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“I wish I could hate you.”
It’s said quietly, the words barely audible, whispered into Regulus’ hair. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop the slow, gentle stroking of his thumb over the back of Regulus’ hand even as the younger man stiffens, body going rigid in Amycus’ embrace. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Amycus takes this as an invitation to continue talking.
“We shouldn’t–- I shouldn’t be here. I should be back in London. You should be–-”
He breaks off, then, because the only other options for Regulus are dead or continuing to force himself to live a life he hates.
(Maybe he’s a little selfish, but he wishes they were back in London. He wishes they were back in his flat instead of some shitty muggle Italian hotel. He wishes they weren’t on the run, in hiding, possibly for the rest of their lives.)
“I should be...?” Regulus prompts, voice just as quiet as Amycus’, but it’s stiff, too, with a hard edge to it that means Amycus has fucked up again.
“You should be happy,” he says instead, even as Regulus moves away to rest fully against the headboard. He doesn’t let go of Amycus’ hand, though, and Amycus squeezes once, gently, before going back to brushing his thumb over Regulus’ knuckles. It’s new, the hand holding -- Amycus still doesn’t know what’s allowed, what he can get away with, what’s too much, and he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries. That first night in Canada they spent the whole night pressed close together, chest to chest, first kissing like they wanted to climb inside each other’s skin, later just holding each other tightly, breathing in each other’s air and not letting go until the sunlight streamed in around the edges of the curtains the next morning.
Things have been… strained. What Regulus said that night, a little over a month ago now -- well, there’s no way a revelation like that couldn’t have such a huge impact. Even Amycus can tell how surprised Regulus is every morning he wakes to find that he hasn’t left yet. Occasionally he catches glimpses of just how much it means to the younger man, in the almost unreadable looks, the reverent, lingering touches, the soft, urgent kisses, the way Regulus sometimes unconsciously clings tightly to him in his sleep.
He almost wants to cry, sometimes, when he realises that Regulus really doesn’t believe he deserves anyone to care about him like Amycus does.
“You deserve to be happy,” he affirms, and Regulus turns his head to give him another long, unreadable look.
He’s close -- he’s so close to admitting it, to saying those words, the words that have been taking up more and more room in his brain over the last few weeks, the words that get stuck in his throat every time Regulus smiles at him or brushes their fingers together or wrinkles his nose and tries to burrow his way back under the covers in the morning -- but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t say them. So he reaches over with his free hand and cups Regulus’ jaw, tilting his head upwards and studying his face seriously for a few moments. I love you, he thinks, violently, angrily, as loudly as he can within the confines of his own head, and leans forwards to press their lips together.
The kiss is nothing like the utter turmoil in his mind. It’s calm, gentle, tender -- loving, he thinks, with another flash of self-hatred. It lasts for too long, yet not long enough, and when Regulus pulls away to rest their foreheads together Amycus’ breathing is too uneven for what they’ve just been doing. He feels raw, ripped open, like he’s completely on display for anyone to see -- but Regulus is the only one here.
“I wish I could hate you,” he says again, voice barely more than a whisper, and the next soft brush of lips against his own tells him Regulus understands.