Summary:
PREVIOUSLY ON TIHID: Regulus had his first (and second) mental breakdown(s) and reunited with good ol' Uncle Alphard.
TODAY'S EPISODE: Regulus is scandalized by Alphard's behavior and adds a new flavor of breakdown to his Apocalypse Bingo sheet! (this is a nice one though, i promise)
Notes:
(honestly, I can't think of any "big triggers" in this chapter, so I'm gonna go real specific.)
WARNINGS: discussion of alcohol; veeeery minor/blink-and-you'll-miss-it implication of past alcoholism; Regulus is just kind of a jerk in this chapter so if you're a fan of uwu soft boi reg... sorry?
Regulus isn't entirely sure what he expected when Alphard offered to buy drinks. Somewhere like Alphard himself, most likely – quiet and dark, maybe, yet inevitably classy and probably quite expensive (Regulus pictures a band playing smooth jazz while long-haired men in silk clothing lounge about, sipping cocktails made of eccentric ingredients and casually swapping cryptic nonsense in lieu of normal small talk).
Whatever his (admittedly spotty) expectations may have been, however, they're not remotely close to the shitty-looking pub where they end up.
Alphard must catch his raised eyebrow because the corners of his mouth quirk upward in amusement. "This is the Second Chance," he says, by way of introduction.
Regulus coughs to cover his snort. "What sort of name is that?"
"The kind with no patience for gimmicks or false advertising." He gives Regulus an appraising look. "It only appears to those who deeply regret the way they lived their life."
Oh. "Should I be offended by the fact that you apparently assumed that I deeply regret the way I lived my life?"
Alphard only gives him a sarcastic side-eye, which Regulus takes to mean, come on, have you forgotten already how you made a fool of yourself by having a breakdown within five minutes of our introductory conversation?
Well. He'd certainly like to forget, and perhaps even hide under his bed for the rest of eternity so no one will ever have to see his disgraceful face again. But apparently forgetting is frowned upon here. Unless, or course, you do it through the neck of a bottle, within the confines of a seedy, not-at-all-pretentiously-named pub.
So far, Regulus isn't entirely sure that the afterlife is any better than the life he left. Not that that was much of a life anyway.
The inside of the bar proves to be more or less true to the image conveyed by the outside – that is, run-down and quite sad. The space is big and objectively pretty roomy, but the air feels charged, somehow – feels thick, fraught, which makes it seem oddly cramped. People are scattered throughout the tables, people of all shapes and sizes, but all sharing one thing: a certain heaviness about them, a sag to their shoulders.
It's oddly quiet, too. Regulus has, admittedly, never been to a pub before, especially not one so… low-class, but he always assumed that a pub like this would have a lot of noise: the dull clink of glasses pounded on worn wood, raucous laughter as old friends greet each other, perhaps even loud, horrifically off-key drunken singing. But there's none of that; most of the patrons appear to be sitting alone, and if they do speak, it's in relatively low tones. The tone is not one of alcohol-induced silliness, but almost of somber morosity. All in all, aside from the oddness of the lack of noise and the strangely depressing atmosphere, the place seems like somewhere Sirius and his stupid friends would cavort. Regulus would have never thought that he would be caught dead anywhere near an establishment of this sort.
The irony of the situation is simply astounding.
"So," asks Alphard, "what do you think?"
Regulus wrinkles his nose. "I think that the air of misery in here is so thick that I could whip it up, plop it on my drink like a garnish, and ruin my sanity even more."
Alphard barks out a laugh at this and Regulus's heart seizes painfully in his chest because it sounds so much like Sirius.
"Mother would simply die if she ever saw me in a place like this," he mutters quickly, hoping to cover the clench in his stomach.
As if a switch is flipped behind his eyes, all traces of laughter leave Alphard in a rush.
"Well, then," he says evenly, "it certainly is a wonderful thing that she cannot. I would hate to see that happen."
Regulus picks up on the double meaning almost immediately, and Alphard must see the recognition in his eyes, because he pastes a tight smile onto his face and nods towards the bar. "Come along, boy. There is someone I'd like you to meet."
The middle-aged woman behind the bar turns as they walk up, and, as soon as she catches sight of Alphard, beams so brightly that Regulus has to resist the urge to shield his eyes.
"Alphard! Good to see you, I wondered if you'd come in today!"
"Hello, Fortuna." Alphard smiles, and Regulus is surprised to see that it's genuine. "I'd like to introduce you to my nephew. He's a… new arrival."
Regulus once again fights the urge to shrink back as the woman – Fortuna – turns her startling, electric blue gaze on him. There's something about how she looks at him, with both gentleness and intensity (plus something else that he can't name) that prickles with unfamiliarity and makes him quite uncomfortable.
"Welcome to the Second Chance, lovey!" she chirps cheerfully. "I'm Fortuna, as you already know."
"Regulus Arcturus Black," replies Regulus politely. "So… is it just Fortuna, or…?"
Alphard frowns slightly in Regulus's direction as if he disapproves of the innocent question. Fortuna's smile wavers ever-so-slightly.
"Yes, it's just Fortuna." Then her eyes light up again, filled with mirth and mischief. "Makes things easier for me – I'd hate to have a mouthful of a name like you lot!"
She flashes a brilliant grin at Alphard, who immediately mirrors the expression, his entire face lighting up in her infectiously sunny glow. The change is extreme – Regulus almost stares. He's never seen his uncle make more than a polite smile or a half-amused smirk, but this is a full-on grin. It stretches across his face, showing off rows of even, white teeth and crinkling his dark eyes. It's bloody lopsided – he looks like a damn teenager. He…
He looks even more like Sirius than ever before. The air in Regulus's lungs suddenly seems rather thicker than it was a moment ago.
"Right then," says Alphard. "I think I'll have the usual, please."
"One pitch-black coffee, coming up." Fortuna nods, then inclines her head at Regulus. "And you, dear?"
Regulus starts. "Er – do you have any tea?"
"Of course!" says Fortuna, smiling kindly. "What kind?"
"Earl grey, if that's alright."
"Are you sure, Regulus?" asks Alphard, turning to face him. "I know the first day is the hardest, so no one would blame you if you wanted something with a bit more, ah, kick."
Regulus's face scrunches up involuntarily. "No thank you. Inebriation is highly undignified, and I find that alcohol tastes like the ghosts of grapes drowned in human tears. Besides," he adds, "you're not drinking either."
Alphard looks mildly uncomfortable at this, and Regulus doesn't miss the subtle glance his uncle shares with Fortuna.
"I… don't much care for alcohol either," Alphard says finally, and it seems like he had to climb some mountain in order to utter those words with any semblance of truth. Regulus tactfully decides not to mention that he's pretty sure this is the first time he's ever seen Alphard without a glass of wine in his hand, and that he's seen the man down hard liquor like it's water without so much as wincing.
"So one coffee, black, and one earl grey tea?" confirms Fortuna, breaking the awkward silence.
"Right – yes," replies Alphard semi-distractedly. Then he shakes his head as if to clear it. "How much will that be, then?"
"Normally it'd be three good deeds, but for my favorite customer and his nephew?" Fortuna leans on the counter. "Just a small truth."
"Oh, that's easy: I think you look radiant this morning, darling."
Regulus almost chokes on the tea he hasn't even gotten yet. Is Uncle Alphard… flirting? With the bartender?
Fortuna giggles and looks down, blushing. "Oh, you with your nonsense…"
Oh, Merlin alive, she's flirting back.
Alphard adopts an expression of faux offense. "It is not nonsense! Check the register!"
As Alphard and Fortuna continue their revolting displays of quasi-amorous affection, Regulus slips into his own mind. Uncle Alphard. Flirting. With the bartender. Was this really the same man who Regulus once overheard drunkenly ranting to Sirius about how love isn't real and romance is overrated and smart young men should just buy something completely ridiculous and have done with it? And of all the people he could have chosen –
"Here," says Alphard, interrupting Regulus's thoughts. "Take your tea and let's find a table."
Regulus takes the steaming mug and follows him to a small table to the far right of the room.
They've barely sat down when Alphard breaks their half-tense, half-awkward silence.
"Well?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow.
"Well what?"
"You have something to say. I suggest you say it."
Regulus sighs. "You were flirting. With a common bartender."
Alphard frowns. "She has a name."
"Yes, a name. Singular."
"What difference does it make?"
"Really, uncle, you of all people should understand." Regulus idly traces a fingertip along the scuffed edge of the table. "Everyone has a surname. No one deliberately avoids mentioning it unless it's something of which they are ashamed. And if it's something of which they are ashamed, are they really the type of person with whom people of our ilk should fraternize?"
"People of our—" Alphard presses his fingertips to his forehead as if he simply cannot believe what Regulus has just said. "You don't mean you still hold on to that bullshit?"
Regulus frowns. "Bullshit? What on earth has gotten into you?"
"It's not about what's gotten in, it's about what needs to get out." He looks so earnest, like he's trying to teach some great lesson. Regulus is beginning to think that the sole purpose of the afterlife is to overturn the very fabric of a man's personal reality and drive him slowly out of his mind with such nefarious devices as bright-eyed, surname-less bartenders who smile too wide and stare too hard.
"Now you're just spouting nonsense," he says needlessly, hoping that by some miracle, one or two of his words will penetrate the thick fog of insanity that he's certain is currently residing in Alphard's consciousness.
"I've not gone crazy," says Alphard as if he somehow read Regulus's mind. There's a trace of exasperation in his tone. "But you will if you try to cling to these old values."
"Old values? Uncle—"
"Don't look at me like that, boy. This world is not like the one we left behind. These things that you believe in so strongly don't matter here."
"You say you've not gone crazy, and yet you continue to spout nonsense."
"How do you know it's nonsense?" Alphard's eyes bore into Regulus's. "What do you know of the difference between truth and utter bull here? You're no longer in the world of the living, nephew. Things are not the same as they were."
"But—" Regulus tries to think of a convincing argument, but it feels like trying to trudge through several feet of sand – he's slipping, sliding, losing almost as much ground as he's gaining. "These are – they're universal truths, uncle! You know as well as I do—"
"—that class is, of course, a mortal attribute," finishes Alphard. "And just what are we, Regulus?"
Regulus doesn't answer, because truthfully, he doesn't know. He supposes that Alphard is right in saying that they are no longer mortal, but where exactly does that put them? If they aren't bound by the rules of the living, what rules are they bound by?
"We can all still carry on without placing people into arbitrary categories," says Alphard softly. "Not everything must be defined in black lines."
Don't you get it? Regulus wants to scream. Don't you see that all my lines are Black ones? Don't you understand how this place is avada kedavra to the rational mind and crucio to the psyche?
But he doesn't voice any of that. Instead, he just downs a gulp of tea. The liquid is still far too hot and far too bitter for comfort – it burns his throat and stings his tongue – but it's perfect, so damn perfect.
They sit in tense silence for a few minutes, watching each other avoid eye contact through the corners of their eyes. Then something extremely odd happens.
"I'm sick of all the marks," Regulus mumbles. He has no idea what possesses him to say that, but judging by Alphard's raised eyebrows, they're both equally surprised at the outburst.
"Then let go of them," says Alphard simply.
Regulus narrows his eyes. "It's not so easy."
"It could be."
"It isn't."
"Part of learning to stop defining people by things outside of their control," says Alphard, tilting his head toward the ceiling, "is learning to stop defining yourself by things outside of your control."
Funny, his tone suggests that he thinks this is a helpful piece of advice. Regulus scowls and takes another swallow of tea.
"Don't be like that," admonishes Alphard. "Learn to just let yourself live, Regulus. Don't be so hard on yourself. Only then will you find true freedom."
Regulus's hands clench around the cup, white-knuckled fingers pressing into the hot ceramic surface.
"You're quite the poet, uncle," he says sarcastically, "but is there any chance of you giving out any useful information?"
Alphard snorts derisively. "Not if you're going to continue being a cynical little ba—" He catches himself just in time, eyes widening slightly. "Er – I mean – conversation is a two-way street…"
Regulus's eyebrow slowly ascends to the point of muscle strain. Of all the avenues he expected this conversation to take – there were many; he tends to overanalyze – this isn't even close to any of them.
There's a beat of silence in which time hangs suspended between the unravelling threads of reality.
A strange feeling is welling up within Regulus – prickly, itchy, immediately unfamiliar, but he gets the feeling that he's felt it before. He bites his lip against the rising tides, but it's no use, the feeling is building, seething, foaming over the sides until –
He lets out a snort of laughter before clapping his hands over his mouth, eyes wide. Then he chances a glance at Alphard, and the picture-perfect painting of pure frozen shock plastered over his uncle's face is just so goddamn funny that he can't help but let out another snicker.
And just like that, the floodgates are open and he's laughing – a real laugh; not ironic, not cold, not bitter – and he can't remember how long it's been since that happened and it feels like his face is splitting in two, peeling away to reveal some cobwebbed mechanism long-forgotten, and the bloody weirdness of it all combined with the priceless look on Alphard's face is more than enough to make him laugh harder. People are surely staring now, but Regulus doesn't care.
He doesn't fucking care.
He has finally lost his damn mind.
Notes:
thanks to LimeOfMagicLimo on AO3 for pointing out that i accidentally implied in the last chapter that you still have to pay for stuff in the afterlife! one, it made me laugh, and two, it gave me the idea of the "just do nice things" payment system, which, of course, paved the way for Alphard's flirtationship with Fortuna (and Regulus's reaction to it). also thanks to my friend and cousins for giving legitimate answers when i facetimed them at 11pm to ask, "so, HYPOTHETICALLY, if you were a forty-one-year-old dead man with an elitist nephew and you took him to a bar but he had issues with you flriting with the bartender..."
unfortunately, this chapter title breaks my emo song naming scheme, as it actually comes from a song that i wrote when i was 14 lol