Chapter Text
“You’re so warm, James.” A soft voice, fingers trailing across bare skin, his racing heartbeat. “Just— Everywhere. All of you. Like the fucking sun.”
Once, a boy with ivory skin and a sharp smirk, piercing eyes and the lightest of touches, had lain right here beside him. Blinking slowly like a cat, dark curls spilling out over the pillow, smiling ever so softly up at him. Looking out of place among the deep red curtains, and yet still so right, like he was made to be here, lean body pressed against James’ bulkier one in an effort to fit them both in the single bed. Warm skin against warm skin. Hands clasped together, pearl entangled with gold, and so much love spilling out from between their palms. The boy had taken up space in James’ bed, James’ body, James’ very fucking soul like it all belonged to him first. Like pieces of James had been measured, carved out just so he could fit in there, in the curves of James’ ribs like the bone cage wasn’t really a cage at all. Like he belonged.
He did. Belong, that is. If there were holes in him, jagged edges and insides spilling out, it was James himself who’d picked up the knife.
Not that it mattered now. Every hole was empty, echoing and gaping. James was empty, too.
When he’d woken, early morning sunlight streaming through the curtains and leaving his whole bed a glowing red, James had instinctively rolled onto his side, stretched his arm out, fingers tingling, searching for the warmth of skin, soft and burning from a restful night, wanting to press the pads of his fingers into the very cells—
The bed was empty. The sheets, cold. James was alone. He always was, these days. In the daytime, he could never seem to forget it; the thought pressing on the sides of his skull, the back of his eyes, trickling down his throat and buzzing through his veins. Alone. You’re alone. He left. Gone.
But in the mornings, when the sunlight was golden and amber and the frost on the windows hadn’t fully thawed yet, he forgot. Half-asleep, eyes still closed, he would reach forward to gather him into his arms, wanting to press soft kisses into those black curls, to watch the hazy look clear out of those piercing grey eyes (they weren’t piercing in the morning; soft, soft, always so soft), wanting to begin the day with a raspy Good morning, love and feel a flood of affection at the incoherent mumble that would return, words James could never make out but always knew meant Good morning, Jamie.
It’d been a long time since anybody had called him Jamie. Since he’d been able to hold him close, pepper his face with kisses and whisper sweet-nothings into his ear. An eternity since he’d felt that overwhelming rush of love and known it was returned.
That insurmountable, burning rush of love. One he’d known would never fade, never settle into something softer and sweeter. He’d never anticipated that it would dissipate completely, fumes dissolving into the air, dust settling beneath his feet; gone in the flash of black lines, etched into the skin he’d spent so long worshipping. (It wasn’t gone, of course. James had just gotten very good at pretending it was. Pretending he didn’t feel it, as if his body didn’t ache from how much he felt. When their eyes met across the Great Hall, hazel against grey. Like he didn’t feel his heart taking root in his body, like he’d discovered something he didn’t even have a name for.)
When his head finally got too loud, and he felt the increasingly-familiar combination of nausea and dread settling into his stomach, James shifted, released the cold bed sheets from his white-knuckled grip and tugged the curtains open, allowed reality to find its place in his head. He rose, stepped out into his dorm room—there was no space for him here, surrounded by the early morning glow and the steady breathing of his friends, the familiar sound of Sirius’ snores coming from Remus’ bed enough to send a sharp pang through James’ heart. Sirius didn’t know. Hadn’t seen the horrors that lay beneath his little brother’s left sleeve.
He pushed his thoughts away, stumbled to the bathroom, and then back out to get dressed, movements mechanical, robotic. A routine that left no room for thoughts.
By the time he was dressed, thumbing the last shirt button through its hole and drawing on his tie, leaving it slightly loose the way he’d always done (soft grey eyes would roll, pink lips would tut as pale fingers came up to tighten it to “the appropriate amount, James— stop pretending to choke, it’s not funny when you do it everyday—”), his friends were stirring, murmured greetings passing through the room. Remus’ bed curtains pulled open, and Sirius practically crumpled out of them, stomped towards the bathroom, muttering something about golden boys who are somehow always fully dressed at the crack of dawn.
He patted James on the shoulder, mumbled something incoherently (James thought he’d caught words Be normal for once in your life, Prongs but he was too caught up in the way both the Black brothers seemed incapable of forming real sentences until they’d properly woken up).
With that reminder, his brain flooded back into full-alert, and he grinned at Sirius in an attempt to distract himself from what was coming: how in less than ten minutes he would step into the Great Hall, walk over to the Gryffindor table and attempt to ignore the way his brain screamed at him to look over to the Slytherin table—a battle he would inevitably lose and his eyes would slide over to the furthest table, making contact with his, hazel against grey. His stomach would churn and his appetite would vanish, stars taking over his vision, and he would stumble dazedly over to his seat, where he’d crumple between Remus and Lily and spend his entire breakfast trying to convince himself he’d imagined that flash of pain flickering within the silvery depths of those eyes.
He couldn’t do this, didn’t want to, but he’d done it every morning for the last 2 months and he could do it again today—had to, because the very last thing he needed right now was for his best friend to notice what was going on. What had been going on for 2 months and for far longer before that (though back then the eye contact had left his heart racing and his cheeks flushed).
With a jolt, he came back to himself, only to realise he’d been standing there, lost in his head, for far too long and his smile had crumpled and Sirius was staring at him with concern, scanning his face in an attempt to understand what had just happened.
“You alright, Prongs?” Sirius asked, his voice slow and tinged with a level of concern that was rare for him. Or at least, it was rare for him to send that sort of concern James’ way—it wasn’t often that James ‘Sunshine’ Potter required concern, sought comfort. In an instant, the look in Sirius’ eyes became far too much and James turned away, reaching for his wand, laying on the bed.
“Yeah, fine, Pads. Didn’t sleep well,” James answered quickly, all too aware of the stretching silence between them, the air fraught with stifling worry. He shot Sirius a small smile to really sell the act, though he couldn’t bring himself to meet his best friend’s eyes.
A pause. “Alright, then,” Sirius responded, voice uncertain. James shot him another small smile, before busying himself with his school bag. Another pause, just a moment too long, then Sirius nodded, more to himself than anything, and finally turned and stepped into the bathroom.
The others woke too (Remus dragged himself out of bed to throw a pillow at Peter to get him to stop snoring), and as his friends got ready, James could do nothing but think. Today would be just like every other day from the past three months—walk into the Great Hall, fight the urge to turn and look, lose and meet eyes with him, spend the rest of breakfast and part of the first period dizzy and anxious (and ignore the sense of relief, reassurance that everything seemed okay, that he seemed okay). The same routine would repeat again and again and again. Never ending. Sometimes James thought that maybe it would be fine if it repeated forever, if that would be his only opportunity to catch those grey eyes.
A hand landed softly on his shoulder, a gentle touch that still made him jump. He blinked up, finding Remus stood above him with a puzzled, slightly concerned expression.
“You good, James?” Not again. Merlin, he was slipping. He’d been completely fine the last few months, had become so good at hiding it all. He wasn’t sure why the anxiety was so sharp this morning, why it felt as if something was clawing at his insides and squeezing his lungs. He suddenly felt desperate to go, get this over and done with and be able to relax until tomorrow morning. He jumped up.
“Tired, Moons. And hungry. Let’s go, yeah?”
Remus nodded, looking entirely unconvinced, much like Sirius had. The good thing about Remus was that he didn’t push, not unless he thought it absolutely necessary. It didn’t matter whether or not he pushed—eventually, when the problem was too big and James could feel the waves of anxiety threatening to crest over his head, drowning in it all, had him aching and gasping for breath, he would wait until the sounds of his friends’ breathing evened out before creeping towards Remus’ bed, pulling open the curtain and falling into Remus’ waiting arms. Sirius and Remus didn’t sleep together often, on account of the nightmares that left them both flinching away from touch, and Remus didn’t sleep much anyway, so he was always there, patiently waiting for James to take his outstretched hand; but not pushing, never pushing. James would let him wrap his arms around him, pull him close, and he’d whisper every word into Remus’ chest, confessions that would never see the light of day, and Remus would card his fingers through James’ unruly hair and sort through the issue in the no-nonsense, analytical way that James so incredibly grateful for.
Not this time, though. Not with this.
James felt like he was drowning a lot, these days.
After everyone was dressed and Peter found his wand—
(“I just don’t exactly get how a wand accidentally gets transfigured into a dog toy, Sirius.”
“Don’t worry about it, Wormy.”)
—the four of them made their way down to the Great Hall. Every step James took caused another wave of anxiety to rise and crash over him. He shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the trembling. He truly had no idea what was happening to him—sure, going to the Great Hall and seeing his ex everyday was always terrifying, but he hadn’t felt this bad over it since the first week after everything happened. The nausea was beginning early, and a sense of wrongness was creeping in, climbing the rungs of his ribs, spiders down his spine. His friends walked on, their step light, filling the corridors with loud laughter and crude jokes, but James was frozen. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning, drowning, drowning—
A hand on his arm again, just as gentle. Remus said something, and James could only catch his tone, soft and honey sweet, unable to make out the words. Something was wrong, he could feel it, heavy in his bones, but he didn’t know what was going or who was speaking and whycan’tjamesbreathe—
Remus’ hand moved to grab at James’, clutched his palm and pulled until it was spread flat against Remus’ chest, James’ fingers instinctively grasping at the fabric with a white-knuckled grip. He still couldn’t hear Remus, could just make out a soft hum in the air, but he knew what he was meant to do: follow his breathing. Imitate the rise and fall of his chest, the familiar pattern of in, out, in, out. This was the same routine they’d always followed, all of them, whether it was Remus before a full moon, Peter after a letter from his deadbeat father, Sirius the night before the holidays (and his brother, too, just the same, but this really wasn’t the time to think about that). Not James though, not really. He was usually the one breathing, grasping hands, coaxing soft inhales and exhales out of the other person. Being in this position, on the other side of it all, was such a startling reality that it almost snapped James right out of it.
He swam back up into consciousness—not swimming, more clawing, digging his nails in and fighting his way back up to the surface. His breathing evened, the stars in his vision receded, and even the ringing in his ears seemed to fade away as he began to catch Remus’, “-good, James, keep doing that, you’re doing so good, love-”. But the sense of wrongness was still there, so unfamiliar, settling into every crevice in his body with a touch of pure dread. Something was terribly, terribly wrong, and James had no idea what it was.
Finally, when he felt he’d pulled himself together just enough, he lifted his head and met Remus’ eyes. Honey coloured, so full of concern that it almost sent James spiralling all over again. He blinked.
“James?”
He turned towards the voice, finding Sirius and Peter staring at him. Sirius, with pure horror, Peter with watery eyes and trembling fingers. Sirius seemed to notice this when one tremor bumped Peter’s hands against the other’s leg, and Sirius reached down, entwined their fingers, holding tight. Clinging to each other like the sky was crashing down and all they could do was just that—cling to each other.
It was Sirius who had spoken, voice shaky and uncertain, and the silence now was so heavy, and all James wanted to do was lie down and let the water drown him, let his limbs grow heavy with the dread that was still rising, rising, close his stinging eyes and open them to a better place, where the sunlight was still golden and maybe a pale hand was tangled with his own. But all he could right now was pull his lips into a soft smile, one that felt truly painful, like stretching his skin into this fake face was unfamiliar, not what he’d been doing for the past 2 months. He dropped it when it only seemed to make Sirius pale even more, Peter’s hand beginning to shake uncontrollably.
James let out a soft sigh, squeezed Remus’ hand once before dropping it, stepping over to where Peter and Sirius stood, still clinging to each other, still watching the sky crash down. He dropped one arm around Sirius’ shoulders, pulled him close, Sirius’ fingers clutching at James’ jumper, placed a hand the back of Peter’s head and pushed his head gently until it was nestled in the crook of his neck, twisted his fingers into soft blond strands of hair. Whispered, “It’s okay, I’m okay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry- We’re okay, yeah?” and placed a kiss on the top of Sirius’ head, carded his fingers through Peter’s hair, listened to them both breathe shakily, tried to ignore the way the air bent wrong, the way the silence seemed fractured. Something was wrong and every cell in James’ body was burning. He turned his face down into Peter’s hair, nuzzled at the soft strands, pulled Sirius impossibly closer, like maybe he could smother the concern out of them both. Held himself strong and rigid, so Remus too could see he was fine. Just fine.
A hand pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, a weight so familiar, so full of care. Remus’ voice broke the shaky silence with, “You’re alright, James?”
And James nodded, face still buried in Peter’s hair, and Remus moved his hand up to his shoulder and squeezed, just once. He didn’t push. He never pushed. His hand was outstretched and he knew James would reach for it at some point (not this time, not with this). Peter’s hands stopped trembling and Sirius’ fingers loosed from his shirt, and he smiled down at them both before dropping another kiss to Sirius’ head (Sirius, his brother, his soulmate, other half, the air in his lungs. Sirius was the glint in James’ eyes, and James was supposed to be his, but at the moment it seemed that glint had been replaced by something that James couldn’t place, but made him feel sick to his stomach).
And with that, he turned, flashed a not-at-all convincing smile at Remus (James was trying his best, okay?) and strode into the Great Hall, pushing down the unease that was still so fucking present in his body.
And he knew what came next—the fight to not turn around, the screaming in his head, the giving in, but today he had no energy, and everything felt so wrong, and his heart was still pounding and he needed to make sure that he was okay, so he turned, immediately searched for those grey eyes, at that same spot at the furthest table, where he always sat, because the love of James’ life had always liked routine, order. He went to breakfast at the same time everyday, sat in the same spot, ate the same meal. Clockwork. So James searched, because he knew he’d find him, sat there with his friends, hands clasped around his coffee, blinking away sleep and building up his mask for the day, piercing eyes boring into James’ very fucking soul-
He wasn’t there.
Everything seemed to sort of collapse, in that moment. The ground dropped out from beneath him and his bones turned to dust and the sky finally fucking crashed down.
Regulus wasn’t there.
Regulus wasn’t there.
He wasn’t-
No. No, no, there had to be a mistake. This wasn’t right, this was wrong, this was the feeling that had been crawling up James’ spine from the moment he opened his eyes this morning. Regulus wasn’t there, and everything was wrong, and the sunlight was dimming and everything, everything, everything was wrong.
Regulus followed timings to the exact second. He sat in the same spot, everyday, always had, for almost 6 years now. He was perfection incarnate, would never make a mistake, but he’d clearly made one now, because he wasn’t there.
And James wasn’t sure what exactly it was he’d been feeling before, because this? This was drowning. This feeling, like every cell in his body was freezing and shattering, and his stomach wasn’t there anymore, and his bones were fracturing and cracking down the middle, and there was water everywhere—this was drowning. James was gasping for air, dragging his hands against the current, cold to the fucking bone, and this was drowning.
And— No. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. Regulus wasn’t here, and James couldn’t breathe.
He broke his gaze away from the Slytherin table, and finally moved, turned on his feet, took steps on legs he couldn’t feel and walked— no, ran, straight out of the Great Hall. There was a numbness spreading through him now, dripping down his spine and curling through the rungs of his ribs, his fingertips starting to tingle, but his legs were still working and that was all that mattered. He ran out of the Great Hall, straight past his friends, who had finally made their way into the room, ignored their shouts of, “James? Hey- James-”. It was all white noise, a meaningless hum, because nothing mattered right now other than him. Regulus.
He blinked, and he was crashing up through the door to his dorm. Couldn’t remember the trip here, the corridors, the common room, but it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, other than the hard ground beneath his knees as he threw himself to the ground by Remus’ bed and pushed open his trunk, rifling through it with no care for anything he touched, until his fingers brushed against cool parchment, and he grabbed it, pulled it out, choked out the words through his constricted throat. Spread it wide and began to search for the name that he knew as well as his own, that was seared into his skin and carved into his bones, one he sometimes felt like he’d been born knowing, been put on this Earth to know. Regulus Black.
He searched, and he searched, and he searched, heart jumping every time he caught sight of the letter R and faltering again when he read the rest of the name. There was Remus, sitting far too close to Sirius, and there was Rose who Marlene had dated, and there was Richie from Quidditch, and there was Ruby who Marlene had also dated, and Ruger from Herbology, and Rhoda (Marlene had truly dated a lot of girls), Roydon who’d fallen down the stairs once and taken out both Peter and James while Sirius and Remus laughed too hard to even consider helping them up, and Reena (who he was fairly certain had had a thing with both Marlene and Mary. Possibly at the same time).
All these names. None of them the one he was looking for. The only one that mattered.
Regulus wasn’t on the map.
Regulus wasn’t at Hogwarts.
And- Oh. The Room of Requirement.
Unplottable on the map. James had ensured that when they’d first started meeting there—when Astronomy Tower kisses turned into something they would require a bed for (or not, they’d never been picky. The broom closets and empty classrooms and once, Filch’s office, could attest to that). And a glimmer of hope was igniting in his chest, sparks flitting through his veins as James pushed to his feet, left the map on the floor and Remus’ trunk in complete disarray as he stumbled to the door and broke into a run down the stairs.
Out of breath, and with a few bruises blooming on his knees from when he’d fallen down a staircase in his haste, James slowed to a stop in front of a blank wall in the 7th floor corridor. He began to pace, once, twice, three times, envisioning exactly what he wanted. Required. Who he wanted and required.
Black curls, spilling out on white bedsheets— Pale skin, so warm, always warm— Grey eyes, soft, piercing but never to him, all-seeing—
A door appeared. He reached forward, pulled it open, and stepped inside.
And-
It was empty.
Any hope left inside James turned to ice, to dread, to nausea. The room was devoid of light, of furniture, of Regulus. Just James and white walls and a wooden floor.
He sank to his knees and allowed the water to crest over his head and spill out of his eyes. He filled the empty room with his sobs, the sound of his pain, the sound of his longing. The sound of his love.