pottery
The first time Regulus meets the owner of the new shop next door, he makes an absolute ass of himself.
In his defense, he doesn’t know this man is the owner. He’s just standing there on the sidewalk, looking up at the new sign overhead, and he’s gorgeous. Black hair contrasted against bronze skin, hazel eyes and a kind smile. One that looks permanent, even.
Regulus doesn’t know how to talk to people. He sure as hell doesn’t know how to flirt. So he sidles up beside the man, who’s much taller than him, and remarks, “Stupid name for a shop, isn’t it?”
“Oh?” asks the man, glancing sidelong at him. “You think so?”
“Mhm. ‘Potter’s Pottery’? Ridiculous.”
The man’s lips quirk. “I think it’s a little cute.”
“A bit on the nose, no?”
“I suppose. But as someone who seems to get straight to the point, I imagine you’d be into that sort of thing.” The man shifts to look at Regulus full-on. “What’s your name?”
Regulus stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Regulus.”
“Do you have a last name?”
“Black.”
“Ah. I see.”
Regulus stares at him. “What’s your name?”
“James,” the man offers. Then he turns to look back at the sign. “James Potter.”
Regulus sees James a few times over the next few days. There’s a man with scars criss-crossed over his face who helps move furniture—copious amounts of tables, shelves, and what Regulus believes is a kiln. It’s an entire operation, but they manage to finish it within two days.
On the third day, Regulus does what he does best—he makes a bouquet. It’s his thing. Sirius has always been better at the business side, the people side. But Regulus? He makes art.
“Hello?” he calls when he steps into Potter’s Pottery (he still thinks the name is ridiculous, regardless of how awful he feels for insulting the owner to his face). “Is anyone here?”
James sticks his head out of a back room. Raises a hand to wave—there’s clay all over his fingers. “Hey. I’m back here working on a project. Are those—?”
“Tulips.” Regulus sets the glass vase on the front counter. “An apology.”
“For?”
“For insulting the name of your shop to your face.”
James leans against he doorframe. Even from a distance, Regulus can see the amused glimmer behind his glasses. “Ah. Not for insulting the name of my shop, but for doing it in front of my face?”
“Well,” Regulus huffs, “I still think it’s ridiculous.”
“You’re insulting me again. To my face, love.”
Regulus resists the urge to stick out his tongue. He’s twenty-nine. He refuses to be childish. Instead, he says, “Enjoy your tulips.”
Then he turns on his heel and marches out of James’ shop.
A few days later, Regulus hears the bell above the front door ding. He wipes his hands on his apron to get most of the dirt off his skin. Prepares himself for the inevitable customer service conversation.
But when he finally makes it to the main room, there’s no one there.
“Hello?” he calls, perterbed. “Can I help you?”
But the shop is a wide open space with low tables, flowers on most surfaces but not so ostentatious that he can’t see from here to the door.
No one is in the shop.
There is, however, a small ceramic dish on the counter. It’s a leaf plate with curved edges, and at its center is a tiny frog. Regulus picks it up with careful hands and turns it this way and that.
Underneath, in neat block letters, is a date and the initials JFP.
“Did you make me a piece of pottery?”
James glances up from the register, brow arched near to his hairline. “Hello to you as well, neighbor. I see you brought me more flowers.”
Regulus scowls at him. “Well, you brought me pottery.”
“I did.” James slams the register shut. “Did you like it?”
“I’m not sure what to do with it.”
“Nothing. It’s just a little thing. Here, let me take those.”
Regulus lets James take the bouquet. This time, it’s roses.
“So,” James starts, arranging the vase just so on the counter, “is this also an apology, or is this just a tit for tat?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you brought me flowers. I brought you pottery. You brought me flowers again.” James shrugs, a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. “I’m thinking that means I owe you pottery.”
Regulus shakes his head, a flush creeping up his neck. “No, no. It’s fine. You don’t have—”
“I want to. Whatever you want, I’ll make it.”
“You really—”
“Regulus.”
At this, he stops, startled. His voice on James’ lips is…nice. His heart skips a beat at the sound, and he really doesn’t know how he feels about that at all. So he says, “Fine,” and marches out of the shop before James can see his cheeks turn cherry red.
It goes on like this for weeks—pottery for flowers for pottery, a constant loop—until one day, Regulus flips over a small bowl to read the bottom. Today, he sees a note rather than the usual date and JFP initials.
It reads:
Will you go on a date with me?If yes, bring me tulips.If no, forget my name.
“Good afternoon! Welcome to—Oh, Reg. Hi.”
Regulus shifts his weight from one foot to the other, stomach in knots. “Hi, James.”
“Did you, uh, get my—?”
“I got it.”
“Oh. Right. Well, I see you’re empty-handed, so I think it’s about time for me to walk right out the front door and into traffic. If you don’t—”
Regulus takes six steps forward until he’s directly in front of James. He has to tilt his head back to look up at him. “Here.”
James makes a soft oomph when Regulus’ hand slams into his chest—a single tulip pressed against James’ old band tee. His eyes flick down to the flower, then up to Regulus. “Is this what I think it is?”
“It’s a tulip.”
“It’s a yes.”
“It’s a tulip.”
“Which means yes.”
“It’s a tulip.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Do I need to go get a second tulip?”
James grins. “No. Not unless you want to. Might take a while, though. And I’m right here, right now. No need to wait.”
Regulus sets the tulip down on one of the many tall tables, then leans forward and into James, his arms coming up around his neck. “I think we’ve waited long enough, don’t you?”
“Oh, thank God. I was running out of ideas for things to make you.”
“And I was running out of flowers.”
James’ arms come around Regulus’ waist to hoist him a little off the floor, and then James is kissing him, full on the mouth and without an ounce of hesitation.