Waving from the shore
A box.
Regulus walks into his dorm to find a simple red box and red ribbon tied on top.
"Gryffindor colors," his dormmate snarls, and he has to hold back an eyeroll, because, really, who cares? "is it from your brother, then?" he continues, looking disinterested at best and disgusted at worst. Regulus gets a weird, swirling feeling in his stomach every time one of the other slytherins mentions his brother. Like they're testing his reaction, like they're checking if he misses him. Like if they look hard enough, they'll find out how a part of him had begged the hat to go to Gryffindor all those years ago.
he takes the box and checks the simple tag attached- 'from a friend', it reads, 'JP'.
"no," he says, "not from Sirius. it looks like a dumb Gryffindor prank, to be honest." because it does. because he dosen't know a JP. because he definitely dosen't have any friends.
"want me to toss it out for you?" Mulciber asks, impatient, piercing eyes and a sharp, raised eyebrow.
"no," Regulus surprises himself with his answer, "I'll take care of it."
Mulciber gives him a look but says nothing more and leaves the room. Regulus lets out a breath, and carefully tears away the ribbon and wrapping paper.
his breath stops, for a moment. it's a lovely, simple little menorah, one of the small ones they let children light all on their own when they reach the right height and want to feel like adults. his breath hitches as his hand passes on the metal carvings. a lion, a snake, a badger and an eagle that is holding a star of David in it's mouth. it's ridiculous, and charming and Regulus has no idea where he's going to hide it.
then, he sees the note.
'I get everyone Hanukkah presents every year, and Sirius mentioned in passing that it's your favorite. Consider this a peace offering. an olive branch, maybe. Sirius thinks this is a bad idea but when has he ever had a critical thought, I mean really now. sorry for last week, by the way.
Happy Hanukkah, Regulus.
James Potter.'
Regulus clutches the note a bit too harsh, his cheeks going a bit too red. he loathes James Potter. he has all the pure blood with none of the costs, all the glory with none of the responsibility.
he has all of Sirius, unconditionally and fully in a way that Regulus never had him. never will. He hexed Regulus last week, aiming for Snape but missing completely, turning Regulus's hair a bright pink. Regulus loathes him, loathes him, loathes him and his stupid, handsome face.
he decides to give Potter a piece of his mind.
--
The months pass, and a piece of his mind turns into pieces of his heart, his soul, his body. in less than a year, he finds himself immersed in the terrifying business of loving James Potter, utterly and completely.
He and James are in the room of requirement, they're in cupboards, they're in the forest and in a hogsmeade alley and Regulus sees gold, feels the sun on his skin for the first time in years, and it's warm and it's right, until it begins to burn.
it burns, when he sees James leap into Sirius's arms after a quidditch match. It burns, when James looks at him across the great hall, and Regulus has to distract himself, as if the dull grayness of his life is more interesting than the blazing sunshine begging for his attention.
it burns, when Regulus receives owl after owl from his parents, discussing future and ministry positions and dark marks and duties he has as the "single male child of the Black family."
it burns all over, and he can feel his skin blister and bend, can see James cracking under the pressure of their secrecy, of their avoidance of discussing the war. of their love that has always felt right but has never felt permanent. always fleeting, always slipping between the cracks in James's vulnerable heart and in Regulus's wounded one.
the fire burns inside of Regulus, as violent as his mother, as uncaring as his father, and Regulus hates it. He wants to tear out his hair and scream to the sky and kiss James Potter until they can't see anything other than each other. the blazing wall of fire stares him down, viciously, until it can't help but erupt.
it's, a bit tragically, the next Hanukkah, and they're in the room of requirement, and there's lights and a menorah and a table set perfectly, in that James way of 'I know it bothers you when silverware scrapes the plate so I enchanted it not to'. in that James Potter way of 'I got the applesauce that has just a little more sugar in it for your sweet tooth.' in that James Potter way of 'I know open flame kind of freaks you out, it's okay. I'll hold you by the menorah for hours and we don't have to talk, only hold each other and feel.' in that James Potter way of 'we don't have to talk about the war. we don't have to talk about anything. we don't have to tell Sirius and I'm sorry I brought it up. just let me hold you, okay? let me hold you. I'll do anything.'
and Regulus is bursting into flames under his skin, the menorah mocking him. he's struck with a dark and glaring feeling of 'not fair.' of 'not fair' and 'not fair' and 'not fair' and 'he deserves fucking better' and 'not fair. not at all.' and so Regulus cries.
James is alarmed, jumping at the sound, cradling his face with concern and it fucking /burns/ so Regulus pushes him away and he sobs, over and over. and James kneels in front of his chair and lets him sob, face in his hands.
"I can't- I can't fucking do this anymore, I can't."
and James Potter, for all his reputation of being clueless or naive, knows exactly what Regulus is talking about.
he looks up at Regulus with understanding layered over a deep, horrible hope, a hope that Regulus dosen't have the heart to diminish but he can't see another way out. can't see any other option.
"I thought we could-"
"we can't, James, we can't-"
"if Sirius could-"
"I'm not brave like-"
"that's bullocks, Reg, you know that. I know you know that-"
"I can't, I can't I can't I can't! my family-"
"we'll fight your bloody family!"
"I'm not worth-"
"you are worth it all, Regulus-"
"I'm nothing, James! can't you see I'm nothing?!"
James takes his hand. fragile and shaking and a single point of contact that burns like a million suns on his skin.
"You're everything." he whispers, and Regulus shakes his head violently.
nothing. nothing. nothing.
"I can't, I just can't, I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry."
James tries to catch his eyes, tries to maneuver his head under Regulus's hung one.
"Reg-" he croaks, voice breaking, harmonious with Regulus's heart.
"No, James, no."
he dosen't catch his eyes.
--
the next evening after classes, a small box is on Regulus's bed.
for a second, he chooses to believe it was all a dream. that he had never tasted from the nectar, had never stepped into the sunlight only to be thrusted back into his darkness.
the second is glorious, then it's gone.
he picks up the box with trembling hands.
A dreidel.
it isn't one for playing. it's coated with decorative silver. Regulus examines it's four sides: lion. snake. badger. eagle.
the note reads, simply, 'thank you for showing m the stars.' and Regulus realizes that yes, his sun may have lost a star, but more will come. he has lost his sun, his everything, the thing he orbited around to keep stable, keep sane. he trembles heavily as he hides the dreidel in the false bottom in his desk drawer, an old muggle trick he learned the previous year for his menorah.
Regulus takes a deep breath before leaving the room and plunging himself into darkness.
--
James shouldn't be here.
it's dangerous and stupid and just about everything can go wrong, but Regulus is assumed dead and there is a gravestone and James will be dammed if he dosen't visit it before going into bloody hiding.
he looks at the stone, the coolness of the gray and bluntness of the black letters, and can't help but think that that isn't Regulus at all. Regulus is maroon and emerald and deep deep blue, like the bottom of the ocean.
Regulus is crackling wood and smoothe vanilla and shy private smiles. he is safety and logic and deep, indescribable feelings. he is harbor and rest and patience. he's realism and heartbreak and truth.
he's dead. he's so young and so, terribly dead and James has no idea what to do with himself.
Remus had asked him, politely, if he wanted to bring any flowers. James had said no. said he has everything he needs.
he pulls a box out of his pocket, little and gold with red ribbon. he carefully places it right in front of Regulus's stone. tiny and bright against the mass of gray stone.
"Happy Hanukkah, Regulus." he lets the words slip out easily.
he goes to sleep thinking of fleeting time, and he waked up thinking of Regulus. and it weighs him down, harder and harder.
Regulus Black is dead, and James Potter can only respond by drowning.