Non c’andà.
People who read are hiders. They hide who they are. People who hide don’t always like who they are. Regulus had always known that about himself. But if that were true for readers, what did it mean for writers?
You can’t tell anybody, James had whispered. He’d begged and pleaded, please don’t tell anybody.
His father used to say people can't help but live as though they've got two lives at their disposal. One is the mockup, the other the finished version, and then there are all those versions in between. He never knew which version of James he was getting. Maybe this version, his James, only existed in the elusive solitude of Marseille, and he would soon have to return to being the finished version of James back in England.
He considered, if there were many versions of James, was this the best one? And if there were many versions of Regulus, why couldn’t James have spent the summer with a better one? Maybe somewhere in the scraps of old versions tossed away, somewhere buried there was a version he could desire without shame, pursue without fear, or even look at without trembling.
After that, the steely gaze returned. Days later, while practicing guitar at what had become Regulus’ ‘spot’ in the garden, he noticed it again. Cutting, cruel, like a glistening blade instantly retracted the moment its victim caught sight of it.
“Is there anything you aren’t good at?” An olive branch perhaps, though a confusing one. The same James who admitted his feelings to Regulus only days prior, then instantly ripped them away and retracted the sentiment, would continue to do things like glare daggers at him in the garden, then pepper him with a flock of compliments.
“Sirius is better at guitar than me. He’ll show you, I’m sure. If you ask.”
“I’d rather hear you play it.”
But I thought you hated it. Hated it? Whatever gave you that idea? They argued back and forth. Regulus ducked out eventually, too shy to admit he noticed the scrutinising stares, that he felt slighted by the bitter expressions James wore only in his company, that he was starting to take them personally.
“Just play it, will you?”
So, he played. Later that night in his diary he’d write: I was exaggerating when I said I thought you hated the piece. What I meant to say was: I thought you hated me.
“Now, was that so hard?”. Regulus ignored this, mustering a concealed supply of courage, and opting finally to speak.
“We are not written for one instrument alone, James. I am not, neither are you.”
He stiffened, “Can we not talk about this? Please?”
“So what, we’re on speaking terms - but not really?”
“Look, we can’t talk about these things. We really can’t.”
Did Regulus even want him to speak? Or would he prefer a lifetime of longing, provided those godforsaken walls don’t need to go up again, and those vacant daunting silence mustn’t persist and linger between them.
Maybe it’s better if they say nothing at all. If you can't say "yes," don't say "no,". If you can’t say “thankyou”, say "cheers" instead. Say "maybe" when what you mean is "yes", but you’d like them to think you’re saying “no”, all along hoping secretly they’ll just ask just once more, and once more after that. Just so you can speak again.
“You wish you hadn’t spoken?”
“I’m going to pretend I never did.”