One blissful summer in August, James Potter is looking for something to yearn for and bedsheets to be tangled in. Regulus Black is willing to answer. He's (secretly) thrilled James has moved on from his long-time muse and is finally looking at him a...
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Regulus' POV; "I can see us lost in the memory, August slipped away into a moment in time 'cause it was never mine"
🌷 - 「 dedicated to Starberry」
Chapter 1
The Sun hit James' dimple at the perfect angle when he smiled. He embodied the Sun, with his tawny complexion and bright, ebullient demeanor. Every day he went about, glasses lopsided on his infuriatingly flawless face, spreading positivity like the first raindrops after a drought. He'd certainly brought light to Regulus' life where he'd previously thought was an empty oblivion.
James reached over to entwine their fingers and Regulus almost melted from the combination of two suns. Done for. A Gryffindor, really? He'd been charmed by James the moment he pulled up in his ridiculously expensive car and drove him away into paradise.
He'd spent most of his life dubious of love and hopeless romanticism. When they lay side by side, being baked by gleaming rays of shine, Regulus forgot all of his doubts. Sand tickled their bare feet on the beach mat as they breathed in the salty air; an earbuds cord was tangled between them in James' right ear and Regulus' left, bodies pressed against each other. James' fingers fidgeted in the grasp of Regulus' hand and he wasn't sure why, but he didn't mind.
Their outfits contrasted each other; James' shirt and untied red Converse hightops (gifted to him by Andromeda one Christmas, as he was practically part of the family) had been discarded on the sand, while Regulus' sage green flannel sleeves stretched over his hands. He loathed his skinny arms and body, so he didn't show them. He wore clothes that hung over his gaunt frame. His nails were bitten down to the quicks.
James' back, tanned to a light chestnut color, lay beneath the Sun. Regulus wished he could grab one of his delicate quill pens and an ink pot and write his name on it in swooping, sloping cursive letters. Or maybe a poem. He was a writer and a depressed poet who had made James his muse. Everybody wanted to be tragically beautiful, but how many people had gone through enough pain to claim that title? Regulus knew he had.
He had a habit of waking in the dead of night to scribble down an incoherent poem or cry for help that went unanswered after a particularly terrible nightmare. Gasping for breath, reliving the painful sensation of the hexes Walburga threw his way.
Plus that look on Sirius' face before he fled, leaving his little brother behind forever. He couldn't deny how wretched and dreary 12 Grimmauld Place was, but at least then he'd had Sirius to comfort him when he woke up sniffling. Now he had nobody. Or...did James count? Sirius' best friend? It felt like treason somehow.
James touched his hand and the Regulus Black forgot his train of thought.
