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There was nothing particularly romantic about the flat on Malden Grove, but Regulus liked the way the morning light spilled in through the cracked blinds, slicing Sirius’s smoke-stained posters with neat golden lines. The walls were thin, the ceiling water-stained, and the radiator coughed more than it heated, but it was the first place Reg had ever lived in that didn’t carry the smell of disappointment and Brut cologne.
Sirius said it was a “bohemian haven” and Regulus, always half-joking and half-wincing, called it a “shithole with aspirations.”
They lived on the top floor of an old terraced house that had been gutted and divided into thirds. The stairs creaked so loud that Reg could hear Sirius coming before he saw him—usually around 2am, smelling of liquor and coconut oil from the pole. Their flat had one bedroom, which they didn’t use separately, a kitchen that barely deserved the name, and a bathroom where the sink leaned away from the wall like it was trying to escape. But it was theirs.
When Sirius was eighteen and Reg seventeen, they’d finally run. Sirius had been planning it for years—waiting for Regulus to finish exams, watching his own bruises fade before returning home to gather what little he owned. Orion Black had tried to stop them. Walburga had screamed and threatened, but Sirius had dragged Regulus down the steps by the wrist, their bags swinging behind them, and never once looked back.
That first week, they slept on the floor of the flat, curled in sleeping bags they stole from the department store. Sirius worked double shifts at a dingy bar with velvet wallpaper that stuck to your skin and a disco ball that hadn’t turned since 1993. When he was offered more money to dance on Saturdays, he’d shrugged and said, “Money’s money,” and winked.
Regulus didn’t ask questions. He already knew the answers. Sirius told him everything.
By week three, they had a mattress. One, singular, no bedframe. Sirius insisted he didn’t mind the couch—Reg didn’t push. But more nights than not, Regulus would end up slipping into the mattress beside him, quietly, the springs creaking. Sirius always woke up but never said a word. Just rolled over and threw a warm arm across Reg’s ribs.
“You’re freezing,” he’d murmur. “You sleep like a corpse.”
“You smell like regret,” Regulus would reply.
Sirius only grinned.
---
Regulus was supposed to go back to school. Sixth form, A-levels. But he didn’t. Not right away. He spent the days staring at the water-ringed ceiling or reading library books. Mostly Russian literature, which Sirius called “gloom for posh kids.”
One night, as Sirius pulled off his glittery shirt and wiped his face with a towel, he stood in the doorway and said, “You can’t rot in here forever, you know.”
“I’m not rotting,” Regulus said, his voice low, even, but cold.
Sirius stepped into the room. “You are. I know what it looks like. You think I didn’t do it when I was your age?”
Regulus didn’t look up. “We’re eight months apart.”
Sirius ignored him. “I’m not letting you end up like him. With a whisky bottle in one hand and the other clenched in a fist.”
Regulus blinked slowly. “So what, you want me to join the exotic dancing business? Think I’d pull more tips than you?”
Sirius laughed—bright, a little too loud. “Darling, I think you’d have the whole crowd crying into their pints.”
“Tragic stripper,” Reg mused. “Sounds like a Lana Del Rey song.”
Sirius sat down beside him, serious now. “Apply to uni. I’ll handle the rest.”
“You can’t afford that,” Regulus said quietly.
Sirius leaned in, pressed their foreheads together. “Let me worry about that. You get out. You get your degree. You become something. For both of us.”
---
Regulus didn’t go right away. But Sirius had always had a way of planting ideas like poison ivy—they spread quietly, steadily, until you woke up one day and couldn’t breathe without them. By autumn, Reg had enrolled in a foundation course. By spring, he was applying for proper uni places.
They still had no money. Still shared toothpaste and used the same towel for weeks. Still fought over who’d finished the milk and whether or not cigarettes were a necessity (Sirius said yes, Regulus said he’d hide them again if Sirius didn’t start using his inhaler). But they were okay.
Sometimes, late at night, when Sirius came home too wired to sleep and Regulus was still pretending to study, they’d lie in bed together and talk. About everything. About nothing.
Sirius had always been more open. Loud. Charismatic in a way that made everyone love him even as he burned everything down. Regulus was quieter, sharper, and harder to read. But with Sirius, he wasn’t afraid to say filthy, ridiculous, or terrifying things—because Sirius would answer him in kind.
“I think I’m broken,” Regulus said once, his voice muffled by Sirius’s hoodie, which he was curled into.
Sirius looked at him, one arm draped over his head. “Define broken.”
“I don’t know,” Regulus whispered. “Like… my insides don’t match what people expect. Like there’s a wrongness that I can’t get rid of, no matter what I do. I don’t want to be looked at like—like I’m something to fix.”
Sirius studied him a long time. “You’re not broken. You’re a fucking masterpiece. Even when you’re being a pretentious twat.”
Regulus cracked a smile. “Says the guy who quotes Oscar Wilde when he’s drunk.”
Sirius lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the ceiling. “Touché.”
---
Sometimes their conversations took darker turns.
“Would you have killed him?” Reg asked once, on a night when the heating had gone out and they were sharing three blankets and a bottle of terrible red wine.
“Which one?” Sirius murmured. “I had a whole list.”
Regulus didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Sirius exhaled, sharp and bitter.
“I thought about it,” Sirius said. “When you were fourteen and I saw that mark on your neck and you lied about it. I thought—I could do it. I could make him disappear.”
Regulus stared at the ceiling. “And?”
Sirius’s voice was soft. “You cried when the neighbor’s cat died. I figured you’d never forgive me.”
“I might have,” Regulus whispered.
The silence stretched.
“I still think about it,” Sirius said.
Regulus turned, burrowed closer. “Me too.”
---
There was a closeness between them that defied explanation. Not romantic—not in the way people understood it. But not just brothers either. It was something forged in fire, in fists and silence, in long nights without food and days without light. It was a secret language, a shared wound, a pact sealed in childhood and broken again and again but never entirely.
Sometimes they were unhinged. Regulus could be cruel in that quiet way—venomous and precise—and Sirius, impulsive and emotional, would rise to it like a match to gasoline. Their fights were legendary. Screaming, throwing things, sometimes one of them storming out for hours. But they always came back.
Sirius once called Regulus his “little ghost.” Always there, always watching, haunting him like a memory he never wanted to forget. Regulus called Sirius “the sun that burns.”
And they meant it.
---
Regulus had started testosterone in a way that felt both unceremonious and quietly monumental.
It was a Tuesday morning when Sirius handed him the little brown bag, tucked inside his coat like it was contraband.
“I sold the leather jacket,” Sirius said, casually. “The red one. Figured I didn’t need to look like a bisexual warlord every weekend.”
Regulus stared at him. “You loved that jacket.”
Sirius shrugged. “I love you more.”
That night, Reg sat on the toilet lid in their cramped bathroom, the mirror fogged from the shower, while Sirius knelt in front of him, carefully prepping the needle. His hands, always steady when they shouldn’t be, flicked over the cap and vial like it was second nature.
“You sure?” Sirius asked.
Regulus nodded, heart thudding. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Stay still, little prince.”
It stung. He flinched. Sirius kissed his shoulder through the cotton of his shirt.
“There. Welcome to manhood. It’s mostly back pain and repressed feelings from here on out.”
Regulus huffed a laugh. “I’m already there.”
---
University had been a stroke of divine luck. A scholarship to a place close enough they didn’t have to move, but far enough that Reg could pretend, sometimes, he had a separate life.
He studied like he was starving. It was the one way he knew how to prove he was worth the trouble, the money, the long nights Sirius spent working shifts he never spoke about. Sociology, political theory, gender studies—he devoured it all, scribbling in notebooks until his hand cramped, printing out articles from the library printer until it coughed in protest.
He couldn’t let Sirius down.
But they didn’t see each other much anymore.
By the time Regulus got home from the library, the flat was dark, sometimes lit only by the blinking red eye of the smoke detector. He’d heat up whatever leftover soup he’d made two days ago, eat it cold, and crawl into bed.
Sirius came home around three. Always three. Like clockwork.
The door clicked softly—Sirius never used the key properly, always jiggled it until it gave in—and Regulus would wake up instantly, even if he didn’t move. He could hear him stumbling, the slow rustle of clothing hitting the floor, the thump of boots being kicked off, the sound of Sirius cursing under his breath when he dropped his phone again.
Then the mattress dipped.
Sirius never said much. Just slipped in behind Regulus and threw an arm around him like a reflex. He smelled like vodka, sweat, smoke, and something artificial—cologne someone else had sprayed on him, maybe. Glitter clung to his arms. His skin was warm, always warm.
“You’re home late,” Regulus murmured once, eyes still closed.
“Am I?” Sirius asked softly. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
He kissed the back of Regulus’s neck.
---
They talked, in those hours. In the strange, vulnerable quiet between 3 and 5 a.m., when neither of them were truly awake or asleep. It was when the truth had fewer sharp edges.
“What do they do?” Regulus asked one night, curled into Sirius’s chest.
“Who?”
“The customers.”
Sirius was silent. Regulus could feel him breathing.
“Depends,” he said finally. “Some want to talk. Some want to cry. Some want to pretend I’m their ex-boyfriend who broke their heart. Some…” he paused, voice tightening, “want to see how far they can go with twenty quid in their wallet and nothing in their eyes.”
Regulus shifted, rested his chin on Sirius’s ribs. “Do they touch you?”
Sirius looked at the ceiling. “Only if I let them.”
Regulus stared at him. “Do you let them?”
Sirius smiled, that hollow kind he only used in the dark. “Sometimes.”
Regulus swallowed. “Do you hate it?”
Sirius didn’t answer.
Eventually, he said, “I don’t feel anything when they do it. Not hate. Not pleasure. It’s just—numb. Like background noise. Like standing in traffic.”
Regulus nodded, slow, careful. “I hate that for you.”
Sirius stroked his hair, the short dark strands that had come in thicker since the T started working. “Don’t. It’s just a job.”
“You’re more than a job,” Regulus whispered.
Sirius pulled him tighter. “So are you.”
---
On the weekends, when Sirius wasn’t working late, he made them both strong tea and burned the toast and read aloud from the classifieds, pretending to be offended by every wage. Regulus liked those mornings best—when Sirius’s eyeliner was smudged and he wore oversized jumpers over tiny shorts and looked more like the brother he remembered than the stranger who stumbled in, glittered and silent, every night.
They were still unhinged. Still elegant. Still sharp-tongued and better dressed than they had any right to be.
They shopped in charity stores and styled themselves like cursed heirs of some doomed dynasty. Sirius wore eyeliner and rings on every finger, while Regulus perfected the art of dressing like he didn’t care but secretly thought he might be a prince in exile.
One Sunday morning, Sirius found a velvet blazer in a bin bag behind a costume shop.
“It’s haunted,” he declared. “I love it.”
“You’re going to get bedbugs,” Regulus said without looking up from his book.
“Then we’ll raise them like children.”
Regulus smirked. “You’re insufferable.”
Sirius grinned. “You adore me.”
“I tolerate you.”
But they both knew it wasn’t true.
---
Regulus’s voice had started to change. Lower, rougher. Sirius didn’t mention it, not directly, but sometimes, when Reg was talking about something—usually politics or one of his latest hyperfixations—Sirius would just stare at him like he’d seen something holy.
“Stop it,” Reg said once, eyes narrowing. “You’re looking at me like I’m a Victorian painting.”
Sirius laughed. “You are. Sad and dramatic and priceless.”
Regulus flushed.
Sometimes, when Sirius was drunk, he got soft in that way only people who’ve seen the worst of you do.
“Do you remember that time you sang in the hallway? When you were twelve?”
“No,” Reg said. “Because that never happened.”
“You did,” Sirius insisted. “You were wearing Mum’s boots and you sang some awful Beatles song at the top of your lungs.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”
Sirius leaned in, eyes warm. “Because you wanted to feel something.”
Regulus didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
They understood each other in those cracks between memory and silence.
---
Sometimes Sirius came home drunker than usual.
Not the sloppy kind of drunk that stumbled over shoes and cursed at the sink, but the slow, syrupy kind. The kind that made him quiet. The kind that made him kind.
Those were the nights Regulus both feared and longed for.
He’d be awake, still—he always was, despite the weight of exams and readings that made his head buzz. His body clock was tethered to the door latch and the sound of keys fumbling.
The door would open, and Sirius would drift in like perfume, soaked in expensive cologne that wasn’t his. Dressed in something too tight, too sleek, too black. With rings smudged and eyeliner melting like grief.
“Hey, baby brother,” he’d slur, soft as a lullaby.
Regulus was already propped up in bed, book on his lap, barely pretending to read.
“You drank,” Regulus would say.
“Didn’t mean to,” Sirius would murmur, toeing off his boots. “Fancy ones were there tonight. Offered champagne. Said I looked like a painting. A Caravaggio one. You know, tragic and half-naked.”
Regulus closed the book. “So you drank champagne with predators.”
Sirius laughed, flopping onto the bed beside him. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re the tragic one in this duo. I’m the comic relief.”
Then came the hands. Slow. Gentle. Fingers brushing Regulus’s face like he was trying to memorize it.
“Your beard’s coming in,” Sirius whispered, lips curved into something genuine. “You’re so handsome, Reg.”
Regulus’s chest ached. He hated how much he loved this version of Sirius—the soft, slow one who touched him like he was real, not a burden, not a broken little shadow. Sirius stroked over his jaw, his cheek, under his chin, where the new hair was still thin and uneven.
“Like velvet,” Sirius murmured. “Can I touch it forever?”
Regulus nodded. “If you bring me tea in the morning.”
Sirius smiled, eyes heavy. “Done.”
But morning never came kindly.
---
Hangover Sirius was something else entirely.
He stumbled out of bed around noon, shirtless, hair a mess, rings still on his fingers like leftover armor. His mouth tasted like bile and sugar and shame, and Regulus could always hear him groan before he ever appeared in the kitchen.
He’d squint against the light, bark at the kettle for boiling too loud, curse at the fridge for not having oat milk.
“You left your goddamn textbooks on the floor again,” he snapped one morning. “What if I tripped and cracked my skull open, huh? What would your precious university say then?”
Regulus, sitting at the table with a highlighter in one hand and a piece of dry toast in the other, barely flinched.
“You were already bleeding when you walked in last night,” he said flatly. “Your skull’s seen worse.”
Sirius threw his head back. “Jesus. Don’t start. I’ve got a headache and I swear your voice is the pitch of a dental drill.”
Regulus looked at him. Really looked at him. The under-eyes stained with sleeplessness and stress. The dry lips. The bruises on his hips.
“I liked you better drunk,” he said, low.
Sirius flinched.
There was a beat of silence. Then, Sirius left.
Regulus hated himself for saying it. But he also hated the way Sirius treated him like a nuisance when the daylight hit.
The apologies always came, of course. In the form of cheap donuts from the Polish bakery two blocks down. Or lukewarm coffee in the mug Regulus liked. Sometimes Sirius just slipped into his bed again that night, held him, whispered, “Sorry I’m a prick. I love you, you know that?”
Regulus would nod. He always nodded. Because he did know.
That didn’t make it easier.
---
He got the job behind Sirius’s back.
It was at a vegan café that smelled like wet oats and patchouli. They gave him a single apron and too many rules. It paid next to nothing, but it was enough to help with groceries and the occasional bus fare.
He hated it.
He hated the way people looked at him when he got their order wrong. The way the manager corrected him with that sickly, faux-positive voice. He hated how he couldn’t bind properly under the stupid uniform and how sweaty he got and how the bathroom had a mirror he couldn’t avoid.
But it was for them. Not just him. For the light bill and the soap and Sirius’s toothpaste and the multivitamins he started buying for his brother when he noticed his nails getting brittle.
Sirius didn’t know. Couldn’t know. He’d be furious.
“You’re studying,” he’d say. “That’s your job. I didn’t crawl my way out of that house just so you’d work at some oat-milk nightmare cafe and ruin your back.”
But Regulus was already ruining himself, quietly. Just like Sirius was. Only slower.
---
One night, they both got home late.
Regulus smelled like espresso and lavender oil. Sirius smelled like champagne and men’s aftershave and glitter.
“Why are you dressed like a barista,” Sirius said, lifting a brow.
Regulus threw his apron on the counter. “I got a job.”
Sirius stared at him.
Regulus looked back, jaw set. “We need the money.”
“I’ve got the money.”
“No, Sirius. You’ve got just enough to barely get by while selling pieces of yourself to rich assholes.”
Sirius went quiet. His face fell a little. The sharp edges dulled.
“You don’t have to fix this, Reg.”
Regulus’s voice cracked. “Neither do you.”
They stood there for a long time. Two tired boys in a flat that was too small, hearts too full, eyes too sharp.
Sirius moved first. Crossed the space. Wrapped his arms around Regulus like he couldn’t bear not to.
“I’m sorry I’m so fucked up.”
Regulus buried his face in his shoulder. “Me too.”
---
Regulus was doing well.
Better than well, really. His grades were solid. His professors had started to recognize him as that quiet, intense kid with sharp eyes and an almost obsessive way of highlighting every reading. The stipend had helped—textbooks, a secondhand laptop, even some new shirts that weren’t stained or stretched out from too many washes.
It felt like he was finally moving somewhere, like he was reaching for a life that wasn’t just survival.
But every night was a different story.
Every night, Sirius came back late.
Always reeking of smoke and cheap cologne, sometimes faintly of other people’s perfume. Always with fresh marks—hickeys—on his neck or collarbone, the kind Regulus had never seen before they left home. They burned like brand names, reminders that Sirius was living a life Reg didn’t fully understand, or maybe refused to understand.
Regulus hated it. Hated how it made his stomach twist with something that wasn’t quite jealousy, wasn’t quite fear, just a knotted mix of anger and helplessness.
“Sirius,” Regulus snapped once, quietly, when Sirius flopped on the bed and pulled off his shirt, revealing a purple bruise blooming on his collarbone.
Sirius just grinned, tired and reckless. “It’s not a big deal. You’re the only one that matters, Reg.”
Regulus didn’t believe it.
---
They had a ritual of sorts. Sometimes, when the flat was quiet and the world outside was nothing but distant hums and streetlamps, they’d sit on the edge of their small bed together. Sirius would pull out a cigarette, light it with practiced ease, and inhale deeply.
Regulus didn’t smoke. Not really. He hated the way it made his throat tickle, the way it made his breath stink. But sometimes, when Sirius was there, when the smoke curled around them like a secret veil, Regulus found himself stealing little puffs.
“Sirius, you know I shouldn’t,” Regulus said once, stealing the cigarette from Sirius’s mouth with a quick flick.
Sirius laughed—deep and warm, the kind of laugh that felt like home. He ruffled Regulus’s hair, fingers rough and kind. “You’re such a pest, Reg.”
Regulus smirked, pretending to glare. “I’m just making sure you don’t die young.”
Sirius squinted, playful. “Touché.”
---
One evening, everything felt heavier.
Regulus had just finished a grueling exam — one that had nearly swallowed him whole with its complexity and pressure. His hands still trembled slightly as he put down his pen, eyes blurry from staring too long at questions and paragraphs.
Sirius was late again. Regulus heard the door slam open at nearly two in the morning. The usual scent hit him—whiskey and smoke and something bitter that wasn’t quite regret.
Sirius dropped his bag by the door and trudged into the bedroom, peeling off his jacket and loosening his tie. His eyes met Regulus’s, tired but alive.
“You look like hell,” Regulus said, sitting on the bed.
“Thanks, love,” Sirius muttered, lighting a cigarette. The flame flickered in the dim room, throwing shadows that danced on the walls.
Regulus’s eyes flicked to the cigarette, an impulsive urge bubbling up.
Before Sirius could finish his first drag, Regulus snatched the cigarette from his fingers, drawing in a shaky breath.
Sirius laughed, startled. “Oi, what the hell?”
Regulus’s eyes were half-closed as he exhaled the smoke. “Needed it.”
Sirius lunged, trying to grab the cigarette back. What started as a casual tug turned into a playful wrestling match on the bed.
“Give it back!” Sirius grinned, pinning Regulus’s wrists lightly.
“Nope.”
Their laughter mingled in the cramped room, breathless and genuine, until Sirius finally grabbed the cigarette, pinched the glowing tip between his fingers, and crushed it against the ashtray with a snap.
“Stop trying to kill yourself, yeah?” he teased, but there was something softer underneath—the way his eyes searched Regulus’s face, as if worried it wasn’t just about the smoke.
Regulus caught his breath, the tension between them hanging thick.
They pulled apart slowly, the playful fight fading into an awkward silence that neither of them wanted to break too quickly.
Finally, Sirius cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, voice low and curious, “what exactly are you studying? I never asked.”
Regulus looked down, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.
“Psychology. Criminology. History too,” he murmured. “I want to understand why people do what they do. Why things happen the way they do.”
Sirius nodded slowly, processing the weight behind those words.
“That’s... pretty intense,” Sirius said after a moment. “I guess it makes sense. You want to fix the world?”
Regulus smiled, a little sadly.
“Maybe. Or at least understand it.”
Sirius reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from Regulus’s forehead.
“You’re going to be amazing, Reg. You already are.”
Regulus’s chest tightened. He wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him.
“Thanks, Sirius.”
They settled into the quiet, smoke swirling between them like a fragile promise, each trying to hold on to something real in a life that often felt like it was slipping away.
---
By April, Regulus was exhausted.
He barely slept. His days were swallowed by lectures, essays, case studies, late-night shifts carrying trays through buzzing cafés with harsh lighting and louder voices. His nights were quiet—library corners, borrowed jumpers, headphones in, chewing on the end of a pen until it bled blue into his mouth.
The flat wasn’t home anymore. Not really.
It was still the same: the peeling wallpaper, the blanket thrown over the couch with cigarette holes in it, the half-functional kettle and Sirius’s boots always left in the hallway like he’d exploded out of them.
But something was different. Sirius was different.
---
They used to fight with soft voices. Passive-aggressive quips, quiet annoyance.
Now they yelled.
“You can’t keep doing this!” Regulus snapped one night, voice hoarse from exhaustion and pent-up fury. “You said you were just bartending—just dancing. And now you’re—what? Letting people—fuck you?”
Sirius stood barefoot in the kitchen, shirt half-buttoned, still sweating. He didn’t flinch.
He only lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and leaned against the fridge with a shrug that was just convincing enough to pass as indifference.
“I don’t let them do anything I don’t want,” he said coolly, though there was something in his voice that cracked just beneath the surface. “It’s work, Reg. Money. Rent. Food. You think your library card pays the bills?”
Regulus stared at him like he didn’t recognize him. Like something in him had finally snapped.
“That’s not an answer.”
“You want honesty?” Sirius’s voice raised an octave, and his knuckles went white around the cigarette. “Fine. Yeah. I fuck men for money sometimes. Old, rich, lonely ones who treat me better than anyone ever did when I was starving in that fucking house with you and Mum and Dad. You want me to be poor again? Or dead? Which would make you sleep easier?”
Regulus’s face flushed red, then pale.
“You’re disgusting.”
Sirius looked at him, wounded and tired.
“You don’t mean that.”
But Regulus was already walking away. Throwing his coat on. Slamming the door so hard the frame shook.
---
He didn’t come back that night.
He stayed in the library until it closed, then went to his part-time job at the little café that always smelled of burnt milk and dish soap. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t even think. He just kept moving until morning blurred into afternoon and his legs ached like he’d run for hours.
He hated how Sirius always made him feel like a child again. Powerless. Furious. Frightened of being left behind.
But the worst part?
He missed him the entire time.
---
Sirius wasn’t a bad person.
That’s what made it worse.
He was a mess. Always had been. Reckless. Charming in a way that made people fall in love too fast. Restless. He had a bad habit of turning everything into a joke, and an even worse habit of pretending nothing ever hurt him.
He smoked too much. Slept too little. Slept with too many.
But when he was home—really home—he was the gentlest thing Regulus knew.
He’d bring cheap pastries and leave them on Regulus’s desk with little notes written on receipt paper:
> “For the genius brother who forgot to eat again. x”
He’d fix things. Broken lamps. Loose screws. He once hand-stitched a button on Regulus’s coat because Regulus couldn’t sew.
And every time he came home drunk, he’d crawl into Regulus’s bed, his breath warm with bourbon and something sweet.
“Your beard’s growing in,” he’d murmur, fingers trailing along Regulus’s jaw. “S’soft. Makes you look older. Still my baby brother, though.”
Regulus would close his eyes and try not to let that break him in half.
---
But the marks.
They didn’t stop.
And neither did the job.
And Regulus couldn’t stay in that flat anymore, not when he knew where Sirius was when he wasn’t there. Not when he imagined hands on Sirius that weren’t his, mouths and whispers and things Sirius never told him about.
So he moved out. Not officially. Just... slowly.
A night here. A week. A couch in the library’s break room. A back corner of the staff room at the café.
He left his toothbrush at the flat, though.
And he still came back, every once in a while. When the ache became too much. When he needed to know Sirius still lived there, still breathed, still burned bright as ever even if it was killing him.
---
One such night, Regulus came back after an exam. He was fried, his nerves shot, his body trembling with the kind of exhaustion that made your bones feel liquid.
Sirius was home, sprawled on the bed in nothing but boxers, smoking out the window like always.
“You look like shit,” he said softly, not unkindly.
“You too,” Regulus muttered.
Sirius patted the mattress beside him. “Come here.”
And against his better judgment, Regulus did.
He sat beside Sirius, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. Close enough to see the small, tired creases around his mouth. The faint scar on his collarbone. The shadow of new bruises.
“Give me that,” Regulus said, stealing the cigarette.
Sirius let him take a drag, watching him with half-lidded eyes.
Then Sirius reached out suddenly, snatched the cigarette, and stubbed it out.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” he said, nudging Regulus’s side.
“Hypocrite.”
“Maybe. Still don’t want you doing it.”
Regulus rolled his eyes. “I’ve literally watched you suck tequila off someone’s chest.”
Sirius grinned, slow and lazy. “You jealous?”
“Disgusted.”
They both laughed.
It was easy—too easy. They slipped into the moment like old habits. Regulus elbowed Sirius. Sirius grabbed his waist and pulled him closer in retaliation. They play-fought again, like they used to, limbs tangling in the bed sheets, laughter echoing off the cracked walls.
But then it stopped.
Just for a second. They paused—breathless, inches apart. Sirius’s hand on Regulus’s hip. Regulus’s fingers curled into the fabric of Sirius’s shirt.
Heat rose like static between them. A line they’d never crossed—never even acknowledged—stood silent and quivering.
Regulus pulled away first. Sat up. Swallowed hard.
Sirius cleared his throat.
“So. What was the exam?” he asked, voice awkward now, as if they hadn't just nearly—
“Criminal psychology,” Regulus replied, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “The stuff that makes your clients tick.”
Sirius chuckled, dark and distant. “Bet you’d diagnose me with something awful.”
Regulus looked at him.
“I think you’re scared,” he said softly. “That’s all.”
Sirius didn’t say anything. Just looked away.
Regulus stood, grabbing his bag. “I should go. Early shift.”
Sirius didn’t stop him. Just watched.
But when Regulus opened the door, Sirius called out—
“Hey.”
Regulus turned.
“You’ll tell me if you need anything, yeah?”
Regulus nodded.
“You too.”
They didn’t say goodbye.
They never did.
---
The flat was quiet when Regulus let himself in.
It smelled like it always did—smoke and lemon cleaner, half-masked by cheap incense Sirius bought at a corner store because it made him feel like he lived in a real home. The lights were off, and the place looked the same. But something in Regulus’s chest felt different.
He dropped his bag by the door. Kicked his shoes off clumsily. He was drunk. Not the loud, dizzy kind—just soft around the edges. Quiet. Too tired to hold himself together anymore.
The exams were over. Finally. He couldn’t remember what grade he got on the last one. Didn’t care. He just wanted to be here.
He stumbled to the bed—if you could call it that, a mattress on the floor with too many blankets and a string of dead fairy lights hanging above it—and collapsed face-first.
The last thing he remembered before sleep took him was how the pillow still smelled like Sirius. Smoke and peppermint and something like lavender that Reg always pretended not to notice.
---
Sirius came home at three a.m.
He unlocked the door quietly, like he always did now. There was something in him lately that hesitated to be loud, even though he used to stomp in like the world belonged to him.
He looked up—and froze.
There was Regulus, curled up on the mattress like a ghost come home. One hand shoved under his cheek. The other still half-holding an empty can of beer.
Sirius stared.
Something twisted in his chest—relief, confusion, love, heartbreak.
He dropped his bag gently, kicked off his boots, and knelt beside the mattress.
“Baby?”
Regulus stirred.
Sirius reached out and brushed the hair from his brother’s face. “Reg. Hey, sweetheart. Wake up.”
Regulus blinked at him, eyes unfocused but already soft. “Sirius?”
“Yeah,” Sirius whispered, smiling despite himself. “You’re really here.”
Regulus made a sound, something between a breath and a sob, and pulled Sirius down beside him.
They didn’t speak for a long while. Sirius wrapped himself around him like he’d never let go again. Regulus’s face was pressed against his neck. They just laid there, breathing together.
Eventually, Regulus muttered, “You smell like gin and cigarettes.”
Sirius huffed a laugh. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”
“I don’t,” Regulus said sleepily. “I just love you.”
Sirius froze. Then exhaled.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too, baby. Always.”
---
They ended up on the floor, two glasses in, sharing the last half bottle of something cheap and amber. They smoked too, passing the cigarette back and forth like they used to, letting the silence sit soft and safe between them.
Sirius looked at Regulus like he hadn’t seen him in years.
“You’re still too pretty for your own good,” he said, leaning his head against Reg’s shoulder.
Regulus rolled his eyes, cheeks flushed. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re beautiful,” Sirius murmured. “Hasn’t changed.”
They laughed, eventually. At nothing. At everything. The kind of laughter that hurt your ribs, that made you fold in half with it. At some point Regulus started crying. Sirius didn’t even ask why—he just pulled him into his lap and rocked him gently like he was still sixteen and scared and new to the world.
Regulus clutched at Sirius’s shirt and whispered, “I hate how much I need you.”
Sirius kissed the top of his head.
“Good,” he said. “Means we’re even.”
---
The kiss wasn’t planned.
It never was.
One second they were tangled together on the mattress, and the next Sirius was cupping Regulus’s face, thumb brushing along the sharp line of his jaw.
“You’re so soft now,” he murmured, voice low and hushed, like a secret. “You’ve got this little beard—makes you look grown. But I still see that kid with the big eyes who followed me around like I hung the stars.”
Regulus didn’t speak.
He just leaned in.
Their lips met like they’d done this a hundred times before, even if they hadn’t. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t lust. It was slow and aching and full of every word they’d never said.
Sirius kissed him like he was scared to break him.
Regulus kissed back like he was scared he’d wake up.
Their hands were shaking.
When they pulled apart, Sirius kept his forehead pressed to Regulus’s.
“You always come back,” he whispered.
Regulus nodded.
“So do you.”
---
They stayed like that until the sun started rising.
Regulus curled against Sirius’s chest, playing with the hem of his shirt. Sirius carded his fingers through Reg’s hair, over and over again, until the tension in his shoulders bled away.
“You should sleep,” Sirius murmured.
Regulus didn’t move. “Not yet.”
Sirius kissed his temple. “You’re so smart, you know that? Gonna change the world someday.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
Regulus’s voice cracked. “Because I just want to change your world. And you won’t let me.”
Silence.
Then Sirius whispered, “You already have, baby. You already did.”
---
That morning, Sirius made tea.
Burned the toast, too, like he always did. Regulus laughed and teased him for it, and Sirius called him “brat” with a fond smile and gave him the better half anyway.
There was still smoke in the curtains. Still rent due. Still bruises on Sirius’s hips that Regulus pretended not to notice.
But there was something else, too.
Something tender. Quiet. Soft.
Something that hadn’t been there in weeks.
Maybe love wasn’t enough. Maybe they’d still break each other.
But for now, Regulus was home.
And Sirius was kind.
And sometimes, that was enough.
---
They didn’t get up the next morning.
The flat was still quiet. Light filtered in through the dirty window blinds, catching dust motes like snow in slow motion. A bus roared past down below, too far away to touch them.
They didn’t speak at first.
Sirius was already awake when Regulus opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, head propped on his arm, just watching. He had that look again—the one Regulus hated and craved in equal measure. Like Sirius knew everything. Like he saw right through him and loved him anyway.
Regulus blinked slowly. “You're staring.”
“I do that,” Sirius said softly, brushing a knuckle along Regulus’s cheekbone. “Get used to it.”
Regulus flushed, lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re beautiful,” Sirius replied, like it was an answer, not a contradiction.
They stayed in bed. Called off everything—Reg’s café shift, Sirius’s club gig, even the library. No notes, no guilt. Just the soft cocoon of blankets and each other, like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
“Let’s just…” Sirius mumbled, forehead against Regulus’s collarbone, “…not be real today.”
Regulus turned his face into Sirius’s hair and said, “Okay.”
---
They spent the morning in slow silence.
Sirius made coffee, and Regulus stole sips even though he didn’t like it. They shared an old apple and some crackers for breakfast, curled up on the couch wrapped in the same too-small blanket.
It was quiet in the way that meant safety.
They didn’t need words—just glances, little brushes of fingers, shared breath.
Later, when the light turned warmer and the traffic faded, Sirius pulled Regulus back into bed. No teasing this time, no loud laughter, no smoke in the air.
Just Sirius, pressing kisses to Regulus’s shoulders. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.
“Do you want to?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “We don’t have to.”
Regulus looked up at him, wide-eyed. His cheeks pink. His heart loud. “I want to,” he said.
Sirius swallowed. “Okay.”
And that was it.
---
It wasn’t sex, not really. It was something else—something deeper, older, more fragile.
Sirius explored slowly, like Regulus was something sacred. His fingers were careful, never rushed, and every time Reg flinched or hesitated, Sirius stopped.
“Tell me,” he said, pressing their foreheads together. “If anything feels wrong. I’ll stop.”
Regulus nodded, breathing shaky, “I trust you.”
And he did.
Sirius treated him like something precious—touching, not taking. Kissing, not consuming. Hands trailing over soft new skin with a kind of awe that made Regulus dizzy.
He whispered things the whole time—quiet things, private things.
“You’re so gorgeous.”
“Your body’s perfect.”
“You’re mine, you know? You always were.”
Regulus clung to him, fingers fisted in his hair, jaw clenched tight against the sob building in his throat.
When it was over, they didn’t speak.
Sirius pulled the covers over both of them and tucked Regulus against his chest. Reg’s breath hitched once, then twice, before the tears came—silent but unstoppable.
Sirius held him tighter.
“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
Regulus shook his head into his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Shh,” Sirius whispered. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You’re perfect. Every part of you.”
---
The afternoon bled into evening.
They stayed in bed, limbs tangled. Sirius traced idle shapes on Reg’s skin with a fingertip. Stars, constellations, old family crests long abandoned. Regulus listened to his heartbeat like it was a song.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Sirius said eventually, voice rough with sleep and smoke.
“I always come back,” Regulus replied. “You’re the only home I’ve got.”
Sirius looked at him then, really looked.
“You know what’s funny?” he said, brushing Regulus’s hair out of his eyes.
“What?”
“I’ve always been terrified of being loved by you.”
Regulus blinked. “Why?”
Sirius smiled, bittersweet. “Because you mean it. And I never feel like I deserve it.”
“You do,” Regulus said without pause. “Every version of you. The drunk one. The angry one. The stupid, flirty, messy, brave, kind one. All of it. You’re mine. That’s the only thing that matters.”
Sirius swallowed hard. “You’re such a brat.”
Regulus smirked. “Takes one to love one.”
---
They ordered food that night—greasy chips and too many sauces and one of those shitty chocolate cakes in a plastic dome. Sirius insisted on feeding Regulus bites with his fingers. Regulus called him an idiot and did it back.
They lit the candles they never used. They sat cross-legged on the floor like kids at a sleepover.
Later, Sirius sat behind Regulus and braided his hair. He was surprisingly good at it, fingers steady and sure.
“Why are you doing that?” Regulus asked, amused.
“Because I like touching you.”
“You’re so soft sometimes it’s disgusting.”
Sirius grinned and bit his shoulder lightly. “And you love it.”
Regulus leaned back against his chest. “I do.”
---
When they crawled into bed that night, Sirius pulled Regulus close and kissed his temple.
“Sleep, darling.”
Regulus turned to face him. “What did you just call me?”
Sirius blinked. “Darling?”
“Say it again.”
Sirius smiled and ran a thumb along Reg’s jaw. “My darling boy.”
Regulus’s throat went tight. He hid it behind a smile. “You’re such a sap.”
Sirius shrugged. “For you? Always.”
---
They fell asleep like that.
A tangle of limbs and bruises and love. The city moved on outside—buses and fights and rain on pavement. But here, in the tiny flat that smelled like old smoke and home, there was only them.
Just Sirius and Regulus.
Two unhinged boys, posh and proud, stupidly in love.
For tonight, it was enough.