Chapter Text
The air is warm and thick, laying more like a soggy, moth-eaten blanket than a fresh summer night. Something died nearby, likely in the last week: that sweet, disquieting scent lingers in the air like an omen and assurance. It’s overlaid with notes of rotting wood, damp peat, and the herbaceous scent of thriving leaves. All around are soft, familiar noises: critters crawling across wet earth; a gentle trickle of a creek nearby; the occasional animal call, distant and intentional.
Regulus has always hated parties. He hates that he has to conform to a predetermined atmosphere, something selected based on arbitrary standards: sophisticated; loud; mournful; joyous. He hates that he never knows exactly what to wear, because the dress-codes for these things are given names that don’t have any direct correlation to what they mean. Yacht formal, for example, for those times Regulus finds himself on a boat and is expected to feel a little on edge. Business casual, but casual in a way that’s appropriate for a business, and not casual in a way that’s appropriate for seeing his friends, but still under the guise of pseudo-comfort.
Indecent was the adjective Sirius had given him for this particular fais do-do, though, as Regulus looks around at their friends, he thinks he managed to fail that description, too.
Barty had dressed him, mostly because he’d been begging to do it for ages, and tonight, Regulus really needed the help. The make-over didn’t quite live up to Barty’s expectations, however, because Regulus shot down the first, second, and third outfits Barty had selected. Unrelenting and adaptable, Barty never surrendered, and with Evan’s reluctant suggestions, the trio managed to compromise on his current outfit: a cropped, sleeveless band shirt and shorts that hit him mid-thigh. Indecent for Regulus’s taste, though somehow still rather prudish in comparison to those around him.
Everyone’s hair looked nice at the start of the evening, but as the night progressed, their party turned much bigger and frizzier. Regulus is sure his own hair looks a mess: unruly and untamable, sticky to the touch. It can’t be helped: even if Sirius had elected to keep all the windows closed for the evening, the warm, stagnant air would have been just as lethal to their formerly stylized ‘dos. As it stands, the windows have been thrown open, an invitation to any breeze that might finally grace their dampened bodies.
The stereo inside is too loud for Regulus’s preference, and coupled with the fact that it feels about ten degrees cooler out here, he’s decided the porch is where he’ll remain. Across the deck from where Regulus stands, Marlene and Dorcas grind against one another, simultaneously evading the heat inside while creating their own personal bubble of it. He watches as though observing a bird building its nest; studious, curious, contemplative.
Marlene’s shirt had been thrown off about two hours ago, leaving her in a black bra with white daisies decorating the cups. Her obscenely short-shorts are a size too big around her hips, a fact Regulus only knows because Dorcas’s fingers are curled around the belt loops, dragging the fabric further than she should be able to from Marlene’s skin. As he observes their giggling, happy dance, he decides Marlene’s outfit is far more appropriate for the occasion than his own; maybe more appropriate for the weather, too.
It’s been a hot summer - hotter than it’s been in years - and it’s making everyone a little irate. Out here in the swamplands, everyone expects the heat and humidity, but at some point, it does start to feel a bit unreasonable. Mid-July is that some point, Regulus has found, especially when the wind refuses to rear its welcomed head for an entire insufferable week.
That’s why there’s a party, despite the fact there isn’t necessarily anything they need to celebrate this week. Everyone needs something else to focus on aside from their own misery - parties provide an excellent source for that kind of relief. Hooking up is a great way to get one’s mind off the swelter. Dancing only proves to heat the body further, but at least it’s a controlled warmth that way. Alcohol numbs the agony for a short while, but in the morning, with their mouths dry and heads pounding, Regulus is sure everyone will be feeling the heat twice as hard. At least, for now, they can forget about the agony and delve into something a bit more mindless.
He takes a sip of his own beer, trying not to frown upon finding it’s not nearly as cold as it had been two minutes before. Condensation drips across his fingers, sliding down his wrist in an unpleasant fashion. Little droplets fall from the bottom of his cup and evaporate the moment they hit the wood beneath his feet. He debates whether he should dump his half-finished drink over the side of the porch and hope to find something cooler to replace it with.
Instead, Regulus watches through the kitchen window as Mary barrels through the small, crowded space, making a beeline for the open back door. She shoves a hand forward, her movement based in routine, as she attempts to push the door open. When she finds no resistance, she stumbles, though manages to catch herself with a firm hand on the doorframe. Peering around, she sighs with relief over the fact that Dorcas and Marlene hadn’t noticed her stumble. Her lips tug downwards, however, when he finds Regulus grinning behind his cup.
“I’m not even drunk.” She laments, starting towards him with another almost imperceptible stumble.
Regulus raises an eyebrow, shooting a pointed glance down at her bare feet. When he looks back up, it’s to find Mary pouting.
“I won’t tell.” He promises easily, earning a beaming grin in response.
She leans back against the railing beside him, elbows bent casually on the scratchy wooden surface. Tilting her head back and closing her eyes, Mary releases a deep sigh of relief. “It’s so much nicer out here.” She comments, speaking mostly to herself.
Regulus hums his agreement anyway. Without thinking, he reaches to smack his palm against her bicep, swiftly killing a maringouin that had just landed there. She doesn’t flinch, entirely too comfortable with the kind assault. They all are, at this point, after spending so long listening to one another complain about the damn bugs terrorizing the backdrop of their entire lives. These whacks, the aggressive contact, the lack of warning, it’s all an expression of love: the most basic form love can take. It’s them saying, “I don’t want to see you uncomfortable; let me help.” It’s them deciding not to endure a weeks’ worth of complaints, too, though that’s not nearly as romantic.
“I keep telling Sirius he needs to screen this thing.” Mary muses. Idly, she reaches towards the small red spot Regulus’s hand left behind, scratching at it without any urgency.
“You know he hates contractors.” Regulus responds, though he wholeheartedly agrees with Mary on this front.
“Pauvre bete.” Mary snickers, good-naturedly. Regulus keeps his agreement to himself once more.
Sirius bought this little shack nearly two years ago, enthralled and enchanted by how isolated it is. The first time Regulus had come to see it, he asked how long Sirius thought it would take for the swamp to reclaim it. Sirius hadn’t responded, other than to roll his eyes. Every day, Regulus remains impressed that it’s still standing - shabby and rotting, sure, but standing all the same.
He could have gotten something far nicer, something closer to town, something that didn’t threaten to collapse under the weight of half their high school’s class of ‘78. Regulus thinks he bought it as a ‘fuck you’ to their parents, or the high-society expectations he’s still trying to duck away from. He thinks Sirius selected it more for its location than its stature, hoping to coax Remus out here with him. He thinks it makes Sirius laugh, and it probably made James laugh, too, and that’s always been enough of a reason for any of his brother’s decisions.
It’s an excellent place for get-togethers, though. No neighbors for miles, and it’s quite a trek to any actual dangerous bits of the swamp, so Sirius feels confident nobody will drown or get eaten. There’s a good bit of wildlife, though the critters tend to flee when the front lawn starts to fill with cars, staying clear for a few days after everyone’s finally left.
Remus claims the swamp is used to their presence now, but parties can throw it into a bit of a spiral. Regulus tries not to make fun of him for believing in superstitions, especially because Remus’s faith is genuine.
There are a lot of folks around here, people whose families originate from the original Acadian settlers ike the Lupins and the Meadowes, who believe the swamp is a living, breathing, sentient thing. Not the tataille that crawl across the mosses, or the fish that swim its murky waters, or the critters that traverse its muddy terrain. The swamp itself is one big organism, they say: it hears things, and it learns, and it knows who it can trust. If you’re good to the swamp, Remus likes to say, the swamp is good to you.
Regulus has never believed it himself. Sure, there are spooky things that happen sometimes: the occasional disappearance, or scary noises that don’t quite sound like foxes. He doesn’t have that kind of faith in him, though, not like Remus or Dorcas, or even James. Blessedly, Sirius agrees with him to his face, though he tends to turn traitorous when Remus asks for his support on the matter.
There are facets of everyday life that revolve around these beliefs, though: things even Regulus gives into, mostly because they’re ingrained in the town’s culture. Nobody wears shoes, for example, not even to church most of the time. It’s a way to commune with nature, Pandora had once explained: a method of giving yourself over to the greater powers that exist within the marshlands.
Everyone maintains little swamp-given collections, too, and they swap information about their finds as though sharing cooking tips. Dorcas’s collection, for example, is a rather impressive amount of snake’s teeth. She can spot them like a hawk, keen-eyed and intentional, whether she’s by the creek or in town or on the side of the road. She’s an expert on them, too, able to name exactly what snake the fang came from, and explain the likely reason it fell out: hunting, or natural aging of the tooth, or fleeing from harm’s way.
Sirius collects old sheet music. At first, he focused only on folk songs, but in the last few years, he’s expanded his collection to anything with a decent story, especially if it involves marshes and waterfowl. Peter collects fish scales, delicate things that glitter when the sun hits them just right. Barty collects mud-caked bottlecaps, and Marlene collects river glass, and Lily is a marvel at spotting bird feathers.
For his own collection, Regulus likes to find leaves and dry them out. Regulus can identify all the native trees by their leaves alone at this point, though a lot of folks around their town can, too. What Regulus really loves, however, are the stories the leaves can tell: how harsh the wind was blowing, and how healthy the tree was at the time it fell, and sometimes, how high amongst the branches it grew.
It started as an accident, back before he understood how important the tradition of collection is to their small town. When he and Sirius were younger, they actually lived with their parents back in that big house on Odette Drive. There was a bitterness there: something that stemmed not just from the isolation from their community, but from the long shadows their parents cast. Still, there was relief, and Regulus often found it in Sirius’s wake. Joy clings to Sirius like blue on a heron, and Regulus learned to follow Sirius’s summer steps from the moment he could walk.
Their estate had hundreds of magnolia trees, all arranged in straight, neat rows that led to some invisible boundary they knew better than to cross. It never stopped them from running, though, barefoot and wild, their necks stretched high as though they might reach the sun if they could grow a bit taller. Sirius and Regulus would look up and watch as the magnolia blossoms fell to the earth, and for a few minutes, they felt powerful and free amongst the tall grasses and cloudless skies.
A year before they both left for good, Sirius reached out to catch one of the petals. Regulus remembers it like he’d watched it on a film screen. He remembers Sirius’s thin wrist, decorated in blue veins and rose-bush scratches. He remembers Sirius’s eyes, near-silver grey and dappled with the idea of blue; wide and excited, reflecting his relief at being outside that house once more; no sign of fear that he might not be permitted out again. He remembers the way Sirius stretched up, his toes sinking into the damp grass beneath him, staving off any progress he might have made on his height. It didn’t bother him any; it simply encouraged him to reach higher.
Regulus has always been shorter, but he reached out all the same, always happy to participate in every game Sirius concocted. Sirius’s fingers fit around a petal with ease. It made his skin look harsh, almost burnt, contrasted against the pure, fresh white. Without pause, Sirius tried to give it to Regulus, though he refused in favor of catching one for himself.
Regulus didn’t catch a petal, though, but his first leaf. It was thick and leathery, and Regulus thought it might leave a residue on his fingers if he held it too long. To test the theory, he carried it all the way home, pinched and stern, as though it might fly from his grasp with a gentle blow of the wind. He hid it in his pocket as he rushed to his room. In his haste to keep the treasure a secret, he shoved it between old book pages. A few weeks later, when he finally remembered it, Regulus was delighted to see it preserved, near-perfect, and entirely intact.
Now, Regulus’s bedroom is covered in leaves. He presses them all between the same few books, careful and considerate so as not to damage them. He buys fine glass panes to place them all between. He creates delicately scrawled labels for each - vernacular name, Latin name, and approximate habitat - fearing one day he might start to forget them once he collects every leaf he can find.
He hasn’t found a new one in a few months, but he’s constantly searching. Like Sirius and his sheet music, and Barty and his bottlecaps, and Dorcas and her snake’s teeth, it’s a constant thought in the back of his mind. When he discovers something new, something he hasn’t yet earned, a sensation ignites within him: a blazing inferno that screams tradition and community.
They only left home because Sirius found the courage to test the waters. At just eleven years old, he snuck out his bedroom window in the dead of night, long after the maids had left for the evening. He ran down the long, rich lane, his hair knotted and tugged back by the wind. He found himself in town, a place he’d only ever visited under the watchful gaze of their mother.
Sirius said it was familiar, yet completely different under the cover of night. There wasn’t anyone around, and the silence was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking, and Sirius didn’t know what to do with his time. All he knew was he couldn’t waste the time on fear.
The next morning, when he came home a sweaty, trembling mess, he told Regulus something in his chest had urged him out and onwards. He said he found the courage because he knew there was something - someone - waiting to find him. Regulus asked who, and Sirius told him, his smile wide and relaxed and brilliant.
James had been sitting on his porch that night, too tired to manage any real sleep. It happens to him, even now, when his mind goes too fast and his eyes feel like they’re too dry to close properly. The sounds of the swamp settles him, soothing something in his wander-weary soul. James was chasing that relaxation the very night Sirius stumbled past his house.
The rest, as they say, is history. James didn’t get any sleep, and Sirius learned not to fear the locals. James explained all about the swamp’s mysticism, and Sirius learned his parents lie, sometimes. James invited Sirius back the next night, and Sirius asked if Regulus could come along.
Through James, Regulus and Sirius finally got to explore their little community. They made friends, and they shopped for their own groceries, and they learned about the traditions they’d unintentionally engaged in. James was by their side all the while, just happy to watch their eyes light up in amazement anytime they discovered something so blissfully ordinary.
They only returned to that house once, just after learning their parents skipped town without offering their children so much as a farewell wave or warning. There one moment, and gone the next, and like everyone else in their tiny town, Sirius and Regulus learned of it through the gossip channels.
Sirius took it harder, Regulus thinks, though he can’t quite explain why. As they stood there and observed the sprawling front lawn, their eyes skipping over the marble columns and wide, floor-length windows covered by white linen curtains, Sirius simply stared. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t cry, and he didn’t curse their names or wealth or lies. He stared and stared, and when he’d had his fill, he turned to Regulus, and they walked back to the Potters in a silence unlike anything Regulus had ever experienced since.
Now, Regulus stands on the porch of Sirius’s first home - the one he’s building for himself. Regulus has his own place with Barty and Evan, a bit closer into town, because he’s far too fond of Monty to settle anywhere further than down the road. They throw parties, and they wear the clothes they like, and they eat the food they want to eat, and they’re happy.
It’s all because of James, and the fact that he thrives on other people’s success. James is the kind of person that wants other people to feel good, and in return, he feels good, too. He’s one-of-a-kind, and so too is his collection, though it’s incredibly peculiar.
James is a collector of stories. He likes any story, whether it’s too good to be true or downright false or mundane or scandalous. He likes the stories people tell him, and the ones he makes for himself, and those he’s only dreamed of. James collects stories like he plans on writing them down, hoping to spread them across the entire world, though notoriety is the last thing James would ever search for. He loves nothing more than learning about other people, and through storytelling, James can learn a lot.
It’s also a great way to connect with people. James has a lovely habit of trading things when he appreciates what he’s being offered, and even sometimes when he doesn’t. Naturally, this occurs most often when someone gives him a story - he’ll give one right back, trying to relate his to the tone, or theme, or setting, or general emotion of the story he’d just heard.
He does this with everything, though. When Evan recommends a new record, James will immediately suggest something he’s listened to recently. When Lily hands over a book, James will bring one of his own the next time they see one another. If Pandora invites him along to the grocers, James will promptly invite her to the hardware store next door, even if neither of them need anything. He likes giving as much as he gets, even if it’s not an exact replica. James simply cherishes sharing, and he strives to partake as often as possible.
That’s one of the first things that endeared Regulus to him. It wasn’t the last.
There are millions of little things that make James Potter endearing. He values honesty, and he walks through the world like he owes it every bit of truth he contains. It doesn’t turn him mean, though; he has an uncanny ability to make even the harshest of truths sound sweet. He can tell someone they have spinach in their teeth without causing embarrassment. He can set boundaries without making the other person feel bad for having crossed them before. He can offer sarcastic quips and sly jabs with a smile that immediately soothes whatever hurt he might have unintentionally caused.
James is unfailably kind. He offers sincere compliments, picking out minute details others might not have noticed had he not pointed them out first. He once likened the flush of Mrs. Lupin’s cheeks to an evening primrose, later amending the statement to claim it favored a lotus flower when she returned from her garden. He spent a full two days helping Lily move out of her parents house, calling out of work when necessary, and even managing to hold an entire, near-pleasant conversation with Petunia about her new beau. He visits his parents almost every day, despite the fact that it’s out of the way when he’s heading to his own house, simply because it makes Effie smile.
James is also very kind to himself. It’s impressive to someone like Regulus, who can be self-critical over the most basic mistakes. James seems to understand his own limitations, and he knows when to try and push them, and when to throw in the towel, and he never feels bad for having made the choice to do one or the other. It’s as though failure is little more than a ripple cresting a still lake: disruptive, yet worthy of admiration. Every mistake is an opportunity for growth; every misstep is a chance to do better the next time; every stumble is a lesson that can be learned from.
He has a job, not because he needs it, but because it was a kindness to people he respects. After Fabian got a scholarship to play with the Cowboys, Gideon and Molly both worked a few extra hours at Mr. Prewett’s Bait and Tackle to make up for his loss. Then, sweet Molly got married to that funny man in Tuscaloosa, and poor Gideon was left to manage three shifts on his lonesome. Naturally, as a handsome young man in his twenties, this arrangement didn’t go over too well.
When Mr. Prewett finally decided he needed an extra set of hands around the family-run business, James stepped in without question, folding into the red-headed group like he’d been attending family dinners every night since the day he was born. In a small town, that’s not a difficult thing to accomplish, but the Prewetts tend to favor exclusivity when it comes to their store management.
It’s not uncommon to find James tugging on rubber boots - the only shoes he owns, Regulus thinks - and setting off towards the marsh, a bucket in one hand and old, dirty gloves in the other. He’ll return with an obscene amount of nightcrawlers, or wriggling shrimp, or shimmering shiners, not minding the mud on his face or the occasional scrape on his knees.
Other times, he’ll be found behind the counter, chatting the ears off anyone who comes in. James has an uncanny ability to talk anyone’s ear off without tiring them out. It’s like there’s some switch in his brain that filters through topics and slang, shutting off the parts that might cause disorder in the tiny tackle shop, or at Mrs. Figg’s diner, or in line at the grocers. The real marvel comes when there are several folks milling about, all with their own assumptions and preferences, each vastly different from the person beside him. James treats them all the same: fine periwinkles ripe for the catch.
In the blink of an eye, he’ll have Mr. Snape grinning from ear to ear, or finds himself in a friendly debate about cantaloupe and honeydew with Aberforth, or else convince Allastor to extend a friendly handshake to Evan after years of a snide back-and-forth. It’s a marvel, what magic tricks James can spur with words as his wand.
When Regulus first met James, he hated him for it all. He didn’t like James’s hero complex or unyielding optimism. He didn’t appreciate that James felt entitled to his and Sirius’s time, or thoughts, or experiences. In the beginning, James followed Sirius everywhere - a mutt searching for acknowledgment in the form of time-sharing. It was cumbersome, because that was Regulus’s occupation first.
After a while, however, Regulus finally realized it’s not entitlement, but excitement. James is just as happy to hear about Regulus’s day as he is to participate in it. He’s pleased when Regulus expands his horizons and makes friends of his own, regardless of who they are, or where they live, or how intentionally off-putting they can make themselves. He delights in the relationship Regulus has formed with Monty - not quite parental, but something close, and he’s never found resentment or bitterness or jealousy that they have their own shared interests and memories.
It took a while for Regulus to learn to trust James: trust his compassion, his eager nature, his earnest attention. Longer, perhaps, than most normal people might put trust in someone they spend every day with, someone they lived with throughout their formative years. Regulus hadn’t realized the development, slowly stretching like ivy up a thick oak trunk, until he discovered Sirius making out with Remus Lupin in the Potter’s garden.
Regulus had never considered things like relationships and feelings before then, but very quickly, it was all he could think about.
All his life, Regulus had been taught queerness was bad. His parents instilled it in him very early on, casting out any room for argument with a stern tone and a firm hand. It was so far removed from anything close to an option that, until he saw the panicked look on his brother’s face, Regulus hardly remembered it existed.
But there it stood, taking the shape of his brother, the one person Regulus loves above all others. In an instant, Regulus decided being queer couldn’t be all bad, if Sirius was partaking in it. Just as quickly, however, his stomach lurched, and he threw up all over the Potter’s deck.
Regulus didn’t know, then, that things like that should be kept secret until Sirius could decide to tell others himself. Regulus couldn’t fathom the idea that he was one of three people now in on something Sirius thought he’d take to the grave, locked behind “roommates” and “best friends” and callous shrugs in the face of speculation.
Sirius didn’t talk to Regulus for an entire day, sequestering himself to the same embarrassment and confusion Regulus was dealing with. That left only one option for relief: the only other person Regulus knew to love Sirius wholeheartedly.
James took it in stride, really. He sat across from James on his tiny, creaky twin bed, arms crossed tightly over his roiling stomach. James didn't flinch when Regulus mentioned the kissing. He asked all the right questions, managing not to embarrass Regulus about the emotional turmoil he was desperately trying to navigate. In the end, James helped Regulus feel more secure in his love for Sirius: he was still Regulus’s brother, after all. Queer or gay or exploring or whatever else he could engage with, Sirius is still his brother.
After leaving James’s bedroom, Regulus ducked into Sirius’s. They didn’t say anything: Regulus simply hugged him, and he offered a small smile, and he left.
Nothing really changed between the three of them, save for the fact that Regulus put a great deal of effort into befriending Remus, which inevitably led to their trio becoming a quartet. Remus came around a lot more often after that, and while Sirius was intentional about their affectionate touches - a brush of a hand over Remus’s shoulder, a hug that lasted only a bit too long for casual - Regulus could still see the adoration they held for one another.
It didn’t take too long for Regulus to discover he felt something similar, though his heart’s desire took the shape of a boy with round, golden glasses and unruly curls. It didn’t take too much longer after that to realize the feeling was a deep, unrelenting form of love.
There was a brief stretch of time, a six month period near the end of high school, where Regulus was teased for his obvious crush. James took it in stride, managing to both wave the teasing away, all while defending Regulus without making him feel small. It only made Regulus love him even more.
It was then, however, that Regulus learned to keep his feelings well and truly hidden. He used to blush when James so much as looked at him. Regulus’s hands would shake if James threw an arm around his shoulders or his chest or if he ruffled Regulus’s hair. He stuttered and stumbled over his words when they spoke to one another. James never faltered, though, content to continue their friendly contact and conversation as though Regulus wasn’t suddenly inept.
But any time Sirius crooned about his reddened cheeks, Regulus paid attention. When Marlene doted on him for hiding a smile James created, he took note. When he fumbled his words directly to James’s face, he considered why, and he vowed not to make the same mistake again. Eventually, Regulus was able to train himself away from the embarrassing habits, from the awkward encounters, until nobody looked twice when he and James stood beside one another, or laughed at one another’s jokes, or mentioned each other in every-day conversation.
As though he could hear Regulus’s thoughts, James’s face appeared through the kitchen window. His eyes swept across the porch, squinting to determine the identities of Marlene and Dorcas, then across Mary’s figure, until finally landing on Regulus. Regulus hardly had time to register James’s growing smile before he disappeared again, only to rematerialize in the doorway not two seconds later.
“Much cooler out here, isn’t it?” James remarks genially. Wood squeaks softly beneath his feet as he crosses the deck to stand on Regulus’s other side.
He has two cups in his hand, both quickly collecting condensation around his fingers. Without hesitation, he extends one to Regulus, who takes it with a grateful nod of his head. It’s much colder than the beer he’d been nursing, and the relief he finds from the first sip is exquisite. When Regulus offers another nod of approval, James throws a friendly arm around Regulus’s shoulders, allowing it to linger there; warm and weighty and comfortable.
“How’s the party?” Mary asks, her eyes still closed. Her lashes flutter for a moment as though she’s debating whether to open them. Regulus watches until they settle into a more comfortable state, remaining firmly shut.
“They’ve got truth or dare going.” James replies, leaning a bit further into Regulus’s space to ensure Mary hears him over the music. Their bodies don’t touch, but Regulus can feel the warmth radiating from James’s side; from the arm resting on the rail behind his back. Regulus doesn’t react in any way, except to raise his cup to his lips once more.
“They’ve always got truth or dare going.” Mary hums, almost grumbles, though her resulting grin is fond.
“I ran out of things to ask for truth two years ago.” Regulus says, nodding in Mary’s direction. She can’t see his silent agreement, but she hums as though she had. “It’s not a real option anymore, anyway.”
Regulus feels confident in this claim, mostly because their group have known one another for years, and they’ve long since given up any pretenses of mystique or allure. Coupled with the fact that Pandora has an unnatural ability to look someone in the eye and instantly know whatever embarrassing thing they’d been hoping to keep to themselves for one night more, secrets really are a thing of the past.
James’s fingers pinch his shoulder, earning a huff of indignation. Regulus turns to look up at him, trying with all he has to make his frown appear sincere. If it does, James hardly balks.
“I picked truth last week, I’ll have you know.” James reminds him, faux-resentment stitched into his forehead.
Mary snorts a laugh. “You’re a slut for the easy way out, Potter.”
“Yeah,” Regulus agrees with another vehement nod. “You only ever pick truth when you know Sirius is going to dare you to do something embarrassing-”
“Or illegal.” Mary cuts in eagerly.
“Or illegal, yeah. They only ever ask you for a story these days, anyway.” Regulus finishes with a roll of his eye.
James rolls his eyes back, dramatic and unbecoming, though he doesn’t attempt to deny either of their assertions. It’s as much an admission of guilt as they’re going to get, and all three of them know it. Still, James smiles as though he hadn’t been called out, shifting on his feet in a manner that puts him a half-inch closer to Regulus’s side.
“Sirius just wants to see how long he can keep the game going.” James finally says: a fact they all know. Sirius wants to be known for the longest running game of truth or dare the world has ever known. He insists that, as long as nobody calls an official end to their previous session, the game is ongoing.
Regulus cuts his eyes to the window once more, half-expecting Sirius to appear there; James’s voice a whistle beckoning him home. He doesn’t, of course, and Regulus looks away almost as quickly.
“Sirius comes up with a lot of stupid ideas. At some point, we’re going to have to agree to start telling him ‘no.’” Regulus claims, voice dripping in the venom only a little brother could convey.
James snorts, perfectly aware of the front Regulus is putting on. Regulus is the best and worst of them, simultaneously able to say no to Sirius without a second-thought, yet always the first to agree with anything Sirius decides. The push and pull of a tide, always together and forever apart, Regulus and Sirius. It’s a byproduct of their terrible home-life and the fact they’d managed to escape it so early: bonded and distanced by the same love they’d struggled to earn, and the love that eventually found them with the natural grace of a sunrise.
Once again, as though he can hear Regulus’s thoughts, James’s hand moves to press against the center of his back. This time, he allows his palm to linger, delicate, against Regulus’s shirt. Regulus doesn’t move to pull away, but he doesn’t move to lean into the touch. He has an urge to smile to himself, to release the tension stabbing through his chest on a breathless laugh. He doesn’t give into those desires, either.
Mary finally opens her eyes, rolling her head to the side to give them both a casual once-over. If she notices the affectionate touch, nothing in her expression gives her thoughts away. Regulus doesn’t mind it any: a hand on his back is nothing compared to the noises Marlene and Dorcas’s lips are now making.
“Give us a story, then, Jamie.” Mary requests, soft in her demand. There’s little room for argument, though they both know James would never decline the invitation.
In fact, he seems to stand a bit taller. He hums to himself, his eyes darting around the porch as though trying to search for inspiration. After a moment, Regulus notices when his eyes catch on something in the distance. Regulus doesn't turn to discover the source, though, because James smiles to himself, and it’s a marvelous sight.
“Gid and I took the dinghy out the other night, a couple hours before sunrise.” James starts, intentionally vague. He never gives disclaimers or descriptions of what his story might entail, too excited to delve into its depths to dabble with formalities. “I thought we were going for more crawdads, but I never asked.”
“Cher bon Dieu.” Mary mutters with a shake of her head, intending only she and Regulus hear. James notices, of course, though as Regulus nods his sly agreement, James doesn’t offer any objections. Everyone knows not to venture too far into the marsh before the sun is able to rise; at least, everyone but James and Gideon, it seems.
“I didn’t expect we’d be snagging cocodrie instead.” James says, his tone giddy as he delivers the punch-line; the titular premise of his story.
Mary and Regulus nearly break their necks with how quickly they turn to him. It’s not like gators are uncommon - Regulus had seen nearly a dozen this last week alone; they’re as part of the community as turtles or ibises. The quickest way to identify a tourist is to see whether they stop and admire the gators that linger around the docks. It’s not the gators themselves that are the terror, as James likely knows, but more so the fact that he’d willingly go out and bother them.
It’s not that alligators are more dangerous than any other bayou dweller, either: so long as they’re respected, they respect the townsfolk right back. Regulus can’t remember the last time someone died because of a gator, though he does recall that time Mulciber went out and antagonized one that had leapt his family’s back fence: he lost a finger, though his pride miraculously remained intact.
“You didn’t catch any, Jamie, did you?” Mary asks, scandalized. She and Regulus both groan as James’s grin only grows.
“Just a baby one, not any of the big fellas out there.” James replies kindly, as though baby gators are any safer than a full-grown monster - s though mother gators are happy to leave their scaly little babies to the whims of such a dangerous place.
Mary rolls her eyes, though she does seem appeased by the caveat. “Gid’s gonna get you killed one of these days, Couillon.” She informs him, matter-of-factly.
James shrugs, his eyes dropping down to meet Regulus’s gaze once more. Regulus knows, before James manages to say it, what his response will be: “Ça va, ça vient, ça ne reste pas.”
Literally, this little catchphrase James adopted a few years back means: “it comes and goes, but nothing stays forever.” It’s a phrase the older folks throw around like hard candy, a bit of sage advice used to remind kids not to take things for granted. Regulus once told James he thought it was a bit sad - a saying that mourned the passing of time before time came to pass. James doesn’t see it that way, because he rarely sees things as negative if he can choose not to.
James says it several times a day, though. It’s almost like a punctuation mark, the final note to nearly every story he tells. Regulus has memorized the way his mouth moves around the words, how his tongue curls behind his teeth, how his cheeks flex and relax as he breathes the words out for a millionth time. It’s a comfort for James to say, and despite how tired it should have become by now, it’s just as comforting for Regulus to hear.
Still, Regulus scoffs, because he always scoffs when James repeats his iconic line. He scoffs, because when he does, James looks at him. He scoffs, because it always encourages James to lean in, to give Regulus an incredulous smile, to ask if Regulus thinks he’s putting on airs.
Mary, too, has seen this play several times over. That’s why, instead of allowing it to play out again, she asks, “Truth or dare, Reg?” around a Cheshire grin.
Regulus groans, immediately and acutely aware of the predicament he’s placed himself in. He’d disparaged Sirius’s name, granting Mary the right to punish him for the friendly-fire. He’d also disparaged the option of truth, forcing him to decide whether to be a coward or a liar. Neither option seems particularly grand now, not with James grinning over the trap he, too, has recognized. The most unfortunate part is Regulus already suspects what Mary’s dare might entail; he’s never been as stupid or trusting as James when it comes to the bayou.
Beside him, James leans down with an impish grin as he wiggles his shoulders, incidentally bumping one against Regulus’s own shoulder in a near-comforting rhythm. Regulus scrubs a hand over his face, trying to buy a few more seconds.
“I hated noodling, Mary, you know that better than anyone.” He eventually settles on, hoping it might be enough to garner some pity.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but science recently discovered gators ain’t catfish.” She retorts far too quickly.
Regulus squints his eyes at her in accusation. For a moment, they both glare at one another, a stand-off neither is willing to back away from first. Mary waggles her eyebrows, a cheap attempt to get him to laugh. In response, Regulus scrunches his nose.
“Yeah, it’s more like penne-ing.” James tacks on, just as rapidly, just as annoyingly.
Mary laughs - one short honk of a laugh - and finally breaks their staring contest. For some reason, Regulus still feels like he’s losing.
“How d’ja figure, Jamie?” Mary asks.
“Well,” James muses, casting his gaze towards the sky as though he hadn’t planned this far ahead. He adopts a slow crawl of a smile, a sunrise-drenching-river, as he leans forward to peer around Regulus. “If your arm is the noodle, right, it’s long and extended for catfish.” He holds his arm straight out to example his words. “It’s spaghetti. For gators, though, you gotta clamp around their snout.”
James bends his elbow then, touching the tips of his fingers to his thumb. Regulus warily observes the loose fist, his lip caught between his teeth. James’s gaze flickers between his face and Mary’s for a moment. He drops his hand once more, far too pleased with himself when Mary says, “Penne, yeah. Totally.”
“He doesn’t even know what he’s talking about! We’ll both be eaten alive!” Regulus complains, gesticulating towards James while turning back to Mary. He does his best impression of a sad dog, tucking his head down a bit so he can look at her through his eyelashes. Unfortunately, with Mary being quite a few inches shorter than he is, the effect doesn’t sway her.
“Truth or dare, Reggie.” Mary repeats, her voice adopting a lyrical, feisty cadence.
She leans into Regulus’s side, a physical pressure accompanying the severe social pressure he’s already experiencing. On his other side, James leans in, too. It’s warm, excessively so, and combined with the stifling humidity, Regulus can hardly think.
He closes his eyes, searching for some kind of clarity. The final straw comes from Mary poking her finger against his cheek at the exact time James’s hand moves to tickle his hip.
“Mias la, fine!” Regulus finally shouts, throwing his hands above his head. This works to push them both away, and further express his frustration with the situation. With a glare sent at them both, Regulus finally turns to Mary and, through clenched teeth, says, “I’ll take the damn dare.”
Mary’s only response is a beaming smile and a friendly clap against his shoulder. “I can’t wait to hear about it.” She says, far too chipper for Regulus’s liking.
With that, she presses a kiss to his cheek; it’s sticky, though from her cherry red lipstick or the sweat already painting his cheek, he’s not sure. She shoots James a wink, does a silly, stumbling pirouette, then disappears back through the kitchen’s door.
Regulus turns back to James who, in his eyes, is just as guilty as Mary. It was his ridiculous story that got him into this mess; his tipsy, flippant attitude that encouraged Mary’s rambunctious behavior. “You’re the worst of my life.” Regulus spits at him.
James laughs, and it mixes so naturally with the swamp around them that Regulus can’t maintain his scowl. It’s a beautiful sound, James’s real, earnest laugh: a nightingale’s call, or the kick of a motor that should have given out years prior, or a real, honest-to-god friend who loves without fear.
“You’re going to love it. Baby gators are adorable, really: all scaly and small. When are you free next, chou?” James asks, leaning back against the railing, back into Regulus’s space.
It’s comfortable, the distance James seems to forget should exist between them. He’s like that with everyone - naturally affectionate, a bit too intense. It’s like gravity works a little extra hard around James, pulling him into the shoulder of whomever stands beside him. Regulus loves standing beside him, relishing in the warmth of his arm and gaze alike.
Regulus tries, he really does, to put the same irritation behind his words, though it’s impossible with James looking at him like that: wide open and excited, pleased to spend as much time with Regulus as possible.
With a faux-weary sigh, Regulus says, “Tell me when and where, James, and I’ll be there.”