Chapter Text
The glass door slides closed sealing Teddy and Sirius off from the rest of the world. Sirius feels like a zoo animal, on display for Regulus and the Lupin father, watching from the other side of the door.
His mouth twitches with the desire to say something, anything. He desperately wants this visit to go well, but he also doesn't know where to begin. Has no idea how to interact with most people, let alone a child. Even though Sirius really, really wants to do a good job and make this visit special for the boy—Teddy, he is not sure he knows how. The pressure builds in his chest. He should say something. He has to say something. If he doesn't say something right now it's going to–
"Do you like football?" Teddy asks, interrupting his spiraling.
In his hand there is a piece of paper, creased with well-worn lines from where it's been unfolded and refolded with precision. The paper frightens Sirius. He can only imagine the questions a true-crime obsessed teen might have for him—invasive ones he's not ready to answer. Why did he agree to this? He is having trouble remembering.
Teddy kicks a football his way. It's slightly deflated, well-loved. Sirius stops it, muscle memory from his years playing on their school team. He was never particularly good at the sport, and mostly just dragged to practice by James, but the action is still habitual. Sirius tries not to think about James, but it's so hard when the ball feels this familiar underneath his feet.
Across from him, Teddy grins—wide and open and unbothered by Sirius's clear agitation.
Sirius shrugs. "I reckon I do."
He kicks the ball back toward Teddy, feeling the disuse of his muscles. Teddy traps it expertly, shuffles it back and forth between his feet. When he looks up, it's with a suspicious expression. "You don't know if you like football or not?"
In spite of himself, Sirius cracks a smile. "I think I've forgotten all my likes and dislikes to be honest with you, mate."
"I know what that's like," Teddy nods solemnly. "When I was in hospital, everything was so boring. Just me and dad all day, no friends or anyone to talk to."
Sirius pauses, thinking. Perhaps this sickly child does understand exactly what he's been through, in a way. He relaxes a little more, can feel the tension draining from his shoulders.
Teddy kicks the ball back and pauses, taking another glance at the paper in his hand. Sirius freezes. He expects that this is the point where their conversation will turn into something so much worse. But Teddy does not do what Sirius expects. Instead, he folds the paper, shoves it into his trouser pocket, and grins.
"Now that you can, do you like to watch football? That might be a better question. I support Cardiff FC—dad says he's indifferent about football, which is a shame. Mam liked Cardiff too, so I got to keep her shirts at least. Although, I'm almost too big for them now."
This makes Sirius laugh again, the slightest cracking of his face into a smile. "I don't watch much football these days," he hesitates. "J-James used to force me to watch every single Arsenal match. I don't catch many these days."
James's name feels strange in his mouth. He doesn't talk about him much. It's nice to say his name. Nice, a little, to remember their times together in a happy light instead of cloaked in sadness and grief. He sends the ball back toward Teddy.
"Got any more questions for me?" Sirius asks, feeling suddenly brave and very safe around Teddy. This can be an open door, if Teddy wants to talk through it.
"Loads," Teddy smiles. "What's your favorite food?"
This makes Sirius throw his head back in a genuine and startled laugh. He hadn't been expecting this, the turn of the conversation into the mundane. Teddy surprises him, keeps surprising him in so many ways. He likes the kid a lot already and the way it feels easy to be around him, kicking a ball back and forth in this charming back garden.
Sirius is still smiling when he says, "Lately I've been enjoying pad thai. What about you?"
Teddy tells him how he loves his dad's cooking, especially his potato soup. Sirius thinks of the father, his honey eyes and careful, wary expression. He must be a good father, Lupin, because it's immediately apparent on his face whenever he looks at Teddy and on Teddy's face right now, explaining the meals his dad likes to cook the most. And also, the kid is remarkably well-adjusted for someone with a dead parent and a recent fight against cancer. Sirius assumes that's due to good parenting, although he's not experienced it firsthand.
They continue passing the ball back and forth, for something to do, and the conversation shifts to Regulus. Teddy asks, "Is your brother always that serious looking, or is it just because I'm ill?"
Sirius tries his best to suppress a grin, but it breaks onto his face anyway. "Don't take it personally, he's always like that. Bit repressed, Reg is."
Should he be talking about Reggie's repression with a child? Probably not. But it comes out so easily, Sirius is so relaxed with Teddy he's hardly even thinking about what he's saying now. He's just happy to be here. He might answer Teddy's carefully compiled list of questions about the crime now and feel fine about it, if he tried to ask again.
But Teddy just nods very seriously, as if he knows exactly what Sirius is talking about. "What's it like having a brother, anyway? I've always wanted to know."
Finally they have arrived at a question Sirius doesn't know how to answer. Not really. They pass the ball back and forth in silence while Sirius thinks. Teddy doesn't press him, doesn't rush him into an answer. He is a very grown-up sort of fourteen-year-old, Sirius thinks. Even though he's chatty, he also seems to know intuitively when to let someone think.
What is it like having a brother? Sirius hardly knows. They are not like normal brothers, he and Regulus. They did not have a childhood anyone would classify as normal. They did not play or laugh together, they do not have any fond memories or inside jokes from when they were small, they barely communicate as adults—not effectively, anyway.
But then again, is there anything Sirius wouldn't do for Regulus if he asked? Isn't there some kind of undying devotion between them? Hasn't Regulus given up everything for Sirius without hesitation?
Is this what it means to have a brother? Sirius wonders if this is a universal experience. Surely they are not the picture of brotherhood. But maybe he can try.
"It's…" Sirius starts, still searching for the right words. "It's like having a body double." That's not right. "There's no one else who understands what it was like to grow up in your house, with your family, live your life." That's a little closer. "And it's fun sometimes, but also annoying a lot. They're always there, whether you like it or not."
He thinks he's summed it up. But then he spots Regulus. For a moment, Sirius thinks he's looking at his own reflection in the glass window. Regulus watches him, careful and concerned and, yes, fucking repressed as always. Yet, something in his expression squeezes around Sirius's heart.
What is it like having a brother? For Sirius, it is knowing someone out there loves him, all the time and no matter what. And even though it is occasionally suffocating, and even though Regulus doesn't know how to express it most of the time, and even though Sirius reckons most people have parents who love them instead of just siblings—it's nice to have Regulus. Really, Sirius doesn't know what he would do without Regulus. He should tell him. Someday, maybe, he will.