The Mystery of the Pears - Chapter 1 - sonwar - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter Text

In the cave, Regulus doesn’t beg for it to stop. He begs not be left behind, alone.

Perhaps this is why, when Kreacher gives one last look over his shoulder and sees terrible, pale hands reaching for his master, he appears in a flash at Regulus’ side, clutches him by the elbow, and Apparates them both out of the cave, directly disobeying his master’s last order.



*



Kreacher knows he can’t take Regulus back to their home. Kreacher has already disobeyed his master once by ignoring his orders to get out without him, he cannot bear even thinking of doing it again by going against his instructions of telling his mistress absolutely nothing pertaining to this matter. Regulus had entrusted his plans and secrets only to Kreacher and he would not betray his master’s trust for anything.

There are only two other people Kreacher can think of who would help his master. The first being, of course, master Sirius. He may be a rascal and a blood traitor, but he is also inevitably soft at heart, especially when it comes to his brother. He would never turn Regulus away.

But Kreacher does not want to go to master Sirius. He is impulsive and nosey and insistent. Kreacher knows he can trust master Sirius to help Regulus, but he doesn’t think he can trust him to keep his secrets.

The second is…well, admittedly, not much more desirable to Kreacher. But Kreacher knows, from murmured admissions and quiet conversations between him and his master when no one else was around, how high of a regard master Regulus holds this other person in. Kreacher trusts his master and trusts in his judgment, remembers how he spoke of this person’s kindness most of all; Kreacher can trust that.

A quiet night in is a rare occurrence for James Potter.

Usually, James spends his nights visiting Sirius and Remus’ place, or Peter’s. Or any one of them pops over to James’ flat. Or they spend the night out, running errands together, or sitting at a pub talking for hours, making the same old jokes and still laughing like it’s the first time they’re hearing them. Sometimes they go over to Marlene and Dorcas’ place, when the two of them invite everyone over for dinner and drinks. Less notably, sometimes he gets held up at work, or they get stuck at an Order meeting, listening to Moody drone for hours and hours, Sirius and him resisting the urge to pass notes between each other like they’re still grubby school boys. Sometimes they don’t manage the self restraint and Moody reads their notes aloud for everyone, also like they’re still in school, but he and Sirius have never managed to feel embarrassment well, or at all, so the lesson continues to be lost on them. But very, very rarely does James find himself completely alone in his flat, with no plans to go anywhere or have anyone over.

So, it really doesn’t come as a surprise to him when he feels a shimmering in his wards, or when he hears a hurried knock at his door.

What does surprise him is the sight of Sirius’ old house elf, Kreacher, who James has only ever seen in pictures, holding a young man up by the waist, one of his arms tossed over Kreacher’s shoulders for support. Because of the way his head is bowed forward, his dark, wet hair falling over his face, it takes James a moment to recognize the young man. When he does, his heart turns cold, drops down his chest, and makes a home at the pit of his stomach.

“Regulus?” James gasps, stupidly.

Looking up at him imploringly with his large, round eyes, Kreacher asks, “May Kreacher come in?”

“I–yes, of course,” James says hurriedly, immediately darting forward to take Regulus from Kreacher. A shuddering breath chatters through Regulus’ teeth as soon as James gets him in his arms, wrapping Regulus’ arm around James’ shoulders instead. He’s shaking from head to toe, James realizes, and he feels tense and cold all over. As he carefully guides him inside the apartment and towards the couch, James sweeps Regulus’ hair away from his face and sees for the first time the strain around his sunken eyes, the pained crease on his brow, the tight, downturned set of his mouth.

James’ heart races and thuds painfully in his chest. He has never seen Regulus like this. Something about it almost reminds him of Remus after particularly bad full moons, but not quite. He’s so cold, James keeps thinking. So cold and shivering, almost brittle in his arms. He carefully sets him down on the couch, but Regulus’ hands scramble for him, clutching at the sleeves of his jumper, forcing James to kneel on the floor in front of him. At the pit of his stomach, James’ heart twists and pangs like it’s shrinking in on itself.

“What’s wrong with him?” James asks, a rough, desperate tone he has never heard in his own voice before. He means the question for Kreacher, but he can’t take his eyes off Regulus, can’t stop touching him, rubbing his hands down his shoulders and arms like he might be able to rub warmth back into him. Part of him wonders, insanely, if he’s dreaming. He hasn’t seen Regulus in quite some time, and to be seeing him again like this feels like falling into one of his worst nightmares.

“First, James Potter must promise Kreacher he will not tell anyone about this,” Kreacher says, his voice low and serious. Unable to help himself, James turns his head and looks at him, equal parts bewildered and frustrated.

“Excuse me?” James demands, failing to see how this is a priority right this second. He opens his mouth to say so, but immediately snaps it shut when he realizes Regulus is saying something.

“James,” he croaks, voice small and thready, his fingers clenching at his sleeves. “Water. Please.”

Before James can even nod, can even hurry off his knees and to the kitchen, he hears the tell tale crack sound of Apparition. He leaves Kreacher to it, instead opting to stay with Regulus, examining his trembling hands and waxen complexion, his pulse hammering in his throat. James feels a little like he wants to cry.

“What is this?” James asks quietly, carefully. Regulus looks so frail in this moment, he’s too scared to even speak too loud or too suddenly, like the wrong pitch might be the last blow that makes Regulus crumble before his eyes, reduces him to nothing but dust between his fingers. “You look–did someone–what happened to you?”

Even as he speaks, Regulus starts to shake his head in stilted, jerky movements, and when he realizes how much effort even that is costing him, James makes gentle shushing noises and leans forward, settling for squeezing a reassuring hand at Regulus’ shoulder when he still refuses to let go of James’ sleeves.

Kreacher appears at their side once more, holding a tall glass of water that James immediately takes from him. He helps Regulus tilt his head back and holds the glass to his almost-blue lips, gently tilting the glass further as Regulus drinks and drinks and drinks.

When the glass is empty, Regulus tears away and gasps in great, shuddering breaths, chest and shoulders heaving with it. James finally manages to take one of his hands from Regulus’ clutch and rubs comforting circles between his shoulder blades, trying to ease him through it.

“Master Regulus needs help,” Kreacher reminds him, still standing beside them. James nods. The water seems to have helped, making Regulus slightly more alert, less like he’s about to collapse on his own two feet, but he still carries a tremor under his skin, still feels cold and stiff under James’ hands, still has an inhumane paleness to him.

“What do you need?” James implores. “What can I do?”

Regulus looks at him, his body still moving with the force of his breaths. “Slughorn,” he rasps, to James’ astonishment and confusion. “Get Slughorn. I drank a potion. He’ll know what to do.”

Despite how lost and desperate he feels, James nods, already moving to his feet. “I’ll Floo Dumbledore as well.”

“No!” Regulus calls, louder and with more force than James thought Regulus could manage in his state, and his hands shoot out for James’ sleeves again. He shakes his head vehemently, hair falling over his eyes. “Not–please, not Dumbledore. Just–only Professor Slughorn. He’ll know what to do and he won’t ask questions. Please, James.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” James agrees hurriedly, the desperation in Regulus’ face and voice making his heart clench painfully again, pulsing like an open wound. He didn’t think he’d be able to deny Regulus in a normal situation–he’d give him absolutely anything right about now, do anything he wanted.

In the end, Slughorn does know what to do. He’s disgruntled about being called at this time of night in such a hurry, but he listens to James list Regulus’ symptoms over fire call and after some time, Floos over with a remedy he hands to James.

He doesn’t ask questions, either. He watches James help Regulus take the potion with a careful eye and almost seems to be watching exactly for the way Regulus’ eyes slip shut, his entire body sagging in relief and falling back against the couch. Suddenly, Regulus is very still, no longer shaking or trembling or tensing in pain. His features are completely serene, if still pale and sunken in. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, James would think–

Except he can’t. He can’t even begin to think about that, so he folds the thought up like a piece of paper and tucks it into a dark corner of his mind, never to be found again.

When he turns to Slughorn, he shakes his head before James can even get a word out.

“Reckon the less I know, the better,” Slughorn declares, turning his careful eye on James. “The potion will take a few days to run its full course. Make sure he gets lots of rest and drinks plenty of fluids until then.”

James blinks. “That’s it?” he demands, incredulous.

“Yes,” Slughorn says simply. “Lots of rest, lots of fluids, he’ll be fine in a few days. I’ll take my leave now, then.”

A shouted address, green flames, and he’s gone. James stares at his hearth, blinking, feeling like he’s been tipped upside down.

The silence that falls through the air in the wake of Slughorn’s departure is deafening, the opposite reaction of shattering glass, the aftermath of a gunshot in an empty room, and James feels winded by it. He feels as though he has gone through every emotion possible in the last harried and unexpected hour, his heart pounding in his chest like a desperate man banging his fists against a door, wild to get in.

“James Potter has somewhere master Regulus can rest?”

Under any other circ*mstances, James might feel embarrassed about the way he jumps at the sound of Kreacher’s voice. As it is, he can only stare at the elf in mild surprise, for a moment having forgotten he was here at all.

“We can put him in my bed,” James answers slowly, vaguely, feeling very wrong-footed, like the rug and the entire floor has been swept out from under him. Kreacher nods at him and then makes a simple gesture in Regulus’ direction that levitates him off the couch and into the air. James hates the sight of it. He hates to see the way Regulus’ head lolls, how his hands hang limply at his sides, his feet dangling. He would have picked Regulus up in his arms, would have been careful not to jostle him, cradled him against his chest and tucked his head under his chin to keep it steady.

James leads Kreacher to his bedroom. Kreacher lowers Regulus down to the bed and James immediately moves forward to fret about him before the elf can attempt to do it in his short, efficient way.

Careful not to disturb him, James slowly sits on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed solely on Regulus, seeing nothing but him. He’s still so pale, paler than he already is, but he breathes evenly now, his eyes shifting under his eyelids making his lash line twitch and flutter. James brushes a few errant strands and curls away from his face, tucking them back with the rest of his hair. His own hands are shaking.

Moving down the bed and kneeling on the floor by Regulus’ feet, James sets about untying his shoes, loosening the strands, and plucking them off, his eyes flickering up to Regulus’ face to make sure he hasn’t woken him up. He’s slow and cautious in his movements, almost tender in the way he slips Regulus’ socks off, drawing them down the length of his ankles, the arch of his feet. Even his socks and, when he brushes them with his knuckles, the hem of his trousers are moist, James realizes. Regulus wasn’t even wearing a coat.

James is mindful enough to tuck his socks into his shoes before he sets them neatly under the bed and moves to kneel by Regulus’ head. He undoes the buttons at Regulus’ cuffs, letting his sleeves hang looser about his arms. Taking more care to be respectful, to not touch him more than he needs to, James undoes the top two buttons of Regulus’ shirt to give him room to breathe, exposing his artful collarbones, the hollow part at the base of his neck where his breaths rise and fall, a steady, continuous reminder, a relief James can’t look away from without forcing himself to.

Being organized has never been one of James’ virtues, but he’s never been more glad of never building a habit of making his bed in the mornings. His duvet is a rumpled pile at the corner of the bed where he kicked it off that morning, and it’s so much easier to straighten it out and settle it overtop of Regulus’ unconscious form than it would be to pull it out from under him. James tucks him in, an old memory reminding him to leave the corner of the duvet near Regulus’ hands for him to hold onto. Even as he’s making sure there are no gaps for cold air to sneak in through, Regulus shivers again, so James casts a light drying charm over him, and a heavy warming one over the covers.

When there’s nothing more he can do to make Regulus comfortable, James stands from the floor with a weary sigh and moves to stand beside Kreacher at his bedroom doorway, where the elf has been silently watching him.

“What happened to him?” James asks him, keeping his voice low, even as he’s starting to think nothing short of a tornado would rouse Regulus right now.

James doesn’t know whether he’s surprised by Kreacher shaking his head. “Kreacher cannot tell James Potter,” he says. “Master Regulus asked Kreacher to keep everything a secret.”

Sighing, James says, “That’s not really fair, you know.”

Kreacher blinks at him blankly. “Kreacher must return home before his mistress starts looking for him,” he informs James. He looks at him with a kind of somberness that stops James in his tracks, surprised to find it in his round eyes. “Will James Potter promise Kreacher he will not tell anyone about this?”“What is it that I’m not supposed to be telling anyone, again?”

Unimpressed, or maybe not understanding sarcasm, Kreacher continues to stare at him with no trace of anything in his face. James huffs a humorless laugh.

“I don’t think I can promise you that,” he says.Kreacher remains unphased. “Then Kreacher will have to stay here.”“Fine,” James snaps, trying not to sound petulant with an elf, and failing. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”“James Potter misunderstands,” Kreacher says. “Kreacher will have to stay to prevent James Potter from telling anyone master Regulus’ secret. And if Kreacher stays, he will not be able to go home, and his mistress will wonder about him and the young master, and James Potter will make things very complicated for master Regulus.”“Me?” James scoffs in disbelief. “I haven’t done anything! You came to me!”James immediately recognizes how that sounds and just as quickly is glad no one but Kreacher is around to hear it. Despite the fear and worry and the near heart failure he still isn’t sure he’s completely escaped, he’s glad Kreacher brought Regulus to him. He’s confused and concerned and scared, but the thought of Regulus in this state with no one to take care of him, the thought of him like this and James not even knowing about it sends a cold chill down his spine. At least this way, he can be the one who watches over Regulus until he’s better.“Kreacher only came to James Potter because master Regulus needed help,” Kreacher informs him.“Why me?”“Master Regulus trusts James Potter.”Damn it. Trust the elf to say the one thing that would make James crack.“Fine,” James sighs out. “I promise I won’t tell anyone about this. But I expect answers once he’s up to shape again.”Kreacher inclines his head. “May Kreacher come see master Regulus later to check on his progress?”“Yes, of course,” James says gently, despite himself.Kreacher gives another tilt of his head, then disappears with a crack.



*



Regulus sleeps all through the night.

Terrified of leaving him alone, James takes vigil at his bedside, elbow propped on one knee, knuckles pressed against his mouth as he follows the rise and fall of Regulus’ chest, counting his breaths.

With his other hand, James reaches around to his side and twists until it hurts, trying to prove to himself he’s not dreaming.

In the time since he’s finished school and left Hogwarts, James has dreamt a lot. Smoke and mirror dreams made of vapors and curling smoke, the details foggy in his head from the moment he wakes up and nothing but the certainty that he had been dreaming, even if he couldn’t remember any of it, left behind in his head. Solid but impossible dreams that left him confused in the morning, like Sirius insisting he was a vampire and trying to prove it by biting into cloves of garlic until all his teeth fell out, or him and Peter running across the Quidditch pitch at school, being chased down by peaco*cks, all of it so real it always takes James a moment to realize none of it actually happened.

And, of course, there are the dreams he never tells anyone about. There would be nothing to tell, anyway, except for the revelation of a part of him that he doesn’t want to share with anyone else, doesn’t want other people holding under a limelight to examine him through.

Sometimes, James dreams about Regulus. Dreams about him in flashes of memories–Regulus bathed in pink light, sitting in an alcove in a familiar library, poised and serene, haloed by the sun setting on the other side of the window and somehow, James knows he’s waiting for him; Regulus with his head bent low, having a murmured conversation with someone James can’t see but whose voice he knows as well as his own, and just as James thinks of calling for him, the dream slips away from him; Regulus on his broom, diving after a Snitch like a speeding bullet, wind whipping his hair away from his face, cheeks flushed and his silver dagger eyes sharp and determined and so, so beautiful; Regulus smiling at him, small and private and with his chin tipped down to keep James from seeing it, but James always does; Regulus like a quiet spring breeze blowing through the air, whispering over his skin, settling into the hollow parts of him, wrist bones and the divots of his hip bones, the back of his knees and the notches of his spine, the delicate cartilage of his nose and ears.

This, now, feels like a scene out of one of James’ dreams. He can’t believe Regulus is here–laying in his bed, sleeping in bouts of still peacefulness and fitful jerks, a frown creasing his face, his elegant fingers clenching where they’re holding the corner of the duvet, shivering sporadically like he’s still cold, even after James casts yet another warming charm over him. He wonders what figures in the universe had to move, which planets had to shift, which stars had to realign for Regulus to show up at his door, barely able to stand and looking very much like it was costing him every ounce of strength to not turn into a ghost.

He imagines dreaming of Regulus like that, so pale he was almost see through, strain and agony pulling tight lines over his face, desperate and clinging to James for dear life. James knows he would have woken up with his heart hammering its way up his throat, gasping for breath, the sweat on his skin cold and chilling him down to his bones. And still, a wretched, selfish part of him feels glad he’s not having a heart wrenching nightmare, that this is real, that Regulus is here, no matter the circ*mstances. James can’t even be sure of who Regulus is anymore, and if he weren’t so sick with worries he would like to think he would always know Regulus, but none of it–none of it–matters as long as Regulus is here.

Tonight, James doesn’t dream, and he doesn’t sleep so much as doze, his eyes drifting close for a second that lasts too long before he opens them to a shift of grey-blue light outside his window, and he counts each of Regulus’ breaths, each one drawing a sigh of relief from his own chest.

Regulus sleeps all through the morning as well, and, around noon, James decides to make tea and cheese toasties and coax Regulus into eating.

He sets the mug and dish down on his bedside table before slowly sitting down on the edge of the bed next to Regulus. James has been watching him sleep all night, but he still takes a moment to look at him, to take him in under the slats of light coming through where his curtains aren’t properly shut, still breathing evenly. He looks older, James realizes. He thought it was all a product of the state Regulus had been in the night before and then of recovering from it, but he realizes now that the sharp lines of Regulus’ face–the cut of his cheekbones, the edge of his jaw, the swordpoint of his chin, his thin, straight nose, the way his collar bones protrude elegantly–are a product of growing a little older, of the last traces of boyish youthfulness leaving Regulus’ features.

Something bittersweet settles in James’ chest. Part of him, the part that worried and wondered how Regulus fared since the last time they saw each other, is glad and content to see him grown up, and grown up well, as striking and beautiful as James knew he would be, had already known him to be. Another part of him, the part that had ached and longed and missed Regulus with a ferocity that left him wound up and breathless, hated the idea that even a small part of Regulus had changed and James hadn’t been there to see it, didn’t know about it. He feels terrible and selfish for it and tries to trample the feeling down in his chest, tries to squander it away by being gentle, carding his fingers through Regulus’ hair, tucking it behind his ear, but the feeling persists. He’s right here, in his bed, and James still misses him.

James moves his hand from Regulus’ hair down to his shoulder and shakes him gently. “Regulus,” he says softly, gives him another careful shake. Regulus’ fingers clench around the duvet, his nose twitches, his shoulder shifts under James’ hand, but he doesn’t stir further than that.

“C’mon, Reg,” James tries again, giving a firmer shake to his shoulder, trying to ease him onto his back. Regulus huffs out an annoyed sound, trying to shake James’ hand off, a frown creasing his mouth. James smiles despite himself, a chord of familiarity strumming in him. With the unconscious surety of muscle memory, James tugs the corner of the duvet from Regulus’ fingers and slightly out of reach when Regulus immediately grapples for it, and cups the back of his neck with his other hand, squeezing gently.

“Come on,” he says again when Regulus makes a noise of discontent, brow furrowing, and he can hear the warmth dripping out of his own voice like sunwarm honey, but he finds he doesn’t mind. “Just for a little,” James assures him. “I just need you to eat and drink something. Slughorn said lots of fluids.”

A moment, the span of a heartbeat, and Regulus’ eyes flutter open, bleary and unfocused and heavy with sleep. He blinks once, twice, closes them again, then sighs as he starts sitting up, propping himself up on one elbow. James watches him with a smile. Regulus may be older, changed around the razor sharp corners, but some things never change, and James is so glad for it.

He leans over to the bedside table for the tea and toastie while Regulus sits the rest of the way up, letting the covers fall around his waist, staring down at his lap with unseeing eyes.

“Here,” James says kindly, handing him the tea first, holding the plate low and near Regulus’ thigh so he can make an easy grab for it when he wants. Regulus takes the mug from him seemingly on command, but instead of drinking from it, he holds it between both hands and leans over it, closing his eyes and breathing out softly as the steam curls under his chin. In the same tone of voice, James asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Regulus mutters, voice thick and rough from disuse, then sighs. “Cold,” he adds.

“Think that potion Slughorn gave you is what’s making you so tired,” James offers quietly. “You seemed knocked out as soon as you took it.”

Regulus hums softly, lifting the cup to his mouth and drinking carefully. His entire body shifts, less sagging with exhaustion and more languid with relief.

James watches him and knows with certainty that this isn’t the time to ask questions. Regulus is clearly still not all there yet, and James doesn’t want to make him worse by aggravating him with an interrogation. He can wait for his answers. Presently, nothing is more important to him than Regulus getting better.

“You should eat,” James prompts, lifting the plate closer to Regulus’ line of sight. Regulus glances at it, sighs, then trades James his tea. He takes a careful bite, chews, then freezes.

“This is the worst toastie I’ve ever had,” Regulus says.

James could almost cry tears of joy. Here he is, sick with worry over him, and Regulus is criticizing his food. Relief courses through James’ veins in a violent rush. He laughs softly, breathless. “Yeah,” he says. “I swear I’m actually a decent cook, I just can never get those right, but I thought I should give you something light to start with.”

“Hm,” Regulus hums vaguely, then, almost to himself, “how do you mess up a toastie.” He eats the rest of it anyway. When James hands him the mug back, he drinks the rest of the tea, too.

James sets everything down on the bedside table and turns back to him. Carefully, he gently places his hand over Regulus’ forehead, feeling for his temperature, but he feels no warmer than James does. Regulus’ eyes flutter shut. “Alright?” he asks softly. “Do you want anything else?”

Regulus shakes his head. He sighs, long and deep, and slides back down the bed, pulling the covers over himself as he goes. He’s out in about ten seconds.

He spends the rest of the day sleeping, except for an hour in the late afternoon where James coaxes him awake again, persuades him to eat some tomato soup, and helps him drink an entire glass of water, supporting it at the bottom when Regulus’ fingers almost slip around it. Much like that morning, he says very little and slips right back under the sheets, falling asleep easily.

James leaves him to magic the dishes into cleaning themselves, owl a note to work that he won’t be coming in the next day, and shower, feeling an itch under his skin the entire time. No matter how hard he tries, how much time he spends watching him, how many times he touches Regulus, brushing his hair back or taking his temperature because he won’t stop shivering, James can’t get rid of the absurd fear of leaving Regulus alone, even when he’s only just in the other room, when he can stick his head through the door and see him. Maybe the fear is that he will stick his head through or come back into the room and find Regulus has faded away, disintegrated into stardust between his sheets, nothing but a dream James carried with him into waking.

He showers faster than he ever has in his life, dresses in the bathroom, and quietly pads back into the room. Regulus is still there, sound asleep, and James breathes a sigh of relief. It crawls back into his throat when Regulus shivers so hard James can see it from where he’s standing, fingers tugging the comforter closer. James’ frown resettles on his face. He’s lost count of how many warming charms he’s cast over Regulus, each time wondering at what point it becomes an invasion, if there is such a thing as too many warming charms.

Feeling at his wit’s end, James moves with slow, cautious movements, drawing the covers up carefully to avoid dislodging Regulus’ fingers as he slips under them. He pauses for a moment with bated breath, watching Regulus for any signs of disapproval or waking, but there are none. Regulus sleeps on. James lays the rest of the way down, gently edging closer to him under the weight of the duvet. He touches Regulus’ hand first, the barest touch of the tip of his fingers against the graceful protrusion of his knuckles, and finds them freezing cold in a way the empty space of his forehead isn’t. If James had thought to touch him anywhere else, he would have realized how cold Regulus still was, but how could he have, when even closing both his hands around Regulus’ fingers to warm them up makes him feel like a thief in the night, like sneaking in through cracked windows and in between linen curtains billowing in the quiet breeze, snatching up what isn’t his no matter how much he’s wished for it.

Something softens in Regulus’ expression, nearly imperceptible if it weren’t for how close James is to him, the mere shadow of a gentleness that simply hadn’t been there before but is now. It makes something in James hurt, all the way down to the pit of his stomach, and he doesn’t stop to think before he wraps an arm around Regulus’ waist and tugs his body closer, pressed against the lines of James’ body from shoulder to elbow, hip to thigh to knee, the back of their feet sloped together somewhere at the foot of the bed. Regulus’ hands get caught somewhere against James’ chest, his fingers hooked into the hollows of his collarbones like they’re tethered together.

Almost immediately, Regulus gives one last shudder, a tremulous sigh slipping past his lips and dancing over James’ cheek before he relaxes against him, all the tension leaving his body. James watches the clock on the bedside table tick away one, two, three minutes before his mind drifts to nothing, only vaguely conscious of the rhythm of Regulus’ breathing and the way he can feel his heart beat steadily through his back where James has his hand splayed open between Regulus’ shoulder blades. When he remembers the clock, close to fifteen minutes have passed and Regulus has not shivered again, still sleeping soundly in James’ arms. James begins to feel a little less like a thief walking on tiptoes through long, empty corridors and more like a stupid kid in school again, heart thudding heavily in his chest at the faint impossibilities of his daydreams and just as quickly being appeased by the simplest things; a brush of the hand, a tap against his wrist, a private smile, the sound of his name said just right. Serene and nervous all at once, and young young young.

The deprecating laugh that wants to tumble out of him reminds James he is still most of those things. He forgets, sometimes. He gets so caught up in his own head, in everything going on around them, in trying to be so steady in case one day he won’t be able to anymore, that he forgets how young he still is, and how much he wants.

He looks down when he feels Regulus shift, untethering the fingers of one hand from James’ collarbone and looping his arm under James’ instead. James can feel the way his fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt. The change in position reveals Regulus’ wrist to James, bare and naked where his open shirt cuff has ridden up, revealing the dark tail end of the Mark. James’ breath catches.

James knew. He never had more confirmation about it beyond rumors and assumptions, bitter grumblings from Sirius, the constant reminders of expectations and the walls of a war closing in around them, but James still knew. He hadn’t seen it before, though. Maybe that’s why he gently tugs the cuff of Regulus’ sleeve the rest of the way up to see all of it, stark and startling against his pale skin. It looks twisted and wrong, curled around Regulus’ slender wrist, slithering up the skin of his forearm. Still, James can’t look away from it.

Grief washes over him like slow, rolling waves as everything that Mark means comes rushing back to him. Regulus during his sixth year, coming back to school after the hols much colder and distant than James had ever seen him before, a harsh severity to him that made him seem sharp and dangerous like a long, thin blade glinting in the moonlight. Every time James saw him that year, his last year, was from afar, and Regulus had been the picture of unrelenting isolation, like a lone stone tower in the middle of the sea, unmoved by the crashing waves and storms around him.

Things had begun to change earlier than that term break. The summer Sirius left home and came to live with James and his parents drew a rift between the two brothers. Hushed conversations in the library, warm afternoons under the shade of a tree by the Great Lake, and nights spent in their dorm turned into bitter stares across the Great Hall, knocked shoulders that led to screaming matches in the corridors, and complete freeze outs. It had been at equal measures frustrating and heartbreaking to watch, and it had left James feeling at odds, caught between the split ends of his loyalty to Sirius and his feelings for Regulus that had started sometime around the year before, between one breath and the next, between the flutter of lashes and the gap where Regulus’ lips used to part when James got him to smile wide enough.

Still, it wasn’t until after those Christmas holidays that James felt the string tied between him and Regulus sever completely. Regulus stopped speaking to him altogether, even when Sirius wasn’t around, and started avoiding him. He was nothing short of curt and polite during Slytherin’s matches against Gryffindor, though he never stopped being vicious on the Pitch. He stopped answering James’ letters. Unlike the loud, angry crack that split Sirius and Regulus apart, the one between James and Regulus made no sound. It appeared seemingly overnight, so inconspicuous no one but James seemed to notice it, and by the time he did, it was too late.

Even now, only a little over a year since the last time James saw Regulus on the final day of his last term, James still feels the pain of it like an open wound that just wont scar over, still feels the ache of missing him through each inflamed and painful pulse. The worst part is that James has already forgiven Regulus for all of it, forgave him the moment it happened. That James would forget all of it in less than a heartbeat if it meant he could keep Regulus this time.

The sigh that parts James’ lips shudders and sounds too wet for his liking. He drags his hand from Regulus’s back upwards into his hair, cradles his head against his neck and shoulder, where James can feel his every breath flutter over his skin until he falls asleep.

The next morning, Regulus wakes up on his own.

Sometime in the night or the wee early hours of the morning, Regulus dislodged his head from James’ shoulder and tucked his hands in the space between their chests and James wrapped one of his hands around Regulus’, fingers gently curled over his knuckles. James, who has only been awake for a few peaceful, quiet minutes, knows Regulus is awake before he even opens his eyes, because he still rubs his feet together the moment he wakes, like he used to do when they were still in school. The familiarity of that makes one of the pieces wound tight in James’ heart ease.

Regulus’ feet still and his eyes flutter open. He watches James, hazy and unfocused. James catalogs the dull shine of Regulus’ eyes, the way his lashes sort of clump together. When he speaks, his voice is thick both from sleep and disuse, even rougher than it sounded the day before.

“You’re in bed with me.”

“Yeah,” James sighs softly. “I know I should have asked. You were so cold, wouldn’t stop shivering. The blankets and heating charms didn’t seem to help. You didn’t really calm down until I tried this. Sorry.”

Silence. The soft sound of their breathing meeting in the middle. And then, “That’s alright,” Regulus mutters softly. “Not like it’s the first time.”

James thinks back to fifth year and the loud, secret parties they used to hold in the Gryffindor common room that somehow always got out and spread to people from the other Houses. It got too late one time, after a particularly raucous Hallowe’en party, and Sirius made Regulus stay in their dorm that night, certain he’d get caught on the way back to the dungeons despite Regulus’ complaints that he could manage himself just fine, thank you very much. It had been somehow both odd and heartwarming to watch the two of them together in a more personal setting, away from the rest of the students. Sirius had forced some of his sleeping clothes on Regulus and practically tucked him into his bed while insults fell easily from their lips and flew carelessly over each other’s heads. Even after Sirius had closed the drapes around his bed, Remus and Peter and James could still hear them shoving each other around and bickering softly.

He remembers waking up in the middle of the night to the whispery sound of his drapes drawing open. He’d always been a light sleeper.

“Do you mind?” Regulus had asked, quieter than a whisper, brushing a hand over the empty side of James’ bed. “Sirius kicks. And cuddles.”

More than familiar with Sirius’ terrible sleeping habits, James had easily and wordlessly lifted the covers and made more space for Regulus to settle into.

And James remembers feeling–warm. Chosen. Special.

That wasn’t the last time Regulus had slept in his bed, and today isn’t the first time either, but it is the first time they wake up like this–tangled up around each other, so close James can feel where their pulses beat against each other like out of tune strings, Regulus warm and sleep-soft in his arms.

“No,” James agrees, only just realizing that sometime during his reverie he started playing with Regulus’ fingers, and that Regulus is letting him. “It isn’t. Still cold?”

Regulus’ eyes are still unfocused but fixed on their hands, like he’s hypnotized. He shakes his head and catches James’ thumb, hooking his own around it and holding it against his palm. “Not anymore. How long have I been asleep for?”

“About two days, I guess. Is this it?” James asks softly, kindly. “Are you alright now?”

Regulus seems to consider this for a moment, almost like he’s taking stock over his own body, running through roll call. “Yes, I think so. I think I’d like a shower, actually.”

James nods, head shifting against the pillow. “You can borrow some of my clothes, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” says Regulus. Neither of them move to get up. Regulus keeps James’ thumb hostage. James keeps the rest of Regulus’ fingers. A sliver of light falls across the bed through the crack in James’ drapes. Under the sheets, their knees touch. James’ heart beats calm and steady in his chest and he wonders, if they lay like this long enough, will Regulus’ heart sync to his own.



*



James is pouring their tea when Regulus walks into the kitchen in James’s clothes, sleeves cuffed and damp hair curling at the back of his neck. James tries not to make his double-take at the sight of him too obvious.

Regulus in his clothes. It’s a wild and selfish part of James that still feels a thrill at the sight of him even under these circ*mstances. He tries not to think about it. Regulus in his clothes standing under the kitchen doorway, the pale morning light through the windows casting him in monochrome shades. He tries not to imagine it under different circ*mstances–Regulus waking up in his bed because it’s their bed and it’s where he belongs, wearing his clothes because they’re warm and he finds comfort in them, coming in through the kitchen for a slow morning, a quiet breakfast together, not to deliver what is possibly another silver dagger through James’s heart. He fails on both accounts.

“I made tea,” is what James says when Regulus’ eyes find his, moving to set both cups down on the kitchen table. He sits on one side of the table when Regulus moves forward, taking the seat across from him. James watches him sip his tea, his eyes falling closed as he breathes out slowly. James tries so very hard not to catalog him–the sweep of his lashes, the pucker of his lips around the trim of the tea cup, the slope of his nose, the edge of his eyebrows–to take him in and ache for him. James tries and tries and continues to disappoint himself, which can only be setting a bad precedent.

Regulus sets his tea cup down gently, barely making a sound between cup and saucer, and says, “Thank you.” James nods.

“Would you like some breakfast? I wasn’t sure you would, yet.”

The look Regulus gives him is almost dry. He keeps his fingers around the handle of his cup, pointer finger soundlessly tapping at the rim. “I assume you have questions,” Regulus says, calm and patient, the picture of composure.

James breathes in deeply, straightening in his chair. Right to the point, then. It’s how he meant to do things, anyway, but Regulus always manages to throw him off his rhythm, even now.

“Yeah,” says James, “a few.”

Regulus nods, considers his tea for a moment, but when he opens his mouth to speak, a familiar crack makes him pause. They both turn their heads to where Kreacher has just Apparated into James’s kitchen. Kreacher’s eyes widen and, to James’ astonishment, fill with tears at the sight of Regulus.

“Master Regulus,” he croaks, “you are awake.”

“I am,” Regulus agrees, angling his body towards Kreacher, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. “I’m feeling much better now. I’m sorry to have worried you, Kreacher.”

Shaking his head, Kreacher says, “Kreacher is just glad master Regulus is better now.”

Regulus inclines his head in Kreacher’s direction, and the two watch each other for a weighted moment before he turns to James again. “May Kreacher sit with us? He can help me answer all of your questions.”

“Yes, of course,” James answers quickly, slightly taken aback as he gestures towards one of the two remaining seats. Kreacher climbs up onto the seat offered to him, regarding James suspiciously even through the tears in his eyes.

“Kreacher,” Regulus says, drawing his attention back. “The object we found. Were you able to do as I asked?”

A fresh wave of tears wells up in Kreacher’s eyes as his lip begins to wobble and his whole body begins to tremble. “Oh, master Regulus,” he whimpers, the words cracking with emotion. “Kreacher–Kreacher tried very hard to follow his master’s orders but–but no matter how hard Kreacher tried, no matter what spells or magic Kreacher used–he could not even make a mark upon the object. Kreacher–Kreacher is a terrible elf, he has failed master Regulus–”

Regulus reaches out then, putting a comforting hand on Kreacher’s arm and effectively silencing the elf’s teary explanations.

“I understand you did the best you could, Kreacher, it’s alright,” Regulus soothes. “Thank you for trying. Did you bring it with you?”

Kreacher almost perks immediately, eager to please. He nods and begins pulling a chain from under his dirty tea rag robe, pulling it over his head and dropping it in Regulus’s waiting hand.

Regulus stretches out the chain, and the locket hanging from the end of it, on the center of the table. James goes to touch it, but stops the minute his hand gets near it. It’s all it takes for him to realize the locket is very dark, twisted magic. He considers it, eyes raking over the serpent on the front. The more he examines it, the more he almost feels like it’s talking to him, only it sounds all wrong, its voice distorted and cut to a harsh, low, incomprehensible whisper.

“Where did you get that?” James asks, quietly. He hears Regulus sigh and looks up at him, surprised to find he suddenly looks a few years older than he really is.

“It’s better if I start from the beginning…”

And Regulus tells him the whole story, the beginning being when Voldemort came to him asking to borrow Kreacher. He tells James about the state Kreacher was in when he returned home, much like the state Regulus had been in two days ago, and about Kreacher’s tale upon his return. He tells him about keeping Kreacher hidden until he figured out what to do next, how he spent days lingering behind after meetings and listening through doors and eavesdropping around corners and doing as much research as he could. He tells James about Horcruxes, in the plural state, and letting Kreacher out only when he had a plan.

James, with his heart gone cold and still and his breath caught in his throat, listens as Regulus tells him about the cave and the boat, about the potion he drank and the excruciating pain it put him through, about drinking it anyway. He explains to James what the locket really is, tells him about the swap he made and the orders he gave Kreacher.

“Master,” Kreacher cuts in, his voice threateningly wobbly once more. “Kreacher disobeyed you–Kreacher is ashamed of himself for not following orders–but Kreacher could not leave his master to those–those–”

Shaking his head, Regulus says, “It was wrong of me to put you in that position.” And his voice is unbearably gentle as he speaks to the elf, keeping any stern or cold tones out of his voice. “You saved my life. I should be thanking you.”

And, at those words, James suddenly goes from feeling a cold, hollow nothing, to feeling too much–his heart pounding in his chest, blood running fast and hot in his veins, a feeling like grief seizing him, rattling his bones, shooting painful desperation up and down his body.

“Jesus, Regulus,” he breathes out harshly, running a trembling hand through his hair, tugging at the strands for something to ground him. Regulus turns away from Kreacher and looks at him blankly, blinking at him. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean,” Regulus answers, infuriatingly calm.

James stands suddenly, his chair clattering behind him. He tries to turn away from Regulus, thinks about pacing, but he makes a vicious move back towards him, shoulders hunched in as he gestures wildly with his hands. “If Kreacher hadn’t disobeyed you–if it hadn’t been for him–you could have died!”

“Yes,” Regulus says, “I’m perfectly aware of the severity of the situation.”

“What, and you’re just–you’re fine with that? How could you be so–so flippant, so careless with your life?”

Regulus narrows his eyes. “Well, seeing as it’s mine, I figured I could do what I pleased with it.”

“And what you please is to throw it away on a whim?” James demands angrily.

“It was not a whim,” says Regulus, dangerously low, “and I fail to see how it matters.”

“It matters to me!” James shouts, louder than he ever allows himself to do, something desperate and volatile in his voice that he doesn’t like but he can’t help it, he’s seized by grief over something that hasn’t even happened but feels no less real in this moment.

In a flash, so brief James almost misses it through his angry haze, Regulus’ face crumples a little, something shocked and sad fluttering through his eyes before it’s gone again. Some of the fight drains out of James, leaving just enough room to leave him feeling heartsore, a deep-bone need to make Regulus understand.

“You could have died, Regulus,” James says again, thick with emotion.

Regulus watches him for a moment, silver eyes glimmering with something James can’t name, breathing deeply. “I know,” he says, and his voice sounds different now. Quieter. Breathier. Softer. James latches onto it. “I know,” he repeats, “but I didn’t. I’m here. I’m right here, James.”

And he is. He’s here, in James’ flat, in James’ kitchen. He spent two days sleeping in James’s bed. James spent one of those days watching him sleep, tracking the rise and fall of his chest, and the other laying with him, keeping him warm. James knows the feeling of Regulus’ body curled against his now, could recognize the even sound of his breathing with his eyes closed. If he laid in his bed right now, the sheets would smell of Regulus, warm and alive.

A saner, more sensible part of him recognizes Regulus is trying to comfort him, but James is too rattled, too shaken up. He could have lost Regulus. He could have lost him and not even known about it.

“This,” he starts to say, unsure of what this is. He gestures angrily at the locket, as if the thing is entirely to blame for the hot anguish in James’ chest. He supposes it kind of is. “This is insane.”

“I know,” Regulus says again, nodding. A look of uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “But–you believe me, don’t you?”

James halts completely. He looks at Regulus, cataloging him again–the tense set of his drawn up shoulders, the thin line of his lips, the careful frown etched into his brow. He realizes with a start this is what has put Regulus on his guard since he came into the kitchen, what marks the difference between the soft, sleep-sweet version he was when he first woke up and the careful blank one that came out of the shower.

Truthfully, it hadn’t even occurred to James not to believe Regulus. What does that say about him? That James is still hopeless, irrefutably whipped, wrapped around Regulus’ little finger? That he’s too trusting? That Regulus could only be telling the truth? Could it say all of that?

Carefully, James nods. “Yes, I do.”

Flinching back, Regulus says, “You do?”

“Yes,” James responds easily enough. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why would you?” Regulus levels back. James regards him. He imagines things from Regulus’ end, imagines things if he were the one who suddenly showed up at Regulus’ door, half dead and with a crazy story for an explanation. He would be desperate to be believed, too, he thinks, and equally doubtful that he would be.

What James answers is, “Are you willing to tell me the story again under veritaserum?”

Regulus nods.

“I don’t have any veritaserum,” James tells him. Regulus frowns.

“Then why did you ask?”

“Mostly just to appease you. Is that good enough?”

Regulus stares at him, his eyes searching his face. James doesn’t shift his expression at all, and eventually, Regulus’ shoulders drop, his body gently sagging with relief. He nods. James sits back down, propping his arms on the table, and sighs.

“What now?” he asks.

Regulus draws himself up. “Now, I need to find a way to destroy the locket.”

James nods. “We should tell Dumbledore about this.”

Immediately, Regulus says, “No.”

“What? Why not?”

Regulus breathes in, deeply, holds it for a moment, two, three, then breathes out slowly. It oddly makes James feel like a troublesome child being dealt with and making it very difficult for people to maintain their patience around him.

“Do you really think,” Regulus begins, slow and careful, “that Dumbledore will believe me as easily as you did? He’ll assume I’m lying, wasting everyone’s time, or he’ll think this is some ploy concocted by him and I’m just the pawn he’s using to execute it. Worse still,” Regulus adds, “he might, after scrutiny and interrogation, believe me and send me back there, make a spy out of me.”

At those words, James freezes, and quickly tries to recover, but it’s too late. Regulus, like Sirius, has a sharp eye for weaknesses and chinks in the armor. He supposes they needed to, in order to survive in their family.

“You know about it,” Regulus says, not a question. “The spy. It’s true.”

Sighing, James says, “I don’t know who it is, but I know we have one, yes.”

“So, you see what I mean, then,” Regulus insists. He takes in a shuddering breath and crosses his arms over his chest. James recognizes the gesture for the wall it is. When Regulus speaks again, his voice is firm and steady. “I won’t do it, James. I refuse to continue being anyone’s plaything. I won’t go back there, to him or to that house. I won’t.”

Once again, the situation tips itself sideways right in front of James’ very eyes, and he’s hit by the full force of it. Regulus, outraged on his house elf’s behalf. Regulus, risking his life. Regulus, finally finding a way out. James can’t do it. He can’t take this away from him, not when it’s all he’s ever wanted for him, even under the less than desirable circ*mstances.

“Alright,” James says softly, as soothingly as he can manage, nodding. Some of the defiance bleeds out of Regulus’ eyes. “Okay. I understand. You’re right. But, Reg, you have to admit. This is huge. This could change everything.”

“I don’t have to admit it,” Regulus says plainly, “I am perfectly aware of the situation. But, as you’ve kindly pointed out, I almost died, James. And that was my choice at the time. What will it be next time? I don’t want to make any more sacrifices for this–this ridiculous war.”

James starts nodding before Regulus has even finished speaking. “Yes, I know, and I don’t want you to, either,” he says, finding that it’s true. “But,” he adds, then has to stop, because he has nothing further. He frowns, tipping his head forward, mouth pressed against his knuckles as he racks his brain for an answer, a compromise. Regulus lets him, watching him in patient silence.

“What if,” James begins cautiously, “only I told Dumbledore about it? I don’t have to name you or Kreacher at all. He can’t force you to do anything if he doesn’t know you’re involved to begin with.”

Regulus seems to mull this over, frowning in thought. His eyes flick over James’ face. “And you think he’ll believe you? Just like that?”

Grimacing, James tilts his head. “Well,” he says, “I could bring the locket with me, for proof. If I can tell it’s a dark object, I’m sure someone like him will be able to as well. There are probably spells for checking this sort of thing, too, but the locket can speak for itself. He might have a better idea about getting rid of it as well, you know.”

Regulus continues to frown, but James can tell he’s starting to give in. He gets the same pained crease between his eyebrows that Sirius does when he’s starting to cave. James was the cause of that crease between Regulus’ eyebrows many times while they were at school.

With a warning edge to his voice, Regulus says, “Should anything, anything at all, make you even the slightest bit suspicious, you bring the locket back to me. If he even dismisses you, you bring the locket back. You have to promise.”

James meets Regulus’ gaze steadily. “I promise,” he says without faltering.

Regulus’ accepting nod comes easier than James would have expected it to and he thinks back to Kreacher’s words two days before. Master Regulus trusts James Potter.

The reminder of the words and the evidence of them so clear in Regulus’ face, in his actions, settles deep within James’ bones, weaving itself into an inherent part of him, a vicious desire to not let Regulus down.

“Well, that’s settled, then.” James says with a deep breath and forces himself to smile. “Breakfast?”



*



James makes them eggs and toast. Kreacher starts to leave just as James is setting their plates on the kitchen table.

“Kreacher must be returning,” he tells Regulus. “Would master Regulus like Kreacher to bring him anything?”

“A toothbrush would be nice,” Regulus says. “Maybe some clothes as well, but nothing mother would notice is missing. Some of Sirius’ old stuff might be best, actually. She never goes in there anymore.”

“Where should Kreacher bring master Regulus’ things?”

“Here,” James cuts in immediately, without really thinking about it, and just as quickly realizes he doesn’t have to. I just got you back, he thinks. I’d be crazy to let you out of my sight already.

“That’s presumptuous of you,” Regulus says. James lifts his eyebrows at him.

“Don’t bullsh*t me, Reg. Do you have anywhere else to go?” James asks, knowing the answer already. Regulus’ silence speaks for itself. James nods. “Right, then. You’ll stay here, and Kreacher can bring your things here.”

Regulus watches him for a long moment. The clock on the wall tick-tick-ticks. The light coming in through the kitchen window loses some of its pallor, grows warmer, casts longer shadows across the room. Regulus turns to Kreacher. “You may bring my things here, Kreacher. Thank you.”

Kreacher bows at the waist, then disappears with another crack.

“No one is supposed to be able to Apparate in and out of here, you know,” James tells Regulus.

“Elf magic is different,” Regulus explains, curt and polite. “No one can Apparate in or out of the cave either, but Kreacher didn’t even stop to think about it.”

They eat in silence, nothing but the sound of silverware scraping against dishes, their breathing, the clock on the wall, ambient sounds from the city outside filtered through the closed windows. Regulus doesn’t look at him, but James keeps sneaking glances at him, as if still trying to convince himself Regulus is real, that he’s really here, that James hasn’t conjured him up from his deepest, most buried desires, his best kept secrets. He feeds off glimpses, Regulus’ lashes dark brown in the morning light, the shape of his fingernails, the shift of his chin every time he chews, and his mind wanders.

Like a chasm, James is suddenly aware of the distance between them–the two feet of wood between them spreads to years apart, the weighted silence of distance and absence, the cold betrayal of opposite sides. Hot, hungry greed settles in James’ stomach. He wants to know everything. He wants, for a moment, to live in Regulus’ head, to see everything, where he’s been and who he’s been and who he’s been with since the last time James saw him. He wants, at least, to know how Regulus got here, each small machination that turned into choice. He wonders if he’s allowed that. If You must have questions applies to this, too, if he can ask and will Regulus answer, if his possible silence will add another layer of distance between them.

Regulus stands from his seat, taking his dishes to the sink, and James feels the moment turn tremulous and desperate between his fingers. If he doesn’t ask now, he’ll never get to ask again, even though he knows that isn’t true, that Regulus isn’t going anywhere, yet, but that’s how this moment feels, precarious and immediate.

“Why’d you do it?” James asks like it’s burst out of him, like keeping the words to himself for a moment longer might have killed him.

“Why did I do what?” Regulus asks, rinsing out his glass, even though he must know. There’s no way he doesn’t know. He’s giving James a chance to back out, he realizes, but James won’t. In for a pound, and all that. Besides, James has never backed down from anything in his whole life.

“All of it,” he says, quietly. “Why’d you take that–the Mark, if you were just going to turn around and go against him? Why go after that locket on your own without telling anyone?”

“I did tell someone,” Regulus says, his back still to James. “I told Kreacher. Don’t dismiss him.”

“I–” James snaps his mouth shut when Regulus turns around and gives him a long, sharp look. “You’re right,” he concedes. “Why didn’t you tell anyone else? You ordered him to leave you there. Just–why, Regulus?”

Regulus breathes in deeply. He puts his hands on the edge of the counter behind him, holding on. He’s silent for a long time, but his eyes are fixed somewhere around the doorway that leads to the living room, faraway and unfocused, like he’s choosing his words, weighing them against each other. James waits him out, heart in his throat, something inside him teetering on the edge of shattering.

Finally, Regulus speaks, his voice soft and even. “You don’t know what it was like,” he says, his gaze wandering back to James’. “You think you do because you talked to Sirius, but you don’t know what it’s like to actually be there. Or what it was like after he left. I thought it could be just another thing I did to appease them and keep my head down and that it wouldn't mean anything. By the time I really learned it could never mean nothing, it was too late. That might not be enough for you, but that’s the truth of it.”

James considers this, and Regulus lets him. That same anguished feeling of grief from the night before, from earlier this morning, grips his heart and holds it in a vice. That might not be enough for you. James realizes for the first time that Regulus doesn’t know, that he thinks James would hate him for his choices, doesn’t realize that James has never, not for one second, hated Regulus. He just wants to piece everything together, wants everything he wasn’t there for, the parts of Regulus’ life he wasn't allowed to be there for. He supposes it does help, somewhat, to know Regulus’ decisions didn’t come from intentional maliciousness, but from unintentional ignorance, that same old need to survive that James has never blamed him for.

Briskly, James nods. He still doesn’t like it, would rather none of it had ever happened, if given the choice, that he’d never had to lose Regulus to begin with. But it’s enough.

Regulus sighs. He seems to breathe a little easier. He goes on, “I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t have anyone I could tell or trust with this, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have put them in danger like that. And because he made it personal. What he did to Kreacher is unforgivable. I couldn’t let it go.”

Something fierce and affectionate aches through James’ chest, and it hurts. He might be perfectly aware of what a huge discovery he’s made, how his actions have tipped the scales severely in their favor, but Regulus doesn’t care about any of it. He doesn’t care about saving the whole world, but he risked his life for the sake of one elf who is important to him. It makes James think of the way Regulus would insult Sirius down to the delicate nubs of his fingernails, but would hex anyone else who said a negative word against his brother the second the words fell from their mouths. James had witnessed it a few times, and then been threatened into secrecy. Sometimes, James wishes he had told Sirius those things, if it weren’t for his sense of loyalty.

Despite the ways he may be selfish, the places his self-preservation have led him to, Regulus has a good heart. James believes that. He can’t imagine living in a world without Regulus. Just being apart from him for all that time hurt like a deep bone bruise, unreachable and persistent. James can’t even bear the thought of being in a world Regulus has disappeared from completely.

It’s that thought that makes him ask, “Why did you tell Kreacher to leave you there?” his voice rough and thick with emotion. Regulus looks away from him.

“I can’t answer that,” Regulus says, “because I don’t know. I suppose I was trying to be efficient. I knew I wasn’t going to make it out of there by myself, and even if I did, I would have been on my own, and eventually found out and killed.”

James' breath hitches. He frowns. “But–it was so easy for Kreacher to get you out of there. You knew that before you went in. Why didn’t you just do that to start with?”

Regulus’ eyebrows pinch. He shakes his head, looks down. “I didn’t–I didn’t want to ask Kreacher more than I thought I should. I needed to make sure he got out, and that he took the real locket with him. That’s all I planned for.”

Suddenly, James can’t breathe. The absurd, fierce need to cry prickles at the back of his eyes, lodges in his throat like he might scream or shout again, neither of which he wants to do at Regulus, not now. He breathes out deeply. Tips his head forward, presses his hands into his face, his fingers into his eyes. He just needs to gather his thoughts, he tells himself. What he says is, “I just–I need a minute,” just managing to keep the wobble out of his voice. “I should go see Dumbledore sooner than later. This shouldn’t wait.”

“Oh,” Regulus says, and something in his voice makes James look at him. He almost sounds uncertain, but there is nothing on his face to reveal whether the tone was really there or not. “Alright. James,” he adds, “you do not have to feel obligated to let me stay. I can find other arrangements.”

“What?” James says stupidly, heart anxiously skipping in his chest like it’s stumbling over its own feet. No, the poor fool says, thud-thudding, don’t go. James angles his body towards him again. “I don’t feel obligated to do anything. Please, it’s–it’s honestly more for me than it is for you. Stay.”

Regulus looks at him curiously, like he’s trying to make sense of him. “Okay,” he says, “you’ll be back later?”

“Of course,” James answers immediately. “No one knows you’re here, but I’ll still unplug the Floo and alter the wards a little before I leave, just to be safe.”

Regulus nods, then pauses. He drops his hands. James can see his fingers start fidgeting at his side, thumb tap-tapping against the side of his pointer finger. When he catches James watching, he holds his hands behind his back. “What–what about Sirius?”

James blinks. “What about him?”

Regulus looks at him like he’s an idiot. “I’m assuming you two are still attached at the hip,” he says dryly. “What if he comes by?”

“Oh,” James says, “yeah. No, he’s in Dartmoor right now. With Remus. Won’t be back for another couple of days. Dumbledore sent them. Actually, he sent Remus, but Sirius was getting sick of him always sending Remus on his own, so he took some days off and went with him. I guess your timing is a little opportune that way.”

“Yes, god forbid my life ever interfere with Sirius’,” Regulus says wryly. James winces.

“I just mean, that gives you a few days to settle in before he’s here. And to figure out what you’re gonna tell him.” Regulus opens his mouth to speak, but James, already intuiting what’s coming, intercepts him, “You can’t avoid him. He’s here all the time. And I can’t keep something like this from him.”

Regulus narrows his eyes at him. “Weren’t you leaving to go rat me out?”

“I wouldn’t rat you out, Regulus,” James says, maybe too sincerely. He stands from his seat, glances at the locket, then at Regulus. He nods his permission, and James gingerly takes the locket and puts it around his neck, tucking it under his shirt. He frowns. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?”

“Yes,” says Regulus, crossing his arms over his chest, no waver in his voice. James nods. He looks at him one more time, can’t help himself. He doesn’t want to leave him.

James goes anyway.



*



By time James Apparates to the alley behind his apartment building, done with his meeting with Dumbledore, running a few errands, and picking up food, the sun has begun to set, red-orange and blue-grey.

Going out, getting some fresh air, walking for a bit from here to there, helped him calm down and get his head on straight, but the moment he walks into his flat and hears the telltale sounds of someone in the kitchen, relief floods him and he’s glad to be back. It wasn’t that he really believed Regulus would sneak out the moment James took his eyes off him, but there was a part of him he couldn’t fully convince, and proving it wrong makes him untense in a way he hadn’t even realized he needed.

“Hey,” James says as he comes into the kitchen, after taking off his shoes. Regulus is crouched on the floor, the cupboards under the sink wide open. James stares at him. “What are you doing?”

“Looking through your things,” Regulus answers, dragging his gaze towards him. His eyes fall to the bags in James’ arms.

“I brought food,” James says before he can ask, holding the bags up to him, “and I picked up some things for you. Did Kreacher come by?”

Regulus nods as he unfolds from his crouch. “He popped in a little after you left. He says you gave him permission to visit.”

“Er, yeah, I guess I did, technically.”

“He might keep visiting, then,” Regulus tells him as he starts looking through the bags James sets on the kitchen table. He pauses. “How do you know which soap I use?”

“Oh,” James says, caught. He hadn’t had to think twice about it at the store. It doesn’t occur to him to lie, now. “Well, I always recognized the smell, and–Sirius uses the same brand, but the pine one, so. You know. Hungry?” James asks, just to change the subject.

“Sure,” Regulus says, with a tone that says he’s seen right through James.

They sit down to eat. It doesn’t feel awkward, necessarily, or at least James doesn’t think it does, only that the air feels charged with everything that’s been said and everything that remains unsaid between them. Did you ever think about me? James wants to ask. What are you thinking about now? He wonders. Did you miss me like I missed you?

James wishes he had gotten a smaller kitchen table when he first moved in.

“How was it?” Regulus asks, gaze fixed on his takeout box.

“How was what?” James asks, and immediately realizes what Regulus is asking about. “Oh,” he says, and takes a deep breath. The meeting with Dumbledore initially left him feeling frayed and tired and he was glad to leave his office when he did and not have to think about it again, but, of course, Regulus has every right to know about it. “Well, all things considered,” James tells him. “He let me tell him the whole thing before he started fiddling around with the locket and confirmed what it was. I told him there were probably more, and he agreed. Kept the locket, by the way. Said he would take care of it.”

“Did you tell him about me?” Regulus asks.

“No,” James says without feeling offended, because he knows Regulus just needs to hear it. “He didn’t like that very much, to be honest, but I told him if he could have his spies then I could have mine. Not that–you know, I only said that so–”

“It’s alright, James,” Regulus cuts in, looking at him with something odd in his eyes, “I know. In any case, I would rather be your spy than his.”

“I would never do that to you,” James says sincerely.

“I know. That’s why I’d rather be yours,” Regulus says. James’ breath catches. His heart pounds in his chest. He can’t look away from Regulus. He wants to say a million things. Do you mean it? You don’t know what you’re doing to me.

What James says is, “You really don’t like him.”

Regulus shrugs one shoulder, lazy and aristocratic. “I don’t trust him. And he probably doesn’t like me, either, so it’s only fair.”

“Sirius doesn’t like him, either,” James tells him. “Says he gives him the hibbie-jibbies. Gets things done, sure, but bad feelings all around.”

“Did I say I didn’t like him? I was always fond of the old bastard,” Regulus deadpans, and James laughs, startled and breathless.

“He’s not even here and you’re still being difficult,” he says, grinning at Regulus, unable to help himself, and it feels so good. For just a moment, it feels just like it used to back then–sitting across from Regulus, or walking down a corridor beside him, their shoulders bumping, Regulus making James laugh at every mean, harmless comment that fell from his small, pretty mouth.

“I’m sure somewhere in Dartmoor his ears are burning,” Regulus says, the devil of satisfaction flashing through his eyes.

They finish eating, James telling Regulus about the rest of the meeting and how Dumbledore thinks it would be prudent that whoever found the locket lays low, and then get up together to throw away their takeaway containers. They’re standing beside each other in front of the kitchen sink, washing their hands, patting them dry, and James is just thinking about making tea when Regulus, with some hesitance, says, “About our sleeping arrangements…”

“I’ll take the couch,” James says immediately. Regulus shakes his head. They turn towards each other.

“I couldn’t let you do that,” Regulus says.

“I couldn’t let you sleep on the couch,” James argues. “I’ve fallen asleep there a few times, it’s not very comfortable.”

Regulus gives him a withering look. “You’re doing a fantastic job of convincing me to let you give up your bed for it.”

James sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it. “What if–what if we just. We’ve already slept in the bed together. What difference does it make if we keep sharing it?”

Regulus rears back slightly, like he’s startled. His mouth parts slightly. He stares at James. He’s not saying no, James thinks.

“C’mon,” James murmurs, nudging him with his arm, “it’ll be just like old times.”

Regulus frowns. One of his curls falls forward from where it had been tucked behind his ear and suddenly, he looks impossibly young. “Can it be like old times?”

James’ heart pounds in his chest. “I would like it to be,” he says, gently. “Reg, you have no idea–”

And then Regulus lifts his hand to tuck his hair back and his sleeve, James’ sleeve, he’s still wearing James’ shirt, which is a little big and loose on him, slips down his arm. James acts without thinking, reaches forward, snatches Regulus’ arm in his hand. Startled, Regulus immediately tries to snatch his arm back, but James’ grip is unrelenting.

“James,” Regulus hisses, sharp and dangerous.

Vaguely, like a dull, unconscious thought, a habit you barely have to give more than the spare recognition, James realizes he’s crossed a line, that the edge in Regulus’ voice is cause for concern, a warning sign, but he somehow still can’t help himself. His attention is entirely fixed on Regulus’ arm, the crisp dark lines slithering over his fair skin.

Earlier, he had needed to get his thoughts together, and taking a step back from Regulus, giving himself enough air and room to breathe without the overwhelming immensity he feels just being around him again, had helped him do that. And what all of his fragmented thoughts led to when pieced together was this:

When Regulus was sixteen, after he came back from the Christmas holidays and, though it was never stated, it became quite clear that he had taken the Mark, James, unlike Sirius, had not thought You traitor. He had not been pierced through by disappointment or hatred, like Regulus might have assumed he was, and he had never felt any desire to sneer in disgust like some of the more vocal, combative students had. Instead, James had felt something like heartbreak settle into all his marrow and sinew, not over Regulus’ choices, but over the quiet severing of a thread between them that he could not grasp and, if he could have been able to hold that tether in his hands, he would gripped it between his fingers and held it together himself if he had to. As it was, James had only been able to helplessly hope God, please don’t let this change him. Let me keep holding on to him.

Needless to say, James found none of his prayers answered, and Regulus slipped away from him before he could do anything about it, water in his hands. All of the righteousness in the world and James hadn’t cared about any of it, hadn’t even considered it except to recognize that maybe he should have been feeling at least some semblance of shame in himself, but even that never came. Whatever kind of person Regulus is, by anyone else’ standards, James is not much better.

“I’m not as altruistic as I let people think I am,” James admits suddenly with a short, dry laugh that falls hollow in the space between them, shifts and molds into a strained frown, knitting his eyebrows and pulling the corners of his mouth down. He stares down at their hands, at the contrast of his fingers wrapped around Regulus’ pale wrist. “I was so angry at you for this,” he says, quiet and breathless, feeling so helpless. “And not for the reasons I should have been angry about. I was angry because it took you away from me.”

James looks at him then and only just barely misses the flicker of something painful flashing through Regulus’ eyes. He can still see the shadow of it in the press of his lips. A fleeting brush of his fingers over James’ cheek before he snatches his hand back. The way his hand grows limp in James’ grip, vulnerable and trusting. Regulus’ voice is quiet and just this side of painful, like it’s costing him. “I’m right here, James.”

“Yeah, now you are, but–” James cuts himself off, shakes his head once, sharply. He feels the ridiculous urge to cry again, warmth prickling at his eyes, but he doesn’t. He says, “I just missed you so much, Reg.”

Silence. James’ heart pounding in his chest, the echo of it thrumming in his ears. He can feel Regulus’ pulse where his thumb is resting on the flat of his wrist, over the blue-green shadow of his veins, right under the edge of the Mark. Regulus breathes out a sound like surrender. He touches James again, solid and real, the outline of his thumb over James’ cheek, his fingers tucked in behind his ear. James feels shot through.

“I missed you, too,” Regulus admits, quiet and earnest, the softness in his voice more like a caress than the press of Regulus’ fingers against his skin. James, overcome, lets go of his wrist to wrap his arms around him. He sighs a shuddery, relieved breath when Regulus hugs him back, arms looped under James’ and clutching at his shoulders.

“I’m just,” James starts. He presses his cheek against the side of Regulus’ head. “I’m just so glad you’re here.”

Regulus’ fingers clench in the material of his shirt. He turns his head, presses his cheek against James’ shoulder. James can feel his heart beating against his own chest, a mirror image of his own, steady and firm in their desperate hammering, the out of tune harmony of them beating next to each other, carrying their own sort of magic that James can’t grasp but is grateful for anyway. He thinks of how close he was to never being able to see Regulus again, much less be in the same room as him, how the possibility of holding him like this almost became inconceivable, and even worse, that James would not have been able to come to terms with any of that, and he holds Regulus tighter, cradles his head against his shoulder.

They stand there for a long time, neither of them speaking, the clock on the wall ticking, the sound of their breathing even and steady and muffled against each other’s skin. They hold each other past the point of it being reasonable even for two friends who had not seen each other for a very long time and were being reunited under their particular circ*mstances, and then even longer than that. James has no proof of it, doesn’t even think he could excuse it with whatever strange, calid magic hums between them, but he swears his heart gradually slows to beat in time with Regulus’.



*



That night, they go to bed together. They crawl into opposite sides of the bed and lay on their backs under the covers, without touching. It occurs to James how ridiculous this is, after they spent what was probably centuries holding each other in the kitchen, but as intimate as that felt, this feels more deliberate. James doesn’t move. He stares at the ceiling, listening to the ticking of the alarm clock on his bedside table and the sound of Regulus’ even breathing, which has already become familiar and comforting to him.

“I left a note,” Regulus says, possibly hours later, James can’t be sure.

“What?” James asks at the ceiling.

“In the fake locket,” Regulus clarifies, “I left a note telling him it was me. That I found him out and stole the real one.”

“You–are you insane? Why?” James demands, turning on his side to face Regulus. The line of his profile is perfectly serious, not a shadow of a joke. He shrugs, then turns to face James as well, his hands curled in the space between them.

“I wanted him to know,” Regulus says simply. “I didn’t go through all that trouble for nothing, and I wasn’t going to let anyone else take the credit for it.”

James’ laugh bursts out of him, shocked and maybe a little louder than the quiet of night calls for. Some sort of ridiculous joy brimming in his chest, and without pausing to think about it or doubt himself, he takes one of Regulus’ hands, entwines their fingers together, and tugs it close to his side of the bed, almost to his chest. “God,” James laughs, “you’re still so petty.”

Impossibly, beautifully, Regulus smiles. James has not felt this content in a very long time.

James comes home to the sound of music drifting through the flat. The song playing from the record player on the little stand beside the couch is immediately familiar to him, but he ignores the bluesy guitar strumming in favor of finding the little culprit going through his records.

Regulus is, to James’ pleased surprise, laying on his back on the floor behind the couch, right under a patch of light coming in through the closed window. His hair is fanned out around him and there are small piles of two, three, up to four records stacked on top of each other on one side of him, some still sitting in their crate, and one in particular held in his hands and resting over his stomach. His feet are bare and aimlessly shifting to the beat of the music.

“Hello there,” says James, fighting down a smile as he comes to stand on Regulus’ other side where there are no piles of albums. Regulus’ eyes track him as he comes closer.

“I like this,” he says in lieu of greeting, holding up the empty jacket cover of his Eric Clapton Rainbow Concert. James, endeared and amused, laughs softly.

“Do you?” he murmurs quietly, lowering himself to sit cross-legged beside Regulus. “I see you’ve been going through my records.”

Regulus nods, then says, “You have a lot of this Bowie bloke.”

“Yeah,” James laughs, delighted. “Remus and Sirius’ doing, I’m afraid. They’re mental about him, bring me copies of albums they already own so they can listen to them when they come over.”

Regulus hums. “Then, which one do you like?”

“I like all of them,” James answers gently, “that’s why I have them.”

“Yes, but which one do you like best?” Regulus insists.

An image plays through James’ mind, like flashes from a dream–Regulus, sitting alone in his flat, the light spilling through the window shining through his eyes and rolling down his hair, his elegant fingers walking over the spines of his records, mouthing names and titles under his breath like incantations, like prayers. Each record settling over the turntable, Regulus’ careful hands adjusting the needle over the edges, listening thoughtfully each time a new song started and thinking of James the whole time, wondering which songs he listens to the most, which bands he likes best, why he owned these albums over others. James imagines Regulus lowering himself down to the floor, breathing in the smell of each record, missing him as much as James misses him when they’re not together, imagines each time he thought about Regulus during his day, Regulus was thinking of him, looking for him in each song he listened to.

James plucks a red cover from one of the piles—Television’s Adventure—and holds it up for Regulus to see. He says, “This one. Reckon I listen to this one the most.”

Regulus sets Rainbow Concert aside and takes the album from James, holding it over his face so he can look at it. “I listened to this one,” he says. “I liked the song with the—where he goes, Your head was golden, there was lightning in your arms.”James grins. “Did you? Wouldn’t think you’d like them at all, really.”“I did, but mostly that one song,” Regulus says, “It’s pretty, and a little whiny, but you can still dance to it.”James quirks a brow at him. “Have you been dancing in my flat, Reg?”“Wouldn’t you like to know,” murmurs Regulus, something bright and mischievous in his eyes and god James likes him so much.“Don’t tease,” James warns lightly, lowering himself to lay down beside Regulus, their arms brushing shoulder to elbow. “Bet all you did was lay here and seriously ponder my music, casting your judgements on me.”“Well, of course I did some of that as well,” Regulus drawls.

James laughs, gently elbowing Regulus as he does. He stares up at the ceiling, breathing in deeply, feeling the way it stretches everything in his torso, the muscles in his back. Beside him, Regulus breathes out slowly.

“What do you like about this one?” James asks quietly, wanting to find bits of Regulus in every song as well. There were other songs that made him think of Regulus, before, in nonsensical ways James couldn’t explain, ways that had less to do with the songs and more to do with how much James feels for him. But, he thinks now, he would prefer to find real parts of Regulus, thin glass shards and opalescent pearls, wispy thoughts and murmured words, parts Regulus laid down himself, like a trail for James to follow.

He feels the shift of Regulus’ shoulder against his own when he shrugs. “Like some of the words,” Regulus answers, just as quietly. “They make more sense to me than some of the others. But, most of all, I like–well, that,” he gestures airily with his hand towards the turntable, and James listens to the dragged out angsty guitar riff, lets it roll over him and settle in his bones, tug at the fleshy red parts of him. Here, he thinks, I’ll find you here, next time.

“Yeah,” James agrees, “it’s lovely.”

They lay together for a while after that, Clapton singing If I give my love to you, surely you’ll give it back like a mantra in James’ head as he feels the shift of each breath Regulus takes beside him.

It’s scary, how quickly they fall into a routine together, how quickly James gets used to having Regulus here, in his space.

In the mornings, James wakes with Regulus’ warm, comforting weight beside him, features relaxed in sleep, breathing slow and even, and he slides out of bed carefully, with only a lingering wave of regret, before he quietly gets ready in silence and with a calmness like slow sighs breathed out before sleep. He cuts up fruit and drizzles it with honey for breakfast, saving the extra in the fridge for Regulus to find later. By the time he’s had his tea and is about to walk out the door, Regulus shuffles out of the room to see him off, still mostly asleep, always blinking blearily at the wide grin James can’t suppress at the sight of him, at the warmth he feels when Regulus sleepily wishes him a good day. On the third day of this, James knows to set out two mugs for tea, the sound of Regulus’ feet slightly dragging over the floorboards already a familiar sound.

In the afternoons, he comes home straight after work, always to find Regulus wrapped up in something different; James’ records and cassettes, or working his way through James’ bookshelves, or flipping through his photo albums and the scrapbooks full of recipes his mother made him before he moved out. They tell each other about their days, James about work and any news he thinks Regulus might want to know, and Regulus tells him about Kreacher’s visits and whatever he spent the day doing or why the way James organizes his books is all wrong. They drift naturally into the kitchen to make dinner together. At first, it’s James who does the cooking while Regulus sits on the counter and watches him, occasionally asking questions but mostly content to listen to James prattle on. Then, it turns into Regulus declaring he wants to help and James giving him tasks while talking through whatever he’s doing so Regulus will learn. At the end of the week, when James comes home a little later than usual after work and an Order meeting, it’s to Regulus reading on the couch, waiting on him, music drifting from the turntable, both of their dinners waiting in the kitchen under a stasis charm.

At night, after dinner and a little before bed, after they’ve both showered, they sit in the living room together, taking up space in each other’s orbits. James introduces Regulus to Muggle films and bad television. Sometimes, they make tea and read across from each other, occasionally speaking up to share something about whatever they’re reading; clever metaphors or bad word choices, a thinkpiece on Diana and Actaeon that Regulus reads to him, poetry lines that James shares with him because he thinks Regulus will like them, or because they make James think of him. Sometimes, they make tea and spend the hours before bed sitting across from each other and talking in soft voices, telling each other everything they missed, going circles around nothing and everything, and anything outside of the safe comfort of James’ flat fades away, leaving behind only the two of them and the midsummer warmth settled into James’ blood like red wine stains on lace tablecloths.

And then, when they finish their movie, or their eyes grow heavy over the pages that begin to turn more slowly, or when their voices begin to drift into thick, drowsy murmurs, they go to sleep together. The sheets warm so much quicker with another person to share them with. James lets Regulus claim the side of the bed closer to the wall and Regulus lets James tuck his cold toes under his legs. The space between them gradually lessens until James can reach out and hold Regulus’ fingers clutching the edge of the duvet if he wants to, can feel Regulus’s breath when he wishes James a good night, can count the faint freckles over his nose until he falls asleep beside Regulus.

James gets used to all of it far too quickly, allows it to become familiar, to settle in the spaces between his ribs like dandelion weeds growing between cracks in the sidewalk. Regulus, soft and sweet in the mornings. Coming home to him bathed in warm afternoon light. Regulus criticizing the Daily Prophet in his kitchen, wearing James’ ancient Buzzco*cks shirt that for whatever reason he seems to love more than any of James’ other shirts. Regulus across from him listening with rapt attention, eyes warm and hazy like he’s stuck in a daydream. Falling asleep beside Regulus, the sound of his breathing comforting and familiar. James wonders what it says about him.

He wonders what other people would say about it, though not for very long. The truth is, James doesn’t care what anyone else has to say about him and Regulus and their arrangement and however James might feel about it despite his attempts to not get too ahead of himself. He didn’t care in school when people expressed any ounce of surprise that James and Regulus could even speak to each other, let alone be friendly, and he doesn’t care now when the situation is slightly more muddled by history, old feelings, and a domesticity that James isn’t sure he’s allowed to admit to but doesn’t want to give up either.

The fact is, despite what most people might think of either of them, individually or together, despite what anyone might say, James still knows Regulus. He knows how he takes his tea, how he curves the loop of his gs, that he likes the smell of rosemary but doesn’t like the way the leaves feel. He knows Regulus likes Christmas biscuits and cinnamon at the bottom of his cocoa, that he gets cold easily but loves when the first winter winds begin to blow. He knows the rhythm of Regulus’ breathing when he sleeps and what his voice sounds like when it’s barely a whisper in the middle of the night. He knows he used to miss Sirius all the time, even when they were together, probably still misses him now. He knows everyone thinks Sirius is the only wild Black brother, but James knows better, knows Regulus’ brand of wild is subtler, quieter, harder to see if you don’t know what to look for, that it takes time to reveal itself, careful and calculated, that sometimes you have to work Regulus up to it. The sort of wildness that makes Regulus go hunting for a Horcrux on his own without telling anyone, as well as the sort that makes his words come fast and his hands gesture vividly.

When they were in school, James learned all the ways to get a wild glimmer in Regulus’ eyes. A particularly difficult Quidditch match. The glint of a Snitch before anyone else caught it. Clever play on words used to flirt. A hand on the small of his back. Arguing over works of literature. Not many people know about Regulus’ fascination with Shakespeare, but James does, because James knows all about Regulus.

He tries it now, just to see. Maybe just to prove a final point to himself. Maybe just to see and to prove that no matter how much time has passed, no matter how much they have both grown up and changed, they can still be them, together.

“Who was that Muggle playwright you used to be obsessed with?” James murmurs, playing at casualness by keeping his gaze on the pages of his book. They’re sitting across from each other on the couch, legs meeting in the middle, ankles knocking together and James doesn’t see Regulus’ expression but he feels the movement of his foot pause where it was rubbing circles against James’ calf, before it calmly resumes.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Regulus murmurs back. He turns a page, the sound of it like a sigh in the quiet flat.

“Really?” James asks. “You don’t remember?”

“No,” Regulus answers, “I mean, there was no Muggle playwright I was obsessed with. Only you would call Shakespeare a Muggle. And my interest in him was perfectly reasonable.”

James tries to fight the smile tugging at his lips and subsequently fails. He chances a glance at Regulus, but his face remains impassive, eyes fixed on his own book, though not running from side to side like they would if he was reading.

“Oh, so it wasn’t you I caught in the library trying to memorize Hamlet’s soliloquy?”

Regulus shrugs. “Good memory exercise, vocabulary practice, enunciation, literary lesson. Can’t imagine anything more reasonable.”

“Yes, because we certainly didn’t get enough of any of that, what with memorizing Potion recipes and learning Latin and such.”

Regulus turns another page, much too quick to have read it yet.

“How did it go again…” James mumbles. “For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal toil–”

“Coil,” Regulus snaps firmly, then, exasperated with him, slaps his book shut and looks up to give James an unimpressed look. James grins.

“There you are,” he says brightly.

“You are insufferable,” Regulus states flatly. “And a hypocrite. You learned it too, though clearly not well.”

James laughs, knocks his foot against Regulus’. “You know it was on purpose. And of course I did. It mattered to you.”

That, and, in a fit of hopeless yearning after seventh year, James had re-read most of Shakespeare’s works and memorized all the monologues, sonnets, and lines that reminded him of Regulus, Hamlet’s soliloquy and Sonnet 98 and Be fickle, fortune, for then I hope thou wilt not keep him long but send him back.

Regulus huffs out a breath, pretending to be disgusted, but James can see the way his lashes flutter on his next blink. James knows Regulus.

“You know, there’s no evidence that says Shakespeare was a wizard,” James says. Regulus scoffs.

“Neither was there for Galileo or Copernicus, but that never changed your mind.”

“You can’t compare Galileo or Copernicus with Shakespeare,” James says, laughing. “They’re not even the same subjects!”

Regulus waves him off and shakes his head, stubborn. “You’re showing preference.”

James shakes his head back, still laughing, warmth blooming in his chest. He tangles their feet together and Regulus lets him.

“Whether to live or die,” James muses, “it always just made me think of that knight, you know. Is it better to speak or to die? Never thought they were much different.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Regulus says, his voice gone softer now, eyes fixed on where their feet lay over each other. “You’re a romantic. Heptameron was, too.”

James grins, dropping his head against the back of the couch. “I have a copy in the original French, you know. Can’t read a lick of it, but I have it.”

He watches Regulus–the easy, serene shift of his features, the slow blink of his storm-grey eyes, his elegant, roman nose, his smooth hair tucked behind one ear, his movements graceful and quiet like a sigh–as he leans his head on the couch as well, mimicking James’ position. Fondness makes James’ heart swell.

“I know,” Regulus says gently. “I saw it when I was looking through your books.” A pause, weighing his words. “I can read it to you later, if you like.”

James feels his heart thud with so much fierce joy he thinks it might just beat right out of his chest, or just implode in on itself right within his ribcage. He thinks back to the way he felt the first night Regulus arrived in his apartment, noticing in Regulus’ features how much time had really passed, the shadow of bitter regret looming over him that Regulus might have been different, that James had lost him completely, that anything that might have hung between them in the past was completely gone.

He knows things about Regulus, things that show he’s paying attention, that he cares. But he also knows Regulus in a way there are no words for, a warm, quiet familiarity, like the first notes of a song you haven’t even thought about in years but still know all the words to, the way around its melodies and harmonies, would recognize it anywhere you heard it. He knows Regulus in a safe, comforting way, the way he knows breathing without thinking about it, the way he knows the pulse of his own heartbeat. Intimate. Inherent. Essential.

James knows him, and still finds himself pleasantly surprised, sometimes.

“Yes, I would like that.”

They spend Saturday morning in. They wake up early, slow and easy, pale yellow morning light coming in through the window and painting Regulus in soft pink shadows and fuzzy-sweet edges. They murmur to each other in thick, sleep heavy voices as they coax each other out of bed, Regulus needing more tugging and persuading than James, but trailing out from under the sheets and after him all the same.

Then, after they’ve washed up together, standing side by side in front of the bathroom mirror, nudging each other around to reach the sink, Regulus kicking James out when he needs to pee, they go into the kitchen, put on the kettle, and decide on pancakes for breakfast.

Sometime after their first cups of tea, after they’ve eaten the first round of pancakes straight out of the pan, James, lost in the pleasant morning and his good mood, pads his way into the living room on quick feet, turns on the record player, drops the needle on whatever it’s on, and charms the turntable to flip the record over once it’s done.

Upbeat notes from The Soft Parade croon from the speakers and James’ grin comes quick and effortless. He hurries back into the kitchen and comes up behind Regulus, standing at the stove and watching over a just-poured pancake, taking him by the hand and twirling him around to face him.

Regulus’ breath hitches as James pulls him into his chest. James is only two or three inches taller than him, maybe, but this close, he has to tilt his head down to look at Regulus and boy is it a lovely angle to look at him from. James takes him in, the soft baby hairs at his hairline, the thick set of his lashes framing his widened eyes, the lovely dusting of freckles over the bridge of his well bred nose that you can only see from this close.

“James,” Regulus warns. James beams, a happy thrill shooting down his chest, making his heart race joyfully. Morrison sings I’m gonna love you ‘til the stars fall from the sky and James takes a step back so he can spin Regulus around by the hand, draws him back in, wraps an arm around his waist as he dips him down for a moment, then brings him back up and tugs him into his chest again, moves fluid and practiced.

With a hand clutching at James’ shoulder and looking breathless, Regulus says, “Oh, James, don’t. You know I only ever learned ballroom.”

James laughs, happy down to his bones as he sways Regulus to the jouncing, happy beat, a beat that can’t stay in one place for more than a second. “S’alright, Reg, it’s just us,” he says, trying for comforting, but perhaps straying too close to pleased.

Regulus makes a noise of complaint but doesn’t stop James as he guides him into some bastardized version of ballroom dancing, feet too quick, arms moving too much where he holds Regulus’ hands in the small space between them. Regulus watches their feet until he gets the hang of it. What was that promise that you made and Regulus looks up at James again, something summer bright and proud in his eyes and he’s half responsible for the swinging of their arms and the roll of their shoulders now. James flashes him a bright grin and holds one of Regulus’ hands over his head, letting go of the other one so he can twirl himself into Regulus’ arms, leaning back against his chest.

To James’ tremendous pleasure, it makes Regulus laugh, the sound soft and low and melodious right next to his ear. And to his great astonishment, Regulus places his hands on James’ waist and guides him into a side-to-side sway to the rhythm, making James’ heart pound with something heavier and warmer.

The smile on Regulus’ face when he lets James go to face him again is absolutely radiant. James’ heart skips and squeezes just at the sight of it. His eyes are so warm and bright, cheeks flushed happy-pink and James would do just about anything to keep him like this, safe and warm and lovely, laughing in his arms and so pleased with James.

Actually, James thinks he’d like to keep both of them like this, frozen in time like one of those Muggle pictures, Regulus’ beautiful, careless smile and James’ probably too revealing look as he watches him. It’s amazing, he thinks, that there’s a war going on, sitting in their bones and constantly itching at the back of their heads, a war that almost took Regulus from him and might still take more than James is prepared to give, and yet they can still have this–this pale bright morning and music and pancakes and, most incredibly, each other. He wants to keep this moment forever in a tangible way, so he can fold it by halves and tuck it into his shirt pocket, right over his heart, within easy reach to tug out and look at whenever he needs to.

The song changes, Shaman’s Blues, mellower and boozier so James pulls Regulus in close, holds one of his hands at their side and tucks the other at the small of Regulus’ back, the side of his face pressed against Regulus’ hair. They fall into a rhythm together, a sort of step-step-sway, step-step-sway to the beat that almost matches Regulus’ pulse where James can feel it through his fingers and, by extension, matches James’ pulse as well. I know your moves and your mind and the more Morrison repeats it, the more it starts to sound like and you’re mine.

“James,” Regulus says softly, the sweetest exhalation, like the last winds in spring interspersed with the beginning of summer, when you don’t know when the last cool breeze will fade away. James tilts his head only enough to look at him, the two of them still moving in tandem, Regulus’ eyes shining with something James finds familiar, a sort of warm wide eyed wonder, a gentleness in the flutter of his lashes. James feels caught by the silver in his eyes, hunter’s arrowhead to the deer’s shoulder, pinned and unable to get away. He thinks about saying something, a joke, maybe, but his eyes fall to the pink honeysuckle of Regulus’ lips, the delicate arch in the cupid’s bow of his top lip and all words turn to white noise in his head, his breath caught in his throat, fluttering and trying to escape like a butterfly caught in a net.

The moment feels like it’s been stretched out into an eternity, time and space fading away around them, or like the space between each heartbeat has been extended and that’s where Regulus and James exist, in the flicker of a moment so quick it can barely exist, can barely contain them. No one and nothing else outside of this moment exists to James.

A surge of music, Morrison rasping And there will never be another one like you, and James doesn’t know who moves first, who leans in the rest of the way, but they’re kissing. Regulus’ lips are smooth, still taste chamomile light and honey sweet from their tea.

They stop dancing. Everything stops. James drops Regulus’ hand, touches the side of his neck, fingers pressed to where he can feel the quickening of Regulus’ heartbeat in his pulse. Regulus holds onto his arms, drags his hands up from James’ elbows to his shoulders, holds him, as if James would go anywhere, as if he will ever go anywhere ever again.

Of all the times James imagined kissing Regulus, all the different fantasies he cooked up in his head about their first kiss, none of it even comes close to this. There is nothing rushed about it. Regulus kisses him with a gentleness James doesn’t have words for, a slow bloom sort of ease, like they have all the time in the world. Like they’ve done this a million times before, maybe, in another life, a million dazzling, slow roast mornings just like this one, and will do it a million times more, in other lifetimes. James melts into the sweetness of it, the way every push has an answer, a tilt of the head, a parting of the lips, a hand on the back of his neck.

The song changes. Morrison drags out Easy, baby, please me. Their noses brush together. Regulus’ breath puffs against his cheek when he breathes out through his nose, a sound like relief, like the resettling of uncertain things, like dewdrops forming on blades of grass.

They part slowly, flower petals separating from each other under pale morning light. James’ heart beats staccato in his chest. His glasses are vaguely fogged around the edges when he opens his eyes. They’re still close enough that their breaths meet in the middle. Regulus’ eyes are hazed and hooded but focused on James, like he’s just leaving a daydream, like James is the daydream. His eyebrows pinch together, just so.

“Do you smell smoke?” Regulus asks.

James, stupid and fog-brained and Regulus-dizzy, says, “What?”

Regulus looks away from him, towards the stove. “Smoke, James.”

James turns as well and, sure enough, wisps of smoke are billowing out of the pan where they left a pancake cooking. He curses under his breath and, with a pang of regret, untangles himself from Regulus, rushes over to the stove to throw out the charred pancake and run the pan under water. He has no idea where his wand is.

He leaves the pan to soak and when he turns back around, Regulus is still standing exactly where James left him, the back of his hand pressed softly over his lips, his shoulders moving with the quickening of his breathing.

They stare at each other. James can still feel the shape of Regulus’ lips against his, his hands caressing James’ arms, can still taste the honey in his mouth, or the honey in James’ mouth, or they’re one and the same, his mouth Regulus’ mouth, his breath James’ breath. His heart feels impossibly big.

“Regulus,” James whispers. Something cracks open in Regulus’ expression.

“Did you mean it?” Regulus asks softly, words muffled behind his hand. James feels a surge of immediacy rush through him.

“Yes,” he gasps. “You don’t know how much–yes, I meant it.”

Regulus watches him for a moment longer, his eyes flickering over James’ face. The music stops, the turntable clicking as the needle lifts and the record flips itself. Regulus’ chest swells with the breath he takes, and then he lowers his hand as he exhales, his lips kiss red. He nods.

“Alright,” says Regulus, flickering his gaze away. “Alright. I just–need a minute.”

“Sure,” James says immediately, heart racing, nerves shooting through him. “Just, um. Are you upset?”

Regulus looks at him, the weight of his gaze softening, going fuzzy soft around the edges. “No,” he says. “I just need a minute. Can we make the rest of the batter?”

“Course,” James says, trying very hard to keep all his fragmented pieces together, biting down on everything he wants to say. Regulus nods again and comes to stand beside him, their arms brushing every time they move.

They make the rest of the batter. They sit down at the kitchen table and have breakfast in a silence both easy and imminent. They drink more tea and the whole time, James keeps reminding himself that Regulus trusts him, so James should trust him, too. Don’t break my heart, he thinks. You can have me, just don’t break my heart.

Later, after The Doors and breakfast and spelling the dishes to clean themselves, they drag the cushions from the couch to the floor and lay on their sides, facing each other. Chairs Missing plays quietly from the turntable. James can’t help tapping his fingers against the floorboards to the rhythm of the guitar strumming. Regulus watches him, eyes soft and unguarded. Being the sole focus of his attention makes James feel like he’s being dipped in sunlight, his bones plated in gold, blood replaced with sweet honey. It’s addictive. His heart flutters in his chest, nervous and, against his better efforts, hopeful.

“I wanted you to kiss me,” Regulus says sometime during French Film Blurred, so soft James barely hears him, wouldn’t have if he weren’t so focused on him, “I was just too scared to admit it.”

Something in James begins to ease, and something else begins to swell just as quickly. One of his pieces, he thinks, light scattered over the inside of his rib bones. He thinks of Regulus’ indomitable, unshakeable pride and understands why he needed time, a minute to breathe. James aches for him something terrible.

“How long?” James asks, a soft, perhaps belated murmur. Regulus blinks at him, slow and relaxed.

“Fourth year,” he answers, quiet and easy. He shifts and his hand comes to rest beside James’, fingers just short of brushing against each other. James watches the way his lips shape around every word he says, spellbound. “Since that weekend in Hogsmeade you dragged me around to buy Christmas presents for your friends. I realized how much I didn’t hate being with you when I went back to my dorm. I thought about you often after that. You?”

“Fifth year,” James answers, marveling not only at the thought that Regulus knew to ask without James telling him but also that Regulus has been wanting to kiss him that long, and wonders about the low hum of magic that thrums between them, then pauses for a beat. “I didn’t realize it at first, so I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but–I always think about that afternoon in the library, when you helped me with that Potions essay? It had rained that morning, so the sunset was all red-orange and so pink it looked purple. You were sitting next to the window and haloed by all that light and I remember thinking you looked so radiant, I couldn’t look away from you. I guess I kept looking. I think maybe that was the moment, but I didn’t realize it until later.”

Regulus’ lashes flutter but don’t quite close. “James,” he says, sounding breathless. He must hear it too, because he presses his lips shut and breathes in deeply before he says anything else. They speak in hushed semitones and, with a swell of joy pushing at his lungs like a hot air balloon, James realizes neither of them is talking about just kissing anymore. “We wasted so much time.”

James thinks about that. He imagines a world where he didn’t let his feelings for Regulus, so much different from what he felt for Lily or anyone else, paralyze him with fear, or where he didn’t convince himself day after day I’ll tell him later, when the time is right instead of just doing something about it. He imagines having gotten to spend every afternoon with Regulus, talking in low voices and kissing him in empty corridors and secluded corners and behind dusty tapestries, dates on Hogsmeade weekends and getting to hold his hand whenever he wanted.

He thinks of seventh year and Regulus returning from term break steely and frozen over. He thinks of how much it hurt to lose Regulus as it was and how much worse it would have been to have had him just to lose him. And, with a terrible, suffocating feeling in his chest like a vice around his heart, he thinks of how unbearable it would have been if something had happened to Regulus in that cave, if a bitter breakup would have kept Regulus from letting Kreacher bring him to James. He can’t even bring himself to think of anything beyond that, not in any concrete way. James would not have survived it.

“It’s not wasted time,” James says finally, the needle spinning over a different song now. He takes Regulus’ hand, slips his fingers into the empty spaces between Regulus’. “We still got here, didn’t we? It could have been so much worse. Maybe this is how it was meant to happen.”

Regulus hums softly, his eyes drifting to where their fingers are entwined. He squeezes James’ hand once, briefly. “Do you believe in that? Fate, destiny. Things that are meant to happen.”

“Sometimes,” James says. He drags their hands towards him, kisses Regulus’ fingers, feels his pulse against his lips. Watches Regulus watch him. “I think I like believing we have a choice better. But I think both things can be true. Some things just happen the way they do, no matter what you do. Other things happen and you make decisions until you have no other choice. Sometimes you fall so deep in something there’s only one choice you want to make. How do you measure these things, and all that.”

James watches Regulus consider this, the way his eyes go kind of faraway and distant and his mouth small and tight. James knows what a privilege it is, to be allowed in, to be let in close enough that he can see all these shifts and changes in Regulus’ expression, the shadows fading away, the calligraphy of emotions in the lines of his face.

The song playing from the turntable is low and quiet like a secret, so Regulus’ voice is even quieter than before when he finally speaks, the way it is in the middle of the night. “I spent so long letting other things and people tell me what to do and dictate how my life went. I don’t want to be controlled by anything other than myself anymore. I’m here because I want to be.”

He tugs their hands toward himself and presses his lips against the back of James’ hand, the cupid bow of his mouth pressed against James’ middle knuckle, his sharp eyes unwavering as he looks at James like a challenge. James recognizes the action for the defiant gesture it is, but the press of his lips still makes him feel warm and gooey inside. Or maybe it’s because he knows what it means to Regulus that James feels the way he does, fierce joy surging in his chest that Regulus finally has the room to choose and do as he pleases, that in this moment he’s choosing to take up that room with affection and gentleness, and that it’s directed at James.

“Good,” James says firmly. They hold each other’s gaze. The record continues to spin even as the last song on that side fades into silence. James feels overwhelmed by the weight of his feelings, the enormity of his want. “Regulus,” he sighs, lost in his eyes. “Can I kiss you again?”

Regulus’ lips part around a quiet intake of breath. His eyes drop to James’ mouth. He nods.

Heart pounding in his chest, James pushes himself up on one elbow. He takes a moment just to look at Regulus, the way he shifts so he can watch James back, the spill of yellow light over his face, the drape of his hair over the couch cushion. James lifts the hand Regulus isn’t holding to touch him, brush his knuckles over Regulus’ cheekbone, catch his cheek in the palm of his hand. Regulus’ lashes flutter. He leans into James’ touch and James’ heart aches.

He leans down and kisses him, with all the gentleness Regulus deserves, all the gentleness James ever wanted to give him. Regulus lets go of his hand and threads his fingers behind James’ neck, just holding on. He sighs softly, something like relief, like the first ever summer breeze, calm and tranquil.

They kiss like that for a long time, unhurried, exploring this new part of each other they hadn’t known before. Regulus’ hands ghost over the back of his head, his shoulders, his arms. James’ glasses knock against Regulus’ cheek, sometimes, when he tilts his head, but Regulus never seems to mind. He could do this for hours, James thinks. The soft press of their mouths, the slow glide of their tongues, Regulus’ hands on him, his body curled over Regulus’ body, relaxed and trusting. James could do this for hours and never get tired, never need to stop for anything, content to breathe in every small huff of air Regulus exhales.

Regulus makes a small, content noise in the back of his throat and, without thinking, James gently sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. He shudders, his fingers tightening around James’ shoulders.

“James,” Regulus gasps quietly, finally breaking away from James with a tilt of his chin. James doesn’t know how it’s possible, but Regulus looks even more beautiful like this–skin flushed from the apples of his cheeks all the way down to his collarbones, eyes hooded and glazed over, lips kiss-swollen and red. A thrill runs down James’ spine, knowing he made Regulus look like that. “James,” Regulus says again, breathless. “You can–you can do more than kiss me.”

Breath caught in his throat, James flicks his gaze over Regulus’ face searchingly, not entirely sure what he’s looking for, but Regulus’ gaze is still steady, no wavering in the grey of his eyes. James kisses him again, his mouth and the corner of his mouth, his chin and the underside of his jaw where Regulus has one single mole, down the line of his throat. He can feel Regulus’ pulse against his lips, Regulus’ breathing quick and loud in his ears, his hands still on James’ arms. James shifts, lifting himself up on his knees over Regulus, hovering over him. Carefully, slowly, he puts his hand on Regulus’ hip, slips his hand under his shirt. Sparks fly where their skin meets.

James runs his hand over Regulus' side, feeling the rungs of his ribs, the way his abdomen shifts with every breath Regulus takes. He leans back to look at him, shirt rucked up, eyes slightly widened in wonder, breathless. James wishes he had a camera.

“I–is this okay?” he asks carefully.

Regulus nods, a jerk of his chin. He pauses. “Have you–have you?”

“Yeah,” James nods, “have you?”

Regulus shakes his head, lashes fluttering. James tries to squash down the way that makes him feel and promptly fails. A quick flurry of images flashes through his mind–Regulus under him, warm and inviting, his head tilted back, the long arch of his neck, James’ name the only thing falling from his lips.

“God,” James sighs like surrender and bends down to kiss the protrusion of Regulus’ collarbones, sneaky little fingers pushing his shirt the rest of the way up. Regulus’ skin is smooth under his hands, warm where he’s flushed and cool where he’s not. James leans back, sitting on his knees a little, just to touch him, to spread both his hands over Regulus' stomach, up his sides, wondering at the curves of his own palms over the planes of Regulus’ body, the contrast between their skin.

He curves his fingers, gently grazing his nails down Regulus’ chest, over his nipples. Regulus makes a frustrated noise and lifts himself on his elbows, sitting up so he can pull his shirt over his head. James watches him, awestruck even as Regulus grabs him by the jaw and pulls him in for another kiss, different from the ones they’ve shared up until now, fierce and passionate, a little more teeth than is strictly necessary, but it makes James’ head spin all the same.

James eases his hands back on Regulus’ hips, slow, coaxing him back down. “Easy, beautiful,” he murmurs against Regulus’ mouth, following him down, covering his body with his own, “I’ve got you, don’t I? There’s no rush.”

Head tipped back, breathing in a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering close. “James,” Regulus sighs and his name sounds so sweet when Regulus says it. No one else could make his name sound like that, an invocation, the last exhalation at the end of a prayer.

Regulus shifts, rolling his hips down, and James feels the shape of his co*ck against his thigh, already hard just from some kissing and James’ hands on him. This is it, James thinks, this is how he goes.

James kisses him, open-mouthed and slow until Regulus relaxes under him again, all long loose limbs, arms looped around James’ shoulders, fingers in his hair. He shudders when Regulus tugs at his curls, and Regulus seems to pause and catalogue this information. James doesn’t mind. He’d spill himself open for Regulus if that’s what he wanted, let him see all his tells and secrets, the places where his bones don’t meet up quite right, the corners of aching and longing. Here, he’d say, tracing the lines of himself like a roadmap, this is where I missed you and this is where I realized I don’t have to anymore.

Something dizzyingly bright swells between James’ ribs as he kisses down Regulus’ chest at the thought of that. For a wild, hysterical moment, he can’t believe this is happening–Regulus letting him touch him and kiss him like this, his mouth on Regulus’ skin, pressing kisses against his navel and over the dips in his hip bones. Somewhere in the past, sixteen year old James is having an embolism.

He glances up at Regulus as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of both his pants and boxers, asking for permission. Regulus watches him, gaze dark and intent, red lips parted. His lashes flutter softly, just for a moment, a variation of a nod, but he doesn’t take his eyes off James otherwise. James feels equal parts breathless and excited under the weight of that stare.

His mouth follows every new inch of skin his fingers reveal when he pulls down Regulus’ clothes, pressing soft, lingering kisses, never quite entirely taking his lips from his skin.

The sound Regulus makes when James opens his mouth around his co*ck is probably going to follow James for the rest of his life. He’s barely closed his lips around the head, tongue stroking through the wetness there, and Regulus is already ruining him for anyone else. James looks up at him, watches the shudder run through his body, the way his mouth falls open around a gasp, the shadow that falls over his eyes. He drops his hand into James’ hair, fingers against his scalp, and pulls harder than he had earlier. They react in tandem, James’ moan around him making Regulus whine softly in the back of his throat, head tipping sideways, chest heaving. James wants to make him feel so good but he also doesn’t want to look away, doesn’t want to miss a second of it.

He compromises by running his hands up Regulus’ body, the length of his thighs, the curve of his waist, the slight arch of his back when James takes all of him into his mouth and sucks his cheeks in, the way Regulus sighs and moans his name sending tremors down his spine and making heat pool at the pit of his stomach. James is hard and heavy in his pyjama pants, but nothing feels as good as Regulus so responsive under him, his hands in his hair, his name on his lips like a mantra.

It hasn’t been too long when Regulus’ hands shoot to James’ shoulders, squeezing and pushing in equal measures. “James,” he chokes, and when he looks up, a frantic sort of desperation flashes through Regulus’ eyes.

James lets him go, turning his head to press warm kisses to the curve of Regulus’ thigh and hip. Regulus’ fingers pull until James gets the hint and drags himself back up his body, tracing the entire way with his mouth, like maybe if he does it enough, he can leave his own desire path over Regulus’ skin, the places where only James has touched him and had him.

Regulus drags him in for a kiss when he’s close enough, wet and filthy, tongue licking into his mouth like he’s trying to taste himself in James’ mouth, and just the thought of that almost makes James lose it.

“Why are you still dressed,” Regulus hisses against his mouth, hands rucking up his shirt and pushing at his pants, making James laugh breathlessly.

“If you wanted me out of my clothes, all you had to do was say so, sweetheart,” he says, grinning into Regulus’ mouth.

“Take them off,” Regulus says, his tone firm and calm in a way that makes James’ blood burn all over again.

“Alright, yeah, okay,” James says, leaning back to pull his shirt off. He tries to go back in for more kissing, but Regulus stops him with a hand on his chest, his eyes fixed on James’ body, drinking him in. He trails his hand down, fingertips running down James’ stomach, Regulus’ pupils blown wide, mouth parted almost in awe. The look on his face…

“Sweetheart, if you keep looking at me like that,” James trails off, wrapping his fingers around Regulus’ wrist.

Regulus looks up at him, the fog still lingering behind before he blinks, clearing it away. “What,” he says, “you’ll do something about it?” He tucks his hand into the back of James’ neck and pulls him down for a kiss, grinding against him filthily.

“f*ck,” James gasps into his mouth, “f*ck, okay, yeah, I might,” he says, pulling himself out and lining his co*ck against Regulus’, wrapping his fingers around both of them. Regulus groans, quiet and drawn out, his head falling back, and James ducks his head to kiss his neck and jaw as he strokes them together.

Regulus draws one leg up around James’ thigh and rocks his hips, the wet, spit-slick slide of him against James making James moan and shudder, helpless and nearly out of his mind. Regulus’ arms loop around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as Regulus moves against him, his moans falling over his ears like sweet answers to prayers of forgiveness.

Everywhere they touch feels warm and hot like a fever dream. It’s some sort of magic, an incantation made up, instead of by words, by the press of their thighs, their co*cks rubbing together, James’ long fingers and narrow knuckles wrapped around them, the loud sound of their breathing, the echo of their hearts, the hot rush of blood through James’ veins, the delicate fluttering of Regulus’ lashes. Every kiss James’ leaves on his skin–his jaw, his throat, the vulnerable curve where his neck turns into his shoulder–makes his lips feel calid and buzzing, like sweet wine staining his lips, goblin market fruit driving him to madness. James feels all sensation, like he’s drowning in touch and heat.

Regulus, James learns, goes still when he comes, the way the dancing branches of a tree gradually grow still in the night as the wind fades, silent, peaceful, beautiful. Eyes closed, his lashes brush over the high of his cheeks, mouth open around the small hitch of his breath, the last sigh before tipping over the edge. James strokes him through it, kissing his open mouth, off-center and light, feeling the way Regulus goes lax under him, warm and sated.

James’ own pleasure feels like an afterthought in the face of Regulus’ satisfaction, until Regulus runs his fingers down his back, drawing James in, sighing against his ear something that unfairly sounds a lot like C’mon, baby. The jerk of his hips and the spill over his fingers and Regulus’ stomach takes him by surprise, biting down on the curve of Regulus’ shoulder as he comes, all the heat in his body turning to buzzing sparks and fireworks.

Nothing but the sound of their breathing hangs over the room as James comes back to himself. Regulus trails his hands down his arms, settles one at the small of James’ back and tangles the fingers of the other in James’ hair. He scrapes his fingers over James’ scalp, slow and gentle, more soothing than James would have ever expected from him and he has to close his eyes against the bright feeling in his chest, how it threatens to overtake him.

Uncaring about the mess, James settles down on top of Regulus, his head tucked in under his chin. Suddenly, his living room floor is the most comfortable place in his flat. James would be content to spend the rest of his days here, nestled between Regulus’ legs, the beat of their hearts thudding across from each other, settling into a shared rhythm as warm light pours over them.

He reaches down to take Regulus’ hand from his back and tangles their fingers together, kisses the back of his hand softly. When it hits him, it’s because he’s thinking about how much he’s always liked Regulus’ hands–his spidery fingers, the delicate knobs of his knuckles, the graceful curl of his wrist. They kind of look like Sirius’, actually, except Sirius’ knuckles are slightly crooked from cracking them too much, and his palms are wider and–

Sirius.

“Oh, I did a bad thing,” James says quietly, unthinkingly, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Excuse me?” Regulus asks, his voice soft and breathy, still relaxed.

James lifts his head. He looks at Regulus guiltily. Regulus looks back, the barest hint of a frown forming before recognition clears it away.

“Oh no,” he says, eyes flashing, trying to push James off, but James makes a mournful sound and retakes his hand, kisses his fingers. “James,” Regulus says firmly, “whatever this is–the moment you make it about Sirius, this is over.”

James winces. Regulus’ words haven’t quite caught up to him when he says, “He’s going to kill me.”

“That’s not my problem,” Regulus snaps and then he does push James off and lifts himself from the floor, leaving James still lying there, wrong footed as he watches Regulus’ retreating back until he disappears into the bathroom, the door closing firmly behind him, the sound of the lock turning a mock in James’ face.

James flops over on his back. He tries not to feel pettish when he hears the shower start. It should be him in there with Regulus, kissing him under the shower stream, pushing him against the tiled wall, possibly getting in another round before he helps Regulus wash his hair. Him and his big, stupid mouth.

Anyway, James thinks to himself petulantly, it’s not about Sirius. The whole morning, James wasn’t once thinking about Sirius, especially not while he had Regulus sweet and naked breathless under him. It was just that–well, it was one thing to harbor secret feelings for your best friend’s brother and another to fool around with your best friend’s brother that you have feelings for without telling said best friend. James isn’t even bothering to take into account the current state of Sirius and Regulus’ relationship, because that, really, has nothing to do with him, regardless of how he feels about it, and because what would really have Sirius putting his head on the chopping block would be the betrayal of keeping this from him.

He lays on the floor for a long while, listening to the shower run and staring at the paint pattern on his ceiling, before he heaves a great sigh and rolls up onto his knees. He spends another few minutes crawling around the floor until he finds his wand where it must have rolled under the couch. A quick scouring charm takes care of the dry mess on his stomach before he throws his shirt back on, puts the couch cushions back, and picks Regulus’ clothes off the floor to throw them in the laundry basket in the bedroom.

James is pacing circles around the bedroom when Regulus comes in, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, hair curling at the back of his neck.

“Reg,” he says, standing in the middle of the room. Regulus doesn’t even glance at him as he moves towards the dresser, tugging open the drawers James cleared out for him. He takes out some clothes and unwraps the towel from his hips, setting it on top of the dresser while he dresses. James should get some f*cking house points or something for the effort he makes to not stare at Regulus’ ass or his long legs that go on for miles. James is a goddamn gentleman.

Regulus leaves the room, presumably to go hang his towel. He still doesn’t look at James when he comes back in and rummages through the bedside drawer for the hairbrush he keeps in there. James watches the line of his shoulders, straight and deceptively calm, the way his back shifts with his movements, one hand further in front of the other. Looking at him feels so much more intimate now that James knows what he looks like under his clothes, the taste and feeling of his skin. It incites something warm and possessive in James, every line of him aching for Regulus. There’s no way he’s going to let his dumb mouth ruin this for him already.

“Reg,” James says again, stepping forward. No answer. Regulus brushes through his hair. James comes up behind him. Tentatively, he puts his hands on Regulus’ hips. Regulus gives no sign of recognition, probably for the sake of pretending James isn’t there at all, but he takes the risk that he won’t get his head bitten off and wraps his arms around Regulus’ waist, hugging him around his middle, ducking his head so he can press his forehead to the back of Regulus’ neck. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “please don’t ignore me. You know how it makes me crazy when you won’t talk to me.”

Regulus whirls on him, forcing James to take a step back. He’s incandescent, eyes sharp and dangerous, mouth set tight. Stupidly, James thinks he’s beautiful. Regulus snaps, “If all you see me as is Sirius’ little brother–”

“No,” James cuts in, “no. Reg, no, that’s not what this is about–I haven’t seen you that way since–since we were kids. That’s not it.”

Regulus crosses his arms. “Then what?”

James takes a deep breath and tries not to fidget. “It’s just,” he starts, “Sirius is my best friend. And, I mean, Remus and Peter are my best friends, too, but Sirius and I–it’s different. And we don’t keep things from each other and I never told him how I felt about you and now I’ve kissed you and fooled around with you before telling him and I don’t want him to think I was purposefully keeping it from him and I don’t want him to be upset at either one of us.”

Regulus watches him for a long time, a slight furrow between his brows like he’s needing to take a minute to parse through all the words James spilled out in the course of one breath. Eventually, he says, “You realize it’s not the same for me, don’t you? What I do with my life or who I kiss and fool around with is none of Sirius’ business. I’m a separate person from him.”

“I know,” James says, still in a rush, “of course you are, I know that.” He sighs deeply. “Look. It might–it might be a thing, but it’ll be mine and Sirius’ thing, alright? I’ll handle it.”

“Right,” Regulus says flatly, then turns back around.

“Hey, wait,” James says, grabbing his elbow gently, turning him back around. “C’mon, what? What’s the tone?”

Regulus narrows his eyes. He leaves James’ hand. “Does ‘handling it’ mean taking it all back if Sirius decides to throw a hissy fit about it?”

“No,” James breathes out like it’s been punched out of him, shaking his head. “No no no. I don’t–that’s the last thing I want. I don’t regret any of what we did and I don’t want to take it back. I just mean. However it ends up going, I’ll keep it just between me and Sirius.”

The lines of Regulus’ face soften fractionally, but he continues to watch James searchingly. James takes another chance, a step forward, lifts his hand to Regulus’ face slowly enough that Regulus could push him away if he wanted to. He doesn’t. He lets James press his palm to his jaw, his thumb to his cheekbone, fingers tucked in behind Regulus’ ear. His lashes don’t quite flutter, but it’s a near thing. He tilts his head just so, almost leaning into James’ touch.

“Reg,” James says softly, leaning in, “I very much liked everything that happened this morning. I don’t want to take any of it back. I’m sorry I made you think I would.”

Regulus sighs softly, and this time his eyes do close and he does press into James’ hand. “It’s fine,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry I got angry.”

James shakes his head, then very, very gently bumps his forehead against Regulus’. “That’s okay,” he says, already smiling, “I like you angry.”

Regulus opens his eyes to give him a dry look, but James leans the rest of the way in and kisses him, sweet and slow. Regulus sinks against him a little, leaning against James, breathing slow, his hand over James’.

“So,” James says when they part, grinning. “We okay now?”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “For now,” he grumbles. James laughs softly.

“Good,” says James, pecking Regulus on the lips, his cheek, his nose. Regulus scrunches his face up and James kisses him again, overcome by fondness. “What do you say? Tea? Late lunch? Kip?”

Regulus takes his hand and starts guiding him towards the bed. “Kip first,” he says, “all your platonic boyfriend bullsh*t wore me out.”

James laughs as he follows Regulus into bed, letting Regulus arrange him however he pleases–James curled on his side, Regulus tucked into his arms, his face pressed into the crook of James’ neck, their legs tangled together. “Sure it wasn’t all the other strenuous activity that wore you out?” James asks softly, gently rubbing his hand up and down Regulus’ back.

“You call that strenuous?” Regulus mumbles drily, his lips brushing against James’ skin.

“What would you call it?” James asks, nuzzling his nose against the crown of Regulus’ hair, breathing in the clean smell of his own shampoo.

Regulus hums, sliding his hand under James’ shirt, pressing his palm over James’ stomach. “Warm up,” he says.

James gasps softly, playing scandalized. “I thought we were sleeping.”

“We are,” Regulus agrees, but he leaves his hand on James, right above the waistband of his pants. James laughs, gently carding his fingers through Regulus’ hair.

James watches the clock on the bedside table, counting the minutes it takes for Regulus’ breath to even out in sleep. He doesn’t get a lot of sleep himself, not one for afternoon naps, but he vacillates between resting his eyes and watching Regulus sleep, stroking his hair, following the rhythm of his chest, feeling more at ease than he has in a long time.

The next morning finds James sitting at the desk in the living room, the open window blowing in the cool, gentle morning air, light spilling in across the room. Regulus comes up to him from behind after he comes out of the shower, wrapping his arms around James’ shoulders and resting his cheek atop James’ head. He’s cuddlier in the mornings, James is realizing, half awake and still sleep-sweet.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Writing Sirius,” James murmurs, fighting down a smile, failing. “He and Remus get back later today. Thought I should let him know before they arrive, keep him from bursting in here unawares.”

Regulus hums softly and the sound goes right through James. “Invisible ink?”

“Nah,” James says instead of shaking his head, not wanting to give Regulus any reason to move away from him. “The ink’s charmed to only reveal itself to certain magical signatures, in this case Sirius’. We came up with it fifth year. Of course, back then it was just for passing notes and keeping anyone from reading our prank plans, but it’s useful now. Wouldn’t want this letter falling into the wrong hands.”

“What are you telling him?”

“Oh, you know,” James says airily, “just that you’ve been here for a few days, that you’re staying, and that we have something to tell him about that is better discussed in person. This would be much easier if we had some sort of code name for you, by the way.”

“You are not giving me one of your stupid nicknames,” Regulus says immediately, firmly. James laughs softly, and he likes the way Regulus’ arms tighten around him against the movement of his shoulders. He leans back against him.

James relaxes into the easy rhythm of Regulus’ even breathing, the fresh, clean smell of his lavender soap wrapped around him. He takes Regulus’ wrist and lifts it to his mouth, kisses the side of his hand, considers his words. “I, er–I didn’t mention this between us. Thought maybe we should give him one thing at a time, y’know.”

Regulus makes a soft sound of agreement and noses along James’ neck. James immediately tilts his head to give him more room. “Probably for the best,” Regulus murmurs.

He turns his head, pulling back only enough to be able to look at Regulus, still holding his wrist to keep him from taking his arms away. “But–eventually, right? I mean, it’s not just that I don’t keep secrets from Sirius, but I don’t–I don’t want to keep this a secret, period.”

Regulus stares at him, blinking slow and serene. His eyes look sharper in the morning light, liquid gold shining through silver glass. “Okay,” he says, nodding and leaning forward to kiss James’ forehead, then his mouth, quick and chaste. James puts a hand on his waist and Regulus takes it as an invitation to move around him and climb onto his lap, legs straddling his thighs. James doesn’t even have to think about it as he moves his hand, fingers slipping just under the seam of Regulus’ shirt, his skin soft and cool under James’ hands.

His hair framing his face and soft and fluffy from his shower, half of his face cast in warm sunlight, the other cast in fuzzy shadows, the heavy intensity of his gace–James feels struck by the sight of Regulus, the easy, intimate proximity. James wants him like this all of the time, close enough to touch and hold. He wants him in every photo he looks at, every painting, every song, every poem.

James tilts his head back and Regulus kisses him, early morning slow and easy as breathing. Regulus changes the angle and James spreads his fingers, delighted at the wide expanse of skin, the ridges of Regulus’ ribs against the knobs of James’ fingers.

“Just so we’re clear,” Regulus says softly, in between one kiss and the next, the brush of his lips so soft and warm it makes James feel weak, “your weird thing about how Sirius reacts to this is none of my business. I don’t care whether he knows or not.”

James huffs a short, breathless laugh. Sirius will have his head and a couple of his organs for this and Regulus will probably stand by and let it happen under the white flag of it’s none of my business. James can’t seem to find an ounce of regret in him.

“Regulus,” he sighs, like he’s about to start an argument, just for the sake of it, but Regulus sees right through him. He kisses James, licks into his mouth slow and languid, grinding down against James’ hardening co*ck. James groans. This has to be attempted murder in one way or another, he thinks. Assassination by seduction.

“James,” Regulus sighs against his mouth, his tone a little mocking, making fun of James’ pathetic attempt. He drags his hands down James’ chest, his knuckles over the planes of James’ abdomen, settling over his waistband. “James,” he says again, rolling his hips, the low rasp of his voice going right to James’ groin, making him go a little stupid and lightheaded.

“Yeah,” James rasps in defeat, “yeah, alright, sweetheart, just–let me send this off first, alright?”

Regulus looks at him, equal parts dry and amused. He leans back against the desk, and more importantly, away from James, but keeps his hands right where they are, edging under James’ shirt, thumbs caressing slow circles against his skin. James swallows hard. If his fingers shake while he seals the letter, moving around Regulus and looking over his shoulder, well, no one but Regulus is around to judge him for it, and James has always liked him a little mean.

He whistles sharply and, a moment later, Franklin flies in through the window and settles on the desk. James lets him take the letter as he gives him instructions.

“I didn’t realize you had an owl,” Regulus says after Franklin flies off. “He doesn’t stay in here?”

“He doesn’t like it,” James answers distractedly, his attention zeroing in on Regulus again. “Sometimes he comes in for a kip, or when the weather’s bad, but he likes his freedom and being out better.”

James strokes his hair, lets his fingers run down the side of Regulus’ throat, settling at the nape of his neck and squeezing gently. Regulus’ lashes flutter, pleased.

“I have your full attention now?” Regulus murmurs and James laughs low.

“You always have my full attention, love,” James says, leaning in, brushing their noses together. Regulus looks at him. He’s too close for James to focus on, but the heavy intent in his silver eyes still makes him feel pinned and breathless, heart pounding.

“Prove it,” Regulus breathes against his mouth. “Feeling a little neglected here, Potter.”

James skates his hands along the length of Regulus' thighs, grabs him by the hips and holds on. He ducks his head, runs his mouth over the line of his jaw, mouths at the spot behind his ear and relishes the shivery sigh Regulus breathes out. Against the soft skin of his ear, James says, “What can I do?”

The whisper of Regulus’ fingers under his shirt and up his sides, the sound of his breathing right in James’ ear, the echo of his pulse somewhere near James’ mouth–it’s barely anything and it’s still so much. James would do anything he wanted, give him anything he wanted.

Low and breathy and heady, Regulus says, “Well, you can start by f*cking me and we can go from there,” like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Okay,” James says, “okay, okay, okay,” he chants in a breathless rush, cupping his hands behind Regulus’ knees and locking his legs around James’ waist. He lifts him by the back of his thighs as he stands from his chair and sets Regulus down on the desk, the sound of his breath hitching loud to James, his fingers clenching in James’ skin. Regulus’ knees part so easily for him.

Never a step behind, Regulus drags a hand into James’ hair, gently tugging him down, his mouth readily opening for James, the kiss wet and filthy, James’ mouth hot and possessive over Regulus’. James squeezes the back of Regulus’ thighs and hums low and pleased when Regulus presses the long lines of his body forward against him.

A soft sound at the back of Regulus’ throat, the huff of his breath through his nose, his fingers tight in James’ curls, the roll of his hips as he tries to gain some friction. James slithers his hands up to his hips, holds him in place, thrills at the gasp that falls from Regulus’ lips. Their bodies move together, in response to each other, Regulus tipping his head back as James starts a desire path of open-mouthed kisses down the line of his jaw, the length of his neck, the graceful jut of his collarbones. He leans back, briefly, to pull Regulus’ shirt over his head, before diving back in like a starved man and following the path down Regulus’ chest, closing his mouth around a pink nipple, walking his fingers up Regulus’ spine when he arches sweetly against James, his hand delving back into his hair.

James starts bending at the knees, kissing down the line of Regulus’ stomach, nearing his navel, when Regulus grabs him by the chin and pulls him back up.

“Nu-uh,” he says, licking at James’ mouth, biting down on his bottom lip and tugging, drawing a breathless groan from James. “No distractions, not today.”

“Distractions,” James huffs when Regulus lets him go, shaking his head slightly. “I’m trying to work you here, sweetheart, have some respect.”

Regulus dips his head, mouthing at the underside of James’ jaw. “Not what I want,” he murmurs, teeth digging into the delicate skin of James’ throat.

“Remind again what that was,” James asks hoarsely, distracted by the sharp edge of Regulus’ teeth, the fluid movement of his muscles shifting under his skin as James grazes his hands up his side, around his back, down the notches of his spine, settling at the base of his back.

Regulus hums softly, the sound rumbling through James’ throat like they share the same voice, like Regulus can reach into him and mold him, make a space for himself inside James.

He doesn’t answer him, but he runs his hand down James’ front and seamlessly slips his hand into his pants, cool, long fingers wrapping around the hard length of his co*ck and stroking him. James’ hips jerk when Regulus thumbs over his slit, breath stuttering in his chest, fingers digging into Regulus’ skin, pulling him closer. He sinks into the feeling of it all, eyes falling close as he basks in Regulus’ attention, his smooth palm and nimble fingers, his warm mouth on James’ neck, the match-strike jolt of desire lighting sparks through his veins.

Regulus drags his mouth back up James’ neck to his mouth and kisses him, searing and demanding.

“Okay,” James says when Regulus lets him break for air, his breath catching somewhere in his chest when he sees the way Regulus is looking at him, dark and intense, “okay, alright, sweetheart, I get the idea.”

Regulus twists his wrist, stroking over the head of his dick. James gasps softly. “You keep saying that…” Regulus says, drifting off.

“Can you blame me for wanting to rile you up a little?” James asks breathlessly, and wonders, briefly, how much more he can push Regulus, how long he can drag it out for and how far up the wall he can drive him until he’s desperate and begging.

On the other hand, the idea of Regulus’ thighs spread open, his nails dragging down James’ back as he pushes into him, the soft heat of his body dragging James in, the sort of sounds James can pull from him, sounds too good to pass up.

He divests Regulus of the rest of his clothes, drawing a relieved sigh from him and encouraging him to do the same, dragging James’ shirt off and tossing it somewhere over James’ shoulder.

James knows he’s toeing a dangerous line here, but he can’t help but stop to drink in the sight of Regulus, naked and painted in pale morning light and soft pink shadows, the heavy-lidded set of his eyes, his kiss-swollen lips red and slick with spit, the flush on his face and the pink spots on his neck and chest where James sucked more than kissed, the lovely part of his legs around James’ hips, all the elegant lines of his body, gorgeous and all for James.

“James,” Regulus sighs softly, leaning back on his hands and letting his legs fall further open. James’ mouth goes dry. “I’m going to end up doing it myself, at this rate.”

An image flashes through James’ mind, Regulus sitting alone at the desk, head tilted all the way back, the lovely arch of his bared neck, mouth parted around breathless moans as he fingers himself open. James could sit on the chair and watch him, stroking himself.

He’s almost tempted, if it weren’t for how badly he wants to be the one to make Regulus look like that, and if he didn’t know Regulus would probably kill him.

“Is that supposed to discourage me here?” James says anyway because he has no sense of self-preservation and never knows when to stop.

Regulus’ sigh is more petulant this time. He reaches forward and takes James’ hand, guiding it up the inside of his thigh and then right where he wants him, his fingers pressed right against Regulus’ tight hole. James shudders.

“Okay,” James nods, gaze fixed on their hands, Regulus’ fingers still wrapped around his wrist, “you drive a hard bargain, love. Whatever you want.”

Regulus opens his mouth to say something, but stops at James’ soft utterance of a spell. James strokes a single slick digit inside him, slow and easy. Regulus’ breath gusts out of him, light and quiet like a breeze through the long shrubs of a willow tree, his head falling forward slightly, a slight, considering pinch between his brow. James pushes his finger the rest of the way in, crooks it, and watches the way Regulus’ eyes lip shut, the hint of teeth as his mouth falls open just so.

James takes his time with it, working him up finger by finger, each sigh and breath that falls from Regulus’ lips adding to the pool of heat settled at the bottom of James’ spine, making his head spin. He could do this for hours, he thinks, stretch Regulus open and watch him fall apart around his fingers but, by the third, Regulus is making these small, punched out, whiny noises and lowering himself down, stretching over the surface of the desk, his hips rolling down against James’ hand, trying to get his fingers in deeper.

“God,” James sighs, “look at you, Reg. You’re gorgeous.”

“James,” he gasps, sweet and pretty, light spilling over his body in drapes of pale golden silk, highlighting every bone, his hair a dark halo around his head. “James, please,” he moans, looking at James with his lust-glazed over eyes, like James is supposed to be able to say no to him right now.

Carefully, gently, he pulls his fingers out of him, breath catching at the way Regulus shudders and tilts his head back. He makes quick work of slicking himself up, and then slows down again as he lines himself up, pressing just the head of his co*ck against the slick, wet heat of Regulus’ hole.

James brushes the knuckles of his clean hand over the high point of Regulus’ cheekbones, just to draw his attention. Regulus flicks his gaze to him and grabs hold of James’ hand, briefly nosing against his palm, kissing the spaces between James’ fingers, making James’ heart flutter and race. James starts pressing in and Regulus’ mouth falls open, James’ hand forgotten except for the way he tightens his hold around his wrist. He slips his fingers through Regulus and pins his hand on the desk, beside his head.

It’s a slow drag and it’s as much for James as it is for Regulus, the tight heat of Regulus’ body too overwhelming. By the time he’s pressed all the way in, James is trembling with the effort of control, of not holding Regulus down by the hips and f*cking him into the desk. He leans down, nosing along the length of Regulus’ neck, peppering kisses over his face, his nose and cheeks, his lips. “Alright, love?”

Regulus shudders, nodding jerkily, fervently. He shifts against James, circling his hips, making James gasp and drawing out a low moan from himself. James reaches down with his free hand, spreading Regulus’ thigh wider so he can press in deeper, a hot wave of satisfaction rolling through him when it makes Regulus gasp high in the back of his throat, hips jerking.

James f*cks him in long, slow thrusts, each one dragged out as much as possible, pulling out to just the head and rocking back into that same spot that keeps making Regulus’ breath hitch sharply, the prettiest moans James has ever heard spilling from his lips.

“James,” Regulus murmurs, voice low and broken, his fingers tightening around James’, one of his ankles digging into the small of James’ back, “more, please, please–”

His voice cuts off with a low, surprised gasp as James gives him what he wants, anything he wants, taking Regulus’ hips in his hands, tugging him a little further down the edge of the desk and f*cking him hard and fast enough to make the desk rock with their movements. A strangled cry twists out of Regulus and James bends over him to kiss him, swallowing down every one of his noises. It’s good, it’s so good, the hot, greedy clutch of Regulus’ body, the way he moves and shifts under James, the sweat slick slide of their bodies, the cinnamon bite taste of Regulus’ mouth, and somehow James still wants more. He’s inside Regulus and draped all over him, hands warm and heavy over his hip bones, each sound Regulus makes humming through James’ own mouth and settling on his tongue, and still James wants more, wants every part of Regulus, every breath and shudder, wants to be impossibly close to him.

Regulus breaks away from him with a gasp, a heady desperation in his eyes as he looks at James, gasping his name. James removes one hand from his hips and wraps his fingers around Regulus’ co*ck, stroking him almost lazily, purposefully out of time with his thrusts. “That’s it, sweetheart,” James murmurs into the space between them, ducking his head to kiss Regulus’ jaw, “c’mon, I got you.”

The arch of Regulus’ back as he comes throws his body into sharp, blinding focus–the knife-hard line of his jaw, the soft curves of his hips and thighs, the pure bliss softening the lines of his face, mouth slack and eyes closed.

“There you go, beautiful, good,” James says, pressing the words against the skin of Regulus’ chest, slowing down his thrusts, f*cking him through it until Regulus relaxes under him, loose limbed and sated.

“James,” Regulus sighs, sounding more content than James has ever heard him. He tilts his head up to look at him, breath stuttering at the heavy intent in Regulus’ eyes, the slack part of his red mouth, all that heady attention on James. He cards a hand through James’ hair, sending shivers down his spine, and shifts his hips just so. “Keep going,” he says, just about killing James.

His hands grapple at James’ shoulder as he f*cks into him again, hard and fervent, losing most of his rhythm in place of something wild and selfish, nails dragging down James’ back just like James imagined they would, softly chanting his name in low murmurs.

James comes inside him, face pressed against Regulus’ shoulder, a low moan of Regulus’ name on his mouth. Regulus coaxes him through it, running a hand through his hair and the other one down his back. James presses kisses on Regulus wherever he can reach as he catches his breath.

He noses against the pulse point on Regulus’ neck, then presses a kiss there. “Good?” he murmurs against his skin.

Regulus gently tugs at his hair until James gets the hint and lifts his head. He drags him in for a long, slow kiss, tilting his head, wrapping his legs around James’ hips, keeping him in place. His eyes are blown out and dark when they part, pinning James down and dragging him into silver rimmed whirlpools.

In another attempt at murder, Regulus says, “Again, please.”

James’ traitorous body twitches in interest and he drops his head over Regulus’ shoulder, groaning.



*



It takes another two rounds before Regulus seems to be satisfied and lets James coax him into showering with him, which is very nice, the unavoidable proximity, Regulus’ fingers in his hair, rubbing shampoo into his scalp, combing conditioner through his curls, a bright curl of joy unfolding in James’ chest even when Regulus finishes before him and leaves first.

“Hello, gorgeous,” James says afterwards, once he’s dressed and finds Regulus in the kitchen about to make tea, wrapping his arms around Regulus’ waist, picking him up and spinning him around a bit.

Regulus lets himself be kissed before he shakes his head, says, “I let you shag me and suddenly you’re singing my praises. What sort of message am I supposed to be getting here, James?”

“Your first mistake is reducing any of what we did to mere shagging,” James informs him seriously. “I don’t know about you, beautiful, but that was a religious experience for me. I died and came back to life. I’m a changed man, sweetheart, fully devoted to you.”

“You would have ended up that way regardless of the sex,” Regulus says, rolling his eyes at him and turning back to the stove. James grins at him.

“You’re right, but isn’t this way much more pleasant?”

Regulus hums. “What if I said I never wanted to do it again?”

“Then we never have to do it again,” James answers easily. Regulus turns back to him, lifting an eyebrow.

“That easy?”

James nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I might like to make sure you’re fine, because you really seemed to enjoy that, but–yeah. It was great and I loved it, but that’s not why–that’s not what this is about. I’m just as happy only kissing you or just being close to you. We never have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Regulus considers him, eyes tracking up and down James, biting his lips into his mouth. He breathes out deeply, almost in surrender. “Okay. Take your clothes off.”

James laughs, surprised and delighted.



*



Sometime in the early afternoon, Franklin flies in through the open window and rests on the desk, a letter tied to his leg. James and Regulus look at him at the same time before they look at each other. Sighing softly, James squeezes Regulus’ ankle where his legs are draped over his lap before he stands and moves toward the desk.

He feeds Franklin some treats before he unties Sirius’ response from his leg. It takes a moment before the ink recognizes him and the words reveal themselves. Prongs, the letter reads, Moony and I arrived early. Have some questions, primarily what the f*ck and how f*cking long was I gone for. You better have some goddamn good answers. Will stop by later tonight. Padfoot.



*



James insists on them having dinner before Sirius arrives, and while Regulus sits down with him at the kitchen table, he barely eats more than a few bites, the only outward display that he’s feeling nervous. James can’t blame him. He’s not really sure how Sirius will react when he sees Regulus, but he’s sure it could fall anywhere between collapsing in a heap of bitten back, suppressed little tears, and an explosive fight the likes of which would put their screaming matches back in school to shame. One can never be sure with the unpredictable force of a hurricane the Black brothers are, Sirius with his wild, untamable temper and Regulus with his defiant silver tongue, always giving back more than he gets.

Not that anyone is asking, but James would take the tears, just this once.

At half past eight, a steady one-two knock comes at the front door without a shimmer from James’ wards.

“He never knocks,” James mutters to himself, a sense of dread coiling at the pit of his stomach. Regulus looks at him, face completely blank. Sirius does the same thing–avoid showing any emotion in order to not show too much. The irony is not lost on James. “Why don’t you sit on the couch? I’ll let him in.”

Regulus nods briskly and stands to do just that. James wants to reassure him in some way, to kiss him or take his hand or tell him everything will be okay one way or another, that he’s here for him, but he knows it would only set Regulus further on edge. He goes to open the door.

Sirius stands on the other side with a face like thunder. His eyes are storm grey and cold, the line of his mouth thin and bright red like he’s been pressing his lips together or biting into them. He narrows his eyes at James.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Potter,” Sirius drawls, sounding every inch the aristocratic Pureblood. James sighs.

“Come in,” James says, stepping aside. Sirius walks in and stops just behind James. He closes the door and turns around.

Regulus, sitting elegantly poised and proper on the couch, stares at Sirius with that same careful blankness, but every line of his body hisses with defiance–iron rod posture, the straight line of his shoulders, his chin tilted up, prepared for a fight should it come. Sirius stares back at him, a darker mimicry of Regulus’ expression, the corners of his mouth tight, a muscle jumping everytime Sirius clenches and unclenches his jaw.

Sirius jerks his chin at Regulus. He says, “Your hair’s longer.”

Despite how alike they look, there has always been a stark contrast in the way each Black brother shows his anger. Sirius has always been a little more on the side of unhinged–something about him always burns wild and uncontrolled, courses through him reckless and impulsive. On the other hand, Regulus turns so cold his gaze could freeze hell over, eerily calm and composed. Sirius, on the few but very memorable occasions he has completely lost it, has made James nervous, but Regulus unsettles him right down to his bones.

He makes James feel unsettled now, with the way he narrows his eyes, his lashes so dark and thick they frame the silver like a jagged knife.

“We don’t have to parse through the pleasantries,” Regulus says. Sirius stares at him for a moment, the silence hanging thick and tense before he laughs lowly, his teeth glinting dangerously.

“No part of this is pleasant for me,” says Sirius as he moves to sit on the extra armchair. He leans back, splays his legs, one foot crossed over the other knee, rests his elbows on the armrests, and looks artfully slouched. A more laid back version of Regulus’ poise, like silver-mirror images of each other where something isn’t quite right.

James watches them from his spot by the door, worrying at his lip. The air in the apartment suddenly feels heavy and charged, one spark and everything would go up in flames. James wonders if sitting next to Regulus would be like declaring his allegiance, which is not his intention to do in either direction, but it’s not like he has any other choice.

James sits. Sirius drags his eyes to him, slow and heavy.

“Uh,” James says stupidly, “how was your trip?”

“Don’t do that,” Sirius says. James presses his lips together. “Christ, what is this? I go away for a week and you start cohabiting with the enemy?”

James bites back the defensive retort he wants to make on Regulus’ behalf. Sirius would not respond well to that right now. Beside him, Regulus is perfectly still and silent.

“Look,” James says carefully, cautiously. “I don’t know what to say to make this okay or you not be upset, alright, it’s not–it’s not that kind of situation. D’you think you can just–listen?”

The line of Sirius’ mouth is so tight, he must be swallowing down about a million different insults and poisonous retorts. It sets James’ teeth on edge, but he appreciates it anyway. He watches James with those quicksilver eyes, the sharpness of his gaze piercing through his skin. James wonders if, like him, Sirius is thinking about the years spread out on either side of them, backwards and forwards like an open, endless field. If Sirius looks at him and sees the red canopy of their dorm beds and the countless nights they spent muttering and whispering to each other late into the night, entrusting all their best kept secrets to each other, laying down the foundations of their friendship at ages so tender they didn’t realize what any of it meant yet.

He wonders if Sirius is seeing the few arguments they’ve had in the past, the ones that delved into fights and that James could count on both hands, and if he’s wondering if this is one of those times.

Sirius breathes in deeply and doesn’t so much breathe out as he lets it wash over him. He only just stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “I am all f*cking ears.”

There’s a tense moment where no one says anything, where James turns his head towards Regulus and sees the frozen, not quite here look on his face and worries that Regulus won’t actually tell Sirius, either out of spite or because it’s too late, been too long, all trust left somewhere in the cracks of Hogwarts castle back in sixth year.

But then Regulus breathes all the air he can into his lungs, holds it for a moment, and exhales deeply. James can see it on his face before he opens his mouth, the give of a little more room, cracking the door open enough to let a sliver of light in.

“What do you know about Horcruxes?”



*



“Christ Jesus, Reg,” Sirius shudders, leaning forward in the seat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly between his legs. His eyes are shockingly bright, fixed on his brother. James feels a pang of sympathy for him. “You–you could have died.”

“Yes,” Regulus agrees, “James has already given me the run-down.”

“No,” Sirius says, voice gone rather raspy. “I mean, you could have really, actually died,” he insists. “And–Christ, would I have even known?”

Regulus pauses, his gaze flickering away from Sirius. Carefully, he says, “No, I suppose not. Mother doesn’t even know.”

“You–you haven’t told her?” Sirius asks, a note of surprise coloring his words. Regulus looks at him flatly.

“No, Sirius, I asked her for permission before I left. Obviously, I haven’t told her.”

“Don’t,” Sirius says firmly. “Don’t be an asshole right now, Reg. What, she thinks you’re on holiday or something?”

Regulus sighs, shaking his head. “Kreacher has been instructed not to tell her anything, to lie if he has to. Eventually, they’ll think I ran away, but Death Eaters can’t have people thinking you can just leave, so they’ll start telling people I’m dead.”

Sirius frowns, shaking his head. “But, you’d have to live like you were dead, can’t let anyone see you or know where you are.”

“That’s part of why he’s staying here,” James cuts in. Sirius’ eyes snap to him and he looks at him like he’s only just realizing James is still here. “Dumbledore thought the same, safest thing for him to do is lie low.”

“You’ve told Dumbledore?” Sirius asks Regulus.

“James insisted, so I let him tell Dumbledore alone an abridged version. He doesn’t know it’s me. Or rather, I don’t think he knows,” Regulus amends, rolling his eyes. “You never know with that old bastard.”

“You can’t tell anyone either, Pads,” James says gently, “for Reg’s safety most of all, but Dumbledore also thinks we should be spare with who we trust this Horcrux business to.”

Sirius rubs his hands down his face, breathing out slow and deep. “I can’t not tell Moony,” he says from behind his fingers. “He knows I was coming here to see Reg, and we don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“I expected you’d tell Lupin,” Regulus says. Sirius drops his hands and looks at him. “As long as he doesn’t tell anyone else, that’s fine.”

Sirius frowns, nods, and then–something shifts in his expression as he looks at Regulus, as if, suddenly, he cannot place him. He looks at him somewhere to the left of seeing him for the first time–like he doesn’t recognize Regulus.

His voice low and somber, Sirius asks, “Who are you?”

Regulus blinks. He draws himself up, shoulders back, face blank. “Same person I’ve always been,” he answers.Sirius’ eyes continue to flick searchingly over Regulus’ face, before they flick down slightly. His mouth sort of parts and he narrows his eyes. “Is that my shirt?” he asks indignantly.“No,” Regulus snaps, equal measures defiant. Sirius gives him a scathing look.“Thief,” hisses Sirius.“Lost cause,” Regulus shoots back calmly.“Second choice.”

“Disappointment.”

“Bitch.”

“Slag.”

“Alright,” James cuts in cheerfully and not a second too late, judging by the color rising in Sirius’ cheeks and the dangerous glint in his eyes. “Who wants tea? Sirius, come help me with the tea.”

Eyes still shooting daggers at Regulus and grumbling lowly to himself, Sirius gets up and follows James around the corner and into the kitchen.

With languid familiarity, James goes through the motions of making tea–filling the kettle, turning the heat on the stove, bringing mugs down from the cupboard–each unconscious motion helping him relax. Beside him Sirius is tense and wired. James knows this without having to look at him, the same way he knows Regulus is in the living room making paint peel off the walls with his gaze.

Sirius’ moods are a lot like reading the weather forecast: expect partly cloudy skies, light rain, and cool temperatures, but you’ll never really know until you’re standing outside, soaked through and chilled to the bone, or shading your eyes from the glimmering yellow gold of the sun after rain. James knows better than to try to predict him, to avoid wading through water in case of lightning and to just wait him out.

“Look,” Sirius finally says when short and faint wisps of steam start coming out the mouth of the teakettle, his voice low and strained. “I still think he’s a piece of sh*t and a traitor, but–” he grips James’ arm. “My baby brother, Prongs. Dead in some bleeding cave, alone, and I wouldn’t even have known about it.”

Heart caving in like a house crumbling under the force of a hurricane, James places his hand over Sirius’ and turns to him. “I know,” he says thickly, quietly, because Regulus has ears like a bat. “I know, Pads, but he’s not. He’s on the other side of the wall, probably trying to come up with ways to steal more of your stuff just to spite you.”

Sirius takes in a breath that shudders like leaves in the cold autumn wind and throws himself against James, hugging him around the shoulders. James hugs him back, holds him tight, feels a pang of ache and affection in his chest.

“Don’t let him get my jacket,” says Sirius severely, muffled against James’ shoulder. James huffs out a laugh.

“I don’t think it’s his style anyway.”

“He’d steal it just to piss me off.” Sirius breathes out deeply as he steps away from James, holding him at arm’s length, solid hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know if I thank you often enough as I should.”

James frowns, shaking his head minutely. “What d’you mean?”

Sirius shrugs. Drops his hand. Averts his eyes to the window over the sink. “Second Black you take in now. S’a lot, is all.”

James shakes his head more firmly this time, leans over to bump their shoulders together. “S’not,” he says easily. “And there’s no need for thank you’s between us.”

“You sure he’s okay here? I’d take him to mine, I still can if it’s not, but I think we might kill each other within the hour. Plus, with Moony’s furry little problem and all. . .”

“Nah,” James says, shrugging. The kettle starts to whistle, and he gratefully turns his attention to it. “He can stay here. We get on fine.”

“Really? He’s not trying to bite your head off all the time?”

James’ laugh bubbles out of him, sudden and pleased, and he’s so glad to be doing it, so glad that things didn’t go worse. “No more than usual. It’s kind of nice, actually. I like having him here.”

Sirius nods, then falls quiet, his gaze drifting to the wall that divides the kitchen from the living room and faraway, musing. The kettle whistles. James removes it from the burner, fills each mug, and starts rummaging through the tea drawer. “Peppermint okay?”

“Do you think he could be lying?” is Sirius’ response, but James isn’t surprised by this. He’s just glad Sirius is saying it to him now and not to Regulus, who definitely would have responded by trying to bite Sirius’ head off and probably losing an arm in the process.

“No,” James answers easily, because he doesn’t. It never occurred to him then, the first time he heard the story from Regulus, and the longer he spends with him, the less reason James has to even consider it.

“No?” Sirius asks, turning to look at James as he drops a tea bag in each mug. “He’s good at that, you know. I am, too, as you well know. One of those wonderful family acquired skills.”

James shakes his head. “You didn’t see him that night.” He thinks about it again. Regulus, barely able to stand, breathless with thirst and clinging to James like a lifeline. The waxen pallor of his skin, the sunken set of his eyes. How still he’d gone after Slughorn’s potion. The dull, listless fog over his eyes when James coaxed him awake, two days spent sleeping and shivering no matter what James did. “The only other time I’ve seen someone look that bad is–well, Moony. I took care of him for two days, most of which he spent knocked out. I hadn’t even known what was wrong with him then. Not that it matters,” James adds, pouring a dash of milk into Sirius’ tea, “because I believe him even without all of that.”

Sirius takes his tea, scrutinizes it. “So then was I just–does this mean I was wrong about him, this entire time?”

James stirs honey into his and Regulus’ tea. He frowns. “I don’t think it’s that simple. I don’t think Regulus gave you much reason to think otherwise, either, at least not–before.”

“He’s always doing sh*t like this,” Sirius tells his tea, “making everything more difficult than it has to be, the stupid, hardheaded, soggy wet blanket.”

Grinning, James says, “Yeah, but isn’t this better? You don’t have to miss him anymore.”

“I never missed him,” Sirius lies, and they both know it’s a lie because Sirius had told James he did, the summer before seventh year, laying in James’ bed after his parents had gone to bed, without meeting James’ eyes and so quiet he may as well not have said it, except he did, and James remembers it.

“He misses you, too,” James says. “I think he misses you now. Would be pretty stupid to waste second chances at a time like this, you know, what with the war and Death Eaters having a free for all out there.”

“Any second chances I get I’m using to move Moony into a house in the countryside where he’ll always be either unbearably cold or unbearably hot and he’ll have to either walk around naked or depend on me for warmth.”

“Well, you don’t get to choose which second chances you get, so be a good boy and bring your brother his tea, alright,” says James, passing Regulus’ mug to Sirius, who huffs and puffs but still brings the mug out to Regulus with minimal insult.



*



After Sirius leaves, begging off not long after tea under the claim of being exhausted from the trip and, in his words, the harrowing sight of Regulus but looking very much like he needed some space to think, Regulus sighs, deep and slow, his entire body sagging with it like he’s exhausted, and then tilts over to the side until his head is laid up in James’s lap. Immediately, James drops a hand in his hair, carding his fingers through the silky curls as Regulus makes himself comfortable, laying on his back, his eyes slipping shut.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” James asks gently, unable to help the small smile as he looks down at Regulus.

“No, I suppose not,” Regulus murmurs. “Better than one of those screaming matches we’re so good at.”

“There’s one thing I don’t miss from our school days,” James says, wincing slightly. “Lost count of all the times Remus and I had to pull you away from each other, or how many times Sirius complained about you being a biter.”

Regulus cracks his eyes open, looking at an unfixed point somewhere in his line of sight. “I haven’t the faintest what you’re referring to,” he says innocently, “I’m a perfect saint.”

James laughs, scratching his fingers over Regulus’ scalp, watching the way it makes his eyes droop.

“Are you glad you saw him?” James asks quietly, after a moment of silence.

Regulus seems to think about this for a while, and James waits him out, patient. Quietly, Regulus admits, “I don’t know. I suppose. I think I would have regretted it if I didn’t, but I’m not sure I would say I am glad of how things went.”

James doesn’t remember when he learned the signs–the faraway look in Regulus’ eyes, the soft, thoughtful set of his mouth, the slight quirk from his right eyebrow, when he learned to read Regulus like the lines of his own palm, the lines of Regulus’ face like their own set of divination. He knows the distance means Regulus is somewhere in his head, mulling the words over, and that if James is both quiet and present enough, Regulus will come out from behind his walls himself. James doesn’t know when he learned it, but he knows how important it is, that Regulus has let him in close enough to see so much of him.

Finally, with a flutter of his eyes and a slight frown on his face, Regulus says, “Did you notice what he said to me? ‘Who are you.’ Like he didn’t know me. Or like he didn’t recognize me.” He pauses for a moment and James continues running his fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, watches the way Regulus begins to fidget by tapping his finger against his stomach where his hand is laying, a steady one-two-three-one-two-three rhythm. “I always felt–he’s always underestimating me,” Regulus says quietly. “Or it’s like he doesn’t see me.”

James takes a moment to answer, like he’s thinking about his words, even though he already knows what he means to say, but he’s worried speaking too quickly would be like making sudden moves near a startled animal, that it might scare Regulus back behind his walls, and James wants to keep him right here where he can listen to him and reassure him, be there for him. “I think,” James says slowly, carefully, quietly, “he’s had the wrong idea about you for a long time. I think he realized that tonight.”

Regulus hums quietly, thoughtfully, and James knows he’s taking his words in acceptance, tucking them away like a keepsake. “Sirius has always thought the only way to be strong is open defiance. I know he always thought my compliance meant I was weak, or spineless.” His voice is so soft and airy, like they’re drifting out of him of their own accord, and he pauses for a long moment, lost in thought. In that same tone of voice, he says, “I was just trying to survive, in my own way.”

“I know,” James says kindly, because he does. He’s always known that. Even when he hated the way Regulus’ words and actions hurt Sirius, he still knew that. He and Sirius got into an argument about it once, not the sort they exaggerated and egged on for fun, but a real argument where they both got angry at each other, after one of those countless times James had to pull Regulus away from Sirius and Sirius was still burning too strongly, hadn’t blown off enough energy for his flames to extinguish, still wild and impulsive and taking it out however he could. James hadn’t thought Sirius was being fair towards Regulus for staying behind, and Sirius hadn’t thought James knew what he was talking about or that he had any right to speak on it, for that matter. It took two days before they apologized to each other, and James learned to measure his words about Regulus around Sirius better.

It was never hard for him to understand how or why Sirius felt betrayed and he knew that a great deal of it came from feeling like he was losing his brother, that he missed Regulus and wished he could understand him and James wonders, now, if in trying to do that, Sirius made up all the answers himself and got some of them wrong along the way. In the same way, it was rather easy for James to see that Regulus’ position was difficult as well, that it had been harder for him to see a way out than it had been for Sirius, that neither of them deserved the things they were put through in that house, how they were pitted against each other, that neither of them were ever to blame in the first place.

Regulus lifts his gaze to him, watching James silently, something warm and fuzzy in his eyes, like he’s just coming out of a daydream. James smiles down at him.

Heart pounding in his chest, James watches Regulus reach up and take James’ hand from his hair. He lowers it down his face, nudges his nose against James’ fingers, presses a gentle kiss to his knuckles. James’ bleeding heart just about bursts inside his chest.

Regulus breathes in deeply as he presses James’ palm against his own cheek, holding it there. James rubs his thumb gently against Regulus’ cheek, under his eye, and Regulus sighs, pleased and content. The sound makes something tender and possessive curl in James’ chest, makes him want to wrap himself around Regulus and keep him forever.

“I’m sorry,” Regulus whispers, his eyes closing again. “He’s your best friend. I don’t mean to make you listen to me about him.”

James shakes his head, even if Regulus can’t see him, still stroking the line of Regulus’ cheekbone with his thumb. “It doesn’t change what Sirius is to me,” he answers easily. “It doesn’t change what you are to me, either.”

Regulus looks at him, his eyes so sudden and focused, so grey like gunpowder, like smooth riverbed stones and stormglass, that James finds it hard to breathe. Holding his gaze, Regulus asks, “What am I to you?”“Light of my life,” James offers, and grins dopily when Regulus’ gaze withers. “Fire in my veins. The altar I worship at.”Regulus takes his hand and bites into the meaty part between James’ thumb and forefinger.

James laughs, a thrill shooting down his spine. “That’s not exactly discouraging me here, sweetheart.” He tugs his hand back and runs it through Regulus’ curls, blurring the part of his hair. Softly, James says, “Boyfriend would be a lovely place to start.”

Quiet surprise blooms over Regulus’ face. The dreamy haze fades away from his gaze and suddenly his eyes are brighter than anything James has ever seen, light shining through stormglass, sunlight reflected on the surface of water as it ripples. He stares at James wonderingly.

“Okay,” Regulus says, sighing the word soft and sweetly, cool midday breeze whispering through blades of grass and spreading the smell of wildflowers. James grins so wide he thinks his face might split.

“Yeah?” James says, feeling like warm honey left out in the sun, sunshine muddled through all his sticky sweet bits. Instead of answering, Regulus sits up, dislodging James’ hand from his hair. His hands are so tender and reverent when they touch his face that James is suddenly seized by the absurd need to cry.

Regulus kisses him, soft and unhurried, his mouth an undemanding pressure. James feels captured and trapped, in the loveliest way possible, Regulus’ hands English ivy growing its way up his neck, around his jaw, through his skin, taking root in the marrow of his bones, his lips so light and gentle, blissful gusts of air whistling through every crack in James, through the part of his lips.

James sighs against him, content, and imagines himself bindweed growing around Regulus’ vines as he runs his hands down his back, finds a home in the rungs of his ribs, fingers settled into every empty space like sunshine pouring through the fissures.

The weight of Regulus’ gaze is heady when he pulls back, the intense mercury grey of his eyes through the fluttering of his lashes making James feel pinned down and breathless. Even when they’re still too close for James to focus on him–he can still feel the curve of the cupid bow of Regulus’ mouth against his lips–Regulus is all he sees.

“Yeah,” Regulus agrees, the breath he uses to say it slipping through the part of James’ lips and settling somewhere in his lungs, filling him up from the inside. James smiles, wide and crooked, and Regulus traces the shape of it with his thumb, eyes fixed on James’ mouth. He shifts, straddling James’ lap, burying his fingers in James’ hair, tipping his head down to kiss him, again and again.

“Reg,” James breathes, sinking into the feeling of Regulus’ mouth on his, his hands on James, the warm weight of his body, “you’re killing me here, sweetheart.”

Regulus hums, nuzzling his nose against James’, tilting his head to brush his lips across James’ cheek, over the line of his jaw, kissing his chin, his mouth again, murmuring, “You can take it.”

James drags his hands up Regulus thighs, grabs him by the hips and growls as he topples them over, settling between Regulus legs, covering his body with his own, resigning himself to a life of small deaths and resurrections.

When James comes home the next day, ten minutes past five, Sirius is there, sitting on the couch with Regulus, their heads bent over Sirius’ hands.

“What the hell,” James says, closing the door behind him. “You weren’t at work today? We were supposed to have lunch together.”

“Yeah, I was here,” Sirius says, not looking at James but at his painted nails as he holds them up to the light. “I needed to sleep in with my moonbeam, and then I had to come spend some time with my estranged baby brother. Look,” he adds when James comes closer, holding his hands out to him, “Reg did my nails.”

“Very pretty, Pads. You couldn’t have sent a note or something?”

Sirius gives him a flat look. “Think of it as payback for keeping all this from me for a whole week.”

“Nine days,” Regulus says unhelpfully.

“I wasn’t keeping–fine, sure, whatever. Does this make us even, then?”

“We’ll see,” Sirius says, blowing on his nails, “I’m very mercurial, you know.”

James rolls his eyes and shoves his shoulder, but gently, because he still feels a swell of fondness blooming in his chest and, more than that, a gentle simmering of something like hope or joy at the thought of Regulus and Sirius spending the whole day together while managing to not kill each other.

“You didn’t skip lunch, did you?” Regulus asks and James turns his entire attention to him. His hair looks smooth and silky like it always does after it’s been finger-combed. He looks, for the most part, warm and content, blinking slowly as he looks at James, wearing one of his own jumpers and a pair of James’ sweatpants cuffed at the legs. He thinks about last night, remembers that Regulus is his boyfriend, like he hasn’t been thinking about it all day as it is, and grins dopily.

“Nah,” James says, “I met up with Pete instead. How was your day?”

“Terrible,” Regulus says, “I only got about an hour of peace before your demented best friend showed up. Sirius pulled my hair.”

“He bit me–”

“And he kicked me in the shin. As soon as he leaves I want to change the wards so he’s not allowed in.”

Sirius sniffs. “James has never kept me from anywhere he’s in a day in his life and he’s not going to start now.”

James feels so happy he can barely keep it off his face. He wants to kiss Regulus so badly, wants to take his face in his hands and kiss him everywhere, his mouth and his cheeks and every freckle on the bridge of his nose, and only the fact that Sirius is right there stops him. Instead, he asks him, “Did you eat?”

Regulus hums, nods, tilts his head against the back of the couch, still looking at James. “Sirius made toasties for lunch. We also made lemon squares. Sirius didn’t want to save you any, but I forced him to, so. Shows how much he cares about you.”

“Best mates who keep little brothers from their older brothers don’t get lemon squares.”

“I tried to get some things done, but Sirius requires constant attention. Also, you got some mail, I left it on the desk for you.”

Unthinkingly, James reaches out and slips his fingers under Regulus’ hair, squeezes the back of his neck gently, and grins when it makes Regulus’ eyes flutter. “Thank you,” he murmurs and brushes his hand down Regulus’ arm before he moves to look through his letters.

“I’m going to shower before we start on dinner,” Regulus says, standing up from the couch, “and I want him gone by the time I’m out.”

Sirius throws a couch cushion at Regulus’ retreating back, just barely missing him.

James leans against the edge of his desk. He has two separate letters from his parents, a couple of subscription notices, and a letter from Dumbledore, which he opens first. The letter isn’t very long. A perfunctory greeting, a vague way of telling him the locket has been destroyed–The object we discussed has been taken care of. I have some ideas about the next on the list–and a polite farewell. James can hear the shower running and moves to go tell Regulus through the bathroom door, but when he looks up, he realizes Sirius has stood up and is looking at him, leaning against the back of the couch with his arms crossed over his chest.

“What,” says James.

“James,” Sirius drawls, dragging his name out for as long as humanly possible. “Do you have impure intentions with my little brother?”

James blinks. Winces. “Uh, about that. I was going to tell you–”

“Oh, Christ Jesus,” Sirius says suddenly, turning away from him. He runs his fingers through his hair, puts his hands on his hips, turns back to James. “Please be f*cking with me.”

“It’s not–it’s not what you think, it’s not like that,” James says in a rush, “I’m not–this isn’t something casual for me. We’re together.”

Sirius looks at him incredulously. “Since when?” he demands.

“It’s–new,” James answers quickly. “I mean, I’m sure you don’t want to hear all the details,” and here, Sirius groans and makes a disgusted face, “but I only just properly asked him yesterday. I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, Sirius, I promise.”

“Jesus,” Sirius says again, shaking his head and looking anywhere but at James. “I should have known the moment I got that letter. I always just figured you got over him eventually, but I really should have known because that’s not really how you work, is it?”

James rears back. He opens and closes his mouth stupidly, stuck on I always just figured you got over him eventually. He says, “You–you knew?”

Finally, Sirius looks at him. His expression softens fractionally. “I knew. I always wondered why you never did anything about it.”

James grimaces, looks down at his hands still holding Dumbledore’s letter. “I was–scared. I didn’t know how you’d react, and I had only just worked through my feelings for Lily. I had convinced myself that she and I would get married someday, which I can admit with hindsight and some distance was embarrassing and not fair to her and not even what I really wanted and I just–I didn’t want to do the same thing to him. I was content just being his friend, at the time. And then–everything else happened, but I never stopped thinking about him or feeling the way I do about him.”

Sirius’ brows pinch together. “Do you like him better than me?”

“No,” James says firmly, looking at him again. Then, more gently, “I like him just as much though, but in a different way than I like you. Please don’t be upset with me.”

Sirius worries at his bottom lip and stares out the window across from him. He says, “I’m not upset,” and then stares for another minute. He takes a deep breath, exhales. “I think I would have been upset back then, but I’m not now. This does feel weird, but it has more to do with me than either of you. Just–Christ, James, just be careful, alright? I just got him back and, like, don’t tell him I said so, but I’m glad he’s here.”

Relief shoots through James so fiercely it leaves him feeling breathless, heart pounding in his chest. “Believe me, Pads, I feel the same way. I don’t want to lose him again.”

Sirius looks at him carefully, sharp silver dagger eyes flickering over his face, looking for chinks in the armor. He must not find any, because he sighs and drops all the guarded tension in his body. “Yeah, alright, I believe you. This is still weird for me, though. You’re my brother and he’s my brother and it might not feel that way for either of you but it’s weird for me.”

“Sure, I can understand that,” says James, nodding, even though Sirius is right, it doesn’t feel that way for him. Sirius is his brother and Regulus is Sirius’ brother but James has never, ever, not once in his life, seen Regulus as his brother. James falters for a moment, then, “Are you upset I never told you? Before, I mean.”

Frowning, Sirius seems to consider this for a moment. “No,” he says, “I think–I think I didn’t want you to tell me, because as long as you didn’t tell me, then we didn’t have to talk about it, but that’s not–that’s not fair. You should be able to tell me anything. I’ve never felt like I can’t talk to you about things. Would you have been angry? If you had told me and I’d been upset about it.”

“Not angry,” James says, “I think it would have made me sad.”

“Would you have backed off?”

“I would have then,” James says sincerely, “I can’t now, because I’m in it and Regulus is in it and because I don’t want to. But it’s important to me that you’re okay with it.”

Sirius nods. The shower turns off and Sirius’ eyes drift towards the hall, and the bathroom by extension.

“I think I’m gonna go,” he says. “I miss Moony and also I don’t think I should be here until I can look at him normally about this.”

“Alright, sure,” says James, nodding. “Say hi to Moony for me.”

Sirius nods once, briskly, and makes it about halfway towards the door before he turns around, rushes over to James, and pulls him into a tight hug. James feels whatever residual tension he had left leave his body as he hugs him back.

“I hate when you make me do this sh*t,” Sirius says into James’ shoulder. “I have a reputation to uphold, Prongs.”

“It’s okay,” says James, burying his face in the side of Sirius’ head, “I won’t tell anyone you’re a big softie.”

“Thanks,” Sirius says drily. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, mate.”

Sirius leaves, and a moment later, the bathroom door opens and closes.

“How’d you get him to leave?” Regulus asks as he comes round the corner, toweling his hair dry, wearing James’ Buzzco*cks shirt again.

“Told him about us. C’mere,” he murmurs, nodding towards the couch, “let me do that for you.”

“Oh,” Regulus says, coming to sit between James’ legs on the floor. James takes the towel from him and starts rubbing his hair dry. “Well, I could have told him that, if I had known you were ready for it.”

“I did want to tell him sooner than later, otherwise I would have just been keeping it from him. But he’s the one who asked. Guess he could tell there was something going on.”

Regulus hums. “Was he upset?”

“He said he isn’t,” James answers, “but I think he’ll need some time to get used to it. Was it really okay between you today?”

“As far as okay goes for us,” Regulus says. “We really did fight for the first hour he was here. I said some nasty things, he did pull my hair, which is really just very ungracious.”

“Sure, nothing like biting,” James says, smiling. He likes the way Regulus’ voice sounds right now, low and a little rumbly, deep in his chest, like he’s forgotten to intone the way he usually does, relaxed. It makes something honey thick and slow settle over James, eases him down from the rest of the day, the conversation with Sirius. James could listen to him talk forever.

“Or kicking. He’s such a bitch. It was mostly fine after that. He told me about his place with Lupin and his job. Asked me how I felt now that I was here instead of there. We avoided some subjects. Talked about our parents. He calls them the ex-parents. Did you know we had sh*t childhoods?”

“I had some vague idea, yes,” says James, patting the sides of Regulus’ face and the back of his neck dry. He sets the towel down on his knee, starts finger combing through Regulus’ hair, cool to the touch in the not quite dry state it’s in.

“How was your day?” Regulus asks softly, tilting his head back for James. From this angle, James can see the way his eyes droop when he scrapes his fingers over his scalp.

“It was fine,” James answers gently. “I really was upset at Sirius for leaving me hanging, but actually I hadn’t had some one-on-one with Pete in a while, so it was nice. Also, one of the letters was from Dumbledore. Says he took care of the locket.”

“Really?” asks Regulus, a little more alert. He pauses. James waits him out. “Well,” he says, “guess that’s out of my hands, then. Good.”

“Were you still worried about it?” James asks, frowning slightly.

“In a sense,” Regulus answers, shrugging, tap-tapping his fingers against his knees. “I couldn’t really find very much at all on how to destroy the Horcruxes. I was worried if they couldn’t be destroyed, then neither could he. This is–this is good. Did the old bastard say how he did it?”

“No. The letter was vague and about five lines in all, to be honest.”

“Of course,” Regulus mutters, clicking his tongue and rolling his eyes. “Typical.”

James barely hears him, distracted by the easy glide of his fingers through Regulus’ dark hair. It’s wavier than Sirius’, curls at the ends and around James’ fingers as he combs through it. He wonders if Sirius’ hair would look like this if he didn’t use Sleekeazy’s, which he knows Regulus doesn’t use, because James doesn’t have any in the flat, and Regulus hasn’t asked for any.

“Do you ever comb oil through your hair?” James asks faintly. All the knots and tangles are gone from his hair, but James can’t stop touching it.

A pause. “No,” Regulus says simply, “why? Do you think my hair needs oil?”

“No,” says James, “no. Your hair’s lovely. I was just thinking it’d be nice. I don’t have any that’s appropriate for that right now, but will you let me some other time?”

Regulus tilts his head all the way back, leans it on James’ thigh, dislodging James’ hands. Suddenly, James is very aware of how warm Regulus feels between his legs, the way his arms press against James’ legs. Regulus stares at him. “You’re very weird.”

James grins at him. “I want to shower you with affection. Is that so bad?”

Being the sole focus of Regulus’ stare, James is realizing, is a very intoxicating thing. Or maybe he’s remembering it. He thinks he remembers breathless moments in the library or just outside of the Potions classroom, James going out and Regulus going in, flustered and pinned down by that stare. It makes him feel like Regulus can see right through him, like he can open him up and pick him apart, look through all the gritty raw bits that make him up. It makes him feel warm all over, like being wrapped up in a heating charm, and sends thrills down his back. If he were standing, he’d be weak at the knees. James would be okay with it if Regulus really were looking through his insides, he thinks. What do you see? He’d ask. What are we made of?

Regulus stares at him, and James doesn’t falter, he smiles and lets him look his fill until he turns between James’ legs and crawls up into his lap.

“Hello,” James murmurs, immediately readjusting to make space for Regulus and dropping his hands to his thighs, fingers spread over the wide expanse of them, squeezing gently, feeling a thrill at all the soft muscle there. “I seem to keep finding you here.”

“I like it here,” Regulus says, hands on James’ chest, looking at him with that unwavering stare. “You’re a terrible boyfriend. You’ve been here for at least an hour and you haven’t even kissed me yet.”

James laughs, low and pleased. “You’re right,” he says, “I’m the worst. I’m soggy toast. Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re going to have to work very hard,” Regulus mutters, but he tips his head down obligingly and lets James make it up to him.



*



The idea comes to James at the end of the week while he’s sitting at work, his mind half focused and half distracted.

Here is the dilemma: despite everything going on, James probably feels happier than he remembers ever being. Actually, maybe it’s because of everything that’s going on that James feels so happy. After years of wanting him, James finally has Regulus, and knowing things could have been so much worse makes James feel all the more grateful for the way things are. In such an uncertain time, when he has so much besides Regulus he could lose, James can’t believe how lucky he is. He knows he shouldn’t be wishing for more. He knows that. And yet.

It’s not that James would change anything about the way things have unfolded between him and Regulus. He wouldn’t give up the steady ground of trust that has settled beneath their feet for anything, or the warm, comforting intimacy of Regulus in his space, their easy routine, the feeling of something not quite yet nameable settling into place. And he meant it, too, when he told Regulus that maybe this was the way things were supposed to happen, and maybe a more idyllic part of him does believe in some cosmic fate, a realigning of the planets that has lead them here, a secret fortune written in their stars that ensured their collision lifetimes before they ever found each other.

At his core, James is a romantic, and maybe even a little old-fashioned in some ways. Regardless of how the fantasy has burned him in the past, he does dream of being married someday, and children, and of a little cottage house, small yard and wooden floors, slow mornings and warm nights and someone to share them with, picking out curtains and picture frames together, the kind of easy comfort you begin to take for granted after a life together and, most importantly, James dreams of every step paving the way there. The first skip of a heartbeat (Regulus, haloed by light, smiling at him), the first time your hands touch and it matters (Regulus letting him play with his fingers the morning they woke up together in James’ bed, and again that night before they fell asleep), the first kiss (music fading out, Regulus in his arms, the only thing James could focus on), the first date.

James wants it so badly. He wants the nerves and the butterflies in his stomach, worrying about getting everything right, about what to wear. He wants to pick Regulus up, even if it means pretending to leave his flat just to come back, wants to walk down the street with him, holding hands, huddled together for no other reason than wanting to be close. He wants flowers, dinner and a movie, Regulus smiling across from him under dim lights, or a picnic lunch, the smell of grass, sunlight shining through Regulus’ hair while he lays beside James, walking through museums and murmuring quietly to each other, a small coffee shop and the steady flow of conversation while their ankles bump under the table. He wants sparks and the walk back home and the kiss goodnight.

There are ways around the issue, James knows. He just isn’t sure he’s willing to risk Regulus’ safety just so he can have his little afternoon of romance. The chances of someone recognizing them in Muggle London are quite slim, but not zero. There are glamours, but they can be tricky sometimes, and the right people know how to see through them. His invisibility cloak, though that’s not fool-proof for the situation either, and what would be the point of if James has to pretend Regulus isn’t there?

And then, the idea hits him.

Excitement swelling in his chest like a bright flare, James sets his work aside, just for a minute, no one has to know, and takes out a blank piece of parchment, plans already unfolding in his head. He starts by writing Regulus a quick note, letting him know he’ll be home a little late and asking him to not start dinner without him, please. He uses one of the work owls to send it, writing From James on the outside so Regulus will know to open it. Then, because he can’t do anything else until he’s off work, he spends the rest of the day in jittery anticipation, unable to sit still and talking a mile a minute to anyone who will listen.

At exactly five o’clock, James zooms out of work like he’s on a racing broom, and makes approximately four stops on his way home, including the florist and the video store. He leaves picking up the food for last and ducks behind an alley to cast a stasis charm over it to keep it from going cold, then walks the rest of the way home.

Careful to hold everything out of sight, James cracks his apartment door open and sticks his head in. Regulus is on the couch, curled up on the corner with a book. He looks up at James, who can’t contain the way his heart warms over at the sight of him, smiling and saying, “Hey, beautiful. Did you get my note?”

Regulus, who has never not noticed anything in his life and enjoys making things very difficult for James, frowns at him. “Yes. What are you doing?”

James, who enjoys a challenge and thinks Regulus is very lovely when he’s being stubborn, grins. “D’you mind going into the bedroom for a moment?”

Regulus shifts on the couch, trying to get a look behind the door. James closes it a little more. Regulus’ frown deepens. “Why do I have to go in the bedroom?”

“Just for a moment,” James repeats. He shifts on his feet, impatient and excited. “Please? I’ll come get you in a second.”

Regulus stares at him. James gives him his best winning smile, hoping to sway things in his favor. Regulus rolls his eyes, sighs deeply, and gets up from the couch.

“And–change into something nice, maybe?” James calls before Regulus rounds the corner. He turns around and looks down at his clothes, a Television shirt Sirius got for James and soft flannel sleep pants.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing,” James says. “You look lovely. You always look lovely, actually, it’s really not fair, you know. How is anyone supposed to get anything done around you?”

“I’m sorry to be such an inconvenience,” Regulus says flatly. “The last time I wore proper trousers I almost drowned. Is that what you want, James?”

James sticks his hand in through the door and snaps his fingers at him. “What did I tell you about jokes like that? Don’t be difficult, sweetheart.”

Regulus narrows his eyes at him. James’ heart skips a beat. There must be something wrong with him, he thinks, but whatever it is, he’s not bothered enough to try and fix it.

“Fine,” Regulus snaps, pivoting on his heel and disappearing down the hall. James waits until he hears the bedroom door open and close before he slips in, quietly shutting the door and toeing off his shoes. He gets to work immediately. He puts everything down on the table so he can go rummage through the linen closet for the picnic blanket he knows he took from his parents’ before he moved out, which might not be as nice as a table mantle, but will do for now.

They always eat at the kitchen table, but James sets up on the coffee table instead, because he thinks the blanket drapes nicely over it, and because he thinks it’s cozier, the two of them nestled in together, knees and feet bumping under the table, the charming clutter of their plates and silverware when James takes their food out of the containers, leaning in every time they talk to each other, Regulus always close enough to kiss.

He lights up the candles with his wand and charms them to float around the room, leaving two on the coffee table, one on either side of the mason jar he’s filled up with water and put the flowers in. Looking through his records for the right music takes a minute or two, but he ends up deciding on a Ted Greene album he knows Regulus likes and charms the turntable to flip the record over when the side is done. He flicks off the lights and stands back to admire his handiwork, the dim romantic lighting casting soft shadows across the living room.

Regulus is standing in the middle of the bedroom when James comes in, hip co*cked and arms crossed over his chest, a sharpness around his eyes that tells James he’s upset to have been left to wait, but not truly angry with him. The fact that Regulus has actually changed can only be another point in his favor, James thinks as he takes Regulus in–deep green sweater that James thinks might have been Sirius’ at one point, the V-cut of the collar revealing just enough of Regulus’ collarbones to make James feel a little dizzy, loose dark slacks that brush over the tops of Regulus’ spidery bare feet. He’s brushed his hair, James realizes, parted just off center instead of completely brushed away from his face, curls framing his face gracefully.

For a wild, impulsive moment, he thinks about forgetting the whole thing, about undressing Regulus with slow, tender hands, peeling away all of his layers, coaxing the impatient tightness he’s wearing into loose limbed pleasure, watching his eyes go heavy and hooded, his mouth slack and spit-slicked. It would be just as good, James knows, except that he wants the other stuff just as badly–Regulus cast in low light and talking softly, their knuckles brushing every time they reach for their drinks, wants to see the pleasantly surprised look on Regulus’ face, wants to show him how much James wants him, in every way, all of the time.

“Are you quite finished being a berk?” Regulus asks flatly. James grins at him.

“Almost. You look lovely.”

“You said that already. What’s the point of changing if you think I look the same in my pyjamas as I do now?”

“Would you hold it against me if I said I think you’re gorgeous?” James says. “You could be wearing a giant traffic cone and I would still think you’re the most beautiful person in the room.”

“Orange looks ghastly on me,” Regulus says, the apples of his cheeks bright pink. James steps closer to him. “Am I confined to the room for the rest of the night, then? I should tell you, I’m starting to get a little tetchy.”

James leans in to kiss him, thrilled when Regulus lets him despite his frustration with him, and even more when Regulus relaxes against him, runs his hands up James’ arms and cups his neck, James’ hands settled in the small of his back, tugging him close.

He scrapes his teeth against Regulus’ bottom lip, delighted at the shuddery breath Regulus exhales against his mouth, and pulls away. “One more minute, I promise,” James murmurs and only backs away from him when Regulus sighs deeply and lets him go.

In a way, it’s good that this is how their first date is going to go, that Regulus is right there waiting for him and that James has to hurry. If he’d had hours to prepare and get ready, he would have driven himself barmy trying to decide what to wear, would have probably ended up dragging Peter to Sirius and Remus’ with half of his closet in hand and near tears. As it is, James only spares a second to vacillate between a red turtleneck Marlene got him last Christmas and his favorite button up shirt, a black and white striped thing that he opts for to avoid getting warm in all his excitement. He changes into it, tucks it in, and starts rolling up his sleeves as he turns back to Regulus.

“What do we think?” James asks, running a hand through his hair, tousling it. “How’s my hair look?”

“Same as always,” says Regulus, watching him carefully.

“Roguish and handsome? Attractively disheveled?”

“Like it’s got a life of its own,” Regulus deadpans. “Did you hit your head on the way here?”

“I love when you say sweet things,” James cheeks, coming closer again and ducking his head to nuzzle the side of Regulus’ head. “Turn around for me?”

Regulus tilts his head back to look at him. “What,” he says.

“Last berky request, I promise.”

“You’re making a lot of promises tonight, Potter,” Regulus grumbles. James grins and turns him by the shoulder.

“Just trust me, love,” says James, covering Regulus’ eyes with his hands and guiding him out of the room, Regulus’ hands on his wrists. James leads him around the corner, avoids the turntable stand and the couch, brings him to one side of the coffee table, and removes his hands.

Regulus’ eyes flutter open, immediately darting around the room, drinking everything in. His mouth parts softly, but no words fall out.

“I was just thinking,” James says, unexpectedly finding himself nervous about Regulus’ reaction, wondering if this is maybe too much, desperate to please him, “how nice it would be to go on a date, or rather–rather, how much I wanted to take you out on a date, especially now that we’re–that you’re my boyfriend, but since it’s not safe for you to be out right now, I thought I could bring a date here to you.”

“This is why you wanted me to change?” Regulus asks.

“I really do think you look just as lovely in your pyjamas,” James says, sincere and earnest, heart hammering in his chest, “but, you know, traditionally you dress up for dates, and I wanted it to feel as real as possible because–well, because it is, at least to me.”

“James,” Regulus says softly, finally turning to him. His eyes are a little wide with something like wonder, the candlelights flickering pale gold over the silver of his eyes, all his sharp edges smoothed out into soft shadows, and he’s so, so beautiful, James feels overwhelmed. “You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“I wanted to,” James answers immediately. Then, with a touch of uncertainty, “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Regulus answers, far more easily than James expected him to. His eyebrows pinch together. “I was being such a brat.”

James grins, far more relaxed than he was a moment ago, bright joy twining around his heart. “It’s okay,” he says, “I like when you’re difficult.”

Regulus huffs out something like a laugh, shakes his head vaguely. His eyes flicker down, catch on James’ mouth, and he takes James by the wrist before he leans in to kiss him, soft as spring. Their noses brush together when Regulus tilts his head, fingers a light pressure on the bones of his wrist, and James’ heart feels hummingbird fast in his chest. He pulls back, the force of his grin dislodging their mouths, but Regulus gets a hand in his hair and tugs him back in, kisses him deeper, warm afternoon slow.

Music filters through the silence around them, jazzy guitar playing gently under the sound of their breathing, Regulus’ breath ghosting over James’ cheeks as he sighs into him, licking into his mouth, making James go all fog-brained and jelly-legged.

“You’re getting ahead of me there, sweetheart,” James murmurs against his mouth when Regulus lets him get away. “I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”

“And you’re doing a marvelous job,” Regulus breathes, kissing him again, drawing a pleased sound from James’ throat.

“C’mon, love,” James says, finally coaxing Regulus into sitting down and taking the place opposite him.

Their knees do bump together under the table, the knobby intimacy of it making James smile, his heart fluttering in his chest. Regulus tilts his head at their food.

“You didn’t cook while I was in there,” he says.

“I picked up from this Italian place a couple of streets over. I’ll take you properly when this is all over, I think you’d like it.”

Regulus hums softly, fingers brushing over the petals of the flowers, over the top of a candle flame. Softly, he says, “No one has ever done anything like this for me.”

Sitting across from him, Regulus looks like a vision in flickering orange-yellow light and smudged charcoal, all blurred out shadows and dark lashes, blinking slow at James. He feels dazed just looking at him, dreamlike and warm like an afternoon nap, like a cat stretching under a beam of sunlight. James has never been less interested in eating, feels full to the brim just from watching Regulus, from the way Regulus watches him back, being the center of his attention.

“Romantic displays are sort of my bread and butter,” James says, smiling warmly, “so you can start getting used to them.”

“Do you do this a lot, then?” Regulus asks. “Dating.”

“Not as much as people tend to assume, for whatever reason,” James tells him. “I’ve been on some since school, been set up by friends some other times, and they were fun, but none of it ever felt quite right.”

Not like this, James thinks. He knows, somewhere in the small, rational part of his brain–that does in fact work, contrary to popular belief–that this between him and Regulus is still new, but it doesn’t feel new. Nothing, not his blind infatuation with Lily, not whatever flashes of flirt and fancy he might have shared with the people he picked up at pubs and clubs or with the people his friends set him up with, has ever felt as good or as right or as easy as this. Regulus fits into his life like the last missing pages of a novel, each turn of phrase and pause flowing seamlessly into the next. What does time matter, when James spends every day with Regulus and wakes up next to him every morning, and still wants more of him? What does it matter when each moment he spends with Regulus stretches forwards and backwards into who they were and who they are and who they will be? Whatever cosmic, interminable measure of time exists for the duration of their lives and the substance of their souls, it has still led them to each other now. James doesn’t ever want to give it up.

They eat and talk and drink wine, Regulus’ lips stained dark red with it. He tells James about his experiences with dating, which, Regulus explains, weren’t so much dating as they were old, traditional Pureblood society matchmaking, polite dinners and fancy balls held in the estates of other rich Purebloods.

“They were absolute hell as it was,” Regulus says, swishing his wine glass with a frown, “but I didn’t even get to enjoy the casual shagging everyone else did, being irrevocably bent as I am.”

James pictures Regulus in his uncomfortable wizard dress robes, tucked away in some secluded corner of some fancy estate, or hidden between the rose bushes of some aristocrat areshole’s garden, someone else’s hands on him, someone else’s lips on his, and feels something tight and scorchingly venomous rise up in his throat.

It must show on his face, or he must be quiet for too long, or something, because Regulus slides his eyes away from his wine to James with analytical sharpness. “What?” James says, schooling his features and trying to play it off.

“It makes you jealous,” Regulus says, no questioning tone to his voice, “the idea of me with other people.”

James winces, taking a drink of his own wine to give himself a moment to trample the feeling down. “Sorry,” is what he manages to say, because he’s an idiot, and he couldn’t hide anything from Regulus even if he wanted to anyway. “I know this is–a hypothetical, and that we weren’t together then, and that it’s not a good quality, but–”

“It’s fine,” Regulus cuts in gently, his eyes much softer now, warm and full of something James can’t quite name yet but that makes his heart twist pleasantly in his chest. “I like it. And I tend to be quite jealous myself, so I suppose it works out.”

James leans forward, elbows on the coffee table, and grins dopily. “Are you saying we’re made for each other?”

Regulus tilts his head, looks at him, exasperated and fond. “No such words came out of my mouth. Literally.”

“You heavily implied it,” James argues playfully, happiness a bright, fluttering thing in his chest.

“You’re twisting my words,” Regulus accuses, leaning in like he’s being tugged forward, pulled by some force or magnetism.

“Deciphering your meaning,” James counters, gently grabbing Regulus’ pointed chin, “hard to read little Slytherin that you are, I have to parse through your words.”

“Perfidy, is what it is,” Regulus murmurs softly just before James leans the rest of the way in and kisses him, wine red lips to wine red lips, the bitter grape vine taste lingering on Regulus’ tongue when James licks into his mouth, the pleased sound Regulus makes in the back of his throat settling in James’ blood alongside the warm wine buzz.

“So,” James says when they part, kissing Regulus off-center on the corner of his mouth, “how’re we doing so far? How’s this for a first date?”

“Well, there’s nothing to be said for being accosted at the start, but you’re picking up,” Regulus answers, not missing a beat, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I had to put forward a strong front, you’re a stubborn tricky little thing, you know,” James teases.

“I keep hearing this word little and wondering what you’re referring to by it. Is this how you treat all your dates?”

James grins. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it. I’ve got you all riled up, don’t I?”

“Riled up, driven up the wall, same difference, I suppose,” Regulus says, his face going all soft and dazed when James, laughing, picks up his hand and kisses the back of his knuckles.

They finish their dinner and clear the coffee table away together.

“They’ll keep for a few days if you keep them in water,” James says when he sees Regulus taking the flowers out of the jar.

Shaking his head, Regulus says, “They’ll wither eventually. Drying them is better, they stay mostly intact forever. Sirius taught me how to do it without pressing them, when we were kids.”

Overwhelmed by a surge of fondness, James catches him by the wrist and pulls him, kissing his cheek, his nose, his forehead. Regulus stills him with a hand on his cheek and leans up to kiss him on the mouth, soft and dry, before he disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes while James sets up the movie.

They leave the candles that haven’t burned all the way yet and curl up on the couch together, Regulus tucked between the side of the couch and James. He likes to tuck himself into small, compact folds, while James is all long lines, but, somehow, they still fit together. James’ leanness pressed against the warm convex of Regulus’ body, his arm around his shoulders, Regulus’ head tucked under James’ jaw.

A few minutes into the movie, Regulus mutters, “What is this?”

James grins, having been expecting this. “Horror musical. It’s an adaptation. It’s my first time seeing it, too, but Remus says it’s very good.”

Regulus hums a small noncommittal sound, a slight frown on his face. James tries to be subtle about it, but it’s hard to fully focus on the movie instead of just watching Regulus the whole time. The line between his eyebrows stays in place, and James wonders if he actually misjudged that Regulus would like this, but by Damn It, Janet, his expression has eased somewhat and he’s tapping his fingers to the beat of the song against James’ ribs where his hand rests on his side. James smiles wide, leaning in to press his nose against Regulus’ hairline, happy and content.

“What,” James says, noticing the suppressed twitch of a smile at the corner of Regulus’ mouth, the light dancing in his eyes.

“Nothing,” Regulus answers, “just that this Riff Raff bloke reminds me of someone, is all.”

James stares at the screen for a long while before it clicks. He leans his head against Regulus, laughter bubbling out of him. “You’re the worst,” he chuckles.

Regulus laughs softly. “S’a good thing I’ll never attend another family dinner,” he says. “I wouldn’t be able to look at him straight on.”

“Oh, wait till I tell Sirius,” James sighs, shoulders still shaking, grinning like an idiot. “Lucius in forty years.”

“Please,” Regulus scoffs, “twenty, that Malfoy hairline is not going to do him any favors. Their future spawn would be lucky to take after Cissy, inbred as our family tree may be.”

“So mean,” James murmurs, warm and fond, pressing a kiss to Regulus’ cheek.

Regulus grins. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”



*



As the credits roll on screen, James stretches his arms above his head and fakes a yawn. “Boy, am I knackered,” he drawls, just to be difficult. He turns to Regulus, smiling sweetly. “Bed?”

Regulus looks at him, unimpressed. “Some first date you are,” he mutters.

“What? What’s wrong?” James asks, guileless. “Feeling…dissatisfied?”

“I was under the impression most first dates ended with, at the very least, a kiss good night, an invitation inside if things went well.”

James holds an appropriately scandalized hand to his chest. “Reg,” he gasps, “do I really seem like that kind of boy to you? Putting out on the first date?”

“I think making your boyfriend your live in before the first date means you don’t get to pull that card anymore.”

James grins and drops his hands to Regulus’ waist, leaning forward and dropping the act. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, gently bumping his nose against Regulus’, brushing their lips together. “We’re inside. The lights are dim. You gonna have your way with me?”

Regulus scoffs, a small puff of air against James’ mouth. “You make me sound like such a temptress.”

“You are,” James says, hands sliding up Regulus' hips and under his sweater, making Regulus’ breath hitch. “Assassin Regulus Black, preferred method of murder: seduction. You accused Sirius of being a slag, but it’s really you, isn’t it?”

Regulus makes a small noise, petulant, and shoves gently at James’ shoulder, and normally James would have taken it as a hint to back off, except for the way Regulus’ hand slides up his shoulder, the back of his neck, into his hair.

“Sorry,” James says, not very sorry at all. “Do you prefer it when I’m nice to you? Pretty boy,” he murmurs, watching the way Regulus’ lips part, the flush on his cheeks, “always so good for me.”

The words are barely out of James’ mouth before Regulus leans the rest of the way in, kissing him fiercely, fingers twisting in James’ hair. James crowds him, pressing him into the arm of the couch, hands tight on his sides, relishing in the feeling of Regulus’ soft skin under his fingers, the way he shudders in James’ arms. They kiss for what feels like ages, fervent and eager, Regulus’ mouth sweet and open under his, sighing in soft relief when James gently bites down on his bottom lip and tugs.

“James,” he says, pausing when James kisses him again. “Bed.”

“Yeah,” James agrees lowly, “yeah, whatever you want, pretty boy.”

They kiss all the way to the bedroom, Regulus’ arms around James’ neck, James’ hands on Regulus’ waist, his hips, grazing over his thighs. He follows Regulus down when he topples over the bed, hovering over him on his elbows, pressing kisses down the line of his neck.

Regulus’ hands in his hair, knees bracketing James’ hips, head tipped back. In a low, tantalizing voice, he lightly sings, “Touch-a, touch-a, touch-a, touch me.”

James pauses for a heartbeat, then promptly dissolves into a fit of giggles, his forehead pressed to Regulus’ shoulder. Somehow, he’s even happier than he was that morning.