2
Regulus makes tea for James. It’s the cinnamon kind, so he expects drowsiness to pull them quickly into sleep.
Sleep doesn’t come.
Somewhere around three in the morning, Regulus reaches for his husband’s hands and asks if he can be honest.
“Of course,” James says because of course.
“I always thought I’d go when I was younger.”
James stares at him uncomprehendingly.
“Dying, I mean. I always thought I’d die around thirteen. That always made sense to me, at least.” He doesn’t say that it made sense to him back then because there was nothing in his life pulling him into the light. Then came James, the light personified.
James reads his mind anyway, “There was a lot of darkness when you were thirteen. And before.” Quietly, he adds, “Still is.”
He knows what James is talking about. Quickly, he runs through the list. His parents. Sirius running away - he can’t quite blame him anymore -, being born into the wrong world in every sense of the word. But James’ gaze darkens a little and Regulus knows he’s talking about the branding on his back. The one magic can’t heal.
Lucius’ handprint.
Sometimes he can pretend it isn’t there. If he showers in the dark, if he wears big enough shirts, if nobody unfamiliar tries to touch him. But the red cracks are there, seared into his skin.
“I wanted to die,” He whispers. “Every time, I hoped he would kill me.”
He didn’t, of course. Lucius never did anything that Regulus wanted.
Regulus knew that he and James had had the conversation a few times before. Little things, boundary setting, especially back at school. Now that they lived together and had a child of their own, it was like James had a sixth sense for it. Everything about him was molded around his love for Regulus.
The thought first makes him blush before it makes him ashamed. Who was he to mold this perfect boy? To change him?
James Potter shouldn’t be changed.
He knows he’s never told James the story behind the brand. James knows where it is, has seen it a million times, knows not to touch him anywhere near there. He knows whose hand it is and what…
Tired of thinking, he asks if he can show him something.
James says, “Always,” because of course he does, but Regulus shakes his head violently.
“No. I really mean it. You can say no. This is a lot. I want you to see… Lucius.”
James squeezes Regulus’ hands. He had almost forgotten that they were holding hands. While the prospect was terrifying - that he could forget that he was actively being touched -, something about it reminds him of who James is. Like he would ever need a reminder. James was good. Always will be.
The squeeze being answer enough, Regulus pulls them ten years back. To a night that no magic can undo.
Regulus can smell him before he even opens his eyes to the scene. He knows he’s in his bedroom. He knows it’s late at night. Despite the festivities downstairs - an engagement ball for Lucius and Narcissa -, the both of them are stone cold sober.
James has seen Lucius once in his life, during some bullshit family thing. He doesn’t remember much other than an older boy who he admired for a moment (as all little kids admire those older than them). Nothing could have prepared him for the way he looks here.
It’s Regulus’ memory, so time doesn’t quite move right. Lucius’ face keeps flickering in and out of existence. James is vaguely aware that he’s what… twenty?
And Regulus is thirteen.
James doesn’t miss the terror in the little boy’s eyes. There’s something else in there. A sort of resignation. It’s defeat. He’s been defeated.
“Why aren’t you downstairs?” Lucius asks. It comes out like a threat. He looks like a predator, ready to lunge at anything that moves.
And isn’t that a little on the fucking nose.
Lucius is too close to Regulus. The kid’s gone a little green.
Regulus can never look at himself without feeling unclean. Never has been and now, with imminent death rapidly approaching, never will.
Lucius disappears for a moment again. For a little while, all that there is to be seen is the wallpaper. There's a smudge of red among the green expanse. He zeroes in on it. There are hands on skin, but it’s not his. It’s someone else’s body. Time skips around a little more. There’s some words he can’t hear, some lips somewhere. Red. Red. Red. That’s all that stays consistent, even as the room reshuffles. Even as he reshuffles.
Just like a deck of cards, Regulus is.
Red. Red. Red.
There’s no way to describe the way his entire body curls from the inside out. Something outside is rapidly rotting, and the thing inside is pounding in his skin, begging to get out.
The thing inside is Regulus.
Regulus doesn’t escape this time. He never has. Lucius gets what he wants. Always has.
When Lucius is done, Regulus is still somewhere else. He stays in the same position, pressed into his bed, as Lucius gets up and… does whatever it is Lucius does. By the faint sound of water, he guesses Lucius is showering.
He showered the first few times too. Like it would somehow wash it off. It doesn’t. If it did anything at all, it just made him unable to shower on other days. It made the smell of the water and the memory of Lucius synonymous. Even now, at his own house, sometimes stripping naked in the bathroom and stepping into the shower feels like it’s happening again.
The human mind makes all the wrong connections, doesn’t it?
It’s Narcissa who comes looking for Regulus. Or, rather, she comes looking for the fiance who ditched her during their engagement party.
She knew to check Regulus’ bedroom.
James is going to be sick.
“Why is he in the shower?” She asks.
Regulus doesn’t move. He isn’t quite inside himself. It’s not real.
“Why is my fiance in your shower?” She asks. By the slight crinkle of her eyes, she knows why.
“Spilled wine on myself. Sorry, darling.” Lucius appears from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist.
There are no scratches on him. Not like the first few times, when Regulus still had it in him to fight. All that ever did was make Lucius enjoy himself more. It was about winning, and winning is so much more fun when you’ve got a competitor that you’re beating.
It’s enough. It’s good enough for Narcissa, who would rather be comforted by a cheap lie than have to shine a light on the truth.
She closes the door behind her, bidding him to come back downstairs once he’s dressed. When the door clicks, he moves toward Regulus again.
Except this time, Regulus can’t sink himself again. His mind is present, and he can’t fix it. He’s there. He’s there. He’s there.
Red. Red. Red.
Lucius grabs him by his hair. He’s not yet left his parent’s house, so it’s still long and the curls are stiff and clean. He gets a fistful and Regulus is rendered immobile.
He’s never been so afraid. Maybe that’s not the truth, but he wouldn’t remember anyway. He can’t move, can’t sink. Tears gather in his eyes. They slip and spill. He whimpers, whines, begs. He lives every moment.
If he had a corporeal body, James would have thrown up. Fuck, he would have stepped forward and killed that motherfucker.
But this is Regulus’ memory. It’s not to be changed.
Lucius calls Regulus pathetic and then suddenly his hand is right between Regulus’ shoulder blades. Right where James knows there’s a mark on the Regulus of today.
Regulus screams. He shouts and cries, and still nobody comes. His flesh actually burns. He can smell it.
Worst of all, he can’t fucking sink. He can’t sink. Can’t sink. Can’t sink.
Red. Red. Red. It doesn’t sink him. He feels it all. Knows what's happening and lets it continue. He’s weak. Lucius was right to mark him as such.
Regulus Black is weak.
He comes out of the memory gasping like a drowning victim pulled from the depths. Like he’s been pushed, he stumbles backward and nearly trips over a chair.
James knows better than to reach out and steady him. Merlin, having been inside Reg’s mind for even one moment makes him want to take a cold shower and never be touched again.
“Are you alright?” Regulus whispers after a moment.
James promptly throws up. He has half a mind to make a joke about how, if he got a thousand dollars for every time he’s thrown up today, he’d be a far richer man. He doesn’t make the joke.
“Yeah,” James chokes out. His husband is sobbing. Why would he care how James is feeling?
Regulus reads his mind. “I’ve lived that before. You- you’ve never had that happen to you. It’s… it’s a lot.”
He doesn’t think about the moral implications of showing James a memory where… that… happened. At least, he tries not to.
He would be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel a little lighter, sharing that burden with someone else. Even if that person is James Potter, who deserves to be carrying nothing bad. Deserves to be burdenless.
“You’re not a burden,” James says. Regulus wishes his husband wasn’t so damn good at husbanding. “You’re not. I’m glad you showed me. I- I think I understand why…” He loses his train of thought. “I’m okay with the fact that you showed me. I’m alright if you are.”
“Yeah. I feel a little better about it, if you can imagine.”
James can’t. They make more tea. They talk about it. Regulus does his best not to sink.
James stands on the other side of the kitchen table, never close enough to touch.
Regulus loves him.
When drowsiness finally comes to collect them, Regulus drifts off with only a little hesitance. He dreams that he’s a prince in a tower. James Potter is the knight come to save him.
James doesn’t sleep. He watches Regulus breathe. He thinks about how, sooner rather than later, that breath will stop. It nearly kills him.