Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

Game Over

"the last time
wasn't supposed to be
the last time."

-via Ben Maxfield

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September, 1979

Sirius couldn't remember the last time he'd actually followed his mother's directions. Perhaps it had been eons ago, when he was too young to grasp the concept of favoritism. Perhaps it had been when she'd told him to achieve the highest marks possible. Or, perhaps, it had been that chilly night in September as she barked an order to take her precious, golden son away from Malfoy Manor. Yes, he'd listened to her then; against Regulus' feeble bodily protests, he took his brother far from the disaster that awaited them.

However, he didn't listen to his mother when she'd asked him to return to their abandoned vacation home someplace in Vienne he'd only been to once. For starters, there was no way in hell he could conjure up a good enough mental image to apparate there without splinching either himself or his brother, though the latter seemed rather appealing. No, he decided the final act of spite towards that bitter vessel of a woman would be to throw this child, this weak minded and traitorous child he once considered a brother, in harm's way one final time. Perhaps Voldemort would make an appearance and Sirius would, in turn, make a trade. It would only be fucking fair.

Instead, he threw himself at the threshold of his own flat, gawking at the door, ajar and battered. Regulus fell to his knees, weeping into the welcome mat like a child. His robes were tattered and bloody; Sirius assumed this was the blood of his mother or father, possibly both. It even could've been his own wounds seeping into the silk fabric of his dress shirt beneath the robes. His chest rose and fell raggedly, the warm air of the flat hallway filling his lungs to no avail. Regulus was a bloody, blubbering mess, and Sirius couldn't find an ounce of pity within him to give a damn.

They were his family. But they were traitors. Traitors to his cause, to his blood. The sight of his broken brother, fractured by the loss of their mother, only aggravated his frayed nerves. How could he cry for her?! How could he mourn such a bitch? She didn't deserve tears, and he didn't deserve peace to grieve.

Sirius shoved him lower to the ground, eyes wide and glassy with fury, "Get up!"

His voice boomed over the hustle of Manchester traffic; Regulus went about his sobbing, the heavy breathing borderline hyperventilation. His knuckles grasped at the cuffs of his robes, face red and splotchy with tears and loss. Sirius was disgusted, and he wouldn't mind to show it. He jerked his brother by the collar, dragging him to his feet and shoving him hard against the wall with as much brute force as he could manage.

"Stop," he screamed. "Stop fucking crying!"

But Regulus continued, crying for his mother and father. Sirius couldn't quite wrap his head around the thought of mourning such terrible people – abusers! Nevertheless, he remembered the difference in treatment. They fucking favored him, and why?

"Is it because they loved you more than me," he shouted. "Were you smarter? More handsome? What do you have that I didn't?"

Sirius slammed Regulus body against the wall again, the shutter of the dry wall creaking beneath the weight. The slow trickle of blood dampened Regulus' collar, spilling into the cracks of Sirius' fists, but he didn't stop. Over and over again, he threw his brother into the wall, his fist striking the perfection of Regulus' pale skin time and time again. Rage roared its ugly head in his chest, awoken after nearly four years of slumber. It had been ages since he'd felt so helpless, so fucking angry. It was only unfortunate that Regulus was nearby, his sobbing acting as fuel to the fire. He had no damn reason to cry. If anyone should be crying, it should be Sirius! But he never got the chance. No. He never got to mourn the loss of his mother because she was neve there to begin with.