Chapter Text
Regulus’ POV
Regulus hates lights. And sounds. And people. So, in short, tonight is going to be hell.
The only reason he’s even going is because Sirius shoved a VIP ticket into his hands with a Look, Reg, do something fun for once. He could’ve said no. Should have. But here he is, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about him.
James Potter.
No, no, no. He’s Sirius’ best friend. Which means off-limits, untouchable, and probably completely oblivious to Regulus' existence. To James, he’s just Paddy’s little brother. Another shadow in the background, another face in the crowd.
So why the hell is he obsessing over what to wear?
Not for James, obviously. That would be ridiculous. He’s going to meet someone else tonight. Some cute guy in the crowd, get a drink, maybe even let loose for once. That’s the plan.
Regulus groans and flops onto the bed again, dragging a pillow over his face. Maybe if he stays here long enough, the concert will magically disappear.
A cough at the door.
“You’re thinking about him again.” Dorcas. Exasperated, smug, completely done with his shit.
“I am so not,” Regulus snaps, sitting up too quickly.
Dorcas raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You are. You’ve got that look.”
“The sparkle in his eye?” Evan chimes in from the hallway, grinning.
Regulus flips him off. “Remind me why I let you live here?”
Evan ignores him. “What’s the crisis this time?”
Regulus groans again. “I can’t find anything to wear.” He cuts Evan off before he can say something stupid. Not for James. Just for… someone. Anyone.
Dorcas just smirks.
James’ POV
James has a ritual.
Before every show, he keeps a cigarette tucked into his front pocket. A cigarette with a number written on it. Not his, obviously. A fake one. It’s a stupid game, something he does for the hell of it—finds the hottest person in the crowd, hands it off with a wink, and disappears into the night.
Except tonight, his hand hovers over the cigarette longer than usual.
Something in his gut tells him to write his real number this time. Which is a terrible idea, really.
But he does it anyway.
And then he forgets all about it. Because the second he steps on stage, the world narrows to the roar of the crowd, the heat of the lights, the pulse of the bass in his chest. He’s alive up here. Everything else—the cigarette, the number, whoever ends up with it—doesn’t matter.
Not yet.
Regulus’ POV
The club is packed. Bodies press together, the air thick with heat, sweat, and the lingering scent of cheap beer. The bass reverberates through his chest, a dull, insistent thrum that reminds him why he hates places like this.
Dorcas disappears into the crowd immediately, already scouting for a drink. Regulus lingers near the VIP section, fingers curled around the wristband that Sirius insisted on. It’s supposed to make him feel important. Instead, it just reminds him that he doesn’t belong here.
Then the lights shift, and the crowd erupts.
Regulus doesn’t need to look to know why.
James Potter is on stage.
He doesn’t need to look, but of course, he does.
James is electric—hair a mess, sweat glistening under the stage lights, grinning like he owns the world. He moves like the music is a part of him, like it’s in his veins. It’s unfair, really, how effortless it all is.
Regulus lets himself watch for a moment, just a moment, before forcing himself to turn away.
He’s just Sirius’ best friend. That’s all he’ll ever be.
The set is incredible, not that Regulus would admit it out loud. The band is tight, the energy infectious. Even he feels it, something stirring in his chest despite himself. By the time they close with an encore, the crowd is still buzzing, reluctant to let go.
Dorcas reappears at his side, handing him a drink. "Don’t say I never take care of you."
"I didn’t ask for this," Regulus says, but he takes a sip anyway.
"Yeah, yeah. Just relax for once, will you?" She nudges him toward the bar, where a handful of people are lingering, waiting for the band to come down. "You’re gonna talk to someone tonight, whether you like it or not."
Regulus rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.
He’s halfway through his drink when the atmosphere shifts. A ripple moves through the crowd, subtle but unmistakable.
And then James is there.
He’s still buzzing from the show, energy radiating off him in waves. His shirt is damp with sweat, hair an absolute disaster, and somehow it only makes him look better. Regulus forces himself to stay still, to not react, to pretend his pulse isn’t suddenly betraying him.
James is working the room, laughing, throwing arms around people like he’s known them forever. Regulus should leave before—
Too late.
James’ eyes land on him, dark and sharp with amusement. He doesn’t look away.
Regulus stiffens. James shouldn’t recognize him. He shouldn’t care.
And yet—
James strides over, pulling a cigarette from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers like it’s second nature. "Got a light?"
Regulus blinks. "No."
James grins like that’s the answer he wanted. He steps closer, holding the cigarette between them. "Here, then. Take this one."
Regulus hesitates but reaches for it. Their fingers brush—brief, fleeting, but enough to send something sharp through his chest. He pulls back quickly, glancing down at the cigarette.
There’s a number scrawled on the paper.
His stomach drops.
James winks. "Call me sometime, yeah?"
And just like that, he’s gone.
Regulus stares after him, cigarette burning cold against his palm.
Oh, fuck.