Chapter 1
The first time they meet, James is on the beach.
He's sitting on the sand beside Sirius—who's busy making out with a girl, whatshername. He thinks Sirius himself doesn't remember her name, which certainly says something. Peter has disappeared long ago to fetch them drinks, and hasn't been seen for approximately three hours. James doesn't worry too much, because he is sixteen—they are sixteen and sixteen means invincible; sixteen means nothing can touch them; sixteen means freedom.
Lying back on the sand, he looks at the sky— huge canvas of sunset colours, pink, orange, the light blue of day fading to be replaced with the night's black blue; small, twinkling stars scattered like snow, alien lights from other, distant worlds. He sighs, his bare chest rising up and down, trying to ignore the sounds beside him but failing miserably. He purses his lips and sits up on his elbows, turning to his friend.
"Sirius mate," he says, attempting a smile.
"Hmm?"
He rolls his eyes. "Can you take your girlfriend and be intimate somewhere else?"
Sirius sighs, stands up, offering to his companion a hand. She glares at him—she's beautiful, blond and tanned, eyes narrowed—and rejects the outstretched palm, her angry gaze shifting to James. The anger in her eyes reminds him of Sirius' anger, a fury lasting forever and always, a resentment towards the world.
"My name is Marlene McKinnon," she says through gritted teeth, "and this—" she gestures towards Sirius— "is not my boyfriend."
"Should I be offended?" Sirius asks James, raising an eyebrow as he folds his arms.
"I don't know, mate," James says, shrugs, eyeing Marlene. He's pretty sure she's a lesbian in denial—then again, Sirius is gay and in denial. He shrugs again; they will figure it out. Eventually. Hopefully. "But get a room, please."
"Alright." Sirius sighs dramatically and turns to Marlene. "Well, love?" he says, offering his arm. "Shall we?"
Lips pressed into a thin, white line, she nods and they leave. Finally. A sigh escapes him and James stays on his shoulders for a few more seconds, gaze locked on the sea. There is blue as far as the eye can see; it reminds him of a smooth velvet, a veil, perhaps. The horizon is vast and beautiful, breath-taking; the water has turned white, now that sunset time has only just passed, the sun touching the line where the sky and the sea meet, then sinking under. His breathing calm, he wishes he could stay here for a moment longer, freeze this moment, preserve it; it is a stupid hope, but he is sixteen and sixteen means hope; sixteen means ambition; sixteen means arrogance.
Then, he sees him.
The boy is walking on the mud along the sea, water brushing his thin ankles, steps light and silent, quick and controlled. He is barefoot, posture straight as if he's being pulled by strings, only his head down, black curls falling on his eyes. Slim and short, he's about James' age, fifteen. The boy is pretty. Beautiful. Like a Greek god, a statue, skin smooth, white marble. He can only see his profile—straight, upturned nose, pursed lips, elegant eyebrows knitted together into a sceptical frown—who put it there? James suddenly wants to find them and punch them.
A distant voice; the boy jolts, only for his eyes to lighten up when a black girl around his age comes into view. She runs, throws her arms around him, brings their foreheads together. She is stunning, too—why is everyone so beautiful?—with wild brown hair, full lips, an athletic body, strong arms. They are talking rapidly, but their words don't reach James.
He sighs. Probably a couple. Pity.
The air ruffling their hair, the boy and the girl start walking together along the sea, her hands around his shoulders, his around her waist, becoming smaller and smaller until they are two small dots in the distance, until he can't see them at all. Another sigh escapes him. The boy didn't see him, didn't spare him a glance. He lays back until the sky is only a blackness with a forest of little, sparkling dots everywhere, until Sirius shouts for him to come inside.
*
The first time they meet, Regulus is on the beach.
He has been walking along the sea for hours now, the cold, salty water gently brushing his ankles as he keeps walking and walking until he either falls down from the exhaustion or meets Dorcas on the way. The first would be preferable—although she's his best friend, right now the only thing he wants is to rest. Sleep has never come easily, even though he's young, barely fifteen.
(It's a tired fifteen, a scarred and broken fifteen, an insane fifteen.)
Dorcas does find him eventually; she comes running and hugs him tightly. Regulus tenses—physical affection is still foreign and he thinks of the knife in his pocket, safe, safe,safe—and doesn't hug her back; she understands and doesn't mind. It's more than what he could have asked for, anyway.
"Where have you been?" she exclaims in rapid French, "don't you scare me like that."
"Yes, mum," he teases, a playful smirk on his lips, "you worry toomuch." He could have killed himself anytime, really; the number of knives he has might just be concerning.
Glaring daggers at him—the irony—she nudges his side and dodges swiftly to avoid his own attack. "Hey! Stop that!"
He suddenly stiffens, shivering, and with the corner of his eye he sees him—another boy lying on the sand, supported by his elbows, shirtless, brown, ruffled, jet-black hair, hazel eyes behind glasses. Regulus doesn't look at him, doesn't spare him another glance or thought; instead Dorcas throws her hands around his shoulders and he puts his own on her waist—like that, they disappear and he forgets all about the boy in two minutes.
*
The next day, the boy is on the beach again.
James blinks, wondering if he's delusional, rubs his eyes under his glasses, then looks again. He isn't mistaken; it's the same boy from yesterday. Now it's very early in the morning and he's sitting with Sirius and—surprise, surprise—Marlene on the balcony, gazing outside. Of course he could be wrong, it might not be the same boy---the distance is bigger, but he recognises that stone-rigid posture.
"Hey, Pads?" he says, nudging his friend with his elbow. Marlene stirs from her half-dazed state.
Sirius looks at him, blinking slowly. He seems tired, like he didn't sleep last night. "Yeah?"
"You see that boy over there?"
"Boy?" Sirius regards him with confusion, squints his eyes. "Ah. Yeah, I see him," he says, expression tight. "What about him?"
"Well... " he shrugs. "Wanna befriend him? He seems lonely."
Gaze distant, Sirius hums, "Yes, he is."
Riiiight.
But then a girl—the girl from yesterday—joins the boy. Marlene sits up.
*
He spends most of his days inside, reading books and books and more books.
It's nice here, with the Meadowes' family; he hasn't considered killing them just yet. Amazing, he knows. Progress. They let him be; they let him exist; they let him breathe. They don't ask many questions about his past, his family, the scars, although he can see they worry. Especially Dorcas, her watchful eyes following his every movement.
Regulus huffs. He's not about to fall apart or break—if anything, he has been rotting from the inside for years now. Nothing new here.
A knock on the door. He sits up. "Yes?"
Dorcas appears on the doorway, leaning against the door. "Get up, loser," she commands, "we're going out."
He arches an eyebrow. "We are?"
"No objections."
Of course, if he wants, he can stop her, knows exactly how. But killing Dorcas isn't a nice thing to do; she is his best friend, after all. And he would really, really hate to explain that to her mother. Besides, they would lock him up. Again. Regulus can't blame them; he would lock him up too. He is every inch his parents' son —batshit crazy, unpredictable and with a secret love for knives. He even has a collection, but that's a discussion for another time. (No wonder Sirius won't talk to him.)
They do go out. He tells Dorcas to sod off and changes into some decent clothes—is favourite pair of Doc Martens, in which he hides a knife; black jeans, a knife in the pocket; black t-shirt, in which he can't find a place to put a knife, so he leaves it behind, sighing. So much for being emo.
Dorcas raises an eyebrow at his clothes but doesn't comment; instead they head to the deserted beach. It's just 6:30 in the morning, no sane person would go out so early, but. Neither him nor Dorcas are the epitome of sanity. It's what he loves about her. Because she knows what he's done and she doesn't care. Because she understands; because she is paranoid too; because she has confessed that she knows a dozen ways to kill him with a pen and so does he.
The cool breeze caresses his cheeks, hair whipping his face, curls blowing around and Dorcas grabs his hands and they dance to a silent music, to the howling wind; they dance and whirl and laugh and fall on the sand beside each other and he thinks that if anyone saw them, they would call the police. Good thing it's morning.
Batshit crazy, indeed.
Their breaths ragged, chests rising and falling at the same time, he cracks a laugh, the sound manic in his ears; soon enough Dorcas joins in.
*
They watch the pair dance and fall to the ground, stunned—no, wrong word, he thinks. Flabbergasted. What the actual fuck?
James can hear Sirius swear under his breath and then, the sound of a chair pushed, and his friend is gone. He stumbles to follow him, Marlene behind him. "Hey, Padfoot! What the hell, mate?"
He doesn't look back, just continues walking down the stairs, opens the front door and almost slams it shut on James' face. Rude. Exchanging an unimpressed look with Marlene, they both run to catch up with Sirius, who doesn't stop to look back and wait for them, instead taking the path among James' father's garden—full of colourful vegetables and flowers. They pass through the garden, Sirius already opening the house's outer entrance, and James tries to catch his breath; he is fit but it is morning. Marlene, on the other hand, seems just fine; she laughs at him, yet stops to wait, matching his steps.
"Come on, Potter," she drawls, watching him. "Hurry the fuck up."
"You are mean," he states among his hard breathing.
She raises an eyebrow. "You are annoying."
"Hey!"
Marlene shrugs, not sorry at all. "I thought we were stating the obvious."
Sirius has already approached the boy and the girl from the beach, who have stood up and no longer seem amused. As James comes nearer, Marlene on his side, he notices that the boy in particular is looking at Sirius with murder in his eyes, fists clenched at his sides, eyes icy cold, freezing the warmest day of summer. Now, he has the chance to see the boy's face—beautiful, sharp, narrowed silver-grey eyes, high cheekbones, pointed nose. He also looks exactly like Sirius but shorter, though James isn't about to point that out. Because something about the boy's posture, the predator's gaze—they all make him think that the boy can easily kill him in various, unpleasant ways. The girl with him has intertwined their fingers possessively and seems as inclined as the boy to glare at Sirius.
Which is... great. Definitely great. Sirius is great at making friends, but he's also great at making enemies. Many of them, in fact.
Focus, James, his mind says. Pay attention to the conversation.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Sirius is saying like he knows the boy, which is pretty much strange because James knows everyone Sirius knows. Right? "And who the hell is she?" He nods at the girl.
The boy—I still don't know hisname, James thinks, which will have to change soon—arches an eyebrow and throws something in the air with his other hand—is that a knife? He thinks it is. Which—
Shit. What have they gotten themselves into?
"Don't be mean, Sirius," says the boy, British accent combined with a French hint in it; it sounds lovely. He locks his gaze with Sirius', says, "You know why I'm here." Then his tone brightens, but in a I-would-kill-you-but-I-won't-waste-my-time-and-energy way.
"I'm Dorcas, by the way," the girls says. Lips tugging up, she gives them a chilling smile, then winks at Marlene, who visibly flushes like an idiot. Honestly, leave it to Marlene to fall for a crazy girl whose best friend might be just as insane and more.
Sirius purses his lips, says quietly but firmly, "I don't, actually. I don't want you here. I can't deal with this."
What the fuck.
"Padfoot, mate—" James tries to reach out, a hand gently landing on his shoulder, but Sirius shrugs him off and Marlene sends him a disapproving glance.
"Stay out of this," he warns, eyes still locked on the other boy's. They really look alike. Maybe they're related? Cousins, perhaps? He wouldn't know; Sirius never talks about his family.
Something in the boy's gaze changes; something violent and crazed and dark passes from his silver eyes that now shift from one target to another, landing on James, seizing him up, calculating. It sends a shiver down his spine and he swallows; the boy tilts his head, a wolfish smirk painting his lips. Beautiful. He's watching him with new interest, like James is a puzzle he has to take apart, see how it works and maybe, just maybe, stitch it back together.
Abruptly, he turns to Sirius. "That's James, then?"
"Yep," James says before they continue talking about him like he's not here. "And you are? I didn't catch your name."
"Never said it."
"Guys," Marlene starts cautiously, "I think we should calm down."
Dorcas blinks. "I feel pretty calm myself, don't you?" She turns at the boy.
He shrugs and grins; a cocky grin, a playful grin. "True, true. Emphasise on the pretty, please."
James blinks. Those two are messing around with them, aren't they? God, he's so stupid—this is a performance, and he is the audience, meant to fall for the trick, maybe spend some time wondering how it was done and then never think about it again, without seeing past the obvious, without realising the deception that is in front of his eyes.
But Sirius seems to understand too, because he says, "Don't mess around with me, brother."
Ahhh, and isn't that dramatic. Wait what.
The boy—Sirius' brother? Sirius has a brother? What?—throws his head back and laughs and it is nothing like Sirius' bark-like laughter, because it's not radiant or warm; it's freezing cold, chilling; makes him shudder and want to hear it again and again and never and always—
Then it stops as abruptly as it started, like someone pressed a button and cut it short. The boy looks weary now and eerily still, shoulders stiff, expression shut down, blank, eyes vacant and shouldn't it be a bit concerning? Why do James and Marlene seem to be the only ones concerned about it? The two of them exchange a quick glance, but Sirius only sighs, turns, leaves.
A choked sound forces its way out from the boy's lips, and he shouts after him, "Behold, everyone, the brave and mighty Sirius Orion Black. Leaving before things get too tough."
And Sirius...
Whirling around, he launches himself at the shorter boy, grabbing him from his black shirt, bringing him close. "You fucker—"
The boy stares at him and whispers loud enough for everyone to hear, "Going to hit me, Sirius?"
Sirius tenses. Careful. Is everyone holding their breaths or is it just James?
"I wonder how will you do it," the boy continues, leaning closer. "Do you favour knives, like her? Or maybe you prefer less messy ways, but more permanent, nonetheless, like him?"
Time stops. Eternity freezes. James can't breathe; it's like being underwater, listening to strange sounds but muffled, unclear, everything blurry. He thinks there must be some secret meaning behind those last words: but more permanent, nonetheless. It could mean a thousand things. It means only one thing; Sirius misty know by the way the colour drains from his face, leaving him paler than usual. He looks down at his own hands grabbing his brother's (?) shirt; he takes a step back, two steps, five; he turns and leaves.
James tries to catch Marlene's attention, only to find her beside Dorcas some metres away, who has a collection of pens and is talking to Marlene about them in a strange way, like she's demonstrating something. Marlene isn't actually looking at the pens; she's busy looking at the girl, Dorcas. He lets a sigh escape him and shakes his head.
The boy is still here. He's straightening his t-shirt, scratching his skin maniacally and someone should really, really stop him; James glances around, but no one has noticed besides him, well, fuck.
"Hey," he says, trying to sound soothing, a calm presence. It usually works with Sirius. "You never did tell me your name."
The boy stops, rolls back his shoulders, grins; a wild grin, feral. "I never said I would. You can ask though."
"Tell me your name?"
His grin widens. "Regulus," he says, like it's not the most beautiful word James has ever heard.
"Regulus," he repeats, testing the syllables; he likes it, James decides, the sound of it from his lips, "like the star?"
"Like the star. But it's Black to you, lovely boy. Until you earn it."
Lovely boy.
"James Potter." He offers his hand.
Regulus Black stares at the palm, tilts his head, doesn't shake it. "I know."
"You do?"
"I was Sirius' brother for thirteen years; you realise that, right?"
Sirius ran away at fourteen, he thinks. They have a year's difference. Regulus must be fifteen.
"So you are his brother?"
"In present tense?" Regulus shakes his head. "Non."
"I didn't know he had a brother."
"You wouldn't," he says. "Nobody would willingly talk about their crazy relatives."
"Do you live with your parents?"
Regulus' expression darkens; he smiles. "They were murdered."
James blinks. What. "Oh. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"It's fine. Don't be."
He blinks again. What. "Don't be what?"
"Sorry. I'm not."
And because he is young and foolish and reckless and sixteen, "Who killed them?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
From a distance, a boy appears—tall, shoulders slumped, and waves a hand. In an instant, Regulus' lips quirk from one side, a crooked grin, and he waves back, before approaching Dorcas. "Come on," he urges, excitement in his tone, "Lupin's here."
Dark, brown eyes brightening, she takes his hand. "Remus?"
A nod, before Regulus is dragged away by Dorcas, Marlene shouting after them, "Wait—where can I find you? Dorcas?"
Dorcas drags Regulus close, who rolls his eyes and murmurs something under his breath, but she isn't discouraged by his death-glare, instead handing Marlene a piece of paper. Then the two of them turn around to the opposite direction and run, greeting the tall boy.
Marlene sighs as they head inside. "Who's Remus Lupin?" she asks, directing the question at no one in particular. "Do you think he's her boyfriend?"
"What?" James blinks. He had been thinking the same, kind of, only he cares if this Lupin is Regulus' boyfriend. And Regulus...
Regulus is unlike anyone James has met. He feels shaken, refreshed and knows the cause of it. A sigh escapes him.
"Potter? Do you think this Lupin guy is Dorcas' boyfriend?"
He shakes his head, attempting, and failing miserably, to clear his mind, says, "I don't think Dorcas is straight enough to have a boyfriend." And neither are you, Marlene, goes unsaid. "Why do you care?"
"I don't," Marlene refuses, voice firm.
"You do."
"Do not."
"Do too—"
"Do not. Fuck you!"
He raises an eyebrow. "Is that a to-do list?"
"Potter—!"
*
"Remus John Lupin!"
Remus raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Hello to you too, Dorcas," he inclines his head, "Regulus."
The three of them walk together towards the city, getting away from the beach more and more, Dorcas' hands around Remus' shoulders, Regulus purposefully keeping his distance. His encounter with Sirius... it was to be expected. The rational part of his mind, the one that usually makes sense says so. It wasn't a surprise, seeing his brother here; the Meadowes family had proposed the place as a holiday location for that reason only. To meet Sirius. And he'd agreed.
He wants to snort, throw his head back and laugh like the deranged, unhinged teenager he is. He wants to carve his skin out, scream and pull his hair. An attempt to reconcile with Sirius was doomed from the beginning. He sees it now—no, has always known. It was stupid to hope, childish. Never to forget, he thinks. And he remembers everything.
Why had he agreed?
"How come you're so early?" Dorcas asks. "I thought you'd show up by the end of the month."
Wincing, Remus scratches a scar that runs along his nose horizontally, then shrugs. "Mr Meadowes told me I could come earlier. Said it would help." He shrugs again, producing a two knives from his pocket, then thinks better of it and puts them back, sighing mournfully. They are heading towards the city, after all, and Regulus would hate to have to give away his knives if they got caught.
"It's for the best," Regulus says, trying to be compassionate about the knives. He's not the only one on edge.
Dorcas crosses her arms and kicks a small stone. "Since when do we refrain from doing something because it's for the best?"
"She's got a point."
"Shut up, Lupin. I know why you're here."
A raised eyebrow, a scar splitting it in two at its end. "Care to share with the class?"
"Honestly?" he says. "No. You are no class; you just lack the discipline." But he does share with the class, walking backwards in front of Dorcas and Remus who roll their eyes. "You," Regulus says, pointing an accusing finger to Remus, "want to be present for the clown show."
Remus exchanges an amused glance with Dorcas. He blinks innocently, repeats, "Clown show?"
"Clown show, family drama, siblings rivalry—call it what you want," he says.
"Or perhaps I want to get a glimpse of your brother, if he's any hot."
Ew. "You wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't I?"
"Bastard."
"I regret to inform you that my parents were perfectly married when my mum conceived, thank you very much."
Dorcas looks at the morning sky as if asking for patience. "Lord, have mercy on me."
"If God has mercy on you, does that mean He does it because He wants me and Lupin to shut up, or because He wants to please you?" Regulus enquires.
"That would imply that He is a people-pleaser," Remus observes, also glancing up as if he expects at any minute now for God to show up.
"If He's a people-pleaser, doesn't that indicate dependence on others' good opinion of Him? How is He all-powerful and that?"
Dorcas sighs again. "Every day you two make me question my faith in Him."
"And?"
She grins a shit-eating grin. "I have never felt closer to God."
"You are evil," Remus says, groaning.
"You confuse me with Regulus."
"I take credit for having a marvelous personality, no more, no less."
"You're nuts."
Regulus huffs. "I am not merely nuts, darling Dorcas, treasure of treasures; I'm dashingly charming. A delight, really."
"The day you're a delight is the day Remus burns his Jane Austen books."
"Hey!"
"Exactly my point."
He shakes his head, folds his arms. "I wouldn't burn Jane Austen either."
"Why am I even hanging out with you, swots?" Dorcas sighs. "Actually, no, don't answer that."
"I can make you a list, if you'd like."
*
Darkness has probably covered the vast night sky by now, thick clouds obscuring any stars. The air smells of rain, that sweet odour of moisture that feels James' nostrils. He inhales deeply, feels the delicate smell mixed with the salty air of the sea, like he's on board of a ship. Outside, the wind howls, blowing his dishevelled hair around. There will be no going out for tonight. It's going to rain, not that this would ever stop them, of course. It's something else, something completely different.
He leans on the doorway, Sirius sitting on the bed, the balcony's door left wide open. His friend is staring at the opposite wall, expression unreadable, silver-grey eyes glittering in the almost dark of the room, which is only illuminated by a small lamp beside the bed, emitting a yellowish light. The room is just Sirius: messy, clothes on the floor, a leather, black notebook with little white dots on the cover left on the desk, a classical guitar leaning against the wall, which is kinda dangerous for the musical instrument in question. Sirius' lips are pursed, fists clenching the white bed sheets; he says nothing to break the silence.
James comes to sit beside him and watches his features carefully. Sirius lets him. He studies his friend's profile, head cocked to one side; the resemble is obvious now, he sees that. The sharp face, a collection of sharp lines and edges, full lips, silver-grey narrow eyes, dark, dark raven hair. Here's a difference, though. Regulus' hair is shorter, curling to the back of his neck, other locks of hair falling on his eyes. Sirius' hair is like a curtain, far more even and he always braids them. Pale, porcelain-white skin for Regulus; Sirius' is a bit more tanned.
"Go on," says Sirius, eyes still locked somewhere else, in some distant memory, looking through the wall. "Ask me."
Is Regulus really your brother? he wants to ask.
"Are all your relatives so hot?" comes out of his mouth. Instantly, he wants to hit himself---what the fuck, James?
A bark-like laugh. "You think I'm hot?"
"It's not only me who thinks that," James reminds him, arching an eyebrow.
His brows furrowing, Sirius says, still not looking at him, "Do you think Regulus is hotter than me?"
Honestly? Yes. But James isn't about to point that out, so he shrugs. Silence falls again. From the next room, he can hear a clock ticking, counting the seconds that turn to minutes. The wind outside howls again; a window bangs from somewhere inside the house. Something begins to hit the glass of the balcony's door; it is raining, heavy drops of water falling on the hard surface and sliding down. Is Regulus out there in the rain, somewhere? he wonders. Or is he inside, watching the rain and thinking of today's events? Of his estranged brother?
Abruptly, Sirius stands up and marches towards his desk, grabs his notebook and falls again into the bed. He gestures for James to approach more and they sit on their bellies, feet up and kicking the air. Sirius opens the notebook, the yellowish paper creaking whenever he turns a page. In the first two or three pages someone has scribed down something; James recognises Sirius' messy handwriting, only it's—he squints his eyes, pushing his glasses on his nose—in French. In the corners of those first pages there are notes in a much neater handwriting, the letters leaning towards the right, calligraphic, beautiful.
"We studied French, our first language besides German," Sirius says, his finger absent-mindedly tracing the calligraphic letters. "I hated it, but Regulus—" he shakes his head, almost fondly— "Regulus loved the sound of it. None of us liked German. Our mother was German, our father was French and those, along with our English tutor, were the languages spoken at Grimmauld."
"Grimmauld?"
Grimacing, Sirius explains in a haunted tone, gaze distant, "My old address, Grimmauld Place, number 12. London."
"That's why you were so posh," James says, lips tugging up. "Back, at first. At the beginning."
Sirius doesn't smile, but his expression softens just a little. "Yes," he says, mostly to himself. "That's why." He turns the page and—
Oh. Oh. Well... He glances at his friend.
The drawing of the house is all pencil, the house grim and old; he wants to huff, but somehow he can't. The bricks are black, the construction tall, towering over anyone, diminishing everyone else. The people passing in front of the house seem in a hurry; they blur, fading into each other, faces vague; they are unimportant, unrecorded. The tall and narrow windows are shut, surely allowing no light to pass inside. The weather in the drawing is like now; it's raining heavily and two boys are sitting just outside of the entrance, one sitting down on the entrance's stairs, the other leaning on the wall, their eyes down, looking at the floor. James' heart clenches. Is this Sirius' childhood? He glances at his friend to ask, but Sirius doesn't linger on that page; he turns it.
The next page...
There are drawings of the same boy everywhere, in every angle, again and again and again the same boy. In one, the boy's placed his arms under his chin, black curls on his eyes, a feral grin painted on his lips. In another you can see only his profile, the upturned nose, hollow, high cheeks, eyelashes flattering, gaze distant, locked somewhere else. Again the same boy. And again. And again. Holding a book. Smiling. Drowning in a sea of corpses. Sometimes haunted. Sometimes doing the haunting. The boy with a house burning behind him. The boy with a knife, a crazed gleam in his eyes.
Sirius doesn't talk, doesn't say anything because there's nothing to say; he turns the page.
It's the boy, again. Regulus. Lying down on a marble-black floor. And he's dead. Beaten. Broken. Blood staining his clothes. The converse shoes. The white t-shirt. His left hand outstretched. Reaching out to someone. A word formed on his lips. Eyes startlingly young, wide, innocent. Unseeing.
He stops kicking his feet on the air. It's like someone has knocked the air out of him. Sirius glances at him, says, "That's my brother."
A short nod. "I know."
"He's dead here."
"I know," he repeats.
"He's the one who killed our parents," Sirius says quietly. "Did you know that too?"
James sits up, back against the wall, knees on his chest. He runs a hand through his hair, rubs his temples. "No."
"It was a year after I left. A year before. He was fourteen."
"How?"
Sirius inhales deeply. "It was peaceful; they were sleeping. He's told me all about it, through the phone, a year ago. He slipped into their chamber, slit their throats. I haven't seen him since I ran away."
He remembers Regulus' words. Behold, everyone, the brave and mighty Sirius Orion Black. Again leaving before things gettootough. He opens his mouth, knows he shouldn't ask, asks anyway, "Why did he—"
"Kill them?" Sirius adds, laughs; a bitter laugh. "Look at the drawing, Jamie. What does it tell you?"
He looks at the beaten boy, the drawing, all pencil and shadows. "They hit him," James says quietly, then, "And you?"
Going to hit me, Sirius?
A scoff. "No, they didn't just hit him," Sirius says, looking away. "They broke him. They broke us."
You're not broken, he wants to say. Bone of you. Don't you ever say that.
I wonder how will you do it, he remembers Regulus saying.
"That doesn't excuse murder."
Do you favour knives, like her?
Sirius whirls around, grabs him by the shoulders, his gaze intense, furious. "Orion, our father, tried to kill him. I think it's reason enough."
But more permanent, nonetheless.
"I left—" Sirius is fidgeting now— "thinking it would be better." His expression darkens. "He told me it only got worse. He told me he's been angry with me for so long that he has forgotten how it feels not to be angry with me. Regulus is insane, James. They locked him up until Dorcas' family took him in." He closes his eyes.
"I fancy him," James confesses then. If it's confession time, he might as well say it.
Sirius cracks up an eye open. "I know."
*
He heads out in the rain. It's night now but they won't start looking for him; everyone is asleep. Well. Remus and Dorcas are probably awake and talking. Regulus shakes his head, twisting the knife in his hands, watching it with fascination. Such a little thing can cause great harm. He smirks, looks up; the rain falls on his face, his hair sticking on his forehead. Annoying.
There's someone already on the beach, sitting close to the sea, the salty water brushing their feet. In the dark, can only see the outline of their back, but he knows. James Potter.
A sigh escapes his lips; Regulus sits beside him on the mud, bringing his knees to his chest. He glances at James' profile, looks away quickly, because his treacherous eyes will otherwise linger on those lips, on the hazel eyes behind the glasses.
"Sirius told you about me." It's not a question.
*
James nods. "Yes. He told me other things."
"Ah," Regulus says, grinning. "He told you about our parents as well. How thoughtful of him."
He purses his lips. "Are you reading my thoughts?"
Regulus leans closer. "Didn't you know, James?" he says. "I'm a psychic."
"You're nuts."
"That too. But I prefer the term dashinglyhandsome. I am a star after all." And Regulus laughs and it's a beautiful laugh this time, genuine, like ringing bells, like water, like a river that drives him to the sea. And suddenly, the thought occurs to him, that Regulus Black is going to break his heart. Smash it in two. And James thinks, break my heart,buthold it first. Which is ridiculous, because Regulus already holds his heart, even if he doesn't know it. Because Regulus's true laugh is sincere and comes from his own heart.
Look now, he thinks. Weare even. I have apiece of your heart too. Even if it's a small one. Even if it's not enough. He treasures it.
Oh dear. He is so fucked.
So James thinks and says, "You aren't a star." It comes out harsher than he meant.
A raised eyebrow. "I'm not?"
Jesus, he's bad at this. He tries again. "You aren't a star, er, because you are the whole night sky." I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. I wish you could see how wonderful you are.
There it is. He has said it. There is no turning back now.
Regulus smiles; a crooked thing. "Cheesy. But. You are not bad yourself."
*
It starts on a beach, with two boys, the water brushing the ankles of the one, the other watching from a distance. It starts with a maybe, with a what if, with the thought, pretty, beautiful. It starts with a glance, a look, a stolen heart. It starts as many things do.
This is only the beginning. Because James falls first, but Regulus falls harder.