Chapter 7
Regulus lives above a bookstore, which is convenient given his love of reading. When he got back, it was late afternoon on Boxing day, and the little sign pasted to the window advertised 50% off old stock. Then, it was only a matter of wandering the shelves until his arms were so laden down they’d begun to ache, and carrying his new hoard up a narrow flight of stairs to his door. Contrary to what Sirius might lead others to believe, his flat isn’t a modern big-city monstrosity. There are books on every viable surface – the shelves he bought when he first moved in that take up much of the living room wall, the side tables and a small section of kitchen counter. Sure, many of them come from work and therefore are work, but a very good number come from the shop downstairs, to be read at his leisure, a lovely means of escaping the horrors of the real world.
With his half-price stack of new books, Regulus lasted until New Year’s day, holed up on a squashy brown couch underneath a thick blanket, resolutely ignoring Sirius’ texts and phone calls. He picked up one from Remus to run through the obligatory ‘I’m alive’ and ‘yes I got home alright’ and ‘no I don’t need you to come home early from your holidays’ and ‘sure, I’ll stop in and water the plants’, but otherwise he’s been a bit of a shut in.
He deserves it, he thinks. It only feels a little bit different from the first time he and James broke up, not that this was a breakup. The sting lives on, though, as if it were one – maybe because he spent so long considering the life he and James might have if he were still single and waiting around for him much the same way he’s been single and waiting around for James.
By January 2nd, Sirius had had enough, and came stomping up his steps demanding he show his face, shower, and make himself known at the post-New-Years celebration at the pub down the street. He hadn’t demanded answers, or a story, which was evidence enough that he’d heard it all from James already.
They haven’t talked about it since.
Mrs. Figg lives in the flat just across the hall from him. They share the same dark stairwell with a gate at the bottom that Regulus always ensures is locked in case one of her several cats escapes her flat. It’s sunny the morning Regulus finds her struggling to carry a rolling suitcase down toward the street. Stooping down, Regulus lifts it out of her hands and offers a half-hearted smile, carrying it for her down the rickety steps and rolling it onto the pavement.
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing,” she tells him, her voice small and trembling. Her hand is cool and wrinkled where she places it on his cheek, squeezing fondly and shaking his head side to side.
“It’s the nice thing to do,” Regulus says. She ignores his usual frosty demeanor, shrugging a shawl over her shoulders and worrying at the smartphone in her hands. She wears thick glasses on pink frames, and she’s currently squinting through them at her Uber app. Gathering she hasn’t the faintest idea how to call a car, Regulus eases it from her grip and taps through the app for her.
“Where are we off to today?” He’s going to be late for work, as the calendar creeps well into spring, the office is turning over – spring cleaning, they’ve said, working through piles of manuscripts that have built up over the winter and which need to be cleared out. Mrs. Figg takes her time telling him all about her plans to go abroad, the summer shoes she’s had to pack, and the purse full of paper maps she had a difficult time getting ahold of. Upon gathering that she’s headed to the airport, he taps the address in and totes her back to the pickup spot.
“I’ve got a sitter coming, for the babies,” she says coyly.
Regulus’ brow furrows. “I could have done that for you,” he says. She shrugs him off, small smile hidden behind her hand.
“He’s very nice, and very handsome. He’ll be in around nine, if you’d like a chance encounter.”
Regulus’ frown deepens, which makes her sigh and tut at him like he’s a horrible lost cause. “You’ll be lonely for the rest of your life,” she laments sadly. Luckily, a little green sedan rolls to a stop next to them, so he helps her into the back and need not listen to any more sad tales about his loveless life.
Mrs. Figg isn’t the only one keen on setting Regulus up with someone. Daisy, who works in the cubicle next to him, has been incessant in her badgering him to come with her to the Friday pub quiz, where she, apparently, has a sea of gay men at her fingertips. He’s managed to dodge each invitation so far, which has turned into her pestering him about installing a dating app on his phone over lunch. That had been harder to avoid, and now his smartphone sits like a lead weight in his pocket as he dashes down the steps to the tube and slips on just before the doors close. He has a profile, and has swiped on exactly thirteen men. Four yeses, and nine nos, which has turned into a rather disastrous, anxiety-inducing set of notifications. Three of them have messaged him, and while two seem to have given up at his lack of response, the third has asked no less than three times if he wants to ‘link up.’
He doesn’t.
He hasn’t told Sirius about the new app or the men in his phone, because he’s sure Sirius would be delighted. And bossy. And would insist that he go on ‘at least one date’, just to ‘try it out.’ It’s been years, but dating after James still feels blah, and whether it meant anything or not, that half-drunk night of kissing (a mistake, he reminds himself forcefully), did wonders to unravel whatever progress he’d made getting over him.
He hates James Potter.
He’s been stewing on it since. Maybe he kissed James, but James leaned in first, James kissed back, and he had to have known, hadn’t he? That Regulus has been hopelessly, terribly, heart-wrenchingly in love with him since the day they got together, breakup notwithstanding. Right? He has to know.
His office is in the heart of downtown, streets crammed with people and tall buildings. He works in a cubicle, but the perimeter of the room is lined with windows that let in plenty of natural light, and the entire floor smells like paper and printer ink. They need to hold the manuscripts in their hands, it’s just better that way – or so says his boss.
“Regulus,” Daisy says levelly from where she’s perched in her own cubicle, swiveling her chair to stick her head past the half wall and size him up. “It’s Thursday.”
“So it is,” Regulus says distractedly, hauling his bag up onto his chair. He knows what’s coming before she says it.
“Thirsty Thursday,” she announces, waggling her eyebrows at him. Her grin is broad, but falls with a dejected sigh when Regulus turns resolutely toward his computer. “Regulus, you’re going to become depressed.”
“I’m not going to become depressed,” he snaps. “Anyway, I have plans.”
Daisy is a good friend, all things considered. She’s a little on the chipper side for Regulus’ tastes, but, privately, he thinks he needs that sort of energy in his life. He stares at his computer for a long handful of seconds before he shoots her a sideways glance. “What about next week?”
Because maybe it is time to… Move on. Everyone in his life has someone in mind for him, what use is it being miserable and alone?
“Great!” Daisy turns back toward her computer. Her cubicle is plastered in bright posters, and she’s swapped her keyboard out for one that clacks gratingly when she types. “Now back to business. Are you almost finished with that Lockhart manuscript? I’ve got a whole stack that could use a second set of eyes.”
Regulus really does have plans. He suspects Daisy thinks he’s lying about them, what with the pitying look she gives him when he finally closes his laptop and shoves the manuscript he’s been reading to the side. He brushes off her ‘are you sure you don’t want to come?’ as he shrugs into his coat and shoulders his work bag.
Outside, the sharp chill of February has given way to the first few days of March. It’s unseasonably warm today, and has stopped drizzling long enough for clear skies to peek through the crowds. The ground is damp, though, and the air smells like wet concrete and the streets are livelier than they have been in ages, people milling about and commenting on the good weather, elbowing one another and insisting it’ll soon be time to sit out on the patios instead of crowding inside.
Tonight, though, it is not patio weather. Regulus meets Sirius under the awning of their favourite Italian restaurant, managing not to squirm when Sirius pulls him into a firm hug and rocks him back and forth like it’s been ages since they’ve seen one another.
“I have news!” He declares.
“Oh?”
Waving a dismissive hand at him, Sirius ushers him inside and adds, “after wine.”
This is a comforting little restaurant, jam packed with small tables and sconce lighting. There’s a bar at the front that people huddle around waiting for tables. Sirius leads him past them to what Regulus has started to think of as a standing reservation. This time, though, they swerve past the table for four they usually occupy (one seat empty), and they squash into a table for two under a big window that looks out into the street.
“No Remus?” Regulus frowns.
“No. Not tonight.”
“But he loves –”
“I know, I know, I’ll bring some home.” Regulus looks him over suspiciously, but folds himself into his seat nevertheless, peeling out of his coat and hanging it behind his chair. When he turns back around, Sirius is watching him intently but pretends not to be when Regulus catches him.
“Red or white?”
“Red,” Regulus insists, frowning. He gets the same wine and the same meal every time they come here. Sirius always pretends to pore over the menu, and then does the same.
“Red it is. We’ll share a bottle.”
“Just for the two of us?”
“Where’s your sense of whimsy, Reg.”
“It’s Thursday.”
“So? You’re young, you can handle a half bottle of wine on a work night.” Sirius leans back in his chair, holding the menu up, one finger trailing down it as he murmurs to himself about the merits of lasagne versus gnocchi.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re acting so squirrely?”
That’s when he sees it. He knows Sirius knows that he’s seen it, slender fingers wrapped around a water glass. The ring is surprisingly understated, a thin silver band with inset jewels, so smokey grey they’re almost black.
“I told you he was going to ask,” Sirius grins, extending his hand for Regulus to examine. He does the dutiful thing, snatching it up and dragging his brother halfway across the table so he can study his fingers. He expects to feel the green swooping bitterness of jealousy. Why should Sirius find love and not him? But he doesn’t. He holds back his smile for all of a handful of moments, humming and murmuring to himself as though he’s sizing it up.
“Shut up, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Sirius snatches his hand back and presses his smiling mouth to his glass. “I’m going to need a best man.”
“James, then?”
Sirius’ grey eyes level on him, patient but expectant. Slowly, as realisation dawns, Regulus’ brows creep up his forehead.
“Well,” he says primly. “Is this how you’re going to ask? I thought you might be a bit more creative.”
Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Would you like me to make you up a fancy little box for you to post to all your Instagram followers? I will if you want. You just… You’ve always been my best friend, even when it was shit, even when we didn’t talk. James will get over it.”
Regulus is glad for the distraction of the waiter, smiling weakly as Sirius orders a bottle of wine and two glasses, bread for the table, a salad to share, seeming to understand that Regulus will need a few minutes to find his tongue again.
“I get to plan your bachelor trip,” is what he says.
“A whole trip?”
“Mm, you don’t want a lowly party do you? You’ll want something over the top, I imagine. And Remus, who will do his?”
Sirius thanks the waiter when their wine is delivered, and they both take two big swallows.
“James is his. We were thinking about doing it all fairly jointly, you know, since it’s already a bit… Untraditional.”
Regulus expects a terrible lump. He expects to feel icy shards dig down his spine. He expects to need to quickly excuse himself, plow his way to the bathroom and try to catch his breath. But none of that happens. There isn’t a lump, and the earth doesn’t threaten to open up and swallow him whole. “You two are so annoying,” he sighs, “can’t you be apart for one weekend?”
“Nope!” Sirius says cheerfully. Regulus doesn’t miss the way he relaxes back into his chair with the energy shift.
They’re two glasses deep, dinner in front of them, when the high of his announcement seems to fade and Sirius fixes a look at him over his glass.
“You look well.”
Regulus resists the urge to full-body flinch.
“Have we devolved to small talk?” He mumbles into his pasta.
Sirius considers, back tracks and tries again. “Should I ask you directly, then? You look like you haven’t been spiraling.”
“I haven’t been. No thanks to you.”
Sirius flinches, but Regulus doesn’t feel bad.
“Reg I –”
“Don’t.” He wanted an apology, before. But then December became January became February became March, and now the threat of spring is in the air and he’d rather Sirius save it.
Sirius shifts in his seat, back and forth on his tailbone. He opens his mouth and then closes it, breathes a sigh into his cupped fingers.
“Listen,” Sirius barrels on, his long think clearly hasn’t deterred him. “I thought it would go differently, I thought you were over it, I thought he was over it. I’m –”
“An idiot?” Regulus butts in sharply.
Sirius grimaces and squirms some more before relenting, “Yes, an idiot.”
It doesn’t register until several seconds later, and when it does, his heart kicks to life in his chest, a low thud thudthud against his ribs that he feels all the way to his toes. “James wasn’t –...”
“No.” Sirius says sharply, light glints off the stones in his ring when he pushes his hand through his hair. “No. You talk to him, we’re not talking about this.”
“But you said –...”
“Regulus,” Sirius’ big brother tone has lost much of its effectiveness since they were kids.
“Sirius.”
“Regulus.”
Regulus slouches and scowls at his pasta. “I’ll drop it,” he says, brandishing his fork, “but only because we’re celebrating, or whatever.”
Christmas becomes water under the bridge. If he’s honest, he’s still a little peeved. Not for the reasons one would assume. He’d regressed, when he first got back, but James’ stint on the couch, and the sharp, hurt tone of his voice have resonated with him since. And maybe, just maybe, being told once and for all to forget it, is what he needed to move on.
That’s what he’d thought, anyway, until Sirius’ slip of the tongue. And now – now Regulus’ head is a fucking mess.
“Hi Daisy,” Regulus holds the phone between his shoulder and ear while he wrestles with an umbrella. Spring is in full swing, now, and with it has come torrential downpour. It comes from all angles, splattering against the pavement and ricocheting up his denims. Behind him, people bustle out of the station, heads ducked and hoods pulled up, or else cowering under their own umbrellas.
“Is that a bloody waterfall?” Daisy shouts in his ear, presumably over the sound of the rain and the wind. Regulus gives a thin sigh and a curse, finally heaving his umbrella open and darting out onto the sidewalk. They say rain on your wedding day is meant to be good luck, but what about rain during your engagement party? Traffic lights bloom blurry reds and greens, and Regulus smarts at the blare of a cab horn, hopping back away from the curb and narrowly avoiding being sprayed as it careens through a puddle.
“Just rain, Dais. Can I help you?”
“You’ve skipped pub night,” she complains. He can picture her frown, the disappointment she’ll level him with on Monday. To be fair to himself, he’d gone to two, and so he deserves to skip this one, plans or not.
“I know you don’t believe me, but I have a life. I have friends, I have a family.” Well, he has Sirius. And now, he supposes, he has Remus.
“Boo,” Daisy huffs. It’s loud where she is too, even though it’s barely eight o’clock. He can hear chatter, loud music. “You’re supposed to be my wingman.”
“You don’t need a wingman,” Regulus would roll his eyes, only he’s too busy swiping rainwater out of them.
“And Tilden has this friend –”
Regulus groans, he makes sure it’s loud enough that Daisy can hear it over the din on both of their lines.
“I don’t understand you,” she laments. Daisy has been after Tilden for as long as he’s known her, oblivious to how into her Tilden is. For that reason alone, he’d argue that she shouldn’t have a say over his love life.
“Whatever!” He shouts as the rain becomes louder. “Next time, I’ll meet him next time – oh hell, bye!” He barely manages to get the goodbye out as a gust of wind whips up his left side and turns his umbrella inside out. Immediately he’s pelted with rain, his hair sticking to his forehead and his thin t-shirt clinging to his shoulders. It’s disorienting, wrestling with his umbrella, dodging people in similar states of disarray as they run toward the shops and restaurants down the street, unbearably loud for all of a handful of seconds before a hulking shadow looms over him and the pelt ceases.
“Oh my God!” A voice sounds close to his ear, for as chilled as he is, James’ voice sends hot shards down his spine. His cheeks heat, especially when James nudges him bodily in the direction of the restaurant. There’s no time to talk, just James’ hand against his back and James’ umbrella above his head and James’ shoulder pressed to his. They run for the awning, and only once they’ve clambered through the door – James snapping his umbrella closed – does Regulus’ heart start beating again. It’s an unhelpful beat, loud and primarily in his ears, a thunderous sort of hammer.
James eases the umbrella from his hands, frowning at its broken spines. “I think it’s done for,” he says regretfully, smothering a snort as it drips all over the floor. The hostess, looking a bit put out, takes it gingerly from his hands and stuffs it in the bin behind her stand.
Remus and Sirius are tucked into a table in the back of the restaurant looking utterly besotted. Since becoming engaged, they’ve been even more obnoxiously in love, which is great for Sirius, really. He and James exchange knowing, equally disgusted looks, but are quickly shepherded to opposite sides of the table. Regulus sits to Remus’ right, beside a woman who bears a striking resemblance to him and who he learns is his cousin. She leans heavily into his side after a handful of glasses of wine, in a move that Regulus thinks at first might be flirting, but which he realizes quickly is just the Lupin way. She and Remus become similarly red in the cheeks after several glasses of wine, and she confesses in a loud whisper that she has her eye on Lily, sitting at the other end of the table, who pretends she doesn’t hear, but who goes spectacularly red in turn.
It’s all very lovely, and Regulus doesn’t even feel like his chest has been cracked open and his heart carved out of it. Not even when James’ laugh rises above the rest, or when he catches Regulus’ eye meaningfully during a sappy toast to the happy couple.
“So!” Sirius claps his hands together after their final dishes have been cleared away and it’s just the six of them and their wine glasses. “I’m sure you’ve gathered that you’re the wedding party.”
“I’m sure they have, love,” Remus says, rolling his eyes and drawing Sirius closer when he sways dangerously sideways. Regulus has never seen him smile like that. It’s infectious – he hides his own in his wine glass and looks abruptly away when James pulls a face at him.
“Which means,” Sirius continues, pinning Remus with a glare, “that you all have to get along, and you’ll all be seeing plenty of one another.”
“Pity,” Remus’ cousin mumbles under her breath, causing their half of the table to erupt into quiet, snorting laughter. Regulus hasn’t been drunk like this in a long time, it’s a pleasant, tipsy sort of drunk. Equal parts alcohol and happiness.
Sirius glares in their general direction, and then turns his stare on James.
“You in particular,” he gestures between James and Regulus with a pointing finger that Remus catches in midair and brings back down to his thigh.
“Alright,” Remus laughs. “I’m sure we’ve all heard enough of your lecture. Do you think maybe we should get the bill? I think they’re trying to be rid of us.” The restaurant has, indeed, emptied out. There’s a hostess sweeping idly near the front door and the bartender has nearly finished polishing glasses. Sirius curses under his breath, and leaves a wad of money on the table that looks as though it’s more than enough to cover their bill and then some. All six of them gush their apologies as they spill out the front door.
“Can you lot manage?” Remus asks, he has a casual hold on Sirius’ waist, and they both look eager to get away from the rest of them.
The goodbye is chaotic. James spends a long time loitering behind, trying to convince Remus’ cousin that she ought to walk in Lily’s direction, and then there are hugs and loud, lamenting goodbyes and see you soons and before Regulus realizes what’s happened it’s just him and James alone on the pavement. The rain has mostly stopped, dwindled down to an errant drizzle now. James’ glasses are speckled with water, but he doesn’t look eager to leave. Regulus startles when the buzzing neon sign above them shuts off. The door to the restaurant opens and the hostess slips out, bidding them an awkward goodbye as she heads in the direction of the tube.
“So,” James says, just as Regulus starts to say, “Well that was fun.”
They share an awkward glance and then both look away laughing.
“I should go,” Regulus is the first to break the silence. Something funny flickers over James’ face and he shifts his denim jacket from one arm to the other.
“Right, me too.”
“Right.” Regulus clears his throat. “It was good seeing you,” he says, and finds that he means it.
James nods earnestly, and they both step forward at the same time, James to give him a hug and Regulus to step past him. Again they both laugh, and Regulus clasps him briefly on the shoulder before turning in the direction of the tube. Healed as he may be, that he thinks did hurt a little. A sharp pang right in the center of his chest, the subtle twist of a knife. Judging by the look on his face, James must have felt it, too.
Regulus makes it almost all the way to the station before jolting at the sound of trainers slapping on the wet pavement behind him. James shoots him a sideways look as he gestures Regulus ahead of him.
“I should take you home,” he says, and then quickly amends, “help you get home – err, make sure you’re safe. You know?”
Both of Regulus’ eyebrows creep up his forehead. James continues to follow him toward the tube, despite the curious, incredulous look that has overtaken Regulus’ face.
Regulus doesn’t speak until the doors have slid shut behind them, trapping them inside, “I’m capable of getting myself home, you know. I’ve lived in the city longer than you have.”
“I know,” James shrugs, dropping into the seat next to him. “But you’ve had wine, and we both know how you get.”
“Please!” Regulus scoffs. “I’m ten times as coordinated as you are.”
“Sure you are.”
It’s late, so the car is almost empty. He and James ride several stops in companionable silence, and by the time they stand up again Regulus does feel drunk. Or maybe that’s something else, making his heart beat hard and his vision swim. He’s positively giddy by the time they hit the street, James walking close enough to him that their shoulders brush. It’s an accident surely, right?
“This is me,” Regulus says when they reach the alcove leading to his stairwell. James takes a big step back and gives a low whistle.
“Nice location,” he says, nodding in a way that reminds Regulus a lot of Fleamont.
Regulus watches him, bemused, from where he’s unlocked the gate. “Are you just going to stand there, then? Or are you going to walk me up?”
James’ gaze snaps from the sign above the door to the bookshop back to Regulus’ face. He watches him calculate, and prays he hasn’t wildly misread the situation.
“Yeah,” James nods. “Sure. We should talk about… stuff.”
“Right.”
“Best man stuff.”
“Yeah, that.”
James’ hands are shoved deep into his back pockets, and he suddenly looks young. He reminds Regulus of the person he fell in love with a long time ago, when they were both fresh out of school and still boyish.
The hike up his stairs feels impossibly long. Regulus holds his breath as he unlocks his door, in case Mrs. Figg hears his key in the lock and comes snooping. He loves her, really he does, but he’s quite eager to get inside.
In his flat, James takes a slow loop of his living space, studying bookshelves and the photos on the wall. He’s lingering near a picture of the four of them – himself, James, Sirius and Remus – when Regulus breaks the silence. “James,” he says, trying not to sound exasperated. “Is this… Am I reading this completely wrong?”
James glances up at him, surprised, and Regulus thinks he sees his cheeks go a bit pink.
“How are you reading it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Regulus says at length. “As though my ex has taken me home after a night of drinking too much, maybe he’s going to try –”
“No,” James says quickly. “It’s not that.”
A little kernel of disappointment lodges itself in Regulus’ gut. James brushes his hand anxiously back and forth through his hair, puffing a big breath of air out before he finally speaks.
“Do you want to go to dinner?” He asks abruptly, words stilted. “Not to talk about best man stuff. To talk about us. You and me. In a… maybe we should try again, way?”
Regulus’ head is usually busy. Never quiet, always thinking. In that moment there’s nothing but static, a low, pleasant buzz. He stands there with his mouth open and his eyes wide for too long. He knows it’s too long because James goes through a myriad of emotions, nervous to amused and to something that looks a bit horrified. Only when James clears his throat does Regulus snap out of it.
“Yes,” he says quickly. “Absolutely.” He doesn’t even cringe at how eager he sounds.
The corner of James’ mouth ticks up. “Good,” he laughs brightly. “Great. Ok.”
“Ok.”
“I think your brother is going to kill me.”