08. sing it out of me


James, for all that Regulus claimed that his flowers were for, has always been, in more ways than one, a stranger.

You must think it ridiculous. You must think it contradictory. When stretched and overreached — impossible. How could you, after all, love a man you do not know?

Ah, you see. Regulus asks himself the same thing.

Because it is ridiculous. It's ridiculous how he's only seen so few of James Potter and dubbed himself in love. It's ridiculous how he thinks love equates to the sound of James' laughter. To, maybe, his small smiles. Not the one where he flashes his teeth, all of them building up neat rows and as blinding as they come. James' small smiles were perhaps, one of the few things Regulus did know about him. He knows it's the one the Gryffindor uses when he thinks no one's looking, it's the one he wears on his face when he thinks he shouldn't smile at something he heard or saw, it's the one you know is genuine, it's the one that made Regulus trip and fall. (It's also a ridiculous thing that he only puts it upon when no one's there to look, because Regulus was always baited by the reminder of his presence. There was no way he was never, ever looking.)

And sure, he knows how James looks first thing in the morning. He knows that his hair forms wilder curls when he wakes up. He knows James prefers his tea warm, and not steaming hot. He knows James' favourite colour was between the shades of yellow and orange — a seriously horrendous tint of orange, and it never fails to make Regulus scrunch his nose up in disgust. He knows James was actually almost sorted for Hufflepuff by the boy's own slip of the tongue. He knows facts. He knows the littlest of details.

What he did not know was how James looked like behind another's eyes. He did not know how James fits in someone else's frame of vision without clouding it with his entirety, as he always did Regulus'. He did not know how to look at James Potter and not see someone who was made to form his ruin, and build him up in the process. He did not know how to look at James Potter and simply see a Hogwarts student, a Gryffindor, a Chaser, a sixteen year old boy. He did not know how to look at James Potter and see a man. Just a man.

(Because he's always been so much more.

Regulus hates to think of it, but he's always seen James beyond just being a man; beyond just the fickle expanse of his skin.

It's awful, he knows. He's aware James would have preferred it if he wasn't put in the pedestal Regulus was putting him in. That James would have wanted himself to come off as a real, genuine and human of flaws with his mistakes riding up on his collars and tracing the veins on his wrist. James would have liked it better when he was a man of shortcomings — because that meant he was existing honestly.)

Regulus hated the fact that he did not truly know James. He only has what he makes of him.

Within these lines, Regulus likes to think that James was a… passing stranger.

One he undoubtedly saw once and perhaps never again. And from that day on he always knew he'd have a life forever entranced by their makeshift existence, by the way they walked when they met, by the way he looked when they first looked upon each other; maybe even the miniscule detail of their cheeks, if it sinks more to a corner than one side.

And, maybe, that's the reason why he painted him. Maybe that's how Regulus of a meager of ten summers figured he'd immortalize this passing stranger of his. Maybe he thought that by besmirching James Potter on the surface of his canvas he'd have his own way of knowing him, of alloting himself the benefit of breaking the word stranger, picking it apart with the tips of his paintbrush.

Regulus likes to think that James was his passing stranger.

Not one to speak to, but one to think of.


"You're a miserable sod."

"That's not any of your business, Genesis."

The boy in question just scoffed, flopping back down on his bed and wrapping himself up in his covers. "It kind of is, now, because I'm willing to bet I'm the only one who knows about your flowers."

Regulus rose an eyebrow, not even looking up from his Transfiguration textbook. "What makes you think Sirius doesn't know?"

"He's too close to Potter, of course," Genesis replied, with an undertone of 'duh' in his voice. "Plus he seems overprotective. You wouldn't be able to hear the end of it, if ever."

It annoyed Regulus that Genesis was right in his assumptions.

Sirius, though he knew would have respected his decision not to tell James, would have made plans of his own for things to work out in Regulus' favor. He'd set things up. He'd talk to James with the purpose of wrangling out his opinion on Regulus. He knew his brother thinks he's subtle (and, really, sometimes he could be, but only when he doesn't know it), but he isn't.

"You're right," said Regulus begrudgingly, the words almost caught on the tips of his teeth. "But it really isn't something I want you commenting on."

"I can't have a say?"

"You're not allowed a say."

"And here I thought we were friends."

"It's a nice thought," Regulus replied. "Not that accurate, though."

Genesis threw him a pillow after that comment, something he always does when he wanted to shut Regulus up. Regulus just dodged. "I'm not giving that pillow back to you."

Genesis just let out a 'ha.' "Accio pillow," the object flew past Regulus' back by an inch and landed on Genesis' bed with a flop. "Spells exist, genius."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "It's funny how you throw things around and just Accio them back to you. It's so incredibly lonely, like playing with yourself."

"Well, maybe if you just cooperated."

"I'm not eleven to have mini pillow fights."

"Merlin above, it's not a pillow fight. You're just going to throw the pillow back at me. It's the proper response."

"Dodging exists, genius."

"You think you're slick, using my words against me," Genesis narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to throw you a bed next time, prat. Let's see how you dodge that."

Regulus snorted softly. "As if your goo for arms could carry a bed."

"Ever heard of Wingardium Leviosa, Reg? You sure you're a wizard?"

"It's nice how you think you can lift a bed but not a feather."

Genesis let out an offended sound. "It was first year! I was eleven!"

"There's not much difference, is there?"

"I will hex you while you sleep." Genesis hissed.

"Mm, of course you will."

"Ah, I hate you," Genesis claimed without much heat. "I'll pester you with your problems next time."

"Try never," suggested Regulus as he closed his Transfiguration textbook and put it on the surface of his bedside drawer.

Genesis just mumbled something under his breath and proceeded to tuck himself in deeper in his covers, as if he could tune the world out by sinking to his sheets. If only.

With Genesis asleep, their dormitory is silent. It's so silent you can almost hear the soft current of the water, the lake's waves folding subtly and neatly. It's not much of a gurgle-like sound, more of a kind rumble underneath. It's one of the best things in the Slytherin dormitories; the beyond a magical feel of the illusion of being underwater. And, technically, they are. They're surrounded by the lake, submerged deep down in the dungeons. Some who've caught wind of it have frequently commented on how eerie it was, mostly the Gryffindors, of course, but very few Slytherins find it as such.

Regulus might like it too much, really. He finds that if he could replicate this environment, he would. It would be a thrill to paint in his studio with this kind of atmosphere. He'd be done with a lot of things, for sure.

Because, you see, Regulus hasn't painted much these days.

It's different from when he found his hands numb and his mind dry. It's different from when it was back then. Back then, he felt the chill clinging to his bones, like it'd never leave, like it'd solidify in frozen cracks that would be marred with vines like scars. Back then, his mind had gone dry, bereft of the passion of creation, like his creativity was cut open and hollowed out entirely.

This time, it's not the absence of certain things that bother him, it's their presence that constantly keeps him from touching the brush.

There's the presence of flames like fiendfyre corrupting his lungs, the presence of lilies that was too close to James' shade of orange rooted in his core; never to leave, the presence of blood on the cracks of his teeth; iron left as an aftertaste.

They're all… too much. They fill Regulus' days in a whirring sort of motion, one that does not stop however you may will it, because it's not something you can wish to ride away, much like his feelings of old.

Regulus cannot touch the brush and dip it in colour without getting reminded of the burn lined on his throat, a damning throb shot through like glass. It'll hurt — it did hurt, for the record, along with the stems crawling up his ribs. It feels like there's veins constricting the jagged outline of his skeleton, breaking his bones, and then the pain will come, an onslaught of a sick, disgusting feeling of love it made Regulus want to throw up a miniature garden of lilies fresh with blood and be so so tired he'd finally be allowed to rest.

But it's not something he can afford the luxury of. He can't will himself to rest when he wants to, he can't give himself a proper shut-eye when he deems it needed.

The burn would not let him. The flowers would wake him. The blood would forcefully dig him up the covers.

He hates it.

He hatehatehates it.

For this was one of the few things he had for himself. One he conjured up on his own. A presence he himself was responsible for. He gave himself this. Painting. Art. This was his. This was his alone, you realize, because he built this up himself, he dug it raw with his hands, calloused them rough with the wood against his palm.

When he paints, he's just Regulus. Not a Black, not the spare, not someone's brother, someone's friend, someone's classmate. When he paints, he's not a fifth-year Slytherin. When he paints, he's not the jaded fifteen year old boy, for the years fade away with every stroke.

When he paints, he wasn't the Regulus who loved James Potter so desperately he grew a poison of flora in his lungs.

And now that it's gone, he finds it hard to figure out who he is.


Mornings are a blur.

The sun doesn't reach them below, and only streaks of light come through. It's difficult to differentiate the moonlight when it shoots the lake in curves and the sunlight when the dawn breaks.

It's always hard to tell the time when you seem to be underwater, isolated from the foreground and not high up in the skies, not situated in a tower where you could see how the sky changed.

"Tempus," he casted in a whisper, and finds that it's six in the morning.

He groans, and settles back down in his covers. He feels awful. His throat is sore, and his head is throbbing. Oddly, he doesn't feel like he's burning up. His breaths only come quick and shallow, like he'd run out of air.

The potion had dried out, for it's a new day, and so Regulus didn't resist the almost blinding urge to cough. He turns over, head facing the concrete, and his body blows in racks. There's lilies all over the floor, fresh and disgustingly orange. He finds it horrendous, although there were only a few droplets of blood that came with them. Relief pierces through Regulus in turn.

Wiping his mouth with a shudder, he took his wand from his bedside table as he forces himself up, his knees shaking subtly, and he leans on his bed frame for support. The wood knocked with his waist and slightly hit the bone of his hip, and he winces in pain.

Though still unable to walk without a visible limp in his steps, Regulus made his way to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth so hard it almost bled and washed the insides of his mouth more times than he could count until he couldn't taste the blood lingering on his tongue.

Regulus shut his eyes for a moment, and then the sound of static fills his ears. There's white on the corner of his eyes, blinding and aching. He swallows down a shiver and Accio'ed his clothes from the rack, hanging it on the silver hooks by the wall. He pays the lilies clumped on the floor beside his bed no mind, and hopes Genesis does the same as he washed himself, the water running down his body, carving out his shoulder blades — a distraction on his shuddering skin.

When he finished, Genesis was still asleep, buried in his blanket. Regulus shakes his head and let out a raspy chuckle, heading for the vials in his cabinet. He takes one and chucks it in his robes, heading for the kitchens. He passed by at least three students in the common room, one beside the window where you could see the lake, and two on the couches, half-awake.

There are only a few out and about in this hour, and it made navigating the castle and avoiding people's gazes much easier, especially when he looks like he'd keel over any second, bags under his eyes and a limp in his step, disguised to seem as if it was normal.

He rubbed the pear as he reached the kitchens, a sigh escaping his lips. If only he didn't need food in him to digest the potion, really.

Regulus entered the room and nodded to the house elves inside, all of them busy with preparing breakfast due in less than two hours. He startled when he found Sirius seated on the wooden bench, munching on a treacle tart.

Ah, fuck.

Why was he here? It's early. He doesn't wake up this early, ah, shit — how would he drink his potion like this?

While he was panicking internally, his older brother seemed to take notice of him. "Reg!" he called, as their eyes met. One pair was lit up in merry, and the other was just resigned. Sirius' brows drew together the longer he looked at Regulus, and the latter cursed all deities above in his head. "You look like you're one step away from the grave. What happened to you?"

Regulus waved a hand, an action he regretted immediately, for it was shaking. "Just… just the morning. I don't like it."

Sirius raised an unbelieving brow, eyes following his hand. "Uh-huh, but you're a morning person, so try to come up with a better excuse next time," he flicked Regulus' forehead when he sat down on his left. "You've been like this since the end of hols. Now you look even worse."

The Slytherin could only sigh, the breath coming out with a telltale cough that Regulus fought with all his will to swallow. He always lied badly when it was Sirius he was speaking to, because he was often a better liar than this. He unconsciously just couldn't keep things from his older brother without only avoiding the matter altogether.

"I — things, stuff," he forced out, voice hoarse.

"Things. Stuff," Sirius deadpanned. "Your voice is shit."

"Thanks, I didn't notice," Regulus murmured with a roll of his eyes.

"Look, Reggie. Seriously, what's going on? Why can't you tell me?" Sirius asked, the hunch in his shoulders visible. It choked a feeling out of Regulus when he looked at Sirius' eyes, it tore him apart to see hurt reflected in them, hurt and concern and worry mixed together in a flurry of emotions that was so Sirius. But he couldn't say it. He couldn't. Can't.

"You know I trust you," Regulus softly breathed. He hopes, in his heart, that that was enough, but he knew it wasn't.

"You do, of course," agreed his older brother. "But why can't you tell me?" he repeated.

Regulus bit his lip until it swell, steam rising in his eyes. "I'm sorry." he croaked out, voice coming out broken and torn.

Sirius sighed, a deep one, and Regulus knew by then that he understood. "Okay. Tell me when you're ready. Please. I hate seeing you like this."

And Regulus almost burst into tears, then, thanking whoever brought Sirius to him, and he thinks somberly, how does he deserve this?

"Thank you. Thank you, Siri. I, I swear. I'll tell you when I'm ready." Merlin, he was so lucky to have his brother in his life.

"Don't swear me that," said Sirius. "Swear to me that you won't let this go too far. Whatever this is."

Tears pricked on the corner of his eyes, and he ducked his head, placed it on Sirius' shoulder, like he did when they were kids. "I swear I won't let it go too far."

He felt Sirius smile, then. A sad one, he thinks, and he hates the fact that he caused that. But it's also a smile that showed he understood, and that he respected what Regulus wanted. Sirius cradled the back of his head and sang a song softly, and it calmed Regulus down, broke the signs of coughs building on his throat for a meanwhile.

"You're going to be okay," murmured Sirius in between his humming. "You're going to be okay."

Regulus, for once, thought that he would, really, be able go through this.

For Sirius made it easier to believe.


Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,

You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)

I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,

All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,

You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me,

I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,

I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,

I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

To a Stranger, Walt Whitman