04. green and blue to match your pictures

In this place, time relentlessly carried on.

No slow burns, no gentle ticking and foreboding warnings — just a sudden breeze announcing that another year has gone by (or, another twelve whole months of doing nothing). Previously, Regulus thought he would feel every second and every minute of the year. He thought things would slow down, move in a motion he cannot flow with, and he'll be forced to watch from the sidelines, a brush in his tingling hands.

Only one thing was checked off from the list. Only his tingling hands. They were itching to paint something. One of worth, one of beauty, one of his. Another year was spent wrongly. Regulus, swaying alone for weeks, sketching circles and circles of circles. In his dorm, he couldn't touch the brush. He kept pulling out a canvas week per week until it turned day per day, but the canvas stayed empty. It would be the same canvas everytime; Regulus kept it under his bed, in hopes of getting struck with something inspirational, something sensational enough to make him pick up the brush and dip it with green.

Green, the colour that surrounded him, along with silver. Green, the unchanging color of the daffodils he painted when he was young. Green, the colour of his tie. Green, the colour of the curtains that hung beside his bed. Green, the colour that Sirius didn't have— nor does James. They were all.. red. Red, the original colour of the daffodils. Red, the colour of his brother's tie. Red, the colour of Evans's hair: one James could weave poems about. Red, the colour that haunted him every time he tried to think; red— an overbearing swirl of colour, bright and conquering, one thing Regulus didn't have. He was all cuts and corners, dim streetlights and silver rings. They shine, of course, but not as bright; not as vivid as the lights on the Great Hall that day.

Flags of green flapped as they hung on the ceiling of the Great Hall, indicating Slytherin's victory of the House Cup that year.

The year is done, and all Regulus thought about were colours and his emptiness of it.

A light flickered in Regulus's eyes, and then he's in the Great Hall again, a variety of blinding colours greeting him — green, red, blue, yellow — he pieces it together, and realizes that it's his fifth year.

Regulus cursed Genesis and his tendency of staying in bed on weekends. Genesis insisted he was harrased at Divination time yesterday, so he needed extra sleeping hours to open his inner eye. Regulus wanted to hex both of his eyes so he can never open one again.

And so, Regulus, a person of personal space, stalked off to the Black Lake with a pencil and sketchbook in hand, though he knew he'd end up marring pages of the sketchbook with nonsensical circles, anyway.

By the time he arrived near the Black Lake, he found James and Evans seated on the grass; they weren't really talking, just staring off at a distance with little care of their surroundings. The sun in the middle of the day casted them a shadow that made their figures seem larger, longer, untouchable. Evans's hair lightly moved with the wind, and the colour of red burned Regulus's gaze. He didn't look away, though, he remained there, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for a breakthrough. Maybe the sun would shine brighter, giving them a golden frame, making their shadows dance. Maybe they would stand. Maybe they would notice him, a passerby. Maybe James would turn his head, and maybe he'd feel sorry for currently occupying Regulus's only recreational place. Maybe, if he stayed longer, he'd understand how he felt. But the longer he looked, the more confused he slowly became.

Eventually, he realized, that he didn't talk much with Sirius's ragtag group anymore after fifth year started for him, and sixth for them. They'd pass by each other on the halls, exchange smiles, some pleasantries, some knocking of the shoulders, but never talked. It was a nice change of environment, especially when he wanted some peace and quiet — he got a healthy dose of Sirius every break anyways when he gushed about Remus, be it of his intelligence, his hair, his looks, his scars, his gentleness and snark — so why bother? Late last year and the opening of this year, when Regulus goes to the Black Lake, he was alone more often than not. The silence wasn't deafening, but it was heard loud and clear.

After that, Regulus made a mental note not to visit the Black Lake again.

Genesis was still covered up in his sheets when Regulus got back, though that wasn't very surprising — his trip was quite short, after all.

Regulus ignored Genesis for the mean time, and pulled out the ever-empty canvas under his bed. Flickers of red and black locks enveloped by the glimmering sun flashed through the back of his mind, taunting, and he quickly picked up a brush, swirled colours of crimson and shades of black and white. He smeared the canvas for the first time in months.

Regulus started to outline the pillars first. He didn't dare paint this cathedral piece of pure holy white — he had to use red. He had to use what he doesn't have, so that he can compensate for it. Perhaps he'd feel better the next day, after inverting the chroma of churches. He didn't quite understand why a cathedral came out when he was painting, he didn't think he'd actually come up with anything at all, really — but he didn't know where it came from. A thought inside of him rang out, that perhaps it was because it looked like the sun casted James and Evans a halo worthy of sanctity that day and the only thing that stuck to him in front of all that devoutness was red and red alone.

The piece was left unfinished after a few numbing hours. Regulus's hands still tingled but not quite the same as before; it has mellowed down, only softly humming. Regulus sat on the bed beside the canvas, waiting for it to dry so he could cover it and leave.

Leave. Find something else to do. Something not as stifling.

The world still turned after Regulus finally painted, even though it was still a half-finished piece. It still spins, as slow and unnoticeable as ever, a picture of stealth. However, after finally regaining the feeling of his nerves and fingers, how time passed by became visible for Regulus. The clock didn't just carry on, unlike the previous year. He's aware. Cognizant. Not fully awake to understand, but just conscious enough to know that time is passing by, and he's doing something while it does.

Regulus did not feel any contentment. He could feel something crawling at the back of his throat, as always, but it was not contentment. Just acceptance.

"You're actually touching your food, Black," Snape commented, after swallowing a mouthful.

It was breakfast, at the Great Hall. His mind had wandered; and he could only stare voidly at the older boy.

"Isn't it a good thing?" came his reply, after a few blinks and tapping in his mind.

"I suppose.." Snape trails off. "It makes me a little wary."

Regulus was genuinely surprised this time. "Wary of what, exactly?"

"You're related to that Gryffindor, after all. I can't always expect you to stray from his influence. Out of the norm for you means there must be a a turn of events." The sixth year supplied without missing a beat, as if he had already thought about this before and could only voice them now.

"You got four whole years of peace from me, Snape," Regulus pointed out. "Just because I ate a spoonful this morning doesn't mean I'll suddenly become Sirius the next minute."

Snape hummed. "You never know with you Blacks."

Regulus firmly ignored Snape's comment and finished his breakfast.

Sirius seeked Regulus out after classes.

Though they do not often talk at Hogwarts, they were still close — perhaps not like the childish closeness they had back then since they matured, but they stayed intact nonetheless. Sirius dragged him to the kitchens and started panicking right off the bat.

He paced first, then thumped his head on the wooden table like an elf after being scolded (it did alarm the house elves around the kitchens that time by the way, and some house elves even imitated Sirius), next he sulked on a corner while munching on a piece of pastry, then afterwards held Regulus's hand like he was pleading for something.

Regulus sighed. "Sirius, no matter how much you think it, I cannot read your mind. Just tell me."

Sirius only made obscene hand gestures.

"I don't know this ridiculous sign language either."

Sirius groaned. "It's Remus, Reggie. He's.. he's.. frustrating! I don't know, he's like.." he proceeded to make another set of hand gestures and kept flailing.

"Okay, stop with the hands, Sirius. It's distracting. No— I meant put your hands down. Not like that, just keep it beside you and don't tap— ugh stop waving it around— you know what, nevermind," Regulus felt the sudden urge to thump his head on a wooden table now. "What's this about Remus? Are you going to tell me how smart he is this time or how good he looks when he falls asleep?"

"I don't talk about that!"

Regulus only raised a brow.

"..Fine, maybe I do, but it's because it's true! But it's not about that this time, okay?"

"Alright. So what is it about? Have you figured out your long-term.. affection or something terribly similar?"

Sirius lightly punched Regulus' shoulder. "What? Where are those coming from! There's nothing and I totally don't get distracted by how his hair falls during classes, or how cute he looks when he concentrates, no— that'll be weird, right? Right?"

Regulus didn't know if Sirius was convincing him or himself. He has a strong feeling that it's the latter. "Calm down. You notice things about Remus and you like him, that much is evident. It's not weird," he pauses. "You just have to accept it."

"Like?" Sirius squeaked out. "As in that type of like?"

"You're not twelve. Yes. It's that type of like. Like-like. Whatever you label it. You know it too, I can tell. You wouldn't have freaked out like this if you didn't at least have an inkling of it."

"Yeah, I do have clue, but.." Sirius trailed off and let out a heavy breath. "Is that okay? Is this okay?"

Regulus's mind took him back to the time where he painted a faceless boy with midnight black tousled hair, to the time where he looked at a boy with warm eyes and round glasses and felt something he couldn't quite place what was, to the time when his heart ached just right when he arrives at the Black Lake every afternoon.

To the time when he felt exactly what Sirius was feeling right now. (He still feels it, actually.)

"Yes, Sirius. It's okay."

Sirius smiled at him ambiguously with a certain resignation dancing in his eyes. "I never thought.. I.."

"You never thought that you'll ever look at someone that way? That you could feel something genuine? Something not imbued to you?"

"You sound awfully familiar with this, Reg. Makes me wonder sometimes."

Regulus waved him off. "There's nothing. I just know you too well."

Sirius sighed. "I never know what's going on with you. C'mon. Tell me. Maybe there's not a someone, but something's definitely there. I know you too."

Regulus leaned on one hand and closed his eyes briefly before speaking, "I was having trouble painting. I couldn't hold a brush for months. Things just seemed to fly by. It's... I feel empty."

"You're speaking in past tense. You can paint again, then?" Regulus mentally scolded himself for not remembering Sirius's keen eyes and ears to details.

"Yeah, I can."

"How did you find inspiration? It was probably something special to you. You can't get out of a block that easy, Reg." insisted Sirius.

"There was just this scenery. Nevermind that. It's not really important. It's superficial," Regulus tapped on the surface of the wooden table slightly. "I don't know how long this'll last, though. I still haven't finished the piece."

Sirius caught on to Regulus's quick diversion, but let it go for the mean time. "Can I see it sometime?"

"On holidays, when we go back home. It'll probably be finished by then."

Sirius snorted. "You sure that you wouldn't be distracted half way?"

"Oh shut up."

The older Black sibling only patted Regulus at the back to show some consolation. "I missed you, Reg."

"Missed you too, Siri."

Breakfast the day before the holidays was dull.

Regulus noted that the Marauders were absent from Gryffindor's table, their usual space empty, even though the plates were full. He didn't think much of it and went back to picking at his food. So far, he was making progress with the cathedral painting. He was able to add some depth to the structure, but it didn't look alive. He couldn't feel like it was his.

Owls came in while Regulus was deep in thought. Some letters were delivered and the Daily Prophet was handed out uniformly. Murmurs erupted from Regulus's hearing and he turned to look at the other tables. The Prophet was in their hands, not flipped to one page but stayed firmly at the headlines.

Regulus peered over Genesis's shoulder.

Oh.So that's why.

Fleamont and Euphemia Potter were dead.

After that, no one questioned the Marauders' absences.

Rumors circled around that day on the train back home. That the Potters were killed by Voldemort, that he was finally on the move. That he was targeting those who refuse him.

They weren't wrong. Regulus has been a Slytherin for almost five years; he knew what went around the vines. People around him were recruiting, forming groups. They tried to take him, once — he didn't refuse, but he didn't accept either. He was only thirteen that time, when they talked to him. He told them he would only watch. Avery didn't support that. He told Regulus to pick a side, because he was a Black — surely he was raised better than that, he even added. Regulus let them think what they wanted to think. He only kept saying he'd be neutral, because that's what a true Black would do. Stay on the safe side. No side was guaranteed a victory; only the one standing in between was. Avery still wasn't particularly convinced, but left him alone. This was the main reason why he tended to stay in his dorms or at the Black Lake (although that option was gone. Regulus was heavily considering the kitchens as a substitute).

He hasn't told Sirius about any of this.

He woke Genesis up when the train finally stopped.

Orion stood tall on the platform, a cane in his right hand, while the other was stuffed in his left pocket.

Regulus couldn't remember the times when Orion's presence was demeaning. That time surely existed, no doubt; but he couldn't find the similarities of the Orion before to the Orion he was currently looking at. It showed how someone's mere existence changed people. It showed how heavy someone could be.

While Regulus was walking towards his father, two familiar figures entered his vision.

"Reg! You're just in time. James will stay with us for the holidays," Sirius looked uncomfortable after that. "Since.. that.."

Regulus looked at James briefly before turning back to Sirius. "Yes, I'm aware. Father said it's fine?"

Sirius shrugged. "I was about to ask."

"It's fine. He can stay in the guest room." Orion's voice cut through them both, and Sirius couldn't hide how his expression lighted up at this. James also looked like he breathed a sigh of relief, although his features still somewhat sagged.

"Thank you...?" James trailed off, clearly uncertain of what to call Orion.

"Orion."

James looked uneasy at calling Orion so casually, but his Father didn't seem to mind. Regulus thought it was odd. And by Sirius's expression, he thinks it's definitely strange, too.

"Thank you, uh, Orion, sir."

Orion only nodded.

Sirius basically skipped on their way to Grimmauld Place.

Regulus thought that it'd be a long week.

When they finally settled down back home, Sirius was positively humming and kept showing James around.

Regulus retreated to his studio, of course. Laced with peace and quiet—

"And here— here's Reg's studio!" came Sirius's voice from outside. Regulus sighed and waited.

"You sure we can enter, Pads?"

"If Reg's here, we can. And he's definitely here. Trust me."

The door to his studio opened and revealed his brother and James.

They both stared at the cathedral painting, one Regulus didn't bother to cover once he heard their voices, since they would surely want to take a look after they enter. Why deny the inevitable?

"So this is what you were working on!" Sirius exclaimed, inching closer to the canvas. James followed after him.

"Don't get too close. I just finished, it hasn't dried yet."

Sirius nodded, and cocked his head sideways, inspecting the finished piece. It was a cathedral made with various shades of red — the floor was the lightest colour, and the ceiling the darkest. The pillars were a swirl of crimson shades; they looked like they were changing colours as you looked at them longer. The walls were painted a gradient of red, connecting the hues of the floor and the ceiling, making them seem like one entity. Two windows were parched in between the spaces of these walls. Through the first window's glass was the morning sun, blinding and bright, illuminating a side of the cathedral. Through the second window's glass was the midnight moon, far duller in contrast, and it gleamed its borrowed light on the ground, creating an illusion of stardust.

"You rarely do something that isn't alive," To Regulus's surprise, it wasn't Sirius that commented this, even though he saw more of Regulus's pieces. It was James who said it, his hands tucked on the pockets of his trousers, a cryptic sort of smile dancing on his face.

"That's.. true," Regulus muttered, enough for the three of them to hear. "I guess something just struck me, then."

"Right. You never told me what inspired you to do this when I asked you, you know," Sirius cut in.

"I told you, it's merely superficial. Just a passing thing."

"When you first picked up a brush when we were young and took art classes together, you told me it's just a 'passing thing'. And here you are."

"I guess I tend to get attached with things that pass by." Regulus thought back to red hair, moon glasses and the Black Lake. "It's a gamble. You'll never know if those things will stay."

"..Reg, you're awfully poetic today." Sirius commented, after a brief silence. James was looking at him oddly, and he diverted the attention to something else.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Regulus asked as he left the stool and put away his recent painting to dry.

"Ah, just thought that maybe James would want to see your studio. You guys talk sometimes, right?"

Regulus hid his wince.

James answered for him. "Yeah. We don't talk much now, though. Reggie stopped coming to our usual place. Really, I felt betrayed!"

"We don't have a 'place', James." but we used to.

"What's this place?" Sirius followed up while helping Regulus put his materials away.

"Just the Black Lake. Found him there third year, or something, he was painting too. He looked so little."

"Of course I looked little. I was twelve."

"You're still little now, though."

"Sod off," Regulus almost flung the brush he was putting away at James's direction. "I grew up."

"Ah! Speaking of growing up, little Prongsie's growing up too. Evans is finally talking to him now."

Regulus pretended not to know. He pretended that he didn't see the two of them seated together at the Black Lake. He pretended the cathedral wasn't for him. "Really? I didn't notice. You'd wonder what got into her head. She's usually rational."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Hey! You two talk to me!"

"Well, we have no choice," Sirius started.

"But she did." Regulus finsihed.

"You're both jerks," James huffed. "Lily's really nice. She's beautiful— of course, but she's witty, funny, and really kind. She's passionate about things she likes, like advocating, reading, finding out something new. You know that? It's when her eyes light up and everything around her does, too. It's.. it's really beautiful."

Regulus doesn't know that. He doesn't really care, too. But the way James's face looked like when he talked about Lily? The way his lips turn up unconsciously when he lists off things he found beautiful about her? The way his voice sounded like when he told them this? He wanted more of that. He cared about that. That's what he wants to see.

It's not weird. Regulus recites.

"Yeah, we know, Prongs, you like her, and all that."

And James laughed, lightly knocking Sirius's shoulders.

You just have to accept it.

The moment Regulus does, he felt an ominous itch crawling at the back of his throat.

He ignored it and went on.

note

i haven't updated for a long, long while! here's something. the pacing will be really fast and subtly incorporated, by the way. this is a pretty short story, after all. because i wanted some suffering and jegulus content. this update took a lot out of me? i'm not used to writing a chapter again. i usually just do some drabbles and go. i'm sorry if the text seemed straightforward and flowed badly. my brain cells aren't cooperating.