Chapter Text
The opening notes of the song begin.
Regulus steps on stage, pulse spiking. From all around Wembley stadium, screams can be heard.
Screaming one word.
Screaming his name.
Regulus.
…
He gets to the centre of the stage, and begins to sing.
“I'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to somethin'
Let me wrap my teeth around the world
Start carvin', darlin', I want to smell the dinner cookin'
I want to feel the edges start to burn”
He doesn’t really like this song, honestly. Not the beginning, at least. According to the media, it is ‘attractive’ or ‘alluring’ or ‘sensual’.
With each word that is used, it feels more and more like an accusation.
‘How dare you entice us?’
‘How dare you intrigue us?’
The answer is simple.
He’s Regulus Black.
Heir to the Black Line music brand.
Singer.
Grammy winner.
And most importantly, he knows how to work a crowd.
…
He holds the mic close under his jaw, lifting his head slightly to show off his neck, earning a cheer from the crowd.
That’s all he is really.
A performing monkey for them to cheer at when he gets something right.
Lucky him.
Regardless, he puts his all into every show, giving the people what they want.
As the chorus begins, he distracts from the lyrics by kneeling down by the edge of the stage, and holding out his hand towards the audience. As predicted, they scream and try to latch onto him, but unfortunately he is slightly too far away to touch.
Shame.
“Get some
Pull up the ladder when the flood comes
Throw enough rope until the legs have swung
Seven new ways that you can eat your young
Come and get some
Skinnin' the children for a war drum
Put in front of the table, sellin' bombs and guns
It's quicker and easier to eat your young”
His parents had instructed him to distract the audience as much as he could during the chorus.
Heaven forbid they actually hear the lyrics.
No one wants to hear his message. They just want him. His voice. His looks. His fame.
They don’t care about Regulus.
They only care about Regulus.
He runs his hands through his hair, slowly, savouring it, so that they can see what they’re missing out on.
It makes him feel dirty, honestly. Wrong.
He doesn’t have a choice.
…
He begins the final song, secretly glad the concert is nearly over.
He has been touring for 5 months, across the whole world.
His final destination is here, Wembley.
After this, he can rest.
Well no, he can’t, but he is going to ignore that fact, thank you very much.
He still has a contract with his parents for at least one more album. He knows that isn’t the end of it, though. They will keep churning out his music until the world stops grovelling for it.
He hopes that day is soon.
“When I was a child I'd sit for hours
Staring into open flame
Something in it had a power
Could barely tear my eyes away”
This song; Arsonist’s lullaby, is his favourite on the whole album.
Regulus’ first album; ‘Our desolate bones’ was an overnight sensation. He went from being the heir to the Black legacy, to being ‘Regulus Black, superstar’ in the blink of an eye.
The changeover was… difficult.
It didn’t help that his parents were constantly breathing down his neck, monitoring his every move.
Now that he had fame, he had to keep it.
He gets now why Sirius left.
“When I was 16 my senses fooled me
Thought gasoline was on my clothes
I knew that something
Would always rule me
I knew the scent was mine alone”
Sirius had been boosted into fame as a singer by their parents, but had chosen to leave the label, instead of sign on to another album.
Their parents had disowned him after that.
Regulus knows he joined another label, and has been making music, but he refuses to listen to it.
Hearing his brother’s voice would be too painful.
“All you have is your fire
And the place you need to reach
Don't you ever
Tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash”
Regulus lets the final note ring out into the silent auditorium, enraptured.
The second Evan’s guitar finishes, the stadium explodes.
Screaming from all around, stomping of feet, clapping.
It’s as though a thousand bombs have gone off at once.
Regulus winces, but manages to scream out;
“Thank you Wembley!”
Before running as fast as he can off stage.
As he does so, Evan and Barty run off with him, and they collide into a hap-hazard hug, all elbows and limbs.
“WE DID IT!” Barty crows, and Evan roars with glee. Regulus permits himself a single, small, smile before detangling himself, and going to check the reviews of the night.
The majority are positive, thankfully, but only one sticks in his mind.
‘A disappointment, really. Regulus’ voice is untamed, wild. It creates a horrible dissonance with the already atrocious backing instrumental. I expect better from Black Line Records.’
Regulus sighs. Oh, his parents are not going to be happy with him.
“Oh, come on Reggie, already? Just enjoy the moment, don’t bother caring what other people think about it just yet!”
Regulus just sighs and turns off his phone, heading back to Barty and Evan, who are still hugging.
Regulus loves Barty and Evan, in the way one might love two overexcitable puppies. Adorable, but stupid.
They are his tour-band. Barty plays the Bass guitar, while Evan plays the lead. The beat is played through the speakers, synthetically, and if there is need for piano or violin, then Regulus does it. They make quite a good team, honestly.
Regulus is just about to give them some kind of congratulations, when his manager, Pandora, bustles into the room.
“Hello boys!” She announces, smacking a kiss to Regulus’ forehead.
“You all did so well out there tonight! I am so proud of you all for this whole tour! You’ve done so well.”
Barty and Evan smile, and thank her in return.
She just laughs at them, and winks.
“Oh, I’m sure this won’t be the last time I see you two rascals. I’m sure you will be right back here for the next tour!”
With that, she turns to look at Regulus, who offers her a weak smile.
Right.
That.
Regulus is supposed to have been writing new songs while away on tour, so that they can be recorded as soon as possible, then teased to the public.
Only problem is;
Regulus can’t write.
He doesn’t know why, he just can’t. He has spent hours staring at a blank piece of paper, praying that some kind of inspiration would strike him, but nothing.
If he didn’t have as much confidence in his skills, he would almost say he has writers block.
That can’t be right though, so he chalks it up to the tour.
He must simply be too tired to write properly. He has about two weeks before he begins recording.
He can write a whole album in that time, right?