Sirius, thunderstruck, wrenches his gaze away from you to glance at Lupin, face slightly panicked, then looks back at you with wide eyes. Nobody's moving and you almost want to laugh. Then Lupin steps forward and puts a hand on Sirius' shoulder, still looking at you out of the corner of his eye. Sirius gives a start, and Lupin murmurs something close in his ear. Sirius closes his eyes, nods, and Lupin steps back and disappears with an abrupt crack.
You face your brother in the street like a scene from an old Western, bricks strewn about, a streak of blood on the ground and more, you think, on your face. Sirius looks unharmed if very, very pale. Your wand is half-raised, his half-lowered, and then he says, voice unnatural and unexpected in the tense silence, "It's your birthday, isn't it?"
You can't help it then – you laugh, and drop your wand arm limp to your side and slump against the wall beside the alley. You see him take a step toward you and the laughter chokes in your throat as your wand shoots up again and so does his. He stops.
"Don't come any closer," you say, belatedly. You're already close together now, though, point-blank almost. Neither of you move, and staring into his face hurts more than anything, more than the cut on your forehead clotted with dust or the ringing in your ears.
You imagine that he'll lower his wand again and step forward and push yours aside, put his hand on your shoulder, and you'll say something pointless, like not anymore, not now, but he'll thumb at the wound on your forehead and heal it with a stroke of his wand, the sensation odd, like a zipper, and he'll murmur a happy birthday right before he kisses you – all he has left to give. His mouth would taste like avada kedavra, that acid savor. You think how you'd almost laugh again but instead you'd sob against his lips and kiss back hard enough to make you both forget, how when it was over you'd bury your face in his chest.
But that was years ago, and with things the way they are it comes as no surprise that all he does is take a step back, wand level, and mutter it then, unhappily, looking at your shoulder: "Happy birthday," right before he Disapparates.
You can hardly bear the reality of it. All he can give you now isn't healing or the love you had once, but just the gift of not cursing you – the gift of leaving, again. The sob you'd imagined comes then. But now that he's gone, it has no object.
sirius/regulus - helplessly hoping (2/2)
You face your brother in the street like a scene from an old Western, bricks strewn about, a streak of blood on the ground and more, you think, on your face. Sirius looks unharmed if very, very pale. Your wand is half-raised, his half-lowered, and then he says, voice unnatural and unexpected in the tense silence, "It's your birthday, isn't it?"
You can't help it then – you laugh, and drop your wand arm limp to your side and slump against the wall beside the alley. You see him take a step toward you and the laughter chokes in your throat as your wand shoots up again and so does his. He stops.
"Don't come any closer," you say, belatedly. You're already close together now, though, point-blank almost. Neither of you move, and staring into his face hurts more than anything, more than the cut on your forehead clotted with dust or the ringing in your ears.
You imagine that he'll lower his wand again and step forward and push yours aside, put his hand on your shoulder, and you'll say something pointless, like not anymore, not now, but he'll thumb at the wound on your forehead and heal it with a stroke of his wand, the sensation odd, like a zipper, and he'll murmur a happy birthday right before he kisses you – all he has left to give. His mouth would taste like avada kedavra, that acid savor. You think how you'd almost laugh again but instead you'd sob against his lips and kiss back hard enough to make you both forget, how when it was over you'd bury your face in his chest.
But that was years ago, and with things the way they are it comes as no surprise that all he does is take a step back, wand level, and mutter it then, unhappily, looking at your shoulder: "Happy birthday," right before he Disapparates.
You can hardly bear the reality of it. All he can give you now isn't healing or the love you had once, but just the gift of not cursing you – the gift of leaving, again. The sob you'd imagined comes then. But now that he's gone, it has no object.