ENCHANTED ⇒ jegulus

TWENTY

The sunlight pours through the window, leaking into the room and reflecting off of a nearby mirror. James squints as he awakens. He is swallowed by his own confusion as he looks around. He is in his guest bedroom; well, more recently known as, Regulus' room.

James moves a little bit, trying not to awaken Regulus, who is still sleeping peacefully. James glances towards him, he can't help but smile. Regulus appears as tranquil and at ease as he had the first time James had ever seen him sleeping. He looks at peace, no longer conflicted or frustrated.

Regulus' inky hair is just below James' chin, one pale hand beneath his cheek as he sleeps while his other hand grips at the duvets, almost for fear that somebody would snatch them away from him. James' arm is still wrapped around Regulus and they seem to be entangled now with James' other hand beneath Regulus against the mattress, almost holding the younger man in place throughout the night; or, what was left of it when they both had finally fallen asleep.

James' palm seems to have found it's way to rest upon Regulus' bump during the night.

James untangles himself from Regulus and reaches for the younger man's sketchbook, yearning to revisit the sketch Regulus had done of him hours before. He sits up against the pillows, feeling Regulus beside him.

James flickers through the pages, searching for his own features. He once again passes by the images of Bellatrix, Andromeda and Narcissa as well as the many, many handsome portraits of Sirius.

James no longer carries that sinking feeling that Regulus is going to be angry or icy with him for skimming through the pages of his sketchbook. Regulus could awaken now and James is sure that he would continue to flick through the abundance of detailed drawings and sketches.

Eventually, James lands on his own portrait. As soon as he sees it, the corners of his lips bend upwards into a small smile. Regulus had captured him perfectly, from his dark eyebrows to his jawline and his faint freckles, curtsey of the sun.

Most endearingly, Regulus had captured his awe, his fascination, his amazement at the little kick's the baby girl inside of Regulus had been showing James.

Regulus had managed to grab the raw love upon James' face and put it on parchment; immortalizing that primitive emotion, that initial astonishment. He has forever characterized James' face as he felt those first tiny thuds.

James smiles warmly. He brushes his finger against the page, remaining careful as to not brush against the pencil; not wasnring to risk tarnishing or smuding Regulus' hard work, or his brilliance, his talent, his gift at obtaining such precious, beloved moments.

James wonders if the Black sisters had been experiencing their own core memory as Regulus had sketched them. He wonders what was rampaging through Sirius' head as Regulus had mapped out his features.

Every drawing tells a story, and Regulus authors them all.

Regulus stirs a little, rolling over as he squints at James. He makes a noise, an incoherent humming sound, a waking up kind of sound. James watches as he stretches his back slightly, then his arms, then he shuffles further into the welcoming, homely warmth of the duvets.

Eventually, Regulus yawns before, "Morning, Potter,"

"Morning," James replies. He adverts his gaze back towards the sketchbook he grips, hoping that he can memorize the drawing enough to ethereally etch it upon his brain, so he may never forget it, so he may never be rid of the neat pencil lines. It feels like a black and white photo.

The overwhelming love James has for this little girl radiates from the drawing. It shines bright.

"Is that my sketchbook?" Regulus murmurs sleepily. He yawns once more and it dawns further on James how late they had stayed up.