Chapter Text
Regulus stands on the stone-cold pavement outside the door to his apartment—what was once his apartment, at least—with three meager trash bags full of his things by his feet, a phone held between his forefingers and thumbs as he types, and four men surrounding him, hemming him into the wall of the building with their towering frames. This isn’t ideal.
He looks down at his phone again, squinting as the screen lights up, too bright against the darkness of the night.
You’d think the worst part of Regulus’ night would be the heavy boots and cheap cologne crowding him in. Unfortunately, the worst part is that he remembers this number by heart.
[23:38] TO UNSAVED NUMBER
Can you transfer 4.5k asap?
A lifetime seems to stretch as they all wait for an answer, the biggest of the bunch shifting restlessly, the impatient tap-tap-tap of his foot only fueling Regulus’ agitation further with how it mimics a time bomb about to detonate. He suspects he’s in for it when his phone finally buzzes and saves him from becoming tomorrow’s loanshark victim headline:
Remitly: James F. Potter just transferred £5.000
He doesn’t dare breathe out too loudly, showing the screen to the closest man instead, who nods with a grunt. After that, it’s only a couple of taps on the screen to transfer money he doesn’t have into an account that isn’t his. The whoosh of money leaving floods his senses with temporary relief. Temporary, because all it takes is a few seconds for Regulus to remember where he’s just gotten the money from, even if it did spare him a possible stabbing.
“It’s done,” he manages, turning the phone around to show them again, ignoring the twisting and churning in his gut at the sight of their gun holsters. “I added interest.” For good measure—that is him keeping all of his teeth intact—and refusing to keep any penny coming from him.
The biggest of the four hums as he glances down at his own screen before pocketing the phone, not in the least inclined to lose the terrifying grimace that holds Regulus captive. Next to him, one of the others lets out a huffing scoff, apparently displeased at being robbed of the chance to blow off some steam.
“Next time, pay before the deadline,” the leader reminds him.
“There won’t be a next time,” Regulus assures them.
And with their debt collected, they leave Regulus to one of the lowest points of his life—fired from yet another job he’d been so certain he could hold onto, only to return home to an eviction notice nailed against the door and all his belongings crammed into a bunch of trash bags. His bank account is dangerously close to empty, soon to dip below zero if he uses his last pounds on cab fare.
Money has been tight—especially with the exorbitant rent, the overpriced university textbooks, and relentless tuition draining his account, one bi-monthly installment at a time. Regulus never manages to find somewhere he can truly settle. London's crowded housing market is unforgiving, offering only crumbling boxes plagued by mold or deteriorating buildings. And now, jobless and homeless…
Dropping onto the edge of the pavement, he drags his fingers through the tousled mop on his head, sighing a long-suffering sigh.
The closest option is Barty and Evan’s place, or his brother’s house further away. Regulus knows they’ll take him in without hesitation, no questions asked. But the thought of it—of having to rely on them again, after seven solid months of impressively managing just fine on his own—leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
Chancing a glance at his phone, Regulus wonders—briefly—if it would be morally acceptable to ask for another ten quid or so to afford a ride to his best friend’s place, or if that would count as yet another blow to his already unsalvageable pride. But just as his thumb hovers over the keyboard, a car pulls up to the curb. Not one of those Hyundais with an impeccable finish that still gleams from the day’s earlier hose-down. No, it’s—
“Frank?” Regulus asks, feeling befuddled when the driver’s window rolls down. He eyes the pristine Maybach warily. “You—What? What are you doing here?”
“Evening, Mr Black,” Frank greets him with a confident grin, elbow lazily hanging off the edge, “I hope I haven’t made you wait long.”
“Me?” Regulus asks, “How did you even know I was here?”
His smile turns sheepish, “My job is to know that sort of information, Sir, remember?”
Regulus frowns. “Do you have a tracker on me?”
“No, Sir. It is simply my job to know these things.”
“None at all?” Regulus pushes with an arch of his brow. Frank smiles, his lips parting, only to be silenced by a dismissive wave of Regulus’ hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Why are you here?”
“To drive you, of course, Sir.”
Even more confused, Regulus repeats, “Drive me?”
Frank is a swiss army knife: driver, bodyguard, negotiator, shuttling his… employers to appointments, high-stakes meetings, and the kind of exclusive conferences only the upper echelon of the business world ever attends. The type of driver who can confidently swerve and exceed the speeding limit if the situation calls for it.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Regulus tries.
“I’m already here,” Frank argues as he steps out of the driver’s seat to open one of the back doors. Regulus catches a whiff of the pine-scented car fragrance. “Besides, it’s entirely free of charge.”
“I somehow don’t quite believe that,” Regulus laments.
For a moment, he stays exactly where he is—planted on the curb, surrounded by his trash bags. Pride, what a brittle thing. He stares at the open door like it’s a test he’s already failed, then exhales with the resigned heaviness of someone who’s run out of other options.
He climbs into the backseat without another word.
Frank, to his credit, says nothing. Just stores the bags in the trunk like this is normal. He settles back into the driver’s seat, nodding toward the direction the loansharks disappeared, then catches Regulus’ gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Need that to be taken care of, sir?”
Regulus doesn’t even bother asking him how he knows. Of course he knows. After all, Frank works for a man who possesses the sort of resources to know things, do things, change things.
“No, thank you,” he says politely. “It’s been handled.”
Frank nods once, then glances toward him again. “And the eviction?”
That one, less easily dismissed. The consequence of rent months overdue. Maybe it’s somewhat of a good riddance, a blessing in disguise even, considering he rarely had hot water,and the black mold growing in the bedroom was starting to look like a real costly problem. Still, having nowhere to return to is a particular kind of humiliation.
“It’s alright, I’ll crash at Barty and Evan’s place for now.”
Frank hesitates. “Sir, might I remind you that the apartment—”
“No,” Regulus sharply interjects, arms decidedly crossed in front of his chest. “Just—no. I know you’re trying to help, Frank, but the ride is help enough. Drop me off, and go about your day. Preferably no word about this to him.”
At the last bit, Frank remains suspiciously quiet. He simply turns back to the wheel and starts the engine.
Regulus narrows his eyes. “This will remain between us, right, Frank?”
Frank does not meet Regulus’ withering glare in the rearview mirror, as apologetic as he looks. “I’m afraid Mr Potter already knows.”
Well, fuck.
“Where is he anyways?” Regulus asks, hoping his voice passes as entirely indifferent.
“Mr Potter is in Singapore at the moment. Business deal.”
Singapore. That gives Regulus pause. “Isn’t it rather early there right now? How did he reply so quickly?”
He tries not to recall James’ rigid work schedule—the back-to-back meetings, the blackout hours, the strict policy of rerouting almost all calls to his secretary, Alice. Then again, he’s not entirely sure he still holds the privilege of being one of the few allowed to reach James whenever—or if Alice is still his secretary.
Frank doesn’t miss a beat, “There are standing instructions. Any request from you is to be instantly fulfilled,” he explains, setting his turn signal. “What you received was an automated response. Five thousand is the minimum amount he authorized.”
Regulus blinks. “Still?”
Frank nods. “Mr Potter never changed it.”
A pause. Then, quieter, “Right. Well, I’ll pay him back.”
“You know that won’t be necessary, sir.”
There is no way in heaven or hell Regulus can obtain that much money in any time frame through legal means, but still, he squares his jaw, “I will. Tell him that.”
Frank doesn’t argue. Just nods, dutifully. “Of course, sir.”
They arrive at Barty and Evan’s place a short while later—a small, corner-tucked maisonette of umber brick Evan had inherited from one of the few great-aunts who favored him immensely. There’s a flickering silhouette on the porch, half-lit by the orange glow of a cigarette. Barty, with that recognizable slouch of him.
“Thank you for the drive, Frank,” Regulus says when they pull up to the house. “Do let him know he doesn’t need to reach out.”
“Of course, sir.”
Frank reaches to unbuckle his seatbelt, probably to help Regulus unload the trunk, but he pauses at a single, subtle shake of Regulus’ head. Outside, Barty is lazily shuffling down the steps towards the car.
“Have a good night, Frank.”
“You too, sir. Please do not hesitate to contact me if you are in need of any service.”
Regulus doesn’t respond to that. He’s already pushing the door open into the cold air, getting his bags.
*
“You’re making a big deal out of this,” Barty gracelessly points out as he takes a huge bite from one of the fresh bagels while studying the label on the box it was delivered in. There’s a golden bagel with wings floating in mid-air, encircled by a trail of stars, and puffy letters that read BagelSnitch.
Regulus blinks at him, half-groggily, pulling the blanket around his shoulders tighter. The place is cold, unsurprisingly, given Barty has the cold tolerance of a reptile while Evan runs hot like a furnace. His body feels sore from a night spent on the couch, spine complaining with a series of pops as he straightens up. That’s what one gets when the makeshift guest room currently serves as a playroom.
He squints against the light filtering through the blinds and accepts the mug of coffee Evan offers him. It’s warm. Fighting the urge to throw it against Barty’s head, he decides to sip on it instead. “You were raised in wealth, and yet you will still let money sway you?”
“We are the club of the disinherited, Reg, and this man is rich enough to have breakfast delivered to our door at eight sharp. Anyone would be a fool to refuse.” He holds up a poppy seed bagel for perusal. “Seriously, this place doesn’t even do delivery. Besides, when was the last time you had breakfast made for you?”
The memory surfaces—uninvited. Three years ago: breakfasts in bed, buttery croissants, coffee just the way he liked it. Lavish dinners across Europe, a different life. A different Regulus.
“You keep eating that bribe bagel and I will get up and leave.” It’s an empty threat. They all know it.
“And where might that be, hotshot?” Barty asks, mouthing away some melted butter around his thumb.
“I’ll figure it out,” Regulus points out, not quite sure who it is he is convincing.
Barty snorts, mockingly repeating, “I’ll figure it out,” to Evan.
Regulus does not reply. He does, however, kiss his teeth—a sharp little warning with no follow-through. Evan pulls Barty’s traitorous, bagel-filled hand towards him and takes a bite, moaning. “Say what you will,” he licks the cream cheese from the corner of his mouth, “but James truly knows how to please.”
Regulus lifts a hand, “Don’t.”
“Well,” Barty deadpans, already reaching, “if you’re not going to indulge… Evan, pass me Reggie’s bagel.”
“I hope you choke on it.”
The truth is, Regulus slept like garbage, and the bagels smell like heaven; warm and golden, fresh, his stomach curls in on itself at the mere thought of biting into one.
Objectively, he knows James wouldn’t have to know. No one would know. He could eat the betrayal bagel—and it is a betrayal bagel, stacked with a thick, velvety layer of cream cheese, capers like little green jewels, paper-thin red onions, a perfect orange curl of smoked salmon, everything Regulus loves—and James would be none the wiser.
On the other hand…
God, he hates James Fucking Potter.
Resigned, Regulus makes a defeated come-here gesture from his perch on the arm of the couch.
Evan clicks his tongue, leaning against the kitchen doorway with a grin. “Aw, is someone finally hungry enough to eat a bribe bagel?”
“You,” Regulus says slowly, like he’s taking his time sharpening a blade on the edge of his teeth, eyes shifting between his two friends, “are some of the worst people I have ever met.”
Barty grins around his mouthful, unconcerned. “Yet you conveniently crawled to our apartment, begging for asylum.”
“Not like I’ve got many options after being kicked out of my own home,” Regulus retorts, shoulders hunching defensively.
Barty makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat—equal parts disgust and offense. “Please don’t refer to that place as a home. At most, it’s a square with a roof.”
Regulus scowls. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m really not.” Barty’s eyes narrow, calculating. Then, with all the faux-innocence of a cat about to knock something off a shelf, he tilts his head. “Didn’t you used to have a pet rat?”
Regulus makes a vague, noncommittal noise, but there’s a flicker of phantom embarrassment twisting low in his ribs. He’s getting irritated—mostly with himself, because Barty’s not exactly wrong.
“It wasn’t a pet,” he grits out through embarrassed teeth, because no one wants their house—no matter how unsavory—mocked, even though all of this is Regulus’ own doing; every decision leading to a relatively precarious situation. But facing the consequences of his independence isn’t something he wants for himself right now; he’s low enough as it is. “Hand me my breakfast, Crouch.”
Barty rolls his eyes but shifts to comply anyway, plucking up the salmon bagel between two fingers. “I really like that even from a distance, Jamie boy is still trying to fatten you up like a Victorian orphan. At least someone has your interests at heart, even if it isn’t you.” He flicks at a caper, watching it arc gracefully through the air before catching it neatly between his teeth.
Regulus levels him with a flat stare. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I specifically told Frank not to say anything. The bagel, Barty.”
Evan snorts from the corner. “Oh, Frank takes orders from you now? That’s new.”
Regulus opens his mouth to reply just as Barty makes his move. The bagel missiles through the air, smacking squarely into Regulus’ face. Some red onion drops on his lap.
“Your aim is shit,” Regulus snaps, wiping sesame from his cheek just as Barty declares, “Bullseye.”
God, what a day.
*
Okay, so the truth is, Regulus has no idea how he’s going to pay £5000 back to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
He could disappear. Except, he doesn’t know anyone who’s gotten very far on very little—and more to the point, he doesn’t want to go anywhere. This city is his. He carved it out with the skin of his teeth, and stitched a life from scraps and corners, he’s not about to let some guy push him out of it.
He could ask James for a few hundred thousand pounds, buy a yacht, start fresh in Monaco. Meet a rich man, charm him forever, live in obscene peace without the pressing worry of neither university nor payment deadlines.
The problem lies in the first part of that plan: asking James for anything. Yeah, no. Regulus would sooner resort to more drastic measures. Has, in fact, accumulated a worrying amount of experience in that area.
He exhales. Refocuses.
All right, one step at a time. Pass this class. Then the semester. Then all the classes. Get the diploma, become a teacher, start making something of himself. At twenty-six, his record still reads like a teenager’s. The disowning didn’t help, of course—and unlike Sirius, who’s got that flashy, marketable violin prodigy thing going on, Regulus has no tangible skill he can monetize. He’s working toward one, slowly, but that doesn’t change the fact that he refuses any financial help, can’t hold a part-time job to save his life, and absolutely will not monetize the one thing he’s actually good at.
That and he refuses to make use of the degree he obtained under the heavy-handed expectation that he would someday become the Black family’s business attorney.
He should have taken the gig Evan offered him. By now, he’d be holding down a steady job and avoiding the frankly ridiculous financial predicaments he keeps finding himself in. Or he could move out of London, get a roommate—he shudders. No, no roommate. Regulus isn’t built for shared living. Exhibit A: he would rather strike dubious deals with strangers than split rent with one.
These setbacks are complicating his big plans of becoming someone with a clear direction before thirty.
He blinks. The cursor winks back at him from his laptop screen. Right, focus.
Conventional economics focuses on substantive rationality in relation to the goal of maximizing utility or profits and presumes that it is possible to specify what the substantively rational choice would be in any situation that needs to be analyzed. However, optimal choices may be impossible even for economists to work out in complex and changing choice environments, or where the decision-maker’s view of the world—
“This isn’t a very flattering face you’re making, Reggie.”
Regulus doesn’t move, cheek squished tragically into the heel of his palm as he glares—first at his laptop, then at Evan.
“I’m trying to get this thing done before my meeting with my professor so I can give her my outline, but the workings of behavioral economics are killing me.”
Evan nods sagely, eyes blank. “...What is behavioral economics, again?”
Regulus sighs a long-suffering exhale and pushes his laptop aside. “It’s the psychology of why we make irrational economic decisions.”
“Right,” Evan says, with the confidence of someone who understands none of it.
There’s a sticky stain on the bar near Regulus’ laptop. He presses his index finger into it, slowly circling the damp patch. “Like how we don’t always make the logical choice, even when the benefits and costs seem obvious.”
“Right. So… like you being here instead of at ours, studying?” Evan nudges a glass of something vaguely orange and suspiciously strong-smelling toward him. Regulus wipes his finger on one of the napkins and takes the offering, swirling the drink.
“Conventional economics say I should be maximizing my study time, since that’s the rational move. Yet here I am. In a bar. Actively sabotaging myself.”
Evan bursts out laughing. “At least you’re self-aware.”
“An unfortunate character flaw.” He takes a careless sip. It’s sweet, with just enough bitterness underneath to keep him from grimacing. Evan’s good at that, reading his moods and making him something that feels tailored to whatever minor existential crisis he’s going through.
“I mean, you do have your book open, and a blank page before you. You’re on the right track.”
Regulus’ noncommittal hum is smothered into the rim of the glass, “I could write about the behavioral biases of BDSM club membership. Think my professor would like that?”
Evan snorts, eyes lit in amusement under his khol. “Honestly, she’s probably never read anything exciting in her whole life. You’d be giving her the gift of not suffering through another mind-numbing essay.”
“I’m not exposing myself to my teacher.”
“What?” Evan leans in over the bar. “Would it hurt you to enjoy yourself at least a little? What is she going to do, report you? You’re an adult.”
Regulus considers. He leans back in his seat, legs stretched out under the bar, and watches the club hum to life around him. The establishment is not small or discreet by any means—the walls well-adorned with framed photographs, a variety of BDSM equipment, and corner-of-fame bearing the faces of famous figures that once graced the place with their presence.
The music is low this early in the night. It’s comfortable, familiar, like a strange sort of second home, though his participation remains strictly observational. That doesn’t prevent the regulars from spilling in through the front door looking for a brief respite after a long working day.
He turns back to Evan, and makes a face. The thing is, his friend has a point. About him enjoying himself, that is.
“Why are you right?”
“Because I’m always right,” Evan says, chin tilting primly.
“Sadly, yes.” Regulus downs what’s left of his drink, then pulls the laptop back toward him. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Evan makes a faux-shocked face. “Really?”
Rolling his eyes, Regulus dismissively waves at him. “Oh, fuck off.”
Evan grins and slides a second drink his way without asking. Regulus takes it with a nod, already feeling the edges of his brain soften. “You’ve got maybe an hour before the crowd kicks in. Focus. At least get the outline done.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Regulus replies, apathetic.
A wet towel slaps against his shoulder, “Never call me Daddy again, loser. Some privileges are for no other than the love of my life.” His voice is vaguely amused, though Regulus can pick up the undercurrent of authority in there, too. Evan is not joking.
He puts a hand flat to his chest, all mock affront, though his face remains painfully neutral. “I’m not the love of your life?”
“You sure joke a lot for a guy who borrowed a stupid amount of money from his ex-nemesis,” Evan shoots back.
“I said that to you in confidence.”
Evan shrugs, unbothered. “And I’m weaponizing it now, Daddy.”
Regulus tastes the word, distasteful on his tongue, and grimaces. “Yeah, I hear it.”
Evan looks at him for a beat too long, cogitating—which is never a good sign. Evan is far too smart for his own good. “You know,” he starts carefully, “the offer is still on the table, if you wanted to… join. We have a waiting list a mile long, and you’re not even doing anything yet you’re turning heads—”
“I’m not working here,” Regulus whips back, all traces of humor drained out of his voice. “Don’t ask me again.”
Evan kisses his teeth, shakes his head, and goes to see a customer on the other side of the bar.
Regulus watches him go. Being a disappointment has to be one of the worst feelings in the world. He’s had plenty of practice—his family made sure of that—but it always lands harder when it comes from friends. Because, once again, Evan is right. He could work here, do a few months, make up the money he owes He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named because a killer scowl earns hefty tips, and go right back to his regular scheduled programming of pretending he is living his ideal life.
(He is. He is. He’s free. Poor, but free. Career-less, but free. Basically orphaned, but free. Lonely, but free. Freedom has a price, all right, Regulus is happy to pay it. See? He’s happy. It’s a subjective word, happy. He may define it as he wills).
Alas, declaring himself free doesn’t make the words come any easier, nor does the alcohol offer anything resembling creative inspiration. He’s just a tired twenty-six-year-old with a blinking cursor and a drink he doesn’t even like that much.
So, he nurses it with slow, begrudging sips.
Other than trying to rack up his funds to repay the self-imposed debt of five thousand quid James can confidently lose down the back of his couch without noticing, there’s also the looming issue of housing. If that isn’t resolved soon, Regulus is bound to fall back into the same wearying cycle of couch-surfing—crashing at Barty and Evan’s, Remus and Sirius’—only to fail, again and again, at clawing his way out of their guest room. Sirius, with his well-meaning but borderline pathological anxious attachment, is always one bad day away from super-gluing Regulus into their home, assigning him the role of personal driver and designated overseer of forgotten mail (which chronically piles up on their coffee table, neglected, because Sirius has the attention span of an adult-sized toddler, and Remus is usually too absorbed in his academic reverie to worry about the looming threat of a bailiff's unexpected visit).
Obtaining a house is nearly impossible in this economy, though admittedly no more difficult than keeping steady employment in career lines that are often subject to brutal budget cuts or uphold a very rigid, archaic principle of ‘the customer is king’; this particular mantra of the catering world that has led to Regulus being blacklisted as a potential employee everywhere from Central London all the way to the fringes of Hounslow. All because Regulus has a penchant for openly scoffing at particularly insufferable clientele.
As something of a of a chronic job-hopper, Regulus has nonetheless accrued a wealth of experience and knowledge in odd, mismatched vocations. A jack of all trades, one might say. Still, having been formally disowned for nearly five years and stripped entirely of access to the Black family fortune, he’s become painfully accustomed to scraping by. It’s become somewhat of a familiarity: a standard he wishes to break the moment life finally decides to cooperate. Fortunately, Sirius suffered far less from their shared disinheritance—violin became a work-turned-passion, providing him a stable life Regulus can only envy
Meanwhile, Regulus remains stubbornly attached to temporary jobs,, never one to stay given his piss-poor customer service and insurmountable pride when faced with arrogant management.
A few hundred words later, he is drawn from his reverie by the appearance of another drink—a gesture that has Regulus’ brow quirk. “I thought you only said two freebies max?” he quips without looking up.
The lights have dimmed, the music now a slow-steady thrum that’s morphed into something sultry—far more suitable for a BDSM club rather than what Evan likes to put from his playlist when it’s relatively empty. The booths to his right-hand corner are occupied, filling the place with a hum of chatter.
He realizes the person who offered the drink isn’t Evan, but one of the other bartenders whose name he never bothered learning, and that there’s a crisp hundred-quid bill now prominently sitting in the tip jar, one that certainly hadn’t been there before. Then, there is the scent—the faint, unmistakable fume of cologne, sharp enough to singe the hairs in his nostril, not because of its intensity but because it belongs uniquely and infuriatingly to—
“Studious as ever, I see.”
There’s a hot gust of air fanning over the shell of his ear, an unmistakable prickle of stubble before that, too, is gone.
Of course, Regulus remembers the cologne. He’d had the dubious privilege of inhaling it a thousand times across the span of three complicated, turbulent years. What he hates, however, is that even now, after years, his body immediately recognizes it, traitorous and unforgiving.
He has a split second to regain his composure, to ease the tension in his jaw and rid himself of the sudden rigidity in his spine. Taking a slow sip of his drink somewhat provides the illusion of calm. Regulus doesn’t trust himself to respond, not when the simplest response can spiral into about something entirely out of control, and certainly not when the bartender’s favor has already been purchased with a hundred fucking quid. The last thing he needs is to be booted with a month-old ban from Barty and Evan’s workplace.
A peal of laughter echoes from the other side of the counter. Above him, one of the string light bulbs flickers, casting a shifting shadow over the rows of colored bottles lined neatly behind the bar. The song comes to an end.
“Was the library closed?”
There’s the scrape of a barstool against the hardwood floors beside him, an arm brushes against his, followed by the sight of James Potter leaning comfortably against the bar with a curious smile. Regulus throws him a quick glance and immediately decides to focus on his laptop screen instead.
They say never look straight at the sun, and Regulus already spent three years staring like he was born to go blind.
But blink as he might, Regulus cannot push James’ new face out of his mind. It’s been three years, yet in a single look he recognized every single feature that makes James who he is, like a perfectly preserved memory.
Not enough years have gone by for time to have eroded James in any significant way, but there are subtle shifts that do not quite align with the James-shaped memory in Regulus’ mind. It isn’t so much his appearance, but rather the almost ghost-like quality of his expression; his eyes seem heavier than before, burdened in a way twenty-five-year-old James hadn’t been. He’s seen photos, of course, but the reality of it…
Regulus hasn’t exactly been keeping tabs on him—not intentionally, at least. That would imply interest, after all, the kind of emotional residue he swore off three years ago. But that didn’t stop the occasional photo from Sirius from making its way into his inbox—James blurry in the background, sunglasses, laughing. He didn’t look too closely. Not really. He told himself that was progress.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Singapore?” Regulus says to his laptop screen when he feels James’ eyes on him still. The muted hum of music should smooth out the awkward silence—it doesn’t.
“Keeping tabs on me, huh? I was, for about a week,” James casually hums before Regulus notices from the corner of his eye a broad hand wrapping around his glass and taking a sip from his drink. Regulus’ drink. Regulus knows James isn’t partial to cocktails. His fingers twitch irritably where they hover above his keyboard, typing absolute nonsense now. “I got back this morning.”
“Funny coincidence,” Regulus answers, voice bereft of any humor.
James pauses, watching him carefully. “Not at all. Just some concerning news.”
Regulus’ typing falters and stops completely. The gentle amusement discernable in James’ voice moments earlier is gone now, too.
“It’s none of your b—”
“—Can you at least look at me when we talk?”
Breathing in deep through his nostrils, Regulus shuts his laptop and diverts his attention to James at long last. His hair’s gotten a little bit longer, brushing over his temples. He ignores the weird, nostalgic-something clench in his chest at the sight of it.
Not the hastily taken photos shared through texts, nor the impersonal glimpse offered by an algorithmically suggested social media profile—no, this is James Potter in the flesh.
And he looks exhausted.
James sighs and nods gratefully once Regulus turns his body on the barstool to face him “Thank you.”
Regulus wards off the urge to defensively cross his arms over his chest because he doesn’t feel threatened and instead settles on, “How did you find me here?”
James shrugs, absently mouthing at the slice of lemon balanced on the rim of the glass. “Wasn’t difficult. This place tends to be your first choice when you’re stressed. Nothing like copping free drinks off your friends after being evicted, right?”
James tilts Regulus’ drink at him and downs it. Well, the cat’s out of the bag. At his silence, James’ expression softens. “A little ironic, isn’t it, for us to meet up here?” he tries, but Regulus can’t really be bothered to reminisce over the memory. He looks up at James, blankly.
Nothing ever has—nothing ever will—deter James Potter of all people, who simply continues, undaunted, “Did you enjoy your breakfast?”
“I didn’t have any,” Regulus lies. He tries not to scowl at the grin resurfacing on James’ face.
“No? A shame. I chose your favorites.”
“My tastes have changed.”
James gives him a long, slow, look-over, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with infuriating calm: “That so?”
Regulus stands up from his barstool and reaches for his bag, not wanting to spend a second longer than he has to. “Why are you here, James?”
“To see you.”
“I thought I made my desire not to be seen by you quite clear.”
James shrugs, casual as anything. “Didn’t quite catch that memo. Besides, you, asking for money? Color me concerned.”
“Indebted to you, right?” Regulus almost hisses as he reaches into his pocket to fish for the loose change there—the whole of his current wealth, no more than four quid—and slams it down beside James’ hand. The coins scatter across the wooden surface, and eighty-seven pence skitter toward the edge. One rolls off the counter and clatters to the floor between James’ feet.
“You can go see yourself out now.”
James’ carefully composed expression splinters, a frown blooming in its place. Of course, Regulus being ‘difficult’ about money never fails to sour his mood. Not then. Not now.
“Can we forget about that for a moment and maybe focus on the fact you chewed me out when I bought you that all-equipped Macbook Pro,” a comment pointedly aimed toward the device currently sitting in front of Regulus, “and yet somehow you get weird about money all the time, until suddenly you’re asking for a bank transfer?”
And that, of course, lights a spark of irritation, flaring Regulus’ anger in turn. “I wanted money. I got it. Maybe you should be a little more grateful that I finally indulged in something that gets you off in the first place.”
Yet, James sees right through him, not even entertaining the provocation in the least, well aware they hold no substance and Regulus is trying to distract him from the truth. “Frank told me about your little friends,” James says evenly, “so you can cut the bullshit.”
That tone doesn’t suit him.
Regulus bristles instantly. Something metal-hot twists low in his gut, and his voice lifts before he can stop it, “It’s none of your business, James. I’ll get you the money if it concerns you that much.”
“Get me the—” James scoffs, practically recoiling from the comment. “You think I lose sleep over whatever money you ask for? Regulus, I couldn’t care less about that—or any amount, if it’s for you. What I want to know is what the hell are you are doing dilly-dallying with fucking loansh—”
“Okay,” the bartender from earlier intercepts, sliding back into view with a too-bright smile stretched tight over their face. “Can you guys, like, either tone it down or take this somewhere a little more private? This is not good for my tips.”
They look more at Regulus than they look at James, as if, three years down the line, he’s still the one holding the leash.
James doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t blink. He just pulls a wad of folded notes from his wallet and stuffs them into the tip jar with far more force than necessary, the glass clinking sharply beneath his palm.
“Or, that—that works too, yeah.” The bartender raises both brows, backing off with a pivot. “Give me a holler if you need anything, sweethearts.”
The seconds tick by, punctuated by the clink of glasses, the hum of the progressively louder bass, and the rattle of ice cubes knocking the sides of the mixers. Somewhere behind them, a laugh resounds.
“I’m not doing this with you,” is all Regulus gives him after a stretch of silence.
James presses closer than he needs to to hear, the bar at Regulus’ back pinning him in place. Trapped, but trying not to show it. The loud person knocks into James’ side with another sloppy laugh, beer sloshing over the rim of their glass and splattering his sleeve. James ignores the spill entirely.
Regulus does not.
His hand twitches, half-lifting as if to shove the drunk back or—God forbid—say something worse, defend—
He stops himself. It’s instinctive, stupid. He reels it in, fist curling against his thigh instead, jaw flexing. James notices.
“Hey, I’m okay,” James says, too casual. ”Let’s go somewhere more private—”
“No.” Regulus squares his shoulders, voice like iron. “I am not doing this with you. Not now. Not here. Not anywhere. I owe you no explanation, James.”
The bulb’s light snags in James’ eyes as he tips his head back like he’s tasted something bitter. The now-dark club flickers around him with the strobe lights, black to red to gold to black again.
“You’re in trouble, I come running,” he says quietly, almost appeasing. “ Isn’t that what we always said?”
Regulus doesn’t answer. But his gaze cuts sideways. James watches how it darts—like he’s already halfway out the door, eyes tracing the path to the exit before James has even had a chance to make his case.
“I’m in trouble,” Regulus eventually replies, “ or in any situation you cannot control, and your money comes running. You, on the other hand, sit still and act innocent.”
James rears back. One of the sharp red strobe lights hits the side of his face and catches his left eye, turning his brown eyes volcanic red, James brown, then red again, throwing Regulus off balance for a moment. It’s been three years, and Regulus recognizes every single feature that makes James who he is, like a perfectly preserved memory. James seems more contained, now. His smile could be a carbon copy of the past—only now it’s more measured, less vulnerable, like God fumbled the recipe and flipped the ingredients. Everything about him feels purposeful and intended, the way responsibility often appears on adults. It’s like adulthood seized James by the bootstraps and transformed the easy-going, debonair boy Regulus had so violently fallen for into someone with reasons to be cautious. It makes Regulus go insane.
How dare James look cautious? How dare he look at Regulus with the fight-or-flight expression of someone who’s afraid of getting hurt?
The worst of it, perhaps, is the way the hummingbird-heart in Regulus’ hollowed-out chest stirs to soften that expression into something lighter. Love fades, but habit clings on, stubborn as old grudges. It’s the nerve of his hand, shifting to lift toward James’ face, that snaps Regulus back to reality. Immediately, he stills it.
What is he doing? This man is a pyroclastic flow in the shape of all the things he warned himself not to fall for again, and the light is hitting James’ eye just right, and—Regulus cannot do this.
“It’s never really your fault, is it?”
There, he said it.
James shifts and blinks a few times, rubbing at his neck, looking hurt, and Regulus’ chest squeezes together at the sight. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? Do you want me to apologize, again? Crawl on the floor?” There’s frustration in his eyes, and Regulus is boiling alive. James has always been incredibly skilled at driving all of Regulus’ simmering emotions to the surface. “I’ve done it before,” James is saying, “I can do it again.”
Regulus’ mouth twists, so angry at himself and at the words James is saying, which are rustling the emotions he struggled so hard to bury. “Fat lot of good did it do.”
James smiles something empty and a little sad at the corners, absolutely breaking Regulus’ bone-fragile heart. “You’ve never been very good at this type of stuff, have you?” The weariness peaks from between his words, dragging the end of his sentence.
“This ‘type of stuff’?” Regulus’ brow lifts, incredulous. “You mean a relationship?”
James hums in agreement.
“Clearly you and I have very different notions of what a healthy relationship looks like,” Regulus says.
James’ expression finally cracks into something more honest than the manufactured casual mask he wore to protect himself, and Regulus has to look away. He’s never been very good at facing James’ vulnerability without the urge to…use it. It’s something in his bones, asking him to take what James gives and turn it into something else. Even now, years later. It calls to him like a siren-song.
Regulus knows it’s a thing. A thing that lives in the darker corners of him. He’s good at that, dragging softness out and reshaping it into something with teeth. It’s a skill he learned too young, and it’s still a little too easy to fall into the shape of it. Power is such a delicate line to toe, and Regulus is better at pulling strings than letting them be held by someone else.
Not that he wants to do it with anyone, ever again. Vulnerability goes both ways, and Regulus has never been very good at it. When people exploit your weak spots too often and for too long, one learns to wear good armor. Regulus is decked in steel, yet James’ needle-thin blades find every chink in his armor. He’s always been good at that, finding crevices to dig his fingers in.
“I was worried,” he says softly.
Regulus shifts his weight, leaning back and tracing the lines of James’ face with his eyes, skimming over the slope of his jaw, the flutter at his throat, the place where his lips press thin. James catches him watching, and Regulus forces himself to hold eye contact this time.
“You were controlling.”
James lets out a scoff, dragging his large palm down his face. “And god forbid anyone controls anything over you, right?”
“This.” Regulus’ voice pitches up, loud enough to cut through the wall of sound around them. “This is why we do not work.” He tilts his head back, staring up into the crisscross of red and blue lights, and wards off the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Why are we beating a dead horse? I asked for money, you gave it to me—which is your favorite activity, don’t think I forgot—and now we’re good. Go back to Singapore or wherever you were, where I’m sure your wealth will be much more appreciated.”
James stands there for a beat, and the way his shoulders go loose tells Regulus everything he needs to know before it happens.
Motes of light cavort about the room. Their silhouettes sketched against the wooden double doors behind the bar. It swings open briefly, revealing a puzzled Evan returning from break—Regulus’ line of reason that’s arrived far, far too late.
And because James Potter breathes and lives to defy all of Regulus’ rules, he inhales, purposeful and intended, and beats the horse again.
“I want us to try again.”