#the prompt was real sweet i thought i was gonna write some cute starchaser fluff

[prtfrmhrtbrn]

june 8: ‘taking chances’. 495 words; prompt via @jegulus-microfic !!

(possible cws: drowning & descriptions of pain. whoops!)

The potion slips down his throat easily, like he was born to drink it. James’ hand is in his, holding it tightly, like it was crafted to hold it. Like they were etched particularly, to fit together like they do; not conceived but instead poured into candle-moulds that match only with each other. One-of-a-kind.

The potion slips down his throat easily, but the oyster shell is heavy in his hand, and only getting heavier. It’s hard to lift, even with James’ help; he sobs and begs and pleads, says, “James, anything but more, please, I’m going to die, it’s going to kill me,” but he knows that the agony is as much the potion talking as it is himself, and James lifts the shell back to his lips once more and despite everything in his body crying for the opposite, he drinks.

And drinks. And drinks.

The risk of drinking it sends cold shivers through his body, but they’re so indistinguishable from the nervous tremors- from the knowledge that this is probably what they call ‘the right thing’- that there’s no real difference.

The potion seems bottomless, so much so that when he comes to the end of it, his mouth is open for more; ready, waiting. James looks at him, and smiles, and reaches into the basin to grab at the locket, and he says, “you did it, Reg.”

(Shouldn’t it be- “we did it”?)

He sounds so pure; sweet; happy. Things so unreasonable for a nineteen-year-old who’s in a cave in the middle of nowhere to help his boyfriend kill an immortal to end a war. A nineteen-year-old who’s dealing with undue responsibilities because of a would-be Lord, a false god, a man who panned for gold and found pyrite and convinced everyone that it was authentic. And he’s ruining their lives.

It’s not so bad, not anymore. The potion stung and hurt and burned and made him feel lke he was being cauterised from the inside out, but it’s not so bad. It had left him achingly thirsty, but the lake surrounding the island is full of cool water that eases the pain, and when arms start to grab; scratch; claw, he doesn’t really notice, not until James starts screaming from on the shore.

“Reg!” He calls, anxiety and panic threaded through his tone; an expert weaver, the way that they’re so intrinsic to the way that Regulus’ name falls from his mouth. “Reg, swim away! Please, I-”

And then he’s in the water too, trying to drag him out; fruitless, because the grab-scratch-claw had left him weak and he’s all dead weight. Not even James is strong enough to pull him away from that, though he tries; he always tries. Has never stopped trying. It’s one of Regulus’ favourite things about him.

(Or, well. It used to be.)

(He’s the one who dies first, of the two of them, but it’s a ‘used to be’ no matter how the order looks.)