Arkieve - The First Poem In The World Is; "i Want To Eat."

plotting out my fic and accidentally made jegulus insane and i can't reverse it they're stuck like that

Jegulus is so funny cause one guy is the embodiment of the sun, himbo golden retriever and the others a sickly Victorian child with scarlet fever on his last rounds around the garden before he passes

Doctor | @jegulus-microfic | word count: 1011 | cw: mentions of death & terminal illness

“Go fish.”

Regulus stares him down, a particularly indignant look settled in his face. James shrugs and nods towards the pile of cards on the overbed table.

“Liar,” Regulus retorts, he grabs a card anyway. Great. Another useless one.

“Defamation.” James tuts, a pleased smile on his smug face. Regulus rolls his eyes. James looks through his cards and sighs, bored. “Do you have a seven?”

Of course Regulus has a seven, but he hates James right now, so he tells him to go fish. 

“You know,” James squints his eyes, “it’s rather distasteful to lie to the dying.”

Regulus freezes. “I–I wasn’t–” James delights in his panicked state, leaning back against his pillow, exhaling laughter from his nose. 

“You’re an asshole.” Regulus clutches his set of cards, the edges digging into his fingers. He looks down at the bed sheets crumpled under the weight of his bent leg. James thought sitting on the chair beside him was too formal, and who was he to deny him? 

“You’re not...” He can’t get himself to finish the sentence. “It’s your turn,” he says instead.

“I am, though,” James says, unwilling to let the conversation slide. “Dying, that is.”

Regulus doesn’t know what to say. James has this strange look on his face, like he’s looking for something. 

He wasn’t supposed to be here today. Or any other day, really. He’s visited James with Sirius a handful of times, each time with the peculiar feeling of gravel in his stomach and the urge to retch.

There is a curated schedule around James to make sure he is never alone, and it has worked impeccably until it didn’t and Regulus was called in as backup to keep James company for a few hours.

James had barely acknowledged his existence when he walked in–escorted by a nurse because he forgot where James was staying–his energy already depleted for the day. He did peek through an eye and say, “You’re not my doctor.”

Regulus shook his head and dropped his bag on the floor and sat down beside him. “No, I’m your executioner.”

That earned him a lazy smile, though. James was still too tired to open his eyes. “Finally.”

A warm breeze blows in through the open window, and James shivers. Regulus moves to close the window, but James grabs him by the wrist to stop him, spindly fingers wrapping around him. It takes everything in him not to flinch because James is cold. He’s so cold, and Regulus thinks of the sun and all the times James was compared to it and thinks, ‘this isn’t right.’

As if he can read his mind, James lets go and cradles his hands in his lap. “Leave it. I like the sun.”

Regulus nods and sits down. It feels more awkward now, sitting so close. “Do you want me to get you an extra blanket?”

James scoffs, then inhales sharply, looking up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

Regulus can spot the telltale signs of a crying spell, but James never cries. For as long as he’s known him; James has been synonymous with happy, cheerful, and, again, the sun–always the fucking sun. There were instances when Regulus would be on the receiving end of one of James’ signature smiles, or an accidental touch and he’d think; yeah, alright, he is a bit like the sun. So overwhelming that Regulus feared that he’d burn.

He didn’t look like the sun now, though. He looked small, hollowed and drained.

He was dying.

“I’m dying,” James repeats with a shuddering breath.

You’re not dying, the words pile up on Regulus’ tongue, but quickly fizzle out when he catches a defiant glint in James’ eye. It’s right there behind the facade of mirth and playfulness that usually earns him one of those coveted jelly cups from the nurses. Hidden behind the tight coil of his smile. Maybe it didn’t surface just now; perhaps it has been there for a while now, making a home in James.

It was clear as day: James was angry. How long has he been angry?

It’s a stupid thing to wonder. Of course he was angry; he was dying. One day, he was a normal kid; the next, he broke a leg and came back with a cast and a diagnosis, and it all went downhill from there.

There is a fracture there, across the veneer of bravery and acceptance; a break in his act and he looks vulnerable. Broken. Pleading. Angry. He wants Regulus to ask him. To break the flimsy filter in their conversation and be real with him. 

When James dies by summer’s end, and everyone who ever knew and loved him gathers, they’ll tell their stories through tears coated with tender laughter and they’ll all settle on the same thing: James was brave through it all. Regulus will remember this moment, will let himself be haunted and weighed down by the guilt and know that no, James wasn’t brave. Not always. Not really. 

He’ll shake the feeling that James died as he lived; for others. He didn’t make a fuss, didn’t add to the obvious discomfort and tragedy that came with death. Instead, he fluffed the pillows and dusted off the sheets to make his departure as clean and comfortable as possible for his loved ones.

Except for one moment, the evening when he reached out for the first time–and to Regulus of all people. Regulus should’ve said something.

Regulus should say something.

Open his cage. Let him cry. Let him scream. Let him rage. Hold him. Hold him. Hold him. Tell him it’s unfair, and he shouldn’t go softly.

“Go fish,” he says instead, and he gets this sinking feeling in his stomach

“Hmm?” James blinks, eyes glassy.

Regulus looks down, caressing the seven he does have with his thumb. “It’s your turn, James.”

James looks at him, long and hard, and Regulus faces him head on. James doesn’t find what he’s looking for and frowns. He swallows and nods. Regulus wants to throw up.

“Right,” he reaches for a card.

i love the idea that the skittles had their own adventures at hogwarts that were more chaotic than the marauders' but they're lowkey about it. like oh, you guys were the ones who put that giant squid in the lake? cool. barty is currently possessed by a 16th century demon pandora accidentally released. it hasn't done anything yet and he seems fine and we're late to potions so we'll deal with that when he starts levitating while speaking in a dead language.