Cor cordium.
At dinner on his third evening, Regulus sensed James was staring at him as he was explaining Guillaume Connesson’s ‘Les Chants de l'Atlantide’, which he’d been slowly transcribing earlier that week.
Oftentimes when Regulus spoke over the dinner table, his stories and anecdotes would go ignored. He’d considered maybe it was due to his being the youngest in the family, his insights holding less wisdom or weight. More likely though, it was simply due to the fact that he was not his brother.
Ignoring his commentary completely, Sirius delved into some nonsensical ramblings about Oxford versus Cambridge and whether James was a part of their Rugby Football Union, if he was aware of their rivalry. It was ridiculous, and meaningless, and only served as fuel for their mother to berate Sirius, their father to look away ashamed. Whether the attention was negative or positive didn’t bother Sirius. The truth remained, all of their parents' notice lingered on him, and nobody listened to Regulus.
Except James.
At first it flattered him. James was obviously interested—he liked him. Things were much easier then, as simple as he likes me or he likes me not. And James liked Regulus. He was thrilled.
He looked to his left to return the glance, but once he met the other man’s eye, he turned away. The gentle smile pulling against his lips fell immediately. He blinked, then scowled, tilting his entire body in the opposite direction as if to shun Regulus completely.
“I don’t play rugby. But I was my team’s football captain in school, a while ago now.”
He focused all of himself on Sirius, just as everyone else did. This was a common theme in Regulus’ life, and would become a prevalent one in his relationship with James as well. They rallied back and forth like Nadal and Federer. Each one keenly curious about the other. Regulus had to look away.
Do you play football? Of course, I’m French. What position do you play? Maman won’t allow me to join a team, but sometimes Regulus and I pass the ball around. There’s a prairie nearby where we like to play, would you like to go tomorrow? Sure, cheers.
“Will you come, brother?” Sirius asked.
I shouldn’t. Why not? I’m busy. You are not. I am. You’re never busy. I’m always busy. Yes, you are. You are always busy, and you never do anything fun.
James spoke. “Le Rire De Saraï won’t transcribe itself. Right, Regulus?”
Finally, he met his eye. The timid smile from earlier still gone, it was replaced by a knowing glint in his eye. Although James would try to deny it, that glint screamed at Regulus - I know you, though I truly wish I didn’t.
Regulus wouldn’t ask him about it until days later. The two of them alone in the family living room. Regulus sat facing the grand piano, James haphazardly sprawled across the sofa, a pen dangling between his lips, crushed between his teeth. He stared at his manuscript with an intensity Regulus was instantly envious of.
“You know Connesson?”
The pen fell from his mouth. “I what?”
“You said ‘Le Rire De Saraï’ at dinner, but you know I was transcribing 'Les Chants de l'Atlantide'.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You did.” Regulus nods, “You listen.”
James stiffened, caught. “Yes, I listen to music. Is that so surprising?”
Regulus looked him up and down. His billowy dress shirt with half the buttons undone. The ink stains on his fingers, his wrists, the smallest spot of blue on the inside of his lower lip. Those godforsaken red converse. “I don’t think you can surprise me, Potter.”
He watched the rise and fall of James’ chest through the thin silk of his shirt as he tried, and failed, to get his breathing back under control. “I don’t know who you think I am,” He started, in a warning tone that would go unheeded, “But I’m just a man.”
Just as Regulus hid secrets from the world, James did too. He tried to present as any other man. He liked sports, and went to college. Yes, it was a prestigious one, but he slacked off when it came to essays and skipped early morning classes like anybody else would. He was the ideal model of your average Englishman. Or, so he’d like others to believe. He did not care for orchestration, he knew nothing of the arts, or of literature. And most of all, he did not like Regulus Black. Not even a little bit.
“Then you’re right. You don’t know who I think you are.”
James didn’t respond.
Talking to him felt so hard, with Regulus so frequently coming to uncomfortable standstills. Sometimes he’d plan their conversations out three steps at a time, that way he’d never find himself stranded, desperate, alone in the silence. Unfortunately, James Potter was not as predictable as that, and planning three steps ahead usually left him four paces behind. He back pedalled.
“Does my brother know you’re a fan of French composers?”
“I’m not a fan,” He emphasised the word, “I just know who he is, it’s not a big deal.”
“You seem to know a lot of things.”
“What is this? An interrogation?” James grew quickly agitated. Whilst being perceived by the other left Regulus feeling giddy and lightheaded, it made James afraid, often angry. “I’m scholarly, that’s why I’m here. I know things.”
“Okay.” Regulus conceded, “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He turned back to the instrument, to the pages and pages of flute and piano sheet music he was struggling to translate to violin.
“Don’t say that. It’s not- You don’t have to be sorry.”
“Okay.” He spoke without looking up from his pages, “Then I’m not.”
Silence. As always, it pressed between them like a mammoth. Sometimes Regulus wondered if they wasted their breath trying to fill it. On one hand, he wanted James to be kind to him again, to laugh with him as he had done just a few days earlier on their ride into town. On the other, maybe it was best for them to stay away from each other. Nothing good could come of them, he knew. So, Regulus stayed silent.
“You’re pretty smart too, you know. I don’t know why they won’t pay attention.”
James spoke, and as always, he was logical and reasonable. But the childish, romantic part of Regulus’ mind heard only showers of praise: you’re worthy, you’re valuable, I notice, I listen, I care.
“I know nothing, Potter.”
James raised an eyebrow, then let it fall as his expression softened. “I don’t think so. You seem pretty wise to me.”
That hard glare from dinner, the one composed of ice shards and broken glass, that wasn’t really James. This kinder gaze, the one of interest and adoration, that was the real him. He had the kind of eyes Regulus could never stare long enough at, but needed to keep staring to find out why he couldn’t look away.
“If you only knew how little I really know about the things that matter.”
James swallowed.
“What things that matter?”
“You know what things.”
“I don’t.”
Regulus looked down at his papers again. “Okay. Fine. You don’t.”
Maybe it was the thrill of getting away with his deception. Or more accurately, the comfort of knowing, in that moment, both James and Regulus understood the other, but neither were bold enough to push it further. Whatever the reason, James recovered quickly.
“Will you play it for me?”
“Play what?”
“Les Chants de l'Atlantide. Or whatever's scribbled on those pages you’re fiddling with.”
Regulus wasn’t fiddling. He put the papers down, their edges now curling where they caught sweat from his palms, with ridges down the middle and sides from anxious folding and unfolding.
He shook his head. I don’t play the piano. Don’t, or won’t? Won’t. Will you go get your violin then? I won’t. Why not? I’ll wait for you. I don’t care what you do. So you’re not going to play me anything then? Not ever? No. Not now. It’s not finished yet. And when it’s finished?
“If you’re still here when it’s finished, then yes. I’ll play it for you.”
Of course he would be. It rarely takes Regulus longer than a week to transcribe a piece. He’d said it more as a reminder for himself. He won’t be here forever, he will leave, and you’ll remain. Marseille will still be here, and Mother, and Father, and James will be in England. Control yourself.
“Okay. I’ll wait.”