Fic: Running to Stand Still - Part One (NC-17)
Title: Running to Stand Still
Author: midnitemaraud_r
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sirius/Regulus; Sirius/James; Sirius/Remus; James/Lily
Summary: After the death of his brother, Sirius searches for a way to reconcile his past with the present. Set Post-Hogwarts, Christmas, 1980.
Warnings: Incest, teens/under legal age of consent.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters belong to JK Rowling and Scholastic/Bloomsbury. I am merely playing in their playground.
Word Count: ~13,100
Written for the merry_smutmas exchange for Yeats whose request consisted of: Remus/Sirius, Blackcest (especially Regulus/Sirius), Harry/Draco, or James/Sirius: Kinks: Hurt/comfort and happiness. Couldn't manage the Harry/Draco, but I hope you like it nonetheless! Merry Smutmas!
Author's Notes: My undying gratitude to ladyblack888, xellas, ragdoll, thistlerose, and Kyrie, for betaing, browbeating, and incessant handholding!
The song very briefly referenced in the story is "Merry Xmas Everybody" by Slade. (blink and you'll miss it!) Title shamelessly nicked from U2.
*Because I am hopelessly anal, this version has been slightly 'tweaked' just a bit from the original posted version
Hidden among the shadows of a large yew tree, Sirius watches the procession through narrowed eyes, his wand gripped tightly in his fist, the dark wood a sharp contrast against cold-reddened knuckles. He stands as still as the nearby tombs, cold granite himself, but inside he is burning, raging at the mockery and hypocrisy that parades before him. The pinched, dignified, tearless faces of false grief, the quietly murmured words of pity that float back to him, an insect's buzz on the harsh wind; at the smug veiled face of his cousin Bellatrix walking on the arm of her husband, Rodolphus, feigning sorrow in her posture for appearance's sake.
He spots a familiar nose, and his eyes narrow even further, storm-cloud slits in a marble façade, knuckles now bone-white, fingernails biting deeply into flesh, hands shaking with restraint. Severus Snape glances around quickly, bends his head against the weather and snarls something to Avery. Others soon follow on their heels: Aunt Amaryllis, Great Uncle Thuban, cousin Narcissa and her bastard of a husband, Lucius Malfoy. The names and faces are a blur of grey and black cloaks now, caricatures from another life left behind. He watches as they murmur to each other, huddling in their cloaks against the onslaught of blustery wind and sleet, offering an occasional pat to the shoulder in solace, crumpled white handkerchiefs fluttering dispassionately against black veils and elegant gloved hands; he watches as they exit through the tall wrought iron gates and Disapparate.
Where -? Ah.
Mother.
A thin bent figure stands alone over the sealed tomb seemingly oblivious to the departure of the crowd, her wind-whipped cloak the only sign of movement. He steps out from his refuge, the soft crunching of his footsteps on the grass masked by the swirling wind rustling through evergreen needles and making the bare branches scritch and creak overhead.
"Rather poor etiquette to invite the murderers of the deceased as guests to his funeral, wouldn't you say, Mother?" His lips twist into a sneer, and he nearly spits the final word.
"You!" She straightens up and turns to face him, eyes wide and lips curled. "You are no son of mine!"
"Nice to see you, too. Lovely weather we're having, no?" he says, brushing icy-wet hair back from his face.
"Look at you! Your clothing! It's… It's…" Her usual dignified composure is slipping, and she presses her lips together sharply into a thin white line.
"Rather stylish I thought."
"Filthy mudblood lover! How dare you desecrate this place with your - your foul presence!"
He throws back his head and laughs bitterly, the sound ugly even to his own ears.
"Desecrate. Me. Oh, that's just brilliant, Mother."
"You have some nerve, coming here after what you did," she says, again trying to recover her poise, but there is a slight tremor in her hands, and she compresses her lips once more into a thin, bloodless line.
"What I did. I tried to save him. You… You helped murder him. And now… look at you." He gestures at the empty desolation of the deserted cemetery around them. "Alone with only yourself to blame. How does it feel, Mother?
"It's because of you that my son is dead!" She stabs her finger at him and takes a menacing step forward, but he does not flinch. "Left with nothing but ashes, and it's your doing! Not even a proper body to lay to rest… to… to honour with the traditional proprieties befitting an Heir of a Noble House! If it was ever discovered -"
"Ashes? Your son is dead, and all you care about is tradition? You truly are a heartless bitch."
He does not see the hand lashing out, but he feels the harsh sting of the slap across his cheek, barely distinguishable from the relentless pelting of frozen rain except for the sudden sharp dig of metal into flesh. He rubs his cheek with his free hand, sees a smear of blood on his fingers, and glares at her while she twists the gaudy gold ring back to rights on her finger.
Just like she used to do. Some things never change. His wand is still gripped tightly in his other hand, and it takes all of his self control to bite back the curse that threatens to escape from his chapped lips.
"I should have smothered you in your crib," she says coldly. "You've brought nothing but ruin and disgrace to this family! Your brother hated you. You shamed him enough in life, and now… now you twice shame him in death!"
He smiles at this, brushes a thin trail of blood from his cheek, and wipes his fingers on his jeans.
"No, Mother. Wrong again. You never did understand anything about us, did you?"
"I understand perfectly well! He was everything you could never be. A better son - a better man than you'll ever be. He hated you for being weak and… common," she spits.
His voice is low and even. "Regulus didn't hate me," he says. "He loved me."
She scoffs at his words, arms folded dismissively against her chest.
"Damn you! I saved him in death!" he shouts, then stops suddenly and closes his mouth, realizing that he has nothing more that he wants or needs to say. She hadn't known before; she'd never believe now. Anything he said toward that end would fall on deaf ears.
"Go back to that mausoleum you call a home and rot in your solitude. I've finished with you, old hag."
Squaring his shoulders, he turns and walks away, heedless of the shrieking invective she is now directing at his back: "Shame of my flesh! Abomination!" He's heard it countless times before after all. Reaching into his pocket for a fag, he lights it with the tip of his wand and inhales deeply. A moment later, a wisp of smoke and a whiff of tobacco are all that remain to greet the echoing screeches still ringing in the air.
~*~
A cold misty drizzle has replaced the windy sleet from the cemetery when he appears on the street corner. Fag dangling from his lips, he puts his wand into the pocket of his leather jacket and hitches up the collar. He takes a drag and cups the cigarette in his hand to keep it dry, leaning against a lamppost and studying the picture of domesticity before him. The row houses are brick with slate roofs and small, neat yards lined with low hedgerows out front. Flowerless window boxes jut squarely from the door-side windows, and smoke curls, rising from each ordered chimneystack. But, instead of the promise of warmth and comfort before a hearth fire, they merely radiate yet another dismal shade of grey to the day.
James and Lily have only recently moved to this quiet East Sussex neighbourhood, and so far, only a handful of people know the location. It's better this way, he thinks. Safer. A small grey car manoeuvres down the lane, slowing as it passes. The driver frowns at him, likely thinking him a stranger up to no good. The corner of his mouth quivers momentarily at the thought, and he raises his eyebrow, staring back. The man quickly turns away and drives on, turning into a drive further down the road.
He takes another long drag and wipes at a stray drip of water running down the side of his face. His cheek is still raw from his mother's slap and he holds his hand to the mark, feeling the rough edge of torn skin crusted with dried blood under his fingertip. Long hair dishevelled from wind and wet, still dripping with melting ice down the back of his neck, black leather jacket and boots, black denim jeans and a bloody cut on his face - no wonder the Muggle in the car was wary.
Fuck it. He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it with the toe of his boot, grinding it into the pavement with a vengeance. Fuck everything. Why the fuck am I here anyway?
He hadn't even had a chance to pay his proper respects to Regulus, and after their… discussion, he'd had no desire to wait for his mother to leave. James had been his first thought after the confrontation, and here he had come. It was a long held habit. Troubles with the family? Run to James. And James had always been there. His sanctuary. His solace. His brother.
He feels his stomach clench at that thought. He'd had another brother once.
He'd actually felt good after telling the old bitch off, brimming with righteous anger, but the taste of victory is slowly turning to ash in his mouth - ash like the now-cremated remains of a brother he'd left behind, a brother he'd failed to save. He closes his eyes but he can only see the cold, pale slab of lifeless flesh, dull blue eyes staring unseeing from a slack-jawed face. Perhaps his mother had been right…
His breath quickens, and he feels himself choking. He turns his head and bends over, retching up bile on some poor Muggle's front lawn, but he doesn't care. He straightens up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and reaches into his pocket for another fag and a light.
No. His mother is nothing - knows nothing. Taking a deep drag, he feels the smoke curling in his lungs and holds his breath, savouring the acrid burning taste. Smoke is definitely better than the ash.
"Damn you, Regulus! Why did you have to be so fucking stupid?"
Christmas at the Noble House of Black was always an elaborate affair: proper, traditional, and brimming with dozens upon dozens of the pureblood faithful of Great Britain, most guests being family through blood or marriage, or both. And with only the very best of aged wines, champagne, port, brandy and firewhisky flowing over in crystal goblets, flutes and snifters, a number of these guests would play upon the hospitality of their hosts and stay overnight rather than run the risk of an embarrassing scandal due to splinching plastered across the pages of the Prophet.
He was livid as he made his way upstairs to his bedroom. If he heard one more word of praise for that blasted 'Dark Lord' and his aim to cleanse wizardkind of the scourge of 'mudbloods and filthy half-breeds', he was going to murder someone with his bare hands.
Stomping down the hall, he threw open his door, banging the knob on the wall behind. He kicked off his shoes, delighting in the sound of them thudding loudly against the far wall, pulled off his formal dress robes, not even flinching at the discordant sound of ripping fabric, and slammed the door shut behind him, casting a strong locking charm over his shoulder.
"Mother will have your head for ruining your new robes like that."
"What the fuck? Lumos. God damn it, Regulus, get the fuck out of my room!"
His brother was already clad in his pyjamas, lying under the thick down comforter, head and back propped up on several pillows, and arms folded neatly in front of him. He raised his eyebrow and stared at his naked brother in amusement.
"Not even pants underneath? How very… Gryffindor of you. The snitch socks are a nice touch, though. And no, I will not get out. It's my room tonight, too."
He cursed under his breath, and turned away from Regulus, rummaging through his wardrobe for a pair of pyjama bottoms. He pulled them on and climbed into the bed, elbowing his brother in the process just for good measure and snatching a pillow out from behind his head. "Nox."
"Not in a very good mood, are you?"
"Shut up." He turned over on his side, facing away from his brother.
"Oh, come on, Sirius. What was it this time? Bellatrix still torturing you with jelly-legs and hotfoot hexes? She's only playing. If she meant to hurt you, she would."
"Fuck Bellatrix," he grumbled. "Stupid cunt. I can't wait to get the hell out of this place. I hate this bloody house and everything in it." He pulled the duvet over his shoulder and nestled into his pillow.
"You say that all the time, but you know you don't mean it."
"I do mean it," he huffed.
"I'm in this house," Regulus said softly.
He stiffened. "Well, right now, I hate you, too."
The silence stretched out between them. Faint sounds of muffled laughter and clinking glasses floated up the stairs and down the hallway outside, but all he heard was the hushed breathing coming from the body beside him and his own heartbeat pounding painfully at his temples.
Still no reply. After a long while, he wondered if Regulus had fallen asleep. His leg twitched, aching to shift position, but he was hesitant to move, unwilling to concede. Biting his lip, he reluctantly turned his head to the side, speaking over his shoulder. "I don't hate you," he whispered.
"I know."
Startled, he turned over onto his back. "Thought you were asleep."
"No. Of course not. Feel better now?"
"Maybe. A bit."
"Good. Turn back over."
He did as he was told and held his breath, waiting. Just as he expected, he felt the warm press of his brother's body close against his back. Long thin fingers skated over his side, tickling his chest, moving lower, toying with his navel and the trail of hair there, and he relaxed into the touch, sighing.
"I know you won't leave, Sirius."
The words were no more than a puff of breath against his ear. Regulus splayed his hand across Sirius' belly and arched his back, pushing himself sharply against his brother in an effort to emphasize, to substantiate his words.
He felt the familiar hardness against his bottom and pushed back into it, eliciting a soft gasp from Regulus. The hand on his belly twitched and moved lower, feather light over his pyjamas. Reaching behind, he laid his hand on the back of Regulus' thigh, squeezing lightly and urging him on. Regulus returned the gesture, fingers tightening on his cock, and his breath hitched in his throat. Regulus' hips began to move, slowly, inviting, a prelude to a familiar, soothing rhythm.
All thoughts of the Christmas party and his family were gone as the two of them rocked gently back and forth, nestled together in a cocoon of silk and cotton. This was their own private place where nothing else could touch them, a safe haven from the madness; a fortress of warmth and comfort in the darkness, the only comfort he'd ever found in this wretched house. Regulus' fingers slipped deftly under the waistband, firmly grasping his cock, and he closed his eyes, hips gyrating as the tempo of their dance intensified, soft sighs and breathless moans a counterpoint to the humming in his blood.
"You won't leave me."
The words were, again, no more than a murmur of damp heat against the back of his neck, an indistinct echo far off and otherworldly. His body shook, his cries of release silent on his lips, no more words, no coherent thoughts, only peace.
He drops the butt of the cigarette to the pavement, shaking his hand and bringing it to his lips to suck on the burnt fingers. He is standing in front of the Potters' house now, though he doesn't remember walking up the street. He looks around, but there are no neighbours about to question or ogle him, and he crosses the lawn, ignoring the path to the front stoop, and instead peering in through a narrow gap in the sheer white curtains of the parlour window.
James is there, with Lily and Harry, and he hears the faint notes of festive music vibrating through the glass. James is singing to Harry, teasing him with strands of deep green garlands and sparkling gold tinsel while Harry giggles in delight, one chubby fist reaching and grasping above his head, the other bringing a crimson bauble to his drooling mouth. Lily is smiling at them both, wand raised as she conjures fairy lights on the tree.
His heart is a heavy weight in his chest. He knows he would be more than welcome, but watching the three of them together, he suddenly feels like an outsider, bereft, and it is almost more than he can bear.
They look so happy, and he wants nothing more than to capture this moment and place it into a fancy silk-lined, gilt chest, keep it locked up for them, keep it safe so they will always have it to treasure. He wants to protect them, even from himself and his own demons.
He watches as James lifts Harry high over his head, and Harry squeals, bauble forgotten, eyes only for James. Lily joins them, and the look that passes between she and James singes his heart. He loves all three of them, but he knows he needs more than James can give him… knows that he doesn’t belong here. Not today. Tomorrow, perhaps, but not today.
He sighs and turns from the window, reaching once again into his pocket. He should go and see Remus, he thinks. Should have gone there first. Remus would… No. Things between him and Remus were… complicated, and he'd foolishly burned that particular bridge once, and once is enough. Looking down at the squashed package in his hand, he realizes he's going to need another pack before long.
A drink, too, he thinks. A spark flares from the tip of his wand and, a moment later, a muted crack, and he is gone.
The front door opens, and a thin, handsome, bespectacled face peers out. "No, Lily. There's no one here," he says, turning away from the grey drizzle and closing the door firmly behind him.
~*~
The pub is dim and smoky, dark wood scarred and oiled with age. A few decrepit and rather dodgy Christmas decorations are tacked up behind the bar, and a string of tiny light bulbs hangs dark and unlit above. He sidles up to the bar, fresh pack of fags and a brand new blue cigarette lighter in hand, drops them on the bar and slides onto the tall stool, unzipping his jacket.
"Whisky," he says to the barman, peeling the plastic wrapper and fumbling out a smoke. "And not that cheap swill, either. Leave the bottle."
The barman eyes him warily, but a quick hand to the wand in his pocket assures that he'll not be troubled further.
It had been a bad idea to go to the Leaky Cauldron, but it would have been foolish to simply Apparate to the middle of Muggle London. Snape, Avery, and a few of their cronies had been there, and poor Tom had really had no choice but to forcibly throw him out the front door, with a little help from Sturgis. He was now sporting an angry red slash above his right eyebrow, a rip in the sleeve of his jacket, and several bruised knuckles, but it had been worth it to see the look on Snape's face when he'd punched him square in the nose. Broken it, too, from the sound and the amount of blood.
Yes, maybe it had been worth it after all.
He tilts his head back and downs the first shot in a single gulp. The amber liquid burns its way down his throat, kindling a nice little fire in the pit of his stomach. Taking another drag of his cigarette, he refills his glass, and the second shot follows closely on the heels of the first.
He is angry, lonely and feeling more than a bit sorry for himself, and he knows it. James and Remus had both come to him last night, but he had pushed them away. He'd been sullen and outright rude in an explosive show of temper, but he hadn't been in a mood for either company or consolation of the human kind. They had eyed him warily, nodded and left him, the half bottle of Old Ogdens in the cupboard the only companion he had desired. The Muggle whiskey before him now doesn't have the same bite, but it's smooth and warm and a temporary boon to the emptiness.
Emptiness made even hollower by his aborted visit earlier. He should not have gone to see James. That had been a mistake. Things were different now, and it was best to leave the past lie, revisited only in the ghosts of memory.
He had awoken twice that first night after he'd run away. Echoes of screams and curses chased him from his slumber the first time, and he had thrown back the covers in a panic, the darkness pressing down on him, suffocating, and leaving him disoriented. He had flinched at the touch of a hand on his bare arm, and then James was there, whispering his name, brushing his sweaty hair back from his damp forehead, putting an arm around his shoulder and gently easing him back down to the pillows.
He had initially tried to push James away, but James had quietly scolded him and pulled him closer, arm slung across his chest, and tucked Sirius' head under his chin. James had then made a number of shushing noises, and the nonsensical murmurs were a soothing buzz in his ear as he'd gradually drifted back to sleep.
He came awake again some hours later in the predawn hush, rising into that ethereal space between waking and dreaming, vaguely aware of the long, lanky body curled up before him. He breathed in deeply, rubbing his cheek against the soft, mussed hair, its scent familiar and reassuring. His hand idly grazed a sharp hipbone, lingered over soft, downy skin, and he pressed closer, rubbing himself languidly against the mosaic of textures: soft, smooth roundness, hard angular bone, rough cotton.
"Lily," a sleepy voice mumbled.
"Mmmm. Shhh," he murmured, rocking his hips while his hand gently trailed over hip and belly, long warm fingers caressing bare, sleep-warmed skin.
"Padfoot?" The voice sounded slightly more awake now.
"M'here. S'ok. Shhh." His fingers slipped lower, exploring, sliding underneath the cotton pyjamas, navigating though the coarse hair and lightly pressing into the skin beneath, knuckles skimming along the smooth, hard cock.
"Sirius!" A hand seized his wrist, halting his exploratory touches.
"Mmmph? Why'd y'stop?"
"Wake up."
"Wha?"
"I think you're dreaming," James said, his voice husky.
"James?" he croaked. James' hand was still clasped about his wrist where it protruded from James' pyjama bottoms. He froze, hardly daring to breathe.
"You okay? You were, ah…" James trailed off and an awkward silence rose between them.
He was hyperaware of the fact that James still had not released his arm. His trapped fingers twitched, and James gasped, arching his back. James' hips jerked back, pressing against his own aroused cock, and they both inhaled sharply at the contact.
"I'm -"
"I -"
They started to speak at the same time and stopped abruptly, choking out a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a hiccough. His heart was pounding in his chest, his cock, still pressed against James' arse, was throbbing to the same jerky rhythm below, and he realized with a start that James was still very, very hard beneath his fingers.
"Shit," James whispered.
"Yeah," he replied softly. "I'm - shit. This is… James?
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry. D' you hate me?"
"No. Course not. Never. I'm just- Were… were you really sleeping?" James asked.
"Yes. No. Sort of. I don't know. I just need…" he trailed off, his voice cracking.
"Need what?" James asked, swallowing audibly.
"I… I need… I - oh, God. I need to…" His gaze dropped briefly down towards his crotch before once again focusing on the shadowy silhouette of James' head, and he nervously licked his lips. "It's not, not, you know. It's just… Please. Let me…?"
He felt James take a deep breath and a moment later, the grip on his wrist slowly relaxed. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a ragged half-sob, and buried his face against the back of James' neck. He ran his fingers lightly down the length of James' cock, grazing his balls, drawing out another gasp and jerk of hips from James, then back up to the tip and around, fingers curling, his own hips rocking forward.
"Wait," James choked out, and he froze again. "Wait. Let me…"
James flipped onto his back then turned onto his side so they were facing each other. James slowly reached out towards him, palm flat against his belly, fingertips exploring the unfamiliar territory and fanning out to stroke tentatively over his jutting hipbones. He relaxed under the touch, nodding, and James grasped the waistband of his pyjamas, tugging them down his thighs.
"Err, easier this way," James whispered.
He nodded again, wriggling to help free the bunched material underneath, and released his own hold to pull James' pyjamas down as well.
"I -"
"Shhh," he said, reaching once again for James. "S'okay. Relax. Yes, that's it. Just like that. Oh! Oh, yes. Close your eyes now," he whispered, closing his own heavy-lidded eyes in turn.
The sleepy dawn air was filled with soft gasps and moans, the rustle of bare skin against sheets and the slick glide of flesh on flesh. He could feel James' breath on his face, and the earlier fear and need that had pooled in his stomach eased as the sweet feel of friction heightened, his hips moving back and forth instinctively. James' cock between his fingers felt at once alien and familiar, as did James' hand on his own cock, but there was comfort in the touch. James was safety, and that was far more important than simple pleasure of the flesh. A different kind of love; His best friend, his sanctuary, his brother.
"All right, Guv?"
Sirius glances suspiciously over at the man who has spoken, sitting on the adjacent stool. He is much older, mid- to late-forties or so, full pint of bitter in front of him, definitely a Muggle, and the expression on his face is one of concern, not menace. He relaxes and nods at the man and, on impulse, offers him a fag.
"Ta," the man says, gesturing towards the blue lighter and waiting for Sirius' nod before picking it up and lighting the cigarette.
"Just having a real shite day is all," he says, lighting his own cigarette and blowing out a stream of blue-grey smoke.
"Ah. Had plenty of them meself. Whisky'll cure what ails yeh," the man replies, lifting his glass and gesturing towards the bottle.
"That was my plan," he says wryly, pouring out another three fingers and for a few minutes they both sit there, drinking and smoking in a companionable silence.
"Sure looks like you're out on the piss," the man says as Sirius pours more whiskey into his glass. "Suppose you're not up for a chat about footy? Spurs'r showing some good quality. Might have a chance at the Cup this year, though s'too bad the New West Stand isn't gonna be open 'til next year."
He looks at him blankly, no clue as to what a spur or a west stand is, and the man sighs with what looks a little like regret.
"Right. Shite day." The man stubs the butt of his cigarette out in the ashtray, gets to his feet and picks up his pint. "Cheers then. And Happy Christmas to yeh."
"Happy Christmas," he replies, and turns back to his whisky, tossing down a rather large swig. It's not that the Muggle had been bad company. He simply has no idea what the man had been blathering on about and isn't in the mood for conversation that requires concentration.
A roar of laughter explodes from a table in the far corner of the pub, and there is a man singing wildly off-key, slurring his words. He has no Christmas cheer to offer, but he raises his glass in a mock salute and downs the remaining dregs. Christmas has never brought him much joy, and he can't help think of the irony of the situation. He'd actually allowed himself to have a sliver of hope this year. He refills his glass yet again and takes another drink, spilling some of it down his chin and onto his shirt. He dabs ineffectively at his shirt, wipes the drip from his chin, dries his hand on his jeans, and lifts his glass once again to his lips.
Hope is something he has never mastered. Wishing and hoping were for the weak. The strong don't need to hope: They act and never look back. That philosophy had seen him through countless years. He has to believe it, live it, because the few times in his life he has faltered, he hasn't much enjoyed the consequences. He has become an expert at looking in the mirror and seeing only what he needs to see reflecting back.
Regulus, on the other hand - Regulus knew of hope. Regulus had tried to give it to him, but in his arrogance, he had repeatedly spurned the gift. He swallows more whisky, trying to expunge the sour taste of regret from his mouth.
He had seen him arrive at Platform 9 ¾, but he hadn't spoken to him. He'd tried to catch his eye once or twice but Regulus either hadn't seen him or was purposely avoiding him. And so it had been for more than a week. He'd watched him surreptitiously across the tables in the Great Hall, but any time he'd seen him in the halls, Regulus had been surrounded by his friends or other house mates whom he'd had to refrain from hexing just for sport. He had finally decided it would be best to send an owl.
Friday. 9:00 p.m. Greenhouse Two.
He hadn't signed it. Regulus would know he had sent it. What he didn't know was whether Regulus would come, but he thought he would. He hoped he would.
He wasn't sure why he'd felt such a need to see his brother, to explain something that needed no explanation. Regulus had been there, after all. He knew what happened, knew why he'd had no other choice but to leave, knew he could and would never go back. He was alternately anxious and irritated. After all, he was the elder brother. Regulus should be the one concerned for him, not the other way around. True, they had never shown much solidarity in school; there was a distinct lack of a visible friendship only exacerbated by the animosity between their houses. Nevertheless, despite all that, there was a bond between them, an unbreakable link regardless of the severed ties with the rest of his family, or his mother's orders.
If his friends noticed his irritability and the continuous scowl on his face, they said nothing.
He arrived at the greenhouse twenty minutes early, disarming the locking charms with practiced ease. He appropriated a stool from one of the tables, dragging it closer to the door, and sat there in the dark, affecting casualness and ignoring the rustle of leaves and the scrape of sentient limbs from nearby plants, waiting.
Regulus was prompt as always. He entered quietly, closed the door behind him, and barely flinched when Sirius sent a locking spell past his shoulder.
The two stared at each other across the empty five feet of space that separated them. Pale moonlight emerged from a cloud and filtered in through the translucent glass roofing, illuminating the expressionless masks on each of their faces.
"So you're just going to stand there? You don't have anything to say to me?"
"You summoned me, Sirius. If I had something to say, I would have availed myself of the opportunity," Regulus said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Don't be haughty and smug with me, just because you're a prefect now. Fucking swot," Sirius scoffed.
"Insults? Did Lupin have to endure such charming behaviour on your part? It's a wonder you still consider him a friend, or he you."
"Leave Remus out of this! He's no concern of yours," he retorted.
Regulus raised his eyebrows. "I see. So, what is it you wanted, Sirius? I've no time for childish nonsense and, as you so graciously pointed out, I am a prefect. Breaking into the greenhouses is not precisely suitable behaviour."
"Childish nonsense? I'm not the one who's been ignoring you for nearly two weeks."
"Is that what this is all about? Fine," Regulus said, "I won't ignore you. Can I go now?"
"Have you always been such a selfish bastard?"
"No, Sirius. That's your job."
He stood up, fists clenched at his side. "I'm selfish? Yes, of course. How very selfish of me to put self-preservation ahead of you and your whinging. You know damn well why I left. Why I had to leave. I even asked you to come with me!" he shouted, not caring at that moment if he roused the entire castle.
"Oh, right. 'Come with me or get the fuck out of my way' is quite the invitation," Regulus retorted, his composure slipping. "You bloody left me! After you promised you wouldn't!"
"I never promised-"
"Yes, you did!"
"No, I didn't!" Sirius roared and lunged.
Caught off balance, Regulus stumbled, and within moments the two were rolling on the floor wrestling, grabbing and ripping at each other's robes, scratching and biting and kicking like a couple of skirts, cursing under their breaths, trying to overpower the other, locked in a dangerous embrace.
He didn't know when things shifted. One minute Regulus was screaming that he hated him for leaving, and the next they were frantically rubbing against each other, both of them hard, full of pent up anger and need. Hands desperately scrabbling for purchase, they pulled and tore at each others robes, his pants were ripped free, Regulus' already in tatters. He rolled on top now with no resistance, and they both gasped as warm bare skin, oiled with sweat from their exertion, and hard cocks met in a clash of friction.
Regulus wrapped long legs around his and arched his back, hips driving upward and keeping pace with his own grinding, circular thrusts. The intensity was staggering, and he bit his lip to stifle a cry and buried his face in Regulus' shoulder.
Time had frozen around him, all of his senses focused on the raw pleasure of soon-to-be-sated hunger, sharp as bruising hipbones against his belly, edged with anger, resentment, and the bittersweet tang of need and reassurance and forgiveness.
Regulus was breathing heavily beneath him in wheezing, panting gasps, his sweaty palms and fingers pushing against his lower back and arse. His knees were digging painfully into the floor, but he could not stop or shift his position. He felt a rush of warm, slippery wetness against his belly and thrust even faster, the slick heat sweetening the friction between them.
Regulus was still moving his hips, urging him on. "Come on, Sirius, that's it. I'm here. Come for me."
That was all it took, and a moment later, he was lying flat atop his brother, face still resting against his shoulder, Regulus gently stroking his hair and the back of his head.
"I'm sorry," Regulus whispered.
"I'm sorry, too," he replied, voice muffled. He shifted slightly to the left and rolled off, pulling Regulus towards him so that they both lay on their sides, facing each other and looking into each other's eyes for the first time since their erstwhile wrestling match had begun.
"It's not your fault. I knew you had to go," Regulus said. "I was just angry."
"I wanted you to come with me," Sirius said.
"I know. But I can't follow where you lead, Sirius. We've always travelled different paths, you and I."
"But-"
"But nothing," Regulus interrupted. "You know this better than I do. I only hope that where you're going is the right place - for you."
"I don't know. All I know is that Grimmauld Place wasn't. The right place, I mean."
"I know," Regulus whispered sadly. "I know."
His head is beginning to feel fuzzy, heavy. If regret still lingers in the recesses of his mouth, he cannot taste it now. He fumbles another fag from the pack and lights it, idly wondering if Regulus was ever lonely walking his chosen path. Despite his own adopted family - James and his parents, Remus, Peter - he has been far lonelier than he cares to admit. He takes another drag and shrugs, trying to dislodge the cloak of self-pity that seems to have settled around his shoulders.
Through the mounting haze in his mind, he suddenly, inexplicably, remembers the letter Regulus had sent to him, scrawled but still elegantly written for all that. It had been their final correspondence before the two years of anguished silence that had ended abruptly in false hope, fear, death, and this day of decadence and self-induced loneliness, the words inscribed on his heart in blood, more indelible than the ink on parchment with which they'd been printed, still achingly clear despite his foggy, slurred vision.
There's something I have to do. I know you won't approve, but I have to do this and nothing you can say will change my mind. Please understand No. You won't understand. You can't possibly. You always were the stronger one, even though you can be monumentally stupid about things. And people. Certain people at any rate.
I'm sorry I am sorry. Don't try You can't follow where I lead any more than I could you, but I promise you I know where I'm going.
I love you.
Always.
Regulus
Regulus had been right. He hadn't understood. Regulus had joined up with Voldemort. Voldemort! Oh, how he had raged at that note. He had trashed his flat, and then he'd gone out on a berserker rampage, all but incinerating a Muggle car that had nearly run him down, and trashing a Muggle bar after drinking several galleons' worth of spirit. He had nearly been arrested by Muggle police officers after refusing to pay his exorbitant tab and using his wand to break everything he could manage to point it at, in plain view of the Muggles at the bar no less, and was too pissed to perform a proper Obliviate. Somehow, James, Peter and Remus had found him before any of the Ministry lackeys could be alerted, which was how he had escaped relatively unscathed, and was also how he had found out about his rather dodgy activities a few days later by default.
He has often wondered if he had Obliviated himself accidentally, but whatever the case, he is thankful that he has no real memory of the sordid details of that afternoon and evening. He had woken in the spare room at James and Lily's flat, Apparated home, and barricaded himself in his flat for three days before grudgingly allowing James to come in, under threat of having his new motorbike set afire.
He gulps down more whisky, remembering the pain and grief, the utter betrayal he'd felt, and regrets his stubborn pride. The whisky is supposed to dull the pain, not sharpen it; is supposed to make him forget, not remember with considerable clarity. Obviously, he hasn't drunk nearly enough, and sets out to remedy this, pouring even more into the glass and carelessly sloshing some over the side in the process.
Another cigarette, another shot; an effortless routine. The bottle is more than half-empty now and declining fast. There's a fog clouding his vision, and everything, even time, seems to be slowing. He is suddenly fascinated with his hand, amazed and entranced with the short hairs sprouting just below his knuckles, the ridge on his thumbnail, flat and smooth on one side, thicker and slightly warped on the other.
He's roused from his near-stupor by a purring voice in his ear and the irritating scent of flowers that makes him wrinkle his nose. He raises his head and is assailed by a face full of riotous blonde hair and full, sticky red lips. The lips are moving, and it is a minute before he can make sense of what they are saying.
"Gorgeous bloke like you all alone on Christmas Eve? Terrible waste, that. What's your name, love?"
"S'rus," he mumbles, eyes fixed on the bright scarlet mouth.
"Cyrus? You're much too pretty for such a name. A little beaten up, but you'll do. Buy me a drink?" she asks, though the question is rhetorical. Without waiting for a reply, she signals the barman for a glass and pours herself a healthy measure of whisky. "Good stuff, that," she says, setting her glass down, large red lip prints staining the rim.
"So, what are we to do with you, pretty-boy?" She leans in closer, and he can smell her perfume wafting up from her prominently displayed cleavage. The scent is overwhelming, cloying, and he turns away, scrabbling for a fag, eager for the acrid smoke to drive the choking flowers away.
Her hand reaches out, and she removes two from the package, placing them both between those tacky lips and flicking the lighter with her thumb. She inhales slowly and removes one of the cigarettes, its filter now stained red, and sets it between his dry lips. "There you go, love."
The fag feels waxy between his lips, but the smoke tastes the same, and he breathes it in, revelling. He exhales directly into her breasts, and she laughs, her hand suddenly touching his cheek, playing with his hair, twirling the dark strands around her finger. She leans in closer and whispers seductively in his ear.
"You look so lonely, pretty-boy. I know what you need."
He mumbles something, but has no idea what he's saying. The fag is dangling from his lips, and his hands are clenched tightly into fists in his lap. He's frozen in place, surrounded by a miasma of odours: flowers, sweat, hairspray, the stale smells of whiskey, flat beer and cigarettes. He can't breathe.
"A long, slow fuck," she purrs, licking his neck. "Mmmm, you taste nice. Come home and fuck me, Cyrus. So here it is, Merry Christmas. Just like the song. Let's go have some fun then, yeah?"
The fag falls from his lips, bounces once on his jeans and drops to the floor. He stares after it, hand slowly reaching after to grasp it, much too slow to catch it. He looks at his hand and turns his palm upward, staring at the deep indentations marring the surface, crescents, half-moons, tracks a deep red across the pale flesh.
Moons. Little moons. Little moonies. Moonies. Moony.
Moony!
He glances up quickly, and a wave of dizziness washes over him. He closes his eyes and a moment later there are lips against his, caked and gummy, a wet tongue tasting of stale liquor and mint, thrusting wildly, and suddenly he is rising from his stool, roughly pushing her away and stumbling for the exit, fags, lighter and bottle of whisky forgotten in his haste.
The cold air and pouring rain against his face is refreshing, and he gulps huge draughts of clean, winter air, but it's not enough to stave off the nausea rising in his gullet. He stumbles around the corner of the bar into the alley, an alley full of rubbish bins and rooting vermin, the rancid odour of urine and rotting trash and, after a brief moment, stale whisky and bile.
~*~
Continue to Part Two
Author: midnitemaraud_r
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sirius/Regulus; Sirius/James; Sirius/Remus; James/Lily
Summary: After the death of his brother, Sirius searches for a way to reconcile his past with the present. Set Post-Hogwarts, Christmas, 1980.
Warnings: Incest, teens/under legal age of consent.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters belong to JK Rowling and Scholastic/Bloomsbury. I am merely playing in their playground.
Word Count: ~13,100
Written for the merry_smutmas exchange for Yeats whose request consisted of: Remus/Sirius, Blackcest (especially Regulus/Sirius), Harry/Draco, or James/Sirius: Kinks: Hurt/comfort and happiness. Couldn't manage the Harry/Draco, but I hope you like it nonetheless! Merry Smutmas!
Author's Notes: My undying gratitude to ladyblack888, xellas, ragdoll, thistlerose, and Kyrie, for betaing, browbeating, and incessant handholding!
The song very briefly referenced in the story is "Merry Xmas Everybody" by Slade. (blink and you'll miss it!) Title shamelessly nicked from U2.
*Because I am hopelessly anal, this version has been slightly 'tweaked' just a bit from the original posted version
Hidden among the shadows of a large yew tree, Sirius watches the procession through narrowed eyes, his wand gripped tightly in his fist, the dark wood a sharp contrast against cold-reddened knuckles. He stands as still as the nearby tombs, cold granite himself, but inside he is burning, raging at the mockery and hypocrisy that parades before him. The pinched, dignified, tearless faces of false grief, the quietly murmured words of pity that float back to him, an insect's buzz on the harsh wind; at the smug veiled face of his cousin Bellatrix walking on the arm of her husband, Rodolphus, feigning sorrow in her posture for appearance's sake.
He spots a familiar nose, and his eyes narrow even further, storm-cloud slits in a marble façade, knuckles now bone-white, fingernails biting deeply into flesh, hands shaking with restraint. Severus Snape glances around quickly, bends his head against the weather and snarls something to Avery. Others soon follow on their heels: Aunt Amaryllis, Great Uncle Thuban, cousin Narcissa and her bastard of a husband, Lucius Malfoy. The names and faces are a blur of grey and black cloaks now, caricatures from another life left behind. He watches as they murmur to each other, huddling in their cloaks against the onslaught of blustery wind and sleet, offering an occasional pat to the shoulder in solace, crumpled white handkerchiefs fluttering dispassionately against black veils and elegant gloved hands; he watches as they exit through the tall wrought iron gates and Disapparate.
Where -? Ah.
Mother.
A thin bent figure stands alone over the sealed tomb seemingly oblivious to the departure of the crowd, her wind-whipped cloak the only sign of movement. He steps out from his refuge, the soft crunching of his footsteps on the grass masked by the swirling wind rustling through evergreen needles and making the bare branches scritch and creak overhead.
"Rather poor etiquette to invite the murderers of the deceased as guests to his funeral, wouldn't you say, Mother?" His lips twist into a sneer, and he nearly spits the final word.
"You!" She straightens up and turns to face him, eyes wide and lips curled. "You are no son of mine!"
"Nice to see you, too. Lovely weather we're having, no?" he says, brushing icy-wet hair back from his face.
"Look at you! Your clothing! It's… It's…" Her usual dignified composure is slipping, and she presses her lips together sharply into a thin white line.
"Rather stylish I thought."
"Filthy mudblood lover! How dare you desecrate this place with your - your foul presence!"
He throws back his head and laughs bitterly, the sound ugly even to his own ears.
"Desecrate. Me. Oh, that's just brilliant, Mother."
"You have some nerve, coming here after what you did," she says, again trying to recover her poise, but there is a slight tremor in her hands, and she compresses her lips once more into a thin, bloodless line.
"What I did. I tried to save him. You… You helped murder him. And now… look at you." He gestures at the empty desolation of the deserted cemetery around them. "Alone with only yourself to blame. How does it feel, Mother?
"It's because of you that my son is dead!" She stabs her finger at him and takes a menacing step forward, but he does not flinch. "Left with nothing but ashes, and it's your doing! Not even a proper body to lay to rest… to… to honour with the traditional proprieties befitting an Heir of a Noble House! If it was ever discovered -"
"Ashes? Your son is dead, and all you care about is tradition? You truly are a heartless bitch."
He does not see the hand lashing out, but he feels the harsh sting of the slap across his cheek, barely distinguishable from the relentless pelting of frozen rain except for the sudden sharp dig of metal into flesh. He rubs his cheek with his free hand, sees a smear of blood on his fingers, and glares at her while she twists the gaudy gold ring back to rights on her finger.
Just like she used to do. Some things never change. His wand is still gripped tightly in his other hand, and it takes all of his self control to bite back the curse that threatens to escape from his chapped lips.
"I should have smothered you in your crib," she says coldly. "You've brought nothing but ruin and disgrace to this family! Your brother hated you. You shamed him enough in life, and now… now you twice shame him in death!"
He smiles at this, brushes a thin trail of blood from his cheek, and wipes his fingers on his jeans.
"No, Mother. Wrong again. You never did understand anything about us, did you?"
"I understand perfectly well! He was everything you could never be. A better son - a better man than you'll ever be. He hated you for being weak and… common," she spits.
His voice is low and even. "Regulus didn't hate me," he says. "He loved me."
She scoffs at his words, arms folded dismissively against her chest.
"Damn you! I saved him in death!" he shouts, then stops suddenly and closes his mouth, realizing that he has nothing more that he wants or needs to say. She hadn't known before; she'd never believe now. Anything he said toward that end would fall on deaf ears.
"Go back to that mausoleum you call a home and rot in your solitude. I've finished with you, old hag."
Squaring his shoulders, he turns and walks away, heedless of the shrieking invective she is now directing at his back: "Shame of my flesh! Abomination!" He's heard it countless times before after all. Reaching into his pocket for a fag, he lights it with the tip of his wand and inhales deeply. A moment later, a wisp of smoke and a whiff of tobacco are all that remain to greet the echoing screeches still ringing in the air.
~*~
A cold misty drizzle has replaced the windy sleet from the cemetery when he appears on the street corner. Fag dangling from his lips, he puts his wand into the pocket of his leather jacket and hitches up the collar. He takes a drag and cups the cigarette in his hand to keep it dry, leaning against a lamppost and studying the picture of domesticity before him. The row houses are brick with slate roofs and small, neat yards lined with low hedgerows out front. Flowerless window boxes jut squarely from the door-side windows, and smoke curls, rising from each ordered chimneystack. But, instead of the promise of warmth and comfort before a hearth fire, they merely radiate yet another dismal shade of grey to the day.
James and Lily have only recently moved to this quiet East Sussex neighbourhood, and so far, only a handful of people know the location. It's better this way, he thinks. Safer. A small grey car manoeuvres down the lane, slowing as it passes. The driver frowns at him, likely thinking him a stranger up to no good. The corner of his mouth quivers momentarily at the thought, and he raises his eyebrow, staring back. The man quickly turns away and drives on, turning into a drive further down the road.
He takes another long drag and wipes at a stray drip of water running down the side of his face. His cheek is still raw from his mother's slap and he holds his hand to the mark, feeling the rough edge of torn skin crusted with dried blood under his fingertip. Long hair dishevelled from wind and wet, still dripping with melting ice down the back of his neck, black leather jacket and boots, black denim jeans and a bloody cut on his face - no wonder the Muggle in the car was wary.
Fuck it. He drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it with the toe of his boot, grinding it into the pavement with a vengeance. Fuck everything. Why the fuck am I here anyway?
He hadn't even had a chance to pay his proper respects to Regulus, and after their… discussion, he'd had no desire to wait for his mother to leave. James had been his first thought after the confrontation, and here he had come. It was a long held habit. Troubles with the family? Run to James. And James had always been there. His sanctuary. His solace. His brother.
He feels his stomach clench at that thought. He'd had another brother once.
He'd actually felt good after telling the old bitch off, brimming with righteous anger, but the taste of victory is slowly turning to ash in his mouth - ash like the now-cremated remains of a brother he'd left behind, a brother he'd failed to save. He closes his eyes but he can only see the cold, pale slab of lifeless flesh, dull blue eyes staring unseeing from a slack-jawed face. Perhaps his mother had been right…
His breath quickens, and he feels himself choking. He turns his head and bends over, retching up bile on some poor Muggle's front lawn, but he doesn't care. He straightens up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and reaches into his pocket for another fag and a light.
No. His mother is nothing - knows nothing. Taking a deep drag, he feels the smoke curling in his lungs and holds his breath, savouring the acrid burning taste. Smoke is definitely better than the ash.
"Damn you, Regulus! Why did you have to be so fucking stupid?"
Christmas at the Noble House of Black was always an elaborate affair: proper, traditional, and brimming with dozens upon dozens of the pureblood faithful of Great Britain, most guests being family through blood or marriage, or both. And with only the very best of aged wines, champagne, port, brandy and firewhisky flowing over in crystal goblets, flutes and snifters, a number of these guests would play upon the hospitality of their hosts and stay overnight rather than run the risk of an embarrassing scandal due to splinching plastered across the pages of the Prophet.
He was livid as he made his way upstairs to his bedroom. If he heard one more word of praise for that blasted 'Dark Lord' and his aim to cleanse wizardkind of the scourge of 'mudbloods and filthy half-breeds', he was going to murder someone with his bare hands.
Stomping down the hall, he threw open his door, banging the knob on the wall behind. He kicked off his shoes, delighting in the sound of them thudding loudly against the far wall, pulled off his formal dress robes, not even flinching at the discordant sound of ripping fabric, and slammed the door shut behind him, casting a strong locking charm over his shoulder.
"Mother will have your head for ruining your new robes like that."
"What the fuck? Lumos. God damn it, Regulus, get the fuck out of my room!"
His brother was already clad in his pyjamas, lying under the thick down comforter, head and back propped up on several pillows, and arms folded neatly in front of him. He raised his eyebrow and stared at his naked brother in amusement.
"Not even pants underneath? How very… Gryffindor of you. The snitch socks are a nice touch, though. And no, I will not get out. It's my room tonight, too."
He cursed under his breath, and turned away from Regulus, rummaging through his wardrobe for a pair of pyjama bottoms. He pulled them on and climbed into the bed, elbowing his brother in the process just for good measure and snatching a pillow out from behind his head. "Nox."
"Not in a very good mood, are you?"
"Shut up." He turned over on his side, facing away from his brother.
"Oh, come on, Sirius. What was it this time? Bellatrix still torturing you with jelly-legs and hotfoot hexes? She's only playing. If she meant to hurt you, she would."
"Fuck Bellatrix," he grumbled. "Stupid cunt. I can't wait to get the hell out of this place. I hate this bloody house and everything in it." He pulled the duvet over his shoulder and nestled into his pillow.
"You say that all the time, but you know you don't mean it."
"I do mean it," he huffed.
"I'm in this house," Regulus said softly.
He stiffened. "Well, right now, I hate you, too."
The silence stretched out between them. Faint sounds of muffled laughter and clinking glasses floated up the stairs and down the hallway outside, but all he heard was the hushed breathing coming from the body beside him and his own heartbeat pounding painfully at his temples.
Still no reply. After a long while, he wondered if Regulus had fallen asleep. His leg twitched, aching to shift position, but he was hesitant to move, unwilling to concede. Biting his lip, he reluctantly turned his head to the side, speaking over his shoulder. "I don't hate you," he whispered.
"I know."
Startled, he turned over onto his back. "Thought you were asleep."
"No. Of course not. Feel better now?"
"Maybe. A bit."
"Good. Turn back over."
He did as he was told and held his breath, waiting. Just as he expected, he felt the warm press of his brother's body close against his back. Long thin fingers skated over his side, tickling his chest, moving lower, toying with his navel and the trail of hair there, and he relaxed into the touch, sighing.
"I know you won't leave, Sirius."
The words were no more than a puff of breath against his ear. Regulus splayed his hand across Sirius' belly and arched his back, pushing himself sharply against his brother in an effort to emphasize, to substantiate his words.
He felt the familiar hardness against his bottom and pushed back into it, eliciting a soft gasp from Regulus. The hand on his belly twitched and moved lower, feather light over his pyjamas. Reaching behind, he laid his hand on the back of Regulus' thigh, squeezing lightly and urging him on. Regulus returned the gesture, fingers tightening on his cock, and his breath hitched in his throat. Regulus' hips began to move, slowly, inviting, a prelude to a familiar, soothing rhythm.
All thoughts of the Christmas party and his family were gone as the two of them rocked gently back and forth, nestled together in a cocoon of silk and cotton. This was their own private place where nothing else could touch them, a safe haven from the madness; a fortress of warmth and comfort in the darkness, the only comfort he'd ever found in this wretched house. Regulus' fingers slipped deftly under the waistband, firmly grasping his cock, and he closed his eyes, hips gyrating as the tempo of their dance intensified, soft sighs and breathless moans a counterpoint to the humming in his blood.
"You won't leave me."
The words were, again, no more than a murmur of damp heat against the back of his neck, an indistinct echo far off and otherworldly. His body shook, his cries of release silent on his lips, no more words, no coherent thoughts, only peace.
He drops the butt of the cigarette to the pavement, shaking his hand and bringing it to his lips to suck on the burnt fingers. He is standing in front of the Potters' house now, though he doesn't remember walking up the street. He looks around, but there are no neighbours about to question or ogle him, and he crosses the lawn, ignoring the path to the front stoop, and instead peering in through a narrow gap in the sheer white curtains of the parlour window.
James is there, with Lily and Harry, and he hears the faint notes of festive music vibrating through the glass. James is singing to Harry, teasing him with strands of deep green garlands and sparkling gold tinsel while Harry giggles in delight, one chubby fist reaching and grasping above his head, the other bringing a crimson bauble to his drooling mouth. Lily is smiling at them both, wand raised as she conjures fairy lights on the tree.
His heart is a heavy weight in his chest. He knows he would be more than welcome, but watching the three of them together, he suddenly feels like an outsider, bereft, and it is almost more than he can bear.
They look so happy, and he wants nothing more than to capture this moment and place it into a fancy silk-lined, gilt chest, keep it locked up for them, keep it safe so they will always have it to treasure. He wants to protect them, even from himself and his own demons.
He watches as James lifts Harry high over his head, and Harry squeals, bauble forgotten, eyes only for James. Lily joins them, and the look that passes between she and James singes his heart. He loves all three of them, but he knows he needs more than James can give him… knows that he doesn’t belong here. Not today. Tomorrow, perhaps, but not today.
He sighs and turns from the window, reaching once again into his pocket. He should go and see Remus, he thinks. Should have gone there first. Remus would… No. Things between him and Remus were… complicated, and he'd foolishly burned that particular bridge once, and once is enough. Looking down at the squashed package in his hand, he realizes he's going to need another pack before long.
A drink, too, he thinks. A spark flares from the tip of his wand and, a moment later, a muted crack, and he is gone.
The front door opens, and a thin, handsome, bespectacled face peers out. "No, Lily. There's no one here," he says, turning away from the grey drizzle and closing the door firmly behind him.
~*~
The pub is dim and smoky, dark wood scarred and oiled with age. A few decrepit and rather dodgy Christmas decorations are tacked up behind the bar, and a string of tiny light bulbs hangs dark and unlit above. He sidles up to the bar, fresh pack of fags and a brand new blue cigarette lighter in hand, drops them on the bar and slides onto the tall stool, unzipping his jacket.
"Whisky," he says to the barman, peeling the plastic wrapper and fumbling out a smoke. "And not that cheap swill, either. Leave the bottle."
The barman eyes him warily, but a quick hand to the wand in his pocket assures that he'll not be troubled further.
It had been a bad idea to go to the Leaky Cauldron, but it would have been foolish to simply Apparate to the middle of Muggle London. Snape, Avery, and a few of their cronies had been there, and poor Tom had really had no choice but to forcibly throw him out the front door, with a little help from Sturgis. He was now sporting an angry red slash above his right eyebrow, a rip in the sleeve of his jacket, and several bruised knuckles, but it had been worth it to see the look on Snape's face when he'd punched him square in the nose. Broken it, too, from the sound and the amount of blood.
Yes, maybe it had been worth it after all.
He tilts his head back and downs the first shot in a single gulp. The amber liquid burns its way down his throat, kindling a nice little fire in the pit of his stomach. Taking another drag of his cigarette, he refills his glass, and the second shot follows closely on the heels of the first.
He is angry, lonely and feeling more than a bit sorry for himself, and he knows it. James and Remus had both come to him last night, but he had pushed them away. He'd been sullen and outright rude in an explosive show of temper, but he hadn't been in a mood for either company or consolation of the human kind. They had eyed him warily, nodded and left him, the half bottle of Old Ogdens in the cupboard the only companion he had desired. The Muggle whiskey before him now doesn't have the same bite, but it's smooth and warm and a temporary boon to the emptiness.
Emptiness made even hollower by his aborted visit earlier. He should not have gone to see James. That had been a mistake. Things were different now, and it was best to leave the past lie, revisited only in the ghosts of memory.
He had awoken twice that first night after he'd run away. Echoes of screams and curses chased him from his slumber the first time, and he had thrown back the covers in a panic, the darkness pressing down on him, suffocating, and leaving him disoriented. He had flinched at the touch of a hand on his bare arm, and then James was there, whispering his name, brushing his sweaty hair back from his damp forehead, putting an arm around his shoulder and gently easing him back down to the pillows.
He had initially tried to push James away, but James had quietly scolded him and pulled him closer, arm slung across his chest, and tucked Sirius' head under his chin. James had then made a number of shushing noises, and the nonsensical murmurs were a soothing buzz in his ear as he'd gradually drifted back to sleep.
He came awake again some hours later in the predawn hush, rising into that ethereal space between waking and dreaming, vaguely aware of the long, lanky body curled up before him. He breathed in deeply, rubbing his cheek against the soft, mussed hair, its scent familiar and reassuring. His hand idly grazed a sharp hipbone, lingered over soft, downy skin, and he pressed closer, rubbing himself languidly against the mosaic of textures: soft, smooth roundness, hard angular bone, rough cotton.
"Lily," a sleepy voice mumbled.
"Mmmm. Shhh," he murmured, rocking his hips while his hand gently trailed over hip and belly, long warm fingers caressing bare, sleep-warmed skin.
"Padfoot?" The voice sounded slightly more awake now.
"M'here. S'ok. Shhh." His fingers slipped lower, exploring, sliding underneath the cotton pyjamas, navigating though the coarse hair and lightly pressing into the skin beneath, knuckles skimming along the smooth, hard cock.
"Sirius!" A hand seized his wrist, halting his exploratory touches.
"Mmmph? Why'd y'stop?"
"Wake up."
"Wha?"
"I think you're dreaming," James said, his voice husky.
"James?" he croaked. James' hand was still clasped about his wrist where it protruded from James' pyjama bottoms. He froze, hardly daring to breathe.
"You okay? You were, ah…" James trailed off and an awkward silence rose between them.
He was hyperaware of the fact that James still had not released his arm. His trapped fingers twitched, and James gasped, arching his back. James' hips jerked back, pressing against his own aroused cock, and they both inhaled sharply at the contact.
"I'm -"
"I -"
They started to speak at the same time and stopped abruptly, choking out a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a hiccough. His heart was pounding in his chest, his cock, still pressed against James' arse, was throbbing to the same jerky rhythm below, and he realized with a start that James was still very, very hard beneath his fingers.
"Shit," James whispered.
"Yeah," he replied softly. "I'm - shit. This is… James?
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry. D' you hate me?"
"No. Course not. Never. I'm just- Were… were you really sleeping?" James asked.
"Yes. No. Sort of. I don't know. I just need…" he trailed off, his voice cracking.
"Need what?" James asked, swallowing audibly.
"I… I need… I - oh, God. I need to…" His gaze dropped briefly down towards his crotch before once again focusing on the shadowy silhouette of James' head, and he nervously licked his lips. "It's not, not, you know. It's just… Please. Let me…?"
He felt James take a deep breath and a moment later, the grip on his wrist slowly relaxed. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a ragged half-sob, and buried his face against the back of James' neck. He ran his fingers lightly down the length of James' cock, grazing his balls, drawing out another gasp and jerk of hips from James, then back up to the tip and around, fingers curling, his own hips rocking forward.
"Wait," James choked out, and he froze again. "Wait. Let me…"
James flipped onto his back then turned onto his side so they were facing each other. James slowly reached out towards him, palm flat against his belly, fingertips exploring the unfamiliar territory and fanning out to stroke tentatively over his jutting hipbones. He relaxed under the touch, nodding, and James grasped the waistband of his pyjamas, tugging them down his thighs.
"Err, easier this way," James whispered.
He nodded again, wriggling to help free the bunched material underneath, and released his own hold to pull James' pyjamas down as well.
"I -"
"Shhh," he said, reaching once again for James. "S'okay. Relax. Yes, that's it. Just like that. Oh! Oh, yes. Close your eyes now," he whispered, closing his own heavy-lidded eyes in turn.
The sleepy dawn air was filled with soft gasps and moans, the rustle of bare skin against sheets and the slick glide of flesh on flesh. He could feel James' breath on his face, and the earlier fear and need that had pooled in his stomach eased as the sweet feel of friction heightened, his hips moving back and forth instinctively. James' cock between his fingers felt at once alien and familiar, as did James' hand on his own cock, but there was comfort in the touch. James was safety, and that was far more important than simple pleasure of the flesh. A different kind of love; His best friend, his sanctuary, his brother.
"All right, Guv?"
Sirius glances suspiciously over at the man who has spoken, sitting on the adjacent stool. He is much older, mid- to late-forties or so, full pint of bitter in front of him, definitely a Muggle, and the expression on his face is one of concern, not menace. He relaxes and nods at the man and, on impulse, offers him a fag.
"Ta," the man says, gesturing towards the blue lighter and waiting for Sirius' nod before picking it up and lighting the cigarette.
"Just having a real shite day is all," he says, lighting his own cigarette and blowing out a stream of blue-grey smoke.
"Ah. Had plenty of them meself. Whisky'll cure what ails yeh," the man replies, lifting his glass and gesturing towards the bottle.
"That was my plan," he says wryly, pouring out another three fingers and for a few minutes they both sit there, drinking and smoking in a companionable silence.
"Sure looks like you're out on the piss," the man says as Sirius pours more whiskey into his glass. "Suppose you're not up for a chat about footy? Spurs'r showing some good quality. Might have a chance at the Cup this year, though s'too bad the New West Stand isn't gonna be open 'til next year."
He looks at him blankly, no clue as to what a spur or a west stand is, and the man sighs with what looks a little like regret.
"Right. Shite day." The man stubs the butt of his cigarette out in the ashtray, gets to his feet and picks up his pint. "Cheers then. And Happy Christmas to yeh."
"Happy Christmas," he replies, and turns back to his whisky, tossing down a rather large swig. It's not that the Muggle had been bad company. He simply has no idea what the man had been blathering on about and isn't in the mood for conversation that requires concentration.
A roar of laughter explodes from a table in the far corner of the pub, and there is a man singing wildly off-key, slurring his words. He has no Christmas cheer to offer, but he raises his glass in a mock salute and downs the remaining dregs. Christmas has never brought him much joy, and he can't help think of the irony of the situation. He'd actually allowed himself to have a sliver of hope this year. He refills his glass yet again and takes another drink, spilling some of it down his chin and onto his shirt. He dabs ineffectively at his shirt, wipes the drip from his chin, dries his hand on his jeans, and lifts his glass once again to his lips.
Hope is something he has never mastered. Wishing and hoping were for the weak. The strong don't need to hope: They act and never look back. That philosophy had seen him through countless years. He has to believe it, live it, because the few times in his life he has faltered, he hasn't much enjoyed the consequences. He has become an expert at looking in the mirror and seeing only what he needs to see reflecting back.
Regulus, on the other hand - Regulus knew of hope. Regulus had tried to give it to him, but in his arrogance, he had repeatedly spurned the gift. He swallows more whisky, trying to expunge the sour taste of regret from his mouth.
He had seen him arrive at Platform 9 ¾, but he hadn't spoken to him. He'd tried to catch his eye once or twice but Regulus either hadn't seen him or was purposely avoiding him. And so it had been for more than a week. He'd watched him surreptitiously across the tables in the Great Hall, but any time he'd seen him in the halls, Regulus had been surrounded by his friends or other house mates whom he'd had to refrain from hexing just for sport. He had finally decided it would be best to send an owl.
Friday. 9:00 p.m. Greenhouse Two.
He hadn't signed it. Regulus would know he had sent it. What he didn't know was whether Regulus would come, but he thought he would. He hoped he would.
He wasn't sure why he'd felt such a need to see his brother, to explain something that needed no explanation. Regulus had been there, after all. He knew what happened, knew why he'd had no other choice but to leave, knew he could and would never go back. He was alternately anxious and irritated. After all, he was the elder brother. Regulus should be the one concerned for him, not the other way around. True, they had never shown much solidarity in school; there was a distinct lack of a visible friendship only exacerbated by the animosity between their houses. Nevertheless, despite all that, there was a bond between them, an unbreakable link regardless of the severed ties with the rest of his family, or his mother's orders.
If his friends noticed his irritability and the continuous scowl on his face, they said nothing.
He arrived at the greenhouse twenty minutes early, disarming the locking charms with practiced ease. He appropriated a stool from one of the tables, dragging it closer to the door, and sat there in the dark, affecting casualness and ignoring the rustle of leaves and the scrape of sentient limbs from nearby plants, waiting.
Regulus was prompt as always. He entered quietly, closed the door behind him, and barely flinched when Sirius sent a locking spell past his shoulder.
The two stared at each other across the empty five feet of space that separated them. Pale moonlight emerged from a cloud and filtered in through the translucent glass roofing, illuminating the expressionless masks on each of their faces.
"So you're just going to stand there? You don't have anything to say to me?"
"You summoned me, Sirius. If I had something to say, I would have availed myself of the opportunity," Regulus said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
"Don't be haughty and smug with me, just because you're a prefect now. Fucking swot," Sirius scoffed.
"Insults? Did Lupin have to endure such charming behaviour on your part? It's a wonder you still consider him a friend, or he you."
"Leave Remus out of this! He's no concern of yours," he retorted.
Regulus raised his eyebrows. "I see. So, what is it you wanted, Sirius? I've no time for childish nonsense and, as you so graciously pointed out, I am a prefect. Breaking into the greenhouses is not precisely suitable behaviour."
"Childish nonsense? I'm not the one who's been ignoring you for nearly two weeks."
"Is that what this is all about? Fine," Regulus said, "I won't ignore you. Can I go now?"
"Have you always been such a selfish bastard?"
"No, Sirius. That's your job."
He stood up, fists clenched at his side. "I'm selfish? Yes, of course. How very selfish of me to put self-preservation ahead of you and your whinging. You know damn well why I left. Why I had to leave. I even asked you to come with me!" he shouted, not caring at that moment if he roused the entire castle.
"Oh, right. 'Come with me or get the fuck out of my way' is quite the invitation," Regulus retorted, his composure slipping. "You bloody left me! After you promised you wouldn't!"
"I never promised-"
"Yes, you did!"
"No, I didn't!" Sirius roared and lunged.
Caught off balance, Regulus stumbled, and within moments the two were rolling on the floor wrestling, grabbing and ripping at each other's robes, scratching and biting and kicking like a couple of skirts, cursing under their breaths, trying to overpower the other, locked in a dangerous embrace.
He didn't know when things shifted. One minute Regulus was screaming that he hated him for leaving, and the next they were frantically rubbing against each other, both of them hard, full of pent up anger and need. Hands desperately scrabbling for purchase, they pulled and tore at each others robes, his pants were ripped free, Regulus' already in tatters. He rolled on top now with no resistance, and they both gasped as warm bare skin, oiled with sweat from their exertion, and hard cocks met in a clash of friction.
Regulus wrapped long legs around his and arched his back, hips driving upward and keeping pace with his own grinding, circular thrusts. The intensity was staggering, and he bit his lip to stifle a cry and buried his face in Regulus' shoulder.
Time had frozen around him, all of his senses focused on the raw pleasure of soon-to-be-sated hunger, sharp as bruising hipbones against his belly, edged with anger, resentment, and the bittersweet tang of need and reassurance and forgiveness.
Regulus was breathing heavily beneath him in wheezing, panting gasps, his sweaty palms and fingers pushing against his lower back and arse. His knees were digging painfully into the floor, but he could not stop or shift his position. He felt a rush of warm, slippery wetness against his belly and thrust even faster, the slick heat sweetening the friction between them.
Regulus was still moving his hips, urging him on. "Come on, Sirius, that's it. I'm here. Come for me."
That was all it took, and a moment later, he was lying flat atop his brother, face still resting against his shoulder, Regulus gently stroking his hair and the back of his head.
"I'm sorry," Regulus whispered.
"I'm sorry, too," he replied, voice muffled. He shifted slightly to the left and rolled off, pulling Regulus towards him so that they both lay on their sides, facing each other and looking into each other's eyes for the first time since their erstwhile wrestling match had begun.
"It's not your fault. I knew you had to go," Regulus said. "I was just angry."
"I wanted you to come with me," Sirius said.
"I know. But I can't follow where you lead, Sirius. We've always travelled different paths, you and I."
"But-"
"But nothing," Regulus interrupted. "You know this better than I do. I only hope that where you're going is the right place - for you."
"I don't know. All I know is that Grimmauld Place wasn't. The right place, I mean."
"I know," Regulus whispered sadly. "I know."
His head is beginning to feel fuzzy, heavy. If regret still lingers in the recesses of his mouth, he cannot taste it now. He fumbles another fag from the pack and lights it, idly wondering if Regulus was ever lonely walking his chosen path. Despite his own adopted family - James and his parents, Remus, Peter - he has been far lonelier than he cares to admit. He takes another drag and shrugs, trying to dislodge the cloak of self-pity that seems to have settled around his shoulders.
Through the mounting haze in his mind, he suddenly, inexplicably, remembers the letter Regulus had sent to him, scrawled but still elegantly written for all that. It had been their final correspondence before the two years of anguished silence that had ended abruptly in false hope, fear, death, and this day of decadence and self-induced loneliness, the words inscribed on his heart in blood, more indelible than the ink on parchment with which they'd been printed, still achingly clear despite his foggy, slurred vision.
There's something I have to do. I know you won't approve, but I have to do this and nothing you can say will change my mind. Please understand No. You won't understand. You can't possibly. You always were the stronger one, even though you can be monumentally stupid about things. And people. Certain people at any rate.
I'm sorry I am sorry. Don't try You can't follow where I lead any more than I could you, but I promise you I know where I'm going.
I love you.
Always.
Regulus
Regulus had been right. He hadn't understood. Regulus had joined up with Voldemort. Voldemort! Oh, how he had raged at that note. He had trashed his flat, and then he'd gone out on a berserker rampage, all but incinerating a Muggle car that had nearly run him down, and trashing a Muggle bar after drinking several galleons' worth of spirit. He had nearly been arrested by Muggle police officers after refusing to pay his exorbitant tab and using his wand to break everything he could manage to point it at, in plain view of the Muggles at the bar no less, and was too pissed to perform a proper Obliviate. Somehow, James, Peter and Remus had found him before any of the Ministry lackeys could be alerted, which was how he had escaped relatively unscathed, and was also how he had found out about his rather dodgy activities a few days later by default.
He has often wondered if he had Obliviated himself accidentally, but whatever the case, he is thankful that he has no real memory of the sordid details of that afternoon and evening. He had woken in the spare room at James and Lily's flat, Apparated home, and barricaded himself in his flat for three days before grudgingly allowing James to come in, under threat of having his new motorbike set afire.
He gulps down more whisky, remembering the pain and grief, the utter betrayal he'd felt, and regrets his stubborn pride. The whisky is supposed to dull the pain, not sharpen it; is supposed to make him forget, not remember with considerable clarity. Obviously, he hasn't drunk nearly enough, and sets out to remedy this, pouring even more into the glass and carelessly sloshing some over the side in the process.
Another cigarette, another shot; an effortless routine. The bottle is more than half-empty now and declining fast. There's a fog clouding his vision, and everything, even time, seems to be slowing. He is suddenly fascinated with his hand, amazed and entranced with the short hairs sprouting just below his knuckles, the ridge on his thumbnail, flat and smooth on one side, thicker and slightly warped on the other.
He's roused from his near-stupor by a purring voice in his ear and the irritating scent of flowers that makes him wrinkle his nose. He raises his head and is assailed by a face full of riotous blonde hair and full, sticky red lips. The lips are moving, and it is a minute before he can make sense of what they are saying.
"Gorgeous bloke like you all alone on Christmas Eve? Terrible waste, that. What's your name, love?"
"S'rus," he mumbles, eyes fixed on the bright scarlet mouth.
"Cyrus? You're much too pretty for such a name. A little beaten up, but you'll do. Buy me a drink?" she asks, though the question is rhetorical. Without waiting for a reply, she signals the barman for a glass and pours herself a healthy measure of whisky. "Good stuff, that," she says, setting her glass down, large red lip prints staining the rim.
"So, what are we to do with you, pretty-boy?" She leans in closer, and he can smell her perfume wafting up from her prominently displayed cleavage. The scent is overwhelming, cloying, and he turns away, scrabbling for a fag, eager for the acrid smoke to drive the choking flowers away.
Her hand reaches out, and she removes two from the package, placing them both between those tacky lips and flicking the lighter with her thumb. She inhales slowly and removes one of the cigarettes, its filter now stained red, and sets it between his dry lips. "There you go, love."
The fag feels waxy between his lips, but the smoke tastes the same, and he breathes it in, revelling. He exhales directly into her breasts, and she laughs, her hand suddenly touching his cheek, playing with his hair, twirling the dark strands around her finger. She leans in closer and whispers seductively in his ear.
"You look so lonely, pretty-boy. I know what you need."
He mumbles something, but has no idea what he's saying. The fag is dangling from his lips, and his hands are clenched tightly into fists in his lap. He's frozen in place, surrounded by a miasma of odours: flowers, sweat, hairspray, the stale smells of whiskey, flat beer and cigarettes. He can't breathe.
"A long, slow fuck," she purrs, licking his neck. "Mmmm, you taste nice. Come home and fuck me, Cyrus. So here it is, Merry Christmas. Just like the song. Let's go have some fun then, yeah?"
The fag falls from his lips, bounces once on his jeans and drops to the floor. He stares after it, hand slowly reaching after to grasp it, much too slow to catch it. He looks at his hand and turns his palm upward, staring at the deep indentations marring the surface, crescents, half-moons, tracks a deep red across the pale flesh.
Moons. Little moons. Little moonies. Moonies. Moony.
Moony!
He glances up quickly, and a wave of dizziness washes over him. He closes his eyes and a moment later there are lips against his, caked and gummy, a wet tongue tasting of stale liquor and mint, thrusting wildly, and suddenly he is rising from his stool, roughly pushing her away and stumbling for the exit, fags, lighter and bottle of whisky forgotten in his haste.
The cold air and pouring rain against his face is refreshing, and he gulps huge draughts of clean, winter air, but it's not enough to stave off the nausea rising in his gullet. He stumbles around the corner of the bar into the alley, an alley full of rubbish bins and rooting vermin, the rancid odour of urine and rotting trash and, after a brief moment, stale whisky and bile.
~*~
Continue to Part Two