(au) modern verse
SEND ME AN AU AND I’LL TELL YOU 5 OF MY HEADCANONS FOR IT
Regulus is not procrastinating. The problem is that his patristics tutor is a bastard, and writing three papers a week is going to send him around the twist, and the little bookshop at the edge of campus is a stone’s throw from his flat. It’s a cramped placed, soporific with stories, lulled by the hush of shuffling feet and whispered conversations. He’s trailing fingers along the theology section for the second time since Tuesday and spying on the new clerk when he’s found out.
Remus is a tutor. “Not a very good one,” he explains apologetically, as if Regulus were interviewing him for a better position and he thought self-deprecating comments would endear them to one another. Which, well. They kind of do.
Remus can’t afford the rent on his tutoring allowance alone (he does not tell Regulus this; Regulus scents it, like all monied people can, as if it’s a peculiar talent curated at Eton alone), which is why he works at the bookshop. He is midway through a mild criticism of freshers, absent-mindedly stirring his tea with a spoon, when Regulus catches himself staring at this dusty-haired Welshman in the middle of a Starbucks on a drizzling Wednesday morning, hand on chin, his black coffee long since grown cold. Remus catches his eye and smiles, murmuring, “They’re not all bad,” like Regulus is going to leap to their defense, and very distantly Regulus thinks, Oh dear.
Regulus hasn’t dated anyone since school. “We weren’t really dating,” he says as they’re walking along the river, hands in pockets against the brisk autumn wind, “we tossed each other together a few times. He gave me a Valentine’s card. I still have it somewhere.” He hadn’t kept it out of affection; it was more of a disassociated nostalgia. The term tossed each other off is a Sirius-ism. They’ve been creeping more into his vocabulary ever since they started speaking again. It turns out all you need to solve a broken childhood is distance, Skype, and one drunken phone call at two in the morning, with Sirius burbling something disjointedly about the old days (”They really fucked us up,” Sirius said cheerfully; they being their parents. Regulus had to agree, but really, it was two in the morning, so he wasn’t very sympathetic to Sirius’ long-overdue epiphany). Remus absorbs this in his characteristic quiet and nods once Regulus has lapsed into an awkward silence. Regulus finds a pebble on the cobblestones, concentrates, then throws it into the canal. “I’m not really...” Remus struggles for a moment. He lights a cigarette. Regulus breathes in the menthol, feeling the smoke push against his ribs. “I don’t see people very often either.” (This is a charitable view of Regulus’ love life). “I’m, ah. Comfortable with my own space, I suppose. Always have been.” They recognize each other anew.
Regulus tries to make Remus pasta; it is, surprisingly, not that bad, and Remus says as much. “You’ve not had anything since toast since yesterday,” Regulus points out, not unkindly, and Remus twirls his fork and makes a that’s fair expression. The candle Regulus had stuck in a wine bottle casts them both in a pleasant glow. In this light Remus’ angular features are accentuated, his unconventional looks fading into something approaching handsome. Remus catches Regulus staring. A wry smirk pricks the corner of his thin mouth, creasing the freckles on his cheek. Flustered, Regulus pours them another glass of red.
Regulus is uncomprehending, at first. He leans back from where he’s sat flush in Remus’ lap. They’re on his tiny sofa, all legs, with Remus’ hair mussed from Regulus’ enthusiastic hands, and Regulus’ neck blooming red under Remus’ attention. “I didn’t -- you can still get that?” In all honesty, Regulus had been operating under the assumption Remus had a nasty gluten allergy, but it seems insensitive to admit now. Mouth twisting, Remus’ hands tightened on Regulus’ thighs, and he looked away to stare at the painting hanging on the wall over Regulus’ shoulder. “It’s not... I can’t infect you.” Remus’ accent becomes more pronounced when he’s nervous. It’s low and melodic, shifting like a gentle tide. “Not if we don’t use... But not everyone who has HIV develops --” The word lingers between them. At last Remus meet Regulus’ eyes. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner, but as you can imagine, this conversation is never an easy one.” Regulus is uncharacteristically lost for something to say. Then he realizes that the best answer is the simplest one. “Thank you,” he says, then to Remus’ flickering frown, “for telling me. I get that it’s really... It’s okay. Really. So long as we...” And Remus’ expression clears. “God, yes.” And then they’re kissing, and Regulus thinks it again, more strongly this time.
They don’t tell anyone, at least not intentionally. Regulus’ tutor recognizes Remus from the department, and upon seeing Remus waiting across the way one afternoon for Regulus to finish his class, gives Regulus an indulgent smile. Sirius puts it together in twenty seconds flat. “Oh!” he proclaims, shaking Remus’ hand, giving him the once over. Then, with a darting look so like their mother (although Regulus would rather drown himself than ever say that aloud), says with renewed understanding: “Oh.” Rabastan is less impressed. “So,” he says slowly, watching Remus get their pints at the bar, “he’s Welsh,” and Regulus chokes on a peanut. Remus’ friend Peter is a boxer from Bristol. “Not professional, mind,” he explains cheerfully, “but it keeps me busy. How long ‘ave you and Moony being seeing each other, then?” (Later, in bed, Regulus exclaims, “Did everyone know before me?” and Remus pretends to smother him).
Because Regulus cannot bear the alternative, he texts it to Remus. He locks his phone and stares determinedly out of the window. Oxford is swathed in velvet, pinpricked by pearls of light, silent save for the distant sounds of pub-goers and traffic. A warm breeze stirs Regulus’ curling fringe. The buzz of his phone sounds like a drill. Regulus unclenches his hands and opens the message, heart pounding. It doesn’t stop. His eyes wear the message thin. Because there, under REMUS L. is a single line: I do too.
