Chapter Text
“The heart was made to be broken”
- Oscar Wilde
The Osborne House, Isle of Wight
Summer, 1857
PART I
Prince Regulus Black is a work of art. James Potter would know – he is a master of the arts.
Early morning light filters through the grand windows, casting a soft, golden light upon the prince's features. Seated on an ornate chair, with his back straight and his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, Regulus Black embodies a regal elegance that seems almost otherworldly. Dark hair, meticulously styled, frames his pale face with an air of timeless grace. Every angle and contour of his form speaks of nobility.
James, standing before his easel, observes his subject with a discerning eye.
He secretly imagines that wherever the turns of life would have taken Regulus, he was simply destined to be royal. Had his skin been covered in soot and his hair hanging in dirty tousels; had his navy blue coat been replaced with rags, the world would still look at him and somehow know: This is a prince.
More often than not, James thinks of this particular mission – attempting to immortalise the beauty of Regulus Black – as the greatest honour of his lifetime. It also happens to be the greatest challenge. James considers himself a slave under the power of colour and creation, but unless he can find a way to make the oil actually dance on his canvas, he doubts there is a way in which he could truly capture the entirety of the man sitting in front of him in a way that would do him justice. Still, he imagines humans hundreds of years from now, laying their eyes on his work and exclaiming, “That – that is the epitome of beauty. Has the man in this painting ever walked the grounds of the Earth? He simply cannot be real.”
In spite of the challenge in the very nature of his mission, Regulus Black is not a difficult subject. Quite the opposite: He sits so still that James occasionally wonders if he’s accidentally turned him into a sculpture out of sheer willpower to keep him here forever. Not once has the prince complained, or wished to see the progress, or asked about the time. He simply exists, gaze always fastened at something in the distance, seemingly deep in thought. James constantly has to refrain from the urge to ask what’s on his mind.
He clears his throat. "Your Highness, may I request you tilt your head slightly to the left?"
“Like this, Mr Potter?" Regulus adjusts his pose slightly.
“Excellent, Your Highness. Thank you.” Picking his brush up again, James finds himself wondering which detail he was just working on. As he continues to work, he glances up at Regulus. “Tell me, do you find these sessions tiresome?"
"On the contrary, they offer a rare moment of stillness,” Regulus replies. “Such stillness is seldom found. Besides, your company is far from burdensome."
“I am honoured, Your Highness.”
The room continues to be silent with the exception of occasional scratch of brush against canvas, and the distant call of seabirds from the island’s cliffs. The stillness allows James to lose himself in the act of creation, his world once again narrowing to the interplay of light and shadow on Regulus’ face. He does his very best to capture the subtle curve of a cheekbone, the proud line of a jaw, the enigmatic glint of the silver eyes.
“May I ask something of you, Mr Potter?” Regulus suddenly speaks, and James almost drops his brush from sheer surprise as he’s snatched from his deep state of concentration.
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Regulus gives the most subtle smile then – oh, how James would give everything he owns to see the full extent of Regulus’ smile. Even the small ones are rare, and feel strangely exclusive.
“May I request that you not refer to me as Your Highness during our sessions? Considering the amount of time you’ve spent staring at me, I’d like to assume that we are past that point. Besides, we practically grew up together.”
Well. Growing up together would probably be an overstatement. The royal family spend every summer on the island, meaning James, in his turn, spent every summer in close proximity to the prince.
Since he could walk, James watched his father work on his art in the studio which is now James’ own – he always stayed close, wanting to learn every single detail of the creation process. As the royal painter, Fleamont Potter, as well as his family, could enjoy quite a higher status than that of the other workers, and they were not rarely invited to tea.
This being said, the protocol remained clear: The personnel, as well as their families, were not to bother the royal family. They were not to speak to them unless directly spoken to, and they were definitely not to address the royals in any way that would suggest they were viewed as equals.
The crown prince, Sirius Black, never seemed particularly concerned with the unspoken rules. To his mother’s great displeasure, he would often sneak out to the Potter family’s lodge on the grounds (the one where James still lives to this day), and ask James to play ball with him. On other days, Sirius would sneak into Fleamont’s studio and join James in watching him paint. Since they were eight years old, the only time James would ever refer to Sirius as Your Highness was in the company of other people.
Prince Regulus, on the other hand, abided with the protocol. James would sometimes catch him watching Sirius and him play from his bedroom window, but not once did Regulus speak to him, or even acknowledge him. As they got older, James would occasionally get a short nod as a greeting when the royal family arrived for the summer. They never really spoke, not until James took over his father’s role, making communication necessary. He’s painted Regulus once before – it was for a family portrait, and James was so nervous he could barely hold the brush. This is his first time painting Regulus and Regulus only.
At least with Regulus as a model, that is. Dozens, if not hundreds, of sketches and paintings hidden in James’ storage room prove that he could do this from memory alone.
“Of course, sir,” James replies, pretending not to let his surprise shine through. “If you wish.”
“There is really no need for ‘sir’, either,” Regulus continues in a lower voice, returning his gaze to whatever he was staring at. “While we are in here, I am merely your subject – I might as well be a simple flower, or a bowl of fruit. You are the master.”
James swallows. “How would you like me to refer to you, s– uhm?”
Regulus takes a long time to answer this one.
“Regulus,” he settles on eventually, looking back to James. “I’m Regulus.”
“Prince Regulus?”
“Just Regulus.”
James smiles at him. Regulus quickly looks away again.
“I see, Regulus,” James says calmly. It still feels unnatural to say – as if the entire royal guard will burst into this room and arrest him on the spot. And yet, it may be the most beautiful words James has ever taken in his mouth. “I’m James.”
***
"You know, James,” Remus says, “I was thinking the other day – perhaps you should paint me in my true element. Imagine it: Remus Lupin, Lord of the Roses."
James lets out a chuckle. "Lord of the Roses? That sounds rather grand – and your roses have turned out lovely this year. I can see it: You, standing majestically with a trowel in one hand and a watering can in the other, looking out over your kingdom."
It’s a quiet afternoon. They’re seated outside James’ little lodge, sharing a calm moment for a cup of tea.
James is quite fond of his friend. Remus Lupin, the gardener, has a charming, unassuming presence. Despite his dirt-streaked clothes, he moves with a graceful blend of strength and gentleness. His calloused hands and genuine, crooked smile adds to his endearing appearance – James would actually love the chance to paint him, one day.
“I might need a more regal outfit,” Remus says with a smirk. “My gardening clothes don’t quite scream 'lordship,' do they?"
James smiles and opens his mouth to respond, only to be distracted by the sight of Miss Marlene hurrying across the lawn towards him.
“I am here to deliver the message that the prince’s schedule is clear for the rest of the afternoon,” she informs them as she comes to halt in front of the house. “He is available to sit for his portrait.”
“Thank you, Marlene,” James tells her with a smile, then watches her hurry away again. He doesn’t envy her role in the slightest – during the summers, she barely ever has the time to sit down for tea with them.
Telling the prince of England that you happen to be in the middle of something is not an option – if Regulus is prepared to sit for his portrait, that means James has to be ready to paint. Hence, he turns to his friend as he starts getting out of his chair: “Remus, it was lovely chatting with you. Please, do forgive my sudden haste.” He lowers his voice as he adds, “After dark tonight – I will let him know.”
Remus gives him a grateful, knowing smile. “Thank you for tea,” he says, then disappears towards his own little shed on the grounds.
James returns to his studio, where Regulus is already waiting.
Their sessions have been different over the past few weeks. For one thing, they’ve been shorter, an unwelcome result of the prince’s busy schedule. It has kept James from falling to his deep, trance-like state of creativity. However, he’s not complaining. Since the two of them officially moved on to a first name-basis, the prince has more often than not initiated some light-hearted conversation. James has been surprised to find that Regulus is not only beautiful to look at, but also a delightful conversation partner.
“I hope you don’t mind – I took the liberty of adding a little something to your studio,” Regulus says when James enters the room. He gestures towards the window, where a bouquet of yellow roses is resting in a crystal glass vase. “Not that the room needed more colour, but the roses have come out lovely this year.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have had to,” James says, feeling shamelessly pleased with the prince of England bringing him flowers. “Thank you, Regulus, they’re beautiful. I believe I’ll now have something to admire while you’re not here.”
A hint of pink flashes on the prince’s cheeks. James would like to capture the colours on a canvas.
“Well, I thought they might brighten your day, so I asked the gardener if he minded me stealing a few,” Regulus says, coughing a little nervously. “Apparently, you’re quite the topic of interest among the staff. They say you’re single-handedly making the place more... vibrant.”
James chuckles, raising an eyebrow as he starts preparing his brushes. “Oh, is that so? I didn’t know my paintings had such an impact.”
“I believe your company is as appreciated as your art, which is rather telling,” Regulus says, moving over to have a seat on his chair. “I suppose I cannot be surprised – it’s been remarkably enjoyable to spend these sessions with a talented artist, as well as a friend.”
"A friend? I didn’t realise I’d earned that title,” James says honestly. “You flatter me.”
"Flattery is merely a byproduct of friendship, is it not?” Regulus says. “I have found our conversations and your company to be quite delightful. Surely that qualifies you as a friend, would you not agree?"
“I suppose so,” James says. “I just didn’t expect to be called a friend by a prince. It is a pleasant surprise, to say the least.” He smiles to himself, then teasingly adds: “And I must say, having a friend in such high places likely has its advantages. I might even start expecting royal invitations now."
Regulus gives him a playful, adorable smile. "If that’s the case, I might need to start preparing for a few royal outings with you in tow. It would be my pleasure."
They fall into their usual comfortable silence after that. James tries his hardest to think of Regulus as his current model, merely a subject, and not spiral too far into his thoughts of what, apparently, is a friendship.
Of course, James has thought of Regulus as a friend long before Regulus spoke the words. It is rather hard not to form some sort of bond to someone you’ve spent hours and hours staring at. At this point, he’s studied every dip, edge and nuance of Regulus' face. He has come to recognize the subtle shifts in Regulus’ expressions; the slight furrow of his brow when he’s deep in thought, the faint curve of his lips when he is amused, and the way his eyes seem to darken with the weight of unspoken troubles.
And so, the almost constant look of misery on the prince’s face has not escaped him. James has his theories as to why it’s there, always lingering, even in the shade of his smiles. The burdens must weigh heavy on Regulus’ bony shoulders. Being the prince, first and foremost, can not be an easy task – particularly not for a person like Regulus, who doesn’t seem comfortable being in the centre of attention at all.
To make matters worse, it seems as if Regulus might soon have to take the role of the crown prince.
No one has spoken of it; no one dares to speak of it. The issue still remains: Sirius Black has been missing for almost a year, gone without a trace. Most assume that he fell from the cliffs and drowned, but people don’t simply stop looking for a prince. He has yet to be declared dead, which means Regulus has yet to be declared crown prince.
However – the royal family seems sure enough of Sirius’ permanent disappearance to make new wedding arrangements, meaning Regulus is now engaged to the woman whose hand James happens to know was once intended for Sirius:
Narcissa Black.
Regulus hasn’t said a word about it, but he doesn’t appear thrilled about the matter. He rarely appears thrilled about anything – he seems to find most of the world surrounding him an annoyance, at the very best something that can be tolerated.
“Since we are friends,” James begins hesitantly, knowing that he may be overstepping. “May I ask, what’s on your mind? You appear to be deep in thought.”
Regulus takes his time to respond.
“May I ask you a difficult question?” he asks.
“You can ask me anything,” James says.
“Do you believe my brother is still alive?”
Out of all the questions in the world, that was likely the last James would expect to fall out of Regulus’ mouth.
“Oh,” he says, needing a few moments to recover from the pure shock of hearing Regulus – or anyone from the royal family – mention Sirius’ disappearance. He tries to think quickly, wondering what the best response would be. He doesn’t want to lie to Regulus, but he’s also worried that he could easily say too much, or say the wrong thing. “I’m not the right person to answer that, I’m afraid. What makes you ask me?”
“I have no one else to ask,” Regulus says, shockingly honest. “My father will not talk about it. My mother refuses to even say his name. I believe you’re an honest man, James. You’re an artist – one who sees and depicts the world as it is, in all its glory and horrors. That is a very courageous thing to do. I wish to believe you also possess the courage to tell me your true thoughts on the matter. You were his friend, James. Surely, you must have considered it.”
James swallows, letting his gaze fall to his canvas to avoid Regulus’ grey stare.
“I happen to know that the crown prince is an excellent swimmer,” he says.
Regulus takes a while to respond. James doesn’t dare to look at him. When he finally does, he finds that Regulus is already staring out the window again.
Neither of them say more that afternoon.
***
James gets home from his studio that night, the lingering scent of paint still clinging to his clothes. The lodge is quiet as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He pauses, listening for any unusual sounds, but all he hears is the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner.
He moves to the little kitchen and takes a deep breath, steadying himself as he begins to prepare a simple meal, much like every other night. He slices up some bread, cuts the cheese, and pours two cups of broth.
With the tray balanced carefully in his hands, he then walks to the far side of the room, where the floorboards creak just slightly underfoot. He kneels, placing the tray gently on the ground, and lifts a loose floorboard, revealing the hidden compartment below.
James peers into the darkness, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.
“Hello there.”
“Please,” Sirius croaks. “Tell me you have an exciting story from your day to share with me.”
James gives him a sad smile. “I’m sorry,” he says, carefully handing Sirius the tray before climbing down the little ladder. “I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you.”
One thing should be clear: James never intended to keep the crown prince of England under the floor of his lodge, and the crown prince of England never expected to stay there. At least not for this long.
Obviously, Sirius has not been hiding out here for the entire time since he went missing. During the year, he has been up and moving around the house, and even gone on excursions, usually at night. He only slept in the little shed under James’ house – that was until summer came back around, and the royal family with it.
And why Sirius was there in the first place? Well, rather simple. He’d been planning to avoid his upcoming engagement by simply running away – with the gardener, that is. As James happened to be the only person they trusted with their plans, he offered to help. The plan was all set, and then, the very same night of the intended departure…
Remus’ mother quickly and suddenly fell ill. She had been the steady one of the household, taking care of her husband, who was barely mobile even then. It left only Remus to care for them. Only workers at the Osborne, as well as their families, are allowed to stay there. If Remus was to quit his job, the family would have nowhere to go, now that his mother was no longer suited for work. His father passed away only weeks later, but Remus remained trapped.
Sirius, however, had already staged his own death. He could run, of course, but doing so would force him to leave behind the one thing that made him run in the first place:
Remus Lupin.
This dilemma is what has left Sirius under the floorboards of James’ lodge.
The basement is not a horrible place – they’ve made the best of it. In his teenage years, James himself slept down there. The space has plenty of room, and it’s nice and cool during the summer months. James had a more “proper” entrance back then, but it’s since long covered with stacks of firewood. The basement can still be accessed via the loose floorboard and the ladder beneath it, but no one except James, Sirius, and Remus knows this.
The summer has been hard for Sirius, who’s rather easily bored, but James keeps him provided with books, paper, and company. Remus visits often, and occasionally spends the night. In spite of the simple existence, Sirius has firmly declared more than once that he’d never trade it for a return to the castles he’s used to, which according to him felt a lot more like being locked up. Besides: Sirius loves the island, and always said it felt a lot more home than the busy streets of London. James suspects he wasn’t talking about the basement, but he clearly still prefers it to Buckingham Palace.
“Your brother asked about you today,” James tells him as they share dinner. “Whether or not I believed that you were alive.”
“I hope you lied.”
“I couldn’t bear to. I believe he misses you terribly.”
“I highly doubt it,” Sirius mumbles, then reaches for another sandwich.
PART II
The portrait is coming together well. James wishes he could take more creative liberties with it. He wants to make Regulus stand in a field of flowers, preferably with a smile on his face. He wants to add butterflies to his hair and pretty clouds to the background. He’d like to portray Regulus as a Roman God – carve the most subtle of his features into marble and then keep them for himself.
But under the circumstances, the portrait is turning out all right.
“You look a little exhausted,” James says one night, while they’re in his studio. It’s late, but Regulus showed up after dinner, and hasn’t asked to leave yet. James has come to believe that Regulus keeps turning up for another reason than having his portrait be done as soon as possible – namely the “moment of stillness”, as he expressed it himself a few weeks ago.
The corners of Regulus’ lips subtly turn up. James realises people may not often tell him when he looks exhausted – it’s a rather rude thing to say to a prince, is it not?
“You’re quite observant,” Regulus says. “Perhaps you can add some of your usual flattery to your painting. History does not need to remember these dark circles.”
James smiles, eyes fastened to his canvas as he adds a little shade to a particularly charming twirl of Regulus’ hair. Perhaps he would have done better leaving it out of the painting, but he simply could not help himself.
“I presume there is a lot on your mind,” he says. “With the royal wedding and all, I mean.”
Regulus absent-mindedly hums. “You could say that.”
James stops painting, letting his gaze travel back to his subject as he puts his brush down temporarily. And then, from courage found only in sheer stupidity, or maybe just a deep curiosity about what will happen, James dares to say,
“You don’t want to marry her, do you?”
Regulus visibly flinches. His gaze, that was just resting peacefully on a spot outside the window, shoots over to James as if James has just uttered some awful curse words.
“What are you trying to say?” he asks sharply.
“That I believe that you don’t wish to marry her,” James replies.
It’s during moments like these that James remembers that Regulus is actually a prince. Not just in the romantic sense, not just as something out of an old-as-time-fairytale, but a prince by title; a member of the royal family, someone who has grown up within the sheltering walls of castles and likely never heard anyone but their parents question their choices.
Regulus stands up now, crossing his arms, a frown on his face.
“How dare you, Mr Potter?”
“Oh, are we back to the titles, sir?” James pushes, because Regulus doesn’t scare him. Regulus could never scare him. Underneath the defensive facade he’s currently trying to put up, James could see the boy screaming for help. Regulus likely didn’t intend to show him – hence the useless attempt to trick him now.
“You are overstepping,” Regulus says, firmly placing both hands behind his back as he puffs his chest up. “While I do consider you a friend, I still believe you’d do best to know your place.”
“My place is to depict you,” James counters. “In order to do that, I must first observe. So I observe – I watch you, and I paint what I see.”
“Well,” Regulus says, “how are you planning to paint your stupid assumptions?”
At this, James starts laughing, which only causes Regulus to add a hissing, “Don’t you dare laugh at me!”
James does his best to stop. “It was a simple question,” he says, voice still trembling. “If Your Highness is so excited about marrying his cousin, it certainly wouldn’t be difficult to tell me I’m wrong.”
“I did tell you that you’re wrong.”
“No, you told me that I was overstepping, and you said I make stupid assumptions. It may be stupid of me to make assumptions at all, but am I wrong, Regulus?”
A pause. A shift. James couldn’t put his finger on it, but when their eyes meet again, he can tell that something, whatever it is, has changed.
Regulus swallows, then says, “Does it matter?”
“I believe it does,” James says.
“For a prince, it doesn’t,” Regulus says shortly, then returns to his original position on the chair. “You handle your lot in life, and I will handle mine.”
“Regulus.”
That’s all he says. That’s clearly all he has to say, in order for Regulus to crumble.
Crumble is the only word that can describe it. In that moment, it’s as if Regulus shrinks. He’s suddenly many sizes too small for his royal attire, too weak for the world on his shoulders. He curls up with his face in his hands as if he wants to hide from it all, as if the ornate chair can suddenly turn into a giant hand that will take him away.
James’ palette falls to the floor.
“My dear friend,” he mumbles as he rushes over to the prince. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Mother told me,” Regulus croaks, as James kneels before his throne. “Once the wedding is over, my brother will be declared dead, and I will be crown prince. I will have to give her– give this country an heir, and when the time comes, the crown will be on my head.”
James really can’t tell which part of it all is most upsetting to Regulus, but he believes even a tenth of it all would make the strongest man stumble. And yet, James doesn’t know what to say.
“What happens to my hopes, when not even a mother can hope anymore?” Regulus goes on, pulling his legs up to his seat to wrap his arms around them. “You know, James – I don’t believe that my brother fell and drowned. I never believed it.”
“No?”
“No. I believe he jumped. He jumped, and I cannot blame him. I cannot blame him for making the choice to leave, and I cannot blame him for my own misery. After the sacrifices he made for me, this is only fair. I just miss him. Every day, I miss him terribly. I wouldn’t have to do any of these things, had he still been here – but since I have to, I wish he could at least be here to hold my hand through it.”
“I’m here,” James mumbles, instinctively reaching for Regulus’ hand. “I may not be a prince, but I’m here.”
Regulus grabs his hand with the determination of a little child clutching onto a finger. He has remarkable, soft hands. The hands of someone who has never worked; the hands of someone who simply touches beautiful things. James has admired them from afar for as long as he can remember.
“They’re all watching me,” Regulus says, his voice weak. He looks up, devastation clear as day on his face. “But the only one who sees me is you. How will I do without you in London? With my brother’s name on an empty grave, I will simply be a soulless ghost.”
James swallows, doing his best to think quickly as he navigates his internal dilemmas.
“You’re everything but a soulless ghost,” he says quietly. “But let me ask: If you could… let’s say, send a message to your brother. What would it be?”
“That I would have helped him,” Regulus says. “He wouldn’t have had to do that, James. If he wanted to leave, I would have helped him. I just wish he hadn’t left this life. I was born into this world as his little brother – without him, I don’t know who I am.”
And no, James can not take this anymore.
In a moment of weakness, he asks, “Can I show you something?”
Regulus looks up at him, surprised. It’s also in this second that he seems to become aware that he’s holding onto James’ hand as if his life depends on it, and he quickly lets it go.
Clearing his throat, he hesitantly nods.
***
This may be one of the stupidest things James has ever done. He really, really shouldn’t do this. In fact, he’s spent a horrendous amount of energy the past year making sure this does not happen, and now he’s actively making sure that it does.
“James,” Regulus says warily, as they step inside. “Why are you taking me to your lodge? And –” He stops in his tracks, looking around as James locks the door behind them. “Wait, this is where you live?”
“Uh, yes,” James says. “Have you never really been in here?”
“No, don’t know why I would have,” Regulus says, eyes still wandering. “It’s… nice.”
“No palace, but I get by,” James mumbles, a little too distracted by the mission they’re here for to pay full attention to Regulus’ verdict. There probably would have been so many better ways to do this, and he’s only thinking of them now – alas, here they are, and it’s too late to think ahead. “Would you mind waiting here for a moment?”
“Why? What are we doing here?”
“Just – please? Trust me.”
Regulus blinks, but nods, then obediently stays in the foyer as James makes his way inside.
James knocks twice on the floorboard before lifting it out of the way.
“Back early, are we?” Sirius yawns as James climbs down the ladder. He’s splayed across the floor, book in his hands, oil lamp by his side. “Tell me, what’s the weather like today?”
“Your brother is here.”
Sirius furrows his brows at him, then sits up, crossing his legs in an amusingly un-prince-like manner. The book falls to the floor. “Pardon?”
“Your brother is here,” James repeats. “Upstairs. You need to see him, Sirius. You need to talk to him.”
“James,” Sirius says sternly, a note of panic in his voice. “What did you do? He doesn’t know that I’m here, does he?”
“No, I’ll let him see it for himself,” James says, striding over to Sirius to kneel by his side, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. It’s alright, I promise. Please, please, just trust me. I know you want to see him, too.”
Sirius stubbornly shakes his head. “Think of what you’re putting at risk here. It’s not just me – it’s you, it’s Remus, it’s Mrs Lupin, it’s all of us. How on earth are you planning to explain this?”
“It’s Regulus. I swear, he won’t tell a soul. Can’t you trust him? Can you trust me?”
“James, it’s not –”
“He thinks you took your own life,” James interrupts him.
Sirius shuts his mouth, brows furrowing. “He thinks what?”
“Can you imagine what that feels like for him, Sirius?” James goes on. “What if it had been the other way around, hm? I can’t partake in keeping the truth from him. It’s cruel. Your mother is one thing, but your brother – he loves you. You know he does, don’t you?”
“I –” Sirius quickly falls silent again, as James watches his own words sink in. He can tell exactly in which moment he’s managed to convince his friend, and yet Sirius heaves a deep sigh before saying, “Oh, he’s going to be so angry with me.”
“I think he was already angry at you for being dead,” James says calmly, giving Sirius’ shoulder an encouraging pat before rising to his feet again. “Wait here.”
He climbs back up the ladder, then heads back to the foyer where Regulus is still waiting, an anxious look on his face.
“Regulus,” he says seriously. “What I’m about to tell you must stay here. I want you to have the full truth, but if you tell anyone else, that would put a lot of people at risk. Can you promise me not to?”
“I don’t understand,” Regulus says. “Can’t you just tell me what this is all about?”
“Your word,” James stubbornly demands.
After only a second of hesitation, Regulus swallows and nods.
“You have my word.”
“Thank you,” James says, then continues, “Your brother is here.”
Regulus stares at him in silence for a few seconds, cogs clearly turning in his mind. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“I said your brother is here,” James repeats.
“My –” Regulus takes a step back, eyes turning wide. “He’s – James, what are you saying?”
“He’s hidden under my floor,” James explains. When Regulus releases a terrified squeak and starts fumbling after the doorknob, he has to resist the urge to burst out laughing – raising his hands in a calming gesture, he adds, “For Christ’s sake, I didn’t kill him. He’s here, he’s alive. Do you want to see him?”
“Have you gone mad?” Regulus yelps.
“No more than usual, I’m afraid,” James says. Gently wrapping his fingers around Regulus’ cold wrist, he searches his eyes. “I chose to trust you. It’s your turn now.”
***
James lets the brothers talk in peace. He has some tea on his porch, goes for a walk, then goes back inside. He’s just becoming worried that someone might come looking for the prince, when there’s a sudden noise.
When Regulus comes back upstairs, it's on shaking legs. James doesn’t know what to expect – he imagines Regulus must be feeling all sorts of things right now. Shock, for one thing. Relief that his brother is alive, hopefully. Anger that the truth was kept from him? Very likely.
James stands up, prepared for anything – but before he knows it, Regulus has stumbled over to him and wrapped him in his arms, which is likely the most shocking thing that has happened in James’ life.
“Thank you,” Regulus says, sounding more sincere than James has ever heard him before. “Thank you. Thank you.”
James’ instinctively returns the embrace, hoping he can turn his arms into armour, a place for Regulus to rest.
“I believe men have been beheaded for lesser crimes than hiding the crown prince of England under his floorboards,” he says with a smile over Regulus’ shoulder. “And here you are, thanking me?”
“You kept him safe,” Regulus mumbles. “You cared for him. All I did was fail, but you didn’t.”
James doesn’t know what to say or do, so he just stands there with the prince in his arms until Regulus eventually lets go. The prince runs a hand over his face, clearly avoiding eye contact.
“Are you angry?” James asks, keeping his hands on Regulus’ shoulders. “At me? At him?”
“No,” Regulus says, sounding honest even as he’s dedicated to keeping his eyes on the floor. His voice is trembling. “If he wants to run, he deserves to. It’s only fair. I only wish that I could run, too.” He pauses. “That we could all run.”
“I would hide you,” James whispers. “I would hide you, too.”
And then, Regulus starts crying in a way that James has never seen a man cry before.
It’s worse than before – it’s raw, it’s painful, and Regulus probably couldn’t even try to hide it if he wanted to. James, naturally, panics. He pulls Regulus back into an embrace and does his best to hush him, aware that Marlene’s lodge is not completely out of ear’s reach. His hand flies up to Regulus’ curls and he runs his fingers through them, gently trying to soothe him the same way James’ mother used to when he was just a boy.
“I hate it here,” Regulus cries. “I hate it here, James. I hate it here.”
“Let me save you,” James tells him, voice soft but firm.
“You can’t.”
“I will.”
“There’s no way to –”
“I’ll find one. For you, I’ll find one. I’ll always find one.”
***
The next morning, James wakes up from a knock on the door. He blinks confusedly – he’s still in his work clothes, and he doesn’t even remember going to bed last night.
The pieces slowly fall into place once he spots a mess of black hair right in his field of vision. His first thought is that it’s Sirius, who might’ve not been in the mood to sleep alone in the dark basement last night. As he takes note of how small the breathing frame is under his arm, and how exclusive the fabric of their clothes is under his fingertips, memories from last night start to come back.
They hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but Regulus had cried until he did so anyway, and then James didn’t want to wake him up by moving the arm that Regulus had apparently declared as his pillow, and so he remained still until clearly, he fell asleep too.
Another knock, and James is suddenly reminded why he’s awake at all.
Reluctantly, he sits up and moves his arm slightly, using his free hand to give Regulus’ shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Regulus. Regulus. Wake up.”
Regulus finally opens his eyes and squints at the sunlight streaming in through the window. His face turns into a confused frown, nose crinkling beautifully in a way James makes sure to remember for a future sketch. His eyes travel around the room before eventually settling on James.
“I’m sorry, someone’s at the door,” James whispers. “You have to hide.”
Regulus blinks disorientedly a few times, and then his eyes widen in what seems to be panic. He sits up, throwing a glance towards the door before turning his head around to find a hiding spot.
“Where?”
“Under the bed,” James tries. “Quick.”
With a thud, Regulus rolls out of bed and in underneath it. There’s a third knock, and James takes two seconds to throw the bedspread across the edge, making sure it covers Regulus, before heading for the door.
“Marlene!” he cheers as he opens, doing his best to look like he’s been up for hours. “Good morning. What brings me the honour?”
“Good morning,” Marlene says. There’s a polite smile on her lips, but James can tell that she’s stressed about something. “I hope I didn’t wake you. I’m here to see if you happen to have any idea of where the prince might be. He didn’t show up for breakfast this morning.”
James does his best to think quickly.
“Oh,” he says with a laugh. “I believe Prince Regulus went for an early morning walk. I ran into him a couple of hours ago, and he told me he couldn’t fall back asleep. I’m sure he’ll be back before you know it.”
Marlene looks instantly relieved, then thanks him and hurries away.
***
James has a strange day, which was likely bound to happen, considering the strange morning.
Sirius, thankfully, did not hear the sounds of his little brother crying last night, but James still has to explain why he didn’t bring him dinner. He feels awful as he tries to compensate by bringing him a breakfast as close to royal as he can manage, but Sirius just laughs when James makes a half-hearted attempt to lie.
“You stayed up talking,” he says, grinning widely. “No wonder you passed out, after having to listen to my whiny brother.”
James does not bother telling him that this was hardly the case, because the truth may sound worse. In spite of his harsh words, Sirius seems to be in an unusually good mood after the reunion of last night, and James would rather not complicate things further by bringing his own chaotic feelings into the situation.
After breakfast, he makes a detour via the gardens to deliver a letter to Remus (the least he can do, after leaving the crown prince to starve), then makes his way back to his studio.
He’s struggling to get any work done. Although he’s supposed to work on a still life meant for the queen, his hands are practically itching with images in his mind that desperately want to come into colour:
Regulus, sleeping peacefully in the morning sunlight. Regulus, eyes half-open as he wakes up, before reality has fully dragged him out of his dreaming stage. Regulus, nose crinkled in confusion as his mind tries to catch up.
James doubts that Regulus will even show up for their appointment after noon, and so, he does his best to take his mind off him entirely, which obviously doesn’t work.
He ends up moving his easel outside, deciding to continue with a painting of the fountain that he started and abandoned weeks ago. It turns out terribly. It all turns out terribly. James could swear that even an amateur of an art critic would take one look at the mess of colours and be able to tell that the painter’s mind was elsewhere. Eventually, he puts his brush down and just stands there for a while, staring at the canvas in disappointment.
“Good afternoon.”
It comes out of nowhere – James hadn’t even heard anyone walk up to him. He swivels around.
“Oh,” he says, likely failing miserably to hide his surprise, “Hi.”
Regulus gives him a rare, lopsided smile – one that James saves to his memory bank immediately.
“I’m sorry, were you not expecting me?”
“I was not,” James admits.
“Did we not say we would meet after noon?” Regulus asks.
“We did.”
“And do I not usually honour our appointments?”
“You –” James blinks, stopping himself as he notices the faintest contours of a grin on Regulus’ face. Hopelessly weak, he can’t help but to break into a smile himself. “You do. I’m sorry.”
Regulus hands him one of the glasses he’s holding. “Brought you some sherry.”
“Oh. Thank you.” James accepts it, then takes a sip from the glass in lack of something better to do. He assumes Regulus is here to sit for his portrait, and yet he makes no effort to head towards the studio. Instead, the prince looks out over the grounds, letting his eyes rest on the fountain James was just failing miserably to paint.
“I wanted to apologise for my… uhm, little hysteria last night,” he eventually says in a low voice. “You must think I’m mad.”
“I don’t think you’re mad,” James says honestly, “and you definitely weren’t hysteric.”
“Well, it certainly was no behaviour appropriate for a prince.”
“Princes can’t have feelings?”
It was meant as a joke to lighten the mood, but to his surprise, Regulus looks down at his glass and replies, “Not really, no.”
James, suddenly at loss of appropriate things to say or do, watches him, practically feeling the temperature shift as the atmosphere swiftly turns sombre.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, lowering his voice further.
Regulus nods slightly, but then clearly says, “No. I – I really appreciate your discretion, and…” He lowers his voice, subtly throwing a look around, “...what you’re doing for my brother, but – you really ought to keep your distance.”
“Bit late for that,” James mumbles. “Well then. Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“To sit for your portrait?” Short pause. “That is why you came, right?”
“Right,” Regulus nods again, chuckling nervously. “That’s right, of course.”
He starts heading in towards the studio, when James remembers,
“Regulus.”
Regulus turns around, eyebrows raised.
“You can see him whenever you want,” James says. “He’ll be waiting for you.”
Although he gets no response, he’s fairly sure he sees Regulus’ eyes tear up before he quickly turns around again and walks inside.
And there they are – right back where they started. Regulus, in his chair; James, by his easel. They’re only a few feet apart, and yet the entire universe might as well lay between them.
The weight of last night’s events still lingers in the air, heavy and unresolved. For the first time, Regulus had truly opened up, allowing James to see fragments of the man behind the royal mask. Just as quickly as the walls had come down, they’d then shot back up, stronger than ever – as if Regulus is retreating, shutting himself off completely.
It’s quiet for over an hour, which feels wrong. James can’t interpret the absent look in the prince’s eyes. He has a funny way of just… disappearing, sometimes, like his mind and soul is elsewhere, but James can’t remember him ever being absent for this long. Silence itself has never been their enemy, but this silence in particular is suffocating.
“Painting is almost done,” James breaks it eventually, finally putting his brush down. He needs a break – his hand is aching.
“Oh,” Regulus says. James must be imagining it, but he thinks the prince almost sounds disappointed.
“Do you want to have a look?” James asks. “Come here.”
Regulus seems surprised. He should be – there’s nothing James, or any artist, hates more than having someone looking over his shoulder before he's finished with his work. Regulus is an exception. James wants Regulus to see it: To see the progress, to see all of the tiny, tiny details that James pays attention to, and to the best of his abilities has tried to put on the canvas. James’ very voice is in the colours, so loud and obvious to him that he worries anyone will reveal it just by looking at the pointing. He can only hope Regulus will be able to hear it.
Regulus stands up, getting out of his frock coat, which is likely boiling him alive in the summer heat. Hanging it over his chair, he then slowly makes his way over to the easel, as if he’s worried James will change his mind about letting him see the painting. James, in his turn, steps away to make room for Regulus to see the canvas.
“If you do not mind, I believe I will have to remake it,” James says once Regulus’ gaze has fallen to the portrait. “Don’t worry – you will not have to sit for another one, I am confident in my ability to do it without a model.”
“Why are you not happy with this one?” Regulus asks, without taking his eyes off the painting.
James hesitates.
“I am happy with it,” he admits. “It’s arguably the most beautiful thing I have ever painted. I put too much of myself in it – and more importantly, too much of you.”
“Too much of me?”
“I look at the mouth, and I see every conversation we shared in this very room. I look at its eyes, and I see the playful gleam you never display in official gatherings. I look at its hands, and even though it’s not there, I see the tiny scratches that were on your hands after picking me the yellow roses. I don’t want to show it to anyone else – I don’t want it to hang in a line of bland depictions of other royals. I want you to have it, Regulus.”
Regulus says nothing.
“I can’t accept it,” he finally whispers.
“Do you not like it?”
“It’s – you’re extraordinarily talented, there’s no denying that, but…” He trails off, then asks, “Is that really what I look like?”
James nervously tugs at his bottom lip. “Are you… uhm, do you think I failed to do you justice?”
“Quite the opposite,” Regulus says. “I don’t believe I deserve to be portrayed like this for the afterworld.”
“I painted only what I saw,” James says.
“Well,” Regulus huffs, “I must be a lot more handsome through your eyes.”
“You have no idea,” James mumbles.
Only now does Regulus tear his gaze from the canvas, meeting James’ eyes. And just like that, James knows that Regulus heard every single word. Not just the ones he was just mumbling under his breath, but the shapeless, abstract strings of meaning James said only with his hand, through his brush.
In Regulus’ eyes, James sees it, too. Hears it, even: It might as well be screaming at him, which isn’t half as unlikely as Regulus saying it out loud. Regulus would never say any of it out loud, but James doesn’t need him to.
And before he knows it, James has given in to the voice that’s been roaring in his mind for weeks, and let it come out through his mouth:
“Don’t marry her.”
Regulus’ eyes fall shut. “James –”
“Don’t marry her,” James repeats, taking a step closer. “I know you don’t want to – we both know you don’t want to. There are other options, dear, you always have options. And you’re not alone. You will never be alone, not for as long as I live.”
“It’s not that simple,” Regulus says, shaking his head.
“Why can’t it be that simple?”
“James, stop. Please, stop.”
James simply cannot help himself – his hand flies up to settle on Regulus’ cheek. Regulus rears back slightly out of surprise, but does not move away. Instead, his own hand settles on James’ arm, a gesture that seems to be an unconscious move to keep him close.
“How can I let you go through this without putting up a protest?” James asks him. “How can I, as your friend, let you wander straight into what I know is causing you misery? You said yourself that I see you – and after seeing it all, how could I stand by and say nothing?”
Regulus is staring at him wide-eyed, gaze quickly travelling across James’ face. His mouth is partly opened. James has never wanted to taste the lips of any woman as much as he wants a taste of Regulus’. A taste, so he can spend the rest of his days trying to paint it. Just one sign from Regulus, and he would do it. It would be worth it. It would all be worth it.
“There’s nothing that you can do,” Regulus squeezes out. “I’m – I’m royal, James. Royals don’t have options.”
“You are royal, Regulus, if not divine, but it has nothing to do with your title,” James says. “You were made to be worshipped. Cherished. Adored.”
Regulus makes a weird noise. “What a – oh, that’s stupid.”
“I adore you,” James says, because now that the floodgates have opened, it may as well all come out. “I have so much fondness for you in my heart, Regulus – which is how I know that whatever she is, whatever she can give you, is not enough. It will never be enough.”
“She’s not there to adore me,” Regulus says, voice trembling slightly. “She’s there to be the future queen of England.”
James shakes his head, refusing Regulus’ attempted rationalisations.
“Do not settle for the easy thing, my love.”
Regulus lets out a quiet gasp at the term of endearment. There’s a moment of electricity between them, and James could swear that Regulus’ eyes travel down to his lips before promptly looking away.
A beat of silence passes, then two.
“The Lord is watching,” Regulus says in a low, grumbling tone.
“And the Lord may judge me when the day comes,” James replies. “I believe Christ experienced temptation, too.”
He can feel the Adam’s apple in Regulus’ throat bob as he harshly swallows, as if he’s choking on it. How wonderfully symbolic.
“Are you tempted, Potter?” Regulus asks, merely a whisper now.
“Yes,” James replies without stuttering.
“You – I must say…” Regulus trails off, clearly losing the grip of his words. He rarely does – royals never do. “You are stepping into the territory of sin.”
“How could the Lord not expect me to be tempted, when he ensured that our paths crossed in the way that they have?” James asks. “If God did not wish for me to have these desires, how could he make you the breath-stealing creation that you are and expect me not to notice?”
Regulus releases a shivering breath.
“Lord,” he says, “have mercy.”
James opens his mouth, mind racing in an attempt to figure out whatever Regulus meant by that, when all of a sudden Regulus steps forward and kisses him like a lover.
In that moment, everything else really ceases to matter.
Once the initial surprise has settled, James puts his heart, mind, and body into kissing Regulus back. It’s one of those amazing moments you never think you will get to experience – the kind you simply haven’t dared to think about, the kind you desperately try to shove away when it wanders into mind from your wildest, most insane fantasies. Regulus, the prince of England, kissing him: That’s one of those moments, if not the moment.
James is briefly convinced this is the only moment to ever exist. Every other point in time just has to orbit around this one – every second of the universe’s existence must have led up to this, and after… James isn’t sure there even is an after. There is only now.
And right now, Regulus is clutching his face as if it's the only thing that has any importance in this world. He’s ruthless in how he greedily digs his fingertips into James’ hair, ruthless in how he’s tasting his lips, ruthless in how he drags James’ soul out of him to permanently mark it as his own.
A quiet whine slips out of James’ mouth, but the taste of it only seems to make Regulus greedier. His hands move from James’ neck to his shoulders, gently shoving him towards the wall behind them without once letting his lips out of reach. James follows willingly, completely surrendering to the hands of Regulus. His back meets the wall with a dull thud.
He suddenly becomes aware of his own hands, which are resting by Regulus’ waist. Determined, he lets them slide to the prince’s lower back and uses his grip to press him closer.
Regulus may be a prince in title and spirit, but he doesn’t kiss like one. There’s tongue and teeth and fingernails; an unsubtle sigh released in the space between their mouths. He pushes himself closer to James, as if he wants their bodies to fuse. James certainly wouldn’t mind.
Without thinking, he lets his left thigh slide in between Regulus’ legs, sinking down slowly to get to the shorter man’s level. When Regulus absent-mindedly presses his groin against his leg, only to release a slightly surprised moan the second after, James’ brain just about short-circuits. He wants to hear more – he wants to drag every single one of the lovely noises out of Regulus’ mouth. Eagerly, he lets his hands work across Regulus’ back with encouraging movements, not at all worried about revealing his own arousal. It’s Regulus’ secret to keep.
“James,” Regulus breathes – a prayer, a plea.
In a span of two seconds, James has turned them around, slammed Regulus towards the wall, and dived down to kiss him again. Regulus seems to melt in his hands, turning into a soft fabric for James to shape as he wishes. And James lets his hands wander.
It’s short, what happens next. James isn’t really thinking. His entire existence has been reduced to being whatever Regulus wants or needs, and with Regulus suddenly and unexpectedly throwing himself into the pit of lust and hedonism, James will simply have to be there.
Breaking the kiss only to monitor Regulus’ reaction, James reaches for the edge of his trousers. He lets his thumb leap along the edge of the expensive fabric, and he believes Regulus temporarily stops breathing, but neither of them break eye contact.
No one has ever touched Regulus like this before. If James wasn’t certain of this due to his knowledge of Regulus’ usual adherence to rules, both written and unwritten, he would be certain after witnessing the shift in Regulus’ gaze. It’s innocent. It’s curious. It’s hungry.
It’s exhilarating, to be Regulus’ first of anything. James wishes he could also be the last.
Keeping his left hand on Regulus’ shoulder, James uses his right to swiftly undo the buttons. He puts his lips to work on the exposed part of Regulus’ neck, humming softly into the perfect skin when Regulus approvingly tugs on his hair. With the million buttons finally undone, James reaches for what he wants, feeling a warm puff of air brush past his cheek as Regulus releases a heavy breath. He looks up, meeting the storm grey look again as he lets his fingers envelop him.
The prince is long gone. Regulus looks absolutely rabid, frustrated beyond belief, forcing James back into a kiss as he frantically starts thrusting towards his hand. It’s messy, it’s quick – James doesn’t have to do much, not with Regulus eagerly chasing his release as if his life depended on it.
“My love,” James whispers, and Regulus is there. Regulus is there, with his whole body, with his whole heart, shuddering in James’ arms as his hands twitch in his hair. With shrill moans slipping out of his mouth, his head falls back towards the wall. James can see his face in its full glory – eyes shut in an expression that could be intense pleasure or unbearable torture. Curious, how the two can so easily be confused. James can’t stop staring.
The moments that follow seem to be coated in shimmer and sweet honey. Regulus relaxes in his grip, leaning into it when James presses his lips towards his forehead. James slowly pulls his hand back, drags it along his colour-stained work jacket, then dips his head down to kiss Regulus’ on the mouth again.
Regulus returns the kiss. Tragically, it will be the last one for a while.
When their eyes meet again, Regulus’ chest is heaving. He blinks, and in an instant, the hazy look in his eyes is replaced by what seems to be painful clarity.
“We should not have done that,” he mumbles to himself. He stands up straight and shakes James’ hands off him, trying to get his clothes in order. James obediently steps away, but only with the smallest of steps. “We should not have done that.”
“Why?” James asks. “Did you not enjoy it?”
“It’s obscene,” Regulus mumbles in a rapid pace. “It’s… perverted, it’s unnatural, it’s –”
“But did you enjoy it?”
Regulus looks up at him, glaring as if he could punch him in the face, or maybe kiss him again – James isn’t sure, and he suspects Regulus isn’t either.
Closing the last button on his trousers, Regulus straightens his back again.
“If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman,” he quotes the Bible in a determined tone, “both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.”
“You seem to have that verse very well memorised, for someone who has never thought about it,” James casually remarks.
“The Bible is clear.”
“And what of your own morals, are they clear? What about your brother, hm? Did he tell you why he wanted to run?”
“I am not my brother,” Regulus says firmly. “And if you tell a soul about this –”
“I’d rather not go to prison, thank you,” James mumbles.
“We could go to prison?” Regulus says in a shrill tone.
“No, I could go to prison,” James clarifies. “Princes don’t get sent there. Now, if the people of England found out their prince takes pleasure in having another man shove his hand down his trousers? Yeah, quite the scandal, I bet.”
“Goodbye,” Regulus says forcefully, then leaves.
***
Regulus doesn’t come by again. James doesn’t ask him to.
Instead, he finishes the portrait, then starts working on the new one – a much more boring version, one that will fit much better in the castle, since it won’t have the faintest traces of Regulus’ most discreet smile lines.
The once vibrant light in James's studio dims with the weight of silence. The colours he once used to breathe life into his art now feel dull and lifeless, as if drained of their meaning. He pauses often as he works, staring out of the window, watching the rain patter against the glass, each drop mimicking the ache that settles deeper into his chest.
“You’re in love with my brother, aren’t you?” Sirius asks over their usual supper one night. He’s been asking for Regulus daily, but James hasn’t known what to tell him.
“I’m afraid so,” James says.
They don’t discuss it any further.
The days continue to pass, eventually turning into a week. Once, he spots Regulus in the garden outside the castle, having tea with his mother. Regulus looks up once, eyes turning wide as he spots him, but then he quickly looks away as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Other than that, James doesn’t get a single sign of life from him.
Not until one day, when he heads into his studio to find a fresh bouquet of yellow roses.
PART III
The canvas is blank, much like James’ heart.
It’s been staring at him for days, practically mocking him. Every time he sits down to paint, something tightens in his chest. The brush feels foreign in his hand, as though it belongs to someone else – his fingers twitch, but they won’t move the way they’re used to. The canvas stays empty, a reminder of all the things he can’t express. James has likely never been experiencing this many feelings, and yet for the first time in his life, he can’t express them to save his life.
And so, he ends up painting the roses.
Over and over again, he paints them. He paints them by the window, paints them on the table; paints them in hands only he knows belong to Regulus. There’s drawings, sketches, oil paintings. In just a few short days, he’s practically filled his studio with them all – filling the empty space where Regulus used to sit, just so that James won’t have to see the ghost of him.
It doesn’t work.
It’s been exactly two weeks since their last encounter when he heads into his storage space, only to come back and wonder if he’s gone mad.
Clearly, he hasn’t – Regulus really is there, standing where he’s usually sitting, eyes fastened at the line of flower pictures James left to fill the empty space. He’s in his usual position – posture of a true royal, hands tucked behind his back. Although James is sure Regulus heard him come back in, he doesn’t turn around.
“These are beautiful,” he says instead, voice soft.
James swallows, doing his best to slow his heart rate down with sheer willpower. “Thank you for bringing them. I assume it was you who did.”
Regulus doesn’t confirm his suspicions, nor does he deny them. Throwing one last glance at the latest one (a charcoal drawing of two hands holding a single rose), he turns around and meets James’ gaze. James can tell that it was something he was afraid to do, something he had to build up the courage for, but he can’t tell why.
“Are those my hands?” Regulus asks, pointing at the drawing.
“What gave me away?” James asks in return.
“It’s my ring. And I… have a little scar there,” Regulus says, looking down at his own hand. “It’s in the same spot. I can’t believe you noticed that.”
“Believe it or not, I notice most things about you,” James says. He dares to move closer – he has nothing to lose at this point, after all. “But even if I didn’t, it couldn’t possibly evade me how you’ve been avoiding me for weeks. Why, Regulus?”
“I think you know why,” Regulus says, once again hiding his hand behind his back with the other, but without looking at James.
“Yes,” James says boldly. “I think you’re avoiding me because your feelings scare you.”
Unexpectedly, Regulus looks up at him and confirms,
“They do.”
James stops where he is.
“And what brings you here now?” he dares to ask.
“I found that being away from you was worse than my fears,” Regulus says. “I missed you.”
“You… missed me?” James repeats dumbly.
Regulus heaves a heavy sigh. “I couldn’t take it anymore, James, I – ugh. Forgive me. Forgive me, I –”
The sentence ends there, because with a sudden movement and just two short strides, Regulus has closed the distance between them and kissed James on the lips again.
“Forgive me,” he whispers into James’ mouth, but James just shuts him up with another kiss.
It’s magical, just like last time. But this time, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty lingering in the space between them. The kiss deepens, and James feels the weight of everything Regulus has been holding back – all the unspoken words now released in this one fragile moment. James’s hands instinctively reach for him, pulling him closer, feeling the warmth of Regulus’s body, the solidness of it, grounding him after so endless days of emptiness.
Last time, Regulus didn’t seem sure what he wanted – this time, he seems absolutely certain. His grip on James’s arms is firm, and he presses into the kiss with a kind of hunger, as though trying to make up for every second they’ve lost. James can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sound almost deafening in the quiet room, and he knows he doesn’t want to let go.
“I want to touch you,” Regulus whispers as their lips separate for only a short moment. “Can I? Can I, please?”
“My body is yours,” James tells him. “Such is my heart, my soul – all I am, it’s yours, my prince.”
“I don’t want to be your prince,” Regulus says as he takes a firmer grip around James’ shoulders. “With you, I have no power. If anything, I am your slave.”
Absolutely drunk on the rush it’s all giving him, James sinks to the floor – or maybe Regulus pushes him down, he isn’t sure – and before he knows it, they’re in horizontal position, touching everywhere they can reach. Their clothes come off (a rather complicated affair, with the royal attire and all), and soon, all traces of the difference in their societal positions have been removed, leaving only them. Man and man; just two beating hearts, skin against skin. A beautiful chaos of lust and soft, soft touches.
Regulus shifts. He swings one leg over James, straddling him before sitting up straight. James immediately misses the heat of his chest against his own, but when he sees Regulus’ admiring stare resting on him, it warms him up just the same.
Regulus lets his hands leap along James’ naked torso until they reach his underpants, the only item of clothing still on him.
“You’re lovely,” James quietly says.
“I’m –” Regulus smiles, shaking his head slightly. “You haven’t left my mind once since I saw you last time, are you aware of that?”
When his hand moves south, James involuntarily gasps. Regulus takes his time, thumb slowly moving over the bulge until finally, finally, reaching below the hem, as if he could tell how much James was aching for his touch. The world turns into something shapeless, white, and shimmering as Regulus’ hand wraps around him, and then…
“Oh.”
James is pulled out of his haze, looking up.
“Oh?” he curiously repeats.
“It’s –” Regulus swallows, looking flustered. An adorable, red tint is spreading across his face. He keeps his hand around James as he uses the other to pull his underpants down slightly, revealing his arousal in its full glory. “I mean – oh, God. How do you not fall over?”
James breaks into laughter, letting Regulus’ sheepish smile warm him up from within. He stops laughing only when Regulus suddenly moves his hand at the same time as he ruts against his thigh, and James briefly thinks he’s about to explode with how good it feels.
Nothing; none of James’ deepest most secret thoughts or scandalous adolescent fantasies could have ever prepared him for this. Regulus’ hands turn out to feel as brilliant as they look – the hands of an angel, truly, and James is convinced he’s the most blessed man in the world, who gets to have them on him. Regulus has him by the edge within minutes, and once he’s pushed over, James’ legs twitch so violently that Regulus almost falls off.
It takes him a few seconds to come back to earth, and once he does, he finds that Regulus is already staring at him, a pleased smile on his face. Without breaking eye contact, Regulus then moves his hand up to his mouth, licking his fingers clean of the evidence of what just happened in a way that’s so un-princelike that James would laugh if he wasn’t so busy staring.
In case you couldn’t tell, James is absolutely, madly obsessed with this man.
He sits up, keeping Regulus steady with a firm grip on his hips. “Sit,” he orders, nodding towards the ornate chair. “On your throne.”
Regulus knits his eyebrows together in confusion, but stands up on trembling legs and lets James guide him to his seat, tearing off the sheet he used to cover it, then gently push Regulus down. James sinks to his knees before him, watching Regulus stare at him wide-eyed.
Keeping their eyes locked again, James places a tentative kiss on the inside of Regulus’ thigh, watching him squirm where he’s sitting. There’s a small stain on his underpants. Fortunately, James is planning to take them off anyway.
Reaching to do so, he confesses, “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time.”
“How long?” Regulus breathlessly asks.
“Since the first time you sat in this chair for me,” James says, then puts his mouth to work.
Exploring this with Regulus is incredible, because everything is new to him. James doesn’t exactly have a long list of past lovers himself, but there’s been a few, men and women alike. None of them set his skin and soul on fire the way Regulus does, but this – well, he’s done this before.
Regulus, on the other hand, is looking at him as if he didn’t know this was something that you could do, as if he’s absolutely astounded by how good it makes him feel, as if James is the great inventor of this simple yet pleasurable act of love. He’s so sensitive, all over, unused to the feeling of another person’s hands on him; likely unused to allowing himself any pleasure at all. James intends to make up for this. Filthy, beautiful words are tumbling out of the prince’s mouth within a few minutes.
Only Regulus Black could look this holy in the midst of sin.
After, Regulus leans forward, reaching for him. It’s not long until they’re both back on the floor, all tangled up in the sheet, the room silent with the exception of their muffled panting. James, still in his own post-orgasmic haze, basks in this: Having Regulus splay out over his chest, all soft and limp, not tensing up or shying away from the contact.
“Well,” Regulus states after a while, in a matter-of-factly tone, “I believe I will go to hell.”
James can’t help but to chuckle.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he says. “I believe my desires have taken the shape of the devil’s snare.”
Regulus shifts, turning his head to rest his chin towards James’ chest, smiling at him. “I will be happy to burn in the depths of the inferno for all eternity, if it means I got to spend heaven on Earth with you for a moment.”
“Oh.” James draws a sharp breath, taken aback by those words. It’s horrible, isn’t it? Words so beautiful – it’s a waste, James thinks, that this is the world in which they’re uttered. Feelings behind words like that should never have to be suffocated. But they do. In this world, they do. “Regulus – oh, why would you say that?”
Regulus suddenly sits up, looking at him in horror. “Oh, don’t cry – please, my dear, don’t –”
James hadn’t even realised it, but alas, the tears are coming. He sits up, too, letting Regulus reach for his face to take his glasses off and gently wipe a lone tear away. He keeps his hands on James’ face, thumbs leaping along the contour of his cheekbones.
“Don’t marry her,” James desperately croaks. He can’t help it – he’s never been this happy, but every beautiful moment he shares with Regulus is inevitably tainted by heartbreak. “Please. She cannot have you.”
When he looks up, he sees that there are tears in Regulus’ eyes, too.
“Listen to me, James,” Regulus whispers back. “You have me. You have my heart. You have my whole heart. She will only ever have my hand.”
“No,” James cries, instinctively reaching for Regulus’ hands. They’re wonderful. He’s greedy about it, like a small child, and he’s aware of it. There’s nothing he can do to stop it – his need for Regulus is in his very bones.
“I’m sorry,” Regulus says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I wish that I could give you everything.”
“You’re the only everything I need. It’s asking for too much. I know I’m asking for too much, but I can’t help it. How am I supposed to help it, when I’m in love with you?”
“James,” Regulus quickly hushes him. Even here, even now, he can’t stand hearing it in terms like that – in his mind, those words are reserved for beautiful women. He says it back anyway, silently, by bringing James closer and placing a soft kiss on his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” James croaks.
Regulus hushes him again. “In another life,” he whispers, “in another life, I’d – I would love you like you deserve to be loved, James. Loudly, shamelessly, endlessly. In that life, you’d be a woman, and I’ll recognize you regardless – I’ll find your soul, and I will worship the body in which it was reborn. I vow to shower you in the most beautiful of jewels, and I will save you in that life like you have saved me in this one. Or perhaps it will be me, and I’ll be the most loving, devoted wife this world has ever seen. It would be the greatest blessing I can possibly imagine. Honestly, James – I’d die to be a woman, just for a chance to be yours.”
“I don’t need you to be in a woman’s body,” James says. “I love you in this one. Whether you want me to or not, I will. I always will. In this life, and in all the ones yet to come.”
Regulus doesn’t say it back, but James hears it anyway.
***
James wouldn’t usually say that Regulus and Sirius look a lot alike, but as the gas lamp casts a dull light on their equally concerned frowns, their brotherhood becomes strikingly apparent.
The cellar is thick with a heavy tension. Sirius hasn’t asked any questions. James doubts that he has to. He was happy to see his brother again when James first brought him back, but their sorrowful aura surely did not evade him.
“Why don’t you run?” Sirius eventually breaks the silence.
“Two disappearing princes within a year?” Regulus replies with a joyless smile. “They’d never stop looking. You know they’d never stop. They need their heir. And who’s going to feed you?”
“What if I return?” Sirius goes on. “If I came back, you’d be free. You could go. You could both go.”
Regulus’ eyes fall shut. “Stop.”
“Reggie –”
“Stop. It wouldn’t be fair. Besides, how would you explain where you’ve been for the past year? It’d put both you and James – perhaps especially James – in danger.”
“I’ll come up with something.”
“It’s not going to work.”
Sirius sighs. He throws a glance at James, who just helplessly shrugs. James wishes there was a way for all of them out of this, but there isn’t, and so he’d really prefer to just sit here in peace for a while, existing next to the people he loves and pretending this is how life always is.
Sirius will clearly do no such thing, and decisively turns his look back to Regulus. “I could keep him close,” he says in a low voice. “He – Remus – wouldn’t be alone, and I’d know the two of you were safe.”
“It’s not happening,” Regulus says in a sharper tone than James has ever heard before.
“You’d have James.”
“But I wouldn’t have you.”
Sirius blinks, looking surprised, but says nothing.
Regulus heaves a sigh, spinning around. He places his head in James’ lap, then shuts his eyes again.
“In another life,” he says, sounding tired, “I hope we can have it all.”
***
The last few weeks of summer pass, and they’re truly a mixture of sweet and sour.
The sour, first:
For the upcoming royal wedding, James is expected to paint the prince and the soon-to-be-princess, together: An affair that is probably equally torturous to the three of them.
Regulus is a statue in James’s studio, his royal composure unyielding. He stands beside Narcissa, cold and distant – but James can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch ever so slightly when they have to touch her. He looks as though he’s trapped in his own body, forced to play a role in a performance he never wanted. His glances toward James are fleeting, careful, but they speak volumes. There's a silent plea in them – an unspoken apology for the part he must play. Most of the time, they avoid eye contact altogether.
Narcissa… Well, James feels for her, too. If he’s completely honest, he’s never given her much thought at all, but as she stands in his studio with Regulus’ stiff arm around her waist, it becomes abundantly clear that she, too, would prefer not to be in this situation. James remembers that she was much the same when engaged to the older brother – he remembers suspecting she was secretly relieved at his disappearance. Perhaps now, she wishes that it would have all been over and done with back then.
James wishes that he could despise her. It’s horrible that Regulus doesn’t get a choice, but neither does she. She’s turning old: Twenty-six, childless, and yet to be married – not an easy lot to live with, for a woman of her standing. She’s not exactly in a position to turn down a second fiancé, even if someone would have bothered to ask her opinion.
To James himself, working on the painting feels like betraying his own heart. It doesn’t turn out well, no matter how much he genuinely tries – it’s as if his hands are refusing to cooperate. He does his best. The colours blend awkwardly, the figures too stiff. How could they not be? He can’t capture what doesn’t exist: Love, joy, connection.
One day, the air in the room is particularly stifling – whether it’s due to the later summer heat, or just thick with everything left unsaid, James isn’t sure. His grip on the brush tightens until his knuckles turn white, and his temper rises. The tension in his chest builds, threatening to spill over. He can’t stand the sight of Regulus standing so close to her, his arm draped around her waist as if it belongs there.
When the tightness in his throat becomes unbearable, he makes an excuse to leave.
Clearing his throat, he puts his brush down with deliberate care, trying to steady himself. His heart pounds in his chest, and he knows he needs a moment alone.
“Your Highness; My Lady,” he says, his voice tight but polite. “I believe we could all use a break. Let me get us something to drink.”
Without awaiting the royal couple’s response, he turns and leaves the room, heading into the little kitchenette next door. He usually uses it to wash his brushes, but there’s a small pantry, as well as a kettle.
As soon as he’s alone, he closes his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. Mindlessly, he then reaches for the cabinet, but before he’s touched the handle, he flinches at the sensation of a firm hand on his back. He quickly spins around.
“Regulus,” he gasps, because this is uncharacteristically stupid behaviour from the prince, “What –”
“She went out for some air,” Regulus whispers. “I had to see you.” When James relaxes, Regulus pulls him into his arms. “You know it’s all a charade, don’t you? It’s not real. You know that, right, James?”
“I do appreciate the reminder,” James admits, a muffled mumble into Regulus’ shoulder. He breathes in the familiar smell, feeling relief set in immediately. “I still hate watching it. I have to struggle not to get up there and rip you two apart.”
Regulus makes a choked noise, then lets go of James only in favour of grabbing his face to kiss him.
“Meet me after midnight,” he breathes. “Tonight, I am yours.”
Yes. To the sweet:
James is positively surprised at how skilled Regulus is at sneaking around. A lot of the time they spend together doesn’t entail sneaking around at all: The newfound friendship between the prince and the painter has not escaped anyone at the Osborne, and they often take the time to meet over activities that aren’t suspicious in the slightest – like tea, or strolls around the grounds.
What the rest of the Osborne doesn’t know about, are the hours they spend together in here, when Regulus comes in just to watch him paint, or to drag him to their own little heaven inside James’ storage space. They’ve become more careful than they were the first times: They stay away from the main room of the studio, where just an unfortunate timing of a peek through the window would reveal their unholiest secrets.
What the rest of the Osborne doesn’t know about, are the nights during which they meet under the moonlight, or the nights when Regulus taps on James’ door simply to sleep in his bed.
What the rest of the Osborne doesn’t know about, are the letters; the letters which they send to each other by hiding them under a particularly large rock in the garden, one that no one but potentially Remus would ever think to look under. If they did, they’d never know who they were to or from, but James knows. He saves every single one under his mattress.
My sun, reads one of the letters. It’s one of the first ones – one that James has taken to rereading as soon as he’s away from Regulus for too long.
I sit here in the dim candlelight, knowing that each word I write must be veiled in secrecy – yet, my heart yearns for nothing but truth. How strange it is that someone with my privileges should feel so utterly incomplete without you by my side. I cannot look at your work without thinking of the hands that created it, hands that have so often traced the very contours of my soul.
The world does not know the depth of what we share, and perhaps it is better that way, for they would not understand how something like that could exist. It is agony, to stand with a mask of indifference while my heart pounds furiously beneath my chest, longing for you. The charade grows heavier with each passing day.
We are born to roles we did not choose, bound to a destiny we cannot escape. Still, I hold onto the hope that one day, in this life or the next, we shall live as we are without shame or fear. Until then, I shall carry your image in my heart, as you carry mine in your art.
With all that I am, and all that I can never say aloud,
Yours
***
“Can I ask you something?” Regulus asks one evening. The queen thinks he’s in his room, reading – in reality, he’s hiding in the storage space again, naked and wrapped up in James’ arms.
“Yes, my love?”
Regulus breathes out, warm air against James’ bare shoulder. “Have you ever done this before?” he eventually asks. “With a man?”
“Yes,” James admits.
A pause. “And what about women?”
“Yes.”
To his relief, Regulus doesn’t seem bothered by his confession. Instead, he mindlessly reaches for James’ hand, fiddling with it while a slight frown appears on his face, as if he’s deep in thought.
“Aren’t you concerned?” he asks. “About God?”
“No,” James says honestly. “If Judgement Day comes, and my greatest crime is showing affection – whether it be for a man, or a woman – I believe a good saviour would deem me worthy of his kingdom. I’ve committed sins far worse than engaging in pleasure and lust. My love for you, it doesn’t hurt anyone, does it? No more than it would if you were a woman.”
“Do you feel for women, like you feel for me?” Regulus asks.
James thinks about it.
“Yes, and no,” he replies. “Do I, on occasion, desire women? Do I find them beautiful? Yes. But not like you. Never anyone, not like you.”
“I’ve never been particularly interested in women,” Regulus says, lowering his voice, even though no one can hear them. “I never knew what it was like to want someone at all. Not until I wanted you.”
James watches him.
“My love, how come you’re asking?”
Regulus sits up, releasing a heavy breath. “James – what about... The wedding night. What – what am I supposed to do?”
Pretending the reminder isn’t shattering his heart, James gives him a sad smile.
“Are you worried?”
“Yes, I’m worried.” Regulus shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to even bring this to your mind, but I have no one else to talk to. I know what’s expected of me, but whatever I do, it’ll feel wrong. I don’t want to do it at all, but I know I have to, and if I fail to do it… right, I’ll only have to do it again. You’ve been intimate with women, no?”
“Only ones I wanted to be intimate with,” James says. “Anything else would be wrong. It is wrong.”
“It is my fate, whether I want it to be or not. But just thinking about it makes me sick.”
“Because she’s a woman?”
“Because she’s not you,” Regulus says.
“Then… think of me,” James whispers. “Think of me. When she lays her hands on you, close your eyes and pretend it’s mine.”
“Her hands are so cold,” Regulus says. “They’re nothing like yours.”
“Pretend,” James tries. “Or – try to focus on a memory. Focus on the memory of a moment which we shared, and know that wherever you are, I am thinking of you, too.”
“How would I know?”
“Because I’m always thinking of you, and I always will be, even after you leave.”
Regulus does a sharp inhale. Even though he’s the one who brought it up, he doesn’t like being reminded of the future. The cruel thing about the future is that it tends to come whether it's welcome or not. In just a few short weeks, Regulus will have to return to London, where the wedding will be. And James? James will stay here.
“If I could marry you instead,” Regulus says, shifting to lay down on James’ chest again, “I would.”
“Love –” James begins.
“Schh.”
James obediently falls silent as Regulus reaches for his hand, fiddling with it as if he’s trying to do something. When James finally looks down, he realises Regulus has taken off his ring to put it on James’ finger.
The ring gleams faintly in the dim light, its gold band worn smooth by what’s decades, if not centuries, of royal hands. Intricate etchings spiral around the band, their patterns almost lost to time, but still hinting at the masterful craftsmanship. James imagines he can feel the weight of history upon his finger, as if carrying the power – and the burdens – of a dynasty.
“Regulus –”
“Remember me,” Regulus whispers, as if James could ever forget.
PART IV
It is late one night, when there’s a sudden quick knock on the door. James, who should be asleep but isn’t, knows who it is in an instant.
Regulus looks paler than usual, and he’s dressed in formal clothes. James wasn’t expecting him tonight – there’s some grand event taking place, which would make it difficult for Regulus to sneak out. At this point, he would have assumed Regulus had already gone to bed, but nevertheless, here he is.
“Can I come in?” he says in a rushed, quiet voice.
“Yeah, of course,” James says, moving to the side as Regulus stumbles inside. “What’s wrong, my love?”
Regulus waits until the door has shut behind them until he speaks. “I just heard,” he says slowly, as if he’s afraid of James’ reaction, “that the gardener’s mother passed away this afternoon.”
James blinks.
Oh, Remus, is his first thought. Although his mother was running on borrowed time, only a shell of the strong woman she used to be, James knows how much Remus loves her. She’s the only family he has left, after all; one of the few that really knows him. He must be suffering a horrible grief.
But that’s not why Regulus is here.
“We could run,” James says quietly, as the opportunity sinks in. “We could all run.”
Regulus nods, a serious look on his face.
“Regulus,” James says. “Do you want to run?”
“I want to be with you,” Regulus whispers.
“You know you could never see your parents again.”
“I want to be with you.”
“You’d have to give it all up,” James tells him. “I – I don’t have the money to take care of you. And if I disappear, too – if it’s too obvious, I could never take a new job. We’d have to sort it all out, and start from scratch.”
“I want to be with you,” Regulus repeats.
“You have to understand what you’re getting into,” James goes on. “You could never return to England, and –”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Regulus sighs, lunging forward to take James’ face in his hands. “I want to be with you.”
It’s wrong of James to celebrate, but his heart sings.
“Let’s run, then,” he whispers. “We’ll run.”
***
The following week is a blur.
Sirius is absolutely devastated when he hears the news – Regulus and James have to physically restrain him from just running out on the grounds to get to Remus. James heads there the next day, offering his condolences, as well as a basket of freshly baked goods and a letter that Sirius wrote under tearful agony.
He does his best to help with the practicalities. Remus comes over that evening, spending the night in the basement with Sirius.
The day after that, they start planning their escape.
The first part of the plan is fairly undramatic. In order to not raise unnecessary suspicion, they decide that Remus and Sirius will leave first. Sirius is already off the hook, and the tragic circumstances of his mother’s death gives Remus a reasonable excuse to quit his job, pack the few things he owns, and move back to his mother’s family home. As soon as his mother is buried on the island, next to his father, Remus and his trunk will get on the boat to the mainland, and from there, he’ll take the train towards Wales.
Only Remus won’t be going to Wales. From Southampton, he’ll get on the ferry to Le Havre, from where he’ll then take a train to a small, secluded village and wait for Regulus and James to arrive.
And Sirius? He will be hiding in Remus’ trunk.
It’s not a foolproof plan, but a week after they’ve left, James still hasn't heard a word. In this case, no news is good news. Regulus provided them with enough money to survive for a few months – as long as Sirius wasn’t found, everything should have gone alright.
It’s been ten days when James receives the awaited letter:
Dear James,
How the spring sun warms our quiet hills! The fields here are alive with wildflowers, and I often think of you, imagining how you might capture this beauty on your canvas. I was thrilled to find your last letter, proud as ever of your service to the Crown, and I cannot help but wonder how far your talent will take you.
Your uncle is doing well, despite his most recent, and rather rough, adventure. You must visit us soon. Until then, take care, my dear boy. France sends its warmth to you.
With all my love,
Aunt Isabelle
There is no aunt Isabelle, but if anyone were to find and read the letter before it reached James, they likely wouldn’t know that.
“Tomorrow, after sunset,” Regulus whispers to him that night, practically sparkling with excitement. “And then, I will be yours forever.”
“Forever?” James says hopefully.
“Forever,” Regulus confirms. “I love you.”
***
A few days later, James hangs his bag over his shoulder. It’s light, just the essentials. They won’t need much, not where they’re going.
He slips out into the cool evening air, the sky above deepening to rich shades of purple and blue. Before closing the door behind him, he sends a last look at his childhood home. It’s a strange feeling, leaving everything behind – he’s never even left the island before. The only thought that terrifies him more than leaving is staying here, where Regulus won’t be.
The grounds are quiet, almost serene, but every step feels heavier with anticipation. Thinking that he wishes he could have said goodbye to Marlene, he finally stops at the gate where Regulus said that they would meet.
The hours slip by as he waits. At first, he’s restless, pacing under the cover of a tree, eyes flicking toward the path that leads from the Osborne. As the night wears on, however, the excitement that buzzed in his chest slowly fades into something else: An anxious ache that grows with every passing minute.
The night stretches endlessly. It’s long after midnight. The stars are out in full force now, scattered across the dark sky like shards of glass. James wraps his arms around himself, trying to ward off the chill that’s begun to creep in – more than just the cold air. James waits, his eyes trained on the gates, willing Regulus to appear.
But he doesn’t.
By the time the first light of dawn begins to break, pale and ghostly on the horizon, James feels hollow. His legs ache from standing, his fingers numb from the cold. He blinks, body heavy with exhaustion, but his mind won’t stop replaying the promise Regulus made: I’ll come for you. Tomorrow, after sunset.
But Regulus isn’t here.
With the morning sun rising slowly behind him, James lowers his head, hands tightening around the straps of his bag. His heart sinks deeper with every step as he walks back through the gates alone.
Something must be wrong. Regulus wouldn’t just leave him like this, would he? Maybe he simply couldn’t sneak out without anyone noticing – maybe he was tired and fell asleep. James will just have to find a way to get to him, to find out what’s going on.
“Good morning, Mr Potter,” says a cheerful voice.
James blinks, mind foggy from the sleep deprivation. When he manages to locate the voice, he finds that it’s coming from the plant beds running along the pathway.
“Good morning to you,” he tells Frank – the new gardener – while saying a silent prayer that Frank doesn’t realise he’s been standing at the edge of the grounds the entire night.
Frank stands up, smiling kindly at him. “Been off on a morning adventure, have you?”
“Uhm,” James says, glancing down at his bag. “Something like that. Have you seen anyone out, this morning?”
“I haven’t, no,” Frank tells him, brushing his hands off. “I would assume everyone will be using the newfound calm to take a well needed sleep-in.”
After processing this for a while in an attempt to understand what Frank is talking about, James simply asks him, “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been told that things would be more peaceful around here, now that summer season is over,” Frank says, visibly unaware of how James’ mind is spinning so fast he can’t think. “Without the queen around, I bet people will be more… relaxed.”
“Why? I mean – where’s the queen?” James asks dumbly.
Frank turns to him, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t anyone tell you? The royal family went back to London last night.”
PART V
“Did you hear?” Marlene says, excited to finally be able to share the most scandalous gossip of the week.
The royal family have left for the year, meaning things are back to normal at the Osborne. For Marlene, this means she finally has time to have morning tea with her colleagues, as long as the weather will allow it.
“Hear what?” James says tiredly, without taking his eyes off the newspaper in his hands. He’s been looking rather depressed, the past few days – Marlene suspects it ought to have something to do with the departure of the gardener, who she knows was a dear friend of his.
“About the crown prince,” she says, pleased to find that James looks up attentively. “He’s been sighted in the north of France, can you believe it? The king found out about it last week – that’s why they left the island earlier than intended.”
James stares at her for a few moments, then puts the newspaper down.
“That’s not possible,” he says.
“There were multiple sightings,” Marlene tells him.
“Then why isn’t it in the newspapers?”
“Because the king doesn’t want it to be. Can you imagine?”
For a few moments, James appears to have frozen, as if the cogs are turning in his mind. Eventually, he takes his glasses off and places them neatly on the table, rubbing his eyes.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “Why wouldn’t they want it in the newspaper? If they’re going to search for him, wouldn’t it make things easier if people kept their eyes open?”
“But they’re not going to search for him,” Marlene says, chuckling slightly. James is funny – he’s grown up around the royals, and yet he never seems to learn quite how they work. “They set off early to parade Prince Regulus around London in good time before the wedding – I imagine they want to steer clear of potential rumours, now that they have good reason to suspect the crown prince is alive.”
“If they think he’s alive, why wouldn’t they look for him?”
“Why would they? The tragic death of the crown prince is a much better story than him disappearing voluntarily. Besides, Prince Regulus is a better heir, regardless of the royal succession line. If they didn’t have him, I have no doubts they would happily launch a full invasion of France just to track the crown prince down, but it seems things have turned out in their favour after all, haven’t they? As long as Prince Sirius stays hidden, and Prince Regulus fulfils his obligations, there is no reason to turn the continent upside down. I pity him, though – Prince Regulus, that is. When we heard the news, he looked as if he was about to have a seizure.”
James says nothing. Marlene, rather disappointed with the little engagement he’s showing for this groundbreaking piece of gossip, annoyedly snaps his fingers in front of him.
“James? I’m talking to you.”
“Right.” He coughs. “I’m sorry. I need some air.”
Marlene blinks. Before there’s time for her to point out that they’re already outside, James has gotten out of his chair and disappeared around the corner of the house.
***
James never paints again.
The easel stands in the corner of his room, gathering dust; brushes left to stiffen and crack. The once vivid colours of his paints dry in their jars. He supposes he could force himself to put them to work, but what would be the point? He no longer sees any beauty in the world, nothing worth immortalising.
The world moves on. The wedding takes place in London, with all the grandeur expected of a royal affair. James reads about it in the newspapers, staring blankly at the printed words. He imagines it: The image of Regulus beside his new bride, smiling a hollow, princely smile. It’s as if he was always meant to be there – as if the words he whispered in the dark had been nothing more than a fleeting dream, lost to the weight of the crown. Many times in his life, James will wonder if he imagined it all.
The days bleed into weeks, then months. Seasons change, and the island shifts from summer to the biting cold of winter. James grows older, though it feels as though he is stuck in time, frozen in that moment when the dawn broke and Regulus never came. He becomes a man who walks with a weight on his shoulders: A man who has seen too much, felt too deeply, and now lives with the constant ache of loss.
A royal painter is rather useless when he’s no longer painting, so James quits. Before the next summer arrives, he’s packed all of his belongings – including artwork that was never shown to the world – and leaves the island for the first and last time.
He manages to track Sirius and Remus down after a couple of weeks. They’ve settled in a calm seaside town in Portugal, where James stays for a few years, taking a job as a fisherman. When he gets bored, he moves on to the next place; new language, new sights, new people. He lives the rest of his life much in the same manner.
It’s been many years when he returns to that little cottage on the coast of Portugal, where he left Sirius, Remus, and boxes that were never unpacked.
Only now does he dare to unwrap and lay his eyes on the portrait that he once considered his life’s greatest work – the one that no one but himself and the subject itself ever got to see.
Only now does he allow himself to feel the weight of it all: The weight of the years lost, the love unspoken, the life he could have had. As he gazes at Regulus’s painted face, the memories flood back, bittersweet and raw. He had once poured every part of himself into this portrait, believing it to be the ultimate declaration of the bond which they shared.
And only now does he notice the small corner of yellowed paper, peeking out from behind the frame.
James frowns and turns the portrait around. There is an envelope, edges brittle with age. His heart skips a beat as he pulls it free and opens it up, fingers trembling slightly as he, after all these years, recognizes the unmistakable handwriting on the front.
My dearest,
As I put these words on paper, I am consumed by a bittersweet sorrow, knowing that our paths are forced to diverge in this life. If only the constraints of duty and tradition did not bind me as a slave, I would have chosen a different path.
Imagine, if you will, the life where we are unshackled by the expectations and roles that hold us apart. In that life, our days would be filled with the simple joys of shared moments and quiet conversations, unburdened by the weight of obligation. We would walk hand in hand through sunlit meadows, and our laughter would echo in spaces in which there is only room for love. In this life, there would be no separation between us – no barriers to our joy. The freedom to be with you, to cherish you without reservation, would be the greatest gift I could ever receive.
Yet here I stand, faced with a reality that demands my compliance and sacrifices of my deepest desires. I am compelled to honour my commitments, even as my heart remains firmly with you. The love I feel for you is genuine and profound, and it is the source of both my greatest joy and deepest pain.
Please know that in the depths of my heart, I hold onto the dream of a different existence – one where we are together, unburdened by the constraints of our current lives. And when I see you there, I am sure that I will recognize you in an instant.
As we part ways, remember that my feelings for you are sincere and enduring. In that other life, our love will flourish and our lives will be intertwined in the most beautiful of ways. Until then, hold onto the memories we shared, and know that you are adored beyond measure.
Yours