#sunchaser

The grey one. Faded. Frayed along the cuffs. The one James always threw on after football practice, when his hair was still damp with sweat and grass stuck to his shins. The hoodie that practically steamed with heat after a match and carried the particular scent of musk, deodorant, and something inexplicably, irrevocably James.

It was disgusting.

Regulus adored it.

He stood in their shared flat, hair still wet from his post-shower rinse, bare feet padding across the cold wood floor as he opened the closet for the third time. Then the hamper. Then the basket next to the dryer. Nothing. Nothing but freshly laundered clothes and that annoying citrus-scented detergent James insisted on using like a functional adult.

Regulus tugged the towel tighter around his waist and turned to the living room.

"Jamie," he called, with more bite than necessary, "where is it?"

James, who was lounging on the couch with his phone, legs flopped wide open in a perfect invitation to be hated, looked up with his brows arched. “Where’s what?”

“My hoodie.”

James blinked. “You mean… my hoodie?”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Don't get smart with me, Potter. The grey one. The post-practice one. It’s missing.”

James squinted, confused for a second, then suddenly looked guilty.

“Oh. That one. Yeah, I threw it in the wash this morning. It was gross. Practically walked into the laundry basket itself.”

“You what?” Regulus’s voice hit a register only dogs should hear.

James frowned, trying not to laugh. “What, it was disgusting. Reeked of pitch and boy.”

“Exactly!” Regulus huffed, stomping over to the laundry nook. He opened the dryer. Sure enough, it was there—warm and soft and clean-smelling and wrong.

He buried his face in the hoodie and inhaled. All he got was linen and lemons.

“You ruined it,” he said, muffled against the fabric. “It’s sterile.”

James stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “Reg, it was filthy. You hate dirty things. You have rules about cups touching bathroom counters.”

“Yes, well,” Regulus said, straightening and throwing the hoodie dramatically over his shoulder, “that was my exception.”

“To my hoodie?”

Regulus glared. “It smelled like you. You, post-match. You, sweaty and smug and warm and alive. You, before you go and ruin it with shampoo.”

James blinked. “Wait. You liked it all sweaty?”

Regulus turned pink instantly and looked away. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not,” James said, voice dipping just a little softer, a little amused, a little fond. “I’m just— surprised. You used to wrinkle your nose when I hugged you after practice.”

“I was performing,” Regulus muttered.

James grinned. He got off the couch, walked over, and gently plucked the hoodie from Regulus’ shoulder. “Want me to sweat in it again?”

“...Please.”

There was a pause.

James leaned in, brushing their noses together in a move so casual, so intimate, Regulus nearly short-circuited.

“Next time,” James whispered, “just ask me to stay in it longer.”

Regulus barely managed to hold onto his dignity. “Next time, don’t wash away the best parts of you.”