Chapter 2
Regulus isn't on the beach the next day.
He tries not to worry about it, not to wonder, not to care, because Regulus doesn't owe him anything, because maybe tomorrow he will be there again, waiting, perhaps walking along the sea; maybe he will grin at James the way he used to, that feral grin, cheeky and just a bit crazy; maybe, maybe, maybe . . .
The boy with the crazy grin doesn't show up tomorrow. Nor the day after. Nor the day after that. A week has passed and Regulus, Dorcas, and that Lupin are nowhere to be found. Nor is Dorcas' family—Meadowes, Sirius called them—for that matter.
It doesn't mean anything, James tells himself, glancing towards an unnaturally grim Sirius beside him, watching how his friend's gaze seems distant and lost. It doesn't mean anything, he thinks, as he heads to an empty beach, as he walks with the cold water brushing his ankles, the air ruffling his hair. It doesn't mean anything, as he stays there for hours until the sun has set again and no boy has appeared.
But it does, a voice inside his mind says, it does, it does, it does, because this is the first time someone has really caught his interest, has found a place in his heart and has curled up there, holding it tightly, and that someone turns out to be completely indifferent towards James. Which is strange, because . . .
Because what? Because James would always be desirable? Wanted? That's stupid, he tells himself. Not everyone has to find James . . . what? Interesting? Attractive?
(Regulus' voice echoing in his ears, you arenot badyourself. Regulus' grin. Regulus' laugh, Regulus' voice, Regulus, Regulus, Regulus. You are not bad yourself and what did that mean?)
James feels a sigh escape him, feels Pads turning towards him. He is lying with his back on the dry sand that feels like ashes and smoke under his fingers, looking at the sky, that vast dark blue velvet with scattered twinkling stars that in any other day would have calmed him. They don't. Not anymore. (His own voice echoing in his ears, like the star? Regulus. It's Black to you. You have to earn it. Lovely boy.)
A nudge on his shoulder, he turns on his side to look at Sirius, whose cheek is pressed against the sand, a frown wrinkling his forehead, lips pursed, silver-grey eyes fixed on James.
"Prongs?"
You look like him. He hums. "Yes, Padfoot?"
"I—" a pause; Sirius bites his lip, and isn't it strange to see Sirius Black at a loss? (Regulus' words in his mind, behold, everyone, the brave and mighty Sirius Orion Black. Again leaving before things get tootough) "—do you think he left because I asked him to?"
And hasn't James spent time pondering the very same question, too? Why would they suddenly leave? Did Regulus want to get away? Did something else happen?
He runs a hand through his hair, looking somewhere above Sirius' head. "I don't think he left because you asked him to," he says in the end, although he isn't one bit sure about that. He pauses, the air blowing his hair around. "Regulus wouldn't do something he didn't want to do."
"You're saying he didn't want to be here?"
Another sigh. "I'm saying we shouldn't draw conclusions so quickly." I'm saying we should give him time. Space to breathe.
Sirius falls silent. The wind howls; the leaves creak against each other. From a distance, someone starts singing, a slow guitar accompanying them, the fire they have lit burning, the flames reflecting on Sirius' glittering-in-the-dark eyes, because life goes on. The low murmurs of conversation can be heard among the crashing waves, the water dripping, the salty air just touching his skin, caressing him, welcoming. James sits up on his elbows, studying the far-away horizon, where the sea meets the sky, just barely visible now. Everything is dark. The waters, the sky, his heart, his mind. The stars sparkle, but the light seems distant and hollow.
Silence.
"What if—" Sirius' voice is low, careful, almost scared but not quite, hollow like the starlight, like his namesake---Sirius, the dog star "—what if I have lost him again, James?"
He can't bear to look at his friend. Because you never had him in the firstplace. And the worst—Sirius knows.
(August passes and the boy is gone.)
*
The landscape keeps changing. A wide green field as far as the eye can see, a sea of colourful flowers, red and pink and white and yellow, a dark and beautiful forest, mysterious and standing still, unmoved by time, trees in the middle of nowhere, standing completely alone, frighteningly human-like. Sometimes it rains, the heavy drops of water falling on the glass of the window methodically—tap, tap, tap—and he watches them slide down along with Dorcas, betting on which one will reach first to the bottom. Sometimes the sun is in their eyes, a blinding light that has the potential to be very much annoying indeed but you just can't resist it, because it keeps you warm, and it's always there; it keeps you company. Those times Regulus closes his eyes and lies back on the car-sit and tries not to think of hot summer nights, of stars, of the sea, (of a boy with hazel eyes), of anything. Sometimes it works. (Sometimes it doesn't.)
The car-ride to home is long, many, many hours long. He spends most of it with Dorcas, or avoiding her parents' questions and concerned looks. (Adults can be extremely predictable, he has learnt that much.) They mostly call Remus and talk his ear off about how boring everything is for hours. Regulus can imagine him on his favourite spot—the armchair, a book on his lap, the phone lying somewhere, rolling his eyes and sharpening knives as he responds.
"Missed me already?" Remus is saying, tone playful, although a bit muffled. They are in the middle of nowhere.
Dorcas snorts, throws her head back, wild brown curls blowing around her head. "You're so full of yourself, Lupin. I regret ever introducing you to Regulus."
A dignified sniff. "How is that even relevant? Lupin was already full of himself when I met him; the only thing I did was moral support."
"Never told you how grateful I was for that, did I?"
Regulus grins; a feral and wild thing. "No," he says, "you never did. Perhaps you can repay me . . . "
"You don't want to be indebted to Regulus Black, Remus," Dorcas warns, balancing the phone on her knees. "Trust me, he will hold you to the end of the deal one way or another. Been there, done that."
"I was raised to bargain; I am a businessman, Meadowes."
Arching an eyebrow: "I swear you'd probably bargain your way out of prison, Regulus. You're a juvenile delinquent. "
"So are you, on that matter, Dorcas darling—and so is dear Remus." He flatters his eyelashes. "Your point being?"
Mrs Meadowes says from the driver's seat, glancing at the mirror, "Dears, I hope you're not annoying poor Remus on that phone, eh?"
"No, mum!" says Dorcas in a high-pitched voice, at the same time Regulus says, tone polite while he tries to suppress a laugh, "Of course not, Mrs M."
"Good," she says, her husband nodding along. "That's great."
They have finally entered a city—their city, Regulus realises with relief. London. As he watches the buildings and parks and corners, the playgrounds, all of them familiar, he feels himself relax, absentmindedly tracing the sharp side of his knife with his finger. The knife is beautiful, proud, sharp and dangerous. It means safety. He likes his knives, can't go anywhere without them. Something warm covers his other palm; he glances up and locks eyes with Dorcas, whose lips tug up only a little.
"We are home," she half-whispers and he wonders if it's to herself, Remus on the phone, or him. Still, when spoken out loud, the knowledge grounds him. They are home. Safe.
It's sunset now, the sky covered in pink and orange—sunset orange—and just a hint of dark, faded blue, no stars of course, not now. The streets are busy, the passersby walking fast, in a hurry, their faces blurry. Cars drive along them on the busy roads and highways; the hundred cars stuck together that keep tooting and honking, creating a mayhem, a chaos, an orchestra of wrong, broken and twisted instruments; the drivers shouting and swearing, the children crying.
This is madness. This is magic. This is reality.
He loves London. Especially at night, when the tall street lamps lighten up and everything is silent or very, very noisy.
When they pass Islington, his breath hitches; the grip on his knife tightens and Regulus keeps his eyes on the seat in front of him. He knows, expects what to see out there; nothing will have changed at all. The brown houses, all the same, the green garden that he was never allowed to visit when younger, the shops, everything. Upper Street is busy as always and they pass from Islington Green, a marble statue that he swears follows them with his eyes. Mrs Meadowes stops the car and they walk home on foot through Camden Passage, the markets, cafes and shops everywhere in a blur of colour and noise, music and light coming out of those still open.
They don't pass Grimmauld Place, but he doesn't allow himself to breathe until Mr. Meadowes closes the door behind them. Doesn't let go of his knife—I am real, the knife is real; nothing will happen; let me be fifteen, let me breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't—inside his pocket even as Dorcas drags him to their shared bedroom—safe, safe, safe—even when she closes and locks the door, even as she hugs him and talks to him through the storm that are his thoughts inside his mind, the void of his heart that is racing, the trembling of his hands that won't stop.
*
Before he knows it, September the 1rst has come; the warm weather is gone, replaced by a cold wind that makes him shudder and clutch his jacket tightly, heavy rain falling, the leaves turning orange-brown, cracking under his shoes.
Here we go again, James thinks as he drags his trunk and enters the King's Cross Station along with Sirius. They exchange swift glances, before his mother attacks them with a huge hug that crushes their lungs—Sirius, ever the dramatic shit he is, groans.
"Effie—" he whines. "We aren't babies anymore."
She squeezes them even tighter, doesn't let go.
"Mum—" James complains, blushing, struggling to get away and managing it. Goal achieved. Let Sirius fend for himself. Ha ha.
Smoke has clouded the platform; the train will depart in fifteen minutes—they are almost running late. Hyper-excited children that keep moving, bored teens that glare at everyone and stare at their phones, anxious parents that won't stop talking to their kids—the whole place is crowded. To his left, a toddler has burst into tears and he's not the only one; a small girl is hugging her mother tightly, eyes red. He turns, about to point that out to Sirius, but remembers his own first time going to Hogwarts and quickly shuts up.
Sirius attracts more attention, as always. There is something about him—an aura, one could say—that prevents you from not noticing him. Whenever he enters a room, it is inevitable that all eyes turn to him. His laughter is contagious; he can brighten a whole room just by smiling.
Right now, he's staring at another family, frowning, eyes squinting.
"Come on, Padfoot!" James urges, grabbing his wrist. "Let's find a compartment before we are forced to sit with the new students." He drags him away hastily, ignoring his friend's weak protests.
The corridor inside the train has hardly any space for them to move. He can hear low, muffled conversations behind doors, excited "Hi!" and "I haven't seen you for a while!" from other compartments. They pass all of them, finding their usual place; Peter is already there and so is a girl that looks like—
"McKinnon?" James asks, gawking.
She raises an eyebrow, arms folded. "Potter, Black."
"Marlene darling," Sirius starts, seemingly fine from whatever he saw before, "you never said—"
"You never asked."
Soon enough, Lily and Mary have joined them and they chatter endlessly for hours. Some time later, James sighs, tuning out the conversation, the voices sounding from far, far away. He sticks his nose to the window and looks outside at the moving landscape. The sky has turned orange by now; they must be reaching Hogwarts, finally. Childishly, he wonders whether another boy is heading to school, observing the world that blurs into green and brown and all the shades of orange and blue together. Wonders if he's the only one thinking of the other.
Regulus came into his life like a storm and he has been unable to forget the night sky ever since. It is almost like the stars have found a new meaning; now that they are so far away (but they have always been far away, always will be) they seem precious, brighter than ever, more prominent to shine. Is it possible for a star to burn out? he idly wonders, chin supported by his palm. Do stars die? Sirius would know; he can ask him, but—no. He mustn't worry. (You aren't astar, Regulus, youare the whole night sky. Another thought rising inside him: does the sky burn out?)
He worries anyway.
"You alright, Potter?" Lily asks him at some point, when the conversation has drifted away with Sirius, Mary and Marlene talking passionately about football, gesturing wildly, probably arguing; Peter snoring, eyelids shut, lips slightly parted.
How to explain his inner turmoil? Is there any possible way to make others understand? Can you explain the deep ache of your heart when it longs for a person so out of your reach? The way it races when his thoughts inevitably drift to Regulus, Regulus, Regulus? until they become an incomprehensible mix of blurred flashes and glimpses—a boy, curly raven hair falling on his eyes, a lifted chin; defiant, glittering, silver-grey eyes piercing through him. The summer thrill is long gone, replaced by an irreversible pain, a constant reminder that he has no way of knowing whether the pretty boy of the previous summer is somewhere safe and cherished.
And even if he could express the storm inside his mind, does he want to? Is it not a sin to fancy your best friend's brother? Perhaps that is it that makes Regulus such a fascinating subject in his thoughts; the fact that James isn't supposed to have him, to want him, to long for him, search for him, doomed to love but from a distance that feels like miles, years of light apart. (An ocean separating them.) Is he so enamoured by those flattering eyelashes, that sharp, upturned nose, the marble-white skin because Regulus is the forbidden fruit? In a way, it makes sense the way all things make sense—it makes sense for James to want Regulus the same way the earth moves around itself forever; the way it makes sense that the sky is blue; the way it makes sense that the sun shines. It is just right, because it is only logical that Regulus would be just right.
He thinks back to Lily's question—You alright, Potter?---her concerned, bright green eyes, wild red hair. He used to love Lily, her eyes, her hair, all of her—or, more accurately, the idea of Lily. Now he doesn't know what to think.
(You alright, Potter?)
So James does what he always does best; he allows a smile to make its way into his features, to help him hide and nods casually. "Of course, dear Lily, treasure of my heart."
If she is unconvinced, she doesn't let it show. Just shakes her head, chuckling, rolls her eyes and huffs. He is endlessly and forever grateful and avoids Sirius' uneasy gaze that tries to make eye-contact.
The train has started to slow down until it finally stops. Sirius jerks his head up, grinning, but James can't shake off the idea that there's something wrong. He turns to the others and says, bowing, "Well, ladies and Peter, it was lovely seeing you," then grabs Sirius' arm and drags him away, their trunks causing mayhem when they inevitably collide. Someone swears but James is quick to disappear in a silent corner of the platform, obscured by the shadows, his friend having no other choice but to follow.
"What's wrong, Sirius?" he whispers, glancing around. "You've been acting as if someone rose from the dead or something."
Sirius gives him a weak smile, shrugging. "Close enough."
James quirks an eyebrow. "Someone did rise from the dead?"
"Well . . . " he trails off, eyes searching the crowd behind them. "I think I'm going mad or something—"
"Is it a family thing? Going mad?"
The look I-promise-you-a-slow-and-painful-death Sirius shoots him makes James wince. "Okay, sorry, that was not nice. Or considerate. Or—"
"No, it wasn't," Sirius drawls, then purses his lips, worry wrinkling the end of his eyes, making crow's feet appear. "I—" he shakes his head in disbelief "—I think I saw him, James; I'm not sure, but I swear I fucking saw him. Am I going mad?"
He blinks. "Saw who?"
His friend draws a sharp inhale of air, his gaze locked somewhere behind James' shoulder. "Regulus."
James turns, heart hummering in his chest, threatening to escape, run, and meets a pair of silver-grey eyes in the dark, head cocked to one side, and the world stops, holding its breath.
That piercing gaze, a challenge, a mirth, a glittering madness.
That boy, walking along the sea, the cold, salty water brushing his ankles.
Those eyes. Silver-grey, stormy, cloudy eyes. The eyes of the night sky.
James smiles at him, sees a wrinkle of surprise in his expression, lips parting slightly—lovely boy—forming a word—James—before the crowd takes Regulus away. There and gone again and—James blinks. Wondering if he imagined this.
*
"Mr. Black," the Headmaster exclaims, his creepy blue eyes twinkling. It reminds him of those stupid therapists and nurses that thought they understood everything, knew everything, that thought they could somehow fix him. "Ms Meadowes."
They are in the Headmaster's office—he's an old man with a too long, white beard that makes him resemble Gandalf or something, his skin wrinkled from time, looking at them behind his weird glasses. Regulus vaguely wonders if the guy does it on purpose—the beard and the staring—or if he's merely weird. Not that it matters.
He exchanges a half-amused look with Dorcas. "Professor Dumbledore."
The office is full of useless trinkets and golden awards the school has won—maybe they have one about the strangest headmaster ever as well? Whatever. The walls are filled with yellowish, old photographs of football teams, the students staring at the camera with a slightly withdrawn look on their faces. Regulus can't help but think there is a murmur coming from the photographs of those teenagers lost in time, their names long forgotten by this school, by everyone, whispering, we were here; we existed. He abruptly shakes his head—perhaps he has watched 'Dead Poets Society' too many times if he thinks the pictures are whispering. Dorcas seems to find it strange, how many times he's seen the film, not that this prevents her from watching it with him again. And Remus—well, he hardly needs to be convinced to watch that movie.
(Carpe diem, boys . . . Seize the day . . .
No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world . . . Poetry, beauty, romance, love . . . these are what we stay alive for.
Neil's voice echoes to his ears. For the first time in my whole life, I know what I want to do. For the first time, I gonna to do it! Whether my father wants me to or not, carpe diem! Neil—
another voice rising inside his head, unwanted but there, unwanted but real, but familiar, nonetheless. I don't care what you want, what you've planned—because, one day, one day I'm going to leave this hellhole and never look back! One day I'm going to get rid of you! I'm going to be free!
—who killed himself when he saw he could never be free—
And Regulus thinks, his lips quirking into a crooked smile, you didn't have to get rid of them, brother. I already did.)
Dorcas nudges him to the ribs under the desk and he just barely suppresses a hiss, turning to glower at her with his remind-me-to-murder-you gaze. She holds his eyes, quirking an eyebrow. Someone coughs and they break their eye-contact. He turns to look at Dumbledore with a look of fake interest his mother would be jealous of, folds his hands on his lap, smiles politely. "Sir? You were saying . . . ?"
The Headmaster returns his kind smile, then taps a file with his finger. "I was saying, my dear children, that it has proven to be rather difficult to convince the other professors to accept you as a part of the student body. Fortunately, they have all agreed in the end, seeing as you both won a scholarship and it would be sad to see two talented and bright adolescents to waste their lives in any other school—"
"Hogwarts is one of the best schools I have read, sir," Dorcas—who barely opens a book, especially about schools—interrupts, widening her eyes. Regulus tries not to snicker as he nods.
"As I was saying," Dumbledore continues as if he didn't hear her, "it would be a huge waste of talent not to accept two troubled teenagers because of . . . um, unfortunate past circumstances. For example, according to your file, Mr. Black, you have a criminal record, and—" he looks down to the paper and reads, "'ruthlessly killed your parents at the age of fourteen.'" He looks up again, smiling like he didn't just use Regulus' past against him and adds, "I have come into contact with both your past therapists as well. They all agree that you two have an—uncommon passion for, well, sharp objects."
He allows his lips to quirk, then says in a pleasant and icy tone, "We call them knives, Professor Dumbledore." I will kill you, oldman. And isn't that a happy thought? Under the desk, Regulus clenches his fists until his nails are digging into his skin. Dorcas slips her hand into his own, slowly ungluing the fingers, easing the tension while she looks at the Headmaster and smiles. Regulus knows that smile—the one that promises a slow and torturous death, just a bit insane.
"We do like our knives, Professor," she agrees, the corners of her lips tugging up even more.
"My dear," Dumbledore says, "I do not doubt that but, unfortunately, for your own safety of course, and the safety of others, I must request that you give them to me. They will be returned to you at the end of the school year."
The man is afraid they will have a fit and murder everyone. He is right to be afraid, Regulus thinks. But where was Dumbledore, when he was beaten until he couldn't stand on his feet without collapsing? Where was Dumbledore and his rules and his stupid system, when Regulus wanted to jumb from the roof, because I wonder how flying feelslike but not really, because in the end he wondered how being free felt. Where was Dumbledore, when a man did the unspeakable to a young girl whose only crime was the colour of her skin? Whose only crime was existing? (Dorcas in the playground, shaking because someone looked at me for too long and I'm scared; Regulus' hands trembling, him flinching away from a hug because no don't hurt me not again I can't stand it anymoreplease—; Remus lying on the floor, eyes distant because I can still remember my father giving me the scars and one day I will wear them with pride because what doesn't kill you makes you stronger but no Remus stop glorifying trauma what happened wasn't okay what they did wasn't okay—
Where was Godor when Westfold fell? He silently chuckles at the Lord of the Rings reference.)
No one had been there. And no one will ever be there. And now, now Albus I'm-so-generous-for-letting-you-continue-your-education Dumbledore wants to take away their control of things, wants to take away what makes them feel safe, what protects them, what they use to protect themselves and I will rip the world apart if anyone hurts us again but it won't really matter because he will be still hurt—they will be still fucking hurt. And nobody will fucking care. Nobody will fucking notice because how three teenagers feel—Dumbledore will say the same shit to Remus who's waiting outside—isn't bloody important, because come on, they're kids and who bloody cares?
Dorcas squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back and then he stands up, because he'll go first. First things first and all that, to get this over with, Regulus bows and pulls a knife from the back of each of his Doc Martens, and he puts them gently on the desk, swearing, I will take you back, my beloveds, before he opens his trunk and Dumbledore bends over to look at its contents. His creepy blue eyes widen. Regulus smirks and takes the other three knives, leaving them with the two, his hand lingering on the handle of one, before he lets go, grateful that his full collection is at home.
"I am clean," he says and Dumbledore nods in approval.
"Ms. Meadowes, it's your turn."
She grins and takes a knife out of her sock that reaches her knee, then discards it on the table. One by one, she leaves all of her five knives, before she goes still. Then, with a sigh, she takes another from the back of her skirt. He looks at her. "That's a new one."
A proud nod. "I'm glad you noticed—I love this one." She puts it with the rest, looking at it wistfully.
After that, the Headmaster thanks them and adds some more rules that they can't care less about, then he says goodbye and they leave. When Regulus closes the door behind them, he leans against it, running a hand through his hair. Remus stands up and enters the office and the door is shut once again, leaving Regulus and Dorcas in the dark.
*
From now on, James sees Regulus everywhere. Talking quietly with Dorcas and Lupin—whose first name's still a mystery—in the Great Hall, walking in the corridors, ignoring everyone's whispering and muttering, chin tilted, eyes hard, expression icy-cold. He sees another side of Regulus, a distant and almost arrogant and still insane but dangerously so—not the playful insane he knew from the beach.
When he asks Sirius about it, he shrugs. "He was always like that. Changing whenever it suited him. It's how he protects himself." A shake of the head. "He's nuts, James; stay away from him." (Which is pretty much hypocritical, as Sirius has tried—and gloriously failed—to approach his brother multiple times, because Regulus is particularly talented at disappearing. Like a shadow. Or a ghost that haunts others as much as he himself is haunted. But is it better to do the haunting than be the one haunted?)
How can he ask James to do that? Can you ask the sun to leave the sky? Can you make the stars burn out, stop shining, fade? (There is a star that burnt out long ago and returned to be the whole night sky, because it could—would settle for nothing less, because the world owes it at least that. A kingdom for the one—the kingdom of childhood—it lost. An eye for an eye. A leg for a leg. A shot in the heart doesn't make it un-break.)
But it angers James, the way Sirius casually talks about Regulus being insane. He says, "He's not—don't talk about him like tha—"
Sirius' expression darkens. "He is crazy, James." He looks away and adds softly, "Everyone who was raised like him would be. And there is a breaking point, you know. A point when you snap, when something inside you fucking breaks, when you wake up and realise you can't fucking take it anymore. You are done with the world, you are done with how it works, because you can't take it anymore, because you have fought again and again but it's just too much, because you've been through too much and—" he is panting now, heavily, pacing around the room, palms clenched into fists "---and you stop. You stop and you look at yourself in the mirror. And you don't like what you see. And you realise you want to do something about it. And you run fast because you think they may come after you but you have forgotten something. Something important." He stills, cocks his head, looks at James. "Do you know what you've forgotten?"
And James who's speechless, James who always has something to say, frantically shakes his head. "No."
Sirius comes and sits beside him on the bed, leaning toward James, looking at him with intense eyes. "You must know, James," he says, grabbing his hand, "you can't forget."
"Sirius—"
As abruptly as he sat, Sirius stands up again, pacing, pacing, pacing, restless. "You can't forget, James; it is vital that you remember—you have a brother, you see, and you have left him behind. And it's the reason they won't come after you. He's the reason they won't come after you. Because they don't need you when they have him. And you didn't realise that. Not until the police calls you a year later and says your brother is in custody and will be submitted in a fucking psychiatric institution for teens and they ask if you want to visit but—" A sob tears its way out and then another and then another and Sirius is breaking down in front of him, sinking to his knees, his hand covering his mouth as his eyes fill with tears and he sags, sobs racking through him—
In an instant, he is crouching down beside his friend, tries to . . . what? Comfort? James tries anyway (and perhaps that's what's important). His hand hesitantly hovers over Sirius' shaking shoulder before the later nods and James hugs him tightly, whispering to his ear, "It's okay—" it's really not "—you are going to be okay—" he doesn't know that "—you will talk to him when you're ready—" rocking Sirius back and forth, pushing locks of hair away from his grief-stricken face and can you mourn someone who's alive and should you and why not?
(Later, Sirius will answer, red eyes fixed on the wall, "I've mourned him in more ways than I can count," because, yes, apparently you can mourn the living too, and James doesn't know what to do with the information because he's never had to mourn anyone, because from the moment he was born he was spoiled rotten and it's that which makes him guilty. James has never had to struggle for anything and when he says that to Sirius, he glares at him and hugs him because that's what friends do.)
*
"Regulus!"
He stops, shoulders tense, and turns on his heel to come face to face with James Potter. Instantly, a feral grin makes its way into his features and he arches an eyebrow.
"I thought I told you you'd have to earn that, lovely boy," he says. "It's still Black to you."
James rolls his eyes, corrects himself, "Alright, Black."
"Only you could make my name sound like a dirty word."
"And do you like dirty words?"
"It depends."
James comes close. "On what?"
Leaning closer, Regulus murmurs to his ear, "On whether you're the one saying them or not." Then, he takes a step back to look at a flustered James. "Scared you, did I?"
"In your dreams."
"Bold of you to assume I dream about you, darling."
If it's possible, James flashes bright red like a tomato, then blinks rapidly, his long, brown eyelashes fluttering behind the glasses, hazel eyes glittering like honey on the sun rays that have crept in from the window. "And what do you dream about, uh?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Regulus purs. There, standing in front of him with his dishevelled hair and beautiful eyes—lovely, lovely, lovely—James is like the sun; he burns and shines more than any other sun; he makes it his duty to warm anyone, even the undeserving. And Regulus wonders because if he's a sinner, James is a saint. What happens if he gets closer? Does he burn too? How would it be to burn with James Potter?
"As a matter of fact, I would."
He thinks of the dreams he never remembers, of the nightmares that are a twisted version of the past—his past, of the way he wakes up gasping (screaming) and how his hands won't stop trembling even though he's safe (—Dorcas whispering in the dead of night, you are safe, I won't let them hurt you again—) He thinks of other nights too, when sleep won't come and he's grateful for it even though his skin crawls and he vomits his guts out and his heart's racing like a madman, because those are better than sleep, because sleep is dangerous, makes you vulnerable, even though he has no one to defend himself from.
Regulus shakes his head, frowning. "As a matter of fact, I didn't ask."
A blink, a lifted eyebrow. James crosses his arms. "As a matter of fact, you did."
Damn it. "As a matter of fact, ignore me."
"How can you expect me to ignore the most interesting boy of the school? Everyone's been talking about the three newcomers."
"Only the good things, I suppose?" he asks, knowing there isn't a single good thing they could say about him. (Mostrous boy, they always say. Crazy child. If he's lucky, they might call him unhinged. Regulus will laugh at them then, show the world just how unhinged he is.) Well. Besides his good looks.
A pause. James avoids his eyes. He wants to huff. (Scream at someone, hit someone, someone hit him.) "'There is one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about,' I suppose," Regulus says in the end.
"That sounded like a quote." James' brows furrow. "Was it a quote?"
"Oscar Wilde, you uneducated podge."
"Who?"
He gives James an affronted look. "What do you want, James?"
"Is it impossible that I'd want to spend time with a pretty boy?"
"I've been called many things in my life, but pretty isn't one of them."
"But you are," James insists. "You are pretty. You are beautiful." You aren't a star, Regulus, you are the whole night sky.
Regulus sighs. "I know that, darling. Self-awareness is one of my many virtues. That doesn't answer my question, though, does it?"
"Look... " James suddenly seems self-conscious, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I am looking. And I like the view."
"Jesus Christ—"
"I believe I'm Regulus Black."
James buries his face in his palms, groaning. "Will you shut up for a minute?"
The wild grin returns. "Make me," he whispers.
"Wha—whoa—Look—ImherecauseSiriusaskedmetotellyouthathewantstotalktoyou."
He blinks. "What."
"Sirius—" James sighs— "wants to talk to you. There, I said it." He sighs again.
He can feel his expression hardening, eyes turning vacant and blank, fists clenching, lips pressed in a thin line. "If he wanted to talk to me," he drawls, "he would have done it a year ago. I have nothing to say." I have everything to say.
Throwing his hands in frustration, James replies, "Look, I know things between the two of you are bad—"
"You don't get it, do you, James?" He tilts his head, studying him.
"Get what?"
Regulus says, "There is no brotherhood between us. If there was a word for people less than strangers, that would do." And then he turns and leaves, ignoring James' protests—how can you expect me to ignore the most interesting boy of the school?—because it was stupid to think James was here for him, stupid to wonder, stupid to believe that someone who is whole and complete might want him despite being broken, a puzzle with missing pieces. (Unlovable, his mother hissing to his ear. Wicked child. Don't you know it's for your own good? All you touch is death.)
*
"How'd it go?"
James lands on the bed with his face, and mumbles, "It didn't go."
"Prongs—"
"You should talk to him, Sirius. Face to face. He isn't going to hurt you, you know."
Sirius' expression is grim. "That's what I'm afraid of."
He raises an eyebrow at that. "Regulus not hurting you?"
If anything, Sirius' expression darkens more. "No," he says, shaking his head. "Regulus having no reaction."
*
It does start with two boys. But the thing is, there are so many unspoken things between them (a runaway brother, broken hearts, broken relationships). It continues with the boys at school—the one trying to adapt and survive without losing himself, the other trying to fix what is not meant for him to fix. (Remember though that he is sixteen and sixteen is too young, too naive, too brave and reckless.)
They are past the beginning, by now. Because the other boy is falling, too. And he's falling harder.