꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 126

꧁✧✧✧꧂

𝕽egulus had heard congratulations that many times, the word is losing its sense.

It wasn't the only senseless matter tonight, Regulus struggling to fathom the nerve the many have to consecutively approach him in the first place, like he's known to be a social butterfly delighted to share the gruesome details of his life story. If that wasn't enough, the too long-lived withholding of the desire most deep in his heart was unacceptable, beyond unacceptable, an unforgivable crucio to the chest, really.

Torture. Being, breathing in the same room yet distanced so frustratingly far that there's a limitation of solely looking at Romie Lupin when she's a vision of lavender loveliness, is torture. Sweet, sweet torture. His hands reach up, opening up his collar to hopefully cool down the escalating heat he wishes he could pin down to also being in the same room as a hundred odd sweat-prone teens crammed together and partying their heart's out. He couldn't.

He's hot because she's hot, unreasonably so. Spilling long and pin straight down her tanned back, practically exposed thanks to crocheted halter Hestia's happily twinning in her own peachy colour, is her hair, looking like spun sugar in the disco light. His eyes drop lower, estimating it won't be just his collar he'll be adjusting soon, when they land on her shorts, micro and tight and parading the willowy legs forever to be a curse dressed like a blessing in disguise.

The muggle music blurting out the speakers is loud, but his world is falling silent, fading away completely as she voluntarily learns the eccentric dance move Pandora's gaining a lot of unfavourable attention for, giving no fucks until Evan swoops in and carries her, against her will, to the drinks station Barty is re-stocking and organising. Something not so unfamiliar awakens inside of his chest, but there is no ugliness to this jealousy, no sharp claws tearing him up over the scene he is seeing.

He isn't jealous his friends are having a good time with his girlfriend, wishing to be in their place. He's jealous that he isn't part of the good time, jealous that none of the three shot glasses being planted down are for him. Four. There's an additional fourth that neither Barty nor Evan question, supposing the fun plan is to save it for later. Regulus might have presumed so too, if not for the specific finger curving over the rim of the glass, preventing any spillage of the good stuff. She's saving it, yes, but not for later. For someone. For him.

That just about does it, forbearance expired and sense of obligation flipped upside down. Or the right way up, if you asked him. Not sparing the next venturesome approach offering a congratulations on the victorious final win a single thought or glance, Regulus moves past, too possessed by adoration to feel an ounce of rudeness. He exhausts the limitation, looking and looking and looking throughout his timely approach, feeling as though his heart might leap out of his chest. Purple. She's the embodiment of purple and it's out of choice, not out of burden.

Despite closing in from behind, her head tilts to an angle, almost expecting the greeting they never thought to discard. It was never for the glare of publicity, to sell the part, it was for them, an intimacy they knew they could relax into. Because when his arms snake around the front of her shoulders and she leans into his touch, they're not only together but also have each other. There hasn't been a day gone by they haven't had each other since.