FIC: abc (123) Title: abc (123) Pairings/Rating: Sirius/Regulus, Regulus/Bellatrix, Regulus/Remus, R Summary: Regulus, he thinks as he traces a finger down the cool cheek, was his property, and only he had the right to end his life. Warnings: Angst, incest, character death, implied necrophilia. Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. A/N: Thanks to starrysummer for the beta. ♥
a is for azkaban.
His cell is small, cold, and dank. A small window in the corner is the only source of light, moonlight filtering in through the bars and illuminating the cell (Sirius refuses to refer to it as a home, even though he knows he will be here for a long, long time, because homes are happy memories and bright futures, and Azkaban is nothing but broken dreams and lonely lives).
Night turns into day and day turns into night, a pattern both repetitive and expected, but it matters not because he has learned that time is nothing. Nothing but a worthless term created to explain the unexplainable (Sirius knows that eternity only seems so long because of time). The marks (scratches, really) he makes on the wall every time he spies the rising sun are meaningless to him now (he thinks he may have lost count somewhere after day eighty). It is only a ritual, a way to amuse himself, a way to pass the time.
A way to stay sane in a world that is anything but.
He spends his days (and nights) sitting in the corner, staring ahead with empty, dead eyes. Sometimes, when he concentrates, he can almost tune out the screams and shouts of the damned, and he swears he can almost remember unruly black hair, bright green eyes, a small child, and a tawny colored wolf. And for a single moment, the darkness and the loneliness within him eases, and makes way for a feeling he can barely remember, and has no name for. But the memories are vague at best, and are always immediately snatched away, no matter how hard he tries to guard them.
The only memories he has left now are those of a boy who looks extraordinarily like him. These memories, unlike the others, are clear and sharp and he can remember every detail. Pictures of arguments and fights flood his mind, and the anger, the pain, the hatred he associates with them are things he knows are not happy. But he clings to them anyway, because they are all he has left in this cruel, lonely, and unjust world.
If he could think straight (Sirius isn't sure he knows which thoughts are sane and which are crazy, anymore), he knows he'd find it ironic that in the end, Regulus is the only one he has left.
b is for broken.
They say that Regulus died on a Tuesday, but nobody is actually sure. His body, mangled and bloodied and broken, was found in Knockturn Alley under a pile of old newspapers and broken whiskey bottles on a Thursday. They only thing they do know (or suspect) is that a woman killed him, because they found a single, blood red imprint of a kiss on his forehead.
It was James that found the body. Sirius can still remember waking up that morning to find his best mate standing on his front step, dressed in his dirty, ripped aurors' robes and looking like he hadn't slept in days, telling him that his brother, his little, stupid, only brother has been rotting away in an alley.
Standing in the tomb (Blacks are too good to be buried underground like common Muggles, his mother's words echo in his head), Sirius looks down, and feels a surge of anger. Regulus, he thinks shrewdly as he closes the door to the small room, was neither strong enough nor smart enough to survive in the ranks of the Death Eaters. He was naive and under the misguided impression that he could get out if things got bad.
Nobody leaves the Death Eaters, not even a Black.
He wants to find out who killed him, wants to rip them apart, wants to kill them, wants to destroy them just as they destroyed his brother. Regulus, he thinks as he traces a finger down the cool cheek, was his property, and only he had the right to end his life.
Pushing away his thoughts of revenge for now, he looks down upon the corpse. The expression on his face is slightly unnerving; Sirius has never seen him so calm. There has always been some sort of expression on Regulus' pinched face, whether it be anger, hope, adoration, or pure hate, and to see it so empty makes him want to strangle someone.
He has to fix it.
He isn't thinking straight, can't think straight. The voice that should be screaming at him, telling him this is so wrongwrongwrongwrong is gone, having died with his brother. He has lost himself, and a small voice whispers to him, telling him that he will never be the same again. All he knows now is that he has to get rid of that expression, has to make Regulus feel again.
And when he leans down for the first kiss, one hand snaking down to grasp himself, there is nothing on his mind except reclaiming what is rightfully his, and erasing every last bit of them from Regulus.
Sirius never did like sharing.
c is for chocolate.
Bellatrix, Regulus thinks when she leans down to kiss him, taste vaguely of cinnamon. He thinks that that's wrong, that someone as cruel and evil and spiteful as his cousin shouldn't taste like something so sweet.
Sirius always tasted like chocolate, he remembers vaguely. That always surprised Regulus, because Sirius never was a big chocolate person. No, it was always Lupin that he had expected to taste like chocolate, considering how much of it he ate, but when he had kissed the tawny-haired Gryffindor, he had always tasted of tea and biscuits.
Regulus knows that he won't survive the night, knows that sooner or later, Bellatrix will tire of his company and slay him. He expects that Voldemort wanted her to do it right away, but Bellatrix never was one to pass up an opportunity to play. It's only a matter of time before it ends, and to his surprise, he finds he doesn't care. If it's not Bellatrix, it will be Sirius, and Regulus isn't sure which would be worse.
The night (cold and empty) seems to last forever, and when Bellatrix finally rolls off of him, looking sated and amused, he can do nothing but pull at the chains that bind him to the bed. He hates her, hates everything about her, and he especially hates that she will be the last person to touch him.
She leans down for a final kiss, and when he finally meets that green light, he swears he can taste chocolate.