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They were at a standstill, neither one moving, Regulus had his hands stretched in front of him, holding a plate of food.
His father was never one to hold back in his punishments, and it showed in the knobby spine, the bleeding welts in his back and the two broken ribs. It was also the third time that week he went without eating.
A cautious look in his eyes and an almost imperceptible readjustment in his position after, Sirius considered his brother more closely. They were never close - their parents would never let dear precious Regulus be influenced by his heathen, disgraceful brother -, but there he was anyway.
Sirius wasn’t stupid. He saw the terrified complexion his brother seemed to exhibit for the last two months. He could see how satisfied their parents were with him since that night - the night Regulus came back home shaking like a leaf, pale the dead, tears flowing like an open faucet and the damning outline of an black mark in his arm.
So no, Sirius wasn’t stupid or blind. He didn’t have illusions about his brother. Even now, he could see the trembling of his marked arm, the lingering of the terror in his eyes. But there was something else in there. Maybe he didn’t have illusions, but he could hope. And maybe, just maybe, Sirius could see Regulus asking for help with his eyes, maybe a look of regret.
They were in a standpoint for nearly ten minutes, but slowly, Sirius changed positions to something more open and easier, and stretched his hands for the plate. Regulus, for his own credit, didn’t look too fazed for the time spent or the clear mistrust - he just stayed still, offering the plate.
The food was a bit cold, and there wasn’t enough to satisfy him or compensate for the combined stress of the beating and the three-day worth of hunger. But it was food, and it came from someone Sirius least expected at the moment. So yes. Maybe he didn’t have illusions, but there was an inkling of hope burning a bit brighter.