fic: This Bitter Love [Regulus/Sirius PG13]
Title: This Bitter Love
Author: txilar
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1565
Characters: Regulus/Sirius
Warnings: This is Regulus; there is death.
Summary: Regulus is dreaming perhaps.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Can't help but infringe on them, but in the nicest possible way.
Author’s Notes: Oddly enough, this was inspired by Futurama. When I read about Glumbumbles and their disastrous effects on honey, it was settled. Title from Swinburne. Thank you and a bottle of wine to spessartine for a wonderful beta and for the encouragement.
For the bright writing of my name is black,
And I am sick with hating the sweet sun
Algernon Charles Swinburne
///
Regulus pulled the door shut behind him, almost afraid, as he looked out into the night. He took a single step. There were trees around him, giant, gnarly, old. He looked up, the translucent light of a full moon illuminating the night. The leaves quivered in the darkness, but made no sound. Every step was hollow and silent. The soundlessness hovered around him like humidity, like his cloak and he looked about, sniffing the electric clean hint of ions and storms. It was too warm and too late but he shivered, forgetting where he’d left his robe or why he’d left without it.
He turned and in the sudden rain, his robe was heavy on his shoulders. Drops of cold wet slipped by his collar and trickled down his neck and throat sending shivers across his body. Rivulets traced the backs of his hands like clear veins and he wiped them down the front of his damp trousers.
A cool brush of warm night air made him turn. Ornamental Wizarding statues swayed gracefully in the garden and a bird fountain glowed in the silvered light of the moon. He walked steadily, the statues frowning at his disinterest. He tripped on a stepping-stone and kneeled to redo his laces.
A chill brushed around him and he felt one raindrop fat and heavy land on his head. He reached up to smooth the wet away and pulled his hand back slick with thick blood, his mouth opening in shock. Fearful, he looked around. A field stretched wide before him. Nothing but silence and leaves danced across the ground. He stood, suddenly desperate for cover. The rain pounded into his skin, soaking his shirt to translucence.
Regulus? Wake up.
His heart was beating too fast and he swayed, eyes rimmed with weariness and want of sleep. He was so warm that the cool rain was a welcome respite. Slowly he lifted both his hands to his head ignoring the rapidly falling drops of rain. Slippery warmth coated his fingertips. He closed his eyes, shaking, knowing what was coming.
When he opened his eyes, Sirius was staring down at him. His hands were on Sirius and he watched as Sirius brushed the hair out of his eyes, fingertips grazing his forehead.
I don’t remember moving. Where’s the blood?
Sirius shook his head and moved slightly, backing away. Don’t go. Please, please don’t leave me again. Sirius lifted his hand back up and a small light glowed orange as he inhaled from his cigarette. Regulus wrinkled his nose. He always hated the smell of Muggle cigarettes, not perfumed like their Wizarding counterparts. As he turned Sirius stepped away.
I don’t remember falling.
Without Sirius’s support, Regulus stumbles and falls. His hands and knees grind into the earth and he hangs there for a moment, like a dog: head down, tail between his legs. When he looks up, hair stuck to his wet face, Sirius is gone. A twisted burnt cigarette lies on the ground. His robe is soaked and heavy and he rubs his dirty, bloodied, and pebbled hands on it, ruining the smooth weave of darkest black cashmere in his struggle to get his hands clean.
He rises up on his knees just in time to see a group headed toward him. Revelling Death Eaters in white masks flock: still-faced and deadly. As they pass they deride him; on your knees, no better than a Muggle, a traitor, like your brother under the skin. One throws dirt at him, a handful, and there are leaves and twigs and cigarettes in his hand. Regulus looks away and lets the coming rain beat into his skin, desperate for the cold wet.
He opens his eyes and Sirius is staring at him. His hands are on Sirius and he watches as Sirius brushes the hair out of his eyes, fingertips grazing his forehead.
I can’t feel my legs. Sirius?
Sirius turns at the approach of Death Eaters, shakes his head, and leaves. They descend on Regulus like a pack of wild dogs. He falls to a hex aimed at his back, wands point, mocking him, light streaming, they laugh and laugh. The rain stops for them. In a single moment, two legs are broken and before he can even beg, three spells sink into his skin like poison, slowing and confusing him, turning his fingers to ice. A sharp heel on his back keeps him from moving. He struggles once and a heavy boot pushes his face against the hot dry pavement scraping his cheek. As his last Cruciatus-induced scream fades, they vanish like smoke, like the first or last raindrop. He reaches his hands up to his head; it is wet, slippery like blood. He brings his hands down to his face and closes his eyes before looking, shaking, and knowing what’s coming.
He’ll open his eyes and see Sirius staring down at him. He’ll hold on to Sirius and Sirius will brush the hair out of his eyes and touch his forehead, touching him for the first time in years. He will.
I don’t remember moving. Where’s the blood?
Sirius shakes his head slowly. Regulus’s trousers are soaking wet, his knees aching and worn, his legs half numb. He leans into Sirius who barely moves, smoking silently.
///
“Regulus, wake up.”
The voice is cold, hard, and firm. Sirius didn’t talk to him like that. Sirius didn’t talk to him at all. Sirius touched him once. They never spoke after that. He hit Sirius once and Sirius threw him against the wall, chest against his, fingers clenched around his forearms, elbows digging into his shoulders. Regulus tried to lean forward, tried to get his leg around his brother, but Sirius dropped him and left ran away never came home again.
“Why are you eating Glumbumble honey? Have you lost your senses? Who gave it to you? Regulus? Wake up.”
Wake up. Your brother is gone. He is a traitor. You are the future now. This is what you’re going to do.
“Drink this.”
I can’t feel my legs. Sirius?
“Don’t go,” begs Regulus, “Please, please don’t leave me again.”
///
Sirius put out his cigarette, smiling faintly as he cradled Regulus’s face with his hands. Regulus shivered, the night was cold and the rain had soaked through his clothes-where did he leave his robe? Mother had it handmade for him and he’d lost it again. He shifted and felt Sirius’s knees hard against him. Pebbles and hard ground bit into his knees with each shift breath touch. He pulled back to stand but Sirius’s hands held him down, pressing down on his shoulders. His smile grew, lighting his eyes and crinkling the corners of his lips.
His first memory is of Sirius smiling. He was on his broom, seven years old and flying around the trees in the garden, pretending to crash just to make Regulus laugh. While the nanny snuck a Muggle fag in a shadowed corner, Sirius snuck him onto the broom and they went right over the roof of the huge house, sun shining sharp and brilliant at angles and turns. They went so fast Regulus had to gulp against the harsh air before Sirius reminded him to shut his mouth so he wouldn’t catch any bugs. He held on tightly, his legs chill against the quickening air as they spiralled higher than Sirius was allowed. The nanny was shaking when they landed. Angry, scared, guilty, she yanked Regulus’s hand and dragged him back inside, leaving Sirius grinning brightly and pulling a leaf out of his hair.
Regulus? Wake up.
Regulus leaned his head forward, rubbing his cheek against the worn smoothness of Sirius’s Muggle denims. Sirius pulled leaves out of his hair, combing through the tangled length over and over. His fingers were warm.
I don’t remember falling. Where’s the blood?
Sirius’s fingers brushed his lips as he rubbed dirt and blood away. Regulus stared at him but Sirius never looked him in the eyes anymore.
Your brother pushed you. He’ll be punished. You’re the heir now. He’s a traitor.
Her voice hissed in his ear. The nanny, a different Witch with hard eyes, yanked his hand and pulled him back inside, leaving Sirius with storms in his eyes and pulling leaves out of his hair as he faced Mother.
///
They descended on Regulus like a pack of wild dogs. He fell to a hex aimed at his back, wands pointed, mocking him, light streaming, they laughed and laughed. The rain stopped for them. In a single moment, two legs were broken and before he could even beg, three spells sank into his skin like poison, slowing and confusing him, turning his fingers to ice. A sharp heel on his back kept him from moving. He struggled once and a heavy boot pushed his face against the hot dry pavement scraping his cheek. As his last Cruciatus-induced scream faded, they vanished like smoke, like the first or last raindrop. He reached his hands up to his head; it was wet, slippery like blood. He brought his hands down to his face.
Blood. Warm and liquid.
I can’t feel my legs. Sirius? Don’t go. Please, please don’t leave me again.
Laughter played in his ears. His breath rattled and a green haze mingled with the blood on his hands. His robe kept him warm, despite the heavy rain.
///
end
Author: txilar
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1565
Characters: Regulus/Sirius
Warnings: This is Regulus; there is death.
Summary: Regulus is dreaming perhaps.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Can't help but infringe on them, but in the nicest possible way.
Author’s Notes: Oddly enough, this was inspired by Futurama. When I read about Glumbumbles and their disastrous effects on honey, it was settled. Title from Swinburne. Thank you and a bottle of wine to spessartine for a wonderful beta and for the encouragement.
For the bright writing of my name is black,
And I am sick with hating the sweet sun
Algernon Charles Swinburne
///
Regulus pulled the door shut behind him, almost afraid, as he looked out into the night. He took a single step. There were trees around him, giant, gnarly, old. He looked up, the translucent light of a full moon illuminating the night. The leaves quivered in the darkness, but made no sound. Every step was hollow and silent. The soundlessness hovered around him like humidity, like his cloak and he looked about, sniffing the electric clean hint of ions and storms. It was too warm and too late but he shivered, forgetting where he’d left his robe or why he’d left without it.
He turned and in the sudden rain, his robe was heavy on his shoulders. Drops of cold wet slipped by his collar and trickled down his neck and throat sending shivers across his body. Rivulets traced the backs of his hands like clear veins and he wiped them down the front of his damp trousers.
A cool brush of warm night air made him turn. Ornamental Wizarding statues swayed gracefully in the garden and a bird fountain glowed in the silvered light of the moon. He walked steadily, the statues frowning at his disinterest. He tripped on a stepping-stone and kneeled to redo his laces.
A chill brushed around him and he felt one raindrop fat and heavy land on his head. He reached up to smooth the wet away and pulled his hand back slick with thick blood, his mouth opening in shock. Fearful, he looked around. A field stretched wide before him. Nothing but silence and leaves danced across the ground. He stood, suddenly desperate for cover. The rain pounded into his skin, soaking his shirt to translucence.
Regulus? Wake up.
His heart was beating too fast and he swayed, eyes rimmed with weariness and want of sleep. He was so warm that the cool rain was a welcome respite. Slowly he lifted both his hands to his head ignoring the rapidly falling drops of rain. Slippery warmth coated his fingertips. He closed his eyes, shaking, knowing what was coming.
When he opened his eyes, Sirius was staring down at him. His hands were on Sirius and he watched as Sirius brushed the hair out of his eyes, fingertips grazing his forehead.
I don’t remember moving. Where’s the blood?
Sirius shook his head and moved slightly, backing away. Don’t go. Please, please don’t leave me again. Sirius lifted his hand back up and a small light glowed orange as he inhaled from his cigarette. Regulus wrinkled his nose. He always hated the smell of Muggle cigarettes, not perfumed like their Wizarding counterparts. As he turned Sirius stepped away.
I don’t remember falling.
Without Sirius’s support, Regulus stumbles and falls. His hands and knees grind into the earth and he hangs there for a moment, like a dog: head down, tail between his legs. When he looks up, hair stuck to his wet face, Sirius is gone. A twisted burnt cigarette lies on the ground. His robe is soaked and heavy and he rubs his dirty, bloodied, and pebbled hands on it, ruining the smooth weave of darkest black cashmere in his struggle to get his hands clean.
He rises up on his knees just in time to see a group headed toward him. Revelling Death Eaters in white masks flock: still-faced and deadly. As they pass they deride him; on your knees, no better than a Muggle, a traitor, like your brother under the skin. One throws dirt at him, a handful, and there are leaves and twigs and cigarettes in his hand. Regulus looks away and lets the coming rain beat into his skin, desperate for the cold wet.
He opens his eyes and Sirius is staring at him. His hands are on Sirius and he watches as Sirius brushes the hair out of his eyes, fingertips grazing his forehead.
I can’t feel my legs. Sirius?
Sirius turns at the approach of Death Eaters, shakes his head, and leaves. They descend on Regulus like a pack of wild dogs. He falls to a hex aimed at his back, wands point, mocking him, light streaming, they laugh and laugh. The rain stops for them. In a single moment, two legs are broken and before he can even beg, three spells sink into his skin like poison, slowing and confusing him, turning his fingers to ice. A sharp heel on his back keeps him from moving. He struggles once and a heavy boot pushes his face against the hot dry pavement scraping his cheek. As his last Cruciatus-induced scream fades, they vanish like smoke, like the first or last raindrop. He reaches his hands up to his head; it is wet, slippery like blood. He brings his hands down to his face and closes his eyes before looking, shaking, and knowing what’s coming.
He’ll open his eyes and see Sirius staring down at him. He’ll hold on to Sirius and Sirius will brush the hair out of his eyes and touch his forehead, touching him for the first time in years. He will.
I don’t remember moving. Where’s the blood?
Sirius shakes his head slowly. Regulus’s trousers are soaking wet, his knees aching and worn, his legs half numb. He leans into Sirius who barely moves, smoking silently.
///
“Regulus, wake up.”
The voice is cold, hard, and firm. Sirius didn’t talk to him like that. Sirius didn’t talk to him at all. Sirius touched him once. They never spoke after that. He hit Sirius once and Sirius threw him against the wall, chest against his, fingers clenched around his forearms, elbows digging into his shoulders. Regulus tried to lean forward, tried to get his leg around his brother, but Sirius dropped him and left ran away never came home again.
“Why are you eating Glumbumble honey? Have you lost your senses? Who gave it to you? Regulus? Wake up.”
Wake up. Your brother is gone. He is a traitor. You are the future now. This is what you’re going to do.
“Drink this.”
I can’t feel my legs. Sirius?
“Don’t go,” begs Regulus, “Please, please don’t leave me again.”
///
Sirius put out his cigarette, smiling faintly as he cradled Regulus’s face with his hands. Regulus shivered, the night was cold and the rain had soaked through his clothes-where did he leave his robe? Mother had it handmade for him and he’d lost it again. He shifted and felt Sirius’s knees hard against him. Pebbles and hard ground bit into his knees with each shift breath touch. He pulled back to stand but Sirius’s hands held him down, pressing down on his shoulders. His smile grew, lighting his eyes and crinkling the corners of his lips.
His first memory is of Sirius smiling. He was on his broom, seven years old and flying around the trees in the garden, pretending to crash just to make Regulus laugh. While the nanny snuck a Muggle fag in a shadowed corner, Sirius snuck him onto the broom and they went right over the roof of the huge house, sun shining sharp and brilliant at angles and turns. They went so fast Regulus had to gulp against the harsh air before Sirius reminded him to shut his mouth so he wouldn’t catch any bugs. He held on tightly, his legs chill against the quickening air as they spiralled higher than Sirius was allowed. The nanny was shaking when they landed. Angry, scared, guilty, she yanked Regulus’s hand and dragged him back inside, leaving Sirius grinning brightly and pulling a leaf out of his hair.
Regulus? Wake up.
Regulus leaned his head forward, rubbing his cheek against the worn smoothness of Sirius’s Muggle denims. Sirius pulled leaves out of his hair, combing through the tangled length over and over. His fingers were warm.
I don’t remember falling. Where’s the blood?
Sirius’s fingers brushed his lips as he rubbed dirt and blood away. Regulus stared at him but Sirius never looked him in the eyes anymore.
Your brother pushed you. He’ll be punished. You’re the heir now. He’s a traitor.
Her voice hissed in his ear. The nanny, a different Witch with hard eyes, yanked his hand and pulled him back inside, leaving Sirius with storms in his eyes and pulling leaves out of his hair as he faced Mother.
///
They descended on Regulus like a pack of wild dogs. He fell to a hex aimed at his back, wands pointed, mocking him, light streaming, they laughed and laughed. The rain stopped for them. In a single moment, two legs were broken and before he could even beg, three spells sank into his skin like poison, slowing and confusing him, turning his fingers to ice. A sharp heel on his back kept him from moving. He struggled once and a heavy boot pushed his face against the hot dry pavement scraping his cheek. As his last Cruciatus-induced scream faded, they vanished like smoke, like the first or last raindrop. He reached his hands up to his head; it was wet, slippery like blood. He brought his hands down to his face.
Blood. Warm and liquid.
I can’t feel my legs. Sirius? Don’t go. Please, please don’t leave me again.
Laughter played in his ears. His breath rattled and a green haze mingled with the blood on his hands. His robe kept him warm, despite the heavy rain.
///
end