goodbye, hp_literotica - delirium, s/reg, r
TITLE: Delirium
RATING: R
PAIRING: Sirius/Regulus
WARNINGS: incest, self-harm, blood, angst
NOTES: I regret not having posted more to this community, and thus I'd like to at least contribute something to the long list of goodbye hp_literotica stories, because it has nevertheless been great to be a part of this, and I'm sorry to see it close down. Hopefully I am not too late. ♥
Delirium
Evening is a mess of bloody skins and blunt, water-stained metal under the bridges, with a picture of John Lennon on the opposite wall, and a swarm of insects crowding ashore. Regulus speaks English to Prague, keeps clawing viciously at his little wounds and bites and every bit of vulnerability on his body. He’s always bleeding somewhere.
Waste heat, breath of the industry, like a human cough, balls around him, and he swears war tonight as he digs the blade into his palm, cutting Venetian blinds out of his skin, like strange alien gills, not for himself at all, but rather for something inside him that needs more oxygen. Clouds ridge the sky, but they are really only scars, only the shifting, re-growing skin under the knife in the left hand of the weather.
Regulus falls back into the grass, which is like millions of twitching insect wings in his back. He lets the blood run out of his hand, feels the familiar hot pulsing in his rebelling flesh, and a faint ache creeping up his arm. Decades pass, the concentric water colours of an unending night circle him in his half-awake dizziness. Slowly, the blood becomes less liquid, and the earth coated with a thin, silvery sheen of cool sweat. Regulus is afraid to stand up. His breath is still alcohol-sharp.
When he goes back, past John Lennon, past the factory, he mouths one of his childhood sing-song prayers, although he has given up on God a long time ago. His shoulders curl inwards like cigarette paper; the names on the bell signs are all foreign to him except theirs.
Sirius bangs the door shut behind him and bellows where he has been, and the second his presence catches fire on Regulus and burns itself into all of his wounds, desertion is the only option, instinctive, and drilled into him by years of losing fraternal fights. Without a word, he stumbles into their tiny bedroom, knowing he won’t be able to lock Sirius out forever, probably not even for a minute. And yet he mutters the half a miserable dozen spells - wand in his left hand, the right is useless - , while the counterspells already tear his mind to shreds.
They’re almost the same height these days. As he retreats towards the bed, right arm limp and trembling by his side, Regulus struggles not to feel smaller again. Sirius flicks his hand, and Regulus’s wand lands with a bell-bright, wooden tink in the corner.
Show me, Sirius says, suddenly quiet, his voice like damp cardboard, though still too close, too loose, too familiar, and so much like his own that it makes him sick. He jerks his head as if to say no, no, no, please, I don’t want to; then reconsiders. He almost can’t see his brother’s handsome face in the darkness, so he closes his own, neptune blue eyes and thinks now his brother can’t see his handsome lies.
Show you what, he whispers, wanting to say so badly why now, you forgot to take care of me before. In the battlefield desperation of their room, he can drift, and for once the noise of the emptiness is laced with a little silence, a little pain. For the first time, he doesn’t feel entirely deaf, entirely blind, and he knows Sirius is approaching him without opening his eyes.
The fingers of his right hand are pried open like an unfinished flower bud, and a moment later, Sirius slips the knife out of his pocket. You fucking idiot, Sirius whispers. Stupid fucking idiot.
A second later, he holds both Regulus’s wrists in a grip that’s tight like honour, pushing him down onto the bed, a knee firmly between his legs. This alone should make everything in Regulus revolt, should make him thrash and retch and fight with teeth and claws and fucking want to kill his brother, take the knife and cut his bloody throat, slam the back of his head into the floor until even the memory of all this is smashed into dust and blood. But he doesn’t.
Fucking idiot, Sirius whispers again as he pushes into him, not just with his body, but with his whole being, until Regulus really bleeds for the first time in his life.
He has never been able to be as cruel to others as to himself.
RATING: R
PAIRING: Sirius/Regulus
WARNINGS: incest, self-harm, blood, angst
NOTES: I regret not having posted more to this community, and thus I'd like to at least contribute something to the long list of goodbye hp_literotica stories, because it has nevertheless been great to be a part of this, and I'm sorry to see it close down. Hopefully I am not too late. ♥
Delirium
Evening is a mess of bloody skins and blunt, water-stained metal under the bridges, with a picture of John Lennon on the opposite wall, and a swarm of insects crowding ashore. Regulus speaks English to Prague, keeps clawing viciously at his little wounds and bites and every bit of vulnerability on his body. He’s always bleeding somewhere.
Waste heat, breath of the industry, like a human cough, balls around him, and he swears war tonight as he digs the blade into his palm, cutting Venetian blinds out of his skin, like strange alien gills, not for himself at all, but rather for something inside him that needs more oxygen. Clouds ridge the sky, but they are really only scars, only the shifting, re-growing skin under the knife in the left hand of the weather.
Regulus falls back into the grass, which is like millions of twitching insect wings in his back. He lets the blood run out of his hand, feels the familiar hot pulsing in his rebelling flesh, and a faint ache creeping up his arm. Decades pass, the concentric water colours of an unending night circle him in his half-awake dizziness. Slowly, the blood becomes less liquid, and the earth coated with a thin, silvery sheen of cool sweat. Regulus is afraid to stand up. His breath is still alcohol-sharp.
When he goes back, past John Lennon, past the factory, he mouths one of his childhood sing-song prayers, although he has given up on God a long time ago. His shoulders curl inwards like cigarette paper; the names on the bell signs are all foreign to him except theirs.
Sirius bangs the door shut behind him and bellows where he has been, and the second his presence catches fire on Regulus and burns itself into all of his wounds, desertion is the only option, instinctive, and drilled into him by years of losing fraternal fights. Without a word, he stumbles into their tiny bedroom, knowing he won’t be able to lock Sirius out forever, probably not even for a minute. And yet he mutters the half a miserable dozen spells - wand in his left hand, the right is useless - , while the counterspells already tear his mind to shreds.
They’re almost the same height these days. As he retreats towards the bed, right arm limp and trembling by his side, Regulus struggles not to feel smaller again. Sirius flicks his hand, and Regulus’s wand lands with a bell-bright, wooden tink in the corner.
Show me, Sirius says, suddenly quiet, his voice like damp cardboard, though still too close, too loose, too familiar, and so much like his own that it makes him sick. He jerks his head as if to say no, no, no, please, I don’t want to; then reconsiders. He almost can’t see his brother’s handsome face in the darkness, so he closes his own, neptune blue eyes and thinks now his brother can’t see his handsome lies.
Show you what, he whispers, wanting to say so badly why now, you forgot to take care of me before. In the battlefield desperation of their room, he can drift, and for once the noise of the emptiness is laced with a little silence, a little pain. For the first time, he doesn’t feel entirely deaf, entirely blind, and he knows Sirius is approaching him without opening his eyes.
The fingers of his right hand are pried open like an unfinished flower bud, and a moment later, Sirius slips the knife out of his pocket. You fucking idiot, Sirius whispers. Stupid fucking idiot.
A second later, he holds both Regulus’s wrists in a grip that’s tight like honour, pushing him down onto the bed, a knee firmly between his legs. This alone should make everything in Regulus revolt, should make him thrash and retch and fight with teeth and claws and fucking want to kill his brother, take the knife and cut his bloody throat, slam the back of his head into the floor until even the memory of all this is smashed into dust and blood. But he doesn’t.
Fucking idiot, Sirius whispers again as he pushes into him, not just with his body, but with his whole being, until Regulus really bleeds for the first time in his life.
He has never been able to be as cruel to others as to himself.