Chapter Text
At twenty-four years old James couldn’t be more pleased with his life.
He’s already accomplished his wishes, years ago, by marrying the girl of his dreams—his love at first sight, his forever and ever. Their house is gorgeous, if houses can even be called that. With lots of space, lots of light and fresh air and nature—Lily’s pick, obviously. Work is. . . easy, these days, but as fulfilling as ever, as enjoyable as his previous job if not even more so. His son—this one soul James hadn’t thought he would need this early in life until he had met him—means everything to him. Harry is James’ entire world.
He is loud, yes, especially in the mornings, and he’s fussy with clothes but would eat anything James puts in front of him. He is James from head to his littlest toes except his eyes which are Lily’s, which is so very endearing to everyone that meets him he gets more compliments about having her eyes than he does about having James’ hair. He gets mostly mocked about it, teased by their friends with gentle jokes, wishing him Good luck! with taming the curls for when he’ll grow up.
At twenty-four James has everything he wanted from life at sixteen: a dream-marriage, a dream-career, a dream-house; also the dreamiest baby ever. His story is soundly perfect.
Except in the ways it isn’t.
Except for the fact that the fights and the cold-death silence aftermath happen more and more frequently. Except he has not a clue what to do anymore, how to keep alive the appearances of the perfect life he’d thought he’s living. How could James hold it tight in his hands when it is now burnt paper? How could he cradle it like a familiar face between his palms when it is only a plain expression, no smiling, no warm eyes. How, when James looks, and feels only regret.
Because see— You see, James has been aware of this. He’s not an oblivious fool. For a long while now, he’s felt their marriage hanging by a thread, so thin and frail, it seems sometimes invisible.
But James has hoped.
And he still hopes, but. . .
But now, for just this moment, James wants to escape. Even if for a short while—for a night, a single night, James needs to be out. He needs to be away from this house. This dream-house which is nothing short of an empty storage for two ghosts to hang around and avoid the present when Harry is not there to keep them alive. This dream-marriage that’s becoming a project of wearying patience.
James wants his friend.
He wants Sirius, and he wants to be told that everything will be alright. That it’s just this time, now, only this night, only this part, but that it’ll pass, and that everything will be alright again.
And he thinks he’ll shatter.
He thinks he’ll combust if he won’t let this all out. He thinks he’ll drown in his wanting to have everything normal again, everything making sense even if only inside himself.
Sirius would listen. He’d tell him exactly that: everything is alright; whatever phase they’re going through these days, is just that. A phase. That it’ll pass. That the pain and silence and conflict are infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things.
Because James knows it is only that. It’s important for them and their life and future to be only that.
James only needs to let it all out. To have someone listen and have some time to right himself, and he knows everything will go back to normal. To that summer-day a year and a bit ago when their lives gained so much happiness. Or before that. To that night in December they chose one another and swore forever.
Sirius will listen. He won’t say anything that James doesn’t already know, that he doesn’t want to hear.
James wants Sirius.
And so James goes to him.
The first time James ends up in Regulus’ bed is not the night Regulus would’ve liked to retell to his younger self, who has imagined a totally different scenario, mind you.
No, it does not include any kind of pleasure, or bliss, or any of those indulgences that a young (and a smitten-fool) Regulus used to daydream about, the idiot. No hand-holding is involved, no caresses as well, not even a kiss, sweet sounds, discarded clothes. . .
Although, the last one does happen. Yes, it does, because the bloody fool is completely hammered! So utterly pissed, he stinks!
So Regulus is obliged, you see, to make James shower. So yes, clothes are discarded, sure. Does it have anything to do with the little scenarios Regulus escaped every now and then in his teenage years? Obviously no, because, you see, Regulus doesn’t have anything to do with it. He only helps James by bringing him new clothes to change into.
And it's all bollocks. It's mental, because James Potter comes back into Regulus’ life, a year and a bit after not properly seeing or talking with one another, stumbling on his own feet, tripping and mumbling about whatever, and obviously drunk enough to have Regulus questioning all kinds of questions.
Like, why is he here? How did he get here? Did he drive? I swear to everything, if he drove being so bloody pissed. . .
“Did you drive here?” Regulus asks, and looking back maybe Regulus should’ve thought of, you know, priorities and such, because why was he asking that and not, What the hell are you doing at my house at three in the morning?
James’ response is: “Ummmm. . . Hi, Reggie?!”, except he’s drunk, the fool, so Regulus’ name sounds closer to gibberish, so far away from his name it’s a wonder Regulus even discerns he is the one who James is saluting.
“What’re you doin’ ‘ere?”, is what this fool chooses to continue with. Like it wasn’t him the one who knocked minutes ago at Regulus’ door.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? This is my house, James, where else would you expect me to be? How fucking pissed are you right now?” Regulus asks, and if his tone is a little mean then, really, James should take the blame for it.
“But. . . I thou’ Sirius’ gonna. . . ? Isn’ he he’, Reggie?”
Regulus feels his temples spasm. Seriously! Not even five minutes with him back in his sight and Regulus already feels a headache coming up.
“No, James,” Regulus says, lilting the words as if speaking to a child. “Sirius is not here. He moved. Two weeks ago. You helped him, remember?”
James tilts his head at him, then breaks into a grin that’s working wonders to Regulus’ bad disposition. Whatever. Don't think too much about it.
“Ah, yes! YES!”
And James’s tone is maybe a little too enthusiastic for someone so drunk and awake at three-something in the morning, but that’s just Regulus’ opinion. Plus, the utter fool is nodding his head now, only that he has not a fucking clue of what even body movements are at this moment, so his head is now just. . . limping. James is looking at his feet, struggling to keep himself up.
So maybe this is why Regulus will do what he is about to do next. Because, he’s telling himself, everyone would do the same, wouldn’t they?
What do you even do with an overgrown and very limb-uncoordinated puppy? You take care of it, of course!
(Of course! Fuck the fact that Regulus is completely terrified of dogs. Of course!)
“James,” Regulus hears himself talking, and isn’t that marvellous, how his brain just starts taking control over his mouth now? What a fucking nightmare. “What are you doing here?”
(And see, Regulus may not always have his priorities right, but he adapts, so whatever. Doesn’t even matter.)
“It’s three in the morning, James,” he says, because obviously the lunatic in front of him has no conception of time as it seems. And because it's three in the morning and Regulus is wide-awake by no choice of his, he is pissed off.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed, you know, like any sane person?”
And Regulus is not a terrible person, but he can get pretty mean.
“And why the fuck are you so drunk, are you going through a midlife crisis? Couldn’t you do this shit someplace else? What the fuck are you doing here, James?”
And it's not like James doesn't know that about him, that he can be pretty blunt, and not necessarily awful but nasty enough to invoke fear rather than pity.
“‘m sorry!”
But, alas! Regulus is NOT some villain.
“‘m sorry, Reggie!” James is near to tears as he says it, voice wobbling, eyes glistening. Regulus sees, now that James has found the strength to look up, how his lips settles into a little pout after the words leave his mouth. He’s had too much to drink, alright, and he must’ve had an encounter with a fucking bull because he’s full of mud, everywhere.
And really, what can Regulus even do in this situation? There’s only one correct answer, so Regulus does just that.
• • •
Note must be made, at this point, about Regulus’. . . issue, to call it so (resurrecting, now, from the heaps of other issues that Regulus keeps restricted somewhere at the bottom of his mind). Plainly, Regulus had—past tense—a little. . . infatuation with the one and only James Potter, back in the times when he was a chuckleheaded, mindless, newborn baby. So long ago, Regulus doesn’t even remember it so very well.
Such a long time ago.
And truly now, can Regulus even be blamed for it? He was but only a messed-up boy, and James Potter was, well. . . He was more.
But there’s that. That’s all. He never did anything with his. . . He stayed out of James Potter’s way, that’s it.
Sure, they knew of each other, but how could they not? His brother was, at the time Regulus’ lost his bloody mind, glued to James, that close they were all day long. Having met a year prior to his own encounter with his brother’s other half, Sirius had practically adopted himself into the Potter family, always spending time at James’ house, constantly in each other's spaces. Like to part was not allowed. Like it was inconceivable. Little stupid boys.
So they knew of each other, James and Regulus, they were talking with one another, sometimes. Nothing substantial, nothing distinctive for Regulus to capture James’ attention. Little trivial notes of everyday’s nonsense. Negligible pieces of a life with so of a little impact on the golden boy’s life. But the point—the point is that Regulus never thought of getting James Potter. Of directing James towards him. Of having him. Regulus was more than happy to be a sarcastic little brat to those around him, no exceptions to be condoned. His carefully crafted persona was to last. His very impenetrable exterior was so created to not let anything into his very ardent interior. Or out of it.
You can't have the sun to yourself.
“James.”
You can't keep it, you can't taste it, and you can dream about it but you may end up consumed by flames. And younger-Regulus knew that. But the older Regulus gets, the stupider his decisions.
“Come here.”
• • •
When James tries to move past the threshold, at Regulus’ suggestion, and seems to be unable to sustain his weight on his fucking feet, God I’m so over this entire night, as the good samaritan that he is, Regulus is there to catch James. He puts his hands on James’ waist to help, but what he doesn't really anticipates is James to be weighting a fucking tone.
And there goes the story of how Regulus ends up on his back, on the hard and cold tiles from the entrance of his house, with the entirety of one James Potter on top of him. Which, you know, childhood dreams came true and whatsnot. But at the same time, for obvious reasons, Regulus feels less in bliss at having James sitting atop of him, and more like dying.
“James. Could you move your-fucking-self, please?”
And really, Regulus is seething right now, reasons obvious: because James is kind of heavy, and he thinks they’ve landed on some fucking shoes or something because his back is starting to hurt something terrible, and he might have banged his head too, because otherwise it doesn’t make sense what his brain is fantasising about.
“Mmm,” the other mumbles, because James Potter is an utterly useless shitty something, and he’s been put on this Earth to make Regulus Black’s life a total disaster. As if Regulus wasn’t doing a splendid job at making it true already, all by himself.
So Regulus, without James’ help, mind you, who seems to have fallen asleep in the meantime, just pushes hard one of James’ arms off him, rolling from under him until they’re next to each other.
“Tha’s mean, Reg,” is said somewhere from his right, because apparently the fool is not asleep; he’s just a menace with a desire of making Regulus’ blood boil, the arsehole.
“Okay, James,” he says after a deep sigh, “here’s what we’ll do.”
Unable to let the other out of his sight, in case he ends up dead somehow, because he is the sort capable to accomplish such a task (eventually, after he makes sure Regulus is dead first): because of that and that only, Regulus pushes back on his palms until his back is completely off the cold floor, and stretches his body a bit so he can close the door with his foot.
He then looks at the marvel that is James Potter on his floor, on his back, drunk and full of mud, stinking his entire house. Haven’t I suffered enough already? Regulus wonders. The answer is apparently no, because as Regulus starts to think up a plan of action, James’ eyes lock with his.
And isn’t this rubbish, how Regulus can’t stand to see James Potter crying? And isn’t this complete rubbish, how Regulus feels like tearing up himself just because James is crying?
And, in case no one could tell, Regulus is actually having kind of a bad time. He has his own problems that he wants to cry and scream about, and, he concludes, if this is now a fucking pity-party kinda night curtsey of James, then so be it!
It was bound to happen, anyway. For him to break down—he’s been told it’ll happen. It has nothing to do with this ridiculous man currently on his floor (who’s a mess, an entire mess, such a stupid mess), and all to do with Regulus’ fucked-up life, as it always is. So if he sheds a couple tears now it's because he's clearly spiralling. And he's been doing that for some time, so if his mask of frost no longer covers his face it’s obviously a pardonable argument. So excuse him.
“No, why’re you cryin’, Reg? Don’t cry!” James babbles, reaching for Regulus, presumably to stop the tears falling from his eyes. But Regulus isn’t the one who’s crying. . . the most; between the two of them, Regulus is the most tearless one. James, though, his glasses are damped in liquid to the point that Regulus’ uncertain James can see anything through them anymore.
“I’m not crying, you’re crying,” Regulus says, very maturely.
And, “Oh, ’m cryin’? Why ’m cryin’, Reggie?” James asks, looking at Regulus like he would have the answer. And then: “‘m gonna throw up, I think,” which puts Regulus in motion, because he so does not want to clean vomit off his floor at this ungodly hour of the morning. Isn’t it enough that he’s losing sleep already?
Forgetting about the tears—little traitor fluids, why won’t this body listen to me?—Regulus gets up, scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand until the sting is focused elsewhere, and starts a brisk walk back to the living room, hurrying to bring a bucket for James.
Except, of course he doesn’t remember where the fucking buckets are supposed to be in this house, so he brings instead whatever he finds big enough from one of the cabinets in his kitchen. Which is a pot. Which Regulus plans to throw away tomorrow, because he will not be using that again.
Or maybe he will give that to Potter, who knows? For bonding and traumatising experiences lived through together. Who knows?
Back in the place that suddenly sounds like a good idea for becoming James’ bed for the night, a glance around shows Regulus that he didn’t take too long. James is still on his back on the floor, still dirty, still stinks, still his cheeks are damp, but with no other body fluids out. So really, small mercies.
“Okay, here it is! Your pot, Potter,” and, “Ha, you heard that? I’m going crazy, gracious gods! If you end up throwing up on my floor, I’m gonna kick you so hard, you’ll end up discovering a new moon to land on, James Potter,” is the warning coming from Regulus, which should be taken seriously, except James starts laughing.
He’s fucking giggling right now! And isn’t that just. . . Actually, Regulus shouldn't answer that one. Nothing objective to say about this, only thoughts of his deeply buried depths, of the highest form of intimacy he's ever known. Which would be sad, if it wouldn't be so pathetic it makes Regulus look unhinged.
“What?” Regulus asks, in a more mellow voice than he probably intended, when James doesn’t seem to control himself anymore, his body curling in a half-sphere, his palms covering his laughing mouth. “Why are you laughing?”
Continuing to his heart’s content, James says, butchering the words on their way out of his moronic mouth: “You’r tiny! ’ow can y’ kick me?”
• • •
But isn’t this exactly why every single person on this planet should stop being nice to one another? Because, fuck you, James Potter! I’m gonna leave you here, I swear to all!
And then he’s gone. He lets James Potter alone on the floor, a drunk disarray; never to be seen by Regulus again.
He can hear that the damn oaf is still laughing at his stupid joke even from the other room.
Stupid James Potter, Regulus thinks. Stupider Regulus Black, because he’s not leaving James at his front door, no. Of course not, he was taught better than that. He’s just making sure he has some spare towels in his bathroom.
Now, it is the right thing to do, no? The bloody buffoon is smelling. Really, Regulus does this for himself, if you’d just think about this. He’s being selfish like that.
Once he’s sure he has the towels ready, Regulus climbs up the stairs, not even glancing around the rooms he’s dreaded to visit properly since last year, and goes directly to the one he knows to have some clothes that would fit the idiot downstairs seeing that Regulus is just oh, so tiny, that his clothes won’t ever fit him.
Clothes located and secured, Regulus makes his way back to his bathroom, leaving them next to the towels. Next, he enters the opposite room; he can't stop his grimace when he’s met with the mess that is his bedroom.
And wouldn’t it be just so very wonderful if Regulus would have a little less to do with disorder in his life?
But, whatever—this mess, this, he can arrange this very quickly. So, the bed: no point in making it, it's going to be used anyway; the floor is mostly clean, except that corner that he keeps throwing things into. Nothing to do about that either, now. He drags the curtains, fluffs a bit the pillows, scoops all the things from his nightstand on one of the drawers, and, would you see? That was actually bloody simple! Why has he even considered it a mess? His room is as clean as a. . . a clean room. Whatever.
Now onto the real mess out there.
Rounding the corner to go through the living room towards his front door, Regulus isn’t sure what he expected but a hovering James Potter near his library, sure wasn’t it.
He’s looking as if he's lost. And with the moonlight bathing him just from the side he’s painting a splendid fresco of intimate pity, all wet teary eyes and freshly mudded clothes.
And because Regulus is one thing if just that, and this is a grudge-holder, he asks, “Planning on stealing again, Potter?”
It gets James’ attention. “Wha’?” He’s clutching the pot Regulus brought him, which seems to be empty, closer to his chest. “I didn’ steal anything,” James says; and he sounds like he’s sobering up. His words are still dragged-out, but more coherent now.
“Sure you didn’t, Potter.” As if Regulus has forgotten about that one book James only borrowed, just for it to never be returned.
They used to do this, back when they were younger. When Regulus would slowly sink in the pages of some random book until he was in the very heart of a fortress, or a forest, or a nightmare; and James waiting, sometimes patiently sitting, sometimes annoyingly staring until Regulus would finish reading. And then he'd ask to read it too. Promising to bring it back. Always doing so. Until the day he didn't. And Regulus taking it as what it was. An end to whatever insanity had James possessed until then.
“I didn’, though.” He’s looking at Regulus now; eyes see eyes in the light cast by the moon somewhere from their sides. The gaze holds, each of them lost for a second in their thoughts. Two bodies sitting rather close to one another and their minds wandering. Unknown to both of them, the same question seems to anchor: What am I doing?
• • •
“Right, James! Shower. Think you can handle it?”
Seeing as the entirety of this intoxicated man in front of him is starting to look through him, Regulus wouldn’t bet on that.
“Yea’ I can.”
“Are you sure, James?”
“Yes, ’course!”
“Then came here.”
With that being said, Regulus rounds the corner once again. The sounds of slow steps of a body in motion are enough to calm his alarmingly beating heart; and would you look at that: his heart was beating so fast, he hadn't even noticed until it slowed.
Regulus turns to look at James. The man is not looking back. He’s looking down; he’s doing what Regulus can only qualify as a poor job at balancing on his two legs—his hands are stretched in front of him, pot in one of them. He looks a bit like a newborn deer.
Bambi, Regulus’ mind provides, and he allows himself a small smile.
“Take your clothes off.”
“What?” James ask, sudden and high-pitched, as if startled. “But you— I would— I can’t— But ‘m marr’ed, Reg!” he rushes to add, and he looks— But gods, really, Regulus thinks he’s going to end up killing him tonight. James looks as if Regulus has just propositioned him, which What the fuck? Regulus would never! Yes, maybe be should’ve formulated it different but James should’ve known better!
“I fucking know you’re married, Potter!” Breathing through his nose, Regulus turns around and starts fidgeting with the shower’s buttons. “But unless you haven’t noticed, you’re in need of a thorough cleaning. And I’m not waiting for Lily to come here, so—,” he swirls towards James, spitting the words out his mouth. “I was only being sensible, seeing that you can barely walk on your feet. But yes, do thank me by thinking me a creep, Jesus.
“So now you do you. Either you take off your clothes by yourself or go in fully clothed and shower that way, for Christ’s sake, I don’t even care. I found you some clothes from Remus though, if you prefer the sanest option. Hope they fit you!” he ends through clenched teeth, because really, grudge-holder is most of Regulus’ being, he wasn’t lying earlier about that.
“Oh, I’m— yeah, withou’ cloth’s.”
James’ ears are a bit reddish than they were seconds ago. Which is rewarding for Regulus. Because of course James should feel embarrassed! Thinking Regulus was trying to get him— What is wrong with him?
And why the hell is he here?
And why does Regulus have to deal with him like this?
Can't he go? Can't he just leave Regulus alone? Can't he see how maddening he's being?
“I’m gonna get you a glass of water,” Regulus says, heading for the door. Needing to be away. “Do you need anything else?”
“Uh, no, ’m okay. I’m good.”
Regulus doesn’t know if to believe him, mostly because he’s still swaying in place, but it’s not like he’ll stay to gawk at James while he showers. He’s not a barbarian. Even if James thought Regulus was trying to get him naked— And while he is drunk?! Does he really believe Regulus to be such a pervert?
The road to the kitchen doesn’t take him long, but Regulus decides to give James a little more time with himself—because he is courteous like that and he’s not vile—and settles on making something to eat instead.
He goes opening cupboards and searching for some things he just knows to be in here. . . somewhere. . . Because Regulus is not great with making food, and if he can bypass the entire process, he’ll do it, and so. . . he doesn’t, maybe, have a clue where most of the cutlery and whatever else is located. But he does know he has some bread, somewhere. . . in here. . .
Or he doesn’t?!
Well, there may not be bread in Regulus’ house, but there are always crisps. And Regulus is a grown-up, so he can eat whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and he doesn’t have an obsession with the bloody crisps, no matter what the others babble. So he makes another plan, going towards the only cupboard where he knows exactly what is located behind the doors, and takes out the already open bag.
He goes to the worktop placed in the middle of the room, drags a chair out to sit, and starts eating directly from the bag.
It’s quiet inside the house, a creepy silence that comes with the night. The only sounds are the munching Regulus does on his crisps, louder on purpose, and the running water. Regulus hadn’t closed the bathroom’s door and apparently James didn’t bother either. Who’s the creep, exactly?
After a while, bag now almost empty except for a few broken parts, the water stops. Regulus puts himself into motion again.
After gulping down a glass of water he refills it just as cold as he had it, and goes towards the bathroom, berating himself still for what a stupid decision he’s made. James is still wobbling a bit on his legs when he walks the space between the bathroom and where Regulus is sitting outside of it.
“Here. Have some water,” he says, then thrusts the glass onto James’ chest; some of it spills on the floor tiles, some drops wet James’ t-shirt. He mumbles an easy thanks and drinks the whole glass without complaining. Which leaves Regulus a bit disappointed. It’s not that he was looking to start a fight, but, well. . . he would’ve liked to argue with someone, he thinks. Take it all out on James, for being so stupid.
Regulus turns around and enters his bedroom in easy strides, not waiting for James but knowing he will follow. He reaches the middle of his room, and when he turns on the spot he almost collides with James. He’s not surprised to smell his body lotion on the other man, because he did put it out for James to use, but he is surprised to find himself almost preening at smelling himself of James.
But it’s only probably because he smelt so bad before. Regulus doesn’t have to think anything more than this, because that way lies madness and desperation, and Regulus has stopped thinking about what ifs years ago. So he tells himself.
“I’ll let you sleep in here only because I’ve no desire to make your bed elsewhere. No, James!” Regulus says when James opens his mouth, no doubts to oppose the decision. “Is— What? Four in the morning?”
He darts his hand around his left to point toward the bed. “You take the bed today, then feel bad about it tomorrow— today, whatever! I just want to go to sleep now.” He feels exhausted. Like he hasn’t had a proper sleep in over a year, which is also the truth, and he feels he will fall asleep on his feet if James will drag this out much longer.
Plus, James must be tired, too. Regulus doesn’t know what he’s troubled with, but he’ll deal with it later. Or maybe James will wake up feeling all brand new again, say sorry for being a pain in the arse last night, and leave it as that.
“But it’s your bed,” James says. And he has tears in his eyes again. And he looks impossibly young, all of a sudden. Suddenly, too, Regulus’ initial passion for a quarrel drains out of his body.
“James,” and fuck it, his voice came out just too soft, too revealing. But it’s late, and he’s tired, and James is looking so defeated, Regulus can’t stop but wonder what happened to him. And he shouldn’t, but he wants to know. And he won’t ask, but he thinks he would like to be as blunt as Sirius is, to ask questions like he knows people want to share their stories with him. “James, why. . .”
But he's not his brother. And he is blunt but it's a defence mechanism. He's not very welcoming, and it's nothing he can change all of a sudden. He still needs time.
“. . . don't you go to sleep for now, alright? It’s late.”
James looks at him for a bit, but nods his head in the end. He moves around Regulus to reach the bed and lies on his side, facing Regulus, glasses still on his face.
He’ll crush them like this, Regulus thinks. So, because Regulus cares about James having a peaceful sleep and to still see in the morning, he goes to take them off his face. James doesn’t move, lets Regulus use both of his hands to get them off. Hums a bit when Regulus accidentally ruffles his wet hair in the process. He looks through his droopy lids at Regulus, eyes glistening, his lips framed into a pout again—and Regulus feels like screaming.
(He does it in his mind. He complains inside there about James Potter and his stupid ventures in the wee hours of the night; and because he’s such a fool; and because he wants to scream.)
Regulus puts the glasses on the bedside table next to him after he’s done folding them. “Don't you wanna get inside the sheets? It's cold tonight.”
To get James under the covers is another ordeal: it happens through gentle giggles coming from James’ sleepy mouth when Regulus tries to get the sheets from under the goddamn oaf; he fails, James only provided aid is by pushing his body deeper into the mattress when Regulus pulls at the bedcovers. Becoming like a log.
“Why are you such a child?” he asks after James finally heaves himself up a bit so Regulus can get the sheets.
“’m not,” James denies with slurred words, but this time Regulus is sure it is because he’s sleepy, rather than drunk. “‘m helping you.”
At least he's him again, Regulus thinks. And in his mind, in his body, something settles.