Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

O, we were penitent enough, God knows,

Against all odds, Regulus takes Sirius up on his offer.

It’s early evening when he stands at the door. Hand raised and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, Regulus knocks twice and rocks back on his heels.

Warm light slips through the curtains, and music vibrates the glass. It’s melodic and catchy, but he can’t make out the words.

The curtain in the front window shimmers.

The lock clicks. Sirius tumbles out.

“Reggie!”

He barrels into Regulus before he could brace himself for the impact. Sirius holds him tightly, possessively, as if Regulus might puff into smoke if he lets go.

Drawing back, Sirius holds Regulus’ face in his hands, and searches his face. His eyes are wide, and his lips waver in a hesitant smile.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Sirius says.

Regulus ducks his head. He doesn’t want to tell Sirius why he’s here, that it’s not what he thinks. But Regulus cannot shatter his brother’s burgeoning happiness, not when the relationship between them has been so strained lately, not when Regulus spent so much of his childhood caring for his brother, not when Sirius hadn’t smiled at him like that in so long. He misses it, his brother’s joy, the roguish smile that lights his face.

“Who is it?” A female voice calls from inside the house.

“Come on.” The words are for Regulus’ ears alone. Sirius whispers with a fiendish look on his face, half-proud and half-ecstatic. He pulls Regulus into the house.

“Effie,” Sirius says, and Regulus rounds on him incredulously. “This is my brother Regulus.”

An older woman stands behind a wide kitchen island. Unlike Grimmauld, this kitchen is the heart of the house, located right in the middle, a warm centre that connects the rooms of the house. The woman, presumably Potter’s mother, has flour dusted on her hands, and her hair is tied into a thick braid.

“I have heard so much about you,” Mrs. Potter greets him. She smiles as soon as she sees them.

She goes to hug him, but at Regulus’ flinch, she goes to straighten Sirius’ collar instead. The redirection is smooth, nearly seamless.

Regulus is not used to adults caring about his comfort or physical space. It should make him feel at ease, but tension knots his spine. It’s better to know what’s expected of him, what is required of him, instead of being left in the dark.

“Come sit,” Mrs. Potter says. She gestures at the bar stools on the opposite side of the island.

Gingerly, Regulus sets his messenger bag down on one stool and sits on another. His muscles tense, and he cannot help the straight line of his spine. He looks around the crowded kitchen at all its knickknacks, all the cookbooks and colourful dishware.

On the island, multiple pans perch on cooling racks. Flaking pastry with nuts sprinkled on top fills the pans, and Regulus does not know what they are, only that they are a dessert of some sort.

Sirius squeezes on the chair next the Regulus and scoots close like he cannot bear being more than a breath away.

“I’m James’ mother,” Mrs. Potter says, still smiling. “But you can call me Effie. It’s short for Euphemia. Would you like some?”

She gestures at the pastry pans. Her eyes are knowing, like she caught his gaze sticking to the honey glazed pans.

Regulus doesn’t know how to respond. He opens his mouth to decline.

“They’re good.” Sirius shoulders him lightly. “Effie’s the best baker there is.”

“Oh shush.” Mrs. Potter gives a playful grin and waves her hand dismissively.

She lifts a paper lining from one of the pans, and the entire brick of pastry lifts out. Layers and layers of thin pastry sheets stack on each other, and honey and nuts drizzle out the sides. She sets it on a cutting board, and with a large cleaver, slices it into diamond shapes.

“It’s baklava,” Sirius whispers to Regulus.

And before Regulus knows it, Mrs. Potter is pushing a plate of baklava between Sirius and him and nodding at them to eat. Sirius selects a piece from the top of the stack and pops it into his mouth without preamble. He moans around the morsel.

With his mouth full, Sirius elbows Regulus and pushes the plate towards him.

After a swallow, he says, “It’s okay.” Sirius tone is warm and soft and exactly how Regulus remembers it from their shared childhood. “You can have as much as you want. There’s no limit.”

Regulus’ eyes dart to Mrs. Potter. She’s smiling softly at him, a little sad and little relieved at the same time.

“I’ll give you two a moment.” Mrs. Potter wipes her hands on her apron and hangs it on a hook near the pantry. “I’ll let Monty and James know your here, and I’ll see what we can do about tonight.”

She kisses Sirius on his head and smiles at Regulus one last time before she leaves.

Sirius is eating another piece of baklava, and he’s poking Regulus more incessantly.

“Eat,” he says, talking around his food.

Regulus’ nose scrunches, but he finds himself reaching for a piece. The layers of pastry are delicate, and they crinkle under his lips. A sweet taste of honey hits his tongue first. Savouring each bite, he chews slowly. Crumbled pistachios crunch under his molars, and the honey sticks to his teeth.

Sirius warps his arms around Regulus and nuzzles his nose in the crook of his shoulder.

“You’re such an oaf,” Regulus tells him, but there’s no heat behind it.

Sirius’ hands are white knuckled, and he’s breathing irregularly. Regulus knows his brother well enough to recognize when he’s scared.

So Regulus stays where he is. He doesn’t shove Sirius off as he usually would, and instead he savours the sweet sticky pieces of baklava and listens to the soft music swirling around the house.

Inch by inch, the warmth seeps in. Regulus body relaxes against Sirius’ tight embrace. His brother is warm and sturdy beside him, and the kitchen is too homey, too comfortable for him to remain stiff-limbed for long.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Sirius voice is lower than a whisper. “I thought—when I asked you, that first time, if you’d leave with me...”

His voice trails off into something indecipherable.

Regulus doesn’t hug his brother back, but he presses his weight into the embrace and rests his cheek on the top of Sirius’ head. He hopes it’s enough.

Something in Sirius breaks. His hold tightens, but he says nothing more.

The tragedy with siblings is that too much is spoken and too much is left unsaid. They have plenty of time and opportunity to hurl the worst insults at each other, to dig at the wounds they knew too well, but at the same time, they never quite have the chance to say what truly matters. So they stay silent, hoping against hope that the other understands the unspoken words through the silence.

∞

The Potters don’t have a second guest bedroom.

“He can sleep with me,” Sirius says.

All of them gather in the upstairs hallway. Potter is never far from Sirius, always touching him in some way. His parents huddle together beside the linen closet, and they exchange a look as Mrs. Potter retrieves a stack of sheets and a blanket.

“Would you be alright with that, Regulus?” Mrs. Potter asks.

Sirius is the one who answers. “We used to share a bed all the time when we were younger. We’re used to it.”

James is giving Regulus an odd look, and Regulus fights the urge to glare and snap at him to stop.

“He can have the guest room to himself if he likes,” Potter pipes up. “Sirius usually sleeps in my room anyways.”

They’re all looking at him to respond.

Regulus swallows. He stares at the floor. He’s clenching his messenger bag to his chest.

“You can sleep where you want,” Regulus tells Sirius. Then, to Mrs. Potter, “I’d like to sleep in a bed tonight, if you don’t mind. I don’t fancy taking to a couch.”

“Then it’s settled.” Mr. Potter’s voice is low and sure. It carries a natural gravitas, and Regulus finds himself nodding. “We’re glad to have you, son.”

The term of endearment is natural, almost thoughtlessly tacked onto the end, but something warm squirms in Regulus’ stomach. Son. It makes him feel weird, in a weird-good kind of way.

“I’m going to shower,” James says. He claps Sirius on the back and heads to his room.

Mr. Potter gives his son a look and huffs a breath. To Regulus, he says, “Come. You can wash in the master bath if you’d like.”

Regulus mutters a “Thank you” and follows, his messenger bag still clasped to his chest.

∞

Under a warm stream of water, the day washes off Regulus. Steam thickens the air, and he breathes in the warmth. He lathers shampoo into his hair, smelling of mandarin and cedar.

A bundle of clothing is waiting for him when he steps out.

A note reads: These are a pair of James’ old pyjamas. They should fit you.

Regulus lifts the pyjamas. They are a deep crimson colour with white thread on the sleeves and collar, and they smell like fresh laundry.

For all his life, Regulus refused to acknowledge the burgeoning affection he had for James Potter. It started innocently enough. On his first day at Eaton, Regulus wanted to see what friends his brother made the previous year. He wanted to meet the boys that Sirius raved about over the Christmas and summer breaks.

Lupin and Pettigrew were innocent enough. Quiet and studious, they walked a half step behind Sirius, and Regulus did not think much about them. James Potter, on the other hand, was a mess. Loud and obnoxious, Potter clung to Sirius every opportunity he got, and he seemed to share a bond between Sirius that was apart from the larger group, like something existed just between the two of them that the other’s did not share.

It was Christmastime, after Regulus' fourteenth birthday, when Sirius first slipped.

During break at Grimmauld, with the clock nearing midnight, Regulus shucked his covers and exited his room, intending to squirrel away in the library until morning.

A noise stopped him.

As Regulus passed Sirius’ door, he heard his brother whispering inside. Regulus didn’t dare to open the door, but Sirius’ words were unmistakable. It sounded like he was using a cellphone he bought with his own money and smuggled into Grimmauld.

“I wish I was at yours,” Sirius said that night. “I’m serious, Prongs. I don’t even know why I came this year. I’d rather be with you and your family.” A string of garbled words followed. Then, “You’re the brother I never had. Of course I’d rather be with you.”

Regulus darted away, not wanting to hear more, and he avoided his brother for the rest of Christmas break.

In the bathroom at the Potter house, Regulus’ jaw clenches. He glares at the crimson pyjamas.

A part of him wants to rip them up or chuck them on the floor. But another part stills.

He can’t fault his brother to gravitating to James Potter. For all his insufferable cockiness and gall, James is a ball of sunshine. He lights up any room he’s in, and he’s constantly taking care of people, from his friends and peers to random first years (not even limited to the ones in his house. He helps everyone). He’s annoyingly perfect.

Regulus cannot help but admire him, and he hates himself for it.

Still, he steps into the crimson pyjamas. The worn cotton is soft against his skin, and Regulus smooths his hands over the fabric. James wore these, he thinks to himself. It once touched his skin. The thought buzzes warm in his stomach.

Regulus leaves the en-suite bathroom before his thoughts can linger to long and sweep him into a fantasy he does not want to dwell on right now.

He stops in his tracks.

Mr. and Mrs. Potter are kissing. Not a quick peck to lips, but a wet open-mouthed thing, raw and passionate. It’s far too intimate for Regulus to know how to react to it.

“By god, I love you,” Mr. Potter whispers against his wife’s lips. The words are soft and adoring, meant only for the two of them. “You're a perfect wife and an even better mother. I fall in love with you more and more every day.”

Regulus flushes.

He didn’t know this was a problem someone could have. His birth parents are such sexless creatures, he forgot that most couples did couple-y things even as they advance in age.

“Oh,” Mrs. Potter gasps. She steps back and tucks loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Didn’t see you there, dear.”

Regulus wants to floor to swallow him.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” he says instead. A blush sears the back of his neck.

But Mr. Potter is laughing. It’s a solid sound, a manly guffaw.

“You’re quieter than a mouse,” he says. “And don’t apologize. You’re a guest.”

“Come on, dear.” Mrs. Potter is ushering him out their bedroom door, and Regulus is grateful.

The door to James Potter’s door is ajar, and as they walk past, Regulus catches a glimpse of Sirius and him seated on the bed. Their heads are bent together, nearly touching.

Regulus settles into the guest room, and James must be right about Sirius sleeping in his bed most nights. The room doesn’t quite feel lived in. An empty guitar case leans against a wall, and clothes and papers are scattered on the floor, but it’s not as messy as Sirius usually keeps his rooms. The nightstand doesn’t have a dozen half-empty cups crowding it, and there’s no dirty underwear thrown at the end of the bed.

Climbing under the covers, Regulus says goodnight to Mrs. Potter. She closes the door behind her.

Regulus curls on his side, holding the covers to his nose. He reaches for the empty nightstand and turns off the light. The room descends into darkness.

∞

Something shifts in the dark.

Regulus keeps his eyes closed, but he feels Sirius slip under the bed sheets beside him. He knows his brother by his breath alone, by the way he shifts in the darkness. Regulus doesn’t have to open his eyes to try and see the figure in the dark. He knows who it is.

Sirius squirms in the sheets. It’s like he’s a dog encircling his bed before lying down, making sure the blankets are just right.

Regulus feels the bed dip. He knows Sirius is one his side, and he thinks he’s watching him through the darkness.

Sirius shifts again, closer this time. Then, he nuzzles into his pillow.

“Night, Reggie,” he says.

“Goodnight,” Regulus whispers back.

Sirius squirms in the sheets some more, as if debating to move closer again. But he stills.

The night passes.

∞

Regulus wakes with the dawn.

The rising morning sun hits the bedroom window, and he rises instantly. Rubbing his eyes, Regulus peers around the room. Still half-asleep, it takes him a moment to get his bearings, to remember where he is.

Sirius is sleeping with his mouth on the pillow, drool pooling beneath him.

Choice:

(1) Wake Sirius

(2) Exit the bedroom and wander downstairs