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On nights like these, when Sirius’s muggle neighbours set off fireworks long past an acceptable hour, Regulus hides.
It doesn’t seem to matter that things are different now. That he has well-loved rugs to soften his step, or that the fireplace coats the flat in a residual warmth that most would deem cosy.
Regulus might not be creeping around Grimmauld Place any longer, but his joints continue to protest like a settling house. The body remembers.
It’s the noise that he can’t quite hack, and as Regulus is discovering, New Year’s Eve is all about noise. Even in the flat itself, which is crammed to bursting point with Sirius’s friends.
They’re nice enough.
For the first month, they eyed him warily, as if they suspected he might have his wand tucked up his sleeve, ready to aim.
He can’t exactly blame them for that.
In fact, he almost preferred it to the placating smiles they offer him now, like he’s a mangy dog they caught begging at the back door.
His pursuit of a hiding spot leads him to the bathroom. For another night, perhaps, but too obvious a spot in a house of those downing liquor like it’s water. The window doesn’t shut right, further amplifying the racket overhead, the accompanying cheers from gardens below.
Regulus pulls the door shut and heads for the bedrooms.
Sirius’s bedroom.
He’d never tell his brother this, but Regulus feels least like an exposed nerve ending when surrounded by Sirius’s things. Shoddy motorbike manuals, second-hand records, and Remus’s muggle books that Sirius pretends to borrow so as not to reveal that they’re sharing a bed.
Evidence that Sirius has built a life for himself in the after.
Evidence that there is, in fact, an after.
The room smells like smoke and the sharp alcohol of cheap aftershave.
Regulus moves silently, something he perfected back at Grimmauld.
The built-in wardrobe has been left cracked open, like Sirius couldn’t be bothered shutting it all the way, and the lamp’s weak bulb douses the room in a yellow haze, its lopsided shade tipped in greeting. He leaves it on, stepping over odd socks and inside-out jumpers, placing an open book back on the bedside table.
The wardrobe door resists when he pulls it, stuck on something, and Regulus hauls harder. There’s probably a sock jammed under it. Bracing himself with a solid stance, he grips the handle and yanks as hard as he can.
It gives, and something shifts.
An oof. A flailing limb. A sock, yes, but attached to the limb.
Regulus freezes. Of all the possibilities he had accounted for, James Potter stealing his hiding spot wasn’t one of them.
“D’you mind?” James says. “You’re letting the heat out.”
He offers Regulus a crooked grin, and Regulus tries very hard not to notice the dimple on his left cheek.
“Well? Coming in, or not?” James jabs a thumb behind him. One of his socks has red and yellow stripes, while the other is a deep cerulean. Not even close to a matching pair.
“I…” Regulus tries, unable to see past the socks, or the dimple.
Before he can move out of reach, James grasps Regulus’s hand and drags him into the wardrobe, immediately fixing the door back to its almost-shut state. Cracked just enough to let the lamplight graze them.
“Surprising amount of space in here, actually,” James says, mildly. “‘Course he got the biggest wardrobe—jammy fucker.”
Regulus isn’t sure how he ended up here, sitting across from James Potter, who is addressing him like they make a habit of meeting in dark corners.
He used to excel at small talk, but now that he doesn’t have to do it, he appears to have forgotten how. Instead, he blinks uselessly at a chip in the wood above James’s head.
“Could do with some glow in the dark stars or something, just to spruce the place up a bit.”
Regulus wills himself to say something, anything, but his throat feels like it’s been stuffed with several of Sirius’s stray socks.
Thankfully, James talks enough for the both of them.
“Almost shat myself when you opened the door,” he says. “Thought you were one of the others, and I’d be dragged back down there. They’re all well pushy after a drink.”
The low lighting emphasises the outlandish way James’s hair sticks out at one side. Regulus decides to close his eyes, when even that doesn’t seem to put him off. Not being able to see at least grants him the ability to pretend this isn’t happening.
“Why aren’t you downstairs?” he asks. His voice sounds unfamiliar, throat scratchy and dry. Perhaps he should have poured himself a beverage before abandoning the celebration.
The silence stretches, suspended overhead like the seconds before a downpour, and for a moment, it seems as though James has finally come to his senses. Only for a moment.
“I needed a breather,” James says, eventually.
Regulus scoffs. In all the years he’s watched James Potter, even from a distance, he’s never been someone to disappear from a party. The others revolve around him—their very own sun.
“You?” Regulus says, incredulous. He doesn’t mean for his tone to bite, but he was never taught to be gentle.
According to Sirius, these things take time. The venom might have been cleared from his system, but wounds take time to close. Scars itch, years on.
“Mhm,” James says, seemingly unaffected by Regulus’s unpleasantness. “You needed one too, I take it?”
Quite right, to throw the question back in his face.
Still, Regulus bristles, mouth open. He can’t explain the need to be surrounded, to know he won’t be snuck up on. To be away from the noise. Both the fireworks and the unrestrained joy of Sirius and his friends, even on the cusp of a fresh year.
“Yes,” he says. The word feels foreign in his mouth.
“You do this quite a lot, don’t you?” James asks. “I’ve seen you.”
The back of Regulus’s neck burns. Not even Sirius, who so rarely bites anything back, has brought it up. He’s been pretending that no one notices him slipping from the room, that his ability to move like a ghost extends beyond the halls of his family home.
“Why? Looking for someone to take the piss out of?” Regulus winces, even as he says it. He’s doing it again; trying to sink his teeth into something. He learned from the best.
“Of course not,” James replies. His voice softens when he adds, “I wouldn’t do that.”
Regulus is better at silence, and it goes on for so long that he thinks maybe James has fallen asleep. He wonders if he snores, and despises that it wouldn’t repulse him. He taps his fingers against his leg in counts of five.
Downstairs, things get rowdy. Raucous, tuneless singing to a record. Probably rocking in each other’s arms, downing dregs before sloshing refilled glasses in cheers.
The fireworks ramp up, too, muffled by the wardrobe door, but still too close. The whoosh and the bang, over and over.
When James shifts, Regulus risks a look, just for a second.
With his knees hiked to his chest and back rounded, James curls into himself like a child.
“Fuck,” James mutters after a particularly overbearing bang that’s presence seems to sizzle in the air, even after. “Fucking hate fireworks.”
Oh.
Regulus can’t stop looking, now.
None of them talk about before. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how young they all were. Even James Potter, with all of his bravado, has things he won’t discuss.
“I don’t like them either,” Regulus says. It’s not a peace offering, but something much worse. A confession.
James lifts his head. Even through the dimness, Regulus notes the way his knuckles pale from gripping his knees. Like he’s trying to hold his body together after a shoddy attempt at craftsmanship. This, too, Regulus understands.
What he doesn’t expect is for James to scoot across the threadbare carpet, to settle against Regulus’s wall. Beside him. Close enough for their arms to brush with every exhale.
And because the time for teenage silliness is long gone, he’ll pretend that the goosebumps are a consequence of the draft. Or a byproduct of anticipating the next onslaught of explosions, which his body still can’t differentiate from the sharp trill of his mother’s voice.
This is not the time for the way Regulus has always felt about James Potter to rear its ugly head. Instead, he taps his leg. Onetwothreefourfive.
“Would you maybe… talk about something?” James asks.
Regulus pauses. “What?”
“Doesn’t matter what, really, it just helps. Distracts me.”
Regulus is familiar with distractions.
“Did Sirius tell you that he and Remus want to open a muggle bookshop?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, courtesy of all of the books strewn across Sirius’s room, in danger of having their spines snapped by careless feet.
James barks a laugh. “He wants to do what?”
Nodding, Regulus turns to briefly lock eyes with James. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? I told him he’d be terribly bored.”
“He really said that? The man who paces while he reads?” The more James talks, the more he unfurls, legs stretching as far as they can before hitting the wardrobe door.
“Maybe it’s a New Year’s resolution thing,” Regulus replies, unable to resist a small smile. “Settling down.”
“Stranger things have happened, I suppose.” When James shrugs, Regulus feels it against his own shoulder. His insides fizz like hot butterbeer.
“What about you?” James adds.
“Me?”
“Got any New Year’s resolutions?” James nudges him lightly, doing nothing to help with the fizzing.
“Stop hiding in wardrobes, probably,” Regulus replies, and James laughs again, full-bellied and genuine.
“Mind if I nick that one?”
“Go for it.”
Their next silence is more comfortable. Regulus hadn’t considered that maybe there’s more to James Potter than the performance he used to put on at school—tie knotted around his head, frantically planning the next prank between bouts of terrible flirting with girls who wouldn’t look at him twice.
Regulus allows his aching muscles to untense, head resting against the wall. He keeps up the tapping, just in case.
Maybe, he considers, he’s been unfair.
“Can I ask you something?” This time, James sounds tentative, voice barely more than a whisper.
Regulus hums in response, gaze fixed on James’s stupid mismatched socks, the way his big toe wiggles beneath the cotton.
“Do you think I’m a complete twat?”
It catches Regulus off guard. He might have laughed, if James didn’t sound so sincere.
“You thought I’d take the piss, earlier, and I just… have this thing, where I feel like I’m pretending to be something I’m not. Especially after…” James clears his throat. “No one knows how scared I get, sometimes. Not even Sirius. That counts as lying, doesn’t it, even if you’re doing it so people won’t worry?” He forces a humourless laugh. “Does that make me a shit person?”
Regulus has spent a lot of time watching James over the past few months, despite trying not to. He seemed entirely in control, fearless, always armed with the right words when one of his friends struggles to eat, or can’t get out of bed.
“No,” Regulus says, slowly. “Unfortunately, I think it just makes you human.”
And he could probably leave it there, but the silence is more difficult after telling the truth.
“I get scared, too.”
Right on time, another outrageous bang has them both flinching. James’s hand somehow finds its way to Regulus’s arm, grip tight. It doesn’t feel as bad as he thought it might—being touched.
“Sorry,” James mutters, uncurling his fingers. Selfishly, Regulus hopes it bruises. “It’s been nice, having you here with us,” he adds.
Regulus snorts. “I’ve barely said two words to you.”
This time, when James shrugs, Regulus savours the brush of bare skin against his sleeve. Somehow, James’s body heat does a better job of warming him up than the fire.
“You’re saying much more than that, now.” James’s foot tick-tocks repetitively. Regulus copies its rhythm against his leg.
Downstairs, one of the girls hollers something about drinks, her voice fading as she enters the kitchen.
“Must be nearly midnight,” James says.
“Are you going to join them for the countdown?” Regulus asks. Heat spreads from his neck to his cheeks. He hopes it comes across that he’s asking out of an eagerness to be alone, and not that he’s hoping for the opposite.
It’s nice, sitting with someone like this.
Sitting with James.
“Nah,” James replies. “Think I’ll stay for a bit longer.”
Regulus bites back the urge to say something insane, like good.
Two minutes, Marls! Sirius’s unabashed yell reaches them, slurred and sufficiently obnoxious.
“It’s because of Remus, isn’t it? The bookshop thing?” James asks.
“I think so,” Regulus replies. He knows so, but can’t think how to explain further without exposing a secret that isn’t his to tell.
“Lovesick idiot,” James mutters. “What d’you reckon it’s like, being so sappy?”
Regulus opens his mouth. Closes it.
James Potter is full of surprises.
“Awfully inconvenient, I’d imagine,” he replies with a sardonic smile.
James chuckles. “You’re funny, you know.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.”
The start of a response escapes James’s mouth, but it’s stolen by the pre-countdown ruckus going on downstairs.
“Reg?” James asks, gently.
In any other circumstance, Regulus would chastise him for the nickname, but he can feel James’s eyes on him, and his entire body might be vibrating.
“Hm?” he croaks.
“Have you ever had a New Year’s kiss?” Maybe Regulus is losing his mind, at last. Perhaps he fell asleep in Sirius’s ghastly wardrobe. And if that’s the case, he’s going to take advantage of a good dream.
“No,” he manages.
“Me neither,” James breathes.
He shifts, and Regulus turns just in time to catch the other man’s face, much closer than it’s ever been.
Glasses askew, lips chapped, hair practically begging to be cut.
A very real, very warm hand finds Regulus’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, and Regulus considers that maybe this isn’t a dream, at all, but just a particularly bizarre evening.
The countdown begins, voices chanting in unison, joyous and dreadfully loud even through the floor.
“Feel free to tell me to piss off,” James says. “But… I really want to kiss you.”
Regulus’s chest constricts; at least one of his lungs must surely be in danger of collapse.
James waits, not moving any closer.
Downstairs, the countdown morphs into cheers of Happy New Year! The fireworks return with a vengeance. James Potter wants to kiss him.
None of it makes sense, and it’s enough to propel Regulus into action. Nothing in his life has ever made sense; he excels at dealing with things that don’t make sense.
Regulus grasps blindly for the front of James’s t-shirt and tugs.
James’s lips are rough from being bitten incessantly. He doesn’t kiss how Regulus expected he might. In his worst moments, he’d imagined it—frantic and greedy, too much teeth and tongue. Too much everything.
How strange, to have all of that disproved in a moment. James kisses like he’s scared that Regulus will disappear.
When Regulus’s other hand tangles in his ridiculous hair, he hums into his mouth, melting against him like a dog getting its ears scratched.
He tastes like Mary’s fudge.
When they part, breathing heavy, Regulus can’t remember ever feeling so warm.
“Happy New Year, Reg,” James says, hot breath fanning across his face.
They right themselves against the wall, and it would almost be like it never happened, if not for the steady hand encasing his own. James’s thumb soothes circles into his skin.
“Will you pretend this didn’t happen in the morning?” It takes Regulus a while to pluck up the nerve to ask.
“Of course not! Unless, well. D’you want me to?” James asks, rubbing the back of his neck.
Regulus squeezes his eyes shut. “Not particularly.”
“Alright.” James sounds like he’s biting back a grin. “Then no, I won’t.”
Regulus smiles properly, lets it commandeer his face.
Obviously, it will take more than the prospect of a new year to stop hiding—he’s not an idiot.
He doesn’t quite know how to begin unfolding the pieces of himself kept densely packed in suitcases, always ready to flee in the dead of night. God knows how long it’ll take to stop flinching every time his brother’s friends laugh. Then there’s the fireworks to contend with.
For now, however, there’s also the warmth of James Potter’s hand. The promise of an after beginning to take shape. Through the cracks, a gentle light gleams.