Chapter Text
Regulus Black hated Mondays with the kind of fervor usually reserved for arch-nemeses in dramatic revenge plots. Mondays were not just a day; they were a personal affront, a cosmic joke played at his expense. Mondays were the reason he was standing in a coffee shop queue that snaked long enough to make him reconsider every life choice he’d ever made.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glaring daggers at the barista who appeared far too chipper for someone alive at this ungodly hour. The man ahead of him—who had the audacity to order some caramel monstrosity with extra whipped cream—was taking forever. Regulus hated him. He hated his scarf, he hated his shoes, and most of all, he hated how his order was making Regulus’ life unnecessarily harder.
The sun, unhelpfully bright and scorching, streamed through the shop’s enormous windows like it had something to prove. Regulus squinted at it, clutching his manuscript-filled satchel closer to his side as though the sunlight might vaporize it. It was entirely possible; he trusted neither the sun nor the day.
Outside, the street buzzed with activity, an endless stream of honking horns and screeching tires. Cars piled up in traffic jams like they’d been sent specifically to ruin his carefully constructed plans of solitude. Pedestrians milled about, oblivious to his simmering irritation. He hated their happy chatter, their apparent lack of existential crises, and their overpriced sunglasses.
Eventually, after what felt like decades, Regulus reached the counter. He gave his usual order: black coffee, no sugar, no nonsense, just bitter fuel to power him through the mess of the day. A drink that matched his soul, thank you very much. He ignored the barista’s overly cheerful “Have a great day!” because, quite frankly, it was too late for that.
By the time he made it out of the café, he was already tallying up everything else that had gone wrong that morning. His shirt collar was scratchy. His shoes squeaked when he walked. The air smelled faintly of wet concrete. And then there was the director.
Ah, yes. The root cause of his spiral into despair.
Regulus wasn’t unfamiliar with disliking people; it was practically his second nature. But his hatred for the director responsible for his current predicament was something truly special. A masterpiece, even. It was a hatred that burned so brightly it could have powered London for a week.
Regulus Black’s life had been, up until recently, a carefully curated cocktail of routine misery. He liked it that way. Misery, after all, was predictable. It was dependable. It didn’t demand meetings or smile at you across a desk while stabbing you in the back. And yet, for reasons he still couldn’t fully articulate, he had broken his one unshakable rule: never trust anyone who says “I’m a huge fan of your work” and also wears loafers without socks.
For the past two months, his latest novel, Chasing Cars , had been an unstoppable hit. Critics called it “a stunning exploration of heartbreak and human connection,” which was pretentious speak for “Regulus Black really hates happy endings.” It was all anyone could talk about, and while Regulus had enjoyed the fleeting glow of success, he quickly grew tired of being bombarded with emails, requests, and—most horrifying of all—fan art. (Some of it was actually decent, which made him suspicious.)
When the film producers started sniffing around, it had taken weeks for them to wear him down. His readers wanted it, his agent begged for it, and at some point, someone made a very compelling argument involving percentages and royalties. Against all odds and every bone in his deeply cynical body, Regulus said yes.
That was his first mistake.
His second mistake was assuming it would stop there.
Because now, just two weeks after sending off the email of reluctant approval, he was seated in a conference room that smelled like stale coffee and crushed dreams, surrounded by strangers with disturbingly optimistic smiles, about to regret every decision he’d ever made as they were to discuss the details. And by “details,” they apparently included the casting of characters.
Which was a nightmare, mostly for Regulus himself.
“No.”
Regulus didn’t bother looking up from his coffee as he delivered his verdict. He said it with the kind of cold, definitive finality that could stop wars or ruin birthday parties.
Charlie, the casting director, paused mid-sentence, blinking in confusion. “What?”
“I said no,” Regulus repeated, finally meeting Charlie’s gaze.
Charlie tilted his head, clearly perplexed. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean exactly what it sounds like,” Regulus said. “No. That is not happening.”
Charlie frowned, shifting in his seat. “But he’s perfect for the role. He’s got the range, the charm—”
“Absolutely not,” Regulus cut in, his voice as sharp as a paper cut. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”
“Well,” Charlie said, straightening his posture and plastering on a diplomatic smile that made Regulus want to throw his coffee at him, “I suppose there’s nothing you can do about it, because we’ve already sent him an inquiry for the screen test.”
Regulus blinked, feeling a very specific kind of rage bubble up inside him. It was the sort of rage that made him want to do something dramatic, like flip a table or fire his agent. “Then unsend it,” he snapped.
Charlie winced, scratching the back of his neck in what could only be described as feigned remorse. “Yeah… about that…”
Regulus’ eyes narrowed. “What.”
“Well,” Charlie said, dragging out the word like he was stalling for time, “he’s already on his way to the studio. Should be here in about… twenty minutes?”
Regulus stared at him, the weight of those words landing squarely on his chest. For a long, terrifying moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.
“Twenty minutes,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the phrase for weaknesses.
Charlie nodded enthusiastically, mistaking Regulus’ eerie calm for acceptance. “Yup! Isn’t that great? You’ll get to meet him in person, see him in action—”
And that pretty much summed up why Regulus dreaded Mondays.
Now, he was currently staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, gripping the sink like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. He looked… well, “presentable” was a generous term. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, his hair was doing that unfortunate swoop thing again, and there was a tiny coffee stain on his collar he hadn’t noticed earlier.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“If I stand here long enough, maybe the ground will swallow me,” he muttered to himself, glaring at his reflection as though it were personally responsible for the entire mess.
Because really, if he hadn’t left the conference room when he did, god knows what he would’ve done to Charlie. Probably something dramatic and deeply regrettable, like throwing his coffee at him or strangling him with that ludicrous tie of his. Regulus prided himself on being composed, but even he had his limits, and Charlie was practically tap-dancing on every single one.
Twenty minutes, Regulus thought bitterly, gripping the sink tighter. Twenty fucking minutes until he’s face-to-face with the man he haven’t seen in six years.
It was like some cruel cosmic joke.
The thing was, Regulus Black used to date James Potter. Not that it was exactly common knowledge. Only a handful of people knew—the handful being his insufferable brother Sirius, a couple of mutual friends who swore themselves to secrecy, and possibly the bartender at the dive they used to frequent.
To the rest of the world, Regulus Black and James Potter existed in completely separate spheres. One was a bestselling author with a reputation for reclusive brilliance and a tendency to terrify interviewers; the other was a well-loved actor who seemed to radiate effortless charm and charisma.
In truth, their worlds had collided in spectacular fashion years ago, and for a brief, fleeting period, it had been good. Better than good.
Until it wasn’t.
And now, thanks to Charlie and his appalling decision-making skills (also the ability to not consult him beforehand, like how any normal human being would), the past that Regulus had so carefully buried was about to come hurtling back into his life at approximately 100 miles per hour, grinning like an idiot and probably carrying a coffee cup in his hand like some sort of karmic taunt.
Why would he care, right? It’s been six years since it ended. Six years since they went their separate ways, and Regulus had worked very hard to convince himself he was okay now.
He had a routine. A carefully curated life that left little room for surprises or emotional chaos. A life he’d planned meticulously, down to the exact amount of butter in his toast. He had his writing, his solitude, and an enviable collection of cashmere sweaters.
So no, of course he didn’t care. Why would he?
Except he did.
Because, despite all his best efforts—and he had tried, oh how he’d tried —Regulus Black was not entirely over James Fleamont Potter.
And that was a huge problem.
It wasn’t something he liked to think about, let alone admit. In fact, he’d done an admirable job of repressing it, burying those feelings under layers of scorn, bitterness, and a healthy dose of denial. But the second Charlie had uttered James’ name in that horrifically chipper tone, it all came rushing back.
The memories. The arguments. The moments so sweet they made his teeth ache. The way James used to look at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
He then began to calculate how long it would take to flood the bathroom and drown himself. It couldn’t be that hard, right? Block the sink, turn on the tap, and let the existential dread do the rest. A dignified end.
Although, knowing his luck, Charlie would probably come barging in before he could finish the job, chirping something about how excited they were to have James bloody Potter on board.
Regulus groaned, letting his head thud against the mirror. “I’m going to kill him,” he muttered. “Charlie first. Then me.”
Just as he was mapping out the logistics of his entirely hypothetical escape plan—step one: flood bathroom; step two: vanish without a trace—his phone buzzed violently in his pocket.
The timer.
The five minutes he had so graciously allowed himself to spiral were up.
Regulus stared at the notification, his stomach sinking. The screen glared back at him mercilessly, as if mocking him for daring to hope that time could stand still.
With a resigned sigh, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and straightened up. His reflection looked marginally better now that he wasn’t actively considering drowning himself, but the dull look of despair in his eyes remained stubbornly intact.
“All right, Black,” he muttered, adjusting his collar and smoothing back his hair. “Let’s go meet your doom.”
He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked out of the bathroom.
The room for the screen test was, in Regulus’ expert opinion, offensively tiny.
The air felt heavier the moment he stepped in, as if the walls were conspiring to crush him under the weight of his impending doom. He scowled, looking around at the cramped space, his already frazzled nerves buzzing with irritation.
The chairs were lined up too close together, the lighting was aggressively fluorescent, and the entire setup screamed budget constraints. Regulus made a mental note to complain to his agent later— again —as he reluctantly made his way to one of the chairs in front of the ominously empty stage area where the screen tests were conducted.
He sat down stiffly, crossing his legs and pretending not to notice how the cramped room practically guaranteed one thing: proximity. Because a small room means a higher chance of being close to James Potter. And that’s the last thing Regulus would need.
Regulus had barely settled into the uncomfortable chair when Charlie burst into the room, practically vibrating with excitement. The kind of excitement that made Regulus immediately wary, because nothing good ever came of Charlie being that cheerful.
“They’re here!” Charlie announced, clapping his hands together like this was the best day of his life. “This is it! Oh, this is going to be amazing.”
Regulus frowned, already bracing himself. “Already?”
Charlie gave him a look, equal parts incredulous and delighted. “They’re here, Regulus. James Potter and his team just arrived! Isn’t this exciting?”
Regulus’ grip on the armrest tightened, his knuckles turning white. Exciting? Exciting?! There were many words he could think of to describe the current situation, but “exciting” wasn’t one of them.
“That’s… lovely,” he said flatly, his voice barely concealing the simmering rage beneath the surface.
“And guess what?” Charlie barreled on, entirely ignoring the warning signs. “Since it’s your novel and all, I think it’d be a great idea if you went out and welcomed him yourself! You know, to make a good impression. Maybe even chat a bit. Build rapport!”
Regulus stared at him, his brain short-circuiting. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Come on, it’s perfect!” Charlie said, completely undeterred. “You’re the author, he’s the star—well, potentially. Don’t you think it’d be great for him to hear directly from you about your vision?”
Regulus’ jaw clenched so tightly it was a miracle he didn’t break a tooth. He wanted to snap. To launch into a scathing rant about how he hadn’t even asked for this—hadn’t wanted this.
Because he hadn’t. He hadn’t asked for the live adaptation, hadn’t asked to sit in a tiny, poorly lit room with fluorescent lights that made everything look vaguely sickly, and he certainly hadn’t asked to welcome James bloody Potter like he was the guest of honor at some sort of twisted reunion.
Hell, he hadn’t even known the casting was happening this soon.
“Charlie,” Regulus said slowly, his voice dangerously calm, “That’s enough.”
Charlie blinked, looking genuinely confused—the audacity of this bloke, really. “What’s enough?”
“This.” Regulus gestured vaguely around him, as if the entirety of the day’s disasters could somehow be encapsulated by a single sweep of his hand. “I didn’t even agree to casting James Potter. I didn’t agree to this screen test. I didn’t even agree to be here.”
“Well, technically you did agree to the adaptation,” Charlie said, shrugging as if that somehow solved everything.
Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to commit actual murder. “That’s not the point.”
Before Charlie could utter another word, the door creaked open, and every ounce of air seemed to be sucked out of the room.
Regulus knew, without even needing to look, that he was done for.
It wasn’t just the abrupt silence that descended upon the room, though that certainly didn’t help. It was the telltale sound of footsteps—confident, unhurried, and utterly infuriatingly familiar.
He didn’t want to look. He really didn’t. But some masochistic part of him couldn’t resist, and so, against his better judgment, his eyes flicked toward the door.
And there he was.
The loss of his life. James Potter.
Looking almost offensively good, as if the last six years had only made him more charming, more handsome, more everything that Regulus did not need in his life right now. His hair was the same reckless mess it had always been, his smile was as annoyingly bright as ever, and of course, because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, he was holding a cup of coffee— pretty sure it was filled with 75% of milk. Because that’s just how James Potter is.
“Hey, everyone!” James called cheerfully, striding into the room as if he owned it. His voice was warm, familiar, and entirely too loud for the tiny, claustrophobic space.
Regulus immediately averted his gaze, staring intently at the floor as if it was the most interesting subject right now. This is fine. Everything is fine .
“Ah, Mr. Potter!” Charlie practically tripped over himself rushing to greet him, his earlier crimes of obliviousness forgotten in the face of what he clearly considered a major celebrity moment. “So glad you could make it!”
“Of course,” James said, his tone easy and light. Regulus could hear the smile in his voice, and it made him want to sink into the floor. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake , Regulus thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
He stayed glued to his chair, wishing fervently for the ability to turn invisible, or at least teleport out of the room. But, unfortunately, fate wasn’t on his side today. It never was to begin with.
Because James’ gaze swept across the room, and when it landed on Regulus, his smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. Not enough for anyone else to notice—but Regulus noticed. He always noticed.
“Regulus,” James said, his voice softer now, almost cautious.
Regulus finally looked up, forcing himself to meet James’ gaze. His expression was carefully neutral, a masterpiece of indifference honed over years of avoidance.
“James,” he said flatly, as if the simple utterance of his name didn’t twist something deep inside him.
Charlie, ever the embodiment of obliviousness, practically skipped between them after chatting with the person James came with—probably his manager, grinning like this was the most exciting networking event of his life. “Mr. Potter, I’m sure you’ve heard of R.A.B. as well?”
James, infuriatingly casual, didn’t tear his gaze away from Regulus. His smile, easy and familiar, widened just slightly as he nodded. “Of course. How could I not?”
Regulus stood awkwardly, forcing himself up from his chair because staying seated felt unbearable—too low, too vulnerable. He straightened his spine and smoothed the front of his sweater, praying it made him look composed instead of like someone trying desperately to keep their life from spiraling.
“It’s nice to meet you, James Potter,” Regulus said, his tone clipped and polite, the perfect facade of professionalism.
James’ grin tilted into something softer, something that made Regulus’ chest tighten in a way he immediately resented. “The pleasure’s all mine, Reg,” he replied, and the casual use of his nickname—one James hadn’t earned the right to use anymore—was like a sucker punch.
Regulus clenched his jaw, his neutral expression faltering for the briefest moment. Not Reg. Not anymore , he wanted to snap, but he couldn’t exactly lose it in front of Charlie and the rest of the production team, who were watching this interaction like it was a high-stakes soap opera.
“Wonderful! This is wonderful!” Charlie clapped his hands together, his voice dragging Regulus out of his spiraling thoughts. “Now, I think we should get started with the screen test. Shall we?”
James finally shifted his gaze, breaking the tension that had been hanging in the air like a storm cloud. He looked to Charlie with that same relaxed confidence that had been driving Regulus to the brink of madness since the moment he walked in. “Sure thing,” he said easily.
As James turned toward the stage area, Charlie gave Regulus an encouraging nudge that nearly sent him stumbling. “See? Not so bad, right?”
Regulus shot him a glare that could have melted steel. You have no idea what you’re talking about , he thought bitterly.
Charlie practically bounded back, a script in hand, which he thrust toward James with the eagerness of someone who hadn’t just orchestrated Regulus’ personal nightmare. “Here you go, Mr. Potter! This is the condensed manuscript we’ve been using for the screen tests—key scenes and standout lines. Should give you a solid sense of the story.”
James accepted it with an easy smile and a polite nod, flipping it open without hesitation. Regulus, meanwhile, clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself not to react.
Because Chasing Cars was not just any story.
Sure, to the world, it was a critically acclaimed tale about two people who couldn’t stop reaching for what they couldn’t have—chasing false dreams, hopes, and fantasies that seemed just out of reach. A story of doomed lovers, destined to orbit one another forever but never quite able to collide. It was a slow, aching descent into heartbreak, wrapped in prose that reviewers had called “ hauntingly poignant ” and “ gut-wrenchingly raw. ”
But to Regulus, it was… well, it sounds so painfully familiar, does it?.
And now, as James scanned the pages, Regulus couldn’t shake the feeling that he would put two and two together. He wasn’t stupid—infuriatingly optimistic and overly confident, maybe—but not stupid.
As James’ eyes flicked across the lines, his expression shifted, ever so slightly. It was subtle, the kind of change that someone who hadn’t spent years knowing every inch of his face might have missed. But Regulus noticed. Of course, he noticed.
James’ brow furrowed as he read, his lips twitching downward into a faint frown. Then, as he flipped the page, his eyes flicked up briefly—just briefly—to glance at Regulus.
There it was. That flicker of understanding.
Regulus swallowed hard, his nails digging into his palms. He could practically feel the unspoken question hanging in the air. How much of this is you? How much of this is… us?
Charlie, oblivious as ever, was still rambling. “The story is just so moving, don’t you think? The themes of longing and inevitability, of knowing something isn’t good for you but wanting it anyway… It’s brilliant!” He turned to James, grinning. “You’re going to nail this.”
James didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he closed the manuscript slowly, his thumb lingering on the edge of the pages. He looked back at Regulus again, his gaze steady now, as if searching for something.
Regulus lifted his chin and met his eyes with practiced indifference.
James tilted his head, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice warm but laced with something unreadable. “I think I get it.”
Regulus’ stomach churned.
Oh, he got it, all right.
And now there was no way James Potter wouldn’t realize just how much of Chasing Cars was ripped directly from the ruins of their past.
James leaned back slightly, flipping through the manuscript again with casual ease, though his eyes seemed sharper now, focused. “So,” he said, looking up at Charlie, “which part do you want me to do? Got a favorite scene in here?”
Charlie waved a hand dismissively, grinning. “Oh, no need for specifics. You’re the expert, Mr. Potter. Just go with whatever strikes you most. The part you feel most connected to.”
Regulus barely resisted the urge to strangle Charlie on the spot. Connected to? The irony was so thick he could choke on it.
James nodded thoughtfully, his gaze flickering to Regulus for the briefest of moments—so quick that Charlie didn’t catch it, but long enough for Regulus to feel the heat crawling up his neck. Then, with a quiet, “Alright, give me a second,” James stood and made his way to the center of the tiny stage area.
He moved with that same easy grace Regulus had always hated—effortless, like the world bent itself to accommodate him. He shrugged off his jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms that were just as infuriatingly distracting as Regulus remembered.
“Okay,” James said, flipping the manuscript to a specific page. He didn’t even need Charlie to hold up a clapperboard or shout “Action.” He just stood there for a moment, shoulders relaxing, head tilting slightly forward, and when he lifted his gaze again, it wasn’t James Potter standing there anymore—it was the character.
His voice dropped into something softer, richer, his usual warmth replaced by a thread of desperation that pierced the air like a knife.
“No,” James began, shaking his head slightly, his tone quiet but crackling with intensity. “We’re not soulmates.” He let the word hang for a moment, the bitterness in it like the taste of ash.
“This isn’t divine intervention,” he continued, his voice rising slightly, sharpening with every syllable. “This is not fate, and this is most certainly not chance.”
He paused, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, his hands clenching at his sides as if to keep himself grounded. His next words came out quieter, tinged with raw conviction.
“I willed this. I took the threads of fate in my hands and twisted them myself , again and again, until they spelled your name.” His voice cracked, just barely, and Regulus’ heart twisted painfully in response.
“I love you,” James said, and the words hung heavy in the room, too loud for the silence around them. His expression softened, his eyes wide and pleading, as if trying to convey a truth too big for the air to hold. “I love you with every scrap of conscience I was born with, every shred of feeling I didn’t think I was capable of having. I love you with the parts of me I hate, the parts I wish I could tear out and throw away, because even those belong to you now.”
Regulus’ breath caught in his throat, and he had to look away, his nails biting into his palms. It was too much. Too raw. Too familiar.
James took a small step forward, his voice breaking into a whisper, each word trembling with emotion. “And I know—God, I know—you’ll never believe me. That you’ll call this a mistake, that you’ll think I’m lying, or selfish, or both.” His hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. “But even if you walk away, even if you burn every last bit of this to ash, it won’t stop. I won’t stop.”
The room felt suffocating. Regulus could barely hear Charlie’s murmured, awed “Wow” over the pounding in his ears.
James let the silence stretch for a long moment before blinking, as if shaking himself free from the trance he’d created. He straightened up, his usual easy smile slipping back into place like it had never left. “That work for you?” he asked lightly, looking directly at Charlie.
Charlie clapped enthusiastically. “Perfect! Absolutely perfect. You’ve got the part locked, no doubt about it.”
Meanwhile, Regulus was sitting frozen in his chair, feeling like he’d been physically flayed alive. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, or maybe just cease existing entirely. Because James Potter wasn’t supposed to be that good at this.
And he definitely wasn’t supposed to make Regulus feel like this—like every word was meant for him, like they were the only two people in the room. Like the years and walls between them had suddenly, terrifyingly collapsed.
“Excuse me, I need a moment,” Regulus said stiffly, his voice sounding more like a strangled croak than anything remotely composed. He didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t dare to.
He stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and walked out of the room with a speed that could almost be mistaken for dignity.
Almost.
And as the door clicked shut behind him, Regulus realized with a sinking feeling that no amount of distance would be enough to outrun James Potter.