Chapter Text
Terrifyingly, Regulus quite likes Ilvermorny.
He’s found a solid group—one half made up of people with far too much energy for Sirius to burn through, and the other half content to spend their evenings in quiet study, which suits Regulus just fine.
In the week since their arrival, he’s genuinely enjoyed most of his classes, particularly Magical Chemistry, a fascinating blend of magical and Muggle botanical theory. It's the kind of subject that would never fly at Durmstrang, and definitely not at any of the more rigid European schools.
Even more shockingly, it’s been the longest he’s gone without fighting Sirius in actual years.
They're sharing a friend group, a historic first. Sirius has mellowed considerably, thanks in large part to a certain bespectacled prank partner who channels his chaos into elaborate, barely-legal magical schemes.
Regulus rarely has the energy to argue. Sirius, on the other hand, is a storm trapped in human form—endless restlessness with nowhere to go. Regulus supposes that’s why his brother started pranking in the first place. And then, inevitably, why he started acting like a whore.
Not that Regulus can blame him. Some people (Regulus) cope with structure. Sirius copes with sex.
He hasn’t yet found a conquest, and Regulus is frankly surprised Sirius hasn’t shown up at his dorm complaining that his dick is going to fall off from lack of use. The only plausible explanation is tall, scarred, and freckled—and Regulus does not plan to bring it up.
Sirius has no reluctance sharing his own exploits, even as he refuses to acknowledge Regulus has ever done anything of the sort. Regulus, apparently, sprang fully formed from the family tree and spends his nights staring celibately at the wall.
It’s the second Monday of term, and Regulus is walking to the dining hall with Pandora and Barty, uncharacteristically and unfortunately anticipating the sight of a particular mop of messy black hair. His unfortunate lust (nothing more, absolutely not) for his brother’s new best friend has yet to fade.
As far as queer relationships go, Regulus isn’t sure what to make of Ilvermorny. He knows Barty likes men in some capacity—he walked in on something that burned his retinas, all because Barty forgot to lock the door. Pandora, on the other hand, defies categorization with a level of confidence Regulus envies.
There aren’t any publicly queer couples, but no one seems overtly hostile either. It’s not like Hogwarts or Durmstrang, where silence was laced with threat. But it’s also not like Beauxbatons, where same-sex flings were almost encouraged—less chance of pregnancy, after all—while any emotional connection was taboo.
Hypocrites. Regulus hates hypocrites. Almost as much as he hates himself for feeling anything at all.
He’s pulled out of his peaceful bubble of thoughts by the unmistakable sound of Lily and Barty bickering.
They’re an odd pair. Lily, with her perfectly maintained curls and militant morning routine, and Barty, with his eternally rumpled uniform and an emotional support coffee cup. Apparently, they’ve been friends for years—something about a shared hatred for a former roommate of Barty’s, a seventh-year Horned Serpent named Severus. Regulus remembers hearing that name muttered in disdain once or twice. Barty had only referred to him as “the human oil slick.”
Now, Lily and Barty are currently embroiled in a passionate argument over hot peppers.
“I’m telling you,” Lily snaps, stabbing a finger at Barty’s notebook, “capsaicin's magical resonance is what makes it valuable. It reacts to intent—if you’re angry while brewing, it gets hotter .”
“That’s pure fantasy,” Barty retorts, scandalized. “It’s the chemical structure—vanillyl groups and carbon chains. Potions are science, Evans, not emotional cookery!”
“Tell that to the Pepperup Potion!” she huffs. “It literally smokes . That’s magic.”
“ Because of the methylamine reaction! Merlin’s tits, have you even read Thistlewaite’s ‘Elemental Catalysis and the Emotional Spectrum in Potioneering’?”
Regulus blinks. “You two realize you’re arguing about chili peppers.”
Pandora, beside him, nods solemnly. “Last year, Barty tried to invent one that screamed when chopped. It worked too well.”
“The screams were encouraging,” Barty says proudly.
The conversation is far from productive, but Regulus finds himself enjoying it anyway. Despite what Sirius would say about Barty’s aesthetics (“like if a porcupine and a crime scene had a baby”), he’s undeniably intelligent.
He’s taking eleven classes—the most in their year. He also apparently skipped a year, just like Regulus. It creates an unfortunate sense of camaraderie with his roommate.
They’re just about to sit down for breakfast—usually eating earlier than the rest of the group—when Regulus hears a far-too-chipper, “Hey, Lily!” from behind him.
Three sweaty Thunderbirds, Sirius unfortunately among them, collapse into chairs around their table. James— Potter , Regulus has decided to call him, despite the American aversion to last names—slides in between Lily and Pandora, who both frown at the intrusion. He’s directly across from Regulus, cursing him with a front-row seat to that lopsided grin that makes his stomach squirm.
Absolutely not . He is not catching feelings for a boy clearly infatuated with a certain redhead. Not that Regulus can blame him. Still, he wrenches his eyes away and turns to his brother, who is sitting entirely too close.
“Merlin, you smell.”
“Thanks, Reggie!” Sirius grins, then shovels a horrifying amount of sugary cereal—apparently an American delicacy—into his mouth.
“Don’t chew with your mouth open, it’s rude and disgusting.” Regulus turns back to his own bowl, with a significantly lower appetite now that he’s seen Sirius’ half-digested breakfast.
“Didn’t you take Quidditch as an elective course too?” He continues, “Why would you need to wake up at dawn and disturb my perfectly lovely breakfast?”
“Aww, Reg, but you love me! And, James is the captain, so he wanted us to do extra drills.”
Regulus firmly protests the allegations that he loves his brother; Sirius is nothing more than a nuisance. However, he now has another reason to dislike James Potter. By proxy, he is ruining his morning meal. Nevermind that his smile immediately improves Regulus’ day.
He is not catching feelings. He simply thinks James is hot.
Unfortunately, his exceptionally annoying older brother is also exceptionally perceptive—and of course he notices the small, fleeting glances Regulus has been sneaking at Potter.
With a sharp jab of his bony elbow and a far-too-smug eyebrow wiggle, Sirius leans over and mutters in his ear, “Find some new boy to ogle. James is my friend now.”
Insufferable bastard.
“Maybe I’ll go ogle Remus,” Regulus replies coolly. “I do like a tall man.”
That gets him. Sirius visibly recoils, like Regulus just threatened to hex him. The flash of betrayal on his face is almost too satisfying.
“Fine, fine,” Sirius grumbles. “Ogle James all you want, as long as you leave Remus alone. He’s my friend, and he’s not for you.”
Regulus raises a brow. “Possessive, aren’t we?”
Sirius doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s too busy glaring daggers at Regulus.
He files that reaction away for later torment. He’s not going to ogle Remus; he has James for that, but it’s always good to know which buttons make Sirius scream.
It is, after all, one of his favorite pastimes, pressing Sirius’s buttons just enough to earn himself a moment of peace. As expected, his brother takes the bait and slinks around the table to bother Ja—Potter.
His new best friend lights up at the interruption, and the two immediately launch into a giddy discussion about some prank involving their Transfiguration professor. Regulus promptly tunes them out. At the rate they’re going, the Ilvermorny faculty will be shipping them off to Castelobruxo by the winter holidays.
Not that Regulus would mind. It’s probably better than going home.
Still, he reminds himself not to get too attached. Not to the people here, not to the way his chest loosens in their company. It’s a lesson he’s learned many times over.
And maybe Sirius needs that reminder, too. For all his charm, his brother’s never been one for closeness. They both avoid it like it burns.
But now, Regulus can see it. Sirius is slipping.
And worse, Regulus can feel it happening to himself, too.
—
Sirius has first period with James, Remus, and Peter. He can absolutely see why Regulus spends so much time eye-fucking James—every one of them is stupidly attractive. Remus with his sandy curls, crooked nose, and freckles. Those freckles might actually kill Sirius. He spends far too much of Charms, where he’s unfortunately seated right next to him, counting the constellations of freckles scattered across his forearms.
Right now, he’s got his chin on the desk, letting his hair fan out around him in what he hopes is a winsomely bored sort of way, eyes turned up to watch Remus’ profile. Remus is chewing on the end of his quill, eyes narrowed slightly as he scribbles something intelligent-looking on his parchment. His brows furrow when he concentrates, and his lips part, just slightly.
Sirius wants to poke him. Just to see what kind of face he’ll make.
Instead, he lets his eyes drift back to those damn forearms. Remus has rolled his sleeves up, and the light from the high windows catches on the pale, freckled skin and the faint shimmer of hair and vein and tendon beneath. Sirius never thought he’d have opinions about veins— veins , for Merlin’s sake—but the ones on Remus’ arms make his stomach swoop with something he’ll blame on jealousy.
Remus isn’t obviously muscular, not like James, who’s built like a bloody Quidditch statue, but Sirius can tell he’s strong. And besides, he much prefers the way Remus laughs—head thrown back, throat bared, completely unguarded.
The girls at Ilvermorny don’t seem to share his enthusiasm for Remus. Sure, he has admirers, Hestia Jones, for one, is constantly trailing him, but he doesn’t draw crowds the way James does.
Sirius is secretly, shamefully pleased by this.
It means more time for him .
Sirius gives in to the temptation gnawing at the edges of his brain and pokes Remus with the Muggle pen clutched in his hand. Ilvermorny isn’t nearly as uptight about quills as Hogwarts was—notes, essays, doodles in the margins, whatever works. Sirius, of course, uses the blue ballpoint he stole from Remus on their very first day. It writes smoother than ink and reminds him, pettily, of his success.
Remus, infuriatingly, is unbothered. Unmoved. Unshakable. It’s a rare skill, one only Regulus shares.
“Remuuu,” Sirius whines, jabbing him again.“Come on, Remuuuuss.”
No reaction. Sirius turns fully in his seat, resting his chin on his hand and angling his face just so—big eyes, long lashes, bottom lip jutted out in a practiced pout. Only Regulus has ever been truly immune to the full force of the Sirius Black charm, and Remus Lupin, despite his best efforts, is not Regulus.
Remus finally glances down at him, and Sirius shivers at the way those golden eyes sweep over him, lazy and fond.
“What’s up, Si?”
Sirius beams, hoping the grin distracts from the fact that his heart is now slamming against his ribcage so hard it could wake a sleeping giantess—and everyone knows they’re notoriously heavy sleepers. He foolishly hopes Remus can’t hear it.
“Nothing,” he singsongs. “You just weren’t giving me enough attention.”
People rarely did. And frankly, Sirius didn’t understand why the world hadn’t collectively agreed that he should be the center of the universe by now.
Remus doesn’t seem impressed. He turns back to his parchment and murmurs, “You’ve got my attention. Don’t waste it.”
Oh no. Sirius really, really needs to keep Remus’ attention. Might actually die without it. Quick, do something stupid, his brain supplies.
So Sirius does the first thing he thinks of. Naturally, he charms the Charms professor’s hair to turn a blinding electric pink and spark with tiny arcs of lightning.
Remus lets out a sigh, the kind Sirius is beginning to suspect means he’s hiding a smile, and turns back with a pointed look that reads “disappointed” but lands more like “you absolute idiot, I can’t believe I like you.”
Which is fine, because Sirius doesn’t believe it either.
Remus might not be as showy as James, but he’s just as much of a troublemaker, only smarter about it. Sirius and James prefer a splash of spectacle. Remus? He likes clean getaways.
But Sirius doesn’t want to get away. He wants to be caught. Especially if it means being caught by Remus.
The way Remus looks at him makes Sirius’ whole body shiver. There’s something in those amber eyes—half amusement, half challenge—that makes Sirius want to lean in and whisper, “This’ll stay our secret, right?” Just to see what Remus would do.
His body betrays him before his brain can catch up. He inches closer, so close their arms are brushing. Sirius wants to slip behind him, press his chest to Remus’ back, and flutter his lashes against the slope of his neck—just to feel like he has even a sliver of the power Remus seems to have over him .
Their professor, now significantly more agitated thanks to the electrified pink thundercloud of a hairstyle, turns toward their corner of the room with narrowed eyes.
Without missing a beat, Remus says smoothly, “Sorry, Professor. That was James.”
In front of them, James lets out an indignant squawk that quickly turns into a splutter as he’s handed a week’s worth of detentions shelving books in the library.
Sirius almost laughs—almost. Instead, he glances at Remus, stunned and a little thrilled. Remus didn’t have to do that. He could’ve let Sirius take the fall, and no one would’ve blamed him.
But he didn’t. He chose Sirius.
And Sirius feels it like a spark under his skin, lightning mirroring their professor.
—
Regulus didn’t have an opportunity to sign up for the Horned Serpent Quidditch team, and to be honest, he’s grateful. He’s done playing for other people’s enjoyment, and is content just to lose himself in the feeling of wind ripping through his hair, and the swoop in his stomach when he looks down at the ground.
It’s not unfamiliar to the swoop he gets when he watches James Potter.
He chased these feelings for years, never finding them outside of flying. Coming down from an orgasm is close, with the sated feelings of bliss, but even that will never rival the calm mixed with the adrenaline boost of doing something people aren’t meant to do.
But even Muggles have learned how to fly. Adrenaline is supposed to be a fear response. Why do people chase it?
Regulus knows Sirius is addicted to it. An adrenaline junkie, some may say. He’s addicted to the rush, doing something you’re not supposed to. He doesn’t particularly care about getting away with it, which is how they’re at their fourth school in seven years.
He does one more high-speed lap around the pitch and flies down to the changing rooms. He resolves to take a quick, hot shower before hitting the library.
It’s a Friday night, so he doesn’t expect it to be busy. He knows Sirius and their friends were planning to have a bonfire, making use of the limited supply of nice nights. Regulus really isn’t in the mood to go.
Sirius’ behavior has been growing increasingly outlandish. On Monday, he hexed a professor. This is how they were sent from the last few schools, so Regulus knows he should be ready to pack his bags come winter break, if not before.
So, yes, he may have been avoiding his ‘friends’ but only so he won’t get hurt. Regulus isn’t entirely sure why they’ve decided to tolerate his presence, but if he doesn’t grow to care for them, he can’t miss them. Easy.
He makes his way into the boy’s changing room, undressing and turning on the shower. It drains out any noises from outside, and Regulus basks in the peace. He rarely gets moments of silence. Barty seems allergic and also dependent on Regulus for survival. Every morning, it’s ‘wake up Barty’ ‘Barty, you have to eat or else you’ll die’ etc etc.
Regulus would never admit it to anyone, but he likes feeling needed.
He massages lavender shampoo into his curls, rinses off, and steps out—barely towel-clad—only to find James bloody Potter sitting casually on the locker room bench.
Regulus yelps. Actually jumps . James looks up, entirely unfazed by his nakedness, and beams. That bloody smile. It’s like staring into the sun. Regulus immediately looks away, hoping his blush doesn’t reach his ears.
“Hi, Reggie!” James chirps, as if this is a perfectly normal place and time for a chat. “I wanted to ask a favor.”
Regulus stares at him in disbelief, but James barrels on.
“Your brother got me detention. And since you seem to be the mature Black brother, I figured you might help me pass the time.”
“Sorry, Potter,” Regulus says coolly. “I’m studying.”
“In the library,” James says, smiling wider. “My detention is in the library.”
Shit.
“Then I’ll study in the common room.”
“Barty’s looking for you there.”
Double shit.
Regulus glares at him. “I suppose I could go to the library.”
A few minutes later, they’re walking the quiet stone path that winds towards said building.
Ilvermorny’s campus really is beautiful—sprawling and open in a way that’s rare for wizarding schools. Most magical architecture trends toward the dramatic: castles perched on cliffs, towers that scrape the clouds, corridors that fold in on themselves. Ilvermorny, by contrast, feels more like a Muggle university—clean, intentional lines, wide quads, trees that arch overhead like gentle guardians. Regulus has heard it resembles several elite Muggle institutions, though he’s never seen one himself.
James walks beside him, a constant stream of chatter bubbling from his mouth, as though he’s in a one-sided competition with the silence. Regulus glances at him out of the corner of his eye, wondering—not for the first time—why James is even here. Regulus is hardly good company on his best days, and today doesn’t come close.
He’s been avoiding the group lately. Avoidance is easier than attachment, and attachment leads to pain. He knows how this goes. It always ends the same way: people leave, people lie, people change. If he lets himself get pulled in, even a little, it will only hurt more when it ends.
So he keeps his distance. Not because he doesn’t feel things, but because he feels too much. He’s much better at suppressing good feelings than bad ones. Neutrality is a safer kind of numb.
But James Bloody Potter doesn’t seem to care. Regulus’s cool silence doesn’t faze him; if anything, it seems to amuse him. Potter moves through the world like everything will go his way eventually, as if no outcome could possibly be worse than not trying.
“So,” James says brightly, breaking Regulus’s thoughts. “My detention’s only two hours tonight, which is honestly kind of a joke. After that, I’ll go meet your brother and the others.”
His tone is light, as if they’re just two friends making plans. Regulus doesn’t respond. He keeps his eyes ahead, trained on the looming library doors. If he says anything, he might say too much.
James turns to look at him, face tilted slightly down, “You’re going too, so do you wanna walk together? After you study and I shelve half the fucking library, of course.”
This makes Regulus pause. Lily begged him to come, giving excuse after excuse about dealing with Barty, which is quite the task for one woman, no matter how formidable. He gave some feeble excuses to her, and later to Barty and Evan.
“Potter, I’m not going.” His tone is firm, leaving no room for arguing. Few are brave enough to contend with the Regulus Black voice, mostly just Sirius.
But James persists. “I heard that from a few little birdies, but I was hoping you’d reconsider,” he looks straight at Regulus, wide brown eyes framed by unfairly thick lashes. His mouth sinks into a sad little frown. Pathetically, Regulus doesn’t think it belongs on a face as beautiful as James’s.
He knows he’s being manipulated, that he’s being charmed into agreeing, and shamefully, it’s working. Regulus knows he’ll say yes.
But he doesn’t go down without a fight. Never. Stubborn is in the Black blood.
“What do I get for it?”
“Why, my dear,” James laughs at the word dear, “you’ll get the absolute pleasure of my company. My undivided attention, even.”
This isn’t satisfactory. Regulus certainly doesn’t want these things.
He scowls. “Oh good,” he deadpans. “Exactly what I didn’t want.”
James laughs.
Why does he laugh so much? And why is it such a beautiful sound—low and clear, sinking straight into Regulus’ stomach, making it flip and flutter like he’s falling off his broom.
It’s unsettling, how hot James Potter is. Regulus is no stranger to lust—he’s a teenage boy, he’s had his fair share of late-night fantasies—but this is different. This is the kind of desire that makes him want to throw himself at James and run a hundred miles in the opposite direction.
The feeling squirms up his throat, tight and unbearable, choking any protest before it can form.
“Aww, Reg,” James drawls, teasing, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you hated me.”
It’s a trap. A classic bait. Sirius uses it all the time. Regulus knows exactly how it ends.
“Well, that would be because I do hate you,” he replies evenly.
James lets out a dramatic moan —an honest-to-Merlin moan—of anguish, dragging a hand through his hair as though physically wounded. Then he turns those big brown eyes on Regulus, eyes that cut through his defenses like they were never there in the first place. Regulus knows he’s caught. James knows it too.
That mouth twists into a pout, a betrayal of how bright his smile usually is. They’ve reached the steps of the library now, and James is standing one stair below, forced to look up at him.
He has a mole under his left eye.
Regulus sighs, “Don’t give me that look.”
“So you’ll come to the party.”
“No.”
“So you do hate me.” James’s eyes start to well with crocodile tears. He hasn’t blinked once, keeping his eyes trained directly on Regulus.
He knows they’re fake, he’s used them himself.
But Regulus still has a base urge to fix any problems James Potter may have. Right now he’s causing those problems.
“Oh for fucks sake. No need to bring out the waterworks, I’ll come.”
The tears clear immediately from those brown eyes that make Regulus weak at the knees. He’s a weak weak man.
James lets out a triumphant noise and steps up, slinging an arm around Regulus’ shoulders like it belongs there. And Regulus—weak, weak man that he is—leans into it without hesitation.
—
People often think Regulus and Sirius are as different from one-another as brothers can be. And sure, Sirius is louder, seems to be more open, more dramatic, more prone to public breakdowns. He wears Muggle boots and leather jackets, makes himself look like he belongs on the cover of one of those records Remus listens to on that weird little cassette machine.
Regulus may only talk to people for academic reasons, never raises his voice in public, may crush all outward displays of vulnerability, and wear robes with such precise tailoring it’s like they were sewn into his skin.
But deep down, if one were to dig far enough, and Sirius has many times, they’re more alike than anyone would guess. They’re both Blacks, after all. Which is to say: they both feel things they aren’t supposed to feel, and they feel them too strongly, in the wrong direction, at the wrong time, toward all the wrong people.
Uncle Alphard went through a Muggle psychology phase once—got very into the human mind for about three months before Walburga hexed his bookshelf into splinters. During that brief window of introspective freedom, he diagnosed the whole family with "addictive personalities." Said they were like cracked vases, spilling all their love and rage and need in uncontrollable floods. Said they all clung to their poisons like lifelines. They all have their vices. Most have alcohol problems, especially Walburga. Bella’s are unforgivable curses, Narcissa’s are hallucinatory potions, Sirius’ is sex.
Sirius has yet to determine what Regulus’ is. He’s never been a drinker, evidence by the fact he’s stone cold sober at this objectively lovely bonfire, looking only slightly miserable about it. Unfortunately, Sirius is unfortunately aware Regulus has had coitial relations, but never at the same scale as himself. He’s never seen Regulus throw himself at someone, never seen him burn with that same reckless hunger that Sirius carries. He’s much too gentle to cast an unforgivable. Drugs are off the table completely, Narcissa would never allow it.
He’s got theories sure, but Regulus is carefully guarded.
They’re more alike than not, so Sirius is sure he has one.
Speaking of their vices, Sirius is going through a dry period. The girls of Ilvermorny have come around on his good looks, even if it’s later than Sirius would’ve liked.
But oddly, he finds himself glad he’s not in their company. It means more time to spend with Remus, James, and Peter.
Sirius can’t remember the last time he had actually friends. Sure, he’s always been well liked, and had a group eating out of his hands at Beauxbatons, but he’s sure their connection never went deeper than convenience. They liked that he was a Black heir.
He doubts anyone here knows of the Blacks, or care who his family is. It’s strange. After Alphard got into Muggle mental stuff, Sirius can’t say he’s an avid blood purist. Neither seem to be any of the Ilvermorny students.
Mary and Lily are both Muggleborns, and nobody’s given them any issues. He knows Remus’ mom is a muggle, and James comes from a wizarding family, but nobody seems to comment.
It’s strange to Sirius, who’s spent his whole life being defined by his family name.
He doesn’t think he’s ever hated it as much as he does right now.
His entire life, Regulus’ entire life, has been and will be ruled by what’s good for the family. Sirius, who was quite spoiled as a child, wishes the family would consider the happiness of it’s members. Who are they to deny their heir anything?
Drinking, and Sirius is quite drunk, always makes him think of his brother. So he wanders over to where Regulus is sitting, with Remus.
Sirius bodily shoves himself in between the boys, half sitting on Remus’ lap.
Remus is not for Regulus to have, despite how tall, freckled, and cute he is. Remus is Sirius’ friend. Sirius.
He’s sitting on Remus’ left leg, almost posessivly staring down his brat of a brother.
“Evening, boys,” Sirius drawls, voice pitched into something casual and affected. “Miss me?”
Remus raises an eyebrow, but smiles simultaneously. Regulus doesn’t blink.
“You’re drunk,” Regulus mutters.
“Not very,” Sirius lies, leaning back and tilting his face toward the firelight. He’s too drunk to be entirely in control of his limbs, and he throws himself off balance, and further into Remus’ chest. Remus doesn’t have issues with this.
SIrius knows some of his past ‘friends’ would’ve been shaken by the contact with a mate. Sirius has hexed several for saying nasty stuff about poofs and queers.
Remus just wraps one frecked arm around Sirius’ waist, keeping him in place. Sirius, muddled and impulsive, feels something flutter sharply in his ribcage. His heart’s always been a dramatic organ.
“You’re sooo nice Remus,” he hiccups, words slurring just slightly, vowels loose in his mouth, “My favorite person here. Did you know you’re really warm? You’re really warm.”
Sirius can feel himself babbling, but he’s powerless against the alcohol in his blood and the fond smile Remus gives him.
He’s forgotten exactly why he came overe here, lulled by constellations of freckles, and warm brown eyes. As established, Sirius has trouble controlling his impulses. There’s a soft smile on his lips that Sirius wishes he could touch, so instead he reaches up, fingers finding one of the pale scars that cross Remus’ face like errant constellations.
Without them, Remus would look sweet, the type of boy you would never expect to be the mastermind behind a prank gang. With them, he looks... not hard, exactly, but sharp in a way that draws the eye. Sirius traces one idly, reverently, like it might spell something if he just followed the right path.
Sirius wants to ask where they come from, but he knows better. He’s seen Remus get cagey with Hestia Jones, his obsessive admirer. Sirius knows the dance: push too hard and the walls come up. He’s not in the mood to be shut out tonight. He’ll control his impulses just this once.
Remus just lets him trace, with a small smile. It does something to Sirius’ insides, makes them squirm and revolt. Maybe he ate something bad for dinner?
He wiggles around on his perch on Remus’ thigh. It only makes things worse—his stomach flips like it’s in open air, like he’s missed a stair in the dark. Trying to steady himself, he ends up sliding further into Remus’ lap, practically curled into him now, legs folded messily beneath him.
Bizarrely, it feels just right. Remus is so warm, radiating heat from beneath his jumper, and so solid that the feeling of him makes him calm down and stop moving.
But it’s weird, isn’t it? Weird to sit in your mate’s lap like that, to make yourself comfortable in someone else’s body. It’s the kind of thing that could ruin a good thing if you let it be seen. Sirius doesn’t want to scare Remus off—not when the air between them feels tenuously balanced, a thread strung tight.
So he slips down, off the lap, landing with a graceless thump in the leaves and grass, back pressed to the log. He can’t bring himself to leave Remus’ orbit completely, so he stays between his legs.
Foolishly, his drunk brain supplies I wouldn’t mind living between his legs.
—
Sirius is stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Regulus wants to hit him. To grab him and shake, to shout, look what you have here, open your eyes.
He does none of those things because he’s controlled.
But Sirius is an idiot, because anyone looking over at him and Remus could see. They could see Sirius leaning contentedly against Remus’ leg, could see long fingers combing through his silken curls.
And they’d be jealous, because normal people don’t get connections like that. They don’t meet people and immediately click. It’s so obvious that Sirius has found something. He might be scared of it, he might simply be unaware.
But Regulus still wants to slap him. To tell him he’s unnecessarily lucky, and should take this chance to be happy.
Because Sirius might be a moron, but he deserves it. If it keeps them in one place just a little longer, well thats an added bonus.
If staying a little longer means Regulus has extra time to watch the greek statue come to life that is Sirius’ new best friend, than so be it. It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.
For the sake of his brother’s happiness, of course.