Chapter Text
“You two will be next,” Dorcas says, fingers wrapped around her clipboard. Her nails are filed into perfect almond shapes, a sleek french manicure brushed along the edges.
Regulus nods. Then shoots an awkward thumbs up because the nod feels like not enough. When the thumbs up feels like overkill, he shoves his hands into his pockets, trying not to look over his shoulder at the bustling street. Where the fuck is he?
“Relax, yeah?” Dorcas sends him a sympathetic nod. “You’ve got the face for TV, Regulus,” she promises, misreading his fidgeting as insecurity, which is just as well— it’s a distraction either way.
“Thanks,” Regulus mumbles, playing into it a bit, hoping she doesn’t notice that his teammate is nowhere to be seen.
Dorcas turns away, ushering the Father/Son duo team to the side for their confessional shot. She’s been guiding the lot of them since their auditions, the lead producer on the show— the face you’ll see more than the host, she told them. They haven’t even met Newt Scamander yet, and Regulus thinks they’re probably waiting until the cameras are rolling.
They’re pulled to the side of Westminster Bridge, under the shadow of Big Ben, a perfect place for a sweeping opening camera angle. Their section of the bridge is roped off from the public for shooting, which must only be for the confessional and introduction shots because when Regulus watches the show, the teams are subject to the mayhem of the public streets for most of it.
Regulus stands silently with the other contestants, crew members keeping an eye on them so they don’t converse before they ‘meet’ on camera. They aren’t saying anything, but he can feel their stares, sense the whispers between teammates. He knows what they’re doing— sizing him up. Hell, Regulus has been sizing them up all week over silent continental breakfasts in the hotel they were all sequestered at before filming.
There’s eleven other teams, and Regulus has already selected the threats, and the ones who aren’t likely to make it far. He’s been making nicknames for them since they haven’t had proper introductions. There’s the Lulu Lemons, dressed in matching tracksuits, both their hair bleached to a volume that likely isn’t safe for human heads. The woman has a diamond ring the size of the bloody heart of the ocean on her finger, and she’s clearly the trophy wife of the husband, who has his eighty-volume hair pulled back into a tight, oh-so-millennial man bun. Their chins are lifted high, and they’ve been staring down their noses, over their Versace sunglasses, at the other teams like a pair of serpents.
Then there’s Mum and Dad, a pair of gingers, middle aged, wearing sweat bands on their wrists and foreheads that were clearly hand knitted. The man looks gobsmacked to be here, staring up at all the buildings, and the woman keeps looking around at elbow height, likely a reflex to locate a child who isn’t here— they must’ve left a little one at home, or a few based on the man’s premature balding, the patches of grey around the woman’s temples. The man’s shoe is untied. Neither of them have noticed. Regulus won’t tell them.
“Showtime, Regulus,” Dorcas says, waving him over.
Fuck, he thinks. “Yeah, ok,” he says, once again looking over his shoulder for Sirius. He’s so dead. Regulus gave it all up to be here. Everything— the inheritance, the board rooms, the pressure to perform. There’s no telling what he goes home to if he leaves now. Regulus is grateful his phone’s been sequestered because the barrage of emails and messages he’s surely getting would send him into a spiral. He’s already one step away from a spiral just thinking about it which— no. Nope. Regulus doesn’t need to think about it. He’s compartmentalizing. He’s competing. He’s going to win. The race will be a break, a hiatus from consequences. If his brother ruins this for him Regulus will kill him.
“Have a seat, and—” Dorcas pauses, eyes flicking up from her clipboard. “Where’s Sirius?”
“He—” Regulus starts, clearing his throat to buy time. “He’s just—” Regulus sits on the plastic folding chair, glancing at the empty one. “Sirius is—”
“Right here!” Sirius says, bounding into the camera frame, jostling Regulus as he plops into the seat beside him. “Dorcas, you’re looking smashing this morning, I must say.”
Dorcas rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“Your wish is my whim,” Sirius says, tone light even as he shifts in his seat, combing flyaways back into place. He looks sticky, like he ran here, and there’s a pink flush to his cheeks. His eyeliner is smudged, like maybe he slept in it, and if Regulus gets an opinion, he thinks eye makeup is a little ridiculous to wear on the race when they should be focusing on winning over beauty. He keeps the opinion to himself.
When it’s clear Sirius is incapable of fixing his hair without a mirror, Regulus swats his brother’s hands away, fixing it for him because yes, winning over beauty, but he’ll be the one to suffer through the whining if Sirius looks bad on television. “Ready when you are.”
“So,” Dorcas says, “tell us about you.”
Sirius grins. “I’m Sirius, and this is my baby brother—”
“Not a baby—”
“Regulus,” Sirius finishes, ignoring him. “We’ve been watching the race since Reggie was a baby. I introduced him to it, obviously.”
“Obviously, if I was a baby, so were you.” Regulus rolls his eyes. “We’re a year apart,” he clarifies, for the sake of the camera. “Practically the same age.”
“Yeah, yeah, the same age,” Sirius scoffs, jostling his shoulders again. “You’re still a baby.”
“You just effectively called yourself a baby, Sirius, I hope you know that.”
“Well, I’m hoping someone out there wants to call me baby.” Sirius winks at the camera, making a show of himself, and Regulus can’t hold back a groan.
“Sirius,” he hisses, snapping at his brother. None of this footage is going to be usable. “Sorry, Dorcas. We can start over.”
“What?” Dorcas looks up from her monitor, pulling a pair of headphones off her ears. “No, no, this is great. Keep going. Why are you going to win?”
“That part’s easy,” Regulus says, staring into the barrel of the camera. He can picture their title card, Sirius and Regulus, Estranged Brothers, floating across the screen in post production. “Blacks don’t lose.”
Sirius cackles at that before rushing into an explanation of their strengths. “We’re scrappy.”
“Strategic,” Regulus corrects, raising an eyebrow as he catches another team staring at them from across the bridge. It’s that couple, the girl-next-door type with the hot nerd, and the guy is staring.
“I like to think we know how to handle some globe trotting.”
“What he means is we’re well-travelled.” Regulus watches Hot Nerd slide his glasses up his nose. Then, he has the gall to wave, a clear diversionary tactic that makes Regulus scowl. He’ll have to watch out for this guy. He shakes his head, a minute tightening of his jaw, a warning.
Hot Nerd takes it as a challenge, leaning casually against the bridge railing, and the action lifts the hem of his shirt above the waist of his jeans— Regulus would never race in denim, thank you very much— and he raises a smug eyebrow, a smirk crawling up his lips when he catches Regulus staring at his abdomen. He knows what he’s doing, and—
“Regulus.” Dorcas is talking to him. Fuck.
Regulus swallows. “Yeah?”
Dorcas tucks a smirk of her own under her lips. “Try to focus, yeah? You can ogle the other teams later.”
Regulus splutters, a blush creeping up his neck, and he’s about to protest when Sirius stands, trying to glimpse who caught his attention. “Which—” he stops, eyes going wide, but he’s not looking at Hot Nerd. Sirius is facing the remaining crew, a group of camera ops setting up their gear. “Right.” Sirius clears his throat, sitting back down. “Where were we?”
Regulus can’t help noticing the pale look to his brother’s previously flushed face, but if it means he avoids the teasing he won’t mention it.
Dorcas gets them back on task, asking them more questions about their background, intended race strategy, and what they’re wanting to gain from this experience. They play up the Estranged Brothers schtick, claiming they want to reconnect, patch things up, and he knows Sirius is only saying it because it’s what got them on the show, but Regulus secretly hopes his brother means it. He knows he does.
They finish the confessional, and then they’re moved aside again, waiting for the remaining teams to film their intros before Newt arrives. Regulus tries not to publicly snap at his brother, but honestly, Sirius deserves it a little bit for being so last minute. He could’ve gotten them disqualified before they even started.
“Do I even wanna know?” Regulus asks, gritting his teeth to ensure other teams can’t lip read— that one hippie looking girl seems like the type, Regulus remembers seeing her read her teammate’s tarot cards at breakfast this morning.
“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Sirius snags them waters from crafty, but Regulus doesn’t drink his— he can’t think of a worse reason to lose than an untimely trip to the loo.
“What do you make of it?” Regulus asks, leaning against the bridge railing, pressing his hips into it to keep his balance, trying not to think of Hot Nerd mirroring him a few teams away. “Any thoughts on the competition?”
“We haven’t even started yet.”
“So? I’ve been cataloging details all week.”
“Of course you have.” Sirius rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. Regulus knows he makes up for his brother’s lack of observational skills when it comes to social dynamics. Sirius is too busy being social to notice its hierarchy. “Enlighten me,” Sirius instructs, chugging his water bottle, the plastic crinkling between his fingers.
Regulus catches Sirius up on his observations, giving him the lowdown on the Lulu Lemons and Mum and Dad, pointing out the Old Ladies and a brother/sister pairing that aren’t likely to be threats either. “I figure it’s the quiet ones we have to worry about,” he adds, thinking about the teams flying under his radar.
“Right.” Sirius nods along, not really looking as he downs his water bottle. He’s sweaty, which is concerning since all they’ve done is stand here.
“These two are up for debate,” Regulus says, nodding his head towards the team roped off next to them, a pair of twin brothers with red hair bright enough to seem orange, and plucky smiles on their attractive faces— the Ginger Twins, he decides, thinking of those twins who used to advertise Doublemint gum.
Sirius nods, crushing his now empty plastic bottle, reaching for Regulus’ untouched one. “Can I?” he asks, not waiting for a reply before chugging Regulus’ water too, eyes flitting over the crew who have started stretching their legs, adjusting their gear. One of the camera operators looks over, and Sirius turns away, fast, spilling water down his front.
“What are you doing?
“It’s hot out,” Sirius mumbles, catching his lower lip between his teeth before going for another sip. He looks pale, like he’s seen a ghost. For a split second, he looks as though he’s seen their parents.
“Enough.” Regulus snatches the water out of his hands. “I won’t be pausing for bathroom breaks once we get started.”
“Feisty, are we?” Sirius rolls his eyes. “Relax, Reg. This is meant to be fun.”
“This is meant to be a competition,” Regulus corrects, following Sirius’ gaze to the camera crew, wondering if maybe he should be stretching too. They’re sure to be running around today. He wonders where they’re going.
“Alright, everyone!” Dorcas calls out, projecting over the traffic sounds. “We’re going to get you all lined up. Newt’s walking up now.”
There’s a collective pause before whispers break out. Newt is here. Things are getting real.
“Ohmygod,” Sirius gasps, clutching Regulus’ arm. “It’s happening.”
“I know,” Regulus agrees, and the teams are all shepherded into frame, the cameras already rolling. They’re given the go ahead to stop ignoring each other, and small talk begins to smatter through the pairings, people talking about their nerves, their excitement, the impending race around the world they’ve all signed up for.
Regulus and Sirius are wedged between the Old Ladies and Hot Nerd with his teammate— nope. Regulus cannot be thinking of him as Hot Nerd. He’s just a nerd. Not a threat. Specs, he decides trying not to stare.
“Where do you think we’re going?” Specs says, jittering with excitement. His dark hair is mussed, like he’s been running nervous fingers through it, and he’s staring, mouth pulled into a smile. Oh. He’s talking to Regulus.
“No idea,” Regulus says, extremely aware of the mic pack strapped to his body, the cameras zooming in on them.
“We’re hoping for somewhere spanish-speaking,” Specs’ teammate says, nodding her head towards him. “James speaks it pretty well.”
James. “Yes, well,” James coughs, looking sheepish. “Lots of people speak spanish, so not sure how much of an advantage it’ll be.”
“Well, if it is, we’ll be sticking close to you,” Sirius says, reminding Regulus that he’s here. “Reg and I don’t know a word of it.”
“Sirius,” Regulus groans. “Don’t hand-deliver our weaknesses to other teams,” he whispers, feeling tension crawl up his neck, a red flush as James and Sirius both laugh.
“Hold on,” James says, turning towards Mum and Dad. “Your shoe’s untied,” he says to the man.
“Amatuer,” Regulus mutters, pulling Sirius into their position, deciding he’s done engaging with the other teams.
James and Marlene - Best Friends from Uni
In the shadow of Big Ben, James and Marlene sit, dressed in matching shades of red, broad smiles on their faces. They’re ready to embark on The Amazing Race.
JAMES: We’ve been friends for ages.
MARLENE: James and I met back in Uni, but really it was our pub nights that made us close.
JAMES: Legendary, truly.
MARLENE: The race is a huge part of our friendship. We used to watch episodes at this pub near campus. So we really can’t believe we’re here right now.
JAMES: We’re here to win, and I’m not too proud to say that Marlene is the muscle for sure.
MARLENE: James is the brains.
JAMES: And the dimples.
Newt Scamander walks up, a collared khaki shirt tucked into a pair of trousers. He looks shorter in person. “I would like to officially welcome you to the start of your Amazing Race!”
Applause rings out, cheers coming from the surrounding teams, but Regulus lifts his chin, engaging his game face. He can feel the pumping of his heartbeat in the soles of his feet. Production is laying clues out on their backpacks, down on the other end of the bridge, and Regulus is mentally mapping his sprint route already.
Newt continues, “In just a few minutes, you’ll be leaving on a race around the world.”
“Wooo!” one of the Ginger Twins howls, hands cupped around his mouth.
“Gideon, Fabian,” Newt addresses them, going with it. “What do you two know about competition?”
“We love a bit of healthy competition,” one of them says— which one is anyone’s guess, since they’re identical.
Gideon and Fabian - Twin Brothers
Gideon and Fabian, dressed in shades of blue, shift in their seats, buzzing with energy.
FABIAN: We’re BMX riders.
GIDEON: Oh, and twins. If that wasn’t glaringly obvious by this one stealing my face.
FABIAN: I had it two minutes before you, actually.
GIDEON: We grew up traveling.
FABIAN: Mum used to drive us round in our family van every summer. Family road trips were a staple at our house.
GIDEON: Then, when we got older, we started going abroad just the pair of us. We had this online blog where we’d post travel updates, but we’ve since switched it over to feature our biking.
“I’m sure competition comes with the territory as a twin,” Newt says, as if their relationship needs clarification for the audience. “Would you two agree, Pandora and Evan?” Newt looks toward another sibling pair— another set of twins, it seems.
“If we’re competing, Panda wins ‘em all,” Evan says, a hand rubbing the nape of his neck, scratching into his buzzed hair— it’s been bleached and dyed, painted on swirls of rainbow that look like the visual representation of an acid trip. His eyes are a bit bloodshot, and he’s got that cannasseur look about him, like he eats edibles for breakfast.
“I do like winning,” Pandora says, cheeks lifting in a smile. She’s a complete foil to her brother, not the relaxed pothead sort, but a more straightlaced A-type kind of woman.
Pandora’s wearing trainers that look fresh-out-the-box white, the laces double knotted, and she’s got a delicate silver ring wrapped around her pink-polished finger. Her hair hasn’t been dyed like Evan’s, natural blonde waves pulled into two slick plaits, and her skin is smooth and glowy, her eyes clear blue, framed by white lashes. They remind Regulus of those Mary-Kate and Ashley movies, where the twins try their best to be different, opposing their looks and personalities to feel more like separate people— unlike Gideon and Fabian who seem to bleed into one another. The only thing the same about Evan and Pandora are the matching tie-dye sweatsuits they’re wearing, and Regulus is glad his team was assigned black as their color— if he and Sirius had to match in something printed or neon he’d die.
Newt asks each team at least one individual question, and Regulus doesn’t remember the intros taking this long on TV, but he supposes they’re getting more coverage than they need. Things will be paired down in editing.
“Molly, Arthur, you’re about to see the world,” Newt says, prompting Mum and Dad to answer what isn’t even a true question.
“We feel like we’re on holiday already,” Arthur says, an easy arm around his wife’s shoulder. “London’s a big change from Suffolk.”
“I’ve only ever seen it in the movies,” Molly admits, staring up at Big Ben— a few camera ops move to get panning shots of the clock tower, getting inserts for the edit if they use this clip.
Molly and Arthur - Married Parents
Molly and Arthur are wide-eyed, looking beyond the camera’s lens at the tall buildings near Westminster Bridge.
MOLLY: We’ve been married over twenty years.
ARTHUR: Twenty-six, dear.
MOLLY: Goodness, is it really?
ARTHUR: And it still feels like the first date.
MOLLY: A trip around the world makes a hell of a date. Though, we left seven children at home, so that’s a holiday in itself.
“Regulus, you look like you’re ready to race.”
“I’m ready to win,” he corrects, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, insides coiled tight, prepared to run.
There’s a snort of laughter from the team next to him.
“What?” Regulus snaps, turning to look at James who seems much too pleased at getting a rise out of him.
“Nothing.” James shrugs, casual, unbothered, utterly annoying. “Winning’s nice, but we’re all here to see the world, right?”
“That’s just what people tell themselves after getting eliminated to make it seem worthwhile,” Regulus says, emulating James’ unbothered shrug. “But if you’re already saying it now, you won’t last long.”
James grins wider, almost delighted. “Oh, you’re gonna be fun.”
“Fuck off,” Regulus says, and James’ eyebrows climb, his mouth parting in shock before settling into an awestruck smile.
“Reg,” Sirius warns, nudging an elbow into his ribs. “You’re on TV, remember?”
Regulus feels his cheeks heat. He did sort of forget about the cameras— Dorcas said that would happen eventually, but he didn’t think it’d be so soon. He can’t let Sirius know that though, so he just says, “Of course I know that.”
“Well,” Newt says, clapping his hands together, getting them back on task. “Twelve teams, twelve countries, twelve legs. Who’s ready for a race around the world?”
Teams cheer, lifting the mood once more. Regulus shakes out his limbs, feeling his heart rate sky rocket, a rabid animal in his chest, a drumbeat in his ears. He locks eyes with Sirius who looks just as wired. They can do this.
“When I say go, you can run to your backpacks to get your first clue,” Newt explains, talking more to the cameras than them. “Ready…” Ohmygod. “Set...” This is it. “And—”
“Hold!”
All the tension snaps like a cord. Regulus’ shoulders sag down to their resting height.
What the fuck?