Chapter Text
Regulus Black was a simple man. He read his books, took his pictures, and drank his coffee. He went to work on the weekends, he went to school, and he cried every night to a ten year old picture of himself and his brother.
This picture of the two brothers -Regulus a six year old, his cheeks chubby and his dimples visible from how hard he smiled, and a year older Sirius, his hair longer than their mother allowed, his white teeth shining as he held his brother in his arms- would have been ruined, if it weren't for the glass of the picture frame covering it.
Ruined by the tears of a very damaged, very scarred, and very, really fucking lonely boy who was named after a star -twice, even- and yet he was nothing but a speck of dust, a mere passing thought, a glimpse of a person who no one would remember.
There was a time where Regulus Arcturus deserved his names, he thought, but it was the time of childhood innocence, when he didn't yet know the feeling of blood in his mouth, the dull ache of a broken finger which hadn't been treated. It was when Regulus was all smiles and hugs and love. It was when Sirius was still around, it was when Regulus was too small for his parents to notice the fatal flaws he would carry.
And God, how he misses his brother. It's only been a year since Sirus left, and still, it felt like decades. Number 12 Grimmauld Place has always been hollow and empty, with dark walls and dusty family portraits, leather bound books and blood-stained bedsheets. But Sirius was a glimpse of light, a speck of hope. His hand on Regulus' shoulder had always been the most comforting sensation Regulus experienced. Because that's what Sirius Black is - comfort. He's like a safety blanket, even if it's rough around the edges.
And Regulus is so goddamn cold.
He would sit in his bed, wearing the sweater that Sirius had left behind, and he would take the picture delicately in his hands. Sometimes, he would talk to it. To Sirius. But most of the time it made him feel crazy, so he settled for crying over it. Regulus wasn't sure why this particular picture, this particular thing that he had from Sirius, was so important to him. Why was this one picture something that made him cry instantly? Why wasn't it the sweater, or the room, or the blood stain on Regulus' t-shirt that lays in the back of his closet?
Regulus thought that it was because of his relationship with photography. As a child, he would watch his cousin Narcissa take photos of her sisters on an old analog camera and he would be mesmerized by it. The way she went closer, tried different angles. The way her sisters would be laughing and instead of laughing with them, she would take her camera and snap a photo with a small, secret smile on her face. Later, when she got them developed, she would show the photos to Regulus and he would just stare at them, completely thrown away the ability of a thing as small as a camera and film to capture the rawness of human emotion, keeping it forever.
When Regulus was 12, he got his first camera from Sirius. The past years, he talked and talked about photography, telling Sirius about books about the different types of cameras and the history of photography, the colouring and angles for as long as Sirius was willing to listen. The day of his birthday, when he opened the box and found a second-hand film camera, he flung himself at Sirius, squeezing him tightly. From that day on, Regulus was capturing the rare beauty of his world.
His brother, splayed out on his bed, complaining loudly about their parents when they weren't home. Barty and Evan, Regulus' first ever friends, running down the street in the rain, their heads turned back at Regulus with a grins on their faces. Pandora and Dorcas, friends of Barty's, laying on the grass with books in their hands. James Potter and Remus Lupin, laughing as Sirius and Peter Pettigrew were chased by a stray cat. They still didn't know that Regulus was watching them that day, and that he took the photo. It was better when it was tucked away in his drawer, never to be seen.
Now, at 16, Regulus cries over pictures.
What a development, truly.
-
"Did she actually ask you?" said Barty, a wide grin on his face, as he put some wine glasses in the washing machine behind the counter.
"She really did. I honestly didn't want to do it at first, but she insisted," replied Regulus.
Barty rolled his eyes, "Of course you didn't, Mr. "my photos aren't even good".
Regulus just scoffed, returning to the front to take a customer's order.
Barty was Regulus' favorite person, probably. He was all laughs and teasing and sarcasm, but when shit got bad, he was always there. Barty was the person that Regulus would go to when he simply wanted to be held, when he didn't want to solve things, rather just needed to be comforted. And Barty would understand, ever since day one.
A few months ago, they both got a job at a local café, The Alchemist, and immediately took the same shifts on the spreadsheet, so they could be working together. It showed to be actually fun, if you can believe it. They were in sync and could talk naturally as they worked, rather than making awkward small talk.
A few days ago, the manager of the café found Regulus' instagram profile, which was filled with both film and digital photos he took. She emailed him immediately about printing some of the pictures and decorating the café with them, saying that they would brighten up the place and give Regulus a bit of promo. Reluctantly, and with a lot of convicing on Dorcas Meadowes' part, Regulus accepted the offer and now, his pictures hung on the walls.
There were ten of them, all in the same tone, all taken on film, and all capturing the small beauties of the world that Regulus' eye caught. A flower sprouting from a crack in the sidewalk, a couple holding hands and watching the sunset, an old lady reading a book on a wooden bench, and similar other ones.
If he were to be honest, Regulus did feel a bit of pride when he saw people admiring them. Over the years, he got quite the following online, but real life was always better, more natural, and he found that albeit it being hard, opening up about his art and showing it to the world felt freeing, especially because it took a lot of courage to show it, even when it was something as small as the decor of a café.
"You should feel proud, Reg. You're actually good, you just don't see it," Evan said to him one night.
But Regulus rolled his eyes and said, "that's your subjective opinion, Evan. And while I appreciate it, it doesn't mean that everyone else will like it."
Regulus always struggled with being an artist. He never felt like he reached a point where he could even call himself an artist - but was there even a certain point when one was classified as an artist? And what if Regulus' art seemed meaningless? What was even art's purpose, if not meaning? And at what point can you be sure that your art is something to be proud of? What if your view of the world is so hard to understand, that the art you create with it seems pointless?
Regulus' eye was always on the mundane and incosequential things in life. But what if nobody else thought this way?