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“Did you know that death by hypothermia can occur in under an hour in extremely cold conditions?” Regulus asks as soon as Sirius picks up the phone, voice bitter in the evening cold.
He stands shivering, haloed by the flickering lamp in the restaurant’s parking lot.
There’s a rustle on the other end, then a voice that decidedly does not belong to Sirius. “Regulus?” James asks.
Because of course James Potter of all people picked up the phone. Not that Regulus has anything against him, he’s known of James since he was a kid, jealous beyond his years that his brother had replaced him. Had found someone else to spend time with at school and during breaks, had learned new jokes, and carried himself with an easy confidence that could not be found in Regulus.
But then Regulus learned it wasn’t a replacement as much as an addition, because Sirius could never replace him. Had told him as much on a quiet night, caught under the blanket, the low light of the moon keeping them company.
And jealousy had mellowed out into mild annoyance. Regulus and James both caught in Sirius’ orbit, and inevitably in each other’s orbits too. Because these days Regulus is over at their shared apartment often enough, James opening the door with and easy smile, Sirius on the couch with his feet on the coffee table. James clicking his tongue and Regulus calling out, not on the table, you dog.
Regulus pinches the bridge of his nose now. Breathes in and out, even and steady. “James. Why do you have Sirius’ phone?”
“He’s— busy.”
“Well, can you go get him?” He asks, impatient. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to get some feeling back in his legs.
A couple giggles as they half-skip across the parking lot, hurrying toward their car. Regulus feels annoyance spark in his gut, dry wood waiting to catch.
A cough on the other end of the line draws his attention back to the phone call.
“Not really.”
Regulus rolls his eyes. “What on earth could he possibly be up— oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” There is humor in James’ voice but Regulus doesn’t find it funny. “Anyways, what’s up?”
“Nothing. I just called for a ride home but it’s fine. I’ll take a bus or something.”
Regulus has taken a bus maybe twice in his entire life and had solemnly sworn to never take one again, but alas. Something about desperate times and desperate measures.
He briefly considers getting an Uber, but then he remembers that he works at a record store and really can’t afford a ride share. In this economy?
“Hey, no, it’s fine, I’ll come get you. Where are you?” There is a rustling sound, as if James is putting on a jacket. Regulus shivers some more. The muffled clink of keys and the sound of a door unlocking. “Wait, actually just send me your location. I’ll be there soon.”
It shouldn’t surprise him, really. James has always been like this. Kind and good and true. Or at least in the ways that matter.
Secretly, Regulus suspects James peaked in high school. Although maybe he just tells himself that to feel better. It seems excessive that James is kind and helpful and handsome all at once. He takes some pleasure in the fact that James' vision is as bad as it is. A little bit of balance there.
But Regulus knows James’ warm smile and warm eyes, the warm laugh that rumbles in his chest when Regulus and Sirius call each other names from across the room, glasses sliding down his nose as he shakes with it.
The guy he went out with tonight wore glasses too, except his eyes weren’t warm. Not at the end, when he tucked his card under the bill and inclined his head toward the bathroom, eyebrows raised expectantly. Regulus had frowned, but confusion had turned into dread quick enough once he caught on.
A no thanks and dinner was great and he’d slipped out of his chair, coat forgotten. He’d made it outside, hands shaking as he dialed Sirius. Anger in his fingertips.
And Regulus knows its real name is sadness, but anger is easier. Anger is flammable and quick. Anger doesn’t keep him up at night, wondering if maybe things could have been different if he weren’t himself. Anger can be doused. As soon as it ignites, Regulus throws a blanket over it. If he can’t see it, smell it, or feel it, it can’t hurt him.
Finally, a somewhat beat-up car — bright red, because of course it is — pulls up to the curb. Regulus curls in on himself as he hurries to the passenger side, grateful for the warmth as he drops into the seat.
“Shit, Regulus, why aren’t you wearing a coat?” James leans over to the center console to turn up the heat. Regulus sighs as warm air floods the space around him.
“Forgot it.” Because he'd felt too embarrassed to go inside and grab it again. “At home,” he adds.
“Are you okay?” James asks. “The guy, he— He didn’t try anything?” His eyes flit restlessly over Regulus, trying to catalog any hurt, physical or otherwise.
Regulus can’t help but roll his eyes. This is so typical of James, the picture of kindness and goodwill, picking up his best friend’s brother and being worried about him too, as if this all isn’t some major inconvenience. “Jesus Christ, Potter, stow away your bleeding heart. It was just a bad date.”
“Just making sure.”
“Whatever. Just take me home.” A beat. A twitch of his nose. “Please.”
James backs out of the car park, music spilling into the space between them. Neither of them speaks, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s actually kind of nice. Maybe even the nicest part of his whole evening.
Maybe that’s not fair of him. The date had been nice, up until the question of more came up. Until wandering conversation sought to be replaced by wandering hands. It makes his skin crawl a little, an itch under the collar of his nice button-down. The one he’d pulled out of the back of the closet just for the occasion.
But well, sometimes people don’t get to have the things they want. And Regulus had learned how to be okay with that a long time ago.
Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.
James drops him off outside his building. He’d offered to walk him all the way to his apartment, but Regulus had slammed the door before James could finish asking.
The elevator ride up to his floor feels impossibly long, the hallway longer still.
When he finally gets the door open, Regulus drops his keys on the table in the narrow hallway with a clatter and a sigh. He kicks off his shoes with another sigh and he sighs yet again as he hangs his coat on the hook on the wall.
His excessive sighing seems to have attracted the attention of his cat, the quiet patter of his paws against the hardwood floor signaling his approach.
“Hey, Walt,” Regulus says as he drops down to his haunches. “Missed you.” He drags the back of his pointer finger across the cat’s face, the fur soft and familiar under his touch.
Walt allows the ministrations for precisely five seconds before walking away with a twitch of his nose. He makes his way over to the heaping basket of clean laundry. Settles on it like a king on a throne, ignoring his perfectly nice bed that lies untouched just a few feet to the left.
The moon is bright tonight, so Regulus doesn’t bother with the lights. Blue spills through the big windows, catching on the plants he has spread out on his windowsill.
They’ve been doing well, lately, the plants. Scattered throughout the tiny apartment, evergreen and always chasing the sun.
They used to wilt and dry and die like they were getting paid to do so. The Black Family Curse, Sirius had said. Regulus had scoffed and rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t so sure it was a joke. It seemed like something that might as well happen to him.
But then, a few months ago, they stopped withering and started blossoming instead. Maybe it was sheer force of will, but Regulus’ plants never did wilt again.
He gently runs a finger along the soft leaves now, his skin feeling more and more like his own as he stands there. Walt ambles over again, bumping his forehead against Regulus’ legs and weaving through them.
He lets himself linger by the window for a moment longer before heading to bed, curled up in his clean sheets. Alone, like always.
“You summoned me?” James’ voice is loud in the empty parking lot. He’s leaning against his car, relaxed and at ease.
His usually crisp shirt is rumpled tonight. Creases down the front, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a little wrinkled where it is no longer tucked into his trousers. His hair is also a mess, like he ran his hands through it one too many times.
“Reg?” James calls out when the silence stretches too long.
“Did I call at a bad time?”
It’s been a few weeks since Regulus’ last date. This one went about just as well. He should know better than to let a customer take him out. It’s mixed bag at the record store, but he seems to have a knack for finding pretentious assholes who like classic rock and indie producers. At least this time he remembered to grab his jacket on the way out.
“Oh, no, it’s nothing.” James waves his hand, as if physically batting away the comment. “I was working on some lesson plans still, but it was getting late anyways. This was a good excuse to stop for the night.”
“Shit, you should’ve told me, I—”
He isn’t sure how to finish his sentence. He, for some reason, skipped over every other contact in his phone and went straight to James’ when he needed a ride home.
“I don’t mind. I swear. And I’m already here.” James pushes himself off the side of the car and moves to the passenger side to open the door for Regulus.
Regulus catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the side of the car, black curls disheveled and eyes tired.
“Another bad one?” James asks as he settles back in the driver’s seat.
Because of course it was. Because of course this guy had offered Regulus a ride home. To his home, that is. And of course he had left Regulus with the bill when he declined with a small shake of his head.
It’s for the better, really, it is. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.
It makes something sharp tear down his throat every time, like he’s swallowed glass.
But James doesn’t need to know all of that. So instead Regulus says, “Yeah, he didn’t like cats,” which isn’t a lie.
He reaches over to fiddle with the heat, slightly too warm now. The dial takes some force to twist. Shitty ass car, he thinks. The corner of his mouth ticks up.
“Oh, you have a cat?” James asks. The engine sputters to life, slow and noisy, like a beast waking from hibernation. James smiles at him in reassurance when he notices the way Regulus’ brow is creased.
“A black cat named Walt.”
“Walt?” James sounds genuinely puzzled, eyes flicking over to Regulus. “Oh! Short for Walter?”
“No. I mean, yes, but also no.”
“Like Walt Whitman?”
“No. It’s— Walt Disney.”
“I’m sorry, you— “ James coughs, a poorly concealed laugh. “You named your cat Walt Disney?”
“He really loves this one Micky Mouse toy, okay? What else was I supposed to name him?”
“Nothing! I didn’t mean anything by it! I think it’s a great name for a cat.”
“You’re lying.” Regulus narrows his eyes at James, a playful sneer curling at his lips.
“I’m not!”
There is a retort on the tip of Regulus’ tongue, but then James twists in his seat, just the slightest bit, one hand still on the steering wheel and the other reaching for the back of Regulus’s head—
—rest. James is reaching for the headrest.
He shifts a little closer to Regulus, close enough that he is able to smell the comforting scent of James’ cologne. Regulus forces himself to not do something embarrassing, like take a deep breath to try and figure out if he’s catching notes of cinnamon.
James’ broad palm settles on the back of the seat as he looks over his shoulder and the whole gesture feels strangely protective. Regulus knows it isn’t. Knows that James is just practicing safe driving, but he can’t help it. Warmth spreads from his belly all the way to his fingertips.
He wonders if his face is flushed.
Then again, maybe it’s not so much the gesture as James himself that makes him feel safe. He did call him, after all, even though he could have just as easily called his brother. He tucks the thought away, same way he tucks away his smile.
To avoid staring at the way the fabric of James’ shirt stretches and strains, Regulus’ eyes drift over to the way James has one hand on the wheel.
Regulus never did learn how to drive, so he tells himself it’s purely instructive, the way his gaze is glued to James’ hand, palm against the top of the wheel, and the way he is turning it slowly as he backs out of the parking spot.
There’s an ink stain on his thumb, Regulus realizes.
Finally, eventually, unfortunately, James shifts back, leaning away from Regulus again and his other hand settling on the gear stick.
“Let’s get you home to Walt, huh?” James says as he merges into traffic. The pop music that filters from his car stereo fades in the murmur of the engine.
Regulus nods, letting his head drop against the window, the cityscape rolling as they drive past.
James’ scent of wood and allspice lingers in the space around Regulus. It already clings to the interior of the car, but it is much stronger now that Regulus has had a whiff up close.
It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.
“Walt, please, I just need to grab a pair of clean socks and then you can get back in there,” Regulus pleads. He has one hand under Walt’s paw, wrist pinned in place as he wiggles his fingers in search of a sock.
He doesn’t even need the socks to match at this point, anything would be fine. Really, it’s his own fault for not putting away the laundry when he said he would. Then again, Walt loves clean laundry, so who is Regulus to take that away from him? Walt could tell him he craves fresh blood and Regulus would probably try to acquire some.
Regulus is wiggling his fingers with all his might, straining for a single clean sock, when the front door unlocks.
“Honey, I’m home!” Barty calls out, noisily kicking off his shoes in the narrow hallway before stepping into the living room and dropping down onto the couch.
Because Barty has this tendency to drop by unannounced. He also has a tendency to eat all of the snacks Regulus carefully hides. He’s like a sniffer dog when it comes to Ketchup chips. Not like Regulus buys those specifically for Barty or anything.
“Honey, you don’t live here,” Regulus says through clenched teeth, wrist still pinned under Walt’s unrelenting paw.
Barty wiggles his fingers and clicks his tongue, attracting Walt’s attention. Leisurely, the cat gets up from his throne of laundry and makes his way over to Barty. He receives some gentle scratches under his chin for his efforts.
Regulus huffs at the blatant display of favoritism, but he manages to find two matching socks, and drops down on the couch next to Barty to tug them on.
“Why,” Barty simply says. He drags his gaze over Regulus, a calculating look in his eye.
“Why what?”
“All this. The nice clothes, the—” Barty sniffs the air— “cologne. Too much, by the way.”
This is rich coming from Barty, who douses himself in cologne like it's the very air he needs to breathe.
“I have a date.”
Some guy from Tinder. Or Grindr. Or some other app ending in -r. He’s not quite sure, but he had a pleasing smile, and Regulus really, really wasn’t feeling picky. Allegedly, he has shit taste in men, so Regulus is… branching out.
Barty’s brow furrows. “Again?”
“Yes.”
“Regulus, you have gone on more dates this month than you have in the past year.”
“What about it?”
“Why?”
Regulus chooses not to respond, shifting to get up when he gets suddenly yanked back down onto the couch. Barty has him by the back of his shirt, not unlike a cat being held up by the scruff of their neck.
“Unhand me this instant,” Regulus hisses. “I deserve to be free.”
“No. Stop running away from your problems.”
“I don’t have any problems.”
“Yeah, okay.” Regulus doesn’t need to see Barty’s face to know he is rolling his eyes. “Then why are you going on dates like you’re practicing for the next season of The Bachelor?”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Regulus.”
“Barty.”
But Barty knows Regulus. Knows him well enough to know that Regulus can’t bear his unrelenting stare and will cave in about three, two, o—
“Fine!” He throws his hands out in the air for good measure. “It’s…” The words are hard to find, suddenly, even though Regulus usually has so many of them. “I think I just feel like— Lately, it’s been— I want…”
And really, isn’t that all it is? Regulus wants. So badly, it makes his bones ache. He wants and he aches and he craves. He wants and he needs and he can’t have. Because people like him don’t get what they want. They get a date, maybe two, and then narrowed eyes and a hissed tease that stings more than it should. They get a second base? I paid for dinner, it’s the least you could do.
Barty seems to understand. Manages to fill in the empty space and hear the words Regulus doesn’t say. He’s annoying like that. In the ways he sees Regulus and doesn’t close his eyes, no matter how badly Regulus might want him to.
Like that time Regulus had asked Barty to have sex with him just to get it over with, just because I trust you and it had ended before it even began because Regulus had a panic attack as soon as Barty undid his pants.
What if I never have sex? Regulus had asked, small and shaking in Barty’s arms.
Then you never have sex, Barty said, foreheads pressed together. And in that moment, it really was that simple. Because Barty made it so.
Barty had seen him then, and loved him still. Broken pieces and all. And he sees him now.
Barty nods, once, in understanding. Lets go of Regulus’ shirt, hand shifting to cup the back of his head instead. He leans down to gently knock their foreheads together. “Fine. I’ll allow it.”
Regulus scoffs, a roll of his eyes emphasizing the sarcastic, “Thank you, daddy.”
Before Barty can say something worse in return, Regulus shoves his face away, using it to push himself into a standing position. A cackle slips in between the couch cushions.
“Walt doesn’t like you, by the way,” Regulus says over his shoulder as he makes his way toward his bedroom.
“Ha, Walt says you’re a bald-faced liar.” Barty sounds far too pleased as he speaks, and when Regulus looks back, he sees the way his cat is settling in the cradle of Barty’s arms with a low purr.
Traitor, he thinks, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The third call, Regulus doesn’t remember making.
He remembers swaying on his bar stool like a reed in shallow waters, humming along to a song he can’t name. There are three empty glasses in front of him, ice cubes still melting but any liquor long gone. Something strong but sweet, which allowed him to knock them back easily.
He texted James to come pick him up. His phone lies face-up on the counter, in case James calls, but he barely admits this to himself. There was no need though, because James found him all on his own.
Regulus, lost at sea and a lighthouse, at the same time.
“Hello there.” James' voice floats into range. It is a pleasant one, and Regulus wants to coast on it all the way home.
“Hello there to you too,” he says. The words flow like water. Like liquor. He turns in his seat to face James, but he moves too much and too quickly and his stomach lurches with it.
The dizzy spin of his head is eased when James reaches out to stabilize him, hands on his shoulders. Those warm and calloused hands that wrap around the steering wheel effortlessly. Regulus wonders what else they might wrap around.
The thought makes him frown, creases in his forehead like waves. He reaches up to smooth them out, petting clumsily at his own forehead.
“Can I take you home, Reg?” James asks.
He looks nice, Regulus decides. A soft sweater tugged on over a white button-down, his typical slacks, except this time he’s wearing scuffed sneakers. His eyes are patient behind his glasses, like he has nothing better to do on a Thursday night than to pick Regulus up at a bar.
Regulus nods, but again, the movement proves to be too much. His mouth doesn’t work the way it should and he bites down onto his tongue with the eager wobble of his head. He hisses at the sting, baring his teeth as if that’ll make it better.
James winces in sympathy. “Careful with those teeth, killer.”
"I have very good teeth. Strong. White. Sirius doesn't have teeth like mine," Regulus slurs. "He had a horrible overbite when he was a child. Me personally, I barely had to wear braces."
James chuckles, the sound warm and fond. Regulus feels more drunk on the sound than he does on the alcohol coursing through his system, absolutely obliterating his brain-to-mouth filter.
“Sirius used to have an overbite from sucking on his thumb.” Even as a child Regulus was the smarter one because he never did that. No, he had other vices — Regulus used to chew on his hair, although he manages to keep this bit of information to himself, miraculously.
Regulus is still babbling to James, talking about how he has always been his dentist's favorite patient — only has to come into checkups once a year instead of once every six months — when James cuts in with, "Say, Reg, I can't really see your teeth in here, what with the dim lighting. How about we go outside, huh?"
"Yeah, alright," Regulus hiccups as he struggles to his feet. He's eager to get outside, wants to impress James more than anything, even if he doesn’t quite know why. "Best teeth in the whole family," he adds, as if James might still have any doubts about the state of Regulus' teeth.
James leads them into the cold evening air, but Regulus only feels warmth, the way he is pressed up against James’ solid chest, kept in the circle of his arms.
Once they've made their way outside, James walks Regulus in the direction of his car but Regulus is struggling out of James' grip, coming to a stand-still under a streetlight.
Confused, James turns around to look at him.
Regulus is standing in the harsh light with his jaw clenched together and his lips stretched out in a square smile, showing off his teeth. “See? Real white and straight," Regulus says, although it comes out slightly garbled.
James nods in agreement, fighting to keep a straight face. he reaches out slowly, grasping Regulus' chin between his thumb and pointer finger, twisting his head this way and that as if he's appraising a fine work of art and not the teeth of his best friend's drunk brother.
"The best I've seen so far," James acquiesces.
Regulus is pleased with that assessment, satisfaction humming in his veins, square grimace fading into a gentle smile. Just the slightest upturn of his lips.
James wrenches his gaze away. "Let's get you home, huh, Reg?" He lets go of Regulus’ face and Regulus almost wants to whine out a petulant no, but then James grabs his hand instead, tugging him along in the direction of the car.
His skin tingles where the warm pads of James’ fingers had touched him. He can’t recall what he had been drinking earlier, but it pales in comparison to this.
Regulus is lost at sea, James a gentle wave guiding him home.
Sirius had received a single message, reading: If I am to leave this mortal realm in an untimely manner, please come collect Walt, as I would not want him to have to sustain himself on the rotting flesh of my unworthy body. and had appeared at Regulus’ apartment within the half hour.
He finds Regulus in a fetal position on his bed, sheets thrown off to the side, and a blue bucket on the floor next to him. He probably looks about as bad as he feels: hair matted to his forehead, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face, a shiver racking his frame occasionally.
Sirius, unfortunately, looks perfectly fine. Hair styled as always, strategically ripped jeans and a shirt with paint splatters on it that should look messy but simply makes him look artfully disheveled.
He has a drink carrier with four separate cups in it; two green concoctions and two coffees.
Regulus sticks his hand out, wordlessly demanding one of the coffees.
Sirius does not give it to him.
He nudges Regulus with his foot instead, silently asking him to move over.
“How many?” Sirius asks as he settles on the bed, carefully balancing the drinks in one hand.
“Three cocktails,” Regulus responds. He turns to lie on his back, starfish on the bed and limbs pressing up against Sirius. Warmth seeps through the thin fabric of his cotton pajama pants. “After I took two shots already,” he adds.
“Oh, that’ll do it.”
Except, it’s not the lingering alcohol that leaves him feeling uneven and untethered today. Like his skin is too tight and his bones are too large.
Something swoops in his stomach, hot and gooey. He squeezes his eyes shut until there are white spots dancing on his eyelids, expelling the images of James that flash through his mind.
James, in a pristine white button-down. James, slightly rumpled yet no less handsome in the flickering streetlight. James, face slightly pinched as the light turns green. James, with his hands on Regulus to stabilize him. James, James, James.
He thinks he can still feel the print of James’ finger on his chin, right where James had grabbed him last night.
See, James had held him last night — ever so briefly — and now Regulus’ skin is too tight and his bones are too large and it is all James’ fault. Because when he woke up this morning and threw up, the butterflies fluttering in his stomach stayed and now he thinks he has feelings. For Sirius’ best friend, of all people.
“Regulus?” Sirius pokes him in the stomach, that spot right beneath his ribs that makes him fold like an accordion. Regulus flinches, limbs retracting to protect his soft spots, except it’s difficult when all of Regulus is a soft spot.
No place to hit without making him bleed. It’s why the cage around his heart has teeth.
He doesn’t think James would make him bleed, though. James has big, gentle hands. Deft fingers and a light touch. He imagines it, for a moment. James’ hand, caught in his own. The stark contrast of tan against pale.
James, whose nails are tidy. Regulus, whose nails are bit to the quick.
James, whose hands might start to wander after a date or two or three. Regulus, whose hands might shake as he pushes him away.
And this is precisely why it won’t work, even if James liked him. Because who would want this? Want him?
“Regulus?” Sirius asks again when the silence has filled every corner of the room.
It has crawled under the wooden floorboards, even the one that creaks. It sticks to the walls, to the pictures he has hanging on them. It has worked its way in between the books on his bedside table, pages dog-eared and spines cracked.
“I think there’s something wrong with me.” The words sound loud, even though Regulus speaks softly.
“Reggie…”
Sirius sets the drinks he had been balancing on his lap somewhere on the nightstand. He shifts until he is curled up on his side, facing Regulus, his whole body a question mark.
“Like, fundamentally. I don’t know.”
“Well, I know. I’m your big brother and I always know best, don’t I?” Sirius knocks his forehead gently against Regulus’ shoulder.
“I guess…”
“Come on, when have I ever led you astray?”
Regulus’ answer is immediate: “Summer of 2011. Bowl-cut. The milkshake incident. That one time you told me to climb through the window. Just last week, when you said the food wouldn’t be spicy—”
Regulus is promptly cut off when Sirius claps his hand over his mouth. Regulus licks at Sirius’ palm, but Sirius is not deterred, his hand staying firmly in place.
“Yeah, okay, other than a few exceptions, I have not led you astray. So trust me on this one” —Sirius shifts so he can look Regulus in the eye then— “there is nothing wrong with you.”
Regulus nods, face still half-covered by Sirius’ hand. They stay like that for another moment, eyes locked and foreheads almost touching. Eventually, Sirius is satisfied with whatever it is he reads in Regulus’ eyes. With a hum, he removes his hand from Regulus’ mouth and settles more comfortably on the bed again.
“Our parents were wrong,” Regulus murmurs, more to himself than to Sirius. But Sirius hears it nonetheless.
“Our parents were wrong,” he confirms.
The coffee is cold by the time they drink it. Regulus doesn’t mind.
It’s perhaps a little undignified, the way dates every now and then have turned into weekly occurrences. Regulus swipes right on almost every man he comes across, only to end the date after a drink and an appetizer. Sometimes he doesn’t even let it get that far, signaling for the bill when his glass is empty and dialing James as soon as he sets foot outside.
He is not proud of it and definitely embarrassed to even admit it, but he’s gone as far as to make sure the dates are on Fridays or Saturdays so James won’t have to pick him up on school nights.
James’ familiar car pulls up to the curb not too long after he hangs up the phone. Without fail, he’ll hurry out of the car to open the door for Regulus. He always asks how the date went, even though they both know that the fact that Regulus called James 20 minutes in means that it did not go well at all.
Still, they play their parts. Two dancers, a familiar song:
“How was it?” James will ask.
“Fine,” Regulus will say, “except he is into bitcoin.” Or, “He smelled like mayonnaise.” Or, “ He called his mom to help him pick what to order.” Or, “He forgot to mention that he had a wife and kids at home.”
“Better luck next time,” James will say and Regulus only hums non-commitally.
Some nights they talk, the engine and conversation idle.
“No, really, I can tell what people listen to with just one look,” Regulus argues. He glances at James, who has his eyes on the road, head tilted in consideration. The red of the light floods the car, staining James’ face in a warm hue. It looks good on him, Regulus decides.
“Okay, do me,” James says.
The turn signal ticks steadily on. The light stays red. Regulus doesn’t breathe. For the barest, briefest moment, heat floods his face. He’s thankful James is such a careful driver, eyes never on Regulus for long.
“What?” He manages.
“Do me,” James repeats. He shoots Regulus a quick glance. “What do I listen to?”
Air floods his lungs again, the warm scent of wood and allspice that is now so familiar to him. He pretends to consider it for a moment. Makes a show of looking James up and down, examining the way his glasses sit low on his nose, somehow always smudged. The light turns green. The car rolls into motion.
“Whale sounds and city pop,” Regulus says eventually.
James’ eyes flit over to Regulus, wide and amazed behind his smudged glasses, eyebrows raised. “Holy shit, how did you know?” He breathes out, incredulous.
Regulus huffs, soft and fond. “You regularly let me queue up songs on your Spotify. I have eyes, James.”
James’ shoulders droop. He sulks with his whole body, Regulus has learned. It is not enough to pout, mouth twisted in childlike annoyance. No, he needs to sag and wilt like the plants on Regulus’ windowsill, not satisfied until they get attention.
“Not fair,” James whines and Regulus imagines that he sounds like the kids he teaches.
“Never said I was.”
Some nights, they get something to eat. It started when Regulus had climbed into the car with a mighty growl of his stomach, arm clutched over it protectively, as if he could muffle the sound.
James hadn’t said anything. He just wordlessly drove them to a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant and pointed Regulus to a table while he went to order. Blue tiles and yellow light, the smell of spice wafting in from the kitchen. Regulus hadn’t dared to tell James how he hated spicy food, but all of it was mild. Still, he blames the flush in his cheeks on the heat of the food.
Tonight, James glances at him, a silent question. Regulus only nods. James knows his order, after all.
“Be right back,” he says as he hoists himself out of the car. It’s raining. Lightly, but still. Regulus watches from the car as James ducks his head and jogs to the entrance. Water sticks to his hair and his glasses. Regulus feels a bit jealous that the rain gets to be so close to him while he has to wait in the car.
They eat in Regulus’ living room, as they usually do, feet up on the couch and take-away boxes empty on the coffee table as a tragedy of some sort unfolds on the TV. Something to do with zombies, maybe?
It is comfortable now, having James in his space.
The first time James came over, Regulus wrung his hands anxiously behind his back. The grey couch suddenly seemed worn and the records on the wall cliche. The kitchen was messy, dishes still stacked in the drying rack. A pair of socks had tumbled out of the laundry basket and lay right by Walt’s bed.
But then Walt strolled over and James lowered himself to the floor and said, “Hello, Mister Disney. Pleasure to meet you.” And Regulus’ heart sped up for a completely different reason.
“It’s Walt for friends,” Regulus had said. “You can call him Walt.”
James had pressed a hand to the middle of his chest, as if to say I’m honored. His other hand was still dutifully scratching Walt behind his ears.
There is a scream on the TV, stirring Regulus from his thoughts. His attention is still not on the screen though. He is much too focused on the tiny hole in James’ sock. It’s a pink one this time, tiny flamingos printed all over.
James has an extensive collection. Offensive shades of orange and green and blue, bright enough to be seen from outer space. They all have equally offensive patterns. Avocados and dinosaurs, jellyfish and strawberries, each one more gaudy than the last.
So tonight, it is pink flamingos. And in that sea of pink, a speck of skin is visible, just the barest hint of brown. Regulus can’t help but stare.
Regulus does not know how to mend. He does not know how to thread a needle and pull fabric together in such a way that it becomes whole again.
He does not know how to mend. Rather, he thinks he is more skilled at breaking things. At making undone.
But he would like to learn. Would like to set aside James’ broken pieces and put them together again one by one on a Wednesday night, as they eat take-away on the couch, Walt napping in between them.
Regulus’ gaze shifts from James to the plants on his windowsill. They have bloomed beautifully under his loving attention. Leaves open and always facing the sun, eager to feel its warmth.
Regulus thinks that maybe he is like his plants and James is the sun and Regulus blooms beautifully under James’ loving attention. He thinks of other ways he might bloom, other forms of James’ attention.
The very edges of the thought already make him blush so he tucks it away for safekeeping, marks the box “for later”. He twitches in his seat, heat suddenly blooming under his collar.
“You okay?” James asks when he notices. Regulus just hums, not trusting his voice. Or his brain, for that matter.
A discordant sound bursts from the piano where Walt’s paws land on the keys, causing him to jump.
“Come on, Walt,” James says distractedly, as if it’s second nature. “Not the piano.”
The cat sniffs at him before hopping onto the bench and then down to the floor, as if that was his plan all along.
Regulus rolls his eyes, ignoring the hummingbird that flutters right where his heart should be when he notices how seamlessly James fits into his life.
“How was it?” James asks as soon as Regulus drops into his seat.
Because it’s Friday night and James is once again picking Regulus up from a date he didn’t even want to go on.
Any reasonable person would confess. Boombox under a window, cue cards and Christmas carolers, or something else from those ridiculous rom-coms James loves so much.
But not Regulus, because denial is a heady drug and he is barely willing to tell himself he likes James.
Besides, if James liked him back — which he doesn’t, but if he did — he’d ask Regulus out. James knows better than anyone how disastrous these dates have been. Surely he has realized by now what Regulus is up to. But James is too kind to put a stop to it and Regulus is too selfish to. So they drive home, the only thing between them stolen moments at the red light.
“It was fine, he just didn’t like me, I guess.” Regulus reaches for the belt. Gives it one tug, then two. It won’t budge. Shitty ass car, he thinks fondly. James notices his struggle and leans over.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Regulus isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for the seat belt or for the date.
It’s strange, having James this close. They’re comfortable together, hours spent in the car or in Regulus’ apartment. It is easy, existing in each other’s orbit. James, the sun and Regulus, more than happy to feel warm. Still, with James this close, Regulus feels like he might burst into flame.
James tugs at the belt and somehow it gives. Divine intervention or a cosmic joke, Regulus isn’t sure. However, he is sure that he isn’t breathing as James pulls the belt along Regulus’ torso, voice coming out strained when he says, “It’s fine. I just wish they’d take me to nicer places. There’s only so many times I can walk into the same restaurant, you know?”
“I get that,” James hums, clicking the buckle into place. He checks to make sure it isn’t cutting into Regulus’ neck before leaning back. “I’d take you to a hockey game. Oh! Or maybe figure skating? I bet you’d be good at that. A museum could also be fun. Or the beach? But you look like you burn easily, so maybe not.”
“I—” Regulus’ voice dies in his throat. It sits there, right at the base, keeping any other words from creeping in. Words such as please or when or I think I’d like that or I think I like you. He clears it and tries again: “Yeah, that would be nice.”
“Why do you go on all these dates anyway?” James asks as he turns the key in the ignition. The car comes to life in steps and sputters, the engine humming before it takes.
“What do you mean?” The thing at the base of his throat tightens, and his airway becomes a little constricted. He thinks his voice comes out wheezy.
“I don’t know, it’s just…” James checks the mirrors. Pulls out of his parking spot. “You don’t seem like the type, is all.”
Now Regulus really isn’t breathing. His own voice is loud in his head. “The type to what? Date?”
“Kind of…”
“So, what? Is the idea of me dating really so foreign to you?”
Something in Regulus’ tone must startle James. He looks over, wide-eyed, before his eyes turn to the road again. “That’s not what I—”
“No, it is, isn’t it? Tell me, Potter,” he says, voice sharp. He sees James flinch in his periphery. Good, he thinks, vitriol in his veins. “What about me screams undateable? What about me is so repulsive that the very concept of me dating seems incomprehensible to you? Hm? Tell me.”
His words have teeth, his voice has claws. Anything to protect his soft heart.
It’s a flaw. He knows it is. His friends have pointed it out often enough, but despite the years and the distance, this is one habit he can’t shake.
His words are his father’s, his voice belongs to his mother. Anything to protect his soft heart.
He learned when he was young to use big words to prop himself up. It’s hard to talk down on someone who proves to be smarter still. So Regulus learned the biggest words. Spent nights with the dim light of his bedside lamp scouring the pages of a dictionary, learning every last word so no one would ever talk down on him again. So he would never be made to feel like the smallest person in the room again.
“Wait, Regulus, I just meant that—”
But Regulus knows what he meant. He’s had this conversation often enough, always with different people. It comes down to the same thing though: why are you going on dates if you’re not even willing to put out?
Regulus just didn’t think James would be like that too.
“No.” Regulus didn’t know he could have this much ice in his voice. But if James is the sun, Regulus will never thaw again.
James opens his mouth to speak, to explain, to defend, to offend, but Regulus’ cold glare is enough to shut him up.
Regulus feels thin and threadbare, like a sweater that has been worn one too many times. His voice is equally thready when he says, “Just take me home.” A soft please sticks to the back of his teeth. He swallows it down.
It is silent for the rest of the ride home, but Regulus keeps himself busy. He mentally smashes up the boombox, and tears up the cue cards. By the time he gets home, he has almost convinced himself there was nothing to confess in the first place.
The phone rings once, twice, three times. It’s been getting warmer with the changes of the seasons, the sky still bright despite the late hour, but still, Regulus feels the chill of evening.
It’s been a week, maybe two, since he last went on a date. Since he last saw James. A less pathetic man would simply call James up, not go through the trouble of dressing up and going out just to beg for a ride home from someone who doesn’t want him back. But here Regulus is, in his nicest shirt. A shade of green that James once said complimented his eyes. It’s been his favorite ever since.
But Regulus’ anger is a flimsy thing. It is a house of cards he has meticulously built over the span of days, yet easily collapsible. His resolve had crumbled just as quickly. An empty apartment and stale leftovers made him realize he missed James’ easy warmth. His fond jabs and flashy socks.
Maybe, if Regulus pretends hard enough, he can convince himself nothing happened. That James is not like everyone else and that Regulus didn’t push him away at the first sight of blood.
So Regulus pretends. But the phone is still ringing and Regulus wonders if James will even pick up, wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. Then the line clicks and—
“Reggie?” Except James never calls him Reggie, only Regulus or Reg. Sirius’ voice filters through the line, tinny and distant. “Why’re you calling James?”
“I need to be picked up,” he states simply. He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need Sirius to know what he’s been up to.
“Oh, did you try to reach me?” There’s some shuffling, Sirius presumably looking for his own phone. “Shit, sorry, I—”
“No,” Regulus cuts in. “I meant to call James. He always comes to get me.”
“James?”
“Yes.”
“Potter?”
“Yes.”
“My good friend James Potter?
“Yes.”
“My good friend James Potter who hates driving?”
A mighty roll of eyes and an even mightier sigh. “Ye— wait, what?”
Regulus can almost hear the record scratch, his brain taking a moment too long to process. There is static between his ears, but Sirius’ voice filters through anyway.
“Reggie, James hates driving. Doesn’t do it unless absolutely necessary.”
Regulus had always pegged James as a careful driver. Sticking to speed limits. Double and triple-checking his mirrors at every turn.
“Oh.” Then, “Doesn’t he drive to work?”
“No, the school is only a fifteen-minute walk from our place.”
“Oh.”
He sees it, then. The way James’ jaw tenses whenever they have to merge. The unrelenting grip on the steering wheel. His shoulders bunching up to his ears whenever he has one hand on the gear stick. Eyes always on the road. Never on Regulus.
But Regulus’ eyes had always been on James. How had he not seen it? The tension rolling off him in waves and waves and waves. Regulus too lost at sea to notice.
“Well, do you want me to come get you?” Sirius asks when the silence has stretched on for a beat too long.
“I don’t know,” he says, voice distant even to his own ears. His mind is somewhere else. James picking him up, ink stains on his fingers and shirt rumpled, hands shaking at the intersection.
His house of cards shattered, his flimsy anger scattered. All the things he thought he knew.
“Hey, are you okay?” Sirius’ voice takes on that soft quality it does sometimes. Regulus can just see how his brow is furrowed, pinched in the middle, his chin dipping down to his chest as he lowers his tone. “You sound weird.”
“Yeah, ‘m fine. I’ll ask Barty to come get me.”
“If you’re su—” But Regulus doesn’t let him finish, hitting the red button on his screen. It takes less than ten seconds for messages to come rolling in.
um rude??
i was literally still talking to you??
🖕🖕🖕
enjoy hitchhiking, bitch
get home safe. text me when you’re in.
He swipes at the notifications, opening Barty’s contact instead and dropping a pin of his location. Goes back to Sirius' messages and responds with a heart.
It only takes a handful of seconds for Barty's reply to appear, 5 mins.
Regulus waits. Paces. Walks the length of the parking lot, ignoring the questioning glances from the people passing by.
James hates driving.
The evening chill that usually creeps into his bones is nowhere to be found, warmed from within because James hates driving.
A less pathetic man would’ve told Regulus the truth, but James simply told Regulus to wait until he got there.
A loud honk startles him from his thoughts and when he turns, he sees Barty’s obnoxious car, Barty himself leaning out of it. “Where’s your knight in shining armor tonight?” He asks, mouth curled up into a sneer.
“Shut the fuck up,” Regulus grounds out, yanking at the door handle to the backseat. It’s quite the downgrade from riding shotgun next to James, but the front seat in Barty's car is permanently claimed by Evan.
Regulus doesn’t mind too much, though. Barty’s car is nice. Infinitely nicer than James’ bright red ‘84 Corolla.
“James hates driving,” he says as soon as he falls into the backseat. Barty doesn’t wait for Regulus to buckle himself in to start driving. When he reaches for the seat belt, the memory of James’ proximity makes his heart stall momentarily, like the engine of James’ car. “He hates driving and yet, he’s been coming to pick me up for weeks now. Who does that?”
“A man who likes you, probably,” Barty says.
“He hates driving. He’s been driving me home for weeks. Weeks. Also, hi, Evan.”
Evan doesn’t respond, just shoots Regulus a look over his shoulder, a straw tucked between his lips. He has his feet propped up on the storage compartment, knees knocking together when they take a turn. Regulus can already hear how he’ll inevitably complain about the bruises it’s causing him.
“He hates driving,” Regulus repeats.
“Yes, Regulus,” Barty says.
“We heard, Regulus,” Evan adds.
“He hates driving and he knows my go-to order at the Chinese place down the street and Walt likes him and he likes me, and I bet he’d be so good at taking care of plants, too.”
It’s silent for a moment. Evan coughs. “About that…”
“What?” Regulus leans forward, filling the empty space between the two front seats. The edge of the belt digs into the soft skin of his neck.
“Your plants. They’re fakes.”
“You swapped out my plants for fakes?”
“Yeah,” Evan says plainly. As if that’s a perfectly normal thing to do and lie about. He doesn’t say anything else.
Regulus takes a brief moment to explode Evan with his mind before asking, “When?”
“Dunno,” Evan says before tucking the straw between his lips again. He sucks at it noisily and Regulus pretends not to notice the way Barty’s jaw clenches. Disgusting behavior. “Maybe six months ago.”
“So you mean to tell me that I have been watering plastic plants for several months and you never thought to inform me?”
Evan glances at him over his shoulder, unconcerned. “I mean, yeah.”
“Evan!”
“What?”
“It’s— why?”
Evan heaves a long-suffering sigh, shoots a knowing glance at Barty, and shifts in his seat so he can face Regulus a bit better.
“Because you have a black thumb, Reg, and it makes you sad when your plants die and I just didn’t want you to be sad anymore, okay?”
Regulus drops back, eyes pinched closed. He wills away the sting of tears.
“Fuck.” It comes out wobbly. He feels unsteady, uneven, like he missed a step and is barely catching himself. “Maybe I am cursed.”
“You’re not cursed, Regulus,” Evan says in that matter-of-fact tone of his. “You’re just in your twenties.”
“And James hates driving,” Barty pitches in.
Regulus relishes in the way it makes his heart trip and stumble and stutter. Hope blooms in his chest, flutters in his stomach. James hates driving. He hates driving and he likes me.
Regulus sighs as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. It’s a clear night. Spring had heated up until it was summer and now the heat simmers low as a chill creeps into the air again.
The phone rings twice, tone mute where he has the device pressed between his ear and his shoulder.
“James, hey, it’s me again,” he sighs. “Can you come get me?”
James scoffs and Regulus doesn’t need to see him to know he’s rolling his eyes.
“Baby, I’m right here.” Because it’s Friday night, which is date night. James had taken him to the theater tonight. Orpheus and Eurydice. Regulus had not cried when Orpheus turned around. And if James wants to claim that he had, then maybe he needs to get his glasses checked.
James squeezes Regulus’ hand for good measure. A reminder that he’s here, he’s here, he’s here. It spills through Regulus’ veins like a happy refrain. Makes his skin tingle where James is holding him.
Their hands swing between them as they walk to the car. James’ trusty red Corolla. Still shitty and beat up, but comfortable. Familiar.
Regulus shoots James a sidelong glance, still speaking into the phone. “Remember when you went out of your way to pick me up even though you hate driving?”
James’ laugh is loud in the parking lot, echoing in the empty space. "Sure do.” Another squeeze of his hand. “Remember when you used to go on dates with any man who had a pulse just so you'd have an excuse to call me?”
“Doesn't ring a bell, no,” Regulus is quick to respond, phone disappearing in his pocket again. He snaps his fingers, as if a thought just came to him, and points at James.“Oh! Remember when you called me undateable?”
James stops in his tracks with a groan, pulling Regulus to a stop too since their fingers are intertwined. His reaction is a full-body thing, never one to do things in moderation. His shoulders sag and his head lolls to the side as his eyebrows scrunch together.
“Once again, you were putting words in my mouth and this is slander on my name.”
Regulus tilts his head to the side, as if sizing James up. Then says, “That’s what they all say.”
“Considering the fact that I am dating you right now, I think it’s safe to say I don’t think you’re undateable. It’s the opposite, really.” James walks backward until he bumps into his car, curls a finger through one of Regulus’ belt loops, and tugs him closer. “I think you are so very dateable. Easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
He noses along the line of Regulus’ jaw, angling for a kiss but letting Regulus take the lead. As always.
It’s sweet. Fills Regulus with a gooey sort of warmth he always assumed people lied about. Makes his heartbeat flutter like hummingbird wings in the hollow at the base of his throat.
It’s that same feeling he gets when James brings him a new plant, because Regulus’ collection is steadily growing. And he’s fairly sure none of them are made of plastic. That feeling he gets when Walt falls asleep on James’ lap, rendering him immobile for the rest of the evening. Or the feeling he gets when James touches him above the belt (but not below, they’ve learned) and when he gets to watch as James touches himself below the belt.
The common denominator seems to be James, with his warm hands and warm smile and warm eyes. Regulus never feels cold anymore.
He sways into James to press a kiss against his lips, hands curling around the back of his neck. James’ hands wander to his waist, settling there like they were made to do so.
“Let’s get you home, huh?” James mumbles in the tiny space between them, lips brushing against Regulus’ as he speaks.
He doesn’t say it, but Regulus thinks he’s already there.