Summary:
PREVIOUSLY ON THIS IS HOW I DISAPPEAR: our main boi had an unfortunate kerfuffle involving a horcrux, a house elf, and some dead dudes, and woke up in a strange place.
TODAY'S EPISODE: Regulus explores his new surroundings and runs into someone unexpected.
Notes:
hello! sorry this took so long; writing this chapter was a process full of metaphorical head injuries. it's quite a bit more thicc than the last one and more stuff happens, so hopefully that makes up for the lengthy downtime.
[WARNINGS: regulus panics quite a bit in this chapter; tears are shed; semi-graphic depiction of scars (from the inferi); implied self-hatred; just a whole hecc ton of angst]
The room, as it turns out, is actually a suite — quite a nice one at that, he notes, and Regulus is no stranger to opulence.
Upon waking, he staggers into the bathroom, catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, and immediately retches into the sink.
The world twists cruelly back and forth, back and forth, as he stares at some stranger wearing his face. Wide, haunted grey eyes protrude almost comically from nearly translucent skin. Jet-black hair falls in loose, matted waves over a clammy brow. High, sharp cheekbones jut oddly from gaunt, sunken cheeks. The nose is a hair off-center, as if it's been broken, and the thin, slightly-parted lips are tinted blue.
But worst of all are the scars. Jagged lines crisscross the face — his face — like lines on a map. They stem out from his red-rimmed eyes like spokes from a wheel, running up his brow and into his hairline, then down his cheeks and jawline and onto his neck before disappearing under his collar.
Regulus stares hard at the boy in the mirror — the boy who isn't him, who can't be him. He watches, feeling almost disconnected, as the brows furrow and the eyes grow impossibly big and the hands grip the edge of the sink so hard he's surprised it doesn't crack and the chest heaves under the weight of hyperventilation and the mouth opens wide like it's about to scream. The sight of the scars triggers the memory of blackened, rotting nails digging into his flesh, carving into his skin, painting their names using his blood as ink…
He wants to scream. He can't scream. He's frozen solid and either way, he doesn't think that he would be able to handle seeing his voice coming out of those blue lips and that scarred, ruined face.
Halfway-floating on the silvery current of shock, he removes his robes with trembling hands and almost faints when he sees what those… those things did to his body. Where the scars on his face and neck are relatively thin and appear to be mostly healed, the ones marring his torso and arms are thick, angry, and raised off the surface of his skin. These are less like map lines and more like knife slashes; they tell a tale of frantic, frenzied gouging rather than the slow, savoring strokes of the smaller scars.
Disgusting. A disgrace to his family name. He can almost hear his mother's voice shouting about the outside matching the inside…
He suddenly feels violently ill. The boy in the mirror slides out of view as Regulus sits down hard on the tile floor and the morning light slowly dissolves as he rocks back and forth, back and forth, to the beat of his own choked sobs.
Regulus should be dead.
He should be dead, he should be deceased, he should literally be no longer alive and, considering how much damage the Inferi in the lake were evidently able to do, it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever that he's currently sitting here thinking about how little sense this makes.
He paces around the flat for hours, alternating between screaming at himself and just lying on the bed, eyes wide open, as eternities pass around him in the span of a few seconds. As soon as regains the ability to consciously think through the noise, he immediately changes into the highest-collared, longest-sleeved set of robes in his wardrobe — the ones that drape around his body like a sheath, hiding all his worst secrets under a layer of black silk. This at least allows him to glance at his reflection without wanting to vomit, but it doesn't entirely solve the problem — as long as he knows about the ruined flesh that hides behind the curtain, it's more than enough to send him spiraling back into foul-tasting emerald potions and ice on his skin and fire blazing inside him and —
He abruptly decides that it's high time to find out what lies beyond the ebony door of his flat. This place is becoming as much of a prison as his own mind and it's better to escape one than have the other escape him.
Cloak pulled tight against his body and hood shadowing his scarred face, Regulus ventures through the door. He finds himself standing in a sort of open hallway that runs the perimeter of the huge, oval-shaped building, which must be hundreds of stories tall. It's rimmed by walkways like the one Regulus is currently on for every floor, each of which are bordered on one side by a wall full of doors just like his — other flats, he presumes — and on the other by a metal railing. At the base of the building is a sort of bustling courtyard, filled with people, such as one may find in a shopping center.
Regulus hovers by the railing, peering down at the busy square below, unsure of where he wants to go, much less how to get there. He's just wondering if he can handle walking down several flights of stairs when he's interrupted by the sound of a door shutting.
"Excuse me," calls a very familiar, haughtily impatient voice from somewhere behind him.
Regulus whirls around, squinting at the approaching figure. At first glance, shock jolts through his body as he immediately thinks, Sirius, but it can't be. The height, build, and long, dark hair is right, but Sirius never walked so stiffly, never had such good posture. Definitely never wore such fine robes if he could help it. He also tended to wear his hair loose, and preferred clean-shaven-ness over this stranger's carefully groomed facial hair.
The man is only about ten meters away now, and Regulus fully recognizes him. But it can't be… that doesn't make any sense…
"Uncle Alphard?"
"Who..." Alphard blinks, his dark eyes shifting through annoyance, confusion, and then recognition. "Regulus? Funny, I was just on my way to find you…"
"You're supposed to be dead," says Regulus, with the air of unsteady calm that almost certainly heralds the arrival of a storm.
Alphard shifts uncomfortably in a manner most unbecoming a Black. "Well... yes." He casts his gaze upward and outward, appearing to choose his next words very carefully. "You... don't know why you're here?"
Regulus shakes his head numbly. Alphard sighs and presses his lips into a tight, thin line.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
Unconsciously, Regulus shuts his eyes against the incoming tide of waterlogged fingers that carved his skin, marked him, wrote out chapter and verse to expose all the failures he tried so hard to hide —
"Water," he whispers, voice ragged.
"Then I won't sugarcoat it." Alphard pauses to clamp an awkward hand on Regulus's shoulder, holding him at arm's length (it takes everything Regulus has left within him to squash the overwhelming urge to bolt at the surprise contact). "Welcome to the afterlife, boy."
It's almost as if those words are a spell because it only takes their mere utterance for Regulus's legs to instantly go almost entirely numb underneath him. His knees buckle and he's vaguely aware of Alphard letting out a slight gasp as Regulus grabs hard onto the railing to avoid taking a rather embarrassing spill. Not that this whole ordeal isn't embarrassing — this dizzy, feverish feeling that's sweeping through his body and the way the entire building now seems to be swooning dramatically as if it's being buffeted by some unseen gale serve to make his mental hurricanes even more pronounced. Alphard has front-row tickets to see Regulus Black fall apart before his very eyes.
"Regulus!"
Regulus's cloudy vision clears just enough to make out Alphard crouched over him (when did he end up on the ground?). Regulus's left hand still grips the railing in a gruesomely familiar pose, and he realizes with a stomach-churning start that it's the same one he had assumed while under the effects of the emerald potion — crumpled on the cave floor, half-hanging from that cursed stone basin. He squeezes his eyes shut as oceans of nausea come crashing over him once again.
"Can you hear me? Look at me, boy!"
Regulus fades back into awareness. The building's violent rocking is slowly fading, and the indecipherable buzz of blood-soaked memories no longer fills his ears — in fact, all he can hear are his own ragged breaths. He peers upward through his eyelashes to see Alphard's hands hovering indecisively near Regulus's robes as if he's deliberating whether or not to actually make contact.
After a few seconds, Alphard evidently makes up his mind because the hands disappear as Alphard rises out of his crouch. Dazed and somewhat humiliated, Regulus is content to stay on the floor forever, but Alphard must have other plans — there's a pressure at Regulus's elbow and then he's being pulled gently to his feet.
Alphard chuckles awkwardly, concern barely hidden behind his mask of nonchalance. "Terribly sorry; I should have told you to sit down before I broke the news." Despite his air of impassivity, his hands remain outstretched, fingers ghosting the fabric of Regulus's robes.
Head still foggy, Regulus makes his fatal mistake when he tips his head back to look up at his uncle. Loosened by his fall, the dark material of his hood lifts out of his eyes. He feels the fabric drop down behind his head, and just like that, the physical manifestation of his secrets is laid bare for all to see. He quickly yanks the hood back over his face, but it's too late — he sees Alphard's eyes widen in shock. The protective hands that surrounded Regulus suddenly recede and Alphard takes a step back, away from his monstrous nephew who, after so many years of keeping his darkness caged behind a flawless mask, finally has to show the world his inhumanity.
They stare at each other for a few excruciatingly long seconds; Alphard opens his mouth to speak, but Regulus cuts in before he can say a word.
"Please, don't say anything." He's struggling to look at his uncle's face. "I already know. I'll go—"
"No!" Alphard interrupts sharply.
Surprised, Regulus finally meets Alphard's eyes to find a strange mixture of fierceness and sadness residing there, barely reined in by his natural restraint.
Alphard exhales, long and slow, drawing himself back in. "Listen… forgive me if I seemed a bit surprised to see you. We are notified when a close friend or relative arrive, but it is... never pleasant to meet a young person here. Especially if they're your own family."
"No need to spare my feelings." Regulus tries to keep his voice impassive, but he can't help the sharp edge that creeps into his tone. "I harbored no illusions about what you were surprised to see. And I think that perhaps you shouldn't have been." After all, it's always only a matter of time before the outside matches the inside.
Oddly enough, Alphard looks genuinely taken aback at this.
"What do you take me for, nephew?" He sounds almost impatient, but not unkindly so. "I've been here for two years; you think I haven't seen things?"
Alphard's tone is so – so normal. So nonchalant. Not laced with hatred or disgust like it should be. He should be horrified – he should feel justified. He should have known that this would happen – he was the only one who ever seemed to be able to see past Regulus's mask of perfection enough to glimpse the rotten nothingness underneath. Regulus feels the urge rising within him to make Alphard use his goddamn common sense – to treat Regulus like the fucked-up collection of broken pieces that he is.
"Even this?" Regulus gestures to his face, voice laced with contempt. "These are nothing compared the ones on the rest of me. Don't you see? They — they mark me!"
"Mark you?" Alphard scoffs. "Why, my dear boy! Scars do not mark you any more than a surname defines who you are! This place doesn't care for the symbols over which man obsesses. Here, you simply are. That is how you are perceived."
Regulus is rendered speechless for a moment. Scars do not mark… surnames do not define… none of it makes any sense. "How can you say such things? Are you not as much of a Black as I am? Scars are nothing but markers, and surnames serve no purpose if not to tell who's who—"
Alphard sighs heavily, cutting Regulus off with a wave of his hand. "I see my sister has encumbered you with her charms. We have much to talk about, then. May I buy you a drink?"
"A… drink?"
"It does not matter whether or not you were of age at the time of death." Alphard pauses, glancing at Regulus through the corners of his eyes. "How old are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen?"
Regulus bristles. "Eighteen."
Alphard winces. "Ah. Apologies. Time has a way of escaping a person here if he is not careful. As do the memories of a life rendered meaningless by mere residence in this realm."
"By which you mean…"
"Desire to forget, and forget you shall," Alphard answers cryptically. Then his lips curve into the sort of smile that recalls things that should be happy but aren't. "I... know of someone who willingly forgot everything, forging a new personhood from the ashes of a dead one. It's bliss, certainly, and it's a tempting option, but it comes at a severe price that only the truly desperate would pay."
"And what price is this?" Regulus isn't stupid – he knows that when someone says a price is great, especially someone who grew up as wealthy as Alphard, that they generally mean it. But he can't help but wonder… after all, he has been dreaming of such a thing all his life. How wonderful, how free it must feel to forget. To drop the burdens of one's own mind, to no longer submit to social obligations, to release himself from his slavery to perfection. To no longer bear the wounds of living as Regulus Arcturus Black, heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Alphard studies him, and there's a not-insignificant note of worry, held deep within the black wells of his eyes. Then he tilts his chin up and it's gone, safely hidden behind his mask.
"Well, nephew, if forgetting is of interest to you, I have in mind a much cheaper and more temporary option."
Notes:
i feel like i should mention at some point that i am abysmal at titles (hence why pretty much all of the chapters are named after song lyrics) and so before this story was This Is How I Disappear, it was known as Oof, He Ded. That's still the title of my main document for this story, and honestly, if i could actually call it that, i would.
Anyway, this chapter's official title comes, again, from the My Chemical Romance song for which this story is named.