“james potter didn’t fall in love. he unraveled into it.”
he was always loud about things. loud about quidditch, loud about gryffindor, loud about love.
but with him—with regulus fucking black—he went quiet. not out of fear. not even out of shame.
because regulus wasn’t someone you understood. he was someone you watched. someone you tried to decode like a spell in an ancient tongue— one wrong pronunciation and the whole thing would blow up in your face.
he read him like a mirror, hoping to see reflections, hoping to be seen.
but regulus wasn’t a mirror. he was a wall. an elegant, beautiful wall that sometimes cracked in the moonlight and let james hope.
james was made of glass. glittering, fragile, always trying to be shiny for everyone. a mirrorball.
and god, he wanted to be enough.
but regulus kept choosing silence.
and james kept pretending he didn’t care.
he drowned himself in noise—he hid in the chaos because it was easier than facing what he couldn’t name. because if he sat in the quiet too long, he could still feel the way regulus looked at him—
like he wanted to say everything,
even when he felt like he was drowning in unspoken words.
because regulus was worth it.
worth the ache, worth the mess, worth the endless guessing games.
james hated that he felt that.
hated that he cared so much.
and regulus. he cared too. but differently.
he’d never done this before. never let someone in.
he didn’t know how to be soft out loud.
james didn’t know how to be anything but loud.
they were opposites, orbiting, colliding, bleeding.
but somehow, in the chaos, they found each other.
despite the confusion, despite the pain, they clung to the fragments of something that felt like home.
maybe, in the end, the mess was the only thing they could understand.
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