@jegulus-microfic | march 1, prompt: rugby | word count: 1.080 featuring motion-sick regulus. this is mostly comical / partly crack. tw he does throw up but there's no graphic detail.
Exploiting what Regulus assumes to be the surviving remnants of a bewitched bloodline, James had, at long last, managed to magically convince the notorious ‘Young Sir Black’, as Horace would have it, to join him on a three-hour-long drive to the ancestral Potter manor to informally meet his parents.
Informally indeed because the first time he met Mr. and Mrs. Potter was during a fundraiser event held in Somerset House organized by the Black family to launder money under the guise of charitable benevolence. Regulus had been sixteen then. Sixteen and trying to mask the lingering scent of weed because somehow Barty had convinced him to ‘smoke a quick one’ before being subjected to the horror that was the annually rehearsed speech of one of his phony relatives. Not that Regulus remembered much of it, not when he had been too laser-focused on James Potter’s brilliant smile and his rugby-appropriate wide shoulders and height.
And it’s not that Regulus isn’t excited to meet James’ parents, not at all. Euphemia often demands Regulus show his face when James takes the time to video call her and Fleamont is very invested in the growing rare enamel pin collection he has going on.
The reason for his uneasiness is simply—
“Hey, Reg, you okay?” James asks, gently nudging him in his side. Emphasis on gently.
“Mhm,” Regulus hums, his gaze glued to the window instead of its usual hyperfixation: his boyfriend’s face. He had read, long ago, that finding a fixed point would help. The writer of the article fucking lied.
The problem is that Regulus gets motion sick very fucking easily and avoids cars, busses, and a majority of moving vehicles like the bubonic plague.
“Fifty years I have driven the Fleamont junior’s family. For fifty years!” Horace had proudly announced when Regulus clambered into the backseat with begrudging acquiescence. “You worry not, Young Sir Black. Mrs. Potter was as squeamish as you, but my driving simply cured her motion sickness!”
Regulus didn’t have the heart to tell him that he barely survived a bus ride of thirty minutes on a good day.
“Yeah,” Regulus rasps when James pokes him again, worry creasing the skin between his eyebrows. “No, I’m fine.” The lane switches got him good, but that would be an insult to Horace’s otherwise seamless driving skills. Curse Regulus for being so sensitive to it all.
“We got like another hour and a half left,” James tells him, to which Regulus tries not to groan like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. “You need a break?”
Regulus definitely needs a break, but they have already stopped at a gas station three times and he is out of excuses that won’t inevitably upset Horace. First, James had to go to the bathroom. Then, Regulus needed to use the loo. The third time, he had lied through his teeth he’d fancy a snack, and no, not the ones that Horace had stockpiled in the little mini-fridge nestled between seats.
The overpriced pack of mini Party Rings rests unopened in his hands. Unopened because he will die if he so much as gets a whiff of food.
This discomfort, of course, doesn’t elude Horace.
“It’s—It’s the sun!” He exclaims. “The sun is hanging quite low today, making the asphalt expand so inconveniently like this. Terribly sorry, Young Sir Black, you know how it goes with this country’s tax money and road improvements…”
Regulus hums in response and lets his head fall back against the headrest. “Sorry, James. You were saying?”
“Just about the evening’s plans but never mind that. Are you okay?”
“Young Sir Black is mighty fine,” Horace replies in his stead. “No such thing as motion sickness exists when it is I who drives, sir Junior.”
Horace remains faithful to his promise for a whole whopping three minutes until a twist in the road intervenes, and Regulus's stomach lurches, betraying his efforts to quell the rising nausea after a record time of suppression.
“James,” Regulus groans.
James looks thoroughly alarmed and starts shifting in place looking for the bag he had been entrusted with. “Oh, shit. Bag? Fuck, do you—”
Unfortunately, he jostles Regulus in the process. Regulus, who has been fighting for his life.
“James,” he wheezes out, weakly flailing his arm. “The bag—I—”
“I’m looking for it! Fuck, which pocket did I put it in—”
“Is everything alright back there?!” Horace asks, his eyes wide in the rearview mirror. “Oh, oh no…”
Ignoring the loud lamenting of his driver, James almost flings the plastic bag in Regulus’ face. “I found it!”
“That is it then,” Horace whispers. “I take this as my sign to officially resign upon dropping you and Young Sir Black off, sir Fleamont junior. It has been my greatest honor to serve you and the Potter family for fifty years.”
“Horace, please.”
“It is the age, is it not? This vocation, it’s knighthood, sir Fleamont junior. One does not retire so easily—”
All else is drowned out by Regulus painfully emptying his stomach with a retch. Had this not happened before, shame would have flooded him in the multitudes. He still wonders how James had convinced both himself and Regulus to admit to a long car ride. Something something about the pastures being a healing balm…
“Horace,” James pleads again as he rubs circles on Regulus’ back. “I can only really comfort one of you. Baby, you okay? That— okay, no you’re not. Please stop kicking me in the shin, I will apologize profusely when you can breathe.”
There are tears welling up in Horace’s eyes. “Oh, now I’ve done it, made Young Sir Black sick. I am a failure, I do not deserve the title and honor of driving you or your parents. I must hand over the keys the very instant I arrive. Do allow me the opportunity to part from her, sir Fleamont junior.”
Regulus thinks he’s going to lose his mind. James might be on the verge of losing his too. “Horace, please, I need your eyes on the road.”
“I could drive this car blind, sir! For fifty years—”
“Please do not drive the car blind.” James sounds utterly exasperated now.
It takes him a solid couple of minutes but Regulus eventually manages to come up for a fresh breath of air and the damp press of a scented baby wipe against his jaw. He lets James coddle him, for now.
“Fuck… You.”
“I deserve that one.”
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