The Hog's Head
If someone had asked James earlier about what he was planning to do with his Friday night, he wouldn’t have thought twice about the answer. A few hours ago, his weekend plans looked like what they did any other week out of the year. He’d meet up with some of his friends at the Leaky Cauldron, down a few drinks, monopolise the jukebox for an hour, down a few more drinks, and likely be home at a comfortable eleven-thirty. Or, if they were feeling particularly cheeky, they’d all pile into Sirius’s and his flat, take a shot or four, and trudge over to the nearest club without a cover fee, if only for an excuse to sloppily dance to trashy music they all pretended to hate. It was a fairly predictable pattern, but it worked for them just fine.
Instead, he and Sirius are stuck stumbling through some Godforsaken alley, trying their best to trudge forward when they can barely even see the ground below them. How they even managed to find this brick-lined death trap is beyond him. They’re shit with a map on a good day. And yet, here they are, knee-deep in whatever part of Camden Town this is, blundering about in complete darkness, trying in vain to find some elusive bar they barely even know the name of.
He must admit, the mystery of it all does make it a bit exciting. It’s sort of like an adventure, albeit a dark and filthy one.
To make things a tad worse, the alley isn’t even wide enough to fit them both, leaving Sirius to follow behind him like they’re in a primary school line. He’s really starting to rethink being the leader in this situation, though, seeing as he has not a single fucking clue as to where they’re supposed to be going. But, hoping they aren’t going in the completely wrong direction, James continues to lead the way blindly, hands stuck out in front of him so he doesn’t break his nose on any unsuspecting walls. Who knows? Maybe they’ll end up finding some cool underground warehouse rave on the way. He’s always wanted to go to one of those.
As they walk, he finds it surprising that there’s still a path to walk on, decrepit as it is. The dirt collecting on the pavement below them makes it look like no one’s been here in ages, not a single footprint in front of them to match the ones they left behind. The bricks that line the walls are worn and rounded, looking only moments from crumbling altogether.
The air gets staler as they continue to wander down the suspiciously long corridor. It feels more like a descent into the Underworld than a trip to a pub, at this point, the only sound left echoing off the brick is the shuffling of their feet on the pavement. Well, that and Sirius, who has been heartily filling the silence by whistling to the tune of This Charming Man and patting out a lazy rhythm on the front of his legs.
Like always, he’s very astute in going with James’s flow tonight, just bobbing his head to the beat and following behind without a care in the world. While the blind trust is heart-warming, James has to admit that it’s beginning to border on concerning. Surely he must have some questions by now.
“You think The Smiths ever had shows as divey as this?” Sirius muses.
James gives out a quick laugh. Leave it to Sirius to see a dark alley and have Morrissey be the first thing that comes to mind. Come to think of it, though, he definitely can’t be the only one.
“Without a doubt. ‘Cept I’m not sure if they would have stuck around for such a dodgy commute.”
Sirius groans in response. “Tell me about it. Are we almost there, at least? It’s cold enough out here to kill a lesser man.” he accents his complaint with a jab to James’s shoulder blade.
The thing about Sirius, if over a decade of being friends with him has taught James anything, is that he quite likes to complain, no matter the circumstance. James can tell he’s enjoying himself, though, or at the very least the mystery of it all. Right now, his complaints are just attempts at killing time, to maybe start up a bit of banter to keep them company. Though, why they would need any more company besides the plethora of roaches they’ve met in this alley, James couldn’t say.
“Pads, I’m literally just as clueless as you are. Maybe even more, since you’ve actually been ‘round here before.”
“Yeah, with Mary when we were like eighteen!” Sirius scoffs.
Instead of answering, James squints his eyes to try to make out the path ahead of them. A bit further down the alley, he notices a faint glow beginning to come into view. Although, part of him thinks they’ve been stumbling around in the dark so long that his mind is just playing tricks on him, like those blokes in movies that wander around the desert for so long that they hallucinate an oasis. Thankfully, as they approach, this does not seem to be the case, with the light slowly focusing into the multi-colored wires of a neon sign. It flickers off in the distance, flashing them with gaudy reds and greens like a broken stoplight, but James can’t tell if that’s meant to be an invitation or a warning
“You ‘spose that’s it?” Sirius asks, his voice moving from one side of James’s head to the other. He keeps jumping up on the tips of his toes, trying impatiently to get a peek over James’s shoulder the closer they get.
“It better be,” James says, “or else we have a bit of a problem.” He points to the wall of bricks at the end of the alley marking the end of the road. It’s strangely ominous in the shadows of the sign, somehow looking darker than the path behind them. Really gives a new meaning to dead end, James thinks to himself.
“Only one way to find out,” he says, tugging Sirius along behind him.
Eventually, they get close enough to see the beginning of shapes being etched out in the slow-blinking lights. The sign seems to tell a rather gruesome story as it switches from one frame to the other. The first one is a hog, its tongue sticking out, eyes wide as an axe hangs above it. The second is that same hog’s head fallen to the ground, severed from its body with the same axe having swung clean through. There’s tiny, cartoon drops of blood that spill down from one frame to the next, falling on top of a name spelled out in red at the bottom.
HOG’S HEAD
James takes a moment to stare up at it, tilting his head to the side with his eyebrows knit together. He supposes that’s one way to advertise, if the allure of a creepy alley isn’t enough to bring in the occasional tourist.
As he stares, he remembers the note from this morning, its presence suddenly weighing down the pocket of his jacket. He quickly takes it out to check, carefully unfurling the crumpled bit of paper. It’s gotten rather soft over the span of today, likely from all of the times James has folded and unfolded it. He couldn’t help himself from checking more than a few times, but who in their right mind could? A mysterious note from a mysterious source sending you to an even more mysterious place? It was like an Agatha Christie novel.
The note itself is in pen, but in handwriting that James can’t find himself to recognize. The script is all jagged lines and cut corners between letters, making it downright hard to read. Either the person who wrote this note was in quite a hurry or they have the signature of a pissed-off child. Either way, it’s not the most effective note in the world if you can’t even read it, is it? Though, James has studied it enough times by now that the words easily take shape in his head.
10 pm. Hog’s Head. Bring your friend.
Now, when James found this note stuck to the front door of his flat this morning, he didn’t think twice about who his “friend” was. He simply brought it inside and showed it right to Sirius, who took all of two seconds to ask whose car they were going to take.
Sure, they could’ve been talking about Remus as well, but James doubts it. He’s been a bit MIA as of late, which is to be expected with him every once in a while. It seems to be the telltale time of the month when he decides to take some “alone time”, which in his mind means locking himself in his bedroom and watching Bridget Jones's Diary until his eyes roll back, and James, being someone who is always supportive of a good bit of self-care, always tries his best to leave Remus be for a few days whenever that happens.
“Yeah. This is it.” James states confidently.
The door to the bar is made of mahogany dark enough to look burnt. Or maybe it is burnt in some parts, James can’t really tell. In the dim glow of the Hog’s Head sign, any spot left on it could be singes just as easily as knots in the wood grain. Since they’re about to enter through said door, James decides he doesn’t quite care to find out the answer. Instead, he grabs the rusting doorknob and pushes, the door sliding open with a resounding creak.
Warm air seems to spill out of the doorway, the only sign of life they’ve seen the entire night. Taking this as a good sign, the two of them start descending the dark cellar stairs, walking excitedly towards whatever happens to wait for them on the other side.
The stairs seem to groan at their every move, the wood bending under their feet just enough to make James question the structural integrity of the entire building. Small flecks fall from the ceiling above with each step, leaving what looks like bits of sawdust on the sleeves of his flannel.
This is about when James starts to question things again. Who the hell would even come to a place like this, let alone invite people here (regardless of the vague and shady circumstances)? Even if this little date with destiny isn’t a poorly executed murder plot, which James has recently considered, the journey here has been enough of a death trap to have probably done the job for them. Though, James has to admit, he and Sirius are already halfway down the stairs, so it can’t be much worse going down than turning around to go back up.
“This would be a rather awkward way to die, yeah?” Sirius mutters, swatting at some cobwebs hanging from above.
“Less awkward than in the loo, I ‘spose.” James ponders.
At the end of the stairs, light pours out of the bottom of a closed door. It washes the floor in front of them in a dark green, constantly fading in and out of a faint, purplish glow. They seem to get within earshot of the rather impressive soundproofing of the basement, just now hearing the distant buzzing of a baseline carrying itself through the walls around them.
The music eases some of the tension out of James’s shoulders. For a moment, there, he genuinely thought this was some sort of murder plot. One he and Sirius have wholeheartedly stumbled into without a second thought, now that he thinks of it. Would be a rather funny way to die, wouldn’t it? Like an inside joke he and Sirius could carry into the afterlife.
They reach the bottom of the stairs in one piece, with the tiny alcove finally allowing enough room for them to stand side by side. Settling into the space, they pause shoulder to shoulder, neither likely having a single clue as to what comes next. They give each other a quick glance, growing a twin pair of giddy smiles as they finally turn back to the door. A spring in his step, Sirius goes first, pushing the door open with an excited scurry as they stumble into the bar.
Christ, James has been to his fair share of dive bars, but this was a whole other level.
As soon as the two of them stepped through the door, the smell of rotted wood and spilled booze was downright oppressive, clinging to anyone brave enough to come inside. The floors weren’t any better, sticking to James’s shoes like drying asphalt. Walking through half a metre of snow was easier than this.
Yet, oddly enough, there’s an undeniable joy throughout the room. Everyone there, save James and Sirius, seems to be perfectly comfortable standing around the lopsided tables or perched at the splintered stools that line the bar. If they noticed the smell they didn’t seem to mind, and if the drinks were shit they threw them back just as quickly.
The centre of the opposite wall is framed by a simple, black platform that was used as a stage, set up sparsely with microphones and sound equipment. The floor of the platform itself is an array of taped-down wires and pedals, snaked connections bringing one to another and another. It’s raised only slightly off the ground, making it easy for people to step on and off as they plug things into other things, instruments to amps, adding to the tumultuous mess cord by cord.
As James watches someone take apart the drumset, The name "Weird Sisters" plastered over the front of the bass drum, he gathers the band must have just finished their set. He wouldn’t mind sticking around for the next one, though, at least after a drink or two.
“Kind of charming, in a way, don’t you think?” James asks, his voice slightly raised to talk over the music.
“Yeah. In a way,” Sirius agrees. “Still don’t know exactly which way, though.”
James lets out a chuckle, but it quickly gets drowned out by the next song cutting in. It blares out of the speakers unapologetically, like the kind of noise you feel in your chest if you stick around too long. The music really isn’t too bad, James supposes. A little less upbeat than he’s used to, but definitely the kind of music to accompany a good buzz.
He’s considering this whole night an opportunity to branch out and broaden his horizons, he decides. Even if he was brought here without pretence or context and on vaguely threatening terms, that, in itself, is a horizon to be expanded as well. The person who sent the note had to have wanted him here for some sort of reason, right? No matter how nefarious, it’s still a reason. The logic isn’t exactly sound, but it’s more than enough for James to stick around.
As the next few minutes drag by, more and more people pour down the stairs, either beelining over to the bar or standing around the stage in staggered clusters. The next show must be starting sooner than they thought.
James pulls out his phone, tapping the screen with his thumb to check the time. 9:45. Almost time for when the note said to be here. James laughs a little to himself, realising they showed up early to what only an hour ago seemed to be a thinly-veiled plan to assassinate them. Then again, his mum always said that being on time is late, so he can’t really go ‘round making exceptions for his own safety. Where’s the honour in that?
“Almost time, Pads. Should we get a drink before the show starts?” James asks, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
“Yes, please. I’d kill for a lemon drop right now.”
“Uh, I don’t think they have lemon drops here, mate.”
“Well, we won’t know until we ask, now, will we, Prongsy?” Sirius quips back. Before James can even respond, Sirius is already walking over to the bar with a purposeful set of his shoulders, grabbing the sleeve of James's shirt to drag him along with him. James likes to think that's one of the things that makes them such good friends. When either of them set their minds to something, they both tend to strut. At least, that’s what Remus has told them. Looking at Sirius now, chin raised and walk razor-straight, he’s starting to get what he means.
James follows behind dutifully and happily, weighing the pros and cons between a tequila soda and a corona as they approach the slashed wood of the bar. Standing behind it, looking bored and off-putting in the same breath, is a rather unkempt man who looks to be around James and Sirius’s age. He’s in the middle of pouring three beers at once, something James would find honestly pretty impressive, if not for the pool of hazy orange beginning to spill onto the floor behind the bar. At least that partially solves the mystery of the smell.
“Alright?” The bartender asks them, the look in his eyes saying he probably doesn’t care if they’re actually alright or not.
A switch seems to flip in Sirius’s mind as he sets his mouth into a dazzling grin, resting both elbows on the outward lip of the bar. “Why, I am just smashing, thank you for asking, Mr…?”
“Scabior.”
“Well,” Sirius starts, his wrist rolling in a gesture that meant he was about to talk a lot. God help their new friend Scabior. “Mr. Scabior, my friend. I was just over there with my good mate James, here, saying you look like a man that knows his way around a lemon drop. Care to prove me an honest man tonight?”
Scabior looks between them for a second, a confused arch of his eyebrow coming to match his permanent scowl. The room seems to still for a minute, the two of them staring each other down over the divider of the weathered bar. All the while, Sirius stays put, almost eerily still with a smooth, easygoing grin painted across his mouth.
Scabior seems to ease slightly, some sort of knot in his expression loosening as he looks down at the bottles in front of him.
“...’Ve got vodka, lemon juice, and a couple ‘ah sugar packets.”
“Perfect,” Sirius replies. Though clearly not ideal, he carries himself as if it’s a win regardless. Whether that’s out of protection for his pride or mild delirium, God only knows. Well, God meaning James, since he knows for a fact that it’s a bit of both.
“A tequila soda for me, thanks,” James pipes in over the awkward tension still left in the air.
Sirius stands back up from leaning on the bar, the sleeves of his leather jacket peeling off of the booze-soaked wood like what James could only describe as the ripping of duct tape. Sirius visibly flinches at the sound, automatically patting up the elbows and forearms of his sleeves to check for damages. Finding himself still intact, though noticeably stickier, he lets out a quiet huff. The charming disposition seems to fade in a similar fashion, perhaps still stuck to the bar where he left it.
Scabior comes back quickly with a cup in each hand. And by cup, James means those red plastic ones they seemed to always have at uni parties back when Sirius and him were still in school. That in itself makes him queasy as they grab the cups, a particularly vivid flashback coming to mind at the thought. Sirius grabs a fold of cash from his pocket and hands the bartender twenty quid. Drinks in hand, they finally start to head towards the stage.
If James is honest, he’s nervous. The thing is, he’s never nervous, at least not in situations like this. He’s very much a casual, “what’s the worst that could happen?” kind of guy. Yet, the closer they stand to the stage, the more he feels his stomach throw an absolute mutiny, like it knows something he doesn’t. He doesn’t even know if they have anything to be nervous about. If anything, that note could just be some unorthodox attempt at marketing for the band about to play or some strange way to get more business for the bar. Either way, James should have absolutely nothing to worry about. He puffs up his chest with a deep breath, exhales slowly, and plasters a smile onto his face that says more to himself than anyone else that he, again, has nothing to worry about.
Sirius makes a gurgled sound next to James as he takes a sip from his drink, his face twisted in unpleasant surprise as he brings the plastic cup from his lips.
“Scabior didn’t even mix the sugar in,” Sirius states, chewing on what James assumes to be remnants of sugar floating around in his drink.
After a moment, his face drops into a curious contemplation, taking another drag from his cup and smacking his lips. He shrugs and swirls the cup around in his hands.
“It’s actually quite good, I think.”
James lets out a soft chuckle in reply, shaking his head in feigned exasperation. He takes a sip from his own drink and thankfully isn’t met with any surprises. Then again, it’s difficult to fuck up a tequila soda. That’s part of the reason he got one in the first place, no offence to Scabior.
The audience has more than tripled by the time Sirius and him find a place to stand, everyone talking amongst themselves or bringing over drinks while they wait for the next set. Seems like they don’t need the marketing ploys, after all, if this is the kind of crowd they bring in.
A few cheers and scattered clapping bring James’s attention back to the stage, the crowd starting to squeeze and shrink together as a few musicians finally step up. The people up there setting up quickly scurry off the platform at the same time, out of what looks more like fear than necessity. When the last of the tech crew is gone, only three guys are left on stage, their faces still shrouded in shadows.
James can really only see their silhouettes, all black jackets and glimpses of silver rings bouncing back the light. Rightmost stands a guy tuning what looks like a bass, his head tilted down with his hair falling over his face. In the back, hiding behind his bandmates and a black drum set is someone closer to a shadow than a drummer. James wouldn’t have even seen him if he hadn’t watched him climb up on stage. In the middle, draped in a purplish glow, is what appears to be the lead singer. His hands are the only things exposed in the light, showing pale knuckles and a black ring slid over the vascular skin of his wrists.
Listen, James does not, to any prior knowledge, have a thing for hands. They have always been a perfectly neutral concept to him throughout his life. That is, until now, where just seeing this guy's hands makes his mouth go dry. Make fun of him all you want, but no one would be laughing after paying witness to the way this guy's grip tightened over the mic. Jesus Christ.
James looks up at the singer's face, his own flaring up with what he assumes is a rather severe blush, but he still can’t make out any details. If he would just look up a little, for God’s sake, but he seems to just be waiting. Waiting for a cue, the lights to come up, Hell to freeze over, take your pick, but his fingers begin to lazily play at where the microphone meets the stand and holy shit James cannot do this.
James instead focuses on his hair, watching how it falls in front of his face in ribbons of loose black curls, reaching just past the line of his jaw. It’s funny, but it looks almost exactly like Sir–
The lights slowly flare up, covering the entire stage in a deep, emerald green that sweeps away all of the shadows from before. The singer’s face is eerily lit, mapping out high cheekbones, cold, brown eyes, and a sharp cupid’s bow.
Oh fuck, it’s-
“Is that my brother?” Sirius asks in utter disbelief. He rests a hand along his eyebrows to block out some of the light, trying to get a better look at the people on stage.
Regulus Black is a vision of leather and black denim, hands sliding down from the microphone stand to run lazily over the strings of the guitar hanging around his neck. His nails are painted with a cracked and shiny black polish, making the whole vibe about him effortless and discontented. Silver bounces off him in waves. The studs on his belt, the rings on his fingers, the cross around his neck. It falls over the bit of his chest exposed from the open buttons of his shirt. The way the light hits him, he glows with an idle regality that pulls attention up to him like a tide. His clothes both hang off his body and hug him like a second skin at the same time. His hair drapes in front of his face like a mask, trying to no avail to hide the pale skin under his eyes and the elegant incline of his nose. He looks so fucking cool.
Then again, James always thinks that.
Regulus plays a quick succession of notes on his guitar, some sort of sound check, and begins to tune the top string. His face is so neutral it’s hard to believe it’s ever been anything but stoic and frigid.
It has been, though. James has seen it. He even likes to smile on occasion, believe it or not.
James looks over to Sirius to find his jaw practically through the floor, staring with wide eyes at his younger brother. At least with the crowd, they likely don’t have to worry about being seen by him. He’d probably burn the place down if he knew they were here. As to not risk anything, though, James tries to make himself smaller amongst the sea of people in the audience.
So this is why the note told them to be here tonight. But who, out of all the people here, would even want him here to witness this? There is no way in hell it was Regulus, that much is for sure. And yet, the only other people James recognises here he's barely even spoken to. He only grows more and more confused as the band begins to stir again.
Regulus steps forward until his mouth is just almost resting on the microphone, his head turned to the side as he looks down at his guitar.
“I’m Regulus, that's Evan and Barty, and we’re The Death Eaters.” He speaks with an unwavering indifference, like he doesn’t care if anyone in front of him is really listening or not. With his head dropped down slightly, he carries on through the swell of small whoops and claps from the audience, stepping them out without as much as a word from his lips.
Next to him stands the man that James assumed was the bass player. Looking closer, he sees it really is Evan Rosier, the moody git. It’s surprising that it took him so long to recognize him considering all the times Regulus would drag him out to bars or clubs– all the while being subsequently dragged out by Sirius. Not necessarily a bad guy, in James’s eyes, just a bit hard to talk to. Luckily, that’s Regulus’s specialty, finding people with walls built up high enough to make the city of Troy jealous and, subsequently, one day ending up unscathed on the other side.
As James looks over at Evan, he quickly realises that they’re making eye contact. Finally snapping himself back into reality, he watches Evan’s face stretch into a devious smile. James quickly ducks behind someone taller in front of him, blocking himself from Evan’s line of sight.
Behind Evan, sitting sluggishly behind the shining black set of drums, is none other than Barty Crouch Jr.. Or just Barty, if you want to keep all of your fingers. He holds the drumsticks in his hands like daggers, eyes darting around the room both with an air of curiosity and a stance that says he’s ready to lash out at anyone who comes too close.
Although, James has met him, and besides the whole caged animal bit, it’s not too hard to figure him out. He’s a very transactional sort, giving friendship and loyalty for something in return. Usually, the return is asking for a spare bit of cash for rent, or maybe the occasional ride back from the club, but Regulus never seems to mind. When Sirius went as far to ask why he would even be friends with him, all he said in reply, ruthless and resolute as ever, was “someone has to.”
James hates Barty.
A sudden movement seems to pull James out of his head, if only for a moment. The “Death Eaters”, as they call themselves, all seem to shift into an effortless motion, a perfectly unpracticed lock into place as they ready their instruments. Regulus leans into the microphone with bated breath.
The whole crowd freezes in response, coaxed into silence without so much as a word from the singer’s lips. They all seem to lean towards the stage in anticipation. James may just be the worst among them, absolutely frozen in place as he stares up at Regulus, watching the twitch of his lips and the lazy glide of his tongue over his teeth. His eyes drift smoothly over the crowd, looking cautiously from one side of the room to the other.
His eyes dart to the ground as he clears his throat, the cracks in his stony expression flickering in the bright overhead lights.
“This song’s for Pyramus. I hope I’m a good enough Thisbe.”
Something in James’s mind makes his stomach jolt, the queasiness rising quickly enough to make his knees buckle. Who the hell is this Pyramus guy, and what kind of magic is he pulling to get Regulus to act like that? He doesn’t even know the bloke and already he’s impressed. He also can’t help the thought that he already doesn’t like him. Pyramus is a stupid name, anyway.
James, for one, has never seen Regulus look like that, much less in front of a crowd. He didn’t even know it was possible to get Regulus in a room with more than five people at a time. And that fraction of a second, that hint of defenselessness, James wants to burn that into the back of his mind. He wants to thank this guy for the image and hope he never gets the chance to see Regulus like that again.
Regulus these days always looks so much older than he really is. Sometimes, people even assume he’s the older sibling between him and Sirius, much to Sirius’s offence. Right now, James can’t help but see what they mean. It’s in the dark circles that ghost over his complexion, present but hard to map out. It’s the paleness in his cheeks, the depth of his stare, the downward curve of his mouth that hides any traces of youth under lock and key.
Yet, for a moment there, he looked so young. He almost started to resemble the old Regulus, the one that used to ask James for help with his maths homework in middle school, or always jumped at the opportunity to tag along with Sirius wherever he went. James hasn’t seen that Regulus in a while.
But as soon as it happens, it’s over, and Regulus settles back into the scowl that always seems to tug at his mouth. It’s dissatisfied and vaguely annoyed and one of the worst defences James has ever seen when he knows what lies underneath. It breaks through in bits and pieces, almost like he’s waiting for someone to look long enough to notice.
Regulus lets out a quiet huff into the microphone, looking back over the audience with unamused eyes. “And if I see any of you recording, Barty over there is going to throw your phone into the nearest sewer.” He points a finger over to Barty for emphasis, the man in question flashing the cheekiest grin James has ever seen. “And since I don’t expect anyone here is wearing the proper shoes to go mucking around for it, it’s best that you don’t try anything.”
People in the crowd mumble quiet comments and uneasy agreements James can’t make out, a slight sense of discomfort passing over the crowd.
The Death Eaters all carried on regardless, unbothered and with the audience unacknowledged. Regulus hangs his head forward as he nods to a quickened tempo. He breaks the silence with a soft one, two, three, four. In a flash, he raises both hands to the guitar still hanging around his neck, his fingers fitting into place with an effortless familiarity. His hand twitches as he begins to play, deep thrums replacing the air around them.
The instrumental that slams out of the speaker comes in dragging punches, dark and brooding as they cut through the crowd. It settles into itself, repeating and stretching over the room with a single, resounding guitar as Regulus brings his hand down over the strings with angry determination. James watches as his other hand trails along the neck, digging into the notes like words he can’t find himself to speak. Yet, you can almost hear them as they bleed out of his fingertips.
Regulus brings his mouth impossibly close to the microphone, his voice emerging like James has never heard it before. It’s soft and cold like a dulled blade, biting and hurting as his lips brush over the shape of each word. James can’t stop staring at his mouth, can’t stop himself from drinking it up. He mentally hits himself for never seeing Regulus like this on his own, never being there to listen to it before. A pit forms in his stomach as he watches him up there, one that’s almost left forgotten as it swirls around the lyrics that blast out of the speakers. Words that Regulus never would’ve sung if he knew James and Sirius were there to hear them.
I’m just a bright-eyed bitch with my heart in a cage
If I scratched out your guts, would it scare you away?
If my teeth dug a hole in your soul, in your brain
But I loved you to death, could you handle the pain?
Regulus’s head drops forward like an admittance of defeat, His hair curtaining in front of him to form that same mask from before. Just like that, all of the momentary exposure is neatly tucked back behind his eyes, only dredges of it remaining as shadows play across his face.
I’m a user, a love abuser
I’m addicted to you
The last line makes James’s stomach drop, and he can’t tell if he likes the feeling. He never thought he’d hear the man in front of him talk like that, every word in his mouth thrown out and left to dry. Who in this lifetime would be able to get Regulus in such a state? Who would be good enough to deserve to see it in the first place?
James surprises himself with the hint of resentment that crawls up his spine. He wants nothing more than to get up there and ask Regulus why he’s never told him about this Pyramus guy. The feeling twirls itself around something else that sits in James’s chest, something that he’s been trying to ignore since he realised it was Regulus up on that stage. The regret of not getting to him first. Maybe if James had tried harder, maybe if he tried at all, then it would be him that Regulus was singing about.
Sure, James flirts with Regulus, but he flirts with almost everyone. With him, it never landed as sincerely as he wanted it to, though part of that was on purpose. Every suggestive comment or charming smile was always returned with a loud roll of Regulus’s eyes. They fell into quite the pattern after a while, with Regulus bullying James and James falling for it regardless, turning it all into some sort of innuendo. It made Regulus blush and scowl in a way only James could. It was comfortable, playful even. And James couldn’t get enough of getting a rise out of him.
The only drawback was, if everything’s a joke to him, then how would Regulus ever know when he meant it? It’s even gotten to the point where James could send him a letter, handwritten with the I’s dotted with hearts and the paper sprayed with his cologne, spelling out every filthy detail of his feelings for him, and Regulus would just laugh it off. Or, if he was lucky, he would glare at him in a way James wouldn’t be able to get out of his head for weeks. It was a prison of his own making.
And in a logical sense, it was better that way. At least for a little while. He couldn’t very well tell his best mate he’s in love with his younger brother and expect everything to go smoothly. It would crush Sirius, most likely, if not at the very least cause an uncomfortable rift between them. If it wasn’t because of the obvious implications of dating one’s best friend’s brother, then it would’ve been due to Sirius’s absolute inability to share anything, James included.
The way things are now, nothing’s really at stake. Everyone’s happy and he can suffer in silence through his seemingly meaningless flirting without disrupting the flow of things. And if he can’t stop himself from doing it in the first place, he can at least save face by making it into a joke.
But now, looking up at the man he’s been not-so-secretly pining after and hearing him almost shove his heart into an open crowd, James takes it all back. Every joke and every diversion from his sincerity. He wants nothing more than to go back to when they were teenagers and tell Regulus about what he was thinking every time he caught him staring.
To hell with Pyramus. The next time James sees Regulus, he’s going to tell him exactly how he feels. No smirks, no innuendos, just the truth.
The thought fills him with nerves as he continues to watch Reg up on stage. A twinge of fear, but the kind that almost feels exciting, like it’s worth it to be afraid of things that are important. And the way he can’t help but gawk at how beautiful he looks up there, he feels more important than anything.
It almost hurts to watch, but no part of him wants to stop. It’s nice, in a way, looking at all of the things everyone else probably doesn’t notice, like the slight shake of Regulus’s fingers over the microphone. While everyone else mistakes it for adrenaline, James knows it's nerves. He’s always been scared of performing, resorting to blackmail in primary school whenever he had to present. He must be so nervous up there, sharing parts of himself with all of these people he doesn’t know. James would have listened. He would’ve listened and listened and asked him to play it again and again.
Save me, if you’re willing to die
In the name of love
Oh, I dare you to try
Save me ‘til we’re buried alive
‘Cause we’re both fucked up
But I need you tonight
James looks over to Sirius to see how he’s doing. He must be freaking out after seeing Regulus like this. There’s also probably some part of him wondering why he didn’t start a cool underground band first. James is expecting nothing less than a row between the two of them the second Regulus gets off stage.
Yet, when James looks at Sirius, he’s smiling bigger than he’s seen in ages. With his eyes wide and his hands gripped tightly around the plastic cup of his drink, he beams up at his little brother with nothing but pride.
The song carries on and Regulus only gets more into the song as he sings. By the time the third verse comes around, his hair is brushed out of his eyes and his whole body is leaning into the microphone in front of him, a glimmer of sweat building up on the lines of his throat. Every moment that his hands are not set into the neck of his guitar, they’re grabbing the mic in front of him, pulling it closer and closer as if he was yearning for it to be something else.
As the song fades out, James breaks into a wide grin. He joins the crowd as they erupt and drown out the last echoing blare of guitar, showering the band with cheers. Regulus tries to fight a smile as he looks out over the room, not quite succeeding in keeping his composure against the onslaught. All the while James can only stare in adoration, decidedly pushing all of the nerves and fated love confessions to just a little bit later in favour of seeing Regulus like this for a little bit longer.
As the audience continues, James settles comfortably into the noise. There’s still time before Regulus comes off the stage, and there’s got to be a few more songs before Sirius inevitably drags his younger brother to the bar to buy him a drink and gush over everything they’ve just witnessed. With the way he was watching them play just moments ago, James wouldn’t be surprised if he left sporting a Death Eaters t-shirt.
James takes this time to just take Regulus in. There aren’t many moments when he gets to just watch him and admire the small things. The soft rise and fall of his chest as he pants into the microphone. The rings on his fingers that James finds himself counting again and again, watching the way they shift above his knuckles.
But, when James looks up, he sees him staring right back. Regulus’s face goes pale as they lock eyes, the sounds of the crowd dying out around them as they stare at each other dumbstruck.
The lights go out, and James is left in the pitch black of the bar with nothing but the realisation that Regulus knew he was there, and he did not look the least bit pleased to see them.