The first rehearsal back, and James’s whole body went rigid the moment Regulus walked through the studio door. He looked the same, but not quite. His hair was a little longer, the curl at his nape brushing against his collar. A light spattering of freckles dusted his nose. His pale skin had turned ever so slightly darker, as if he’d spent a solid few days in the sun. But mostly, it was his eyes—his eyes were different. Darker. He didn’t smile. Sirius, of course, was the first to cross the room, clapping a hand to the back of Regulus’s neck, shaking him slightly.
“Look who finally decided to come home.”
Regulus shrugged. Still no smile. “Miss me?”
“Like a hole in the head.”
James watched as Regulus turned to Pete—a nod. And then, finally—finally—those grey eyes landed on him.
“Potter.”
James grinned back at him. “Black.”
Regulus tilted his head, considering him for a moment longer than necessary, like he was trying to read something in James’s expression. Then he looked away, reaching for his bass.
“I wrote something on the train down, was thinking I could run it past everyone?”
Sirius snorted. “Oh yes, serenade us with your train ditties. Not like we’ve all spent the last two months in the studio while you were gallivanting around Edinburgh.”
Regulus just rolled his eyes. “You want to hear it or not?”
James didn’t give Sirius time to answer. “Yeah, go on.”
The bassline was low, pulsing, slow and relentless; it settled deep in James’s chest. And then came the words—soft at first, almost reluctant.
And James—James was floored.
Because Regulus never sang. Not really. Not like this. And the lyrics—
Christ. The lyrics—
Desire, barely masked, stitched into every line. A kind of restless longing. A want so sharp it felt like a wound. And more too—regret. Regret for not taking, for not doing, for being held back by his own fear. When it ended, Regulus looked up with a raised eyebrow, asking a silent question. All James could think—stupidly, wildly—was, why the fuck am I the lead singer when you sound like that? Like velvet and razor blades, like something carved from longing itself. It was fucking poetry, and James could tell he wasn’t the only one who felt it. Sirius was staring at his brother with a look James didn’t quite understand—something caught between sadness and pride.
James nodded along as Sirius and Pete spoke, as they told Regulus what they thought. He didn’t say anything himself. He was too caught up in the hope that maybe—just maybe—it was for him. That those words had been written for him. But even as he hoped, even as he wished, he knew. Somewhere deep and certain, he knew they weren’t.
It was there, in that room, on that day, that the next album was born.
Regulus did most of the writing, which wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that he did it alone—whereas before it had always included James. The first album had been a joint effort. But not this time. This time it was just Regulus. James contributed here and there, Sirius too, but their input felt like footnotes on something already near perfect. Suggestions, critiques—nothing more. Regulus shut himself away for hours, sometimes days, emerging only briefly, his fingers ink-stained and his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. No late-night texts running lyrics past James, no impromptu pub meetings to argue over synonyms. Just him, producing one beautiful track after another—appearing like some spectre only when each was ready, to show them what he had made.
And James felt it. The absence. The distance. Like something physical, something sharp lodged beneath his ribs. It hurt all the more because on the occasions Regulus did show up at his door, it was never for him—always for Sirius. Regulus was pulling away from James and reaching for Sirius instead. James could see it, feel it, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. Like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from—forced to watch, unable to move. Powerless. When he brought it up, Sirius shut him down before he could even get the words out. Had shaken his head, told him to drop it.
“Reggie’s just going through something. Don’t take it personally, mate.”
But James knew it wasn’t just that. There was a quiet ferocity to Regulus now, a relentless, almost obsessive determination he hadn’t seen before. Like the album was some necessary feat on which his entire existence depended. He cut off everything that wasn’t strictly related to finishing it. No hanging around after practice, no press events, no promo. His already sparse social media presence vanished entirely. He was like a shadow—one that appeared only for rehearsal, or to lay down something new he’d written.
A ghost. But a different kind to the one he’d been on tour, when he’d seemed faded, elsewhere—hollowed out. No. This was something else entirely. This Regulus was present. Sharply, terribly present. James just didn’t recognise him. Singularly focused. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t smiling. He sat head bent over his notebook, pen clamped between his teeth, grey eyes dark and locked onto some unseen horizon only he could make out. He’d stopped drinking. Stopped going out. Stopped anything that might be considered fun, shaking his head whenever someone offered—no explanation, no apology, just a quiet dismissal that left no room for argument.
And James, James couldn’t shake the feeling that Regulus was punishing himself for something. That he was holding onto the music like a lifeline, gripping it so hard his knuckles had gone white. Gripping it because it was the only thing keeping him afloat. And so it continued. September bled into October, October into November, and Regulus remained unchanged. The album took shape—sharpened, refined, something cold and beautiful and so distinctly Regulus that James knew—knew before it was finished that it was going to change things. And all through it, Regulus himself was unreachable—locked in some battle that James couldn’t begin to understand.
When Sirius told James that Evan was coming down to London for Christmas, James felt relief rise in his chest. Maybe Evan could shake Regulus out of whatever this was. Maybe he’d know how to reach him. Even if James didn’t understand their friendship—didn’t understand the appeal of Evan Rosier—didn’t understand why Regulus admired him, looked up to him—he could still see that he did. And maybe that was enough. Maybe Evan’s presence would help. Would bring Regulus back to himself. James was clutching at straws, and he knew it. But he was desperate. He missed Regulus. Missed what they had been—even if it hadn’t ever really been enough, it had still been something. Whereas now Regulus treated him as if he was nothing. As if he didn’t matter at all. And it was tearing James apart.
New Year’s Eve. James arrived late, shedding the bite of the cold as he stepped into the warmth and noise of the pub. He spotted Sirius and Remus first, tucked into a corner booth, Sirius’s head thrown back in laughter—and then, there across from him, Evan. He looked the same as he had the summer before—same blond hair, same deep tan despite it being the middle of winter.
James made his way over, grinning despite himself. Relief hit him in a wave, and it was obvious in how he overplayed the moment—his smile too wide, too eager. He greeted Evan like they were old mates, went in for a hug. Realised too late that they barely knew each other. That Evan had no idea James had pinned all his hopes on him or that he was James’s last resort—that James had spent the last two weeks desperately hoping Evan could fix whatever was wrong with Regulus. It should’ve been awkward, but Evan moved with it, fluid, like it was normal—like James always hugged him. He clapped James on the back with an easy rhythm, smoothing over the stumble like it never happened. And James thought maybe that was the appeal of Evan Rosier, that he was solid. A guy who goes with the flow, no matter what way the flow goes.
And then Regulus arrived.
James felt his stomach twist, felt himself look to Evan—but somehow, James had gotten it wrong. If anything, Evan’s presence seemed to make Regulus fold in on himself more. James listened to their low conversation, tried to pick out the words without seeming like he was eavesdropping.
“Been trying to get hold of you.” Evan’s tone was pointed. “Figured you’d been… busy, but fuck’s sake, mate—could’ve answered a text, let me know you were alive, yeah?”
Regulus looked away. “Sorry.”
“I’ve got some of your stuff with me, stuff you left at the flat. Books and clothes. Thought you might be missing them.”
Regulus didn’t answer for a while—and when he did, his voice was flat. “Yeah. Thanks. Come by mine whenever.”
That was it. He didn’t say much more after that. But he did drink. Drank with abandon, with a reckless determination that curled something uncomfortable in James’s stomach. Because it was wrong. Like his smile, which wasn’t happy—it was sharp, edged, and beneath it sat something dangerously close to the kind of self-destruction James used to see in Sirius. Sirius before Remus. Back when he’d been on a warpath against his own happiness.
James was caught. Caught between concern at the wild glint in Regulus’s grey eyes, and the way Regulus was looking at him. Because he was looking—for the first time in months—like he’d suddenly remembered James existed. His hand found James’s leg beneath the table. He leaned in close, let his lips brush against James’s ear as he asked if he wanted to go out for a smoke. Outside, Regulus stood too close. James felt his blood sizzle. There was heat there in those grey eyes, unmistakable—but something else too. Darkness. Danger. Like Regulus was standing on the edge of an abyss, considering the jump. Back inside, the countdown to midnight started. The world slowed, stretched, time warping in the space between them. Regulus was moving towards him—and James knew. Knew it deep in his bones, deep in the marrow of him. Regulus was going to kiss him. And then time sped up and everything happened too fast. One moment James was lost in storm-grey eyes, in the intoxicating knowledge that everything he’d wanted for the better part of two years was within reach. And then there was a hand on his arm, tugging him around. Blue eyes instead of grey. Blond hair instead of black.
Voices raised. The countdown. Three, two, one. And before James could register what was happening, Evan’s hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him forward—pulling him away from Regulus—and then lips. Warm, insistent, pressing against his own. A graze of teeth against his lower lip, a hot tongue against his. Then, just as quickly as it had started, it was over. Evan pulled back, and James stared at him, uncomprehending.
Evan’s voice, casual. Offhand. “Always wanted to snog a rockstar.”
The joke—James thought it was a joke, he was never quite sure with Evan—fell flat. Evan wasn’t really paying attention to him anyway, his eyes fixed on something behind James. Someone. James turned, following his gaze, a sense of dread rising in him even before he found Regulus.
Regulus was kissing someone else. Some guy—tall, dark-haired, rough around the edges, a bit punk rock. Something vaguely familiar about him, though James couldn’t place it. The bells stopped, but Regulus didn’t. He kept kissing the guy, deep and desperate, like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.
James’s stomach sank, the realisation hitting him with a clarity that was almost painful. Regulus hadn’t wanted him. That wasn’t what the hand on his leg had meant. Not what the way he’d leaned in had meant. Not what that look in his eyes had been. He hadn’t wanted James specifically, hadn’t wanted him at all. He’d just wanted someone—anyone.
And somehow, that hurt worse than any rejection ever could.