Title: For The Sake of Brotherhood
Author: Padfootwolfboy
Paring: Volatile Regulus/Sirius; semi-implied Remus/Sirius
Rating: R — for a few pesky swear words and naughty images
Genre: Drama/Angst
Warning(s): Incest; violence
Spoilers: OotP
Summary: Sirius has a deadly beauty. If only Regulus could learn to avoid it…
Notes: 1,683 words. Not beta'd. All mistakes my own, etc.
He has a beauty that should be illegal.
Owns it, thrives through it—he is a walking statue: finely carved features with smooth curves and sharp lines; winter sky eyes that flicker with intelligence, passion, and an inscrutable dangerous something. Treachery and loyalty are concurrently weaved by his fingers, by his voice. He hates and loves with the same ferocity and can, will, interchange the two at random. It is unendurable, charming and seductive, selective in its target, but there, omnipresent and overpowering. He only shows his proper victims that beauty, that power to destroy or complete; the rest of the world modestly passes him by with a quick glance over its shoulder.
He is a sweet enigma. He is the elder brother to the small black-haired boy at his shoulder.
The shadow of his presence, of his height and width and beauty, drowns the boy. It stifles him, and though the boy resents the dark spot it casts, he loves his brother for the simple fact of brotherhood.
His brother is tall and graceful, and by comparison the boy appears small and clumsy, an undistinguished rock pluck from nature's wetlands to show the greatness of the fellow next to him. So the boy sticks his nose in the air, to be taller, and speaks with more authority then he is due.
And his brother chides him, ridicules him. He attaches "little" and "baby" to his name; pushes him down and laughs when the lump of stone cannot right itself with ease. He walks away, radiating a pride so inbred that it whets the line of his profile as he turns and calls over his shoulder, eyes and mouth dark, backlit by the fire,
"Maybe next time, Little Regulus." The tip of his lip that shows quirks into a tiny sardonic smile.
Maybe next time, and the beauty, such a terrible adulterated beauty, will not blind him, shove him; cripple him to this pile of limbs and scorned expression on the parlor floor. Maybe next time it will give him a chance to yell the things he wishes, to whisper the things he wishes, to touch that face without a slap to his wrist and a jet of jagged red light to his chest from a hidden wand.
Regulus tries to stand, falls, moans, and tries again. He is unsuccessful. The dark shadow of Sirius still prevents him from any coordinated movement. His chest burns and smoke smolders on his shirt, just above his heart—the root of the problem. It feels like a time for tears, if only pomp and circumstance did not dry his eyes. Instead, he curls his knees to his breast and locks his elbows, and wishes that moss would grow so that he could tell which way was north.
It could be hours before Sirius pads into the room, barefooted and wearing the Muggle jeans that Mother hates, but it is most likely minutes. He is most likely there to congratulate himself over his triumph, to preen, to gloat, while moss grows over Regulus' fingers and knees. He wishes that Sirius would just get on with it, wishes that he would help him up and put an arm around him; he wishes that he needn't spend so much time wishing when he could do, but his chest still aches and Sirius' feet are just above his line of sight. He lamentably lacks the courage to face the smug Adonis.
It is a surprise, and yet expected, when Sirius jabs a toe into Regulus' ear and then rolls his limp head to the side with his foot. He turns the blue eyes to meet his and Regulus must quickly school his face to one of blank contemplation. He succeeds because Sirius' beauty wavers from hate to love to love that bleeds into hate and self-appreciation.
"Get up," Sirius commands, and Regulus doesn't move, doesn't flinch. "Get up," he orders again, louder, more forcefully, and his eyes grow darker.
Regulus stays as his lump, as the swamp rock, and thinks of moss. Sirius bends at the knees, the tight Muggle jeans wrinkling around his thighs and calves, and grabs a handful of his shirt. He yanks hard and before Regulus knows it, his feet are stumbling against the floor in order to stand. He stares hard into Sirius' bared collarbone.
"You're not hurt," Sirius tells him, demands of him, but his voice raises a fraction at the end of the statement, turning it into a question.
When Regulus continues to remain silent and detached, a fleeting look of worry crosses over Sirius' stately features, creeps into his posture. It makes Regulus smile, that he should hold this small victory over his brother.
Sirius sees the smile, as faint as it is in the darkened room, and pushes against his brother's shoulder with his palm. A gentle shove, one of annoyance and relief than volatile anger.
He walks past Regulus and lifts the towel Regulus only now realizes he was holding to his hair. The wet shaggy locks stick to his neck and to his shoulders, and he ruffles the towel over his crown to dry the hair.
"Do you walk around like that in front of your boyfriends?"
Regulus knows he should not have ventured the taunt but the temptation was too hard to resist. He can still feel the moss, clingy and coarse, wrapped around his fingers.
Sirius stiffens, stops drying his hair, but otherwise doesn't reply.
Regulus breaches the silence. "I bet Lupin enjoys it."
The boy is a soft spot for Sirius—quiet and pale, he somehow obtained his rightful position under his brother's protection. Usually an attack on Lupin is derived from self-pity, self-injury, but on the rare occasion it is used for the role purpose of achieving that particular look from Sirius.
It is there now, facing him. The gray eyes wide and murderous, as Sirius' mouth struggles to form itself into a proud grimace, a sneer.
"Leave him out of this," Sirius snarls.
"Why?" Regulus goads, giddy with the feeling of the moss being shucked from his body, the feeling of his face forming a nose and a mouth with which to mock. "Because you know its true. Because you like it when that filthy half breed runs his eyes up and down your naked body and takes your cock into his—"
But his words are silenced because Sirius' hands are at his throat, the towel lying forgotten on the floor. Sirius slams Regulus into the wall by the fireplace, clamps his jaw closed with a severe upwards thrust that smacks the back of his head against the stone. His fingers depress roughly into Regulus' cheek.
But the glowing light of victory haunts Regulus' eyes and no matter how much physical pain Sirius presses onto him, he cannot erase that light. It stands out from the shadow.
"Shut your mouth," Sirius says. "Shut your fucking mouth, you fucking pretentious piece of shit."
Regulus shakes out of Sirius' grip on his face, feel all the muscles in his face flex with extreme pleasure to form a sadistic smile. All to cajole Sirius into a state like this.
"You're the one who gets off fucking scrawny half bloods," Regulus murmurs under his breathe.
Yet it's loud enough for Sirius to hear and again he slams Regulus' head into the brick.
"I thought I told you shut the fuck up," Sirius whispers, low and dangerous, puncturing each word with another shake that causes Regulus' head to collide with the fireplace.
Regulus can feel his temples pounding, the feeling so much like sound in his head, and there is the warm ooze of blood trickling down his neck. He feels dizzy and slow-witted, but he's pretty sure Sirius wouldn't care, wouldn't stop even if he told him he was bleeding.
So he doesn't. Instead he says, "I bet you wank to the thought of Lupin at night. Is he any good? I bet Snape would like a piece of him if he is."
Sirius growls in anger but Regulus cuts him off, whether from being concussed or in retaliation from the curse thrown at him before or because it is something he has always secretly dreamed of doing, by pressing his mouth roughly to that of his brothers. At Sirius' sharp, startled in take of breath—for this is very different from Regulus simply stroking his cheek, more incestuous, more brave then he ever gave Regulus credit for dreaming up—Regulus shoves his tongue into the depth of Sirius' mouth and kisses him with a passion only reserved for the most experienced lover.
Where Regulus learned such a thing, Sirius cannot fathom, for he is too busy battling his brother's tongue with his own.
It takes two punches to the burn on Regulus' chest before he retreats. Slumped against the wall, Regulus slides to the floor with a moan of pain and possible sorrow at the parting. Blood is running down his neck into his shirt collar and Sirius can see the firelight reflect metallic rust off the red liquid.
It reminds him of Remus' hair in sunlight.
With that thought, he leaves, flees the room. He takes the stairs to his bedroom two at a time to escape the sounds of his little brother sobbing on the parlor floor, disabled again by the shadow of his beauty and the moss that now grows on his hands and face.
Regulus can taste Sirius and salty tears on his lips, concentrates on that flavor, the fiber of vegetation and unconsciousness compressing his senses and limbs. The shadow falls heavily over his shoulders, like a cloak, and though he resents it, he still loves his brother, for the simple sake of brotherhood.