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“So, how long is considered the threshold of having stood here for too long?"
The hand snuggling its way against his own limp fingers is warm. Regulus feels the flesh giving life to his own rigid, dead skin. He huffs out a frozen gust of air.
“Just a second more." He can't move his gaze away from it. The way the Muggle store’s light glints and reflects off of the delicate china tea cups, the soft orange glow of it underneath the plastic packaging, and the dancing bears painted on the tiny, white toy set.
Regulus fully understands how utterly ridiculous he is being, he knows that a grown arse adult such as he and his partner shouldn't be gawking through the storefront glass of a Muggle children's toy shop so close to Christmas Eve, under the snow.
They were just going their merry way, or Regulus likes to think they were. He enjoyed the little dates they indulged in from time to time. The small things. Fish and chips by a cart, strolling London on foot, stuffing their hands into each other's cost pockets and snickering at Muggles who side-eye them on the sidewalks.
But something pulled on his heartstrings. They were just going their merry way and James was prattling on about something Sirius had said or something and Regulus's eyes were simply wandering, as they do. And he saw the toy shop. The glinting tea set and it felt like someone had reached in through his mouth and yanked on his innards. He'd stumbled to a stop, turned, and was just about a few short inches from plastering his reddened nose against the glass in utter enchantment and melancholy.
“We can buy it." James tentatively broaches the suggestion, “Take it home and then you can look at them all you like?"
Regulus faintly feels bad. Bless him, he thinks. The man has no idea what has possessed his boyfriend and the supportive chap that he is, he's still going along with it. Still acts gentle and understanding and sincere. Well, it's no act, actually. It took Reggie a good few years to delineate between acting the way you should behave and genuinely going through the motions of living.
“Reggie?" A thumb swipes over the back of his hand, squeezing it, “I think the shopkeeper's getting creeped out, he's making eye contact—"
Regulus forces his unfocused gaze to stray from the toy tea set to his partner's amber eyes. They look as warm and as inviting as they always do, like well churned caramel in a pot, or drizzled over fresh honey cakes.
The man's eyes soften some more and his free hand travels to Reggie's cheek, “Are you okay?"
Of course, he is. Regulus opens his mouth to confirm this but then thinks better of it. It would be a lie to say that he's okay. And James would know he's lying anyway, it's a waste of energy. So the next natural course of action would be to confess how he actually feels. Regulus doesn't know. There's a strange blend of emotions in his chest, of misplaced nostalgia, longing, euphoria, and debilitating sorrow.
He shakes his head, “We should go."
“We can buy it." James insists, “I have muggle money on me and—"
And they've been standing here long enough for a small mound of snow to have formed on top of James' woollen hat. Regulus clamps his lips together and shakes his head; and he knows it is only out of a putrid sort of pride that he refuses to steal one last glance at the stupid toy set.
He forces his protesting boots to resume their halted trek. His hand still held in James', he leads the way from the shop, weaving his way through the sea of harried muggles who are too lost in the anxiety of their modern lives to enjoy the holiday spirit.
Regulus for his part can say that he certainly isn't enjoying it now.
James grants him his silence without badgering him with questions; which is truly a remarkable sacrifice on the man's part seeing as he is very concerned and brimming with the need to know and fix whatever that is ailing his lover.
Regulus knows that look in the man's eyes. It doesn't take a genius to see it anyway, James has always worn his emotions on his sleeves. He is the most passionate man Regulus knows and probably ever will. It's one of the many things he truly loves about him.
Though, this evening it makes him feel wretchedly guilty of having provoked this degree of concern. He doesn't want this to be a big deal nor for their date to end so tragically soon. But the truth of the matter is that he can feel his desperate grasp on the present slip away, drifting farther and farther away from him.
James leads him home and Regulus lets him; riddled with guilt, shame, and the smallest notion of anger now, which is what the melancholy has bled into.
The keys jiggle their way into the keyhole and Regulus's eyes narrow at the deft manner in which James pulls the key out and lightly kicks the door open with the tip of his dripping boot. They stomp on the doormat and Regulus peels off his gloves with his teeth. The motion comes to him automatically, he can hear James faintly in the background, trotting off to their kitchen to put the kettle on.
Their flat in London is smaller than the house in the countryside will be. Only transitory, for James to finish his Auror training in peace. Regulus didn't have the heart to tell him that he and London have a bitter disposition. Of course, the man knew; his best friend and current partner were both victims to the same hell in this dreary smog-ridden cage, but still. It is kinder to keep the past vague and as devoid of painful memories as he can.
He'd hate dragging any past grievances into a relatively happy and easy relationship. Mostly because he'd feel bad, putting the weight of an old, rancid, rotting abuse on James' shoulders. The image of purity that his boyfriend—soon to be fiance—exudes, is too blinding to be besmirched by Maman.
Regulus would just rather leave her and Father in the distant past.
Even if it seems like they have other ideas.
He broods on their couch in front of the telly, and his fingers become red, quickly frustrated by the rending of his winter trousers. It's idiotic, frankly. He frowns at himself. All the more reason not to drag James into things.
Regulus will not allow them to ruin his relationship. Not like they ruined—
He is so emotional over an inanimate tea set that he feels a jabbing in his guts, digging out of him, through the jumper. A twisting in his chest. A deep ache. For something that will never have a chance of revival. The moment for having lived a proper childhood has long come and passed.
It's just a tea set after all. They have real ones in the kitchen. Real good china, that James' mother kindly handed over as a family heirloom. If he is so pressed by the urgency to play with cups and kettle, he can just pad to the kitchen and make himself a cuppa. Which is the logical way to approach this.
But no matter how many times he thinks about the motions of getting off the couch and joining James quietly bustling around in their kitchen, the weight on his chest and lap force him to sink further into the couch.
He was just a baby, wasn't he? And he knew for a fact that at that age Cissa was allowed to have her own tea parties. She even made the house elves make tiny finger sandwiches with a sliver of butter and sliced cucumbers on them. She had those very expensive charmed dolls, who'd actually partake in tea and scones and chatter.
Oh how Regulus grew envious of her toy sets. Her tea set had little roses painted on them. And she had the matching sugar bowl with a lid on it. A lid that shortly after her first shared playdate with Reggie after its purchase went missing.
He cannot even recall now, what became of it.
“Hey." A warm cup is gently glided under his nose and Regulus's eyes snap up to James'. “I put cinnamon sticks in them. For warmth."
The man snuggles into his side with his own steaming mug, his lips a warm, stable pressure on the side of Regulus's head. They sip on the tea, and Regulus has to smile dimly, that the man always knows to sweeten his tea just right.
He drops his head on James' shoulder and fights the urge to heave a great, heavy sigh. It's all in the past. He is no longer a child, nor does he desire to be one. It will be such a ridiculous image, to even ponder about; him playing with a tiny toy tea set. Hilarious even.
But for some reason, it doesn't feel funny. It just strengthens the urge to cry.
“You know…” James starts, tentatively once their mugs are mostly empty, “I respect your space. I love you and I know you're not keen on sharing every private thought with me, even though I wish that's all you did…”
“James—” guilt churns in him and he intends to instantly apologise for the worry and discontent he is causing, but James doesn't let him.
“Something about that toy shop." James' lips graze his head again, “Do we need to burn it down? ‘cause Sirius and I've been thinking it's been awhile since we've pulled—”
Regulus cracks a smile, “Don’t be ridiculous."
“There’s a story there, behind your eyes," the man's warm fingers trace the corners of Reggie's face and Regulus suppresses a shudder, “There always is."
“It's not a nice story. It's rotten." Most of them are, to be quite honest. One does not simply live through what the Black siblings have and then call it a jolly day.
The days were fraught with anxiety, pulsating headaches, scraped throats run-through with cries. Broken toy sets.
“I don't care." James says, “If you want to tell me, I'll always listen."
Regulus thanks him with a kiss. But he can't bring himself to elaborate on the incident. The desecrated memory is too painfully vivid at the front of his mind for a verbal re-articulation. He just needs this internal ache to cease somehow. He does not wish to relive it through parroting it back in the air and dirtying it.
They end the night on a good note. Sirius had lent them a muggle film he'd rented from a video store that just opened by his flat with Remus, and they had their fill of the lunch leftovers on the couch.
James pampers him a bit more than he usually does—which is saying something—and they play hop frog with wrinkled newspapers they meant to throw out with the rubbish this morning.
Regulus allows himself to suffer in silence and brood in the shower, and joins James with a deliberately relaxed stance. He slips under the covers and wiggles his toes and nips kisses at James' throat and jaw until the man relents to a proper snogging.
James falls asleep, Regulus doesn't. He listens to the sound of nothingness in the relative dark and thinks about that glass case, and the delicate toy tea set, framed under an angelic orange light. He prays that he doesn't end up dreaming about it. Which means, of course he does.
The dream is more of a hazy remnant of a traumatic memory. And the way children's memories tend to blur as they grow, the order of events is jarringly out of pace. One moment, Regulus is enviously crying into his arms, plopped on his bed, hysterical with jealousy and want.
He knows, even at that age, his parents would rather die than buy him a girly toy set the same as Cissa’s. He is barely allowed building blocks as is. Then Kreacher is there, stroking his head as he hiccups and sobs out his urgent need for a China toy tea set and the charmed dolls and a tea party. The memory fades into the blazing hell of the fireplace in their cramped living room in Grimmauld place, and his father's booming voice, roaring with the flames as Reggie's belongings are tossed into the fire.
He wakes up with a start, cold sweat clinging to his face in a light sheen. His hand travels to his chest, pushing down against the racing heart through his ribs.
James remains asleep. And Regulus is thankful for it. His panic is always a quiet thing. It is a beast, well-behaved. Or more accurately beaten into submission.
He can deteriorate, fully implode on the inside in a crowded room with not even a tear to show for it. Though, only two are always able to tell when he is out of place. His brother, because he has been taught the same restraints. And James. Because James, loves him.
Regulus slips out of bed, his toes unwilling on the cold floorboards. Winter is always so unkind to him. He avoids the fireplace and the kitchen, pointedly. He contemplates spending the night in the bathtub, or better yet, out of the flat in the streets to get whatever this is out of his system.
He'd asked Kreacher if he should request a set for his birthday. It was close enough, he'd argued. Perhaps under the guise of learning etiquette and practicing, he could get his hands on a toy tea set with beautiful roses and shiny sugar bowls. He would keep it clean and out of the way, he would only use it once a week.
Kreacher, of course knew better. But he could never say no to his Master. And Regulus was too stubborn a child to have listened anyway. He was …maybe seven? Younger. He was younger.
This, he didn't see in the dream—nightmare—but he recalls now, crouched over the basin in their bathroom that he'd even gotten so ahead of himself as to name the charmed dolls he was about to receive. One, he'd call Henry, he figured, and maybe another Katherine. A good, proper English name. And he'd have a baby doll, and that he will name in the tradition of the Black family, Cyrus, or some other constellation.
He wasn't that knowledgeable in the way of the stars when he was that young.
It was in the end, not a wish his parents had any desire to entertain or fulfil. But one night, Kreacher showed up with their cups and teapot from the kitchen, that he'd clumsily charmed smaller, stuttering that he would love to have a teaparty with the young master.
Regulus's breath catches and he dares not think of their discovery. Of the flames and the broken china and Kreacher beaten and cursed within every inch of his small body. Regulus for his part, had gotten a backhanded slap to his face with such stark strength that the handprint formed into a bruise.
Sirius was devastated. But Regulus…Regulus was heartbroken.
It's odd, Regulus thinks as he looks into the mirror in the dark. He was always somehow under the assumption that once he moved out of that house and got away from those people that he'd be fine.
And he has been, for the most part. Hasn't he?
The lights in their bathroom flicker and Regulus sluggishly looks at James' groggy face. The man holds out his arms and Regulus should know better, but his feet unwittingly take him, shove him burrowing into the embrace.
James doesn't ask him why he cries, but Regulus doesn't cry silently as he often does. His sobs are wet and pathetic, too loud even for his own ears, and he gives himself five minutes of this utter lunacy before he composes himself. But the five minutes come and pass and Regulus is still filled to the brim with an unnamed ache, all over his body. He fears that if he even opens his mouth to explain it, some infrastructure inside his well-oiled machine will collapse inward.
It's utterly absurd to think that he is throwing such a fuss over an incident that occurred more than a decade and some years ago. Over a tea set and a childish desire to usurp. But he chokes on it and grips James like a drowning man hanging to a piece of driftwood. James holds him for the longest time, crooning a string of comfort in Regulus's ears that goes largely unheard. His hands are warm, his arms steady.
Regulus is very ashamed of admitting the reason why he feels so strongly about this. So he doesn't say anything. His eyes eventually droop in the embrace, and James eventually half helps, half carries him back to their bed.
He doesn't feel like crying again once they're in bed, but his face dampens anyway. James wipes his face with the collar of his own shirt, gently like he does not find the entire affair entirely too melodramatic and overstimulating.
Regulus has to nurse a headache, the following morning. He considers getting out of bed once James stirs only for a beat before he decides that he does not want to brave the world's bullshit today.
James always gets up early in the morning. And so he gets up, drops a loving kiss on Reggie's head and pads to their bathroom for a shower. Regulus listens to the man shuffling around their flat, pulling on his training robes, putting the kettle on the stove, hopping around for a missing sock that won't budge to an Accio. The tea set is latent but explosively present in the front of his mind. Like a paper cut dunked into a vat of vinegar, it throbs.
James brings him tea and a biscuit on a small saucer before he has to leave for work. “Breakfast in bed—" the man sings, sliding a tray on the nightstand with the gaze of pure love dancing in his eyes, behind those stupid glasses.
Regulus is prompted, only by that look to sit up on the bed and reach for the mug, the sweet aroma of Earl grey and…lavender waft up under his nose. “Lavender."
“I brewed a whole pot." James declares proudly, he digs a hand into his robe's pocket and withdraws a vial, “For your headache."
“How did you—"
But he doesn't even need to ask. James always knows. The man pulls him in for a long passionate kiss, and teasingly swipes his tongue over Regulus's lower lip, “Sweet." He mutters.
“It's the tea."
“Nah." The man draws back with a wink. “It's all you. Sugar cane in my bed."
“You are so sappy, James Potter—"
“Says the syrup dripping over our pillows! Making all the sheets sticky and bewitching me with those lips—" James drawls and runs off before Regulus can curse after him.
Last night is not mentioned even once before James leaves. But once the man goes off to work. Regulus has to sit with it and the subsequent embarrassment.
He punishes himself a little by ignoring the vial of potion on the nightstand and only deems himself worthy enough of finishing the tea.
He needs to put it out of his head. He knows. His past in its entirety. It's all rubbish anyway. He has a good life now, he reckons. Why should he let his parents sully it again?
But they're there. Always under the surface of every interaction, every social cue. And now apparently, in muggle toy shops.
Regulus considers telling Sirius about it, but there is frankly little point. The most Sirius can do is offer physical comfort and curse out their parents. He himself was not spared by their parents. He knows better than anyone, that the lashes remain ever present.
He is disinterested in reading anything or doing much, but he leafs through a few of his current reads so that James doesn't notice. He moves the bookmarks, drops a few covers on their bed and leaves a few books on the nightstand. He even showers.
He figures, the only way is through. He just has to live with the dormant rot of unearthed memories until they fade away or are buried again.
He is a grown man. A grown, educated man who is making his own life with the love of his life. He is not some little boy anymore.
His attempts at normality only work for about four hours at most. By lunchtime he is already sick of pretending an orderly conduct in solitude and decides to leave the house. It's snowing. Again. Because of course it is.
He doesn't even have enough forethought to conjure an umbrella or rush back into the building to the flat to fetch it.
It's not far anyway. Where he wants to go.
Of course, walking to Claremont Square in a flimsy coat, having forgotten both his scarf and an umbrella is pure insanity. But he is charged by the pure insanity of a man done with the memories of parental abuse. James will nag at him about it later surely.
His nose clogs, and his head pounds, his hair damp as the snow falls and melts into his scalp. His hands, stuffed in his coat pockets are rigid and freezing. Curled around his wand.
People on the street throw him curious looks. And an old lady he nearly knocks into, calls after him, “You okay, lovey!?"
Regulus almost slips on the icy pavement but rushes to get away from her. His eyes are only attuned to the memory, the blazing fire and the broken china cracking under his father's boots and poor Kreacher, begging for forgiveness. Begging to be spared.
It corrupts him. To such an extent that he nearly passes by the demolition site entirely. His zooming gait sputters into a halt once he notices the muggle demolition vehicles, and the entire street, sequestered off from the usual bustling traffic in London.
“Oi, mate!" A guy shouts at him when Regulus almost crashes into him. He is stumbling back, staring at the wreckage with utter disbelief. There are …those are the same old dark bricks, the townhouses Stretching towards the sky…well, no longer.
His boots almost skid on the frozen roads, but he approaches the nearest muggle in a vest with chattering teeth. He sniffs and there is a cold dampness frozen on his face.
“Sorry, I'm sorry—" he calls the guy out meekly. The man turns to him in mild surprise, with a scruffy beard and gloved hands.
“Can I help ya, Mate?"
“Um—what are you guys doing?" He vaguely gestures at the—the—without looking at it. He can't bring himself to look at it.
The guy stares at him for a beat, “Ah…knocking it down?”
Knocking it down. Regulus swallows and turns to the demolished house, the fallen bricks and steel rods and plaster, all in a pile like they were never erected to begin with. “Destroying the…”
"Yeah, mate. Whole thing’s coming down.”
It's rather nice of this random muggle, he faintly thinks under the buzzing crowding his ears, to indulge him like this.
"You okay, man?”
"That used to be my…” he can't even bring himself to utter the word home, "My House.”
"Ah,” The muggle says again, a bit sympathetic yet more awkwardly, "Bit weird then. No one's been on this block for years.”
“Can I look?" He asks and the Muggle guy gives him a weird look again.
“Sure, lad. Not here though. Let's get you a vest, ya look cold—"
Regulus thinks of the pile of debris and bricks as broken china, and ruined sleeps, and childish cries. It feels like the evidence of his suffering, is what is being tarnished by the swinging wrecking ball.
The Muggle construction worker gives him a vest and offers his gloves. But Regulus ignores him. He only looks, onward at the broken remains of his childhood house. It seems that the present is truly resolute to let the sleeping dogs be.
He eventually wanders off the site, his socks drenched through his boots because of the snow. His head is pounding by the time he makes it to the flat. And miserable, he cries before he even has his key shoved into the slot or twisted.
In his wet clothes, he stomps on the doormat, more in an irrational fury than intent and rushes inside. The sight unsettled him, like the blazing fire and the broken china. He can't deny it and he can't sit with it or talk about it.
He contemplates firecalling his brother and crying to him about it, that their old home, the evidence of their suffering is gone. He sits on the couch, shivering in his wet clothes, and obsessively replays the scene of the wreckage in his head.
It must be hours later that he hears the jiggling of another set of keys, and the heavy door opening with a gust of winter wind. He comes to himself and realises that he spent nearly half the day, wet on this couch.
Regulus clambers off the couch to James' grinning face freezing into a look of horror. There's a fairly large wrapped parcel in his hands that he slowly lowers.
“Dear Merlin—" he exclaims.
“It's okay—"
“You're freezing and wet, what are you doing—dear God, Reggie we have to get you out of those clothes—"
Regulus protests James' touch and empathic cries with a subtle shake of his head, “I went on a walk," he feels the rush of a warming spell over him, cast from James's wand. “I—they broke it down."
“What do you mean?" James lets the wrapped parcel float out of his hands. He tears a glove off and cups Reggie's frigid face with warm fingers, “Merlin, you're freezing—"
“Grimmauld place." Regulus heaves a gasp, "They had demolishers and—it's gone. The whole thing. I watched. The whole thing. There's nothing there—”
"You walked to Claremont Square? In this hail? Oh, love.” He's tugged into the man's arms, and he breathes in the embrace, his eyes droop.
"I wanted to see.”
"How do you feel? Oh what am I asking—we’re gonna need a hot bath. Come on.”
Regulus doesn't fight it. The parcel is all but forgotten, in James' haste for them to get into the bathroom as soon as possible. Regulus is coerced into drinking two pepper-ups and shedding the wet clothes. He sinks into the warm water with a sigh.
James helps him with his hair and briefly ducks out to change into his own house garments. Regulus steeps in their bathtub like a stubborn little teabag, refusing to bleed colour.
“I'm making soup. You better prey you hadn't gotten sick, Mister—"
Regulus is like pliable dough under James' ministrations to get him back in the living room, in dry clothes and a warmed up constitution. He eyes the parcel innocuously laid on the couch next to him and James hastily hands him a warm mug. “Lavender tea. Drink up, dear Merlin, Reggie—"
Regulus sips on his tea and narrows his eyes at the parcel, “What's in there?"
James startles like he'd just become aware of his own little forgotten package. The man shrugs and then flushes for a beat, “It's…just something I thought you'd want. Are you feeling better?”
"I—” Regulus has to peer inward for a moment to find a truthful answer, "I don't know. I feel that…it was vaguely traumatic."
He is of course, referring to his little stroll, but James' gaze darkens with a knowing look. “Good that they tore it down." His partner grouses, “Not even ghosts will linger there."
Regulus opens his mouth to protest, to exclaim that he will haunt that place, even the wreck and debris. But he finds that it's not really true. He doesn't want to remain there. He doesn't want his parents constantly in his periphery. The reason why he was so unsettled to begin with, was the proximity to the idea of entering his parents’ domain. A domain that no longer exists.
“I dreamed about my parents." He confesses, into the tea, ashamed, “I thought I needed closure but—"
James' hand strokes his knee over the blanket he's draped over him and Regulus finds the courage to speak some more. “An incident. A childish dream, I had. I was stupid about it and therefore punished in a ghastly manner and—"
James hugs him, silently and Regulus has to resist that damned urge to weep again. “I'm sorry." James tells him, but it is not much of an apology as it is a bit of comfort. “I knew those bastards …I did a thing.”
"Did a thing?”
James draws back to reach for the parcel. “Do you wanna open it? Or do you want me to tell you what's in the there and then you decide.”
Regulus looks down on the packet on his lap, and strokes a hand over the brown paper. He doesn't even allow himself to think about what may be in the package. So numb with the earlier adventures in the day, he just tugs at the tape holding the wrapping together gingerly.
James waits almost like he's holding his breath, or considering this to be a horrible idea. Regulus tugs the paper off and his hands settle on the plastic covering of the box. It's a …his eyes are drawn to the delicate bear drawings, the entire set. Even a sugar bowl with a lid.
He caresses the package and he can't help but smile. He thought it'd feel painful, or mocking. To even fathom the idea of telling James or desiring something like this but…there is a childish glee, filling his chest in waves and multitudes.
“Is that for me?" He whispers.
“Yes. All for you."
Regulus's smile widens into a tentative grin and he tugs the box open, so careful as thought he might break the toy set with a breeze. “Oh."
“I didn't know whether the memory would be painful or fond…but, I will never let you yearn for anything in this world.”
“James—"
“Anything your heart even slightly calls for," James presses his nose against Reggie's cheek, “I want you to tell me first, and I'll get it for you."
Regulus purses his lips, overtaken by the rushing of sudden emotions, clogging his throat. No one has ever done this sort of thing for him. He was openly bashed for it even. He had all the wealth in the world and no one who truly knew what he wanted or sought for simple pleasures.
This man trekked in the snow, after hours of intense work and training to get him a China toy tea set. Regulus buries his face in James' neck and breathes. James lets him think in his silence, gripping the toy set with a grasp of death on an unwilling soul.
It's his. His tea set. His own tea set. With tiny bears drawn on it.
“I love you. I love you so much, sometimes I think I'll die—I love you."
“I love you more, obviously," James teases, obviously attempting to lighten the mood. "Now say, do you know how to work that thing? ‘Cause we will be needing the fine dining set for dinner tonight—”
"You're joking—” Regulus snorts in surprise.
"I am an impatient headmistress,” James clicks his tongue, his voice a poor imitation of an old, posh woman, "Earl grey and cream for me—”
"We can use these at dinner? Really?”
"We'll use them at every meal,” James' voice softens, "If that's what you want.”
"You're ridiculous.”
"Ah! I am aghast! I came here for tea, not slander, fine sir—”
"I'll brew it.” Regulus shrugs off the blanket and holds the tea set in both hands, "We need sandwiches and cucumbers and—”
"And I'll start the soup.” James kisses him one last time before they head into the kitchen like giddy children, fully intending on playing with a children's china toy tea set.