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James is gone again. Regulus isn’t sure where he goes during the day, only that he leaves as soon as the sun rises and doesn’t come back until it’s pitch black.
It’s not really Regulus’ business, which is why he’s ignored it for so long. He’s grateful—horribly, embarrassingly grateful—to the Potter’s for taking him in after. Even now his brain catches, his heart stops.
After he watched his parents die within a week of each other.
It had been coming, for a long time. After Sirius ran away nearly a year ago, Orion’s health got worse and worse. When he passed, in winter, Walburga made it three days before swallowing a vial of poison. Regulus watched both of them die.
He doesn’t remember going back to Hogwarts, but he does remember Barty and Evan smuggling Sirius into their dorm, because Regulus wouldn’t speak. He didn’t respond to anyone, barely ate, barely slept. He was dying in slow motion, until Sirius got his hands on him and pried the truth out.
He went home with James and Sirius that June. It’s July now, and he’s doing better, but—he’s terrified he’s going to mess it up. Effie and Monty are so kind, and so accommodating, but James.
James is never around.
A month ago, Regulus might have wished for that. It’s easier to not mess up when the person you fancy never speaks to you. But James has always spoken to Regulus, especially when Regulus didn’t want him to. When Regulus pushed Sirius away, it was James that kept pestering him, making him laugh and needling him into shouting matches that Regulus needed. When his parents died, and he wouldn’t speak, James taught him basic sign language, the same way he did when Sirius went through his first quiet spell. James is the one who invited him to his home, and if Regulus didn’t know better, he’d blame himself for James’ absence.
But he knows better. Regulus knows it isn’t him, because James wouldn’t. He doesn’t avoid his problems the way Regulus does, he faces them head on. So something has to be wrong, and he can see it in the way Effie grimaces as she sets the table for four instead of five. He hears it when he asks Monty if James is alright, when Monty says, he’ll be fine. He knows it in the way Sirius doesn’t catch it, too caught up in trying to make amends with Remus. Regulus doesn’t know James like they do, so he tries to leave it alone.
But it’s been a full week since James has come to dinner, the longest he’s gone between family meals, and Regulus is worried. He wraps up one of the sandwiches Effie made and goes the way he’s watched James trek every morning from his bedroom window. It’s beautiful out here, the neighbors barely visible to the east and west. The back of the house is full of tall grass that brushes Regulus’ knees. It’s nothing like Grimmauld Place, the cramped little back garden and sad flowers. The grass here is broken up by bright wildflowers, and Regulus has to pause for a moment to just breathe it in.
He'd been overwhelmed by all the space at first, so used to cramped walls and restrictions. But he grew into it, and now the fresh air and warm breeze feel like a balm on his anxiety.
He walks for probably half a mile before he finds James. He’s on his back, eyes unfocused, in a patch of sweetgrass. He looks beautiful. He looks dead.
Regulus thinks that he is, for a second. His heart drops to his stomach, and his vision sort of disconnects from his brain. He’d been reading to Orion when he’d died, had expected it, and Walburga had been almost dead when Kreacher had come to get him. He’s never found a dead body, and he thinks he’ll lay down and die in this field if James is his first.
When James breathes, so does Regulus.
“James?” Regulus’ voice is soft. He’s quieter now, even more than he was before.
“Oh. Reggie?” James shifts slightly, dark eyes tracking Regulus as he approaches. He tries to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. It breaks Regulus’ fucking heart.
“You missed dinner again.” Regulus sits next to him, leaving about a foot between them, and sits the sandwich on James’ stomach.
James blinks. “Oh. Sorry, must’ve lost track of time.”
“Have you been out in the sun all day? You look a little ill.” Regulus wants to hold him. Regulus does not touch him.
“I—way to make a bloke feel good, Reg, shit,” James tries to joke, but it’s hollow. He’s never sounded like that before.
“James,” Regulus purses his lips, “Are you okay?”
James’ face twitches. “Me? Course I am, Reg, I’m always okay.”
He makes it three seconds before his face crumbles. “No, Reg, I don’t think I’m okay.”
Regulus reaches for him then, can’t even help it, and James half-tackles him into the grass, burying his face in Regulus’ throat. Regulus makes a quiet oomf noise, and James sobs.
It’s heartbreaking and terrifying, and Regulus is chilled to the bone, despite the humid air. He presses one hand flat to the back of James’ feverish neck, the other runs through his grass-covered curls. They’re a little tangled and greasy, like he hasn’t washed his hair for a bit, but Regulus swallows the discomfort of the texture, detangling as gently as he can. “It’s alright, Jamie, I’ve got you.” He hasn’t called James that since he was twelve and falling in love, but it feels appropriate.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” James gasps, “I don’t want to be like this.”
Regulus gets that, really. It’s almost verbatim what he said to Sirius, when he spoke for the first time after Walburga died. He lets James cry, lets him grip at Regulus’ t-shirt like he’s going to slip away. When his breathing is calmer, Regulus speaks.
“You don’t have to talk about it. But I would like to know what you meant, if you want to tell me.”
James huffs, hot breath fanning over Regulus’ tear-soaked neck. “I think I’m dying. Just—really slow. Like rotting.”
Regulus hums, to show he’s listening. It’s—frightening, to hear the happiest boy he knows say he’s rotting, but a horrible, needy part of Regulus is proud to be the one to hear it. To have known he needed to follow James out here.
“I’m always the cheerful one, y’know?” He continues. “I don’t—feel like I’m allowed to feel like this. Like, I make everyone feel better, so why—why can’t I—” He dissolves into sobs again.
“It’s different when it’s you. Trust me.” Regulus knows. He can help Sirius with his complicated grief all he wants without ever knowing how to deal with his own. “You need help, too, Jamie. Have you—talked to Sirius?”
James shakes his head, curling further into Regulus like he wants to climb into the soft space behind his ribs. Regulus would let him. “No. I can’t. He needs me to be safe right now, and Remus—”
“Okay,” Regulus interrupts, “Then let me help.”
“But you need me to be there. To—help.” James croaks.
Regulus shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”
When James looks up at him with heartbroken eyes behind smudged glasses, Regulus almost takes it back. Almost. “You—what?”
Regulus pushes his hair back from his face gently. “I did need your help. And you helped, James. You—shit, you helped beautifully. But I don’t need your help anymore. I need you. And that means I need you to get help when you need it.”
“But—why did you come out here? If you didn’t—”
Regulus can hear his own heart crack. The splintering makes his ears ring. “Jamie, I was worried about you. I wanted to help you, if I could. Can I?”
James looks confused. And the thing is, Regulus knows his friends don’t keep him around just for his help. He knows they would let him lean on him, would be thrilled to finally help James with something. But he also knows how hard it is to lean.
After another moment, James nods, then settles back down. He seems half-asleep by the time Regulus speaks again. “When we go in, do you want to eat first, or get clean first?”
James goes tense all at once. “I—” Regulus knows that tone from the sharp way he used to taunt Snape, before that incident with Remus and Sirius. Regulus doesn’t give him the chance to speak, though.
“Listen, I’m not judging you. Merlin knows you didn’t judge me. But if you get angry with me right now, I will start crying, and I want you to know that it’s alright. If you need to be angry with someone. But I will cry, and it will be really embarrassing for both of us.”
James huffs, and it’s almost a laugh. It’s better than Regulus has heard from him in a month, at least. “Can we just. What happens? If we just stay out here, and—” He seems to struggle with his words.
“Rot?” Regulus supplies, and James nods hesitantly, curls brushing Regulus’ chin. “Well, if we ignore the fact that our survival instincts would kick in eventually, if we started rotting right now—they’d find us in a week.”
James makes a pained noise. “Do you think it would take them that long to notice we were missing?”
“No, but Sirius would assume we were off having a fling in the woods.” He feels James’ smile curl against his collarbone. “Your parents would assume we were together, still on the grounds, and they’d be right.”
“I’d be home, with you.” James murmurs, and Regulus’ heart skips.
“When the weather gets hot, when the animals start to come, that’s when they’d find us.”
“What sorts of animals?”
“Well, insects first, maybe, then foxes. But the thestrals would wait. They like their meat rotted.”
“Thestrals?”
“They’re like, death horses. They pull the carriages, from the train to Hogwarts. They’re only visible to those who’ve seen death. They’re creepy as shit, but beautiful. I go and feed them spoiled meat, from the kitchens, sometimes.”
James is quiet. “I’m glad you got—something out of—” He cuts himself off, but Regulus hears what he tries to say. He got a lot out of his parents dying, as awful a thought as that is. He got the thestrals, yes, but he got Sirius back, and he got a home, a real home, with James and Effie and Monty.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Do you think a week is long enough for us to grow flowers?”
“From our corpses? Maybe, since we’re wizards. After the insects have made their claim, after the foxes have known our taste, after the raven has had its say, after the thestrals have eaten their fill, we’d grow flowers. And we’d be home, I’d be home with you.”
When the sun has long set, and everyone else is asleep, and James has had toast with jelly—which he insists isn’t a meal and Regulus insists is better than nothing—they find themselves in James’ bathroom, staring each other down.
“I can go, if you want.” Regulus offers. He feels awful being here, considering what he feels for James, but he wants to help.
“No, please. I don’t think I can make myself do it alone.”
So Regulus fills the tub, charming the water with a quick swish of his wand so it stays warm. He looks away when James strips, and doesn’t look back until he hears the splash of James settling in. Regulus puts a towel down and kneels, watching James for any sign of discomfort, but he just looks sad.
“You don’t want to look at me. You used to—” James swallows so hard his throat clicks. “In the locker rooms, after quidditch, you used to—” Regulus’ face burns. He used to sneak looks, unintentionally, at James, like his eyes couldn’t imagine resting anywhere else. He tried not to, but he’s a hormonal teenager, so he didn’t always have a choice. James’ lip trembles. “But now, you—don’t think I’m pretty anymore?” The end tapers off into a sob, and he buries his face in his knees, like he’s ashamed.
“Oh, Jamie,” Regulus wraps his arms around James’ bare shoulders, not caring that his shirt’s getting wet. “That’s not—”
“I’m sorry, that was so fucking stupid, I don’t know why I said that,” James sobs, clinging to Regulus.
“No, it wasn’t stupid. I find you very pretty James, always have.” Regulus murmurs. “I’m trying not to look out of respect, because I don’t think me checking you out is what you need right now.”
James chokes a bit, laughing into Regulus’ shoulder. “It might help, you never know.”
Regulus chuckles, pulling back and smoothing back James’ hair. “Glasses on or off?”
“Off, please. I can still see you without them.” James whispers, dark eyes even bigger without his glasses. Regulus’ heart skips a beat at the way his long, long lashes flutter. His eyes are still sad, tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep, but no longer distressed.
Once his glasses are carefully folded on the counter, Regulus guides him back into the water to get his hair wet, rubbing his scalp as James sinks into it. Regulus could look, if he wanted to, could see the scars on James’ chest or the strong lines of his thighs, but he doesn’t, wholly focused on the way James’ face smooths out, lips parting. He’d said he was home with Regulus, in that field. Maybe they can find a home here, washing away the rot.
Because they both have it. Rotted, creaking parts of themselves that they never want to burden others with. Parts that won’t wash away forever. So if they can rot together, and it can be home, maybe the brighter things can too.
Regulus scrubs in the shampoo, grinning like a fool when James moans at the motion. Regulus scrunches James’ mango-scented conditioner into his curls, and the way James looks at him is earth-shattering. He looks devoted, in a way Regulus has only seen snippets of, when he’s caught James watching him. It had occurred to him, that James might be interested in him, but this is—confirmation, in the most RegulusandJames way he could ask for.
When Regulus pulls the plug, holding up a towel for James to step into, he practically melts into Regulus, leaning his considerable weight against Regulus’ slightly smaller frame. Regulus laughs as James rests his soaking wet head on his shoulder, and when he passes James his leave-in conditioner, he pouts so adorably that Regulus caves and works it in for him.
When James is clothed—after so many propositions Regulus will fall asleep blushing—and Regulus has a dry shirt on, they curl up in James’ bed, and they sleep. It’s a deep sleep, as deep as they can get with all their rot cleaned out, and they’re home, together.