remains standing. A distance is needed right now.
“it’s not what you think it is.”
That's all Regulus can allow to fall from his mouth. A lie. He regrets every time he lies. Especially to James.
“Reg...” James’ voice is soft. It's oh so soft. Kind, warm, understanding. God, Regulus cannot stand it.
“No, James. It's not. I'm not-”
Regulus can’t finish his sentence.
James is silent. He is patient. He's waiting for Regulus to finish his sentence. To lie again.
Regulus can’t.
Regulus feels tides bubbling up to his eyes. Threatening to spill into a tsunami. And James, wonderfully, annoyingly observant James notices.
“Regulus, we don’t need to talk about it. We can pretend I never walked in here.”
“Why are you even here?” Regulus never even considered why James would be going to the Slytherin dormitories. Not in the moment, at least.
James is bashful, Regulus sees flames licking at the surface of his skin, tainting his cheeks a softly glowing red.
“I, uh. I just wanted to, well. Merlin. I just wanted to say hi, I guess. I don’t really have a valid reason, which makes this whole situation even more of my fault. I should have knocked, Reg. I'll go, we can pretend it never happened. I promise, I won’t tell anyone. “
Of course. Regulus would expect nothing less from James. He never needs a reason to be kind, to check in on others. All he wanted to do was say hi to him.
“No. No, we should talk about, um, it.”
He makes his way over to the bed, sits beside James. He still keeps a distance between them.
James nods and remains silent. Says nothing. He waits for Regulus to breath. Regulus doesn’t think he’s properly breathed since James walked in. So, he does, he breathes. He evaluates his regrets, every moment of his life so far. He works out what to tell James, how to tell it. And James lets him.
“I was eight. When I realised, that is.” He rushes the final sentence once James furrows his brows in confusion. They are immediately fixed back.
“Sirius cut my hair. Before Hogwarts. It looked good, I felt right. If that makes sense. I felt like something shifted. I was only eleven. I still feel that way sometimes. Most of the time I don’t.”
“Don’t? How do you mean?”
And James says it in such a careful, genuinely curious way that Regulus can’t deny him.
Only once has Regulus uttered the entire story to anyone. It was to Sirius, so long ago that Regulus can hardly believe it was real. So much has changed. So much about each of them. Yet, if he had to tell it again, he would trust Sirius with it in a heartbeat.
“Sometimes I don’t feel right. It's hard to explain. It's just, sometimes I see other people and feel like I don’t look right enough. And just, fuck, I want to look like them. I want specific parts of others. I want arms like Evan. Hair like Barty. A nose like Remus. A smile like, well you get the idea.” Regulus cuts himself off. James gets the idea. Regulus glances up from the hands in his lap for the first time, and he knows. James gets the idea, and he lets a small smile fall onto his lips.
Never in his life has Regulus been so envious of another person. The sun sits behind his smile, his eyes, it floods his mind.
“Thank you for telling me.” James responds.
“I mean, not like I had much of a choice. You walked right in.”
At that, James’ face drops, his brows furrowing once again. He shifts his body, moving closer to Regulus and turning his body to face him. Regulus feels his body tense, his tides violently crashing at every inch of his being.
“You always have a choice, Regulus. I gave you an ultimatum, and you still chose to tell me. You chose to, and I'm thanking you for it. For trusting me. It's brave, Regulus. You're brave, and thank you for letting me see it.”
“You don’t hate me for it?”
Regulus' voice is almost begging. Begging for James to tell him the opposite of everything his parents have ever told him. That he isn’t disgusting, he isn’t a disappointment, he isn’t an abomination. That he is still the same Regulus. How he desperately needs to hear those words after spending the summer at home. He wasn’t allowed to feel the good parts, only the pure agony of feeling as though his parents will never recognise him.
James clasps Regulus’ hand in his, and Regulus doesn’t even blink. For once, physical contact is the least of his worries. Whatever falls from James’ mouth, whichever words he chooses, that is the only focus Regulus has right now.
“No.”
He is firm. Honest. Regulus can see it in his eyes, the eyes that he hasn’t been able to tear himself out of.
And that is all it takes. Regulus chokes. He chokes on every regret he has ever had, he chokes on the salt of the ocean, chokes on raw emotion. Raw joy, confusion, and he feels every emotion all at once. For a moment, James’ face drops further. It drops into panic, into fear. It drops until he meets Regulus’ eyes. Until he sees the gratefulness in his eyes. His features soften in recognition, and Regulus feels safe.
He covers his face with his hands. He lets himself cry. He lets himself feel the arms that wrap around him. He lets himself burrow his face into the warm chest in front of him. He lets himself feel. Feel how unfair it is. Feel everything he has hidden deep inside of him for the past several years. Why did it have to be him? If there is a God, then Regulus thinks God hates him. Hates him for not considering what his family would do. Has done. For making his skin itch, his lungs burn, his ribs bruise. For never providing him with a moment of peace. And equally, he hates God. For not making him like James. For not making him warm, comforting, looking exactly how he wishes to.
And through all of it, James holds him. And Regulus lets him. Let’s him see a side of him that he will be absolutely mortified by within the following hours. Yet, in the moment, he relishes. He relishes in the acceptance. The acceptance of his coldness from the warmth of James Potter.