"What’s wrong with his throat?" James was close enough now to reach, but Regulus would never touch. He’d never touch again. His voice still carried that worry and that care and that fiery warmth —the entirety of the sun bearing down on him. And Regulus hadn't deserved it then, when he was free of the ugly lines marking his death and the uglier tattoo etched beneath his skin; he sure as fuck was not deserving of it now. He yearned for it anyway. He yearned for the touch of the ones he loved. There were always so few on that list. And that list had never gotten shorter. Only the list of those who reciprocated that love. A Black loved for life. Platonic, romantic, familial. A Black loved for life. Sirius was no longer a Black. Not really. Sirius was never a Black. Not really. He had always been too good.