꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕿wo minutes.
Two hours.
Romie sits, staring ahead, roots spreading into the wall where her spine is firmly planted. Two minutes, it's felt like, broken into two halves. Sixty seconds of anxiety submerging her insides until her lungs are teeming and she's forced to gasp for breath. Sixty seconds of palpable anger, coursing through her veins like the blood that means absolutely everything. Two minutes it's felt like, two hours it's really been, completing the endless cycles of each sixty seconds.
Two minutes it's felt like, two hours it's really been, watching the moon replace the sun's position high in the sky. The full moon. The first since the beginning of term.
"Heffalump"
Romie hums weakly, her eyes reluctantly conveying from one fixation to another. A short-term thing, the knots of anxiety in her stomach refusing to let her miss a thing. Over the hardback head of his textbook, Regulus peers, barely able to stand how small she looks, shrinking into the shadowed corner furthest from the window tormenting her. Like a cat on a hot tin roof.
He abandons the squishy loveseat he's been attempting to gently coax her to for the duration of the two hours, walking over to where she's sitting. Stuck. She's stuck in place, irregardless of how much her heart yearned to shrink in his arms instead. As much as he yearns for that too, scoop her up into a bundle until she feels big again, herself again, touching first will only spook her further.
Silently, against the wall decorated in tacky paper that gives Gryffindor tower a spiffing review, parallel to her, Regulus lowers himself down. Romie doesn't say anything, but when he goes to rest his palm ready on his knee, hers is already hovering there. Initiating contact. Almost afraid the trust he's not earned back yet will prompt second thoughts, Regulus is nimble threading their fingers together, squeezing encouragingly when her dry lips part to whisper,
"I've missed eight, but it feels like the first again"
The guilt eating her alive inside feels like first again.
Atleast for those first eight, he'd had the security of the Whomping Willow and Shrieking Shack, the unbroken promise of his injuries taken care of by someone who knows what they're doing the morning after. Atleast for those first eight, he'd had Hogwarts. A blessing dead and buried. The real world is what waits for him, no security, no promises, no immunity.
It's no secret the illiberal Ministry are rounding up others like animals, forcing their hand to a registry that signs away their rights, their freedom. Their life. But it's not the only source of paperwork the Ministry issues out for transformers.
"It's perfectly normal to feel that way. But remember, unlike those eight, he has control over his mind. And something tells me he won't be alone" Regulus finishes carefully, unsure.
Unsure of how she'll take to his endeavour at reassurance or allusion. Perhaps a cut throat verbal warning or usage of a memory modifying charm if she's feeling particularly ruthless, protective, is what he expects. Certainly not this. Face to face positioning, narrowed eyes. But not just any narrowed eyes hinting at suspicion or anger, these hold something more tame. Nice. Amusement is nice.
"You're not supposed to know that. You're not supposed to know anything at all"
"Can't help it, I'm afraid. I have both brains and beauty" Regulus asserts, the element of cheekiness forcing Romie to chew the inside of hers.
Sirius is rubbing off on him. Or maybe this is him, the true soul hidden behind the welded mask of a dignified Aristocrat from the upper crust. The one that tucks his curls fluffy yet smooth behind his ears. Merlin, a soft spot if she ever did have one. He manages to hit all the spots, not one going untouched.
"I think a Hospital Wing trip might be needed in the morning. Your head is getting awfully big"
Any immediate concern he feels vanishes at the second sentence, realising it's a matter of teasing. He's not ashamed to admit he's glad, because that's one tease closer to the elfin bitch he lives and breathes for. Lifting their intertwined hands in the air next to his head, he dismisses boyishly,
"It was born this big"
"I'd say I feel for your mother, but I really fucking don't" Romie mutters, adjusting her head back forward facing the window opposite.
If hatred was what she felt hearing the horror stories from Sirius, seeing the physical aftermath of their play out with her own two eyes, Romie didn't have the words to describe what she feels now. Hope Lupin always said hate was a very strong word, but she doesn't know Walburga Black. She's never lov— liked one of her sons. Not to the degree Romie does.
Regulus strokes the dorsal side of her hand, lowly concurring as he clambers up onto his knee, scanning around, "No, me neither"
His mysterious movements pose for another distraction from what's glaring Romie in the face, her eyebrows furrow, thinking Remus might not be the only one on a hunt tonight. Though this one less brutal and bloody. And probably successful. Something she could help achieve in double the time if he gave a general idea of what it is he's after all of a sudden.
A triumphant noise sounds from the back of his throat, stretching his body as much as feasibly possible without losing hold of her hand. It's bound to hurt, the straining, but he doesn't seem to mind, the obvious hint of a smile after retrieval proof. The diagonal angle of his upper body prevents Romie from stealing a glimpse of what is deemed so vital he had to go through such extensive efforts. She doesn't need to steal a glimpse, seeing isn't the sense required. Hearing is.
Tinny crackles distinctly different from the burning fireplace fill the air around them, musical crescendo flowing in as he slants his chin over his shoulder. The element of mystery has well and truly gone, and Romie would be a fool to misunderstand his intentions. It's not only her chest growing warm when once setting down the goodness knows how old radio, Regulus finally shuffles around, putting to use the silky smooth tongue compulsive to many. Including Romie.
"Laisse-moi porter tes fardeaux. Danse avec moi"
While his eyes are soft, they're laced with a seriousness that catches the breath in the back of her throat. Renders her speechless. Luckily enough for them, talking isn't an imperative requirement for dancing. Only chaste touching and basic knowledge of rhythm. The rest is in the hands of the lead. Romie thinks she can do that, relinquish control and enable him to lead her. Them.
His helping pull to her feet is slow, as though he believes the hurt doesn't just start and end on her marred skin's surface. He wouldn't be wrong in that belief. Romie could never complain, the dull aches and sharp twinges nothing in comparison to what Remus suffers. Unceasingly. But they are there, noticeable and weakening her ability to stand properly, never mind dance.
Defeated, she nearly lets him down gently, vowing for another time when she doesn't feel like she's falling onto death's doorstep. Her vow dies in her throat. Hitting every spot. Heart stuttering, Romie's vision lowers down the shrinking gap separating them to her throbbing feet no longer feeling the hard floor beneath them. Because he's wiggled his own between them. Sharing the weight, bearing the burdens.
Hoping the scary emotion welling up inside of her isn't as transparent to him as the whole purple sham, Romie leans into him, fitting the hand not in his to his shoulder, loose and relaxed. Slowly, back and forth to the melody of the radio's song, in the middle of the common room theirs and theirs alone, Regulus sways them, making it impossible
for Romie to think of anything else besides him. Them. This.
A stark contrast to the previous dances they've shared, obscene grinding at parties for the sole purpose to get deep underneath Remus' skin, ballroom waltz's full of intense eye contact and thrilling tension. As good as those were, the soft and slow and dare she say loving quality of this — her feet restfully on his, his temple nestling against hers, their syncing breaths — falls into a class of its own.
"You okay?" Regulus whispers, adjusting his waist cupping placement to a cosy wind around. Pulling her closer.
Romie's hum is weak for reasons other than the crippling anxiety a full moon brings. Yes. She's okay, she's more than okay. Because when she leans her chin on his shoulder to look out the window previously haunting her, she spots what the huddled position in the corner failed to show. Stars. The moon isn't alone and neither's Remus. Neither's she.
Her eyes flutter shut at the fuzzy tingle spreading across the smooth curve where neck flows into shoulder and the lingering lips responsible. The soft sigh swirling into the serene air looming over them prompts Regulus to repeat the motion, his bliss thriving just as much as hers. She tastes like boundless lavender fields and the evergreen trees he didn't understand the fuss about until helping decorate one last Christmas. She tastes like what he longs to make her feel.
"You took care of me so well in Summer. Let me return the favour now" He mumbles into the skin of her shoulder, exposed thanks to the worn jumper's loose collar.
Romie would quite happily take the hot bath and spooning cuddle afterwards, the scope of the care he's referring to. But the sensual caresses of his masculine hands proficient in every thing they do in addition to the subtle lips brushes over each hypersensitive sweet spot in reach so far tells her he has something else in mind. Atleast at first.
Whilst remaining in their lovers embrace, Regulus tilts his head back, forcing her eyes to meet his liquid mercury. Liquid because the merge of his cool and her heat creates a perfect room temperature. Liquid because he's leaking the feeling so profound, so deep-rooted in her presence and she needs to know that. The last thing he wants is for her to consider his intentions impure, taking advantage of her vulnerable state as one of the perks they had their fun with way back when.
Romie doesn't trust him yet, Regulus doesn't blame her, his treating of her hadn't been so great. Shit. He treated her like shit. A pattern in her life that nearly breaks him to be part of as much as it breaks him to know she thinks that's what she deserves. It's not just anxiety troubling her soul every month, it's the same thing he feels knowing a piece of his heart still blames Sirius for leaving. Abandoning him for chance at a better life, for a chance of survival. Guilt. Suffocating, anchor weighing down heavy on conscience guilt.
The middle details of the things in their past, private things, secret things, dark things who make them who they are today might be unknown to Regulus. But one thing he knows for certain. Romie Lupin doesn't deserve the world. Too cruel. Too wicked. The world deserves her. Insufferably stubbornness and all. Because Merlin if she isn't the best thing he's ever seen. Best thing he's ever felt.
"Romie, Le désir le plus profond de mon cœur, L'amour le plus profond, can I take care of you?"
Romie hesitates. Of course she's been cared for before, Remus predominantly throughout her existence and later the girls, Sirius and the Potters. But the type of care she reckons she's in for with him isn't anything she's experienced before. And they're not there yet. Maybe this is part of their journey to get there, the bends and curves learning ones. He's sharing the weight, bearing the burdens.
She can't learn to trust him again without giving him the chance. A sprinkle. That's all he's asking for. And a sprinkle is what she can give him.
"Yes. Take care of me, Regulus"
Two minutes, two hours, Romie doesn't know, she's long lost count.
——————
Yes, I can confirm what you're all impatiently anticipating is coming up next ;))