James had always assumed the band would end how it began, with Marlene. Not in a dramatic way, not in flames, but in something quieter—like the lights left on in an empty house, a slow fading into irrelevance. She was the backbone of the band. It had been the two of them from the start, before Pete, before Sirius, an idea, a dream, born in their final year of school, hammering nails into soundproofing, christening the shed at the bottom of the Potters’ garden with beer and half-formed chords. She’d named them, six years ago. The way all beginnings deserve names. The Marauders. So when she left, James thought it was over. Until Regulus. Regulus changed everything.
Sirius suggested his brother like it was obvious. Like it was nothing. James wasn’t so sure. He’d met Regulus once, barely, a few months earlier, right at the beginning of his friendship with Sirius. A gig they’d done about four months after Sirius joined the band. Regulus, home from Oxford for the summer, had watched the gig from the shadows, still and unreadable. James hadn’t even known he was a musician. He couldn’t picture Regulus on stage with his white shirt and tailored trousers. He’d looked like he belonged in a cathedral, not a basement club with sticky floors and blown amps, not on a stage between him and Sirius. But James trusted Sirius, and so he said yes.
And it was the best decision he’d ever made. Regulus—Regulus was something else entirely. Not just a bassist. Not just a pianist. Not just a lyricist. He was a riptide, a cold current underneath warm water, the kind of talent that makes your teeth hurt. The first song they wrote together became something legendary. Something that made people listen. Regulus wove words like spells, like storms; his hands—whether on keys or strings—were hypnotic, a surgeon’s precision, a painter’s flourish, a poet’s scrawl. He was all sharp edges hidden beneath a crisp exterior, as volatile as his brother, but where Sirius burned like fire, Regulus was made of snow and ice. Beautiful and untouchable.
Marlene had been the bones of the band, but Regulus—Regulus became the soul. And James began to think that it meant something, that Regulus might be what Lily hadn’t been able to be, that the late nights and soft smiles between them meant something, that they, he and Regulus, meant something. He learned otherwise on a night laced with gin and cocaine—in a moment that felt wild and wired, like stepping off the edge of something high, like falling and flying all at once. Regulus had kissed him back and it had been perfect, a whirlwind of electricity in James’s veins—but then Regulus had pushed him away, a smile, glacier-thin and just as sharp. An apology. A dismissal.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m seeing someone.”
Who? The thought would not leave James alone. Why wasn’t this person here with Regulus? And who were they? A faceless, nameless entity that haunted James’s thoughts because whoever they were, they weren’t there. They didn’t take up space in Regulus’s life the way Sirius’s new boyfriend Remus did, the way Pete’s Sarah did. No mentions in lyrics, no photos on his social media, no visible proof.
James pressed Sirius for answers, but all he got was a shrug. Sirius didn’t know—didn’t seem particularly bothered by it either.
“Reggie’s a private guy, James. Just the way he is.”
James didn’t let it put him off. Okay, so he couldn’t have Regulus like that—fine. But he could still be his friend, right? And maybe something would change. Maybe he could show him that they were right, that they made sense. And they did become friends. Regulus became someone to argue with over chord progressions and split a bottle of wine with after practice—but James was always reaching for more. Letting his eyes linger a little too long, standing a little too close, letting his fingers brush as he handed over a beer, a bag, a lighter. Regulus didn’t encourage him, but he didn’t stop him either, and James took it as a sign. A sign that he still had a chance, that he could make Regulus want him.
A year after Regulus joined the band, James had managed to forget—forget about Regulus’s person. He saw only what he wanted to see. And then he met Regulus’s friends Evan and Barty.
Evan was a friend from school, another Harrow boy—friends with both brothers, and, it seemed, the only part of their childhood that Sirius didn’t absolutely hate. Evan was a year younger than Sirius and a year older than Regulus, and they treated him like an honorary third brother. He had the same polished old-money veneer that clung to Regulus, an inexplicable sense of wealth and privilege. The difference was that, unlike Regulus, who did his best to ignore his upbringing, his family, and his money, or Sirius, who had worked tirelessly to disguise it beneath leather trousers and eyeliner, Evan leaned into it. He dressed like he’d stepped right out of a Ralph Lauren centrefold, all blond hair and blue eyes on top of a tan straight off the Swiss Alps. As far as James could tell, he didn’t have any of Regulus’s creativity, or any of Sirius’s rebellion, but he was nice enough.
But Barty? Barty didn’t make any sense at all to James.
Barty stood out against Regulus and Evan like barbed wire against fine silk. Sharp edges and restless movement, tall and lean with the kind of presence that made rooms feel too small. A silver bar threaded through one arched eyebrow, dark spiky hair streaked with neon green. Tattoos that disappeared beneath the sleeves and neck of a threadbare band tee. He was everything Sirius pretended to be; he was chaos, lightning and wind in ripped jeans, dark eyes that flashed with laughter, a switchblade smile and features caught somewhere between handsome and beautiful, like some underworldly creature. A disciple of Hades or Dionysus brought to flesh in the modern world.
When he spoke, the glint of a tongue stud flashed between his teeth, and his accent—thick and lilting, though James didn’t know Scottish accents well enough to place it—made every word feel like a punchline or a provocation, sometimes both. He looked like a rockstar before the fame, like the kind of trouble you wanted to get into just to see how deep it went.
James disliked him instantly. He didn’t have any good reason to—the guy had charm and charisma in buckets—but that didn’t change the fact that he did. And if he was being honest with himself, it had very little to do with Barty himself and everything to do with the way Barty made Regulus laugh, properly laugh, with something bright and unguarded that James had never managed to pull from him. In the way Regulus handed over his bank card without thinking whenever Barty went to the bar, the way they spoke in a language James didn’t understand, jokes he didn’t get, references he hadn’t been there for, the way they finished each other’s sentences.
James had never felt so insecure in his life—he’d never had reason to. He was good-looking, tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of smile that made people want to give him whatever he asked for. And he’d always taken that for granted, never been jealous, never felt like he wasn’t enough. But Barty made him feel small. He disrupted everything; his presence made James feel like an outsider amongst his own friends. The way Sirius so obviously thought he was cool, the way Pete laughed at his jokes, and Remus smiled at him, as if they had something in common that James didn’t understand. James hated it, hated the way Barty flicked the cigarette from Regulus’s lips and stole a drag, slung an arm around him without hesitation like he’d done it a hundred times before, like it was effortless. James was relieved when they left, relieved that Barty didn’t come to London again, relieved that it was just Evan who came the next time.
The winter months slunk by like a stray cat. Marlene came back from the States for a visit, and James poured his heart out to her in a Camden pub, his hopes, his fears, his dreams, all revolving around Regulus.
“You’re all heart, Jamie,” she’d said, patting his arm. “One day you’ll find someone to love you the way you deserve. Someone who’s got as much heart as you do. I promise.”
A song, born in the haze after New Year, written in the studio with Regulus in only a matter of days, clawed its way up the charts. James heard himself on the radio for the first time, something he’d dreamed of since he’d picked up his first guitar. Then summer and suddenly, a tour—Brighton first, bright and colourful, its painted streets and bars packed. It was dazzling, even if it was a stretch to find anything that wasn’t made of tofu or jackfruit to eat. Then Birmingham, where Remus joined them—guiding them through the city’s sprawling mass, and the best Sunday roast James had ever had. Hungover and yet still high from the night before, they’d talked Remus into joining the tour, making jokes about roadies and groupies over pints of Stella and around mouthfuls of Yorkshire pudding drowned in gravy.
Across the sea—Dublin and Belfast, crowds roaring back their lyrics. Then Cardiff, a last-minute addition, where summer rain slicked the streets and sound bounced off old stone buildings. Home to London, and then north. Leeds, a riot of sweat and noise, Liverpool with its salty air and streets where James fancied he could feel the ghosts of the greats who’d walked there before him. Manchester next, a blur of red brick, canals and golden light. A night that carried on for two days—from one hole in the wall, back to a producer’s house, and then breakfast in a bar that served pizza until six in the morning. After that, it was Newcastle. Newcastle, where the crowds were wilder than expected; they lived fast and loud—expensive backstage whisky chased by cheap beer in sticky clubs, somehow both tasting equally as glorious in the afterburn of the stage lights. Audiences that sang their own songs back to them and nights that blurred into dawn.
James should have been on top of the world—and he was for most of it, but there were moments when he couldn’t help but feel as if something was missing. Regulus was a ghost. He was there, but not really. He played, he smoked, he was there in the dressing rooms and bars and clubs, but his presence was paper-thin, worn at the edges. James tried to reach him, to pull him back to solid ground. Bought him drinks, pulled him into bathrooms and shook out lines, leaned in close in the early hours of the morning. But each time Regulus slipped through his fingers, all cool front and half-truths. His smile never quite reached his eyes. And then there were the phone calls. James heard them through the hotel walls, sharp-edged and harsh. He never caught the words, just the shape of them, the rise and fall of an argument, over and over again.
By the time they hit Glasgow, exhaustion was something bone-deep, a weight he carried without knowing how to set down. The city sprawled before him, its endless grey grid a sharp contrast against the washed-out streetlights and the endless twilight of Scottish summer with its nights that never quite settled into darkness. The last stop before the silence kicked in. One more show, one more night to burn before the embers cooled.
Evan and Barty were waiting for them in the hotel lobby when they arrived. James had met Evan a few times now—Evan had joined in on enough London pub nights for James to get a sense of him. He didn’t really understand the appeal, to be honest, didn’t get why both brothers seemed to hold him in such high esteem. There was nothing wrong with the guy, but he was nothing special either. And yet it was clear that Regulus loved him, looked up to him, treated him like he was some figure to be admired. A symptom of growing up together—the way younger siblings often looked up to their older siblings’ mates. That, at least, was explainable. But it didn’t explain why Sirius liked Evan so much. As far as James could tell, the pair didn’t have anything in common other than both being die-hard Arsenal fans, and yet Sirius treated Evan like he was the epitome of comedy in human form. Which confused James because Evan’s only defining personality traits, as far as he could tell, were sarcasm, a love of downers and a propensity to swear a lot.
James hadn’t seen Barty since the first and only time they’d met, that one night out, over a year ago now. He looked different, not so much older as more mature. His hair was a solid, uniform, inky black, the eyebrow piercing gone, a thin white scar sitting in its place. The band tee was also gone; he looked almost respectable in a black button-down silk shirt, sleeves rolled up past inked forearms and the neck unbuttoned just past decent. The Doc Martens were still there—but brogues instead of boots. He was quieter than James remembered. The wild energy was still there, glinting behind his dark eyes, but it seemed subdued, dialled down to something slower, more deliberate. There was space between him and Regulus now, not exactly cold, but it was clear something had passed between them, something fractured and mended in a way that still showed the seams. And yet—Regulus, for his part, seemed more alive than James had seen him in weeks.
For the first time since the tour began, he was really there.
No slipping away to answer the phone, no drinking until the alcohol and whatever else turned his grey eyes glassy and sad. He laughed—actually laughed—something real and sharp-edged and unfiltered. Not quite happy, but close enough that James felt the difference like a tangible thing. It made something twist inside him. James watched them, watched Evan smirk at Sirius over his drink, watched Barty lean back in his seat, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, and Regulus, between them, the most human he’d looked in months.
The next night, under the stage lights, Regulus pulled James’s gaze like a tide, something inevitable, something he couldn’t fight even if he wanted to. It struck James then—how dulled Regulus had become, how he’d faded into the background without James noticing, not properly, not until now, until this moment, when he was something sharp and brilliant again.
It was in everything, in the way his fingers moved with effortless precision, the bassline thrumming beneath the melody, grounding it, shaping it, making it something more. James felt it like a punch to the ribs—this was the Regulus that could make you fall in love with a single look, the Regulus who made audiences hold their breath, the Regulus James had been missing for weeks. The Regulus that hadn’t been there since the tour started.
The crowd was electric, the room thick with sound and heat, and Regulus seemed to belong to it completely, head tilted back, eyes closed, beautiful. James let himself watch, let himself get lost in it, in the sight of Regulus whole again, even if it made his heart ache. Across the stage, Sirius shot James a look, all raised brows and questions. After the set, they spilled into the streets, still high on the adrenaline of the show. They left the following day, back to London—well, James, Pete, Sirius, and Remus left. Regulus went back to Edinburgh with Evan and Barty, hands shoved in his pockets as he casually announced he was staying in Scotland for a couple of weeks, completely unaware that his words made James’s heart sink.
Back at home, London groaned under the weight of the summer heat, the air thick and unmoving, a constant sheen of sweat clinging to skin, the Underground unbearable and the normal pace of life turned sluggish and sticky. The excitement of the tour still hummed in James’s veins, but without the pulse of movement, without the stage, it felt almost stagnant, like an echo of something already passing. Sirius and Remus folded into each other like pages of the same book. Remus moved into the flat James shared with Sirius, their world carved out in touches and glances that spoke louder than words. And James found himself watching them with longing. Watching with something hard and uncomfortable lodged in his throat, his heart raw and restless. He wanted what they had—something that existed without hesitation, without doubt. He wanted to be loved.
Watching them was like pressing on a bruise, a slow, deliberate kind of pain he couldn’t help but lean into. Sometimes it was just too much and James had to escape the flat. On those nights he chased a fantasy through clubs, bars, and afters. Pete was a willing companion, increasingly restless as fights with Sarah stretched into days, his phone buzzing with unread messages he pointedly ignored. He threw himself into nights out with James, the two of them drinking too much, staying out too late, chasing something neither of them could name, or find.
James tracked time in quiet, unthinking moments—two weeks slipping into four, a text to say Regulus was staying up in Edinburgh for a while longer, four weeks turned to five, and then six, the weight of his absence settling into two months. James wondered what Regulus was doing in Edinburgh, and more often, how he was doing. Was he happier? Was he laughing like he had in Glasgow? And then, sometimes after James had too much to drink, when he was stumbling home in the muggy dawn, he wondered about all those phone calls in hotel rooms, about the voice on the other end of the phone, the one that had pulled Regulus away night after night.
He wondered what that voice had that he didn’t.
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