Chapter Text
These fatal fantasies, giving way to labored breath, taking all of me...
We've already done it in my head
The apartment door swung open when Barty kicked it with his boot. Regulus stumbled over the threshold, his vision blurring slightly at the edges. "Just a couple more steps, bug," he slurred, a little too loudly, to the empty hallway. Behind him, the sounds of Emma retching violently into a decorative shrub by the building's entrance punctuated the late-night quiet.
"Oh, for fucks sake, Emma, again?" Barty's exasperated voice cut through Regulus's mild haze. "You couldn't have at least aimed for Mr. Moody’s ugly fucking carpet? The old fucker is going to give me an earful for that.”
“You have such a refined vocabulary.”
Regulus turned, leaning against the doorframe as Barty, already looking remarkably put-together despite the hour, wrestled Emma inside. Her face was a sickly green under the faint glow of the streetlamp, her usually composed black hair plastered to her forehead. "I think… I think my soul is leaving my body," Emma groaned, collapsing dramatically against Barty.
"No, that's just tequila, bug," Barty replied, expertly slinging her arm over his shoulder. "Come on, Reg. Give us a hand. She's tiny but she won’t help."
Regulus pushed off the doorframe, his own legs feeling a bit like jelly. He took Emma's other arm, her dead weight surprisingly comforting in its familiarity. Together, they half-dragged, half-carried her through the lobby and up the two flights of stairs to their shared apartment. Every step was a monumental effort, Emma couldn’t weight more than them but she felt like made of lead and the effort kept his mind from drifting. Almost.
Because all night, even through the haze of drinks and the thumping bass of the bar, a single image had been burned into his brain: a flash of messy, dark hair, eyes crinkling at the corners with a laugh, a certain tilt of the head and the gold round glasses he had been so used to see on his bedside table.
It wasn't James, couldn't be, his neighborhood was out of limits, but it was enough to make Regulus's stomach clench. Enough to make him linger, just a little too long, at the edge of the other man's conversation. He'd almost, almost, leaned in and flirted, just to see if the kiss would taste the same. The thought alone sent a shiver through him, a mix of desperate longing and self-loathing.
He was pathetic.
A pathetic drunk excuse for a man.
They finally maneuvered Emma onto the living room couch, her limbs flopping like a rag doll. Barty efficiently found a blanket and a bucket, placing the latter strategically beside her head. "There you go, princess," he announced, dusting off his hands. " Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe my bed is screaming for me." He cast a glance at Regulus. "You should take a shower, you smell like the fucking bar."
Regulus just nodded, his head already throbbing. The idea of a hot shower was suddenly the most appealing thing in the world. He mumbled a goodnight to Barty, who was already disappearing down the hall, and pulled himself towards the bathroom.
The steam from the shower did little to soothe the dull ache he was starting to feel behind his eyes, but the hot water felt heavenly against his skin, washing away the smell of warm beer. He scrubbed a little harder then necessary, as if he could scrub away the image of the man at the bar.
He needed to get a grip.
He was out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, and pushing two advils inside, almost before his brain fully registered it. He barely made it to his bed before collapsing onto the cool sheets, the world tilting gently around him. Sleep claimed him swiftly, a heavy, dreamless oblivion that lasted only moments before James Potter, unbidden and unwelcome, decided to pay a visit.
He’s suddenly lying on his back in a room that looks a lot like James’ college room, the same old Megan Fox poster surrounded by tiny pictures of his life. His body is heavy, legs parted, skin flushed.
And James is above him.
Actually no, not just above him. On him, inside him, everywhere.
James is kissing down his chest, slow and reverent, with that focused intensity that always undid Regulus. His hands are firm on Regulus’s thighs, keeping him open. Regulus can feel the stretch, the burn, the exact moment James pushes in.
Regulus knows he’s nineteen again, and it’s overwhelming because in his dream he can almost feel his back arching, body clenching around the cock he hasn’t felt in nearly a year but has never, ever forgotten.
It’s too much. Too vivid. Too right.
James groans low in his throat, pressing their foreheads together, moving slow and deep. “Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs. “Like your body remembers me.”
Regulus wants to laugh, or cry, or scream. Instead, he whimpers, digging his nails into James’s shoulders. “Harder,” he breathes, “please.”
James obliges, pulling back and slamming in with a rhythm that makes the bed creak, that makes Regulus’s toes curl and breath hitch. It’s obscene, the slick drag, the filthy slap of skin on skin. But it’s the way James looks at him that makes Regulus feel like he’s burning alive.
It’s a hunger, a fever he would never be able to sweat out.
“I missed this,” James grits out, hips snapping forward. “You, like this. Falling apart for me.”
Regulus wants to say something.
He’s still asleep but he knows the truth.
We broke up. This isn’t real.
You’re not real.
But his mouth won’t work as fast as his brain, only gasps and moans come out, embarrassingly high, dangerously close. He’s sweating, sobbing. James slips a hand between their bodies and strokes him once, and Regulus…
It’s humiliating.
He comes.
Hard. Helpless.
The dream dissolves around him as pleasure crests and crashes, and Regulus bolts upright in bed with a strangled sound, heart pounding, cock twitching, soaked all over.
The sheets are a mess. His body is still tingling. His face is burning with shame.
He hasn't spoken to James Potter in ten months.
And he just came untouched in his sleep thinking about him.
He lay there for a long moment, chest heaving, trying to reconcile the vividness of the dream with the cool, clammy reality of his own sheets. He felt disgust warring with a deep, unsettling longing.
His head throbbed, a dull, persistent beat behind his eyes – a familiar souvenir from the night before's overindulgence. It had been Emma’s 24th birthday, there was a reason for all the heavy drinking (and that had nothing to do with Amos Diggory asking her to marry him and her running away from his place). The room was too fucking bright, he had forgotten to close the blinds and pale morning light pierced through. On his bedside table, a half-empty glass of tap water sat next to his phone, its screen turned down.
He reached for the phone blindly, his fingers fumbling slightly before they closed around it. He thumbed the side button, the screen flaring to life, momentarily blinding him. The time glowed accusingly back at him: 6:42 AM. Far too early for this kind of shit. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, before scrolling through his notifications.
There was a couple texts from Evan, and one e-mail from his master’s advisor sent at 3 AM.
His thumb hovered over his contacts list. He didn't even have to search. James’s name was still there, at the very top, pinned. It had been ten months since their breakup. Three hundred and four fucking excruciating days since he went over to his place to pick the last box of books. Regulus stared at it, the simple white text against the dark background, feeling a fresh wave of bitterness.
<september 11, 2024>
[8:49 a.m] James P.
left the box downstairs like you asked
im not gonna b home
just throw the keys in the mailbox when you leave
Even in his sleep, James invaded. Even after all that time, James was still his first thought, his last thought, and now, apparently, the star of his most explicit nightmares. The sheer audacity of it. The lingering phantom touch was unbearable.
Regulus closes his phone, tries not to think about it, tries to go back to sleep. The idea is laughable, his body still buzzing with residual dream-heat. So stupid. It’s honestly humiliating.
He pushes off the bed, the clammy sheets sticking to his thighs for a moment before he can disentangle himself. He needed a cold shower before being dragged back to the reality of his apartment.
He stumbles into the kitchen, pulling out a pan, some eggs, and bacon from the fridge, beginning the ritual of breakfast, the mundane tasks a welcome distraction. The sizzle of bacon fills the quiet apartment, and it wakes up Barty like he’s a pig character from a silly kid’s show.
"Morning, sunshine," Regulus calls out, voice a little rougher than usual. He doesn't need to look to know Barty will be stretching at his bedroom door, probably still half-naked.
"Don't 'morning sunshine' me," Barty grumbles, padding into the kitchen, hair even messier than last night. He eyes the bacon with surprising enthusiasm. "Making breakfast? What's the occasion?"
Regulus pretends to ignore the last part, turning to grab plates. "Emma's still out cold on the couch. And someone has to feed her and you surely won’t.”
Barty grunts in agreement, pouring himself a mug of coffee. He leans against the counter, observing Regulus with an unnervingly perceptive gaze. "So, did she tell you something?" he says, taking a slow sip. "That's why you're cooking actual food and not just making toast."
Regulus stiffens. Barty, maddeningly, always knows. "She refused to say anything yesterday," he mutters, setting down two plates piled high with breakfast. "Kept saying there’s nothing to unpack."
Just then, another groan, louder this time, emanates from the living room. Emma.
Barty sighs dramatically. "And the sleeping beauty awakes. Go on, Reg, you're better at the empathetic hangover cure. Ask her if now she wants to talk about running away from her prince."
Regulus walks into the living room. Emma is stirring, rubbing her temples. She looks so fucking soft with her crooked space buns, it almost reminds him of when they met, at five. "Rough night?" Regulus asks, trying for nonchalance.
Emma groans, pulling the blanket tighter. "You have no idea. Fuck, my boyfriend proposed. He was literally there, down on one knee. And I just... panicked. I told him I needed space. I just... I don't know what I want. I'm not ready for... for all that. I just want to figure out who I am first. Fuck I made a mistake. Reg I made a mistake."
Regulus freezes. The words hit him with the force of a physical blow. Not ready for all that. Figure out who I am first.
It was a cruel echo of his own words, words he'd used, or thought he'd used, to James all those months ago. The very words that had, apparently, shattered everything. I was accepted at the masters program, I can’t figure out the rest of my life just because you want to.
His ears were ringing. The kitchen was too quiet behind him. The warmth from the shower was gone, and the residual ache from the dream was suddenly louder than anything. Regulus was too aware of himself.
“You should go home, bug. Call Amos. Eat something first, then go home and call him if he isn’t there.” He picked up his phone again. The screen lit up.
He stared at it for a second longer, thumb hovering. His stomach turned. He didn’t think. He didn’t even unlock the screen properly, just lifting the phone enough to unlock it with his face.
<july, 11, 2025>
[9:57 a.m] Regulus
dreamt about you tonight
A beat. He hesitated, then added:
[9:57 a.m] Regulus
thought I saw you last night.
Or someone who looked like you.
Not sure what’s worse.
Regulus didn’t speak for the rest of their breakfast. He sat across from her on the floor, took a slow bite of bacon, and wondered what the fuck he would even do if James texted back.
His phone vibrated, startling him so violently he almost dropped his fork. His heart immediately hammered against his ribs. He knew, instinctively, before he even looked. Only one person could make his gut clench like that.
Regulus stared at the screen, a hot flush creeping up his neck. Of course. Of course, James wouldn't miss a beat. He'd always been infuriatingly quick, always on his phone like it was an extension of his arm, and it sometimes infuriated him.
Regulus tells himself he doesn’t care. He doesn’t check the time. Doesn’t glance at the screen.
[10:00 a.m] James P.
didnt think id be the one haunting you lol
[10:02 a.m] James P.
but yeah
happens 2 me 2
Regulus’s stomach flips. There’s nothing accusatory in it. Nothing dramatic. Just the flat honesty.
Another message pops up before he can even process the first two:
[10:03 a.m] James P.
was it at least a good dream?
Regulus stares at the screen and his brain goes completely blank.
He thinks of James’s voice rasping “still so fucking tight” against his ear. Thinks of the way his thighs had trembled in that dream, the heat of the sheets now sticky and drying on his skin.
He locks his phone without replying.
“Criks, you look a bit green,” Emma says softly, voice still half-raspy. “Bee, doesn’t he look a little green?”
Barty blinks at her before turning to Regulus. “Yeah, actually. Please don’t throw up on me.”
He wasn’t planning on throwing up on his friends.
But James Potter just texted him back.
And it’s the worst fucking thing that’s happened in ten months.
Regulus didn’t throw up. He didn’t lash out either, which felt like an achievement considering his record.
He just sat there, motionless, heart punching against his ribs, staring blankly at the cold strip of bacon left on his plate. His fingers itched toward his phone again, toward the question mark that James had left like bait.
was it at least a good dream?
What the fuck kind of question was that?
Did he want a play-by-play? Did he want to know Regulus had come so hard untouched he felt like he would wake up to James’ arm around him and instead he was just licking his wounds humiliated and alone? That it had felt more real than anything in the last ten months? That his body had opened up in sleep like it had been waiting for James all this time?
He grabbed his plate and stood. “I need to go lie down, think I’m still hungover,” he mumbled, not quite meeting either of their eyes.
Barty raised an eyebrow but didn’t dare to say anything else.
He dumped the dishes in the sink, rinsed them without thinking, wiped the counter twice though it wasn’t dirty. Anything to delay going back to his room. Anything to not sit alone in the quiet, with that text still on his screen.
But eventually he did.
He shut the door quietly behind him, leaned against it with a soft thud, and stared at his phone on the crumpled sheets.
He unlocked it again before he could talk himself out of it.
[10:07 a.m] Regulus
We were in your old college room and you were fucking me under that ugly ass megan fox poster.
He didn’t send it. Let it sit there. Read it five times. Deleted. Rewrote it with less emotion. More sarcasm. Deleted the whole thing.
Typed something else instead:
[10:07 a.m] Regulus
you were the one inside me, so you tell me
He didn’t even reread it. Just flung the phone onto the bed like it burned and groaned into his hands. This was a mistake. This was definitely a mistake.
He dropped down next to it, face-first into pillow and closed his eyes, he did not want to admit he was almost begging for his phone to vibrate again.
There’s only a handful of things worse than texting your ex.
And one of them is probably texting your ex after a wet dream.
The reply didn’t come right away.
Regulus kept his face buried in the pillow, listening too closely to the stillness of the room. At first it was fine. Expected. James had always been a slow reader, sometimes missed sarcasm entirely. Maybe he was asleep again. Maybe he was busy.
It was a Saturday so he was probably busy getting ready to do something with Sirius and Remus, maybe he was camping in the woods. Maybe he was being eaten by a bear in said woods.
Then ten minutes passed.
There was no reason to panic, right?
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
Every second stretched taut like a thread pulled too tight, and Regulus could feel it winding around his throat.
He rolled onto his back, stared up at the ceiling like it had answers. Maybe it had been too much. Maybe the Megan Fox poster version would’ve been safer, funnier. James always liked funny better than sarcastic.
He hated himself for caring.
He hated that the phone stayed quiet.
He fell asleep again at some point. Not deeply, not well. Just drifted, mouth open and mind buzzing, until the soft buzz of vibration against the mattress startled him awake.
[11:32 a.m] James P.
jesus regulus
are u trying to kill me???
And then:
[11:32 a.m] James P.
dont really know how to answer that
what do u want from me?
Regulus sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Well, James was very much alive, the bear didn’t get to him.
And underneath it: a question Regulus didn’t know how to answer.
Not yet.
He stared at the screen.
His thumb hovered.
[11:35 a.m] Regulus
Sorry
I shouldn’t have texted
I just…
Idk
Regulus kept staring at screen like it could undo it. He could, in fact, delete the message and create a whole other question when James inquired him about it. Or he could just let the phone fall onto the duvet, forget about it and maybe drop a sleeping pill to forget this whole day existed.
His chest felt tight.
A quick and soft knock at the door broke the silence.
“Reg? Cricks,” Emma’s voice came through gently, muffled but clear enough. “I’m heading out.
He blinked at the ceiling, startled by how fast the world rushed back in.
“Yeah,” he called back, voice raspier than he intended. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay, bug. Let me know how it goes with Diggory?”
She opened the door halfway, peeked inside. Her hair was now twisted into a low bun, she had also cleaned her face from the rest of last night’s make up. She glanced at the bed, the rumpled sheets, Regulus curled in a ball in the middle of his bed.
“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck, are you sure you’re okay?” She said softly, crossing her arms, not walking inside his room.
“Feel like it,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.
She stepped in, just a little, just enough to lean against the wall. “I’m gonna go talk to Amos, try to sort my life out and then I’ll call you and you can tell me what’s going on.”
Regulus sat up slowly. “You don’t have to worry about me on top of the pile of shit you’re dealing with today.”
“No,” she said. “I think I need to, you’re my… You’re my cricket. But I was talking to Barty, I can’t keep running just because something feels too big to hold. Don’t think I’m ready to get married but I could totally do a very, very long engagement. And I love Amos, absolutely positive that I don’t want to fuck it all up.”
He looked at her for a long moment, throat tight. “You didn’t fuck it up. You panicked. That’s human.”
Emma shrugged, but her eyes shone with something he couldn’t name. “We’ll see if he takes me back or tells me to go fuck myself.” She moved as if ready to leave, but paused in the frame. “You gonna be okay?”
Regulus offered her a tight, unconvincing smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
He didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t want to go back in time. Didn’t want to undo the breakup (at least, he didn’t think so). He had his reasons, a list of reasons he kept on his notes app just to make sure he wouldn’t forget or chicken out. But he also didn’t want this. This ache, this gnawing space inside him shaped exactly like James.
He opened the keyboard. Closed it. Opened it again.
[11:43 a.m] Regulus:
I don’t want anything from you
I just can’t stop thinking about you today
He didn’t wait for a reply.
He needed to get a fucking grip, so instead of mulling and biting his lips waiting for a God sent signal, Regulus locked his phone. Turned it face-down on the bedside table and stood up.
A little more angrily than necessary, he peeled the gross sheets off the bed, dumped them in the laundry basket, and pulled on clean ones with the mechanical precision his mother taught him. He changed into a fresh shirt. Tied his hair up. Washed his face with water so cold it made him flinch.
By the time he sat down at his desk, cracked open his laptop, and opened the draft of his dissertation proposal, the only evidence of his breakdown was the echo of James’s name behind his eyes.
Barty was gone by the time he emerged from his room looking for something to drink, Regulus poured himself some cold juice and went back to his room.
He didn’t check the phone as article after article on chemicas used in art restoration danced on his eyes.
At least not for another thirty minutes.
And then he gave up.
[12:18 p.m] James P.
today?
that’s not nothing, Regulus
Another buzz.
[12:18 p.m] James P.
I haven’t stopped in the last 10 months
[12:23 p.m] James P.
sorry
crossed some kind of boundary, didnt i?