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James Potter cannot keep a secret.
He’s always considered himself to have a loud mouth. Not brash, like Sirius, but loud. Remus was always good at keeping to himself, only speaking up when the situation calls for it. And Peter is just good at keeping to himself, period.
But James can’t. He needs to talk. He needs to talk or he’ll burst. His thoughts aren’t meant to sit still; they rattle around in his head until they start echoing, louder and louder, until they come tumbling out of his mouth in one way or another.
So this—this thing he’s not supposed to tell anyone? It’s a ticking bomb in his chest.
Because James Potter kissed Regulus Black.
No. Regulus Black kissed him, technically, though he’d leaned in too, hadn’t he? He’d let it happen. Wanted it to happen, if he’s being honest with himself (which, regrettably, he always is).
It was worse because Regulus was a good kisser—an excellent one, really. Which means James wants more than anything to rave about it, to give it a 5 star review, to gloat to his mates that he’s just had the snog of his life.
But how can he, when one of his mates is Regulus’s brother?
It takes days before James makes a decision, before his mouth flies open and he says something that might get him punted six feet into the ground.
His decision finds him outside Regulus’s flat, knocking with surety that he is, quite honestly, lacking at the moment.
“We need to talk,” James says the second the door swings open.
Regulus blanches. “Oh no, I don’t think so.” He tries closing the door, but James has had years honing his reaction time playing football, and immediately sticks his foot in between the door and the frame.
With a sigh, Regulus stalks back into his flat, and James follows.
“Look,” Regulus says. “If you’re here to tell me that the kiss was a mistake and that we should never do it again, I get it—”
“I don’t think it was a mistake.”
Regulus stops mid-stride.
He turns slowly, arms crossed against his, admittedly toned, chest. His expression flickers between caution, curiosity, something else that James can’t quite name. “You don’t?”
James shrugs, awkward all of a sudden. “No. I mean. It was good. Like, objectively. A solid kiss. Possibly the best kiss I’ve ever had, actually. Which is sort of… why I’m here.”
Regulus raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “To rate my kissing skills?”
“No,” James says quickly. “Well. Kind of. I don’t know. Just—” He gestures vaguely, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
There’s a silence that stretches a second too long.
Regulus exhales through his nose and leans against the wall. “So what? You want to do it again?”
James blinks. “Do you?”
Regulus tilts his head, considering him. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but it sounds almost fond. “And you’re lucky you’re fit.”
James grins, bright and boyish. “So that’s a yes?”
“It’s a maybe, ” Regulus corrects. “Depending on whether you can keep your mouth shut about it.”
“Oh.” James sobers instantly. “Right. About that.”
“No.”
“I haven’t told anyone!” James says quickly. “I haven’t! But it’s eating me alive. I feel like I’m lying every time I see Sirius. Every time I breathe. ”
Regulus stares at him like he’s trying to decide whether he wants to kill him or kiss him again. Possibly both. Hopefully the latter.
“You do realise,” he says flatly, “that that kiss was supposed to be a one time thing.”
James scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Potter.”
“I’m not saying I want to date you,” James backtracks—too quickly. “Just… maybe we could do it again?”
Regulus gives him a long, unreadable look.
“So…?”
“Sure. Fine.” Regulus pushes off the wall and crosses the room until he’s standing toe to toe with James. “But if you ever say anything to anyone, I will kill you. And I’ll make it look like an accident.”
James swallows hard. “Noted.”
Then Regulus kisses him again and it’s just as good as James remembers. Possibly better. Certainly not the kind of thing he’s going to be able to keep to himself.
They’re both in trouble.
-
James almost thinks it’d be easier if he and Regulus were in love, because then there’d be no uncertainty, and his thoughts about telling Sirius wouldn’t be nearly as terrifying.
But no, instead he’s decidedly not in love with Regulus Black—though he thinks he’s in love with his lips a bit, maybe, and his body too—and he cannot even begin to think about telling Sirius without having the ambulance on speed-dial.
What would he even say? Sirius, I have been snogging your brother. Yes, that brother. And not only snogging, because there was a handjob involved too, I get very easily excited. No, we are not dating, he just has very nice lips and a nice tongue and a nice face and—
James is about to burst. He is about to burst and he cannot tell anyone.
He can’t talk to Regulus, because they do more kissing than talking these days. He can’t tell Sirius for glaringly obvious reasons. Nor can he tell Peter, because Peter would tell Sirius, and Remus, because Remus would tell him to tell Sirius.
So James is stuck. Cursed, really. Stranded in his own personal hell of Very Good Kisses and Very Bad Decisions.
He tells his pillow. He tells his shampoo bottle. He even tells his bloody toothbrush one night after brushing his teeth and staring into the mirror like he’s in a coming-of-age film about moral decline.
But none of them give particularly good advice. The toothbrush just sits there, judgmental. The mirror looks back like it’s mocking him. He briefly considers writing it all down in a diary, except he doesn’t have one, and if he did, he’d probably leave it somewhere stupid, and Sirius would find it and then he’d have to fake his own death.
It all comes to a head one Friday night at Sirius’s.
They’re halfway through a bottle of wine that Sirius just happened to find, sprawled on the couch with the TV buzzing faintly in the background, when Sirius nudges him and says, “You’ve been weird lately.”
James nearly chokes on his drink.
“I’m always weird,” he manages, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“No, this is different.” Sirius eyes him with a kind of unnerving seriousness that makes James want to melt into the cushions. “You’re twitchy. Like you’re keeping something from me.”
James laughs too loudly. “Mate, when am I not keeping something from you?”
Sirius doesn’t laugh. “It’s not funny. Is it something bad?”
James swallows. Yes. “No.”
“Is it something you did?”
Very much yes. “Not really.”
Sirius narrows his eyes. “James.”
And James is seconds away from imploding. He can feel it, the truth clambering up his throat like it’s desperate to be known. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Do not say it.
“I kissed someone,” he blurts.
Sirius raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? You’ve kissed people before, James. Christ.”
James shrinks into himself. “Yeah. Just thought I’d… share. Because I’m, you know. Open. And healthy.”
Sirius rolls his eyes. “Tell me who it is, then.”
James panics. “A girl.”
“A girl?”
“Yes.”
“Do I know her?”
“Possibly.”
Sirius narrows his eyes again, but mercifully doesn’t press.
James breathes. Barely.
He doesn’t say Regulus’s name. But he thinks it. Loudly. Repeatedly. Like the name is tattooed behind his eyes.
He’s doomed. Doomed and possibly horny, which is a terrible combination.
-
They’d been toeing the line for a while.
Too many late nights, too many kisses and lovebites and pulling each other closer, closer, closer. James just wanted Regulus all the time, all over, and the line—whatever it was—was blurring.
When it happens, they don’t talk about it, don’t even plan it.
One minute they’re kissing, hard and messy and desperate, not too much different than the norm. The next? James has Regulus pinned against the living room wall like it’s the only thing that matters, and maybe it is.
It’s frantic and desperate, and James’s teeth hurt from clashing against Regulus’s. James fumbles with Regulus’s belt while the other boy palms him through his jeans. They’re gasping, panting against each other’s mouths like they’ve been holding this in for far too long.
“Fucking hell,” James mutters against his lips, yanking Regulus’s shirt off like it personally offended him. His own shirt quickly follows, though it clings to the sweat on his body stubbornly. “You’re really going to kill me one of these days.”
“Then die already,” Regulus hisses, though it lacks any real bite. “You talk too much.”
James laughs, low and breathless, but then Regulus begins pressing kisses against the underside of his jaw, and grinds against him, and it dies in his throat. He groans, hips bucking.
They stumble into the bedroom together, bodies knocking against the dresser, the wall. Everything is clumsy and hot and wet and James thinks he wants to live in this moment forever. He kicks off his jeans, falling back on the bed, eyes glazed with pure need .
Regulus follows him down, bare-chested and sharp-eyed, mouthing at his chest, his stomach, his hipbones—anywhere he can reach. His hands are everywhere, dragging his nails down James’s sides, thumbs brushing his nipples just to watch him twitch.
James fists the sheets, biting back what might be a humiliating moan. “Fuck, Reg, if you’re seriously trying to kill me, this is a damn good way to do it.”
“Shut. Up.” Regulus growls, but his voice is wrecked. His lithe fingers curl under the waistband of James’s briefs, pulling them down with deliberate slowness until James is fully bared to him, flushed and aching.
Regulus is kissing him down his thigh, licking a stripe up the length of his cock like he’s teasing him, like he’s just daring him to lose control. James swears violently and grabs him by he hair, tugging him off with a hiss. “No. Come here. Want you.”
Regulus blinks, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. “Yeah?”
James nods, and the way he flips them is not gentle, the way he pins Regulus down against the mattress with a hand on his sternum. But the look on his eyes is, gentle and almost reverent, like Regulus is something to worship.
“Need you,” James exhales, voice cracked and honest. “Need to fuck you.”
Regulus inhales sharply. “Then do it.”
James doesn’t waste time after that. He slicks his fingers with the unopened lube from his bedside table—he fumbles with the packaging messily, but the exasperated laugh that escaped Regulus’s lips makes it worth it—and slides one in with care, watching every twitch of Regulus’s face. He’s tight and beautiful and already arching into the touch.
“More,” Regulus gasps, hips rolling.
“Greedy,” James murmurs, a small smile on his face. He adds another finger. Then another. Stretching him open while licking the sweat off his his neck.
“Want your cock,” Regulus whines. Fucking whines. “Want you to ruin me, fuck—James, please .”
James doesn’t need Regulus to beg more, despite how pretty he sounds, because he’s just as desperate. He puts some lube on his cock, lines up, and thrusts into him.
Regulus lets out a low groan, fingers scrambling for purchase against James’s back.
“Fuck,” James says, low and wanton. He holds himself still for a moment, overwhelmed by the heat, the tightness, the sheer reality of it. “You feel—Christ—you feel perfect.”
Regulus moans unabashedly, hips tilting up to meet him. “Move.”
James does.
He sets a punishing rhythm, hips slamming into Regulus over and over and over. The headboard is already knocking against the wall. He leans in to kiss him, swallow every little noise that escapes his mouth, every pant and whimper.
Regulus wraps his legs around James’s waist and pulls him deeper, nails dragging down his back. “Harder,” he begs.
James gives it to him. Fucks him so deep he hopes Regulus is seeing stars. Fucks him like he’s trying to make him forget every other man who’s ever touched him.
“Touch yourself,” James pants, watching carefully as Regulus’s hand wraps around his own cock, jerking in time with every thrust. The sight nearly undoes him.
It’s a mess, they’re a mess. Sweat and spit. It’s all consuming, James thinks. It’s everything.
Regulus comes first with a bitten-off cry, tightening around James in a way that drags him right over the edge alongside him seconds later. He groans, the sound escaping his throat, hips stuttering as he spills inside him.
They collapse against the bed together, spent and shaking, tangled in each other and the sheets. For a long moment, neither of them can speak.
In the end, it’s James who breaks the silence, chuckling against Regulus’s collarbone. “Ten out of ten. Would absolutely do again.”
Regulus rolls his eyes. “That’s the worst pillow talk I’ve ever heard.”
James grins. “You love it.”
Regulus doesn’t deny it.
-
It’s another day, weeks later, and James is mid-way through making tea when the door bursts open.
He startles so hard he nearly drops the kettle. Regulus, who was leaning against the counter, bolts upright.
“James?” Sirius’s voice echoes through the flat. “You home?”
“Shit,” James hisses, turning wide-eyed toward the living room. “Shitshitshit.”
Regulus doesn’t move. “You said he never comes by unannounced.”
“He doesn’t! Or, not often, at least.”
“Well, he’s doing it now,” Regulus says roughly, standing and smoothing his hair with one hand. He glances around the flat, then back to James. “Keep your mouth shut, you fool. I’ll handle it.”
Before James can respond, Sirius rounds the corner into the kitchen and freezes.
His eyes flick from James, wide-eyed and flushed, to Regulus, now suspiciously calm and adjusting the cuffs of his jumper like he owns the place. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“What the fuck ?”
Regulus raises a brow. “Lovely to see you too, Sirius.”
Sirius’s gaze snaps to James. “Is this a fever dream? Did I walk into the wrong dimension?”
“No,” James says, voice cracking horrifically. “Nope. All normal here. Just, uh… hanging out.”
Sirius turns to his brother. “You’re hanging out with James Potter.”
Regulus shrugs. “We’re in the same book club.”
James blinks. “We are?”
Regulus steps on his foot. Lightly. Threateningly.
“Right,” James blurts. “Right! The book club.”
Sirius narrows his eyes. “Since when do you read for fun, James?”
Regulus crosses his arms. “Since he lost a bet and had to read something I picked. I chose The Secret History.”
James jumps in, nodding. “Turns out murder and pretentious uni students are my thing. Who knew?”
Sirius looks like he’s doing long division in his head, trying to find the cracks in the lie. Regulus gives him nothing.
Finally, Sirius sighs. “Whatever. Weird. But fine.”
He walks past them to the fridge, pulling out a drink like he belongs there (which, to be fair, he sort of does). James and Regulus exchange a very brief, very tense glance.
Sirius pops the cap off his bottle. “You owe me an actual explanation later,” he says, jabbing a finger toward James. “Because if you’re in a book club with him , I’m either hallucinating or the apocalypse is nigh.”
Regulus is already sliding toward the door. “And on that note, I’ll be going. I’ve got… stuff to do.”
“Enjoy your required reading,” Sirius calls after him.
Regulus doesn’t respond. Just gives James a quick look, half warning, half amusement, and disappears out the door.
James exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
Sirius, sipping his drink, finally looks at him. “I’m not buying it.”
James frowns. “Buying what?”
“Whatever this is. That was definitely not a book club vibe.”
James laughs nervously, slightly manic. “You’re imagining things.”
And Sirius lets it go.
-
“You know, I’ve never actually heard you play,” James says, glancing at Regulus’s violin from where he’s propped up in his bed, warm and sated.
Regulus, who was shrugging his clothes back on, whipped around to face James, eyes narrowing. “Have you ever considered that I don’t want you to hear me play?”
James could argue back, would argue, usually, but tonight is different. He must have turned a new leaf, because he just looks at Regulus, smiles ever-so-softly and says, “Okay.”
Regulus freezes. James waits.
It’s not long before Regulus is muttering under his breath and stomping over to his violin. “For fuck’s—fine. I’ll play for you. Just this once, though.”
“Just this once,” James nods.
Regulus glares at him as if daring him to make a joke, but James only pulls the blanket tighter around his waist and rests his chin on his knees, eyes soft.
And Regulus plays.
He doesn't warm up, doesn't tune. He just lifts the violin to his shoulder like muscle memory, like instinct, like breathing. The bow slides across the strings and sound pours into the room. It’s low, trembling at first, like it's been hiding somewhere deep in Regulus's chest and now it's being pulled out thread by thread.
James forgets how to swallow.
The music isn't neat or polished. It's messy, raw, sharp in places, achingly soft in others. Regulus plays like he feels too much and has nowhere to put it. It bleeds into the air, every note soaked in something James can’t name.
He's never seen Regulus like this, so unguarded. Not biting, not posing, not putting on that cool, unreadable front. Just him , and the sound he's making, and the flicker of emotion that briefly, briefly slips past his carefully built walls.
James thinks, Oh. And then: Oh, no.
Because this… this doesn’t feel casual. It doesn’t feel like just fooling around or friends-with-benefits or even a stupidly hot secret. It feels important. He feels important.
James watches the way Regulus’s brow furrows in concentration, how his fingers move with precision, how his mouth is just slightly parted like he might be holding his breath.
And James is sure of it now, so completely and utterly certain: he’s fucked.
Because he doesn’t just want Regulus’s mouth anymore. He wants his mornings, and his music, and all the hidden things he never shows anyone. He wants every version of him: the prickly one, the distant one, the unexpectedly soft one. He wants all of it.
Regulus lowers the violin with a final note, one that rings like a question in the air.
James doesn’t say anything right away. He doesn’t think he can.
Regulus glances at him, scowling faintly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I just bared my soul or something.”
James swallows. “You kind of did.”
Regulus looks away quickly, muttering, “It wasn’t even that good.”
“It was,” James says, quiet but certain. “It really fucking was.”
-
Something shifts after that. James feels it.
He feels it when he wakes up in Regulus’s bed and there’s already tea waiting for him on the bedside table, feels it when he’s brushing his teeth in his own flat and his eyes catch on the now-familiar blue toothbrush that Regulus “accidentally” left.
They don’t talk about staying the night anymore. It just happens . Like the way Regulus knows how to make coffee that fits James’s exact taste, and the way James always buys Regulus’s favourite cereal without thinking about it.
It’s grossly domestic, James realizes. But for some reason, he doesn’t really care.
One night, after washing up, James finds Regulus perched on his couch in his jumper, scrolling through his phone like this is normal, like James isn’t staring.
But he is. He can’t take his eyes off Regulus. His heart is beating so hard he worries it might grow wings and fly out of his chest, right into Regulus’s palms.
Regulus doesn’t even look up when James walks in. Just thumbs something on his screen and mutters, “Your internet’s shit tonight.”
And maybe it is. Maybe James should care. But all he can do is stand there in the doorway, fingers twiddling against each other, and think: Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
Because this isn’t just sex anymore. This isn’t sneaking around or hiding under layers of sarcasm and snark. This is Regulus barefoot in his flat, wearing his clothes, curled up like he belongs here. And the worst part? James wants him to.
He wants him to stay and wants him to keep leaving his toothbrush and his socks and his quiet little habits all over James’s space. Wants him in the corners of every day.
“You’re staring,” Regulus says, still not looking up.
James clears his throat, crossing the room and flopping onto the sofa next to him—casually, so casual. “You’re in my jumper.”
Regulus finally looks up, one eyebrow raised. “You offered it. And it smells like you. Which, frankly, is a weird thing to be mad about.”
“I’m not mad,” James says, suddenly all too aware of how close their knees are. “I’m just saying.”
Regulus clicks his phone off. “Alright then.”
James smiles. It’s small, a little crooked. “You do this a lot lately.”
Regulus tilts his head. “Do what?”
“This. Be here.” He gestures around. “Like it’s normal.”
Regulus shrugs. “Isn’t it?”
James looks at him. Really looks. At the faint shadow of sleep still under his eyes, the softness in his shoulders that didn’t used to be there.
“Yeah,” James says finally, voice low. “It is.”
They don’t talk after that. Not really. James just sinks back into the couch, and Regulus shifts without a word, letting James rest his hand on his thigh like it’s nothing.
Even though, it’s really everything.
And James knows then, knows it as sure as the beat of his own heart, that whatever this is, he doesn’t want it to stop. Not ever.
-
James fucked up. He doesn’t know how, not really but he knows he did .
If he didn’t, then Regulus would be answering his texts, would be showing up at his flat like normal. Isn’t that what he said?
And maybe James is overreacting. It’s not like he and Regulus are actually dating, in fact, whatever love James has is clearly one sided. But still.
It’s pathetic, really. The way he still sets two mugs on the counter when he makes tea, the way he finds himself sleeping on the right side of the bed because he knows Regulus prefers the left. James wants to die a little bit, everytime he catches himself acting like this.
The worst part? His heart hurts and he can’t even talk to any of his friends about it.
One night, when James is feeling particularly sorry for himself, he texts Regulus. It’s short, inconsequential, a simple: You dead?
Regulus doesn’t respond. Of course he doesn’t. Regulus does open the text. James still isn’t surprised.
He tries drafting a follow-up message three times before giving up, deleting his last attempt and falling back against the floor feeling even more pathetic than he already did.
James lies there for what feels like an eternity, his phone face-down on the rug like it personally betrayed him. The silence that rings through his flat is too loud, pressing against his chest like something alive.
He tries not to think about Regulus, about what he’s doing. Tries not to imagine him curled up in that, frankly hideous, sweater he sometimes wore to James’s, tries not to imagine him curled around a book, curled around someone else.
James smacks his forehead once, then drags a pillow off the couch, presses his mouth into it and screams to drown out his own thoughts.
He doesn’t cry over this (he’s not that far gone) but his eyes sting a little. That has to count for something.
It’s late when James hears a knock on the door. So late that James assumes it’s either one of his neighbours, or maybe Remus or Peter with some sort of crisis to mirror his own and leftover curry.
It’s neither. It’s Regulus, standing in the hallway like he didn’t just give James the headache of his life.
His arms—his lovely, lean arms—are crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair slightly damp. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink. He just stares at James like he’s the one who’s been ghosted.
James blinks. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so caught off guard in his life. “Uh.”
Regulus raises a perfectly arched brow. “You asked if I was dead.”
James blinks again. “You saw my text.”
“Do I look dead to you?”
“Emotionally, maybe.”
There’s a pause. James doesn’t miss the way Regulus’s mouth twitches slightly, betraying the ghost of a smirk.
“I forgot my charger here,” he says finally, stepping past James and into the flat like this is normal, like he hasn’t been ignoring James at all. “Also, I was hungry.”
A lame excuse if James had ever heard one. There’s no way Regulus forgot his charger here, he would have noticed earlier. “You came all the way over here for a phone charger and a snack ?”
Regulus tosses his hoodie onto the couch. “And maybe to suck you off. If that’s something you’d want.”
James just stares at him.
This? This is classic Regulus. This is avoidance dressed in arrogance. Carefulness masked as casual.
And, goddammit, James doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because, truth is, it doesn’t matter why Regulus is here—only that he is .
“You know where the snacks are,” James says. “And the bedroom.”
Regulus hums. “So domestic.”
James doesn’t reply. He doesn’t say I missed you or you scared the shit out of me or you have no idea how hard it’s getting to pretend this doesn’t mean anything .
Instead, he kisses him, hard and fast and full of everything he still can’t say.
And Regulus kisses him back with just as much fervour.
It’s not a resolution. Not even close. But it’s enough to quell the ache for now. And James, stupid, gullible James, lets himself hope.
-
James can only take so much, he thinks. There’s a limit, somewhere inside of him, and he’s nearing it, for sure.
Because Regulus keeps coming over, keeps kissing him, keeps falling into his bed. And it’s lovely, he’s lovely. James loves him.
But Regulus doesn’t talk to him. Not about the things that matter. It’s not like James ever asks him, ever sits him down and says, “Why did you ignore me for so long? Why are we still pretending?” But he doesn’t think he should have to.
Tonight, they haven’t talked at all, and James can practically see the limit when he closes his eyes.
But he lets Regulus barge in, lets Regulus kiss him and push him into the bedroom all without saying a single word.
When Regulus bites and tugs on the tip of his ear, whispering “Let me ride you.” James just nods.
They haven’t said anything since Regulus walked in the door. No small talk, no jokes, not even the usual dry remarks. It’s only been this: Regulus’s hands on him, his mouth dragging down James’s throat like he’s trying to mark him from the inside out.
It should be hot, and it is, but there’s a weight there. It’s thick and unspeakable and simmers just beneath James’s skin. It coils deep in his chest as Regulus tugs his shirt off, leaning down to press kisses over his collarbone.
“You’re quiet,” James remarks, barely thinking.
Regulus doesn’t answer, just licks into his mouth like James never spoke at all. And he lets him.
Their clothes come off in pieces, thrown to the floor in a trail that leads back to all the questions left unsaid. By time Regulus sinks down onto James’s cock, painstakingly slow, James’s fingers are digging crescents into the meat of his thighs, and the only sound in the room is Regulus’s shaky breath as he bottoms out.
James groans. “Fuck, you feel—”
“Don’t,” Regulus cuts in. His eyes flutter open, gaze scathing. “Don’t say anything.”
James nods, swallows it down. But it’s already there, already pulsing behind his teeth.
Regulus moves slowly at first, rocking into it like he wants to take his time, like he wants to savour the way James falls apart beneath him. He braces his hands against James’s chest, head tipping back as James watches with wide eyes, drinking in every inch of him like he’ll never get another chance.
Maybe he won’t.
Maybe this is the last time.
James doesn’t mean to say it, he really, truly doesn’t. But Regulus is fucking himself against his cock faster now, deeper, the sound of their skin slapping filling the room. James is drowning in it. In the heat. In the feeling. In him .
“I love you,” James gasps, the words tumbling from his lips helplessly. “Fuck, Reg, I love you.”
Regulus chokes on a sound that isn’t quite a moan, isn’t quite a sob. His rhythm falters and, for a moment, James thinks he’s going to stop. Thinks that, maybe, he’s ruined everything.
But then Regulus slams back down onto him and comes , trembling, eyes squeezed shut as though he’s trying not to feel it too much. Like, if he lets himself, he might break.
James follows suit not long after, coming undone by the way Regulus falls forward onto his chest, boneless and heavy and still not saying anything.
They lie there like that for a while, skin sticking together, breathing uneven. James’s hand lifts, resting itself on the curve of Regulus’s spine hesitantly.
“I didn’t mean to—” He starts, and then swallows it.
Regulus shifts ever so slightly. He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t even look at him.
But he doesn’t pull away, either.
And James doesn’t say it again.
-
Regulus disappears again.
James isn’t surprised, not in the slightest. It was only a matter of time, really. And he supposes that his not-so-grand confession was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.
So, yeah. Whatever.
James isn’t upset at first, not really. Regulus just needs time to process things, he thinks, he’ll come around. Then another day passes, and another, and now James is just angry.
What did he do that was so wrong? What did he do to warrant being ghosted, not once, but twice?
Late at night, when James really lets himself just stew in his own upset, he regrets telling Regulus that he loves him. Regrets loving him at all.
He regrets it in the kind of way that makes his insides ache, that makes him want to punch a wall and then apologize to it.
Because he meant it. That’s what hurts so much. It wasn’t some off-hand thing he said in the heat of the moment, not really. It’s something that had been simmering in his chest for weeks, just waiting to boil over. And then it did.
The worst part? Regulus had came. He’d fucking came , like his body heard it before his brain did, like a part of him had maybe wanted to hear it.
But then he left. Again.
No text, no explanation, no snide comment or poorly veiled insult to ease the tension. Just… nothing.
So, fuck him.
James slams a cupboard so hard it nearly comes off it’s hinges. He kicks the leg of his bed and spends the next hour limping around the house like a fool. He stares at his phone screen—he does a lot of that, just looking. Waiting for something, anything.
He drafts several messages: you’re a fucking coward, say something. anything, was it really that bad? i didn’t say it to scare you. i said it because it was true.
Fuck you.
He deletes all of them.
Instead, he throws on Regulus’s stupid hoodie—because of course it’s still here—and wears it for hours, like if he stretches it in any way or stains it with his cheap wine and heartbreak, that it’ll somehow hurt Regulus.
He fucking misses him.
James, stupid, pathetic, James misses him, and he hates himself a little bit because of it. That, and he’s furious. He’s furious that Regulus let him in just far enough that he dared to feel hopeful, furious that he didn’t even try to stay, that he ran the second things got real. And yet.
And yet, if Regulus knocked on his door right now, James isn’t sure he wouldn’t let him in again.
He regrets loving him, but not in the way that means he’s stopped.
He just wishes he could.
-
For someone who’s terrible at keeping secrets, James thinks he’s hiding his heartbreak well. Until he isn’t.
He’s curled up on the couch, praying he melts into it, watching some shitty action movie the streaming service told him he might like , when the door opens and Sirius bursts in.
“Oh good, you’re alive,” He says, moving to obstruct James’s view of the TV.
“Barely,” James grumbles, sitting up. “Why are you here?”
Sirius shoves his phone into James’s face, frowning. “You texted me ‘k.’ You never text like that. You’re more of an exclamation mark kind of guy.”
“I text people like that.”
“Not me !” Sirius exclaims, pocketing his phone. “Never me. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. ‘m just tired,” James sighs as his friend takes a seat next to him on the sofa.
“Bullshit. You’re a terrible liar, James. Don’t start now.”
“Maybe I’ve been an excellent liar this whole time, and I’ve been lying about being a shit liar, and you never realized because I’m just that good.”
Sirius squints at him, clearly not buying it. “Did someone hurt you?”
And, okay. James is tired of lying, is tired in general. And he misses Sirius. He misses being able to tell him everything. So the words slide out, easier than he thought they would have.
“It’s your brother.”
Sirius blinks, then, “Regulus?”
James lets out a breathless laugh. “Who else?”
There’s a momentary pause. The air feels thick as Sirius doesn’t speak and James doesn’t look at him, instead picking at a loose thread he found in the couch cushion like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.
“He’s… We’ve…” James huffs. “I dont even know. It started off as nothing, just kissing—because he’s really fucking good at it. Then there was sex. Sorry. And then he started staying over a lot, and I started staying over at his , and there was coffee in the morning and brushing our teeth together like, straight out of a romcom, real cheesy shit. And he played the violin for me, Sirius. Oh, and I started buying his favourite cereal—”
He’s rambling. He’s burning from the inside out. He can’t stop.
“—He ghosted me for a bit out of nowhere, which sucked. But then he came back, and things were okay? Then one night he came over, and we… Well, actually, you don’t need the details, but I told him I loved him, just fucking blurted it out, real eloquently, and I thought maybe it meant something. But he left again. Haven’t heard from him since.”
Sirius is still quiet.
James finally looks up, finally tries meeting his gaze. “You’re gonna yell, aren’t you?”
“No…” Sirius says calmly, too calmly.
James frowns. “You’re not mad?”
Sirius shrugs, leans back against the couch. “I’m not thrilled you’ve been carrying this on your own, but no. I’m not mad.”
“You’re not… freaked out?”
“I mean I suspected something ,” He tilts his head. “You’ve been acting weird for months. He has, too. Plus there was the whole book club thing.”
James stares, slightly taken aback. “You’re being surprisingly chill about this.”
Well,” Sirius starts, spreading his hands, “either I yell at you and you cry and I feel bad, or I support you like a decent human being.”
“Who are you?” James blinks, mouth ajar.
Sirius smiles faintly. “I’m your best friend, you idiot.”
There’s a brief period of silence before James clears his throat. “So, uh, I love your brother.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“And he left.”
“Yeah, that sounds like him, too.”
James presses his face into his hands. “I feel stupid.”
“You’re not,” Sirius knocks his knee against his own. “You’re just a moron with shit taste.”
They sit like that for a while; no more confessions, no solutions. Just the weight of everything laid bare.
Then, Sirius speaks up. “Want me to go yell at him?”
James snorts. “No. Maybe. Ask me tomorrow.”
“Fair.”
And for the first time in a while, James feels a bit less alone.
-
Days continue to pass, the world keeps on turning, and James is not waiting for Regulus. Not anymore. He’s done waiting.
It’s funny then, that tonight’s the night there’s a knock at the door.
James stares for a long time, doesn’t move. There’s another knock, lighter this time, almost uncertain.
When he finally sighs, gets up, and opens the door, he’s not surprised to see Regulus there. Hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped like he’s trying to shrink. James lets him take five steps into the flat before he whirls on him.
“You can’t keep doing this,” James blurts, not giving Regulus a chance to speak. “You don’t get to just keep disappearing on me.”
Regulus doesn’t flinch, just shrinks a little more. He doesn’t deflect or snap back, like James would expect. He doesn’t shrug it off either. Instead, he exhales slowly and says: “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” James scoffs, because apparently he’s still mad. “You left me again. After everything . After what I said.”
“I panicked.”
“And? You think panicking gives you a free pass to treat me like I don’t matter?”
This time, Regulus flinches. “No, I don’t. I just… I’m not good. At this.”
“I don’t need you to be perfect, or good,” James says, voice cracking. “But I need you to be present. I need you to not run when things get real.”
Regulus shifts his weight, hands twitching in his pockets. “I—I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
Silence falls over the two of them like a fog. James can barely breathe. He wants to cry, a bit, out of frustration or out of the knowledge that Regulus is here, that he came back. He’s not sure which.
After the silence stretches into what feels like an eternity, Regulus clears his throat. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About you… I didn’t want to feel this way. I didn’t want to let it matter,” His voice is barely above a whisper. “But it does.”
James lets out a shuddering breath, nearly rocking back on his feet. “Why are you here?”
Regulus takes a tentative step closer, freeing his hands from his pockets, looking up at him. “Because. Because I want to try. With you. Even if I’m terrified.”
James looks at him, really looks at him—at his tired eyes and pursed lips. This Regulus, the one standing in front of him, isn’t polished. He’s messy and soft and wearing his heart on his sleeve, so honest in a way James has never seen him before.
“You don’t have to say it back to be,” James says, finally. “But you don’t get to run again. If you choose to try, for me—for us —you stay.”
The speed in which Regulus nods is nearly shocking. The way he proceeds to hug James is shocking.
They stand there for a while, in the middle of James’s flat, arms wrapped around each other tightly, hearts beating as one.
Eventually, Regulus speaks up. “I’m sorry,” he says, and James knows he means it.
“I love you,” James says in return.
Regulus kisses him, and he stays.