Work Text:
“Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse unreturn’d love,
But now I think there is no unreturn’d love, the pay is certain one way or another.”
Sometimes with One I Love, Walt Whitman
Regulus fidgets with the collar of his shirt in the mirror. He rotates his torso, inspecting his reflection to ascertain his binder isn’t showing under the indigo silk. It’s a beautiful color, contrasting with his pale skin and highlighting the blue hidden in his gray eyes. The whole outfit is a little too adventurous for his taste, but Sirius had convinced him to buy it, and… well, Regulus figures that if he is to step out of his comfort zone, he might as well go all out.
He’s going to a party.
A frat party.
A frat party hosted by James Potter.
He grimaces at the thought. James Potter is a lot of things — unbearably loud, annoyingly gifted in sports and academics, far too conceited, ridiculously fit, and a goddamn flirt. The man flirts with everything that moves, whether that be through playful flattery, lingering glances, or casual touches. Regulus had witnessed it on many occasions since they first met, but nothing had prepared him for the moment that attention was aimed at Regulus.
Regulus isn’t blind. He knows he’s attractive. He just never learned how to handle compliments. Potter realized that from the very first time he whispered some innuendo in his ear, when Regulus grew into a stuttering, flustered mess, so unlike his usual self. Potter must be quite the sadist because Regulus has become his favorite target since then — all his charm laser-focused on him, extracting the most embarrassing of reactions.
That stops tonight.
With some help from the devil on his shoulder — namely Barty Crouch Jr. — Regulus has devised a plan to put Potter back in his place. If he plays his cards right, he won’t be the one squirming this time.
The party is already in full swing when Regulus arrives, the bass-heavy music vibrating through the floor. He weaves through the crowd, nodding politely at a few familiar faces. If Sirius was not visiting Remus’s family in Wales this weekend, Regulus would have surely been dragged into the throng of partygoers. Without his brother by his side, people just let him be, which he appreciates.
Regulus finds refuge in the kitchen and instantly spots Potter.
The magnanimous host is impossible to miss, his messy hair catching the light like a dark halo, his boisterous laugh ringing above the music. He’s propped up on the counter, sporting dark jeans, a ridiculously tight shirt in deep burgundy, and a plastic cup in his hand. Potter is conversing with a blonde girl. She laughs at something he says, leaning closer, but Potter’s fickle attention is already elsewhere.
On Regulus.
The effect is immediate. Potter’s grin widens and his posture straightens. He pushes off the counter, spilling some excuse to the blonde. His eyes never leave Regulus, who doesn’t look away this time, doesn’t flinch. He holds Potter’s gaze, chin held high, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Two can play this game.
“Regulus!” Potter calls as he struts toward him.
Regulus tilts his head, feigning nonchalance. “Potter.”
“You made it!” Potter seems a little too happy to see him, and Regulus wonders if he is already drunk. “I thought Sirius was the only one who could convince you to attend my parties.”
“Usually, yes,” Regulus says with a shrug. He unceremoniously seizes the cup from Potter’s hand and takes a large gulp of— ugh, cheap vodka and coke.
Potter is taken aback by the gesture —lips slightly parted and eyes trained on the collection of rings adorning Regulus’s fingers as he returns the drink — but he recovers quickly enough.
“What convinced you to come this time, then?” Potter asks, messing up his atrocious hair, his bicep bulging with the movement. Goddamn show-off. “Was it my irresistible charm?”
Oh, and there it is. That cocky, teasing tone that usually makes Regulus’s cheeks burn. Not tonight. He spent the week preparing for this, Barty running Regulus through every possible scenario like a drill sergeant. He can do this.
The game is fucking on.
“Maybe,” Regulus drawls, stepping closer until their chests are perilously close to touching. Potter’s confident expression falters once more, his eyes widening. “I was curious.”
“Curious about what?” Potter asks, tilting his head down to stare at Regulus’s face, just a few centimeters from his own.
“You,” Regulus replies, letting the word linger for a moment.
James blinks. His plastic cup crinkles as his grip tightens. He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. Regulus has never seen him this shocked. Unsure. It’s intoxicating.
This is almost too easy, Regulus thinks.
“See you around, Potter,” Regulus says. He turns on his heels and leaves.
The night unfolds in a series of subtle, deliberate moves — an overly dramatic game of cat and mouse. Regulus stays in Potter’s orbit, close enough to keep him on edge, but never close enough to be caught. He brushes past him a few times, casually touching his arm or waist, his breath warm on Potter’s ear as he leans forward to murmur, “Excuse me.”
Regulus also dances. He has many willing partners, who are more than happy to hold on to his hips as they sway to the music, carefree and just on the right side of provocative. At one point, he catches Potter staring at him from across the room, his mouth agape as if he’s forgotten how to be a functional human being. Regulus smirks, turning away before Potter can regather his wits.
This feels like winning.
“Enough, Regulus. What’s your game?”
The question comes when Regulus finally corners Potter in the upper floor hallway, their bodies just shy of brushing against each other. Potter is flushed with alcohol and uncertainty, his usual cocksure attitude nowhere to be found.
“Game?” Regulus repeats a little too innocently.
“Don’t play dumb,” Potter retorts, but his voice is too breathless to hold any bite. “You’ve been… different tonight.”
Regulus leans in. He rests his hand on Potter’s arm, bronze skin scorching hot against his fingers. “Am I making you nervous, Potter?”
Potter swallows hard, the apple of his throat bobbing. “You’re full of shit,” he mutters, averting his gaze.
Regulus tilts his head up, studying Potter’s face. His cheeks are pink, his lips parted, and his eyes struggling to latch onto anything but Regulus. He looks… caught.
Yeah, this is almost too easy. Maybe Barty was right about Potter, but Regulus can’t dwell on that right now. He has a coup de grace to bestow.
He leans in closer, his mouth right under Potter’s jaw. “You know,” Regulus teases, but his voice is soft, “for someone who flirts so much, you’re terrible at handling it.”
Potter exhales a shaky laugh, the air catching in his throat. “Okay, fine,” he chokes out. “You got me. You win.”
“Win?” Regulus echoes, pulling away to give Potter some space to breathe. This isn’t fun if he breaks too soon.
“Yes, win. Whatever this is,” Potter says, gesturing between them, careful not to touch Regulus. “You win. I admit defeat. Now stop torturing me. Please.”
Regulus steps back, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “Torturing you? Really? I thought you liked attention.”
Potter groans, dragging a hand through his hair and down his face, crooking his glasses. “I do,” he admits. “I do. But yours? I can’t— I just— I can’t do this, Regulus.”
This is… unexpected. Regulus’s smirk fades, replaced by a flicker of confusion and hurt. “What do you mean?”
Potter looks at him, really looks at him. His usual mask of bravado is completely gone now, replaced by something far too vulnerable.
“I’ve been flirting with you because I like you, Regulus. Not for fun. Not to mess with you. Not to watch you blush — though that is adorable. I actually like you. I like you so fucking much. It’s driving me insane. You’re driving me insane.”
Regulus can almost hear Barty cackling and bellowing, I told you so!
He stares at Potter, his heart pounding loudly enough to drown the music downstairs. For the first time tonight, Regulus doesn’t know what to say.
Then it’s Potter caging him against the wall, crowding all of Regulus’s senses. When he speaks, his voice is so soft that it makes Regulus’s heart ache. “If I crossed a line or made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry, but this isn’t a game to me. I meant every word. Every stupid joke, every compliment, every look, every touch. I meant all of it.”
Regulus swallows hard, his chest tight, his stomach fluttering with something he’s too scared to name. “You meant it?” he asks almost inaudibly.
Potter nods. “I meant it,” he repeats, eyes flitting to Regulus’s lips. “So, if you don’t, Regulus, just—”
Before Regulus can overthink it, he closes the distance between them, grabbing Potter by the front of his shirt and pulling him into a kiss. Potter freezes only for a split second before responding in kind. His hands settle on Regulus’s waist, palms splayed, and fingers curling to find the shape of him under the indigo-blue silk. It’s messy and desperate. It’s months— years of tension melting away in an instant. Regulus almost melts along because James Potter fucking knows what he is doing. His mouth is soft but demanding, liquor-sweet as his teeth drag across Regulus’s bottom lip in a way that turns his legs into jelly. Luckily, James presses him against the wall, keeping him upright.
When they finally pull apart, they are both breathless. Regulus feels lightheaded. He can’t contain his embarrassing urge to giggle, the adrenaline and alcohol in his veins robbing him of his inhibitions. To his surprise, James laughs as well. He wraps his arms around Regulus, arching his back to bury his face in his neck and stifle the sound.
His entire body sizzles with it. Regulus can’t believe he reduced the great James Potter to this giddy mess. This is better than all the outcomes he had considered while devising his stupid plan.
It takes them a while to be coherent enough to speak again, especially because James trails racy, open-mouthed kisses across the column of Regulus’s throat until his giggling melts into something embarrassingly close to a moan. He really hopes people downstairs can’t hear them.
When James pulls back, at last, Regulus thinks the man has never looked more beautiful. His eyes are shining with such pure joy behind his smudged glasses, and a grin is spread across his pink, swollen lips.
“So,” James drawls, running a calloused finger along the curve of Regulus’s jaw, sending a buzz of heat through his body. “Does this mean I can keep flirting with you?”
Regulus rolls his eyes, but he’s pretty sure he looks just as awestruck as James. “I suppose,” he says, trying and failing to keep his voice even, “but only if you’re prepared for me to flirt back.”
With another laugh, James pulls Regulus closer, strong arms keeping their bodies molded to each other. “Oh, love,” he whispers into Regulus’s ear. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Regulus is unsure if this means his plan was a failure or a success, but when James kisses him again, he finds that he doesn’t much care.