Chapter Text
December 1st 2023
Sirius
As any expert or seasoned chef would tell you, the art of making any exceptional pastry or baked good is patience.
Taking it out of the oven too soon is a recipe for disaster; adding the frosting early will end with a gooey mess. It'll have gingerbread cookies in the shape of snowmen looking… well, like a watery, white frosting pile. It's, unsurprisingly, completely inedible looking.
A shame, really. They probably taste quite nice, but Sirius can't sell them now. Not when their faces are melting onto the counter in an unsatisfying puddle.
It's all bad timing. Sirius argues that he's an excellent pastry chef; he spent his teens and early twenties perfecting the craft. When fully focused at four in the morning, he can perfect things for the 8am rush. Unfortunately, his attention is slightly diverted as soon as they get customers in.
Even that's not entirely a problem until he walks in. Mister Cappuccino, Gluten Free Chocolate Chip Brownie. He sits at the same table every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, orders the exact same thing and stays for precisely 26 minutes. And, for those 26 minutes, Sirius is physically incapable of focusing on anything other than the movement of his hands as he scribbles in his notebook.
Cappuccino man (or 'washed up librarian' as Regulus likes to not so affectionately call him) is the most beautiful man he's ever seen. He's probably 1/8th of the reason that the Luminary Bakery is three months away from shutting its doors for good.
The other 7/8ths don't matter when he's in the room, anyway.
"Even the cookies don't want to be cut into Christmas shapes," Regulus says dryly from next to him, "It's an omen. We should just close our doors in December and reopen when everyone is done with this festive rubbish."
"Bah Humbug," Sirius murmurs in reply, eyes trailing over to the love of his life.
Never mind the fact that he's never spoken to him beyond taking his order. Even that's now been reduced to simply 'Your Usual?'.
Sirius picks up the tray of ruined cookies with a sigh, taking them into the back for where he and Regulus will inevitably snack on them later when they realise that they have to forgo food money to pay for bills. As much as his brother would like to shut the doors for his least favourite season, it's just not economically viable.
Hell, if they're not careful, they won't even have a place to live come February.
Regulus follows him out, because his idiot brother has never understood the meaning of good customer service and is quite happy to let people wait while he has a conversation about Sirius' terrible baking etiquette.
"Make yourself useful, won't you? Check the bread has risen."
A slow blink, "Have we run out already?"
"Colder months invite more customers," Sirius tells him distractedly as he piles the ruined cookies into a small Tupperware container for later, "Which means I'm going to fuck up more."
Regulus huffs but does as he asks without bothering Sirius too much. There isn't much Regulus can do beyond trying to fix Sirius' messes when it comes to his sudden lapse in baking skills. Regulus is better than him at all this anyway, mainly when it comes to decorating sweet dishes.
Sirius suggested the Luminary when they ran from home as a way for them to both be free. Now, they're swimming in debt. But at least they'll have somewhere warm to stay for Christmas, even if it will be the last Christmas they can. Living at the place they work does offer some convenience.
He needs to make some sort of backup plan to keep himself and Regulus safe instead of lusting after a complete stranger. His heart scarcely gets the message.
Regulus returns with the Cottage Loaf, a popular pick for Mrs Babbling and her knitting club. Living in a small market town about thirty minutes outside of London, many of their clientele are families with small children or the elderly; Sirius supposes that village bakeries don't appeal to a broader demographic. Maybe marketing could have helped, but even that's a little hard when they're trying not to be found in the first place.
Regulus gives a heavy sigh, leaning through the window that offers a glimpse between the kitchen and the small seating area of their bakery, "Your librarian boy is getting ready to leave. Are you going to actually say hello today?"
He doesn't even bother to answer, but he does join Regulus, looking through to watch Mister Cappuccino pack up his notebook and pens before patting down his long, beige jacket as though he's checking for something. The man can't be much older than Sirius, with scarred bronze skin and gorgeous tawny hair styled in a mildly fashionable way. But he pulls out a small Nokia phone that belongs in the early 2000s.
Sirius notices his hands are too big for the little buttons. That shouldn't do weird things to his heart.
As he puts his phone away, Cappuccino glances over towards the counter. As he scans it, their eyes meet, and Sirius wants the floor to swallow him up as he squeaks and ducks behind the wall.
Regulus looks down at him. It's never particularly pleasant when his younger brother stares at him with such obvious disappointment.
As the bell to their bakery door sounds, Sirius pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his face there, groaning at his own awkwardness. He never used to be like this; before running away, he'd been something close to a charmer. Even when they ran when Sirius was 17, he could still use his charisma to get lodgings for himself and 14-year-old Regulus.
Now, at 25, it seems he's lost all sense of conversational skill. Sirius hasn't even had a date since he was 21.
Sirius can blame it on legal things. Spending so much of his time taking full custody over Regulus the second he turned 18, changing everything on documents, jumping from place to place just to avoid their parents.
They even changed their first names. Whoever Sirius and Regulus were before is wiped from all their records beyond their birth certificates. Sirius likes to think how irritated their parents would be if they found out they stuck to the star name tradition and just made it a little bit different.
But they've been settled in this town for over a year now, and Sirius still hides in this bakery and lets his social skills deteriorate with every passing day.
Even to the point where he'll let such a beautiful man leave without even giving him a single compliment. It's truly criminal.
"You know," Regulus says, arching an eyebrow at him, "It wouldn't be that hard to just say anything."
Sirius scoffs, "Right. 'Cappuccino, what are you writing? And by the way, you're fucking gorgeous'. Something like that?"
His brother smirks, "I think a 'hello' would work, too."
"What do you know? You've ghosted all of your dates."
"If they could hold a conversation, I wouldn't have to," Regulus replies impatiently, "And, as much as I don't understand your taste in men, he's probably mildly interesting. The academic type often are."
Sirius pouts, "Not true. One of your guys was a Museum Researcher, wasn't he?"
Regulus stares off like he's reliving trauma, "He spent our entire date talking about the history of plumbing. There was some poetic irony about sneaking out of the restaurant bathroom window."
"See, no better than me. Now, go check the muffin display. I think we might have run out of the Blueberry Cheesecake ones."
A small eye roll, "You coward," Regulus teases, but he still does what he says and leaves Sirius to sulk in the kitchen alone.
The rest of the day passes without much interest, as is often the case when the love of his life leaves for a day or two to more than likely have Cappuccino at another establishment. He pre-orders more ingredients for the next day, tries to search for deals at his local supermarkets and plans what kind of things they can do to embrace the festive season.
Regulus doesn't have to like it. But it could help their business a little bit.
At one point, his brother mentions a left-behind wallet that Sirius doesn't think much about. Apparently, there's a coffee spillage that Regulus is annoyed that he had to clean; it's raining on and off. They've probably made a profit of about £200 just from the book club that's come in to discuss their latest romance tale.
All this information goes in one ear and out the other as Sirius focuses on only what he needs to keep himself and Regulus afloat.
Soon enough, the bakery is closed, and Sirius looks over to see Regulus doing some last-minute cleaning. He's shivering in his thin layers now that all the heaters and ovens have been switched off. Sirius lets his usual sensation of failure run through him at their predicament before he decides to fix the problem.
Grabbing what he needs, he stops Regulus from cleaning and places a twenty and two tenners in his hand. Regulus frowns at it.
"What? Did we need to buy something?"
"Catch the bus into the city and buy yourself something warm to wear, okay?" Sirius insists softly, "It's getting colder, and I can't afford to have the heating on all the time upstairs. I don't want you getting ill."
Regulus stares at him, looks back at the money in his hand, then back to Sirius. His eyes trail over Sirius' overused leather jacket, and he asks, "Shall I get something for you, too?"
Sirius shakes his head, "Only if you can afford it. But don't get anything thin just because it's cheaper. I'll be fine."
It doesn't seem like Regulus believes him, but he's long since given up in arguing with him. Regulus spent far too long putting other people before his own well-being, even as young as he was then. Sirius has always vehemently refused to be one of them years later, no matter how hard Regulus might try.
He slowly nods, "Okay. I'll try and get something we can share, then. In case you're colder on some days."
A good compromise. Sirius is willing to pretend he'll take him up on it, "Alright, Reggie. Get going before the stores shut, and call me if you need anything."
"I'm not a child," his baby brother says childishly before curling the notes up in his hands and quickly exiting their bakery. He waves at Sirius through the window as he passes, heading away from their small block of shops and towards the bus station.
Sirius picks up the cloth and spray that Regulus abandoned and gets to work doing the last tables. He thinks about what might make this place more inviting to people who happen to pass by.
Maybe he can even invest in some table decorations if money allows it.
He's on his last table, deep in thought when the bell above the door sounds. Damn, Sirius realises he didn't lock it. With a sigh, he stands up straight and turns.
"Sorry, we're-"
His words stop abruptly as he looks up at his late afternoon guest. Tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a slightly damp umbrella and looking thoroughly dishevelled. Mister Cappuccino stands before him, looking like he's straight out of a fairytale. Sirius quickly finds himself at a loss for words.
Cappuccino pauses at the door and looks at the 'closed' sign, "Oh. Sorry. It was just unlocked, and… hello. Sorry."
Because Sirius is absolutely pathetic around gorgeous strangers, he remains completely silent.
Perfect stranger scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, his gaze shifting around the bakery, "Uh. I left my wallet. I don't suppose anyone handed it in, did they?"
Wallet.
Right.
Sirius can just about process that.
He blinks out of his reverie and tries to compose himself, ignoring his racing heart and inevitably flushed cheeks, "Oh. Yeah. Reggie found one earlier," he tries to sound as casual as possible. Still, his voice comes out as croaky, "Can you tell me what it looks like? I can't be giving it to the wrong person."
Cappuccino follows him as he makes his way over to the counter. He leans against it to watch Sirius rummage and simply says, "My ID is inside. You'll see it's me. No one would want to steal my wallet, trust me."
True to his word, Sirius finds the only wallet that they have. He thinks it might have been brown leather originally, but it's ripped apart, leaving rough material underneath his fingertips. The button that keeps it shut is no longer operational, causing it to swing open as he lifts it closer to his face. There's nothing inside besides one £5 note and a driving licence. The ID does indeed belong to his beautiful customer.
Remus John Lupin
Twenty-Four.
Good, Sirius thinks to himself.
Not that he thinks he has a chance, of course. But it's nice that he knows for certain that they're in the same age range.
He passes the wallet over and praises himself for not letting his hand shake. Sirius does almost drop the whole thing when their fingers brush, though. Cappuccino – No, Remus – is alarmingly warm. If his crush wasn't already bad enough, now he has the knowledge of how nice it would be to entwine their fingers.
Lovely.
"Thank you," Remus says kindly, putting his wallet inside an inner coat pocket, "I was so distracted by my work earlier I must have left it on the table."
A conversation opener.
Regulus might actually kill him if he doesn't take it.
And, even if he is socially inadequate right now, Sirius does actually want to get to know this guy.
"Yeah, you're always writing," Sirius says. Okay, it's not a great start, but it'll do. Remus' eyes sparkle in mild interest at the continued conversation.
He nods, "Well, I'd hope so. I am a writer. Trying my hand at fiction for the first time after writing purely academic work. Not easy."
Well, Regulus was right. Remus is an academic. Figures. Sirius can only hope that his favourite customer isn't as boring as the men that his brother has encountered.
He rests his arms on the counter, "And what is it you're trying to write, Remus Lupin?"
Remus' lips lift slightly in what Sirius hopes is amusement rather than idle pity at his tragic attempts to remain calm about his crush. Whatever he thinks about Sirius' trail of conversation, he answers it anyway with ease.
"I'm trying to write a romance novel based around Christmas," he tells him.
Sirius nods, "Good time of year for it."
"Indeed," Remus agrees, "I thought coming to a town slightly out of the way might help inspire."
"And has it?"
A pause. Remus leans back, deep brown eyes looking over Sirius with an expression he can't make out.
"Maybe," he says eventually.
And Sirius might just melt.
"It's difficult," Remus continues as if he didn't just scrutinise Sirius for no apparent reason, "Finding things to do around here in the form of festivities. I have a list, but I'm not sure how to get there or if I can-"
"I can help you!"
Now.
Why did Sirius have to go and blurt that out?
Remus blinks, "You'll-"
Stop talking. Sirius, stop talking.
"I mean, I've not been here for that long. But… well, me and Reggie have explored," Sirius explains awkwardly, "We had fun last Christmas and… and I can. Help. Yes. Call it a holiday blessing, or something."
"Or something," Remus muses out loud, laughter clear in his tone. "Yeah. I'd like that."
Sirius lets the panic slide away. Remus' face softens, all traces of laughter gone and shifted into something kinder. Something fonder. He pulls out his ancient phone and passes it to Sirius with a small smile.
"Put your number in," he says, "And we can arrange something."
He tries not to hastily snatch the phone to write his number down before Remus can return the offer. Remus chuckles as he takes it back, placing his phone in his pocket and giving Sirius a slight nod.
Sirius says, "Make sure you message me, okay?" and then thinks better of it when he realises it might seem desperate, "So I have the list, I mean!"
"Of course," Remus replies, "Thank you, Sirius. I'll talk to you soon."
And then, with a small, awkward wave, he's gone.
Sirius has enough presence of mind to lock the door this time, running the implications of his conversation with Remus through his mind. He's volunteered himself to do festive things with the guy he's been crushing on for months, set himself up to go on exertions at one of the most romantic times of the year.
Is he an idiot? He groans and pulls out his phone, waiting for any sort of message from Regulus.
It takes a couple of moments for Sirius to realise that he's never told Remus his name and wonders what else he's probably overheard during his writing sessions at the bakery.
Regulus
There’s a reason Regulus tends to avoid larger towns or cities, particularly around the holiday season. It’s only the first day of December. Yet, the Christmas decorations are out in full force, illuminating the rainy cobblestone street with greens, reds and purples. The occasional gold is splashed in there, too, creating what Regulus considers an absolutely overwhelming clash of colours.
Fake snowflakes, be they glass or paper cut-outs, are pasted to every store-front, and Christmas music plays over every speaker. Christmas trees are everywhere, holiday sales plastered in windows, and Regulus thinks he might have tinsel in his hair just from accidentally brushing under certain shelves.
It’s all very loud, both visually and audibly.
Regulus really, really hates Christmas.
He walks out of Primark, overcrowded and veering on being overpriced nowadays, and glares at the darkening sky. The rain is heavier now, and it’s about a two-minute walk back to the bus station, all of which is out in the open without hope of cover. Regulus idly considers returning one of the scarves so he can buy an umbrella instead, but he knows Sirius will forgo warmth if it’s between him and Regulus.
And Regulus isn’t about to let his brother give up even more comfort for his sake.
He supposes he can try and wait out the rain, but the English weather is often unforgiving and unpredictable. He could make a run for it, but then his paper bag would get wet, and his new clothes might fall out. Washing machines and tumble dryers are expensive on the bills, and he doesn’t want to put extra financial burden on them until it’s absolutely necessary.
Sirius will panic if he’s back too late, too.
He looks down at his phone. It’s on 5%, probably not long enough to make a meaningful phone call.
“I could have sworn it was bright sunshine earlier,” someone says beside him, voice rich with humour.
Regulus shifts his gaze from his phone and glances up at the man beside him. Dressed well, fancy shirt and blazer that’s damp on the shoulders from the rain. His glasses are pushed up into messy curls, showing off amused amber eyes. Objectively attractive. And clearly too well off to be talking to Regulus.
He also has mince pies on his tie. Regulus wants to burn it.
Instead, he just looks down at his phone.
The man talks again, “Do you at least have a hoodie?”
This time, when Regulus stares up at the stranger with a huff of annoyance, he’s looking right at him. So, the rich boy is talking to him. It’s not very often he’s approached by good-looking guys when he’s still in his bakery uniform, covered in flour, powdered sugar and various other ingredients that happen to splatter on his jeans. But weirder things have happened.
“Evidently not,” Regulus replies dryly.
The man blinks, bemused, “You’re going to get soaked through. You’ll catch a cold.”
Regulus doesn’t dignify that with a response. He stares at the stranger with a flat look. It’s met with continued confusion, then a hint of something else.
“You look familiar. Have we met?”
Regulus’ heart quickens at the ask. Being recognised is the last thing both he and Sirius want after hiding from a world they both left behind. But this stranger looks young, his age, probably of no relation to his parents or even mildly suspicious. He wasn’t Regulus before, back when he lived in the hell that was Grimmauld Place. They’ve covered their tracks, adapted well.
Still, Regulus can’t be too careful.
“I don’t think so,” Regulus says, guesses.
The stranger shakes his head, brow furrowed, “No, I’m sure we have. Did you grow up in Margate?”
Dread rushes through him, and he searches this man’s face, looking for something to suggest manipulation or threat. Tousled hair framing a face that’s starting to seem achingly familiar. A small smile forms across his lips, making his heart race and his nerves pick up.
He’s felt like this before. A long time ago.
Unease overwhelms curiosity, and he diverts his gaze, pretending to be engrossed in his phone once more, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know you.” he simply says, aiming to be as dismissive as possible.
“I’m sorry,” the not-so-stranger says, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Foolishly, Regulus thinks it’s impossible for him to be the person he’s thinking of. His fourteen-year-old self isn’t listening to him. But what would James Potter, his awakening, vague childhood friend, and overall life-changing crush, be doing outside a Primark on an awful Friday afternoon?
Before Regulus can think of an excuse to leave, the man next to him clicks his fingers.
“That’s it! I do know you!” he insists, and Regulus stares up in wide-eyed horror, “You and your brother work at the Luminary Bakery, right? My friend goes there all the time.”
Oh.
Regulus is filled with both relief and, rather annoyingly, disappointment. James didn’t recognise him. If this even was-
The stranger holds out a hand, “I’m James,” he introduces himself. And yup, there goes Regulus’ heart again, “I don’t come in all that often, only to pick up Remus.”
Slowly, Regulus shakes his hand, “Which customer is Remus?”
“Uh. He wears a lot of beige. Writes a lot.”
Regulus nods, “Washed Up Librarian,” he confirms.
That makes James laugh.
“And you are?” he asks, still beaming. Eight years, and it’s still as bright as the first time Regulus saw it.
“Regulus.”
His name causes James’ smile to dim. Just barely, but enough for Regulus to notice.
“Regulus? Are you sure?”
“Am I sure of my own name? Yes.”
James doesn’t look convinced. Regulus isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t think the name suits him – which, to be fair, it took Regulus between the ages of fifteen and eighteen to get used to using it instead of his birth name – or if it’s because he remembers sharing a childhood and the names just don’t connect.
It doesn’t matter either way. The sadness in James’ eyes only lasts for a moment before he pulls his hand away and grins.
“Where do you want to go, Regulus?”
Away from this conversation and away from these old, long-dead feelings, Regulus thinks.
“I just need to get to the bus station,” he says instead.
“What a coincidence!” James declares, which makes Regulus believe that nothing this man will say is a coincidence at all, “I’m heading that way, too! And, good news for both of us, I have an umbrella.”
From his side, Regulus suddenly sees a small red umbrella tucked up in a little bag. It’s a Christmas-themed umbrella, and he suddenly contemplates taking his chance with the rain just to avoid anything else festive. James seems to see his distaste because he waves it in his face.
“It’s not going to bite.”
“What’s wrong with plain umbrellas?”
James tilts his head, opening his umbrella and stepping out from under the cover, shielded by the obnoxious thing he’s defending, “It’s got Mini Santas on it. It’s cute.”
“Nothing about Christmas is cute.”
“Well, you can get under the offensive umbrella, or you can get you and your clothes wet,” James tells him happily, “I’d rather you remain dry, but I suppose I can’t stop you from being a Scrooge.”
Once again, Regulus finds himself considering his options. He’s in the same predicament as he was five minutes ago, just with the new option of stepping under the umbrella with someone from his past. It would save his clothes, his bag and stop Sirius from worrying about him getting ill, all at the cost of his pride.
Sometimes, it’s better not to be stubborn. He relents slowly, stepping under the umbrella with James.
“That’s the spirit!” James says.
“Do you offer all strangers umbrellas?”
A smirk, “Just ones who look thoroughly miserable. Stay close so you don’t get your side wet, okay?”
“Bit forward of you, James.”
“Part of my charm, I’m sure.”
Still, when he starts walking – large strides because the bastard had gotten even taller over the years – Regulus realises his words ring true, and he steps in close in an attempt to keep up. If he ducks his head enough, he can even avoid the offensive decorations they pass during their short trip to the bus station.
James says nothing, letting Regulus avoid puddles in silence. But every time Regulus chances a glance over, James is looking around, seemingly very bright. It’s not subtle how much he loves Christmas.
The smell of rain mingles with an aroma of freshly baked goods from the stalls they pass, themed around festive treats. It makes Regulus think about the bakery, the risk of it going under and how quickly they might find themselves on the streets if things don’t work out soon.
Alphard’s money in his will only got them this far. But they’re not in the most convenient location and don’t have enough ingredients to justify the prices.
Neither of them had the chance to study finance or marketing. They’re in the dark. Regulus is only surprised they’ve lasted this long. He’s terrified to think what they’ll do once the money dries up, and they’ll have to close their doors. Where can they even go?
Against his side, James nudges him, and Regulus blinks out of his thoughts.
“You were muttering to yourself,” James tells him, tone jovial, “Do you really hate Christmas that much that you have to mumble insults about it?”
“Yes,” Regulus answers quickly.
James just laughs.
Reaching the bus station means further cover, and Regulus steps out from under the umbrella, walking over to the board to see when the bus he needs will leave. He only has to wait five minutes, and he sends Sirius a quick text just before his battery dies to let him know he’ll be catching the next bus.
James stands next to him, staring up at the board.
“Oh, look. They have snowflakes dotting the i's.”
Regulus looks. Notices. Immediately scowls.
Once again, James chuckles, “Oh, come on. Snow isn’t just for Christmas.”
“Everyone links snowflakes to Christmas, James.”
“You know, you’re really missing out, not loving this season. It’s lovely once you give it a chance.”
“Pass.”
James shrugs, sending Regulus a sheepish grin. It’s not a look of defeat, nor one of surrender. Instead, James checks his watch and takes a small step back.
“Well, I’m off.”
Regulus blinks at the abruptness of it, “When is your bus?”
“Oh. I didn’t need one. I just thought I’d walk you,” and then the umbrella is up again, and James grins, “I’ll see you around… Regulus.”
He falls back into the well-lit street before Regulus even has a chance to question him, to ask anything. For a moment, he stands still at the suddenness of it all, wondering if he’s in some sort of fever dream and imagining his teenage crush taking care of him, of all things.
As his bus pulls into the parking bay, Regulus decides to let James Potter slip from his mind instead.
Despite what the storybooks would have people believe, Christmas is not a time for miracles. Of that, Regulus is certain.