Word count: 5736
Love (That Shambling Thing)
"There is power in self-sacrifice." Veronica Roth, Divergent
In the end it starts like this: Sirius is chosen first, his name drawn to cries for glory, and the golden boy smiles for the cameras. He comes back broken, a pale shade of the brother Regulus used to admire, and no matter how hard they try, they are some things that just can't be fixed.
In the end it starts like this: Sirius lives and then he leaves, and when four years later Regulus' name is the one drawn, there is no family by his side to be proud of him or to tell him it's going to be alright.
Sirius was always their golden boy, after all, with Regulus the unlucky spare, and nothing he can do will ever change that. He doesn't think he'd want to anyway – he's seen what the cameras have done to his brother, the best man he had known, and it's a fate Regulus wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, let alone on family.
In the end it starts like this – like these stories always do: Regulus' name is chosen, one boy among hundreds, a sacrifice to appease hungry gods who couldn't care less, and even though this is what Regulus has always trained for, this 'chance' leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
.x.
Some nights, when Barty couldn't sleep, he used to climb on the roof and watch the stars, tracing the constellations with a lazy fingers, reciting to himself softly all the stories his mother told him before bed.
It seemed like the whole universe was just a wish away, and so sometimes Barty did wish. They were traitorous wishes, for the traitorous dreams he held close to his heart.
Please, he asked the stars, please make this world right again so that no other child has to die like this.
Maybe that's why he didn't feel surprised when his name was revealed as a Tribute's. It felt like cosmic punishment, like irony at its finest. He asked for lives to be spared and they sent him to take them. Maybe this world is beyond repair after all.
He doesn't regret being chosen though. It's not like he has much of a life waiting for him here anyway. As his father is always fond of telling him, Barty will never amount to anything (and it rankles, to know that however unwillingly, Barty's about to prove him right).
His only regret is that his mother was there – he will never forget her face when she saw him, after. He wishes he could have spared that pain.
.x.
The sponsors love him, and it feels a little bit like dying. They loved his brother too, Regulus remembers, and maybe some of that carries over to him now. It would be simpler, he thinks, if he could believe they only love the image of the other boy they sent into an arena.
But unfortunately, he can't. Not entirely anyway, because while there are whispers – voices saying how extraordinary it is, for two Tributes to come from the same family, never mind that the other is a past winner – Regulus knows that if he was useless they wouldn't bother with him. They put good odds on him from the beginning, but when they see him train – see him with his knives, because Sirius may have preferred the bigger weapons, like the swords or the mace he became known for, but Regulus always fancied a short blade in the dark – he is marked as the favorite.
It almost makes him want to laugh, the way the other Tributes seem to glare at him more angrily than contemplatively after that. Like they even have the time for petty grievances anymore. Still, he supposes that it's only human of them, and they're all of them so terribly humans.
.x.
The Game puts them on a mountain this year. Last year it was a desert, the year before that a city, and Barty is terribly grateful he didn't get either of those. A mountain isn't idyllic, but anything is better than a desert, and Barty doesn't think he'd have known what to do in a real city.
There is a boy on a platform right across from him when he blinks the brightness of the sun away. Before they both start running, Barty thinks he see sadness flash in his eyes – only sadness isn't quite the right word for it.
Weariness, that's what it looks like: the kind that only comes from knowing what the future holds. Somehow, it warms Barty's heart, to know that someone else here truly knows what to expect.
The boy runs fast and even though he's alone, he manages to grab a pair of wickedly-looking daggers before Barty loses track of him. Somehow, Barty finds himself pulled in by a group formed by the two Tributes from District One and Three, as well as the girl from District Two. That's how he realizes just who the boy was: Regulus Black, the people's favorite this year.
He had looked different earlier, with the sun glowing like a halo behind him. He hadn't looked like the boy on the screens, or like the too serious boy Barty had spotted during their training weeks. The light had made him look almost inhumanely beautiful, the closest thing Barty's ever been to a god, and he wonders if it means anything. It probably doesn't.
The canon sounds once, and then twice, dragging Barty out of his thoughts, and his heart lurches in his chest.
He doesn't know why he's relieved when he sees the two dead girls on the ground.
.x.
Regulus has never felt relief until he sees the daggers, metal glinting invitingly in the sunshine. He will need them, he knows, but there is still half a second where he feels almost sick, imagining them covered in blood. They'd glisten the same way they do now, pearling rubies instead of silver moonlight, and that's almost enough to make him turn around.
He snatches the daggers and tires to ignore the way they fit so snugly against his palms, and he runs. The terrain is unfamiliar and there are loose rocks everywhere. With a heavy heart, Regulus realizes that before this ends, probably more than one Tribute will have fallen from the numerous cliffs Regulus can already see are everywhere, but at the same time he's guiltily glad that at least those deaths could never be on his hands.
Two dull sounds echo around him, and he realizes with a jolt that this is what the canon actually sounds like when a Tribute dies. It sounded different on the retransmission somehow, duller maybe. Here and now, Regulus can feel it resonate in his blood, echoing in his mind. It might very well be the worst sound he's ever heard.
.x.
Barty always stays half a step behind the group. He holds no illusion to the fact that they're waiting for the right time to kill him – they even admitted to the fact on their first night, calmly sitting around the fire Barty had built. They've made a pact not to go after each other until they're the only ones remaining, and he, the newcomer, will surely be the first they'll turn on when the time comes.
He's pretty sure it should bother him more than it does, but it doesn't. He understands, and he thinks in their place he might do the same. After all, they're just as scared as he is, for all their bravados.
Despite himself, Barty finds himself liking these kids. He learns their names even though he doesn't want to, and the little details about their lives they can't help but let out while they talk. Barty hates it – it makes these people so much more real, and Barty doesn't need that, not when in the end all but one will be dead and they'll all have each other's blood on their hands, but he can't help it.
The Carrows twins from the Third District, Amycus and Alecto, are the best trackers Barty's ever seen, and while they teach him how to look for signs of disturbed earth (it's much harder than it sounds like, especially in a terrain like this one where much of the ground is not loose soil but rather rocks and gravel), he learns that they want to fly one day, and that when (if) one of them survives they'll light a candle for the other every night, to guide their spirit home.
Mary, from the First District, is the most imposing woman Barty's ever met. She beheads a snake on their first night, hearing its deadly rattle when no one else could. Her hands are littered will small training scars that she traces absentmindedly, and she whispers a man's name in her sleep. Benjy, Barty thinks it is, and there's a grief there he can't quite identify.
She's kinder than the rest too, but she wants to live more than anyone else Barty's met yet. She's probably the most dangerous of them all, in the end.
Even Bellatrix, the Tribute from the Second District, eyes her with barely hidden suspicion and worry, and Bellatrix doesn't look like the type to worry about anything. There is something wrong about her, Barty realized early on. It's like she's already dead inside somehow, like the world doesn't really matter to her anymore. She catches a rabbit and skins it alive, smiling as her knives tug the skin, and later, the organs free.
She is disturbing but also gorgeous, and Barty shivers to think what she could have been like in another world, in another life, where they weren't supposed to be fodder in some grand revenge plan for a rebellion no one remembers anymore.
The only person she seems to like is Rodolphus, the tribute from the First District. There's a history there, and Barty wonders if it means anything, that this year so many tributes seem so close to each other. It feels like it, somehow.
Once, while he stands guard, he sees the two of them slip away in the middle of the night. They wear darkness well, like a cloak almost, and are so close to one another that their shadows blend together. When the canon sounds, Barty closes his eyes and counts to ten. And then he keeps counting, his eyes open and glued to the darkness.
When the shadows move and spilt in two familiar forms, Barty doesn't feel relieved to know they're back. He doesn't need to see the blood to know what they've done.
Rodolphus nods as he passes him by, and Bellatrix nudges him away, taking her shift like nothing ever happened.
Barty doesn't mention it, but he doesn't forget. His heart pounds in chest until he falls asleep, and it takes him a long time to stop his hands from shivering.
.x.
Regulus doesn't want to kill anyone. He doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to be a Tribute – he doesn't think anyone does, at least not once they're truly here. Glory and Honor, say the people from the Capital, safe and warm in their luxurious homes. A chance to erase the betrayal of your ancestors, they proclaim, like anyone still cares about that.
They're just hungry for blood, and who better to provide that than the children History tells them are guilty, are worthless? They're all the pawns in some greater game, and while Regulus hates it, there's nothing he can do to change that.
Nothing, but refuse to play his part – he will not hunt these people down, will not be the attack dog they expect him to be. He will not be his brother, and the thought hurts as much as it heals.
He keeps moving, looking for the edges of their terrain. He won't be able to leave, he knows – many have tried, and while their jailors would rather they kill each other, they never hesitate to help that along if they believe they have to. But the others will know that too, and odds are they'll avoid those parts more than any others, which means that Regulus will have time (for what, he doesn't really know nor does he want to). As long as he makes it look good, look interesting, he will have time.
The canon sounds seven more times in the two days he spends running. For every one, Regulus closes his eyes for a second, and sends a quick prayer. They're in a better place now – after all, anything is better than the Games.
.x.
Fifteen Tributes have died so far. That knowledge weighs heavily on Barty as he forages for food for the group. They have reserves – a great big pile of them that the others are currently guarding – but Barty hates it, and he needs to do something mindless for a little while. He can't forget the sound of the canon that keeps on echoing in his mind, but he can distract himself from it for a little while, can try to clear his mind a little.
He can't afford to act so distracted around the others – already he can see the looks they're all exchanging, the way they're not as relaxed around each other as they used to be. Fifteen Tributes have died, and that only leaves five that aren't in their group.
That only leaves five more deaths before they turn on each other, until they turn on him.
He can hear his mother's voice, see her ghost as she speaks, repeating the tearful words she had told him before he had left. "My beautiful, beautiful boy," she had cried, her hands trembling as they touched his face, "please come back to me. Please."
He hadn't replied, just echoed his father's solemn smile (the only good thing that man had ever taught him), but now he thinks it doesn't matter much.
The canon sounds twice more by the time he comes back to their camp, and by then he already knows what he will there.
The bodies look so small in death, so terribly pale but for the splatters of drying red blood. It makes him sick how used to the sight he's becoming.
They're just lying there, and the others just stare as he drags them away. They don't say anything, but he knows they're wondering why he would bother, and something in Barty just snaps.
He leaves that night, leaving five more bodies behind – five more echoes for his mind to focus on. They never saw it coming, and while he'd like to be able to say that they didn't leave him any other choice, he knows that's not true.
This – the blood on his hands – is his own doing, and nothing else. And there isn't anything he can do to atone for these sins.
.x.
The girl finds him half a day after the tenth Tribute dies. She is tiny, blonde hair twisted in a high ponytail that swishes with every one of her mad dashes Regulus' way.
She's crying, and Regulus already knows this won't end well. He always knew that, he thinks, but it only truly hits now, as this girl who has to have been chosen in her first year tries to kill him. It is horribly sad, that she's so young and has already been driven to kill, all to stay alive a little longer. Technically, anyone could win the Hunger Games – every Tribute has a chance – but he can already tell that even if this girl kills him, she won't survive the others.
"I don't want to hurt you!" He yells as she runs at him, as he parries away her mad slashes with his daggers.
"Well, I do," she screams back, and the worst part is that Regulus isn't even sure is she's lying or not. Desperation makes people do weird things sometimes, and there is not place where that is truer than the Games. "You're the favorite, I need to you gone, I need you dead – if you're dead it'll be easier…" She rambles on, and Regulus can't stop a shiver, because he can see her reasoning, can understand it.
The sponsors love him now, but if he's dead, they'll find someone else to support – and everyone knows that having sponsors helps you win, helps you survive at least a little longer.
He doesn't quite know what to say to her once he realizes that, and anyway he's too busy avoiding getting hurt, or killed, to say much of anything.
They're fighting to a standstill and Regulus realizes that something's got to give soon moments before it actually does.
Regulus steps on an unsteady rock just as the girl lunges again, and Regulus' parry is off. She notices at the same time as he does, her eyes widening with fear, and though he tries to jerk his arm away (no, no, no, he screams in his mind) it's already too late.
The girl's blade slashes deeply in his tight, but his… His burry themselves deep in her throat, her warm blood bubbling over his finger. He slides his daggers out, dropping them uncaringly on the ground as they collapse together in a mockery of an embrace.
She dies with a silent scream trapped in her mouth, and no amount of pressure on her wounds can keep her blood from seeping out, or her pulse from slowly fading. It's useless but he tries anyway, and she dies in his arms because Regulus is too lost, too scared and horrified to leave her – because he killed her. She deserved better – she deserves better than what she's going to get too.
It's not wise to stay there, he knows this, but at the same time he just can't move. The girl's body is growing cool in his arms (he doesn't even know her name, how can he not know her name?) and his leg is hurting him, and maybe this is a fitting end for him, that he dies here too.
The sun goes down slowly and Regulus lets the darkness that's pulling at his consciousness grab a hold of him. The last sound he hears before his vision turns dark is the sound of footsteps, growing closer.
.x.
Barty recognizes the boy, Regulus, as soon as he sees him. At first he thinks he is just as dead as the girl in his arms (four tributes left now, his mind notes quietly, emotionless), but then he sees that Regulus' chest still rises and something thrills in his stomach.
It would be so very easy to kill the other boy now, when he is injured and unconscious, but Barty has dealt enough death lately. Maybe, he thinks, aware of just how much of a hypocrite that makes him, it is time for something else.
Regulus is lighter than he seems. It is easy to carry him over to the cave Barty had spotted earlier and prop him against a wall so that Barty can get a look at his wound. It is ugly, but it has mostly stopped bleeding. Barty has seen more than enough death blows lately to know that this isn't one of them, but well… They're also in the middle of nowhere. Any blow can lead to death here, if left untreated.
Regulus' head just lolls to the side as Barty prods the wound, pondering on what to do. There is thread, and needles, in the supplies he pilfered after he left the other Tributes, but Barty has never sewed a wound before.
Still, even his rudimentary skills have to be better than nothing, and so Barty goes to rummage through his bag to find said thread, a needle and a canteen of water that he uses to wash his hands and Regulus' exposed thigh.
Sewing is easier than he had thought it would be. The wound starts bleeding again about halfway through, a slow trickle that slicks Barty's fingers and makes holding onto the thread and needle hard. The hardest part is keeping Regulus down – he is still unconscious but his body responds to the pain well enough, legs trying to kick him and threatening to undo his work. By the time he ties the end of the thread, he's half sitting on the other boy to keep him still, but his work should hold.
Of course though, this is when Regulus finally stirs. Because the only thing missing from this scene was the other boy taking a swing at him as he scrambled to get away.
Of course.
.x.
Regulus isn't sure where he is when he wakes up. In fact, he is rather surprised to wake up at all, and if he's being completely honest with himself, a little disappointed too, though that oddly wars with relief.
His surprise doesn't stop him from trying to get away, survival instinct finally kicking in. He doesn't get far before his leg screams in pain and stops him.
His hands fly to it immediately, surprised to hit exposed skin instead of the expected cloth, and even more surprised to feel the familiar texture of medical thread over slightly warm raised skin.
"Have you calmed down yet?" The grumpy voice drags him out of his contemplation, and Regulus is surprised to find himself staring straight into the eyes of a boy his age, who is rubbing at his chin. Regulus' knuckles throb almost as if in response to the movement, and he can feel himself flush.
"I-" Regulus frowns, feeling confused. Almost despite himself, he finds himself tracing the other boy's features with his eyes, only stopping when he raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Regulus. "Who are you?" He asks instead, choosing to focus on something he can control.
"My name's Barty," the other Tribute huffs. He doesn't offer a District, or a last name, to go with the name, but Regulus guesses that it doesn't really matter.
Regulus nods. "I'm Regulus." He moves to sit up more comfortably, eyes still fixed on Barty. He doesn't know what he could do if the other boy tried something now – Regulus feels exhausted, the sewed wound on his thigh a dull and distracting throb, and Barty looks fresh. Regulus has no doubt on who'd win that fight right now, especially as he doesn't even have his daggers with him, but somehow he trusts that Barty won't try anything.
It feels like forever since he last trusted anyone to do anything.
"Why did you help me?" He asks, unable to resist. He can't help it, curiosity is burning in his veins. "It doesn't seem like the wisest choice," he continues., "considering-"
"-considering that we're supposed to kill each other soon?" Barty's voice is dry and his eyes are pained, but somehow the words make Regulus smile. It's been a while since he last met someone this honest.
"Yeah, that," Regulus agrees. To his surprise, Barty's lips quirk up too, if only for a moment. They just stare uneasily at each other after that, moment stretching uncomfortably before Barty breaks the silence by shrugging and speaking again.
"I don't really know," Barty admits, eyes lost somewhere far away. He shrugs again, brown hair falling before his eyes before he tucks them behind his ear again. "I guess I just… I couldn't." He sighs, looking older than his years – Regulus wonders if he looks like that too now, older and just tired.
"You couldn't?"
Barty nods absently. "I saw your eyes, you know. Back on the platforms, when we arrived. You were right in front of me, and I looked right into your eyes," he says, and it sounds like a confession. There's a fire burning in his eyes, and Regulus would be scared of it if it wasn't the realest thing he's seen since the Games started.
"You looked sad," he adds, and the words feel like a punch to the stomach.
"You saved me because I had sad eyes?" Regulus deflects, trying to swallow past the heavy thing that felt trapped in his throat.
"I saved you because you had nice eyes," Barty corrects, lips twisted in a wry smile. "You didn't want to be there."
"No one wants to be here," Regulus shoots back automatically, but even as he says the words he realizes they aren't true. There are always those who enjoy the Games a little too much, always those who revel in the bloodshed – and those aren't always the spectators.
"You weren't like them," Barty adds like he didn't hear Regulus' words, though the widening of his smile proves the contrary. "And maybe I just felt like it."
Regulus can't help a short bark of laughter at that. "Well, whatever your reasons, thanks. I mean it, really, thanks."
Barty inclines his head. "You're welcome."
.x.
At first light, Regulus insists they go find his daggers, and that they burry the girl he killed.
"There isn't really a way to burry anyone in this terrain," Barty counters. He knows this only too well, but even then he can tell from the determined set of Regulus' shoulders that this won't deter the other boy.
He's right, of course. "We'll find a way," Regulus replies, grey eyes so dark they almost look black. For now, he can't put much weight on his wounded leg, and the pained face he pulls when he tries anyway tugs at Barty's heartstrings, turning his stomach.
"Alright," Barty nods, and lets Regulus use him as a crutch until they reach the place where he found the other Tribute yesterday.
Regulus picks up what Barty assumes are his daggers – and how he had missed the wickedly sharp blades the last time he was there is a mystery – wincing as he notes how they're encrusted with blood. It flakes off a little in some places, and Regulus tucks them in the sheathes he carries at his hips.
He kneels next to the girl after that and arranges her body until she's lying on her back, arms crossed on her chest. He closes her eyes softly, and the heartbreak on his face steals Barty's breath away. From where he stands, the dried blood that surrounds her looks like fallen petals around a dead flower, and that picture too steals his breath away.
He doesn't move until Regulus does too, afraid he'll ruin whatever that moment was, and once he understands what the other boy means to do he goes in search of more rocks.
Regulus piles them up on her body, and by the time her body had disappeared under their best approximation of earth, the sun shines high and hard in the sky, its rays burning at the skin of Barty's exposed neck.
Regulus stands in front of their makeshift grave for what feels like a long time, hand rubbing absently at his leg. He looks almost otherworldly like this, like something godly Barty isn't meant to witness.
"We should leave," Barty hears himself say, and when Regulus startles at his words the spell is broken.
"Oh, yes, you're right," Regulus replies. Still he doesn't turn away from the grave until Barty calls him again and reaches for his arm.
They eat sitting next to each other, and Barty is keenly aware of Regulus' body lined up against his. At one point, their hands brush against each other's, and Barty feels like a jolt of electricity travel through his arm. It makes his heart beat faster and his mouth go dry.
After they eat, he watches as Regulus cleans his daggers until he finds himself averting his eyes for some reason, and he leaves to fill the canteen they depleted during the day. There's a stream nearby, and though it is a bit of a walk, he desperately need the distraction.
Regulus' eyes feel heavy on his back as he walks away, and he feels the stare long after the cave's entrance vanish from his sight.
That night, he dreams of that night – only this time, all of his victims have Regulus' face. He wakes up heaving, a scream trapped in his throat, and it takes him a while to get his breathing back under control.
Regulus looks more peaceful when he sleeps. All the little stress lines that Barty couldn't help but notice during the day are smoothed over, and it makes the other teenager look younger.
Barty can't go back to sleep, so he waits for the sun to rise by watching Regulus breathing, fingers itching to do something. There is something oddly comforting these moments, something almost peaceful, and Bart knows that no matter what happens next these moments will stay engraved in his mind, memories blazing bright.
It's not until the sun does rise that he understands that it wasn't just the nightmare that woke him up. No, that was the terribly familiar sound of the canon, sounding too many times.
Only two Tributes left, he notes with an edge of hysteria, and looking at the teenager that's just starting to stir in front of him, he realizes just who they are.
This wasn't supposed to happen like this, he thinks, and he wants to laugh – if he starts, though, he won't be able to stop.
.x.
"So we're the only ones left," Regulus states flatly. He doesn't really what to feel. He isn't sure he feels anything anymore, not right now. He slept right through the sounds of the canon being fired, and that they're the only two Tributes left – that one of them will win, will have to… (but that thought is too horrible to finish, even only in his own mind) – doesn't feel quite real.
Barty nods and licks his lips. His eyes shy away from Regulus'. "Yeah. Who'd have thought?" The joke falls flat, though Regulus can appreciate the attempt.
"You should kill me," Regulus hears himself say. He doesn't know where the words are coming from, but as he says them he knows they're right.
"What? No, no way!" Barty's immediate refusal and anger is flattering, but Regulus has never felt more sure about anything in his life. He grabs Barty's hands and clenches them tight in his, pulling them to his chest and dragging Barty closer in the same move.
"It makes perfect sense," Regulus continues. "We both know I wouldn't have made it if you hadn't helped me, and you'd have won then anyway. Besides, you saved me – it's only fair I get to return the favor." He smiles a little, a sad turn of his lips. His eyes sting for some reason, and he finds himself blinking away tears.
"Exactly!" Barty protest. "I saved you, I'm not about to turn around and, and kill you now. That makes no sense, no sense at all."
There is something in Barty's desperate tone, in the way his eyes burn with a kind of mad fire still, that makes Regulus swallow back his next words.
"Please," he begs, and something in Regulus breaks. He lets go of Barty's hands and pulls the other Tribute in for a messy kiss instead. There's a moment, right before Barty returns the kiss, where everything goes still, like the world's holding its breath with them.
"You realize that the whole world's watching us right now, don't you?" Barty says when they part, but for once his voice sounds amused, and Regulus savors the sound like it's the greatest of treasures.
With a courage Regulus didn't know he possessed, he tugs Barty down in a possessive kiss, his voice a breathless growl against Barty's ear. "Then let's give them something to watch."
Barty's next kiss is bruising in his intensity, and his eyes burn like molten lava, but Regulus returns the kiss with the same intensity, fingers digging into Barty's biceps.
They move, eventually. It's awkward, and clumsy, but also oh so good. Barty drinks Regulus' gasps like they're Ambrosia and Regulus digs his nails in the other boy's back until he feels the skin break, the only wound he will ever allow himself to inflict on Barty.
Later, when they're lying together, breathless and half naked, Regulus rummages through his clothes until he finds one of his daggers. It slides out of its sheath with nary a sound, and Regulus spends a long time staring at its sharp edge, and the way the metal catches the light.
With a flip, he offers it handle first to Barty, whose lazy smile freezes on his face as he sees what Regulus is handing him, and Regulus hates himself a little for that.
"No," he breathes out, and his voice sounds wrecked. Regulus thinks he hates himself a little for that too.
"Please," Regulus says, his plea an echo of Barty's earlier one, pushing the dagger in Barty's hands. "It's better this way," he tries to explain, even though he knows that no words can ever be right for the way he's feeling right now – for the way he just knows that he could never kill Barty.
"If I," Barty swallows visibly, eyes wild as a trapped animal, "if I do this, they'll win."
There's no need to say who 'they' are. Regulus smiles, and it looks dead already. "They'll win anyway. They always do."
Barty makes a keening sound, but he accepts the dagger. His fingers wrap carefully around the hilt, and Regulus smiles again, this time a little softer, a little relieved.
He doesn't say thank you, because this is not the kind of thing you give thanks for, but the feeling must show on his face anyway because Barty keens again, his grip on the dagger tightening until his knuckles turn white.
Finally, Barty nods, and without another word, pulls Regulus in for another bruising kiss and a tight embrace. He feels the cool smoothness of metal against his skin for an instant before the warm wetness of blood replaces it, and he shuts his eyes as tight as he can, readying himself for the pain.
It never comes. Instead, he stumbles when Barty's grip on him suddenly turn lax, his lips no longer moving against Regulus' as he exhales his last breath.
Barty falls back, the dagger that should have been meant for Regulus sticking out of his chest. He is still smiling.
The canon shot is still echoing when Regulus yanks the blade out, vision blurry with tears, and slides it in between his own ribs.
He dies with Barty's name still on his lips.