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James zips his puffer up to his chin, tucks his jeans into a pair of old wellies, and braves the journey down to the back of the estate. The rain-saturated fields squelch under his feet as he watches little fairy wrens and robins flit about in the barren branches. He crosses through brambles and greets the sheep, old fluff balls that remind him a little of his father, merrily, quietly going about their days with little acknowledgment to strangers. Quaint. It’s always quaint out here. The landscape is a subtle swatch of greys, browns and greens. Gnarly naked oaks jutting into a great big overcast sky, ivy snaking over gates, and the grass a pale green caked in morning dew. James fears that the casual observer would see him, and find, not an eighteen year old delinquent who terrorises local pubs, but a disgruntled old man tending his farm, all he needs now is a flat cap and a pipe. Chuckling to himself, he ducks through a little sidepass inbetween pastures, lined with field elms and hawthorns, keeping to the side banks, avoiding the thick muddy puddles in the centre. Ignoring how his trousers catch on brambles and holly bushes, he approaches his target. A centuries old oak with low hanging branches which kiss the ground and twist into hollows and crooks.
There, he finds a boy - Regulus - a year younger than himself and presently curled up into the elbow of the largest, lowest branch, nose buried in a book. He looks slightly tangled, he’s tall standing up, not as tall as James, but long-limbed and thin, now a mess of elegant sharp lines with arms cradling the book resting on his knees, his back firmly in place in the bend of the branch. His hair is a windswept black, loose thick curls tickling his pale face, which he has to brush away from his silvery eyes every so often as they obscure his vision. Pesky things. If the boy notices his approach, he gives no indication.
“Hello.” James chirps.
Regulus snaps his head over to him, his body swaying slightly in the crook of the tree in a way that makes James’ heart lurch. He steadies himself, expression smoothed.
“Hello.” He replies.
“What are you doing out here?” James asks gently.
Regulus shoots him a shy smile. “I'm very fond of walking.”
James shakes his head fondly. oh this boy.
“I know.” James replies. Regulus tilts his head at him, grey eyes crinkling in confusion. He’s painfully beautiful up close. Sharp cheekbones and jaw softened by full lips and fluffy hair that James longs to card his fingers through.
“And how do you know that?” Regulus questions playfully.
How did he know? Well, James is a romantic. He revels in the poems and proverbs his mother reads him about love and daydreaming. He finds beauty everywhere, in each season he gazes out the bay windows and admires the first buds of spring, the hares that skip across the fields, the shy rays of sun breaking through winter ice. He makes up stories for tweed-clad strangers in pubs and twelve year old boys at their polo lessons and the middle aged women in little boutiques full of organic beeswax wraps and ceramic mugs on the main strip of town. But his favourite story is that of his neighbours, if you could call them that. The Blacks live in a great mansion not dissimilar from the Potter’s own, and the two families’ estates border each other. The houses are a thirty minute trek apart, so he hardly sees the Black mansion’s occupants, but he knows there are two boys. One his age, Sirius, who he only sees on their estate once in a blue moon, when he ventures out to smoke away from the prying eye of his parents, or if he sneaks out to the Footman’s pub at the same time as James. The other boy, Regulus, James sees almost every day. Well every day of the few months he’s home from boarding school that is. James wakes up every morning, and perches by those bay windows in his room and watches the boy take the same trail, like habit, a little dot in the distance hopping the fence that separates their properties and trundling down to the oak tree. And everyday, around lunch time, he watches him make the journey back, and sometimes he takes the path closer to the Potter Manor, and if James really strains his eyes he can make out the colour of the book tucked under his arm. It’s been a green hardcover the past two days. James spends his afternoons wondering its title, wondering what Regulus thinks about on his walks, whether he notices the hares dashing through the undergrowth or the moss growing in between the greystones of the pasture fences. Whether he is lonely, whether he wants company.
“I’m your neighbour.” James says in lieu of ‘I watch you obsessively’. “What are you reading?”
Regulus appears a little caught off guard by the topic change. He lifts his book slightly, James can make out the paisley pattern on its cover. “Wuthering Heights.”
James whistles to the wind. “Bit depressing isn’t it?”
Regulus shrugs. “I think it's beautiful.”
James watches the way his lip quirks up as he speaks. “Yeah, it is.”
James takes another moment to take in Regulus’ appearance and clears his throat. “Right, well. I’ll leave you to it. Oh, I’m James by the way.” He supplies.
“Regulus.” The boy says.
James waves before setting off back to the house. As he walks, he thinks not of moss and robins, but of green paisley copies of the Brontë sisters and soft black hair. There’s no doubt about it, James is absolutely smitten.
The next morning, instead of idly watching from the window, James pulls on his coat, skipping breakfast in favour of hurrying down the hedge-lined path to the back gate, crossing the field to the far fences, to intercept a slender figure clad in a grey fleece jacket and a dark green knitted hat. James takes note of how the beanie flattens his hair rather adorably and makes the flushed pink of his cheeks stand out.
“Oh. Hi.” Regulus looks shocked to see him, despite likely spying his approach several minutes ago.
“I thought you might like some company today on your way to the Oak, if that’s alright?” James speaks tentatively, not wanting to scare him off.
Regulus smiles at his boots. “Yeah. That’s alright.” They start walking down the field. Regulus falters. “How did you know I took this route?”
James sputters a bit, feeling caught out. “I- uh. I can see you from my window.”
Regulus turns to look at him, assessing his words with piercing grey eyes. “Oh.” Regulus is blushing now, or maybe it’s just the wind whipping scarlett into his cheeks. “I hope you don’t mind, I know it’s technically your estate, but I like the tree…” He trails off.
“Of course we don’t mind, my parents always say the land should be public. You should come stop by for tea some time.” James offers.
Regulus scuffs at the grass a little as he walks. “Yeah. Maybe.” He mumbles.
Over the next week, they build a little routine. Even in the rain, James meets him at the fence each morning, and he walks him up to the old Oak. Regulus tells him what’s happening in his book, James tells him the stories he makes up for pub strangers. They fall into comfortable silences. Every now and then, James notices a shadow pass over the other boy’s face, a sad sort of resignation. He learns not to ask about his family, except his brother, his eyes light up when he talks about Sirius Black. James can’t suppress the fond smiles that break out on his face. Everyday, James leaves him once they reach the tree, and when Regulus returns in the afternoon, he raises an arm in the direction of the Potter Manor and James grins stupidly at the blur of black in the distance.
One morning, when the pair reach the oak tree, its branches blanketed in dried moss after yesterday’s rain, thick boughs and brittle twigs lit half golden in the winter sun, darker shadows contrasting proudly with the rare blue sky, they come to a slight impasse. Both stand still by the trunk, unspeaking. Usually James would leave, but it seems a shame to waste the sun cooped up inside working on his winter homework. Regulus turns to him. He looks so alive in the light, it makes James want to whisk him away to some beachfront resort and let him sunbake until he’s covered in little freckles and those dark purple circles under his eyes fade into tan.
“Did you want to come up?” Regulus asks in that inexpressive, self-assured way of his.
James grins. “I would love to.” He watches Regulus scramble up from one of the lower hanging branches that reaches the floor. James decides to flaunt his athleticism and jumps up to grab onto a thick bough, pulling himself up in a muscle-up, because why not. Regulus rolls his eyes. They meet in the same crook of oak, Regulus curled up in the fold with his knees up, James sitting on the side with his legs dangling down the shallow drop.
“So..” James meets his eyes with a smirk. Regulus huffs a laugh. “Yes Potter?” He entertains good naturedly.
“What do you do when you’re not here?”
Regulus furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”
“When you’re not at the estate, at school or whatever, where do you walk then?”
“Well, I’m always here. We’re homeschooled. We have a governess.” He sighs, looking at James’ swinging feet.
“Oh. Do you… like it?” James feels a pang of sympathy. He wants to know why, why is this magnificent boy holed up inside a sinister old house all his life, but he doesn’t want to pry.
“I- It’s not so bad.” Regulus mumbled non committedly. “ I mean, it’s all I’ve ever known really. Sirius wants us to escape though.” His eyes are far away. James is caught on the word ‘escape’. What are they running from?
Regulus sighs again. “It’s hard to make friends though. Just those stuffy pretentious kids Mother brings over for fancy dinners. God they’re awful James you have no idea.” He laughs bluntly.
“Well good thing you’ve got me.” James swings a leg over the branch, in a straddle. “I’m your friend.” He studies the way the sunlight dapples through the shadows of twigs and stray dead leaves, casting patterns on Regulus’ face.
Regulus copies James’ position and meets his eyes. “Is that what we are? Friends?”
“We can be whatever you want us to be.” James counters, watching grey eyes shine silver and gleam with little specks of green.
Regulus hums, smirking, before leaning forward to snake his arms around James’ neck. James’ skin practically sings at the touch. James closes the space between them with a soft kiss on softer lips. He pulls away, just in time to watch a glorious, full smile spread on the other boy’s face. The widest he’s seen yet. He matches it. James brings a finger to trace the dimples on his face, before cupping his jaw and leaning back in, kissing him properly.
The book in Regulus’ hands which was resting against James’ back, slips from his grasp as the other boy tangles fingers in James’ thick curls, and drags a hand over the bronzed skin of his cheek. A green paisley hardcover of Wuthering Heights, dog-eared with two chapters left, lies on a bed of decaying oak leaves.
Regulus comes up for air and looks back at him with a flushed expression, hair messed and lips pink. James feels a swell of affection. Regulus straightens the wire-framed glasses on James’ nose. He fiddles with his hands, looking uncertain.
“I- Do you- My parents-“
“Don’t worry. Regulus I’m not going to tell anyone that you don’t want to know, okay?” James implores. The other boy relaxes. James feels his throat constrict a little before he speaks. “I really do like you Regulus.” He watches another blush spread on pale cheeks. “I’ve grown quite fond of walking.”
“I know.” Regulus smiles lopsidedly at him. “I’ve grown quite fond of you.” He admits. James feels his heart swell as a laugh bubbles out.
“Did you want to come for tea?” James asks through a grin.
Regulus laughs. “Yeah, alright James, I’ll come for tea.”