The fog / slowly flows / uphill.

noteworthy things: i am called reginald (on good days); i am above the ripe age of 18 (on all days); sometimes i write (no day specification)

"At the ripe age of eighteen (turned: three days prior), Regulus is of the firm opinion that his hatred for surprises is not going to wane. On the contrary. Especially for surprises wrapped in a neat bow with James Potter written all over them. He thinks he has had enough for a lifetime. Or maybe even two. James Potter, who unknowingly (unknowingly, if Regulus was in a generous mood and assumed the best; on purpose and maliciously on bad days that stretched past the tangible horizons) twisted his very being around Regulus’ throat like bloodthirsty vines, thorns sinking into skin until Regulus was unable to tell if they had always been a part of him." OR The last nine days of Regulus Black's life.

James opens his mouth, ready to give the spell another go, but only a choked gasp makes it out of his mouth. Air refuses to enter his windpipe as his hands fly to his neck. It feels like fingers are being shoved down his throat as he falls forward, landing on his knees. His bones protest loudly, but he barely registers it. Sirius sinks down next to him, his mouth forming silent sentences that James cannot hear from the blood pounding in his head, dull and suffocating. The first word that reaches his ears is a name. “Regulus,” Sirius says as James realises that he is drowning—and he isn’t drowning alone. (...) Regulus makes a last attempt at breathing as cold, dead hands rip him apart. He came into the world deprived of oxygen, and he leaves it the same way. There is no one left to untwist the cord around his neck. Regulus is drowning alone.

16/? | wip | regulus black/james potter

They glare at each other over an empty and a full cup of tea, nostrils flaring, their furies taking the same colour in their cheeks.  “James would never do that to you,” Regulus says eventually after drawing in a steadying breath.  “Not unless it was for you,” Sirius says, leaning back, trying to look casual and failing miserably.  “What does that even mean?” Regulus says, rolling his eyes.  “If you asked him to, he would do it.”  “The delusions you harbour are truly unmatched,” Regulus says mockingly. 

James has to catch him in the middle of the motion, his right hand slipping under Regulus’ shirt, his index finger grazing Regulus’ hipbone, causing a rather embarrassing short circuit of Regulus’ brain as James pulls him against his chest, his chin resting on the top of Regulus’ head for a mere moment.  “Thank you,” James says quietly, the words tumbling through Regulus’ curls. He feels them on his scalp.  “Uh,” Regulus says, perhaps a little stupidly before regaining authority over himself—it might have to do with James withdrawing his hand from underneath Regulus’ clothes.  Regulus’ face is still against James’ chest and he thinks a tiny, determined teardrop of James’ must have found its way onto his shirt because it is wet against his cheek. He pulls away, just enough to look up at James. 

Regulus is yanked to the ground by a hand, his own hand being torn from James’ grip.  “James!” he cries out instinctively, fighting against the fingers digging into his scalp, thrashing against his attacker and lashing out, missing the man behind him entirely, but almost managing to dislocate his shoulder.  He might go down silently most of the time, but not when he is ripped from James. 

"At the ripe age of eighteen (turned: three days prior), Regulus is of the firm opinion that his hatred for surprises is not going to wane. On the contrary. Especially for surprises wrapped in a neat bow with James Potter written all over them. He thinks he had enough for a lifetime. Or maybe even two. James Potter, who unknowingly (unknowingly, if Regulus was in a generous mood and assumed the best; on purpose and maliciously on bad days that stretched past the tangible horizons) twisted his very being around Regulus’ throat like bloodthirsty vines, thorns sinking into skin until Regulus was unable to tell if they had always been a part of him." OR Regulus Black is supposed to be dead: he isn’t supposed to be making an Unbreakable Vow with James Potter that his brother oversees in silence. And yet, here they are. He is, naturally, still bound by the promise of an untimely grave, but it must patiently await its turn so he can get a taste of the suffocating, earthy possibility of something different, something more.

The events play out in Regulus’ mind before they actually become reality, and every moment feels like an uneven, fractured second from another life he isn’t currently inhabiting.  James’ fingers run down his back.  James’ fingers squeeze his throat.  Sirius stumbles backwards, a translucent shadow clinging to him.  Sirius crawls in his bed, whispering something Regulus can’t make out no matter how desperately he tries.  Pettigrew exhales a sound of relief. 

James nods before hesitantly reaching out with his other hand and bracketing Regulus’ tense and rigid fist tenderly, skin barely touching skin. It’s the polar opposite of how Regulus touches him, a distorted echo flipped inside out. 

Stay. Please stay, Regulus. James’ voice echoes slightly within his skull. It makes his head spin.  I will find you if you leave, James adds when Regulus doesn’t reply.   Is that a threat? Regulus snaps, his grip tightening around the fabric. It’s a promise.