James Does the Ill-Advised
Regulus hadn’t slept.
He’d gone home, turned off his phone, and stared at the ceiling until the sun rose—chest hollow, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like they were still reaching for something he couldn’t let himself have.
He wasn’t supposed to want this.
He wasn’t supposed to want him.
And yet...
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the moment James leaned in, hope in his expression, softness in his voice, vulnerability that cracked something deep and terrifying in Regulus’s ribs.
He’d walked away.
He always did.
But this time, it didn’t feel like survival.
It felt like running.
Across the city, James was wrecked. He hadn’t written a word in two days. His flat was a disaster; paper everywhere, tea cups stacked in odd places, his laptop open to a blank document that taunted him like a ghost.
Sirius had knocked three times. Left food. Called. Texted. James didn’t answer. Because he got it, okay? He understood. Regulus didn’t owe him anything. Not a kiss. Not a confession. Not even a goodbye.
But, it still hurt. And the worst part?
He still wanted to see him. Still wanted to show him the story they’d written together, scene by scene, page by page, line edits and glitter pen comments and margins full of tension.
So, naturally, James did something wildly ill-advised. He printed the manuscript. He put it in an envelope. And he mailed it to Regulus. No note. No explanation.
Just the story. Their story. Whatever it was.
Regulus found it two days later.
It was sitting on his doorstep, plain and unassuming, like it hadn’t just detonated every wall he’d ever built. He stared at the envelope for five full minutes before picking it up. He didn’t open it. Not yet. But he sat on his bed with it clutched in both hands, heart thrumming with something raw and unbearable.
He’d thought walking away would make it easier.
But it hadn’t.
It had made everything worse.