Fic: Empathy
Title: Empathy
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Rabastan/Regulus (implied Rodolphus/Rabastan, Sirius/Regulus, Rodolphus/Bellatrix)
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1776
Summary: The second violin never plays louder than the first.
AN: For Underlucius, for her birthday! She wanted Rabastan/Regulus, younger brother empathy. I most definitely served you up some angst for your birthday, m'dear, I do hope you don't mind. As always, thanks to Jazzypom for the wonderful beta :)
Empathy
Three sparks--pride, envy, and avarice--have been kindled in all hearts.--Dante
Rabastan thinks maybe there is a curse to being born the second son, something that causes the eyes to slide right past you, as if you are merely a shabby second-hand chair shoved to the back of the room because you are not good enough to grace the dining table. Maybe when one of the highly-polished mahogany chairs are sent off to be upholstered, perhaps then you are hastily fixed up enough to fill in, but never permanently unless something happens to the one that belongs.
His brother is the chair that graces the head of the table; all haughty pride and insolent good looks, chiseled jaw, burning dark eyes that see only the black-haired vixen that his with his every spoken word he claims to hate. Rabastan has never believed this, because he has seen the way Rodolphus devours Bellatrix with his eyes even as he speaks so sneeringly of her. He thinks maybe it’s their courting ritual; tear each other apart with teeth and claws while their eyes delight in each other. He only knows that he hates it, finds it appalling, but he’s unable to stop himself from watching it nonetheless.
Rabastan finds his stomach twisting with hate whenever she enters the room.
He’s forced to watch Rodolphus’ eyes glaze over with lust and darker things, and his brother imperceptibly shifts away from him and gifts that unworthy little bitch with all his quiet intensity.
What is left for Rabastan is an afterthought; a murmured response to a question that Rabatsan knows his brother hasn’t even heard. Even when he’s looking at him he’s thinking of her. This is not something Rabastan feels he will ever be able to forgive.
They are at the Black’s house for one of those dull affairs their parents insist they attend, some flimsy excuse to force Rodolphus and Bellatrix into each other’s presence even though it is patently obvious such excuses are no longer necessary. No doubt Bellatrix pretends they are, since there are few things she enjoys more than subterfuge and causing tension, and why admit she has fallen for the dark-haired scion of the House of Lestrange when she can do both?
Rabastan is sprawled on the divan in the parlor, sulkily sipping at some cordial that is too sweet and makes his lip curl in an unpleasant expression that would provoke his mother’s ire if she were paying any attention to him whatsoever. Bellatrix is perched on a chair, posture perfect and without reproach, the look on her face faintly amused and utterly predatory. Her hair is shining and dark and left full around her shoulders; raven wings on snow. Her hands (claws, he thinks, they’re claws, look at her talons, gleaming red in the gaslight) are wrapped around one of the ornate glasses from which she sips her cordial.
She is not looking at Rodolphus but at her cousin Sirius, who is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, face twisted into an unpleasant sneer. Rodolphus sits on the arm of the chair, murmuring something to Bellatrix in a low voice. Rabastan can’t hear a word of it, he can only feel the slight reverberations across the room and become angry over their loss; he remembers when it was the side of his chair upon which Rodolphus used to perch, his ear in which were murmured diabolical nothings, when it was his laugh that rang out like poison just as Bellatrix’s does now.
Sirius looks over at her, slowly, as if he’d rather not, but he’s just as ensnared by her. Rabastan notes with amusement that the hatred on Sirius’ face is not the same as the disdain Rodolphus affects whenever Bellatrix’s name is mentioned. Sirius' expression is purely malicious and utterly real. There is nothing devouring in his eyes save for an obvious ire that is eating him up like some toxic virus, because that is what Rabastan thinks Bellatrix does.
Thall shall not suffer a witch to live. Somewhere he’d read that word should have been translated as poisoner. It a sentiment with which he wholly agrees.
She certainly snares them all like some viperous spider, Rabastan thinks, wincing at the increasing sweetness of his drink which he nevertheless finishes only because it gives his restless hands something to squeeze between them besides the smooth column of her throat, fills his mouth with something other than the curse that is clamoring to escape. She’ll destroy them both and they won’t even care…
He doesn’t know whom he hates more, Bellatrix for being the spider or his brother for being such obvious and willing prey. Rabastan easily senses the wrath clinging to Sirius like the fine linen of his robes, but he notices that Sirius makes no move to leave the room.
Rabastan stands up and slams his drink down on the table; he could have used Avada Kedavra on the house-elf or even on the shrill Mrs. Black and receive no more notice than he does as he stalks out of the parlor. The House of Black makes him nervous-misery hangs like a fog in the shadowy corners and clings to the dust on the furniture-but it’s better than being in there and forced to watch that mockery of social interaction.
He opens one of the heavy mahogany doors and finds himself in what must have once been the music room. Everything is covered with cloth that was probably once white, but has turned a faint yellowish-brown from layers of dust. Everything is covered except for a harpsichord, which has been lovingly attended to and highly polished, and somehow it looks sinister for the very lack of neglect about it.
Rabastan runs his fingers over the slick bone keys, thinking he could pound away on it even though he knew not how to play it, and no one would even bother to investigate the noise. His fingers depress lightly and the sound jars him and twists his stomach. Even though he’s not familiar with the instrument he has ear enough to know when something is off-key.
Why would it be so perfectly preserved, then, if it couldn’t even be played properly?
“Sirius used to play that.” Defensive words, echoing from the impeccable acoustics of the room-how nice, that the room is so well-appointed for the music that is never played within.
Just like the Black Family; perfectly beautiful and perfectly useless.
Rabastan reflexively snatches his fingers from the harpsichord and turns, startled, blinking as he spies Regulus Black standing half in shadow. “Oh. You.” He’s faintly disappointed, but he tells himself he’s not.
Rodolphus does not care where you’ve gone off to.
Regulus Black is about his age, and they share features that Rabastan thinks may be common to second sons everywhere. They’re both slight, cheeks curved with more feminine lines than masculine ones, eyes too large in faces often marred by shadows. Regulus is slouching, and as he unfolds himself to walk over to Rabastan, it’s graceful, almost like he’s performing a ballet.
“My cousin is going to marry your brother, you know.” Regulus’ voice reminds him of the harpsichord; low and discordant, as if he’s as out of tune as the instrument is.
“I know,” Rabastan says, eyes narrowed, but his voice is more tired than threatening.
“We’re just like this room. Furniture to be covered up.” Regulus mutters, running his hand over the fabric-covered piano. He grimaces in distaste as his hand is covered in dust, and wipes it on his robes, continuing his advance towards Rabastan.
“Are we?” Rabastan agrees with him, really, but he can’t say it, because admitting it will make it so. He doesn’t want it to be true, he wants to be more to Rodolphus than a piano easily covered by white linen, left to dust and decay.
“Mmm. It’s harder for you, in some ways. They’ll have a wedding, and you’ll have to stand there and smile and do your brother honor while he marries her.” Regulus cocks his head; his hair is too long, it falls in his eyes. Sirius would toss it out of his face with a negligent gesture and a smile, but Regulus leaves it there, peers at him through dark strands hanging over his eyes.
“You just have to watch him moon after that werewolf,” Rabastan says, the words calculated to be painful, because somehow he senses that is what Regulus wants.
The other man laughs at his poorly attempted pun, shaking his head. His hand comes up and rakes the hair out of his face, and Rabastan is more enthralled by the quick violence of the gesture than he ever has been by Sirius’ practiced insouciance.
“Do you know why I came in here, Rabastan?” Regulus’ voice slides easily into perfectly pitched tones, seductive and almost purring, and it dances up Rabastan’s spine and causes chills to follow in its wake.
It’s hard to breathe through all the dust and malice heavy in the air, or maybe that is just because Regulus is leaning down to whisper in Rabastan’s ear, and his breath is very warm against his skin. The frantic beat of Rabastan’s heart is like a drum and it’s too hot in the room, though the sun has long since set and only darkness spills through the damask-covered windows.
“Why?” It is hard to say it, to force the words from his throat and out into the open, and it’s rasping and desperate like the music pulled out of the harpsichord.
”I came to cover it up,” Regulus murmurs, and his body is pressed lightly to his. Rabastan feels the other man’s mouth grazing his throat and his sigh is both needy and resigned. “I came to put it away because no one is ever going to play it again, no matter how pretty it looks.”
“Yes,” Rabastan says unsteadily, hands rising unconsciously to grasp at Regulus’ shoulders. They are not as broad as Rodolphus’, but they will do.
For now.
“I should think that is a very good idea.”
As far as concertos go, the music in the room is far from perfect, but only because it is out of tune. It is not for lack of passion, and perhaps in time, it won’t sound as forced, though the desperation lends something indefinable to the piece that may never be able to be recaptured. There is a sorrowful note beneath it, as if they are both aware this is not the song either wanted to hear, but it is all they have.
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Rabastan/Regulus (implied Rodolphus/Rabastan, Sirius/Regulus, Rodolphus/Bellatrix)
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1776
Summary: The second violin never plays louder than the first.
AN: For Underlucius, for her birthday! She wanted Rabastan/Regulus, younger brother empathy. I most definitely served you up some angst for your birthday, m'dear, I do hope you don't mind. As always, thanks to Jazzypom for the wonderful beta :)
Empathy
Three sparks--pride, envy, and avarice--have been kindled in all hearts.--Dante
Rabastan thinks maybe there is a curse to being born the second son, something that causes the eyes to slide right past you, as if you are merely a shabby second-hand chair shoved to the back of the room because you are not good enough to grace the dining table. Maybe when one of the highly-polished mahogany chairs are sent off to be upholstered, perhaps then you are hastily fixed up enough to fill in, but never permanently unless something happens to the one that belongs.
His brother is the chair that graces the head of the table; all haughty pride and insolent good looks, chiseled jaw, burning dark eyes that see only the black-haired vixen that his with his every spoken word he claims to hate. Rabastan has never believed this, because he has seen the way Rodolphus devours Bellatrix with his eyes even as he speaks so sneeringly of her. He thinks maybe it’s their courting ritual; tear each other apart with teeth and claws while their eyes delight in each other. He only knows that he hates it, finds it appalling, but he’s unable to stop himself from watching it nonetheless.
Rabastan finds his stomach twisting with hate whenever she enters the room.
He’s forced to watch Rodolphus’ eyes glaze over with lust and darker things, and his brother imperceptibly shifts away from him and gifts that unworthy little bitch with all his quiet intensity.
What is left for Rabastan is an afterthought; a murmured response to a question that Rabatsan knows his brother hasn’t even heard. Even when he’s looking at him he’s thinking of her. This is not something Rabastan feels he will ever be able to forgive.
They are at the Black’s house for one of those dull affairs their parents insist they attend, some flimsy excuse to force Rodolphus and Bellatrix into each other’s presence even though it is patently obvious such excuses are no longer necessary. No doubt Bellatrix pretends they are, since there are few things she enjoys more than subterfuge and causing tension, and why admit she has fallen for the dark-haired scion of the House of Lestrange when she can do both?
Rabastan is sprawled on the divan in the parlor, sulkily sipping at some cordial that is too sweet and makes his lip curl in an unpleasant expression that would provoke his mother’s ire if she were paying any attention to him whatsoever. Bellatrix is perched on a chair, posture perfect and without reproach, the look on her face faintly amused and utterly predatory. Her hair is shining and dark and left full around her shoulders; raven wings on snow. Her hands (claws, he thinks, they’re claws, look at her talons, gleaming red in the gaslight) are wrapped around one of the ornate glasses from which she sips her cordial.
She is not looking at Rodolphus but at her cousin Sirius, who is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, face twisted into an unpleasant sneer. Rodolphus sits on the arm of the chair, murmuring something to Bellatrix in a low voice. Rabastan can’t hear a word of it, he can only feel the slight reverberations across the room and become angry over their loss; he remembers when it was the side of his chair upon which Rodolphus used to perch, his ear in which were murmured diabolical nothings, when it was his laugh that rang out like poison just as Bellatrix’s does now.
Sirius looks over at her, slowly, as if he’d rather not, but he’s just as ensnared by her. Rabastan notes with amusement that the hatred on Sirius’ face is not the same as the disdain Rodolphus affects whenever Bellatrix’s name is mentioned. Sirius' expression is purely malicious and utterly real. There is nothing devouring in his eyes save for an obvious ire that is eating him up like some toxic virus, because that is what Rabastan thinks Bellatrix does.
Thall shall not suffer a witch to live. Somewhere he’d read that word should have been translated as poisoner. It a sentiment with which he wholly agrees.
She certainly snares them all like some viperous spider, Rabastan thinks, wincing at the increasing sweetness of his drink which he nevertheless finishes only because it gives his restless hands something to squeeze between them besides the smooth column of her throat, fills his mouth with something other than the curse that is clamoring to escape. She’ll destroy them both and they won’t even care…
He doesn’t know whom he hates more, Bellatrix for being the spider or his brother for being such obvious and willing prey. Rabastan easily senses the wrath clinging to Sirius like the fine linen of his robes, but he notices that Sirius makes no move to leave the room.
Rabastan stands up and slams his drink down on the table; he could have used Avada Kedavra on the house-elf or even on the shrill Mrs. Black and receive no more notice than he does as he stalks out of the parlor. The House of Black makes him nervous-misery hangs like a fog in the shadowy corners and clings to the dust on the furniture-but it’s better than being in there and forced to watch that mockery of social interaction.
He opens one of the heavy mahogany doors and finds himself in what must have once been the music room. Everything is covered with cloth that was probably once white, but has turned a faint yellowish-brown from layers of dust. Everything is covered except for a harpsichord, which has been lovingly attended to and highly polished, and somehow it looks sinister for the very lack of neglect about it.
Rabastan runs his fingers over the slick bone keys, thinking he could pound away on it even though he knew not how to play it, and no one would even bother to investigate the noise. His fingers depress lightly and the sound jars him and twists his stomach. Even though he’s not familiar with the instrument he has ear enough to know when something is off-key.
Why would it be so perfectly preserved, then, if it couldn’t even be played properly?
“Sirius used to play that.” Defensive words, echoing from the impeccable acoustics of the room-how nice, that the room is so well-appointed for the music that is never played within.
Just like the Black Family; perfectly beautiful and perfectly useless.
Rabastan reflexively snatches his fingers from the harpsichord and turns, startled, blinking as he spies Regulus Black standing half in shadow. “Oh. You.” He’s faintly disappointed, but he tells himself he’s not.
Rodolphus does not care where you’ve gone off to.
Regulus Black is about his age, and they share features that Rabastan thinks may be common to second sons everywhere. They’re both slight, cheeks curved with more feminine lines than masculine ones, eyes too large in faces often marred by shadows. Regulus is slouching, and as he unfolds himself to walk over to Rabastan, it’s graceful, almost like he’s performing a ballet.
“My cousin is going to marry your brother, you know.” Regulus’ voice reminds him of the harpsichord; low and discordant, as if he’s as out of tune as the instrument is.
“I know,” Rabastan says, eyes narrowed, but his voice is more tired than threatening.
“We’re just like this room. Furniture to be covered up.” Regulus mutters, running his hand over the fabric-covered piano. He grimaces in distaste as his hand is covered in dust, and wipes it on his robes, continuing his advance towards Rabastan.
“Are we?” Rabastan agrees with him, really, but he can’t say it, because admitting it will make it so. He doesn’t want it to be true, he wants to be more to Rodolphus than a piano easily covered by white linen, left to dust and decay.
“Mmm. It’s harder for you, in some ways. They’ll have a wedding, and you’ll have to stand there and smile and do your brother honor while he marries her.” Regulus cocks his head; his hair is too long, it falls in his eyes. Sirius would toss it out of his face with a negligent gesture and a smile, but Regulus leaves it there, peers at him through dark strands hanging over his eyes.
“You just have to watch him moon after that werewolf,” Rabastan says, the words calculated to be painful, because somehow he senses that is what Regulus wants.
The other man laughs at his poorly attempted pun, shaking his head. His hand comes up and rakes the hair out of his face, and Rabastan is more enthralled by the quick violence of the gesture than he ever has been by Sirius’ practiced insouciance.
“Do you know why I came in here, Rabastan?” Regulus’ voice slides easily into perfectly pitched tones, seductive and almost purring, and it dances up Rabastan’s spine and causes chills to follow in its wake.
It’s hard to breathe through all the dust and malice heavy in the air, or maybe that is just because Regulus is leaning down to whisper in Rabastan’s ear, and his breath is very warm against his skin. The frantic beat of Rabastan’s heart is like a drum and it’s too hot in the room, though the sun has long since set and only darkness spills through the damask-covered windows.
“Why?” It is hard to say it, to force the words from his throat and out into the open, and it’s rasping and desperate like the music pulled out of the harpsichord.
”I came to cover it up,” Regulus murmurs, and his body is pressed lightly to his. Rabastan feels the other man’s mouth grazing his throat and his sigh is both needy and resigned. “I came to put it away because no one is ever going to play it again, no matter how pretty it looks.”
“Yes,” Rabastan says unsteadily, hands rising unconsciously to grasp at Regulus’ shoulders. They are not as broad as Rodolphus’, but they will do.
For now.
“I should think that is a very good idea.”
As far as concertos go, the music in the room is far from perfect, but only because it is out of tune. It is not for lack of passion, and perhaps in time, it won’t sound as forced, though the desperation lends something indefinable to the piece that may never be able to be recaptured. There is a sorrowful note beneath it, as if they are both aware this is not the song either wanted to hear, but it is all they have.