Behind The Cameras

REGULUS

Regulus isn’t ready.

The Paris Night 1 concert is minutes away. The outfits looked good, the sound check hadn’t made him want to kill someone, and for all intents and purposes, everything should be fine.

But he isn’t fine.

The shorts are too short. The crop top is itchy and too fucking short. Every inch of exposed skin makes him feel on display—like the world is staring, like they’re expecting something from him.

And he hates it.

Regulus leans his head back against the cold dressing room wall, inhaling deeply, trying to keep his mind from spiraling.

Then—

"Regulus?"

The sound of his name snaps him out of his thoughts. He doesn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.

James.

"What, Potter?" he mutters, exhausted.

James steps inside without knocking, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks too casual, but Regulus isn’t fooled. His gaze is too sharp, flickering across Regulus’s face, his outfit, the way he’s gripping the vanity table like he’s about to break it in half.

"Are you okay?"

Regulus scoffs, forcing a smirk. "What do you think?"

James doesn’t laugh. He just tilts his head, expression unreadable. Too serious.

"Do you hate it?"

Regulus stills.

It’s such a simple question, but it feels like James already knows the answer.

Regulus clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around the fabric of his sleeve. He wants to lie, to roll his eyes, to not let James see any more than he already has.

But then, in an act of pure, self-sabotaging frustration, he moves too fast.

He reaches up to rub his arm, his sleeve riding up just enough—

Just enough for James to see.

And James sees.

The air shifts.

Regulus feels it happen in real time—the way James’s body tenses, the way his easy expression vanishes like mist under sunlight.

James sees.

The scars.

Old, faded ones. Newer, angrier ones. Lines carved into pale skin like ghosts of past battles, quiet remnants of nights when the weight of everything had been too much.

Regulus knows the exact moment James realizes what he’s looking at.

Because James stops breathing.

The silence is unbearable. Regulus knows he should rip his sleeve down, pretend nothing happened, make a joke, do anything other than freeze like a trapped animal—

But he can’t.

And James, the infuriating bastard, doesn’t look away.

Regulus waits for it—the pity, the horror, the disgust. The questions. But James does none of that.

Instead, he kneels.

Right in front of Regulus. Right in front of him.

James kneels down, slowly, carefully, so they’re at eye level. And Regulus fucking hates it.

Hates that James is looking at him like that.

Like he’s fragile.

Like he’s important.

Like James cares.

“Reg,” James says, his voice quiet, steady.

Regulus flinches.

He hates the way James says his name like that, like it’s something worth holding onto.

Like Regulus is something worth holding onto.

“Don’t,” Regulus mutters, yanking his sleeve back down roughly, shoving his arms across his chest.

James exhales sharply but doesn’t move back.

He’s still too close.

And he’s still looking at Regulus like that, like he’s trying to figure something out.

"How long?" James asks. The words are soft, hesitant.

Regulus’s stomach twists violently. He doesn’t answer.

James waits.

Not pressuring. Not pushing. Just... waiting.

And Regulus hates him for it.

For not yelling. For not panicking. For not acting like everyone else does.

“Does Sirius know?” James asks after a long pause.

Regulus scoffs, shaking his head. "Of course not."

James lets out a slow breath. Runs a hand through his hair. He looks like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something—something sharp, something emotional.

Regulus expects him to ask more. To pry. To demand explanations that he isn’t ready to give.

But James doesn’t.

Instead, he reaches out.

Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just—offering.

An open palm. A silent invitation. A choice.

Regulus stares at it.

His whole body is stiff, his breath unsteady, pulse hammering against his ribs.

And then, before he can stop himself, he takes it.

James’s hand is warm. Strong. Steady in a way Regulus hasn’t felt in years.

Regulus hates him for being gentle.

For not letting go.

For making him feel like maybe—just maybe—he isn’t completely alone.

James doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make any grand speeches about how he’s here for Regulus, how he’s not going anywhere.

He just holds on.

And for the first time in a very, very long time...

Regulus doesn’t pull away.

After a long silence, Regulus pulls his hand away but doesn’t leave. He just sighs, muttering something like, “You can’t fix me, you know.”

James, still kneeling, just shrugs. “Good thing I’m not trying to.”

Regulus laughs a little—not because it’s funny, but because he doesn’t know what else to do.

James moves to sit next to him against the wall. Neither of them say much. They just sit there, side by side, the tension slowly fading into something quieter, something softer.

After a while, James breaks the silence. “You don’t have to go out there if you don’t want to.”

Regulus snorts. “And let the media write a hundred articles about how I’m a flight risk? No thanks.”

James doesn’t push him. But before they leave the dressing room, he does one thing—he adjusts Regulus’s crop top just slightly, tugging it down in the back where it had ridden up. A small, careful motion, like he’s saying, I see you. I know this is hard. But I’ve got you.

Regulus lets him, and somehow that's the worst part.

***

The lights dimmed. The crowd screamed. The energy of Paris was electric, but Regulus couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not when he was about to do this.

Not when he was standing just a few feet away, completely unaware of what was coming.

Regulus took a breath, wrapping his fingers around the microphone stand. His pulse was pounding beneath his skin. He hated how shaky he felt, how his emotions threatened to spill out of him like a wound that had never quite healed.

"This song is special to me," Regulus murmured into the mic. The words felt heavy on his tongue, but he didn’t let it show.

The audience roared in response.

James stood near the back of the stage, tuning his bass absentmindedly, not even looking at him.

Typical.

Regulus exhaled and closed his eyes.

And then—he sang.

"Don't you notice how I get quiet when there's no one else around?"

His voice rang through the stadium, smooth and aching. The piano behind him was soft, delicate.

"Me and you and awkward silence
Don't you dare look at me that way
I don't need reminders of how you don't feel the same…"

His chest tightened.

The words weren’t just lyrics. They were truth. His truth.

And James still wasn’t looking.

Regulus almost laughed at the cruel irony of it all.

Even now, with thousands of people watching, with his voice laid bare, James was blind.

"Oh, the burning pain
Listening to you harp on 'bout some new soulmate
'She's so perfect,' blah, blah, blah…"

Regulus let his gaze flicker toward James.

And of course—James was smiling. Grinning, even.

James loved this song. He’d told Regulus once. Said it was “romantic in a tragic kind of way.”

James had no fucking clue.

"Oh, how I wish you'd wake up one day
Run to me, confess your love
At least just let me say
That when I talk to you, oh, Cupid walks right through
And shoots an arrow through my heart…"

Regulus could feel his throat closing up, but he pushed through it. He had to.

This wasn’t for James.

This was for himself.

A final, desperate confession—one that James would never even realize was happening.

"And I sound like a loon
But don't you feel it too?
Confess I loved you from the start…"

The song faded. The crowd exploded.

Regulus barely heard them.

His ears were ringing. His pulse was loud in his head, drowning out everything else.

He glanced toward James—and that’s when he saw it.

James was looking at him now.

And his expression…

He was fuming.

***

Regulus barely had time to step off the stage before James grabbed his wrist.

Regulus whipped around, scowling. “What the fuck—”

James’s eyes were burning. “Who was that about?”

Regulus blinked, schooling his features into something cool and unreadable. “Excuse me?”

“The song,” James pressed, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “Who were you singing about?”

Regulus hesitated.

Because there it was—James Potter, furious, protective, and completely fucking clueless.

It was almost funny.

He could tell James. Right now. He could just say it.

It was always you, James. It was always you.

But instead, Regulus smirked, tilting his head. “Why do you care?”

James looked like he wanted to throw something. “Because—because it’s bullshit! Whoever it was—whoever didn’t notice you—they’re a fucking idiot.”

Regulus almost laughed.

Oh, James.

Sweet, oblivious, idiot James.

“You think so?” Regulus murmured, stepping closer, lowering his voice into something soft and dangerous. “You think they should’ve noticed?”

James’s jaw ticked. “Yes.”

Regulus inhaled sharply, staring at him.

This was it.

He could say it.

He could tell James that every song, every lyric, every aching fucking word was about him.

And maybe—just maybe—James would finally understand.

But then—

James let go.

Stepped back.

The moment shattered.

Regulus’s chest ached.

Of course.

“Forget it, Potter,” Regulus said, forcing his voice back to its usual indifference. “It doesn’t matter.”

James looked like he wanted to argue. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Regulus didn’t wait for him to find the words.

Instead, he turned, walking away without another glance back.

Because it was easier that way.

Easier than hoping.

Easier than loving James Potter.

Because James would never love him back.

Not the way Regulus needed him to.

Not from the start.

JAMES

James had been to Paris before, but never like this—never with his best mates, aimlessly wandering through winding streets, hopelessly lost, searching for someone who was apparently right around the corner according to Remus’s confused GPS skills.

“Are you sure she said to meet here?” James asked, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Yes, Potter, I can read,” Remus grumbled, squinting at his phone. “Or at least I could until this bloody thing decided to reroute us three times.”

“I'm so tired of walking!” Sirius whined dramatically, throwing his head back. “Just take me to my babygirl!”

Peter was too distracted by the endless rows of bakeries and boutique shops to contribute to the conversation. Every few steps, he stopped to ogle a pastry display, which resulted in James having to physically drag him away.

James tried his best to focus, but his mind kept slipping back to Regulus. He forced himself to push those thoughts aside—not the time, Potter—when suddenly, Sirius let out an ear-piercing shriek.

“BABYGIRL!”

James barely had time to process before he saw her. Laila Lupin. Remus’s younger sister, the best fashion designer James had ever met, and the only person in the world who could rival Sirius Black in chaotic energy.

Sirius and Laila sprinted toward each other like a dramatic film reunion, arms outstretched. The moment they collided, Sirius picked her up and spun her around while they both shrieked in excitement.

“I've missed you so much, babygirl!” Laila said, beaming.

“I've missed you more!” Sirius argued, finally setting her down. In the process, her beret toppled off, and she had to bend down to pick it up. “Look at you, thriving, being all important and professional. I'm so proud.”

Laila adjusted her hat with a smirk. “You should be.” Then she turned to the others. “James, Peter—it’s been ages! How are you?”

James grinned. “Good, Lai. How about you? What have you been up to?”

“Work, work, work,” she sighed dramatically. “Which is why I need you lot to help me.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Help with what?”

“Shopping, obviously.” Laila flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I need to pick up materials for a few upcoming shows, and since you’re such wonderful big brothers, you’re going to carry my things for me.”

Peter’s face lit up. “Does this mean we’re going into one of those fancy fashion studios?”

“Yes.”

“Do they have snacks?”

“No.”

Peter looked mildly disappointed but followed anyway.

***

The moment they stepped inside, James forgot how to breathe.

The studio was incredible—huge, modern, filled with rolls of the finest fabrics, mannequins draped in unfinished masterpieces, and tailors flitting around like artists in their element.

Laila immediately switched into Professional Mode. She greeted the designers in fluent French and began sorting through materials with the focus of someone who actually knew what they were doing.

The Marauders, meanwhile, stood there like lost puppies.

“...I forgot Laila is important,” Sirius muttered, watching her work.

“She’s always been important,” Remus said, his expression soft.

James caught the way Sirius stared at Remus, a little too long, a little too fondly.

Then—

“So, you ever think about getting married?” Sirius asked suddenly.

Remus choked on air.

“Excuse me?”

Sirius panicked. “I mean—not to me! Obviously! Just in general!”

James turned to Peter, wide-eyed. “He totally meant ‘to me.’”

“Oh, 100%,” Peter agreed.

Remus, still recovering, turned bright red and pretended he didn’t hear them.

After gathering everything she needed, Laila turned to the boys with an innocent smile.

“Alright, time to carry everything.”

She handed James three massive bags filled with fabric. “Since you’re built like a bodybuilder, you get the heavy ones.”

James groaned. “I am a bodybuilder.”

“Exactly.” Laila ignored his suffering and turned to Peter. “You get the buttons.”

Peter blinked, holding one tiny bag. “Why do I only get buttons?”

Sirius pouted. “Babygirl, I thought we had something special.”

“Oh, we do,” Laila assured him. “Which is why you get the shoes.” She shoved a box at him.

Sirius gasped. “I love you.”

Remus, fondly shaking his head: “You’re both ridiculous.”

***

As they walked back, Remus slung an arm around Laila’s shoulders.

“Are you taking care of yourself?”

Laila rolled her eyes. “Remus, you are literally the most overworked person I know.”

Remus grinned. “That’s not an answer.”

She sighed, but her smile softened. “I’m okay, Moony. Really.”

Remus gave her shoulder a small squeeze. “Good. Just making sure.”

Sirius, from behind yelled out. “Emotional moment. I'm gonna cry.”

Laila spun around and, without hesitation, threw a baguette at him. Sirius yelped as it smacked him square in the chest.

James snorted. “That was majestic.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “A true act of sibling love.”

Sirius clutched the baguette dramatically. “Betrayal.”

Laila smirked. “You’ll live.”

***

Back at the hotel, Laila forced James and Sirius to try on outfits.

Laila smirked as James adjusted the blazer she handed him. "You know, if you dressed better, maybe Regulus would finally kiss you."

James nearly died.

Sirius screamed. "What?!"

James groaned. "I hate it here."

Laila winked. "You love me."

James could barely focus. His thoughts immediately spiraled to Regulus—his sharp, knowing gaze, the way his lips curled into a smirk whenever he thought James was being ridiculous. The way he definitely wasn’t going to kiss James anytime soon. His stomach twisted at the thought.

"Oh, Prongs is having a crisis," Peter whispered to Sirius, who nodded sagely.

James snapped out of it just in time to glare at them. "I am not."

Sirius threw an arm around Laila. "I do love you, babygirl. And if you ever need someone to walk you down the aisle at your wedding, I am available."

“Oh?” Laila grinned. “And who’s your wedding with?”

Sirius and Remus immediately went silent.

James, still recovering from his own thoughts, turned to Peter. "He totally meant Moony."

Peter nodded. "Oh, absolutely."

Laila smirked, completely thriving in the chaos. "That’s what I thought."