Chapter Text
Every time, Regulus thinks of it like emerging from deep waters. There’s a splinter between darkness and light, a fleeting moment where everything seems possible.
Perhaps this time, it will be different.
Perhaps this time, he will succeed.
His pulse thumps in his ears, picking up speed, a frantic staccato of hope until it blots out every other sound.
The haze of unrealized options spins faster and faster, sharpening with each beat.
He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.
His eyes flutter open.
And his foolish, naive hopes shrivel up and blacken, dying in his veins much like his excited pulse.
Thump. Thump.
Thump.
Th
u
m
p
Regulus stares at the canvas in front of him in disgust. When he woke up this morning, he had an odd feeling. A quickening behind his sternum, tickling, teasing. Rife with possibilities. Beckoning him to his studio with a promise that today, things would change. Today, he would finally achieve what he hadn’t in his ten or so years as a professional painter.
Today, after countless fruitless attempts, he would succeed in painting his soulmate.
As it turns out, the feeling lied, and the picture he’s produced is proof. Where Regulus expected to see a portrait, there’s nothing but shades of sap green and terre verte with the occasional brighter touch of phthalo. As usual, brown tendrils, warm ochre with the reddish tinge of sienna, radiate from the top part of the picture, infiltrating the verdant space.
Do they symbolize ruin? Imperfection? Balance? Regulus has no clue. They have an almost golden, translucent quality to them, so he wagers they’re not supposed to represent anything negative, but then the whole piece has him at a loss, so he can’t say, really.
The most confusing piece of the already confusing puzzle is located near the bottom right corner—a cluster of black dots resembling the Leo constellation. Is Regulus’ subconscious trying to tell him he’s his own soulmate? Or is it an oblique hint from the universe that he should be more diligent about signing his work?
Regulus plays a staring contest with the painting for a while, but no matter how long he dissects it with his gaze, it offers no answers to the questions plaguing him. When his patience runs out, he heaves out a sigh deep enough to lift his shoulders to his ears, cuts the canvas off the stretcher, and places it in his portfolio, which already holds countless pictures portraying the same theme. What’s one more? Disappointing as those works are, he never has the heart to throw them out. With a decisive thud, he shuts the portfolio and slides it into the corner behind the closet where he stores his art supplies. Out of sight and out of mind.
Then he turns his attention to cleaning his brushes. They’re too expensive for him to leave them lying around dirty and risk them becoming stiff from dried paint. Which can happen in a blink, so it’s best to act quickly. Regulus learned that the hard way.
When the brushes are clean and placed on a special rack to dry, Regulus tidies up the studio. He resets the easel and starts the process of stretching and priming a fresh canvas. He’s meticulous, ensuring everything is ready for his scheduled appointment with a new client this afternoon.
Once he’s done with the preparations, Regulus heads to the kitchen to feed Biscuit, his ginger cuddly monster of a cat. Unfortunately, since Biscuit sheds something awful, he isn’t allowed into the studio—much to his dismay.
While the cat is munching away, Regulus sips tea from his favorite mug, grey with forget-me-not flowers painted on it with a charmingly artless hand. He’s leaning against the counter of his tiny kitchen (tiny but more than enough for him, after all, he’s only cooking for one), letting his eyes wander around the flat and admire the way the rays of the sun render the petals of his orchids on the windowsill nearly transparent.
Inspired by the view, Regulus retrieves a sketchbook from the kitchen table, where he left it yesterday, and sketches a rough illustration of the plants bathed in light. The graphite does a piss-poor job of capturing the ethereal quality, but he doesn’t have enough time to take out his watercolors, which are perfect for capturing this type of scene thanks to their inherent luminosity. Hopefully, the sketch will serve as a sufficient reminder later, when he’s able to paint a proper study.
Then he does the dishes and thinks about the stack of canvases banished into a corner, hidden away in a portfolio he opens only to add one more to the pile. If only he could banish the image from his mind as easily.
It’s a joke the universe keeps playing on him.
The painter who can paint everyone’s soulmate.
Except for his own.
Whenever he tries, and he’s tried a lot over the years, he comes up empty. No, not empty. Empty would be less frustrating than the mix of green and ochre he always gets as a reward for his efforts.
Who knows? Perhaps his soulmate is a mudman.
A mudman with a tattoo of the Leo constellation.
Regulus shakes his head and spots his neighbor watering the geraniums growing in the pots hanging off the railing spanning the courtyard balcony. He loves those flowers. They’re a riot of color—luminous magenta and bright crimson, soft pink and deep purple, all interwoven together, interspersed with dots of green—and provide a lovely resting place for his eyes every time he does his dishes.
Sometimes, Regulus sits on his kitchen counter and dribbles pure, undiluted drops of pigment onto soaked watercolor paper, watching the paint develop into blooms with almost no guidance from his brushes. A nudge here, a stroke there. That’s all it takes for a flower to materialize. It’s like magic.
No. He can do magic.
But this, giving shape to things with his skill, bringing flowers and animals and people, whole stories to life with his brushes, this is better.
It’s nothing short of a miracle.
“Good morning, Minerva!” Regulus calls from an open window after he dries his hands and sets the dish towel aside.
“Hello, Regulus,” Minerva greets, coming over so he doesn’t have to yell. “How have you been?” Her severe face is tempered by a smile. For the first two years Regulus lived in the building, he believed she was only capable of frowning. But after he gifted her a painting of her flowers, her icy demeanor melted. Regulus, with his pictures, wormed his way under her armor, and they’ve been friends ever since.
“Good. I’ve been good.” And he means it. He’s carved out a life for himself here. A quiet life, perhaps, but he doesn’t need more. He’s content. The life fits him, or he fits the life, slotting into the quiet pauses between words and dust motes glittering in the slanted light in his studio. And yes, some people might consider it small. Insufficient. His brother, for example. Sirius had big plans and never saw the value in silence. In being an observer.
Regulus prefers to learn the stories people and objects have to tell him.
Sirius always wanted to tell a story of his own.
To his credit, he didn’t settle for empty words. He went on to make something of himself, traveling the world and saving lives as a Healer, thriving in chaos, always in the thick of action. Always commanding the scene. If Sirius were an artwork—and if a person deserves to be a masterpiece, it’s Sirius Black—he would be shining in the perfect division of the golden ratio, while Regulus would be sitting on the sidelines, a part of the background scenery serving only to highlight the main character.
“Glad to hear it,” Minerva nods, but she sounds like she doesn’t quite buy what he’s selling.
No matter. Regulus is telling the truth. And if he gets lonely sometimes, after witnessing so many people find their loved ones thanks to his work while he remains perpetually single, well. That’s just his lot in life. As the portfolio of botched paintings proves, he is destined to stay alone, and he made his peace with it long ago.
“So, if you don’t have dinner plans, stop by. I’ll rustle something up,” Minerva says off-handedly, as though these Saturday dinners haven’t become their tradition over the years.
“That sounds lovely,” Regulus nods. “I’ll see if I can make it with the client coming in today.”
They insist on repeating the ritual despite being aware that the words are just parts they play, a smokescreen covering the yearning for company harbored by two lonely souls who happen to live on the same floor.
“Another hopeful looking to uncover their soulmate’s identity?”
Regulus shrugs, putting on his best sheepish smile. “Nobody commissions me for my painting skills.” He’s had modest success selling his more commercial pieces, but the sad truth remains. Most of his customers hire him for his unique ability, not his artistic mastery. He thinks he does a solid job hiding the disappointment coloring the edges of the confession, but there’s no fooling Minerva with her shrewd, assessing gaze and sharp ears.
She tuts. “Don’t sell yourself short, Regulus. You have a gift. No, that’s not the right word. Gift is something unearned, when you worked relentlessly to harness and perfect your skill. And on top of years of practice, you have keen insight into the subjects you depict. You can trust me when I say your ability to capture their essence with a few brushstrokes is unparalleled, and if people can’t recognize that, I’d rather say that’s their loss.”
“Did you become a secret art critic behind my back, Minnie?” Regulus teases. Biscuit, finished with his kibble and curious about what’s going on, hops on the counter and butts Regulus’ chin affectionately before jumping on the windowsill to steal more cuddles from Minerva.
She runs a hand over his back absentmindedly but continues to observe Regulus from above the rim of her reading glasses. “Of course not. I’m much too busy for such nonsense.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “But I’ve got eyes, and I’ve seen enough of your paintings to know I’m correct in my assessment. In fact, I think your gift to capture the likeness of people’s soulmates is merely an extension of your capacity to cut through the external and reach straight into the heart of the matter—and the hearts of people.”
Regulus runs a discreet hand over his face to wipe away the dampness collecting under his eyes. Trust Minnie to take him apart and then put him back together with nothing more than a handful of well-chosen sentences.
“Ah, but what do I know about art? Like you said, I’m no critic. Merely an old woman with too much time on her hands.” She tickles Biscuit under his chin, waving away Regulus’ feeble protest about not being old. “Flatterer. Well, you’ve got work to do, so I’ll be off now. And do stop by. I want to hear all about your new client. I’m making shepherd’s pie. Your favorite.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Regulus promises, and the ache in his heart, worn out by too many afternoons spent providing closure for others while never finding his own, eases the tiniest fraction.
Minerva’s words continue to echo through his mind as he wanders around the flat, looking for chores to occupy him. He spends the rest of the morning in a state of jittery anticipation, unable to settle down. With every new client, there’s an element of uncertainty. What if this time, his gift fails? It could happen. It has happened. Over and over and over. The sad pile of green and brown canvases is proof aplenty.
There’s also the possibility of the client not being satisfied with the results, not because they don’t like the painting as such, but because they don’t like the person in the painting. This has also happened, and often enough to worry Regulus, leading to arguments, more or less heated, about substandard services and refunds, even though the contract Regulus sends to every client beforehand clearly states that he doesn’t offer reimbursements since he cannot be held accountable for the final product.
The name of today’s client doesn’t tell him much about what to expect. Jimmy Porter. Bland. Unassuming. Wonderfully common. It must be easy to blend into a crowd with a name like Jimmy Porter, something Regulus Arcturus Black has never experienced himself.
But why does it tug at a half-forgotten memory shoved deep into the back alleys of his brain he never revisits? Did Regulus cross paths with Jimmy Porter at some point? Would he remember him if he bumped into him on the street? He can see him in his mind’s eye, an ordinary man, not too tall, not too thin, with a face you forget when you’re still looking at him. Poor bloke.
But even the Jimmy Porters of the world deserve someone to love them.
Someone to remember them despite their aggressive ordinariness.
While Regulus, with his unique name and a strange gift, has a ginger cat, an elderly neighbor who cooks his favorite meal for him every Saturday, and an empty bed waiting for him at the end of each day.
All in all, it could be worse.
He’s not complaining.
Really.
He isn’t.
That would be ungrateful.
A bell interrupts his musings, and when he opens the door, he’s staring into the face of the ghost from his past. A face no one in their right mind could describe as ordinary. A face Regulus used to see in his dreams, a long time ago, before he discarded silly notions of finding love into a dusty corner along with a pile of failed paintings.
A face decidedly not belonging to the name ‘Jimmy Porter.’
“You. What are you doing here?” Regulus sputters out. His hand on the doorknob clenches so hard his knuckles turn white, and it’s with extreme effort he maintains his professional dignity and doesn’t slam the door shut before James Potter manages to get a word out.
“Um. Hi.” James tilts his head in that endearing way he did back at Hogwarts, the one that makes his hair flop onto his forehead, although it looks more casual now. Clearly, he’s learned to tame his mop of dark hair since his school days. He shoots Regulus a pleading look from underneath sooty lashes so thick it’s a crime against humanity. No, worse. It’s a crime against Regulus. No man deserves lashes this long and dark, shadowing a pair of eyes glittering with mischief.
Regulus’ fingers spasm again, but this time, it’s from the desire to paint those lashes, one by one, trying to reproduce the impossible black with perhaps a mixture of umbra and indigo before playing with those ever-changing shades of green.
Where has he seen a green like that before?
“Will you invite me in?” James hedges when Regulus continues gaping, mouth ajar, drowning on dry land, in the safety of his own door frame, no less, and incapable of uttering a simple greeting or a much more deserved reprimand. “I hear it’s customary when someone books an artist.” The spark of teasing jump-starts Regulus’ brain.
“Are you really here for a soulmate portrait?” he says, not moving to unblock the door. James Potter. Why the hell is James Potter here, intruding on the sanctuary he built as a refuge from his past, from all the bad decisions and burned bridges he left behind?
Why is he reminding Regulus of everything he can never have?
“Well, yeah? Isn’t that why people normally hire you? Look, I’m sorry for the deception; that was shitty of me. Believe me, I’m aware, but I figured you might say no to spite me because of our history without giving me a chance to make my case. Which I will, and once you hear me out, you’re free to send me packing. But I’d really prefer you invite me in to discuss things further since I don’t love the idea of broadcasting my personal matters to the entire building.”
“Fine. You get one shot at an explanation, and then I decide whether I want to accept your commission or kick you to the curb. Use it wisely.” Before Regulus can talk himself out of it, he steps aside.
James bustles inside, expelling a low whistle. “Wow. A nice place. Calm but vibrant. Cozy. It matches your energy.”
Regulus snorts. “A decade, Potter. We haven’t seen each other for a decade. You can’t have a clue what energy I have or what matches it.”
James waves a hand, dismissing his objection. “Nah. I have a sense for these things, and this space is very you.”
Without a word, Regulus guides him to the studio, making a quick stop in the kitchen to prepare them both a cup of tea. He’d prefer something stronger for dealing with James Freaking Potter, who’s trespassing on his private sanctuary, radiating warmth and confidence, and waking up all sorts of longings Regulus has considered dead and buried, but alas. He’s a professional, so he has to make do with black tea.
Mugs in hands, they settle at a tiny round table under the slanted ceiling with a skylight in the studio. With the flat’s modest size, Regulus couldn’t afford a separate office for consultations with clients, but since most of them enlist his services for painting and not sitting around chatting, this setup has served him well. Until now.
Today, Regulus regrets his decision because it assaults him with James Potter’s features from point-blank range. And the man is potent up close. The years have been kind to him. His jet-black hair is threaded with the faintest whisper of silver, and together with the trim beard he has grown, it lends him a distinguished air, betrayed by the twinkle of hazel eyes hidden behind half-rimmed glasses. A Henley in dark blue and a pair of tight grey chinos complete his look and do his figure a lot more favors than a single man deserves.
So yes, Regulus has to invest considerable effort into basic questions such as ‘what,’ ‘why,’ and ‘how.’ And even more so into making them resemble something approximately eloquent and not the stuttered-out barks of a mentally challenged moron, no matter how much he’s impersonating one at the moment.
“So. Care to tell me what brings you here?”
“Well, the portrait, as I believe I mentioned earlier,” James says, stroking his beard. The whiskers crinkle under his palm, and Regulus has to pry his mind away from entertaining the notion of how they might feel rubbing against his cheeks. Or the insides of his thighs.
“How did you find out about me? About what I do? I don’t advertise in the Prophet.”
“Sirius.”
“Figures he wouldn’t keep anything from you.”
A smile touches James’ lips. “Right. He wouldn’t stop raving about your ability after you painted that portrait of Remus for him.”
Regulus rolls his eyes. “So I’m being punished just because I couldn’t stomach my brother’s mooning after his friend and wanted to provide him with a little push. How fitting it came back to bite me in the ass.”
“No good deed goes unpunished,” James agrees cheerfully. “I’ve also seen your work at Lily’s—she guards the portrait of Pandora more fiercely than a dragon guards its hoard. And let’s not forget that I talk to people for a living.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with you covering the Quidditch Sport section. Don’t understand how that relates to me,” Regulus bites out.
James shamelessly grins. “It’s simple. You’re quite famous among the Wix.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere in this case.”
“Can’t blame me for trying.”
The man is unrepentant. Incorrigible. Regulus should throw him out on his ear this instant, but he can’t hear the voice of reason over his pulse using his eardrums as a trampoline.
“Fine. What I don’t understand is why. Why do you need the portrait done at all?”
“Because I’d like to know.” Until this second, James has exuded nothing but unshakeable confidence, but his voice trembles ever so slightly at the confession, providing Regulus with an opening.
He doesn’t hesitate and pounces to apply a conversation lever to the slip-up, not bothering to be gentle.
“Know what, James? Whether there is a person somewhere on this planet destined to love you? Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe.”
James cocks an eyebrow at him. “That someone might love me?”
“No. That you, of all people, would need the reassurance.”
“Oh.” James shifts in his chair, leaning back from Regulus. “Don’t we all, from time to time?”
“You promised to make your case. So far, I’ve found it lacking.” Regulus won’t be beguiled by the self-deprecating tilt of James’ mouth or the worried scrunch of his eyebrows. He won’t. He refuses. This is the man who drove a wedge between him and his brother. Who took Sirius away. Who laughed and flirted and charmed his way through life without care of the carnage he left in his wake. Without sparing Regulus, foolish, smitten Regulus, trailing after him with hearts in his eyes, a second glance.
“Alright, cards on the table. Lately, all of my friends have been—pairing up. Worse, they’ve been settling down with their partners, their soulmates, their significant others, call it what you want, but they’re crossing that magical threshold from ‘I’ to ‘we’ everywhere I look, while I still come home to an empty house. It didn’t used to bother me when we were all in the same boat, going on pub crawls together, trying to pull, but now,” James shrugs, his shoulders hiking up and straining the already tight fabric of his Henley to the limits and possibly beyond, if the muted ripping sound is any indication, “it leaves a sour taste, you know? Guess you could say I’m feeling lonely.”
“Don’t we all, from time to time?” Regulus echoes his earlier words at him, which James appreciates with a chuckle.
“Touché. But you asked why I might want reassurance. That’s the reason.”
Regulus locks his fingers around his mug, grateful for something solid to ground him, while also granting him the excuse to glance away from James. “My paintings don’t guarantee a happy ending.”
He can’t say how many times he’s had to dispel this particular misconception. More often than not, people come to him, hope shining in their eyes, expecting a simple canvas smeared with paint to solve all their relationship woes, and it’s up to Regulus to explain that his art doesn’t offer answers or guidance or certainty.
The only thing it offers is the image of a person the universe considers their perfect match. What the clients do with their knowledge is up to them.
Some people opt to do nothing, leaving Regulus’ studio without a backward glance. Most of them embrace it, gaining new confidence to act after looking their soulmates in the eye, albeit a painted one. And it doesn’t matter whether acting means summoning the courage to ask out the bloke they’ve been flirting with in the office kitchen for months, or not letting the woman who bumped into them on the tube escape without asking for her phone number. Regulus knows all this because they write back, relaying their meet-cutes and stories and yes, subsequent happy endings.
His chest always tightens when he reads those messages, and he can’t parse whether it’s from elation about his work having such an impact on people, bringing good into the world, or jealousy about his happily ever after hovering out of reach, lost in shifting greens and earthy browns.
“I’m aware of that,” James replies, his exuberance subdued by the weighty topic. “And I’m not expecting one.”
“What do you expect from this, then? Surely, you must have some idea?” Regulus presses, seized by a sudden curiosity.
James takes a sip of his tea, his throat working to swallow. His Adam’s apple is covered in dark stubble, but there are silver whiskers scattered throughout, glinting in the sunlight pouring from the skylights above them. Such an ordinary sight, yet it derails Regulus’ train of thought completely for a while.
“If I’m being honest—I’m not sure,” James says after he puts his mug back down, and the solid thud jolts Regulus back to the present. “Learning I’m not a lost cause would be nice.”
Regulus fails at suppressing a snort.
“What’s so funny?”
If Regulus were a braver man, he’d confess the truth. James Potter, wondering if he’s lovable, when younger Regulus spent months, years, pining after him despite loathing himself for it. James Potter, questioning whether someone special is waiting out there for him when so many people would die for the chance to worship him. James Potter, pondering if he’s worth something when he strikes a rainbow array of colors from the humdrum of dreary reality everywhere he goes.
Unfortunately, Regulus is not a brave man, so he shakes his head despite the ghost of his soliloquy crowding the cavern behind his teeth. “Nothing. An inside joke.”
“Alright,” James says, but a hint of disbelief haunts the corners of his mouth, curled in a wry smirk. “Will you do it, then? Will you paint my—my soulmate? A trace of raw longing filters into the inquiry, making Regulus’ decision for him.
Watching James Potter—Regulus’ big, unanswered question—getting the certainty denied to Regulus, will be a bitter pill to swallow, and if he were a stronger man, he’d refuse. But he’s not a strong man either.
“Yes.”
One word, and the entire aspect of James’ personality changes. His eyes light up. Lips curve into a smile. Spine straightens. He brightens. As though someone cranked up the saturation on his happiness scale.
“Okay, great. Amazing. The payment—”
Regulus cuts him off. “We can discuss the money once you see the result.” He allows himself a jot of humor. “I’m sure you’re good for it.”
“Yeah. I mean. Yes. So, um, how does this work? Do I need to stand somewhere? Sit? Pose? Do you want me to strip?”
For a fraction of a second, Regulus is tempted to say yes. James Potter is sitting across from him at the table, face beaming and open, asking him if he should take his clothes off, and Regulus is only human. Alas, he’s trying to be a decent version of one, so after a brief internal battle, he makes a dismissive gesture.
“No. That won’t be necessary.”
“Are you sure?” James winks at him. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” He flexes his biceps to illustrate. The poor Henley cries out in over-stretched fabric.
“I’ll leave your enthusiasm for dropping trou to a Mind Healer to examine.”
“Spoilsport,” James pouts, and it’s more adorable than it has any right to be. “Fine. Your loss. What do you need from me, then, since striping is off the table?”
“Nothing much, actually. Sit here, sip your tea, close your eyes—or don’t, if it suits you better. Just try to relax. This—this process, is a bit like Legilimency. I’ll touch your mind with mine—”
“Kinky,” James interrupts, sending Regulus into a sudden fit of blushing and coughing.
“Rest assured, I am a consummate professional. Nothing kinky will occur here.”
“That’s a shame.”
Regulus shuts his eyes and counts to ten.
“If you don’t start taking this seriously, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“I’m sorry.” James looks contrite enough to mollify Regulus. “Please continue.”
“As I said, I will connect with your mind and, guided by your subconscious, I will begin working on the painting in a sort of trance. When I finish, I’ll step out so you have a chance to study the rendering of your soulmate in private. You don’t have to worry about me discovering their identity—in the trance, I see nothing but darkness.”
It’s like swimming in the deepest lake.
“Oh. That’s interesting. When did you first realize you had this ability?”
Regulus crosses his arms over his chest. He’d prefer to set the process in motion already instead of explaining the nature of a gift he doesn’t fully understand himself. It’s as much a part of him as his grey eyes, canines that are slightly longer than usual, or his inability to fall asleep without spending half an hour reading. A quirk of his personal makeup, a feature of his innate Regulus-ness that doesn’t bear an explanation. It simply exists, and he’s long since learned not to question it.
“Soon after being admitted to Hogwarts. But we’re not here to discuss my gift, or rather, only as it pertains to your commission.”
“Another question, then.”
“Oh, goodie, there’s more. We’re losing daylight, Potter.” His fingers are starting to itch, and he sends a not-so-subtle glance over his shoulder to the easel standing in the middle of the studio like a mute reminder of their purpose for being here.
“Last one, I promise. Didn’t you paint Remus’ portrait without putting Sirius through all these hoops? I remember him mentioning one day you just burst into his office with a canvas rolled under your arm.”
“First off, I don’t burst. Anywhere. Please, bear that in mind for future reference. Second, the work I did for Sirius was very personal, not to mention an exception to every rule of my process. He’s the only person I know better than myself, despite the years of estrangement, which allowed me to create the artwork without the direct connection. With others, I do not have that luxury.”
James’ face clouds at the veiled suggestion of his status as a stranger to Regulus, but he takes it in stride, nodding his head. “Message received. Kicking back, relaxing, and letting you poke around my mind it is. Sounds easy.”
“Yes. Quite impossible to fail, although I have next to no faith in you.”
“Rude.” James drums his fingers against the table. “Can someone, though? Fail? I mean, is it possible for the result to be a blank canvas or a shapeless blob?”
“You said your previous question was the last one.”
“I counted wrong. My bad. In my defense, I’ve always been rubbish at maths.”
Regulus exhales through his nose. “Are you asking if I can fail at my job?”
“No. I’m wondering if the information gleaned from the connection can prove—insufficient. Or if a person simply doesn’t have a soulmate.”
Regulus’ mind meanders to the pile of canvases shoved out of sight. “In extremely rare cases.”
“So it can happen.”
Regulus rises to his feet, desperate to put this conversation behind him. In fact, he’d love to move past this entire visit, better classified as poking at wounds he considered nothing more than scars, only to discover they’ve been merely scabbed over. He wishes he could skip straight to the recovery process—preferably with a hot bath and a mug of mulled wine so strong it’s capable of defeating a Minotaur in a fight.
“Emphasis on extremely rare. Don’t worry about it right now, James. Just—get comfortable and try to unwind.”
“Right. Unwind. Don’t stress about the possibility of being unlovable and dying alone. On it.”
Regulus snorts, turns his back on James, and goes to the easel. “How very dramatic. Didn’t know you had it in you, Potter.”
“I’m full of surprises.” James, once again bouncing back to his happy-go-lucky persona, waggles his eyebrows at Regulus, forcing him to bite back a chuckle.
“Last but not least—don’t talk during the session. I need to focus.” Without waiting for James’ answer, Regulus walks up to the easel with the prepared canvas.
A zing of excitement shoots down his spine as he gathers his brushes and activates the paints—a limited palette of primary colors, which nevertheless allows him to capture most hues visible to the naked eye, and a select few of the earth tones he loves using for their grounding, warm quality. At this point, he’s always buzzing with the possibilities every new act of creation elicits, and this piece is no different, not even with his old flame staring at him from across the room with curious eyes, expecting answers he’s not sure he can provide.
Here, Regulus is the ultimate ruler, and the blank canvas is his playground. His personal universe, where he can conjure people and entire realities out of a formless white void.
“So we’re back to Potter?” James asks, heeding Regulus’ advice and reclining in the chair, stretching his long legs out.
“I like to keep you on your toes,” he says, granting himself permission for a light remark. It’s meant for him, as a distraction from the task ahead, but James appreciates it with a huff of laughter all the same.
“Okay, Black. Show me what you’ve got.”
Not dignifying the comment with a response, Regulus assumes a position behind the easel, spine straight, James in his direct line of sight.
He inhales deeply to steady himself.
Bores his eyes into James’.
And lets the waters close above him.