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Regulus had always known exactly how his life was going to play out. He had never been one to dream of a future which he had the ability to mould, one which teased with promises of freedom and endless possibilities. No, he had always been a realist—or rather, perhaps, simply quick to accept any order or expectation with little to no argument. He knew that pretending, even for a brief moment, that there was another possibility aside from the life that had been predetermined for him from the moment of conception would ultimately only bring him unnecessary pain. And so, he didn't dream. He did as he was told, and he slipped through his own life as if only spectating. He could be the perfect son, the perfect heir, the perfect Black, and then he would be respected. He would make up for any dishonour his family had faced and serve as a reminder to the world of that natural order—the constant truth which kept the Black family in charge. He would be everything expected of him and more, and he knew better than to consider any other way of life even so much as feasible.
Sirius had always dreamt of more. That much was made especially clear when he took off, getting himself blasted from the family tapestry and rejecting his blood entirely. Regulus had always seen him as weaker for it. He could think of himself as the strong, brave Gryffindor all he liked, but really, he'd only deluded himself enough to believe that his dreams were little more than just that. Dreaming was one of the few luxuries their family could not afford, and while his name may have no longer been spoken within the walls of Grimmauld Place, Regulus never once believed him to have truly escaped. He wondered, now, if he was right in that thought—if Sirius was still followed constantly by the inescapable reality of who he was; if he felt he could never run fast enough to escape the shadows of his childhood always nipping at his heels. He had no way of knowing, truly. Even if he could ask, despite having been distant from him for so long, he still knew his brother well enough to be able to expect the lie. Sirius would never accept defeat after all the noise he made about getting out. That pride was, in itself, only further evidence that he always was and always would be a Black.
Regulus didn't dream. Except, on one cold Winter's morning, lying silently in his bed until he couldn't keep pretending he was still asleep—he liked to take advantage of the few minutes each day he had before the unending stress of being a seventh year consumed him—, he did. For once in his life, Regulus allowed himself to fall into the trap of wishful thinking, despite being fully aware of the risks. For five minutes—maybe ten, being generous—he dreamt of a life which granted him such impossibilities as freedom and hope. There was a void within him, one that had been there for as long as he could remember, and it became increasingly consuming with each day that passed. He became stricken with it suddenly, that emptiness which had become his reality so naturally. The broken feeling inside of him which he had thought of with a casual normality for years felt, almost instantaneously, like a gaping wound across his chest, bleeding and aching with a pain that blinded him. Something was missing, or at least harrowingly wrong, and he dared to hope he could find salvation from it in some dreamt-up, impossible future. Only then did he allow himself to dream—only as he sought, desperately, some kind of cure for the dark coldness which clung to him like a parasite.
The most difficult part, truly, was knowing where to start. He didn't know what he wanted—He had never let himself want anything. Eventually, though, his scattered mind found something to cling to, kept circling back, and from there, he was lost to it. Toughened hands which felt natural on his skin like no others, brown eyes whose gaze made him want to stop everything he was doing to keep it on him. The hole in his chest had always felt the most alive when he was with Barty, as if something inside it was crawling around and clawing at the edges, desperate to escape. Sometimes, just being around him made Regulus feel like he was dying, but also as if he was more alive than he'd ever been before. Now, the thought alone of Barty winded him.
It may have been difficult to find where to start, but once his imagination had something tangible to chase after, it was almost as if he lost control of his own thoughts, left chasing after visions of dreams he didn't even know he could have. In an instant, he could see Barty lounging beside him at pureblood parties, the two of them exchanging snide remarks about the range of women from which Regulus was supposed to be selecting a wife.
'What's with the colour of her robes?' Barty would snicker.
'I suppose the dye must be costly.'
Well, it cost me my appetite,' he'd reply, and Regulus would have to cough to cover a laugh that he'd been too surprised by to stop in time.
Now and again, Barty would raise his voice a bit too high, and some poor girl would be seen rushing out of the room in a huff. Regulus would scold him, but only halfheartedly, and he'd just laugh. Regulus would end the night even further from marriage than he'd been at the beginning of it, but he wouldn't face any immediate consequences, and it'd feel like he had forever left to worry about that. Why would he worry, when he'd be so content with what he already had? All a wife would bring him was less time to spend trying not to laugh at Barty's blunt impoliteness, and he'd be in no hurry for that.
Regulus' mind didn't stop there, though. He saw them older, this time completely unshackled by their families and free to live like any other wizards. Regulus would work overtime as a potion-maker, always insistent on doing just a bit more work before he left for the night. Barty would be used to it, and he'd stand around idly as Regulus worked without complaint, going on about his day and whatever rumours he'd had the pleasure of hearing about. He'd be a curse-breaker, and they'd keep a collection back home of strange trinkets Barty had acquired as souvenirs whenever he was made to travel for work. The home which was shared between them, the one which they'd return to once Regulus had finally let himself step away from his workbench. It'd be a more peaceful life—they'd have lost the luxuries afforded to them by their families' bounds of wealth, but in its stead, they'd have gained an undeniable feeling of freedom. In this dream world, they didn't have to suffer any consequences for that. Regulus could pretend to forget reality and the destiny assigned to him at birth which he could never shake. They'd follow the lead of their passions in life and little else.
He could see them, in the dead of night, finding a wide, open field. They'd bring their old brooms, ones they wouldn't have been able to justify replacing since graduating from Hogwarts. They'd fly around aimlessly for hours if only for the sake of never forgetting what the rush of cold air felt like against their skin. They'd barely be able to see a foot in front of their own faces, but the darkness would be half of the fun, and they'd follow the sounds of each other's laughter through the night. Once they eventually got too tired, they'd settle against the grass, wet with early-morning dew, and look up at the stars. Regulus would tell Barty about the constellations, a mixture of new stories and facts he'd already told him ten times each before—Barty never remembered any of it anyways, but he'd keep asking to be told again. Those nights would let them pretend to be young again, with so much uncertainty ahead of them, and they would smile over the knowledge of how much of it they were still yet to face. They were as endless as the ink-black skies they soared through.
He was falling deeper, and fast. A whole lifetime abstaining from dreaming for even a second yet within two or three minutes he had already sunk entirely too deep into what-ifs. He could barely feel his own body past the rush that left his ears ringing, only vaguely aware of his heavy, pounding heart and his deep, laboured breaths. He felt dizzy. He felt like he could be sick at any moment. He saw him and Barty walking through the dirty streets of muggle London. They'd have run away from the wizarding world entirely. Regulus had never wanted that—it was not only the coward's way out but also the idiot's. He had no desire to live amongst muggles. They'd have no idea where they were, nor where they were going, but they'd stick close together and remain determined to figure it out as they went. It would be cold out—maybe it'd even start to rain. As the sky got increasingly darker, they'd get increasingly more cold, wet, and tired. Eventually, they'd stumble their way into a hotel for the night. Regulus would've had the foresight to source some muggle money and forge some kind of identification beforehand, of course, so at the very least that wouldn't be an issue. They'd feign excitement and relief to hide their fear, but they'd both be terrified of whatever was to come. What was done would have been done, though, and it would be too late to go back then.
Eventually, he imagined, they'd find a flat of their own. It'd have to be dirt cheap while they floundered to find sources of income, but at least it'd be a constant place to return to at the end of each day. They'd share a single mattress on the floor between them, but considering the constant draughts of cold air from every other window and door, the proximity would be more of a convenience than anything else. They'd push up close against each other, both exhausted from a day of manual labour the types of which neither of them had experienced before abandoning the wizarding world. Regulus would be able to feel Barty's hot breath against his neck and hear his heart beating in his chest.
He didn't know what happened. He let himself have five minutes, five minutes at most to let his mind wander. To imagine a better life in the face of the looming threat of war which he tried to ignore lest feel bile rising in his throat. Regulus knew what his life was going to be—he knew what Barty's would be, too, in the same way that Barty similarly knew the same for both of them. This was all absurd. The Regulus of his dreams didn't exist. It was nothing like him, and to so much as entertain the idea that he could be anything like it someday would be foolish. He didn't even want the lives presented to him by his wandering mind—in at least one way, each of them, to some level, actually disgusted him—but it was relentless nonetheless. It wasn't real, and it couldn't be, and he had blocked off this section of his mind for as long as he could remember for exactly that reason. He felt nauseous. He didn't know why it happened.
Regulus' hand would come to rest on Barty's arm, and he'd delight internally when he could hear his heart rate quicken. Barty would lean in, and the sensation of breath against his neck would be suddenly replaced by that of lips, first kissing, then gently biting at his cold skin. It'd start slowly, and Regulus would run his hand up and across his back to absentmindedly play with his thick, brown hair. Eventually, Barty would begin inching up from his neck to his earlobe, then his jaw, down to the corner of his mouth. He'd stop there, and he wouldn't move on his own. Regulus would have to do it himself—he'd huff, like he would every time, and Barty would grin teasingly for only a second before Regulus moved to capture his lips with his own. They'd move leisurely, in no rush, simply glad to so much as be there at all. In time, their lips would open, and their kisses would become more heated, four hands rushing to brush over as much of another body's skin as possible. One of their tongues would slide against the entrance to the other's mouth, it didn't matter who's, and they'd open their mouths wider to make room as—
Regulus sat up suddenly, his head spinning from the sudden movement as he gripped the side of his bed to hold himself stable. He snatched open the curtain to his bed, immediately relieved to discover that he was still the only one awake. He raced to the bathroom, his mind a jumbled mess of panic and confusion, and fell to the floor beside the toilet in just enough time to pour all of what little had been inside his empty stomach out into the bowl. He started choking when he tried to breathe, coughing and sputtering as he struggled to gasp for air. His blood had gone as cold as ice, and he shivered as he sat slumped against the bathroom floor. In only five minutes, he'd managed to ruin all that he'd been carefully building throughout his entire life. He dared, for once, to have just the slightest amount of hope, and he lost himself to it. Laughably, he had let himself think that dreaming could be a solution.
He stood slowly, legs shaking under his weight. He wiped his mouth, moving to stare at himself in the mirror. He thought to glare, but couldn't bring himself to do much more than stare back into his own dead eyes. If he had felt broken before, he was irrevocably destroyed, now. His chest had been split open, and his insides all torn out by harsh, callous hands. He didn't know what was wrong with him. The void inside him had overwhelmed him now. He felt more akin to a profound emptiness wearing human skin than a man. He didn't know how his mind even got to that. Nothing would change. Nothing could change. He had wasted his time only for the sake of severing any lingering threads he had left to a feeling of humanity. He was still Regulus Arcturus Black. He was still the heir. There was still the threat of a war that he had no desire to engage in at all looming overhead.
He was still Regulus Arcturus Black. He was still the heir. There was still the threat of a war which he had no desire to engage in at all looming overhead. His life, and what was to come, was still exactly the same as what it had been the night before, and almost nothing about the expectations of him from the world had changed since before he was even born.
He kept staring at himself in the mirror, never looking away from deep inside his own sunken eyes. Cold. Hard. Void of any feeling. Nothing was ever going to change.
And nothing ever changed.