It’s a Friday night. Winter has melted into spring and the evening breeze floats through the open window. Silence has settled over them like a blanket, Regulus sprawled across James on their too-narrow couch. He has a knee slung over James’ hips and his head is tucked beneath James’ chin, that secret place where Regulus seems to fit perfectly.
“Marry me,” James says, voice a whisper that somehow still carries over the static tune coming from the radio.
“What?” Regulus asks. He probably, definitely, undoubtedly heard wrong. Carry me. Very me. Bury m—
“Marry me.”
Oh.
“James…” Regulus mutters, still tucked away in that secret place. He doesn't elaborate. The silence stretches but James doesn't wait for it to snap.
“Say something.”
“Like what?”
“Yes, no, maybe? Those are generally a good starting point.”
James says it lightly, but Regulus hears the uncertainty. The waver in his voice like a ripple in a still lake.
“I always pegged you for a romantic gesture kind of guy.” It’s a non-answer, but it’s also true. James is a boom-box-under-your-window kind of guy. A rose-stem-tucked-between-his-teeth kind of guy. A flash-mob-in-a-busy-street kind of guy.
Regulus is none of those things. James knows this.
“Is that why you’re saying no?” James asks. “Not romantic enough?” The question is genuine and curious and genuinely curious, but Regulus still tenses minutely.
“I’m not saying no,” he mutters.
“But you’re not saying yes, either.” Because James can read Regulus like a book. Knows his darkest pages and his favorite lines. Knows why the spine is cracked just so and where the words are faded.
“I’m—” but he doesn’t know how the sentence ends. Not yet. So he is thankful when James cuts in with a soft Regulus.
Regulus savors the sound. He loves all the ways James says his name. Fond or exasperated or fondly exasperated. Lovingly. Longingly. He lets the syllables drip through his veins like honey, steeling himself for he inevitable.
“I'm not breaking up with you if you say no.”
James drags his fingers along Regulus’ arm as he speaks, a meditative act that he probably doesn’t even notice himself. His hand stops when Regulus’ head whips up.
“You're not?” Regulus asks, eyes wide and voice shaking.
A smile breaks open on James’ face, like sunshine after rain. His eyes are soft when he asks, “Why on earth would I?”
Some tension that Regulus hadn’t even notices bleeds out from his spine, softening into James’ touch once again.
Why on earth indeed…
It’s a Friday night. Spring has turned into a sweltering summer and summer has softened into fall. They’re in the kitchen, James by the stove and Regulus digging through the fridge for the chili James swore they bought but Regulus put back on the shelf when James wasn’t looking, too busy cooing at a dog in a stroller.
James is humming under his breath now, a gentle thing. It warms Regulus even as a chill starts creeping through the thin walls of their apartment.
“I would say yes, I think, if you asked me again,” he mutters. He spoke so softly that he’s sure James hasn’t heard him. And even if James did, he might not even remember what Regulus is referring to. A spring night that seems like a lifetime ago.
James stops humming, but he doesn’t speak. Regulus sighs. He supposes it’s fair enough. He’s not sure how James was able to get over the rejection so easily.
How he was able to track a trail of kisses down Regulus’ chest until he was panting with it, how he was able to wrap loving fingers around him and hold him while he fell into pleasure. Fell into pieces.
The fridge beeps, alerting Regulus to the fact that it’s been open far too long. He lets the cool, stale air wash over his too-warm face for one more moment before closing the door. He steps back, knocking into James, who steadies him with a warm hand on his lower back.
i asked si to give me a location, a keyword and a color, she gave me a swing seat on a porch, soft, forest green and it somehow turned into a jegulus laundromat meet cute (sorry) - 1.5k
a birthday gift for @poetskings <3
Regulus, unlike most people, likes the fact that his building doesn’t have a laundry room. He’s somewhat less fond of the lack of heating, but he quite likes the romance of going to a laundromat. Of sitting on those plastic chairs and staring at the dizzying spin of clothes in the machine, the way they tumble in the dryer.
So every Wednesday, which has been laundry day for about as long as he can remember, he packs up his laundry and walks down seven flights of stairs, because of course the elevator doesn’t work in his building either. He brings his headphones and lets the weight of loose change in his pocket ground him.
He greets the laundromat clerk, someone his age who looks like he’s never even heard of ironing his clothes. His hair always looks disheveled, like he rolls out of bed and goes straight to work, but he never tries to talk, which Regulus appreciates.
Regulus remembers hours spent sitting in front of the washing machine as a kid, watching it spin and spin and spin. It was equal parts dizzying and meditative.
He wondered, sometimes, if he could crawl in there. He was small enough (too small, his father's voice corrects). Maybe he could crawl in and spin and spin and spin and come out clean.
If he could not be new, he could at least be clean.
Because there's no washing off the person you are. No matter how hot your showers, no matter the fact that you scrub at your skin until it's raw and pink, no matter no matter no matter.
But sometimes, if you're lucky, you can wash off the person you are. Don a shiny new identity. Make everyone forget the person you were, make sure they only see the person you've become.
Sirius did it, once. Left and never came back and became someone new. Good. Worthy.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, probably, because Regulus had been sitting there, watching the machine spin and spin and spin. He heard Sirius' footsteps, despite his light tread. He heard the front door open. Heard it close again. He didn't realize, at the time, what it meant.
The tiny overhead doorbell jingles, and Regulus looks up almost instinctively. He knows the regulars on Wednesdays. The college student who exclusively wears Thrasher hoodies. The grandma and her dog who she dresses in human clothes.
But this time, it’s none of them. Regulus can’t help the way his heart stutters, a harsh thud, when he lays eyes on the man walking in.
He looks handsome even in the glaring lights of the laundromat. The tiled walls and floors don’t cut him into flat planes. Instead, they soften his edges, cast him in a dreamy glow.
Regulus faintly thinks the man looks like a detergent advertisement.
The man tugs his gloves off and unwinds his scarf from around his neck, the protection against the winter cold excessive in the heat of the laundromat. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, made darker still by the stain that covers most of the front.
Regulus forces his eyes back to the washing machine, watching it spin and spin and spin, until a heavy coat drops down on the seat next to him. The man peels off the sweater revealing a white t-shirt. Regulus sees a thin golden chain disappear under the collar of the shirt.
When the man catches Regulus staring, he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, a bashful smile on his face.
“There was an incident involving a child and hot chocolate and favorite sweater was the unfortunate casualty.” He shakes the sweater a little as if to offer proof. “Didn’t want the stain to set, so here we are.”
“Need a hand?” Regulus asks, but he’s already pushing himself out of his chair before the man has a chance to reply.
The man blinks, surprised. Fair enough, Regulus has never been accused of being polite or helpful. Something to do with the permanent frown of his face, the rigid line of his shoulders.
“Yeah, that’d be— Thanks.”
“You can just put it in,” Regulus says, inclining his head toward the machine. “I’ll grab some detergent.”
Because, sure, he wants to be helpful, but he’s not quite willing to offer up his own detergent, the vanilla cotton one that costs more than any detergent reasonably should. Thankfully this particular laundromat sells detergent by the dose for a few cents.
“Who’s your friend?” The clerk asks, leaning on the counter and glancing over Regulus’ shoulder.
“Not a friend, just helping him out,” Regulus says mildly, rifling through the different bottles of detergent until he finds the right one.
The clerk fixes him with a flat stare. “You’ve been coming here for months and never once have your tried to help someone.”
“Maybe because that’s literally your job,” Regulus quips. “Also ever heard of New Year’s resolutions?”
“It’s February. Little late for those, isn’t it?”
“Okay,” Regulus squints at the name tag, “Evan. Thank you so much for your input.”
“Oh, shit, wrong shirt again,” Evan (?) grumbles, fiddling with the tag on his shirt. “Boss is gonna kill me.”
Regulus opens his mouth to say— something, probably, but he decides he’s better off leaving it alone, so he fills a tiny cup with detergent, drops a few cents in the clerk’s hand and heads back to the machines.
He makes quick work of setting up the machine, selecting the shortest program, quick wash — 21 minutes.
“I’m James, by the way.”
Regulus settles back into his chair, offering his own name in return.
“Oh, like the star! That’s such a coincidence, one of my friends is also named after a star.”
Regulus’ mind flashes to another boy named after a star, but he pushes the thought away. “Yeah, well, you know what they say,” he mumbles awkwardly, unsure how to proceed and the floor unsteady under his feet even though he’s sitting.
“No?” James says, voice climbing and head tilted. He shoves his coat to the side, making space for himself next to Regulus. “What do they say?”
Great question. “Nothing, it’s— nothing.”
Spin and spin and spin, washing away sin and sin and sin.
“So,” James asks after a while, shifting in his seat to face Regulus. “You come here often? Wait, shit, that sounded like a bad pick-up line. I just meant that you seem to know your way around these things.”
“Yeah, my building doesn’t have a laundry room and this place is just down the street, so I’m here pretty much every week.”
“Cool,” James says, and the worst part is that he genuinely seems to find that cool. James pulls out his phone, and Regulus knows he should look away — privacy and all that, but Regulus isn’t looking at the screen at all. His eyes catch on James’ hands, big and veiny.
When James moves again, Regulus catches a whiff of his cologne. And Regulus tries to be normal about it, tries not to inhale too deeply and trap the scent into his lungs, but James smells woodsy and soft. Sunny pines, like forest green personified.
Regulus can picture him a swing seat on a porch on a cool summer evening, a breeze tousling his dark curls. Regulus blinks, suddenly back under the harsh glare of the laundromat lights.
“What about you?” James asks, expecting Regulus to know what he’s been talking about, which is a reasonable expectation, but there is unfortunately static in Regulus’ brain.
When Regulus is silent for too long, James laughs. It’s not a mean laugh, or a cruel one, like his mother’s laughter. It’s not at Regulus’ expense, like his father’s laughter. He feels warmed by the sound, and can’t help the bashful smile that appears on his face.
“I was just asking what you do for a living,” James repeats.
“Oh! I work at a bookstore. I’m the buyer for our children’s section, actually. And I have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, hence the laundromat.”
“Do you have a favorite book?” James asks. Then he adds, “Personally, I’m a huge fan of Green Eggs and Ham.”
It’s a bad joke, really, but Regulus can’t help the amused huff that escapes him. James’ eyes brighten, leaning a little closer to Regulus as if desperate to hear it again. Like Regulus is the sun and James is a flower.
They talk while James’ sweater spins and spins and spins. Talk about books and movies and TV shows. They talk while Regulus unloads the dryer and folds his shirts, the fabric warm under his fingertips. He’s meticulous about it, moving slow despite the practice, desperate to prolong the interaction. Desperate to coax another laugh out of James, warm and low and rumbling.
Eventually though, he’s got all of his clothes sorted away in his bag, James’ sweater almost done washing and then needing a little while to dry, too.
But before Regulus can be too disappointed about it, James asks, “Same time next week?” His eyes are bright and soft behind his glasses, a tiny smudge right on the edge.
“Sure,” Regulus says. He tucks his smile away for safekeeping. When he gets back home, he drops it in the jar of pennies on his desk.
had this saved as "jarty sports?" which pretty much sums it up
It’s a little heady. A little thick. The smell of sweat clings to his nostrils, fills his lungs. James tries not to seem to eager to breathe it in, but he is. Adrenaline still hums in his veins, the comedown from a win always a little slower.
The bus jostles him where he’s slouched low on the bench, hood pulled over his head and arms crossed over his chest. He’s trying to sleep, or at least convince others that he’s asleep. But that never stopped Barty.
“Psst,” Barty hisses. When James doesn’t respond, he flicks the top of his head.
“Sleeping,” James mumbles.
“Lying,” Barty replies. James cracks open a single eye. Blames the way his pupil dilates on the sudden influx of light.
Barty is leaning over the back of the seat, his too-sharp chin digging into the bright blue vinyl. His hair is damp with sweat and tousled and James clenches his hands into fists to avoid clenching them in Barty’s hair instead. He wants to pull.
Wants to force Barty’s head up so he bares his neck, a perfect place for James’ teeth to sink in.
“Need anything?” James manages. His voice is low, a growl waiting to crawl out of his mouth.
Barty smiles that awful smile at him. One corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other, a flash of teeth and that stupid smiley piercing and James wants to lick. “Whatever you’ll give me.”
“You know the answer to that.” Because there’s nothing James would ever willingly give Barty. Barty, who shows up to practise dressed up in the night before. Barty, whose water bottle is probably filled with vodka at any given moment. Barty, who despite all this still seems to be the best player on the team.
Never mind the fact that James shows up early. That James does the work. That James actually cares.
“Sure do. I also know you’re lying again.” Barty raises his index and pointer fingers in a mock-salute. “That’s strike two, Potter. Don’t make me give you a red card.”
Barty, who gets a red card during nearly every game he plays. Barty, who once got James a red card by being so fucking stupid that James hit this own teammate.
It’s still a sore spot.
“I’m not lying,” James sighs. He lets his head roll against the window, the pane buzzing a little under his head, and trains his eyes on the road. Anything to look away from the drop of sweat rolling down Barty’s temple.
“Maybe not to me,” Barty shrugs. “But you sure are lying to someone.”
When James doesn’t reply, Barty just sighs. Drops back down into his seat. Disappears from James’ line of sight.
James tells himself the feeling in his gut is relief. Because he hates Barty and he doesn’t want a single thing from him.
i think i perhaps misunderstood the assignment, but here u go <33 (602 words)
“Wow, you look… amazing,” Barty says, gaze dragging over Regulus like a touch. He’s standing in the foyer, like he has so many times before. Waiting for Regulus, like he has so many times before.
Regulus rolls his eyes, fingers still fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt. “Could you sound any more sarcastic?”
“Probably,” Barty shrugs. “Want me to give it a try?”
His words sound stilted and distant, like he’s reading the lines from a script for a play he doesn’t want to be in. Regulus supposes that’s fair. He doesn’t want to be here either.
“Barty…” He sighs. He takes half a step closer, trying his best to not let Barty’s familiar scent linger in his lungs like it lingers in the clothes he wore last night. The clothes he tossed in the hamper as soon as he got home and then dug out again a second later, pressing his nose against the collar.
“Don’t—” Barty says. He lifts his hand in front of him as if to ward off Regulus’ very presence. “We can just pretend it never happened and we can focus on your ugly robes.”
“I—” Regulus closes his eyes, steeling himself. “I don’t think my robes are the ugly ones here,” he says.
Both of their robes look atrocious. Regulus’ is a traditional thing, the collar too tight and the fabric gaudy. Fitting for the new heir of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The wand holster strapped to his upper arm is cinched too tight, cutting off the blood flow to the tips of his fingers. The holster isn’t even practical — it’s just to show off the wand, rare and powerful.
Barty winces, trying and failing to loosen his own collar. His robes are more modern, made to show off the prominence of the Ministry, his family’s rise to power. “Shut up, I already feel like a monkey in this thing. I can’t believe Senior wears these every day.”
Barty kind of looks like his father in the robes, the shades of charcoal softening his sharper edges and cutting him into mirror images.
“Regulus.” Walburga’s voice is sharp, his name crackling like a whip. He flinches as if struck. “Stop playing with your little friend. She’s here.”
She turns again before he gets the chance to reply. It’s just as well. She’s never been interested in what he has to say, anyway.
“Almost sounds like she’s telling you to stop touching yours—” A half-smile tugs at Barty’s mouth. Regulus knows what that smile feels like under his own lips, but he forces the thought away.
Still, he can’t quite resist the urge to reach out and touch. He raises a trembling hand, blames it on the too-tight holster, and barely grazes the knot of the tie that sits around Barty’s throat.
Regulus watches as Barty swallows harshly. He holds his breath, waiting for Barty to speak or move or do something, but Barty just stands there, frozen.
“Sorry,” Regulus murmurs eventually. “Your tie was crooked.”
He backs out of the foyer hastily, nearly tripping over the hem of his robes. They’re too long because Walburga had had them tailored to fit Sirius. Regulus is thankful he at least gets to wear his own shoes. Sirius’ are too big to fit him.
Regulus sits at the dinner table, his fiancée right across from him. She's pretty, he supposes.
But she's not Barty.
Regulus doesn’t eat. The words he said to Barty last night still linger in his mouth, sitting in the back of his throat like ash. They taste remarkably like regret.
58 + 68 + 80 for the Drabble list pretty please mil :)
hi loopsie <3 doing just 58 if that's alright and also my apologies in advance (609 words)
The bathwater is tepid by now, but James doesn’t move to get out. All the suds are gone, too, but he really doesn’t mind. It’s not so much about the bath as the company.
Regulus sits on the floor, knees tucked up to his chest and his arms draped over them. He almost looks like art, and James has half a mind to grab a paintbrush. Regulus quirks an eyebrow when James’ gaze lingers too long.
“Do I have something on my face?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. A dark curl falls across his forehead and James is once again struck by the unfairness of Regulus’ beauty. He tells him as much and relishes in the pink that blooms on Regulus’ cheeks.
“Stop,” Regulus whines, the complaint almost melodic as it echoes off the tiled walls.
“Why would I? It’s only the truth.”
“You’re impossible.”
They’ve had this conversation before, the words come easy to him. James will do or say something ridiculous, Regulus will tell him he’s impossible, and then James says, “Impossibly in love with you.”
Pink spreads from Regulus’ cheeks to the tips of his ears.
“James,” Regulus sighs, half amused half exasperated. Then, “Tell me another truth.”
“Another truth? You’re greedy today. I told you you’re beautiful and I told you I love you and you want another truth?”
“I want everything.”
“Back when I was a kid, before I learned how to fly, I would sit on my father’s shoulders and make him run around the backyard. I thought it was the best feeling ever — that swoop in your gut and the wind in your hair. Then I learned how to fly and it was even better, you’re so high up, the world seems small. And then I saw you. Oh, you hated me. Do you remember that?”
Regulus nods, a bashful thing.
“You hated me for so long—”
“Justifiably so, I would say,” Regulus interrupts.
James laughs, tipping his head back against the edge of the tub. “Fair enough. I was a little insufferable, wasn’t I?”
“A little?” Regulus asks, voice low and teasing.
The bathwater is cold by now, but James doesn’t move to get out. Instead, he extends a hand to Regulus. “Come into the bath with me.”
“You know I don’t like water.” It’s true. Regulus doesn’t like the water. Still, James aches with the need to have him closer.
“Regulus. Come into the bath with me.” Desperation soaks his voice, dripping from the words like condensation.
Regulus shakes his head. “I can’t, James.”
“Regulus, please.” His fingers tremble where they reach for Regulus, but Regulus is too far too touch. James wishes he had his wand near, wishes he could Accio Regulus closer. Wishes he could—
James blinks. Drops his arm back into the bath. The water splashes over the edge of the tub. Some of it lands on the hem of Regulus’ trousers, but they’re already wet. Regulus is soaked, a drop of water streaming down his face.
No. Wait. Not a drop of water.
A tear.
“Why are you crying?” James asks, panic gripping his heart like a vice. He lurches forward, more water spilling over the edge. James doesn't care. He would flood the earth to get to Regulus if he had to.
“Am I dead?” Regulus asks. Silence claws its way up James’ throat, along with a bitter bile. “You said you’d tell me the truth,” Regulus continues. “Am I dead?”
James doesn’t reply. He pinches his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, sliding down the tub and letting the water surround him.
when these bones decay - jegulus, canon divergent, 3k
James Potter used to dream in technicolor. His childhood was warm yellow. Hogwarts was a startling red. James lived his life in black and white, in red and green, no room for in-between. Until he fell in love with Regulus Black and the world delved into overwhelming shades of grey.
And then the war started.
give me your two lips (baby, i'll shut up) - jegulus, frat boy james, 5k
“Sure, sure. Say, Reggie, what are you doing on this side of campus?” James glances up at their surroundings, Greek Row. Regulus doesn’t really come here, eager to avoid, well, people like James.
“Sirius asked me to come.”
“If you say so,” James says, but the way he’s arching his eyebrow tells Regulus he doesn’t buy it. Regulus feels the tips of his ears redden.
“Shut up.”
or: Five times Regulus tells James to shut up and one time he doesn't.
got me spinnin’ out of control - jegulus, pwp, 5k
Regulus Black only has one New Year’s resolution: take a spinning class.
Except, somewhere along the way, the New Year’s resolution has gone from taking a spinning class to taking the spinning class instructor.
it's just a kiss (why you gotta be so talkative?) - jegulus, frat boy james, 5k
“No,” Sirius says sternly, like he’s telling off a bad dog.
“We’re not even doing anything,” James protests, opening the door further to let Sirius in.
“And you’re not going to.”
Or: Five times Regulus and James get interrupted and one time they don't.
all the wanting in the world - jegulus, pygmalion au, 10.7k
There is nothing James Potter loves more than his art.
talking on the ride home - jegulus, modern au w/ demisexual regulus, 9k
Regulus Black does not have a lot of luck in love. Nor does he have a driver’s license.
light as a ghost (on my mind you weigh the most) - jegulus, ghost au, 12.5k
Like most stories, this one starts with a ghost.
Or maybe it starts with a phone call. Or maybe it starts with a gun. Or maybe the story starts at the end. Or maybe it doesn’t start at all. Instead, it loops and curves and twists and turns until end and beginning are one and the same.
But if the story were to start with a ghost, it would start like this.
where all light comes in - jegulus, nanny au, 14.8k
Regulus Black spends a lot of time taking care of people. It’s been a while since someone took care of him.
In which James is a single dad, Regulus is a nanny, and Harry is a little bit obsessed with dinosaurs.
don't like it fake (i think it's true love) - jegulus, modern au, fake dating, 10.1k
James Potter and Regulus Black could never date. Or at least, that's what Regulus seems to think. Determined to prove him wrong, James suggests they fake date for a month. But the longer they fake it, the more real it gets.
mariah carey, mistletoe, and other christmas clichés - jegulus, hallmark au, 19.k
Regulus Black is in middle-of-nowhere Godric's Hollow to find his brother. He isn't expecting to find anything else there, least of all love.
But well, maybe there is such a thing as a Christmas miracle.
a secret, a truth, a prayer, a promise - jegulus, exes to lovers, 6.3k
Regulus Black has never been a particularly religious man, but right this second, he does believe in God. He also believes this God to be a cruel one.
Maybe it’s divine intervention, or maybe just divine comedy, because he can’t come up with any other good reason why he is currently walking toward what he assumes will be the worst date of his life.
Because it’s not a date, really. It was supposed to be, but then the strings that held together Regulus’ love life got undone and now it’s not his third anniversary with James.
It’s just January 17th.
---
Or: Regulus ends up locked in a room with his ex-boyfriend, which is simultaneously the worst and best thing to happen to him in a while.
i’m not a man with too many enemies (i’m just a rodeo clown)
October 31st, 1981, as told by Peter Pettigrew. (cw: death)
for @sugarsnappeases, co-creator of this specific peter <3
James’ eyes are dull. Not quite lifeless, but nearly there.
They’d been wide and bright only moments ago, a startled smile on his face when he saw Peter at the door. But then someone stepped out from behind Peter, an elegant hand on his shoulder, and James’ smile dropped.
Peter had never seen fear take over James’ face like that.
It was almost laughable. The way his face went pale and his mouth dropped open, the echo of a scream still humming in the air. The way his pupils trembled and his eyebrows rose. A caricature of himself.
Peter had laughed. Just a little. Because it was funny.
Because James is the bravest of them all. James had thrown himself into the line of fire again and again and again. Had rescued Snape when he really didn’t deserve rescuing — it was a prank, it had been funny. Had done perhaps the bravest thing of all and offered up his heart to Lily, unsure if she would offer hers in exchange.
It’s funny. Peter never imagined that James Potter could ever look anything but larger than life.
James’ laugh had always been booming, and Peter still swore he could feel it all the way into his bones. But James is not laughing now.
He lies there, empty-handed and hollow-eyed. James always did that. Sprawl out. He takes up half the couch during Muggle movie night. Peter has heard Lily complain about how much space James takes up in bed.
Even in death, James is sprawled out. His limbs all stretched to take up as much space as possible in the empty corridor.
Peter can almost pretend that he fell asleep on the floor of their dorms. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He remembers one night, in the dorms, the four of them giggling over something Peter can’t recall now when all of a sudden, Remus asked if there was a wizard version of Heaven. Of course, he had to explain the Muggle concept of Heaven first.
A place where good people go after they die, he’d said.
They’d spent the rest of the night discussing what wizard Heaven might be like. And maybe none of them really knew it at the time, but their next class reunion would be Heaven’s Gates.
It’s funny. Peter never imagined he’d see his own life flash before his eyes when someone else died. Or well, it’s not quite his own life. Just the one he shared with James.
The first day of school, both of them knock-kneed and nervous. The first full moon with Moony, excited and proud and better than everyone else because they figured it out. The first fight they had, James and Sirius on one side and Remus on the other, Peter a noble neutral. The first meeting with the order, endless confidence that Peter can’t remember the taste of now.
Someone shoves past him, into the house. Steps over James’ sprawled out limbs without a care. Peter half-expects James to reach out and grab Voldemort’s ankle.
C’mon Prongs, stop playing. Time to get up. The words stick to the back of his teeth. Sweet, like honey. Peter feels sick with it.
He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting. A laugh? A wink and a nudge and a good one, Pete?
He’s not sure what he’d been expecting. But for some reason, he hadn’t expected this.
It was supposed to be a surprise. Proof that Peter could still fool them all, even in war. They all needed a laugh, didn’t they? Sirius and Remus are always fighting these days — bad guys or each other. James and Lily are worried sick, a newborn not enough to stave off the fear of war.
They’ve pulled pranks before, even ones in bad taste, and they always came out on the other side.
Peter drops down to his haunches, a laugh still lingering in his lungs, and he tugs James’ eyes closed.
“I’ll see you later,” Peter murmurs. But even if he believed Heaven existed, Peter doesn’t think that’s where he’ll be going when the joke is finally over.
@jegulus-microfic // august 10 // prompt: rain // words: 500
It’s raining when James’ car pulls up to the curbside and Regulus squints to soften the harsh glare of the headlights. Tugging his coat closer to his body, he ducks around the car to fall into the passenger seat.
After a brief silence that's only interrupted by the clicking of the turn signal, James clears his throat. “So how did it go?”
“It was fine,” Regulus replies. He picks at an imaginary piece of lint on his trousers. Such a shame, really. He’d worn his best outfit tonight.
“And how was the guy?”
“He was nice,” Regulus says non-commitally.
James snorts out a laugh. Regulus glances over at him, frowning. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” James replies. “Sounds like a rave review. Fine. Nice. This guy really blew your socks off, evidently.”
“Well, what do you want me to say? I particularly enjoyed the bit where he explained NFTs to me for half an hour. Riveting stuff. But it was nothing compared to that thing he did where he left early because he got called into an emergency meeting and stuck me with the bill and without a ride home. A real catch, that guy. You should totally meet him sometime.”
“Damn, Reg, tell me how you really feel.”
“It’s whatever,” Regulus says, ignoring the way his voice catches.
“No, it’s not. It’s his loss. You deserve,” James pauses, tilting his head to the side as he considers what to say. It’s a cute habit, Regulus thinks. But then again, Regulus thinks all James’ habits are cute. It probably has less to do with the habits and more with the fact that it’s James. Regulus especially likes how James pushes his tongue into his cheek when he’s annoyed, or how he pouts his lips to point at stuff instead of just using his hands.
“You deserve someone who makes you feel like lightning,” James says eventually. The car slows to a stop in front of a red light. James turns to look at him. “You deserve someone who makes you want to scream from the top of your lungs, who won’t ever tell you to quiet down. Someone who makes you feel as special as you are.”
Regulus is stunned into silence for a moment, mouth opening and closing wordlessly, praying that the red light flooding the car washes out the red that’s flooding his face. The light turns green again, and James fixes his gaze on the road ahead.
“Someone like you, then,” Regulus murmurs. Part of him hopes the soft radio drowns out his voice, but he knows James heard him. The car veers slightly to the left before righting itself again.
“I’m sorry, what?” James asks, voice pitchy and thin.
“I said, I deserve someone like you, then.” Regulus feels satisfaction course through his veins when James turns red, blushing all the way from the tips of his ears down the curve of his neck. “Pull over, James.” Regulus tells him.
