Chapter 5
Holidays do tend to bring with them chaos, but nothing, usually, like this. When Regulus wakes up on Christmas Eve, Effie is beside herself, bustling around the kitchen with a tea towel over one shoulder and an apron tied around her waist that is absolutely covered in flour and cocoa powder and lord knows what else.
“You don’t want to go in there,” Sirius hisses from the entryway, catching Regulus by the elbow and yanking him unceremoniously away from the door. Despite his and James’ secret night out, he’s up early, on account of the grumbling in his stomach. However, one more glance toward the kitchen, wincing when there’s a great clang from inside, Regulus resolves not to fix that particular problem.
Sirius is already bundled up in his coat, hair swept back underneath a green and red Christmas hat with a gigantic bobble. Remus is just behind him, propped up against the wall as he wrestles into his snow boots. When he loses his balance, Sirius sticks a hand out to catch him. “We’re going to pick up breakfast, and about a million other things,” he explains, looking Regulus slowly up and down. “You can come with us, if you can be dressed in thirty seconds.”
Regulus glares fruitlessly at him, and Sirius pulls a face, shooing him back up the stairs. When he returns he’s dressed haphazardly, and they sneak out the front door just in time to hear a great deal of cursing and the clanging of the oven. Effie is such a lovely, kind woman, the embodiment of calm much of the time, so when Regulus turns a wide-eyed look to Sirius, Sirius laughs a bit nervously.
“The church is out of power,” he explains, once the door is shut snugly behind him. “And so are the Joneses, who were supposed to do the cooking for the party, and since Effie’s a saint she offered up the house. And since she’s extra saintly around the holidays, she decided to cook it all herself.”
Fleamont and James are out front with shovels in hand, clearing snow from the long driveway. James gives Sirius the finger as they saunter by, to which Sirius waves jovially. “We’ll be on cleaning duty, I expect, once everyone is fed.”
“Christ,” Regulus grumbles to himself as he clambers into the backseat of a rumbling old pick up truck. It sputters to life, puffing gusts of exhaust from its back, and the three of them sit, rubbing at their hands, while it heats up. “Where’s Henry?”
Remus and Sirius exchange looks in the front seat, and then Sirius is clearing his throat and gripping the wheel tightly. “Can’t be bothered to help, I guess. He’s visiting his parents again. They’ll be here, later.”
“Will they?” Regulus squeaks. He can feel himself going terribly red, suddenly a bit hot under the collar. Remus shoots him a sympathetic look through the rearview mirror.
“Mm,” Sirius hums, none-the-wiser, “since Effie’s a saint,” he repeats, “she thought ‘what’s a few more people’? Even though she’s already cooking for three dozen.”
“Christ,” Regulus repeats.
They don’t say much more on the drive, once the truck finally lurches to life and starts ambling down the long driveway, snow crunching under its tires. They turn onto the quiet, gravel road he and James took just the night before and in the light of day Regulus can clearly make out the spot they fell on their arses, tipsy off of a few late night glasses of beer and wine, but Remus and Sirius don’t seem to notice. They’re too busy making occasional eyes at one another in the front, Remus’ arm stretched across the back of the bench seats, fingers kneading at the back of Sirius’ neck, and Sirius smiling at him in his periphery. It’s sweet, and it’s disgusting.
They go all the way into town, this time, ambling past the little shop with its jam and its cheese and its fresh made bread. They still pick up jam and cheese and bread, only this time they go to a proper shop and push a rickety trolley down aisle after aisle, until its full to the brim with last minute party fixings, and when they’re done they stop in at the deli for breakfast, that they’ll bring back to a house still bustling with nervous energy.
On their drive back, the truck is still mostly warm, so Regulus peels out of his gloves and stretches up between the two front seats to hold his hands in front of the heater, hot, dry air making his skin itch. Sirius is wearing an odd expression, facing straight ahead. He doesn’t voice whatever thought has his mouth all pinched until they’re a few streets from home.
“You need to cool it,” Sirius says. Remus sighs, almost imperceptible. His eyes are straight ahead, like he doesn’t want to get in the middle of this particular argument.
“Would you relax, I’m not even touching you,” Regulus sniffs. He’s wedged between the seatbacks, Sirius shoots him a sideways look and rolls his eyes.
“With James,” he says blandly.
Regulus’ stomach lurches, and he scowls at Sirius before dropping back into his seat.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“And what am I doing?”
“Pouting. Sulking around. Trying to get his attention.”
“I am not!”
Sirius flips the visor down so he can look at him in the mirror. His mouth is a hard line, jaw feathering.
“I am not trying to get anyone’s attention, and if his attention is so easy to get that’s not my fault.”
“Regulus,” Sirius groans, he has a white-knuckle grip on the wheel, and the truck is crawling along slowly through the snow, now.
“Maybe I wouldn’t be sulking if you’d bothered to tell me he was bringing a friend –”
“Boyfriend,” Sirius corrects flatly.
“Boyfriend to Christmas.”
“But you wouldn’t have come then, would you?” Sirius twists around to shoot him a pointed look, before he’s gently nudged by Remus into turning his eyes back to the road. “You’d have spent all Christmas holed up in your depressing apartment alone, eating a Tesco meal deal and watching your stupid soaps.”
“Maybe I would have been happier.”
Sirius rolls his eyes.
There’s another long silence, just the crunch of snow and gravel under their tires all the way up the long drive to the now-shovelled spot next to the house. When the engine cuts it’s deathly quiet. Regulus’ hand is on the handle in a second, but Sirius twists around fully again to look at him before he can scramble out with their breakfast in hand.
“James is happy,” he says, and his voice has softened some. “Finally. He’s finally happy, can you let him have that?”
No, Regulus thinks childishly, I can’t.
Because James isn’t happy, and anyone with half a brain should be able to see that. Sure, maybe Henry is handsome and nice and comes from a good family with money and manners and all the sorts of things you should want in a boyfriend. But James isn’t happy.
The ugly bit about it is that some of the things that make James unhappy about Henry are familiar enough to Regulus that he can’t look at them straight on. They aren’t unlike the sorts of things that made James unhappy when he was with him.
“Regulus?” Sirius is still twisted around in his seat. Still looking at him. Regulus swallows heavily.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Fine.”
Together the three of them haul bags of emergency groceries and to-go breakfasts in to the kitchen, where it’s still warm and Christmas-y and chaotic. The flour has been swept up, but now there’s cooking oil spilled on the counter that Effie is trying to dry up with a kitchen towel. James is inside by now, his coat and gloves dripping next to the front door, warming his socked toes up on the radiator.
“Food!” He bellows happily, and is shushed by his mother. He doesn’t listen to her, and instead leans around the corner and shouts, “Da! Food!”
Luckily for Regulus, they don’t have any time to talk. He wedges himself in beside Remus and the edge of the kitchen bench, Sirius and James so close together they might as well be eating off of the same plate, and eats his breakfast sandwich in silence while Sirius, James, and Remus chatter pleasantly to one another, rapid and loud and in a stumbling-over-one-another cadence that speaks to years of friendship Regulus hasn’t been privy to. And then, after sandwiches and coffees have been consumed, James is sent back outside to finish stringing up some of the lights that came down in a particularly violent gust of wind last night, and Regulus is tasked with making sure all of the crystal glasses are free of dust and cobwebs, since they’ve lived most of their life inside a china cabinet in the dining room. By seven o’clock there’s a distinctive ache in his wrist from dusting and polishing, and the house smells rich and sweet.
“I’m pretty sure your mum is some sort of good witch,” Regulus says quietly to James. Henry is on his other side, wearing a smart jumper and collared shirt, and James, dressed similarly, is watching his mum fondly as she dusts powdered sugar over little desserts in the shape of Christmas trees.
“I told you. She’s perfect,” James agrees. It’s one of Regulus’ favourite things about James – he has never in his life been ashamed of how much he loves his parents, striding across the tile to tug her bodily away from the stove, kissing both of her cheeks as he goes. “Alright you’ve done enough,” he declares, carefully fixing a curl that has fallen out of place before he reaches behind her neck to untie the apron. “If they don’t like you we can burn down the church.”
“James!” Henry and Euphemia say at the same time, looking scandalized. James rolls his eyes.
“So,” Regulus says to Henry, who is still standing next to him, pretending to scroll through his phone. “I’m excited to meet your parents. Are they big on Christmas parties?”
Henry’s eyebrows furrow at him, like he’s trying to sort out what Regulus’ motive is, and whether or not he should answer the question at all. Regulus holds his ground, arms over his chest.
“My parents aren’t Christmas people,” he says slowly.
“Shocker.”
Henry’s not-quite-scoff is audible. Regulus can see the frothing frustration right there under the surface. “Can you do us all a favour and keep to yourself tonight?” His expression doesn’t give the animosity away, schooled into a careful smile, should James look up and spot them.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” Henry says. Regulus imagines him stomping his foot. “Stay away from me, and stay away from James. He doesn’t want you around anyway.”
It should sting. It doesn’t sting, because Regulus doesn’t believe him.
“Boys!” Euphemia’s voice sounds from the kitchen, saving them from pretending to make idle small talk. Regulus shoves in front of Henry to get there first, and is blessed with the task of carrying tall trays of snowball-looking desserts into the dining room.
Regulus doesn’t catch it, when Henry’s parents arrive. One moment they’re not there and the next they are, surrounded by other staunch-looking men and women in suit jackets and holiday dresses. This is a big house, but it feels tight with so many people packed inside. There are the Potters and the Joneses, who gush adoringly at Effie for pulling all of this off and saving them from certain humiliation, the Prewetts with their horde of children, all freckly and red-headed and running amok among people’s legs (the least staunch of them all), the old couple from up the hill have managed to make it down (and will need to be driven back up by Fleamont or James later tonight), and tons of nameless people Regulus might have known once, but doesn’t now. He plays it off quite casually, following along close behind Sirius and listening for names, or else making the sort of idle small talk that doesn’t actually require names, which is how he manages to find himself face to face with Henry’s father, none-the-wiser, until James shoots him a panicked look from across the room and pieces click uncomfortably into place.
“The snow adds a nice touch,” Henry’s father is saying. He’s speaking more to the man to Regulus’ left than Regulus himself, like Regulus is too young and/or unimportant to really involve in the conversation. Given the fact that Regulus has been a fully-grown-adult-man with a home and a job for several years now, it’s a bit offensive. “Really adds a bit of winter cheer, though I could do with better gritting around here, these old roads are an accident waiting to happen.”
It’s boring. He’s boring. Terrible and normal and boring. Wearing a suit that no-doubt cost an absurd amount of money, and a well-tailored shirt underneath it, and holding his wine glass politely in a way that reminds Regulus of his own father. And for one, horrifying, moment he feels a bit sorry for Henry, because if Henry’s father’s mannerisms remind him so much of Orion, well, what else about him is adjacent to the Black family way?
Regulus is quick to shake off any misplaced sympathy, taking a large sip from his wine glass to try and quell the need to say something rude. “Excuse me,” he says, when he’s drained his glass, and then slips between Henry’s father and the other, unnamed man, to try and find a bottle to fill his glass up with. He rounds the corner a bit too enthusiastically and nearly upends his glass into Remus, who catches him by the elbow and holds his own glass of red well out of the way.
“Christ,” he mutters, snatching the glass out of Remus’ hands and downing the last few swallows. Remus looks unimpressed, but allows it. “Do you think his mum is as boring as him and his dad? How did that man convince someone to procreate with him.”
“Regulus,” Remus frowns. “You’re a bit mean when you’re drunk, how much wine have you had?”
“Not enough.” His sigh is long and forlorn. The church party was always a nice part of the holiday: Go, drink a lot of wine in a building meant to be sacred, catch up on village gossip, and slip out early to get woefully drunk with Sirius and James in the pub in the village. Now that the party is here, sneaking out seems much more difficult and much less polite.
“One more glass,” Remus instructs, steering him by the shoulders to a long table topped with glasses and bottles of white chilling in ice. He rifles through them until he finds one he knows Regulus likes and tops him off, and then steers him again into the other room to deposit him against a wall.
“You’re less fun now that you and my brother are serious,” Regulus complains. Remus only smiles at him, head tilted to the side, watching him thoughtfully.
“Well, we’ll be family soon enough. So I guess that means I have to take care of you.”
“Mm, I guess so. So where do you stand, then? I might be family but James is Sirius’ best friend. Whose side are you going to take?”
Remus sighs and sinks back against the wall, sipping his own refilled glass. “Hopefully I don’t have to take anyone’s side,” he says sternly. Regulus suspects it means that he’d like for him to start behaving himself. But then he adds, “Henry does seem like a bit of a snooze fest, doesn’t he? Christ, can you imagine having to do this every year?”
“No!” Regulus exclaims. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
Remus pats him on the arm, at once comforting and condescending, and eventually leaves him propped against the wall to go in search of food. Eventually, Regulus spots him through the crowd with a gold paper plate balanced in one hand, piled with hors d'oeuvres and the snowball desserts from earlier, Sirius laughing and swiping a bit of sugar off his chin with his thumb. It’s all very nauseating. And Regulus is drunk.
For the most part, Regulus is content to spend the entire evening plastered to the wall, becoming one with the portraits hung up on either side of him, drinking his way through his last glass of wine (or maybe stealing another, when Remus isn’t looking). It’s kicking in pleasantly, making him feel a bit floaty, so he makes a game of tuning in and out of conversations as they pass him by. There’s some hideous drama going on at church. Ethel has left her husband for a much younger man, and as progressive as their particular church tends to be, the old bats who make up much of the congregation still look down their noses at divorce. There’s even more drama in the school district, something about dangerously low quality lunches and a flat out refusal to splurge on organic food and lord, that’s right, this might feel like it’s in the middle-of-nowhere but the Potters are smack in the middle of old money. Regulus half expects to see his mother round the corner.
His eyes drift from the old church ladies to Henry and James, marching toward him and seemingly unaware that he’s there at all. He must have been standing so still for so long that he really is starting to blend in with the wallpaper. Or maybe it’s the giant fiddle leaf fig standing next to him, mostly blocking him from view. Henry’s mother follows hot on their heels. She has the same color hair as Henry does, but hers is straight and tied into a tight bun at the back of her head, and she has delicate features that make her look sympathetic when she lays a hand on James’ bicep and gives it a squeeze.
“I’m so glad you understand,” she says, and looks between Henry and James, placing her hand on the cheek of the former and whispering something Regulus can’t hear. And then she slips away, and Henry catches James’ elbow before he can do the same.
“Look, it’s just for tonight,” he says, his voice low – but Regulus, on account of being nearby and hidden behind a potted plant, can hear him clearly.
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” James sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “You want me to what? Pretend to be your very close friend in my own home? What am I supposed to say to my parents!?”
“They probably won’t even notice.”
“Did you hear my mum!? She wants pictures, she’s going to tell everyone she knows about us, because she likes you, and she’s proud of me, and she wants you to feel like part of the fucking family.”
“Language, James! God, it’s really not that big a deal.”
“It is to me,” James argues.
Henry’s face twists up, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Besides,” James continues. “These people don’t care. Remus and Sirius are together, nobody cares about them.”
“You really think that’s true?” Henry snorts. “Anyway, I’m not them. Just… Cool it with the PDA. Ok? And the names and the… Eyes.”
“The eyes?”
“Yes! The eyes. Looking at me like you do.” Henry leans in a little closer, but not close enough to give the wrong impression. “And then tomorrow we’re back to normal. Ok?”
James looks at him for a long time, and then he sighs, and just like that the argument is over and Henry has won. He gives James a pat on the shoulder before he slinks away, and Regulus can just make out a grumbled, “Merry fucking Christmas,” before James turns around and stops dead in his tracks.
“Reg.” His voice is flat. “Are you hiding in the plant?”
Regulus, who was not hiding in the plant, but who is now standing behind its ample leaves with his mouth hanging half-open, can’t come up with something to say fast enough for James, who scrubs a hand under his glasses and sighs again, deflating. “Fucks sake,” he says, “I can’t take you rubbing this in right now.” And then he turns and is gone before Regulus can think to close his mouth.
And Regulus should leave it be. He should absolutely leave it be, but he can’t. He slips out from behind the plant and he follows after James, ignoring the way Henry scowls at him from across the room, rounds the corner, and comes face to face with James and his parents, camera in hand – the same decrepit old one they’ve had since they were all kids. James looks up at him desperately, eyes wide in a ‘save me’ sort of way, as Effie slinks an arm through his and tries to steer him toward the sitting room.
“I think Henry went this way,” she says pleasantly. Her entire demeanor has shifted, now that the food is cooked and she’s in her Christmas dress, guests all with drinks in their hands.
“Mum,” James sighs. “Why don’t we take the picture tomorrow?”
Effie rolls her eyes. “Because you’re wearing your nice jumpers tonight.”
“Well we can put them back on!”
“Oh don’t be so shy about it. We’ll just put you two against the tree. His parents too, maybe? Regulus, do you think you could take one of the whole lot of us?”
Regulus looks at Effie and then Fleamont and then James, who is still trying to gently push her back toward the kitchen. “Mum,” he’s saying. “I really don’t want to tonight.” And her eyebrows are furrowing and his dad is standing a bit taller and saying, “James, your mother just wants a picture,” looking at him in an exasperated sort of way, because James isn’t the sort to disobey his parents, and Regulus shouldn’t say anything except he does. He opens his mouth and he looks right at James and he says, flatly:
“Do you want to tell them or shall I?”
James’ eyes go wide behind his glasses, and Monty’s big bushy brows furrow on his forehead.
“Regulus,” James hisses.
“Tell us what, dear?”
Before Regulus can explain for him, James gives a tremendous groan and shoots Regulus a glare. “Henry would rather we not… Tell anyone that we’re together.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Monty says, and everyone flinches. “In your own home?”
It’s so akin to James’ response that Regulus does a bit of a double take.
Effie’s frown creases her entire face, and she and James seem to have a meaningful conversation with just their eyes. So lost in this silent exchange are they that they both miss Monty charging into the other room until he’s nearly made it. And then James is leaping after him and dragging him back toward the kitchen by the back of his shirt, saying, “dad please, please just leave it.”
“I just want to talk to him,” Monty says, but James hasn’t let go.
“Leave it. Leave it for tonight, ok? And tomorrow we’ll… we’ll talk, and you can talk to him. Don’t embarrass him, ok?”
There’s a long silence. Effie’s lips are pressed to a thin line and she’s looking between James and the rest of the party, just on the other side of the arch, and eventually Monty sighs and he throws his hands up in the air, but he says, “fine.”
Effie kisses James on the cheek and squeezes him tightly, and is soon called away by a frantic-eyed Mrs. Jones. And then it’s just the two of them.
The silence is awful. James doesn’t look at him, too busy studying the ceiling.
“You really deserve better than that,” Regulus says slowly. James makes a quiet sound that doesn’t entirely sound like disagreement.
Finally, James turns to him, and with a visible swallow says, “Will you please stop meddling? Please. Just leave Henry alone, leave me alone. I think you owe me that.”
The chatter of conversation fades and Regulus blinks several times.
“Right.” He says. “Sure.”
Tilly winds around and around his ankles before a stranger rounding the corner sends her skittering up the stairs, and it isn’t long before Regulus follows after her.