unspeakable | jegulus

you can't see me

chapter title: and your bird can sing by the beatles

Life in the House of Black was less terrifying than James anticipated it would be. All of the months and weeks of anticipatory terror leading to this day felt a bit ridiculous now. Sure, it was uncomfortable. It wasn't a cake walk. It was strange, sitting at the table with Walburga Black while she gossiped about the Malfoy family, about Narcissa's wedding ("Whenever will they produce an heir? She is taking her sweet time, that girl..."), and the countless, constant minor scandals that haunt the Sacred Twenty-Eight, with their endless rules and unavoidable violations. James was a scandal, sitting right in her dining room in his dress robes at dinner time, making polite conversation over breakfast in clothes he never thought he'd wear, posture stiff and straight. Regulus even tried to use a potion on his hair (which failed, like they always did—the Potter family curse). By lunchtime on the second day James felt like he was sinking into a groove already, some kind of routine, some kind of easy rapport with Walburga, if not Orion yet.

One thing that weighed on him was her attention.

Walburga was always pleasant, always the picture of pureblood politeness, but she was always there. Watching. Keen grey eyes, Regulus' eyes in a woman's face, always watching. Always.

James was in the sitting room, on a piano bench beside Regulus while he played the beginning to a song he didn't know, trying to coax laughter out of him, like he always did when it was just the two of them— when they were getting along.

He snuck a finger into his side, by his ribs, and Regulus stopped playing to glare. James blinked at him innocently.

"You're a menace," he said, and pressed his lips together, pressed his fingers back into the piano keys, light touch, a song pouring out of him. The perfect, pale oval of his face was so lovely in the dim gas-lamp light of this house. Was it made with that in mind? Was it constructed to compliment this family, this line of unbroken blood for centuries? Pale faced, black haired, pale eyed portraits crowded all the walls. Less lovely than Regulus. Fine-featured nonetheless. Like an orchard full of identical trees, full of identical apples, Regulus had fallen right into his hands with a breeze.

"Who, me?" James fixed him with his most innocent look and watched with satisfaction as Regulus turned red. "I'm just playing the piano, like you." He drummed his fingers over his side, his ribs, and Regulus tried and failed to glower. James smiled, and his fathomless glare cracked into a wide smile, the sweetest reward, a smile from the boy he loves, then a helpless bout of laughter when James persisted, drumming his fingers on both of his sides, humming a little tune to himself. His laughter was as sharp as the rest of him, with an uncomplicated sweetness. Bright, beautiful. "This is my favourite song," he told him, hands settling on either side of his body, holding him loosely. He was so slender it was a bit concerning. Regulus was willowy, with his height and his slender build, all of his limbs graceful and long. James touched the sparse, dark hair on the back of his arm.

"As if you know what I'm playing," Regulus dismissed him, and James touched his cheek, traced a fingertip over his Adam's apple.

"Your laugh, that's my favourite song."

His face instantly burned crimson. He shoved at his shoulder.

"I hate you." James laughed.

"Sure you do." He laughed again, warm, fighting the impulse to kiss him, and looked up—right into Walburga's eyes. His laughter died like he'd been hit, along with his smile. Regulus stiffened. "Hello, Mrs Black."

"Just Walburga, please." She smiled with a coolness James recognized from her sons. "Regulus, mon coeur, you stopped playing."

When she spoke to Regulus she didn't look away from James. There was something unreadable in her expression.