Chapter 11
A thing Regulus had learned pretty early on in his relationship with James Potter was that he lived for competitions. No matter where they were or what they were doing, James was always able to come up with a bet of some kind.
“Bet I can finish my tangerine before you finish yours.”
“Bet I can get Sirius to use the word ‘conundrum’ in a sentence before you can.”
“Bet I can fit more chocolate frogs in my mouth.”
“Bet I can memorise this Latin poem I can’t make sense of quicker than you can.”
The contests James would think up had one thing in common; they were daft and senseless. At first, Regulus couldn’t have been bothered to actually try his best. He wasn’t exactly the most competitive person around. Besides, the look of satisfaction on James’ face after stuffing an entire tangerine into his mouth was rather endearing (in a weird, conflicting way).
But then he started coming up with rewards. That’s when the tables had turned.
“Bet I can balance this spoon on my nose longer than you can.” Regulus looks up from the menu he’s holding, arching one eyebrow as James points at him with the piece of cutlery. “Winner gets a massage.”
They’re in a public place and Regulus knows he ought to be mortified. But his shoulders have been awfully tense the past few days, and James knows exactly where to put pressure to relieve the tautness of his muscles.
Before the voice of reason in the back of his head can take charge, he reaches for his own spoon.
“You’re on.”