Houses of the Holy

Curiosity Killed The Cat

Tw: none for once! Just James and his carried over mental state :)

I don't have the words to make this right

A way to fix it all tonight - Is What It Is, Chance Peña

James

James lets out a sigh, sinking into his seat with a heaviness that feels like it might pull him through the floor. Regulus is late for their tutoring session, which is strange. Regulus is never late—punctuality is in his bones, no doubt hammered into him by his parents, who treat time like another weapon in their endless arsenal. For them, tardiness is a weakness. And so Regulus is never late... except today.

James lifts his quill, twirling it absentmindedly between his fingers, feeling the faint prickle of numbness at the very tips. Grief does that, he thinks—blunts sensations until even touch feels distant, like pressing through fog. It's a strange thing, a quiet sort of greed, creeping just beneath the skin, lurking in his chest like smoke. It hides itself in the periphery of his mind, a shape at the corner of his vision, just close enough to know it's there but never in full view. It doesn't confront; it clings, a constant shadow.

He inhales, and it fills him, sharp and bitter, like the taste of a cigarette between his teeth. It's the kind of ache that becomes familiar, almost addictive in its sourness. Each breath feels like it scrapes his lungs, burning and smouldering, until all he can taste is the lingering residue of loss.

The door slams against the frame, snapping James out of his thoughts. He turns, startled, to see Regulus standing there, looking... well, a bit of a mess. His hair's slightly mussed, his robes not as neat as usual, like he's rushed over without bothering to fix himself up.

Regulus's whole stance is rigid, his movements sharp and a bit angry. But his face? Calm as ever, with that familiar half-sneer pulling at his mouth. It's the kind of expression that says he's completely unbothered, though the rest of him seems wound tight. For a second, James thinks he sees something flicker in Regulus's eyes—maybe frustration, maybe something else. But it's gone before he can figure it out, leaving only that cold, steady stare.

"Potter." He says, voice full of cutting glass shards. 

James hums in acknowledgement, "Regulus."

His voice comes out softer than he intends, the syllables lingering on his tongue. Regulus doesn't acknowledge it, doesn't even spare him a glance as he strides past, but there's something in his movement that draws James's attention—the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl around a piece of chalk with a barely concealed edge. It's as if Regulus is a wound-up coil, ready to snap, yet holding himself with an unsettlingly precise calm.

James watches him, letting his gaze drift back over Regulus's form, once again noting the slight disorder in his appearance—the tousled hair, the wrinkle in his robes. It's strange, seeing Regulus anything less than perfectly composed, like catching a glimpse of something forbidden, a crack in the mask he so carefully maintains. It feels... vulnerable, in a way that stirs something uncomfortable—and undeniably curious—inside James.

For a moment, he's not even aware that he's staring, watching as Regulus marks up the board with his usual efficiency, each line and number executed with cold precision. But his mind is elsewhere, caught on the image of Regulus standing in the doorway, disheveled and slightly out of breath. It's almost—almost—as if James-

"Are you going to actually listen, or just sit there gawking, Potter?" Regulus's voice cuts through James's thoughts, snapping him back to the present. There's a sharpness to it, but beneath the bite, James swears he hears something else—a faint tremor, maybe, like Regulus is not entirely steady.