Way Enough

James

Practice had almost killed him.

And not just because he had almost frozen to death after flipping the damn pair.

No. The real reason?

Regulus Black.

All he wanted was a hot shower—to strip off his frozen, waterlogged uni and let the heat thaw him out.

But Regulus Fucking Black had other plans. He just had to tease… and flirt? And ultimately just drive James crazy. 

By the time Regulus finally left, James had been so rattled that he’d stood under the water for way longer than necessary, just staring blankly at the tile wall, trying not to think.

Which was why—when Remus had walked in, fresh off his own practice, towel slung over his shoulder, and said, “James, you look like you’ve just seen God. You good?”—James had almost jumped out of his skin.

He’d scowled, scrubbing at his face, trying to will himself back to normal.

"Shut up, Remus."

Remus had just grinned, shaking his head. "Anyway. I was thinking—dining hall later? We should grab dinner."

James had sighed, running a hand through his wet hair.

"Fine."

Because food was food.

And maybe—if he focused really hard on his plate—he could get through a meal without thinking about Regulus.

(He was so, so wrong.)

"So," Remus started casually, later at dinner, swirling his fork through his pasta. "You wanna tell me why you looked like an absolute mental patient in the shower after Reg left?"

James stiffened, mid-bite, and tried to play it off with a loud sip of his drink.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he lied terribly.

Remus hummed, unconvinced. "Right. So it had nothing to do with you going upstairs with him at the party?"

“You saw that?” James asked looking just the tiniest bit guilty. Remus just wiggled his eyebrows in an insinuating fashion. 

James choked on his soda.

"Jesus, Remus—subtlety is free. You should try it sometime."

Remus smirked. "I'll pass." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "So… what happened?"

James scowled down at his plate, stabbing a piece of chicken.

“Nothing.”

Remus raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

James exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Something happened. But it’s not a big deal.”

Remus said nothing, just waited, which was infuriatingly effective.

James sighed, finally giving in.

“I kissed him. Like a lot.” 

Remus barely reacted, just nodded like that was completely expected. "And?"

James poked at his food. "And… then I told him we couldn’t do it again."

Remus tilted his head. "Because of Sirius?"

James hesitated, then sighed heavily. "That’s what I told him."

Remus narrowed his eyes. "But?"

James exhaled, staring at his hands now covered in blisters, cracked and bleeding. And yet trying to find his next words were much more painful. 

"But that's not the only reason."

Something about his tone made Remus pause, made him sit up a little straighter.

James tapped his fingers against the table, then finally muttered, "I'm going to the NHL after school. I can't be gay."

Remus’ smirk faded slightly.

James wasn’t looking at him anymore, just staring at nothing, his jaw tight.

“I’m bi, I guess," he said, voice flat. "So I’ll just marry a girl, and everything will be fine.”

Remus stayed quiet.

James let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I can’t date a guy. The guys in the league—my future teammates—it would never be the same. I don’t want to be known as the gay hockey player.”

He swallowed hard.

"Just the best."

Remus didn’t try to console him—James clearly didn’t want pity.

Instead, he just took a sip of his drink, watching James carefully.

After a moment, James let out another hollow laugh. “But Reg is going to kill me. He tortures me, and being so close to him every day…” He swallowed. "I'm afraid I’ll lose.”

Remus tilted his head. “Lose what?”

James finally met his eyes.

“This game I’ve been playing my whole life,” he said quietly. “The game of pretend.” He exhaled. “He’s going to fuck it all up.”

Remus nodded slowly, setting his fork down. “Okay. So you can’t date a guy. Seems a bit dated, but who cares?”

James looked at him like he was missing the point. "You don't get it."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "No, I think I do." He leaned forward slightly. "Besides—did Regulus ever say he wants to date you?"

James blinked. “No.”

Remus shrugged. "Okay then. Nothing wrong with a little friends-with-benefits.”

James scoffed. "We’re not friends."

Remus grinned. “You, my friend, are getting caught up on the details.”

James stared at him, then shook his head, muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

Remus just smirked into his drink.

James was so, so fucked.

He internalized what Remus had said. The idea was tempting—so fucking easy.

Just a bit of fun, no strings attached. He’d love to rile Regulus up, to watch him come undone under his touch, to see him glare and bite back insults with kiss-swollen lips and half-lidded eyes.

And if it didn’t mean anything—if no one ever knew—then what was the harm?

But.

But.

James didn’t know the meaning of the word casual.

When someone got in his head, in his life, they infected him—like a virus, incurable, inescapable.

And Regulus Black had already infected him, far younger then hed ever care to admit. 

He remembered the first time Regulus changed his life. He was twelve. 

…

James had never liked sitting still.

He hated long dinners, hated boring lectures, hated anything that required him to be quiet and pay attention.

But that night?

That night, he sat in the hard plastic chair of the school auditorium, hands curled over his knees, back straight, silent.

Because Regulus was playing the violin. Sirius next to him wanted to laugh and poke fun with James, but every word sirius might have said evaporated into thin air. James could only focus on one thing.

The Black family had money, and money meant that Regulus had probably been playing since birth, because he was so good it made James feel fuzzy behind the eyes.

James knew nothing about classical music. He didn’t know what piece Regulus was playing, didn’t know if it was hard or easy, didn’t know anything except that he couldn’t stop watching him.

Regulus looked serene up there—poised, effortless, like the music was an extension of himself, like it wasn’t something he had to think about, just something that happened.

James had never been jealous of him before.

He had been obsessed, sure. Had spent entire practices stealing glances at him, had memorized the way his skates carved into the ice, had felt something tighten in his chest whenever Regulus scored a goal and didn’t even smile about it.

But this?

This was worse than jealousy.

Because James had never wanted to be part of something so badly in his entire life.

Regulus looked untouchable up there. But maybe—maybe if James could play something too, maybe if their music could intertwine the way they as people never could, then maybe—

Maybe that would fill the weird void he felt whenever he looked at him.

That night, James had gone home and told his parents he wanted to learn guitar.

His dad had been thrilled, his mom had called it a phase, but James knew better.

Because it wasn’t about the music, really.

It was about Regulus.

James had spent years trying to forget about all of that.

And for a while, it had worked.

When Regulus quit the team, James had turned his feelings into hatred—had let himself resent him, let himself push him out of his mind.

It had been so easy to pretend that whatever pull Regulus had on him was gone.

And then—

And then the party happened.

And now?

Now, James was sick again.

And this time, he wasn’t sure if there was a cure.

Especially because still—when James plays his guitar, when he closes his eyes and lets his fingers move without thinking, he can almost imagine what they would sound like together.

Not just their instruments—the deep, rich warmth of his guitar blending with the haunting, effortless elegance of Regulus’ violin—but them.

Because now James knows what Regulus sounds like.

Knows the way he whimpers when he’s caught between a moan and a gasp. Knows the way his breath stutters when James touches him just right. Knows the way his voice breaks, not when he’s speaking, but when he’s feeling—when he’s unraveling under James’ hands.

And it’s better than he ever could have imagined.

They complement each other, in ways James had never let himself consider, in ways that should feel wrong but fit too well—like a harmony that had been waiting for him this whole time.

And that?

That scares the hell out of him.

Because James has always been a starving man—and now?

Now he’s had his first taste of sweetness.

And James is nothing if not a glutton for that sweetness.