Regulus spends most of his time at his desk in the drawing room, scribbling out prose and poetry with a feather quill under the light of the sun shining in from the bay window. Somehow, despite the almost constant sunlight in Godric’s Hollow, Regulus is still constantly cold — as if the sun can see him, but not quite reach him. He always keeps a blanket around his shoulders — maroon, decorated with a gold pattern. His husband, Barty, used to tease him for the blanket — after all, Regulus hates all shades of red and loves all shades of green. But, after years of Regulus going silent and turning a cold shoulder whenever Barty so much as brings it up, he stopped asking. Just like he stopped asking about what Regulus is always writing about, or why he’s always so cold, or why he never wants to go out with their friends to the parties he used to enjoy.
Today, Barty is out somewhere, presumably with friends. Regulus doesn’t know Barty’s friends well anymore. Perhaps Pandora is out with them. Or Evan. Maybe Dorcas. Barty always says that someday they’ll just come barging into the house and drag Regulus out to go clubbing, just like they used to. They never come though — maybe during the fun and the blur of their adventures they just forget about lil’ depressed Regulus, back at home, scribbling his mystery notes in his mystery book with his mystery blanket still wrapped around him. So, while Barty is out with the friends Regulus used to have, Regulus stays in, drinking fire-whiskey straight from the bottle, drowning in the memories he wished he couldn’t remember. Eternally cold because the sun can never touch him.
He flips a couple pages back in his leather-bound book, looking over the neat cursive of his handiwork in maroon ink. Everything in this little writing corner is maroon. Even the muggle phone by his hand, which he glances at every once in a while — a single slip of parchment tucked underneath it with a single number written down.
He’s got a shelf of these leather books from over the last five years — worn spines from constant use, leather cord holding it together. Day after day after day he writes a plethora of little notes in these books. Sometimes something as simple as this:
I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay.
I’m not okay.
But other times he writes memories. Memories that it kills him to remember. Memories that he needs to survive.
It was summer. We were staying back from Hogwarts. It was sixth year. Because in fifth year Sirius and I moved in with the Potters after running from Grimmauld Place. Because in fifth year everything was normal. Because Sirius and Remus graduated when I was in sixth year. Because they went to stay with Remus’ parents in Wales for two weeks. Because Effie and Monty went on vacation for two weeks. Because it was two weeks at Potter Manor. Two weeks of just me. Two weeks of just you.
Two weeks.
A fortnight.
It was just a fortnight.
Regulus looks up, out of the bay window and out onto the front lawn. There’s a snatch of bright red hair to the left — a pretty young woman tending flowers on the front lawn of his neighbours’ house. Lilies. The flowers are lilies. Lilies in full bloom, beautiful and alive. Just like her. Just like the young woman with the red hair and the pretty wedding ring on her finger: Lily. She stands up, moving a strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand and notices Regulus through the bay window. She waves, grinning, before going back to watering her flowers. Regulus hates those flowers. Bright and beautiful and everything he wishes his garden looked like. But his garden is just a dead mess — not even weeds can live there. Nothing but a single willow tree, sadly waving in the breeze. He looks back down at his book, running a hand through his black curls. He used to take pristine care of those curls. He doesn’t care much for appearances now.
You tried to make dinner once, the muggle way. It ended up with a burning mess. You had a smudge of ash on his cheek after we managed to put out the fire. I made dinner than night. You said it might have been the most delicious thing you had ever tasted. Your eyes are brown. Brown and warm and bright and kind.
Was it sudden? Was it slow? I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember? You touched my hand over dinner. You held my hand over dinner.You came to the other side of the table so we could sit beside one another, knee to knee. So close my side was practically flush to yours.
I touched you, reaching out to wipe a bit of sauce off the corner of your mouth. You laughed.
I touched you.
For only a fortnight.
Time passes by in a blur and thirteen pages of scribbles and two bottles of fire-whiskey later, Regulus’ head shoots up at the sound of the front door opening. It’s late, the sun is down and the night is black outside. But it feels no different to Regulus, the time of day having no effect on his ever present, pervasive cold.
“Barty?” He calls down the hall, “Barty, what time is it?”
“Just past midnight babe,” Barty replies, appearing in the open drawing room door, “I’m back,” he grins.
“I can see that,” Regulus replies, rather coldly.
Barty is shining, positively glowing — a grin on his face and a blush in his cheeks that Regulus recognizes from their early adventurous excursions. And Regulus knows that wherever Barty was tonight, Evan was there too. And Regulus knows that he can’t make Barty happy the way he used to. And Regulus knows that Evan can and Evan has and it hurts. It hurts because Regulus knows he spends all of his time in the corner of the drawing room, shooting furtive glances at the muggle phone and scribbling in his journal. He knows that he barely speaks to Barty anymore, going practically mute most of the time. He knows that he’s cold and cruel and distant. But he also knows that everything he wants is just out of reach and everything he has is slowly slipping away.
Barty doesn’t even wear his wedding ring anymore.
“Listen babe, I’ve had a long night, Imma go up to bed,” Barty turns to leave, “Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”
“Yeah, sure.”
You came to my wedding. You came and watched as I stood up there with Barty and said my vows. Did you know I was thinking of you the whole time?
I came to your wedding. I watched you up there with Lily. A perfect family. I watched as my brother gave a speech about how Lily has always been the only one for you. I watched as you didn’t so much as glance my way the entire time.
But for a fortnight there we were.
You had said that this would be forever.
But our forever only lasted for a fortnight.
Regulus takes another deep swing of fire-whiskey. Regulus used to be the life of the party — a social butterfly that could make anybody laugh. Now he’s just a functioning alcoholic who spends all of his time writing letters to his neighbour that he’ll never send.
He breathes on the glass of the bay window until it’s foggy. Then he writes with his finger:
I love you, it’s ruining my life.
He falls asleep at his desk like he does most days now, maroon blanket around his shoulders, head on the table — silently crying until his breath evens out and he slips into uneasy sleep.
—
James wakes up as the sun rises, stretching and yawning, careful not to wake Lily, who’s still sleeping by his side. He slips out of bed, rubs his eyes, and heads to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He graduated from Hogwarts five years ago, he married Lily two years after. They were twenty back then, alive and full of adventure. But now he works a part time job at the ministry and does little errands for Dumbledore every once in a while. He keeps in touch with his old friends; Sirius and Remus call around once a week, Peter once a month. Sometimes Marlene and Dorcas call; sometimes Mary sends and owl with spontaneous pictures of her life with her muggle husband. But otherwise, James’ life is rather monotonous, drained of the mirth and exhilaration of youth. Not that he’s that old exactly, he’s just tired, falling for the colourless rhythm that now plays in the background of everything he does.
He sits at the kitchen table and sips his coffee, watching the sun illuminate the lilies his wife planted in the garden. In truth, he never liked flowers as much as he loves trees — especially willows, with their unpredictable form, natural movements, and the soft rustling sound they make in the wind. Flowers always felt so static to him, standing straight in the garden, colourful and vibrant and everything they are expected to be. James much prefers the freedom of a free moving willow, bent over and reaching of the ground as if unafraid to be sad.
James doesn’t know how to do that — be unashamedly sad. He always feels the compulsive need to be happy and bright and shining for the people around him. When he’s sad, he disappears, communicating only through sporadic letters filled with vague and bland contents. When he’s sad he locks himself in the bathroom alone and casts silencing charms so Lily can’t hear him cry. When he’s sad he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know who he can talk to. So when Sirius calls him like he usually does every Sunday, James doesn’t know what to say. When Sirius asks how he’s doing, he lies and say he’s doing great. He doesn’t mention the monotony, or the sadness, or the fear that everything’s going to go all wrong. He doesn’t mention that Lily has been talking about trying for a baby. He doesn’t mention that he can’t see himself raising a kid with her. He doesn’t mention Regulus, who he sometimes watches sit at the bay window of the house next to his, writing and writing all day long.
“Hey Prongs, you okay, mate?” Sirius says on the other side of the line, “You’ve been silent for a while now.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” James swallows, “Just caught me at a bad time is all.”
“Oh, sorry mate, I didn’t know you were busy. Don’t worry I’ll let you go, just one question —”
“Yeah?”
“— you seen my brother recently? I’ve been calling and calling him but he just won’t pick up.”
“Ah, yeah I’ve seen him, he — uh —” James shakes his head, trying to figure out what to say, “We chat sometimes, when we see each other outside, y’know, talk ‘bout the weather and stuff. He seems fine.”
“Right, okay. Thanks mate, I think I’ll call him another day, he’s probably just busy. Anyways, you enjoy — whatever it is you’re doing — I’ll call you again next Sunday like usual, yeah?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
James ends the call abruptly. He really can’t take anymore of Sirius’ questions. They used to be closer, Sirius and him — they used to be inseparable. But now James avoids talking to anyone as much as possible without coming off as rude or distant.
He heads out to get the mail. There’s usually not too much for him that comes through the muggle mailbox, but Lily gets a fair amount so he still checks regularly. He puts on a pair shoes and heads out the door, glancing at the lilies in the garden, then at the willow waving in the wind over by on his neighbours’ lawn. Then he sees Regulus — wearing a thick green sweater — at the mailbox.
“Regulus — hey”
Regulus jumps, turning around suddenly. He’s paler than usual — if that’s even possible — and he’s nervously fidgeting with the collar of his sweater.
“James — I — uh — hi.”
“Hi,” James chuckles, finding himself feeling the unfamiliar sensation of not knowing what to say, “I — uh — like your sweater. The green suits you.”
“Um — I — thanks,” Regulus stutters, turning back the mailbox and hastily taking his mail.
“How’s — uh — Barty?”
“Fine. Just fine,” Regulus’ voice holds bitterness that it didn’t have just a second ago.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Regulus huffs, turning to leave, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
He trods away without so much as saying goodbye. It occurs to James just then that it’s rather warm weather for a sweater, but he pushes the thought out of his mind. When it comes to Regulus, James has found that it’s always much easier just to forget and move on — or at least try to.
When he gets back to the house he flips through the mail, organizing them into piles like Lily taught him, one for random advertisements, one for Lily, one for him. A weird habit he never had to develop when owls always delivered his mail to him directly. His pile is usually empty, he’s used to that by now — all of his friends and family send mail by owl. Only Arthur Weasley ever sends mail the muggle way, or at least tries to — only one of Arthur’s letters has ever successful found it’s way to their house in Godric’s Hollow. But today James does have a letter — a simple envelope with no indication of who sent it, sealed with a wax stamp. It’s this that sparks James’ curiosity — after all, muggles rarely ever use wax stamps; their letters all seal by just wetting the envelope flap. He opens the envelope, breaking the seal and pulling out a single sheet of parchment that looks as though it had been ripped out of a book. On it is scrawled a poem in pretty cursive handwriting, written with maroon ink.
Do you see me — sitting silently in a cold dark street?
Sometimes I dream you’re touching me,
Take me back to the days we would cuddle in your bedsheets —
Foggy eyed and laughing — before we had to tread carefully.
James reads it, shakes his head, then reads it again. No-one would send him this. No-one. And definitely not the only person he wishes had.
He shakes his head again as if to try and get his thoughts in order. After all, he reminds himself, he had ended it, he had cut it off — he simply has to let it all go. Not that he hasn’t tried that before — he has, many times. He’s tried to move on and let go and live his life. It worked a couple times, but only temporarily. So instead he folds up the poem, slips it back in the envelope, and puts it in his pocket.
A couple days later, after coming inside from a walk, James finds another letter, this time on the couch in his living room — the same envelope, the same seal. He opens it suspiciously. Like the last, the envelope contains but a single piece of parchment, torn from a book.
I used to dream of forever,
Because you once told me we would spend eternity together,
When I was cold you transfigured a blanket from your maroon sweater,
Do you think if we never met — it would have been for the better?
James shakes his head, confused. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s been five years — five years of awkward comments and static silence. He contemplates asking Lily about the letters — maybe she’s pranking him or something — but decides against it. He isn’t ready to answer any of the questions that are bound to follow if it isn’t Lily who’s sending the letters. Instead, he puts the second letter in his pocket, where he’s been keeping the first.
Just the next day, he finds another letter, this time underneath his mug when he comes down for coffee in the morning. The same envelope, the same seal, the same single piece of parchment seemingly torn from a book.
I keep forgetting it was only a fortnight —
Because in my heart it was a destined, lifelong tryst —
And it plagues me to think it might have lasted longer if I tried —
I love you, and it’s ruining my life.
James can feel tears building up in his eyes as he reads the letter quickly, then scans back upwards and reads it all again. I love you. He grabs the letter, shoves it in his pocket, and runs to the bathroom. Then he locks the door and casts a silencing charm. Only then does he allow himself to pull the letters back out, spreading them flat on the bathroom counter, and read them again and again and again. He slides down the washroom wall, head in his hands, and breaks, sobbing to himself in the quiet safety of a locked bathroom at sunrise.
“What is this?” he whispers through tears, “What is this, Reg — why?”
—
When Regulus wakes up, the first thing he sees is a half-empty bottle of fire-whiskey in front of him. Then he sees a large glass of water just beside it. Sitting up and stretching the kinks out of his neck from sleeping with his head on the desk, he brings the glass of water to his lips and takes a big gulp. Barty used to express his worry about Regulus drinking so much. He used to object every time he saw another empty bottle on the desk. Now he just leaves a big glass of water for Regulus when he wakes up, and leaves it at that.
Outside, it’s still dark — he must have only slept for a couple hours at most. Not that it matters much, he’s tired all the time no matter how much sleep he has. He glances at the clock on his right — it reads just past 4 am. Stretching his arms above his head, he yawns, then turns his attention back to the book in front of him. He left it open last night — the page reads:
I think of calling you sometimes. Lily gave me your house number the day we moved in. I keep it next to me, right under the phone. But after everything, I doubt you would pick up. Why would you pick up? You have your picture perfect picket fence and lilies — why would you pick up for a messed up, sleep deprived alcoholic?
I remember the first day Sirius called me and said there was a nice house in Godric’s Hollow for sale. I remember when Barty and I apparated there. I remember when I saw your face and you caught my eye and we both just looked at each other for a moment before looking away. I remember nearly taking Barty’s arm and leaving. But then he looked at the house and whispered ‘It’s perfect’. And then I had to stay. Because how could I tell him that I couldn’t live there? How could I tell him that I couldn’t spend day after day just a few steps away from everything I want and everything I can’t have? I couldn’t. So we moved in and we had a little party in the backyard. You chatted with Sirius and I watched, trying to imagine it was me you were smiling at, laughing with.
Once, it had been. But only for a fortnight.
Regulus wipes his eyes wearily. In some of the earlier books, the letters are bleeding and the pages tear-stained. But he doesn’t have tears left to cry anymore — he’s just a hollow, empty vessel — just a shell. He flips a couple pages back.
On the last night I was convinced it was forever. You took me to bed, kissed me senseless, and that was the first time I’d ever had sex. We were only teenagers, figuring out what we wanted, figuring out where we belonged. And after it was over I whispered ‘Don’t go’ and you whispered back: ‘Never.’ And I thought that was it. That I had found my ‘happily ever after’. I fell asleep in your arms, smiling.
But the next morning I woke up alone. You were gone. On your pillow was a singular piece of parchment covered in messy scrawl. I crumpled up that letter. I don’t know where it is now. It might be under your bed back at Potter Manor. But what it said was simple; it said that it was over — whatever we had — it was over. It said that I was Sirius’ brother and you were Sirius’ best friend, so could never work. It said that I was practically another child to Effie and Monty, so it could never work. It said that you were dating Lily — and you were just confused and it was all a mistake. It said goodbye. There was none of the James I remember. None of the heartfelt, ‘give it my all’ kind of message. Just cold, simple explanations. You didn’t even apologize. I know no-one is to blame, but what about your quiet treason?
When Remus and Sirius and Effie and Monty came back later that day, you finally reappeared. But you ignored me, not so much as looking at me. And when your parents asked you how the two weeks went, you shrugged and said it was ‘okay’.
And that was it.
I thought it would have been forever.
But it was only a fortnight.
Regulus traces his fingers over the cursive script. He can’t breathe, asphyxiated by a familiar ache in his chest that he’s been trying to drown with liquor for five years. It’s useless though, he knows as much. Every morning is a Monday, stuck in a endless February. He flips a couple more pages, then freezes.
Because a page is missing. The tear line is evident — a clean tear, but a tear nonetheless. He flips a couple more pages. Another. Then another. His breathe hitches. Someone has been stealing his pages.
He bounds from the desk and races up the stairs, banging the bedroom door open. The noise wakes Barty up, who groans, clearly hungover.
“The fuck, Barty?” He practically screams.
Barty looks up, shocked, “What? What’s going on?”
“You — you’ve been through my — you — you stole my pages!” He gestures at the leather book in his hands.
Barty shakes his head, rubbing his eyes wearily, “Your journal? Yeah — yeah I have — I —”
“The fuck, Barty?” Regulus is roaring now.
“Oh ‘the fuck’ me, huh?”
“Yes ‘the fuck’ you, that was personal!”
“And I’m not allowed to wonder why my husband has disappeared into that book? Not allowed to worry about what you spend all your time writing while you drink your life away?”
“It was fucking personal!"
“Yeah! Okay, it was personal!” Barty raises his hands up in defeat, “But you’re fucking miserable, and —” He brings his hands up over his face, breathing heavily, “— and I love you, I love you so much and I breaks me to see you like this. You need help Reg,” He looks up, his eyes soft and his cheeks streaked with tears.
“Oh I need help?” Regulus spins around and hits the wall with the flat of his palm, “I need help because it breaks you to see me like this and you love me —” He brings a hand up to cover his eyes, “Why don’t you just fuck off, you fucking liar, and go tell your sweet nothings to Evan!” He spits out the last words, filling them with venom.
“I — what?” Barty reels, clearly shocked.
“You think I haven’t noticed? I’m not fucking blind, Barty.”
“I — I just —”
“You just — you’re fucking cheating!” Regulus yells at him.
“Yes — okay — I’m cheating on you —” Barty runs a hand down his face, “But you spend all your time writing love letters to another man so forgive me if I needed to find another person to fucking love me,” he spits out.
Regulus goes silent.
Barty looks up just as the colour drains from Regulus’ face. Because Barty has read those journals. When Regulus is asleep on the desk, liquor in his blood and tear streaks down his face, Barty reads those journals in a vain effort to understand. And it is for this reason he knows he’s gone too far.
“Reg —” Barty swings his legs off the bed and starts to get up, “— Reg — I’m sorry — I didn’t mean —”
“Yes,” Regulus replies coldly.
“What?”
“You did meant it,” Regulus brings a hand up to wipe his eyes as he turns away, moving swiftly out of the bedroom and down the hall, sniffling.
“Reg!” Barty calls after him, getting up quickly and chasing after him. He runs down the stairs just in time to watch as the front door slams closed.
Regulus needs to leave. He needs to get out of here. He briefly considers apparating — but where would he go? He can’t go to Sirius’ — not after ignoring his calls for months. He can’t go to Evan’s, surely. And he can’t bring himself to bother Pandora. So instead he gets into his muggle car — a pretty forest green colour with a silver rune looking symbol on the back. He needs to mindlessly drive — go somewhere, just nowhere in particular. Starting up the engine, he backs out of the driveway and drives down the road, past James’ house, out of Godric’s Hollow. He used to go for mindless broom rides in the middle of the night when he was sad — getting out and moving always helped — but since the beginning of his ever pervasive cold, he stopped being able to fly. Even with dozens of warming charms, it’s still freezing cold up there normally. So instead he bought the car he wanted, threw some warming charms on it and enchanted it to self drive. And now he’s cruising along, moving from street to street — slowly drifting farther and farther from everything that hurts — while somehow carrying the pain with him like an unwanted passenger. He keeps thinking if he turns around fast enough he might catch it — that elusive weight he carries with him everywhere, even here, alone and directionless in the middle of nowhere.
The thing about self driving enchantments on muggle technology is that they’re always so finicky. Most of the advertised enchantments were made by wizards who know next to nothing about how the muggle technology works in the first place — which is the very reason why Regulus prefers to make his own enchantments. But to his credit, he has no idea how cars work either — more than once he became suspicious that cars are really just some magical artifact sold on the black market for muggles. And that is the reason why, only five minutes into his mindless drive, Regulus finds himself stuck in the middle of the road. Simply put — the enchantment has ceased to work and he has no idea how to drive the thing without it.
Making his own spells used to be Regulus’ pride and joy, right up there next to keeping his hair perfect. But it seems he can’t even get those right anymore. And now, in the middle of the road, alone and afraid, Regulus can’t help but believe that something is wrong with him — that he’s somehow broken.
Regulus puts his arms up on the steering wheel and drops his head down, crying into the crook of his elbow. What a cruel, cruel world he doesn’t fit in — like a piece of a puzzle that’s from an entirely different set — almost this, almost that, but not quite right. Cursed to always see what he wants, to always know where he’s going, but to always lose himself along the way — to always end up stranded and lost.
Like now, in the middle of nowhere, with a car that won’t start up.
—
James silently gathers all of the letters off the washroom counter, careful not to get them wet with the stray tears still making their way down his cheeks. He stares at them again, unbelieving, before putting them back in his pockets. Canceling the silencing charm and pushing open the door, James quietly makes his way to the study. Lily is still upstairs, sleeping soundly, and he sincerely hopes he doesn’t wake her. In the study is the muggle phone. Beside it is a little pad filled with phone numbers; Sirius and Remus’ are in there, along with Peter’s and Marls’ and Mary’s and a plethora of other numbers that belong to Lily’s muggle friends along with various restaurants and shops. He picks it up, flicking through the pages till he finds what he’s looking for: a series of numbers written in Lily’s round handwriting, and above it: ‘Barty and Regulus - the neighbours’. He dials the number hastily, listening impatiently to the calling tone ring and ring and ring and finally hang up when the phone isn’t picked up on the other end. He calls again. And again. And again. Thinking: you have to pick up, you have to pick, please Reg, please. He’s honestly unsure what he was expecting, it’s only just past 5 am — there’s no reason he should be picking up frantic calls from a madman at this hour. So, James puts the phone down and goes to the front door, quickly throwing on a coat and a pair of shoes before stepping out into the morning breeze.
The walk over to the neighbours’ house is a matter of seconds, but it feels like forever. How long has it been since James has last spoken to Regulus about this? He doesn’t know. It must have been somewhere around five years — it happened the summer after his graduation, that much he remembers. He remembers thinking how much of a mistake it had been; he remembers worrying about all the reasons it wouldn’t work out; he remembers being so, so confused, because why would a perfect boy like Regulus love him? And he spent the next five years regretting his decisions, but being too much of a coward to tell Regulus as much. Instead, James avoided him at every turn, too afraid of what Regulus might think of him. He watched as Regulus married Barty Crouch Jr. of all people — and he left the wedding early because it just hurt too much. And when he married Lily, he spent the entire day thinking of Regulus, but he was too scared to so much as glance at him. When Regulus and Barty moved into the house next door, he kept his gaze to the ground, letting Lily and Sirius do the socialization. He remembers catching Regulus’ gaze the first time they apparated into Godric’s Hollow — it was the first time they had acknowledged each other in years — but it only lasted a split second before they both looked away. And James was sure from that moment onwards that there was no hope for him — he had ruined the one thing he ever really wanted, and he believed without a doubt that it was unsalvageable.
And now here he is, three poems that could be from no-one else other than Regulus stuffed in his pocket, trudging over to his neighbours house at 5 am in the morning. Who does he think he’s fooling?
He raps his knuckles against the wooden door, hoping with all of his being that Regulus is up, that Regulus heard, and that Regulus will open that door. In his wildest dreams he hopes that Regulus is happy to see him, that he’ll open the door and wrap him in a suffocating hug. But, considering their more recent interactions, he doubts as much. He thinks for a second that maybe he should have brought flowers, or at least freshened up a little. Then he remembers he’s still married and he’s hit with a conflicting feeling of guilt. He’ll have a lot of explaining to do to Lily when he gets back.
Beside him, the willow tree sways sadly in the light breeze — and in the emptiness of the morning, James sways sadly back, “Me too, buddy. Me too.”
The front door clicks as it’s unlocked, the door beginning to open.
“Reg — I —”
But it isn’t Regulus on the others side of the door — it’s Barty.
“— Ah — uh, well this is awkward, I —” he looks up at meets Barty’s gaze, noticing the redness of his eyes and the tracks of tears running down his cheeks, “— you okay? You — you don’t look so good,” he attempts a chuckle, but it comes out as a pathetic little sad sound.
“Neither do you, Potter — we both have a good cry this morning?” Barty replies, one eyebrow cocked, “Can I help you?”
“I, uh — I was just wondering if Reg was home,” James shuffles on the spot, bring his hand up to nervously rub the back of his neck, “I — uh — I just need to talk to him.”
“At five in the morning, go figure,” Barty shakes his head and laughs drying, “It does’t matter, you just missed him, he left a bit ago.”
“Oh —” James pauses, wondering why on earth Regulus would be leaving the house at 5 am, “— I uh —” he reaches into his pocket, feeling the rough texture of the letters against his hands.
James doesn’t know what possesses him to take them out, running his fingers on the broken wax seals, remember the words written on those torn pieces of parchment. He doesn’t know what he’s doing whatsoever — not since that first letter. Maybe not since those two weeks five years ago.
Barty eyes the letters, a look of surprise and recognition lighting up his face, “Ah — I — I see. You better come in.”
He turns, leaving the door open as an invitation for James to follow. The house that Barty and Regulus live in is a cosy home — dark mahogany furniture and deep pine tree green wallpaper. Barty leads him into the kitchen, gesturing for him to sit down at the dining table, “Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Very well, it’s a bit too early for tea anyways,” Barty rubs a hand wearily over his face and sits down opposite.
“You got the letters,” he says after a brief silence.
“Yeah — I did,” James stammers, “You — you know about the letters?”
Barty smiles a hollow smile, devoid of any mirth, “Of course I know about the letters — I sent them.”
“What?” James bursts, “You — but —”
“Don’t worry princess,” Barty smirks, “I don’t have any feelings for you — Regulus wrote them, I just sent them.”
When James doesn’t reply, he continues, “He’s been writing in leather journals for as long as I’ve known him, but overtime, it seemed as though he wasn’t just writing in them, but living in them. So, when he was asleep by the bay window, drunk on fire-whiskey, I started pulling journals at random and reading through them,” He looks up and says sadly, “Everything he writes is about you. You hurt him, a lot.”
James pauses, taking a sharp breath in, “I know,” he says quietly.
Barty shakes his head, “No, I don’t think you do. Those poems? The ones you have in your pocket? Those were good days — days where his notes were comprehensive and legible, not a messy jumble of thoughts in bleeding ink on tear stained pages. He spends his life at that bay window, downing fire-whiskey and writing letters to you that he’ll never send. And I —” Barty turns away suddenly, clearly on the verge of tears, “I love him — I love him so much. And I know I’m not perfect, I know I’ve made mistakes, but all I want is for him to be happy, even if that means a life without me,” He looks up, seemingly apprehensive, “You would make him happy James — that’s why I sent those letters to you — to wake you up and make you see exactly what you mean to Regulus.”
James can feel tears building up in his eyes, but for once he doesn’t care about breaking his appearance as the perfect, cheerful, bright boy he felt like he always had to be.
“He means the world to me too, you know,” James whispers, “I was just too much of a coward to show him that.”
“Then fix it.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Listen, I never liked you — you always seemed like a perfect pampered boy living in Gryffindor dreamland. But if I know anything, I know this: you can fix it,” Barty takes a deep breath and then gives a reproachful smile, “Regulus needs you, James.”
For a moment, James just looks down at his hands in his lap, holding on to those little pieces of poetry — a window into the world he left Regulus in — a whisper of all the words he never let Regulus say. Then he gets up suddenly, pushing his chair away from the dining table, “When did he leave?”
“A few minutes before you showed up — he took the car though, so I don’t know how far he could’ve gotten.”
They walk back towards the front door, and on the way they pass the open doorway to the drawing room with the big bay window. James has spent a lot of time staring at this bay window, staring into this drawing room from the outside — it seems so different now that he’s on the other side. The mahogany table, the maroon ink and feather quill, the shelf of leather-bound books, the muggle phone with a slip of parchment underneath. He steps inside and pulls out the piece of parchment — it’s his muggle phone-number, written in the same cursive maroon print. He smiles fondly. Then he notices the maroon blanket on the floor — seeming to have fallen from the chair when Regulus got up. He picks it up, tenderly, tracing the gold pattern over the maroon fabric.
“That’s the blanket isn’t it?” Barty asks suddenly.
“Pardon?"
“That’s the blanket — the one that you transfigured from your sweater on a cold night during those two weeks.”
James looks up and meets Barty’s eye — there’s no anger there, just sadness, “Yeah, it is,” He looks back down at the blanket in his hands, “It was amazing you know,” he whispers.
“Those two weeks, or Regulus?”
“Both.”
Barty hums.
“Can I take it? Bring it with me?”
“Of course — it’s always been yours anyways,” Barty says sadly, and James can’t help but think that he isn’t talking about the blanket anymore.
He folds the blanket delicately and puts it under his arm before walking back out the front door and summoning his broom, “Thank you Barty, truly.”
Barty smiles, “He went that way,” he points down the road, “Just —” he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and looks down, not meeting James’ eye, “— promise me you’ll take care of him?”
“With my life.”
And with that James takes off and flies in the direction Regulus went, watching as Barty gets smaller and smaller beneath him. He shivers, a little cold up in the morning sky. Flying in silence for a while, he thinks on what Barty told him. That he could fix this. That Regulus needs him. Then he thinks about the nights he spent cuddling with Regulus in his bed, giggling over something silly. About the nights they spent kissing under a starlit sky. The nights where Regulus whispered his his ear: “You make me happy James, you make me so happy.”
Just then he spots it — the forest green car he remembers showing up on Regulus’ driveway one day. Regulus always said he wanted a green car — James was sadly nostalgic when he saw that Regulus finally got one, thinking it was another dream Regulus was living without him. He swoops down, landing just behind the car — it seems stuck on the road, either that or Regulus just decided to park in a very inopportune location. At past five in the morning, there’s no traffic here — just the silence of the morning and him and Regulus on a road in the middle of nowhere.
—
Regulus takes a deep breath, his head leaning against the drivers seat headrest, arms crossed. He stopped crying a while ago, but he’s still haunted by this heavy feeling of entrapment — as if he’s stuck in a single moment, living it over and over in static oblivion. It’s been at least twenty minutes — stuck in the middle of the road, stuck with himself, stuck in his own head. Maybe he should just move away, start a new life in America or something. He can apparate to Gringotts and grab some of his fortune before taking the international apparition point overseas — start fresh, clean slate. Preferably somewhere warm — maybe Florida. He shakes his head, who’s he fooling? He can’t even start a new life after a fortnight — how is he supposed to start a new life after five fucking years?
There’s a sudden rap on the window beside him, and Regulus jumps out of his skin as he turns, startled. And there, smiling warmly at him through the window, is a familiar face. Messy mop of hair, gold rimed glasses, and bright brown eyes.
He yanks the car door open in a rush, “James!?” He exclaims, not sure whether to be angry, or happy, or just surprised, “What in the world are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same thing to you,” he grins, glowing.
“Why I am out here is none of your business, Potter,” he spits.
James hums, smiling, “It’s been a long time since I heard you call me ‘Potter,’ you know that?”
Regulus scoffs, confused, “What does it matter? I’m just lost that’s all, and — why are you still smiling?”
“Do I need a reason? I’m always smiling when I’m around you.”
“Okay — I don’t know what game you’re playing but —”
James pulls the letters out of his pocket, pulling out the poems and watching as Regulus’ face warped from surprise to horror.
“Barty — he — how could —”
“He did it because he loves you — really — I — I didn’t know. I thought — you know what, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Point is — you never forgot and I never forgot either.”
“You never — you left me nothing but a letter! I don’t know what my response is supposed to be right now — what are you —”
“Listen,” James interrupts. He never thought he could fix this, he never thought he was capable of putting back the pieces of the delicate thing he ruined. But after those poems, after what Barty said back in Godric’s Hollow, he’s willing to try. He’s more than willing to try. He’ll spend the rest of his life trying if he has to, “I made a mistake — fuck — I made more than a mistake. And I’m so, so sorry. I thought that I would mess up — I was frightened out of my mind that I was doing it all wrong. You made me the happiest I have ever been, Reg, and for some reason I thought that I would rather leave it at that than risk messing it up later on. I was afraid of pursuing my dreams because I was afraid that at some point they would reveal themselves to just be dreams, nothing more. Because you are so perfect, and I don’t know how you could ever love a messed up, hopeless romantic like me,” he smiles reproachfully and shakes his head, “I — I don’t know if I’m doing this right — but I do know that I spent the last five years regretting every decision that brought me here, living a life without you in it, and —” he looks down at the letters in his hands, tracing his fingers over the stamp, “— I love you too.”
Regulus’ face goes red, and he splutters out an incomprehensible string of confused sounds.
James smiles, “I can still make you blush then?” He asks, laughing lightly, head cocked.
Regulus turns away, embarrassed, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he says to his feet, “This is all a big mess, I’m married to Barty and you’re married to Lily and —”
“Hey,” James hooks a finger under Regulus’ chin and lifts his head to gaze into his eyes, “Don’t worry about that now. Right now, it’s just you and me,” He pulls out the maroon blanket and drapes it over Regulus’ shoulders, “To keep away the cold,” he says softly.
Regulus looks at him, his eyes glistening with tears — but for the first time in five years, these are happy tears, “Promise you won’t leave me this time?”
“Promise.”
Regulus smiles, a real smile. For five years he’s dreamt of how it would be to live that fortnight again, and now, in the morning sunlight, lost on a some street in the middle of nowhere, he finally can. There’s still a space between them, a silent reminder of everything these past five years held. Looking up at James, Regulus tentatively reaches out a hand, bridging the gap. His hand finds James’, which had stretched out to meet him halfway. Then James’ arms are around him, holding him, and they embrace like their lives depend on it. It’s a messy mix of happy tears and laughter and frantic touches from five years starved of them — its a mess, but it’s home. And soon Regulus finds James’ hand behind his head, the other lifting up his chin, his own arms wrapped around James’ waist. It’s a chaste kiss, soft and safe. It’s a kiss that says: I’m here now. It’s a kiss that says: I’m all yours.
And in that moment, for the first time in five years, Regulus finally feels the warmth of the sun on his face as the suffocating cloak of the ever present, pervasive cold slips off of him. The weight he had carried with him for five years, a constant, unwanted companion, leaves him. Because here, in James’ arms, the sun can finally touch him.