Paris, France
REGULUS
Regulus needed to stop waking up in James's arms.
Regulus had woken up with a splitting headache, probably due to all the alcohol he had last night. He could barely recall any of the events of last night, only Evan dragging him out of the club. How the fuck is he meant to perform tonight? But somehow, in all the drinks and chaos of last night, Regulus managed to land in James's arms. Wait. He hadn't with James... Right?
Regulus immediately lifts the covers to make sure his clothes are still intact, which they were. He let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding in.
"James," Regulus starts trying to wake the good-looking boy.
James lets out one of his delicious groans. "What?" He mutters, half-asleep.
"Let go of me, you idiot," Regulus answers. Gosh, who gave James the right to be this hot?
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
James flips onto his back, away from Regulus. He already misses being in James's arms.
"You're so mean," James whines.
"I'm aware," Regulus replies. "Do you plan to get up?"
"Not really, thanks for asking, though," James mutters with a sleepy grin.
Regulus rolled his eyes before getting ready for breakfast. He had other things to do other than obsess over a man who doesn't love him back. Regulus steps into the bathroom, and leaning against the door and sinks to the ground trying to stop the tears. Nothing hurt as much as the love Regulus had for James. But the fact that James doesn't feel the same way about him was the part killing Regulus. Had Cupid forgotten Regulus? And it couldn't be held against him that he isn't trying; Regulus has been in relationships, but no matter how hard he had tried to show the other any affection, he couldn't do it, and then they'd leave him.
Regulus had gone through the cycle over and over again, but it still hurt every single time.
If James didn't want him.
If Sirius didn't want him.
Then who would?
***
The Bands were going out for breakfast, but Regulus had stayed behind. Why? He had a Zoom therapy session. Yes, Regulus Black gets therapy. Everyone knows that he needs it.
Regulus had been attending sessions with a man named "Monty" for months now. He didn’t know much about the man beyond his first name, his calming presence, and the warm smile that appeared every time their sessions began. The therapy service was from some exclusive brand that catered to high-profile clients, promising absolute confidentiality. No real names, no identifying details, just a safe space to talk. Regulus had begrudgingly agreed to it, thinking it couldn’t possibly make things worse.
At first, Regulus had been hesitant to open up, as always. But there was something about Monty’s quiet understanding that made it impossible to stay guarded. Monty didn’t push, didn’t pry—he simply listened, his voice soft and steady, offering insights that felt more like gentle nudges than lectures.
Regulus had started to look forward to their sessions, the hour of calm in his otherwise chaotic life. Monty was the only person who didn’t expect anything from him—not perfection, not brilliance, not even answers. With Monty, Regulus could just... exist.
He still didn’t know anything about Monty, though. And maybe that was part of the appeal. There were no complicated connections, no expectations, no history. Just a face on a screen and a voice that somehow made the world feel a little less heavy.
His finger hovered over the Zoom link. For a second, he considered closing the laptop and pretending the session didn’t exist. But that warm, knowing voice lingered in his memory, and against his better judgment, he clicked and joined.
"Hi, Monty," Regulus says.
"Oh, hello, dear! How are you?" Monty greets back with his warm smile.
"I've been better," Regulus answers."Well, not really."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you want to tell me what's going on?" Monty asks with a small frown.
And Regulus does exactly that. He tells Monty everything that he's been feeling with James, with Sirius. He tells him how he feels unlovable.
"Monty, am I unlovable?" Regulus asks, feeling his eyes start to water, but he knows better than to cry.
Monty’s face softened, and he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his desk. “Regulus,” he said, his voice steady but warm, “the fact that you’re even asking that question tells me you’re carrying too much. You’re not unlovable—not even close. But it sounds like you’ve been made to feel that way, and that’s not the same thing.”
Regulus shifted in his chair, his fingers toying with the hem of his sleeve. “I’m in France,” he muttered, almost like he regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth.
"Oh, that's lovely, dear. Are you enjoying yourself?" He asks with a warm smile.
"No, not one bit, actually," Regulus answers honestly.
"And why is that?" Monty asks with a frown.
"You see, my family is half British and half French. So, I grew up learning French and visiting France in the summer," Regulus begins. "So, as you already know, my family is..."
"They're abusive," Monty continues his sentences, saying the stuff that he can't.
Regulus nods, "Yeah, so I can't really enjoy myself here in France without thinking about them. When I saw the Eiffel Tower, all I could think about was when my father had slapped my five-year-old self for spilling my juice."
Monty’s smile faltered, just for a second, before returning, softer this time. “I see. That must be incredibly hard for you.”
Regulus hesitated, his fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. “I don’t even want to leave my hotel room,” he said finally, the words tasting like defeat.
"Memories like that have a way of sticking," Monty said softly, leaning forward. "But remember, Regulus, they don’t own France. They don’t own the Eiffel Tower or the joy it can bring. They don’t own you, either. One day, maybe you’ll make new memories here—ones that are yours and yours alone."
“It won’t happen overnight,” Monty adds, “but even little steps can make a difference. Maybe today, you could go out for just a few minutes, no expectations—just to breathe.”
Regulus nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure if he believed Monty. Still, the thought of reclaiming France—of finding a version of it that wasn’t tainted by his family—planted a small, hesitant spark in his chest.
A while later, the session had ended, and they had planned their next session, said their goodbyes, and ended the call.
And since then Regulus had been crying. It was routine by now; after his therapy session ends, he simply cries because he lets out so many emotions during the session, and it includes lots of sobbing, something he isn't ready to do in front of Monty. So, he simply cries and lets it all out.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
"Hey, Reggie! Why weren't you at breakfast? I got you some-" Barty cuts himself off the moment he sees Regulus crying. "Reggie, what's going on?" He immediately runs to his side, placing a bag on the nightstand.
“It’s nothing,” Regulus muttered, wiping at his cheeks hastily. “Just a long morning.”
“Bullshit,” Barty said gently but firmly, sitting down beside him. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
Regulus stays silent, unable to speak without choking on a sob.
“You don’t have to talk,” Barty said, leaning back against the headboard beside him. “I’ll just sit here, okay? You don’t have to do this alone.”
"Thanks, mate," Regulus manages to mutter.
“So, do you want to tell me why you look like you lost your cat?” Barty asked, his tone deliberately playful. When Regulus didn’t answer, Barty huffed dramatically. “Fine, be mysterious. I’ll just sit here and eat your croissant.”
“I just… I feel like I’m constantly carrying all this stuff around,” Regulus said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And sometimes, it’s too much."
“Well, you’re stuck with me,” Barty said with a crooked grin. “And you know I’m not going anywhere. So, we can share the weight, together. Alright?"
"Alright," Regulus nods.
“New plan,” Barty declared, standing up and holding up the breakfast bag like a trophy. “We’re going to eat like kings and talk shit about everyone we hate. Deal?"
Regulus rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable, Crouch.”
“But charmingly insufferable,” Barty said, grinning. “Now eat this croissant before I steal it.”
***
The afternoon was bright, with the French sun beating down on the cobblestone streets of Paris. Regulus followed Barty through the crowds, trying to match his friend's pace as they weaved through the throngs of tourists and locals alike. Barty’s loud, boisterous energy was a stark contrast to the quiet weight Regulus still felt pressing on his chest.
“So, I was thinking,” Barty said, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of a couple walking by, “we could check out that little café down the street? The one with the crepes, I think it’s called? Or we could—”
“I’m not in the mood for crepes,” Regulus cut him off, his voice soft, tired. “Can we just... walk?”
Barty didn’t seem put off by the shift in tone, as he often was with Regulus. “Yeah, sure. Walk, talk, or not talk. Whatever you need, mate.”
They strolled in silence for a while, Barty’s gaze shifting around as if every corner of the city was another opportunity for adventure. Regulus’s mind was elsewhere—half on the street before him and half on the conversation with Monty earlier. The guilt still gnawed at him, and it was hard to shake the image of his father’s disappointed face when he was five, the sharp sting of that slap echoing in his mind.
“Reg,” Barty’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. “You know you don’t have to keep it all inside, right?”
Regulus glanced at his friend. He could see the sincerity in Barty’s eyes, the unspoken understanding that had always been there between them. Barty might not have understood every facet of Regulus’s pain, but he sure as hell tried. He had always been a source of comfort, even when Regulus didn’t deserve it.
“Don’t worry about me,” Regulus muttered, looking down at his shoes. “I’m fine. Just... tired, I guess.”
Barty frowned but didn’t push further, instead slipping his arm around Regulus’s shoulders and pulling him into a side hug. “Then let’s keep walking, and let me buy you a drink. You can’t be tired when you’re holding a good glass of whiskey.”
Regulus chuckled despite himself, the action feeling foreign after all the tension that had built up inside. “Fine, but just one.”
The day passed in a blur of Parisian sights, the distractions helping to dull the ache in Regulus’s chest, even if only temporarily. By the time the two made their way back to the hotel, Regulus found himself tired in a different way—drained but not overwhelmed, his head clearer, even if only for a few fleeting moments.
When they entered the room, the first thing Regulus noticed was that the room was quiet—eerily so. He expected Sirius to be running around, making some kind of noise or joke, or James to be sprawled across one of the beds like he always did. But there was nothing. No chaos. Just silence.
Barty set the bags down with a shrug. “Guess everyone’s still out?”
“Probably,” Regulus muttered, dropping onto one of the beds. He glanced at his phone but didn’t feel like checking it. His heart was still heavy, even with the brief relief from the day.
Barty stretched out beside him. “Well, now you’re stuck with me. So... tell me what’s really going on.”
Regulus looked over at Barty, knowing full well that his friend wasn’t going to let it go. The question weighed on him, and the vulnerability that came with admitting what he was feeling terrified him.
“I just…” Regulus sighed. “I’m not good at this. Not at feeling like... I’m enough for anyone. It’s like, every time I let someone close, they leave. They always leave.”
Barty didn’t say anything for a while, just let Regulus speak his truth without interrupting. Then, finally, he spoke up.
“You know,” Barty began slowly, “you might not be able to change the past, but you’ve still got people here. Me. And maybe even James. You don’t have to push everyone away.”
Regulus stiffened at the mention of James, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t say anything either. He couldn’t. He didn’t know how to explain how complicated it all was.
“I don’t even know if he…” Regulus trailed off, the words feeling too raw to say out loud. “James doesn’t feel that way about me.”
Barty’s tone shifted then, his voice growing serious. “Are you sure about that? Or are you just telling yourself that because it’s easier?”
Regulus swallowed, his chest tightening. He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure what to believe.
Before he could respond, there was a knock on the door.
“Hey, Reggie,” came Sirius’s voice from outside. “Just wanted to see if you were alive in there. It’s time for dinner.”
Regulus shook his head, trying to shake the heavy feeling off. He had to face the others, even if he wasn’t ready to talk. Even if he wasn’t ready to face James.
Barty gave him one last reassuring smile before standing up and walking to the door. “Come on, mate. Let’s go eat. No more brooding tonight.”
Regulus stayed behind for a moment, lost in thought, then finally followed Barty out of the room, trying to push aside the gnawing feeling in his chest.
JAMES
Dinner with the Marauders and the Emeralds wasn’t exactly how James envisioned spending his evening, but here they were, crammed into a dimly lit, high-end restaurant that screamed “pretentious,” while Sirius loudly debated the merits of ordering escargot just to gross everyone out.
“It’s cultural,” Sirius said, waving the menu dramatically. “How can you say you’ve truly experienced France without eating snails?”
“By eating literally anything else,” Dorcas deadpanned, leaning back in her chair with a bored expression.
James chuckled, tuning out Sirius’s rant about culinary bravery as he glanced around the table. The restaurant was bustling, all warm candlelight and soft chatter, and it should have felt cozy—inviting, even. But the tension between the two bands was palpable, lingering like a storm cloud no matter how much Sirius or Barty tried to lighten the mood.
Across the table, Regulus sat stiffly, his posture so straight it looked painful. He wasn’t eating yet, just pushing the edge of his fork into his plate. He hadn’t said much since they’d all arrived, and James couldn’t help but notice how his eyes flickered around the room, like he was searching for an exit.
“Are you actually going to eat, or are you staging a protest against French cuisine?” James asked, leaning across the table slightly. His tone was teasing, but his eyes softened when they met Regulus’s.
Regulus blinked, caught off guard, before his lips curved into the faintest smirk. “I didn’t realize you cared so much about my eating habits, Potter.”
“Hey, I’m just saying. Can’t have you fainting on stage later. You’ve got a whole crowd of adoring fans to woo.”
“Don’t remind me,” Regulus muttered, finally spearing a piece of roasted potato with his fork. His expression shifted, but James couldn’t tell if it was nerves or irritation—or both.
Next to James, Sirius was still on his culinary crusade, now roping in Peter as his partner-in-crime. “I’ll order the snails if you order the frog legs,” Sirius said, elbowing Peter in the ribs.
“I’d rather not,” Peter replied, looking vaguely horrified. “Just eat the steak like a normal person.”
James grinned, shaking his head at their antics before glancing at Regulus again. His mind wandered back to earlier on the plane—the way Regulus’s hand had clung to his in the turbulence, the fleeting vulnerability he’d shown. It wasn’t something James could stop thinking about, no matter how much he tried.
“James, you’re staring,” Remus said quietly, smirking into his wine glass. His tone was just low enough that no one else could hear, but James still felt his ears go red.
“I’m not staring,” James mumbled, sitting back in his chair and grabbing his water for something to do.
Remus raised an eyebrow. “Sure, mate. Whatever you say.”
James didn’t respond, but his gaze flickered back to Regulus, who was now quietly sipping his drink, oblivious to the chaos around him. There was something about him tonight—something quieter, heavier. James wanted to ask if he was okay, but he wasn’t sure how to do it without making things awkward.
Across the table, Barty was gesturing wildly, telling a story that had Pandora and Evan in stitches. Sirius was egging him on, of course, while Dorcas listened with a fond smile.
And in the middle of it all was Regulus, quiet, reserved, his sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the candlelight. He was a puzzle James couldn’t quite figure out, and yet, he couldn’t stop trying.
The waiter arrived, interrupting James’s thoughts as plates were set down in front of them. The food smelled incredible, and Sirius immediately made a show of pretending to toast the meal with a glass of wine he wasn’t legally allowed to have.
“To us,” Sirius declared, raising his glass. “The best bands in the world, stuck together for better or worse.”
“I’ll drink to ‘worse,’” Regulus muttered under his breath, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.
James caught the glimmer in Regulus’s eye and couldn’t help but grin. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.
***
The venue was alive with activity as the two bands arrived for sound check, the hum of roadies setting up equipment echoing in the cavernous space. The stage loomed ahead, massive and lit with the stark, artificial glow of overhead lights. James swung his bass case over his shoulder, his heartbeat picking up as they approached.
Sound check was always one of his favorite parts of the process—raw, stripped down, with none of the glitz or polish of the actual show. It was where the music was at its most real.
Sirius was the first to leap onto the stage, his leather boots thudding against the wood as he stretched his arms out like a rock god surveying his kingdom. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed, his voice echoing, “prepare to witness greatness.”
“Greatness would be you not breaking anything before the show,” Dorcas quipped as she climbed the stairs behind him, earning a laugh from Pandora and a smirk from Regulus.
James glanced at Regulus, who was trailing behind the rest of the Emeralds, his steps measured and deliberate. He looked like he belonged up there, even in his casual, effortless way—like the stage was his natural habitat. But James noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly as he adjusted his mic stand.
The Emeralds were up first, as per the schedule, and James took his place at the edge of the stage to watch. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t help himself. Something about seeing Regulus perform—seeing the way he came alive under the lights—was magnetic in a way James couldn’t quite explain.
“Alright, Emeralds, let’s start with vocals,” the sound engineer called out, his voice crackling through the speakers.
Regulus stepped up to the mic, his expression neutral but focused. James leaned back against an amp, crossing his arms as he waited for that first note.
The moment Regulus began singing, James felt that familiar rush—the way Regulus’s voice seemed to fill the entire room, smooth and powerful.
"I still remember, third of December, me in your sweater You said it looked better on me than it did you..."
James froze. He knew it was just a song. It wasn’t about him, obviously. But the words still hit him square in the chest, because he couldn’t stop imagining Regulus in someone else’s sweater. Not his, but someone else’s.
Someone Regulus cared about. Someone who wasn’t him.
Regulus’s voice was haunting, full of raw emotion that made James’s stomach twist. There was something in the way he sang those words—like he was confessing something. Like it wasn’t just a performance, but a piece of his heart laid bare for everyone to see.
"Why would you ever kiss me? I'm not even half as pretty..."
James’s grip on his bass case tightened. Who? The word burned in his mind like a wildfire. Who had hurt him like this? Who had made Regulus feel like he wasn’t enough? James’s jaw clenched as he tried to steady his breathing, but the anger bubbling under the surface was hard to ignore.
Because whoever it was didn’t deserve Regulus. Didn’t deserve that voice, that raw, aching vulnerability that James was sure the entire venue could feel.
"You gave her your sweater, it's just polyester But you like her better... Wish I were Heather."
As Regulus’s voice trailed off, James felt his chest ache in a way that he couldn’t explain. The idea of Regulus pining for someone—longing for them, knowing they didn’t feel the same—was unbearable.
Because if Regulus knew how James felt...
No. He couldn’t go there. Not now.
When the song ended, the sound engineer’s voice crackled over the speakers. “Good levels,” he said. “Let’s do instruments now.”
Regulus handed things over to Barty and Evan, stepping off to the side. He didn’t look James’s way—he never did—but James caught the faintest flicker of a frown as he passed.
The Marauders were up next, and Sirius was practically vibrating with energy as he grabbed the mic. “Alright, folks,” he said, his voice carrying through the venue. “Prepare to have your minds blown.”
James rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop his own excitement as he slung his bass strap over his shoulder. The band launched into their first track, the sound raw and electric as it reverberated through the venue.
As they played, James’s eyes kept drifting back to where the Emeralds were gathered offstage. Regulus stood apart from the group, arms crossed, his face unreadable as he watched the Marauders perform.
James caught his eye once, just for a second, and there was something there—something James couldn’t quite name.
By the time the sound check wrapped up, the tension in the room had shifted slightly. The bands weren’t exactly friendly, but the music had done something to ease the sharp edges.
As they filed off the stage, Sirius clapped Regulus on the back, grinning. “Not bad, Reggie. Not bad at all.”
Regulus didn’t reply, just gave Sirius a withering look before turning to leave.
James lingered behind, watching him go, his thoughts a tangled mess of admiration and frustration.
This tour was going to be a lot harder than he’d expected.