Why did I come here? To sit and watch you stare at your feet?
Regulus is flushed with cold, his breath translucent before him. The astronomy tower is rendered useless under dark clouds in the late-night sky. He sits and he waits, knowing, somehow, what may unfold this night.
Then, as foreseen, James joins him noiselessly, like a moment slipping by. Except Regulus notices and takes a hold, his eyes looking into James’. There’s something about eye-contact, it’s soft and vulnerable and intimate- you look at the other, knowing that they are watching the way that you are seeing them, and each passing second is a risk and a trade and a promise of security. Regulus does not trust often, but he chances it for the eyes he gets to look into. Brown and big behind lenses; Regulus thinks the risk is worth it.
James shifts his focus, but the moment is not lost. He sits wordlessly beside Regulus and their warmth mingles, yet the blush on Regulus’ cheeks does not die. An acceptance passes between them, a knowledge of the risk each is taking and the lessening of said risk with every second.
Regulus does not dare break the moment, the same as that morning as he kept his eyes closed in a dream- he cannot remember it now, but he remembers how he felt. The fleeting feeling of a need to remember, one that came with an acceptance that it would not be fulfilled.
Tension seeps from his neck muscles as Regulus slowly turns his head to look upon James’ face. He had known that he was looking at him, so it does not come as a surprise when their eyes meet again. He looks away quickly, seeking refuge in a faraway bush which he focuses his sights upon. Safety in green leaves and brown branches.
James speaks first, Regulus finds that it does not break the silence though, it merely bends it out of shape. It is not without noise, it is quiet now, but it is still peace, and it is still buzzing with tension.
“It’s cold out here.”
Regulus does not think about an answer, the words do not form before his mind as they tend to, rather they form around his lips without intention, “Why are you out here?”
The cold has withered away all bite in his tone, it is curiosity- and in this, intimacy- that drips from his question like honey, or blood.
“I have just as much right to be out here as you.”
Defense snaps at Regulus, and it feels a little like rejection and a little like being feared. James shuffles slightly away and pushes onto the palms of his hands as if he’s about to get up and leave. It’s a bit ironic.
“That wasn’t my question.”
A noise escapes from between his lips in response, the breath of an unspoken word. Regulus grieves the loss of it. Then after another moment, he settles back into where he was before: the tiniest bit closer, hands clasped within one another- settled on his thighs.
“Needed to get away. It gets a bit much performing all the time, you know?”
Regulus does know. His stage is Grimmald Place and his mother is his audience, but he does not act for anyone else; he will not perform of his own volition. He’s unsure why James performs at school.
“Performing?”
A particularly strong gust of wind blows over them, James flinches and Regulus does not.
James speaks casually, as if it’s not a confession when he says, “Performing. Like, when you put on the smile, act all happy, play the part. It’s not true for anyone, and it’s exhausting. Right?”
Regulus would like to ask what part it is that James has decided he must play, and why he has given himself one at all, but James is apologizing.
“Sorry. Look at me, playing the victim to a guy who gets hit at home. Bet you’re thinking how detached from reality I am, making up my own problems and all.”
He laughs a little, self-deprecatingly. Regulus doesn’t like it.
“I’m going to ignore the bit about how I get hit; I wasn’t thinking that at all. Now I feel even worse for you though. And I hate empathy, it’s like extra sadness that is already being experienced, why do I have to have it too?”
“Sorry.”
Regulus chances a look up now, the sight of James more important than the bush. He’s watching his own hands as they twist with one another. Chewing his lip, he looks devastated, and beautiful in it. He looks off, somewhere near the horizon: head raised like he’s poised to be painted. Regulus wonders how he had never noticed how similar they are, he’s the one who should be playing a role and conscious of how he’s perceived and yet James is so clearly displaying himself like nothing more than a portrait on a pedestal.
His voice is quiet, with fake malice, when his breath dances in front of him in the shape of the words, “It’s not your fault. Empathy isn’t a conscious thing for me, so I was probably going to feel bad for you anyway.”
“I don’t want you to do anything for me. Least of all feel bad.”
The response is instant and followed by the turning of a head.
There is a feeling like a sizzle when James’ eyes meet Regulus’ again. The force of gravity seems to alter, the weight of his words now colossal. He knows he’s not living up to expectation even as he says, “It’s an expression. Stop getting in your head.”
Dry mouth and stilled body, his existence rivals the fidgeting, warm-like-flowing-water, boy next to him. There’s an unspoken pressure, dense in their interaction and Regulus swallows as he gets up to escape it. He feels James’ eyes on the back of his figure as he stands and walks along the tower’s walls, through the door and out of sight. He tries to walk as if he is not being viewed, even as he is not, but his posture is ever straighter and his strides more feigned with confidence than ever.
His shoe scuffs on a stone step on the way from the common room to his dorm, and Regulus feels a shiver as it travels through his body. Tension gone, muscles relaxed, performance over.
The moment slips away.
-
The next day is particularly cold, and James can feel it in his lungs as he laughs at one of Sirius’ jokes. On the way to class, they’re passing through the courtyard, the grass is almost frozen now, and it crunches beneath James’ feet. The entirety of Hogwarts is buzzing with anticipation for Christmas, and it can be heard in the hum of a song and the reverberance in a laugh that seems to echo, truthfully, through every mouth this time of year.
James is not buzzing with anticipation for Christmas; James is buzzing with anticipation for tonight, and with a striking, prickling fear of being found out.
He decided as he left the astronomy tower the night before, he would go to see Regulus again.
James laughs again; this time, it’s at the blush on Sirius’ cheeks as Remus quietly laughs around where he whispered into his ear. More cold settles inside of him, making itself a home in him. His hands are a paler brown now- the cold and the winter making him look ill compared to his summer shade- and they warm as he rubs them together.
He opens his mouth to protest the publicity of the dirt they’re no doubt talking to one another, but his eyes find Regulus across from him and it is a clamp around his jaw, which promptly snaps shut- unbeknownst to the others.
While James thrives in the summer, as Regulus walks, like the picture of snow and light in the darkness, it is clear to James that this is when Regulus shines. Beauty is a fickle thing; one James does not like to dwell on- but it proves hard not to when he looks before him and sees contrast and harmony and grey eyes that look back at him. They share something- not a look, their looks are transactions: like a trust fall in which they each fall and catch simultaneously, again and again. Their looks are not shared, but something is. Knowledge maybe, that they both feel it- the magic that pulls them together. The earth’s magnetic poles have been displaced, because opposites they may be, but magnets weigh inside the both of them now. Attracting, pulling.
James clears his throat as they walk past one another on the path, not letting it escape his notice that Sirius scowls at his brother’s presence. There’s a tugging at his hand, the urge of taking Regulus’, but a hand on his shoulder guides him away. It’s Sirius, hurrying him along.
-
Without having seen Regulus since the morning as they crossed paths, nerves and excitement mingle at the thought of seeing him again. He’s never felt like this before, but the idea of truth, and of not having to hide himself behind masks and acting is enough to guide James back to the tower.
He hasn’t checked the map, but he’s not so naïve that he hasn’t taken it with him. He checks it now, as he finds himself settling alone on the shined cobble of the floor. Regulus is coming, walking in the tower’s direction. In James’ direction. He feels a little cold inside of him melt at the thought.
He licks his lips and sets out how the conversation should go. Then he turns away from that idea, he will say what he wants to say, not what will give him the response he’d like to hear. He’ll be himself; whoever that is.
He can smell snow, he’s sure of it, when he sniffles. And like a domino falling, the sniffle is followed by the click of a door and a shift in the air and a warmth that swallows James whole. His glasses fog as magic engulfs him, it is Regulus’ doing and as Regulus joins him in the warmth of the spell jolts but does not fracture. He sits beside James, more reserved than the day before- if his posture signifies anything.
“Thank you.” James breathes, for the warming spell. Regulus nods, confining himself to silence. James pulls at it again: “You’re back.”, It’s a suggestion for a conversation, and it’s a statement without need for an answer. James isn’t sure what he hopes for.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said.”
When James doesn’t satisfy with an answer, he continues, “Why is it that I'm not worthy of a performance?”
Rendered dumbfounded, James scrambles for a word, a sound, a thought that he can hold onto long enough without it evaporating into a whisp of a notion; into something too big for words. Finally, he finds it in himself to respond, “It’s not about your worth, it’s about how I want to be perceived.”
“They go hand in hand, though? How can my worth not influence how you’d like to be perceived by me?”
The answer is quick as a whip, though with none of the sting and, James is sure, no malice.
“It’s more like, so, you already perceive me a certain way, so then I don’t have to uphold a different personality around you because you’ll see straight through it anyway.”
“I’ve pushed you off your pedestal.” Regulus says this thoughtfully, as if it has a reference point. Then, “How do you think I perceive you?”
“You hate me. Because I saved Sirius and then he left you to live with me. That won’t change with a few confessions and truths, so it doesn’t matter if I give them. That hatred runs much more deeply than the empathy you have for my self-made issues. I’m sure?”
From out of nowhere, Regulus starts laughing. It doesn’t feel mean, but James isn’t sure it could be anything else. He looks at Regulus with something he hopes comes across as scalding and hurt, but something curious and entertained shines through.
“You just- you're just- you're funny. ‘I’m sure’ in the most unsure tone I've ever heard- Salizar save me!”
“I’m not trying to be funny,” he says with a frown, “It feels like you’re laughing at me, not with me.”
“Then start laughing, Potter.”
Now he can’t stop either, they’re both laughing like madmen. And maybe they are mad. James thinks it’s a little mad, but he can’t help liking the moment nonetheless.
“I don’t hate you.” Regulus breaks away from the laughter in less than a blink, and it takes James a moment to catch up. He’s still smiling when the words begin to make sense to him. He doesn’t stop smiling when he understands.
“You don’t?” It’s softer than James meant it to be, but his walls are down. He’s not thinking.
“I don’t think I can hate anyone. I think I'm just evil enough to understand anyone’s motives.”
A name lingers between them, unspoken and simultaneously spoken for in each of their capabilities of hatred.
“Oh.”
“Hatred is probably a good sign for you, it means you’re good enough to not understand why people are bad.”
“Sometimes I think I'm a bad person.” James says quietly, he feels like a child confessing: small, naïve and guilty. He’s so very guilty.
“You wouldn’t be real if you were good, I think we’re all just shades of grey, stumbling about trying to find the light. But being around the light does not transform you, and I know that. What I'm trying to say is that you are good, but I’m not trying to use you to feel like a good person. And I won’t let you do the same to me.”
“Maybe the light wouldn’t transform you, but it would make you see things- yourself- a little clearer, and then maybe you’d transform yourself.”
The conversation has changed its focus, James is sure of that, but it remains blurry, and he doesn’t know what exactly he’s referring to. But he knows that he believes it. He knows it like he knows Sirius: a fact, like the earth beneath his feet; it grounds him.
Regulus tilts his head, quiet but with a mind so obviously busy that James can almost hear his thoughts. His tongue feels heavy and too big for his mouth as he says, “I believe everyone is capable of change.”
“I’m not. I won’t change; I've been distorted so much that I'm unsavable. I will not change.” He speaks slowly, surely, like he’s trying to convince someone. James? Himself?
James doesn’t believe him either way, even as he nods. And he doesn’t believe him, even as he mutters (half sarcastically), “Not you then, just everyone else.”
Regulus visibly deflates, in relief or acceptance- James isn’t sure.
“Let’s talk about something else.” His voice wavers, knowing the response even before Regulus gives it.
“We shouldn’t be talking at all.” Then, “What would your best friend say?”
He doesn’t want an answer though, and that much is clear when he stalks away. His speed startles James, who hoped that Regulus would stay. James’ eyes don’t leave the door for seven and a half minutes after it closes shut with a thud and a click. He wants to cry, but the tears don’t come, and it feels weak to sob with dry eyes.
James knows, as he turns to face the sky, of the disastrous inevitability. He accepts it now, he knows that he will regret it, but he’ll do it anyway. He doesn’t know what ‘it’ is, but he gets the feeling he never will. He accepts that too.
It’s cold without Regulus’ heating spell, though James’ wand remains comfortably in the pocket of his robes. And as James could have predicted, thunder echos quietly, far from him, and the beginning of a shower halts his thoughts.
Snapped out of the trance-like state Regulus brought over him, he doesn’t wait before getting up and rushing back to the dorm. He almost trips over in his haste- to get back to his best friend.
The ironic thing is, Sirius is not even there. Nobody is. He’s out with Remus and Peter- the map lets him know- in Slytherin's common room. James does cry then, alone in their empty dorm.