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Historians will call them anything but.
His fingers slid in its caress across the soft surface of Regulus’ skin, palm pressing with its warmth on the gentle creases the younger’s joints exclaimed as it pressed into his arm. His tongue traced with a soft sigh in the salty capture of the exposed neck, teeth grazing as his cheeks felt the flutter of the collar digging into his cheek, collarbone resting under the grip of his lips. The rebellion grope of his grin plastered against the sticky area of skin, Regulus tangling his hands with the messy mixture of James’ hair and sweat, knuckles blending white as it clutched tightly in reaction.
The walls of the closet drowned with blistered specks in its wood, dust settling on the ground, sparks flickering in the air again as Regulus suddenly brought his legs up to wrap against James’ waist, their bodies pressed against each other as they stumbled into the wall, laughter grazing their teeth as they gritted together. Hammered into the post of the door, the cold metal ring of the handle dug into the naked site of the Gryffindor’s hip, the tickles from the frail strands of hay shifting in his movements. “Splinter,” he murmured into the feeling of Regulus’ lips against his, his nose pressing next to the Slytherin’s as he twisted his neck.
An expense of euphoria raged in their contact, a physical attraction as the Black’s hair stuck up on its ends, a strong grip iron as it traced the cut of his jawline. The soft wall of Potter’s fringe brushing in between their foreheads warmed a hug, the gentle tug of Regulus’ fingers on the gold and red robes drifting their physical grip. “Congrats,” whispered Regulus, breath warm as it tangled into James’, their scents mixing in the blend of the confined space, his lips upturned in the sharp casualness of his genuine smile. There was a tingling vibration swaying in his robes, the green and black flickering at the corner of his eyes.
“Thank you, Reggie,” answered back the Gryffindor, the cockiness of his tone showering the smile on his face with the replica of pride, a twinge of his eyes reflecting the solemn distaste in a certain aspect of his victory. “But you…”
“Got something else,” he said, resting the bridge of his nose against James’, the tucked away parts of his fringe unravelling as it spilled over their forehead, twisting with the knotty waves. Their fingers intertwined, weighing heavy as Regulus pulled their hands into his pocket, his lips widening in his expression. His mouth tasted sweet as it touched James’, the softness of the physical contact tingling the nerves of his body.
He misses when it was like that. When it felt like it was enough.
He watched the shadow casted by the lamps of the street, the mark of a danger gravely pressing itself into his eyes, blazing a painful churn of his guts. The back of his eye lids appealed the spotted fragments of pixels coloured in broken shades, memories of his life flashing by his eyes. The green light of his presence shoved itself into the door of the home, breaking apart the last intact moments of his sanity.
He reached forward with his wand, mind full and empty.
If this – his – family was to survive, to live, because he managed to choose, he would take it.
Because he lost too many.
The green blaze of fire burned at his body, the faint image of old books, broom polish, and the taste of butterbeer stained his lips, tongue cold at the absence of all loved.
Maybe it was the fresh wound of death, overcoming his life, but the living illusion of Regulus smiling sadly at him scarred his eyes, and he wishes that he could erase it all. But that was if he kept living, and the shifting change in his thoughts blew over his overshot dreams like wind into the petals of leaves.
He could hear it already. “Congrats,” came the voice, a memory so stricken into the bone. He would reply, deep in blood, knees in depth, and he would finish the sentence. “But you lost.”
“Got something else,” he had replied. What, what did you get?
That smile came again, and he could only watch it as it trembled in the blurring ripples of water, the threaten of tears beginning to poke at the back of his eyes.
But history hates lovers.