Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“- after a very public scandal the Marauders are left scrambling. Firing their drummer mid tour AND mid performance is certainly a bold move. One that does not seem that well thought through as without James Potter or better known as Prong the band seems to be falling apart.
many alleged they have seen or vitnessed arguments between the once close knit bandmates.
We shall see how the band fairs at their next tour rumoured to start in San Francisco. Will they be able to find a drummer of Potters excellence? Will they manage to keep the band above water? It sure looks like Sirius Black might be regretting his hasty decision, which has also impacted the fan base. As fans demand to know the reason the two closest people split so violently many theories surface. Most of them ridiculous of course, but some do hold some water: one speculates that this could be a matter of heart. As we all remember Sirius does have a habit of sleeping with his brothers love interests. Did Potter finally snap leading to this explosive tear?
Others talk about homophobia as the new couple Sirius and Remus, also called WolfStar by the fans, has officially declared they are dating. A few scattered fans dismiss those theories as James has been very active in the LGBTQ+ communities, donating a fair amount to charities and even raising his own called MYFB ( the official interpretation of those letters sill remains unknown although there was some whispers it stands for Mind Your F*king Business).
Since there has been no official statement from either the Marauders or their PR team we still remain unsure of the real reason behind the split.
James Potter has disappeared from all socials, even deleting all his accounts and has not been seen for over a year. The Marauders seek to fill the space previously occupied by the man also called “a ray of sunshine”. Their socials however do not mention anything about a new addition to the band or a new tour. They have put out many new videos of behind the scenes and interviews but fans feel deeply the absence of James.
do not worry my dear readers as i am on the case to find out what truly happened on on that fateful day.
And this author loves a good mystery
as always all references are linked under the post!
yours sincerely
Rita.

Chapter Text

I have hit a small issue... i didn't realise how hard it would be to add photos on ao3.
I know it's super annoying to have to click on all the links. If you have it in you i think it's worth it to understand the story better since it really isn't a typical Jegulus story.

James Nathaniel Potter

James has been in the Marauders band since he turned 16. They practiced in his garage and played in small bars and pubs before acheaving fame by accident. He loved the band with his whole hart and put into it everything he had for two years. As the more extroverted one he would chat up local bars asking them to let his band play, he used his Dads comnpany to play at events and galas to boost their popularity. He was always the life of the group.

After "The Incident" he disapeard for two years and came back a changed man. His friendship with Barty and his Mum Effy were the two rocks in his life as he batteled with the deamons of his past. He was diagnosed with three ilnesses that will not be named until the reveal later in the story.

James has a few tattoos and piercings made by Barty. He has abandoned his usual oversized sweaters and jeans with colerful prints for tech wear.

style:

https://pin.it/7t4HD0lGD

hair:

https://www.instagram.com/p/C3ypuk5qm6l/?img_index=1&igsh=MTh0bzVyOWNoM2UyaQ==

NF:

https://pin.it/1TzMufHyW

https://pin.it/7uYm2O8Dc

Barty Fletcher Crouch JR

Barty has grown up in a very abusive household that impackted his mental health severly. He was diagnosed with BPD at 18 and was in and out of hospitals since then.
The relationship with Effy changed Bartys' life- a loving motherfigure was life altering and helped him enter the healing stage.
He has green hair, rings, piercings and tattoos and wears what he calls "slutty" clothes because he loves to feel attractive.

hair: 

https://pin.it/CMB3I5J6F

style:

https://pin.it/OR8g9x7Hc

https://pin.it/OR8g9x7Hc

Regulus Acturius Rosier

Regulus followed Sirius after 2 years escaping at the age of 16. He was homeless and peniless and had a hard time finding a way to support himself. Enter Pandora who, with her loving and caring nature, took him under her wing and helped him develop his musical and artistic talent.
Thanks to her and Evan Regulus realised he was trans and with their support went on his transition journey. After choosing the name Regulus he decided to rid himself once and for all of the Black name and asked if he could take on the Rosier name to which the twins obviously agreed.
They helped Regulus start his healing journey and as the story progresses Regulus deals with his issues under the watchful eye of his therapist and friends.

hair:

https://pin.it/7Ht1UFBzH

style:

https://pin.it/nUhlW0Okw

This is all i'm going to say for now as I don't want to give away too much! If you're intrested check from time to time if i haven't edited those little summary. Let me know what you think !

Chapter Text

https://open.spotify.com/track/5PdEiev2BkKiZtZFcNKjfM?si=1b724a1a932e4a6c

James

“- after a very public scandal the Marauders are still scrambling. Firing their drummer mid tour AND mid performance was certainly a bold move. One that does not seem that well thought through as without James Potter, better known as Prong the band seems to be falling apart.

Many alleged they have seen or witnessed arguments between the once close knit bandmates.

We shall see how the band fairs at their next tour rumoured to start in San Francisco. Will they be able to find a drummer of Potter's excellence? Will they manage to keep the band above water? It sure looks like Sirius Black might be regretting his hasty decision, which has also impacted the fan base. As fans demand to know the reason the two closest people split so violently many theories surface. Most of them are ridiculous of course, but some do hold some water: one speculates that this could be a matter of heart. As we all remember Sirius does have a habit of sleeping with his brother's love interests. Did Potter finally snap leading to this explosive tear? 

Others talk about homophobia as the new couple Sirius and Remus, also called WolfStar by the fans, has officially declared they are dating. The majority of fans dismiss those theories as James has been very active in the LGBTQ+ communities, donating a fair amount to charities and even raising his own called MYFB ( the official interpretation of those letters still remains unknown although there was some whispers it stands for Mind Your F*king Business).

Since there has been no official statement from either the Marauders or their PR team we still remain unsure of the real reason behind the split. 

James Potter has disappeared from all socials, deleting all his accounts and has not been seen for over a year. The Marauders seek to fill the space previously occupied by the man also called “a ray of sunshine”. Their socials however do not mention anything about a new addition to the band or a new tour. They have put out many new videos of behind the scenes and interviews but fans deeply feel the absence of James. 

Do not worry my dear readers as I am on the case to find out what truly happened on that fateful day. 

And this author loves a good mystery 

as always all references are linked under the post!

yours sincerely 

Rita.

James chucks his phone across his room, anger simmering deep inside him. It's already been a fucking year, how is this still hot gossip.

A tension headache starts pulsing in his brow. He rubs his forehead and groans in frustration.

He turns back to his notebook, the page completely crossed out as he struggles to put his feelings into words. 

Dr Dumbledore swears it will help him with his emotional regulation. 

Personally he thinks it’s stupid and a waste of time. And he doesn’t like dr. Dumbledore. His smile was too fake and he smelled of those awful lemon sweets that made James think of horrible cough syrup.

He shifts in his seat again. 

With another wave of anger his notebook lands next to his phone and he shoves away from the desk abruptly. 

He was always so angry. 

He breathes deeply but that seems to only set his blood on fire. 

Stupid fucking Dumbledore and his stupid fucking breathing exercises. They never do James any good, just boil his blood to hellish temperatures. 

With gritted teeth he grabs a bar of strawberry chocolate and heads for the exit.

Getting out of this room is easy. 

Going outside that’s a bit tricky. It requires a fair amount of flirting, bargaining and a small sweet bribe but he’s finally able to get lungfulls of the cold February air. He shivers in his paper thin hospital pajamas. 

A mass of green hair catches his attention and he heads for the stairwell. Barty Fletcher Crouch Jr was a surprising ally. James never thought he’d actually end up enjoying the boys' company. Their first interaction was certainly an indication to the contrary. 

Barty had come in fist flying and teeth bared ready to battle anybody and James was, well, looking for a fight. 

They beat the shit out of each other, for reasons neither of them remember clearly. When asked, Barty said James had a very punchable face. James had replied he was trying to fix the other boy's crooked tooth.

Barty turned out to be funny and surprisingly supportive while James was getting his diagnosis.

He offered a smoke and a free tattoo. How could James refuse ? 

“You alright James?” Barty passes him the cig and James takes a deep drag before answering. 

“ Yeah. Yeah I’m alright. Getting out on Saturday” he passes it back to the other man who nods.

”yeah same” 

They finish another two cigarettes in silence shuffling in the cold.

James had considered shagging Barty. He was extremely attractive with his piercings and tattoos. Those hard green eyes and the sharp edge of his jaw. Rough hands, hardened by a hard life complementing James' scared ones.

They tried once, after a heated argument, but ended up deciding to stay friends. 

“Before we get out..” James finally breaks the silence around them.

” Hmm?”

”make me another tat?”

Barty looks at him for a long while.

”Sure man.” They both sniff and head back inside their balls frozen solid from the cold.

—

A year later

James' whole life was packed in one battered bag. 

A few articles of clothes, a laptop, some make up he used to wear while performing. 

The sticks he had when Sirius kicked him out of the band. He can’t seem to let go of those just yet. 

Well loved docs.

A white shirt and dress pants. 

His notebook. 

A pair of noise cancelling headphones.

The razor was attached to a silver chain that he kept around his neck. 

And now 6 packs of medication. 

They lay stuffed at the very bottom of the bag, heavy reminders of James' failure. 

He shrugs his jacket over his shoulders and straightens his wireframed glasses. Next to him Barty zips up the leather pants he adores for some reason. He grins a bit insanely and winks at James who rolls his eyes. 

They both exit the hospital together shoulder to shoulder. The bond they formed during their stay nearly as strong as the one he once had with Sirius. At the thought of the other man James cringes. 

Fuck him. 

Beside him Barty turns and flips off the nurses who raise their own hands in response.

”I'm gonna miss those shits” he grins, shaking his green hair out of his eyes. Lights a cigarette and passes one to James.

”Now what ?” They look at each other the question, filling the silence with uncertainty. 

“His royal highness is going to have to get his pretty little hands dirty” 

“fuck off” James shoves Barty a smile on his lips. They start walking again, pushing each other and teasing. 

Both feel lighter, something about the world clicked back into place and it doesn’t seem as bad as it did months ago.

—

James’ phone buzzes as they sit on a high brick wall, their legs dangling over the edge, two cans of energy drinks discarded.

He checks and it’s a message from his Mum who reminds him to pick up the keys to the small apartment he’s gonna share with Barty.

James let’s Barty know they can pick up the key and the green haired boy grins.

”Reccon Effy will make her empanadas ?” 

“Knowing you’re coming? Definitely” Barty jumps off the wall hastening James.

”Come on I’d kill for those delicious pieces of heaven” 

James grabs both their bags and the empty can, he was raised by Effy Potter who would offer her most disappointed gaze if she ever knew he had littered. And there’s little James hates more than his Mother's disappointed face.

They chuck the cans into the trash and make their way to the subway. 

Posters of the re-invented band Marauders are plastered on every possible surface. Sirius’ face pinning James in dread from all sides. James feels anger and resentment stirring back to life like coals after a breath of wind.

He stops and takes a closer look, noticing the shadowy figure behind the drums. Apparently it’s a surprise who the new drummer is and it’s going to be made official on the first day of the tour. 

The tour that has yet to be announced. 

Remus looks more tired. He usually hurts more during the winter, his joints not fairing well in the cold weather. It’s subtle, only somebody who knows Remus as closely as James would see the heavy look, the additional layer of concealer, the slightly unfocused eyes. 

James thought about reaching out to his friend but he never did. He was still unsure where the lead bassist stands in the conflict with Sirius. They were dating after all.

Barty noticed James stopped and took a few steps back to check out the poster too.

”What a bunch of wankers” he states and rips down the poster snapping James out of his thoughts.

He crumples the paper between his hands and throws it in the trash.

”Come on.” He pulls James by his arm. “You’re standing in my way to empanadas”

”God forbid” after one last glance at the now bare wall he follows Barty down the stairs to the underground. 

——

Barty 

Barty was worried for his friend. 

James put on a brave face but he’s still struggling with his diagnosis. 

He doesn’t know that Barty once caught a glimpse of his notebook. Among all the crossed out words and question marks a few lines squeezed into a corner caught his attention. 

Yeah, late nights get the best of me

They know how to get to me

Suicide thoughts come and go like a guest to me

But I don't wanna die, I just wanna get relief

He had to admit James had a gift to write but he doesn’t know if it’s poems or lyrics. Although he supposes they are quite similar. 

They ride the train, James bent over his pen scratching against the paper, Barty lounging on the seat tapping out a rhythm with his finger.

”you should write a song” 

Barty decides the best way to approach this delicate subject is with his usual poise and tact. 

“What?” James glances up from his notebook.

Barty shifts so he’s half facing James and points a ring clad finger to James' book. 

“ Songs. You should write songs man”

“What ? Nah.. this is just” he taps the pen on the page avoiding Barty’s gaze” 

“it’s just some shit”

”But it’s good shit. Like” Barty reaches for the notebook slowly letting James snatch it away if he wanted. He doesn’t move so Barty grabs it and starts flipping the pages.

” like this one!” He exclaimed after finding a passage

“If this is all that I wanted, I don't want it, gotta be more for me 

All the core beliefs 

And every mornin' I wake up and feel like I am not worth it 'cause 

I'm at war with peace 

I go to Hell, walk up to the corpse of me 

Look at the body like, "You ain't nothin' but poor and weak"

Barty flips the pages some more until he finds the few lines that first drew his attention to the notebook.

”if you add this part and maybe…” a few more pages get turned 

“I don't see you like I should 

You look so misunderstood 

And I wish I could help 

But it's hard when I hate myself”

He starts tapping out a steady beat as he reads the words. James leans in joining him. He uses his hands to hold up invisible drum sticks and changes Barty’s basic rhythm into a fast paced base. 

“If we added some guitar here and here”Barty scribbles the word guitar next to a few verses. 

“Yeah! And maybe we drop the beat and put a piano base here” James points to the chorus and Barty nods enthusiastically. 

“I’m thinking: Knee-deep in defeat of my own actions Feel weak, but the peace that I keep lacking” 

“it’s missing something” James scratches the back of his neck, a nervous habit Barty has learned means he’s starting to get overwhelmed. 

“ Yeah. We should play it and see. You still have your old set and guitar in the garage ?” James nods, distracted by his notebook. 

—

They arrive at James’ house late in the evening.

The door is opened, spilling light into the rapidly darkening world. Effy stands in the light. She looks ethereal, like an angel. 

Once she spots the boys she gasps and rushes towards them. First she embraces James who spins her as they laugh. Next Effy places her warm callused hands on his cheeks.

”Barty ! You look well Mijo! Have you been eating well? Oh you must be starving, I saw the food they were serving you. Positively revolting. Come i made your favourites” Barty doesn’t even try to stop the waterfall of words but instead wraps his hands around her shoulder. She immediately hugs him back, firm and steady smelling of spices and her gentle flower perfume he hot her for her birthday last year. She feels warm, comfortable, like home. 

Barty has longed for a loving home. 

“James, Hijo, you look pale. Come come, I'll make some tea.”

”Monty the boys are home!” She yells towards the shed at the back of the garden as she ushers them towards the warm light and big kitchen.

a noise, similar to a cracking sound, comes from the shed and a huffed “I’m okay” follows. 

Effy shakes her head and pushes them inside, chatting non stop. 

Barty smiles warmly and exchanges a fond look with James.

He first met Effy on his first day at the hospital. She had knocked on his door as he was trying to clean up the blood from his battered nose. 

Barty had expected her to yell at him, understandable as he had just assaulted her son. He expected a slap at least, a punch, a kick.

Instead she silently sets a box of first aid supplies and slowly lifts a wet antiseptic cloth. Barty flinches away from the hand. She makes a low sound, one you make while approaching a hurting animal. She shushes him gently and slowly brings the cloth to his head. He shuts his eyes, paralyzed in place, his mind screaming for him to run run run.

”You hurt.” Her voice is soft but firm as she turns his head. Barty slowly opens his eyes and meets dark chocolate ones. They look at him with kindness and love. He searches for pity or disgust but only finds open affection.

” I see you are hurting, child. The eyes don’t lie chico” She sighs and rummage through the first aid kit pulling out a Band-Aid.

“ You will never hit my son again, understood.” She states, her voice still soft without a hint of anger in it. 

Barty was completely stunned, unsure how to react.

”Yeah..” he answers in a voice gruff from the blood in his throat. He clears it and adds “Yes ma’am”

”Good.” She sighs and riffles through the first aid kit pulling out a Band-Aid. She gently sticks the bandaid to his brow where there’s a small cut.

”My son, he hurts too.” She seems as if she wants to say something more and Barty waits. She doesn’t say anything else and finishes up her work in silence. 

Barty was surprised when he realised it's not tense as it always was with Madam Crouch. This silence was comfortable. Effy's hands brushing the hair from his eyes with slow gentle movements. To his own shock he doesn’t flinch away from the hand but instead leans into it seeking warmth. She hums a song that stirs a faint memory. He heard this song before but he can’t quite place it.

“ I will see you soon Barty” 

Madam Potter says over her shoulder and closes the door behind her with a soft click. 

Barty sat stunned in the same position for quite some time before he was able to even process what had happened.

The next time he sees Effy, was around a week later and she waves him over. Hesitant he approaches. Him and James have been avoiding each other for the whole week. 

If he was to be honest he has been doing most of the avoiding. James has offered a few hellos and even mustered a small smile during group activities that Barty firmly ignored eyes glued to the ugly floor.

James was sat next to his mum looking worse than he had on the first day. His eyes have sunken and hollowed, huge black bags violently purple making his eyes appear as if drowning in blac holes. He was slumped forward, his hair hidden by a hood. 

He looked nothing like the James Potter Barty knows from posters and videos. He barely looks like a shadow of himself. He looks barely alive.

Barty slides into the seat next to Effy who greets him warmly gripping his cold hand in both of hers. 

“Here eat, eat!” She slides a glass box filled with a dish he had never seen but smelled heavenly. Without even hesitation he takes a huge bite and slumps in his seat. 

Flavours explode on his tongue tasting like nectar from the gods.

”oh Madam potter this is just..” he doesn’t finish because he takes another mouthful of the food. He thinks he might cry.

He registers something about calling her Effy but his attention is firmly on the food.

At first the conversation is awkward but with a bit of encouragement from Effy James and Barty find a tentative connection. 

With each Effy meal James opens up a bit and Barty finds that the man he thought was obnoxious and entitled is actually genuinely kind and intelligent. 

Their bond shifts from tentative to unbreakable after James got diagnosed. Barty could relate to the horror, shame and anger on James' face after he heard the words. He had personally experienced side effects of the medication. The puking, the head aches, the insane mood swings, the feeling of wanting to rip his skin off. 

He understood James' pain and showed him his. They both find comfort in each other.

—

After an enormous dinner and helping with the clean up the boys ask to be dismissed and roll towards the garage. 

As James flips the lights on Barty collapses onto the sofa and groans. They call it the garage but it's more like a recording studio with a padded room to the side to record songs and professional equipment. James has to blow dust off a few items. He pulls the sheet covering a beautiful Yamaha piano. Barty’s breath catches in his throat at the sight. 

He tries to jump to his feet to run his fingers over the keys and groans.

”i will never touch a empanada ever again”

James huffs setting up the drums. A cherry red electric hangs behind him catching the light, teasing Barty

”I think i might have gained 10kg” Barty agrees and with great effort rolls off the couch and hunts for a pick. 

He slings the cherry red guitar over his shoulder and gets acquainted with it. His fingers flow on the strings tuning them carefully. 

James does the same with his drums playing a simple beat to warm up.

After a few songs they decide they are ready to try their idea for the song. James sets up the recording equipment

They spend the next hours playing around with the sounds. Barty keeps a cautious eye on James looking for triggers. But as James plays and loses himself in the song his shoulders relax and he plays with his eyes closed, hoodie pulled over his eyes. Barty has also covered his face. Neither spoke of it but both agreed that they should keep themselves anonymous even in recordings just for them. 

—

“Barty, play the piano intro” Barty finishes writing down notes and puts the pen between his teeth and plays the notes. 

James mutters the lyrics under his breath, tapping a quiet beat on a drum with his hand. 

“ it’s sounding beautiful boys” Effy sets down a tray with tea and cookies and ruffles Barty’s hair. 

James smiles a bit, distracted, a furrow quickly forming between his brows once again. 

“Is he okay?” Effy lowers her voice so just Barty can hear her. 

He makes a so-so motion

”For the most part yeah. He’s just a bit frustrated since the date hasn't been set yet. And the song is missing something.” Effy nods looking at her son's focused expression.

”What about you ? How are you?”

Barty thinks the question over, still unused to somebody caring about him.

” I’m glad to be here” he finally settles on an answer. Effy beams at him, her soft brown eyes glowing with soft love. 

“ That’s good Mijo” she pats his arm. 

A sudden thought changes her face as she asks Barty in barely restrained excitement.

“ Barty why don’t you try to add something here” she places a dot on multiple parts of the lyrics sheet. 

Barty’s eyes glint with excitement matching Effy’s when he understands what she’s thinking off.

”Oh and here instead of this sequence why don’t you try those?” She marks a few notes and Barty ghosts his fingers over the keys trying to hear the sounds. He nods in agreement. 

“Hijo why don’t you try the song again” Effy places a hand on her son’s shoulder bringing him back from his thoughts.

He shrugs and settles more comfortably behind the drums. 

Before he can do the countdown Effy raises her hand. 

“ Don’t play just yet. Play at the beginning of the first verse”

James chews on his lip recalibrating his play plan. 

“And record this one okay? I’ll dim the lights” 

Effy quickly heads to the light switch dimming the already dim lights so both boys are hidden in shadows with only their instruments and microphones accented. She sits down behind the recording desk and slides on the headphones. After switching on every part of the equipment she signals for the boys to start. 

Barty breaths deeply, glancing at the notes.

He starts the song, playing a single note. 

James’ rich voice fills the small padded room. He sounds a bit unpolished, a bit raw, his voice fueled with emotion. 

“I don’t see you like i should” Barty copies him, his voice higher in contrast. James glances his way confused but bless him doesn’t stop, the whole chorus only accompanied by Barty and the piano. 

The notes suggested by Effy bring the song to life adding to the emotions present in James’ words. 

As the first verse starts James plays the drums as if they were already present in the song, without any hesitation the strong beat contrasting with the light piano. James always plays with passion and this time is no different. As he sings the verse alone he slams the stick hard on the drums, his voice now slightly breathless from emotion and exertion. 

He stops abruptly seemingly half-way through a beat as the chorus starts again.

” You look so misunderstood”

”And I wish I could help.” Barty follows James’ lead.

”But it’s hard when I hate myself,” they sing together. 

The second verse starts even stronger with more power.

” What is success when hope has left you?

I am not a spokesman, I’m a broken record

Sick of doin’interviews ‘cause I hate myself agh” the last sound leaves his mouth and it’s filled with his hate. The word hangs in the air even when they move on to the next parts of the song. 

Barty pours his own hate into the mic as he joins James. He is glad for the shadows as they hide the tears in his eyes.

The drums stop and James springs to his feet pulling the mic off the stand and stepping further into the light but keeps his head low to keep shadows over his face. 

The mic picks up every ragged breath James takes between words as he finishes the song with just the piano.

”When I hate myself

It’s kinda hard when i hate myself” 

His voice misses the note just slightly as he chokes on emotions, tries to let them out. Barty feels tears stream down his face, hears his own voice break as he sings the words

”i hate myself”

James finishes the song and they both stay still, breathing hard. 

Katharsis.

It's the only word that comes to Barty’s mind when he breathes into the quiet room. 

A cleansing. 

Relief washes over him and he laughs. 

He laughs as he feels peace for the first time in a long time. 

James is laughing too. He’s laughing and crying and maybe they sound a bit insane but it’s so good.

Effy bursts into the room, her cheeks wet and she opens her arms. Both men stumble into her embrace and the three of them collapse to the floor laughing and crying.

Chapter Text

March 2023

My dear readers, 

I write sooner than expected because a certain video has made its way to my inbox sent by a @PandyDandy, and after watching it I just can’t stay silent. 

A new musical voice has entered the industry, coming in with a unique form of music. The two-person band has declared their name NF but offer no explanation as to why. They are gaining popularity as fast, if not faster, as The Marauders. 

They seem to want to stay out of the spotlight as in all their music videos ( “Hate myself", “Mansion” , “Just Like You”, “Intro”, “Change” ) they are hidden in shadows leaving the audience asking the question “who are they?”. 

This author shares their thoughts and also wishes to uncover this mystery. 

The drummer and main singer, N, rivals James’ Potter's talent with the powerful beats always present in the songs. His voice is near angelic, not for the flawless sound but quite the contrary, for the raw, flawed emotions in it. 

As I listened to their first track I was in awe of the emotional response his voice drew out of me. I promised you my readers to always be honest, I'll admit I had a few tears on my cheeks by the song's end.

The second member, F, is a person of many talents. In the first song he is shown behind a piano but in the second and third is shredding a guitar with quite some talent. He seems to let N do most of the singing, satisfied as a back up. 

There was an interesting theory that the drummer is James Potter coming back into the industry to claim his place with a new sound. But we all know that Prongs has never sung with the Marauders, and I have heard the argument that he simply didn’t have the chance which I will agree with. 

My counter argument to this is that all NF songs are dark and speak of failure, depression and loneliness- do we really believe that James Ray Of Sunshine Potter is behind such dark themes? I have already sent an invitation for an interview!…

Read more…

March 2025

My dear readers,

Isn’t this a blast from the past? 

As I wrote that article exactly two years ago. I had no idea how popular it would get! It’s all thanks to you my dear readers ( and maybe a little to NF :) )

I have been cooking up a surprise for you for this anniversary and I'm so happy to announce that I managed to do something unseen for the NF brand.

I have scored an exclusive interview with NF who never give them! I also have permission to post multiple audio clips for all you voice enjoyers ;)

I hope you are as excited as I am for this news!

“I’m here with Nate and Frank, the members of the two person band NF the Real. I’m incredibly excited and nervous as you guys have never gave an interview-”

“Nah don’t worry Rita, we’ve been following your blog closely and we know you’ll do amazing” Nate cut’s me off and I can feel myself blushing from the compliment.

“Even though you host frequent Q&As fans still have a huge amount of questions, as do I” I lean in, conspiratorially.

“ I’d like to cover a few questions, talk a bit about your new album and dive deeper into your guys' brand The Real.”

“Sounds good,” Frank agrees.

“Maybe let’s start with something basic: where are you from, how old are you”

“ I turn 24 this April and I'm from a small town down in good old Nevada. I moved to San Francisco for college.” Frank answers first. 

“How do you like it here?” 

“ it’s nice, i like warm weather, i can show off my tats” he gestures to his uncovered arms that are more ink than skin.

“Which one is your favourite?” I ask leaning in to see them better. 

“ it’s actually my back piece but I haven’t found the right artist to bring it into life.” he winked at me and I swat his arm. 

“What about you Nate?” I turn my attention to the taller of the two. Both keep their faces mostly covered, but aside from that seem quite comfortable with expressing their identity.

“Not many people know this but I’m actually from Puerto Rico” my dear readers when I tell you I melted when I heard his spanish accent i wouldn’t be lying.

“My Mama is Colombian and my dad is from Puerto Rico. I’m 25”

It takes me a second to gather my thoughts. Nate is more closed off sitting with his arms crossed fabric stretched over well defined muscles, Frank is clearly the more open one with how he’s leaning forward and engaging in conversation with me. 

“Could you share with us something in Espanol? I just love your accent!” I ask hopefully and Nate chuckles.

“Hola, mamá y papá, ¡espero que estén pasando un buen día! Les mando mucho amor.!” 

“Si” I laugh.

“Nate, your name doesn’t sound so Sapanish-” before I can finish Nate chuckles and raises his hand to stop me.

“My actual name is Nataniel. I’m named after my great-grandfather. Frank here” Nate slaps a hand on the other boy's shoulder.

“Isn’t actually called Frank.” I turned my attention to him, a brow raised.

“Great great great grandparents, I believe, were Polish immigrants. My name is Franciszek but I think Frank is much easier to pronounce.”

I try to say his name but he is right.

“That’s awesome guys! I’d like to move on to a few Q&A questions, if you don’t mind.” They both nod in agreement.

“So the first question is from @SunnyBunny who says: love you guys’ music! Is Frank gay? Asking for a friend 0_0”

Frank laughs.

“That’s the first question?” I show him the card with the printed comment on it.

“Well SunnyBunny’s friend, I am happily gay.” I shift to the next card.

“This on is a heavy so maybe we do a bit later”

“Nah let’s do it” Nate rubs his hands.

“This one is from @BlackCatFriday ask “In several songs you write about having BPD, it’s kinda messed up you talk about something without having it. What’s your excuse?” Nate sits back and ponders as he’s the one that writes the songs.

“We both share our experience in our music. I write lyrics and Frank writes the tracks. If you don’t know BPD is Borderline Personality Disorder. We are open about our diagnosis and I encourage you to check out some of our instagram posts where we talk about it.”

“I was diagnosed when I turned 19. Nate found out a few years ago.” Frank chimes in

“It’s hard to explain but basically my symptoms were managed before they “fully developed”. I still deal with BPD but it’s less intense.” Nate gives a short explanation.

I have included links to said posts for those interested in learning more.

“Would you like to add something?” 

“Not right now.” I nod and read the question.

“@PandyDandy asks what inspires you? Fun fact, this is the fan who sent me your first music video!”

“Shout out to Pandy!” Frank whoops.

“I’d say my life inspires me. My music is my journal.” Nate answers and Frank agrees.

“I don’t like words and I find it more fun to express myself through music.”

“I pretty much draw all my inspiration from life experiences. Up to this point it’s basically my life experiences. I think as I grow as a person and mature even more in my writing, I’ll start branching out.*” 

“The next question comes from @Betterthandrugs asks for a tattoo tour” Frank sits up eagerly.

“I have a full sleeve with some lyrics, music sheets and fillers. Some patchwork on my legs: a spider, this incredible skeleton leg. Like I said, I have a back piece cooking but I'll keep that secret.” he winks at me.

“It seems you are the bad boy Frank" I laugh while gesturing to Nate's clean arms.

“ oh no, Nate has tattoos too, he’s just a bit shy.” He leans back and drops his arm around Nate's shoulders.

“Oh?” I raise my brows. Nate lifts his well fitted T-shirt to show the tattoo(s) on his stomach. Before I can get a closer look he drops it. 

How shy of him. I decided to drop it and continue with my questions.

“ @AnnaWhite asks “What is your lyrical writing processes like?”

“I like to be in the studio, create the beat with Frank and sometimes I’ll write the song in the studio or I’ll take the beat home and write it, then come back in.*”

“It’s very beat instrumental driven. Music just pulls a certain emotion out of us and it helps us write, it motivates Nate to write a lot more than just writing without a track*.” Frank completes Nate's answer.

“This question is from me. Why did you name your upcoming album Therapy Session? We have a few singles released but the whole album is yet to be released. I guess this question is mostly directed at Nate.”

“Music is a therapy for me. The cover is basically me facing myself on the front and I talk to myself through music all the time. A lot of times I get done with writing a record or done recording, I’ll sit down and listen to music and discover things about myself that I didn’t even realize about myself. That’s what the point of the cover is, 2 versions of myself facing each other and talking and realizing things about myself that I didn’t even know until I put out this record*.”

“ Sounds like you are the driving force in this band. Frank, you mostly stay on the side line. Don’t you want more recognizable fame?”

“I like where I am. Nate always keeps a more public position open for me. He asks for my input when writing and hands me the mic whenever I ask. I don’t want anything more and if I wanted I know Nate would support me in a heartbeat.”

“We noticed that most of our haters say that Nate is abusing me or whatever” Frank shakes his head with annoyance.

“It’s completely ridiculous and I ask you to stop spreading such nonsense.”

“Makes sense. You have a lot of support but the haters are brutal. Speaking of haters have you noticed you've been getting quite a bit of attention from The Marauders?” I ask and Nate scoffs.

“ Listen, they can think of us what they want but publicly calling us a mediocre garage band is a new low.” Frank leans into the microphone and I hold my breath.

“Hey hey Sirius? If you're listening to this stay in your lane lil boy. You're all about that pop, leave rapping to the professionals okay?”

“Moony has spoken out about you, calling you his equals in the music industry. It made a lot of fans speculate about a break up post in the near future. Their PR team must be thrilled about this new wave of gossip.” 

“I’m honoured to be held to such high standards by Moony” is all Nate says and Frank seems content with this answer.

“We’ll cover one last question before our time runs out. @LionHeart ‘s question is: Did you imagine yourself coming this far when you started your musical career? 

“I’m a negative person, I never know what to expect. I think negatively but I know what I’m working for. A lot of things are different than what people think. The industry doesn’t work the way people think. I don’t expect anything; I’m just going to keep being myself. I’m thankful for the fans, they’re basically the ones that keep your career going. A lot of artists say that, but being out on the road and having a lot of sold out shows and selling records is what allows an artist like us to make a next record and have a label that’ll fund a next record and it makes me more creative. We have more of a budget; we can put on a better show for fans.” Frank nods along with Nate's response. 

“We never thought we’d be here. Those last two years were insane. We moved out of Nates’ garage to an actual recording studio in a matter of months. We have an album out “Mansion”, and now we’re nearly finished with the second one. We had to hire a manager. That is insane” Frank throws his hands up, emphasizing the grandeur of their fame.

“We are planning a tour for “Therapy” that’s gonna start next month with the first and last concert right here in San Francisco.”

“I already have my ticket” I wink at them showing my fresh and crisp ticket.

“I was surprised at the price” I say honestly, curious about their reasoning.

“We think music is for everybody. We've had fans write to us about merch pricing and tickets being too expensive, they say that they feel seen when they listen to us but can’t afford to come and see us. The connection with our fans is the most important thing for us.” 

“That’s beautiful” I place my hand over my heart, moved by their love for their fans.

“And with that our time has come to an end. Thank you for talking with me and doing me the honor of being your first interviewer!”

“For sure. It was a pleasure.”

“Would you like to add something before I turn off the recorder?”

“Thank you to all you out there listening to us, we are so grateful for you all. Nate and I can't wait to see you all at the concerts! Remember to go buy your ticket there's still a few left.”

“Thank you to all of you and special thanks to you Rita.”

And there you have it my dearest readers! The first interview. I’m still in shock from all this. After I finish editing the audio it will be added to this very post. 

In my next post  I'll get into more details about how both men were and my personal observations as well as a review of the concerts. By the time I will be posting the blog they will be about half way through their tour.

Until next time my dearest readers!

Yours truly,

Rita

—--------

James

James chuckles as he reads the latest blog on Rita's page, his feet rhythmically thumping on the treadmill. 

She has most definitely dramatised the whole interview but he doesn’t see the harm in. 

He wasn’t shy, just private but James supposes fans will be more into the idea of a shy rapper. 

His phone buzzes with a message from Barty who is most definitely loving her flirty attention.

He is proven right as he sees the preview of the message.

Barty

I think Rita wants to fuck you.

Image Attached

James opens the image. It’s a screen shot of the post with the part about his accent.

James rolls his eyes and stops his run. 

Today is Barty's birthday and James is determined to make it special for his best friend. He has made a whole day long plan with all of Barty’s favourite activities, not limited to tattoos, ax throwing, food and fast cars. 

He actually pulled the famous card to rent two sport Lamborghinis and a racing track.

James checks the time on his phone, sends a text reminding Barty that they have an important appointment they absolutely have to go to and heads for a lightning fast shower.

After losing Prongs, James struggled to find something that would be completely new and cut all ties with his old identity. 

Colorful, funny prints, soft curls and iconic wireframe glasses were all Prongs.

Black, functional and often loose clothes dominate his outfits. Silver chains, simple grey rings and piercings. Cargo pants replace jeans, tight compression shirts instead of loose crop tops.

Converse given away to make room for heavy boots. 

He exchanged glasses for contact lenses and cut off his soft curls into a mullet with braids his Mama refreshes each weekend during the Saturday dinner. 

He likes this style. It’s comfortable, it's anonymous. Instead of catching eyes it blends into the crowd. 

He likes being Nate.

Barty thinks everybody should follow him in his “Man whore” style and voices his opinion often and loudly to James.

James is aware that he is objectively attractive with his latino roots and well built body, but he chooses to keep it under wraps especially in his music. 

Prongs was all about sexappeal and tiktok thirst traps. He was barely 20 and filled with visions of Voted Most Attractive Man in the fashion magazines along with Sirius. They were definitely the power duo most fans foamed over.

Now he likes a more subtle approach to his looks. Clean shaven, tidy hair and minimalistic accessories.

Barty on the other hand is all about fishnets, strategically tight pants, layered jewels and unbuttoned shirts with loose ties. 

As F he wears cropped shirts, leather pants and sometimes even no shirt at all. 

While zipping up his jacket James decides he’s glad both of them found their style and can express themselves. Being a Marauder was suffocating with how he always had to be performing, had to be loud and dramatic when deep inside James likes quiet. His head is filled with so much chaos he wants to find peace around him. The pressure was driving him crazy.

James pauses realising he got lost in his head. He tries to shake the thoughts out and straightens his jacket to gather himself. 

He hadn’t even noticed he was thinking of Sirius until a shiver ran down his spine. 

He grabs his eyes, switches the light off and closes the door locking it, trapping all the thought inside.

Sometimes the closest people to you make you feel protected

But those are the same people that hurt you most and leave you guessing

—

“Barty!” the younger man turns as James jogs up to him only slightly late. 

“Hey, can you tell me what we’re doing standing next to this awful pink unicorn fucking shop?” He wastes no time, stomping on his cigarette a bit too aggressively in James’ opinion.

“It’s a rabbit i believe” James answers mildly entertained by Barty’s outrage.

He looks at the admittedly more pink store than he thought it would be and rolls his eyes.

“ What ? How does it matter if it’s a fucking rabbit or a dickhead unicorn? James Nataniel Potter it’s my birthday. I expected parties, hot people of all genders and drinks. Not tea at the place Pink Fucking Panther clearly vomited on-” James shakes his head.

“Shut up and follow me you big baby” he starts dragging a still protesting Barty towards the accurately described pink door.

Chapter Text

****** Black is 4 years old when the first plate crashes, splitting into razor sharp shards and Mothers hand lands on the cheek with a harsh slap.

****** Black is 6 when Sirius is 9 and builds them a blanket fort, promising the fabric will protect them from Mère's fists and Père’s belt. They promise each other they’ll run away together.

******* Black is 7 when Sirius is 10 and leaves for school. ******* Black is all alone in the echoey halls of the huge mansion. 

******* Black is 8 when Sirius is 11 and letters stop being delivered to the house. Mère’s temper is more trigger happy her cold hands finding ******* flesh more frequently, claw like nails leaving sharp wounds with droplets of blood, bleeding at the seams. 

They will run away together

Christmas reunites ******* with Sirius who is more rebellious than last time, defiance growing along with his body. ******* begs Sirius to be agreeable. ******** knows Sirius will be safe at school while, ******* is stuck in the cold house, the cold parents and the cold servants, slowly freezing.

Sirius doesn’t listen. 

Sirius doesn’t build blanket forts anymore. Instead he talks about life outside of the mansion. About a life with warm parents and burning kindness. 

They will run away together…

******* is 9 when Sirius doesn’t come home for Christmas. ******* spends it alone, frozen fingers holding cutlery properly, spine cold and stiff, eyes slowly losing colour under a sheet of ice.

They will run away together.. Right?

******* is 10 when Sirius is 12 and they go to different schools. 

******* is 12 when Sirius is 14 and the ice melts as Sirius tells stories about a boy with brown hair and sun kissed skin and warm caramel eyes.

******* is 13 when Sirius is 15 and sends him a letter about running away. They will run away together! Colour comes back to life as ice melts. So far from the cold mansion, hope blooms.

They are running away together.

******* is 14 when Sirius is 16 and gets into a fight with the parents. Speaks of being gay. Comes to ******* at night seeking acceptance. Sirius beams at ******* who kisses his head and reminds him that they will run away together.

******* is 14 when Sirius doesn’t come home for Christmas. When Mère closes the door to the office. When Pere takes off the belt. When ******* can’t get up from pain in the back, legs. 

When Mère forces ****** to carve FAG into the skin of the arm. A reminder of what is unacceptable. 

Will they run away together? 

******* is 14 when understanding freezes the last of life over. Sirius ran away after the fight. Sirius ran away alone. Sirius ran away without *******. Sirius left ******* in the cold house, left ****** for dead. 

******* is 15 when the parents sign a marriage arrangement to keep the bloodline pure. 

Toujours Pur. 

Regulus is 16 when he stops his Mère's slap. Regulus is 16 when fury melts away the ice covering his body. Regulus is 16 when he packs his bag and leaves the house throwing a lit match into the pool of gasoline in his room. Burning all the frozen stiff dresses. Burning away all the memories. 

Regulus is 16 when he turns his back to the burning fire, greedily eating at his old curtains, and walks away.

Regulus is 16 when he is finally free.

—-----

Life as a runaway hasn’t been very kind to Regulus. Working two jobs, sleeping in damp, moldy homeless shelters and shivering in clothes unsuited for the weather. Even so Regulus does his best to live.

He smoothes the shirt trying not to grimace in disgust as the thought that many many many other people have worn it creeps into his mind. 

His fingers clench around the paper in his hands. 

With great effort he loosens his grip, nervousness eating at his stomach. 

He tries to smooth the shirt again.

The restaurant isn’t anything fancy, just a simple diner with yellow walls, booths with old cracked cushions and checkered tiles. 

Regulus notices two are put in the wrong order and irritation surfaces. What idiot can’t place the tiles in the correct order?

He glares at the mistake, mind successfully distracted from the upcoming job interview. 

“Regulus Black?” a voice snaps him out of his staring contest with the floor. 

In front of him is a girl around his age. She has white hair braided in two long plaits, little butterfly clips scattered all over them. Her uniform is also decorated, a huge paper sunflower pinned to her apron, her shirt painted with tiny flowers in three colours. 

Her eyes are piercing blue, an ancient knowledge hidden behind a mischief glint.

“I’m Pandora” she extends her hand and, after wiping the sweat from his palm, Regulus shakes it.

“Hi. Regulus” she smiles, her whole face lighting up. 

—-

“That’s beautiful” Regulus jumps out of his skin as Pandora sneaks up behind him observing as he draws a little dinner plate on the menu board. 

“Jesus Panda, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” Regulus clutches his pounding heart. In classic Pandora fashion, she ignores him.

“You should go to art school.” 

It's not a suggestion. 

When Pandora says something it’s law. 

One day she told Regulus he’s gonna move in with her and her brother and won’t sleep in homeless shelters anymore. She gave him a key, a paper with the address and told him to pick up some groceries. 

Regulus tried to tell her no, he really did.

She just looked at him like he was being silly and that was that. 

Regulus knows better than to fight her so he wipes at the smudged chalk. She observes him for some time. 

“Art school” She finally breaks the silence that has settled over them, broken only by the sound of chalk on board.

“Art school.” Regulus whispers into his dark room once he’s in bed. For the first time in two years he lets himself hope.

Back at the mansion he wasn’t allowed to draw. All his art would be burned or torn up.

A stupid and useless skill his mother had called it. 

Something he didn’t have to worry his pretty little head about. Art was for men to discuss and women to stare at dumbly.

“Art school.” This time he said it louder and a smile lit up his face in the dark room.

—

Balancing school, work and internships was a challenge, but oh how Regulus loved it. He took as many courses as possible, finally settling for a major in realism, impressionism, tattooing and a minor in classical music. 

He never touched the beautiful piano in the music room, the memories of a ruler on fingers still too fresh, instead picking up violin, guitar and transverse flute with remarkable ease. 

He finished top of his class and was already building a reputation for himself in both the tattooing circles as well as the movie soundtrack industry. 

At 22 along with Pandora who finished fashion with a minor in business and Evan, her twin brother who finished a tattooing and piercing course, he opened TheMadHatter studio. 

Pandora insisted on it being pink and trippy. The sign had a rabbit peaking out of a china tea cup with a large hat on its head that she had designed. The inside was more dulled down with two separate rooms for Reg and Evan, a little waiting area that belonged to Pandora and a small office with a kitchen.

Regulus arranged his room himself and was incredibly proud of it. The walls were deep green and one had a mural depicting a forest scene made by him. The rest of the walls were covered with inspirational photos, his own designs and framed paintings. 

In 2023 Pandora forced a poster of NF onto the wall and told him that if he took it down she’d just replace it. 

Regulus made a big show of being displeased but he secretly liked it.

The new band has warmed its way into his life slowly taking it over. His sketchbooks were filled with tattoos inspired by the artists and the studio's playlist overflowed with their music. 

Since then new posters, scribbled lyrics in marker and drawings have made their way all around that very first poster. 

Regulus thought it started to look a bit like a shrine but Pandora ignored him and added photos with heats drawn around the two men.

Even though he has many tattoos since then, his first was his favourite. A drunken night in the studio when it was just empty white walls and broken furniture with Pandora and Evan, Nate’s voice coming out of a broken loudspeaker. 

The words You want something in life, then why don't you go and get it? and The real you is who you are when ain't nobody watchin' curl around each thigh respectively. 

In the middle of a wall there was a huge circle window and he planted climbing plants all around so they’d grow over the glass giving the room a green glow.

A couch is pushed to the corner of the room, a blanket with a moss texture spread over it.

Above his station photos from all stages of his life are glued to the wall. The shot of him and the twins in the middle of dozens always catches his eye. 

He’s in the middle with each arm around either twin. Pandora is smiling, her eyes closed, the sun shining on her face making her look like an angel. Evan is grinning looking at Regulus who has his head thrown back. The photo caught him mid laugh. 

It was right after they met. Panda's hair lacks the colorful streaks it has now, Evan has since gotten multiple rings and Regulus’ face has changed. 

His jaw is sharper now, his hair cut professionally instead of the kitchen-knife-at-12am  cut he has in the photos, the soft features hardened ridding him from the slightly feminine looks he has in that photo. 

He thought of taking it down, covering that part of his past. But he can’t bring himself to do it. 

That day he had his first full paycheck and he invited Pandora who was a server with him in the restaurant and Evan out for a thank you dinner. 

Evan had a fake ID for his job as a bartender in a small bar so they had wine and ate expensive pasta. 

Pandora asked one of the servers if she could take a photo of them. 

Evan had reminded them of the last photo Pandora had taken. She had been drinking water and laughed so hard she snorted it out of her nose. Evan had it as his lockscreen wallpaper.

They had been laughing and the waiter took the photo. 

No, he couldn’t take it down. 

Evan’s room is more gruesome as he loves horror and gore. The designs on his walls are full of blood and spilling organs. There's a few tattoos of butterflies, fairies and such in the middle- the ones he made for his sister. 

Where Regulus embraced the calm forest Evan embraced gore. His shelves are coffin shaped, and walls have splatters of red paint. There's big heavy red drapes over the windows. The couch in the room is also coffin shaped and the pillows look like graves.

Pandora's area is cheerful, filled with pastel colours and nature. Each week there's a fresh bouquet of flowers she gets from the local flower shop ( Regulus and Evan have a bet on how long it’ll take Pandora to ask the cute girl out). 

She loves Alice in wonderland and has scattered multiple references all around her desk and the area. 

All the cups are Tea Party  themed and there's a bit of a trippy feel to the walls that were painted with texture. 

She added fluffy armchairs and soft pillows so people can wait comfortably. 

The space is comfortable. It's fully theirs. 

At first business was slow and they were struggling to stay on top of their bills. 

Regulus made some additional money playing for orchestras and drawing commissions, Pandora picked up shifts as a hotel manager and Evan bartendered.

They made events, set up booths at comic cons and created socials for the MadHatter.

Slowly clients started trickling in, as Regulus grew in fame in the art community and Pandora jumped at the chance to market him. 

Evan quickly followed Regulus in fame, even winning a few tattooing competitions. 

Now they were turning people away. They have discussed expanding and hiring a few artists but for now they want to keep it within the family. 

Regulus is so grateful for Pandora and Evan. They changed his life, in ways he can’t even name. They helped him with his transition, pooling their money so he could afford T and top surgery. They dragged him to therapy kicking and screaming and sat with him through panic attacks and depression. 

Regulus felt loved in ways Sirius never could give him. 

Sirius still thinks he has a sister, who by now would be married and stuffed full of babies. He never reached out and neither has Regulus' anger and resentment still burning hot in his stomach. 

Don't believe what you believe just 'cause that's how they raised you

Watching Sirius thrive with the Marauders while Reg could barely eat a meal everyday was hard. 

Reg never wished this on Sirius.

But he would be lying if he said he didn’t think Sirius had it coming after he kicked James out of the band and it started dropping ranks faster than he could count to ten.

Say you want a drink, don't wait for people to pour it on you

Cut out the lies, stay close to people you know are loyal

And now with the rise of NF the Marauders are facing true competition for the first time in many years and Regulus can’t help but be invested. 

He created a twitter account to follow various gossip accounts, not that he would ever admit to it. 

Rita was a true goldmine of information as well as Pandora who was incredibly invested. 

Yeah, don't take opinions from people that won't listen to yours 

If money's where you find happiness, you'll always be poor 

If you don't like the job you have, then what do you do it for? 

The cure to pain isn't something you buy at liquor stores, nah

..?

Regulus

Reg leans his back and arms on the counter as Dora types on her laptop checking his appointments for today. 

One of the new NF songs play faintly on the speakers. Reg nods his head to the beat, mouthing the words.

He observes two men arguing outside with vague interest.

One of them has messy nearly neon green hair and is gesturing wildly at the store. 

Reg guesses the shop is a bit odd with the huge pink swirls and a big sign that informs clients this is The MadHatter. 

The other man is more calm explaining something as the other one stomps angrily on his cig. Regulus smiles at the ridiculous image.

“You have a client at 6 p.m. nothing until then” Dora informs him and he turns his attention away from the scene outside.

“So I could have slept for-” he checks the time. “ 6 more hours?”

“You could have, but I miss your sunny smile,” Pandora smiles as he scowls at her. 

Reg sticks out his tongue.

“Have you read the new Rita post?” Panda asks, leaning excitedly on her elbows, eyes shining.

“Can you believe we both made it on the Q&A list!?” Regulus tries to suppress his excitement slightly but Pandora's energy is contagious and he feels the corners of his mouth lift.

“And I got a shout out!” Pandora preens twirling a loose strand of hair.

“Do you think they’ll allow me backstage if I show them my twitter handle?” she asks, her expression shifting to dreamy as she imagines the encounter. 

Seeing that he has lost all of her attention he makes a beeline towards the coffee machine. On his way he passes Evan who is setting up his station.

“Your sister is delulu,” Evan just shrugs, agreeing with him. Regulus yawns and grumbles about annoying morning people while hunting for all the necessary ingredients to make coffee.

Pandy loved hers as black and sour as possible, Evan wanted vanilla and marshmallows, Regulus has no fucking idea how he can drink that, while Reg preferes a simple cup of black coffee with a splash of syrup.

As the machine grinds beans loudly the tiny bell above the door jingles.

Angry words reach him and he leans back to not so subtly eavesdrop.

“-i swear Nate if i have to spend my day drinking fucking tea in a pink dress i will rage-”

“Calm down you dickhead. What’s your obsession with tea?” another voice answers and Reg pauses with his movements.

The voice sounds a little raspy and has a barely detectable accent and is extremely familiar. Regulus tries to place it but his mind draws a blank.

“We’re here for-  “ the voice informs Pandora, his friend's voice sounds muffled.

“8 a.m right?” 

“ You’ll be with Evan.”

At this point Reg has finished the cups and carefully carries them to the reception area. Could he have waited for everything to calm down? Yes. Was he nosy? Also yes.

As he steps into the reception the scene stops him in his tracks. 

The men from outside are now here and the taller calmer one has a hand firmly over the green haired man's mouth. He is leaning casually on the counter, chatting with Panda while his friend has his arms crossed and an expression Regulus has only seen on his sulking toddler cousin.

The calm man is facing away from him and Regulus curiously walks behind the desk to place the coffee next to Pandy, who is twirling her hair with an unreadable expression.

As soon as he looks up, Reg understands why.

The man is hot, plain and simple.

But also he jogs Regulus’ memory, temporarily shifting his focus to distant memories of smuggled gossip magazines and quietly playing songs.

He still can’t place the man, but knows he’s close. 

His name is on the tip of his tongue.

Reg realises he’s staring as Pandy coughs loudly and hits him in the stomach lightly.

At this point the green haired man has been realised and is openly sulking and complaining. 

“ For the love of God Barty.” the man rolls his eyes exasperated.

“ I found you somebody who would do your insane piece. And I paid for it in full.”

“You’ll like him, trust me” he adds after a second with a side glance at Pandora who hides a giggle behind a cough.

“What? You're joking right? Nobody wanted to take that on!” Bartys switches fast from boreline rage to excitement. 

“Nate, you have to get something too!” He shakes his friends' shoulders energetically. Reg exchanges a look with Pandora but doesn't comment. He decides he’s had enough entertainment for today. Yawning hugely he makes his way back towards his room hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before his client.

He should have known better.

“You know Nate” Regulus doesn’t like how Pandy lingers on his name. The hair on his arms stands up as he sniffs a conspiracy forming in her brain.

“One of our artists has a huge opening and just so happens to be in early!” Regulus spins on his heel sending daggers in the white haired girl's direction. 

Pandy ignores his murderous look sliding another form towards Nate with an innocent smile.

“Ehh” Nate hesitates and Reg sends him his best “don’t you fucking dare” look.

“Come on man. You owe me.” Barty finishes signing the consent form with a flourish. 

“You’re never gonna let that go huh?”

“Nope”

To Regulus’ great dismay he reaches for the form. 

Reg sends another lethal attack of daggers towards Pandora as his nap quickly fades from existence. 

Evan gently flicks him in the ear.

“Stop plotting to murder my sister.” Reg turns his gaze, that most men fear, towards the blond man who just gives him an unimpressed look.

“Holy shit” Evan breathes as his eyes land on Barty who is explaining something to Pandora. 

His face heats up and he straightens his T-shirt. Looking at his reflection is the coffee he’s holding, he attempts to pat an unruly strand of hair down.

Oh. 

OH.

Now that look Nate gave Pandora makes sense. She’s a little meddler. 

A dangerous woman indeed. 

Giving up on his hope that a look will kill either Nate or Pandora so he can get some sleep, he stomps towards his room, making sure the twins hear his walk of protest.

He sets his cup of coffee close and gets busy with disinfecting his station.

“Sorry man, you seemed like you really didn’t want to ink me.” Reg jumps a little as Nate's voice sounds incredibly close. He turns and Nate is standing at the entrance to his room with a sheepish look on his face.

Regulus opens his mouth to bite back, maybe fling a sarcastic comment but as he opens his mouth something completly diffrent comes out.

“It’s fine. Might as well do something nice” Regulus doesn't do... whatever this is. His tongue is sharp and his distaste for other humans very obvious.

Something, something about this man makes him want to be kind.

Regulus picks up his tablet tapping the drawing app. He shakes the odd feeling.

“Any vision ?” Nate shakes his head.

“prompts ?” Reg scrolls through his free concepts trying to picture each on Nate. They all seem not good enough.

While Reg grows increasingly more frustrated, Nate looks around the room. He carefully takes in every paper his brows raised. 

“A big fan i see” Regs head snaps up from the tablet and he sighs resigned when he sees Nate peering at the NF shrine.

“It started as one poster if you can believe it.” He joins Nate. 

“With time stuff got added” He tries to play it off as nothing big, while they are looking at a full on obsessed teen collage of NF. Regulus is increasingly aware that the speakers are playing the third NF song in a row.

“This one” Nate reaches, his fingers hovering over an old drawing. 

It’s a simple tattoo, three keys crossing in the middle, a black loop looking like a key ring for the three keys. It was inspired by one of the unfinished songs. Nate shared a photo of him writing in the studio with a notebook on his lap. Fans went crazy trying to decipher the scribbles. Finally they agreed that it said "I thought you had me in prison this whole time, but I'm the one holding the keys". 

Regulus really liked that line.

The drawing has suffered some water damage, the lines smeared but Reg thinks he can get it clean without much issue.

He takes a photo and sketches out a clean version, turning his tablet so Nate can watch.

“No, the water damage makes it better.”

Regulus pauses and compares the two.

He deletes the new sketch.

“Where would you like it?” Reg asks.

Nate's hand travels to his arm before he says it.

“I think on my arm here” Nate has an unreadable expression as he stares at the tattoo.

“okay”

While printing the stencil the memories finally fall into place. After confirming his suspicions, and grabbing the stencils, he goes back to his studio.

—

“ You're James Potter” Regulus connects his machine while giving the taller man a once over. He doesn’t look like the James from posters he secretly had hanging on the inside of his closet door a few years ago.

He’s older, his face lost the boyish charm and now reflects maturity with a strongly defined jaw. His eyes are darker too, resembling pools of blackness instead of caramel. His shoulders are broader and he stands firmer. 

James he knows from youtube videos always balanced on the balls of his feet ready to jump into action at any moment. 

This James is firmly grounded. His hair is less chaotic, cut into a mullet with the sides braided instead of shaved. 

Something else is bugging Reg but he can’t figure it out. 

Something he noticed before…

“ Nahh I don’t go by that name anymore.” Nate scratches the back of his neck.

“Call me Nate or Nataniel if you’re feeling fancy.” Regulus nods his head in understanding. He finishes setting up the gun and readies the ink on the serialized table.

“What about you?” Nate asks after settling down on the chair, his shirt rolled up as far as possible. Reg considers the placement.

“Take your shirt off” he orders. Nate raises his brows but does as he asks. Reg waits for the flirty comment all his clients make. 

Buy me dinner first. 

Second base already?

Nate stays quiet watching Regulus’ moves intensely. Like he’s sculpting The Statue Of David and not setting up for a tattoo.

“I’m Regulus.” he finally answers after the intensity of his gaze becomes too much for even Reg.

“ No last name?” As he pulls the shirt over his head Reg's eyes linger on two black armbands that start with fingerless gloves and finish at his elbows.

“ I don't go by that name anymore” Nate gives him a knowing smile. 

“Nice to meet you Regulus”

They stay mostly silent as Reg starts on the tattoo. 

Reg doesn’t like talking while tattooing and Nate seems to be content with the quiet. His fingers tap out the beat of the songs.

Reg pauses when “Remember this” comes on. It’s the song that made him a fan. It’s the song he relates to. It's the song he has tattooed.

Nate notices his pause.

“It’s a good song.” Reg raises his brows, and brings the tattoo gun back towards the skin.

“Good? It’s one of their best.”

“Really?” Nate sounds curious.

“ Yeah, I've never related to a song. It's like it was written about my life.” Reg doesn’t know why he’s telling this but he continues.

“ People change, even Satan used to be an angel” Reg quotes.

“My brother changed. He was my hero, everything to me. He was the reason I survived our parents. But then he changed. Met some people, learned some skills.” Reg snaps his mouth shut embarrassment heating his cheeks.

“I wrote that line about my best friend. He was my brother, you know. Then he just.. turned his back on me. Told some stories...” Nate extends a hand pulling Regulus out of his shame spiral.

“When I die, I wanna know that I lived for a reason 

Anyone can take your life, but not what you believe in, no” Regulus sighs.

“This just.. I became who I am today thanks to this. My friend loved quoting NF to me and this just stuck.” Reg smiles at the memory of Pandor’s sticky notes glued all around the apartment with positive quotes and NF lyrics. A strange mix but surprisingly effective.

“I’ll keep the meaning behind that line to myself for now if you don’t mind.”

Regulus hums his mind already thinking of new lines.

“Surround yourself with people that challenge how you think 

Not people that nod their head and act like they agree 

Those people that cut you open just to watch you bleed.” Nate suggests.

“My first visit in a ward was like that. People agreed with all my bullshit. They made everything worse, affirming me in my twisted way of thinking. Only Frank saw through my bull and literally beat some sense into me.” Regulus half listens to Nate, lost in his head. 

Memories of lyrics bringing him comfort in panic and finding understanding distract Regulus from Nates’ words. 

The song ends and Reg snaps out of his memories. 

A song he doesn’t recognise comes on and focuses on the tattoo once again. 

—

Nate and Barty left after a few hours. Barty's next appointment is scheduled in two days. When Reg heard that he looked at Pandora in disbelief. Evan is booked months in advance.

In response she started humming What the world needs now is love. 

After his 6p.m Regulus hangs up the two new tattoos on his wall. His gaze catches on the keys. 

Nate was odd. 

Talking as if he was the one writing NF songs.

He couldn’t have been NF, right? 

Right. 

Regulus shakes the ridiculous thought from his head.

NF are...They are one big secret wrapped in mystery with an additional layer of unknown and a sprinkling of top secret.

Nate is an open book. Regulus could always tell what Prongs was thinking, his expression always gave away what he was truly thinking. 

Regulus shakes his head once more, ridding himself of the lingering thought. 

He switches off the light in the studio and closes the door.

That night he dreamt of keys, rings, dark coffee eyes, tanned skin and soft curls.

Chapter Text

There’s an itch under James’ skin, a heaviness in his stomach, a low buzz in his ears.

He can’t shake it.

He tried everything.

Working out, loud music, fast driving, sleep.

He’s too wound up to sweat it out at the gym, the music is not loud enough, the car won’t drive as fast as he needs it to, sleep is unreachable.

He’s at the boxing ring more often than at home. 

His lyrics are never good enough. 

His sleeping pills don’t work.

I talk to my music like nobody's there 

Only person I judge is the one in the mirror 

And lately, he ain't doing well,

He hasn’t touched the alcohol he and Barty keep in the cabinet over the sink, tucked behind boxes of cereal. 

But he really, really wants to.

He’s spiraling and can’t stop.

The world is too loud: doors crash like gunshots, shoes thunder across pavement, laughter claws at his skin, light glares hard enough to blind, conversations are yelled straight into his ears.

His body vibrates with anxiety- his fingers, hands, legs all tremble.

James’ hands rake through his hair- adding to the chaos instead of smoothing it out. 

Energy spikes under his skin, searching for an out. 

He cracks his neck, knuckles.

Barty keeps flicking glances from the couch, a controller in hand, and it’s getting on his nerves.

He focuses on his notebook, ignoring Barty.

He slips one hand under the notebook to hide it as he makes a fist and digs his nails into his palm. 

The pain gives him momentary relief, energy flows out from the places where crescents form, but it quickly subsides until he presses deeper, harder.

He shifts on the chair, his leg bouncing up and down more and more erratically. 

He’s going to explode.

Or spontaneously combust. 

The energy buzzes like a live wire.

“I’m getting coffee.” James springs to his feet, upturning the chair he was sitting on in his haste.

“Nat-” Barty reaches for him but James raises his hand.

“Alone.” James doesn’t wait for Barty's response but grabs his jacket and keys, slamming the door shut behind him.

He’s flying down the nearly empty road, wind howling around his helmet. 

It’s past midnight, coffee shops are closed. 

Every bar is open.

He tries not to think about that.

Freezing air slices at the exposed skin on his neck. 

There’s a little, well hidden shop at the outskirts of the center. Nothing much, just a few chairs, a counter top, circular tables and a small loveseat stuffed in the corner. Artwork litters the walls as well as photos and colourful post it notes with messages scrawled on them in all handwritings, languages. Some have drawings instead of text. 

Close to the loveseat, already slightly hidden by new ones, is a post-it with the letters N&F on it. The letters are connected: N being written in full and just two thick horizontal bars to make the F.

Barty and James left it after their first song went viral. They’ve been going here for years- the coffee is cheap and the place is mostly deserted.

He stops abruptly, his tires screeching on the road. He parks and locks the bike.

He gets to the shop, a little bell rings as he steps in.

A tired barista barely looks up at the sound. 

Somebody new- James notes.

“Hello. Coffee. Black. Big cup. Please.” James isn’t really up for any small talk or pleasantries. The barista gives him an annoyed look and doesn’t move. 

James cracks his neck again, the energy coursing through his body at full force once again. 

“Please.” He prompts, leg bouncing uncontrollably. 

“It’s late, can't you just have coffee at home?”

James raises his brows, patience draining quickly. 

“Can I have a coffee, black in a big cup.” James repeats losing the last of his patience.

“Come on man, I don't wanna.” the young man whines. James considers walking out but his brain demands something right now. Coffee, alcohol, drugs, blood.

He doesn’t think Dr. Dumbledore would be interested in any excuses before signing the papers for another month in the hospital.

“I’d really like that coffee if you don’t mind.” His voice leaves no room for argument and the teen glares daggers. 

He turns towards the coffee machine and James sits in the loveseat pulling out the notebook and finding the last page. All the lines that he wrote are scribbled out. He taps his pen against the page trying to focus, channel his energy.

The bang of the cup hitting the table startles him and he looks up at the teen.

“I spat in it. Enjoy.” 

James opens his mouth, rage, disbelief, something sharp rising, but the bell over the door rings distracting them both.

He goes back to the counter and James focuses on the notebook once more.

As seconds tick by, the buzzing in his head grows louder. 

Unstoppable. Determined to drive him insane.

His fingers find the necklace tucked under his shirt. He traces the outline of the blade. Familiar, solid, grounding.

He glances up searching for anything to distract him from the explosive force building in his very cells.

The buzzing stutters, hesitates…and then quiets as James’ eyes slide over soft black curls, fair skin and a cute little nose. He has stared at this profile for long enough to recognise it almost instantly. 

His lungs expanded fully, for the first time in a week.

Regulus feels like a fresh breath of air after being suffocated by a pillow.

The black haired man is talking with the teen, an annoyed look on his face. 

“I just want a black coffee and syrup. You look like somebody who is capable of performing such a simple task. I’m not asking for much.”

“Jesus it’s bad enough the other guy wanted something, now you too.” The teen whiny voice grates on James’ nerves.

Regulus glances sideways, his hard expression melting ever so slightly as he recognises James.

James raises his hand in a small wave.

“Just make my coffee.” Regulus sighs.

“God, why are you even here it’s literally midnight-” Regulus crosses his arms and stares. One of his brows arch up and he tilts his head to the side. 

The teen continues on his rant and Regulus simply waits, perfect brow arched.

The teen finally takes notice of Reg's expression and stops mouth open. He snaps it shut and turns to make the coffee. 

Regulus hesitates and James jumps at the chance. He points to the empty chair next to his and raises his eyebrow in question.

The younger man sinks into the seat, a tired breath leaving him.

James’ mind stills, focusing, thoughts slow down to a manageable pace. 

He hears the music quietly playing- an old Marauders song from the time he was in the band. His heart stutters before calming down, beating at a steady rhythm. He hates that the Marauders still have a grip over him.

For a second, as they wait for the coffee in silence, time James forgets how to breathe. 

Here in the low light of fairylights Regulus looks ethereal.

Warm light makes his cheekbones glow, soft curls fall across his forehead. His eyes inspired the creation of stormy clouds and the colour of mercury. 

“So” Regulus angles slightly towards him, the coffee mug finally in between his hands, “long day?”

James lets out a breathless laugh. That’s an understatement,

“Long..month. Year. Multiple of those. Time’s fake.”

Regulus’ mouth twitches.

“Difficult to argue”

“It’s been,” James gestures towards his head, “a lot. Brain noise. Too much caffeine. Too many thoughts. Not enough actual thinking.”

“That’s…contradictory.”

“Oh, absolutely” James’ eyes twinkle as he leans in as if sharing a secret with the other man, “My brain is very advanced. Like a hamster on an elliptical.”

Regulus actually laughs- surprising both men- and James’ heart does a little tumbling routine.

They fall into a soft silence as each take a sip of their coffee. It’s not quite comfortable but gentle in a way James hadn’t experienced in weeks.

Finally Regulus tilts his head. “Why come here? At midnight with… all that." He gestures vaguely at James’ whole vibe.

James shrugs eyes on his notebook where he has been drawing swirls. “My roommate is hovering making everything worse. He means well but… it was either leave or start digging a hole in our neighbours vegetable patch. Didn’t really want to be alone though.” he winces.

“That was very honest, sorry”

“I like honesty,” Regulus replies, voice low.

“I grew up around people who waved lies better than spiders make webs. Honesty is.. refreshing.”

“Oh,” James’ leg starts twitching, but in a controlled manner, the energy in his body stirring slightly. “Well. in that case you’ve just made a life long subscription to unfiltered Nate.” 

“Thoughts sold separately and currently out of stock.”

“I think there's at least one thought in the subscription.” Regulus' eyes creased as he smiled. Not for the first time that night James’ breath catches in his throat. 

“Stick around, I might surprise you.” James’ say faster than he thinks. 

Before he can play off his low self esteem as a joke Regulus replies:

“I think I will.”

There’s another quiet beat.

Warm. 

Understanding. 

“What are the odds that we both come to the same coffee shop at the same time?” Regulus whispers, unwilling to break the silence.

“Quite high, I have chronic insomnia and an unhealthy caffeine addiction.” James whispers back to match Regulus' soft voice.

They fall quiet once again, one of Nate’s songs filling the silence. Each tap their fingers to the beat.

Paralyzed from the Mansion album. A bit of a downer in James’ opinion. 

Regulus pulls out his phone to check what caused the buzz and James notices the case. A painting of a huge fluffy black cat being hugged by the blond haired girl in the tattoo shop- Pandora is her name he thinks.

As Regulus places the phone back inside his pocket James leans back twirling his pen between his fingers.

“Is that your friend's cat? Pandora?” 

Regulus frowns and James nods his head at the coat pocket where the phone is.

“Oh no she’s mine. Vanta.” 

“Huh,” James nods. A black cat suits Regulus perfectly.

“What does that mean?” Regulus asks with a smile.

James grins. “Just, it suits you to have a chaotic little overlord living with you. One of those cats that makes everyone else feel like they’re the guest in its house.”

“That’s surprisingly accurate," Regulus pulls out his phone once more, pulling up pictures of the blackness with yellow eyes.

James swipes through the photos and freezes as a picture of Vanta snuggling into Regulus’ face appears on the screen.

The scene is so adorable it makes James’ heart clench.

“Awww” James makes a pouty face as he turns the phone to Regulus. The man rolls his eyes but James swears he can see a soft blush creep across sharp cheek bones.

Regulus sets his phone down, and for a long moment neither speaks.

James traces the rim of his coffee mug with his finger, watching the light catch the steam. “Vanta… sounds like trouble,” he says quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Regulus tilts his head, expression softening. “She is. But she has good taste.”

James laughs, a short, genuine sound that feels like it could fill the quiet corners of the shop. He’s relaxed, leaning back in the chair, legs still twitching but slower now, energy easing.

Curiosity finally breaks his calm. “But… Why are you here? At this hour?” His voice is gentle, not accusatory—just curious.

Regulus shrugs, a faint smile on his lips. “Some nights you just… need to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere that feels like it isn’t trying to hurt you.”

James nods, understanding more than he lets on. “I get that,” he murmurs, lifting his cup. “Here’s to insomnia, caffeine, and chaotic black cats.”

Regulus clinks his mug lightly against James’. “And to find calm in the chaos,” he replies, voice low, almost a murmur.

James lets the words sink in. For the first time, the buzzing under his skin quiets almost completely. He still has the notebook, the pen, the restless energy—but sitting here, next to Regulus, everything feels… manageable.

He glances at Regulus again, and for a moment is struck by how effortless he looks—soft curls falling just right, cheekbones catching the light. “You make calm… look easy,” James admits softly, a blush creeping into his cheeks.

Regulus’ lips twitch in a near-smile, but James doesn’t need anything more. Just being here, near him, is enough.

“The name,” Regulus, adds as an afterthought, “Vanta… it’s short for Vantablack. A substance that absorbs 99% of light. The blackest black there is.”

James smiles. “Fitting. Sounds like chaos with style,” he says softly, glancing up again at Regulus. He feels a rare, steady warmth in his chest, and—against all odds—completely comfortable here.

The energy buzzing under James’ skin softens until it’s almost gone — barely a thin hum instead of a storm.

He doesn’t even realize how much time has passed until Regulus checks his phone and sighs. “I should head home before Vanta stages a coup.”

“Right,” James says, even though he doesn’t want this to end. “Important to keep the overlord happy.”

Regulus stands, slipping his phone into his pocket, smoothing his sweater. “You should try to sleep, Nate.”

“I will.”
He probably won’t. But he wants to.

Regulus gives him a small, tired, but real smile before heading to the door. The bell jingles softly as he leaves. James watches him disappear into the night until the sound fades.

And for the first time in days… the buzzing doesn’t immediately come back.

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James stumbles into apartment somewhere between exhausted and exhiirated, still warm from the café lights and the ghost of Regulus’ smile.

He peels off his jacket, kicks his boots into a wall, drops face-first onto his bed.

His phone buzzes.

A tiny part of him stupidly hopes it’s Regulus.

It isn’t.

It’s a link from Barty. No context.

James sighs and taps it open.

A gossip article loads — loud headline, louder font.

SIRIUS BLACK SLAMS “MEDIOCRE NF,” CALLS THEM “INAUTHENTIC.”

James sits up so fast his vision tilts.

He scrolls. Presses play.

Sirius lounges on a studio couch, boots up on the coffee table like the world belongs to him. Peter sits beside him, practically vibrating with smug energy. Remus is on the far end — posture stiff, hands clasped, eyes trained on some invisible point in the distance.

The interviewer asks something James can’t hear over the sudden rush in his ears, but Sirius’ reply lands sharp.

“Look—NF? They’re trying way too hard. All ‘I’m dark, I’m deep.’ It’s theatrical. Manufactured.”

Peter snorts, leaning forward. “Come on, man, say it properly. Tell them what you told us backstage.”

Sirius grins, indulging him.

“Fine. They’re mediocre. Overrated. And everyone pretending they’re profound just wants to feel edgy. Inauthentic” Sirius waves his hand dismissively. 

James lets out a rough laugh, sharp and humorless.

NF isn’t authentic?
Sirius Black — Sirius — has the audacity to talk about real?

The sour taste climbs the back of his throat.

He tosses the phone aside, shutting his eyes—but the words chase him into the dark.

Show me an artist you wanna compare me with
Put us both on a track, I’ma bury ’em

James exhales through his teeth, the anger finally smothering the last of his earlier calm.

“Fuck you, Sirius,” he mutters into the dark.

Give me the shovel, it’s ’bout to get scarier

James retreats his phone and hits play once more.

Peter laughs, delighted.
Remus does not.

He looks at Sirius with this quiet disappointment that says he’s exhausted by this routine — by Sirius needing to sound clever at someone else’s expense.

The interviewer, sensing the dynamic, pivots.

“Remus,” she says, leaning slightly forward, “you seem to have a different opinion than your boyfriend. Care to comment?”

Sirius stiffens instantly.
Peter looks nervously between the two.

Remus scoffs — not amused, not shy, just… done.

“I can’t have a different opinion than Sirius?” He crosses his arms.

The interviewer blinks. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Remus cuts in gently, tired. “And yes. I think NF’s music is beautiful.”

Sirius jerks slightly, like the words sting.

Remus continues, voice even but weighted.

“They hit on a completely different level. They remind me of somebody I knew. There’s an honesty in their work — raw, unfiltered, connected to their fans in a way that’s rare.”

Sirius’ jaw flexes. The interviewers eyes glitter with the drama.

Remus keeps going.

“I read the Rita article with their interview. It was fascinating to learn about their creative process. I’m actually considering getting a ticket.” He adds matter of fact.

Peter sputters. “A ticket? For them?” Sirius’ face steadily grows redder.

“But- but..” Peter searching for anything to say „NF songs sound the same.”

Sirius doesn’t hesitate.

“They do,” he says instantly. “Same whining. Same faux-intensity. It’s boring.”

Remus shrugs, sending a pointed, deliberate look at Sirius.

“Just because some people can’t appreciate their sound doesn’t make it bad.”

Sirius goes rigid — fuming, unsure which part of Remus’ comment he’s more irritated by: the disagreement or the lack of loyalty.

James pauses the video right as Sirius forces out a brittle laugh.

His hand trembles.

On impulse — pure instinct, no thought, no caution — James pulls up the tour site and buys a ticket.

Then he sends it directly to Remus’ DMs.

N_thereal
How did you know?

He stares at the message for three seconds, already regretting it.

But Remus responds shockingly fast.

Moony_wolf
Because you’re still you.
A bit darker, a bit more wounded…
life hasn’t been kind.
But you’re still James.

James swallows hard.

N_thereal

Does Sirius know?

Moony_wolf

Nah

N_thereal

Then why does he hate us?

Moony_wolf

Are you for real? 

James you’re topping the charts, you’re becoming our biggest rival for awards, you have reached our level of fame in half the time it took us.

His reply is smaller.

N_thereal
I go by Nate now.

A pause.

Then-

Moony_wolf

Nate, then.
We should… talk. Properly.
Maybe meet up before the show.
Nothing big. Just… talk.

James’ heart thunders.
His fingers hover, then type back:

N_thereal
Yeah. I’d like that.

He locks his phone before he can spiral.

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James is wandering through the late afternoon crowd at a small arts market downtown, earbuds in, half-listening to music and half-lost in his own thoughts. 

The market is loud, with people screaming, talking, laughing. They keep bumping into him jostling him around like a rag doll. 

James does NOT like that.

His skin is covered with a thick layer of slime that spreads with each skin to skin contact he makes with the crowd.

He doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing here. His mother sent him a pin with the location and asked to meet him there.

Still distracted, he slides his gaze over the crowd..

His eyes catch a familiar figure at a booth tucked between a jewelry stand and a display of hand-painted pottery. Regulus, casually leaning on the counter, inspecting a set of paints with a careful eye.

James freezes for a split second, heart kicking. 

Of course it’s Regulus. Of course he’s exactly as composed and effortlessly stylish as the photos on his Instagram made him look. And James has, embarrassingly, been checking those photos more often than he’d like to admit.

Clearing his throat, James steps closer. “Hey… fancy seeing you here.”

Regulus glances up, expression neutral for a heartbeat before softening at the recognition. 

“Nate. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

James smiles, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to fidget too much. “Yeah, um… well, I was in the area. Meeting my Mamà somewhere…there” he gestures to the mass of people.

Regulus tilts his head slightly, curious but calm. “Life can be chaotic. And you always choose the most interesting times to pop up.”

James chuckles. “What can I say? I like finding interesting people.” He gestures vaguely at Regulus. 

Regulus arches a brow, lips twitching in amusement. “Oh?”

James shrugs, unwilling to continue this line of questioning. 

“Do you have a booth here?” James asks curiously, remembering that TheMadHatter usually sets up at artistic events like this.

“Yeah it’s somewhere behind us.” Regulus picks up a different set of colours, his words trailing off as he gets lost in his own thoughts.

James takes advantage of the silence to look at him, which has quickly made its way up the list of his hobbies.

He’s wearing a soft dark green slightly oversized sweater tucked into dress pants and a pair of pristinely shined loafers. 

His curls fall over his eyes, indicating it’s time for a haircut. 

Rings glint in his ears, most of them being star themed. His eyes are the colour of volcano ash. 

He bites his lower lip, focused and James zeros in on the movement.

“Why do you ask?” Regulus snaps James out of his daydreaming.

“I just want to appreciate your work. And you're calm.” James grins, and his usual jitteriness is softened, tempered by the ease he feels around Regulus.

There’s a pause. Regulus glances at the tattoos on James’ exposed arm—the ones he did. “So… you’re back for more?”

James opens his mouth but is stopped by the sharp ring of his phone's ringtone. He glances at the screen and excuses himself.

“Sorry it’s my mum, I need to get this.” Regulus nods and  redirects his attention to the paints on display.

“Hola Mamá.”

“Hello mi amor, where are you?” 

“Ehh” James glances around.

“At a paint stand?”

“Hijo there’s like ten of those.” Effy tells him gently.

“I don’t know what to tell you mum.” James sighs his patience has already been stretched thin by the crowd and he doesn’t enjoy the vision of pushing through the mass of people to search for his mum.

“Are you okay?” She asks concerned as she picks up on his discomfort.

“Si Mamá just a lot of people.” James starts picking at a thread on the cloth that lays on the table in front of him.

“We can go somewher-”

“Just tell me where you are so I can find you” James cuts her off, janking on the loose thread hard.

Beside him Regulus glances over taking in the damage he’s doing to the table cloth. He pries James’ hand away and loosely grips his wrist letting his thumb draw circles over the material of the armbands. 

James inhales sharply fully expecting the contact to send him over the edge but instead it has a calming effect.

He looks up surprised and finds that Regulus' attention is back on the paints.

James clears his throat and manages to catch the last part of his Mums sentence.

“-you. Near the jewelry ? there's a black haired man next to you?” James whips his head around searching for her, Regulus focusing back on him. They both notice each other at the same time. With a warm smile Effy picks her way through the crowd until she’s at the booth. 

“Perdón, I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Regulus shakes his head with a small, polite smile. “Not at all. I was… preventing your son from dismantling this tablecloth.”

James groans. “Mamá, don’t listen to him.”

Effy glances at James’ hand still in Regulus’ loose hold, then gently pats Regulus’ arm. “Thank you. He’s always done that when he’s nervous.”

Regulus’s brows lift slightly, but his voice stays soft. “Noted.”

“I’m Effy, you must be Regulus. James keeps talking about you dear.”

James turns bright red. Regulus raises a brow.

“Only good things i hope.”

“Oh yes mijo.”

Effy nods at Regulus with the kind of assessing warmth only mothers possess.
“You have very gentle hands.”

James nearly combusts on the spot.

Regulus blinks, cheeks faintly pink. “I… try?”

Effy smiles. “Good. My son needs gentle people.”

“Mamá!” James hisses. “Por favor, no te entrometas.”

Regulus glances at James, then back at Effy. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

Effy slips her hand around James’ forearm, grounding in a way only she can. 

Regulus releases him slowly—like he’s making sure James is actually steady before he lets go. He steps back a half-pace, polite, giving them space… but he doesn’t leave. His eyes stay on James, quietly tracking him, as if prepared to step in again if the room swells in too close.

Effy notices. Of course she notices. She gives James a soft, knowing little smile that makes him want to sink through the floorboards.
Mamá, please don’t—

But she says nothing. Just squeezes his arm and murmurs, “Let’s take a breath, cariño.”

James inhales. The market is still loud, still packed, still too much—
but the pressure isn’t crushing the way it was a minute ago.
Not with Regulus hovering at the edge of his vision like a fixed point in a spinning world.

He swallows, steadier now. Effy guides him toward the quieter edge of the crowd, and when James glances back, Regulus is still there—hands clasped behind his back, pretending he isn’t watching him go. But he is.

And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.

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Later that evening, after having tea with his mum, James collapses onto his bed without even turning on the lights.
His leg starts bouncing but the usual panic-shake hasn’t come back yet.
He blames Regulus for that.
Or thanks him. He hasn’t decided.

His phone lights up.

No messages.

He unlocks it anyway.

His thumbs hover over Regulus’ contact — technically saved as Regulus (Tattoo), but his brain keeps reading it as Estrella. 

He managed to bribe Pandora to give him Regulus private number using chocolates and a pottery making course.

There's just a few messages between them. James asking if Regulus will be at the coffee shop, Reg sending James a few pictures of Vanta, a date for the next tattoo. 

He types Hey, thanks again for earlier

Deletes it.

Types Did you ever pick a paint set?

Deletes it.

nice seeing you today

Deletes it faster than the others.

His leg starts bouncing, the jittery energy building again under his skin.
He rubs at his arms, trying to scrape the feeling away, but all it does is make him think about Regulus’ hand holding his wrist earlier, warm and grounding.

The memory hits harder than he expects.

He flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

James sighs, shoves the phone under his pillow, and tries very hard not to think about ash-grey eyes and star-shaped earrings.

He fails completely.

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Later that week, James goes out for a run.

Him and Barty have been walking around each other on tiptoes, both unusually stiff. Barty refuses to tell James what is going on but James suspects it has something to do with his unfinished tattoo.

At the same time James can’t explain why he’s so worked up and why only Regulus seems to be able to calm the energy.

James runs through the streets of San Francisco, his feet thundering on the pavement at the brutal pace he’s set.

He needs to burn off the sticky, humming pressure coiling in his nerves. 

Music blares into his ears on a loop—the newest track Barty prepared for their last song in Therapy Session. 

He recites the lyrics over and over, twisting them in his head, trying different emphases, small changes, rhythms, searching for the spark that feels right.

His Mamá thinks he needs a break. She says he’s too obsessed.

Mansion was a glimpse of my life, I let you see what it's like to be in my head
People ask me what I think I think I'd be doing, if it wasn't music,
I'd rather be dead, ah!

The words echo in his head, and James comes to a full stop, breathing heavily. He pulls out his phone, types the lines into his Notes app, then deletes them and retypes, muttering under his breath. Nothing else exists except the lines and the pulse of the music.

They ask me if I'm gonna kill it this record, I laugh in their face and I ask, "Um, do you see the blood on the floors?"

He resumes the run, faster now, letting the rhythm carry him. Muscles burn, lungs scream, but the words come to him like breathing. 

He twists a lyric, tests the flow out loud under the pounding of his feet, ignoring the sharp ache in his calves and the rough patches of pavement. Every step, every breath is consumed by the song.

I know some people don't get it, but you have now entered a therapy session 

If you don't like music that's personal, I have no clue what you people are doing here, might as well throw out the record

His muscles burn, lungs screem for air but he pushes through the words coming to him easier than ever.

You call it music, I call her my therapist 

She keep on telling me I have been carrying 

Way too much baggage, I need to take care of it 

I know she's right, but, man, it's embarrassing

He stops. 

I'm sorry, but I gotta leave, I don't wanna be late for my therapy session, ah

He’s sweating profusely, his hair dripping and his T-shirt soaked through. 

The song is finished.

He glances around breathing heavily taking in his surroundings and pauses.

Somehow — somehow — he ended up at the MadHatter.

The sun has set a while ago and street laps illuminate the huge sign. The dark makes the pink walls and door look menacing the swirls make his head hurt.

The shop windows glow gold from the inside.

A single figure sits by the hug circular window, the light dampened by vines that look like claws from the outside.

Regulus is sitting on the tall rolling stool, one leg tucked up against his chest, sketchbook propped on his knee.
He’s got one earbud in, curls falling over his face again, completely absorbed in whatever he’s drawing.

James stares.

He only means to glance for a second, but the scene pulls him in — the quiet, the concentration, the way Regulus’ eyebrows pinch slightly when he’s focused.

He looks calmer than anyone has the right to be on a weeknight.

James rests his forehead against a lamppost.

“I’m not— I’m not stalking him,” he mutters hitting his head on the metal a few times.

But he doesn’t leave.

Not for a whole minute.

his eyes drink in the picture of Regulus like a thirsty man drinks water after days on the desert.

He’s insatiable, everything about Regulus pulls him in, traps him in a cage of hope for something that couldn’t be.

It’s only when Regulus shifts, stretching his neck, that James snaps upright and bolts down the sidewalk, heart hammering faster than it had during his run.

He tells himself he’s not embarrassed.

The heat in his cheeks suggests otherwise.

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Later in the week, James is freshly showered, sprawled on the couch, scrolling mindlessly — or trying to.
Everything feels too loud inside his head.

Instagram refreshes.

At the top of his feed:
 r.a.rosier posted a photo.

It’s Vanta.

Sprawled dramatically across Regulus’ chest, one paw pressed to his chin like she’s claiming him.
Regulus looks soft in the picture — his sweater half-off one shoulder, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded in the way of someone who is seconds from falling asleep but refuses to move because the cat is comfortable.

James forgets to breathe.

He zooms in.
Not on the cat.

He stares at the photo so long that his screen dims.

He types a DM:

she’s so cute :)

Deletes it.

Types you look good
NO WAIT THE CAT I MEAN THE—

Panics.
Deletes everything.

Then he throws his phone across the couch and drags both hands down his face.

This is getting stupid.

He can’t keep doing this — liking photos in silence, circling the tattoo shop like an anxious pigeon, replaying the moment Regulus held his wrist at the market.

He needs… something.

Closure?
A conversation?

Or—
maybe he just needs to see Regulus again.

In person.

Not behind a window.
Not on a screen.

The thought settles into him slowly, warm and terrifying.

He swallows.

“Okay?” he whispers to himself, asking himself something. What ? He’s still unsure.

”Okay.” The answers comes to him like it’s the most obvious thing ever. His shoulders set in determination.

He pulls up Pandoras’ profile on instagram and send her a DM.

Nataniel

Hey can you tell me what time Regulus finishes next week? There’s chocolates in it for you…

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James, at heart, is a romantic. 

He loves all those cheesy moves like flowers, chocolates, dinner and a movie.

He watches all the newest rom-coms and finds comfort in older ones.

His favourite is 10 things I hate about you. When Barty found out, he teased James mercilessly until James forced him to watch it. Now they have a rom-com night once a week.

It’s that love for romance that drives him to stand before the MadHatter leaning on his car, two coffees in hand. 

Time moves slowly as he waits for 8 p.m. 

His leg starts jumping up and down as the digits on his watch ever so slowly change from 7:58 to 7:59.

James shakes as tension seeps into his shoulders. 

The familiar feeling of acid eating his insides coils tighter and tighter, a hot, merciless knot that makes him wonder if this was a mistake—if showing up was a mistake.

The lamp above his head buzzes loudly, with an uneven sound.

He can hear his heartbeat echoing inside his skull. Loudly.

The coffees shake in his hands, as his leg starts shaking harder.

Anxiety bubbles up his throat, choking him.

This was a mistake.

Why would Regulus go out with him?

Regulus will turn his back, leave him.

A car roars by.

A door slams, making James jump, spilling boiling coffee on his fingers.

He curses, places the cups on the hood of the car, shaking his hand.

Someone on the other side of the street laughed, the sound stabbing his brain.

His heart pounds, boots scuff on the ground, keys jingle.

James digs his nails into his palm, hoping pain will snap him out.

But it doesn’t help.

The panic only climbs higher, slick and cold, whispering that he’s pathetic for standing here like some abandoned extra in his own love story.
He takes deep, slow, calm breaths- forcing the air to stay longer in his lungs, his chest to expand fully.
What if Regulus took one look at him—red-eyed, sweating, shaking—and decided he wasn’t worth the trouble?
What if James had just imagined the possibility of something good?

He breathes through his nose. 

The acid finishes chewing through his stomach and climbs higher, burning up into his chest.

The street tilts for a second, a slow, nauseating sway that makes him grip the hood of the car.
 People walk past him and don’t look twice.

You’re the kind of guy people leave, a voice whispers.

You make things too loud. Too much. Too impossible.

A door closes somewhere behind him, the quiet click deafening him.

Footsteps crunch on gravel.
James squeezes his eyes shut, tense enough to snap, certain it’s someone coming to tell him he’s in the way.

“-te?” a distorted voice breaks through his panic.

“-ate?” he tries to snap back, but anxiety’s grip is too tight.

“Nate?” a warm, hesitant hand lands on his shoulder, turning him around slowly.

“Hey” 

James blinks a few times.

Regulus’ face finally comes into focus as panic leaves him- as suddenly as rain stops when you step under an umbrella.

“Hi”

“Are you okay?” Regulus asks gently.

“Yeah.” James sniffs, cleaning his throat.

Regulus peers at James for a moment and James holds his breath. 

For whatever reason Regulus doesn’t comment.

“What are you doing here?”

James turns towards the hood of the car to grab the coffees using the extra time to compose himself. His fingers shake as he grabs the cups. 

He breathes again.

“Oh..ehm…. I was in the neighborhood and saw a coffee shop..” Regulus raises his brow.

James just now realises how stupid his excuse sounds.

His cheeks heat up.

“Ekhm..” he struggles to find something to say.

“Black coffee, vanilla syrup?” he finally asks desperately.

Regulus’s mouth twitches into an almost smile.
“That is what I drink,” he says slowly..

James nods too fast. “Right. Yeah. I remembered. From the café. That one time. When you yelled at the barista because—well—not yelled, but you did that eyebrow thing and—”
He’s rambling.
He can hear himself rambling.
He cannot stop rambling.

Regulus finally puts him out of his misery by taking one of the cups from his shaking hand.
His fingers brush James’s knuckles—deliberately, gently—and the world steadies.

“So…” Regulus steps closer, voice softer now. “You came all the way out here… in the neighborhood… at exactly eight… just to give me coffee?”

“...maybe?” James gulps.

Regulus hums. “Liar.”

James’s dead. Deceased. Gone. Six feet deep.

“A cute liar. But still a liar.” 

Did Regulus say he’s cute?

He takes a sip, and James watches him with surgical intensity, cataloguing every micro-expression.

Reg makes a small pleased noise and James relaxes.

“So…” Regulus looks at him over the cup.

“So..? Right! Why am I here? Besides the coffee. Obviously.” James rambles again, turning to the car once again.

The coffee sloshes in his cup.

He freezes, thoughts ricocheting wildly, his mind splintering into a dozen tasks all clamoring for priority. 

Coffee, flowers, date, where are his car keys? 

His pocket jingles—loose change, not keys.

Did he pay his gym membership? He should check. 

Where is his phone? Still connected to the speaker inside his car... 

it's real music 'til the day we die, right?

Yeah, ain't that the slogan, Nataniel?

That is a great line. 

He needs to write it down.

His hands are full.

Right. Regulus…the date.

Gentle hands slowly pry the coffee cup from his hands.

“Go on, you wanted something from your car right?” Regulus prompts gently.

James wipes his hands on his pants before digging into the mess in his backseat. 

He finally finds what he’s looking for, straightens it up slightly then pivots, keeping it hidden behind his back.

“Okay you remember when you were doing my tattoo, of course you do. It’s hard for you to forget that.. Or maybe you did. I mean you probably make so many you forget.. It’s.. eh.. the key one?” James tries to roll his sleeve up without using his hands. 

Regulus steps closer, stopping him.

“I remember it,” Regulus says, stepping just a little closer. “I remember you, Nate.”

James swears—swears—he hears something heavier on the word.

He smiles nervously.

“Yeah okay… so I saw your bookshelf and noticed you were missing the final book in the series and… I wanted to do something nice for you…”
 He clears his throat.
 “…I went to like—every bookstore. Do you know how many bookstores there are here? 247. Which is a weird number, right? 250 would be cleaner or even 300, though actually 3 is my favo—”

James cuts himself off.

Regulus watches him, calm and patient.

Get to the point, James. God, you’re annoying.

James thrusts the gift forward—then freezes when he realizes Regulus’s hands are full.

Regulus gently sets the coffees on the hood and takes the gift.

A book wrapped with black flowers, paper, baby’s breath, ribbons—a small bouquet.

Regulus checks the title: 

Crime and Punishment. Fyodor Dostoevsky

Limited edition. 

The last of the original copies sold only at highclass bidding events.

“How? What ? why?” Regulus can’t comprehend what he’s looking at. 

He sounds breathless.

He gently runs his fingers over the old beat up, priceless, cover.

“I’m actually not sure about the ‘how’” James scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick.

“I kinda…went down a rabbit hole and then just had it..”

“As to why… well it was the only one missing in your collection. And it seemed like something important. I can totally take it back if you don’t like it.” James starts backpedaling suddenly aware that it could be completely inappropriate.

“It’s weird right? I’m sorry I-”

“Nate. it’s okay” Regulus reaches out for James with one hand.

“This is just…” He looks back at the book in awe. 

“It’s just-”

“Before you continue I want to ask you something.” James raises his hands. 

“I wasn’t just in the neighborhood I came to find you because I wanted to ask..” James clears his throat tapping his fingers in an erratic rhythm, trying to soothe himself.

“- would you, possibly, consider going out with me? Like on a date. Together. Me and you.”

James finally said it. 

The words are out. 

James doesn’t feel any less nervous.

He waits.

Time stretches. 

James starts fidgeting.

Regulus is silent.

“I don’t usually talk like this. This much.” James swallows, unable to handle the silence.

Regulus inhales slowly, clutching the book a little tighter like it’s something fragile and sacred.

“Nate,” he says, barely above a whisper. He takes a deep breath.

“Nate,” he says slowly, “you just crossed the city, hunted down a book that is impossible to find, wrapped it like a florist with OCD, and then asked me if I’d consider going out with you.”

“When people say impossible they usually mean improbable…” He tries weakly.

Regulus stares at him for a moment—long enough that James nearly combusts.

Then Regulus smiles, wide dimpled, lovely- encantador. 

“I’m not laughing because I’m judging you,” Regulus continues, stepping closer until their shoes almost touch. “I’m smiling because no one… no one has ever done something like this for me.”

His eyes lift, steady and sure.

“Yes. I want to go out with you.”

James blinks. “You—really? Even after all that rambling and the—”

Regulus interrupts by gently tapping James’s wrist.

“I like the way you think.”
A smile.
“I like you. The answer is yes.”

Chapter Text

One month later

The air backstage hums with tension and a feeling of urgency. The stage lights are dimmed, not
yet ready for the concert. Staff’s shouting orders at each other, rushing to finish preparations.

James’ room door is cracked open as he slips into his outfit for the concert - a black short sleeved muscle shirt, loose cargo pants decorated with chains, heavy boots and a cap that covers his face, hiding it in shadows.

He clasps the little necklace with a star - a good luck charm from Regulus.
His hands are shaking with the pre concert jitters.

There’s a knock on his door and one of the security guards, Marlene, pokes her head in.
„Somebody’s here for you.” After he nods she steps aside letting the guest in.
Remus.

He looks more tired than James remembers. His sweater hangs even looser on his shoulders
than it did five years ago. His face is now hollowed out, eyes dimmed with pain. His scars seem harsher and look as if they were fresh even though James knows they’ve been there for a long time. His hair looks more grey than brown and he’s leaning heavily on a cane.

„Remus”
„Nate” they stare at each other awkwardly, five years of minimal contact had a big effect on
their relationship. James points to the couch raising his brows.
Remus gratefully sinks onto the soft cushions.
„You look good” Remus breaks the extremely uncomfortable silence with an even more
awkward comment.
„Thanks... you look..-” James trails off taking in Remus’ rough looks.
”You look like shit” Remus chuckles.
“Direct as always.” James shrugs at the comment.
“ If I wouldn't say it to your face… I wouldn't say it in private.” Remus chuckles, settling back in a more comfortable position.
“Life’s been... complicated lately.” Remus scratches the scar on his face, something he does
when he’s stressed.
James swallows, unsure what to say.
“Do you want anything?” James asks, opening the mini fridge in the corner of the room. The
shelves are stocked with drinks and food.
”Some whisky would be perfect”
James winces.
”I’m sober. I can make you a virgin whisky coke.” He offers, taking two cans and closing the
door.
”That works too” Remus accepts the drink.
”How are you doing? Before going on stage.” Remus asks, opening the can with a loud pop.
James exhales, drops into a chair.
”Honestly I’m terrified.” He tosses the can between his hands, the cold soothing his nerves
slightly.

“I’ve performed before obviously but-” James searches for the right words and Remus waits
patiently.

I’m trying to deal with the pressure.

”Behind the drums, hidden in the back. Never like this. Never singing front and centre. Never
so... exposed.” James leans back, readjusting his hat so Remus can see his face.
The other man extends his hand, hovering it above James’ arm unsure if he’s still allowed to
touch.
James hesitates but leans in.
Remus’s scarred fingers wrap around his armbands.
”You don’t have to be perfect Nate. You never had to be.. I’m sorry you-” Remus’ voice is low,
filled with past regrets. He tried to ease pressure on Prongs, talk to Sirius about the spiralling,
the alcohol, the depression.
At the end he didn’t push hard enough, but James knows he did his best. 
Remus tried.
„Don’t apologise” James places a hand on top of Remus’. They sit in silence, years of friendship slowly melting the awkwardness.
Slowly memories of late night talks, hugs and love fill the room, settling over them like a warm
blanket.
”You are enough. Be yourself, be Nate, be James, be NF. Be everything.” Remus says after a few minutes, and somehow that's just what James needed.
„I- thank you” James swallows, the nervous energy subsiding just enough for James to breathe.
”Always” His expression is calm, understanding- the kind that only comes from knowing each
other for years.

They spend the rest of the time talking in the new comfortable space.
”How did he not know?!” Remus laughs as James explains how Regulus denied him being NF
for months.
„I really don’t know! I’ve been dropping hints so aggressively.” James lounges on the chair
relaxed momentarily forgetting about the crowd gathering in the arena past his room backstage.
”He finally figured it out when we dropped the final song „Intro 2” and I had my tattoo out!”
James chuckles remembering the stream of texts he got after dropping the song.
Regulus was both angry and shocked at the revolution. He demanded an explanation and then
told James he’s going to die of embarrassment right now because NF saw his shrine.
The horror was so strong James thought Regulus wouldn’t talk to him ever again. He nearly
had to camp out at his door because Regulus refused to let him in.
“Reggy was so mad,” James laughed, shaking his head.
”Reggy huh..”
”Yeah he’s..” James sighs, a warm feeling spreading through him.
”He’s amazing. You know yesterday he surprised me with a dinner date. He cooked this weird
but delicious French dish and set up some candles and told me to get all dressed up. It was
amazing. He asked me to be his boyfriend. Like officially, it was so sweet.” James smiles softly.
”He sounds amazing,” Remus says.
James opens his mouth wanting to ask Remus about his life, but a knock at the door stops him. He quickly pulls the hat over his eyes and calls for the person to come in.

”Ten minutes!” Dorcas, the stage manager, pokes her head in, and just as quickly rushes to
manage a task in a different part of the stage.
”I’ll see you out there” Remus stands up slowly working the stiffness from his limbs.
“Yeah you bet.”

And then it’s just James again — alone in the quiet room — with only the star around his neck to keep him steady.

”Hey man, are you ready?” Barty appears at his side, settling a heavy, grounding hand on his
shoulder.
”Yeah..” James inhales deeply, shaking his shoulders out and cracking his neck.
”Just needed to remember why I’m here”
Barty pulls him into a quick tight hug, squeezing.
”Let’s do this”

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The arena is filled to the brink. Air is thick with anticipation and excitement. Thousands of
voices mix together creating a nearly deafening sound.
The lights cut out.
The crowd erupts.
Nate jumps from one foot to the other, the excitement’s building until he’s jogging on stage with
Frank at his side, hands raised.
Energy shifts, fans scream and Nate drinks it all in. His heart’s pounding loudly, a smile fixed on his face. He feeds on the loud calls and excitement from the fans.

”Hello San Francisco! You guys are loud!” the crowd doubles their effort to make more noise. He laughs — a real, unguarded laugh.
“It’s so great to be here!” Nate speaks to the microphone, his voice carrying over the crowds
chants. He slings an arm over Frank's shoulders, who also calls out a greeting. He is grinning like Nate, the energy of the stage feels contagious.
”How are you tonight?”
The crowd answers with various versions of “good”.
”This is.. this is, like, insane! Thank you all for coming, for all the support it's really out of this
world!” As he finishes speaking the crowd is already cheering, their voices would be deafening if not for the plugs in Nate’s ears.
“We knew we were known but man... this is insane. You guys are insane.”
”I need a moment to just take it all in.” 
Nate drops the mic, tilts his head back and breathes in deeply, allowing the moment to fill him, for energy to rush through his blood and pure happiness to fill him in.

He walks backward slowly, dragging his free hand across the air as if wiping away invisible
static — a grounding habit he picked up during rehearsals. His boots thud against the metal
panels of the stage and the sound echoes faintly, the arena briefly holding its breath with him.
He taps the microphone against his chest twice, a subtle rhythm he always does before the first song — like knocking on a door before entering.
He brings the mic back to his lips.
”How about a song”

The crowd roars and the opening keys for Intro fill the arena.
One of the most demanding songs in his set, loud, angry, fast - brutal.

I'm lookin' like I'm gonna get it, you prolly don't get it

He steps towards the runway, closer to the fans as he spits out words, chasing the beat.
The closeness allows him to see the faces, the lips singing his lyrics with him, hands reaching
for him.
The lyrics flow from him as the crowd feeds him energy.

My music is sick, and you don't know what "ill" is
You better get back, I don't write any filler

I write what I feel, and I'm feelin' a million
So you better shh, be quiet, you hear it?

The fans scream with him and he reaches out clasping hands. He lingers on a couple fans
keeping his eyes on them - still hidden under the hat.
He turns back toward the center of the stage.
His words come out in one breath.

Step in the booth and I murder it
You never heard of a rapper that kill it like I do
I sleep on the couch in the studio
Stay up 'til three in the morning, and write 'til I get more
The moment I wake up I feel like I don't even sleep
And I'm ready to put out my record
Which, thank you for buyin', maybe you burned it
But either way, I'm gonna wreck it

The crowd goes wild as he inhales to continue.
Nate feels exhilarated by the crowd, the song, the freedom. His heart’s pounding in his ears, sweat stars dripping from his face, adrenaline flows through him like fire.

Cocky? Nah, I'm competitive?
This is a job for me, it's adrenaline

He notices a woman singing the words with him and quickly comes up to her kneeling, singing
with her.

And I'm sorry, but I gotta leave
But, man, this track was beautiful
The least I can do if I murder a beat
Is take the time to go to its funeral, haha

He breathes heavily, out of breath. His body is buzzing with energy. Frank signals for a quick break and Nate grabs a bottle of water.
“Man, why am I out of breath? I literally just walked across the stage.” The crowd chuckles with
him.
He takes a big gulp of the water while checking out the homemade signs people hold up for him.
Nate squints at a sign held high in the middle of the crowd.
He steps forward, shielding his eyes.
He reads it out loud, confused.

“‘SPIN AROUND IN A CIRCLE’?”
He narrows his eyes at the fan.
“...Why?”
The fan wiggles the sign furiously.
“WHY??”
The crowd laughs, but doesn’t answer the question.
“I feel like I'm being set up.”
They yell back “NO”
“Nah you guys are messing with me!” He turns to look at Frank who gives him a confused shrug.
The fans quiet down, suspiciously. Nate narrows his eyes.
He spreads his arms then spins.
Slowly.
Like a malfunctioning Roomba.
The crowd’s laughing, the sound rumbling through the arena.
“...That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.” He tells them, already scanning the signs.

IF YOU READ THIS, I’LL SCREAM

His eyes catch on the bold text and hesitates for a second.
The fan instantly screams.
Nate recoils like a startled cat.
“WH— I DIDN’T EVEN SAY ANYTHING YET.”
“ You guys are ridiculous, Frank next song please?” Just before Frank signals he’s ready Nate
spots a small sign held by a young girl standing to the side of the stage.

“THIS IS MY FIRST CONCERT EVER” he reads it outload
“What’s your name, chica?”
The fan shyly shouts something back but he can’t hear it.
“Again sorry I can't hear.” She tries again, her voice getting lost in the general loudness of the
arena.

“Guys shhh i can’t hear. Try again, muñeca.” he can only make out "Mad ".
“Maddy?” Finally the others come through and shout the name.
“Melody?” she nods energetically.
“Well Melody, this is also my first concert, so I hope I don't disappoint you! Thank you so much
for coming, Melody!”
“I think we’re ready to continue!” Nate hypes the crowd up again.
This time he makes it through two songs, before he needs a break from jumping and running
around the stage. He’s not used to this type of exertion but it’s amazing. His body hums
pleasantly.
The crowd’s joining him, jumping with him.
During this break he sips on the water, cheeks red from the heat that’s starting to turn
suffocating.
“Guys remember to hydrate ‘kay?” He grabs a few bottles he especially prepared.
“Who needs some water, raise your hand” About half a dozen hands shoot up and he passes
out the bottles.
“HYDRATE” he points at the crowd with an air of authority. Somebody yells “Why?” from the
crowd.
Nate turns in that direction trying to find the culprit.
“Why?” He makes a confused face. “That’s such a random question.” But people are waiting for
more of an answer.
“Because I said so and I'm the daddy here, that’s why.” He instantly regrets his words as the crowd screams again.
“ No, I take it back!”
“It’s too late” they scream back.
“This is bullying !”
Oh Lord starts with a single guitar and Nate’s vocals. Frank stands next to him, playing the
opening notes on his red, polished, guitar.

When I die, put my ashes in the trash bag
I don't care where they go
Don't waste your money on my gravestone

A sign pops up, one that he is sure wasn’t present before, like the person was waiting for this
specific song.

This song saved my life.
You saved my life.

Nothing fancy, just words written in slightly messy handwriting, held up by a young man shouting
the song with Nate.
For a second, everything tightens inside him. The scream of the crowd dulls into a low hum, like
someone turned down the world. His hand flexes around the microphone. His shoulders go stiff—not dramatically, just a tiny lock of muscle anyone else would miss. His eyes dart over the sign again, as if he read it wrong.
A quiet, sharp inhale.
A feeling—thin as a hairline crack—splits through his chest.
He forces himself to blink, to move, to breathe.
To stay Nate, not the spiral tugging at the back of his skull.
He beckons the man closer.

Sometimes I look up to the sky
And wonder do You see us down here?

The fan makes it just in time: Nate kneels on the stage extending the microphone so they both can
sing at the same time. The young man’s smiling as he understands. Standing on his tiptoes.

Listen, yeah everybody wants change
Don't nobody wanna change though

Nate falls silent letting the man sing the words himself, watching his expression- a mix of joy
and... healing?

Don't nobody wanna pray
Till they got something to pray for
Now everybody's gon' die
But don't everybody live though
Sometimes I look up to the sky
And wonder do you see us down here?

Nate reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, lingering there to make sure his message is clear.

You are seen, you are heard.

When he finishes the song he tracks the fan.

“Yo, yo, what’s your name man?” He tilts the mic his way so he can speak into it.
“Mason.”
“Big applauds for Mason lemmy hear them!” the crowd claps, thundering of hands and stomping
that is nearly a force of its own- like gravity, but lifting instead of dragging down.
He’s shouting lyrics. Moving across the stage — from the center to the edge. Clasps more hands.
Every note, every scream, every fan-shout, every breath: it’s real. It’s raw. It’s alive.
In those moments, he isn’t Nate hiding under a cap. He isn’t James scared of showing himself.
He’s the voice, he’s the echo, he’s the pulse.
The next song starts with a beat drop and Nate raises his hands jumping up and down hyping
the crowd.

Will somebody get the body bags, working with the beats in 'em, ah

As he moves up and down the stage something catches his eye, off to the side.

Put the MC's in 'em, season 'em, put 'em on a beat with me, then I'm eating 'em
Get away from the table, you rappers ain't hungry enough

He stops mid-sentence, eyes narrowing toward the left barricade.
“STOP STOP” he waves his hands in a cutting motion.
“Hold up— security, over here.” he gestures Mary over, pointing out the issue to her.
Someone is being squeezed too tightly against the railing.
Nate walks all the way to that side, kneeling down.
“YO— back up, BACK UP.”
The crowd immediately shifts back from the force behind his voice.
“Give them space. I’m not starting the next song until they’re good.”
“You good?” he calls gently to the fan.
The fan gives him a shaky thumbs-up.
“Okay. Don’t scare me like that, alright?” he says, voice half-scold, half-soft.
The arena cheers.
The song starts up once again, but Nate keeps an eye on his left side.
When the last chord fades, and the crowd still hums, Nate drops to his knees. Sweat coats him.
Chains on his pants tingle cold in the air. The stage lights dim slowly.
He raises a fist. “Thank you.” No mic. Just a voice. Just a breath. Just connection.
The audience’s still roaring, they belong to him for one second. And he belongs to them.

He stumbles backward —Frank catches him.
The cheers keep coming. He raises his head. Sees banners, phones, tears, smiles, signs: “You
saved me”, “We love you”, “NF = Life”, “Thank you for being real.”
Something cracks inside him. It’s not the spotlight; it’s not the fame; it’s not the adrenaline.
It’s... belonging.
He breathes it in.
And for the first time in a long time — he smiles a true wide smile.

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The day following a concert James feels... alive.

Something had shifted after Salt Lake. Or maybe earlier. James isn’t sure when the hinge finally
clicked back into place, but now his posture is different. Shoulder set. Spine straight. Steps
firmer. Breathe easier, at least on the inhale.
Exhale... still catches sometimes, a thin hitch in his throat he pretends isn’t there.

He insists on driving again, even though Dorcas told him he shouldn’t. Rest, Nate, she’d
warned, which, frankly, made him dig his heels in deeper.
So now he’s behind the wheel of the
tour bus — one that looks suspiciously like the camper his parents used to drag around the
country for summer vacations.

Three shows down.
Five more to go.

Driving is one of his favourite things. Nothing but open roads, mountains stretching toward a
sky too blue to be real, a full gas tank, and the illusion that he could go anywhere — anywhere
at all.
His fingers tap on the steering wheel, following the beat of Remember This, the one that always vibrates in his veins whether he wants it or not.

Behind him, Barty snores like he's auditioning to be an entire chainsaw factory. Dorcas is typing
furiously, probably emailing someone into fear. Marlene and Mary are playing a card game,
both doing their best to cheat without being caught. Molly — their new PR — is sitting with
a laptop open, scrolling through the endless memes with a pinched look of someone fighting
for her last three brain cells.

The most popular one still remains to be a clip from San Francisco “I’m the daddy here”.
Reggy thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. He teased James for two full days, even
changing all James’ social media handles until Molly had a meltdown and locked everything
down.
That didn’t stop the fans from screenshotting it and reposting it everywhere.
#DADDYNATE was still trending.

The bus is humming gently over the asphalt. The mountains are getting closer, the Colorado sky
stretches pale and endless. January has barely started.
James’ phone buzzes where it sits clipped into the dashboard mount.

Caller ID: Mi Estrella
His chest warms up on instinct.
He clears his throat and taps accept.
“Hello, Tesoro.”
Regulus’ voice fills the front of the bus with something soft, something warm, something
grounding.
“Hi. How are you?”
“I’m good,” James says automatically, even though his eyes feel grainy and his shoulders ache.
He squints at the GPS. “We’re about— two hours away from Denver.”
He yawns so hard his jaw cracks.
On the other end, Regulus hums, unimpressed.
“You sound tired, Soleil.”
“Nah, it’s okay.” Another yawn forces its way out, betraying him again. His eyes prickle, and he
blinks hard to keep the road steady. “Just didn’t sleep much.”
“Nate.” Regulus’ tone shifts — still gentle, but firm enough to cut through the fog in James’
brain. “You need to rest.”
“I will,” James murmurs, rubbing at the tight spot between his eyebrows. A dull pulse, like a
thumb pressing inside his skull. “Once we get to the hotel.”
“What type of hotel?” Regulus asks. “Please tell me it’s not another one Dorcas found on a
coupon website.”
“It’s... fine,” James lies.
He can picture Regulus’ face perfectly: the unimpressed deadpan, the tiny frown.
“Define ‘fine.’”
“It has walls.”
He hears Regulus choke on a laugh.

“Oh, bravo. That’s exactly what one wants in a hotel — walls. Are they structurally sound?”
“Probably.”
“Mhm.” Papers shuffle. “Text me the address so I can Google it. If it has two stars or less I’m
calling someone.”
“You’re dramatic.”

“You sure you’re okay? You’ve sounded... tense.”
James smiles humorously.
Tense.
Yeah. That’s one word for it.
“Just wired from the shows.”
He nudges the volume on the radio down. “Energy’s weird after performing. You know how it
is.”
Regulus doesn’t press and James is thankful.
The shows are like oxygen but there’s been a crack slowly working it’s way to a hole and
James doesn’t know how to deal with it just yet.
James swallows. His throat feels tight in a way he doesn’t like.
“I miss you.”
There’s a beat — a soft inhale, a pause that feels like a hand pressed over his heart.
“I miss you too, Soleil.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightens for half a second.
He shouldn’t let those words hit as hard as they do — but God, they do.
“You better sleep,” Regulus murmurs, voice dropping into something low and tender. “Or I’ll...
I’ll fly over there and drag you into bed myself.”
James smiles.
“That supposed to be a threat?”
“More like a promise.”

James’ heart stutters. The thought of seeing Regulus again, holding his hand, fill him with
calmness.
Before he can think of a reply, Dorcas throws a paper wad at his shoulder.
“Focus on the road, lover boy!”
James curses quietly. Regulus snorts.
“Go,” Regulus tells him. “Drive. Call me when you’re at the hotel.”
“I will,” James whispers back.
The call clicks off.
The cab suddenly feels a little colder without Reg’s voice in it.
He exhales, long and shaky.
The tension in his chest doesn’t go away.

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They reach the hotel two hours later — and, to be fair to Dorcas, it’s not terrible.
Just aggressively beige.
With a lightly funky carpet.
Questionable hallway smell, old coffee and forgotten gym socks.
But the rooms are clean and the beds look like clouds.
And there’s a small functional gym.

James drops face-first into his mattress and actually groans. The work-out bled the last scrap
of energy out of him.
The pillow feels like a soft cloud under his head.
He yawns, tears at the corner of his eyes. His body feels forged from metal and then weighted
with stones.
He doesn’t mean to fall asleep.
He just closes his eyes for a second.

When he wakes, the sun is already gone. His eyes try adjusting to the darkness and for a
moment he can’t tell where he is.
His phone buzzes on his nightstand.
He answers without checking the screen.
“What?” he asks, slightly annoyed at being woken up.
“This is how you answer a call from your favourite mother?” Effy’s voice fills the room with
warmth.

“Hola Mamá! ¿Cómo estás? Tenía intención de llamarte, pero me quedé dormido.” he
sheepishly rubs the back of his head. He checks the time. 
He naped for 28 minutes.
“It’s okay hijo, I know you’re tired. I’m just calling to check in mijo.”
Her voice is soft and lilting, the kind that smooths out the static buzzing behind his eyes.
James sits stiffly on the hotel bed, phone pressed to his ear, thumb digging into the worn seam
of his sleeve as though he could anchor himself to the fabric.
His stomach feels like it was turned to stone. Then doused in gasoline and lit on fire.
His knuckles ache from hitting the boxing bag for too long without being wrapped.
“I’m fine Mama, how are things at home?”
“You don’t sound fine.”
Guilt hits him hard, taking him by surprise.
James swallows. His mouth tastes like copper—the ghost-taste he gets when his anxiety
spikes hard and sudden.
“I’m just tired,” he lies, squeezing his eyes shut. The room hums faintly—the AC, the hallway
ice machine, the blood roaring in his own ears. “Long tour. Long week.”
The hum stacks on itself until it feels like the walls are vibrating.
There’s a pause.
Not disapproving.
Just... knowing.
“Nataniel,” she says quietly, using the name she’s always used for him, the name that strips away
the lingering stage persona from years ago and the interviews and the endless demands to perform. “You remember you can talk to me, right? You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”
So he forces a laugh instead—thin, almost hollow.
“Yeah, I know. I’m good. Really.”
“Mmh.”
The way she sounds tells him she doesn’t believe a word of it.
“Are you eating?” she asks softly. “Sleeping?”
James hesitates.
Just half a second.

What is the point of my songs?.. Just venting…?

But it’s enough.
Her voice shifts—sharper, more alert.
“Cariño.”

“ Just a few hours less it’s okay Mama.” he picks at a forming scab on the split skin on his
knuckles.
“Jaime Nataniel Potter.” She scolds in Spanish.
“Listen Mama I need to go Barty is calling me down for dinner. Love you!”
“Nate it’s 3 a.m. wha-” he cuts off his month, already pulling his phone away, finger hovering
over the end call button.
“Bye! Te quiero! Buenas noches, Mamá. Dile a Papá que lo quiero. Gracias, adiós.” he quickly
disconnects the call, letting the phone fall onto his chest.

The anxiety that’s been simmering since he woke spikes—fast, sharp, merciless.
James digs his nails into his arm, the sharp sting soothing some of the restless energy.
Not enough.
His skin feels too tight on his bones- stretched thin.
He retrieves the phone and pops the phone case off staring at the two small paper envelopes.
He debates.
His brain flattens everything into bullet points—cold, factual, distant. He hasn’t slipped into this
mode in years. It should scare him, but even that feels far away.
Pros: getting rid of the overwhelming energy, calm, clear head for a few hours, maybe even
sleep.
Cons: long sleeves, clean up, he is lazy.
He traces the shape of the safety pin, leaving the other envelope untouched.
Cons: long sleeves, clean up, he is lazy.
The metal feels cool, almost comforting in a disturbing way. His skin feels hot in comparison,
too hot, too alive.
He tries to list his reasons.
- restlessness
- build up of energy that even pounding a boxing bag for two hours straight didn’t fix
- anxiety
- his fucking hands won’t stop fucking shaking.
He curls his trembling fingers into a first. They won’t stop.
There’s a small blood stain on his knuckles from where he picked at the skin.
Seems like a pretty solid list of reasons.
He briefly thinks of Dumbledore and his stupid “release energy in a productive way”.
That decides it.
He really fucking hates Dumbledore. 
Even thinking his name makes his jaw clench.

Later as he stares at the ceiling, fingers sliding over the slightly inflamed skin, body still buzzing
but it’s subdued, a thought crosses his mind. He reaches over for his bag, which he dumped next to the bed, searching for a box. He lights the small light on his nightstand and squints at the med sorting box. 
All the slots are filled.
He grabs the ADHD pill, ignoring the other, swallows it and tosses the box onto the floor.
The last of his energy drains out with the swallow, leaving him hollow. If he’d remembered his
meds earlier—
He shuts the thought down.
Oh well-
Too late now.

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By the time he finally drags himself out of bed, the worst of the buzzing has dulled—muted by
the medication, exhaustion, and the kind of bone-deep emptiness that follows too much adrenaline.

He splashes water on his face until his skin stings, pulls on long sleeves, and goes down to
meet everyone for breakfast.
He laughs in all the right places.
Answers questions automatically.
Lets Barty ramble, lets Mary tease, lets Dorcas shove bread onto his plate.
Barty glances at him a few times, clocking in every unusual movement.
He catches Barty staring as he reaches for his glass and his hands shake.
“¿Estás bien?” Barty leans in asking James in a slightly broken Spanish. He always had a hard
time forming the words.
James goes to answer but notices a slight nearly inconspicuous shift in Dorcas.
“Jest okay, zostaw mnie.” Now it’s his turn to butcher a foreign language.
“ Bierzesz leki?” Barty asks, pinning James with his gaze. James doesn’t flinch, answers with a
neutral tone.
“Tak, biorę. Odpuść.” Barty scans his face, searching for any signs of falsity.
James is a good liar when he wants to.

Barty moves on.
The stone in James’ stomach hasn’t dissolved, but it’s settled—heavy, manageable, the way a
storm sometimes pauses instead of breaking.
He tells himself he’s fine.
He wants to believe it.

After dinner, back in his room, the quiet is too big.
Too still.

Something in his ribs has been vibrating all day—quiet, manageable, but impossible to ignore.
So he reaches for his phone.
A distraction.
Something mindless.
He unlocks it.
And opens Twitter.

Lately it’s been flooded with clips from concerts- fans go absolutely wild with every interaction
he has with them. He noticed more signs being held up at each show.
People have also been posting photos of taking additional bottles of water labelled ‘ Hydrate!
I’m the Daddy here’. He likes them and reposts them.
Sometimes even leaves a comment or two showing his approval.
There’s a few edits of him made from shaky concert videos and he sends the most thirst trappy
ones to Regulus for his viewing enjoyment.
As minutes tick by and he scrolls further down his mentions posts grow.. Intense.
James shifts on his mattress, a weird uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach and sending
his leg bouncing.

He swipes past post of signs with “YOU SAVED MY LIFE” and-
James sits up abruptly, turning his phone face down.

He stands up and crosses to the other side of the room like his phone suddenly turned into a
feral beast.
He stays like this: frozen, staring at the bed, the uncomfortable feeling turning into an acid,
slowly eating his stomach.

Maybe he imagined it.
He grabs his phone once more.
He nearly managed to convince himself the post was a figment of his imagination.
The home screen turns on showing a photo of Regulus and Vanda- one he took at Regulus’
place a week ago.
He wants it to be imagination. He needs it to be.
James’s hands shake as he unlocks the phone.
It’s still there.

A horrible photo with an even worse caption.
Red is the main colour—so red it seems to bleed through the screen.
Red and a tiny seam of silver.

Your music stopped me from going deeper tonight @Nate_TheReal

The skin is slashed deeply—past the soft pink of fresh flesh, revealing pale fat like a ripped
seam in fabric.
A blade lays discarded at the corner of the photo.
His breath stutters.
He quickly closes the app.
Reopens.
Slowly, carefully scrolls down.
Maybe it was just a single person.

Maybe-
Another post pops up. This one less graphic, days old wound with the words

only three thanks to @Nate_TheReal.

He keeps scrolling, more and more posts popping up.
It’s like his feed senses a shift and only shows him those posts, nothing more.
Hundreds of people.
And suddenly every life feels tethered to him.
Day old wounds.
Fresh ones.
A dozen cuts.
One cut.
Blood. 
No blood.

James isn’t a stranger to those scars, has quite the collection himself. He knows how it works, how finding something to hold onto turns into an obsession, one last desperate attempt to cling to life.

He himself has put his life in shaky lines scrawled on blood soaked papers, for simple reasons like having to buy a new pack of cigarettes because he can’t possibly die without a smoke first. 

But making others responsible for your life is a dangerous line to cross. One that only has negative results in the end. It’s giving up control and not caring if they can handle the pressure. That leads to more damage than good. 
James knows first hand. 

Now hundreds put themselves in his own shaking, bloody hand - giving him this type of power.

This responsibility.
Hundreds of lives depending on him. Hundreds of souls making him their reason. 

Him.
Somebody who barely knows who he is. 
Somebody running from his past, deluding himself that it will never catch up.
Somebody who can’t let go of a previous version of himself because he still fucking cares.
Somebody who has his own wounds and blood.

They want stability from someone who is made of chaos.

I got some things in my life, I know I should let 'em go.

He switches his phone off.
Sits in silence only accompanied by the sound of his foot frantically tapping on the floor.
A notification lights up the screen and he glances at it.
His foot taps fast, too fast, like he’s trying to outrun his own pulse.
Twitter.
His heart becomes a trapped animal behind his sternum—sharp-kicking, desperate, clawing its
way up his throat.
His breath hiccups, short and shallow, then shorter, until he’s not breathing at all.
He only realizes he’s hyperventilating when the edges of his vision blur—a black fog creeping inward, tightening.
He folds forward instinctively, nails digging into his thighs, trying to get air in but catching only
scraps.
His chest tightens—like a fist closing around his lungs.
It hurts but it isn’t pain exactly—more like a bruise inside him.
His ears ring—high, sharp, metallic—until he can’t hear anything else.

There’s a sour tang on his tongue.
His hands shake uncontrollably.

Imagine someone looking at you saying your music’s the reason that they are alive.

He needs something—anything—to grab onto.

Regulus.
His warm hands.
The smile reserved just for James.
The home cooked meal.
The adorable little blush when he was asking him to be his boyfriend.
He clings to those images like handholds on the edge of a cliff, focusing on each one, forcing
his lungs to take air in—slow, uneven, but real.

I’m trying to deal with depression
I’m trying to deal with the pressure.

Gradually the ringing fades.
The black shrink-wrap around his vision loosens.
He stays hunched forward, arms wrapped around his ribs like he’s holding himself together.
A new notification pops up.
James powers down his phone and chucks it away for good measure.

I write about life, I write about things that I'm actually dealing with
Something that I'm actually experiencing, this is real for me.

The words loop in his skull, too on-the-nose to ignore, scraping at the inside of his ribs.
He presses both hands over his face.
His knuckles are white.

This is the way I cope with my emotion..

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Denver's venue is enormous, it hums like a living beast.
The arena is bigger than he expected — ceilings high enough to echo everything back at him.
People dart around with cables, clipboards, mics, water bottles, costume racks. The air tastes
like cold metal and the faint plastic-burn smell of stage lights warming up.
James cracks his knuckles, rolls his shoulders. The pre-show jitters dig claws into the back of
his ribs.
He should be buzzing.

Instead, every inhale feels shallow, like his ribs are trapping the lungs in a constantly shrinking
cage.
“You good?” Barty asks, adjusting his earpiece.
“Yeah,” the lie rolling off his tongue like honey.
He’s running on 8 hours of sleep across three days.
„The Daddy thing is evolving into its own religion” Barty scrolls through his twitter chuckling at
the posts. James itches to check his own feed, to look for more of those blurred photos.

We never met but I swear that you know who I am..

The moment passes with the appearance of Dorcas at their side, ushering them to get
changed.
The uncomfortable feeling stays coiled low in his spine like a simmering wire of heat.

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Nate is a creature of habit.
He’s jumping from foot to foot, hyping himself up.
”Hello Denver!”
”Are you excited?!” The crowd howls, cheering as loud as they can.
”Come on guys, half of you are asleep!” Nate extends the mic towards them and the forces of
the scream snaps the world back into shape.
He smiles, not one of those tight forced smiles, but a full, carefree grin that comes with a
cleansing feeling.
The crowd knocks the worry out of him, wipes his mind clean of Twitter feeds, slaps a bandage
on the cracks in his chest.
The floor shakes from the thud-thud-thud of the bass.
He immediately dives in: two brutal songs one after the other. Intro and Intro 2. They let him
run, jump, and shout. He kneels to let fans sing with him then he’s back to running.
His body relaxes into the exertion enjoying the strain.
The songs end fading out and he grabs water.
Three people hold up a giant sign. Nate doesn’t even need to squint to see it.
He snorts.
BLESS OUR WATER DADDY NATE - next to the text is a drawing of him in a priest's clothes and a halo above his head. His hands are clasped in prayer, his iconic hat shadowing his face.

”See this is why my PR team has a breakdown every day” he points to the banner and the
crowd screams louder.
Nate runs a towel over his face, scanning the signs.

I MADE YOU A HAT!

”yo you for real?” He points to a woman who nods and throws something as hard as she can.
He manages to catch it before it lands on the stage.
It's a knitted hat, with their logo and Mansion 2023 Therapy Session 2025 stitched on it.
” YO! I’m gonna put it on!” The crowd cheers as he turns around and swaps the hats, keeping
his face from being seen. He has to add his own baseball cap on top.
He expected to immediately feel hot, wool adding to his warmth but instead it feels cool.
”YO yo! This is awesome! Thank you chica!” The woman yells back.
” It goes over your eyes!”
”what- how?”
„You need to pull down a part that’s tucked inside!” She mimes the action and Nate dutifully
copies. He finds an additional length that is made from a looser stitch and it pulls over his eyes
and nose. It’s knitted loose enough for him to be able to see but clustered so you’d have to
stand right next to him on stage.
He takes his hat.
„It’s so dope, thank you madam.” He glances at the hat in his hands.
”Would you like an exchange?” She yells back and he tosses it towards her.
”Man you guys spoil me! I think I’m gonna test this new bad boy out!”
as if on cue Frank plays the opening lines for Notepad.

Nate feels alive. Like an animal realising they are in the rapidly closing jaws of a trap.
The crowd in Denver is bigger than in Salt Lake City but at the same time small enough to not
overwhelm him like Las Vegas did.
He goes through Notepad, then hits wake up.
As he’s about halfway through Motivated when he notices a commotion directly next to the stage.
The staff has been letting the smoke machine work for its life, and it’s starting to have an effect.
He stops singing and crouches by the end of the stage to be able to address the two teens.
”Yo what’s going on?” The older one, a girl, shouts over the music, while the boy coughs
aggressively.
”It’s the smoke, yeah?” He asks and the boy nods tears streaming down his face. By now the
Frank has cut off the music and reaches him to see what’s going on
„Hold this for me I’ll bring him up” Nate passes the mic to the girl and grabs the boy under his
arms and tugs him up, and onto the stage.
”Take him back yeah, water and fresh air” he tells Frank who nods, wraps an arm around the
boy and takes him towards Dorcas backstage.
Nate turns his attention back to the girl, who is trying to squeeze past the crowd.

”Hey, what are you doing?” He asks. She chances at him then at the mic in her hand and
assumes that’s what he means. She extends it to him apologizing.
”Nah i mean, are you his family”
”Yeah I’m his older sister.”
"Come on I’ll bring you up too, easier than pushing your way through the crowd.” The girl
allows him to lifter up and swiftly place her on the stage next to him. She’s still holding the mic
and he takes it from her before leading her to the back of the stage.
Her brother is already sitting down, breathing easier and sipping juice.
„Do you want anything? Some juice, water, a blanket?” Nate asks after she settled down.
”No thank you”
”What are your names?”
„I’m Jack and that’s Sally!” the boy, Jack, answers excitedly.
„Right, I’m Nate, that’s Frank” he points behind him, „and this is Dorcas” the manager waves
her hand, smiling softly at the pair. „She’s actually the most important person here,” he stage
whispers to the boy. Jack turns an awed look to her.
”If you need anything, ask her okay ? I’ll check up on you in a few minutes.” Nate lets Dorcas
fawn over the two teens while he heads back to the middle of the stage. He glances at the mic
to switch it on but he never switched it off.

„Is anybody else having a hard time breathing?” The crowd calls back that they are great.
„We’re gonna wait for them okay?” The crowd roars their approval. Nate searches through the
signs, each "you saved me’ spreads the cracks under the bandages. The words land like a
weight. Responsibility. Obligation.

NATE MY CAT FOLLOWS YOU ON INSTAGRAM!

„What does that mean?” He lets out a loud, surprised laugh at the sign.
”My cat has an insta account and he follows you!”
”NO WAY!” Nate quickly jogs towards Frank's station and reaches for his phone.
he goes back to the girl, unlocking his phone on the way.
”What’s his handle??” He demands and the girl chuckles.
”Mister Chicken Nuggets!” Nate types it in but a dozen accounts pop up.
”There’s a few of those. Which one is he?”
The fan is too far to make out the profile pictures so he passes his phone towards her.
”Nobody steal it, yeah? I have a lot of points on Dominos I want to redeem.” People chuckle
and his phone makes it back to his hand safely. It comes back switched off and he doesn’t
think much of it until the girl yells.
”Who’s the person on your Home Screen?” Nate checks the photo, blood running cold. Is
Regulus’ face in it ?
Vanta is covering most of his face, thankfully.
”that’s Vanta, she’s a sweetheart” he tries to play dumb showing a photo of just the cat.

„No, there was a person in the pic too!” The fan is not letting it go.
”That is my partner, who I want to keep private, thank you very much.”
The crowd teases him but nobody pushes for more information.

Nate goes back to check on the kids.
Jack is doing much much better, cheeks tinted red and eyes glinting with joy. Sally is more
reserved, clearly a protector.
”How are you guys going?”
”Amazing! I can’t believe I touched you!” Jacks exclaimed and the mic picked up on his words
sending a ripple of laughter through the crowd.
”Would you like to do something for me? I think my throat is hurting. Help me out ?” Jack’s jaw
drops. He looks star struck.
They both jump up screaming the chorus to Motivated. Nate passes the mic fully to Jack for
the second verse.
Jack belts out the chorus like the arena was built for him. The crowd screams back, thousands
of voices shaking the floor under Nate’s feet. Jack bounces, almost vibrating with joy, and even
Sally—reserved, watchful Sally—has tears in her eyes.
Nate laughs into the mic, breathless and bright.
“Denver, I think Jack just stole my job!”
The arena roars. Jack beams like a supernova.
Nate ruffles the boy’s hair, then hands the mic back, squeezing Sally’s shoulder gently.
“You two good? Need anything?”
“We’re great!” Jack shouts, still mic-hot. “Best night EVER!”
The crowd melts.
Dorcas waves from the curtain, giving Nate a thumbs-up. The kids stay backstage, warm
drinks in hand, bundled in spare blankets. Safe.
Nate returns to centre stage—
—and that’s when it hits him.
Not hard. Not obvious.
Just a tiny, hairline crack inside his ribs.

A sign in the front row catches his eye.

YOU SAVED ME.
YOU SAVED ME AGAIN.

But his stomach lurches.
The gash from Twitter flashes behind his eyes—red, deep, glistening, the metal shine of the
blade like an afterimage burned into his brain.
His grip on the mic shifts, sweaty, slippery.
His throat tightens.
He rolls his shoulders, tries to shake it off.
Denver deserves a show, not a breakdown.
“Let’s keep this going!” Nate shouts, forcing cheer. “You ready?!”
They scream.
The show barrels forward.

This music is more than you think
Don't book me for just entertainment, it's entertaining

Nate hits the opening of Green Lights, sprinting from one end of the stage to the other, letting the adrenaline burn through the panic. For a few blissful seconds, it works.
He’s alive. Electric. Bulletproof again.
He points at signs, laughs, lets the crowd scream every line.
His wrists constantly click as bracelets clatter against each other.
He’s back in the flow, energy humming, his heart matching the beat.
„Yo quiet down for a sec yeah ?” He waits for the crowd to shush themselves. It happens
surprisingly fast.
„I’m gonna sing something for my partner. Can I count on you ?”
The crowd roared its agreement.
“Amazing! You do the chorus!” Nate keeps close to the edge of the stage and as the chorus for
Remember This starts and  he turns the mic to the crowd.
To be fair they try their best.

Nate is happy he has ear plugs.
For the second chorus he tries giving a base for them to copy but they fail. A few voices are
louder than the others with a very deep baritone trying to sing like an a lot, a projecting voice
missing the rhythm all together and another few singing the wrong lyrics.
„ i love you guys-” he calls when the song finishes. He keeps his voice light making sure
everybody knows he’s joking.
“- but a lot of you do not have rhythm.” the crowd chuckles with him.
“I make mistakes too, man, but...” he whistles, shaking his head.
The fans howl as he taps the mic on his stomach, throwing his head back in laughter.

He ends the show on a positive note, answering a few more signs and taking requests.

After saying goodbye he and Barty head backstage.
James gladly accepts a coffee cup with at least 8 espresso shots in it from Mary.
The air backstage is warm, humid from the show. Nate towel-dries his hair, heart still pounding.
The night isn’t over, just yet.
He feels exhausted, the energy leaving him quickly, leaving behind the uncomfortable hum.
Dorcas allows them a twenty minute break before she’s ushering them to a different room
where the show staff has prepared a table for a Meet&Great.
There’s already a big line forming behind the tapped off section. The murmur of the crowd
grates on his nerves, his body seriously overstimulated.
He takes some deep breaths, digs his nails in his palm, where permanent crescents have
formed in the skin.
He can’t afford to shut down just yet.
He needs a few more hours.
He pushes everything down, shutting it behind a steel door, locking it with a padlock and
throwing away the key.
He digs his nails as hard as he can.
When Barty approaches him he switches to tugging at his hair. A less obvious way to ground
himself with pain.
“Ready?” Barty places his hand on James’ shoulder, a worried look on his face. One that
doesn’t seem to go away, like, ever.
“Yup”

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The first couple are easy — a boy crying because Nate signed his old worn hoodie. A girl
handing him a drawing of him performing Intro. A nervous teenager who asks him for advice on
stage fright.
The girl shows him a binder of poems she wrote inspired by *Mansion*. He flips through them,
genuinely amazed. “You’re talented. Like, seriously.”
“Would you like me to sign this?” she nods enthusiastically.
The next person passes him a huge Blahaj shark wearing a-
-a miniature version of his merch sweater.
“I made the sweater.” she tells him timidly.
“Hell yeah. Does he have a name?”
“I was thinking... Man-shark, because Mansion is my favourite song...”
Nate chuckles and officially christens the shark as Man-Shark and places him next to him on
the table. He lets the girl know he’s gonna be set right next to the NF doll on the speakers. ??

Nate melts with every smile.
Every story.
His spirit lifts, as many fans shower him with love. He tries to interact with each of them for at
least two minutes. Taking pictures, reading their words, fawning over their accent, signing
everything, and even sketching out a tattoo idea for a fan.
“I’m really bad at drawing, my skills are limited to stick figures. You should ask my partner for a
tattoo inspo, they are very talented." The boy assures him he doesn’t mind if the drawing is
shaky or bad, he just wants it to be done by him.
He draws a crooked version of Mansion and the chairs for therapy session, signs the paper and
throws in a three word message: keep it real.
As he draws his heart clenches, and he realises he misses Reggy so much.
Time flies and the line shortens until there’s just one last person left.
A girl.
Maybe around fifteen.
Small.
Hands shaking around a folded letter.
Her voice barely rises above a whisper.
“You... um... you helped me.”
Nate softens immediately. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”
She nods and takes a shaky breath.

Her eyes flick sideways to Frank, then back to Nate.
“My house is...” She winces, searching for the right words without saying them. “It’s loud. A lot.
And when it gets bad I... I listen to you. Because you talk about... stuff nobody else does. And
it makes me feel less... alone.”
Nate’s smile stays in place.
Barely.
A tiny crack forms at the corner of it.
“It’s okay pequeña.” he keeps his voice soft.
She goes on — voice fragile but determined.
“My dad gets... really angry. At everything. At everyone. And when he—”
She swallows.
Look at the floor.
“I put my headphones in. Your music helps. It helps me breathe until it’s quiet again.”
Frank freezes behind Nate.

Nate doesn’t breathe for a full second.
Anger erupts in his body, rage blinding him momentarily.

I want her to give me his number,

He tries to get it under control for the sake of the girl.

But what you gon’ do with it right?

A few deep breaths, change the rage to a simmering anger.

You gon’ hit him up then he’ll start hitting her harder.

The girl wipes at her nose quickly, embarrassed.
“I just wanted you to know. You make my life a little safer.”
Nate’s hand trembles as he squeezes her shoulder — steady, warm, controlled. He glances
around making sure it’s just the three of them left- Nate, Frank and the girl.
He takes off his hat letting her see his face.
“What’s your name...?” next to him Frank also uncovers his face, making sure to keep his face
open and friendly.
“Ella, well Eleonore actually but I prefer Ella, if that’s okay.”
“Sure Ella is great.” Frank reassures her.
“I didn’t... I didn’t want to tell anyone.” She says before either man can comment. Her voice is
even quieter.
“But your music... it feels like someone gets it.”

“Thank you for telling us,” Frank says quietly. “You’re really strong, okay? And I’m... We’re glad
we can be there for you in some way.”
“You matter pequeña. You matter so much Ella. Do you need help?” Nate tries to navigate this
midfield without blowing everything up.
“No! NO no no.” She physically backs away raising both hands as if she can stop Nate from
saying anything with just that. Panic makes her stutter.
“Hey hey it’s fine. Everything is okay. we -” Nate swallows the bitter taste in his mouth, bracing
himself for the next words.
“-we aren’t going to say anything if you don’t want us too okay?” He can feel Frank tense
beside him, opening his mouth to protest.
Nate stomps on his foot.
Hard.
Frank's jaw closes with a click.
Nate slowly, slowly reaches out letting his hand hover in the empty space between them,
offering it for her if she’d like.
Hesitantly she steps forward letting the hand fall onto her shoulder.
“Can we-” Nate hesitates, stepping on a mine. He hopes it won’t blow up.
“Can we give you three numbers ? Just in case you ever need something?” He gestures for
Frank to give him a piece of paper.
He waits for her answer pen hovering over the page.
“ What numbers?” She asks after a beat.
“ My private one,” he jots it down, “Franks and... an anonymous number you can call if you
need it. It’s 24h, 7 days, 365 days. You don’t have to use them.” he hands her the paper. “It’s
just there in case.”
Ella nods, tucking the numbers into her pocket.
She asks for a hug and both Nate and Frank don’t let go for a long time.

This girl at the show looked me in the face
And told me her life's full of drama (yeah)

The words spring to mind, escaping through a tiny crack in the steel door.

This is real.

He messily patches it up.

“I need to go now.” she sniffs, still not letting go.
“Okay.” Frank strokes her hair gently.
Nate doesn’t want to let go. He wants to keep this girl in his arms, protect her, kill her dad.
Slowly. Maybe torture him a bit.
Definitely torture him.
He needs all his will force to loosen his grip enough for her to slip out.
“Ella, you matter okay? Hang in there. We’re here for you okay?” Frank squeezes her shoulders
one last time.
She nods, gives them a quick watery smile and just like that she’s gone.
The moment stays frozen, until Nate’s jaw clenches so hard Frank hears it.
He inhales through his nose.
Slow.
Careful.
Controlled.
Frank touches his elbow lightly.
“Nate.”
“I’m good,” Nate lies, voice too tight. “You?”
“I’m good.” Frank lies right back.
They stay like this.
In silence.
Nate can hear the questions forming in Frank's brain. He can see the rage simmering under his
skin, smoke coming off of it.

“It’s not the first time-” Frank breaks the silence. “-we had kids coming to our show, crying.”

-with tears in their eyes.

It’s a weak attempt.
Nate appreciates it nonetheless.

The crack that has been forming since San Francisco spreads — corrodes his steel door
dangerously.
Something in his chest starts to press outward, like a fist pushing from the inside.
Something familiar.
Something he’s been avoiding since San Francisco.

A therapy session.

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James’ phone lights up as a notification comes through.
A message.

McGonagall
April 24th