Untitled

Unfortunately, Draco was very used to hearing but.

“Mr Malfoy, thank you for your Healer application. Your NEWT scores are exemplary, and we thoroughly enjoyed reading your dissertation. We would love to offer you a position at St Mungo’s, but we’ve decided to move forward with a candidate whose public profile is less complicated.” “Draco, I know our parents want us to get married, and whilst I think it wouldn’t be a terrible arrangement, I just can’t do it. You’re lovely and all, but I have to think of any children we might have. It would be so difficult for them to have a Death Eater as a father.” “Darling, you know I adore it when you visit. I really do live for them… but perhaps it would be easier if you came when it was dark out? So the press didn’t see you.” “You can work in the DMLE admin department, Malfoy. The pay is as shit as the hours, but it’s probably more than you deserve.”

So used to hearing but was Draco that he lived in a constant state of flight. One foot out the door. His heart tucked away safe and sound. It was easier to keep his guard up than risk the pain of letting someone close enough to wound him properly.

You would think, with so much practice, that his walls would be impenetrable. It took Harry Potter returning to England after years abroad for Draco to learn this was simply not true.

Polite smiles as they passed each other in the corridor became small talk in the cafeteria queue. Small talk became shared jokes over lunch. Shared jokes became Harry waiting by Draco’s desk at the end of the day, asking if he wanted to get a drink. One drink became two, became Harry’s hand on the small of Draco’s back, became trysts in the supply cupboard, nights at each other’s homes, weekends away, until somehow—impossibly—all of it became whispered promises between the sheets that Draco didn’t believe.

But gods, did he want to.

He wanted to believe so badly that, despite half his heart constantly bracing for the inevitability of but, the other half lived in hope of a full stop.

It came on a Wednesday evening. Harry and Draco stood side by side at the hob, both tired from work, both still in their shirtsleeves, cooking dinner together like they did most nights.

“You’re going to burn the garlic,” Draco said, reaching past Harry to turn down the heat. “Add the stock now.”

Harry did as he was told. “That enough?”

“Perfect. Add the rice and let it simmer for fifteen.” Draco glanced at the oven. “I think the chicken is almost done, you know—”

“I love you.”

So sudden it was that Draco froze. He braced himself, waiting for the but.

I love you, but this is difficult. I love you, but people will talk. I love you, but I don’t know if I can.

Only, it never came. Instead, Harry took his hand, threaded their fingers together, and stood so close that they were chest-to-chest, and Draco began to wonder.  

“I love you,” Harry said, softer this time. “That’s all.”

Draco swallowed. His heart was no longer tucked away safe and sound. It was right there in his throat, beating itself half to death because it was true.

Regulus sat at the linen-draped table, delicately spearing a cherry tomato and then deciding against it.

Christopher had ordered for him.

Without asking.

Regulus kept his expression pleasantly neutral as he nudged a leaf of rocket to the side of the plate.

It wasn’t that he disliked salad. He actually enjoyed salad; properly dressed, balanced, intentionally.

That wasn’t the point.

“I’ll have the seabass,” Christopher had told the waiter earlier, barely glancing at Regulus before adding, “And he’ll do the house salad. Dressing on the side.”

Regulus had blinked.

He wasn’t some decorative accessory.

And then, as if that weren’t enough...

“Gotta keep your figure,” Christopher had added lightly, squeezing Regulus’ thigh under the table as though it were charming.

Seriously?

Regulus lifted his wine glass then, examining the deep red inside as the waiter finished his practiced presentation.

“You’ll love this,” Christopher boasted, practically glowing. “It’s nearly six hundred pounds a bottle.”

The waiter poured the two glasses with care and retreated, leaving the bottle on the table like a trophy.

“Mm,” Regulus hummed, raising a brow as though suitably impressed.

Six hundred pounds.

That was pocket change... He had cufflinks worth more than that sitting in a drawer at his brother's flat, untouched.

He took a small sip.

It was good. Rich. Full bodied. A little showy.

Like the man across from him...

Christopher leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself. “I had it last year in Bordeaux. You can’t find it most places.”

“I’m sure,” Regulus replied smoothly.

To be fair, he liked Christopher.

They’d met on a hiking trail in the Lake District—both muddy, both halfway up a miserable incline, both quietly judging the tourists who’d come unprepared. Christopher had been charming then. Easy to talk to. Witty in a restrained way Regulus appreciated.

They had similar interests. Similar hobbies. Similar circles.

On paper, it worked.

But sometimes...

Sometimes Christopher tried too hard.

Like tonight.

The restaurant was one of those dimly lit places that smelled faintly of fake truffle oil and money. Christopher had insisted on jackets. Insisted on valet. Insisted on the wine.

Insisted on ordering...

Regulus set his glass down gently.

“You’re not eating,” Christopher observed.

“I am,” Regulus said mildly, nudging another tomato.

Christopher smiled, but there was something assessing in it. “It’s just greens. Don’t tell me you’re intimidated by lettuce.”

Regulus’ fork paused.

He met Christopher’s eyes steadily.

“I’m not intimidated by anything on this table,” he said.

Christopher laughed, missing the edge entirely.

“Good. I’d hate to corrupt you.”

Regulus leaned back slightly in his chair.

Corrupt him.

How novel.

Christopher launched into a story about a client—something involving Monaco and an unnecessary helicopter—and Regulus let his gaze drift for just a second.

He caught his own reflection in the mirrored pillar near the bar.

Impeccably dressed. Perfect posture. Composed.

And faintly bored.

He dragged his attention back to Christopher, nodding in the appropriate places.

This was fine.

Christopher was fine.

Stable. Predictable. Impressed by price tags.

Regulus took another sip of the wine.

Six hundred pounds.

Regulus set his glass down a little harder than intended.

Christopher paused mid-sentence. “Everything alright?”

“Perfect,” Regulus replied smoothly.

—

“Reg, you alright?”

James’ voice cut gently through the noise of the pub.

Regulus blinked, pulled back from wherever his thoughts had wandered. “Hm?” He glanced up. “Yes, sorry. What was the question?”

James was watching him with that open, unguarded concern he’d never quite learned to hide.

“What do you want to drink?” James asked. “Your pick.”

Your pick.

Not, "I’ll have this and he’ll have that."

Not, "dressing on the side."

Regulus felt something small and quiet settle warmly in his chest.

The contrast was almost laughable.

Dinner with Christopher had been curated—expensive wine, controlled lighting, careful impressions. Every choice a performance.

With James, they were wedged into a slightly uneven wooden table near the window, the floor faintly sticky, someone laughing too loudly near the dartboard.

And Regulus had never felt more considered.

“A glass of brandy would be nice,” he said, studying James as he spoke.

James’ face lit immediately.

“Brandy it is!” he declared, as though Regulus had suggested something daring and brilliant instead of entirely reasonable.

Gods, James was happy.

James had been happy the last several months—years even. But there had been an edge under it. A tension Regulus hadn’t quite named.

Now he could.

James still loved him.

He’d been trying to pretend he didn’t.

James squeezed his hand across the table before standing. “I’ll be right back.”

Regulus watched him weave toward the bar, greeting the bartender like they were old friends already.

He looked… younger like this. Not in years. In ease.

James returned a moment later with two glasses, sliding the brandy carefully toward Regulus like he was presenting something precious.

“There you go.”

Regulus wrapped his fingers around the glass, letting the warmth seep into his palm.

“You alright?” James asked again, softer this time. He reached across the table and took Regulus’ free hand.

There it was again.

That unfiltered sincerity.

Regulus squeezed back.

“Perfect,” he said, and meant it.

James’ shoulders visibly relaxed at the answer.

“Good.” He leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Because after this, we’re getting something sweet.”

Regulus raised a brow. “Sweet.”

“Something irresponsible,” James clarified. “Something aggressively fattening.”

Regulus huffed a quiet laugh. “Rebelling against my figure?”

James frowned. “Your figure is none of my business unless you’re cold and need my jacket.”

Regulus’ expression softened before he could stop it.

“I’d like that,” he said.

“Fattening dessert?” James asked.

“The jacket, too,” Regulus replied evenly.

James blinked.

Then he smiled—not the bright, beaming one.

The softer one.

The one that felt like his.

“Yeah,” James said quietly. “You can have that too.”

Part 1

“Regulus… I’ve been thinking it over. I want to ask you out.”

James winced at his reflection.

He was pacing in the downstairs bathroom like a man preparing for a duel instead of a conversation. The late afternoon sun filtered through the frosted window, catching on the porcelain sink as he braced himself against it.

“Regulus, do you want to grab dinner?” he tried.

He made a face.

“Ugh, no. We eat dinner all the time... That sounds like we’re discussing grocery lists.”

He dragged a hand through his hair.

“Reg, I’m still in love with you,” he said firmly to the mirror.

His reflection looked equally alarmed.

Too much! Too abrupt! Too confessional for a Tuesday.

James exhaled hard and pushed away from the sink.

“Pull it together,” he muttered.

He left the bathroom and wandered down the hall toward the sunroom, heart already beginning to race again.

Regulus wasn’t painting today.

He was sprawled across the sectional, one arm thrown over the back, a book resting open against his chest. Sunlight poured in through the glass walls, turning everything warm and golden.

And he was wearing white.

White linen trousers. A white shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Bare feet tucked lazily into the cushions.

He looked like something carved from marble and brought to life out of spite.

James stopped in the doorway for a second too long.

Regulus glanced up.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Reg,” James said, suddenly aware of his own limbs, not knowing where to put them. He stepped inside and hovered awkwardly near the arm of the sofa. “I was thinking, maybe… well, you and I could go— like, out.”

Regulus marked his place in the book with one long finger and tilted his head.

“Out,” he repeated.

“Yeah. Out-out. Not errands. Not the hardware store. Just— out.”

A faint smile tugged at Regulus’ mouth.

“I could use some fresh air,” he said, setting the book aside. He stood in one smooth motion and stretched, the movement unhurried. “Maybe a walk up around Gobstow Abbey.”

James blinked.

“Walk?” he echoed. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. A walk.”

Fuck.

Not exactly the candlelit declaration he’d envisioned.

Regulus crossed into the living room, grabbing a light blue jumper from the back of a chair and tugging it over his head.

James followed, scrambling to adjust.

“We could get lunch,” he offered quickly.

“That’d be nice,” Regulus replied, slipping his feet into his trainers.

“Maybe a drink?” James added, stepping closer, hopeful.

Regulus glanced at him sideways, amused. “Most lunch spots have drinks.”

James deflated slightly. “Right. Yeah. That’s true.”

Regulus reached for the door but paused, studying him more closely now.

“You’re behaving oddly,” he observed.

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

James opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again.

Regulus’ expression softened, just a touch.

“James,” he said gently, “if you’re trying to tell me something, you can.”

There it was.

The moment.

James inhaled. "I— well, um..."

Regulus leaned lightly against the doorframe, waiting.

"We can try that new fish and chips shop!" James plastered on a fake grin.

Regulus straightened with a frown, opening the door halfway so a breeze slipped inside, "Okay."

James watched as Regulus headed out the door ahead of him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

—

Regulus glanced at James from the corner of his eye.

James’ hazel eyes were locked on him again—intense and distracted, clearly mid-internal monologue.

Regulus had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“There’s the shop,” he said, pointing to the fish and chips place James had insisted on earlier.

“Oh. Yeah. Cool.” James cleared his throat and followed him across the road.

They ordered. James spoke too quickly. Paid too fast. Nearly dropped his wallet.

Regulus noticed everything.

They stepped outside with their paper-wrapped parcels and leaned against the sun-warmed brick along the side of the building.

For a moment, they ate in silence.

Then Regulus said casually, “So...”

James stiffened. “So?”

“‘Reg, I’ve been thinking it over.’”

James froze.

Very slowly, he turned his head.

“…What?”

Regulus took a measured bite of his chips.

“‘Do you want to grab dinner? No, we eat dinner all the time.’”

James’ face went scarlet.

“You—”

“‘Reg, I’m still in love with you.’” Regulus glanced at him now, one brow raised. “That one, had conviction.”

James stared at him in horror.

“You heard that..?”

“The sunroom shares a vent with the downstairs bathroom,” Regulus replied calmly. “You were not quiet.”

James looked like he wanted the pavement to open up and swallow him whole.

“I cannot believe—” He dragged a hand down his face. “You heard all of it?”

“Most of it,” Regulus corrected. “You lost momentum somewhere between slamming your hands on the sink and calling yourself an idiot.”

James made a strangled noise.

Regulus, infuriatingly composed, took another bite.

“So this entire time—” James gestured wildly between them. “The walk. The lunch—”

“Yes,” Regulus said.

“You’ve been teasing me?”

“Gently.”

James gaped at him.

“They don’t have drinks here,” Regulus added mildly, gesturing to the shop behind them.

“You are unbelievable.”

“We could head to the pub,” Regulus continued as if James hadn’t spoken.

James narrowed his eyes. “Is that you accepting the date I didn’t technically ask you on?”

Regulus brushed salt from his fingers.

“It’s me accepting the date you rehearsed for approximately... seven minutes.”

James groaned and tipped his head back against the brick.

“I was trying to be brave.”

“I know.”

The teasing edge softened just slightly.

James looked at him again, wary now. “You’re not… freaked out?”

Regulus’ expression shifted, subtle.

“You’ve been in love with me since you were sixteen,” he said. “This isn’t news.”

“That wasn’t the part I was worried about.”

Regulus studied him for a beat.

“You were worried I’d say no.”

James didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

Regulus folded his paper neatly and stepped closer, just enough that their shoulders brushed.

“You’re very loud when you’re nervous,” he murmured.

James sighed. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…No,” James admitted.

Regulus’ mouth curved faintly.

“I was going to let you ask me properly,” he said. “But honestly, this was more entertaining.”

James huffed despite himself.

“Are we going to the pub or not?” Regulus asked.

James straightened, trying to salvage dignity. “Yes. We are.”

“Good.”

They started down the pavement together.

After a few steps, James hesitated—then let his hand drift closer. Regulus slipped his fingers between James’, firm and deliberate.

“And for the record,” Regulus added lightly as they walked, “I would’ve said yes at ‘I’m still in love with you.’”

James glanced at him, stunned.

Regulus squeezed his hand once.

“You didn’t need the rehearsal.”

James groaned again. “I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Absolutely not.”

Part 1

James looked up when the door clicked open.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t tense. Just glanced toward the hallway as Regulus walked in like he hadn’t been gone for two weeks—like disappearing was as ordinary as popping out for milk.

But the funny thing?

James didn’t mind.

Not even a little.

“There’s nihari gosht on the stove,” he called easily, marking his page with one finger. “And I made butter naan. The good kind. Not the tragic supermarket attempt.”

Regulus paused mid-step, one brow lifting as he nudged the door shut with his heel. He dropped his bag by the wall and began unlacing his shoes.

“Did you know I was coming back tonight?” he asked, tone carefully neutral.

James shrugged from the sofa. “Nope.”

Regulus glanced at him.

“But I’ve been making extra lately,” James added. “Just in case you wander home.”

Something shifted in Regulus’ expression—small, quick. Gone almost instantly.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Well. Thank you.”

He padded into the kitchen in his socks. James heard the lid lift, the soft scrape of a ladle against the pot. The smell of spiced meat and slow cooked onions deepened in the flat.

James expected him to stay at the counter.

Instead, to his mild surprise, Regulus returned to the living room with a bowl in one hand and naan folded in the other. He lowered himself onto the sofa beside James, curling one leg beneath him like he always used to.

Close. But not quite touching.

James pretended not to notice how deliberate the distance was.

“Where’d you run off to this time?” James asked lightly, turning a page.

Regulus exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to leave a note next time.”

James blinked and looked up. “Hm? Oh, that’s not what I meant.” He shifted, tucking one arm along the back of the sofa. “I meant geographically. Country? City? Did you have a good time?”

Regulus stared at him for a moment as if recalibrating.

“Oh.” He looked back down at his bowl, nudging a piece of meat through the rich sauce. “Scotland. Edinburgh, mostly. I visited the National Galleries. Sat in front of a Turner for an hour.”

James smiled faintly. “That tracks.”

“I taught a few painting workshops,” Regulus added, almost reluctantly. “Teenagers. They were terrible.”

James laughed under his breath. “You were terrible at fifteen.”

“I was gifted and misunderstood.”

“You were unbearable.”

Regulus’ mouth twitched.

“It was good,” he admitted after a second. “Being there.”

“I’m glad,” James said simply.

Silence settled between them, the faint sound of traffic outside.

Regulus finished half his bowl before speaking again.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, quieter now.

James glanced over the top of his book. “Mind what?”

“Me.” Regulus gestured vaguely. “Leaving. Vanishing. Reappearing like a stray cat.”

James studied him for a long moment.

“Oh,” he said gently. “That.”

He closed the book fully this time and set it aside.

“You’re doing your thing, Reg. You always have.” He shrugged. “I’d rather you go and come back than stay and resent me.”

Regulus swallowed.

“Just be safe,” James added. “The usual.”

There it was—the expectation. But it was small. Manageable.

James stood abruptly before the moment could turn too serious.

“Ice cream?” he called over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen. “I’ve got praline.”

“Sure,” Regulus replied automatically, rising to follow with his empty bowl. “But next time, get pistachio.”

James spun around, already holding a pint of pistachio aloft like a trophy.

“That,” he declared, “was the backup flavour.”

Regulus stopped short.

“You—”

James pressed the cold carton into his hands. “I’m not oblivious.”

Regulus’ fingers tightened slightly around the pint. A faint flush crept up his neck.

“You know me far too well,” he muttered.

James handed him a spoon, their fingers brushing briefly.

“I do,” James said, softer now. Then, with a crooked grin, “It’s one of my more impressive talents.”

Regulus huffed a quiet laugh.

They stood there in the kitchen for a moment longer than necessary, sharing a pint of pistachio ice cream straight from the tub.

“Your brother is in full wedding mode,” James said as he screwed the lid back onto the ice cream and slid it into the freezer. “Though I half expected them to just elope and spare us all the emotional speeches.”

He padded back into the sitting room, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

Regulus followed more slowly, switching on the radio as he passed it. Soft music filtered into the room, low enough to fill the quiet without demanding attention. He adjusted the dial carefully, precise as always.

“I can imagine he’s being insufferable,” Regulus said, settling onto the sofa. This time he tucked both legs beneath himself, angled slightly toward James without seeming to mean to.

“Oh, he absolutely is,” James grinned, dropping into the armchair opposite him. “Colour palettes. Seating charts. He used the phrase ‘aesthetic cohesion’ unironically.”

Regulus huffed a small laugh.

“But,” James added, softer, “it’s nice. Seeing him that happy.”

Regulus watched him for a beat.

“What about you?” he asked.

James blinked. “What about me?”

“Well…” Regulus pretended to smooth an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve. “I know you were seeing Evans for a while.”

“Oh. Lily?” James waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, no. We ended that about a year ago. Just… wasn’t working.”

He leaned forward, picking at a loose thread on the chair cushion like it required intense concentration.

“She wanted different things?” Regulus asked carefully.

“Something like that.” James shrugged. “We’re better as friends. Less pressure. Less pretending.”

Regulus’ gaze sharpened slightly at that word, but he let it pass.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

James looked up, surprised. “Don’t be. It was the right call.”

A quiet settled between them again, thinner this time.

James broke it first.

“Have you been seeing anyone?” he asked, a little too quickly.

Regulus flinched almost imperceptibly at the volume.

“No,” he said. “No. I don’t really… do casual.”

James’ fingers stilled.

“And things with Christopher only ended two months ago,” Regulus continued, aiming for breezy and missing by a mile. “So...”

Christopher.

James nodded once. “Right.”

“No dates even?” James asked after a moment, quieter now.

Regulus folded his arms defensively. “I could ask you the same.”

“You just did.”

“You know what I mean.”

James leaned back, exhaling through his nose.

Regulus stared at the radio instead of him. “Besides,” he added, voice thinning slightly, “no one’s going to want to date me. Not once they realize I’m a flake.”

James frowned.

James stood slowly and crossed the space between them before Regulus seemed to realize what he was doing. He didn’t sit yet, just hovered near the edge of the sofa.

“Well, honestly,” James said, a little awkwardly, “I don’t see why not.”

Regulus gave him a flat look. “Potter—”

“You’re smart,” James pressed on. “You’re ridiculously talented. You make the best espresso I’ve ever had in my life, which is deeply unfair. You care about things. Quietly, but you do.”

Regulus’ jaw tightened.

“And you’re—” James hesitated, then barrelled through it. “You’re cute.”

He immediately looked like he wanted to shove his own words back into his mouth.

“I mean—not that that’s the main selling point. Obviously. Just—”

“Anyone,” he finished more firmly, “would be lucky to date you.”

Silence.

Regulus’ ears had gone pink.

He looked away first, staring determinedly at the opposite wall.

“Shut up, Potter,” he muttered.

Part 1

Regulus had moved into one of James’ spare rooms the same afternoon Sirius and Remus returned from the French Alps, glowing and insufferably engaged.

It had been presented as temporary.

Practical.

Roommates.

Just until Regulus “sorted a few things.”

James hadn’t asked what those things were.

He’d simply handed over a key.

At first, the flat didn’t change much. A suitcase by the stairs. A pair of polished boots left too precisely by the door. A dark coat draped over the back of a dining chair.

But then, slowly, Regulus began to exist there.

A mug left half-full of tea on the bistro table outside the glass doors. A thin stack of art books on the coffee table. A canvas propped against the sunroom window to catch the morning light.

A second toothbrush.

James’ flat once tidy, quiet, faintly echoing, began to feel… inhabited.

Alive.

Even if some small, cynical part of him whispered that Regulus Black had never been known to stay anywhere for long.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was waking up to music drifting down the hall.

That morning it was ABBA.

Yesterday had been Fleetwood Mac.

James had expected something classical. Something moody and dramatic. Not Chiquitita echoing through the sunroom while sunlight poured across the floorboards.

He paused in the doorway, unnoticed.

Regulus stood in front of a canvas nearly as tall as he was, sleeves shoved up, old charcoal streaked trousers hanging low on his hips. His shirt, one James had never seen him wear, was splattered in color.

He swayed gently to the music, brush gliding in smooth strokes as he sang under his breath.

“Chiquitita, tell me what’s wrong…”

It wasn’t a performance. He wasn’t aware of an audience.

It was just him.

James leaned against the frame, watching.

The painting itself was abstract—bold slashes of deep blue and forest green tangled with sudden bursts of white. James didn’t understand it, not really. But he knew it meant something. Regulus painted like he was pulling something out of his chest and pinning it to canvas.

That alone made it priceless.

Regulus reached up absently to scratch his cheek.

James suppressed a smile.

A streak of green smeared across pale skin.

The sight of him like this—rumpled, barefoot, distracted—felt oddly intimate. This wasn’t the polished heir to the Black legacy. Not the composed, sharp tongued strategist.

This was just Regulus.

And James got to see it.

Every odd habit. Every muttered lyric. Every forgotten mug of tea.

He loved it.

“Oh—” Regulus startled slightly when he finally noticed him. He turned, brush still in hand. “Hey.”

James straightened. “Morning.”

Regulus glanced past him toward the kitchen. “Did you make tea?”

James nodded. “And those Chelsea buns you like.”

Regulus went still.

There was a brief, unguarded flicker across his face.

“I mentioned that once,” he said carefully. “Years ago.”

“Six,” James replied easily. “You complained that most bakeries overbake them.”

Regulus blinked.

“You… remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

James said it simply. Like it wasn’t extraordinary.

Regulus looked down for a second, clearing his throat, pushing something unreadable away before it could settle. “Well. That’s… unnecessarily attentive of you.”

James stepped into the sunroom, closing the distance between them.

Up close, the paint smudges were more obvious. Blue near his wrist. Green on his cheek. A faint streak of white along his jaw.

James reached out and tilted Regulus’ chin gently upward.

Regulus froze.

His mouth parted slightly, breath catching. His grey eyes—bright, flecked with slate-blue—lifted to meet James’ hazel. The music continued behind them, cheerful and entirely at odds with the tension thickening the air.

Regulus leaned forward just a fraction.

Hope flickered there.

Instead... James swiped his thumb lightly across Regulus’ cheek, wiping away the streak of green.

“There,” he murmured.

Regulus exhaled, something between relief and disappointment, before schooling his expression back into neutrality.

“Tragic,” he said lightly. “I rather liked the war paint.”

“I’m sure you did.”

James dropped his hand but didn’t step away immediately. His thumb still held a faint smudge of green.

“Come,” he said after a beat. “Before they’re cold.”

He turned toward the kitchen.

Regulus remained standing in the sunroom for a second longer, heart doing something deeply inconvenient in his chest.

He glanced at the half-finished painting, at the wild blue strokes tangled through darker shades, and followed James.

Part 1

Regulus knocked twice— sharp, impatient raps against the peeling paint of the flat door.

He was already rehearsing the annoyed speech he planned to give Sirius about not answering immediately.

The door swung open.

It was not Sirius.

It was James—motherfucking—Potter.

James blinked at him from behind round glasses, hair a mess as if he’d just run his hands through it. “Reg. Hey.”

Regulus stared.

“…Where’s Sirius?” he asked flatly, already pushing past him into the flat without waiting for an invitation.

“Holiday. French Alps. Very romantic. Lots of knitwear,” James replied, shutting the door behind him. “Do you need something?”

Regulus did a slow sweep of the sitting room as if Sirius might materialize behind the sofa. “Just a place to stay for a few days.” He headed straight for the kitchen. “Are you house-sitting? You can go.”

James followed, affronted. “Wow. Hello to you too.”

Regulus opened the fridge, scanned its contents, and grabbed a beer like he owned the place. He popped it open on the counter edge with practiced ease.

"Yep, alright. Bye."

“Mm… no,” James said. “They asked me to water the plants and hang out. Make sure nothing explodes.”

Regulus’ eyes drifted toward the windowsill.

He paused.

“…You’ve overwatered the succulent.”

James followed his gaze.

Water was, in fact, dripping steadily from the pot, pooling onto the wooden floorboards in a slow, accusing spread.

“Oh,” James said weakly. “Oops.”

Regulus flicked his fingers absently. The radio crackled to life, some low hum of music filling the silence as the excess water siphoned neatly back into the soil. He took a slow sip of his beer.

“But seriously,” Regulus said, leaning back against the counter, “I’ve got it from here.”

James didn’t move.

“No offense, Reg,” he said, folding his arms, “but you’re a little flaky sometimes.”

Regulus choked on his drink. “Excuse me?”

James slid onto the chair beside the kitchen counter like he was settling in for sport. “You disappear. You forget things. You hyper-fixate and drop off the planet.”

Regulus snorted. "I do not."

“Why did Zaheer dump you?” James shot back immediately.

Regulus went still.

The radio crackled faintly in the background.

“You flaked on three dinners,” James continued, ticking them off on his fingers. “You cancelled the gallery opening he bought tickets to. And you missed the holiday he planned to take you on to meet his family in Pakistan. Because you were ‘in a flow state’ with a charcoal piece.”

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “How the fuck do you know all that?”

James gave him a look. “I introduced you.”

Regulus blinked.

James scoffed. “You think I wouldn’t notice when my mate calls me asking if you’re okay because you haven’t answered your owl in a week?”

Regulus looked away, suddenly very interested in the condensation on his beer bottle.

“He didn’t dump me,” Regulus muttered. “It was a mutual split.”

“Mm,” James hummed skeptically.

“It was,” Regulus insisted, sharper now. “He wanted… consistency. Plans. Someone who shows up exactly when they say they will.”

“And?”

Regulus’ mouth twitched.

“And I don’t operate like that.”

There it was. Not defensive. Just factual.

James studied him for a moment, the teasing edge softening.

“You operate like a storm,” James said finally. “Brilliant. Intense. Slightly destructive to dinner reservations.”

Regulus huffed a reluctant laugh despite himself.

“I liked him,” Regulus added quietly.

“You didn’t show up to meet his parents, Reg.”

Regulus’ fingers tightened around the bottle. “I panicked.”

“About?”

“Being… expected.” The word seemed to scrape on its way out.

James didn’t interrupt.

Regulus stared at the countertop. “They were going to like me. And then what? I’d have to keep being the version of me they liked. Forever.”

James’ expression shifted—less judgment now, more understanding.

“You don’t have to be consistent to be worth staying for,” James said.

Regulus glanced at him sharply. “You don’t get to be emotionally wise. It’s unsettling.”

James grinned. “I contain multitudes.”

There was a beat of silence.

“So,” James said, bumping his knee lightly against Regulus’. “You can crash here. But I’m not leaving. Remus would kill me if I let you brood unsupervised.”

Regulus rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “And you’re apologizing to the succulent."

James smirked. “Absolutely not.”

“Why do you need a place to stay?” James asked, flipping idly through a thick stack of takeaway menus Sirius kept in a drawer by the fridge. “You don’t usually just… appear.”

Regulus stood by the counter, arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere over James’ shoulder.

There was a beat too long.

“…Christopher kicked me out.”

James looked up slowly.

“Christopher,” he repeated. “The wonderful, extraordinary, candlelit-dinners-and-organic-wine Christopher?”

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “Yes, okay?”

Silence stretched.

“He—” Regulus exhaled through his nose. “We broke up.”

James studied him more closely then. The too-casual posture. The overnight bag dropped just inside the door. The way Regulus hadn’t taken off his coat yet, like he didn’t quite believe he was staying.

This was the third boyfriend James had seen him have since school. Third time watching him try to pretend he didn’t care too much.

“What happened?” James asked, softer now.

Regulus’ head snapped toward him. “None of your business, Potter.” He pushed off the counter and moved into the kitchen fully. “Are we getting dinner or what?”

James didn’t push.

He nodded and separated the menus into a shortlist, sliding them across the counter. “Chinese, Lebanese, Thai.”

Regulus barely glanced at the first two before handing the Thai menu back.

“Curry or pad thai?” James asked.

He didn’t need to ask. He knew Regulus’ order the same way he knew Sirius’ coffee or Remus’ preferred brand of tea. He just liked giving him the illusion of choice.

Regulus hesitated.

“Both,” he muttered, but made a real decision after a moment. “Coconut curry, please...”

There was something almost defeated in it, like indulgence required permission tonight.

James nodded and went to the wall phone. “Two coconut curries, one pad thai. Yes, extra lime.”

When the food arrived, they migrated to the living room. James took the sofa; Regulus lowered himself to the floor, back against it, long legs stretched out toward the coffee table.

They ate straight from the containers, passing them back and forth without looking at each other.

The radio murmured low. The flat felt temporarily theirs.

For a while, the only sounds were chopsticks against plastic and the occasional clink of a beer bottle.

Then—

“He cheated on me.”

It was so quiet James almost thought he imagined it.

“What?”

Regulus kept his eyes on the curry in his lap.

“I came home early,” he said, voice stripped of its usual bite. “And he was in bed. With this woman.”

James went very still.

“You’re kidding.”

Regulus shook his head once.

There was no dramatic anger in him. No raised voice. Just something hollow.

“I stood there like an idiot,” Regulus continued. “He didn’t even look surprised. Just… tired.”

James felt something hot and protective flare in his chest.

“What did he say?”

“That he couldn’t keep guessing which version of me he was going to get,” Regulus replied flatly. “That I disappear. That I cancel. That I forget things that matter.” A humorless laugh slipped out. “I guess he could only handle flaky for so long.”

James set his food down.

“That’s no excuse,” he said firmly. “You don’t cheat because someone’s messy. You leave. You talk. You don’t—” He stopped himself before he got too heated. “That’s on him.”

Regulus shrugged, too quick. “It’s not exactly a pattern I haven’t seen before.”

James’ brow furrowed. “Meaning?”

Regulus picked at the corner of the takeaway lid. “I’m… a lot. And then I’m gone. And then I’m intense again. It’s exhausting. So I've been told...”

“Reg—”

“I missed his birthday,” Regulus pressed on, staring ahead. “Because I was halfway through a painting and couldn’t pull myself out of it. I forgot his promotion dinner. I didn’t answer his messages for two days because I lost track of time.” His voice dipped. “People want… steady. And that's not me...”

James leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“You’re allowed to need someone who understands how your brain works,” James continued. “Someone who doesn’t take it personally when you vanish into a canvas for twelve hours.”

Regulus didn't look convinced.

“He said he felt invisible.”

James’ expression softened.

“And how did you feel?” he asked.

Regulus finally glanced back at him.

“Replaceable.”

The word hung between them.

James reached down without making a show of it and nudged the curry container back toward Regulus.

“You’re not,” he said simply.

Regulus stared at him for a long moment, searching for mockery that wasn’t there.

Then he looked away again, blinking a little too hard.

“Don’t get sentimental on me, Potter,” he muttered.

James huffed a faint smile. “Eat your curry.”

When character is angry:

Snapped

Spat

Snarled

Hissed

Barked

...or sad:

Choked

Mumbled

Managed

Croaked

Murmured

...or if they're feeling nervous:

Stammered

Babbled

Rambled

Muttered

Squeaked

...and even when flirting:

Coaxed

Purred

Teased

Hummed

happy birthday lance from voltron legendary defender!! 🫶🫶🫶

honestly it’s been a year since i watched voltron i think and yeah both lance and keith have consumed my whole being asdfghjkl

so uh just gonna include the ss of the tags in case anyone wants to consider giving this a read and wants to know what’s it abt ^^

Footwork

Allura told him to work on his stance. But Lance needed to work on a lot more than just his stance if he were to competently step into his role.

Lance might have been known as the most adaptable paladin, able to swing with the punches and flex into almost any role. He was personable, a quick study. But that took work. A lot of work. And sometimes he felt his effort was just taken for granted.