its rotten work.

“I read something, the other day,”

“Hm?”

“Poetry.”

“Obviously.” Regulus shoved his brother at that.

“Remember when you used to sing me to sleep?”

“Well, I don’t know about singing, but…” Sirius says with a chuckle.

“No, you did. I’m not teasing you about it.”

“Uh, okay, yeah, I remember. What about it?”

Regulus is lost in thought, looking at the puddle growing at the bottom step of the set of stairs both brothers are perched on.

“Most nights I don’t sleep. I can’t, it’s like my eyes refuse to stay closed, and my mind can’t find one thing to stay focused on. It’s either blank, or overcrowded,” Regulus admits, fingers fiddling with the lace of his right shoe. Sirius is waiting patiently, silent as the night sky, in fear of stopping this trail of thought.

Regulus continues after a few seconds, “Sometimes I remember how easily I used to fall asleep with you humming next to me.”

And Sirius turns his head from his brother, hand reaching up to scrub the tears from his eyes. The ever-present lump he’s had living in his throat since he’s been sat with his little brother feels like it doubles in size, and he’s never ached to wrap anyone up this tightly before. To sing him to sleep.

“But the poem I found the other day asked, ‘when is a monster not a monster?’.”

“Reg, you’re not-“

“When you used to sing it to sleep.” Regulus finished. And it was a few seconds after, seconds filled with Sirius fighting that lump away again, that Sirius finished his previous words.

“You’re not a monster, Reg.”

“But that’s exactly my point: you wouldn’t say I’m a monster. You wouldn’t say it, don’t believe it, because when I was that age, the age where you could still sing me to sleep, I wasn’t a monster. How could I be? I was a child. So were you. But now… Now I’m an adult, and everything I’ve done has had intentions behind it.”

“You’re hardly an adult, Regulus. You’re sixteen, for Merlin’s sake.”

Regulus just shrugged, “Still.”

“All right, so you’re a monster. You’re a monster, because- because of what, Reg? Because you’re sixteen and don’t have your shit together yet? What fucking teenager does?”

“It’s not just-“ Regulus’ words fell short.

“Pandora was flipping through one of those muggle magazines the other day, and they had a section on celebrities describing themselves in one word. And the only word that came to mind when I thought about how I felt about myself, was awful. Because I am. And I know I am, because the only person I have left is my blood brother who most spends most of his days trying to disassociate himself from his biological family… And that includes me, so.”

Sirius knows no matter how often he tries to remind the younger of the two that his leaving had nothing to do with Regulus was a futile attempt at consoling him. Because he doesn’t believe it, has never believed it, and probably won’t ever, either. So instead of being on the defence against his own life choices, he’d try and defend his brother’s.

“You’ve fallen out with Pandora before. You’ve made up with her before, also.”

“Not like this, Siri.” And Regulus’ defeated look is like a pin to the heart.

“Your friends, they’re not going to… understand the way you are, not fully. Not when they didn’t grow up in the same house we did- not when they’re still in the same house you are.”

“I can’t just use that as an excuse-“

“It’s not an excuse, it’s part of an explanation. Do you know how long it took Remus to understand why I do half the shit I do? And he’s one of the smartest people I know.”

Regulus seemed tired, his answers no longer in defence of his own beliefs and just staying silent.

Sirius didn’t know if that was good or bad.

“You need to talk to people, Reg. You can’t just expect them to understand, especially when they don’t know the whole story. And you need to apologise, even if it burns your pride and goes against everything Maman and Papa told you.”

“I’m never desperate. Could never be.”

“Then what were you when you were a child? A baby? Were you not desperate for love, for food, water, affection?”

“I had no choice in that. I do now.”

“You’re on fire. Are you not desperate for water?”

“I’m stuck in the past; I watch it daily. The way I was, the person I was. The person I could’ve been. What I’ve done, what I could’ve done. I’m made of ‘if only’s and I think it’s wearing me down.”

“And what of the person you are now? Who you’ve become? He gets no credit?”

“Not in comparison to who he could’ve been.”

“And who is that?”

“I don’t know. I missed out on it.”

“You don’t know, yet you’re certain he’s better?”

“I’d hope so. I'd hoped there could’ve been more to me than my past. Like I said, I can’t seem to move forward.”

“Just because you fear you’re not moving forward doesn’t mean you’re not moving. And you’re most certainly not moving backwards before you argue that. Sometimes there are obstacles: you go around them.”

“My whole life has felt like an obstacle. To me, to others. You know, when I was thirteen, my older brother made a comment about how hard it is to be around me. “You’re not exactly the easiest person to be around,” is what he'd said. It’s stuck with me, even now. He was right, of course. Is right. I know that. I also know he probably didn’t mean to say it like that. But he did, and some mornings it’s the first thing I think of. How I’m not easy to even be around, let alone speak to. My life is weighted by my past and I carry it in my presence.”

“I don’t think being with you is unnerving or makes me feel uneasy. Your brother said a lot back that he never quite knew the implications of or understood the meaning to. It’s no excuse, of course. Comments like that do stick with you. My mother once told me I had ears like a baboon. Charming woman, she was. But that has stuck with me even now also, as has my long hair.”

Silence.

“You speak as though it is too late to find this ‘better’ you. I’m not saying you need improving, but if you feel so poorly about your current self, what’s preventing you from meeting this ‘better’ version?”

"So I crawl back into your open arms Yes I crawl back into your open arms And I crawl back into your open arms Yes I crawl back into your open arms"

"Singing please, please, please Come back and sing to me To me, me Come on and sing it out Now, now Come on and sing it out To me, me Come back and sing

“Doing what?”

“What you think you’re expected to do. Acting like this, trying to fit into the mould.”

“There isn’t a mould, Sirius. There’s just blood.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

...

“I know you feel alone-“

Regulus scoffs, placing his drink rather harshly down on the accent table and walking away from his brother, “don’t pretend to know how I feel.”

“Alright. But I know how I felt, when I was in your place. In your shoes.”

“And in what ways are we similar, Sirius? How are our circumstances similar in any way? You left and found a family, and what have I got? Fucking alcohol and a chair designated to me because of ou- my blood name.” He kicks the accent table that his drink is bestowed upon.

“That’s what I’m trying to sa-“

“I know what you’re trying to say, but it isn’t true. You love me, but it must cost an awful amount. Because I couldn’t do what you did, and I’m stuck, and when I do anything, you’re reminded of their influence on me. And that’s my fault.”

“Reg-“ but he didn’t have a response.

“It’s fine. I know.”

Sirius’ throat is burning, but this time from the lump building in his throat, and not with harsh, stabbing words.

Regulus has picked his drink back up, looking inside of it. Twisting it in his right hand. Tongue running over his teeth.

“I think,” Regulus begins, very quietly, with barely any power behind his words, “that when you left and I did not, the same part that was in both of us died.” Regulus moves his eyes from the glass to looking at his brother properly for the first time that evening. “And you’re trying to keep it alive.”

Tears are welling up in Sirius’ eyes most definitely now, and his face is trying to scrunch together like an elastic band being released.

“You can’t bring back the dead, Siri.”

But it’s okay, because his little brother’s eyes are shining too.

Words hang in the air, but Sirius can’t grasp them all. And if he cannot grasp them all, then he will take none.

Regulus downs the remainder of his drink, setting it back down once again, and removes himself from the room.

And Sirius can feel the absence that he fears almost equates to that of which Regulus felt all those years ago. And has probably never let go.