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November in London was notorious for its chilly weather and gloomy skies—though James had severely underestimated the reality of its brutality. The lanky individual was freezing underneath heavy layers of clothing. He brought his shivering hands to his face, blowing hot air onto his fingertips in a desperate attempt to keep warm.
James had come to the dreaded place to visit Sirius and Remus, hoping to check in with the two marauders after a long summer of postponed plans. However, after finding them tangled up on their couch, praying to bleach his own eyes, and Sirius telling him to sod off, he decided the next best thing to do was to prepare for the reunion party. It had been a couple of years since he last saw his former school friends, and James was beyond thrilled to catch up. Hearing that James did not have a tailored attire suitable for the occasion, Sirius recommended him to visit a local tailor shop when he came to London. Quite enthusiastically at that, mentioning his younger brother, Regulus, worked there. James did not know much about his younger brother, except for the fact that he was a year younger than the marauders. Sirius had mentioned him every now and then, only a little more often than the rest of his family, though for reasons the lifelong friends knew very well of.
The frostbit man arrived in front of the tailor shop, feeling numbed from head to toe as the cold seeped through to his skin. Though the exterior was dull and rustic from old age—creating unity amongst the street’s buildings—it radiated warmth through its see-through windows. They showcased a display of stylish mannequins that wore the most recent collection of seasonal formal robes.
The hanging sign contained the shop’s inscription, reading: Cerf de beauté. Something in French, perhaps, that James did not recognize. Though he did not dwell on it.
James pushed the front door open and was welcomed by the tune of the shop bell. In an instant, he was enveloped by warmth and a sweet scent of black currant, tinted with notes of eucalyptus and inviting mahogany. Somewhere hidden beneath all of it, ink and roses were present as well. James’ eyes felt heavy; the combined feeling of sudden warmth and comforting scents was all but natural to him, swathed by an unforeseen drowsiness.
“Welcome, I’ll be right there,” a faraway male voice called out from a room tucked away in the corner of the shop.
Blimey.
James snapped out of the trance, muttering curses under his breath. Get a hold of yourself, James Fleamont Potter. He was here for clothing, not to indulge himself with relaxation, though it was a compelling thought.
Instead, the man focused on his surroundings, taking in the architecture and layout. The old tailoring house was more presentable in the inside than what was given of its exterior. A large chandelier hung low from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the symmetrical interior. Walls of shelves were filled to the brim with fabrics, and prism-shaped centerpieces provided further showcasing of clothing. Though the room did not lack a sense of clutter. Plants decorated the empty spaces without material, pins and thread scattered across multiple countertops, and fabric lay strewn alongside them.
James placed a hand on one of the silky fabrics and felt along the edges, careful not to cause any damage to the precious material.
“Anyone ever taught you not to touch things without permission?”
James pulled back his hand so quickly, the fabric suddenly felt as though it had electrocuted him, pulse racing through his veins. To say he was frightened was an understatement.
Who—?
“…Wow…”
Dark gray eyes, a pale complexion, black hair, prominent features—it was obvious the man was Regulus Black. Though it was his demeanor that instantaneously captivated James.
One word: beautiful.
Maybe it was the way he slightly tilted his head, hair framing his face perfectly, or the dignified attire that screamed to be tousled with—or maybe it was his dark eyes that seemed to pierce through to his soul. One look was enough. Enough to know that the man in front of him was indefinitely fated to be James’ punishment for his cruel desires.
The lilted, teasing voice—tinted with a slight French accent—matched Regulus’ amused expression; his eyebrow slightly raised, lips curled into a soft smirk.
“Fabric’s beautiful, right? Just shipped in this morning, was planning on using it later for a gown.” The man’s thin, gloved fingertips traced the spot where James’ hands had left the silk.
Regulus glanced up at James, meeting his eyes. “So, you’re here for some tailoring? You must be James, Sirius told me a friend was visiting today.”
James felt his heart lurch when he heard his name spoken from Regulus’ mouth, breath hitching, trying to calm his mind.
“Y-yeah, reunion party—need a set, of, dress robes…”
James cringed internally. His usual cool and laid back manner was obliterated the moment he saw the man in front of him, heat rushing to the back of his neck, making him feel feverishly warm.
Regulus smiled, tired eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. “Not much of a talker, are you?”
“Here, follow me to the back, we’ll get you measured up. ‘On the house’, seeing as you’re my brother’s friend.” He patted James’ tensed shoulder and started leading him to the back.
His expression softened a bit, almost in a bittersweet way. “Been a while since I’ve seen him anyway, hope he’s doing well.”
As they walked, the aged wooden floorboards creaked underneath their feet. James didn’t know what to say, so he sealed his mouth shut while also trying to settle his nerves and the heat that had accumulated in his face. He concentrated on following behind Regulus and entered the tailoring room, taking off his cloak and heavy layers of clothing, until he was only in a thin white dress shirt and plain mahogany trousers. James stepped up on the center block and awkwardly stood still while waiting for Regulus, the tailor busy searching through cabinets.
James couldn’t help but stare at the man, admiring the view of his cascading hair, long, gloved hands rifling through drawers, and the way he unknowingly tapped his dress shoes lightly to the rhythm of the soft jazz that drifted throughout the shop.
He was in love—and he knew it.
James was no believer in ‘love at first sight’. How could one love someone without loving their soul prior? How does one know they truly love, and not just desire? Really, James had thought, there are more ways of seeing than just sight.
Yet, it seemed that all those ‘ineradicable’ philosophical ideals James once had all came crashing down when he saw Regulus for the first time. It was as if his mind, body, and soul had been completely thrown into titillating limbo. And maybe, just maybe, he’d never want to escape.
Though, of course, he could never say that out loud.
James stiffened as Regulus approached him, left hand carrying a long measuring tape, the other holding a paper and pencil. Regulus seemed to notice his discomfort, quick to reassure him.
“No worries, just stay still,” he murmured. “Here, raise your arms.”
Much to James’ dismay, he did not, in fact, calm down. All he could focus on was the curve of the syllables that were spoken from Regulus’ mouth, bewitched by his French accent. The low tone of his voice stirred something in his stomach, and he couldn’t help but squirm a little when Regulus grazed his arms slightly to measure. The closer Regulus got, the more intense the scent of black currant became. It was clear candles weren’t the only thing making the shop smell incredible.
It wasn’t until they were face-to-face, James could see the crook of Regulus’ neck, the curvature of his collarbone revealed from underneath the fold of his white dress shirt. His muscles tensed as Regulus measured the span of his shoulders, dragging the tape across slowly, careful to be accurate. Before James could dig himself a deeper hole of illicit sensuality, he caught a glimpse of something creeping from underneath Regulus’ gloved hands.
Tiny indents and streaks of white lines decorated the circumference of his wrists, almost reaching to his forearms. Although they were faint and barely visible unless one looked closely, anyone could see that they were scars, cuts that spoke quietly of a past of self-inflicted wounds.
Regulus seemed to notice James’ gaze, a look of rue filling the tailor’s eyes.
“Those were…a long time ago,” he murmured, lowering his eyes slightly, though his hands kept working.
James bit the inside of his cheek, furrowing his eyebrows slightly—enough so that the man in front of him wouldn’t notice. James seemed to gather that it was a sensitive matter for Regulus, so he attempted to make way with a new approach.
“So…why’d you name your shop, um, was it…” James furrowed his eyebrows. “Cerf de Beauté?”
Regulus’ hands came to an abrupt stop, and James heard the man’s breath hitch. All of a sudden, it felt as though there was a cessation of time; only the quiet buzzing of lights hummed in the silence.
It only took a few seconds for James to be filled to the brim with discomfiture—
He’d fucked up.
Again.
As much as James was adamant on giving in to the desire to ram his head into the nearby table and never wake up again—he inevitably decided that probably wasn’t the best course of action. Well, seeing as in doing so, it would probably cause Regulus a larger headache than James had already induced upon him, though the situation was without intent.
“My apologies…I didn’t realize—I,” James winced, voice wavering in an excruciatingly uncertain manner. “I shouldn't have asked; that was incredibly daft of me.”
He was quick to extenuate—howbeit, he knew nothing could make the situation any better. Lowering his eyes, he could feel Regulus’ unmoving, phlegmatic gaze upon him. The guilt pullulated every minute second that elongated the already dreadingly stoic atmosphere.
James flinched, the sudden crudeness of corroded fingertips met with his cheek. Though they were gentle, radiating with warmth as if they were touching porcelain; caressing his jaw and tilting his face slightly upward, carefully.
God.
God.
…God.
‘He’ breathed in the universe that came to existence before his very own eyes.
And so, the deity speaks.
“Stag of beauty; my friend
Regulus squinted, covering his eyes with a book from the sun—one Barty had let him borrow to study as end-of-term exams were on the horizon. Although just weeks ago, the snow was still resistant to the coming of spring, the sun was unforgiving in the light of blooming nature.
Now, the short-felt spring was on the verge of summer—and that meant cramming till late at night once all the candles burnt out. He knew seventh year was going to be just as sadistic as sixth year had been in just a couple of grueling months.
“Putain de merte…!” Regulus groaned exasperatingly, trying to evade the sun by quickly sprinting from one patch of shade to another. Students passing by laughed at the sight, but held their tongues in an instant when meeting with Regulus’ deathly glare.
He was on his way back to the Slytherin Dormitory, heart beating from his ribcage. If there was anything better than the desire for a frozen winter once more, it would be spending his afternoons holed up in his room whilst the others were gone during the day, composing and writing music for the very person he could only look toward from afar:
James Potter.
What started as a fleeting crush that took the lead of his famished impulses every now and then, turned into an obsession that even he himself could not deny. Given, one may even say that James was his salvation; an untouchable being, prayed for by all that Regulus could proffer.
And so, Regulus construed this compulsion through the aid of curved inked notes on paper and the virtuoso of his violin’s capabilities that were even beyond his reproach.
Regulus burst through the door—
He froze.
It took only one look at the state of the room to drain all the blood from his soul.
Banners, posters, bedsheets, belongings—strewn across the floor and ripped to shreds; an indistinguishable sight. The entirety of the room had been defaced, and Regulus could not ignore the rising feeling of discernment alongside a familiar bile stuck in his throat.
He let his eyes wander until they reached his desk—the only thing seemingly unharmed in the wreckage.
And lying atop, contained the source of Regulus’ darkest fear.
His breath hitched.
“She found it.”
Hands trembling, Regulus approached the desk, looking down toward what remained of his life; his love; his soul.
The violin in his hands, one that once produced the most beautiful sounds, that carried Regulus through his life, lay in splinters; unrecognizable to its former beauty. The love letters he wrote every midnight when the stars responded to his eternal covets, were desecrated to burnt ashes in a ridiculing pile. The sheets of music that he spent months contemplating over were soaked in ink and an irreversible void. Atop the first page, haunted a familiar name that Regulus had given so graciously:
Cerf de Beauté.
Yet, amongst everything, lay an envelope and a dagger. The words in perfect cursive, inscribed against the crisp white, addressed the letter to ‘Regulus Black’.
Of course…
Regulus laughed bitterly,
…it had to be you.
Dearest Regulus,
Bella has kindly allowed me to borrow her dagger. You know what to do.
For a brief moment, he hesitated.
When had he ever hesitated?
His fingertips pressed against the blade’s edge. Dark blood seeped from the cuts, dripping onto the letter’s paper surface, bleeding into the words that he knew he could run from.
“I’m sorry, James.”