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Sirius tosses over to his left side on the bed, for the fourteenth time that night. That is to say, now there has been an unequal amount of tosses onto his right and left. After a sigh and about three seconds, he tosses onto his right- evening things out. Hmm, maybe just one more. Maybe he should try to get to a hundred-
No. This isn’t going to work.
Sirius finally turns over onto his back on the narrow twin bed, thumping his forearms down and releasing yet another heaving sigh from the depths of his churning stomach- which he’s been convincing himself is from the 4 beers he consumed, and not the…events...of the night.
The ceiling fan is spinning, spinning.
He reluctantly wonders what Reggie is doing. Is his brother peacefully asleep? Probably. He certainly doubts that he is staring up at his ceiling fan, wide awake at what must be bordering on 4 in the morning, trying to block out thoughts that scare him way too much for way too many reasons, tossing mechanically from side to side like a cartoon character.
He just needs to go to sleep, for fucks’ sake. Close his eyes, drift off, and wake up when it's all over, as they say- it’ll all be better in the morning, when he sits down to have a cup of coffee with James, Remus’ warm hand on his thigh as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, his moody brother sitting in front of him thumbing through the latest editorial.
He’s being ridiculous.
It was just a peck, really. Okay, well, maybe a little more, but like- it was just a stupid kiss at a stupid party. It’s not like they even meant to do it, or did it knowingly- their shameless, perverted friends pushed them into it for the sake of their own sick entertainment. God, he loves them all so much.
So it’s really not a big deal. Certainly not something that should keep Sirius- or Regulus for that matter, and it probably isn’t because Regulus is a normal person with normal thoughts- up at night, blinking up at the ceiling fan, which is still spinning, spinning, spinning.
Well, that is what ceiling fans do.
Sirius closes his eyes, and reminds himself: it was all just a stupid game, it wasn’t done by choice, it’s not a big deal. They didn’t even know. Obviously, if they did, they wouldn’t have done it.
Obviously.
But somewhere there, in the deep recesses of his mind, when Sirius goes back to the moment- it is small enough for him to try to ignore it, but it’s there.
It’s there: the moment when he felt, through the slight haze of cheap alcohol, tipsy and giddy, someone standing in front of him. Blindfolded and deafened by the headphones, he shouldn’t have been able to tell a thing- but it was his brother. His little brother, who smelled of the peppermints he used to cover up the smell of cigarettes he occasionally indulged in, because James wouldn’t like it, but he always so wanted to be just like his shining, nicotine-addicted older brother. Smelled of shea butter Vaseline and salt spray. Of bourbon vanilla rooibos tea.
He remembers feeling those hands as they trailed up him. Soft, a little chilly because he always ran cold. Not like Sirius’ own- a little bit roughened from all the work on his bike, all the falling and scraping because he had always been so much less careful than Regulus. He wondered, if maybe, Regulus recognised his hands too.
Sirius remembers when he exploringly drew his hands up his kissing game partner’s body, and landed on sharp collarbones. They were just collarbones, almost everyones’ got ‘em. It shouldn’t have been significant in the least. But he couldn’t help the way his breath hitched in familiarity just a little- but he didn’t dare think on it too much.
“I thought you would’ve known right away! Can’t believe you didn’t recognise your own little brother!” Remus had laughed, later, playing with Sirius' hair in his lap. Sirius had covered his still-burning face and groaned out some remark, but here’s the thing, right:
He did know.
He’d know his brother, deaf, mute, and blind. The way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the rhythm with which his eyelashes fluttered along the tops of his aristocratic cheekbones when he looked down, engrossed in a book. He knew his baby brother, 7 years old and trapped in a haze of nightmares, stuck between his mother’s sharp, biting insults and his father’s cane, holding onto his leg after Sirius had jumped in to take the punishment for him.
He’d known Regulus’ body blindfolded with headphones on, a metre away, not touching at all. He would know his little brother, his little star, through walls and doors, all the way down the hall and to the left, as he lay there and whispered Sirius’ name into the night, as if he could cast some kind of summoning spell by sheer will. He’d known it was his brother, he had, when those pillowy lips touched his and he couldn’t help the shiver that ran up his spine, that white-hot rush that began in his core and spread to his shoulder blades, ran through his veins, twisted up betwixt each knuckle and clouded his head.
So it checks out, really, that Sirius swings his legs out of bed and, ignoring the rush of blood due to the sudden movement, ignores his spinning head and creeps out the door and makes his way down the hall to Regulus’ dorm.
The silence and darkness seem to emphasise his every footfall, every crack in his ankle, faulty floorboard, bated breath- until he finally reaches Regulus’ room, and at that point, he doesn’t bother trying to keep quiet.
“Reggie? Regulus?” he whisper-yells into the room.
He hears a rustle of bedsheets, and he doesn’t need to ask to know that it’s Regulus’ way of telling him to stop fucking hovering, come in.
Sirius’ shuts the door behind him, blessedly alone and in private now, and walks over to kneel beside his brother’s bed.
There is a slight sliver of moonlight coming through the window, catching on the silver of the eyes he sees everyday in the mirror- but the shape is different. A little more droopy, sleepy. Bedroom eyes.
Sirius scans down his brother’s face, taking in each feature, so similar yet so different. Somewhere in there a mirror, a twist, an echo, a ripple- of his own.
His heart beats in his chest to the rhythm of those goddamn eyelashes, but it lags and stutters a little as Sirius spots the tear tracks running down his brother’s face, silvery with salt.
That’s when he takes in Regulus’ full expression.
“Little star, why do you look so melancholy?” he whispers, whispers. So gentle, always gentle with his little one.
Regulus says nothing, just turns over completely on his back, ripping his gaze away from Sirius’.
Sirius turns to look at where Regulus’ eyes are fixed, on the ceiling fan. Not spinning, like his own. His brother always did run cold.
“Reg, talk to me, please. I couldn’t sleep either.”
Regulus says nothing.
“Alright, I’ll go. I’m sorry. We can forget about everything, okay?” As he pushed to get up and walk out the door, a hand that he truly didn’t remember getting this strong- clamps onto his forearm.
“Wait. Stay. C’mere, Siri.” There’s a surprising note of whininess, neediness, from his brother’s throat, and Sirius hears the rustle of fabric as bedsheets are pulled back- he doesn’t even realise what he’s doing before he has climbed inside and settled, shoulder to shoulder, with Regulus. Barely touching. Barely breathing.
Tiptoeing around each other. Spinning, spinning, spinning.
“Regulus? I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t-” he begins, but Regulus spares him the awkward apology.
“God, Sirius, shut up, please, shut up.” And then Sirius feels a weight on his chest, and a thigh between his, and the lips that won’t leave his head back on his mouth, and hands on his chest- and it all goes hazy, very quickly after that.
They were both a little tipsy. Had a few beers, a shot or two. But he doesn’t think that’s what messed with his memory. He doesn’t really know. But later, when Sirius lays in his own bed, sated and ethereal- it feels like after a good dream, when you’re jolted awake at 3am, and you try to get back to sleep by thinking of the dream- but the contents keep evading you, just little by little, until all you remember are miniscule snapshots that don’t quite make sense. But all you know is that it was good, that you were happy. That you want to go back.
Little snapshots, that's all he gets.
----
“Fuck, Regulus- are you- fuck- are you sure?” he pants.
Hands are everywhere, mouths are everywhere, everything is spit slick and shining under the moonlight.
“Sirius, Sirius please, yes, wanted this- you-” feverish kisses, “- since I knew how to want..” More kisses, more feverish.
Sirius sits up and gazes at his brother, his little star, and wants nothing more than to get his hands on him, in him. And for once, he lets himself admit it.
“I said come here!”
He’s not so gentle anymore.
----
The hot drag of a mouth along a collarbone, over a navel, down a thigh. Regulus is divinity with his mouth, and Sirius wants to ask him when he got so good, who was his first, who taught him- but the words die on his tongue when his brother catches his half-lidded gaze and laps up the underside of his aching cock, elegant, sensual, delicate- and Sirius takes a moment to think: Of course, this is how he gives head, all demure and nonchalant- before Regulus seems to have a change of heart and spits on his dick, then takes it all the way down his throat without a hitch.
Sirius gasps, and writhes, and melts. He spins.
He watches his little brother, choking and gasping out stolen breaths between each thrust, fucks down his throat chasing not only his own pleasure, but to hear the deep moans, the way Regulus can’t help but grind his own aching core into the mattress, seeming to get as much pleasure from this experience as Sirius.
He remembers, vaguely, shouting some sort of warning.
But he remembers, clear as day, his own little brother’s pleased smirk before his face was painted in thick ropes of white.
----
Thinking, ‘Heaven, I’ve died and gone to some sort of heaven’, as he drags the head of his softening dick across Regulus’ lips, his cheeks, all the way down his chin, cum mixing with spit, filthy and beautiful and so, so them.
It’s always been them.
Sirius scoops up his own cum with his fingers off Regulus’ face, makes him watch wantonly as he licks it off, but doesn’t swallow. When it’s as clean as he can get it, he brings Regulus’ face in slowly, lovingly, feels his smile against his lips as they swap the taste back and forth, back and forth, all needy moans and sticky lips.
“Mh, fuck, so good, gonna fuck you so good Reg, loose and sloppy so everyone will know it was me.”
“Sirius please, fuck, get inside me, fucks’ sake!” he cries out, desperate.
“I’ve got you baby, I’ve got you.”
----
Even from this angle, looking up as his three fingers move in and out of his brother, Sirius doesn’t think much else matters apart from Regulus. Regulus, whimpering beneath him, taking his fingers so perfectly, his prick sitting pretty and heavy across his stomach, smearing precum beneath his navel.
Sirius is so enraptured, he thinks, he may never move. He’ll just stay right here for the rest of his life, this special space between his brother’s thighs carved out just for him. That is, until-
“Sirius, fuck, I’m ready, if you don’t get inside me right now and fuck me up this bed I will shoot myself.”
He doesn’t remember all too much, but he sure as all hell will never forget his darling little Regulus grabbing his cock and rubbing the head against himself, head thrown back- and Sirius loves the stars, always has, wanting nothing more than to learn each pattern, each myth and story- but right now, all he can think of is Regulus’ tight heat, each tooth in his bright white smile of ecstasy forming his favourite constellation.
----
He remembers, surely, laying afterwards, his head on Regulus' chest because he wanted to play with his hair, head still reeling. Soft ‘I love you’s and ‘I’ve wanted this for so long’s and ‘Please tell me this is forever’s exchanged between them, gentle again.
He’s sure there was more, there had to be, because they both knew this didn’t start with a stupid kissing game with their friends. It was so much more than that. So he would ask. He would go see Reggie tomorrow, and he would kiss him, and he would ask- and if Reggie didn’t remember, then that was okay, because they’d just do it again. They would. They had to.
Sirius realised, as he finally drifted off to sleep, head full and cottony, that perhaps it was somewhat of a logistical nightmare. For fucks’ sake, they had boyfriends! Serious ones! Who they loved! They had friends, who were normal people, and probably wouldn’t rationalise this through a lens of ‘Two people who love each other so much they can barely stand it” but more as “What the fuck, our friends are depraved freaks and we should all immediately steer clear of them”. But whatever it was, Sirius couldn’t find it in himself to care. It was all downhill from here, he guessed. Or maybe uphill. But he wasn’t going back.
See, Sirius reasoned, the good thing about living on a sphere rotating in space among the stars is that really, there was no uphill or downhill in the grand scheme of things.
We are really all just spinning, spinning, spinning.