Life || Jegulus Word count: 914
@taylorswiftmicrofic @jeggyverses-jegulus-microfic @lilldrknesss
Life, Regulus Black has learned, is mostly made up of very small things.
This is an irritating realization, because he was raised to believe life should be sharp-edged and purposeful and impressive from a distance. Grand gestures. Clean lines. Proper ambition. The sort of life that looks good when summarized.
Instead, his life now consists largely of James Potter standing barefoot in their kitchen at half past seven in the morning, squinting at a kettle like it has personally betrayed him.
“It’s making a noise,” James says.
Regulus looks up from the table, where he’s annotating an article with ruthless precision. “Yes.”
“It didn’t do that yesterday.”
“It did,” Regulus says calmly. “You just weren’t paying attention.”
James frowns at the kettle. “I think it’s angry.”
James glances at him. “Same thing.”
Regulus sighs and closes his book, standing to rescue both the tea and whatever fragile dignity James has left this early in the morning. He reaches around James without ceremony, flicks the kettle off, and pours the water.
James watches him with open admiration. “You’re very competent.”
“You married sideways,” Regulus corrects, handing him a mug. “At best.”
James grins and leans in to kiss him anyway—quick, warm, absentminded. The kind of kiss that isn’t trying to prove anything.
Regulus used to think love would feel louder.
He thought it would arrive like a revelation—something undeniable and consuming and obvious to everyone involved. He certainly didn’t expect it to feel like this: quiet mornings, shared grocery lists, James folding laundry wrong on purpose because he knows Regulus will fix it.
(He does not fix it anymore. This has been a hard-won boundary.)
They eat breakfast together at the small kitchen table. James reads the Prophet upside down, commenting loudly on things Regulus hasn’t asked about.
“Did you know Kingsley’s up for another promotion?”
“Yes,” Regulus says. “He told us at dinner last week.”
“Oh. Right.” James squints. “Still proud of him.”
James beams like he’s been personally complimented.
After breakfast, James leaves for work in a rush—late again, hair still damp, tie crooked. He pauses in the doorway, keys in hand.
James crosses back and cups Regulus’s face, kissing him more slowly this time. Deliberate. Certain.
“Just checking,” James says quietly. “You’re okay today?”
Regulus blinks. The question is gentle, unassuming. No implication. No pressure to perform wellness.
“I am,” he says honestly.
James nods, satisfied. “Good. Dinner tonight?”
“Brilliant.” James grins, then vanishes.
Regulus returns to his book, but he doesn’t read for a while. He sits there instead, listening to the house settle, the quiet hum of a life being lived.
He remembers a time when silence meant something else entirely.
The past still exists. He doesn’t pretend otherwise. It lives in old instincts, in moments of sharp anger that arrive without warning, in the way he still flinches at raised voices. But it no longer defines the shape of his days.
Life, it turns out, is not a thing to escape. It’s a thing to inhabit.
That evening, Regulus is halfway through chopping vegetables when James reappears, smelling faintly of parchment and wind.
“I brought bread,” James announces, holding up a loaf triumphantly.
“You were meant to bring milk,” Regulus says.
“Yes, but I also brought bread.”
Regulus closes his eyes briefly. “We already have bread.”
Regulus opens one eye. “How?”
James considers. “Rounder.”
Regulus exhales through his nose. “Get out of my kitchen.”
James does not get out of the kitchen. He hovers instead, stealing carrots and offering commentary.
“You know,” James says, “when I was younger, I thought life would feel… bigger.”
Regulus hums. “Define bigger.”
“More dramatic,” James says. “Like I’d wake up every day and feel like something important was about to happen.”
James watches him for a moment, thoughtful. “Now I wake up and know what’s happening. Tea. Work. You. Dinner. Sleep.”
Regulus pauses, knife hovering. “And is that… disappointing?”
James smiles, soft and certain. “It’s brilliant.”
Regulus returns to chopping, heart doing something inconvenient.
They eat together on the sofa that night, plates balanced precariously, knees touching. James tells a story about Sirius arguing with a shopkeeper over the ethics of enchanted umbrellas. Regulus listens, amused, correcting details where necessary.
Later, they wash up together. James hums tunelessly, sleeves rolled, hands clumsy but earnest. Regulus dries, sets things away, nudges James aside when he’s about to stack something incorrectly.
“You love me,” James says.
“I tolerate you,” Regulus replies.
They move through the rest of the evening without ceremony. A bit of reading. A bit of silence. James sprawled across Regulus’s lap at some point, entirely uninvited.
When they finally go to bed, James curls toward him automatically, one arm flung heavy and familiar across Regulus’s waist.
“Reg?” James murmurs, already half asleep.
Regulus stares up at the ceiling, at the soft dark of a room that has never hurt him.
Life isn’t grand. It isn’t clean or impressive or easily summarized. It is uneven and repetitive and occasionally ridiculous.
It is bread bought instead of milk. It is knowing someone will ask if you’re okay—and meaning it. It is choosing, again and again, to stay.
Regulus closes his eyes, James warm and solid beside him.
This, he thinks, is enough.
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