makes you wanna run and hide
8:07 P.M. February 26th.
Regulus was an idiot. He was a stupid, stuck-in-the-past, nonsensical idiot.
He should have run. He should have run before Sirius saw him. He should have run the moment he saw Sirius. Regulus should have fucking sprinted out of that stadium. He should never have come back to New York in the first place. He should never have left France. That was the one place Sirius would never have gone to. That was the one place he would have been safe from Sirius and his memories.
God, he was so fucking dumb.
He should have connected the dots faster. He should have realized. He should have been smarter. He should have run.
Regulus pushed through the door to the men’s bathroom. Everything tingled, and there was an absence of oxygen in the air. He couldn’t breathe. No, he knew he could breathe. He forced his lungs to open. He forced his mouth to pull air.
There were steps outside of the door. Shit. Someone was coming.
Without another second, he forced his feet to bring him to the stall farthest from the door. He didn’t even close the door; he just let his head hit the wall. He needed to breathe. His body didn’t cooperate. Neither did his mind. Every tool he had to help with his panic attacks went out of his head because all he could think about was Sirius.
Sirius, who looked just like he had when he was sixteen.
Sirius, who looked nothing like he had when he was sixteen.
Sirius, whom Regulus wished he had never met.
Sirius, who Regulus wished, had never left.
Sirius, who wrote a song about their childhood.
Sirius, who told Regulus that they had the same face and name but weren’t the same.
Sirius, who didn’t care about Regulus.
Sirius, who had stared at–
“Regulus?” a voice said from the bathroom.
No.
No.
No.
Regulus recognized that voice.
No.
No.
No.
“Regulus?”
No.
No.
No.
Regulus saw the steps approaching his stall, but he couldn’t move.
Fuck.
The universe hated him.
Whatever controlled life hated him.
The worst person to be here.
Not the worst.
The worst would have been Si–
“Regulus?”
James Potter stood before him, hazy through the tears in Regulus’ eyes.
Go away, Regulus said, but the words didn’t come out.
Get out, Regulus commanded, but the words never left his head.
Suddenly, his breaths became too apparent.
He was hyperventilating. He was breathing too much, but no oxygen was reaching his lungs.
He was dying. This had to have been death.
“Regulus, breathe.” James was crouching in front of him now.
Fucking James Potter.
The prick.
Regulus was trying.
Goddamnit, Regulus was trying to breathe.
His lungs weren’t working.
James took a loud breath. Then another. He breathed so loudly that Regulus wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up and leave him alone.
But he didn’t have the oxygen. James continued to inhale and exhale too loudly.
Soon enough, Regulus’ breathing matched his. Regulus’ lungs were fixed. They worked again. Regulus could breathe easier. There was oxygen in the room again. Enough oxygen in his lungs to say–
“Go away.” There was not enough oxygen in his lungs to put hate behind the words.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, love.”
Regulus didn’t know what to freak out about more. The fact that he just saw his brother again or the fact that James Potter just called him love.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Actually, I like calling you ‘love.’ I think I’ll stick with it. You see, my grandparents are from London, and I’d visit them. And I’d be in the supermarket, and the cashier would call me ‘love,’ and I always thought it was the coolest thing. I’m a very cool person now, so I have to call you that.”
“You’re not cool. You’re an over-glorified football player who had a quarter-life crisis,” Regulus bit back.
“I think they call it soccer here, love.”
“Fuck off.”
“Where do your grandparents live?” James asked, and for all of Regulus’ wit, he couldn’t figure out why.
“A small town in France.”
“You go there often?”
“No. I haven’t been to France since I left.”
“Why not? Did all the snails for dinner start to annoy you?”
"We actually only eat snails on special occasions like Christmas, so no, it wasn’t that.”
“I always wanted to visit France. I like croissants and pain au chocolats a lot, and I’ve heard they’re really good there.” James had possibly pronounced pain au chocolat the worst way Regulus had ever heard.
“The French in me wants to kill you.”
“Why?” There was a glimmer of amusement in James’ eyes.
“You said pain au chocolat the worst I have ever heard,” Regulus replied dryly because most Americans got it somewhat right. Sometimes, they got it the most right you could without having a French accent. James had butchered it.
“How are you supposed to say it?” he asked, though Regulus got the sense that James didn’t actually care very much about how it was supposed to be said. However, Regulus decided to humor him until he figured out why James was sitting there talking to him.
“Well, first of all, you don’t say pain like the English word pain; it’s more like pan, plus the accent. Then au is said like the letter o rather than saying a and u separately. And chocolat starts with more of a sh sound than a tch sound. You also drop the t. The accent also helps if you add that on,” Regulus instructed and noticed for the first time that James had sat down at some point. He couldn’t recall when.
“So it’s like pain au chocolat,” James attempted but failed miserably.
“No. Pain au chocolat,” Regulus corrected.
“Pain au chocolat,” he tried again, but Regulus shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get it.”
Regulus shook his head again while laughing. “Never try out for the role of a French person, and never go to Paris. They would all hate you,” Regulus advised, even though he didn’t quite know why.
“I’m sure you could do all the ordering and speaking for us,” James said.
“Bold of you to assume that I could ever speak more than you could.” Regulus then thought over James’ sentence and realized he had never denied the fact that they would ever be in Paris. “Also, I’m never going with you to Paris.”
“And why not?” There it was again. That glimmer of amusement in James’ eyes that Regulus couldn’t pull his eyes from. The star that was an inside joke between them.
“Going on an international trip with you would be my worst nightmare,” Regulus admitted, but there wasn’t the hate that would have been in his voice usually.
“Am I really that bad?”
“You’re worse than bad?”
“Why is that?”
Regulus rolled his eyes fondly. “Because–”
Then it all came crashing down. At that moment, he realized where he was and who he was with. Regulus was sitting on the dirty floor of a public restroom that probably hadn’t been properly cleaned since it was built with James Potter. James Potter was talking to him about going to Paris. James Potter had seen him cry. James Potter had seen him weak. James Potter had seen him break down and hadn’t run. No, he had run to Regulus.
It might have been just that fact that made Regulus sprint in the other direction.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” he muttered as he stood up to the questioning of James.
“What are you doing?” James asked, standing up so Regulus had an easier time getting out of the stall.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Regulus slid past James and out of the stall. “I’m leaving.” He didn’t look back before walking out of the bathroom and running to the nearest exit.
Regulus was out of the stadium by the time he stopped running. He then hailed a cab and left.