If someone had told Regulus at sixteen, bullied and brow-beaten in his shithole of a public secondary school, that this would be his future, Regulus would have laughed in their face.
It's a struggle not to laugh even now, at the way the high, wide windows throw streaks of heavy afternoon sunlight across the ballroom floor, gilding the two figures in the centre in a warm gold. Six years working here, and the building remains every bit the fairytale castle Regulus thought it was when he first arrived.
Ridiculous.
Like a fever dream he once had, Regulus thinks. The spindly black folding chair he's sitting on right now might as well be a mirage. He's definitely not holding a stereo for the Queen of all Bradford and watching her try, and fail, to correct James' slouch into proper waltzing posture. That would be absolutely absurd.
He pinches himself.
The Queen is still there, wincing her way across the formal ballroom as James steps on her toes every time he moves, blushing and stammering apologies. He's a properly hopeless dancer, Regulus thinks, humming along to Blue Danube. The Queen is making a valiant effort to keep him on the beat, but even Regulus can tell James' footwork is an unmitigated disaster from where he's tucked against the wall, clutching the ancient boom box the 90's puked out into the storage room.
James is an equally improbable, impossibly wonderful addition to the entire absurd fantasy of living and working in Bradford's imperial palace. Regulus sighs. Just looking at him James could be any manic uni student plucked from campus with his exaggerated slouch and plain collared shirt a size too big, all long hair and a whiff of cigarette smoke. And yet when he stands just so, shoulders straight like a soldier with a crown of sunlight, James looks every inch the prince he's meant to be, and so far removed from the boy that Regulus woke up to in his bed that Regulus wants to beat his head against the floor. Fever dream or not, Regulus always finishes what he starts, and the sum and total of the thing is that he loves James more than he properly should. And Regulus would make a terrible princess.
Over the Queen's shoulder James catches Regulus' eye and mouths something that looks a lot like save me, before he's whisked around and around again. Regulus bites down on a smile. Had the upcoming charity dinner been any other dinner, James probably could have skived off. He's certainly done it before, dragging Regulus away with him to explore the gardens and libraries and coat closets of Bradford's rich and famous. Honestly, Regulus' surprised he's gotten away with it as long as he has. You'd think a prince would know how to waltz by the time he turned 23, but James lives to subvert expectations.
He clucks his tongue just as the Queen makes a sharp, pained noise and drops James' hands.
"Sorry! Sorry mum, I didn't mean to-" James' entire face is flushed. He looks well and truly embarrassed.
"Oh hush, I know you didn't. Regulus!"
Regulus starts, and hurriedly switches off the sound.
"Your Majesty," Regulus straightens up and brushes off his slacks so he can school his face into something impassive. She's caught him doing much more embarrassing things on the palace grounds than daydreaming about her son, but he rather not give her the extra ammunition.
"Regulus, love, come fill in for me for awhile. My toes need a break and lord knows James will at least feel a little guilty about stepping all over you."
"Of course," Regulus says, and tries to discreetly wipe his suddenly sweating palms on his suit jacket. He feels a little ill as he crosses to where James is standing alone in the middle of the ballroom, nervously chewing his lip.
"Alright, once more with feeling!" The queen calls out. She looks very satisfied to have stolen Regulus' chair and is rubbing at the arches of her feet, expensive Parisian heels discarded on the floor. "James, I know Regulus' a bit shorter than you, so perhaps it will be easier to lead.
James gulps, but nods.
'Hands in position now! Regulus, your first step is going to be backwards, with your right foot please."
"Yes ma'am."
Regulus takes James' hand in his, marveling, not for the first time, at how it fairly disappears in his own. James' hand comes to rest wide and possessive across his shoulder, and it brings them approximately flush together.
"Hi," Regulus says. There's nowhere to look but straight at James' excruciatingly beautiful face.
James barks a surprised laugh and leans forward that extra centimeter more, to rest his forehead against Regulus'.
"Hi," he whispers. "Can you believe this? She's gone completely mad."
"You were always going to have to learn sooner or later," Regulus chides. "Can't hide away with me in a broom closet forever, it's sort of frowned upon. Especially at the commencement of your own charity."
James gives him an absolutely incendiary look through his lashes. "I could be persuasive," he says, voice pitched low, and Regulus has to fight the shiver that voice sends down his spine. Distantly, he registers the Queen has turned the music back on. Something grandly orchestral and romantic. She's (helpfully) counting out the beats, strings of one-two-three, one-two-three's for them to match, if they could stop stumbling and laughing and knocking into each other.
The music swells around them just as James finally finds his footing and they're off, spinning madly across the hall on a rising tide of violins.
Regulus' body feels two steps ahead of his brain. It's an effort to switch off, relax, and let James guide them through the melody, when he's usually the one sheltering James from overzealous crowds, or tugging him through another airport with shitty available cover. The reversal takes some getting used to. James’ the taller one between them, but not by much. Certainly the broader of the two though – James’ hand spans Regulus back,
He glances down at James, whose eyes are fever bright, with matching twin spots of color high on his cheeks. Regulus wants to kiss him so badly in that moment it's like a blow to the chest.
The Queen clears her throat, the sound echoing in the newfound silence. Regulus had forgotten she was even there.
And oh.
The music stopped.
Regulus skids to a halt, James knocking into him and grabbing hold of Regulus' shirt to keep from toppling over. He rights himself, but doesn't remove the hand curled tight at the small of Regulus' back.
"Practice makes perfect boys," she points one neatly manicured finger at James, "you have until the end of the week. Do your best."
"Yes Your Highness," Regulus croaks out, while beside him James murmurs his assent.
She pins them with one last look before sweeping out of the room in a click of heels.
James lets the doors fall shut behind her before he buries his face in Regulus' shoulder and breaks down in a fit of nervous giggles.
"Well, that could have gone worse I suppose," Regulus says, trying for optimistic. He plucks at James' twisted collar and frowns, smoothing it so it lies flat against the nape of his neck. The overlarge shirt is suddenly embarrassingly familiar.
"Stealing from your subjects again, Potter? Bad habits, the press will have a scandal with it."
"You love it, don't lie to your prince," he grins up at Regulus, cheeky, and stands on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to the tip of Regulus' nose.
"If we don't leave we're going to get interrupted by one of your sisters again," Regulus points out fairly.
James huffs, but threads their fingers together. "Fine. Your room then?"
"You have lecture in half an hour--" Regulus sounds unconvincing, even to himself.
"It's a broadcast lecture. I can be quick."
"If only you were this motivated to learn the waltz," Regulus mutters, and lets James drag him, beaming, off to the staff residence.
***
The afternoon slips away almost unnoticeably from where they’re curled around each other on Regulus' bed, the last of the fast-fading twilight lending the room its drowsy warmth. James has his laptop perched across his knees, one earbud generously looped between them so Regulus can listen to some professor at Harvard gush about 19th century French Modernism in her flat American drawl.
He’s struggling to stay awake; not even because he’s on shift, but because James is paying such rapt attention to the screen, a sleepy smile on his face as the professor rambles on and on unbearably. Regulus was never particularly good at school; his grades were middling and he spent most of his time praying for graduation to come as swiftly and painlessly as possible. He’s never loved school like James does. James gets so excited when he talks about his art history courses that he forgets what he’s supposed to being doing with his hands and his words trip over themselves on his tongue in a rush to communicate all the amazing things he sees in this mosaic, or that vase. And even if Regulus can’t stand the tedium of academia he could sit for hours and listen to James tell wild stories about the Byzantine Empire or the dude who painted all the soup cans.
Regulus blinks. The slides on the screen have changed while he wasn’t looking, comparing men tearing up a floor to a guy asleep in a bathtub. He doesn’t pretend to understand half the words coming out of the lecturer’s mouth so he watches James watch her, the quiet happiness on his face when she talks about perspective and…Cantaloupes? Caillebotte?
He sighs, and James leans back into his chest, tips his head back so he can smile up at Regulus.
“You can go ahead and sleep if you want, there’s still about an hour of this left,” he gestures at the screen.
“I can make it, Regulus tries to insist around a yawn. “Seriously. I’m good.”
“You sure? It’s tiring work, all that guarding my body.” His tongue pokes out between his teeth when he grins, and Regulus swats at him half-heartedly. He can feel his ears going pink.
“Fuck off.”
“Actually though, Reg, I’m pretty sure you’ve been on shift almost 24 hours. Get some rest, I won't mind. I got you.”
Regulus doesn't bother to try and hold out against that. "Wake me up when you're done then."
"One hour. Got it," James lies and Regulus makes a face. He falls asleep to a brief history of the French Revolution and the sound of James' steady, even breathing.
***
Friday arrives with an unbearably early wakeup call in the form of the Duchess of Shipley pounding on Regulus' door, demanding her lazy asshole of a brother get himself out of bed this instant and help her with the horde of floral arrangements that have just been delivered.
“’S too early g’way,” James mumbles down where his face is smashed into Regulus' chest. Regulus gently rolls him off so he can holster the regulation Smith & Wesson he’d engaged at the first knock, and which he always keeps within arm’s reach of their bedside table. James is either still too asleep to notice, or too used to Regulus' paranoia to care. Probably both, Regulus thinks fondly, planting a quick kiss on James' shoulder.
It’s the last moment they get to themselves for some time.
The Duchess whisks James off as soon as he stumbles out the door fully dressed, and very tactfully does not mention his unseasonably high collar or the blush still high on his cheeks.
Regulus is posted at the entrance to the foyer, checking the endless line of deliverymen and their boxes with Niall, which means he’s treated to a dozen awful ‘package inspection’ jokes before they can actually get down to business. He makes a face when Regulus' cuff rides up to reveal a fresh ring of bruises around his wrist, though he doesn’t actually say anything which is a not inconsiderable miracle.
Morning slips into afternoon with only a minor mishap of an extra ten crates of veg delivered to the kitchen and the ancient Lady of Kent arriving four hours early. James is off somewhere practicing his keynote with the Queen, and keeps running his hands through his hair so that it stands up on end like he’s been electrocuted. Regulus gives him half an hour before he breaks and drags Regulus to the pantry to hide.
Regulus' on perimeter sweep with Ramsey and Ethan, which he’s devoutly thankful for. The ballroom is a frantic crush of decorators and PA’s all elbowing and shouting at each other while holding really expensive and breakable objects. He’s more than happy to hand James over to Andy, the Queen’s personal guard, for a couple of hours while he makes a slow circuit around the gardens.
The weather is the same flat gunmetal grey summer days are all over the island, but it’s cool and quiet. A threat of rain, maybe, though that’s not enough to sap the joy out of his brief escape. The only sounds are the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes and the gentle shush of the fountain. And because nobody could accuse James of being inconsiderate he gives Regulus a solid sixty minutes to catch his breath before slipping away from Andy to go chain smoke on the roof.
“You told me you were going to quit,” Regulus shouts, sticking his head out of James' bedroom window. James shrugs, which only pulls Regulus' attention to the angry pink mark on his neck, visible even from a distance. He indulges in a small, fleeting moment of pride before the annoyance kicks back in again. James never uses this room except to climb out into a goddamn indefensible tactical location and tar his lungs. James' supposed to grab him before he pulls shit like this; if he gets shot off the fucking roof Regulus will kill him.
He waits impatiently for James to shuffle over to the window, and his anger melts away when he gets a good look at James' face. The sickly pale cast to his features wasn’t there when Regulus left him this morning. His hands are shaking slightly, too, when he goes to stub out his cigarette.
“I’m sorry Li.” He sounds contrite. Or, as contrite as James ever gets. “It was just…a lot. I want to get it perfect but I’m not ready—I, I need more time.”
James' waltzing has improved considerably in a week; he can lead passably now if the turns are kept to a minimum. Of course, not every instructor can offer the same incentives Regulus can. He touches the bruise on his wrist absently.
“You’re gonna smash it,” Regulus pulls him across the windowsill and into his arms. “There’s two whole hours left, I’ll call in and we can practice up here.”
James laughs, his voice still rough with smoke. “You think?”
He will. Regulus might be more than a little biased, but James is a great public speaker; funny, self-deprecating, earnest. He has the media eating out of the palm of his hand.
“Absolutely,” Regulus says, with all the certainty he can muster. James melts, folds himself tighter into the circle of Regulus' arms like that’s what he was waiting to hear all along.
***
James smashes it.
Regulus had known he would, but it’s still gratifying to see the entire hall enraptured, following each sweeping motion of James' hands.
On the podium James is all passion and fire, imploring those seated to restore Bradford’s youth arts programs. He’s beautiful and breathtaking and Regulus has no fucking clue how this amazing boy found him, plucked him from obscurity and chose Regulus to love.
If anyone thinks it improper for place security to give their prince a standing ovation, they keep that thought to themselves.
***
Six years of working at the palace, and Regulus has gotten very good at denying himself things. The champagne floating around in cut crystal flutes is not for him to drink. The lamb served at the laughably oversized banquet table is not for him to eat, no matter how good it smells. And Regulus can daydream about the sleek black tuxes and shiny watches all the men seem to be sporting like a uniform all he wants, but his unremarkable black jacket and bare wrist are fixtures of his job.
“What would you even do with a fancy suit?” Regulus mumbles to himself.
The guests have begun to migrate to the open dancefloor. The tasteful string quartet in the corner finishes tuning their instruments and begins to play a spirited two-step. James is pretending to be very involved in conversation with a portly old Lord and his offensive goatee. The man keeps touching James' arm with alarming familiarity, and luckily Regulus is incredibly practiced in denying himself things because he has a burning desire to punch this man in the face.
I bet you’re wishing you had that fancy suit right about now says the treacherous voice in the back of Regulus' brain. It sounds uncannily like Louis. You could’ve walked in on his arm. He even offered to put you on the guest list, but nooooo…
A tux and a media event aren’t a ring but they might as well be. They’re intent and promises, that, to be fair, Regulus absolutely has. Nine years isn’t nothing.
It’s just that. Well.
Regulus would make a terrible princess.
He thinks about the future and feels terrified and helpless, which would actually be preferable to the present where he’s watching James in his sleek black suit try and politely extricate himself from conversation, and still feeling terrified and helpless.
Tonight is a night of small miracles though, and Regulus spots Barty’s wild mess of just-fucked-in-a-hedgerow curls amongst the throng of people exiting for the garden.
Barty Crouch (Jr) claims a small ancestral property to the North, and a net worth of more pounds than the entire block of flats Regulus grew up in. Not that Barty gives a flying fuck about propriety—this season alone the Sun’s linked him in all his tits-out glory to a dozen reputable gentlemen—though his charm saves him from the worst of the speculation. James took an instant shine to him when they met in a figure drawing class at uni a few years back, and Barty always remembers Regulus' name. He’s easily Regulus' favorite member of the peerage.
“Regulus!” Barty tries to wrap Regulus in his gangly embrace before remembering that as a general rule, security men do not like being hugged while they’re on duty. He settles for an enthusiastic fist bump.
“All right there Regulus? Lookin’ proper hard like, can I handle your weapon-” he waggles his eyebrows and Regulus rolls his eyes.
“Save it Barty. I’ve actually got a bit of a favor to ask you.”
Barty’s eyes have that gleam to them that means he smells trouble, and his smile is shrewd when he answers, “of course mate, anything for a friend.”
“Could you maybe catch James on the waltz? He’s still new at it and I think he’d have an easier time with a friend.”
“Nothing to do with Lord Nottingham being a handsy old toad, I suppose?”
It’s possible that Regulus is less subtle than he thinks he is. Across the dancefloor James' frozen in place with a polite smile as the band strikes up the overture for a waltz. His eye is twitching oddly, and is Regulus wonders if it’s some sort of Morse code SOS. He vows to actually stay awake through James' lectures next time.
“Barty please, I’m working right now and I can’t—”
“Alright, alright, I got it.” Barty gifts him a cheeky tap on the chin. “Green’s not your color Li. Get your shit sorted, yeah?”
“Thank you, Barty.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Barty knocks back another flute of champagne and puts on his most dazzling smile. He deftly inserts himself between James and Nottingham and spins James off, the two of them laughing brightly. Their footwork isn't flawless by any definition of the word but James is smiling that smile that makes his eyes scrunch up into little half-moons, and the Queen looks satisfied when they twirl by.
Regulus settles back into his position on the door post. The night is young and he has a lot to think about.
***
The sun has almost risen again by the time the last of the guests are politely ushered out, the lights dimmed, and the household retired for the night.
There’s a light on in Regulus' room when he returns from a final circuit of rounds. Inside is James, stripped to the waist and busy hanging up his suit jacket in what is nebulously his side of the closet. There’s a cigarette clamped between his teeth and a second tucked behind his ear. He stubs it out in the ashtray on the dresser when he spots Regulus in the doorway and grins, small, warm and just for Regulus.
“Hey there Sailor,” he squints at Regulus in what Regulus' not sure is a tired attempt at seduction or James having taken out his contacts. Regulus loves him so much his heart feels overfull.
“Hey.”
He cups James' jaw where the five o’clock stubble is coming in strong and kisses all the things he’s not articulate enough to say into James' mouth. James kisses back like he hasn’t seen Regulus in a week, instead of a handful of hours. Regulus finds himself backed up against the closet door, James' hands fisted in his collar, with James kissing like he’s about to start something despite the 9am press conference Regulus knows is on tomorrow's schedule. He makes a noise that’s swallowed up by the eagerness of James' mouth, then again when James slips his tongue into Regulus' mouth like it’s a preview of things to come.
Security are all certified divers—a useless skill, since James hates swimming with passionate intensity—so even though Regulus can hold his breath a long-ass time, at some point he has to come up for air. His knees feel weak and unsteady underneath him when he breaks the kiss, lips already raw and buzzing with the afterimage of James' mouth.
“Didn’t even get my shoes off,” he can feel James' smug smile where his lips brush Regulus' throat. “Give me a minute? More comfortable on the bed anyway.”
“Hurry up or I’ll start without you,” James starts undoing his belt and Regulus makes a beeline for the bathroom.
He works as quickly as he knows how, shrugging out of his suit jacket and toeing his shoes off at the door. He hangs each piece carefully over the towel rack, willing to hang them properly later and speeds through his nightly routine.
In his haste he knocks over a bunch of James' expensive hair product from the shelf over the toilet, and is hurriedly gathering it all up when the box falls out. Small, elegant wood siding trimmed in a ribbon of gold, it looks every inch an expensive jewelry box except James wears hardly any jewelry. What little he does wear he certainly doesn’t keep in their bathroom, which is why Regulus thinks nothing of opening it, until he does.
The ring is a soft burnished gold that glows dimly in the terrible bathroom lighting. Regulus wipes the water from his hands to hold it up to the light, heart beating double time somewhere up in his throat. On the inside of the band is something in Urdu, the calligraphy graceful but unintelligible to Regulus. He’s not without his suspicions; James has one phrase he likes to murmur, sweet and warm, when he thinks Regulus is asleep or too fucked out to hear him. Attempts to get a translation from him are a surefire way to reduce James to a blushing, stammering mess, so terrifyingly sentimental seems like a safe bet.
He slides it on, unsurprised at this point to find it fits perfectly. The steam from the shower is stifling, thick in his throat and chest. Regulus can’t breathe, can’t move, can only stand dripping slightly on the tile and stare at the glint of gold on his third finger.
He runs the sink again, splashing more water on his face, but the ring is still there, weighing a phantom tonne on Regulus' left hand.
Not a mirage then.
“James?”
James looks up from the pile of Ghost Rider comics he’s failing to keep from sliding off the night stand. He must hear the quaver in Regulus' voice because he frowns.
“You okay, love?”
Regulus swallows. He should put the ring back where he found it and just pretend he’d never seen it. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t move, and James is sprawled out on his side of their bed, starting to look properly worried now, and fuck he’s going to propose—
“Regulus?”
Regulus sits, and when he reaches a hand up to pull James closer he can hear a sharp intake of breath that means James' spotted the ring.
“Good to know it still fits,” James whispers into the corner of Regulus' mouth, and there’s a thready, overwhelmed tenor to his voice that matches the emotions whirling through Regulus' head.
“I’ve had it for a while now. Saving it for the right moment, yunno?”
“How long is a while?”
“I wanted to be sure you’d say yes,” James twists his fingers into the sheets, prevaricating.
Regulus is struck with the same helplessness he felt earlier in the night, trapped on the sidelines out of reach, except here he’s able to step in, to tip James' chin up so he meets Regulus' eyes. The ring rests against the crook of his jaw, warmed by the heat of his skin.
“James,” Regulus pleads.
“Three years,” James tightens his fingers where they rest on Regulus' hip, like he thinks Regulus is going to run.
He’s not running.
“Do…Do you still,” Regulus starts, tripping over his words, and James actually looks a little offended.
“Of course I do. You’re it for me, Reg, ‘s just you.”
And Regulus doesn't know what to do with that except kiss him. Over and over, as long as his lungs can hold out before they start burning, as many times as he can around the words yes and I love you, until he has no words left at all.
***
Later, considerably more sweaty and spent, they curl towards each other like parentheses. Regulus has on hand spread possessively over the small of James' back, and he’s enjoying the answering shiver he gets whenever the metal of the ring runs over the dip in James' spine.
“So, the press conference tomorrow might be more exciting than planned.” James mumbles something with pretensions of being actual words from where he’s tucked under Regulus' chin. Regulus raises their clasped hands, “you gonna tell me what this says?”
And James does, fingers laced tight, a secret whispered in-between one sleepy kiss and the next.
(Regulus was right. It’s terrifyingly sentimental. That doesn’t stop him from saying it right back and meaning it, with all his heart.)