Work Text:
23 June 1979, Grimmauld Place:
Regulus’s hands shake as they clutch the envelope to his chest like a lifeline. His cold fingers grasp onto the fabric of his shirt around the letter, wrinkling the material underneath them. Small black curls stick slightly to his clammy forehead as he curls around the letter, desperately pushing it into his chest to stifle his gasping sobs.
His breath comes in staggered intervals and he can feel himself choking on air. Slim fingers move of their own accord from where they clutch at his chest and bring the letter to his face. His chapped lips quiver as he slowly presses the seal of the envelope against them. His eyes slip shut at the contact and he presses forward into it in the hopes that it will bring him some comfort. The scent of parchment and wax fills his nose and he tries, to no avail, not to think about the last letter he held to his lips like this.
Regulus attempts to pull himself together, but, much to his chagrin, he can’t seem to stop his tears. He takes a deep breath and centers himself.
After a moment, he pulls away from the letter and reaches up with one hand to swipe over his face. Nimble fingers flip the envelope over in his hands. He can only barely make out the shape of his lettering through the sheen of tears in his eyes; perfect cursive, handwriting to befit a Black. Regulus shakes his head slightly and blinks twice before the back of the letter comes into focus:
To: James Potter
From: R.A.B.
Simple and effective; to the point. No return address, he didn’t see a need for it.
Regulus stares at the envelope for another minute before he bends over to slip the letter underneath a stack of old books on his desk. He knows James will find it eventually. That’s just how James is: persistent, stubborn, and kind. Regulus’s lips twitch upwards when his eyes land on a dried vase of marigolds at the corner of the desk. He remembers the day he got those flowers.
He and James had gone to visit Remus at his cottage, and James picked them off the side of the road and handed them to Regulus with the brightest smile on his face. Regulus had laughed at him then, but secretly he kept them and put them in one of his mother's old glass vases when he went home. He couldn’t help how bubbly that smile made him. He wanted to see it all the time.
The flowers died long ago and have accumulated a thin layer of dust on their petals and leaves as they sit abandoned in their vase. Regulus reaches out and plucks one from the bunch. He brings it up to his nose and inhales the scent of it. He imagines that it smells like one of James’s coats that he always gave Regulus on cold days; like fresh air, warm soil, and something so innately James that he can’t quite describe.
Then he flips the flower between his fingers and slides it carefully into the hair behind his ear. When he inhales he can smell the faded perfume of the flower, and for a moment he almost reconsiders his plans. He thinks that maybe he should just apparate to James’s apartment and beg him for forgiveness and try to make things work. The thoughts only last a second before he shuts them out and stores them away in his mind.
He can’t afford to hesitate now; He’s already made his choice. So he reaches to grab his wand from where it lays on the desk and looks up into the small mirror James insisted on hanging on his wall. The ashen petals of the marigold peak out between strands of his hair, and his eyes have red rims and deep circles. Regulus turns away from the mirror on his heels and walks towards the bedroom door. His hand rests on the brushed gold door knob for a moment before he turns the knob. The door hinges squeak as he steps over the threshold. He stops halfway into the hall and turns back to face his room. His eyes catch on the sleeve of a red sweater that peeks out of one of his dresser drawers. James must’ve forgotten it last night.
“He’ll get it back when he finds the letter,” Regulus tells himself sternly and moves his eyes over his bed where the sheets are rumpled, and James’s stupid Bowie albums lay, neatly stacked on the nightstand.
James’s presence fills the room like a plague. It threatens to suffocate him because he knows how much better it feels when James invades his space as if it inherently belongs to him.
Regulus looks away from the bedside table and out into the hall.
He can’t afford to hesitate. So he doesn’t.
He steps into the corridor, shuts the door firmly behind himself, and moves away. He leaves James in that room, along with any other hopes he had. Regulus leaves everything behind and walks away from his room alone, just as he should have the night his parents forced him to get the dark mark.
Tonight, he will finally make things right.
Tonight, he will finally find peace.
________________
25 June 1979, Grimmauld Place:
James’s fingers shook as he ran over the green seal on the letter he pulled from under a stack of books on Regulus’s desk. He flipped it over slowly to find perfect cursive lettering, handwriting that could only befit a Black:
To: James Potter
From: R.A.B.
It was simple and effective; to the point.