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Their last night is quiet.
The heat of the day has finally broken, leaving the house hushed and blue with shadow. A breeze moves through the shutters, gentle and salt-tinged from the sea, lifting the thin curtains like a sigh.
They sit on the edge of the veranda, a half-empty bottle of wine between them. The cicadas are quieter now, replaced by the low, pulsing drone of crickets in the grass.
They don’t speak of the end.
James says something meaningless about the sky, how clear it is, how many stars you can see out here, compared to London. Regulus nods. He says nothing at all.
He doesn’t trust his voice.
The silence between them isn’t strained, not exactly, but careful. Measured. They don’t touch, though they sit close enough that their elbows nearly graze when they reach for their glasses. They don’t look at each other too long. They don’t mention the time.
“I’ll leave early,” James says, almost to himself. “Sirius will drive me.”
Regulus nods again. His throat is tight.
He wants to say Don’t. He wants to say Stay. He wants to say I love you.
Instead, he says,
“Take the good coffee. The one Remus hides in the cupboard.”
It makes James laugh. A small, quiet sound.
“You noticed that?”
“I notice everything.”
James looks over at him then, expression soft. Regulus doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s afraid of what he’ll see in them, regret, or worse, tenderness.
Later, they lie in the guest room, on opposite sides of the bed, turned toward the ceiling. Neither moves.
When the fan clicks and turns, its breeze lifts the corner of the sheet. James shifts slightly, as if reaching for something, then stills.
Regulus closes his eyes.
They don’t kiss. They don’t touch. They don’t say goodbye.
But when the morning comes, and the light slips pale and cold through the shutters, the space between them will be empty.
And it will feel like the loudest thing in the world.
It arrives on a Tuesday.
Folded between an electricity bill and a brochure someone must’ve slipped into the postbox.
The letter had been sitting on the table for three days before Regulus opened it.
He’d known it was from James the moment it arrived, the handwriting was impossible to mistake. Tilted forward like it was trying to hurry ahead of itself, ink pressed too hard in places as if it had been written in a rush of thought and then left uncorrected.
He told himself he was too busy to read it. That there were dishes to wash, books to return, floors to sweep. That Sirius and Remus were coming that weekend and he needed to tidy the guest room. All lies, of course. The truth was simpler: he wasn’t sure he could stand to hear James’s voice in his head again.
But tonight, the house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that made his thoughts too loud.
He sat at the kitchen table, the letter in front of him, and finally broke the seal.
Dear Regulus,
I’ve been meaning to write for some time now. It’s strange how easy it is to put off saying things when they matter the most. Maybe it’s the quietness of this place, or the way the days blur together like waves folding into each other, but I find myself thinking of you more than I expected, and more than I’m entirely comfortable admitting.
That summer feels like another life sometimes. A life I keep reaching back for, trying to hold onto the shape of it before it slips through my fingers completely. I think about the mornings with the cicadas and the way the light fell through the olive trees, the secret smiles, and the silences that said more than words ever could.
I don’t regret any of it, not one moment. You changed me, Regulus. You showed me parts of myself I hadn’t met before, and you gave me a kind of peace I didn’t know I was searching for. There’s a line I read somewhere: “We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should, that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty.” I understand that now better than ever. But with you, I felt whole.
I hope you’re doing well. I hope the house is full of laughter and chaos again, that Sirius and Remus are keeping you on your toes. I hope you’re writing, reading, and finding beauty in small things.
And if you ever feel like it, if the distance doesn’t feel so wide, I hope you’ll write back. Because no matter where I go, or how many miles lie between us, I carry you with me.
Take care of yourself.
Always,
James
It wasn’t until halfway through that his hands stopped moving and just stayed there, holding the paper open. He read slowly, almost painfully so, lingering on every turn of phrase as if rushing might wear the words thin.
You changed me, Regulus. You showed me parts of myself I hadn’t met before, and you gave me a kind of peace I didn’t know I was searching for.
He closed his eyes, the weight of it settling in his chest. James had always said things like that, earnest and unguarded, as if the truth were something to give away without thinking about what it might cost.
By the time he reached the end, no matter where I go, or how many miles lie between us, I carry you with me, Regulus’s fingers had softened their grip, the letter lying flat on the table.
He didn’t cry. He rarely did. But for the first time in weeks, the stillness in the house didn’t feel quite so heavy.
Regulus left the letter on the table that night. Not tucked away in a drawer. Not hidden between the pages of a book. Just there, its folds softening with the damp air from the open window.
He caught himself glancing at it while he moved through the house, once while making tea, again while passing through to fetch a sweater. As though it might vanish if he looked away too long.
The idea of writing back felt impossible and inevitable in equal measure. Impossible because he didn’t know where to start. I miss you sounded too small, and anything longer felt like a risk, the kind of thing that might tether him to someone he had no right to keep.
But inevitable, too, because the thought of James reading nothing from him, of James thinking his words had fallen into silence, made Regulus’s stomach knot.
By midnight, the kitchen was dark except for the small lamp over the table. Regulus sat with a pen in hand, the first sheet of paper blank in front of him.
James,
You’re an infuriating man, and I’m beginning to suspect you know exactly what you’re doing to me.
I should tell you that writing back is a terrible idea, that it’s better to let things fade before they can unravel entirely. But you’ve never been very good at doing what you’re told, and apparently neither am I.
I keep thinking about that morning after the swim. The light was different that day, wasn’t it? You were wearing my swim trunks like you’d always belonged in them, and I didn’t say a word because I didn’t want the moment to change. No one had ever worn my clothes before. It’s a stupid thing to get caught on, but it’s stayed with me, that quiet claiming, as if you’d found some part of me I didn’t know I could give.
I read your letter twice the day it arrived. Then again the next morning, and once more before bed. Not because I don’t remember the words, but because the way they sit on the page makes it feel like you’re still speaking to me. It’s the same feeling I get when I find sand at the bottom of my shoes weeks later, as if the summer is still clinging on, refusing to be gone entirely.
You asked me once if I could see this lasting. I didn’t answer. I should have.
Yes.
Not because I’m naïve, or because I think wanting something is enough to make it easy. But because I have never met anyone else who makes me feel like myself without asking me to be anything more or less.
Write again. I’ll be here.
—R
Every week, without fail, one would arrive, sometimes folded neatly in proper envelopes, sometimes hurriedly crammed into whatever scrap of paper was closest. James’s were full of sun-drenched details: the way the lake looked at dusk, disasters in the kitchen, the odd habit a neighbor’s cat had of following him home. Regulus’s were sharper, more deliberate, each line measured but never cold. He’d write about the changing light through the olive trees, the taste of the first figs of the season, the stubborn creak in the front gate that still startled him in the evenings.
They didn’t talk about what came next. They didn’t have to. The letters made their own promise, not in grand declarations, but in the simple fact of their persistence. One week became two, two became six, and by the time the end of summer loomed, Regulus could track the passing days not by the calendar, but by the moment James’s handwriting landed in his hands.
The air in Oxford was different, cooler than the thick, languid heat of that summer house, but no less alive. Autumn came early here, brushing golden tones across stone walls and scattering crisp leaves along the cobbled streets. Regulus stepped off the train wearing a dark coat that hadn’t seen use in months and a scarf that smelled faintly of cedar. The sky overhead was pale, overcast, and forgiving.
He walked slowly through the familiar college gates, his satchel slung over one shoulder, his posture easy in a way it hadn’t been last year. There was no pressure now to perform excellence for someone else’s sake. No need to prove anything to his father.
Philosophy and literature.
That was the new track. Something that had always tugged at the edges of his mind while he’d wasted hours in dry economics seminars, quietly dissociating through spreadsheets and dispassionate theory. Now, he sat in old libraries with chipped wood desks and read Rilke aloud under his breath. He debated the nature of beauty in dim lecture halls. He wrote long, meandering essays. He was happy again. Happy in a way he hadn’t been in years.
It was raining in Oxford the day James showed up.
Not the heavy, storm-slick rain that sent people running for cover, but a soft, steady drizzle that made the city feel blurred at the edges. Regulus had just finished a lecture, the kind where you leave with more questions than answers, and was halfway across the quad when he saw him.
James, standing there in a dark coat already speckled through with rain, hair a little longer than it had been that summer, smile hesitant in a way Regulus had never seen before.
“You’re early,” Regulus said, because it was easier than admitting his chest felt like it had been split open.
“Lecture in Cambridge was cancelled,” James replied, shrugging. “Figured I’d take the train. See what all the Oxford fuss is about.”
Regulus didn’t move at first. He took in the way James shifted on his feet, the damp at his collar, the familiar lines of his face softened by months apart.
“I thought we’d agreed,” Regulus said slowly, “no turning up unannounced.”
James’s grin tilted. “You also agreed to keep writing. And you did. Every week. Guess I got used to seeing you on paper, but it wasn’t enough.”
Something in Regulus’s expression gave, just a fraction, but enough for James to step closer.
The quad was empty now, save for the two of them, rain misting in the air between.
“Hello, Regulus,” James said quietly.
Regulus’s breath caught. “Hello, James.”
And then it was nothing but the press of rain-damp coats, the sharp chill of the air against their cheeks, and the kind of closeness that months of words had only been able to circle, never touch.
The first few visits were awkward in the way new routines always are.
James would arrive in Oxford with a book he pretended to be reading on the train, and Regulus would take him to cafés that served tea in chipped porcelain. They’d sit by the window, trading stories that didn’t fit into letters, small, insignificant details that felt far more intimate than the big news.
A month later, Regulus took the train to Cambridge. He found James waiting at the platform, scarf crooked, grinning like he’d been standing there for hours. They spent the day walking the cobbled streets, James pointing out every building with the confidence of a tour guide and the accuracy of someone making it all up as he went along.
By winter, they had a rhythm. Weekend trains, borrowed scarves, notes slipped into pockets before parting. Regulus found himself marking the days by when James would next arrive, not by the deadlines on his coursework. James started keeping one of Regulus’s letters tucked into his notebook, edges worn from rereading.
It happened in the quiet way things sometimes do, not a grand confession, not even a planned conversation.
The air in Oxford soft with the smell of rain. James had taken the train down from Cambridge for the weekend, his bag dumped in Regulus’s narrow room before they wandered out for dinner.
They ended up skipping the restaurant entirely, buying takeaway from a place around the corner and eating it on the floor.
James sat cross-legged, gesturing too broadly with his fork as he told a story about his flatmate nearly setting their kitchen on fire.
Regulus listened, smiling despite himself, and thought about how many times this had happened now, James appearing in his life as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
When the food was gone, they stayed on the floor, backs against the bed, knees knocking lightly. Rain tapped the window in an unhurried rhythm. James’s laughter faded into a comfortable hush.
“You know,” James said finally, “it’s sort of ridiculous that we’re not already together.”
Regulus glanced at him. “We see each other nearly every weekend,” James continued. “You write me more than my own mother does. We spend half our time trying not to kiss each other in public. And for what?”
Regulus’s lips twitched, but his voice stayed detached. “You’re saying this like it’s a complaint.”
“It’s an observation,” James said, leaning closer. “And maybe a question.”
Regulus didn’t answer right away. The quiet stretched, and James held his gaze without flinching. Finally, Regulus said, “Alright then. We’re together.”
James blinked, as if caught off guard by the simplicity of it. Then his grin broke wide, quick and unguarded. “Good. Because I was going to kiss you either way.”
He did. It wasn’t their first kiss, but it felt different, less like a moment stolen from time and more like the start of something they could keep.
When they pulled apart, Regulus exhaled softly. “You’re still going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”
James laughed. “Now it’s officially your problem.”
It was the sort of Sunday that belonged to them entirely. No obligations, no travel, no looming assignments urgent enough to disrupt the soft drift of the day.
James was in the kitchen of Regulus’s small Oxford flat, barefoot and still wearing the old t-shirt he’d slept in, one of Regulus’s, stretched at the collar from too many washes. The kettle whistled lazily on the stove while James rummaged for mugs.
From the couch, Regulus watched with the faintest smirk. James was talking, as always, halfway between telling a story and acting it out, his voice carrying easily over the clink of ceramic. “So then he says to me, ‘You can’t possibly believe that’s how the equation works,’ and I’m standing there, holding this graph that— oh, I found the honey.”
“You’ve told me this one before,” Regulus said, stretching his legs over the armrest.
The tea was eventually poured, and James brought one mug over, setting it carefully on the coffee table before flopping down beside him. Their knees touched; James leaned sideways until his head rested against Regulus’s shoulder.
“You’re warm,” James murmured.
“That’s called body heat,” Regulus said dryly, but he shifted slightly to make the angle more comfortable.
The rain had started again outside, tapping against the window. The sound filled the pauses between conversation, and neither of them felt the need to fill it further.
James reached for Regulus’s hand without looking, fingers brushing over his until they intertwined. “You realise we’ve almost made it a whole term without wanting to kill each other?”
Regulus considered this. “There’s still time.”
James grinned against his shoulder. “Romantic.”
“Realistic,” Regulus corrected, but his thumb brushed lightly over James’s knuckles, a quiet gesture he’d never offer to anyone else.
The kettle’s quiet clicks, the steady rain, the faint hum of the radiator, it all folded in around them.
The afternoon stretched lazy and warm. Regulus and James sat side by side on the worn stone bench in the garden, fingers loosely entwined but neither saying the words aloud yet.
Inside, laughter and the clatter of dishes drifted out, Sirius and Remus deep in some lively argument about something very unimportant.
James glanced toward the house, then back at Regulus. “Think now’s the time?”
Regulus met his eyes, steady and calm, but his chest felt tight enough to make breathing a little too deliberate. “We’ve been circling this long enough.”
James smiled, slow and squeezed Regulus’s hand. “Right then. Let’s do it.”
They stood and walked inside together, the air cooler beneath the ceiling beams. Sirius was by the counter, wiping his hands on a tea towel, and Remus perched on a stool, still smirking from the kitchen debate.
Sirius’s smile faltered just a little when he saw the way their hands found each other without hesitation.
Remus’s eyes flicked between them, sharp but curious.
Regulus cleared his throat. “There’s something we wanted to tell you.”
James’s voice came easy but quiet, “We’re... seeing each other. Properly.”
The room held its breath for a moment.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, then grinned. “Took you long enough.”
Remus’s grin was softer, warmer. “About time.”
Regulus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. James gave his hand one last squeeze.
Sirius laughed, shaking his head. “Well, it’s about bloody time you made it official. I was starting to think you were just messing with us.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” James said, nudging Regulus with his shoulder.
Remus’s eyes twinkled. “Now the question is, how long until you’re dragging us to your wedding?”
The tension eased, folding into quiet laughter and easy conversation.
Later, as the sun dipped low and the olive trees cast long shadows, Regulus and James found themselves back on the stone bench, hands still linked, the moment finally settled between them like the softest kind of certainty.
The train moved slowly through the pale winter landscape, its steady rhythm a quiet companion to the soft hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of cups from the dining car. Outside, fields stretched wide and empty beneath a muted gray sky, trees stripped bare and dusted lightly with frost.
Regulus sat by the window, hands folded loosely in his lap, watching the world blur past. The warmth from the heater seeped through his coat, mixing with the faint scent of pine from the other passengers’ scarves and coats.
James settled beside him, shifting his bag to the floor before leaning back with a small smile. Neither spoke for a few moments, the silence between them easy, punctuated only by the soft swish of the wheels on the tracks.
Finally, Regulus glanced at James, a slow grin spreading. “So, this is it. Your family’s Christmas.”
James nodded, his smile growing. “First time for you, yeah.”
“Delightful,” Regulus murmured, turning back to the window, watching the frost glint on the rails like scattered diamonds.
James reached over, his hand brushing against Regulus’s. It was a small, quiet touch, but it said everything neither of them needed to say aloud yet.
Outside, the landscape slipped by, winter’s hush settling around them as the train carried them toward new memories, the warmth inside growing with every mile.
The gravel crunched beneath the tires as the taxi pulled up to the familiar red-brick house nestled on a quiet street lined with frosted holly bushes. Warm light spilled from the windows, casting a golden glow onto the snow-dusted lawn.
James exhaled, a mix of excitement and nerves settling in his chest. “Here we are.”
Regulus adjusted his scarf, taking in the scene, the wreath on the door, the faint scent of pine and cinnamon in the air, the soft hum of laughter and music floating through the slightly cracked window.
As they stepped inside, the warmth wrapped around them like a thick blanket. James’s mother appeared almost instantly, her smile bright and arms open wide. “James! And you must be Regulus. Welcome, welcome!”
Regulus felt himself relax a fraction, returning the smile, though his hands remained tucked in his coat pockets.
James’s father greeted them next, a firm handshake and a nod, eyes curious but kind. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”
The house buzzed with the soft murmur of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. Plates of homemade mince pies and gingerbread were arranged on a nearby side table, and the scent of roasting meat promised a feast to come.
James leaned in close enough for Regulus to hear, voice low and teasing, “Not so bad, huh?”
Regulus allowed himself a small grin. “I might even survive the carols.”
As they moved further inside, James’s hand found Regulus’s again, this time a little tighter, grounding both of them in the warmth and the newness of this shared moment.
The dining room was softly lit by candles flickering in crystal holders, casting dancing shadows on the polished wood and the neatly folded napkins at each place. Roasted vegetables, golden turkey, and bowls of cranberry sauce that shimmered like jewels. His family didn’t celebrate any holidays like this.
Regulus sat beside James, a little stiff, his posture betraying his unfamiliarity with the ritual. Around them, James’s family chatted easily, James’s mother, warm and effervescent, occasionally offering him seconds, and his father, who nodded at Regulus with an encouraging smile.
James leaned toward him under the table, whispering, “Try the stuffing. It’s better than it looks.”
Regulus allowed a small smile and took a tentative bite. “Not bad,” he admitted.
Later, after the meal, James’s mother began passing around plates of mince pies. Regulus hesitated, then took one, feeling the sugar melt on his tongue.
That night, as the carols played softly in the background and the fire crackled low, Regulus felt something shift, a quiet acceptance, not just from James’s family, but in himself. Family isn’t perfect. It’s just the people you let in.
He squeezed James’s hand under the table, and James smiled back, a small promise between them, warm and steady.
The morning light filtered softly through the frosted windowpanes, casting a pale glow across the stillness of the sitting room. Outside, the world was hushed beneath a fresh blanket of snow, muffling the sounds of the waking house.
James and Regulus sat side by side on the worn velvet sofa, shoulders barely touching, the quiet between them more comfortable than any words could be. The remnants of last night’s fire smoldered low in the hearth, its warmth lingering in the cool air.
James traced idle patterns on Regulus’s hand, fingers tentative but sure, as if memorizing the shape of this moment. Regulus leaned into the touch, eyes half-closed, breathing steady.
“I’m glad we did this,” James murmured, voice low and sincere.
Regulus smiled softly, squeezing James’s hand in return. “Me too. It feels... right.”
For a while, they simply existed together, letting the peace of the morning settle around them like a fragile promise. Outside, the snowflakes drifted lazily, each one unique and fleeting — but here, in the quiet warmth, something felt steady and enduring.
Years later, the years blurred together.
They didn’t count them the way they once had, with letters or train tickets or goodbyes at stations. Instead, the years measured themselves in smaller, quieter ways, the mugs they bought on trips, the plants that survived another winter on their windowsill, the worn indent on the sofa where James always sat to read.
Regulus was still in Oxford, James still in Cambridge, though now their lives overlapped so completely that the geography barely mattered. They had a flat in London for weekends, a place neither truly lived in but both claimed as theirs. Its walls were lined with photographs, not the posed kind, but ones caught mid-laughter, mid-conversation, mid-something that neither could remember later.
There were still arguments, still the sharp edges that had always been there, but now they knew how to navigate them. James had learned when to give Regulus space. Regulus had learned that James’s silences weren’t always endings.
The years passed like the slow turning of pages in a book one never quite wanted to finish. They carried the weight of memory, the ache of distance, and the soft warmth of moments shared, some fragile, some fierce, all stitched into the fabric of a life unwinding.
Regulus learned the shape of James’s laugh in the mornings, the way his hands moved when he spoke about ideas, the quiet steadiness of his presence. Their lives twined together, small routines becoming sacred: the brewing of coffee, the slow turning of pages, the music that wound through their rooms like a whispered secret.
They grew in the spaces between words, in the shared silences that spoke louder than any declaration. Family had its own rhythms, James’s family welcomed Regulus as if he had always belonged there.
Regulus’ parents stayed distant. Sirius stayed overwhelming.
Tget gad lazy Sundays stretched across sunlit rooms, dinners that ended with dancing in the kitchen, the small moments that made life worth living.
And when night came, they closed their days together, hands clasped, hearts steady, writing the quiet story of a love that endured beyond words.
On certain nights, when the air felt close and heavy the way it had that first summer, they’d sit on the balcony with wine, letting the city hum below them. And in those moments, Regulus could still feel the olive trees, still smell the water, still remember the boy in borrowed swim trunks who had looked at him like he’d been found.
Only now, he didn’t have to imagine the ending.