Chapter 4
Regulus wishes he could say that he’s had his fill of eavesdropping, that he’s learned his lesson and won’t be hiding around corners or behind gigantic clocks for the foreseeable future. But there are several eternal truths about Regulus Black. The first is that sleep evades him like no other, even here, where he used to feel almost painfully at home. The second is that he’s borderline obsessed with James Potter. Sure, it’s easy enough to ignore when he’s at home and filling every waking moment with work or men who will fizzle out after a date or two. But even there James plagues his thoughts. Now, he’s lying in a bed that reminds him of late-nights sneaking under one another’s covers, or listening through the wall for James to slip out of his bedroom door, ready to meet him just outside on the porch before running hand in hand to the shed out back. He’s lying in a house full of people who are tied to James as much as, or more than, him, and he’s confronted with old pictures, old memories, old bits and pieces of a life they sort-of lived together and sort-of didn’t.
Regulus hears James’ door creak open and then closed, he hears the sound of footsteps on the hall, the floor is noisy in this old house, he hears them soften on the stairs, and then nothing. The room is too still, it has none of the noise of London or his upstairs neighbors and their heavy-footed toddler. It’s still, and he can’t sleep, and he’s desperately curious what Henry and James are up to again at this house, if they’re arguing in the kitchen and what they could possibly be arguing about, if he’s at the center of it or if they’ve moved on to other, more interesting things. So, even though it’s against every ounce of better judgement he’s got, Regulus slips up and out of bed. From his suitcase he pulls a very large jumper that he slides on over his head and balls up over his hands, and then he slips as quietly as he can through his bedroom door and down the hallway, trying his best to remember which boards squeak the loudest. He makes it all the way down the stairs without making a sound, across the landing and around the corner, down the short hallway and to the grandfather clock, but the kitchen is empty and silent, dark except the light on over the stove. Regulus stands, brow furrowed, and scans the back door – locked, and then the rack of coats in the hall, full, and is about to retreat back to the stairs when someone clears their throat in the sitting room.
Regulus whips around, and, huddled in the dark, is James on one of the squashy armchairs. Regulus can only see him when he squints, and only because there’s light reflecting off the snow outside and through the window.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m…” Regulus tries to think quickly, to come up with some explanation for why he’s standing in the hallway rather than going to the sink or the fridge or the sitting room. James watches him with wide, careful eyes, and Regulus eventually musters up, “I couldn’t sleep.”
It’s a bad excuse, James accepts it anyway. “Yeah,” he says, sighing. “Me neither.”
“Oh.”
Regulus scans the rest of the room, but James is alone. He scratches at the back of his neck and looks instead to the clock. It’s only half past eleven, but they spent the entire day in the kitchen helping Effie make her yearly mountain of fudge, and then packaging it up in brown boxes to be dispersed to the village over the next handful of days, and even though it wasn’t particularly arduous work, the entire lot of them took to bed early – probably because they’d had too much time socializing, batteries drained, and eaten too much fudge and not enough sustenance, and then drank too much wine, a perfect recipe for an early-to-bed-long-night’s-sleep for everyone but himself and James.
“Is Henry –?”
“Upstairs,” James shrugs, and then flicks on a lamp. Both of them blink at the sudden light, and Regulus’ stomach does a terribly nauseating somersault.
“I thought about waking Sirius up, dragging him down to the pub,” James says, snorting. “Except when I got to his door he was already awake if you know what I mean. He and Remus really haven’t got any shame, have they?”
Regulus wrinkles his nose. “Last time they visited I caught them having a go at it on my couch, I nearly sold it.”
“Ugh!” James says, in an exaggerated show of displeasure. And then there’s quiet, neither of them saying anything and neither of them moving.
“Do you want to go?” James eventually asks. “To the pub. They close in an hour.”
It is a categorically stupid idea. For one, neither of them are dressed, and for two the pub is a twenty-minute walk down the snowy street, and for three, Henry’s whole problem is Regulus, and James spending time with Regulus, and the two of them wandering off into the night to the pub together is bound to result in some sort of blow up, isn’t it?
“Sure.”
James looks surprised he’s agreed. His mouth opens and then closes again, and then opens one more time, and then he’s grinning and slapping a hand on his thigh in a way that reminds him of Fleamont, and is pushing up out of his big squashy armchair.
“Alright, are you wearing that?” Regulus glances down at himself – his gigantic sweater and a pair of joggers that have certainly seen better days. Before he gets the chance to say he’ll go up and change, however, James says, “You are, you look fine,” and then he’s across the room at the coat rack, fishing for his jacket first and then Regulus’ second.
It feels absolutely fucking absurd, to be cramming his feet into his boots and then crunching down the front path toward the road. James’ keys jangle in his hand, and neither of them say anything all the way into the village. Regulus doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t know what the hell to say, and James stays silent because, obviously, he’s trying to torture him. It feels absurd, but it also feels familiar. There was a time when their entire relationship happened in the dark, back before Sirius scoffed and said: ‘It’s fine as long as you don’t abandon me, you tosser,’ glaring daggers at James, where they’d sneak off into the night feeling a bit like star crossed lovers. Except they don’t hold hands now, they don’t even walk close enough that their hands could brush by accident – James lets his swing, Regulus tucks his own into the pockets of his coat.
This isn’t a particularly large village, a few stretches of road dotted with shops, all closed, the occasional restaurant, and the pub. The pub stays open later than the rest of the shops, and since it’s the only place open, it’s always a bit busy. ‘Busy’ in the local sense, meaning there are people at a handful of tables, and one bartender behind the bar.
“Evening James,” Aberforth says. He’s a gruff old man with a long white beard, who, even though he claims to be a scrooge, will put a red hat on later in the week to entertain the children. Aberforth turns to him, then, and his scruffy eyebrows disappear into the unruly curls atop his head. “Did you just get out of bed?”
Even though James is also wearing night-clothes, he doesn’t get the same question. It’s because James looks at home in a pair of joggers, like he wears them out and about and for leisure. The ends of Regulus’ trousers would be dragging in the snow if they weren’t tucked into his boots, and he feels rather like a spectacle, feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb in this sleepy little village.
James snorts behind his hand and elbows, mumbling something about him having turned into a city boy behind his hand, and Regulus tries to shoot daggers at him with his eyes. He fails.
“I can’t believe you dragged me out here,” Regulus grumbles when they’ve finally reached a set of chairs with drinks in hand. A beer for James in an amber bottle, and a glass of wine for himself, red and buttery.
“It’s not like I had to beg,” James scoffs.
Regulus scowls at him.
And it’s all so gut-wrenchingly, heart-achingly familiar, that Regulus is a little bit afraid he’s going to cry. “You looked sad, I wasn’t going to let you go on your own.”
“So,” James says, shaking him out of his head a little. “What are you writing these days?”
Regulus frowns at him and buys a second with a big sip of his wine. “Nothing.”
“Nothing!” James shakes his head, curls bouncing against his ears. “You were always writing.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Were too,” James’ foot collides with his knee under the table, a bit of wet slush soaks through to his skin. Regulus grimaces, but James doesn’t seem to notice, pitching forward to look at him over his steepled fingers, imploring and earnest in his James-typical way, trying to tug out little pieces of information like they’re precious things.
“Well, I’m not now.”
It isn’t even a lie. He did write, for a while, when he had the time. London is good for writing, plenty of corner cafes good for people watching, lots of inspiration, but work was so quick to become his driving force and without the time to write it became something of a nostalgic old hobby, files upon files of drafts in his computer that have sat untouched for a very long time. Even though he’d always wanted to write, it seems so impractical now, and anyway, the job he has is comfortably adjacent to the world he wanted so badly to be a part of when he was young and hopeful.
“Shame. You’re good.”
“I think you’re biased.”
“I’m not! If anything, as your ex you should assume I’ve got a bias against your writing.”
“Do you?” Regulus’ eyebrows tick up. James’ do something funny, so does his mouth, all twisted up.
“No.”
“Sure.” He doesn’t want to talk about writing, or himself at all. Being across the table from James in the first place hurts like an old wound opening, something long rusted into place twisting in his chest. So he changes the subjects. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”
James has his hands wrapped around his beer bottle, thumbnail peeling at the label, fingers of his other hand tapping in the condensation. “You know how I get, sometimes.”
Regulus squints at him. He does know how he gets, it unfurls a little kernel of worry in his chest, but James brushes it off and takes a gigantic gulp, grimacing when he does.
“Idiot,” Regulus mumbles affectionately. His heart aches.
“Henry and I are going to see his parents tomorrow,” James offers after another, more reasonable sip.
“Oh,” Regulus does his best not to grimace. It doesn’t seem to work well.
“Mhm.”
“Must be getting serious, then.”
James’ mouth does that funny thing again, and then he barrels on. “I never had to meet your parents, parents are scary.”
“Tell me about it,” Regulus scoffs. It’s been several hours since dinner, and he’s on his second glass of wine now, after James slipped back up to the bar when last call was made, so it’s all going straight to his head. His cheeks are warm, and words are coming a little more easily than they might normally.
“My parents are a delight,” James sniffs at him, faux-annoyed.
“Exactly,” Regulus drawls, drawing it out with a flourish of his hand. “Your parents are perfect, you are perfect, your whole life is perfect. Now imagine trying to fit into that.”
“That does not make them scary,” James insists through another swallow of beer.
“No, but disappointing them is fucking terrifying.”
James’ mouth gapes like a fish. He’s quiet, for a moment or two, before, “You didn’t disappoint them.”
Regulus’ shoulders scrunch up to his ears, like his body has physically recoiled from this line of conversation. His head shakes side to side. “It doesn’t matter, they’re not my parents.”
There. That is a knife twisted, too. Because losing James should have meant losing his family, too. And it sort of did, he’s no son in law. He’s Sirius’ brother, he’s James’ friend, he’s a fixture for holidays when he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, but he doesn’t quite make the cut for Sunday dinners. “Anyway,” Regulus says, pointed. “You don’t have anything to worry about, because you’re perfect, and Henry’s parents would be fucking idiots if they didn’t like you.”
James laughs, it’s a bright, startled sound that he muffles with a hand over his mouth when a woman at the next table over glowers at him. Honestly, it’s a pub just shy of midnight, what does she expect?
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
“It is,” Regulus insists, rolling his eyes. “Fucking annoying, how perfect you are.”
James’ smile is a private thing. He’s leaning back in his booth seat, hands still wrapped around his now-empty beer bottle, watching Regulus like he’s enraptured. He looks fond, happy, Regulus feels his cheeks and his chest heat up, squirming under the familiar scrutiny.
“I’m glad we can do this,” James says. “Glad we can be friends, I mean. I’m not good at the whole exes thing.”
Regulus swallows. And then he swallows again. Once more for good measure. The pub is so noisy, chatter and music and the sound of clanking dishes as someone washes up just on the other side of a swinging door. “I’m glad, too,” he says, and his voice sounds thin and feels impossibly tight. “That we’re friends.” And then, “Excuse me.”
This is a familiar pub with a familiar loo. Regulus grips the counter, swaying slightly where he stands and cursing his own shit tolerance. He runs the tap and lets water flow over his wrists for a good long time before he dries his hands and stares himself down in the mirror. “Friends.” He repeats, firmly this time. He can do that, he has to be able to do that.
James is waiting for him when he gets back, their tab paid and his jacket back on. Regulus shrugs into his, feeling silly in his pajamas and his big puffy coat, pant legs tucked into boots to avoid dragging them through the slush and the muck just outside the pub door. “Sirius is going to be mad,” James declares. He’s speaking too loudly for the hour, but nobody pays them any mind as they crunch down the sidewalk, toward the gravel road that will eventually take them back up to the little farmhouse. “Hasn’t been to the pub yet.”
“How dare you go without him,” Regulus mumbles, and then elbows James in the ribs through their many layers. “He’s thrilled you’re moving.”
James’ entire face scrunches up with his grin, glasses going momentarily lopsided.
“We’re not destined to be apart,” he says, sighing and rocking back some to look up at the sky as they walk. He nearly topples over, so Regulus plants a hand firmly between his shoulder blades.
“You shouldn’t be this drunk.”
“I’m not,” he insists, laughing. Regulus’ chest feels giddily tight, which he attributes to both the wine and the cold, muscles taut to keep from shivering.
“It’s just exciting, we snuck out. I haven’t snuck out since I was seventeen.”
“We didn’t sneak out,” Regulus rolls his eyes. “We’re grown adults.”
“Mm, but –,” but James catches himself and gives his head a little shake. Regulus frowns.
It’s quiet. He should leave it. Henry and James’ relationship isn’t any of his business.
He can’t leave it.
“Will Henry be mad?”
“Oh, Hen,” James waves his hand and clears his throat. “Hen is a bit fussy, but he’ll be alright. He gets it.”
“Does he?”
James looks at him sideways, Regulus watches his throat bob in a swallow, just above the thick collar of his coat. “Yeah, sort of. He’s good for me.”
Regulus looks at him in the milky light of the moon, snowflakes smudging the front of his glasses and clinging to dark curls. And he nods, because he has to be satisfied with the answer, even if he isn’t.
“Makes sense he’s wound a bit tight,” Regulus says levelly, trying to keep his voice even, “meeting the parents and all, since we’ve already established that yours are perfect and intimidating.”
“They are not,” James stoops, then, to pick up a handful of snow. It’s light and fluffy, barely packs together when he squeezes it in his hands, and explodes into a light dusting when it hits Regulus’ shoulder. He yelps anyway, sidestepping and nearly tripping over his own cold feet. “Well,” James amends, “they are perfect.”
“And perfect is intimidating!” Regulus insists, dodging another snowball James tries to make and chuck at him. It winds up with him walking backwards, taking ginger, stilted steps.
Trying for a different tactic, James shakes his head, and adds, “and Henry isn’t tightly wound.”
Regulus’ eyebrows jump up his forehead before he can stop himself, and since he’s walking backward James definitely sees it. And then, because he’s a bit wine tipsy, and because the cold is making him feel giddy instead of melancholic, he pinches his fingers together and squints one eye at James and says, “a teeny tiny bit tightly wound.”
James hits him square in the chest with another snowball, and from there it’s a series of events that happen as if in slow-motion: Regulus takes a stumbling step back, crying out in faux-offense; his right foot slips right out from under him, and the ground rises up sharply to meet him – in his panic, James lurches forward just in time to catch Regulus by the wrist which, instead of stopping his fall, only serves to drag James down with him.
They tumble in a heap of limbs and snow and it hurts, every one of his frigid bones smarts at the jolt, but he’s laughing anyway, breathless and loud and in the middle of a bumpy gravel road, lit up only by the half-full moon above them.
“Christ, Reg,” James is laughing too, he can hardly get a word out. He’s heavy and draped over one of Regulus’ legs, flexing his knee uncomfortably, but he’s laughing too hard to get up. “Are you ok? You’re so fucking clumsy.”
“I am not,” Regulus kicks out his other foot blindly, and misses. “That was your fault.”
“Wasn’t,” James says, but it’s sheepish. He rolls over then with a grunt, until he’s seated in his pajamas in the snow. His cheeks are red and his breath comes in great plumes of steam into the cold air. For a moment they sit there, catching their breath, until James breaks the quiet first and clambers to his feet.
His hand is frigid, when he offers it down to Regulus to help him up. Regulus takes it, heaves himself to his feet, and promptly snatches his own back.
“That’s what you get,” James says, grin lopsided, “for shit talking my boyfriend.”
Regulus rolls his eyes, and only feels a little like throwing up.
When they get back home, they’re both shivering messes, dripping water on the mat from their snowy boots and jackets. They shrug out of them silently, because as soon as the door shuts behind them it’s like the spell has broken and their new status as friends has become remarkably precarious. James goes up the stairs, because he insists on checking if the coast is clear, and when he hears his bedroom door click shut, Regulus scurries after him and slips into his own bedroom. He doesn’t think much of the noise of the pipes when he twists the bathroom tap, tub filling up with hot water and bathroom filling up with steam, and by the time his extremities have thawed, sleep has become a near-tangible thing.