If not later, when.
“Cheers!” The word, the voice, the attitude.
He’d never heard anyone use “Cheers” to say thankyou before. It sounded harsh, curt, and dismissive, spoken with the veiled indifference of people who couldn't care to bestow gratitude sincerely.
It’s the first thing Regulus remembers about James. Cheers!
It brings him back to Marseille, so many years ago. Stepping out of a cab, stumbling over cracks on the tree lined driveway, plump suitcases stuttering as they crush moss and vine, bumping up and over the stone entry staircase.
Suddenly he’s shaking hands with his father, hugging his brother, placing a gentle kiss on the wrist of his mother - one she’d wipe clean against her blouse the moment he toed past the precipice.
He thinks it might have all started right there. Long sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Heat and humidity turning his hair to a tangled heap, tamed only by a pair of glasses balancing precariously atop his head - a ridiculous act that renders them instantly useless. Red converse with mismatched socks that are desperate to run, bike, climb, discover - eager to feel the hot pathway from their house to the beach, screaming ‘anyone up for a swim? ’. A question that would come to arouse a dismal answer every time he asked.
This summer’s houseguest. Another fool.
Almost without thinking, he turns to the family and chirps a bright, “Cheers!”, one hand heaving cases toward the living room, the other raised in a careless wave of cheap gratitude. Sirius rushes to help him find his room. And that’s it. No sincerity, no jest, no kindness. His one-word send-off.
“You watch,” Regulus turns to his mother, “This is how he’ll say goodbye to us when the time comes. With his ‘Cheers’.”
“Brisk, bold, and blunted.” His father smiles, a subtle approval.
His mother nods curtly. “Meanwhile, we’ll have to put up with him for six long weeks.”
Taking in summer guests was his parents’ way of helping young academics revise their manuscripts before publication. They tended to draw older students, carrying along dissertation documents brimming with half constructed ideas, and middle aged PhD candidates trying to foster relationships with well connected families.
James, however, was completing his research project at a master's level. His piece wasn’t so much of a thesis as it was a full length book undergoing publication in French. Regulus tried, and failed, to not be intimidated by that. James was barely a few years older than himself. At twenty three years old, he was only a year older than Sirius, and hardly three older than Regulus, who at the time was toeing the edge of nineteen.
For six weeks each summer, Regulus would have to vacate his bedroom and move one room down the corridor into a much smaller room that had once belonged to his Uncle Alphard. Summer residents were given the full run of the house, and more, for no expenses other than helping Orion with assorted paperwork. For such a small price, they became part of the family for a matter of months.
This excited him at first. To a young Regulus Black it was thrilling to welcome a stranger into his life for a while, riveting to watch how they’d play pretend as if a part of the Black lineage, gripping to watch them flounder and flail under the ginormous weight of his family's posterity. Eventually, of course, these pantomimes became depressing. It was upsetting to learn no one could persevere longer than a few weeks in his position, in his bedroom, among his parents, beside his brother. He came to realise his was an impossible position - a fact that would persist in keeping him awake at night, even after 15 years of these cyclical housemates.
The visitors did not ‘become part of the family’ as a young Regulus would hope. There was no shower of postcards at Christmas, or gift packages on their birthdays. No wedding invitations, or phone calls from overseas. No one would go out of their way when in Europe to drop by La Maison. There was no nostalgia. They were simply there, and then they weren’t. James would be the same.
Until of course, he wasn’t.
Regulus wasn’t sure when it dawned on him that this guest would be different. Perhaps it was during a game of tennis by the beach, or over a game of poker in a seedier part of town. Maybe it was soon after his arrival, their first breakfast together as a ‘family’. Their first conversation.
James asked if someone wouldn’t mind showing him around town. Sirius jumped at the chance. Their mother scorned. He had piano lessons that afternoon and he was expected to learn a new piece before Church that Sunday. Would Regulus take him instead?
“I’m afraid I have to practice violin this afternoon as well.” A lie.
Well, there were plenty of hours in the day, couldn’t he spare James a few? He’d only wanted to do a few things. Locate the nearest bus stop, and the trainline. “Looking for a quick escape, boy? So soon?” his father teased. James laughed. That infectious bark of a laugh that would linger in Regulus’ mind for years to come.
“Not quite, Mr Black. Not just yet, anyway.”
He turned back to Regulus, inquiring whether or not there was a bank in town. He was looking to open a local bank account and had a fair amount of British pounds to exchange to Euro while the rates were still high.
“No guest has ever opened an account in Marseille.” Regulus would regale later that night with his brother. Sirius would only roll his eyes. “Does it matter? Why do you care?”, leading Regulus to lie through his teeth - “I don’t.”
Okay, he agreed over breakfast, he’d show James around. They could go by bike, it was the best way to get around in the outer districts. Sirius offered James the use of his own bike.
“Fantastic.” He beamed. “Cheers, mate.”
Polite indifference. As if he were greeting a shopkeeper, or retrieving an item someone dropped at his feet. It was meaningless. But to Regulus, it stung.
The conversation was no better on bike. What did one do around here? Nothing. Wait for summer to end. What did one do in the winter, then?
Regulus smiled, small. James beat him to the answer, “Don’t tell me: wait for summer to start, right?”
He always liked that - having his mind read. He liked that James seemed to always know what was going on in his head, as if they shared the same one. He imagined there was enough room in his skull to budge James’ own brain right beside his, like butter being pressed between his index finger and his thumb, through his ear canal, beyond marrow and bone. That way they could exist together as one single unit. You are me, and I am you. Completely.
“Actually, I’m quite fond of the winter months.”
He smirked, knowingly. Like he’d already figured Regulus out down to the smallest detail, and only on day one. “Figures.”
Regulus liked being noticed like that. There was something dizzying about being known by James Potter.
He continued to pry. He asked what Regulus did. He read. Transcribed music. Smoked. Went out at night. Jogged in the mornings. Sat by the pool. Sat by the beach.
“You don’t swim?”
“Pardon?”
“You sit by the water, but you don’t swim?”
“I… Yes. That’s right.”
Sometimes that feeling of being seen, of being known by James Potter, sat heavy in his chest like a rock. It plowed itself deeper into the lining of his stomach everytime the other man noticed another part of himself he’d worked so hard at keeping hidden.
James let the topic go, immediately noticing his discomfort, as if they shared one clenching, beating heart. He backtracked.
You jog? Yes, I jog. Where abouts? On the beach, only in the mornings, before the sand gets too hot. In the afternoons, on the grassy slopes that lead into town, beside the path they rode their bikes on. There are a few scenic trails around that aren’t too steep, Regulus could show him, if he’d like?
“Yeah, sure. Cheers.”
Regulus had mentioned reading first on his list of interests, keenly aware of James’ status as an emerging author. Although, truthfully, he spent much more time composing and performing music - he thought highlighting this one shared interest might make James take more notice of him. Start a conversation. Ask him a question. Offer him a recommendation. Instead, he did nothing. They parked their bikes, strolled in, out, and around town, and James said nothing.
What unnerved Regulus more was not the fact that James ignored the unimpressive trap he’d laid for him, it was the fact that Regulus was attempting to construct half-conceived traps at all. And so early. That he had all along, without seeming to, without even admitting it, already been trying—and failing—to win him over.
On their ride home, Regulus offered a detour. He’d take them to the seaside strip, show him the nearest swimming spots, the intersection where sand turns to pebble and gravel beach. He should have known better.
“Maybe another time. Cheers, though.”
Maybe it started much later than Regulus remembers. You see someone, but don’t fully recognise what it is you’re seeing until they’re back across the pond. It’s not until six weeks later, when your allotted timer has run out, and the hourglass is sputtering its few remaining granules of sand, that you realise all you’ve lost.
When the days that were offered have all but run out, and he’s already leaving, and you’re still struggling to come to terms with something that has been looming over you for weeks, almost entirely without your knowledge.
How could he not have noticed? Well, for one, Regulus wouldn’t know desire if it came crashing down in front of him. He’d never developed so much as a crush on another person before, in fact, he didn’t enjoy the company of others at the best of times. It should have come as a surprise when he actually started seeking sombody out. However, he was too preoccupied by mischievous smiles and knowing winks across the dinner table, to realise all he’d ever wanted was James. All of him. In any capacity he could have him.
Flesh, and bone, and every individual pump of blood through veins. Each thought, and word, and prayer. Twitch, and blink, and step, and stumble. Regulus wanted James so completely and entirely. And yet, he didn’t realise it until it was too already late.