PART I REGULUS
Regulus sighs as he watches the sun rise outside his window.
Another night gone in a blur of faces and voices and moments he would rather forget.
It'll get better, he tells himself as he showers, as he does up the buttons of his shirt, as he wrestles his hair into something close to respectable. It'll get better. That's what people say right? People like James Potter and Remus Lupin and—well, he can't really see Sirius saying anything remotely like that but he must pretend when he's around them. Pretend to be the type of person who believes things get better. Regulus can't imagine it comes naturally to him. It's not how they were raised.
His hands twitch, wanting to pull open the mirror, to shut-up the guilt vibrating inside his skin. He grips the sink in front of him and drops his head, letting out a shaky breath.
He's trying.
But then, he still hasn't thrown them out—the potions.
He could.
He could get rid of them all. Maybe lessen the temptation. But he just can't quite bring himself to...what if he needs them? He's going to have to sleep at some point.
How does the saying go? No rest for the wicked?
Evan is right by his ear. Echoing in his head. Regulus's hands tighten around the sink. He tries to will the voice away, but even just doing that makes him feel guilty. He knows it isn't really Evan, he does. He hasn't completely lost it. But at the moment, it's the closest thing he has to him.
What d'you reckon your boyfriend will say huh? When you can't sleep without getting fucked-up? Or better yet, when you start calling out his parents' names? How exactly are you going to explain that?
Regulus is afraid that if he looks up he'll find Evan in the mirror. That if he sees his face, figment of his imagination or not, he'll crack. So he just keeps staring at the drain, nails scraping the porcelain.
"I'll tell him the truth," he manages finally.
He won't lie to James again. He won't repeat old mistakes. Regulus tried to push James away, tried to make James stop loving him, it didn't work. Not for either of them. And he isn't interested in trying again.
"I'll tell him the truth," he repeats, hoping that he means it.
You're a fool if you think he'll be able to get over that.
Maybe, but Regulus reckons, of all the things he has to live with, being foolish is probably the easiest.
It's another few minutes before he's able to let go of the sink and walk away. He should feel good. Triumphant. He didn't take the potions. Didn't open the cabinet. He isn't sure that he does exactly, but there's something—some little tickle just beneath his ribs. Something that if he waters and feeds it and gives it a bit of sun, might just blossom into good.
Kreacher is waiting for him in the kitchen, sliding a loaded plate towards him as he sits down at the table. Sometimes he thinks about how his mother used to snap at him for spending time in here. Acting common. He takes some satisfaction in knowing that this isn't her house anymore and he can spend his time wherever the fuck he pleases.
Regulus feels Kreacher's eyes on him as he shovels eggs into his mouth and when he looks up he sees the house elf with tears in his eyes.
"Kreacher?" he asks, concerned.
Kreacher sniffles, before offering him a watery smile. "You is eating sir, and I is not even having to throw things."
Regulus snorts. "It's really good Kreacher, thank you."
