Every altar in Rome.
Over the course of that summer, everyday things started taking on a new light. Embossed on every song looping on the radio, in every novel he read during his stay, on anything from the smell of orange and citrus fruits in their garden to the clicking of bats echolocating over the nearby pond. Suddenly all the smells and sounds Regulus had grown up with and known every day of his life had turned on him. They were all painted with newly acquired memories of James Potter.
“Reggie, I need to pick something up in town.”
Regulus slammed his book shut, “How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”
His brother ignores this scolding entirely. “But I can’t go, because she grounded me again. Kreacher caught James and I sneaking out from the balcony last night.”
“Don’t worry.” James winks, “I’m not grounded.”
This led to an unfortunate back and forth between siblings. Why can’t you just get it yourself? Someone will notice, they always do. What about Maman? No, she can’t know. And Père? He’ll tell Maman. And Kreacher? He’s the reason I’ve been put on house arrest in the first place.
“Why can’t James go?”
“He can’t speak French.”
James looked to Regulus longingly. He was good at that - longing. Like he was always yearning, pining, craving for something. It was one of few things Regulus couldn’t just look at him and figure out. Of course, the same hunger was burning inside of him throughout that summer, though he was equally reluctant to admit it as well.
Let’s go together, James offered. No. Why, have you got something better to do?
James puts some pages of his manuscript into his old frayed book bag. Regulus’ decision had already been made for him. He deliberated the merit of still attempting to lie, to keep up the front of casual indifference he’d seen James embody so well, but could never get it exactly right on himself.
“You want to go right now?”
He slips on his converse. “Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”
Regulus sighed, brushing past him toward the shed where their bikes rested, waiting for Kreatcher to pump air into their gaunt tires. “I thought ‘thy eternal summer shall not fade’?”
James nudges the kickstand off with his foot, mounting the bike that was once Sirius’ but has since been reclaimed. “Stop it, you’ll make me blush.”
Regulus kicks off with more force than necessary and begins pedalling, swift and heavy footed, leaving James to struggle a few meters behind, trying and failing to match his pace.
Regulus found small comfort in the loneliness of James’ company. It didn’t matter whether they biked together or apart, for they rarely discussed anything. If still deliberating whether it was better to speak or to die, Regulus would be long dead.
Perhaps James was easily out of breath and didn’t want to talk too much, or just wanted to concentrate on biking, swimming, running. Perhaps it was his way of spurring Regulus to do the same. Still, there was something jarring about the sudden distance that crept between them in the most unexpected moments. As though James were doing it on purpose. Drawing them closer and closer together, feeding Regulus more slack, and more slack, before tugging on the rope and pulling it out from under him completely.
There was something at once comfortable and off-putting about spending time with James. The other man’s ability to flick a switch and lock Regulus out entirely was chilling. Once he’d deemed they’ve grown too close, he’d pile bricks on bricks between them, then moments later, smile and invite him to town, effectively demolishing the wall he’d painstakingly just built.
When they arrive in town, they park their bikes in the centre, leaning against the rusted railing made to protect the monument. The small town’s forgotten memorial statue, a bronzed lady victory - Victoire en Bronze.
James had to drop off some revised pages to his translator. Would Regulus come with him? No. They only came here to collect a package for Sirius, remember? He’d visit the post office and come right back. Wait for me here?
Regulus collected three letters, all addressed to his brother. By whom, and from where they came, he had no idea. There was no return address, no details of the sender, no name, not so much as a scribble on the backside of the envelope. Curious, but not curious enough for Regulus to pay it any more mind. He folded the letters in half and slipped them in his back pocket.
When he returned to Victoire en Bronze, James was leaning against the railing with a cigarette pressed to space between his lips. He exhaled a heavy sigh, one of someone much older, with much heavier burdens. He watched a trail of transparent smoke blow some of those troubles away.
“World War One, right?” His eyes never leave the statue.
James had been to la ville countless times - some with Sirius, some with Regulus, some with Orion, some alone. He's seen the monument just as many times, most likely read the plaque. So why does he ask?
“No. This is World War Two. The figure in the middle-”
“Nike. The Goddess of Victory.”
Of course, this proved nothing. With all Regulus knew about James, it was just as likely he kept a secret hidden stash of Greek Mythological knowledge stored away, as it was he’d make up feigned interest in something he already knew, or couldn’t care less about, just to ignite a conversation with Regulus. His faltering dividing walls came up, and down, up, and down.
“Right. And by her side, la déesse de la guerre et la déesse de la mer. The goddess of war, and the goddess of the sea.”
“In memory of the soldiers of all confessions, who died for France in North Africa.” He quoted without looking.
“So you have read the plaque.”
James shrugged. “I like the way you say things.”
To speak or to die. To speak or to die. To speak or to die.
“Why would you tell me that?”
He takes another slow drag from his cigarette. “Because I thought you should know.”
Regulus repeats his words slowly, playing for time as he considers them. “Because you thought I should know?”
“Because I want you to know.” James confesses, “Because I don’t want to die, but you’re- This is killing me, Regulus. You're making this very difficult for me.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
His voice trembles as if on the verge of breaking, but he masks it with a forced stoicism. He still hasn’t looked at Regulus. To the monument, he whispers, “There’s no one else I can say this to but you.”