Chapter Text
Regulus Black’s life is not exciting; if anything, it’s mundane, no break from the routine he found himself in after leaving his childhood home, following in his big brother’s footsteps. It might have taken him four more years than Sirius to gather himself and leave their parents behind, but now, at twenty-three, Regulus is the happiest he’s ever been. Well, he’s as happy as he can be, considering his life is bleak and his only form of entertainment comes from his and Sirius’ bi-weekly dinners.
Dinners to which Remus sometimes ends up coming along, because he owns the apartment in which they meet up as much as Sirius does. He doesn’t mind Sirius’ boyfriend, if he’s being honest he’d much rather have dinner with him than his own brother, but almost every meal Remus joins ends with Regulus third wheeling and needing to bleach his eyes due to their disgusting flirting. Because of this, he’s unsure if the dinners count as fun.
For his own mental stability, he doesn’t count Barty and Evan’s insistence to stay at his place as a consensual form of entertainment. They’re worse than his brother and Remus, so Regulus finds it somewhat fair to put his best friends below his own blood in the hypothetical ranking of Regulus Black’s breaks of habitual boredom. Still, when they want to behave, Barty and Evan only come by to bother him and steal his food, but unfortunately for him, he does care enough about his friends to not kick them out. Which means that most often than not, Regulus’ time is spread between his classes, his minimum wage barista job, his best friends and his brother. He’s not upset with the predicament he found himself in, he’s not, but he can’t help when he wishes for something, anything to break the monotony of his days.
He never would have expected said monotony to be broken by Sirius’ best friend, yet here he is.
The day started off as normal, with Regulus getting up way before his alarm could even think of waking him up and him dreading the morning Postmodernism lecture class he compromised on signing up for. If it were up to him, Regulus would be taking the Modernism class scheduled for Monday afternoon, but that lecture was full before he could even add it in his contract. So he was left with Postmodernism, arguably the worst sort of Modernisms, in the early hours of every single Friday for the remaining semester.
Just like every Friday, Regulus contemplated skipping, but, as usual, the thought of Slughorn asking him about his whereabouts the following week sent a shiver down his spine. He hated being put on the spot, but Professor Slughorn thought it best to bring the entire class’ attention to one student, trying to be as compassionate as possible while everyone present squirms in discomfort. Regulus saw it happen five whole times already and it’s only the third week of the semester.
The only thing that convinces him to get out of bed is the promise of a freshly brewed cup of coffee. Sirius loves making fun of his coffee snobbism, but if there is one thing their parents actually had a say in was his intake of quality, freshly ground, freshly brewed at just 94 degrees celsius with purified water. He’s a snob, alright, it’s his only flaw, but now he makes one mean espresso, even with the shitty coffee beans he’s forced to use by Starbucks.
Once he finds himself inhaling his espresso, Regulus feels ready to face the inevitable mundanity of the day ahead of him.
So, just like every single Friday for the past three weeks, Regulus finds himself spending two hours stuck in a room with fewer and fewer students, listening to Professor Slughorn praise Peter Ackroyd’s marvellous psychogeography again. Regulus read Ackroyd in a moment of weakness at the beginning of term when Slughorn’s poetics convinced him. It may have been his greatest mistake, but he’d sooner drink instant coffee than admit this in class.
What he doesn’t expect, as he struggles to write down the minimal information Slughorn is throwing at them– Regulus swears he saw this on a Wikipedia page in high school once– is for the door to be thrown open with about as much grace as a baby pigeon flying straight into a window. It’s not a pigeon that managed to slam the giant mahogany doors open, no, that would be too kind of a joke from whatever God there is in the sky.
In the doorway stands James Potter, Sirius’ best friend, of which Regulus knows about in theory, but he’s never actually seen the man in real life. He knows he helped his brother run away, he knows that he makes one show stopping margarita (Sirius’ words) and that he’s the kindest, most selfless person to ever walk this earth. Regulus also knows he’s a dad, it would be hard not to when the campus is filled with whispers of James ‘the DILF’ Potter, but he’s never, not until right now, seen the man in his dad glory.
Whenever Sirius brings up Potter, the whole room falls silent, with Regulus because he’s unsure if he should mention that he spent most of his teenage years hating on Potter and Sirius being dead set on the silly idea that Regulus doesn’t hate James Potter, no, no. He hates kids, ergo, he hates the mythical kid of his best friend, about whom he only knows the name of. Sirius is quick to change the subject every time, going on tangents about whatever date he has planned with Remus, but Regulus isn’t blind. He knows it hurts his brother that, according to his own handcrafted ideas about Regulus, Harry would be the first victim of his child endangering adventures.
Putting aside the fact that Sirius knows they’ve both faced similar abuse from their parents and that this doesn’t translate into an unjustified hatred towards kids, Regulus can’t even try to prove his brother that his perception is wrong. He can’t because no matter how much he would love to meet little Harry, he’s not allowed to. Or, at least he thinks he’s not allowed to. It feels like it when even Remus shoots him careful glances when Sirius gets too excited about something Harry did and ends up mentioning it in front of Regulus.
This doesn’t mean that seeing James ‘hot DILF’ Potter with a sleeping toddler strapped to his chest has zero effects on him. Really, they should make it illegal for DILFs to just… walk around with their kids, especially on campus, where sad, horny people like Regulus exist. Regulus never thought that the sleep deprived, barely alive and functioning, shirt on backwards look would do it for him, but here he is, staring at Sirius’ best friend with a hunger he’s never felt before.
No one moves a muscle as Potter’s brain seems to catch up with him, rebooting and sending a sharp signal to his body to wake up. Even from his spot near the windows, ridiculously far away from where Potter stopped, dead on his feet, Regulus can see the wheels turn in his head, eyes widening behind his stupidly attractive golden glasses.
Maybe Sirius tried to keep him away from Potter because he knew his brother would end up lusting after him. It would certainly make more sense than the idiotic idea that he hates kids.
Slughorn seems to also catch up with the intrusion, placing the worn out copy of Hawksmoor face down on his desk and standing up with a groan. “Mr. Potter,” he starts, eyeing Potter with a slight air of annoyance. Nodding towards Harry, the man’s eyes soften momentarily. “And, slightly smaller Mr. Potter, I assume?”
The question is what fully sets Potter’s brain into functioning again, as he takes one long, wistful look around the mournful literature students sitting down in various degrees of rejection of the crude reality they were stuck in. His eyes stop on Regulus, a confused glint sparkling behind the lenses, before the moment is broken, mortifying realisation dawning on Potter’s face.
“This… This isn’t Kinesitherapy for Orthopaedic and Traumatic Disorders, is it?”
A beat of silence, too long if someone were to ask Regulus, but he’s not one to complain if Slughorn’s slowness is what keeps Potter here, where he can ogle at him without feeling like a weirdo. “No, Mr. Potter,” Professor Slughorn exhales. Regulus can see that his hands are itching to pick up the discarded book again, and he hopes, prays even that Potter and his sleeping kid can delay his tragic fate for at least one more moment. “I believe the class you are looking for is near the gyms. Where all you… sporty people are.”
Potter blinks and, as eloquently as someone who Regulus assumes is running on sheer determination and the sunshine that shines out of their body, says, “Right. Apologies, Professor.”
Just as he turns to leave, gods above, beyond and below, Regulus wants to write sonnets about his ass, Potter throws him one last look, this one devoid of confusion– he must have figured it out that Sirius didn’t enrol into university during the night– and instead full of something Regulus can’t fully place his finger on. James Potter has no reason to look at him with kindness when he looks like he’s two seconds away from joining his son in an impromptu nap, yet here he is, offering Regulus a look of gentleness few have bothered to spare him.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Mr. Potter!” Professor Slughorn stops him in time. “Perhaps you should not bring your son to your classes. Don’t get me wrong–” he rushes to say when he sees Potter’s frown crease between his brows, “it is admirable that you are so dedicated to your studies, but I don’t think carrying a toddler to university level classes will be of any aid to his developing intellect.”
A few students snicker, whispering to each other about the awkwardness of the whole ordeal, while others, Regulus included, just continue to stare at James Potter and his dishevelled hair. Oh, what wouldn’t he pay to be able to run his fingers through the messy curls.
Regulus blinks. Once, twice, one more time for good measure. He knows he’s horny, he’s aware of the lack of people in his bed, but surely this lecture isn’t the right place for him to develop an unhealthy obsession.
Potter doesn’t seem to catch the jab, although Regulus doubts Slughorn noticed it either, with how often he comments on the sports faculty and their uselessness in the face of true academia.
“Well, Professor, Lily’s got a job interview and well, I had to take Harry in, you know how it goes–”
Hiding a smile with the sleeve of his sweater, Regulus decides right then and there that he will have James Potter. He doesn’t care how, though he prefers it to be in a sexual way, but James ‘hot DILF’ Potter will be his and Sirius can choke and cry about him stealing his best friend from him, Regulus doesn’t give a flying fuck. He’s so stupid, so incredibly dumb that even as Slughorn lights up at the mention of his beloved Lily Evans, ready to launch himself into a discussion about her, Potter simply smiles, that same blinding grin he can’t seem to get rid off no matter how tired he is.
Regulus Black’s boring routine may just get more interesting if he can find a way to convince his brother to bring Potter along when he’s over at Sirius’ house. And, well, if he brings little Harry along, Regulus doesn’t think it would be the end of the world. His cheeks do look extremely pinchable, he concludes as the child’s head lolls to the side, only to be stopped by Potter’s gentle hand.
If his smile widens behind the sleeve that’s still hiding half of his face, Regulus can simply blame it on how utterly funny Ackroyd is.
His apartment is not really the greatest place, not spacious, definitely overcrowded with trinkets his mother would throw a fit over, far too many Bartys and Evans sprawled all over his couch. It was the only thing he could afford when he finally saved up enough money to move out of Sirius’ guest room. Regulus loves it, even when the pigeons keep knocking on his window for food because the previous tenant decided it was a good idea to feed them, even when he finds the stray spider chilling in his tub.
When presented with the hard choice between spending time at his place and going over to Sirius and Remus’ apartment, Regulus spends not a second more on packing his bag and grabbing his Oyster card. His brother’s place is just so much nicer, bigger, brighter and without a single annoying pigeon in sight. It’s heaven if he were to believe in it.
Sirius didn’t even bother with trying to keep Regulus out when he moved into his own flat. That may as well have been his biggest mistake. Maybe, Regulus muses as he watches his older brother fall into Remus’ lap, if he were to have changed his key now he wouldn’t be subjected to such torture.
Regulus has been sitting on their loveseat for the past three hours, staring at his phone and trying to escape Barty’s insistent messages on TikTok. He’s been sending Regulus videos of dads with babies ever since he texted the group chat after the James ‘hot DILF’ Potter incident in Slughorn’s class and from that moment on Barty’s been making fun of his taste in men.
Sirius and Remus both came and left, not paying much attention to Regulus and his on-going crisis. This is one of the things he loves about their flat, they don’t bother him when he’s just existing there. Sure, sometimes they ask him to come set the table, or do the dishes if the couple was the one cooking that night, but they never actively poke the younger man.
Growing up in Grimmauld Place made both Sirius and Regulus aware of their surroundings, always trying to make as little of a mess as possible, to not disturb the expensive throw pillows or dirty the china displays with fingertips. It was always a ticking clock until their mother would yell at them to clean up after themselves, or to go do something she didn’t want to bother herself with, but here? Outside of that rotten house and in their own spaces? They can do whatever they want and then not be afraid that they will be reprimanded for their negligence.
Sirius got used to it ages ago, the scars left behind by Walburga and Orion healed with time and loving touches from people he gets to call his actual family. Regulus has yet to let go of the uneasiness drilled into him, but his older brother makes sure to remind him that he’s out by simply letting him take over his loveseat for hours on end.
It’s Remus that breaks the comfortable silence that settled over them, just as Regulus’ phone lit up with another barteebee shared a video.
“Pads, if you want to still grab food for James’ we should leave now.” Regulus watches as Remus taps his brother’s leg to get him to move out of his lap, the simple two taps enough to catch Sirius’ attention.
They’re always so in sync with each other, moving together as if they’re one soul split in two and not two separate beings. It’s intriguing really, because Regulus knows for a fact that while he and Remus may be tied by whatever string of fate Sirius believes in, Sirius and Potter are even more in tune. He heard Remus fondly make fun of their relationship and how those two act more like a couple in public than the actual boyfriends, but for some reason Regulus finds it hard to believe.
Yet, if he manages to play his cards correctly, maybe he’d get to witness this blurring of boundaries in real life and not just in Remus’ exasperated tales.
“James?” he asks nonchalantly. “You mean James Potter?”
Sirius throws his brother a look. “Yeah, my best friend, James Potter,” he says, matter of factly, suspicion still lingering in his voice. “Why are you being weird about it, Reggie?”
Unlocking his phone, Regulus doesn't meet his brother's eyes. He has to play coy if he wants Sirius to catch the bait he's throwing him. "Oh, he walked into Slughorn's class last Friday. He had… Harry?" Sirius lets out an offended gasp. Bingo. "Whatever his kid's name is with him. Slughorn spent like ten minutes holding him hostage to talk about Lily though. Honestly, Potter looked like he was gonna fall asleep there but he seemed excited to entertain him."
“I swear, sometimes Slughorn really makes you think he birthed Lily himself with how much he loves talking about her,” Remus snorts, sounding more fond at the idea of Lily being praised than anything else. His hand ends up in Sirius’ hair, tugging lovingly at his brother’s waves. Even when he’s supposed to move out of Remus’ lap Sirius takes it as a challenge to do it as slowly and with cutting as little skin contact as possible. Not that Remus is doing anything else. “Pads, go get ready or I’m leaving without you.”
“No, no, I wanna hear what Reggie did when he saw Haz!”
It’s not like Sirius didn’t expect the pillow to hit him in the face, yet the arsehole has the audacity to yell at him. “I really don’t understand why you think I did something to him! You headcanonned me as a child hater when you didn’t even see me interact with kids, you arse!”
“Yeah!” Sirius throws the pillow back, missing Regulus’ head entirely. “Cause you always used to glare at kids when we were younger, you dumbass!”
“Cause I was a kid!”
“You’re literally glaring at me right now!”
“Oh, so you agree you’re a child!”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Am not!”
“Are–”
Remus clears his throat, promptly getting the two brothers to stop their quarrelling. He can feel his cheeks burn, both at the quiet interruption from Sirius’ stupid, level-headed boyfriend and from the anger swimming in his chest. Why must his brother be so infuriating?
“Boys, boys, you’re both kids, end of discussion. Now, how about you go get dressed, Sirius and Regulus you can… just do whatever, really.”
Sirius doesn’t relent, clearly willing to prove his point if the twinkle in his eyes is of any indication that he won’t be giving up on their arguments anytime soon. “No, no,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at his younger brother. Next to him, Regulus can see Remus roll his eyes so far back in his head that he’s sure it must be causing him a great headache. “Let’s make a fucking bet, Reggie.”
If there were awards given to how easy it is to get one’s way, Regulus would have to buy a new house just to put all his new awards in. It’s just so easy.
“You come with us to James’ place and you will see how right I am when you’re trying to spend all night as far away from Harry because you hate kids.”
“Ok,” he agrees simply, emphasising how less this bet means to him with a shrug. “If I win you’ll have to buy me those vintage editions of Dorian Gray I've been saving up for."
He can already feel the heavy weight of the books in his arms. His little library will be the greatest topic at work, where Dorcas and Benjy will be stabbing him esoterically with their envy.
"Sure, whatever you want since you're gonna lose anyway. If I win, you're gonna have to admit that I'm right."
That's it?
Regulus glares at his brother and his shit eating grin. "That's it? No way, you're planning something. Spit it out, asshole."
It should be illegal for Sirius Black to grin like a madman, especially where his brother is concerned. Nothing good ever comes out of a situation that starts with Sirius' smile being borderline a carbon copy of Bella's. If Regulus were just a bit smarter, he would've probably backed out of this stupid bet. If Regulus were a smidge, a whopping one percent more intelligent, he would've told Sirius to suck it, stayed home and eaten all of his brother's expensive ice cream.
But Regulus isn't that smart, at least when it comes to a certain DILF being involved in the outcome of it all. He's booksmart alright, it's just that he's stupid when he's thinking with the head of his dick.
And right now all his dick wants is James Potter and his dumb, dumb smile to be directed at him.
"Well, if I win you'll have to admit I was right… And–" There it is. "And I want a written and signed note that says I'm the best brother ever and my judgement of character, headcanoning skills, whatever you wanna call them, are immaculate."
Oh, his brother is a sick, sick bastard.
"Fine! Whatever!" All he can do is throw the last of his pillows at Sirius' already retreating form. "I'll make sure to add the Black insignia to it too so that you know it's legit, you motherfucker."
"You do that, Reggie dear! You do that!"
Regulus needs to learn when to shut the fuck up, but he'll only come to learn this in a few hours.
What Regulus doesn't expect when entering James Potter's apartment is for how much brighter than his and Sirius' flats combined it is. Realistically he knows this is what happens when your flat faces south: you get more sunshine, but he's fairly certain Potter's place faces north, if his sense of direction is to be trusted.
It's not the sun lighting up the whole place and making it seem just like it’s straight up glowing. What stops Regulus in the doorway, blocking Sirius’ way, is the fact that the hallway alone is filled to the brim with nauseating colours.
At least three different toddler jackets, all in various shades of red, are thrown haphazardly on the coat rack. He counts another five, this time in what can clearly be categorised as adult sizes, coats. Unsurprisingly, they're also red. Regulus is starting to see a pattern.
Rainbow banners cover the walls, leaving behind none of the boring beige underneath, paintings of sunsets and sunrises and beaches, pieces of paper with crude drawings of what Regulus can only assume are actual humans, and that's just the walls and the coat rack.
He doesn't even want to acknowledge the toys cluttering the colourful rug.
As he graciously steps into the flat– Sirius straight up pushes him in, calling him a bitch for keeping him away from his lover– Regulus has to thread carefully so that he won't step on any cars or plushies or whatever it is Harry decided to throw on the ground.
Remus is a few steps behind him, not even bothering to keep Sirius in check now that he's in close proximity to his other lover. This can't be healthy, Regulus wonders to himself, quite happy that while his bodily attraction to Potter may end up in casual sex, he will never have to be in the same boat as Remus. He doesn't know how he'd react to his brother calling his boyfriend his own soulmate.
Not that he would ever end up calling Potter his boyfriend. Honestly, this is just to blame on his unsatiated lust.
His stupid, foolish hunger.
The rest of the apartment is just as colourful and luminous, with fairy lights strung on each wall and just as many drawings as Regulus saw in the hallway taped to the walls, or drawn directly on the walls in some cases.
But, in the middle of the knick-knacks and drawings and light, there is James Potter. Stood, staring with his mouth slightly agape at Regulus, Harry trying to climb his legs like a dog attempting to grab its owner’s attention.
It shouldn’t be as endearing as Regulus finds it– he blames it on the lust, everything can be blamed on the lust if he’s creative enough– but there’s something about the way in which Potter bends down to grab his son, propping him on his hip with practised ease. With that same practised ease he regains his composure, acting as if Sirius’ younger brother walking into his flat is something he sees everyday, he beams, so, so full of kindness.
It makes Regulus sick; no one should be able to smile like that. No one should give Regulus such room lighting smiles.
Not even five seconds into being in Potter’s flat and he’s already feeling his composure– not like there was much to begin with– slip from under his fingers. The sight of Potter and Harry, both grinning at him, should not make Regulus want to rip his skin off, to open his ribcage and make enough room for the two of them to nestle in comfortably, yet here he is.
Utterly gone. Completely in love. He didn’t stand a single chance, did he?
Gods, he’s as pathetic as his dumbass brother, isn’t he?
Throughout the night he tries to spend as little time looking at Potter as possible, feeling his brother’s eyes bore holes in the side of his head every time he dares to even glance in Potter’s direction. Yet, there’s something alluring, gravity pulling about his presence, something that makes it harder and harder for Regulus to even try and keep his eyes away.
Out of the two brothers, it was always Regulus who had the better self control, the one who could keep himself silent when their parents yelled at them, the one who learned it was easier to deny his desires if it meant a night of comfortable rest.
His brother didn't care about following the unspoken rules of the house. If he could make their mother angrier with him, he’d do anything in his power. It wasn’t unusual for Regulus to sneak whatever food he could hide in his pockets after dinners and take it into his brother’s room, offering it to Sirius with a worried expression on his face. The worry Regulus had felt as a young child never really left, but every now and again, when he catches sight of his big brother smiling in ways he would have never been able to if he had spent one more day stuck in Grimmauld Place, Regulus feels his chest free of the weight that settled in between his ribs.
Only by being reckless, by not taking anything for granted and fighting and grabbing whatever he wants from the highest branches did Sirius manage to free himself of the chains that still hold Regulus tied to his parents.
And yet, Regulus prides himself in his restraint. It may be one of the only good things Walburga and Orion gave him while totally unaware of it. He doubts they ever noticed his talent in denying himself his own happiness, but if they were to be aware of it, Regulus is sure they’d be overjoyed. Another scar that Regulus will never get rid off.
It’s due to his restraint that now Regulus doesn’t fully implode in James Potter’s living room. Maybe he should send his mom some roses as a thank you and hope that her allergies to them will make her sneeze herself to death.
For the most part, he keeps to himself, quiet and taking as little space as possible on the couch, a mug of chai warming his hands. Remus and Sirius are on the floor, playing with Harry, although he doesn’t think slamming lego blocks into each other can really be called playing. Still, the kid seems to be having the time of his life, more so now that his father is no longer hovering over him like a worried, giant shadow.
No, James Potter is not hovering over Harry, he’s buzzing like a wasp, annoying and ready to sting, in Regulus’ ear. He took the empty space the younger Black brother left on the couch as an open invitation to sit down and for the past forty minutes he’s been attempting to engage Regulus in far too many conversations.
He’s asked about Regulus’ classes, all of them except for Slughorn’s, seemingly having had enough of the old man. About what he thinks of said classes, about how he feels on campus and when all his questions got met with short, curt answers– Regulus has to control himself from going on rants about how much his professors suck or about how he thinks that dedicating three whole classes to Shakespeare throughout the programme is a bit of an overkill, considering that he’s really, really not the greatest playwright in early modern to modern times, or, that the campus sucks, because it’s organised poorly and classes shouldn’t be sprawled throughout different buildings when faculties like his praise themselves on extensive history and rename– Potter doesn’t take the hint.
He keeps talking and talking and talking, promptly ignoring the weird looks Sirius keeps giving him. Regulus can’t ignore them. His whole body is aware of his brother’s eyes; he knows he’s analysing every little interaction, no doubt to use them later when he’s boasting about how right he was and how just being in the same room as a child made Regulus uncomfortable.
He’s not going to be able to tell him that the only reason his body was as rigid as stone was because Regulus was trying to hold his bones back from jumping on Potter’s lap. In fairness, the man looks so much more attractive up close, wearing a shirt that's not backwards and the dark circles under his eyes in a lighter shade of brown. Regulus is a simple man, with simpler needs, and right now Potter is meeting all the requirements to fulfil said needs.
“So,” Potter coughs, grabbing Regulus’ attention– not that he ever stopped having it. “What’s your favourite colour, Reggie?”
Oh, he’s so dumb, Regulus is gonna fuck him stupid. Stupider than he already is.
The brunet scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Really? How old are you to ask me that, five?”
There’s no easy way to say such things, but James Potter and his sunshine-poured-down-his-face-smile will be the actual death of Regulus, if he doesn’t end up taking matters into his own hands and just… drowning himself directly in the Thames, tact and casualness be damned.
"I think you and I both know I'm twenty-five, Regulus." The wink. The fucking wink that Potter has the audacity to give him. Regulus will actually, honestly explode.
His face must be as red as all of Potter's tacky décor, though not having Sirius bring the blush on his cheeks up as loudly as possible must mean it's all in Regulus' head.
"Perhaps you should just go play with your kid, Potter."
"Perhaps you should join me."
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Perhaps Regulus should just kill himself in front of his eyes, change the trajectory of his life forever and permanently scar his brother in the process. It would be a decent revenge for all the times he had to hear him and Remus have sex.
The lego piece that flies past their shoulders is a clear message, metaphorical black on metaphorical white, stained with Sirius’ metaphorical blood. As a visual prop. Regulus isn’t sure if the threat is for him or for Potter, but he’s not really in the mood to find out who his brother wants to murder first.
It shouldn’t take a PhD to see the danger, but apparently Potter needs the doctorate and a new pair of glasses. Unbothered by the commotion, he picks up the lego piece and just slithers down from the couch onto the rug and into Sirius’ open arms. Along the way, he somehow manages to pick Harry up as well, so that once he reaches Sirius and makes himself at home in his brother’s lap, there are two Potters who are more than willing to bask into his attention.
He could ignore Potter, sulk in his little corner and glare at his brother– who will no doubt interpret it as him glaring at Harry instead– but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to play with Harry. From the moment he saw him tonight, he’s been mesmerised by his chubby cheeks, the rosiness spreading all over his dark skin from how much Sirius and Remus are making the little boy laugh. Harry’s hair has also fascinated him. He’s a carbon copy of his dad, the same messy curls, the same crooked smile, even the little bump on the bridge of his nose is Potter’s.
But his eyes… Regulus knows they’re Lily’s, he’d actually seen the woman more often than Potter. Until tonight, he never considered them to be so beautiful, so full a never ending light, but seeing them on a child that resembles Potter’s glowiness… They’re bewitching.
He might need to compliment Lily when he sees her next time, just because.
All the self-control he managed to have tonight? Gone, thrown out the window and into the streets of West London for all the rats to feast on. Regulus joins the three men and one little boy into the rug, and while he does try to stay at least a few lego constructions away from his brother and his army of Potters, Regulus doesn’t bother trying to keep up the untouchable facade he put on.
And if Remus keeps glancing at him, the knowing tilt of his lips a mockery towards Regulus’ person, he at least has the decency to keep quiet and continue giving Harry the blocks he demands.
Later that night, after they left behind a sleeping Harry who refused to let go of Remus’ fingers, his brother spends exactly three minutes in complete silence upon their arrival home. No one comments on the fact that Regulus didn’t go back to his own place, instead, what Sirius focuses on is the bet they made, still fresh in his mind.
“So, Reginald, I win, right?”
No finesse, this one, though Regulus guesses all the composure and diplomacy got passed down to him.
A beat of quiet before the moment of inevitable disaster.
“You were,” he says.
“Ok, whatever, just send me the link you want me to–” Sirius turns around so fast that it’s surprising he doesn’t fall and split his head open. “I’m– Say that again?”
Rolling his eyes, Regulus pushes past his brother to step into the open kitchen and pour himself a glass of water. “You were right, I hate kids. Where do you want me to sign your stupid certificate or what the fuck ever you want me to do?”
“What the fuck do you mean I’m right? I was ready to buy your stupid shitty books, Reg!”
“Well, now you can keep your money.”
Sirius stares at his brother, mouth wide open and eyes full of disbelief. If he’s not convincing enough to fool Sirius, he must be doing something wrong. Maybe he needs to look even more distraught that he lost the bet… He was certain that the frown of his brows and the downturn of his lips would be enough to make him seem upset… Hm.
“Are you serious? You really mean to tell me that Harry didn’t charm you?”
“I mean, you kinda kept him to yourself and only allowed Remus to take him from you so it’s not like I got to spend time with him.”
“Still! He’s the cutest kid!”
“You’re saying that just because you’re his godfather.”
“Nu-uh! Tell him, Moons!”
From his way to the bathroom, Remus sighs loudly, clearly tired from the night of adventures they’ve had. Still, he can’t deny Sirius anything so he turns around slowly, leaning his weight on the wall with his right hand.
“Sure, Pads, he’s the cutest kid and you’re not saying that just because you’re his godfather. Can we please go to bed?”
It’s like a switch gets turned in Sirius’ head. One moment he’s next to Regulus and another he’s gently reaching out to help Remus stand, fingers tender as they grasp the taller’s waist. Regulus hates that he feels like he’s intruding on such an intimate moment. He wishes he could be of help, that Remus would trust him enough to allow him to fret so openly, but he knows he will never have that sort of relationship with his future brother-in-law. At least not without Remus being loudly against the fretting.
“This isn't done, Reginald!” Sirius throws over his shoulder, sparing Regulus one last brief look.
“Whatever, dumbass.”
His eyes stay glued to the bathroom door for a few seconds before he manages to gather himself and go to his designated guest bedroom.
Because he didn’t get into the Modernism class, Monday afternoons are designated work afternoons. Not that the mornings are any different; almost the entire day is a designated work day, with Regulus covering the empty spot Benjy left when he decided that he should use his Mondays for the PhD research he’s doing. Every now and again, Benjy drops another bomb on him and Dorcas, the only barista and manager that are a permanent fixture in the campus’ Starbucks. Some days he’s saying that his doctorate coordinator is making him work for close to nothing, others it’s just him describing in graphic detail what burns his newest chemical experiment gave him.
Whenever Benjy is working with him, Regulus knows he will not know peace.
There are only two possible ways an afternoon can go: either it’s the bloodiest, most gut wrenching, breakdown inducing rush Regulus had ever lived, or the cafe is just deserted, no one inside besides the overworked staff and the stressed student holding back tears in the secluded corner.
Fortunately for Regulus’ mental state, this Monday is part of the second type.
The emptiness of the coffee shop is made much more obvious by the loudness of the espresso machine any time Dorcas reaches to add another shot to the ever growing collection in her cup. He lost count after the third, but if he were to guess, Regulus would say she’s on her seventh by now.
The machine whirls to life obnoxiously over the background music the two have settled on, a mix they’ve been working on for years ever since the two discovered that they like the same genres. Benjy isn’t a fan of it, always complaining about how the dark mood of their music brings down the spirit, so in order to honour his desires of keeping up the oh so jolly atmosphere one can find in a campus coffee shop, they only play it when he’s not working.
While he may be a snob about coffee, he doesn’t consume it in such industrial quantities like Dorcas does. Linking it back to his mother and her rude comments about indulging, Regulus can’t say he’s surprised by his own behaviour.
Besides Dorcas’ espressos being brewed every hour or so, the tables are almost deserted, wiped clean hours ago after the morning rush of students and professors alike trying to finish their work before the due deadline. Regulus finds himself behind the counter watching the minutes tick by before he’s free to leave. He has plans for the night, meaning that Barty and Evan are already at his place, wrecking havoc. They like to call it making Regulus dinner as a thank you for being so kind and putting up with their shit, while Regulus prefers to call it the nth death of his kitchen.
As a manager, Dorcas may just be a godsent miracle. She doesn’t care about what her people are wearing, she doesn’t comment when they’re late and she even lets them flirt with their customers. Well, that was only the case of Benjy, who felt the need to embarrass himself in front of Peter Pettrigrew before the latter agreed to go out with him. Regulus could’ve been nice and told his coworker that the crush he’s been moaning over for months on end just so happens to be another one of his brother’s best friends. He could’ve, but there was no actual fun in doing that.
She is also nice enough to allow Regulus to read when the customers are so far and few, which is how James Potter finds him. Head buried into an old copy of Whitman’s poetry collection he stole from Remus’ library, Regulus doesn't look up when he hears the bell ring, disturbing the silence that fell over the shop. Dorcas is more than capable of making the hundredth iced oat milk shaken espresso of the shift.
It’s only when he doesn’t hear her move to the register to take the person’s order that he lifts his head, meeting the warm eyes of the object of his current desires. James Potter is smiling at him, unbothered by being made to wait. On his chest, Harry is gripping tightly onto a stuffed toy, face full of mirth as he takes in the scenery in front of him.
“Well, hello there!” James beams at him, eyes disappearing into little slits with how wide his smile is. “Fancy meeting you here, Reggie!”
Holding back a smile, Regulus puts his book aside after he makes sure he dorears the page he’s on. He masks it with an eye roll, the easiest thing that comes to him at the moment. “You know very well I work here, Potter.”
“Do I? Hm, can’t recall. You know how it is with being a dad, you get dad memory and stuff, y’know?” The smile is still present, still as bright, still as blinding. Regulus feels the need to look away, lest he wants to burn himself on it.
“I don’t,” he says. “I’m not a dad, never will be one probably,” a big, fat lie if the toddler blowing spit bubbles around his tortured dino has a say in it, “so I don’t know anything about this mythical dad memory thing.”
“Maybe Harry and I should teach you a thing or two about what it's like being a dad.” James Potter is playing a dangerous, dangerous game here, but he doesn't seem to want to back away now.
Internally, Regulus screams.
Externally, his eyes glue to a spot behind Potter’s shoulder and his face turns cold. It’s the only way in which he can keep the blush from spreading from his already burning ears.
“I think you should just order. You’re gonna keep the line if you just want to bother me here.”
Harry spits another bubble, stuffing the dino’s hand deeper into his mouth. For a toddler, he’s quite stupid. It’s to be expected, Regulus thinks, after all he doesn’t think Harry is older than one, maybe one and a few months, but he never actually asked. He’s able to walk by himself, well, more like wobble for a few steps and then fall, but it’s something. The kid is also able to say a few words, maybe more than a few considering all he heard when they were over at Potter’s was Harry mumbling as many variations of Moony and Padfoot as childly possible.
The boy is a bit dumb, that’s true, but, after all his dad is who he is and while Lily Evans is one of the smartest women Regulus has ever had the pleasure of meeting, he doubts her smarts were enough to overpower Potter’s. If anything it just makes Harry cuter in his eyes, though he would never utter such things out loud.
The confused look Potter gives him after checking behind for any line of possible customers is enough to make Regulus jump over the counter and kiss him stupid.
“But there’s no one else here, Reggie.” He pouts. The grown man in front of him, with his whole child strapped to his chest, fucking pouts at Regulus as if he took his favourite toy from him. The dangerous game he started is in full swing and Potter probably doesn’t even realise it, actually upset. And pouting. God, Regulus is never going to be able to escape his pout. It’s going to be seared into his retinas, Potter’s bottom lip all jutted out and plump.
Regulus will have to kiss him. There’s nothing else he can do at this point.
When all else fails, he knows he can count on changing the subject without an ounce of concern for the on-going conversation. With practised ease, he clears his throat and says, casually, as if he’s not still screaming on the inside, “Didn’t you tell Sirius that Lily was supposed to look after Harry for the week? I swear, I distinctly remember you complaining that you’d be all alone without him…”
Potter looks left, he looks right and Regulus would, hypothetically, put his hand on the Bible and say that he saw a bead of sweat drop down his brow. On his chest, Harry, as unaware as he is of his surroundings right now, gets jostled as Potter points behind him for a second, before his hand flies to the back of his neck and then on the counter, to offer himself support.
“Lily… Yeah, she– She died! Terribly sorry, but yes, she’s… dead.”
Dorcas has got to be losing her shit wherever she is hiding. He just knows she will be mocking him as soon as Potter leaves the shop. He both dreads the inevitable future, as well as looks forward to it. Maybe that way he can throw a few jabs at her and Marlene, their weird mating dance that he had to witness for years is always something he loves to make fun of.
There is a small moment, as brief as a fly landing on a piece of food before it’s killed ruthlessly with a measured swat, in which Regulus thinks about entertaining Potter’s insane game. They moved past the flirtatious play that Potter initiated and were now in a nonsensical move in which Potter was simply losing his footing.
That moment, just like the fly, gets killed the instant Regulus realises he can use this whole charade to his advantage.
“Really? Cause I’ve just seen Lily today. Not even three hours ago. She died? In the three hours I haven’t seen her? Maybe I should text Mary my condolences…”
“No!”
“No?”
“No!”
“So she’s not dead?”
Taking a moment to calm himself, as well as to settle Harry who began to rock side to side with excitement at the movement, Potter inhales deeply, cheeks puffed out and dark. Oh, how Regulus wishes he could see the blush properly, witness all the blood that rushes to Potter’s face with his very eyes.
He mumbles a quiet, no, muffled by the way in which he’s hiding himself in Harry’s mess of hair. “Can I get a coffee? Just an iced oat–”
“Iced oat milk shaken espresso? Coming right up, Potter.”
Potter’s eyes are as wide as saucers, the lenses of his glasses only amplifying how big and pretty they are. “How did you…?”
Regulus turns around so that he’s no longer forced to look at Potter and his stupid face. He’s so stupid. He hates him, absolutely despises his face and everything he stands for. Especially his eyes. Those, Regulus hates the most. “Oh, please, Potter. Every queer within the mile orders the exact same thing.”
The quiet, though? He might just hate that even more.
As he prepares the drink mechanically, Regulus can’t help but think he messed it up by being too mean, too unapproachable, too bold with his words. Barty always tells him that his boldness is meant to attract people, that only those who can actually put up with him will be able to handle the coldness that oozes out of him, but right now, while he has to make that shitty, shaken espresso drink without Potter’s insistent chattering blocking the background music, Regulus can only think that his best friend lied to him.
His boldness doesn’t attract people, it doesn’t get rid of the ones he doesn’t want and leave behind those he is actively chasing, in his own way. His boldness is what fully pushes others away and Potter’s uncharacteristic silence is perfect proof of it.
Regulus focuses on the counter as he passes the drink over to his brother’s best friend– his soulmate– he reminds himself, just to reinforce how untouchable Potter really is. He’s Sirius’. He was his first, he will always be first. Regulus doesn't stand a chance, even if he flirts with him.
It’s a game, it’s a game, it’s a game.
He’s nothing but a game, a little form of entertainment that Potter found on the side.
“How did you know I was queer?”
Regulus thinks he should apologise, after all he did just make an assumption about the man’s sexuality even if the whole university knows of James Potter’s queerness. Still, for once in his miserable life God seems to be on his side as his eyes catch the pin that’s proudly placed on the strap holding Harry up.
He nods towards Potter’s chest, then promptly looks away.
Why is it so hard to maintain eye contact with him? Usually he has no problem staring into people’s eyes, blinking when they do so that he doesn’t seem rude and bored of their presence, but Potter? Potter makes it so hard to act, to behave like a normal person, how he’s been doing for so long.
“Are you…” Potter laughs, the sound making Harry bounce and in turn laugh in response to his father. The sound makes Regulus melt. “Are you stereotyping me, Regulus?”
“Stop being a walking stereotype then, Potter. Now,” he pushes his coffee towards him, “your coffee. And–”
He noticed the way in which Harry was staring at the pastry display, laser focused on the overpriced cookies they had on display. Personally, he finds them disgusting, way too sweet and artificial and definitely too overpriced for what they are, but he is well aware that kids love them. After all, kids and artificial flavourings go hand in hand and clearly Harry isn’t that much different from the rest of the children that step over the threshold of this very specific Starbucks.
So he reaches into the display and takes the prettiest sweet he can find. The colourful sprinkles are enough to make Regulus sick but he bets his whole fortune of savings and old books that Harry will go berserk for them.
“And a cookie for you, your liege,” he says, offering the carefully wrapped cookie to Harry. Harry who’s been watching him like a hawk, each movement of his hands clearly analysed by whatever is going on in his little head. He points towards the dinosaur, its arm still being chewed on. “How about we let go of…”
“Dindin!”
Regulus smiles softly. “Right, of Dindin and we munch on this instead?”
And of course, Harry Potter is more than willing to accept the offered dessert, letting go of poor old Dindin so that he falls on the counter. He needs a bath, ASAP, but he can’t tell Potter this unless he wants him to think of him as overbearing, offering input where it doesn’t belong.
Potter is staring at him. Both of them are, but the difference between father and son is that the son seems to be more than happy with his little snack, therefore his eyes are quite empty of emotions besides satisfaction, while the father holds… something. Something that he cannot once again place a name to, something that is making Regulus feel as if his skin is being rubbed clean off of his bones, as if each molecule that makes up his being is scrutinised over under the lens of a microscope.
“Thanks, Reggie,” Potter smiles.
And that smile. It will be the death of him. On his grave, engraved in cursive, it will stand for the whole world to see:
Here lies Regulus Arcturus Black, killed by James Potter’s smile and nothing more.
The brunet thinks it may just be the way to go.
“Whatever, Potter. It wasn’t for you, it was for Harry,” Regulus sneers at the older.
His smile only softens. “Still. We both thank you, don’t we, Haz?”
"Thank!"
They will have to make another hypothetical headstone, he mourns the last one the moment his heart jumps. He was already a bit fond of the last one.
The new one would have the addition of:
Here lies Regulus Arcturus Black, killed by James and Harry Potter's smiles. He lived a joke of a life.
The smile he gives Harry is something he keeps special, tugged away if he has any way of holding it stored in a locked cupboard, chained with more locks and more keys he threw out. But Harry may just be worth that smile. He's just a kid, he should be smiled at and cherished and Regulus wants to do all the things his parents have kept from him.
So he smiles and leans slightly in as if he wants to whisper a secret to the boy.
He doesn't get the chance to tell Harry what he wanted, that his father stinks and he should probably not be allowed to walk out because of his stinkiness, because Potter pulls his son away.
Regulus glares at him, feeling betrayed.
"He was going for your hair, Reggie," Potter explains, looking truly apologetic. "The moment he gets his fingers in your hair he just won't let go. Trust me, Lily and Sirius both lost a few chunks because of him already, we can't let him take away your pretty hair too."
His hair? Pretty?
Regulus goes red, the ringing in his ears getting louder and louder, a chant of pretty in Potter's voice.
"We really can't have that…"
"No we can't…"
He swears they're having a moment, lost in each other's presence, Harry making little happy noises in between them as he enjoys his sweet.
But, because Dorcas hates him, she chooses that exact moment to drop a spoon. They break eye contact as soon as the metal hits the ground, faces as red as Harry's jacket.
Potter continues to smile, still as warm, still as inviting. His long fingers wrap around Harry's wrist gently, pulling it away from his face and waving it at Regulus.
"Bye-bye, Reggie! Say bye-bye, Haz!"
"Buh-buh!" Harry exclaims around the mouthful of cookie he's still chewing around.
Regulus doesn't say anything, just waves back, a kind smile playing on his lips. It's too easy for him to allow himself to be all smiles towards the boy and distantly, Regulus thinks this should be scary.
But he doesn't find it daunting. He just grins brighter.
As soon as they out through the door, Dorcas proceeds to gag and choke, dramatic and loud. He was expecting it, he was expecting worse and still Regulus throws a napkin at her, aiming for her head.
It lands pitifully on the floor.
He thinks there must be some dramatic irony tied to how the napkin falls gently.