For Amber's Weekly Drabble Competition, level Insane- Prompt: flaw Title: In the Shadows. Incest. Romance/Angst. No dialogue.
This is for Paula, because she wrote the first SiriusRegulus I've ever read and it was flawless. I can only hope I did the pairing justice (also Paula this is the fourth thing in a row I've written in second person and it's all your fault).
Your tongue traces the (too-prominent) hollow of this throat and your fingers dance across his (too-prominent) ribs and your mind is overwhelmed by the word wrong. This is wrong.
But you are full of fear you won't acknowledge and guilt you cannot accept and you are so, so used to ignoring what your conscience says, because your sense of right and wrong is so warped by them anyway that you aren't sure what to listen to anymore. You hardly know what's real, let alone what's right.
Except this. This, you know is wrong. This is the sort of thing that should never happen, can never be acknowledged, cannot be talked about. The sort of thing that can never see the light of day, that happens in the shadows, stays in the whispers and the stares because no one wants to say it.
You'll care. Later, you will care that he is your brother. Later, you will care that this is wrongwrongwrong.
Right now, though, all you care about is him. The feel of his skin under under your fingertips, his lips against yours.
Some part of you knows that you are hiding. Everything is changing and you hate the way things are, but you're even more afraid of what they could become because things are stirring, things are rising out there and you just know that everything is going to change. You are hiding in his arms because he is familiar, because you aren't sure of much anymore but you're sure of him. He smells like Regulus, smells like home, and you lose yourself in the scent of him as his (too-)small hands slip your shirt over your head and the friction between you is enough to make you forget everything else.
You forget that you are broken. You forget that you are flawed. You forget what they tell you: worthless, useless, scum. You forget the pain of jagged wounds that stubbornly refuse to heal, forget what you've learned about scar tissue, both mental and physical. You forget that you are a broken boy in a world that doesn't want you, forget that the only people who care are too many miles away, forget that they do not see; you do not let them see. You forget everything but him, because you can. Because sweat slicked skin is better than jagged memories and anything is better than the pain.
Later, you think. Later, you will care. Right now, all you do is feel.
And for now? For now it is enough.