Le Portrait
James opened his curtains the next morning more spry and feeling a year or two younger as he stretched his body, bathed in morning light. Whether it was the extra-long night of sleep, or the excitement for his first real day at the chateau, James felt a well of energy ready to take on the day. He’d need every drop. He had a to-do list.
First was breakfast. He’d skipped his first meal here, it was only right to make it up to them by making (or at least assisting) breakfast. His mother had taught him that any slip-up could be solved with food.
He opened his bedroom door and found himself back in the hall from yesterday, walls covered in dozens of astonishing artworks and pieces that James was determined he'd learn the names of. Forgetting himself, he let the door fall back on its own and winced as it slammed like a cannon that rang through the house. It couldn’t have been later than seven.
Sirius poked his head out of a bedroom farther down the hall, next to the stairs. James smiled apologetically.
“Don’t worry about it, mate. When I first moved here, it was weeks before I’d remember to close it slowly. It’s a loud house. Bloody impossible to sneak out of, the way my uncle’s hearing is. You’d never think he was as old as he is, with those ears.” Sirius said with a squinty expression. His voice was groggy and rough and his hair looked like it had hosted a nesting contest for a flock of birds.
“Did I wake you up?” James whispered, making his way down the hall to Sirius. James’s footsteps creaked every step or two.
“Yeah, but it’s alright. This is your first warning, though. I’m very serious when it comes to my sleep.” He said, putting up a cross expression.
“Aren’t you always ‘very Sirius’?” James joked, poking him in the shoulder light-heartedly. Sirius threw his head back and cackled loudly.
“I’m banned from making that joke! Oh, James, I like you very much.” Sirius slung an arm around James’s neck, and they made their way downstairs.
To James’s credit, he’d only disturbed Sirius that morning who seemed to be coping well, chugging iced water that the chateau’s keeper put in his hands as soon as they reached the first floor. Sirius joked to James that he was the only one in his entire family that had slept past nine in the morning, probably ever.
James asked about helping with breakfast. Sirius explained that Kreacher, the keeper, cooked their meals, and absolutely hated help or company while he worked. He was a bitter old man in his seventies, one that Regulus apparently swears is sweet, deep down. Sirius didn’t believe a word of it, he confessed.
The two of them talked in the sitting room as they shook off the sleep in their eyes, Sirius pitching him different nighttime plans until James gave in and agreed to go out on the town sometime that week. The early morning settled a calm quiet over the two of them, after a while, where James busied himself examining the collection of books and Sirius toyed with some sort of mechanical kitchen tool, a soft clink of metal the only sound other than the birds chirping and leaves bristling outside an open window. It was an hour before the sound of voices caught their attention. James followed the sound, and Sirius trailed behind.
“Thank you, Kreacher,” James heard Professor Black through an archway off of the kitchen, remnants scattered about from a morning of cooking.
Sirius jogged past him, and James followed after swiping a taste of Jam from the open jar on the counter. It was homemade, had to be. James found heaven for a moment as his tongue savored the taste. Ah, France.
“Sirius. Mr. Potter.” Alphard greeted politely, squeezing Sirius’s arm as he brushed by to sit beside him, across from his brother, who gave them both a quick glance before returning his focus to some papers on the table.
Alphard and Regulus sat outside at a rectangular dining table, every chair from a different set and completely beautiful in different ways. The one Regulus sat in was a dark mahogany with feet that flared out in a meticulously carved and artistic manner. It had a deep emerald green cushion. Sirius had a maroon cushion, much more full than Regulus’s, and his chair was more common but a bright and shiny golden wood made it stand out even without the detail Regulus’s chair had. Alphard sat on a birch and ivory chair with swirling carvings in each leg and a striped white and blue cushion.
The only one left was an oak chair with a yellow quilted cushion. He didn’t see anything special about the chair until he went to sit, and realized the wood that supported his back had a carving of some mountains and the sun coming up from behind them. It was beautiful.
The dining table was under patches of shade from the surrounding orchard that spanned most of the chateau’s grounds. Where he sat had an aroma of sweetness distinctly here smelling, like he’d never actually smelled apricots or pomegranates until this summer. He wondered if he’d ever stop being able to associate it with France, from now on.
In front of James was a spread of food that made James’s brain falter in astonishment, mouth watering the second he sat down. There were three different jams like the one from the kitchen, a fresh loaf of sourdough bread, lightly toasted, eggs, freshly cut fruit, and some croissants with blue specks coming from inside, begging James to take one.
“Did you recover from your trip, Mr. Potter?” Alphard asked, picking up a slice of peach from his plate on a fork.
“Big time. '' James hungrily watched Regulus pierce a soft-boiled egg and discard the top shell. He reached for his own, placing it on its miniature pedestal-cup. His mother had loved her eggs this way. He’d never been very good at cracking the egg himself, and cursed when he completely ruined the shell with his heavy hands.
Sirius laughed as Alphard called for Kreacher to bring another napkin. The corner of Regulus’s mouth tipped up in amusement, but he refused to look at the eggy placemat. He watched his brother losing it, instead, and eventually kicked him under the table to get him to calm down.
“Oops.” James smiled sheepishly.
Sirius placed another soft-boiled egg in front of James. “It’s all in the wrist, baby.” He said, and carefully opened up the shell with a much more controlled movement. Kreacher came up behind him and silently switched out the soiled napkin for the fresh one.
“I hope you’re able to make yourself at home, Mr. Potter. You are very welcome here.” Alphard changed the subject gracefully, giving a nod to Kreacher who retreated back to the kitchen.
“Yes, sir. It’s a beautiful home. And please, call me James.” He said between bites of egg.
“James, then.” Alphard smiled at him, then closed his eyes, savoring a particularly sweet bite of fruit.
“So, James, what’s on the agenda today? Settling in?” Sirius asked.
“Settling in, yeah. I’m thinking of going to town today. I need to open a bank account.” James said. He’d finished his egg in an amount of time certainly not seen as proper, but couldn’t find it in him to care when there was food this good, and nobody seemed to mind, anyways. Well, maybe Regulus did. James could never quite read him, but it was easy enough to tell when someone disliked you.
Alphard regarded James in an amused manner.
“None of our residents has ever opened a local account.” He said. Before James could respond, Sirius cut in.
“I’ll take you, then.” Sirius volunteered.
“Sirius, you have a shift at the garage today, do you not?” Alphard said, swiping a napkin over his mouth.
“Bugger. I do, I do,” Sirius peered over to look at his uncle’s watch. “Leaving in an hour or so.” Sirius leaned back.
“I can show you to town.” Regulus said, a little louder and less casual than he meant to. Alphard raised an eyebrow, but Sirius took it a step forward and turned to him with two raised eyebrows and his mouth hanging open.
It was here that you saw their relation clear as ever, in their expression, but also their pale complexion and even paler eyes, and noses more similar to each other than to Regulus’s.
Sirius looked like he could be Alphard’s son, to be honest. Professor Alphard Black was a well-groomed 50-something-year-old that was shorter than average and had a burn scar that marred a patch of skin on the right side of his jaw. He had pronounced cheekbones that towed the line between gaunt and avant-garde, which was echoed in Sirius’s youthful and high cheekbones. His hair was a dark gray and kept out of his face in a small wave, not a single strand daring to creep out of place. His eyes were round and sunken, and the piercing nature of the gray made it feel like he saw straight through you.
Despite his looks that may have contradicted it, his aura was one of calming, friendly energy. He secretly believed in magic, much to the Black brother’s amusement. He always snuck in references to The Beach Boys into feedback on student’s work, which made him hard to be intimidated by. He’d taken in Sirius and Regulus without question when they had shown up at his door one day, out of the blue, and made sure they knew he loved them every day since then. They’d only met once, before that day; Regulus had been a couple months old. Sirius was still in diapers, hardly two years old.
Alphard and Sirius were looking at Regulus like he’d grown a second head. James looked back and forth between them, trying to read the situation.
“Should I take him to Vence?” Regulus asked, ignoring his family’s looks.
“I– Well, I believe they are closed for the summer. Try La Colle-sur-Loup,” Alphard was still looking at Regulus. He smiled, now, a soft sort of smile. “Thank you, Regulus. That’s kind of you.” He added, patting Regulus’s hand twice in approval. Sirius still seemed taken aback, and didn’t say anything else.
“Is this your orchard?” James asked the table, flicking his eyes between the three Blacks.
The energy had changed, and Sirius was eyeing Regulus but Regulus wouldn’t let him catch his eyes, focusing on his hands spreading honey on his toast like it was the most important task.
“Pêche, cerise, abricot.” Alphard replied, gazing out into the sea of trees with a thoughtful look.
“Pomegranate.” Sirius added, finally looking at James, giving up on the mental conversation he had been trying to initiate with his brother.
Kreacher came back with a pitcher of apricot juice, pouring some for the table. James tasted it eagerly. The sweet taste was fireworks in his mouth, or liquid sunshine, and he couldn’t help but downing his whole glass.
Regulus watched as James’s head tipped back and drank down the juice. His skin was so golden, that in the light of the rising sun, he seemed to glow a bit around the edges.
“Have another egg, James.” Alphard gestured.
“No, I shouldn’t. If I start up again I won’t be able to stop and pretty soon you’ll have to roll me out of here,” James joked. “But that toast looks too good to pass up, Regulus. Pass me the honey?” He looked at him and smiled as Regulus handed the honey off. James’ hand brushed over top of Regulus’s, so subtly that he could have imagined it. Regulus’s hand was burning cold.
***
Regulus watched James untangle Narcissa’s old bike from the shed, waiting astride his own with both feet on the ground to balance him. He noticed the way James’s face changed ever so slightly when he thought nobody was watching, like you could see the conversation had in his head happening on his face. He wouldn’t have lasted a second in Orion and Walburga’s household, but Regulus sort of appreciated that about him. He was soft. It was like observing a wild animal, how foreign and confusing to Regulus he acted.
While they rode into town, Regulus let himself look more. It was purely informational, watching the breeze ruffle his already impossibly out-of-sorts hair. Regulus stole subtle sideways glances and caught the way James had one hand gripped on the handlebars, the other resting on his thigh casually. He was a big man, much bigger than Regulus. He casually caught up side-by-side to James, looking back and forth between his hand and James’s.
James looked over to Regulus, catching him. He smiled. It was that damn smile that came so easily to him. It irritated Regulus because it didn’t mean anything. Either that or Regulus didn’t know what it meant, which was worse, because James could be making fun of him and he wouldn’t even know.
Regulus broke out into a much faster speed, gliding past James and standing to get more leverage to gain more speed. He glanced back at James, getting smaller and smaller with distance, who was caught surprised for only a moment before breaking out into a grin, and standing up on his own bike to try and catch up. They were in town in no time at all.
(Regulus won.)
They biked slowly through the cobbled and winding streets of La Colle-sur-Loup, James unable to focus on any one thing, everything catching his eye all at once. Regulus was supposed to be showing him around, bringing him to the bank, but instead he just kept up behind James who’s childlike interest guided the two of them. He awed at the brightly colored bins, the children playing games in the street, and the picturesque hanging of laundry that crossed over alleyways between opposite apartments.
Soon, they had abandoned their bikes on a street corner and the two of them were walking through a local’s market. There were flowers of every color at one stand. Another had fresh fruit for sale and the one beside it had wines for tasting. Further, at the end of the line of vendors, was an artist’s booth that immediately pulled James in. She was offering 1 hour portraits, painted in wonderful bright colors with an impressionistic style that captured a likeness with broad strokes.
“I have to get a portrait.” James said, furrowing his eyebrows seriously, examining one of the example portraits, then smiling back at Regulus excitedly.
Regulus saw James approach the vendor, speaking lively with his hands. He took up so much space, completely unapologetically. Regulus thought he might be a bad person for being driven completely mad by it.
“Je peux m'asseoir pour vous?” James said. His French drove Regulus crazy, too. He was shit, which was rich considering he studied languages.
The woman took his francs and gestured for him to sit on one of the stools in front of her. Behind him spanned the village streets, colorful stone buildings with a backdrop of the perfectly blue, cloudless sky. He already looked like a painting. Regulus tried to commit it to memory, to examine later, to search for any fault he was missing, any sign that James was real. He needed something. Anything at all that would befall him and make him just like the rest of the world. He was just… out of reach.
Regulus was ready to find a bookstore to busy himself in when James called for him to join him.
Because of course he did.
They stared at one another, James holding his gaze expectantly, waiting for him to come sit. Regulus let his feet carry him and sat in the stool beside James, casually wondering if James had ever not gotten his way. He just had a way about him that made it seem obvious, like whatever he was asking you were going to do anyways, even if that was absolutely not true.
“You don’t look friendly.” The artist said in a thick French accent. She waved them to get closer.
Regulus looked between them to the inches of empty space. James picked up his stool and set it directly beside Regulus, so when he sat, their thighs brushed against each other, and Regulus could smell his cologne. It was like cedar and dark cherry. He felt himself stiffen next to James, who put a hand on his back and looked down at Regulus.
“Is this okay?” James asked seriously. When he nodded, he rested his hand a bit lower down and more comfortably for his arm.
Not a cell in Regulus’s body could relax, acutely aware of James so close, and the eyes of a trained observer watching them to capture their likeness. James looked like this was his natural state, beside someone with a smile on his face. His hands were made to pull where Regulus’s were meant to push, his smile unreserved and Regulus’s strictly so.
About halfway through, the artist gave a look to Regulus, nodding her head in James’s direction. He looked at James, clueless.
“Faites comme si je n'étais pas là. Comment seriez-vous ensemble?” ‘Pretend I'm not here. How would you be together?’, she said. Regulus shifted uncomfortably. James patted his back, and before he could tell her they didn’t truly know each other, James cut in.
“It’s okay. Pretend it’s just us.” James winked at Regulus and kissed his cheek in a quick and familiar way, one of those once-in-awhile smacks of affection between dear friends.
Regulus was quickly learning that being around James felt like an extreme sport, the way his heart hammered out of his chest. It wasn’t a fun one, either. He wasn’t an ‘extreme sports’ type of guy. He was a ‘stay at home and reread his same books’ kind of guy. He glared at James.
“Ah, de bons amis.” The artist chuckled.
James was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“You made her think—” Regulus huffed after the painting was done, finding his bike and setting it upright.
“—That we know each other? We do. You’re showing me around. Don’t you remember?” James grinned.
“You pushed it.” Regulus glared again. He met James' eyes and looked away quickly, stubborn to stay irritated.
“I’m sorry, it was just a bit of fun. Plus, now we have this portrait to commemorate our good friendship.” James laughed.
The portrait was breathtaking, too. Regulus hadn’t had a thing to say when it was revealed, just stared at it unblinking until James thanked the lady and slipped an extra few euros into her payment jar. They chatted for a moment longer, but Regulus hadn’t heard a word, too busy picking apart the artwork, examining every brushstroke and color she’d decided to use. James was painted in summery oranges and browns, his skin color exaggerated more of a brilliantly saturated brown then it truly was, but it felt accurate to how it felt to look at him. His eyes were an electric amber that was also used in bits of his hair.
His own likeness is what made him shiver. She had painted him in colors just as bright, with more pinks and blues, but it still made him seem warm and inviting. He had never seen himself that way. His eyes were blue, not gray, but it didn’t look like a mistake because they looked to reflect the aquamarine sky that had flicks of pale gray dotted about it, not clouds, but a breeze visually captured so subtly that he’d have missed it if he was breathing more normal than Regulus was at the time.
He’d never seen himself captured without a serious expression, but here he was, gazing up at James like he hung the sun, a smile beginning. It was confounding. It was alien. It was beautiful. They looked like they could be in love.
Regulus had to default his expression back to irritation, so as not to show his soft underbelly, which in this metaphor was the fact that he had come to a violent understanding how easy it would be for him to fall in love with James Potter.
Regulus could still feel him kissing his cheek if he closed his eyes. The feeling of James holding his back was tattooed onto his skin, and there was still a warmth where their legs had been pressed together. It was thoroughly, completely, and altogether impossible for Regulus to act normally, right now, so he plastered on a permanent scowl and added a bitter tinge to all his words.
James and Regulus biked without a word down the streets, Regulus weaving through the occasional crowd and ducking down turns without making sure James was still following. He was, and when they came upon the quaint bank, he’d hopped off of his bike and left Regulus as he skipped off inside.
“I can find my way back. Thanks, Reg. Later.” James flashed a smile before disappearing into the building, not bothering to wait for a response.
Regulus was left on the side of the road, looking around like he was lost. He knew exactly where he was but felt like he was seeing it differently now. A moment before he’d been looking at it all through James’ new eyes, and now he stood in the same streets he’d biked through since he was ten.
The ride home seemed a great deal duller, gravel passing under his wheels in a grating sound that only soured his mood further. Reg. He’d called him Reg.