TW: Walburga Black's A+ parenting ofc, negative self talk (what's new?) self-disgust/hatred (Regulus I'm looking at you) suppressed emotions, and the flip of that - outburst because of suppressed emotions (I'm sorryyyyyyy) and I swear there's a tiny gift at the end, pinkie promise :)
Mother, you had me
But I never had you I,
I wanted you
You didn't want me -John Lennon, Mother
Regulus
Regulus's hands are trembling as he steps out of the library, the door closing behind him with a soft click. He stands there for a moment, frozen, trying to breathe past the tightness in his chest. He can still feel the sting of James's words, still hear them echoing in his mind. 'You're like your mother.' It's a taunt that slices deeper than any physical wound, a cruel reminder of everything he despises about himself and his family.
He starts walking, breathing in and out carefully, but his mind is still in that room with James. The way James looked at him, so angry, but so cracked open, sticks with him. His cheeks were shattered like porcelain, the web of cracks down his jaw, under the collar of his shirt. Regulus should feel good about it, it was his goal after all. But no, he's weak.
A part of him had wanted to help, to offer some sort of solace, but he's not built for comfort, not built for softness. So he did what he always does: he lashed out, protected himself with coldness and cruelty. He wonders if James felt the same sharpness, the same bitterness in his words that Regulus feels now, clinging to his fingertips like a bitter taste, refusing to let go.
Regulus turns a corner, finding a dark, empty corridor. It's the perfect place to hide. He leans back against the wall, his head tilted back, staring up at the ceiling. His chest is tight, his throat feels like it's closing up, and there's a pressure behind his eyes that he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge.
He won't cry.
He doesn't cry.
Crying is for the weak, for those who can't control themselves.
And Regulus Black is always in control.
Tears come anyway, unbidden and unwelcome. They slip down his cheeks silently, warm against his cold skin, and he hates them for it.
Hates himself for it.
But that's not new.
He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stop them, but it's no use. The tears keep coming, the clock keeps ticking.
Life feels like its at a standstill.
But it's not.
It never is.
It's mocking him.
He's not in control.
He never was.
He's angry. Angry at James for being so stubborn, for refusing help, for throwing his own pain back in Regulus's face. But more than that, he's angry at himself. Angry for caring, for letting James get under his skin, for feeling something other than the cold detachment he's perfected over the years. It's not supposed to be like this.
He's not supposed to care.
He's not supposed to feel.
But he does.
And oh, it burns, down his throat, like liquor, lighting up his insides, but burning his skin.
A sob escapes before he can stop it, and the sound echoes in the empty corridor, a harsh, broken thing. Regulus bites down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, trying to stifle the next one, but it doesn't work. The sobs come anyway, shaking his small frame, tearing through him with a force that leaves him gasping for air.
YOU ARE READING
Houses of the Holy
General FictionRegulus Black has never been good at living. Ever since he escaped from his parent's house when he was 14, he's decided it's better to live in a cold, detached state, because he's good at that. Oh, and, he really, cannot stand James Potter. James P...
