Chapter Text
Regulus Black hadn't seen his brother in six years.
Not properly, anyway. There had been glimpses, once or twice, a photograph in the background of James Potter's Instagram story, a blurry figure crossing a street that might have been him, the occasional mention from someone who knew someone who knew Sirius.
But none of those counted. None of them had prepared him for the fact that Sirius still existed outside of memory; that somewhere in London, his brother was getting haircuts and buying coffee and carrying on with the business of being alive, completely unaware that Regulus still looked for him in every dark-haired stranger that passed by.
It was a slow Tuesday at The Shack, though that wasn't unusual. Nestled between a florist and a corner café on a quiet side street in South London, the little second-hand bookshop survived more on loyal regulars than passing trade.
The afternoon lull had settled in hours ago, leaving the shop wrapped in a comfortable silence broken only by the occasional turning page and the faint hum of traffic outside. The bell above the door hadn't rung in so long that Regulus had started to suspect it might have given up entirely.
Regulus was perched on a stool behind the till, sorting through a box of recent donations with little enthusiasm. Someone had apparently decided their entire collection of crime novels was no longer necessary, leaving him with twenty-three paperbacks and a growing headache. Not that he minded. There were worse ways to spend a Tuesday than hiding amongst books, avoiding customers and pretending the world outside didn't exist.
The peace lasted until Remus came thundering down the stairs from the flat above with all the dignity of a man twice his age and none of the grace.
"For fuck's sake," he muttered, staring down at the wet stain spreading across the front of his jumper. In one hand he held an empty carton of apple juice, looking personally offended by its existence.
"Do you know what happened?" he demanded.
Regulus didn't look up from the book in his hands.
"You spilt apple juice on yourself."
Remus pointed at him accusingly.
"The last of the apple juice. That's the important part. Not only am I sticky, but now we don't have any left."
"The tragedy is, frankly, immeasurable," Remus declared, inspecting the stain on his jumper with the seriousness of a man reviewing a crime scene. "I bought that juice yesterday."
Regulus didn't look up from the invoice he was pretending to read. "And yet somehow you've managed to lose it already."
"I didn't lose it."
"You poured it down yourself."
Remus pointed a finger at him. "That implies intent. What happened was an unfortunate series of events."
"You took the cap off and missed your mouth."
"It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that."
"Because it is ridiculous."
Remus sighed and dropped into the chair beside the till. "You know, most people would show a little sympathy."
"Most people would be embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrassed."
"You're covered in apple juice."
"That's not embarrassment. That's evidence."
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Regulus's mouth.
"There it is," Remus said immediately. "I knew you found me funny."
"I didn't laugh."
"You almost did."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's close enough."
The bell above the door remained stubbornly silent.
Remus glanced towards it before settling further into the chair.
"It's dead."
"The bell?"
"The shop."
Regulus rolled his eyes.
"Look around," Remus continued. "We've had one customer in the last hour, and she spent twenty minutes reading the first chapter of a novel before deciding she could probably find it cheaper online."
"She bought a bookmark."
"One bookmark."
"Revenue is revenue."
Remus huffed a laugh. "You are the least romantic bookseller I've ever met."
"Books aren't romantic. They're inventory."
"You own a second-hand bookshop."
"I own half of a second-hand bookshop."
"Which is somehow worse."
Regulus set the invoice aside. "The shop is fine."
"I know it is."
"Then why are you acting like we're six weeks away from financial ruin?"
"Because it's entertaining."
"There are easier hobbies."
Remus tilted his head. "Not for me."
For a moment they sat in comfortable silence, the kind that came from years of sharing both a business and a flat. Outside, a bus rumbled past the front window.
Then Remus frowned.
"We are out of apple juice, though."
Regulus closed his eyes.
"There it is," Remus said. "A real problem."
"Go buy more."
"I can't."
"Why?"
Remus gestured vaguely at himself.
"Because you're sticky?"
"Because I'm sticky."
"That's not a reason."
"It's absolutely a reason."
"No, it's an excuse."
Remus considered this.
"Fair."
Then he pointed towards the door.
"You're going."
Regulus stared at him.
"I am not."
"You are. You have legs, money, and considerably more dignity than I currently do."
"Dignity has never stopped you before."
"True," Remus admitted. "But you need the fresh air."
Regulus rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.
"You're unbelievable."
"That's what makes me charming."
"It really doesn't."
Remus grinned, entirely unrepentant.
With a long-suffering sigh, Regulus pushed himself off the stool and reached for his coat hanging on the back of the office door. Behind him, Remus looked far too pleased with himself for someone who had managed to spill an entire carton of apple juice down the front of his jumper.
"This is extortion, by the way."
"It's friendship."
"It's extortion disguised as friendship."
"Still friendship."
Regulus shrugged into his coat and turned towards the door, offering Remus a raised middle finger as he went.
"Love you too," Remus called after him.
"Get fucked."
"Buy two cartons!"
The bell above the door jingled as Regulus stepped out onto the pavement.
The autumn air was cool enough to bite, carrying with it the scent of rain and freshly brewed coffee from the café further down the street. The organic fruit shop Remus liked was only a ten-minute walk away, tucked between a bakery and a florist. Ridiculously expensive and permanently crowded with people who seemed very passionate about sourdough starters.
Regulus hated the place.
Remus adored it.
Which was, unfortunately, why he found himself heading there now, hands shoved into his coat pockets as he joined the slow flow of pedestrians moving through the afternoon streets of South London.
Halfway down the street, Regulus reached automatically into his coat pocket.
His hand met nothing.
He stopped walking.
"...For fuck's sake."
The headphones were still sitting on the counter behind the till. He could picture them perfectly, slightly battered around the edges, abandoned beside the stack of invoices he'd been pretending to organise.
Regulus tipped his head back towards the grey London sky.
Of course.
A ten-minute errand should have been painless. In and out. Buy the stupidly overpriced apple juice. Return to the shop. Continue pretending to work.
Instead, he was now condemned to experience the city in its entirety.
A bus hissed to a stop nearby.
Someone's phone was playing music loud enough for half the street to hear.
A dog barked.
Two teenagers argued over something incomprehensible as they walked past.
Regulus sighed heavily and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.
He could turn around.
He probably should turn around.
But the thought of walking all the way back to The Shack only to leave again felt deeply irritating.
"Fine," he muttered to himself.
He'd survive ten minutes without them.
Probably.
Still, the absence felt strange. Regulus had developed a habit of moving through London hidden behind music, tucked safely away from conversations he didn't want to hear and thoughts he didn't particularly want to have. Without his headphones, the city felt louder. Closer.
Unfortunately, so did his own head.
It didn't help that London seemed determined to remind him of Sirius at every opportunity.
A motorbike roared past, loud enough to turn heads all along the pavement. Regulus barely glanced at it before his mind supplied the memory anyway: Sirius at eleven, sprawled across the Regulus’ green bedspread, talking endlessly about the motorbike he'd buy one day. A ridiculous thing. Fast and impractical and almost certainly dangerous.
Their mother had hated the idea.
Which, of course, had only made Sirius want one more.
Regulus smiled despite himself.
The expression disappeared just as quickly.
A few streets later, he caught sight of a battered black leather jacket hanging in the window of a charity shop.
Sirius had owned one almost identical.
Had probably still owned one, if Regulus was being honest.
A group of university students brushed past him, laughing loudly amongst themselves. One of them let out a bright, unrestrained giggle that echoed down the pavement.
Something about it twisted unexpectedly in Regulus's chest.
Because Sirius had always laughed with his whole body.
Head thrown back.
Shoulders shaking.
Completely incapable of doing anything quietly.
The kind of laugh that used to drift through the halls of their home - no, house - and make Regulus abandon whatever he was doing just to find out what was so funny.
The kind of laugh he hadn't heard in six years.
Regulus swallowed hard and fixed his attention firmly on the pavement ahead.
It was ridiculous.
A motorbike.
A jacket.
A stranger's laugh.
None of them were Sirius.
And yet somehow, after all this time, everything still seemed to lead back to him.
I never thought it would happen,
With me and that girl from Clapham…
Regulus stopped mid-step.
The song drifted across the road from an open doorway, tinny through old speakers but instantly recognisable all the same.
For a moment, he thought he was imagining it.
…Out on the windy common
That night I aint forgotten…
Then he looked up.
Across the street sat a record shop he'd passed a hundred times without ever really noticing.
Boogie.
A ridiculous name.
The sort Sirius would have mocked relentlessly before spending half an hour browsing inside.
The music floated out onto the pavement, mixing with the sounds of traffic and conversation.
Regulus knew every word.
Not because he wanted to.
Because Sirius had spent most of their teenage years pretending it wasn't one of his favourite songs.
It had started as an accident. Regulus had walked into Sirius's room one afternoon and caught him listening to it.
The resulting humiliation had been immediate.
The teasing had lasted for years.
After that, all Regulus had needed to do was hum a few bars and Sirius would threaten to throw something at him.
A pillow.
A book.
Once, a shoe.
It had been worth it every time.
The memory arrived so suddenly it almost knocked the breath from his lungs.
Six years.
Six years without hearing Sirius complain.
Six years without hearing him laugh.
Six years without hearing him call Regulus an irritating little shit.
The song continued.
..When she dealt out the rations
With some other passions…
And before he could stop himself, Regulus glanced through the shop window.
At first he didn't see anything.
Just shelves.
Records.
Customers moving between aisles.
Then someone turned.
Black leather jacket.
Dark hair brushing broad shoulders.
A familiar profile.
Regulus's heart stopped.
The world seemed to narrow to a single point.
No.
The man laughed at something a cashier said.
And Regulus knew.
Because he would know that laugh anywhere.