Chapter Text
There is a ghost growing inside Regulus’ body. It sleeps in his bones, but stirs awake whenever Regulus crawls into his bed, weary and defeated. Sometimes, Regulus closes his eyes and tries to picture its long fingers and pale, translucent skin. He thinks it looks like him. Maybe that should scare him. Maybe he should try to get rid of it. And maybe he would have, if things were different.
At ten years old, the ghost had been a frail little thing, a fleeting idea barely taking up space in his mind. Regulus likes to imagine it as a seed taking root somewhere in his body. He can picture its growth over the years, too slow to be alarming, but too painful not to notice.
Now, Regulus is twenty-one, almost twenty-two, and the ghost bears his face and wears his name. After all these years, it grew until it was more Regulus than Regulus was himself. Until it felt like being a stranger to his own body, taking up too much space in his own house.
Regulus is the one doing the haunting now.
He’s the one hiding in the corners, feeding on misery.
The ghost is more human than he’ll ever be.
* * *
Regulus’ mother has long, black hair and piercing blue eyes. She is a cold beauty, the kind that makes you look away before stealing another glance. Most people feel unnerved by her mere presence, even more so by her family name, and it seems to be something she takes pride in. Regulus tends to describe her that way—fierce and powerful—but, these days, it is a little harder to do so.
Because Walburga is dying.
Regulus’ mother is dying.
It’s cancer, the doctors said, and there is nothing much they can do about it.
After all this time, Regulus still can’t wrap that idea around his head. Most days, he goes to visit her with the expectation of seeing her healthy, of being thrown into that cold, almost wrathful energy of hers. He expects fight and obstinacy. Being confronted to her pale complexion and sunken cheeks is always a punch in the gut, and since Regulus never learns, it still happens every time he visits her.
Today is one of these days. The hospital room is filled with silence, in a way that makes Regulus sick to his stomach. He just sits there, his eyes fixed on his hands, not knowing what to say or do. Unaware if his presence is comforting, or if it is even wanted. When he opened the door earlier, he saw his mother’s expression, the shine in her eyes before it got snuffed out. It has happened a lot since he decided to grow his hair a few months ago. The curls are tickling the back of his neck, now. Regulus is painfully aware of how uncanny the resemblance with Sirius is.
“Regulus, have you heard from Sirius?”
The sudden sound of Walburga’s voice, no matter how low, sounds deafening in the silence. Regulus can’t help but startle a little. Once the surprise leaves his body, utter confusion takes its place instead. His mother has never talked about his brother, or at least not so directly. Not since he left, years ago. Sirius has always been the elephant in the room that his family pretended not to see. A wound left untended, no matter how brutal its sting.
Regulus is at loss for words.
“Regulus?” His mother finally turns to him, her face distorted with frustration. Patience has never been one of her virtues.
Immediately, Regulus pulls his shoulders back, straightening his posture like his parents had taught him when he was a kid. Sometimes, he wonders if Sirius still acts like this, if his movements are altered by harsh, strict education, like Regulus’ are. Regulus hopes he does. He hopes that some things are inescapable, no matter how hard his brother tries to brush them off. He hopes Sirius hates it more than anything, that reminder of where he comes from.
“No, mother. I haven’t,” Regulus answers. Why would he?
But of course his mother wants to see Sirius after all this lost time. There is nothing wrong with that. Death does have its way of making you see things through a different perspective. Maybe his mother is now tired of fighting and just wants to reconcile with her oldest son. Regulus tries not to dwell on it, that indifference of his presence, even if he’s the one who’s there, the spare of what should have been.
His mother doesn’t say much after that, even as he stands to leave.
She never really does.
* * *
Time stands still in the south of France.
Regulus likes to stay under the salt water and play with the sun-rays with his fingers.
It cleanses his body.
The ghost hates it and stays away.
* * *
Regulus’ parents are owners of a vacation house near the beach. It has a yellow facade and tall windows that let the sun explore as much as it wants. Regulus hasn’t been in years—he believes that no one else has, either. The day he comes back to it, Regulus runs upstairs to his old bedroom. His nose tickles with the accumulated dust but he tries to ignore it as he lets himself drown in fond memories. Everything is exactly as when he left it, years ago. It makes him wonder if life did go on, or if he just imagined it. Maybe he’s still twelve, running after Sirius, his arm held up in the air between them as he tries to reach him. Maybe that one true part of himself got preserved here and he is now able to take it back. Maybe he never left.
Regulus’ parents are owners of a vacation house near the hospital.
The white stained walls of his bedroom stare back at him when he comes back crying.
Walburga is dying.
Regulus’ mother is dying.
It’s cancer, the doctors said, and there is nothing much they can do about it.
* * *
Regulus is holding a five euros bill in his hand when it happens. The ice-cream seller looks quite confused inside his truck, and keeps repeating the same words, annoyance plain in his voice, “Monsieur? Monsieur?”
Still, Regulus doesn’t react, his eyes locked on a distant, moving silhouette. All he can see is long black curls getting away in the throng of people. He thinks he hears a laugh too, a barking one, and his heart seems to stop inside his chest. The man opposite him gets even angrier.
"Bon, suivant!" The man yells with a wild gesture of his hand, signalling the other customer to take Regulus’ place in the line.
Regulus gets pushed by someone behind him but doesn’t even register it.
Because, Sirius.
That man, right there, with his back turned to Regulus like it has been his entire life.
Sirius.
Regulus just stands there, like an idiot. Unsure of what to do.
He always thought that, if the moment came, he would turn away and never look back. Because it’s what his brother did, and it doesn’t seem like he regrets a bit of it. It would only be fair if Regulus followed the same pattern. Perhaps it would bring a certain balance in this world. Restore some of the pride that was taken from him.
But, well, fuck.
Regulus doesn’t know what possesses him in that moment to make his legs work, but they eventually do. At first, it’s a few steps, slow and hesitant. Then, he suddenly starts running, and he doesn’t stop until the crowd closes on that stranger who might be his brother.
It’s funny, how some things never change.
It’s excruciating, too.
* * *
Dear Sirius,
I have been mad at you for so many years, but I think I finally see things the way you did back then.
A little too late, I know, but hasn’t it always been like that for us? Even as children, you were faster than me. I remember us running one after the other. I never could catch you, not like you did, not so effortlessly. It still seems that way sometimes, like I’m running, and running, and running, but I never get to where you are. I wish I didn’t waste so much time hating you for it. Standing in your place, confusing your shadow for mine, it’s excruciating.
Your brother,
R.A.B.