#.i dial drunk

[diaryofasentimentalist]

— i dial drunk // ex!leon

pairing: leon kennedy x reader

tags: angst, exes, drunk dial, very mild sexual content

summary: your ex calls you in the middle of the night to reminisce on the good times, but you'd rather not. (2.7k)

a/n: lots of jumping between the current phone call and their past memories so just mind the verb tense!

The ringing finds you in your dreams, a vexing trill that you can’t seem to find the source of no matter how long you search, that doesn’t stop no matter how long you wait it out. When it finally pulls you from your sleep, you reach over and silence the tone without so much as twitching an eyelid. The grating vibrations of your phone against the nightstand continue as the call finishes ringing out.

Another shrill tone startles you, shattering the silence as soon as you feel yourself drifting off again. Groggily, you pat around on the nightstand until you find your phone again and bring it to your ear, eyes barely cracking open enough to find the green 'accept' button.

“Hello?” you mumble into the receiver, eyes straining open. It’s pitch black. Nowhere near dawn. Good news never comes at this hour.

“God, I missed the sound of your voice.”

That voice you’d know anywhere snakes its way into your ear, straight down your throat and into your chest, where it settles around your heart, squeezing tightly. You’re wide awake now, burning eyes forcing their way open, pulse quickening as you lay still in bed, paralyzed.

“Leon,” you say hoarsely, your voice still thick with sleep.

Your name echoes back to you on a sigh, your chest constricting at the homesickness of it all.

“I told you not to call me anymore,” you say, measured and even in spite of the way it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I know, baby,” he says, words slightly slurred. “But I jus’ missed you… wanted to hear your voice again…”

“You’re drunk.”

It’s not a question or an accusation, just a statement. It’s in his voice, in the way he called you multiple times at such an hour. In the way he’s calling you baby again, telling you openly how much he misses you. Leon has too much good sense— or maybe just pride— to pester you when he’s sober. Even on the rare occasion when he’s run into you in public since the break up, he just watched you from afar, a strange expression on his face. Get enough alcohol in him, though, and he’s right back to the desperation of the day you first left.

“S’that obvious, huh?” he says with a low laugh. The sound triggers the thing that has settled in your chest to tighten once more, sends another stabbing pain straight to your heart as you stare up at the dark ceiling. “Sorry, baby. I know you hate it when I drink.”

“Hated,” you correct. It doesn’t matter. Even if he remembers this conversation when he’s sober, it won’t stop him from talking the same way next time he drunk dials. “I don’t care what you do anymore, Leon, so long as you leave me out of it.” You shift onto your other side, breaking through the strange paralysis that had overtaken you. The digital alarm clock on your nightstand is waiting to greet you. 2:23 AM. “But you can’t even do that. God, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Nighttime?” he offers, sounding unbothered. “Did I wake you? We always used to stay up this late.”

Your breath hitches in your throat as an involuntary wave of memories floods through you. There were a lot of late nights when you were together. The lack of consistent sleep schedule never bothered you then. You were always just happy to be spending time with him in whatever way. Sometimes you’d be out on the balcony, lights off, clinging to one another as you talked on the wicker settee. Sometimes you’d watch late night tv, lying on the couch with him on top of you, nuzzling into your neck while you traced patterns into his back beneath his shirt. Sometimes you’d lie atop the mound of pillows on the bed, his head buried between your thighs as you gasped and sighed and moaned his name, fingers tangling in his hair.

“I have work tomorrow,” you say coldly, bidding the images to stop. “Goodbye, Leon.”

He cuts in before you can hang up, carrying on as though you hadn’t said anything at all. “Remember when you got that craving for muffins at midnight?”

Of course you do. You’d been having another late night with Leon, the tv droning on in the background while the two of you dozed on and off, when he’d finally suggested the two of you retire to bed. A commercial for some cereal came on just before the screen went black, and the second you saw the mock breakfast spread, that was it. You needed a muffin. Leon laughed off your suggestion at first. As soon as he realized how serious you were, though, he’d pulled you up and to the kitchen, and you’d gotten to work. His offers to help you culminated in him keeping a hand firmly planted on your waist at all times, watching you measure the ingredients out, and kissing the back of your head every so often. But you were at his apartment, and he wasn’t much of a baker, and so you’d only realized halfway through that he didn’t have all of the things you needed, no brown sugar or vanilla or even cinnamon.

Feeling defeated, you’d relented that you could just finish tomorrow. Wordlessly, Leon left the kitchen, returning a moment later with his keys jingling around his finger and tossing you a jacket. He took you to the nearest 24-hour supermarket, your hand never dropping his as you led him along the aisles, giggling. Even now, you recall the distinct domesticity of it all, how you’d felt so normal, like you could have a real life with him some day.

Leon kept a hand on your thigh the whole drive back, taking the long way home just to prolong the moment, and you were so glad you could watch the wind from the open windows rifle through his hair just a little longer, drink in the sight of the passing street lights flickering across his skin. When you finally got home, he was touchier than before as you finished your baking expedition. The moment the tray was in the oven you were upon him, legs wrapped around his waist as he hoisted you onto the counter, pulling you closer, always closer. You’d been so distracted that you’d let the muffins bake a little too long until the smell reminded you what you’d stayed up for. The edges had started to burn, the cinnamon crumble on top hardening just a bit too much, and you’d insisted that you could do better, but he assured you—

“Best damn muffins I’ve ever had,” Leon rambles on. “Been to a million bakeries, can’t find anything like them…”

Why is he telling you all this?

Why is he making you remember?

Now that the memory has started, you can’t stop it, the scenes rolling in your mind like a film. After indulging in the baked goods, he’d carried you to his room, house still smelling of cinnamon and vanilla. It must’ve been well past three by the time he was laying you back against the bed gently, but neither of you were tired. The earlier impatience in his movements had dissipated, and he took his time with you, his hands caressing your body while yours explored his with equal devotion—

“I miss how you felt in my hands,” he says suddenly, as though his thoughts have followed the same natural trajectory as yours.

You remember his hands on your hips, firm, secure, anchoring you to him. The way his calloused palms felt against your smooth skin. The way his touch dripped with reverence, like he was perpetually caught between the desire to treat you like something delicate and the desire to have more of you, that hungry conflict always reflected in his piercing blue eyes—

“I miss how you looked under me,” he continues.

You remember throwing your head back, how he’d dip in to kiss along the exposed column of your neck before littering affection across your face. How it would suddenly stop, sometimes, and when you’d look up at him expectantly, you’d find him gazing down at you in equal parts awe and adoration. The moment you reached up for him he’d come back down and—

“I miss how your lips fit against mine.”

“You’re so selfish,” you interject, unwilling to entertain this any longer, afraid of what might happen if you do. “Waking me up on a work night so you have someone to reminisce with?”

“I know, baby,” he says, a self-deprecating laugh tumbling through the phone, twisting your stomach. “I was a shit boyfriend and I’m a shittier ex.”

That’s not true. He was a wonderful boyfriend, except when he wasn’t. He was always affectionate with you, except when he wanted to be alone… always warm and patient with you, except when he would withdraw… always understanding and attentive, except when he’d drink… It’s just that the times he wasn’t there for you were so hard, and over time, they’d gotten more and more frequent. Nothing you did to try to reach him, to be there for him, to support him, ever seemed to get through to him. Eventually, it was all too much.

Yet anytime you hear his voice, it’s always the good that comes to mind. It overwhelms you, makes you question why you ever left. A single word from Leon makes you curse the day you walked away. Only when you’re alone, in silence, away from the inexplicable effect of his presence, can you truly remember how the lows felt. The isolation of it all, the pain, the waiting. The disappointment over and over and over again.

The rest of that night comes to you now, floating in through the open window with the August breeze. How strange to think that was a whole year ago. After making love, he’d held you for a time, and you were content there, as sweaty and warm as it was, but he’d carried you to the shower with him. It was mostly silent, save for the pitter-patter of the water against the tile. He lathered your hair for you, and you scrubbed his back, pressing kisses against his wet shoulders. By the time the two of you were toweled and dressed in fresh clothes, it was late— or early— enough that you’d decided to stay up and watch the sun rise. You’d snuggled closer to him out on the balcony, the early morning air chilling you slightly as your still wet hair dripped onto your shoulders. He’d pulled you in, his body a natural furnace, and wrapped you in his arms.

God, you’ve never felt that safe anywhere else.

“Yeah, you are.” The words are laced with forced venom, and it burns to speak them. “That’s why you shouldn’t call me anymore.”

“I know.” There’s a pause on the other end. “You should block me.”

His words shatter something inside you. “Shut up.”

“I mean it,” he drawls. “You could just block me. But you won’t.”

“Leon.”

“Because you still think about me, too, don’t you?”

“Seriously, shut up.”

“And if you blocked me,” he rambles on, “then you’d really never hear from me again.”

“Go fuck yourself, actually.”

Laughter filters in and out of earshot, like the receiver keeps drifting from his lips, but he doesn’t say anything else. The silence stretches on for one minute, two. A part of your conversation from that night on the balcony strikes you.

“Why not?” you’d asked him, tearing your gaze away from the brightening horizon to stare up at him, at the distant look in his blue eyes. Somehow, the subject of past relationships had come up. It wasn’t something either of you really cared about, but he’d just disclosed that he hadn’t really had a long term relationship with anyone before you. Most women left before things got serious, he’d said, and he never asked them to stay, to give it a real shot. He shrugged, using the motion to tug you closer.

“I can’t ask that of anyone. I don’t really deserve to. If someone wants to leave, I get it.” He glanced at you from the corner of his eyes, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “That means you, too, when you finally get sick of me one day.”

“Never,” you said, leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek as he chuckled. A few strands of sandy hair tickled your nose. “You’re stuck with me, you know that?”

“Oh, darling, I know. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck with you long after you’re gone.”

The offhand remark didn’t make sense to you at the time, and when you asked him what he meant, he refused to elaborate, merely remarking on the emerging colors in the sky.

You get it now. And if you’d got it then, you would have been afraid, too.

Time moves on for everyone else, but not you two. Something happened when you stormed out of his apartment on that rainy night back in April, staining the fabric of time, marring your life with an inescapable loop. Just when you start to feel normal, you’re forced to relive the raw heartache all over again, as if it’s only been four days, not months, since you left. It happens every single time his name pops up on your caller ID. Every so often, when you think— with a surge of dread that you refuse to acknowledge— that he might finally have moved on, he calls again.

Never to ask you to come back, though. Never to ask you for another chance.

Just to reminisce.

Hot tears stream out of the corners of your eyes, landing on your pillow with muted plops. You make no effort to stop them or wipe them away, silent for fear that your voice will betray you if you try to speak now. You hate it, but even crying in bed like this makes you think of him, the feeling of his chest against your back, his silent strength when he’d comfort you during moments of weakness.

“Leon?” you call, wondering if he finally passed out. Hoping that if he did, he’s at least in bed, or on the couch, or somewhere safe. Warm. Not huddled outside of some seedy bar, or hunched over the filthy curb.

“I may be selfish, sweetheart” he says finally, his voice husky, “but you’re just cruel.” You can only blink up at the ceiling, tears momentarily stayed as you wrack your brain for what he’s responding to. “You answer my calls just to tell me how much you don’t want them.”

If the fight weren’t draining out of you, you might snap back at him that he doesn’t have to call in the first place, that he should take a hint, that he should delete your number altogether. Instead, all you can do is let his words hang there while you contemplate them.

Maybe it is cruel. When he calls you like this, asking if you remember, he’s asking something more. Questions he could never verbalize, but that remain implicit in what he says. Do all those little moments mean as much to you as they do to me? Do the memories haunt you like they haunt me? Do you miss it like I do?

Leon won’t ask you to come back, no. But he wants to know if you’ve ever considered it on your own.

“Goodnight, Leon,” you say suddenly, forcing the words past the painful lump in your throat. You can't keep doing this, can't keep letting him tear you down just because he's found himself at the bottom of another bottle. “I hope you learn how to take better care of yourself one day.”

“I hope you find someone better to take care of one day.” At first, you think he’s just scrambled up your words in his drunken stupor in an effort to throw them back at you. But then he speaks again, and you know he meant exactly what he said. “Hey, I’m glad you left. Happy for you, I mean. You deserve better than me." Something terrible is building up in your chest, threatening to climb up your throat if he doesn't stop. "I love—”

You hang up before he can hear the way your breath shudders.

[gayghostrights]

Call me Arthur Lester the way I love John Doe with everything I have

[justaz]

arthur has always been suspicious of the tavern excuse for merlin’s absences, but he has no proof on the contrary and when confronted merlin either tells him outlandish tales of near death experiences that have no chance of being remotely truthful or he admits to and apologizes for slacking on his duties to get drunk. one day, he decides enough is enough and he and all the knights go to the tavern with merlin and arthur casually brings up merlin’s history in the tavern and says he could probably beat gwaine in a drinking contest. merlin tries to divert the discussion away from the idea but arthur is determined. they receive a round of drinks and arthur pushes a pint of ale into merlin’s hands with a look of challenge. merlin’s options are to either commit to the lie to hide his secret or admit to the lie and risk exposing his magic. he takes the former. merlin gives lancelot a Look and then slams back the pint of ale with a minor bit of gagging and pauses to breath. gwaine already finished his pint thirty seconds ago but its entertaining to watch merlin so he doesn’t say anything.

merlin (built like a twig, rarely drinks, lightweight) is proper sloshed. arthur is almost vindicated but he needs merlin to admit it. he orders two more pints and gives one to gwaine and the second to merlin, instigating the competition further despite the fact that gwaine won already. merlin grimaces and tries to do the same thing again but only gets a few gulps in before he folds. he slams the mug down and gives arthur a kicked puppy look before admitting and apologizing for lying. arthur is Vindicated. merlin is still wasted.

the nights wears on and merlin feels the effect of the ale more and more every minute that passes. he sits between arthur and lancelot and feels almost unbearably warm but that could be bc of the alcohol in his system, or the crowded tavern. merlin looks around and watches the people that pass their table by while the knights talk and joke and laugh amongst themselves. merlin feels relaxed and excitable now, his worries seem to have melted away and he cant seem to remember why he was always so stressed and worn down before. he sees a game of [insert game here] (i was gonna say darts but google says that game hasn’t been invented in canon time so ill leave it up to interpretation) going on and climbs over lancelot to join in.

the knights watch with amusement and anticipate merlin’s clumsy attempts at [whatever]. oddly enough tho, merlin is a fucking god at [game]. a small crowd gathers and betting pools form and then challengers approach and put money on the line to go against merlin and merlin absolutely demolishes them all. honestly if arthur didn’t know any better, he’d think merlin was using magic to win bc there was no way his bumbling fool of a servant was that good at…anything.

the challengers take their defeat with honor and grace. the audience is a huge fan of merlin and they keep buying him drinks but he just sends them to the table for the other’s to drink. many people come up to him and flirt, maybe motivated by all the money he won that night or maybe just bc he’s merlin, and when merlin responds to them he’s………..he’s a real good fucking flirt? like could put gwaine to shame and he’s rejecting them???? how can someone come across so flirtatiously while turning down offers to take various beautiful people to bed??

arthur was already itching to intervene when people were flirting with merlin but he seemed to have a handle on it so he let it slide, but then people started touching merlin and arthur’s hand had drifted to his hip where his sword was usually sheathed. however, again, merlin was very skilled at escaping the situations with little to no conflict and he came back to the table with his winnings. the knights cheer for him and order more drinks with his money which merlin is too inebriated to notice and truthfully doesn’t really care about. his eyes are on arthur and if arthur thought watching merlin flirt from afar was bad then having him up close in his personal space, hands brushing against his arms and dark eyelashes fluttering softly against his pale skin, breathing his name into the space between them and licking his full pink lips was absolute torture and the worst and best agony he couldn’t even dream up.

[arbor-tristis]

Everyone is always hating on Hawk but getting hung up on a situationship that was NEVER meant to be that deep for literally the rest of his life and getting progressively more down bad with time.....is so real of him

[weaponizedducks]

exr girlies when a song mentions alcoholism, depression, burnout, being in love with someone who they think doesnt love them, cynicism, angels, love in general, devotion, alcohol or all of the above:

[satellitesunset]

I attribute the belief (that's mostly present on tiktok) that the story a song tells must be solely rooted in nonfictional events that occurrd to the songwriter to taylor swift. it's not only abt her strictly autobiographical approach (it's natural for your art to be derived from personal experience). but rather the the culture (that she created !); from speculations to who they're abt to. to attempting to work them into the story/timeline she constructed. that is det​ri​men​tal to music (and on a larger scale literature) analysis. it convinced most that is the norm and every record must be 100% based on a true experience.

[booksandothersecrets]

The View Between Villages - Extended Version by Noah Kahan vs The Raven Cycle series by Maggie Stiefvater

[zukkacore]

I’m such a believer in the jaceporter on again off again situationship but while they’re in an off again phase. Wishful thinking there is a small window in freshman year before Jawbone started dating Sandra Lynn that I do think he and Jace could’ve gotten it in. On the one hand jawbone is a professional & therefore hesitant to get involved with another faculty member, on the other hand because Jace’s vibe is like an equally laid back but less interesting charming or charismatic Garthy I do think Jace could be Jawbone’s type. I think it would be a nice reprieve for Jace to be with someone casually who is actually nice :)

On the other hand Jace taking L’s is personal enrichment for me so I think jawbone expressing Jace is not his type is also extremely funny. Much to think about

[betweensaintsandmonsters]

i promised to forget you (i lied)

the first time he calls, it goes to the machine. obi-wan's voice crisp and clean over the line. 

"i gave your name as my emergency call," anakin says, voice breaking, "please pick up."

the officer give him a look that he assumes is pity, "try someone else. they can come get you tonight."

anakin tries the number again, listens to the tone ring and ring. it goes to the machine again. 

"obi-wan, please. i know you're probably awake. please."

he could call asohka (but he's probably burned that bridge too) she might come get him, lecture him on the way home and deposit him in bed one last time.

if she knew he was in lock up, she'd have his head. he promised to do better.

“i swear he’ll pick up,” anakin whispers, voice lost in the cacophany of the county jail. 

he does not say, he always picks up. he does not say, he has always picked me up. he does not say, i think i burned that bridge, what if he doesn't pick up?

the alchol is still making his head fuzzy, the world blurs aroud the edges of his vision, though that might be the concussion. he thinks his nose is broken. his hand too, maybe. all the pain drowned under the heartbreak.

anakin knew they left things in tatters, their relationship in pieces as they (he) hurled the most hurtful things he could think of back at obi-wan while he tried to be understanding, patient, until even that was impossible. 

"son," the officer says. she's defintely looking at him with pity now, it burns. "try someone else."

anakin dials obi-wan's number again. fingers too tight around the black plastic as he punched the number in again. 

it rang twice.

"hullo," obi-wan says. his voice is too thin, frayed, like he's hanging on as well as anakin is.

"obi-wan," anakin breathes out and the line cuts off.

anakin slams the reciever down and lets out a frustrated yell. the officer lays a hand on his shoulder. he doesn't have the energy to shake it off. 

"he was wrong to hang up," she says, like she's trying to comfort him. 

belatedly, he realizes he's shaking. he thinks he's crying. he can't tell. 

"let me try again. i'll stay the night, i swear he'll call back."

"why are you doing this to yourself?" the officer asks. she's kinder than most of the officers at the county jail. patient with him when she doesn't need to be. she could send him out into the rain alone to find his way back home. 

"he always picks up," is all he can say in response. 

[laurapetrie]

DATE NIGHTS IN LITERATURE: ice skating at rockefeller center, the catcher in the rye "Let's go ice-skating at Radio City! You can rent those darling little skating skirts." She really did look damn good in that skirt. I have to admit it. And don't think she didn't know it. She kept walking ahead of me, so that I'd see how cute her little ass looked. It did look pretty cute, too. I have to admit it.

[redscrawl]

rip Kelsier survivor of hathsin you would’ve loved Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan

[kairithemang0]

I told my friend to stop texting me bcs I needed to screen record and they said “you really ARE in your editing era”

This was gonna be posted last night when I finished it but nOOOOOO the internet is garbage where I’m staying so I’m just hoping it works this time

I dunno I’ve had Dial Drunk in my head for a while, my sister has been listing to it on repeat. I was pretty neutral to it, but it’s pretty alright. Idk if I’d say the whole song is a Curt song, this line I think is though

I’ll probably end up elaborating on this in a future post but whenever I add songs to my shipping playlists I’m always worried I just like song and it just gets attached to whatever ship I’m into at the time

[drowsydomme]

Hold on, you’ve SNAPPED TWO STRAPS?

haha yeah!!

strap one: my very first strap. it was this neoprene nylon situation that seemed sturdy enough until i used it for a third time and one of the buckles just snapped, causing everything to swing wild and for me to die a little inside

strap two: the strap i bought right after the previous one. i figured that if the material was the issue, i'd just go for a leather one. honestly i can't remember the model, but it had a reputation for being really reliable. i mean, the reviewers said they had theirs for years, so i thought this one would last, right?

well, i could only hope. i've got hips and thighs for days and at the time, i really loved training legs so as i adjusted to grind even harder there was this rrrip before everything else came loose and all i could do was pause midstroke, confused.

i met their eyes.

their eyes met mine.

"did you just...break another strap?"

i nodded.

"fuck, that's so hot," they said as they crawled closer. "break me next."

[all-the-fandoms-6413]

“from CHARMING to ALARMING in seconds” and “even the COPS thought you were wrong for HANGING UP” and “just wait, i swear she’ll call me back” and “son, why do you do this to yourself?” 

[sardonic-the-writer]

inspired by the spn texts posts u just rb'd, what would ezra's texts with the other spn characters look like?

sams texts to ezra: "link to all of this towns recorded strange deaths this past month. me and dean will be at the motel" (link attached)

ezras texts to sam: "harh hah. this one guy had the last name Boner ." (left on read)

ezras texts to dean: "We are leaving the corner store now with food. Will be back with pie and dinner in a few moments. Please keep the front door unlocked."

deans texts to ezra: "cas did you take ezras phone again." (left on read)

ezras texts to cas: "saww a rock and thought of you,, roc k man,,," (blurry image of a pebble) (left on read)

crowleys texts to ezra: "i want you." (red 100 emoji reaction) (thumbs up reaction) (left on read)

[spacexcowgirl]

@jegulus-microfic - December 13 - prompt: jail - words: 1,282

tw: alcohol abuse, mentions of past minor character death, unhealthy/toxic relationship dynamics

He doesn’t understand why James is making such a big deal out of this. People who love you hurt you; it’s inevitable. But, they still love you, so that’s should be enough… right?

So what if over the last few months, since his mother’s death, he’s taken to getting drunk and getting mean. So what if he stopped showing up for work, and stopped cleaning his house, and stopped letting James hold him. So what if he can only stand to tell James he loves him after drink number 3, and if by 4 he’s criticizing him, and if by 5 he’s weepy.

Why should any of that matter?

Regulus loves him. James knows that.

Is James saying that’s not enough? Because, if so, that’s just not fair. Regulus has been torn to shreds by the people who love him his entire life, and he’s never left, because that’s just how love is. He thought James understood that.

But now, here he is, drunk and alone in a cold holding cell. He’d really thought it was quite ridiculous when the bar owner had called the police after Barty punched that guy, the one who Regulus had been running his mouth off too. After all, it was just one little punch, and the guy was probably fine. There wasn’t even that much blood.

But then there were sirens and two officers were questioning him—Barty already in the backseat of the cruiser, unable to stop himself from mouthing off, even if he wanted to—and unfortunately for the officers, they’d caught Regulus after drink number 4, so he was anything but kind or respectful.

During the ride to the station, Barty had mumbled on and on about how this was pointless, because Evan would bail him out in under an hour, and he had been right. Regulus hadn’t even questioned that the same would be the case for him, when he called James.

But, there was a small voice in his head telling him it wouldn’t be the same. Because—James had broken up with him, just a few days ago, hadn’t he?

Regulus brushed the thought off. It didn’t matter, it wouldn’t stick; Regulus loved James, and that meant he could hurt him, and James would stick around. Because to love is enough.

Except…

Well, now it’s been an hour, and Barty has already left—he offered to have Evan bail him out too, but he’d stubbornly declined, because James would come.

As the minutes tick past, Regulus begins to doubt this thought, replaying the short call he’d been allowed to make. It had never even crossed his mind to dial Sirius’ number, or anyone else. It was James. It was always James.

“Regulus?” James had answered tiredly, seemingly already knowing it would be him. Perhaps calling past 3 am had become too common of an occurrence, but Regulus didn’t dwell on it.

James had been silent while Regulus slurred his way through a recount of the events, and then silent for a few moments after, before sighing.

“I love you, you know that?” James had whispered into the line, and for some reason it had made Regulus’ stomach drop. Because it didn’t sound like it was enough—it sounded like goodbye.

“I know,” Regulus shakily replied, wetting his lips. For some reason, he couldn’t form the words back.

(He loved him, and love is enough, so he wouldn’t say goodbye, too.)

The line went dead.

Regulus is still waiting.

The longer he has to sober up, the more he begins to question what this means. James has claimed to love him more times than his mother ever did, and yet she never left. How can James say those words and then just—

“Regulus Black,” An officer calls out, approaching his cell and interrupting his thoughts. Regulus stands up quickly, so quick that his head begins to spin a bit. “It’s your lucky night; you’ve been bailed out.”

Hope swirls in his chest.

Pride and a smug sense of satisfaction because ha—he knew it. Love is enough; and so James came.

Except—

When he follows the officer into the lobby, he’s not greeted with warm tired eyes nor messy dark curls nor James in his soft red pajama pants—the ones patterned with bucks across them. No, instead he finds Sirius, hands in the pockets of his jacket, messy hair pulled back into a bun, eyes looking wary.

The hurt and worry and confusion sting more than Regulus had anticipated.

After filling out some paperwork, they walk out into the cool night in silence. Regulus’ world is falling apart, and that’s not something he wants to discuss with Sirius at nearly 4 in the morning, but apparently it is something Sirius wants to discuss, because he sighs upon getting it into his car and starting it up.

“You have to stop doing this to yourself,” he pleads gently. “She’s not worth spiraling over. She’s not worth losing the people you love over.”

She’s not worth losing James over, is what he means to say. Regulus knows it.

“He said he loved me.”

There’s a pause.

“What?” Sirius asks quietly, tired and sad eyes turned upon Regulus.

“He said he loved me,” Regulus repeats blankly. “And he’s not here, so clearly he didn’t. Mother—she would be here.”

Because she loved him. And love is enough.

Sirius stares at him for a few moments longer, something Regulus can’t quite interpret in his expression. Then, he puts the car in drive, and begins to pull out of the parking lot. They don’t speak for a while, and Regulus assumes this is because he has stumped Sirius, shown him that clearly James never really loved him. Because Regulus did—does—love James, so if the roles were reversed, he’d do anything. Even now, it’s James that he dials while drunk.

They pull up to a red light, and Sirius releases a soft exhale before glancing over at Regulus. In the soft glow, where Sirius’ face is only illuminated by fluorescent red, Regulus can see just how exhausted he is.

But he came, a voice in his head supplies. Because he loves Regulus, and love is enough.

“James loves you,” Sirius says softly, and Regulus wants to snort and argue, but Sirius doesn’t give him the chance. “So much so that he won’t sit around and do nothing while you destroy yourself. So much so that’s he’s in our flat, probably worrying himself to death, waiting for me to call and say that you’re okay. So much so that he’s willing to stay away from you—which is killing him, by the way—if he thinks that’s what will help stop this spiral.”

Regulus doesn’t know what to say to that because—because isn’t love pain? Isn’t love supposed to hurt? Isn’t love still showing up despite that?

“James loves you.”

But.

But.

But.

He wants to scream. He wants to thrash and kick and throw a tantrum like a child. Because if James loved him he’d be here, right? That’s what love is!

And still—

There’s a pain in his chest, an undeniable aching in his heart, that tells him maybe this is love. He wasn’t wrong to think that love can be pain, but he was wrong to think that it was mutual commiseration in it.

Because maybe love is pain, sometimes, but maybe it’s supposed to be painful in the way resetting a broken bone is—agony that leads to healing. Maybe, right now, this pain is from Regulus continuing to snap, and James continuing to put him back. Maybe James is leaving, so Regulus has to learn how to do it on his own.

Maybe love is enough, just not in the way he thought.