Chapter 7
Regulus didn’t remember getting back to the hotel, he didn’t remember showering, and he didn’t remember falling asleep. But, fuck, did he remember James Potter. And fuck James Potter for being pretty. It wasn’t fucking fair, not even a little bit.
His head was pounding, thanks to the alcohol he’d no doubt consumed the night before, and the napkin with James’ number was on his bedside table. The sun spilled into the room, lighting up the napkin like the intrusion it was. But Reggie couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, not when the promise of revenge was so close.
Regulus wanted to kill Sirius, to strangle him with his bare hands until he was begging for forgiveness, and then, only then, would Regulus let go and watch Sirius writhe on the floor. Maybe he’d bring his foot down and it’d happen to connect with Sirius’ ankle, and maybe the bone would snap. Maybe Sirius would scream, and maybe it’d sound like the noise Regulus made when Mother had poured boiling water down his arms on his birthday. Perhaps it’d sound like the yell that tore from Regulus’ lips when mother yanked the staples from his mouth and poured rubbing alcohol directly onto the holes they left behind.
And Sirius would cry. He’d cry and cry, but he’d never, not in a million years, feel like Regulus had when he woke up alone in that house. Regulus wiped his eyes, content to ignore the tears slickening his fingers. He didn’t want Sirius to die, he lamented, pressing his pillow into his face.
“Good morning, Reg,” Barty said, climbing into bed next to Reggie. “What are you thinking about?”
Regulus sighed and removed the pillow from his face. “I don’t want to kill Sirius.”
Barty was silent for a long moment before humming softly, “that’s good.” He guided Reggie’s head to his shoulder and ran his fingers through Reggie’s hair from the roots to the tips, working out the knots and tangles with careful hands.
Regulus didn’t want to hurt Sirius, he wanted him to understand, and that made everything more difficult. He didn’t want to hurt the boy who learned to pick locks just to sneak Regulus extra food when they’d been denied dinner. He didn’t want to hurt the boy who made a Christmas tree in the back of his closet from sticks outside and wrapped things he’d stolen from school in newspaper and pretended they were from Santa. He didn’t want to hurt the boy who was beaten black and blue and still dragged himself to Reggie’s room to make sure the younger boy slept. He didn’t want to hurt the boy who took the blame when Reggie cut his hair much too short in the second grade.
But that boy had hurt him.
Regulus’ muscles still hurt sometimes, when the weather changed abruptly or he’d been too active the previous day, and sometimes the scars peppering his skin burned as if they were fresh. Pandora said they were phantom pains, but they made his fingers twitch and his arms jerk. Pandora said it was due to the burns that damaged nerve endings.
It was difficult to breathe, but Regulus forced a deep breath into his lungs and held it until his chest seared. He exhaled as slowly as possible and began the process anew.
In and out, in and out, in and out.
“You can tell me to fuck off and I’ll understand, but I think you should at least talk to James,” Barty whispered, and Regulus’ heart lurched. “Meet him in a neutral location. Hear him out.”
Regulus didn’t want anything to do with Sirius, right?But he couldn’t keep living like he was, he couldn’t stay so angry forever.
One thing Regulus was good at was pouring his anger and frustration into their concerts, tearing his hands open and giving Barty the go ahead to be as violent as he wished when it came to their little acts. Barty was angry too, they all were, but he knew exactly what Reggie needed, and he was more than happy to give it all.
It was their best show, and afterwards, as Barty and Pandora made their way to the fan meet and greet, Evan and Regulus hung back, slipping into the dressing room for a moment of much needed silence. Evan was staring at Regulus as if he’d explode at any moment, and Regulus wasn’t positive that he wouldn’t.
Instead of speaking, Evan took Regulus’ hands and gently cleaned the wounds from his guitar strings. He wrapped the blistered gashes before moving up to Reggie’s face, and Regulus couldn’t avoid Evan’s worry anymore.
“You know what I’m going to say,” Evan whispered, dabbing the cut on Reggie’s face from Barty’s rings. He slipped a butterfly-soft thumb across the bruise under Reggie’s eye where he hadn’t acted fast enough to move his head out of the way of Barty’s boot. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to move. Maybe he wanted the boot to make contact, maybe he wanted the mark, the stinging pain that lasted for days.
Reggie fisted his newly wrapped hands and stepped away from Evan’s grasp, dropping to the too-big couch crammed into the small room. “I know what I’m doing,” Regulus muttered, but his voice wavered and neither of them were convinced, not when the front of Reggie’s shirt was again stained with his own blood. He shuddered and his eyes slipped closed.
Evan sighed, but it wasn’t a disappointed sound—Reggie knew those intimately—rather a worried one that meant Evan had something to do that he desperately wished he could blow off. But their fans had paid a great deal of money to meet them, and they’d been promised at least 75% band attendance. And Reggie was in no state to face the media and crowds. He’d be deep in a dissociative episode before the first fan could even take a photo. In fact, he was already beginning to slip.
“Don’t move, please,” Evan instructed, hesitating just a moment more before darting from the room. In the back of his mind, Regulus was sure he’d be bashed online for skipping the meet and greet, perhaps he’d even be called “egotistical” again, like he’d been after the interview with Brenda.
He didn’t really care, despite the voice in his head that sounded remarkably like Pandora’s telling him he should care, that this was bigger than just him.
Reggie placed his feet flat on the floor and focused on the sting of his split lip and the beginning of the body aches that would hit him like a truck in the coming days. The phantom pains from Mother were setting in.
On the table beside the couch, his phone rang, and it took every ounce of willpower Reggie had left to grab the device. He accepted the call and put it to his ear, not bothering with a greeting.
“Regulus?” James’ voice echoed through the speaker and Regulus fought tooth and nail to stay present. “I just saw your text, and I’d love to meet tomorrow. For coffee?”
“Sure,” he said through clenched teeth.
To his credit, James got the hint that Regulus wasn’t in a particularly talkative mood and hung up after texting Regulus the address of a cafe nearby.
The phone dropped from Regulus’ hand and clattered somewhere insignificant. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, eyes unfocused and brain empty, but when Pandora, Evan, and Barty filed into the room, Reggie jolted back into partial consciousness.
They didn’t speak as they packed up their things, and Regulus went through the motions lifelessly, unable to snap himself out of his sleep-like daze.
“Let’s go out tonight, yeah?” Evan said, his hand on Reggie’s arm. “Let’s be stupid together,” he added, and Pandora smirked from the door.
“I’m down,” she said.
They rarely went out together, since bars were usually the last place they wanted to be after a concert, but the past few shows had them all on edge.
“We can go change at the hotel and then find a club downtown?” Barty said, pulling his jacket on and hauling one of their suitcases into the hall.
Regulus didn’t have the mind to disagree; he was good at being stupid.
“There’s a club not far from here, Three Broomsticks,” Evan said, looking up from his phone.
Barty snorted, “Three Broomsticks? The fuck kind of place is that?”
Evan huffed a laugh and shook his head. “The reviews say it’s the kind of place that only locals know about, and they always have good music.”
The walk was short, but they had to double back more than once—the building was nestled in between two large buildings, barely visible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.
Regulus was carded at the entrance to the club, and he forked over his ID with a roll of his eyes—Pandora would never let him live it down, especially when the rest of the band were let in without trouble.
He had to give Evan credit—the club was actually decent: it was clean, loud enough to make your eyes rattle in your skull but with a good number of hidden nooks and crannies where you could escape the noise, and it wasn’t too packed.
Evan’s hand ghosted around Regulus’ waist and he ducked his mouth to Regulus’ ear. “What’s your drink of choice tonight, baby?”
“Surprise me?”
The older man gave Regulus a long look before heading to the bar, and Regulus didn’t give Barty a chance to take control, opting instead to pull the taller man to the dance floor. The song playing over the speakers was heavy on the bass and Regulus found the beat immediately, moving like he was born to.
He knew exactly what he looked like, pulling Barty’s hands to his waist. He closed his eyes and breathed in the heavy scent of alcohol, sweat, and Barty, grinding back into the man.
Barty’s breath stuttered, hot on his neck, and Regulus relished their closeness, savoring the way Barty’s every touch grounded him.
“You’re real good at this, Reg,” Barty whispered against the shell of his ear. The taller man’s eyes glittered under the flashing club lights and his hands tightened around Regulus’ hips, pulling them flush against each other. Regulus leaned his head back, not needing to look to know Barty was eyeing the unmarked expanse of his throat.
A hand found his ass, and by the size and heat of it, Regulus knew it was Evan’s.
Regulus studied the drink he’d brought him—it was bright blue and smelled overwhelmingly sweet before it even touched his lips.
Evan pressed his nose into Regulus’ jaw and pulled him away from Barty. “Be good, baby,” he murmured, his chest against Regulus’ back. When Regulus brought the drink to his lips, Evan held the end of it in place, forcing him to drink it all at once, caring not for the mess that twisted down his neck. Regulus gasped when the glass was lowered, his arms prickling around the “good, so good,” Evan licked into his skin.
Regulus splashed frigid water onto his face and looked up at the mirror above the bathroom sink. He was a mess: his half-ponytail from the concert had been completely undone by Barty’s wandering hands, every button on his shirt but the last two was undone, his forehead shone with sweat, and there was an elaborate collage of hickies around his neck and collarbones.
The bathroom door opened and a breathless Barty sauntered in, a smile overtaking his face when he saw Regulus at the sink. Regulus’ hands were ready when Barty was within reach, and their kiss quickly turned messy. Barty flipped them around until Regulus was caged against the bathroom wall with a knee in between his legs. He couldn’t bring himself to care about how loud he was being when Barty pressed Regulus down to grind against his knee.
“God, you looked like a slut on stage tonight,” Barty growled into Regulus’ ear over the smaller man’s whimpers. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you, Reg? You were so fucking desperate, such a pathetic mess for the world to see.”
Barty’s hand wrapped around Regulus’ neck, cutting off his whines. “You like putting on a show, don’t you? You like being thrown around the stage like a worthless pet.”
Regulus was certain he’d die right then and there. The version of Barty before him was the one he only got when he was alone, without Evan’s supervision. No matter how much Regulus liked being with both Evan and Barty, there was something about Barty’s uncontrolled aggression that drove him crazy.
“On your knees,” Barty ordered, forcing him by the neck to the ground. “Prove you’re more than just a pretty show.”