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If he thought back on his early childhood, Regulus could remember very brief touches that might be considered affection to a casual onlooker. His mother had once dragged him onto her knee when he was small and Andromeda had accidentally knocked him over, scowling and ranting about what a horrid girl she was, nothing like her sisters. It was what came of marrying a Rosier, she had said. What the Rosiers had done to upset her on that particular occasion, he couldn’t recall. He sat, caged in her arms until she tired of him and sent him away to play with Sirius elsewhere. Though the touching was not typical of life at Grimmauld Place, that latter part was. Walburga was the type of woman that, if not caught up in the frenzy of blood purity, Regulus doubted would ever have had children of her own accord, so she was pleased to have a house large enough that she rarely needed to see them, much less touch them. The boys’ father was quite the same, speaking to them only of his business and the things they would do when the time came for them to attend Hogwarts. The people it was important to befriend and the subjects they ought to excel in, if they ‘knew what was good for them’.
Growing older was no gift in the Black household. While he would no longer be pulled up into his mother’s lap when she wanted to make a point, or be forced to endure his father’s clammy grasp at his hand as he was paraded around the Ministry, proof of his virility and the health of their great house, he was not yet free of their forceful hands.
Sirius took the brunt of it, he knew that. He’d lie in his bed and listen to the screaming matches, torn between burying himself beneath the blankets and charging down the creaky stairs to jump to his brother’s defence. Every spell he heard cast, every bang and slammed door froze any instinct he might have had to move. Dozens of possibilities flashed through his mind too quickly to even entertain, but lingered long enough to fill him with a deep and constant sense of dread. With no wand of his own and body less than half the size of his mother’s, Sirius told him countless times that it would be pointless for him to try and get in her way. That didn’t ease the guilt that filled him as he watched his brother attempt to brew his first rudimentary healing potions, but it was enough to keep his own skin unmarred. As they escorted him to the station that first time as a family, Regulus was filled with equal parts anguish and relief.
After Sirius was gone, things at home were much quieter. Isolation had once been a punishment, with him and Sirius being separated when they did something to irritate their parents, no doubt wishing to avoid them influencing one another. But with Sirius away at school and his parents busy living their lives, isolation became the only truth that Regulus knew. With all that time on his hands, he had a lot of time to worry about how Sirius was doing at school. When he received a photograph in the post, Sirius with three other boys, he didn’t know what to make of it. One of the boys was covered in scars, which made him uneasy for a start. The second boy was inoffensive enough, though Regulus didn’t recognise him from any of their childhood outings so he doubted it was the kind of company their parents had expected him to keep. Being sorted into a house other than Slytherin would give him the opportunity to do that, Regulus supposed. But the third boy. His hair was wild, glasses askew and his hands were all over Sirius. One was planted in his hair, balancing behind him so that the camera would catch both of their faces, and the other was gripping hard onto his shoulder. Regulus was sure that there must have been small bruises beneath his brother’s jumper, wondered why he was smiling then. And why was that boy grinning so maniacally as he inflicted such pain on him? The only conclusion he could come to was that this boy took the same pleasure in hurting people as his mother seemed to. Though he stole Regulus’ attention every time he scrutinised the picture, he also frightened the boy.
Of course, he got a closer look at this when he started Hogwarts. It didn’t feel much closer, though. While he was physically closer to his brother than he’d been for most of his first year, Sirius had never been less interested in speaking to or acknowledging Regulus. Being sorted into Slytherin would do that. Regulus settled for watching them across the Great Hall, Sirius and his three friends, seemingly always happy and seemingly never lonely. By Regulus’ second year and their third, there seemed to be no end to the touching. Sirius and James were practically joined at the hip. If it wasn’t the earlier roughhousing, then it was ruffled hair and dragging Sirius around by the arm. At some point, it got so that Sirius was just as bad as he was. He’d do it to their other friends too, but mostly James. If the muggleborn students were told that Sirius had a brother at school, they’d probably have assumed it was Potter before they did him. After all, he never so much as looked Regulus’ way if he could help it.
The comfort which Sirius seemed to feel for these touches at school didn’t extend to their home. When home for the summer or Christmas, Sirius would transform from the outgoing and boisterous hooligan Regulus saw at school to the withdrawn and sulky character he always reserved for the family. While he wouldn’t flinch at James’ touch (something which Regulus still found himself doing on Sirius’ behalf), he still did when their father’s hand landed on his shoulder firmly. Back at school, Regulus was often exposed to the same thing from Professor Slughorn, along with stories of fond memories teaching older cousins and uncles. Slughorn never hurt him, but he couldn’t help the way the muscles in his head would tense in the same way they always had overhearing raised voices at home. Not that Slughorn ever noticed that, only noticed if Regulus smiled back at him, or agreed to go along to his gatherings.
And his confusion regarding Sirius’ lack of bruising didn’t last forever. Once he joined the Quidditch team, Regulus found out just how much of that touching could be endured. The others didn’t like him much, tolerated him only as much as his surname demanded, but still they would clap him on the back and pull him along for a celebratory butterbeer after a good result. When he looked at his shoulders in the mirror afterwards, he could see no trace of this rowdiness. Only then did Potter’s constant touching begin to look less like an assault and more like a cornerstone of friendship that Regulus simply had no experience of.
It didn’t help that around that time, the quartet of Gryffindors seemed to simultaneously become aware of another kind of touching. Not with each other, not that Regulus knew. But he’d often see Pettigrew trailing along behind some girl, trying to get her to hold his hand. Once he saw Potter standing beneath a tree with some girl who had let him hold her hand. Without Sirius in the equation, Regulus didn’t know why he was still watching, only that he didn’t understand. When his mother touched him, there was always a reason. She wanted to prove a point, or to punish him for some misgiving. When the boys on the team touched him, it was an outlet for their excitement, a show of solidarity. And when Slughorn touched him, it was because he liked to feel close to the important people, of which he considered Regulus’ family to be. But as he watched James intently, watched as his fingers skimmed that girl’s arm like pebbles on the lake, he could see no reason for the contact other than to touch, to feel. And still, as irrational as it was, he found himself wanting it. He put his own fingers clumsily against his own arm as he had seen James do, closed his eyes and pretended it was… Well, not him. Never him. But somebody else.
When he could no longer bear watching, Regulus sought out somebody to help him explore this uncharted territory. Barty Crouch had on several occasions implied that he’d be willing to do such a thing with Regulus, and he had always pretended not to understand the boy’s meaning. But if he didn’t do something soon, the half-baked images in his mind of dark skin on his and those ridiculous glasses being pushed back into place would sharpen into focus. He couldn’t have that. So he allowed Barty to touch him in the way that he’d seen the others do it, and his stomach twisted as the touch elicited nothing but a strong urge to push him away. Regulus worried that he had missed all of those milestones he’d seen Sirius have with James, and that he’d never be able to let somebody touch him like that, even if he wanted to.
When he was finally given another opportunity, it was sort of Sirius’ fault. It had been a stupid argument, really. Sirius had said something as they passed one another and Regulus had stupidly flexed his fingers where they sat over his wand. That had been a mistake, and he knew it. It wasn’t the first time his brother had sent a jinx in his direction, but it was the first that he hadn’t managed to duck or divert and ended up in the Hospital Wing with a bloody hand and a thick, green salve to apply to his chest twice a day. To his credit, Sirius did look sorry about it when he led him down there and left him in the care of Madam Pomfrey. If his friends had been with him at the time, he’d probably have been convinced to move along without incident. Regulus didn’t know where they were, but soon found out once he heard the snoring. Lupin was laid up in one of the beds across from the one Regulus was forced into, though only Merlin knew what was wrong with him. He spent more time in the Hospital Wing than anybody else Regulus knew, and if he hadn’t been so distracted by his visitor, he might have been suspicious. James was curled up in the chair beside Lupin, jumping up to investigate when Sirius and his brother stumbled in.
Sirius didn’t stick around for long, gave an awkward pat to Lupin’s arm and then took off. Regulus knew that if he hadn’t been there, Sirius probably would have stayed. He wouldn’t think about that, would tuck it away with the fact that it had been Sirius that put him in the Hospital Wing in the first place. In the past, Regulus had told himself that it was outside factors that made Sirius act like that, that he was just a different person than when he was at home. Now he knew it was closer to the truth to say that he was just a different person from when they were little, that he had changed so much that Regulus barely recognised him anymore. Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey didn’t make him stick around to ruminate on that for too long, told him to get dressed and free up her bed after less than half an hour’s waiting. With his hand still bashed up, that was easier said than done.
“D’you want a hand with that?” James asked him from across the room, motioning to the mess he was making of his tie.
Regulus had almost forgotten he was there at all, and wanted to say no, couldn’t think of anything worse than James Potter of all people coming into his personal space and helping him with such a simple task, no doubt with that stupid smirk across his face. Except that there was no real reason for him to say no besides his irrational dislike. And the alternative was waiting around for Madam Pomfrey to appear again, and asking her to help him, which was more mortifying than letting Sirius’ irritating friend do it.
“Thank you.” He muttered, and avoided making eye contact as James strode over to him and took his tie in his hands.
Then: James’ knuckle brushed against Regulus’ jaw as he reached around to bring together the knot. His breath caught in his throat, and he hoped desperately that James didn’t notice but of course, he did. Brown eyes lifted from below heavy black lashes to meet his, bashful and boyish and all the things Regulus told himself he hated about James Potter but which also made it difficult to respond when James asked,
“Sorry, are my hands cold?”, the apology too amused to feel sincere but equally with the same level of casual friendliness he’d watched James address everybody he came into contact with over the years. Regulus pulled himself together only enough to shake his head before James was stepping back, giving one last look to his handiwork and then turning his attention back to the sleeping Lupin. As Regulus whirled himself back around to sit on the hard Hospital Wing bed, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and the knot of his tie was far looser than he’d ever tie it himself. From the neck down, he might be mistaken for his brother if not for the serpentine green and cool silver painted down his front, claiming him for the only house he’d ever known to be an option. It occurred to him momentarily that Madam Pomfrey might have been premature in her decision to discharge him, because while his hand was on the way to being healed, his mind could no longer be trusted. All that was running through his mind on a loop was James’ knuckle, cold and hard but still gentle against his skin for the briefest moment it had found him. Regulus would swear he could still feel it, unable to think of anything but that sensation. Thankfully, James was no longer paying him the slightest bit of attention, so was blissfully unaware of this conundrum.
After that fleeting moment, it was more difficult to watch the easy familiarity James had with his brother. No longer did he watch with the deeply ingrained disdain for that sort of affection, the sense that it was somehow improper or uncouth. Instead, there was an uncomfortable yearning, a tug within himself that longed for that sort of touch once more. It didn’t need to be like it was with Barty, like he saw others touching each other when boldly intoxicated at parties. If James would just touch him once more like he had that day, Regulus thought that he’d be content.
A week later, James passed him in the corridor. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, made noteworthy only by the few words they had exchanged the previous week. Regulus didn’t expect him to say anything, didn’t expect even eye contact as their paths crossed, and wasn’t surprised in that respect. Until they had already passed one another and James said,
“Oh, wait.”
His voice wasn’t raised at all and as he turned, Regulus wasn’t entirely convinced James was speaking to him at all. Except that there he was, stopped in his tracks and eyes fixed on Regulus. There was the hint of a smile on his lips, and he asked, “is your hand better?”
“Yes.” He answered curtly. He held up his hand in proof. Then lowered it. Turned slightly. Only for his hand to be caught by James’, warm and forceful enough to drag it back up for closer inspection but gentle enough that Regulus still caught himself rooted to the spot like the last time. James didn’t say anything as he turned Regulus’ hand over in his, thumb brushing over knuckles and eyes watching carefully for a wince or other proof that Regulus had been lying about the skin healing. If he noticed Regulus’ embarrassment, he said nothing about it.
“Good.” James smiled, assessment concluded and Regulus’ hand dropped, but slowly, fingers lingering against his as he lowered them back to Regulus’ side. He was the kind of person to jump full force at his teammates after a victory, to jovially clap his friends on the back or grab them to win their attention, and yet there he was, treating Regulus like he was something to be handled with care. Regulus watched him as he walked away, and was struck by an alarming urge to throw his head against the nearest stone wall. If he was to go about his day with any semblance of sanity, he was going to have to do something about that. And given that James Potter had been the one to ignite the flame that burned so hungrily within him, he thought it only fair that he should be the one to help.
Before he could think better of it, Regulus was half-running after him and calling out to him.
“James!”
“Yeah?”
James turned right back around, was facing him. Regulus didn’t quite calculate his footing as accurately as he might’ve done with a clear head, stopped only a moment before he would have crashed right into him. This obviously amused James, who once again reached for his elbows, this time to steady him. While all of this was happening, Regulus mentally screamed at himself, scolded himself with the ferocity that his parents always had, and perhaps with good reason if this was the kind of thing he did when he followed his instincts. What was he supposed to say? He’d no reason to stop James, couldn’t very well tell him that he wanted him to touch him, that he was finding it increasingly difficult to think in his presence.
So instead, he said nothing more. He swallowed down the last of his pride and his indecision and he reached up to kiss James.