Chapter 6
Anarchists for Entropy’s next show was their biggest yet, and the venue was completely sold out. Regulus was doing better than after their last show, and the time off had been surprisingly peaceful. He was excited to be on stage again.
“Everybody ready?” Evan asked, rubbing his hands together. Regulus downed a double shot of vodka and Pandora snatched away his empty glass, clicking her tongue. “Chill out, Reg,” Evan added, taking the bottle of vodka and placing it out of Regulus’ reach.
“Y’all still good with the stunts on the docket?”
Regulus nodded when the rest of the group did. He bounced on the balls of his feet and let a manic grin take over his face. The opening artist was just finishing their set, and the crowd was already cheering madly.
Regulus hung back while the rest of the band took their places, situating their instruments and adjusting their earpieces.
The opening chord of their first song echoed through the building and deep red lights flicked on. Regulus shook out his arms and shoulders and tilted his head down, waiting for the lights to turn on and off once, twice, three times before he took his place on stage before they came on again.
When he was revealed and the tempo increased, the crowd exploded . The floor under Regulus’ feet was vibrating, and he could feel the pure, thrumming energy in the place down to his bones. His blood was lava in his veins, and he let the song take him away as he sang the first notes of the night.
Halfway through the set, Regulus was on his knees, his arched spine lined up with Barty’s shin and the man’s foot in between his legs. He tipped his head back to stare up at Barty, all while carrying the guitar parts of the song while Barty sang his solo, and Barty looked down at him, curling his lip and narrowing his eyes just like they practiced. Regulus swallowed slowly, already picturing the edits of him and his bobbing, bloody throat that would take the internet by storm before the night was over.
He let his mouth drop open, his tongue stick out, and he exaggerated the movement of his chest when he breathed. Barty sneered at his dramatics and Regulus had to fight the grin threatening to disrupt his desperate, out of breath facade; he knew how pathetic he looked, but it was fun to put on a show for the viewers, and it was even more amusing that it was all fake. The crowd was convinced Barty and Regulus were together, and it was entertaining to steer them in the completely wrong direction just for the hell of it.
Barty channeled his energy into the vocals for the song, threaded a hand through Regulus’ hair, and wrenched his head to the side. His last few notes were low—much lower than Regulus could sing—and they ended with a growl-adjacent sound that had nearly sent Evan into a heart attack during their first recording.
Painstakingly slowly, Barty leaned over to spit in Regulus’ mouth before throwing him to the floor just like at the previous show. Regulus’ hands kept up on his guitar as he landed, and Barty stepped forward to press Regulus into the floor with a shoe to his—falsely—heaving chest.
Regulus’ eyes found the crowd during the final measures of the song, and as the lights went out, Regulus caught a fan’s gaze behind wire-framed glasses. The fan’s eyes were bright and open wide. His mouth was parted slightly and Regulus winked, holding the man’s gaze just long enough to see a dark blush take over his pretty features.
The next song began and Regulus was on his feet again, pouring his heart into the strings of his guitar. Their last song of the night ended with several measures of a drum solo and then one final line by Regulus, so as Evan took it away on his side of the stage, Regulus found the microphone with both hands, moving his hips and dancing in place to the beat.
Fingers on his hips scared him half to death before he remembered Barty’s comment, in his ear after their first song, about the finale. “ Full send ,” he’d murmured.
Barty was tall, infuriatingly so. He towered over Regulus—who was average , thank you very much—and his hands were massive compared to Regulus’ waist. The fans got a kick out of their interactions—as did Evan—and so Barty pulled Regulus’ hips back against his front and moved with Regulus, sliding his hands up the smaller man’s chest.
Regulus brought the microphone to his lips and Barty’s left hand found his neck, forcing Regulus to look the man in the eyes as he finished the song. He ignored the man’s other hand, which was slowly unbuttoning the rest of Regulus’ shirt—Barty had been instructed not to rip it this time, because it was Regulus’ ‘favorite shirt’ and he'd cry if so much as a thread frayed. Barty only got a few buttons undone before the song ended and the stage was blanketed in darkness.
The crowd was beyond deafening, and the band quickly made themselves scarce so as to not lose their hearing once and for all.
Pandora thwacked Regulus upside the head with a copy of their setlist when they were in their private room. “That was extreme, even for you, Reg. This isn’t a porno,” she chastised, flopping down onto the chair next to the one Regulus had claimed.
Evan, who had attacked Barty with PDA as soon as they’d made it off the stage, freed his lips and wiggled his eyebrows. “But Panda, I saw Reggie making eyes at a fan ,” he sang, his voice loaded with far too much mirth for Regulus’ liking.
“Fuck you,” he hissed, holding his hands out for Pandora to clean and wrap.
Barty settled into a chair opposite Regulus and Evan immediately plopped into his lap. “That man was like 50, Reg,” he teased.
Pandora gagged loudly. “That’s gross, Barty! That’s like…thirty years older than him!” She exclaimed, wrapping Regulus’ hands. She technically was right, Regulus was the youngest in the group at 23, the other men being 27 and 26, and Pandora being 25.
Regulus laughed, winking at Pandora, “Y’know, some people are into that.”
She gagged again, “I think those people are called pedophiles , Reg.”
Regulus leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’ve been legal for ages—”
“I hate to take Pandora’s side—” Pandora glared at Evan, “but you do look kinda young for your age, Reggie,” Evan said, “and if you have to use the excuse ‘I’m legal,’ you’re not winning any argument.”
Regulus sighed as loud as he could. “I’m in no position to be picky about who’s attention I get,” he said, waiting for Pandora’s squawk of disgust. He grinned when she hit him with their setlist again.
“You’re fucked up, Reg, absolutely fucked in the head. You’re beyond help—”
A knock on the door saved them from an inevitable fight—which Regulus would win because he was far more petty than all his bandmates combined—and before Regulus could compose himself, Pandora was letting a man into the room.
[James POV]
James had been skeptical about Anarchists for Entropy. Sure, he’d been into rock and punk metal in high school, but it’d been years. He wasn’t keen on the loud, rowdy scene most concerts were nowadays, but he wanted to see if the rising band lived up to the hype.
And maybe, just maybe, James was curious about Sirius Black’s little brother. He’d heard the occasional story and anecdote about the sibling from Sirius, he’d heard about how their parents “preferred” the younger Black. Their parents never came looking for Sirius, so James accepted the terrible truth that Regulus was, in fact, the favorite.
James had to wonder, though, when Sirius showed up on the doorstep beaten half-to-death and sporting a horrific collection of scars, if life could really be all that much better for Regulus. From what James had weaseled out of Sirius, Mr. and Mrs. Black were loveless beings with a penchant for violence, and he couldn’t see how that could possibly end well for any child.
The youngest Black was a mystery, and James had yet to meet the elusive boy. He assumed Regulus would be like a mini-Sirius: long, unruly dark hair, a tattoo here and there, the same broad shoulders and most of the height Sirius inherited.
James’ attention snapped to the stage when the lights flashed and the crowd reached maximum volume. There was a silhouette illuminated by the red lights at the back of the stage. He stepped to the microphone at the front of the stage and brought his hand down to send a chord blasting through the speakers.
Regulus Black .
He was a menace, that much was as James imagined, but that’s where the congruences stopped. Where Sirius had long curls, Regulus had straight, shoulder-length hair pulled into a half-up, half-down style, showing off hints of an undercut just past his ears. From there, he was all tattoos and piercings. He was smaller than Sirius, but his personality was already far louder, if possible. His narrow shoulders and hips were accentuated by his tight leather pants and the mostly unbuttoned dress shirt he’d tucked into the waistband. And that waist —
A little over halfway through the show, once James had mostly gotten over his initial surprise, a slower song began. Regulus’ fingers left his guitar and he held the microphone stand with one hand and brought his other hand up to his neck. The stage lights highlighted the veins in his arm when he tightened his grip, and as his hand fell away from the pale skin of his neck, bloody fingertips were revealed around his throat. The deep scarlet dripped to his collarbones and he resumed on his guitar, caring not for the blood splattering his instrument.
James wasn’t sure his knees would hold him up for much longer.
When the band had two or three songs to go, the show paused and Regulus stepped up to the microphone with a sneer on his lips. His eyes swept the crowd as the rest of the band rearranged their equipment and took a short break.
“Hello, everyone!” He said, his speaking voice shockingly smooth and melodic, a harsh contrast to his raspy singing voice. When the audience was mostly quiet again, Regulus spoke again. “Wow, there’s so many of you—” The crowd roared, and a few random people yelled out declarations and questions.
“Sorry, I can’t hear very well from up here—”
“Are your hands okay?” Someone near James yelled.
Regulus chuckled, the laugh somehow adorably close to a giggle. “Don’t worry about me,” he sang, leaning into the hints of a french accent that shadowed his singing voice, much like the one Sirius had tried to get rid of as soon as he’d moved in with the Potters.
The crowd went wild and Regulus laughed again. James’ face felt warm.
“I have a few announcements for y’all—” he started, squinting at the crowd, “shit, what does that sign say…. ‘Will I marry you?’”
Regulus shook his head and grinned, his lip piercings shining under the stage lights. “That’s one of the purest signs I’ve ever seen at one of these things, I’ll give you that,” he shook his head again.
The other guitarist snatched the microphone, which Regulus had removed from the stand, and pushed Regulus back with a hand to the face. “You’ve got the worst attention span in the world, Reggie. JesusChrist, you had one job!”
“What this shithead was trying to say is that this is our largest audience ever, and it means a lot to us that you came out tonight to hear us play!”
“Thank you!” Regulus’ voice barely reached the microphone even as he bounced on the balls of his feet like a puppy. “Do y’think we should sing a special song? One they’ve never heard?”
The man with the microphone grinned. “This next song is for all of you here tonight,” he said, bending down and whispering something in Reggie’s ear. Jealousy flared in James’ chest when Regulus cast a glance towards his bandmate and his lips contorted into a sharp smirk that made James’ mouth as dry as a cotton swab. Before the next song began, Regulus’ eyes found him in the crowd and he winked.
James didn’t think twice about sneaking backstage to talk to the band, though after knocking on the dressing room door, a pulse of anxiety jolted down his spine. Pandora— it was Pandora, right? —opened the door and offered him a strained smile. She let him in and James’ feet took him into the room before his brain could process how terribly this could go.
“This is James,” Pandora said, and James watched her eyes flick nervously to Regulus, and— wow, that’s a lot of blood .
James nodded in greeting, “hi, guys. I know you probably don’t want to see me—”
“Who are you?” The keyboardist interrupted, eyes narrowed.
“I’m Sirius’ best friend—”
The other guitarist cleared his throat loudly. “Why the fuck are you here?”
“Hear the man out, will you?” Pandora hissed, and James tried to reign in his surprise. He didn’t know why Pandora was sticking up for him, but he wasn’t going to ruin the rare opportunity she was offering.
James rubbed the back of his neck and looked everywhere but at Regulus. “I don’t agree with his choice to show up out of the blue, and I’m sorry you had to deal with his poor decisions.” Because it wasn’t okay, and it never had been. Even when they were kids, James had wondered about the sibling Sirius left behind. He wondered why Sirius never reached out, and he recognized the guilt that’d been slowly eating his friend alive since they’d met. And yet Sirius had never acted, he’d never even tried to remedy the worry growing in the back of his head.
“I really don’t agree with anything Sirius has done, or hasn’t done, over the years regarding you. I’ve seen what his cowardice has done to him, all by his own volition,” James said, finally looking at Regulus.
God, he was pretty —
“Why should I fucking care?” Regulus said, his voice sharp and cold and everything it hadn’t been onstage. It was intoxicating.
“You don’t have to, but I’ve been trying for years to get Sirius to see the tremendous error in his ways, and he’s so deep in denial he won’t listen to me.”
“I don’t give a shit about Sirius,” Regulus snapped, and the venom behind his response was evidence enough of the contrary.
James fished out a pen from his pocket and grabbed a napkin from the table by the door. He scribbled his number on it and handed it to Regulus. “If you want to make him hurt like he hurt you, call me.”
He thanked the rest of the band and slipped into the hallway, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. Regulus’ pretty lips, his piercings, his smooth accent… James was painfully enamoured.