Summary:

PREVIOUSLY ON TIHID: Alphard took Regulus to a very low class bar and scandalized him with his flirtatious behavior towards the very low class bartender. They then had an angsty conversation about elitism which ended in Alphard accidentally almost calling Regulus a cynical bastard and Regulus laughed so hard that he immediately assumed he'd gone insane.

TODAY'S EPISODE: Alphard and Regulus continue their disastrous conversation. Regulus gets unexpected news.

Notes:

me: hmm the last two chapters took me longer than i wanted, i better make sure to get this one out on time!
also me: [literally hasn't posted anything in 4 months]

so i kind of accidentally ended up going on unplanned hiatus for several months... oops... but anyway here's a new chapter! everyone who reads this story, i love you!

[also, a quick note - the actual full title of this chapter is "the difficulties of choreographed movement on a chess board", but i had to modify it for this site specifically because of character limits. so. just fyi lol]

Now, Alphard has always been a man well-accomplished in the art of keeping his playing cards tucked neatly in the pocket of his vest. Growing up with an older sister like Walburga Black would do that to a person – with a mind almost as sharp as her eyes, she was always ready to find and exploit any and all weaknesses. Thus, Alphard quickly learned to keep his face blank, tongue between his teeth. It's just safer that way.

But then he almost called his nephew a cynical bastard. And then, said nephew – Wally's son – erupted in hysterical, side-splitting laughter, as if Alphard had just told the world's funniest fucking joke, instead of almost calling him a cynical bastard.

Which is what he actually did.

After what seems like forever, Regulus finally calms down enough for Alphard to try and poke around his head. He searches for the right words that will give him a lead; an inkling of his nephew's mental state…

"What the fuck."

Regulus blinks. Alphard curses internally. He isn't entirely sure what he was aiming for, but it most definitely was not that. Maybe he can cover up – salvage it somehow?

"What the actual fuck," he amends.

No, that wasn't it either. Definitely not.

"What," says Regulus, traces of mirth still lurking in his tone, "can't find the words to properly gauge my sanity?"

"Well, I wasn't going to put it like that." Alphard at least has a small amount of tact. (Usually.)

"But I'm right?" prompts the smirking stranger across from Alphard.

"Perhaps." Keep it vague – yeah, that's it.

"Mm." Regulus nods, then lets out another ragged noise that could be either a laugh or a sob. "Uncle, I normally wouldn't be so bold, but… what is happening to me?"

A creeping hint of an idea begins to make its way into Alphard's mind.

"Well," he says, slowly, thoughtfully, "This place has many effects on the mind. Or rather, one effect with many faces."

Regulus frowns. "And what is this one effect?"

"In short…" Alphard steeples his long fingers in order to look wiser, hopefully. "Letting go."

Regulus appears to consider this. "And the long version?"

"You were, ah… hit rather hard right upon arrival, correct?"

A slight blush tints Regulus's pale cheeks. "Yes…"

Alphard has never been good at gentleness, but he decides to roll his dice anyway. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Regulus casts his gaze to the tabletop in stony silence, but Alphard is certain he hears him mutter something along the lines of "easy for you to say."

Countless empty bottles and holes in the walls beg to differ, Alphard thinks, but he doesn't voice it.

"What, you think you're the only one who's affected by this?" he asks instead, letting more than a little sarcasm color the words. "By literal death? We've all died, we all know what it's like to… to hurt. Like that."

There's something else, some sort of forbidden feeling, that apparently sneaked into the tone of the last few phrases while Alphard wasn't looking. He winces slightly — he didn't mean to be anything more than flip — but strangely, it seems to at least put Regulus a bit more at ease. Alphard watches the boy's shoulders relax just a fraction as some small amount of tension releases.

"Tell me more," Regulus says quietly, ever unreadable, and Merlin help Alphard for hoping, but maybe this all might work out after all.

"I can't say I know this for sure," he replies, "but I do have a theory, a rather strong one at that…"

Regulus arches an elegant eyebrow, the very picture of polite interest. "Do tell."

Alphard feels his heart sink. Fuck, back to this game. He had been so close, but now Regulus's mask is edging its way back on and the truth won't even have a chance to sink in if the kid won't let his damn cracks show.

He decides to test the waters. "First of all, how did you feel when you first arrived here?"

Regulus immediately closes up.

"Tired," he says carefully.

The boy is admittedly a good liar, but Alphard is better. He knows better. And what he knows now is that the mask is winning out.

It's rather funny how much of Alphard's life — and more — has been spent carefully thinking every option through, narrowly avoiding the urge to just set it all ablaze. It is, quite frankly, wholly exhausting.

Sometimes rash decisions can be good ones, he reminds himself, and succumbs to the fire of impulsivity.

Everything hurts.

Regulus's ribs ache from the mirth that bounced around them like a rubber ball thrown by a rowdy child. His head feels tight, strained, and it pounds with a barely unidentifiable rhythm, like an old folk song that's both familiar and strange. But it's his pride that hurts most of all. Exploding with hysterical shrieks of unchecked emotion — and in a public place, no less. He was, is, truly a disgrace to his family name. Mother would be furious.

And to make matters worse, he ambles on and makes wry jabs at his uncle like — like they're old mates. And then he asks Alphard what's wrong with him.

Mother might cry, too, while she's at it; cry for the disappointment that is her youngest — her only son. Regulus would join her if he could find a way to allow the tears past his eyelids.

So Alphard talks of the theoretical as if it isn't carefully prying open Regulus's psyche, and Regulus does his best to pretend that everything that just happened was nothing more than a dream.

It's eerie being around Alphard, he thinks – with his tall frame and long black hair, he looks like an older, bearded version of Sirius, but nearly everything else about him, from his elegant clothing to his rigid posture, screams traditional Black family member. And on top of that, he's showing Regulus more kindness than any other relative ever has – enough to be warrant suspicion.

Regulus wants to resent Alphard, but should it be because he reminds him of Sirius, or because he reminds him of everyone who isn't Sirius? Or is Alphard even deserving of resentment at all?

And then, of course, there's the whole Fortuna thing. This new, afterlife Alphard, who grins crookedly and flirts with bartenders and solves problems in ways other than completely ignoring and/or throwing large sums of money at them, is so hard to reconcile with the sullen, guarded, miserable man Regulus knew. The man who blatantly favored Sirius and never passed up a chance to drink is now deliberately avoiding alcohol with Regulus and possibly even trying to help him.

It is, quite frankly, surreal as hell.

"How did you feel when you first arrived here?"

Regulus wills his features blank – not that they have far to go. Learning not to show a glimpse of your cards before you know your opponent's hand has been a lifelong lesson, and honestly, at this point, he barely has any idea how many cards Alphard is holding. Or even what game they're playing.

"Tired." His voice is flat and his tone coolly pleasant, just like Mother taught.

(Exhaustion is a safe cop-out because it is not an emotion. It is not weakness.)

Alphard stares at him – hard, prickly, uncomfortable. Regulus resists the childish urge to squirm in his seat. They're engaged in a dance, the two of them; a careful waltz of half-smiles and clever turn of phrase, where every step, every quarter-turn, is calculated to the most minuscule detail.

Regulus knows this dance well, has known all the moves by heart for as long as he can remember. He knows how to deal with relatives and family friends. They're all of the same sort, and they all twirl to the same tuneless drone. But Alphard… despite his tailored robes and his perfect speech and mannerisms and his love of fine wines, there's always been something decidedly off about him. On the outside, he's the perfect Black, but on the inside… well, Regulus has very little idea, which is part of the problem. Alphard is not only different (whatever that may mean), but he's quite good at hiding exactly how he's different. Which makes him a wild card.

Which makes him unpredictable - dangerous.

Which is precisely why Regulus is so caught off guard when his uncle looks him dead in the eye and says –

"Drop the act."

He says it so simply. Like it's so easy. Like it makes all the sense in the world, like it makes any fucking sense whatsoever.

"Wh… what?"

"Regulus." He's leaning forward, elbows and forearms resting on the table – an egregious social sin, according to Mother – and his dark eyes, fathomless and unreadable, are still boring into Regulus's soul. "Drop the act. This isn't a family reunion. It's just the two of us."

"I see no difference."

There's no noticeable change in Alphard's expression, but he leans back, and Regulus thinks he glimpses a split-second flash of something in his eyes – hurt? But then the moment passes and his eyes harden back into cool, carefully guarded pools of obsidian.

"That is… most unfortunate, Regulus." His tone is slightly clipped — tight, sore.

Regulus just shrugs in response, moving to stir his tea. Alphard's eyes narrow, he takes a breath, and Regulus prepares himself.

"If I'm honest with you, will you be honest with me?" Alphard asks quickly.

It's an outburst, plain and simple — Regulus has spent enough time around Sirius to know what one looks like. He revisits his analysis of Alphard's unpredictability — strike that, rewrite insanity.

"Depends," he says after a time. "Honesty is… difficult, no?"

"How so?"

"To judge." Another pause. "To stick with."

It's all chess, really: in a world where information is the most valuable — and dangerous — currency, how much is one willing to divulge? Give too little and the adversary may grow suspicious, leading to mistrust. Give too much, and… well. Anyone who's been burned before can understand the stakes.

"I see," Alphard says darkly, beginning to look rather irritated. "Tell me, nephew, is there anyone you trust?"

Funny he should mention that. There are many people Regulus trusts to behave in certain ways — Alphard to be shifty, Mother to be volatile, Sirius to be a fucking dumbass, always. Father to pull a disappearing act at opportune times. Aunt Druella to laugh too loud after not enough wine and Uncle Cygnus to press his lips tightly together at the mention of Andromeda's romantic decisions. The entire family on a broader scale to be… well, to put it mildly, entirely dysfunctional.

But Regulus knows what Alphard means, and the answer would have to be no. Everyone wants something, and most people would do anything to get it, even if it means knives in the backs of their closest friends. If there's anything of which Regulus is certain, it's that relationships, no matter how strong, are dust in the face of desire.

"No," he says simply, because there really isn't anyone he trusts implicitly. Not even himself.

(Especially not himself.)

Alphard looks like he can't decide whether to be angry or disappointed. Regulus knows the feeling.

Months pass and there's an uneasy rhythm to his undeath. Pace the flat until he wants to tear his hair out, and then wander the common area until the smothering crowds make him want to die all over again. Sometimes he draws what he sees, sometimes he just sits in the shadows and wonders what it would be like to be someone else; anyone but himself. It's not the greatest existence, but at least the night terrors stop. Somewhat.

And then the whole thing is completely disrupted by two little slips of parchment.

The first one is surprisingly easy. It's quite the innocuous little thing: just a scrap, really, adorned with neat but modest handwriting. It's barely the size of two fingers, stuck neatly to his door one afternoon. A curt message, written in small, tidy script:

Orion Black has arrived.

And an apartment number.

Regulus should go visit, like Alphard did for him. That would be the proper thing to do, the expected thing.

He doesn't go.

Instead, he succumbs to the paralysis creeping through his limbs and does nothing. Then he doesn't step foot outside his apartment for the next two weeks, dizzy from anxiety and wrongdoing and Mother's voice shrieking in his mind and… some strange, heady rush. The freedom of imperfection is both unfamiliar and oddly exhilarating and Merlin, is this what Sirius was always on about?

They had always been such a stellar duo: Regulus, the ice-cold marble statue of a perfect son; and the numbness that kept him from shattering into dust. But there is something — more than just something — to be said for… whatever this is. It feels… good. He doesn't remember the last time he felt like that.

He feels his lips quirk up into a smile, a real smile, and he doesn't stop it.

Notes:

this chapter title doesn't even come from any song... who am i... what have i become...