Questionable Life Choices
Regulus sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the neatly laid-out outfit in front of him, a dark T-shirt, baggy trousers, polished boots. It was exactly the kind of thing he would wear on a night out, something put together but not overly flashy. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to move.
His birthday. Again.
He hated it. Hated the attention, the forced celebrations, the way people tried to make it into something it wasn’t. Last year, he had managed to keep it low-key, just a few drinks, nothing extravagant. This year, though, Barty and Evan had decided otherwise. A party. At the pub. That pub.
Regulus exhaled slowly, his fingers digging into the mattress. He had been avoiding that place for a year. Too many ghosts lurked in the dim lighting, too many memories tangled between the tables, in the music, in the way the bar smelled like beer and cheap cologne. It was foolish, really. It wasn’t like the pub itself had done anything to him. It was just another place, just another bar. But it was also their place. His and James’s.
And he was done with James. Done with the way his name still had the power to shake Regulus’s foundation.
His jaw tightened as he considered calling Barty with an excuse. A headache. A last-minute shift at the hospital. Anything to get out of it. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it was pointless. Barty and Evan wouldn’t let him back out. Not tonight. And if he was honest with himself, maybe part of him knew he couldn't run forever.
With a sharp inhale, he pushed himself up and made his way to the bathroom. The shower was quick, efficient, and he tried not to think about why he was shaking off nerves as if this were something monumental. It was just a night out. Just a birthday.
Just another reminder of everything he’d lost.
By the time he was dressed, he looked like himself again; stoic, composed, untouched by whatever storm raged inside. One last glance in the mirror, and then he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.
There was no escaping it now.
Regulus arrived at the pub just before eight, standing outside for a brief moment, letting the sounds of laughter and muffled music seep through the doors. He exhaled sharply, bracing himself. He had a plan.
Go in. Interact. Have a drink, maybe two. Pretend to have fun. Take a few photos, send them to Sirius so he wouldn’t get another lecture about spending his birthday alone. Use the excuse of meeting Sirius in the morning to slip out early. By eleven, he’d be in bed, the night behind him.
Simple.
He adjusted the collar of his shirt, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside.
The warmth of the pub hit him first, followed by the familiar scent of spilled beer and old wood. The low hum of conversation wrapped around him, punctuated by bursts of laughter, clinking glasses, and the distant strumming of a guitar as the band set up in the corner was getting ready to play. It was normal. Just another night. Just another bar.
So why did his chest feel tight?
He took a steadying breath, pushing down the weight pressing against his ribs. This wasn’t about the past. It was about showing up, keeping up appearances, proving to himself, to Sirius, to everyone, that he was fine. That he had moved on.
He could do this.
Regulus wasn’t even halfway through the bar when an arm was thrown heavily around his shoulders, nearly making him stumble. The strong smell of whiskey and expensive cologne hit him before he even turned his head.
"There he is! The birthday boy himself!" Barty Crouch Jr. declared, his words slightly slurred, but his grin devilishly wide.
Regulus tensed, already regretting his decision to come. Before he could protest, Barty, ever the dramatist, turned to the pub at large and practically shouted, "Ladies and gentlemen, the man of the hour!"
Regulus felt his entire face heat up as a group of strangers, most of whom had no idea who he was, raised their glasses in a halfhearted cheer before returning to their drinks and conversations.
"Barty, for fuck’s sake—"
"Ah, ah," Barty cut him off, wagging a finger. "It’s your birthday, Reggie. Loosen up."
Regulus clenched his jaw at the nickname, but before he could shake off Barty’s grip, Evan appeared, smirking like the cat that got the cream. In his hands was a ridiculous, very pink plastic crown with the words Birthday Girl scrawled across it in glitter.
Regulus immediately took a step back. "Absolutely not."
Evan didn't even blink before placing it atop Regulus’s head, adjusting it with exaggerated care. "There. Perfect."
Regulus reached up to yank it off, but Evan grabbed his wrists. "No, no. Birthday rules. You have to wear it at least until your first drink is finished."
"That’s not a rule, you just made that up," Regulus deadpanned.
"Exactly," Evan grinned. "And I make the rules tonight. Now, move it, Your Highness."
Regulus let out a long-suffering sigh as both Barty and Evan guided him, well, pushed him, toward a reserved section of the pub.
There, a group of people turned toward him, some familiar faces from med school, a few colleagues from the hospital. But most of them? Total strangers. He shook hands, gave polite nods, faked a smile when necessary. Sirius wasn’t there, of course. That was no surprise. Barty and Evan had organized this disaster, and knowing them, they’d prioritized everything but the basics.
Like a cake. Or perhaps inviting people he actually liked.
He didn’t even bother asking if they had planned anything remotely conventional.
"Drink," Evan announced, shoving a glass into Regulus’s hand.
Regulus eyed it suspiciously. "If I wake up in a different country tomorrow, I’m killing both of you."
Barty cackled. "No promises."
Evan smirked. "It’s just whiskey, Reg. Trust issues much?"
Regulus exhaled, took a sip, and immediately regretted it. The burn of something far stronger than whiskey hit his tongue, and he coughed slightly, glaring at Evan.
Evan raised his glass in a mock toast. "Happy birthday, darling."
Regulus sighed and took another sip. It was going to be a long night.
As the lights dimmed and the chatter of the bar softened, Regulus’s attention was drawn to the stage. The familiar opening chords of a song rang out, and Regulus froze, his gaze snapping to the band.
"Is that... U2?" he murmured, squinting through the haze of the pub.
Evan, who had been leaning against the bar with a drink in hand, followed Regulus’s gaze and grinned. "Of course it’s U2, genius. It’s a U2 cover band, what did you expect? The Police?"
Regulus couldn’t help but chuckle, a smirk tugging at his lips. 'Touché,' he muttered, but inside, something stirred. U2 had always been his favorite band. He could still remember the time James had dragged him to this very pub to see a U2 cover band, knowing how much he loved them. The two of them had laughed, and kissed. The memory threatened to break through the fog in his mind, but Regulus pushed it back down with a swig of his drink
The band kicked into the song 'With a Shout', a track he’d always been particularly fond of. It was the perfect blend of melancholy and hope that hit him harder than it should. He felt something deep in his chest, his heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the music. Regulus was momentarily lost, caught in the familiar lyrics.
"You know," Evan said, leaning closer to Regulus, snapping him out of his trance, "Barty paid for this band tonight. You can thank him for the soundtrack to your misery."
Regulus blinked at him, the words registering. "Barty?" he repeated. "He actually put this together?"
Evan nodded, his smile a little smug. "Yeah."
Barty, who had been hanging off the side of the booth laughing with a few other guests, overheard and chimed in, "I was going to go for real U2, but then I remembered you were being all... Regulus about everything, so I had to lower my standards."
Regulus shot him a playful glare. "You could’ve at least gotten them to do Sunday Bloody Sunday," he quipped, grinning slightly.
Barty laughed, raising his glass in a mock toast. "If you stopped being such a pain in the ass, maybe I would’ve."
Regulus couldn’t help but let out a genuine laugh, a rare thing these days. He took another swig of his drink, his mood slowly lifting. Maybe he could try to enjoy this party, after all, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
As the song continued, Regulus felt the music pulling him in. It was something about hearing his favorite song live, even if it was a cover. He found himself nodding along, tapping his foot to the beat. And before he knew it, the lyrics slipped out of his mouth, quiet at first, then louder as the song reached its crescendo.
“With a shout... it’s all we need…”
He didn’t even care that people were starting to look at him. Regulus sang louder, his voice blending with the band’s. He closed his eyes, lost in the music, lost in something that felt like freedom. He could almost feel James beside him, the memory of their nights spent together at this very pub, the way James would look at him when the music swelled, as if the whole world stopped for just a moment.
Regulus took another long drink, feeling the burn of the liquor slide down his throat as he tried to shake the image of James from his mind. The memories of their laughter, the warmth of their kiss, the way everything had felt so right, he had to forget. He couldn’t let himself dwell on it. He looked around the pub, searching for any distraction.
“So, is Thorfinn Rowle coming tonight?” Regulus asked, trying to sound casual, but the tension in his voice betrayed him.
Evan made a face, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Ugh, Regulus, why would you even want him here?” He leaned back in his chair, mockingly pressing a hand to his stomach. “The guy’s ancient! What are you even doing with him? He’s like a grandpa!”
Regulus shrugged, his eyes darting away. “It’s just sex,” he muttered, hoping the words would feel like enough to push the unsettling emotions away.
Barty chuckled and slapped Regulus on the back, a loud, boisterous sound. “That’s the heir of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Cunt for you,” he said with a grin.
Regulus stiffened at the jab, but didn’t say anything. It was easier to ignore the sting than to confront it. He could feel his face burning slightly, not from embarrassment, but from the raw, unspoken truth behind his own words. Maybe it was just sex, but it never felt like that. Not with James.
The thought made his stomach twist. Regulus took another drink, the sharp taste doing little to dull the ache in his chest. He had to move on. But part of him wasn’t sure if he wanted to.
Regulus drank. He let the burn of alcohol smooth out the sharp edges of his thoughts, let the music carry him into something that felt close to weightlessness. He talked to strangers, flashing lazy smirks and rolling his eyes at their half-drunken attempts at flirting. Someone handed him another drink, and he took it without question. The night blurred in a haze of laughter, clinking glasses, and the rhythmic pulse of the music vibrating through his bones.
At some point, he found himself at the front of the crowd, caught in the energy of the band, screaming the lyrics to a U2 song like his life depended on it. His voice was hoarse, his throat raw, but he didn’t care. The lights flashed in a dizzying pattern, the bass thrumming through his chest. Someone threw an arm around him, some stranger just as lost in the music as he was, and for a fleeting moment, Regulus let himself believe that none of it mattered, none of the things he was running from, none of the memories clawing at the edges of his mind. Just this. Just now.
When the song ended, he swayed slightly, catching his breath as the cheers erupted around him. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and turned, weaving through the crowd back toward his usual table. Barty and Evan were still there, looking just as entertained as ever.
Regulus sat in front of them, voice dry as ever. “Well, that was invigorating. Who knew screaming into the void could be so therapeutic?”
Barty snorted. “You looked like you were either having a religious experience or actively exorcising a demon.”
Evan hummed, swirling his drink in his glass. “Probably both.”
Regulus ignored them, straightening up. “I need another drink.”
Barty smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Shocking. Thought you might have achieved enlightenment up there.”
Regulus scoffed. “Enlightenment requires sobriety. I think we both know that’s not happening.”
Barty let out a laugh, slapping Regulus’s arm. “Go on then. Get your holy water.”
Regulus rolled his eyes but smirked as he turned away, heading toward the bar.
Regulus reached the bar, tapping his fingers against the counter as he leaned in. The bartender barely glanced at him before Regulus muttered, “Whiskey, neat. Put it on Barty Crouch Junior's tab.”
The bartender nodded, already reaching for the bottle, and Regulus exhaled slowly.
The drink was set in front of him, and he grabbed it without thinking, turning back toward the crowd... And walking straight into someone.
His glass jerked in his grip, liquid sloshing over the rim and splattering onto the stranger’s shirt.
“Fuck,” Regulus muttered, his grip tightening around what was left of his drink. He looks up, and for a moment, everything else, the noise, the crowd, the suffocating heat of the pub, everything fades into the background. Because James is standing there, smiling at him, and just like that, the world feels like a beautiful place again.
"I'm sorry about that," James says, gesturing toward the damp spot where the drink had spilled. His voice is warm, easy, like nothing has changed. Like no time has passed at all.
Regulus forces himself to breathe, to keep his voice steady. “No harm done.”
James studies him for a beat, then his lips quirk into something softer. “Happy birthday.”
The words hit like a shock to the system. Regulus’s heart stutters. For a fleeting, reckless second, hope flares in his chest. He remembers. James remembers him, remembers them. The thought sends a rush of something wild through him, something both exhilarating and terrifying. Because if James remembers, if he truly remembers, then what happens next?
Regulus swallows, his voice tight when he asks, “How do you know?”
James nods toward him, eyes glinting with amusement. “Hard to miss.”
Confused, Regulus follows his gaze, until he catches sight of the ridiculous pink plastic crown still perched on his head, the one boldly labeled 'Birthday Girl'.
Oh.
Heat floods his face as he quickly reaches up to yank it off, muttering, “Right. Forgot about that.”
Before he can, James tilts his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t.”
Regulus hesitates.
“It looks good on you.”
Regulus plucks the crown from his head and abandons it on the bar without a second glance. He rakes a hand through his hair, smoothing it back into place, needing something to do with his hands, needing to steady himself. Just breathe. Keep it together.
"Stupid idea from one of my friends," he mutters, hoping to keep things light, detached.
But then James laughs, a quiet, familiar sound that wraps around him like a song he thought he’d forgotten. And when Regulus finally meets his gaze, it’s like the floor shifts beneath him. Hazel eyes, bright and warm, locking onto his like a lifeline. His stomach drops.
It’s been a year. A whole year since the last time he stood this close to James, since the last time they spoke, touched, existed in the same space. But right now, it doesn’t feel like a year at all. It feels like yesterday. Like no time has passed. Like time means nothing when it comes to them.
And that’s dangerous.
Regulus swallows against the tightness in his throat and forces himself to move, to create space before he does something reckless, something he can’t take back. He nods, slipping into something casual, something distant. "Well. Fancy seeing you here."
He turns, ready to leave, but James steps in closer. Too close.
"Wait," James says, his voice easy, effortless, tempting. "Let me buy you a drink. Since I spilled yours."
Regulus should say no. He needs to say no. He needs to put as much distance between them as humanly possible before this spirals into something he can’t control.
But he’s too weak. Too fucking weak when it comes to James Potter.
So he hesitates. Just long enough. Just enough for James to smile, for his fingers to brush against the bar as he signals the bartender.
"A whiskey, neat," James orders, then turns, handing the glass to Regulus.
Regulus exhales, taking it. This is a mistake.
But he drinks anyway.
They drift toward the center of the pub, where the crowd is thick, pressed together in a sea of movement as the U2 cover band plays. The music thrums through the air, the bass vibrating in Regulus’s chest, and James, damn him, is right there beside him, close enough that Regulus can feel the heat of him, can smell the faint scent of his cologne, the one that never really left Regulus’s memory.
James leans in slightly, his voice cutting through the noise. "Didn’t peg you for a U2 fan."
Regulus quirks a brow, sipping his whiskey. "Didn’t peg you for one either."
James grins, easy, effortless. "You can say that. I listen to them all the time. I know most of the lyrics."
Something tightens in Regulus’s chest. Of course you do. He swallows the emotion down. "What’s your favorite?"
James doesn’t even hesitate. "With or Without You."
Regulus’s grip tightens around his glass. His pulse stutters. His mind fills with memories he shouldn’t be thinking about—James, his James, sitting at a piano, learning that song just because Regulus loved it, his voice rich and warm as he sang the lyrics, just for him. We can’t live with or without each other, love. Guess we’ll have to make it work.
Regulus forces himself to nod, keeping his expression neutral. "Good choice."
James watches him, eyes dark under the dim lights, studying him like he’s trying to figure him out. Regulus shifts, suddenly hyper-aware of the way James is standing, the way he’s angled just slightly toward him, closing the space between them inch by inch.
Their shoulders brush.
Regulus tells himself it’s just the crowd pressing them together, but his breath still catches, and James, fucking James, notices.
He tilts his head slightly, lips quirking. "What about you?"
Regulus wets his lips. James’s gaze flickers to the movement, lingering.
"Same." The word nearly slips out, nearly betrays him. Instead, he clears his throat and shrugs. "It’s a good one."
James hums, amused, but doesn’t call him out on the non-answer. Instead, he shifts closer, just a fraction, enough that Regulus can feel the heat of his breath against his skin when he speaks.
"Are you okay?" James says suddenly, his voice lower, more intimate. " You look a little flustered."
Regulus’s heart slams against his ribs. He should put space between them, he should run.
But James is looking at him like that—like he knows him, even if he doesn’t remember him.
And Regulus?
He’s not strong enough to resist.
James’s fingers curl under Regulus’s chin, tilting his face up. For a split second, Regulus thinks he’s imagining James’s dark, intense gaze, the way his breath fans over his lips, but then James closes the distance and kisses him.
Regulus doesn’t resist. He should, he knows he should, but the second James’s lips press against his, it’s like something inside him snaps. His body moves before his brain catches up, kissing James back, pressing closer, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.
The whiskey is warm in his veins, but James is warmer.
James makes a low sound in the back of his throat, deep and needy, and suddenly there are hands—everywhere. James’s fingers skim up Regulus’s spine, clutch at his waist, dig into his hips, pulling him flush against him. Regulus gasps into his mouth, and James takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping over Regulus’s bottom lip before slipping inside.
Regulus feels it, all of it, James, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the way his body fits against him like they were made for this. Like nothing has changed.
His back presses against something solid, maybe the wall, maybe some unsuspecting patron, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care, because James is right there, slotting himself between Regulus’s legs, hands gripping his waist like he’s scared Regulus might slip away.
And Regulus?
He wants more.
His mind flickers back to the last time they were here, the way James had pulled him into a bathroom stall, had pressed him up against the wall, had fucked him like he was the only thing in the world worth worshiping.
His fingers twitch against James’s back. They could do it again. He could let James take him apart right here, right now, just like before.
But then, fuck, James’s hands slide lower, over his hips, down, and land on Regulus’s ass.
And suddenly, reality slams back into him like a cold shock of water.
Regulus jerks back like he’s been burned, shoving James away with more force than necessary.
They’re both breathing hard, chests heaving. James’s pupils are blown wide with lust, lips swollen from kissing, and fuck, he looks at Regulus like he wants him, needs him.
But he doesn’t know him.
Regulus wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pulse hammering in his throat. “We... Fuck, no. We can’t.”
James blinks, still dazed, and takes a step forward. “Regulus—”
“No.” Regulus’s voice is sharp, breathless. He drags a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. “You... Shit, you have a boyfriend, James.”
James’s expression falters. “That’s not—” He exhales sharply, eyes searching Regulus’s face. “You felt that. You know there’s something here.”
Regulus’s throat tightens. “You’re not thinking straight.”
James’s jaw clenches. “Oh, fuck that. I need you.”
He moves to kiss him again, but Regulus stumbles back, pressing a hand to James’s chest to keep him away. His mind is spinning, his heart pounding, and he knows, he knows, if he lets this go any further, he’ll regret it.
He shakes his head. “I—I can’t.”
Then he turns and pushes through the crowd, barely hearing James curse behind him. He needs air. He needs to think.
Because James doesn’t remember.
And Regulus?
Regulus still remembers everything.
Regulus pushes through the side door, the cool night air hitting him like a slap. He sucks in a breath, pressing his back against the wall, trying to steady himself. His pulse is racing, his lips still tingling from the kiss.
Fuck. Fuck.
He drags a hand through his hair, forcing himself to breathe. He can’t let this happen. He won’t let this happen.
And then—
The door swings open again, and James steps out.
Regulus freezes.
James’s eyes find him immediately, and this time, they’re calmer. Less wild. Less desperate.
Regulus swallows and instinctively takes a step back, putting distance between them.
James notices. His brows pull together, something flickering in his expression, hurt, regret.
“I’m sorry,” James says. His voice is quiet, measured. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I shouldn’t have, but, fuck, Regulus, you feel right to me.”
Regulus grips the wall behind him. His chest tightens.
James takes a hesitant step forward. “I had a car accident about a year ago.” His voice drops, like he’s confessing something sacred. “That’s why I’m Dr. Rowle’s patient.”
Regulus stiffens.
James shakes his head, eyes searching his face. “I lost my memory.” His voice is raw now, vulnerable. “And ever since I woke up, so many things in my life feel off. Like I don’t belong, like I’m constantly missing something—” He swallows, his throat working. “But with you? It’s different.”
Regulus’s breath catches.
James takes another step, closer now. “When I’m with you, I don’t feel lost. I don’t feel like a stranger in my own life. It feels like—” He hesitates. “Like we’ve known each other for so long.”
Regulus’s heart slams against his ribs.
Because they have.
They had a life together. A home, a future, love. They were supposed to get married.
And James doesn’t remember any of it.
Regulus swallows hard, his entire body screaming at him to tell the truth. To tell James that he’s right, that they do belong together, that he hasn’t just known Regulus for a long time, he’s loved him for a long time.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he exhales, schooling his face into neutrality. “That’s nonsense,” he says, his voice carefully detached. “We’ve never met before.”
James flinches like he’s been struck.
Regulus forces himself to keep going. “And even if we had,” he adds, “I’m a doctor. You’re a patient. That kiss, it was highly inappropriate.”
It’s a lie. A terrible, cruel lie.
But it’s the only way to protect them both.
Regulus clenches his jaw, forcing himself to move. He steps past James, brushing against him as he goes. His entire body is still burning from the kiss, from the weight of James’s words, from the way James had looked at him—like he knew him, even if his mind couldn’t remember.
He doesn’t look back.
He strides back into the bar, weaving through the crowd, his heart hammering against his ribs. The music is louder now, the bass thrumming beneath his skin, but it does nothing to drown out the war raging in his head.
He finds Evan and Barty near their table, still deep in conversation. Evan catches sight of him first, raising a questioning brow. “Where’d you disappear to?”
Regulus ignores the question. “Thanks for tonight,” he says instead, voice clipped. “But I’m heading home.”
Barty frowns. “Already?” He tips his head, eyes narrowing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Close enough.
Regulus shakes his head. “I’m just tired.”
Evan doesn’t push, just gives him a knowing look and takes a slow sip of his drink. Barty, however, smirks. “You sure you don’t want another round? Or some cookies. We’ve got plenty of cookies, take some home. You look like you need it.”
Regulus exhales sharply. You have no fucking idea.
His entire body is on fire, still on edge from James’s touch. His skin is tingling, his fingers twitching with the memory of James’s hands on him, his lips, his voice rough with want. And fuck, for a second, for a dangerous second, Regulus had wanted nothing more than to drag James into the nearest dark corner and let him take him apart. Fuck him to oblivion.
Like he had before.
Like he still could.
But he can’t.
Because James doesn’t remember him.
And Regulus refuses to be a mistake James makes in the dark.
“I’ll see you later,” he mutters, grabbing his coat and heading for the exit.
He doesn’t stop until he’s outside, until he’s putting as much distance between himself and James Potter as possible. Because if he doesn’t, if he stays, if he lets James get any closer, he knows he won’t be able to stop. Not this time.