Chapter 6
Regulus has never been particularly good at amends. It’s a miracle he and Sirius are on good enough terms to have a relationship at all, and the only reason he and James can speak is because James himself is a saint. But as he stands in front of the Potters’ mirror, in the Potters’ home, on the Potters’ Christmas morning, he knows he has to.
“I think I might just run back to London.” There are bags under his eyes and his curls are unruly – he pushes a hand through them and winces at the snag of a knot. “And maybe I’ll pack you up and take you with me. I think I need someone like you.” In one elegant leap, Tilly jumps from the ledge of the bathtub to the counter, nearly sending his toiletries to the floor. Regulus scratches at her chin with one finger and, for some reason, when she begins to purr he feels the traitorous sting of tears behind his eyes.
But he doesn’t have time to cry. There’s a pile of Christmas presents at the end of his bed, each wrapped in shiny red paper and adorned with golden bows, and the telltale smell of Christmas morning is wafting up the stairs. It’s familiar, in a sad, nostalgic sort of way. Every Christmas morning, the Potters make up trays upon trays of fat sausages, eggs cooked in pureed tomato, and bread baked the day before, to be enjoyed with cloyingly sweet cocoa at the narrow, scrubbed table in the kitchen rather than the dining room – too formal, and no doubt littered with glasses and paper plates and other evidence of what was meant to be the festivities of Christmas Eve.
Really, Regulus would like to hide up here until the coast is clear enough to skitter out the front door to his car, leave his presents in a heap under the tree and disappear back to London, never to be seen or heard from again, with Tilly riding like a bandit in his shotgun seat. But part of him is afraid that that would be Sirius’ final straw. So, instead of making a quick escape, Regulus dresses in the frumpy sweater he brought just for this occasion and teeters down the stairs with a stack of presents in his arms, barely able to see over the boxes. It’s a recipe for disaster and he knows it. It becomes even clearer when he reaches the second to last step and his toes catch on a loose bit of runner, nearly sending him and his gifts toppling to the floor. He’s only stopped by the strong hands of James Potter himself, catching him by the elbows and then all but leaping to the floor in time to catch a long, skinny package before it falls.
“You never were very coordinated,” he says and sighs a long-suffering sort of sigh. Regulus narrows his eyes at him suspiciously, swallowing around a rather sudden lump in his throat. James ought to be shouting at him, probably, or perhaps telling him all the ways he’s managed to muck up his life. Instead, James takes half the presents out of his arms and tuts to himself as he slips through from the landing to the sitting room, where the fat Christmas tree lords over heaps of gifts in similarly festive paper.
Regulus feels relieved, even if, at the back of his mind, he knows very well the type of person James is. James is the type of person who would rather chop off his own left foot than ruin Christmas for his family. Maybe it’s selfish of him, maybe he should do his best to keep his distance. Instead, Regulus feels his shoulders relax some and follows him from the sitting room to the kitchen, where the table is already packed full of trays of food and mugs of cocoa and coffee, champagne and orange juice in mismatched glasses, and Christmas crackers laid out between each setting.
Sirius is wedged next to the wall, beside Remus who is already sipping at a mug of rich cocoa, a bit of cream clinging to the corner of his mouth. Across from him, Monty is stabbing at sausages and Effie is just getting into her seat, smiling cheerfully at the whole lot of them. This, too, feels a bit too good, and there’s that guilt again, gnawing at his stomach and making it a bit difficult to think about downing any sort of breakfast.
Sirius catches his eye as he sits, and he does his best to have the sort of telepathic conversation they used to have when they were kids. ‘No Henry?’ his raised eyebrows say. Sirius frowns at him and gives a minute shake of his head, pointing with his eyes toward the rack of coats just past the kitchen. There’s a great pile of them on hooks, but Henry’s pretentious trench coat and scarf are missing, so are his boots, and so is his chair from the kitchen table.
Regulus wedges himself into the spot next to James because there isn’t anywhere else to sit, close enough that their thighs brush and their elbows knock when they try to eat. He doesn’t miss the way James scoots to the very far edge of his chair, smiling awkwardly and shuffling his plate to the corner of the table, as if to give Regulus more space. His sausages and eggs stare up at him, mocking, and Regulus’ stomach churns.
He manages the eggs, and slips one of the sausages to a waiting dog when nobody but Remus is looking, eyebrows raised and expression knowing in that infuriating way of his. And then it’s a matter of clearing the table, everyone in the kitchen at once makes for enormous chaos. Effie washes dishes by hand while Monty bothers her about church gossip, chattering aimlessly with a mug in his hands until she deems him unhelpful and sends him out front to make sure the walkway is shoveled, just in case (even though nobody will be making their way up here for at least another couple of days). James scrubs at the table, and Sirius and Remus are sent out to haul in bits of wood, lined up near the back door, that they’ll load into the fireplace before gifts are unwrapped. Regulus is left without a job, hovering aimlessly in the entrance to the kitchen and feeling as sorry for himself as he did before making his way down here in the first place.
The rest of the morning is spent huddled in the sitting room, Monty in the chair he usually falls asleep in, Effie and James tucked close together under a throw blanket on the couch and the rest of them sprawled out on the floor. James gets Sirius a set of several records he’s been wanting, and tells him there’s a new record player on its way to London – which isn’t too big a gift, given James plans to listen to it, too (Regulus files that away as an interesting fact, James’ intention to be in Sirius’ flat often enough to listen to his records – will he be there for Henry? Nobody has said anything, so it’s possible Henry just needs… Space). The Potters get Remus boxes upon boxes of rich chocolate that Regulus recognizes as coming from the shop in the village, handmade and expensive, and Remus looks properly overjoyed. There are snacks and gadgets, a thick knitted shawl for Effie and a snowblower for Monty that he frowns at and says “that might be too complicated for me,” and by the time all the paper has been collected, Regulus has in front of him a mountain of books and novelty bookmarks, several packets of his favourite tea, and a new kettle to replace the one Sirius broke the last time he visited. There are only two packages left, one in his lap and one in James’.
“Go on then,” James insists, leaning forward with his elbows balanced on his thighs.
The paper is a dark green, embellished with silver Christmas trees and dotted with stars. Regulus opens it carefully, slipping his thumb under the tape and peeling it away from paper. He can feel several sets of eyes on him, but when he glances up at least Sirius and Remus are pretending not to stare. It’s an unassuming package, rectangular and flexible.
“It’s just a notebook,” James explains quickly as he pushes the paper to the side. “And I’m sure you have a million of them, but I ordered this one with the paper you like. I know you’re not writing much, but I still think you should start, and maybe you’re not anti-tech anymore but–”
“Thank you,” Regulus says primly. He’s clutching the book so tightly his knuckles are going a bit white. Nobody else seems to notice. “It’s nice.”
James studies him, seems to deflate some, turns to the package in his own lap and is much less careful when he tears paper off the scarf Regulus picked up at the market. Still, when he has it open he stares down at it for a second or two, and briefly Regulus worries that he’s terribly disappointed that he clearly purchased it last minute. But when he looks back up he looks a little… Emotional, mouth tight and eyes crinkled at the corners.
Regulus gets a simple thank you, and a handful of moments later they’re pushing their gifts into organized piles and Monty is stepping over the maze of legs on the floor to put an old black and white movie on the television, and then there are new mugs of cocoa all around, and James isn’t quite looking at him, but Regulus is painfully aware of the weight of his presence nevertheless.
At half past three, Sirius and Remus pack up the back of Sirius’ car. “We’ll be with the Lupins until the new year,” Sirius explains. He’s frowning and watching James as he loads things into the boot. He’s worried about him, Regulus can tell, but there’s something else in the thin line of Sirius’ pinched lips.
“Behave yourself,” Sirius says to James, dragging him into a long hug. James laughs breathlessly into his shoulder, not dressed for the cold.
“Of course I will, and then I’ll see you in London.” He sounds sure, and again Regulus wonders about Henry, and about James’ plan to move, but he says nothing.
“I should go, too, probably,” Regulus says as Sirius’ car crawls down the snowy driveway toward the just-as-snowy gravel road.
James, who isn’t quite looking at him, makes a sound that’s neither a yes nor a no.
“Do you have to go back to work?” He asks.
Regulus doesn’t. Not until the second, and even then he imagines it’ll be a slow start as people trickle in from their family vacations. But he longs for his own bed, the comfort of being alone, and he suspects that once Sirius has access to his cellphone again, he’ll receive a message warning him against doing anything that might jeopardize James’ sensitive mental state. If anyone knows James even better than Regulus does, it’s Sirius.
“Well why don’t you wait until tomorrow,” says James, finally shooting him a sideways look. They’re still in the driveway and James is shivering. “Or until the snow passes, I’ll feel better if you’re not driving by yourself into the storm.”
Regulus frowns at him.
It was one thing to stay by himself with the Potters back when he and James were he and James, but now they aren’t, and Sirius is gone, and he imagines James wants to be left alone. He said as much last night, didn’t he?
“Come on,” James doesn’t leave any room for arguing, nudging Regulus with his elbow and then leading him back up to the house.
So he goes. He follows James up the front steps and then into the foyer, where he peels out of his jacket and James stands rubbing his hands together to warm them up again. His mouth opens, and so does James’, both of them starting to speak at the same time and getting nothing out before Effie’s voice from the kitchen calls James back in.
“Mums,” James rolls his eyes, but goes, and Regulus takes himself back upstairs.
It’s half past eight the next time he sees him. James knocks on his door, already dressed in a thick sweater and a puffer jacket, a hat tugged low over his ears. Regulus has just woken up from a nap, and peers groggily at him in the doorway.
“Come for dinner with me?” James is chewing on his bottom lip, foot scuffing on the hallway runner. “Mum has a church thing, dad’s asleep in the chair.”
A more reasonable man would tell him it isn’t a good idea, would listen to Sirius’ voice in his ear telling him to leave James alone. But James has never made him feel very reasonable, so Regulus scrambles to get dressed instead. It’s before eleven, there will still be respectable people around, so he can’t go down to the pub in his pajamas. He locks himself in the bathroom to change, and James is still in the hall when he finishes, fiddling with his phone and smiling distantly when Regulus emerges, back in his lumpy Christmas sweater.
He and James follow the same path from the house to the pub. The snow is higher now, so he borrows a pair of boots that are at least two sizes too big, but fit well enough over his doubled-up socks. It’s relatively silent while they trudge through it, except for the crunch of snow underfoot and the wintery crackle in the air, and, when they get closer to town, the quiet noise of lazy, post-holiday living. The pub is one of the only businesses open this time of year, shops shuttered until the new year. There are holidays to take, after all, and this village is sparsely populated as it is.
James sweeps him through the front door and together they stomp the snow off their boots and strip out of their jackets to leave on the hooks by the door. James doesn’t quite look at him as they take their table, and Regulus doesn’t mention that it’s their regular table. Their old table. He’s pretty sure James’ fingers have worn a permanent mark in the wood – he’s at it now, thumb smoothing back and forth over the scrubby grain.
“So,” Regulus says in a feeble attempt to crack through the strange, awkward silence that seems to have taken up permanent residence between them. James’ eyes dart to him, and then back to the familiar woodgrain under his thumb.
It stretches out again, long and sticky and tenuous. A furrow forms between Regulus’ eyebrows, and he starts to say “James,” just as James’ head pops up again and he starts to say, “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” Regulus blinks blankly at him.
James gestures with one hand, first at Regulus, and then the table between them, and then the pub. It’s as sparse in here as it was outside, but the music is loud enough to drown their voices out from prying ears.
“This was a stupid idea,” James frowns.
A lump forms at the back of Regulus’ throat. He tries to swallow it down, reaches for his water glass. James is poised like he’s ready to climb up and out of his seat, half raised off the bench. When he finally makes a move to do it, Regulus’ hand darts out to catch him.
“Just sit down,” he snaps. A little more softly, he adds, “we’re here now, aren’t we?”
Still looking uncertain, James slumps back into his seat. In a desperate attempt not to let them dissolve into awkward silence again, Regulus clears his throat and continues, “So talk about it, then. I know you want to.”
James always wanted to talk. Every little thing, a disagreement over dinner, arguments over mundane little things like which was better, chocolate mousse or caramel pudding, raised voices after mutual frustration. They may be broken up now, but Regulus can see it stewing in the way James worries at his bottom lip with his front teeth, or the way he slouches when he sits or walks, like the weight of all the things he’d like to say is folding him in on himself.
“I can’t talk to you about Henry.”
Regulus waves his hand dismissively, offering a weak smile to the waitress when she flips her notebook open. It’s a welcome distraction; he takes the time it takes James to order his fish and chips to come up with a reason why he can. Should.
Really, there’s only one.
“I care about you, James,” he says with a tremendous sigh that sends him sinking back into his booth seat. “A lot. Still. And you need to talk, so talk.”
James doesn’t look entirely convinced, face scrunched in thought. When he gives in, it’s with a sympathetic frown and a large gulp from the whiskey and coke the waitress sets in front of him. Steeled by the alcohol, James flops his arms out to the sides and sighs.
“What sort of dick do you have to be to dump someone on Christmas fucking Eve?”
“A big one,” Regulus grumbles, clutching his gin and tonic close to his chest. James looks a bit green.
“I know,” he says, much quieter now. “I’m an ass.”
“You?”
One half of James’ mouth tucks up, but it’s self-deprecating at best.
“Henry wanted to talk about it, you see,” James explains. He sits up straighter and arranges his face into something that Regulus is sure is meant to be a mimic of Henry’s haughty expression. “It’s not that I didn’t want you around, you know, it’s just that we have to be careful about these sorts of things.” His voice, somehow, becomes even posher in its mockery. Turning back into himself, James slouches again. “And I said, ‘fuck that! Don’t we love each other? Shouldn’t we be allowed to hold hands at our own Christmas party’, and he said, ‘it’s the Church Christmas party, James, this isn’t appropriate for the Church party,’ and I said, ‘oh? You and me?’ and then he never actually said it was true, that we loved one another.”
Regulus’ mouth is quite dry. He takes another large gulp of his drink, and James does the same. When their fish comes, Regulus spends a long time cutting it up into pieces, knife scraping against porcelain.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” James frowns, “fuck.”
“He deserved it.”
“Did he?”
He wonders what the rest of it was like, James and Henry’s private moments. The ones he didn’t spy on behind plants or grandfather clocks. He wonders if Henry has ever been sweet to him the way he used to be sweet to him, the way he’s sure James was sweet to Henry.
“He did,” Regulus decides, and waves the waitress down for another round of drinks. “I saw the way he dropped your hand at the market, and I heard you in the kitchen.” He hasn’t drunk enough gin to really feel it yet, but the adrenaline is a bit intoxicating. The words tumble out of his mouth all in a rush, like they’re afraid if they don’t he won’t actually say them all. “He treated you like rubbish, and you, –” he kicks James under the table for emphasis, James scowls at him, “ – are just about the best person anyone could have, he was an idiot for not treating you better.”
Instead of saying anything back, James stabs several chunks of fish and brings them to his mouth until it’s overstuffed and he can’t say anything at all, taking a very long time to chew and then even longer to swallow, and washing the whole disgusting mess down with the last dregs of his drink. “He didn’t have anything special, you know,” is what he says when he’s finished his gulp, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “No special reason I wanted to move to London with him and not – anyway, nothing special. I told him I wanted to be closer to Sirius, and he thought that meant something it didn’t and said I should move with him.”
Following James’ lead, Regulus shoves a bite in his mouth.
“Anyway,” James says again, instead of forcing him to reply. “I dumped him on Christmas morning, and that makes me a dick. So cheers to being a dick.” Their glasses clink in the air between them, and James finishes his second round with a wrinkled nose and a half-drunk, too-loud laugh.
They drink three more rounds. Or at least, they order three more rounds, but Regulus starts to feel a bit woozy half way through his last. James powers through, but Regulus figures he deserves it, and resolves to making sure he makes it home without breaking something in the snow. It proves less difficult than he thought it might be – James is a fit man, an athlete, so he trudges forward faster than Regulus comfortably can, walking quickly just behind him. James’ hands are swinging, fingers red in the chill. Several hours have passed, and the air has gotten progressively cooler. James doesn’t seem to notice, jacket undone and breath forming great plumes in front of his face.
“We should watch a movie,” he declares as they repeat the whole process of stomping snow off their boots over again once inside. Regulus shushes them, and they stand quietly, listening for sounds of James’ parents. But it’s dark, and the house is quiet, so James shrugs and leads Regulus through to the sitting room where he chucks two throw blankets down on the couch cushion and drags a basket of old DVDs out from under the shelf next to the television. It isn’t that they don’t have Netflix out here, but James is clearly on a mission, saying “aha!” when he pulls a disc out of its package and slips it into the player. Regulus, drunker than he’d like to be, squints at the TV from where he’s flopped back on the couch. The cushion sags when James joins him, careless in the way he stretches his arms over the back of it.
“This is my favourite movie,” he declares.
“You’ve put on Finding Nemo,” Regulus says slowly.
“A classic,” James waggles his eyebrows.
Regulus is decidedly too drunk for this. He squints at the vibrant blues and corals on the screen, and when it all starts to blur together some, closes his eyes instead.
“You’re a dick, and you’ve got bad taste,” he mumbles.
“Take that back!” James scoffs. The swallow that follows is audible, a shaking breath out. Regulus winces, scrubs at his face with one hand.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “This is a fine movie.”
When he chances a look at him, James is staring resolutely forward. Regulus doesn’t get anything out of him through the full, torturous first half. The movie is fine, but James’ hand lays between them on the throw blankets, the line of his pinky finger pressed unintentionally to Regulus’ thigh. In another life, Regulus would reach down and grab it, or it would already be around his shoulders. In this life, he could swear James is inching closer with each scene that passes.
It’s as the credits are starting to roll that James’ head lolls against the back of the sofa, less drunk, but eyes still glossy. “You really didn’t like him, did you?”
“My opinion doesn’t matter,” Regulus reasons. His voice is soft, afraid to shatter the moment or send James running for the hills, or worse, send the tears that have been threatening all night actually spilling down his cheeks.
“Come off it, your opinion matters,” James sighs. He’s so close that Regulus can feel the puff of his breath over his cheek, smell the whiskey on it.
“Not about your love life,” Regulus reasons.
“Doesn’t it?”
Regulus can’t help the little wounded sound that escapes the back of his throat. It isn’t fair. His opinion doesn’t matter because it shouldn’t matter. “Does it?”
James frowns at him, and while Regulus used to be able to read him well, he can’t read this – a dozen complicated emotions flitting over his expression. He can, however, read the hand that comes to his cheek and the way James’ body shifts on the sofa. He can read the thumb that ghosts his cheekbone, the stuttering exhale against his mouth. He barely has to turn his head, and then their lips are pressed together. So light, it might not have happened at all. Regulus expects James to flinch back, but he doesn’t. James’ thumb presses into the hollow of his cheek imploringly. The next time their lips meet, Regulus’ are parted, and so are James’.
There is no great big breaking away. They kiss as the credits roll, and then as the screen fuzzes over and the room is bathed in blue light and static, until both of their eyes are heavy.
“Do you want…?” Regulus asks. The front of James’ trousers are tented, both of their cheeks are flushed.
James looks, for a second, like he’s about to say yes. And then there’s something pained, like he’s just realized something important, and he drops back against the couch cushion. He passes a hand over his face, glasses long abandoned on the couch cushion, and scrubs at his eyes.
“No,” he decides, voice shallow and breathless. “No. Sorry. Goodnight.”
The floor creaks under his feet until he reaches the stairs, stepping carefully to avoid the noisiest steps. Regulus drags a throw blanket around his shoulders and frowns at the empty television screen until his eyes ache.
In the morning, he finds James shoveling snow in the driveway, bundled up with a red nose and his hands clumsy in thick gloves. It’s stopped coming down, but the air is still crisp – the sky is clear and blue. Regulus pulls his jumper tighter around himself and toes into his trainers, standing on the porch and watching. There are bags stacked next to the front door, James’, he thinks.
The realization is colder than the snow landing on the exposed back of his neck, melting and sliding down his collar.
“I thought you weren’t leaving until the New Year,” he calls, when James spares him a glance. He can see James contemplate whether or not to justify it with a response. He thinks James looks like he’d like to ignore him.
But this is James, and even when James is angry he’s very nearly incapable of being unkind. So he trudges back up the driveway, depositing his shovel next to the house and brushing his jacket free of snowflakes.
“I thought you weren’t leaving,” Regulus repeats. James frowns at him. “I thought we could talk. Should talk. We should talk.”
James’ fingers flex inside his gloves. Regulus shivers and gestures back to the house. “Can you come inside? Can we talk? Or maybe – why don’t we go get breakfast?”
“No,” James cuts him off. “No. Reg. We can’t go get breakfast, we shouldn’t I –...” He looks pained, Regulus shifts his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable, and not from the cold.
“Please, James. I know it’s not good timing but, –” he sucks in a deep breath, cold air like daggers in his lungs.
“But nothing,” James says quickly, shaking his head. His hair is wild, messy when the hood of his jacket falls back down. “Last night, that wasn’t what – fuck Reg, what did you think that was?”
“You kissed…”
“You kissed me,” James insists quickly.
“You kissed back!”
James doesn’t deny it, but he does close his eyes, face tilted up toward the sky, breaths slow. “Because I’m weak, Reg. To everything you bloody well do. And I was over you. Do you know that? I was finally over you, and then you came back here and that was fine, fine! I didn’t complain, I thought we could be civil. But you kissed me.”
“I know but –...”
“And I was over you. I’m over you. And I can’t do this again. So I’m going.”
The lump is back again, terrible and thick and impossible to swallow.
“James,” he finally manages to croak, but James looks at him so desperately that he takes a half-step backward. “This is your fucking house. I’ll…” It’s still only half nine, he’ll make it to London by the afternoon if he leaves now. “I’ll go.”
James doesn’t argue with him, and neither Effie nor Fleamont are home to say anything about his quick departure. Only Tilly follows him up to his bedroom, winding around his ankles while he re-folds his clothes and shoves them hastily into his suitcase. He considers the journal James gave him, resting on the bedside table, and eventually snatches it up before he goes.
By the time he gets back downstairs, the driveway has been cleared, but James isn’t out front. There’s smoke wafting from the back porch, but Regulus slips out the front door to the sleek sedan, brushed clear of snow and waiting for him next to the house.