Fic: Childhood (Sirius/Regulus, PG-13)
Title: Childhood
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sirius/Regulus
Warnings: incest
Wordcount: 1,029
A/N: This is my first time writing anything that isn't Remus-centric, so feedback would be wonderful. Con-crit is always welcome and greatly appreciated.
Childhood
You don’t know why it didn’t work on you. It sucked him in, after all. The blood-purity past, importance of breeding and parentage, history and hate. You used to take him with you on silvery sneak-raids, escaping your mother’s cruel admonitions in favor of the spelled-silent library. Walled with ancient tomes, the rooms were ever twilight, and make-believe prevailed among the dust. You crawled under tables and around chairs, dodging shadows like your mother’s hands, skeletal and sinister. You used to run with him, see who could reach Daddy’s study door first, and not get caught. Feet like wings patter swift and scared through quiet hallways. Dinner was formal, the table too tall for you in your starched-stiff clothes. Your mother talked of beast-control, of goblin-Gringotts, of mudbloods, and you smiled, a secret glance at Brother doing the same. You’d both heard this rant before.
You remember childhood like photographs, and you don’t know why it didn’t work on you: bureaucracy and blood-purity. Sometimes your father called you into his study, with your mother standing tall behind his wing-backed chair. The Black house always full of hard angles, sharp corners, words that stung like scorpions. Your father’s speech contained phrases like familial responsibility and manifestation of sympathetic tendencies. Later Brother crawled into your bed, all cold feet and questions. You didn’t know what to say, but you barely listened anyway. His fingers traced unseen patterns on your skin and your breath evened out, contentment chasing away your insecurities. The designs on your skin (long light touches and soft reassurances) were maps showing you how to be.
You remember childhood like hazy half-dreams, the volume muffled and time sluggish under starlight magic, blood tradition. Visiting elder cousins in frilly lace dresses, one called Bella tried to make trouble. You dared her to climb the roof; she sent you to steal dessert. You bragged, then she sneered, and you bristled at her pretensions. Brother complained of Narcissa, who whimpered and fussed and tried to sit close to him. Then there were glimpses: of giant rooms filled with gossiping adults in shiny dress robes, servers bearing silver trays and weaving expertly through the crowd. Loud laughing came from behind closed doors, which opened occasionally to reveal portly men and smoke. Once you saw something you shouldn’t, and when Bella heard you whisper it to Brother she laughed and teased you, gloating over your discomfort.
It worked on him, the old ways and blood-lines, haughty and self-important. It worked on him, despite your shared dream-time. Despite games of exploration, forbidden sweets, mutual anticipations. You don’t know why. You both hated your stuffy tutor. He taught you maths and made you memorize the stars. Brother made faces when his back was turned, but you chanced full-on impersonations, complete with a nasal drawl and limp wrists. You mocked him, but he saved you once, when you were lost in a musty closet on the third floor. Bored, unwilling to go to lessons, you looked for a place to hide. It happened so fast, you didn’t know if you were still standing before the closet, or if you were the only person left in the world. It was dark and quiet and you felt entirely alone. Panicky flutter-fear bursts in your heart and spreads through your veins. Then your tutor was there and you weren’t lonely anymore. You always wondered why he laughed, hyena-like, strange and sudden. Brother said not to think about it and pulled you closer.
Memories like wine- he used to hold you at night. And he smiled in the morning, proud and sure of himself, much more so than you. He pleased Mother and she called him clever. He got approval, praise, clever; but you were older, oldest, (only by a year) and you showed signs of weakness. Carry on the line they told you. You’ll go far they said to him. You didn’t understand why you were so different. It seemed like a sly trick, that you two were so close - knobby knees and ebony soft where lips touch reverently, like silk - and yet not the same at all. He acted differently around your mother, too. His beaming, fawning, little-boy-blue was as a counterbalance to your stony silences, your contemptuous looks. Your mother loudly cursed the birth-order, the first-son, traditions sacred and traditions kept. She ranted about half-breeds, and soft laws, and sloppy politicians who couldn’t possibly get the job done. She ranted about mudbloods, and you smiled, a secret glance at Brother. You’d both heard this before.
Childhood, pre-, and then full adolescence. He was with you, then, soothing your nightmares. With you, then, listening at stair-railings (to the shouting down below). You don’t know why it worked on him, and why it didn’t on you. You use words to describe it, the Black family legacy, words like arrogance and conceit. Your favorite is narcissistic. (His favorite was clever.) You remember hot August weather, sticky hands and black hair plastered to a forehead shining with sweat. You remember he grinned and led you to the kitchen, where you stole ice cubes and took turns pressing them against each others backs, sliding them along shoulders and the dip below his waistband.
In a way, you think, childhood has never really left you. Frightened, frantic dreaming and shadows sneaking up on you. Kid-brother, savior-lover still there in your mind, soothing murmurs and pleasant weight. He used to play with your hair, running his hands through it and smoothing it down, like a ritual. It felt good. Simple. Everything was simple in childhood. Childhood like wine, like photographs, like slow summer days spent hiding from your elders. Black-white-sepia childhood: full of dusty corners, chapped lips, and games of make-believe. You don’t know why it worked on him, and not on you. You had the same childhood. You don’t know why he believed all the lies, why he went with what they said, after everything. Why he didn’t choose you. He used to hold you, and you miss his touches. Whispered promises against your skin, and he broke them all. He left you alone.