cold feet

If Regulus traces it back far enough, he supposes that James Potter is the one to blame for all of this.

Of course, he also realizes that assigning a culprit to the crime is incredibly petty and immature of him. Sure, it was something he would’ve done at ten years old—but at sixteen years old, it’s pretty pathetic that he’s reflecting back on all of this in the first place.

As hard as he tries, though, he can’t help it. He hasn’t been doing anything else but attempting to place blame since Sunday; the day that Sirius left. It’s now Thursday evening—his first time back at the rink since he said goodbye to his brother. And while he’s lacing up his skates, relishing in the familiar feeling of the bitter and cold air, he’s finally able to draw a conclusion to the question he’s been asking.

It’s James Potter’s fault. It has to be his fault.

Before James, Regulus and Sirius had been just fine. Actually, they’d practically been inseparable. Between spending every free morning and evening they had here, hours of talking in the car on their way to every competition and practice, and countless hotel room beds that they’d had to share, they’d developed a reputation for being attached at the hip. And Regulus wouldn’t have had it any other way. He wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

Apparently Sirius hadn’t felt the same way, because like some sort of knight in shining armor, into his life swung James fucking Potter.

It had happened when Regulus was 9 and Sirius was 10, and Regulus thought it to be the cruelest twist of fate possible. After all, what were the odds that James’s Wednesday skating lesson just happened to fall during the same public session that Sirius and Regulus did their lesson? What were the odds that Sirius, whilst in the middle of attempting a double flip, was going to barrel right into James and send him flying towards the boards?

And what were the fucking odds that, after Sirius nearly ended James’s life, the pair would somehow end up becoming best friends?

It’s all James’s fault. It’s all James’s fault because after he recovered from the fall, he didn’t yell at Sirius like any normal person should’ve and asked him what he was thinking. No, instead he had the audacity to laugh. And after seeing that Sirius had remained completely upright and on his feet, he’d only said one thing.

“You should think about hockey.”

And those words—those stupid five words—were all it took for Sirius to be entranced under James Potter’s spell. The exchange had happened so fast, and yet that was all it took for some switch to immediately be flipped.

Suddenly Sirius was trading in costumes for jerseys, the sharp edges of his blades becoming rounded instead. Suddenly the small roller bag he used to carry around became a much bigger bag that he hauled on his shoulder, and suddenly monthly competitions were turning into weekly games.

It’s been six years, and Regulus still has no idea how to make sense of it. How everything suddenly went downhill when things had been going so well, and how Sirius didn’t seem to even glance back at him as he followed in James’s footsteps.

All he can make sense of is that he utterly despises two things: James Potter, and the sport of hockey.

Those two definitely go hand in hand, which is a little embarrassing for Regulus. He’s never outwardly shown his hate for James—too busy attempting to live up to the Black family name, he’s never had the time to. And even if he did, he thinks it only would’ve made everything worse between him and Sirius. But he’s definitely made his distaste for hockey known, and that distaste practically exists only because of James. He will continue to make it known likely until the end of time.

With a sigh, Regulus finishes lacing up his skates. Instead of thinking about how once upon a time Sirius used to help him tie them, he takes a glance towards the ice. The zamboni’s still out there, identifiable by the humming that causes the glass to vibrate. But the driver’s still got a good half of the ice left to cover—so he has time. Towards the center of the rink he can see very clearly where the driver still has to cover, and he can tell by the piles of snow that top the sheet. Great. No doubt that the piles of snow are because of the hour long sticktime that happens right before his freestyle session, which means that the ice is going to be rough. Just what he needed. And another reason why he can’t stand hockey.

See, before James he was still annoyed by the sport for this very reason. Because to Regulus, hockey players are all just big imbeciles who have knives on their shoes and have no idea how to make it look pretty. He can’t count the amount of times as a child that some idiot player at the public session nearly took him out (or did take him out) and didn’t do so much as apologize. They just plow through him like he isn’t even there, and do those ridiculous stops that leave deep scratches in the ice and ruin it. Not to even mention that the game itself is straight up callous in its nature. He‘s never understood the appeal. He never will. James just gave him a reason to actively hate it.

It’s with his contempt towards anything to do with the sport of hockey in mind that he stands up, scanning the crowd of figure skaters that’s formed around the door to the ice. Today it isn’t very big—there’s only about half a dozen skaters, which means he’ll have more space to practice. And more space to be left alone. Good, he thinks. Better chance for him to clear his head that way.

That’s when the prominent bang of the front door being thrust open rings through the entire rink, and it’s so loud and sudden that Regulus whips around immediately to see who’s entering.

It takes everything within him not to groan. Speak of the fucking devil.

Into the rink strides James Potter, his hockey bag so heavy and stuffed to the brim that it’s currently pinning the front door open against the wall as he makes his way inside. How does that thing manage to hold more and more every year?

Eventually he’s able to tug at the bag, settling it back onto his shoulder as the door shuts and he takes a few steps forward. Regulus takes a few steps back.

It doesn’t matter how fast he tries to turn away—he can already feel the set of eyes that land on him. James has already seen him, and it doesn’t take a genius to know what he’s going to do next. Curse the Potters and their neverending desire to be good people.

“Regulus, hey!” he says, which almost causes Regulus to scoff. Before Sunday, James would’ve never bothered even glancing in his direction. “What’re you doing here?”

Regulus wants nothing more than to tell him to fuck off and to leave him alone forever. But he thinks he shows incredible restraint as he looks James in the eye, gesturing to the ice. “Take a wild guess, James.”

“Ah,” James nods, not even phased by the glare that Regulus is so sure he’s offering him. “You got a game coming up soon?”

Regulus could punch him. “They’re called competitions,” he corrects, resisting every urge to call him an idiot to his face. Does James just think of everything in hockey terms? “But yeah, I’ve got regionals coming up in a couple of months.”

“Competitions.. right, sorry,” James says, and he’s grinning ear to ear for what is seemingly no reason at all. “Good luck with that.”

Regulus does not thank him, instead opting to ask “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” It’s the nicest option he can think of.

James just shrugs. “Dry land doesn’t start for another five minutes,” he says, readjusting his bag so that it’s tighter on his shoulder. Regulus has no idea how he walks around without that shoulder falling right off. And he also has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. “Just saw you and thought I’d say hi.”

“Yeah, okay,” Regulus responds simply. Because that’s totally something you do all the time. For a moment his sheer confusion at the entire situation is enough that he only focuses on trying to answer the question of What the hell is James Potter doing right now. But then he runs back what James just said in his head, and his eyes widen. “Wait, you have practice right now?” This shouldn’t surprise him—he literally looked at the schedule as he walked in and saw all of the hockey teams scheduled to be in Rink B today—yet it does. How did he miss James’s team on the schedule for Rink B at the exact same time as he’d be in Rink A?

Now it’s James’s turn to correct Regulus. “Dry land,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Regulus’s face flushes, and he wonders how James doesn’t sense his irritation. “On-ice practice starts at 5:30.” Right when freestyle ends.

Regulus Black is never going to catch a break.

He wants to bury his face in his hands and groan into them. The only reason he restrains himself from doing so is that the other figure skaters have started glancing over at him—probably wondering why the hell he’s talking to a hockey player. Regulus would very much like to know too.

Oblivious to everything else, James raises an eyebrow towards Regulus. “I guess we’ll be seeing each other around, then?”

Seriously, how has James still not gotten the goddamn hint.

Regulus can’t take this anymore. “Absolutely not,” he responds, and he’s laughing from the stupidity of all of this. From how stupid it is that this is the most James has spoken to him in the seven years they’ve known each other, from how stupid it is that he’s only visible when his brother’s gone. It’s all just so utterly stupid.

James clearly takes the laughing to mean that Regulus’s statement is a joke. “Oh, this is exciting,” he says, and Regulus notices that his grin hasn’t fallen once. There’s no way he actually means this. “Can’t wait to tell Sirius about this.”

And that’s when Regulus can no longer ignore the sharp pain in his chest that’s been there since Sirius moved, the hole in his stomach that he can’t get rid of no matter how hard he tries. Sometimes it subsides and Regulus can almost forget about all of it, but now James has caused it to resurface more prominent than ever. His face twists as James mentions it, and Regulus is quick to put a hand on his shoulder. He watches as James’s expression changes from excitement to perplexion, and he doesn’t give him a single second to process it. “There’s nothing to tell,” he says, and uses his hand to give James a light shove. He wishes that he could say every single thing on his mind, wishes he could say how fucking dare you, but he’ll settle for just this. “Have a nice practice.” He doesn’t add and hopefully rest of your life.

He also doesn’t wait to see James’s reaction, instead turning away from him to face the ice. By now, the ground has stopped humming, and Regulus can hear the sharp sound of blades cutting across the crisp and smooth surface.

Nothing else matters anymore, he tells himself as he opens the door and hovers one skate over the ice. Bending down to remove his skate guard and place it along the wall, he wills himself to forget the last several days.

Nothing else matters anymore, because the next sixty minutes are his and his alone. He steps down onto the ice with his first foot before hunching over and repeating the process with his second skate guard.

Nothing else matters anymore—James and Sirius especially don’t matter. For just one hour, they don’t exist, and it’ll only be him and the ice.

At least he still has the ice. At least he will always have the ice, even if he doesn’t share it with Sirius anymore. It’s probably better this way anyways. For now, the ice is his and his alone. And that’s all he needs.

Regulus takes a deep breath in, puts his second foot down on the ice, and pushes off. Leaving everything else behind for a moment in time, he closes his eyes and soars.