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The last thing James Potter ever perceived on planet Earth was the colour green – a strident, almost acrid in nature shade. Mere seconds before he saw the neon lightning blasting at him, he was dashing down the stairs, and though one would reasonably jump to the conclusion that a billion thoughts had been crossing his mind at that moment – the realisation of betrayal or the fact he'd left his wand down in the sitting room out of dumb neglect for instance – there was only one notion embedded in his brain; an objective. Hold Him off. Buy Lily and the baby some time. As much as you can. Whatever it takes. Save them. He understood early on that it would never be about fighting back and solely about stretching the moment out for as long as was possible instead – Voldemort had gained too much strength by then; He nearly burst with it. Verdict was: He was simply too powerful to even attempt to defeat.
The surprise visit he had paid his and Lily's shared lair in Godric's Hollow was never supposed to happen in the first place; unjustly, the Potters stood unprepared, a counterpart as vulnerable as it gets, and with all odds against them, they posed a dishearteningly easy target. If James had had more time to ponder upon it, he would've issued hope for his family to be safe, but it all elapsed too fast for anyone to handle rationally. He had barely registered the cloak-clad figure perched at the bottom of the staircase as it had already hissed an incantation at him – James was perfectly aware it was coming, perhaps just not so fast. He was ready to meet his untimely demise as though an old friend that suddenly turned up at his doorstep, but nothing, no one, and not even the most descriptive rumours nor speculations could prepare him for the pain it evoked.
A dolorous implosion, a shutdown of all vital organs brought on by force of a million electrical shocks at once, a compression of muscle, a sharp fire kindling beneath the skin, a blast of cells, a fracture of all 206 bones at once, an explosion of the heart, followed by immediate death – not without the taste of the aforementioned strain in all its torturous glory beforehand. Simple, effective, quick, cruel, yet in a grotesque way merciful.
Within the first fraction of the second, James Potter was still stood upright, all the strength and youth in the world gathered in a bulky, tall frame; hot, scarlet blood coursed through his veins, activating all natural processes and spreading adrenaline throughout his body. However, within the next, that very same – now stiff and inert – body crashed upon the carpeted floor with a singular heavy thud. A human being that once existed – breathed, spoke, touched, tried, failed, felt, thought, acted, learned, loved – blown off the map as though an untoward pencil drawing erased from a sketchbook of people by someone who had no right to control the eraser. Somewhere upstairs, Lily Potter winced, somehow retaining a weeping baby tightly pressed to her chest despite the feverish trembling of her core. By then, her body had begun operating purely off of motherly instinct instead of physical strength. A hot tear trailed down her face, which was scrunched up in a grimace of pure fearful anguish. She wasn't granted any time to grieve over the loss of her husband, as not even five minutes later, she met the very same fate.
It was that easy to steal someone's life from them – like switching off the light or merely blinking.
From that moment on, James lost control. Lost control over his limbs, entering a permanent paralysis. Lost control over his senses – he couldn't see, nor hear, nor smell, nor taste, nor touch. Lost control over his brain, excluding every possibility to form a thought or come up with a solution to the dilemma that was his death. Lost record of time and space. Lost the ability to continue living.
For a while.
At first, it was empty. Dark. Intense. Frigid. Once James was able to form a solid thought again, he noted that it sort of reminded him of being locked inside a refrigerator. Surprisingly, he'd never been in such a situation himself, but concluded that that temporary stay in limbo equalled to what it would be like.
Thereupon, more senses began returning to him. Firstly came the smell: the sea, clean cotton sheets, first foliage, a light note of oak wood, eggs. Fried eggs. No – scrambled. Definitely scrambled. At once, death – or life, or afterlife, or whatever the fuck was going on here – didn't sound half bad to James. Secondly came the hearing: gradually, as though someone was just turning up the speaker, from one direction faded in a sizzling, and from another, a mellow chirping of a songbird. Touch came next. It didn't take a genius for James to calculate that he was situated horizontally, shrouded in sheets. Lying down plus bedsheets equals bed – it was certainly more comfortable than the rough carpeting of the staircase back in Godric's Hollow, he mentally agreed. So he reawoke upon entering eternal (or so it seemed) slumber – that made sense. Barely.
Sight wasn't long in coming, as James had been eager to inspect the environment he roused into as soon as possible, driven by both his childishly inquisitive nature and genuine bewilderment. His eyes fluttered open and began adjusting to the light poking in through an ajar window nearby, and as the young man retorted to blinking excessively, he noticed the complete blurriness of his circumferential environment. Lying there, propped up on both elbows, it took him embarrassingly long to remember that he was myopic as all hell, and couldn't walk two steps without bumping into someone or something without his glasses. Perhaps the transition between mortality and immortality didn't go as smoothly as planned. And wait – what kind of afterlife was this, if one wasn't cured of all ailments and disabilities obtained during their lifetime? It entirely defeated the purpose of a peaceful resting and sure was unfair, but James had more important matters to tend to. Glasses. Preferably within the next thirty seconds.
Blindly groping his immediate surroundings, he tapped the fluffy sheets with a faint dull sound. Finding his search to be unsuccessful, the young man rolled over on his side, and squinted as hard as he could in order to locate his spectacles. It only improved his vision by the slightest, however, by then, he was already 99% sure where the fuck it was he landed in, anyway. Still, the pleasure of finding his glasses and receiving a final confirmation would perfect the score. Just as he guessed, to his right rested a nightstand carved from oak, bearing the blurred brown outline of his glasses on its surface.
“Bullseye,” he whispered jubilantly, putting his afterlife-ly voice to use at last. By doing that, he didn't know what he expected it to sound like; definitely not for it to change in any way – not that it did – which would undoubtedly bear a certain surprise factor.
Having sat the frame upon his nose, James allowed his eyes to regain focus. His world was now painted in sharpness, and yes, the theory he had advanced on his whereabouts was correct: he currently sat propped up in his bed back at his childhood home on the outskirts of Buxom Dock (or, how decorous wixen and Muggles called it – Liverpool). Not much within the room had changed since its former inhabitant last occupied it, except maybe for the realm it was in. It certainly couldn't be where James departed from upon being killed, as that defied all laws of physics, biology, and even magic.
He adopted into consideration that it could be a mere projection of his withering, dying brain, a in a manner of speaking last treat before his ultimate departure from the face of Earth, and if it was, then wow, was that realistic. Not only was the furniture in his childhood bedroom arranged with suspicious accuracy, but even the most intricate details were accounted for: the stack of vinyl records sorted not by the alphabet, but by preference, the collection of twigs pulled from past brooms, the singular maroon sock folded beneath one of the desk's legs in order to level out an unevenness, and more of the like. Then there was that characteristic smell and sound of breakfast sizzling downstairs. Even the rush of pure glee at the fact he'd lived to see another day and the hungry tugging and twisting of his stomach asking for food was precisely how he perceived it during his teen years. Pretty impressive.
Not real, however.
Suddenly, a voice as soft as satin arose nearby, “Settled in all right?” And though the enquirer was beyond James' field of view, he managed to assign a face to the voice in a matter of sheer seconds. He'd almost brushed it off as a hallucination, but then, the voice decided to play clever clogs, “Thought you'd never show.” To hell with it: even if that was some sort of trick or manifestation of his deepest, most sincere desires, then fuck it, he'd play along with it.
“Regulus,” James' lips had spoken before his head had even turned, “shit, it's been a while.”
As soon as his eyes had stumbled upon the short, thin figure stood before him, they instinctively – as though scouring for sanctuary – leapt up to lock with a pair of ghostly grey ones. Ghostly in a way that was familiar, welcoming and loving, instead of cold and repellent. James could barely believe it – dressed in full onyx with his raven locks slightly longer than he last recalled them to be, none other than Regulus Black was taking a seat on his bed right in front of him; the very Regulus Black who had announced himself dead in a letter Potter received the previous spring.
Oh, wait. James was now dead, too. That made more sense.
Words fled him; he swallowed his tongue and his pride, memories and feelings rushing back all at once, overwhelming his senses and prickling at his skin as though with thousands of sewing needles – similar to the ones his mother used to stitch up countless ruptures and fissures in his clothing. With goosebumps scattered over the entirety of his body, James gaped, and gaped, and gaped, seeing more in Regulus than just a person, more than just a young man, more than just a wizard: in him, he saw the embodiment of the paralyzing love he once bore in his lion heart and the very same love he thereafter lost.
“Careful, you'll burn a hole right through me with that stare,” snickered Regulus, averting his gaze in that shy, slightly sheepish fashion of his. Confident words, unsure actions – all so unapologetically him. He was never one to be able to bear long eye contact, James remembered. What he also remembered was the fact that upon looking away, Regulus' cheeks would ignite in a helpless blush, and he'd only dare to glimpse back again once it wore off, all whilst hoping that utmostly amiable natural reaction would go unnoticed. And so on and so forth. James remembered everything; every detail, every touch, every thought, every feeling, every word shed and withheld, all of it. As though a wound being reopened, a wound that attempted to heal over and over and over again yet failed, it was ripped apart once more, however, instead of bleeding, it now shed fervid golden light and ceased to hurt by sudden malady in form of reconnecting with a long-lost lover.
Without feeling the need to extend a proper greeting, the taller boy leaned in, one hand clasping around his counterpart's hip, and the other around his side of his neck. Though there was no blood coursing through Regulus' veins, his skin retained its lukewarm, barely-fervid-enough-to-seem-believable-that-he's-still-alive temperature, but, once again, if that was strange during the time he really was still amongst the living, now that he was dead, it freakishly translated to more normal.
At once, James pressed his lips onto Regulus' – that desire to kiss the boy arose to be stronger than any he had ever felt, incomparable to any human, mortal sort of longing. It was as though had he not done it, the world would've ended. A wave would've licked over the globe and swallowed it whole. A scorching asteroid the size of a dwarf planet would've struck it and burned it to a crisp. A colossal black hole would've appeared out of thin air and absorbed the floating rock without a trace. But even if that had occurred, James wouldn't have many more fucks left to offer. He found himself in a place vastly different, a place galaxies away (probably), a place where none of the problems humanity faced would ever matter to him again. The sole thing that mattered to him anymore were those lips on his – as soft as on the day they last lay on his, and even more pleasant than he recalled.
Ultimately, there was the last sense: the taste – his taste. A taste James was so deprived of, and soon came to realise he'd missed more during his time spent apart from him than he could ever imagine. Strong herbal infusion, hints of cinnamon – the tea Regulus couldn't start his morning without. Oh, how fucking comforting it was to not only be reminded of that detail, but also receiving the proof of its authenticity via sensing it on his own tongue.
Maybe it was real.
They parted soon after James had permitted this conclusion, and Regulus merely huffed in amusement. “I did expect a verbal response, but that was much better, I must admit.”
“I had a temporary crisis,” he jokingly rolled his eyes. “It's not every day that you wake up after you've been Avada Kedavra'ed to shits and blisters and meet your dead former lover. Cut me some slack, Reggie.”
There was the beautiful laugh he missed so much, a laugh so hearty and genuine he could never question its authenticity. And from what it sounded, Regulus missed laughing like that – caused by James' snide remark – too. “Fine. I myself, admittingly, experienced a rather difficult adjustment. It... certainly is foreign.” Regulus himself didn't have the faintest clue as to what it was he meant by it.
James leaned back, his spine colliding with the wall behind him. The coolness of it prickled at his skin, but instead of cringing, he felt refreshed. Lifting his hand, he gestured Regulus to follow him, and the boy didn't need to be told twice; in a bat of an eye, he had already been engulfed in James' strong, fervent embrace, that he recognised he'd yearned after terribly.
“How long have you been waiting?” questioned James, placing his chin in the crook of the smaller boy's neck, planting gentle kisses on his earlobe. The contrast of his hot lips versus Reg's nippy skin sent a set of shivers rushing down his spine, and he arched it in an almost cat-like manner. At once, he had to fight off the overwhelming need to wince.
His response that followed shortly thereafter was filled with the utmost devotion, “Long enough to have missed you dearly.” After a curt pause, during which he weighed the politeness of his statement, he added, “However, not long enough for you to have lived for as long as I would've wanted you to – it wasn't your time.”
“It wasn't your time,” James parrotted, offended by his counterpart's signature lack of self-appreciation. “I got your letter. Would've been baffled if I'd met you here without having read it.”
“Oh, that,” Regulus squeezed his eyes shut in abashedness, shaking his head and burying it within his pallid palms. “I was congested with melancholy when I indited it to say the absolute least. Watching you read it was about as disconcerting as witnessing Mother find one of your labelled jerseys cached in my room that I forgot to dispose of.”
James snorted. That Regulus failed to miss, or maybe less so than other attributes of his character. “Still ashamed of being in love with me?”
“Stop it, you,” his counterpart took full offense, playfully slapping the tawny bicep snaked around him. “Firstly, I never found shame in the fact I was in love, it was the mere taboo aspect of it. And secondly, ever since I got here, I've been professing my love for you via shouting from all available rooftops – mainly this one, to be entirely precise. I imagine you must've felt that as an occasional poke or tug at the heart.”
“So that's what it was?” groaned James with an artful dramatic undertone. “Merlin, and I thought I was getting older.”
“Well, you did,” snickered Regulus in response. He twisted his body around in order to be able to take in and examine the other boy; James merely cocked a brow in a suggestive manner. Try me, his expression prompted. “A line here, a line there. Parenting sure did take its toll on you, didn't it? Tut-tut, such a handsome face tainted with sleepless nights and–”
“–worry over someone who disappeared without a trace,” he completed with a mischievous grin sparkling atop his countenance. He pressed on, “That very someone who's taking the piss out of me having a baby because he's oh-so-very-jealous. Harry's bloody awesome, by the way. You'd love him.” There was pure playfulness stirring in his tone without a single tinge of insult or deviousness. James Potter wasn't one to hold grudges, be entirely serious, or take anything seriously, that is. Everything was forgivable in his book; his natural, childlike decency found no measure.
“Oh, love, I am aware – I adopted watching over him, you, and Lily as my favourite pastime,” the innocent smile embedded into his dreamy, yet hollowed-out face soon faded. “You've built yourself a wondrous life that was so well-deserved – I'm saddened to see you forced to abandon it so soon. I'm sorry.”
James shut his eyes, stung not by the words or the speaker, but by their meaning and the realisation that ensued thereafter. “You're not at fault, Reggie. Besides, there's a silver lining: I reunited with you. That remained my innermost wish ever since the day we parted, and what do you know, right now it's coming true.” In response, the boy in his arms quieted down, digesting the sentences shed. For a blissful moment, the brisk morning air adopted a comfortable silence that was inviting to linger in. It also bore that unmistakeable maritime whiff to it that James was familiar with since all the way back to his infancy; he reminisced about his father's puzzling stories about old fishermen who scattered sea salt in the wind every morning before the township awoke. Safety and ease pooled and bubbled in the pit of his stomach – only then did he realise just how much he missed being at home like this. With the salty air, with the anticipation of a delicious breakfast spread downstairs awaiting him, with the childhood memories whiling away in the comfort of his mind, with the knowledge he didn't have to escape this moment anytime soon, with Regulus. The sheer attention to detail in this realm was astounding.
“Fuck, it's cold,” it wasn't; James simply longed to hear his lover's voice again and used the complaint as a tool to engender it. “Nobody in the heaven department bothered to meddle with this bloody town's temperature for it to be more... bearable? I could never escape it beyond simply getting used to it; neither in life, nor in death, it seems.” Partly true, partly a means to spark conversation.
As expected, Reg took the bait. “That is the point, my love. This place has the purpose to simulate your past reality with as much precision as possible – unpleasant sides included.” His calm, low tone with that almost royal ring to it was something James thought he'd never hear again, yet now that he was – in his own way – resurrected, few things would surprise him anymore.
“Mum and Dad are here too, I take it?” he put forth with curiosity. Both Fleamont and Euphemia, the two people who brought him into the world and raised him encased in the most genuine and heartfelt sort of love imaginable, had succumbed to an overly severe case of Dragon Pox just a few months prior. A loss on top of a loss on top a loss crushed James' mental stability severely, but he never permitted grief to get the best of him. He was Prongs, after all – the jester, the leader, the unsinkable Molly Brown. When they passed on, he simply shoved the house off to a distant cousin named Odin – Merlin knew he was in dire need of it, the lad was raising seven children – and called it a day, with that sharp ache picking at his heart with every breath he drew as though a lance was stuck in his ribcage. It felt difficult to breathe at times, but the love received from those alive and aimed at those who had left kept him afloat and guarded him from suffocation. Emotionally, James Potter was stronger than anyone Regulus had ever happened upon.
The black-haired young man hesitated, wallowing in a recent memory. “No, they share their own heaven. I've been there – a fabled evergreen cliffside with water so clear and sunsets so picturesque they resemble Aivazovsky's artwork more than real life.”
“The Isle of Skye,” announced James, feeding his answer to the void. The mention of that place stirred up visions of past encounters connected to it, and his lips stretched in a lazy, absent-minded grin. “That's where Dad confessed his love, proposed, and where they celebrated every anniversary thereafter. I should've known.”
From the distance rained in a soft array of keys, the lullaby increasing in volume as though a bead of periwinkle watercolour dropped onto an intricately rough cotton-based sheet of paper. It grew, filled in sonority as the droplet would with vibrance, and engraved a sense of delight upon the listener as the blur would on the observer. James was more than simply familiar with the composition – probably the only piece of classical music he was entirely acquainted with.
“Why is Shoepawn playing?” he issued a giggle, welcoming the piece despite having questioned its origin.
“Chopin,” corrected Regulus for the millionth time. It was always either Showpan, Cho-Paw, or Shoepawn. On rare occasions, it would even be Coupon with an attempted French accent, though the composer himself was unmistakeably Polish. He should've placed a bet beforehand – his money would be on the winning option, anyway. “His berceuse always plays at this hour – 10:18 ante meridiem. It seems heaven remembers our first dance to it.”
Upon hearing the last sentence, the taller boy's mind travelled all the way back to his fifth year at Hogwarts. He'd been playing hooky, prancing about the castle halls in midmorning, probably on his way to the rooftop, where he could sneak in a cheeky smoke. But then, emanating from a vacant classroom, in that very same manner he had now, he picked up a faint, dulcet melody. Regulus had conjured it out of a vintage music box shipped to him by relatives in Rock at my Door, or Rock Me Adore it was – main point being that it was a city in France, and delighted in it during a free hour as the golden sunrays tickled at his unaccustomed to the heat skin through tall, murky windowpane glass. Driven by that very same childlike inquisitiveness, James introduced himself into the classroom unannounced, and after a few words had been exchanged between the Gryffindor and the Slytherin, he was already dragging the latter into the dusty, stale air by the arm in order to swing him to the utterly posh lullaby. The amusement of the experience found no end, and for the better part of a minute, Regulus imagined to be the protagonist of a Victorian novel about higher societies, flamboyant balls, resplendent gowns, bottomless champagne, and hand-rolled cigarettes stuffed with Egyptian tobacco. Something within the realms of Pride and Prejudice or Anna Karenina, the shiniest pearls of Muggle literature he was forbidden to read but did so anyway.
James understood. That is exactly why within the next second, he was already up on his toes with his brawny arm extended towards Regulus. “Come on, little Princess. For old time's sake, let's shake off the dust, now that your personal Mr. Dancy is here at last.”
Darcy, Black corrected mentally. Furthermore, the real Mr. Darcy wouldn't particularly propose his hand to dance first, but nobody was perfect. He thereupon rolled his eyes, accepting the offer by grasping the palm that was so much bigger than his and allowed himself to be pulled into an immediate bout. Despite finding zero interest in attending functions as high-class as Wizarding Balls, James had always been an excellent dancer with a superb sense of rhythm and natural sway. A born leader, dancing with James felt exceptionally structured and flawless – which by the way uncharacteristically deviated from his person – like a well-composed waltz or a constellation falling into place atop a clear, twilit sky.
The couple wavered back and forth as the floorboards creaked beneath them, stepping on and off the small rug beneath their feet that James was once graciously gifted by Peter's mother, who was a Muggle weaver from a tiny village in rural Northern Ireland. Right, Peter. His and Lily's Secret Keeper, who turned out to be worse at his job than they had assumed. There was no use crying over spilled milk, but the bitter stab of betrayal eternally engraved in James' back would serve as a constant reminder of Pettigrew's wrongdoing.
“Am I to stay here for eternity?” he tore through the gloom of the cognisance, elevating to a higher level of happiness the second he glanced within those glassy-grey eyes across from him.
Within a heartbeat, Regulus' face, which was frozen into a comfortable, pleased expression, momentarily fell. He exhaled thickly, that mundane surge of tart envy trickling poison into the cracked crevice of his heart. “No. You are free to leave at any time desired. I'm sure you have other realms to tend to,” his mind raced to the image of Lily's motionless, cooling body prone before a wailing Harry's crib. She was gone, too. The kind-hearted lady he considered his best friend, the one James, in his turn, got to call his wife. Now dead, with him glimpsing down at her – or what used to be her – just minutes prior with nothing he could do except to observe. And out of respect, he averted his gaze. What he missed by the second was the prompt arrival of Severus, but beyond stumping him, it wouldn't be of any use to bear the knowledge of.
“Not for now, I quite like it here,” James, seemingly either oblivious or indifferent to his spouse's fate, continued swaying his shorter partner in loopy, elegant circles. “With you.”
“Why, that is very gallant of you to say,” Regulus brightened up, steps gaining in confidence. At one point, James would leave, he had to, but not now. Not yet.
What happened next was the taller counterpart leaning in once again, uniting their lips in a sultry collision that forwarded waves of bliss through their facial muscles all the way to the tender muscle of their respective hearts. One slightly bigger, fuller, and more serene in pace, the other less impressive in size, shrunken, and racing in an almost arrythmic fashion. Melting into the moment and into the embrace of his lover, Regulus nearly forgot that the two of them were goners, one with lungs full of water and the other with a complete internal shutdown. Not a couple you see every day.
And as they kissed, images of their farewell kiss flashed within Reg's mind's eye. The setting: June 5th, 1979, atop the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts, nine, ten, eleven – time didn't play a vital role in that scenario – in the evening. Regulus had received a curt notice in form of a covert hand gesture in the Great Hall immediately after dinner that encouraged him to come beforehand. From that moment on, he understood it had been over. Anyone who has ever been in a relationship or at least upheld a liaison of certain value knows for a fact that the last few days leading up to the termination of the partnership are the most painful; oftentimes more harrowing than the cessation itself. As though you're forced on your knees, a sword dunked in searing acid is driven through your chest, melting the arrow that Cupid had once shot you with, and eating away at the heart, surrounding tissue, and all feeling that it has left, introducing a temporary numbness. It appears like your body functions on autopilot, it not being you who operates your limbs in order to move, but the limbs carrying you instead. You're not entirely yourself, and once the vibrant spectacle of a relationship concludes at last, you are either built back up again or crumble completely. Regulus loathed the idea of crumbling, however he was sure he would.
It was dawning when he had been climbing the tough steps of metal, his boots meeting them with brazen thuds. The sky was fading from a mellow, pale blue into a rich apricot, which would linger for a few minutes and then in its turn dissolve into purplish darkness. He had the sky patterns all figured out by then – the countless clandestine dates spent up there gave better lectures than any Astronomy professor ever could. James had already been there, been pacing, rubbing his face, palms, kicking non-existent rocks off the platform and into the atypical for June weather wintry air of the oncoming evening. Safe to say, he'd never encountered James Potter so nervous. Not before exams, not before Quidditch games, not before receiving a massive dressing-down. Never.
He stuttered when he spoke, avoided eye contact for longer than three seconds at a time, swayed his counterpart's hands instead of simply holding them, squeezed in awkward laughs and intakes of breath mid-speech, blinked abnormally often to prevent any tears from spilling. It didn't help. Regulus expected to hear every single matter he had mentioned, listening attentively as sentences spilled out of James' mouth in a barely cohesive glob of word. His brain registered the points given, reflected upon them, but accepting them – that was certainly too much to ask back then. After the taller boy was done rambling, the one across from him whispered a consenting All right, raised his body on tiptoes, and as James clung onto his waist for dear life, placed his lips on his. Not too terribly long, the kiss was miserable: trails of salty tears flooded into it, lips trembled, and it was urged on with nothing but pure ache of the heart.
Regulus assumed that beyond simply theirs, many hearts broke apart on that day, and though the cognisance of said fact took some weight off of his shoulders, it nevertheless remained an encounter so distressing, his heart shrunk and clenched at the sole notion of it.
He need not remember it now. Now that he was reunited with James, now that they were together again, better than ever, dancing, delighting in one another's company, at a place so darling and important to both of them, he didn't need that melancholy fuel. He was enveloped in his sultry, gentle touch, and that should've been enough. That had always been what he most dearly pined after, always. Selfishly, Regulus came to the ultimate conclusion, that now that they shared heaven together, there would be nothing and no one standing in the way of their love any longer.
James disrupted his train of thought soon after their lips had parted, “Now would be the perfect time to tell me all about that heroic mission you so cryptically evaded writing about in your letter.” In response, the shorter boy issued a heavy sigh.
“It's a story too long and tedious to be told.”
Regulus should've known his lover wasn't one to back down.
“Good news that we have all the time in the world.”