When the Sun and Stars Unite (Jegulus Oneshots)

all this rot tastes just as sweet

"There is no rot here. Everything has been touched by the sun; blessed with a sense of life Grimmauld Place could never know. For the first time in his life, Regulus gets to watch his brother flourish.

And yet, Regulus is dying."

—

or, Regulus gets the flu for the first time

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Running away with Sirius had been the best decision of Regulus' life. That is, until it almost killed him.

Grimmauld Place had always been full of rot. It lived in the broken glass and blood stained carpets and his brother's screaming lungs. It was everywhere all the time, infecting the inhabitants but invisible to anyone else. The Black brothers had been dying since before they were born.

Regulus wasn't sure he had known the feeling of fresh air until the day Sirius had packed their bags and made him travel for two days across England to seek refuge in the home of James Potter.

There is no rot here. Everything has been touched by the sun; blessed with a sense of life Grimmauld Place could never know. For the first time in his life, Regulus gets to watch his brother flourish.

And yet, Regulus is dying.

"It's not fatal, idiot. It's the flu," Sirius insists. He's sitting cross-legged on the edge of Regulus' bed, the back of his hand pressed against Regulus' forehead.

If he had the energy, Regulus would shove Sirius right onto the floor. Unfortunately, the most he can do is offer a weak groan, and even that hurts. It makes his chest rattle in an unnatural way that can surely only indicate his early demise. It's only a matter of time before he starts choking on the mould taking root beneath his ribs.

"I'll get James to bring you up some soup, okay?" Sirius offers. His hand moves from Regulus' forehead to push back his sweat-slick hair. Against his better judgement—and his stubborn desire to always be the aloof brother—he leans into the touch.

Maybe it's not enough to rid him of this sickness, but seeing Sirius smile heals something that he didn't realise needed healing.

A whole lifetime passes after Sirius leaves the room. The lights are off and the curtains are drawn in a poor attempt to ease Regulus' headache. All it really does is contribute to his growing insanity. He can't help but wonder if, on his way out of Grimmauld Place, he took a wrong turn and stumbled into Hell.

That can't be right, though. There are no angels in Hell, but there certainly is one standing in his doorway.

The silhouette of his angel is illuminated by a golden glow—maybe from the hallway, maybe something more divine. A halo of dark curls frame bronze cheekbones that must be chiselled by the same delicate hands that make even the toughest marble look soft.

Regulus is burning up. He is Icarus. The sun stands in his doorway and he's dying. He's dying but he still reaches out, desperate for just a touch before he plummets to the ground.

"Easy there, sweetheart. We can't have you falling out of bed," the angel says. Regulus doesn't believe in God, but he makes a mental note to write to him anyway. A voice like that deserves a full heavenly choir to back it up.

In the blink of an eye, the angel has moved from the doorway and is perched on the edge of the bed, holding Regulus' hand. His skin is impossibly soft. With the little energy he has, Regulus moves the angel's hand up to rest against his cheek.

"You're burning up," the angel says. Regulus wants to speak up—to say he knows that—but it's not the most important thing about this moment. He'd recognise the gentle concern in the angel's voice any day.

"Jamie," he whispers, eyes fluttering closed as James' fingers trail a path along his cheekbones. The touch does nothing to ease his bone-deep aching, but he craves more of it anyway.

He opens his eyes again just in time to see James placing a mug onto the bedside table. That must be the soup Sirius promised him forever ago. He wants to reach for it but his arms won't comply.

James' presence was apparently only enough to distract him from his untimely demise for so long. He has to squeeze his eyes shut as the pain stretching from his temples to the pit of his stomach becomes too much to bear.

He had made peace with dying in Grimmauld Place, when it had always been a fate no closer than the line of the horizon. Dying in a place that harboured such life was a cruel twist of fate.

"Too warm," Regulus groans. He tries to kick off the blankets draped over him, but his legs feel leaden. James knows what he wants—always knows what he wants—and gently removes the blankets.

No, that won't do.

"Too cold," he whines this time. His body curls in on itself, completely out of his control. He thinks he hears James laugh, but the sound is muffled by his own internal wails as every muscle in his body seems to tense. Why does it all hurt so much?

"Okay, hey, you're alright. I have an idea," James says. Regulus doesn't need to open his eyes to know he's being moved.

One minute he's lying down, curled up in a desperate attempt to regulate his body temperature, and the next he's sat upright. He finds himself nestled between warm thighs, leaning against a sturdy chest.

He makes another mental note to thank the God that he doesn't believe in for James Potter's insistence on wearing short shorts and thin vests.

The press of skin against him is overwhelming, but he no longer feels like he's fighting with his own body to stop from burning or freezing. One of James' arms wraps around his torso while the other reaches for the mug of soup.

"Here," James offers, reaching the mug up to Regulus' lips. Just the steam coming off it relieves some of the pain in his sinuses. "Mum made it. It'll make you feel better."

Walburga never made soup for Regulus when he was sick. He decides quite easily that he likes Euphemia an awful lot more.

One of James' hands holds onto the handle of the mug. The other takes Regulus' hand and lifts it up to hold the other side of the mug for extra stability. Between the two of them, they manage to—slowly but surely—feed Regulus the whole thing.

"Starting to feel better, sweetheart?" James asks, setting the mug back down. There's still an ache running through his muscles, but that's okay. He has ached before. He knows how to survive this.

And yet, he shakes his head at James' question.

"Tell me what you need," James says. Maybe Regulus was right to assume he's an angel.

He tilts his head up, underestimating how heavy his body still feels. When his head falls too far back, a strong hand comes up to hold it in place. Fingers tangle in his hair. No one has ever held him with such delicacy.

Eventually he finds and holds James' gaze. In the dim light still filtering in from the half-open door, he looks otherworldly. What has Regulus done to deserve to be in his arms like this?

"Need you to kiss it better."

James complies. Of course he does, because James is an angel. Regulus is sure he could ask for just about anything and James would give it to him. If he ever decided he wanted it, he could so easily ask James to reach into his chest and offer up a rib.

He doesn't need a rib, though. He doesn't need sacrificed pieces of a divine boy to make himself feel whole—not anymore. Their lips connect, and Regulus is no longer dying. He's still sick; his head spins and his limbs ache and his stomach twists itself in knots.

But the rot is gone.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By ninetytwo_bees on A03