Chapter 4
When Sirius closes the front door behind him, he takes a second to sit in the silence. His household is rarely quiet when he’s home—so he has to make the most of it while it lasts.
Almost immediately, it’s broken.
”You and James have a good time together?”
Fuck.
The voice comes from the top of the stairs, and Sirius tries not to grimace as he turns around and catches the glare of his brother.
Any semblance of annoyance he felt is immediately swallowed up by pity. To put things quite simply, Regulus looks like absolute shit. His usually neat curls are unruly and sit in clumps around his face, and his red eyes are accentuated by the deep purple bags that sit underneath them.
“Reg—“ Sirius begins, taking a step towards the stairs. Regulus, in turn, takes a step back.
”I mean, I’m guessing you did,” he says, cutting Sirius off, “considering the fact that you just got home and it’s almost eleven.”
“I lost track of time, I didn’t even realize—“
”Really?” Regulus says, and he’s laughing now. It isn’t a genuine laughter—Sirius can hear the contempt behind his scoffing, can hear the disbelief. “You lost track of time?” Sirius is quiet, bracing himself for when hellfire rains down.
This always happens with the two of them. It’s happened ever since Sirius first started playing hockey. They dance around each other for weeks, or even months on end, avoiding any sort of talk that isn’t casual conversation or acknowledgement of each other’s existence. It’s almost a waltz, in its own demented way. Then, one of them does something that pisses the other off, and suddenly they’re caught in a dangerous tango. They’re violent and aggressive with their steps, screaming at each other with anger that neither of them should harbor for someone they barely speak to. Their confrontation is often brief, but explosive. Half-hearted apologies will be mumbled afterwards, promises not to do this again—and then they fall right back into ¾ time, waltzing around all over again.
Sirius was hoping that it wouldn’t happen before he had to leave. But now, he has no choice except to take responsibility—whatever happens next is entirely his fault. And he absolutely deserves the heat that is going to come his way.
”Remember when I asked you yesterday if you wanted to go get dinner tonight, before you leave for eight months? And you said that you had plans with James for most of the day, but we could go as soon as you got home?”
”Regulus, I—“
“You said you’d be back by seven at the latest.”
”I know, I’m so sorry—“
”I waited outside on the porch for you. Did you know that? I was out there for two hours.”
Sirius’s heart nearly drops into his stomach. “I didn’t know that,” he nearly whispers. And just as he’s getting ready to say all of his apologies, even though all of the sorries in the world wouldn’t be enough…
”Two fucking hours, Sirius! Two hours of me thinking that any second now, you’d be home. Two hours wondering where the fuck you were and not texting because I didn’t want to ruin your time with James. Two hours of me wondering whether I should just give up and go back inside—and clearly I fucking should have, because it’s been almost two hours since then and you just got back.”
Sirius doesn’t respond to that—he doesn’t know how to. He knows there’s nothing he can say, knows that he doesn’t have a single excuse he can make. He inches closer and closer to the railing of the stairs, closer and closer to Regulus. Finally, he tries to speak. “Reg…” And again, he falls short of a reply.
“It’s fine,” Regulus says eventually. “Okay? I should’ve expected it.”
“My flight doesn’t leave until noon tomorrow,” Sirius attempts to reason. “We can go get breakfast, we could-“
“No,” Regulus cuts him off immediately. “Forget it. It’s whatever.”
“Please,” Sirius says, practically begging at this point. “I fucked up, okay? I absolutely fucked up, and I’m so sorry, and I want to make it—”
“Jesus, I said forget it!” Regulus yells, probably far louder than he meant to.
But it’s too late for quiet apologies—Sirius rises right up to the challenge, yelling right back. “What the hell do you want me to do then? I’m trying to make up for it, and you aren’t letting me!” he says, approaching the bottom of the stairs now.
This time, Regulus doesn’t take a step back. This time, he takes a couple of steps down the stairs, preparing to meet him. ”Maybe to not fuck up in the first place? Maybe to, I don’t know, think about me for once in your life?”
Here we go, Sirius thinks. “My god, you are so determined to be miserable all of the time, aren’t you?” he retorts. Usually, he would regret making a statement like this the second the words flew out of his mouth. But today, he feels no remorse. “Do you think I did this on purpose?”
”Honestly, I wouldn’t doubt that,” Regulus responds with a scoff, crossing his arms over his chest. “You and James probably had a good laugh over it too—your poor little baby brother, waiting patiently for you to come home.”
And there it is; the exact thing about Regulus that has driven Sirius crazy for years. “Stop being such a fucking victim!” he says, except he doesn’t say it—he screams it. And the second he does, Regulus goes completely quiet. For a moment, it is so silent that they could hear a pin drop.
Sirius begins to make his way up the stairs, intending to brush right past Regulus and go to his room. God knows he could use the rest. “I’m done with this. Goodnight,” he says in a near whisper, finally breaking the silence. He doesn’t look at Regulus as he steps past him, and is determined to keep it that way—
Until he feels a hand land on his shoulder. “Wait, I’m sorry—“ Regulus begins, and it’s the tone in which he speaks that causes Sirius to freeze completely. It’s the same tone that Regulus used whenever their parents were yelling at him for messing up an element in competition, the same tone that Regulus used the day that Sirius told him he hated figure skating and that he would never compete ever again. It’s a plea, it’s him wondering what he’s done wrong, it’s him not knowing what to do other than to say he’s sorry a million times over. And Sirius can’t ever bring himself to stand by idly and ignore it, no matter what might have happened just before.
“Look, it’s not you,” Sirius says. “I’m just tired of this happening every time we talk to each other, okay?”
”I am too,” Regulus whispers, and his voice is unsteady.
Glad they’ve established that.
A few seconds pass, though they might as well be hours with the quiet that stretches between them. And then, Regulus speaks again. “I don’t want this to be our last conversation for eight months.”
There it is. The thing that they’ve both been avoiding discussing, the thing that’s been causing an even bigger rift between them the entire summer than there already was. “I can’t stay, Regulus. You know that.”
”I know,” Regulus replies. “I just thought that maybe…” He doesn’t finish that thought.
”I can’t handle it here any longer,” Sirius says, and though he doesn’t explicitly name the reason why, they both know what it is that’s pushing him out—the double doors at the end of the hallway stand looming over them both, the place where they both are currently fast asleep. Sirius thanks his lucky stars that they haven’t been woken by all of the commotion.
“And you think I can?” Regulus asks. Sirius’s heart sinks.
”They like you,” he starts, because it’s true. Sirius was cursed with being the hated child, the one who could never do anything right—the only burden Regulus has ever had is that he’s the favorite, their precious golden boy who will grow up to carry on the Black family legacy. Sirius has always been the one to take all of the blows from their mother, all of the screaming and hitting and all of the talk about how he’d never be good enough. But even as the words come out of his mouth, they feel fragile, unsure. He’s always tried his best to protect Regulus from them, as kids and even now. Now, he isn’t going to be around.
”Yeah, but for how long?” Regulus says, giving voice to the exact thoughts in Sirius’s head. How long until their mom realizes Sirius is no longer around, and begins to take everything out on Regulus instead?
“I don’t know,” Sirius replies, and he doesn’t want to know. Just thinking about it makes him feel sick to his stomach. He wishes he could take Regulus with him. He wishes this entire thing wasn’t so complicated. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“But you are.”
Sirius looks away—he can’t handle the expression on his brother’s face anymore. When he finally turns to face him again, he can only get two words out. “I’m sorry.”
Regulus doesn’t speak, and the silence between them lingers for what feels like hours before one of them dares to move. Not sure of what else there is to say, Sirius is the first one to move. He steps past Regulus, with full intent to sleep all of this off and see if maybe things will be better in the morning. “I’m gonna go to bed,” he mumbles as he makes his way to his room.
He’s almost made it—he’s only a couple of inches away from the door when Regulus at last talks again, addressing his apology. “I wish you were.”
It’s enough to make Sirius freeze, his stomach twisting into knots. If only he knew.
But there isn’t enough time left to make it right. There isn’t enough time for Sirius to try and fix years upon years of a trust that was broken, not enough time left to close the distance that has built between them. They only have tonight, and Sirius needs more than that.
But this is how it is. And he can’t change it now.
He’s able to regain his senses enough to reach for the handle and step inside of his room, and he makes it just in time to close the door as the tears start to fall from his eyes.
❅ ❅ ❅
“What the hell was that?!”
Regulus almost misses those words, still feeling incredibly lightheaded as he attempts to get up from the ice. His entire lower half is aching, but over the years he’s gotten used to that feeling. His knees and butt are just going to be permanently bruised for the rest of his life, and that’s fine. It comes with the sport.
To his credit though, it would’ve been a beautiful triple lutz if he hadn’t eaten absolute shit. He’d gotten the full three rotations needed—he just couldn’t hold the landing.
As he approaches his coach, he brushes the snow off of his pants. Yeah, he thinks, my ass definitely has a new bruise. “I got all the way around!” he exclaims in defense of himself, though he knows Lucius isn’t going to see it that way.
”Doesn’t matter if you can’t land it,” he responds, shaking his head.
“But—“
”Do it again. Don’t rush into the landing this time.”
Regulus sighs, glancing up at the scoreboard that displays the time. Only one minute left, he tells himself, and then you don’t have to see him again until tomorrow.
It’s not that he hates his cousin-in-law—in fact, he’s probably Regulus’s favorite family member, and has been so since Narcissa married him a few years ago. It’s just when he’s coaching Regulus that he nearly drives him crazy. But he’s also been the coach that’s put together the best programs and helped Regulus to win the most, and he supposes that he can’t argue with results.
So Regulus takes a deep breath, and tries not to freak out too much about what he’s doing as he takes a couple of backwards crossovers down the ice. He’s found that he does worse when he thinks about it; who wouldn’t when they’re using shoes with knives on them to propel themselves into the air on frozen water? He lifts his right foot off of the ground, using his momentum to pull his left foot onto the outside edge needed—and then he digs his right toe pick into the ice behind him, pushing himself up as he crosses his left leg over his right and pulls his arms into his chest.
Once he feels that he’s high enough into the air, he begins to rotate, attempting to achieve the 1080 degrees needed to be awarded full points by judges. He gets around once, then twice, then goes for a third rotation…
And he lands the jump before he can fully complete the third rotation, landing in the total opposite direction of his takeoff. Though he manages to hang on to the landing this time, he knows it wasn’t good enough, and that he’d get downgraded in competition for his failure. “That was under!” he wastes no time in calling out to Lucius, eager to point out his own mistake before Lucius does. It’s too late, though—he can already see the disappointed expression on Lucius’s face, the way that his eyebrows curve just slightly upwards as he skates forward. He isn’t staring at Regulus at all; in fact, he’s looking down at the ground, undoubtedly checking the marks made on the ice by his questionable landing. And based on the way that his mouth twists, he isn’t happy at all.
Regulus doesn’t understand how Lucius can be more disappointed than ever before—but then he decides to glance down at the marks made by his blades, and his own self disappointment rises immeasurably.
He missed an entire half of a rotation. Instead of doing 3 rotations, he’s done 2.5, and instead of getting around himself by 1080 degrees, he’s only gotten around 900. ”You just had the rotation down,” Lucius says. “I don’t get what changed.”
”I’ll keep working on it,” is how Regulus replies, trying not to let it show in his voice just how frustrated he is. But anyone would be if they were in his shoes—he’s been trying to consistently land this stupid jump for three months now, and he doesn’t understand why he hasn’t done it yet. He and Lucius work on it every single lesson, almost every day, and nothing changes. Regionals are less than two months away; what happens if he can’t get it down?
Lucius doesn’t respond to that, his face unwavering as he speaks again. “One more time.”
Their last minute is up, and he can hear the doors to the Zamboni entrance opening—now is his last chance to get it down for the day. Even if he still can’t do this consistently, he tells himself one good landing is better than no good landing.
Just like all of his attempts before, he takes a couple of backwards crossovers into the jump, lifting his right leg and pushing his left blade onto the outside edge. And just like before, he taps his toe pick into the ice, propelling himself upwards and snapping into the hitch position necessary to rotate.
He lets himself spin around once, then twice… he makes it around a third time, and tells himself that this is going to be the one he lands cleanly—
Then he hits the ground again on both feet, and the exit out of the air is so sudden that he practically slams himself into the ice. His back is the first thing to hit the cold floor beneath him.
”Come on,” he hears as he lays flat on the ground, attempting to catch his breath, “you had that one!”
“I’m trying!” Regulus yells back as he scrambles up to his feet, unsure of what else he can say. At this point, the Zamboni honks behind them both, and Regulus doesn’t need to hear his cue to leave twice. He’s quick to skate over to the benches and grab his bag, and he practically bolts off of the ice. He doesn’t bother to look back; Lucius will be close behind, likely preparing to tell him every single thing he’s done wrong this lesson. Likewise, Regulus is prepared to hear it.
Regulus practically wrestles with the laces on his Edeas in order to undo them, eager to get out of the boots that he’s skated in for about three hours now. Once the laces are loose enough, he yanks both skates off, and it takes everything in him not to throw the stupid things at the wall.
It’s good that he doesn’t, because it only takes about a minute for Lucius to be standing right in front of him, looming over. But instead of just staying there, to Regulus’s surprise, he steps forward and takes a seat right next to him. This is unusual, Regulus thinks, debating whether or not to actually look at him as he grabs a towel from his bag. As he begins to wipe his blades dry, he settles on looking in Lucius’s general direction—but avoids eye contact.
“Look,” Lucius begins, “both of your programs are fine. I like what you’re doing with them, they’re flowing very nicely and you seem comfortable in the choreography.”
Regulus is so taken aback by the fact that he’s actually being complimented that he needs a moment to process the words. Blinking slowly, he tries to say “thanks,” but can only manage a stutter.
“But components only make up so much of your score. And they won’t matter if you can’t get the jumps down.”
There it is, Regulus thinks. “I know,” he replies with a nod. He still is avoiding eye contact at any means possible, deciding that the speck of water still left over on his right blade is far more interesting.
“I just don’t understand how you expect to get the second half bonus on this when you can’t even do it in practice.”
Ah. That’s what he’s been getting at the entire time. Lucius’s effort in his delivery all makes sense now.
In figure skating, competitors receive a 10% bonus on the base value of any jumping passes that are performed in the second half of a program. By that point, they are skating on tired legs, so if they are still able to land jumps perfectly it’s considered a commendable feat. When Regulus was first receiving choreography for his free skate from Narcissa, they decided that he’d put two jumping passes in the second half. The first one would be a triple flip into a double axel, which Regulus could land without difficulty. But the second jumping pass—a simple triple lutz—is shaping up to be the element that will likely kick him in the ass the entire season. He’s only been able to land it cleanly in practice twice thus far, and he’s ran through his free skate a lot more than just twice. He tries not to think about how dismal that makes the odds of him actually landing it cleanly in competition.
“I’ll get it down,” is what he says, because what else can he say?
“Why haven’t you done that already?”
He doesn’t have a response to that.
Lucius sighs beside him, and Regulus is half-expecting him to continue on with his harsh lecture. He’s preparing himself for what he’s about to hear when Lucius speaks again.
”Okay, fine. We’ll leave it there for today. I had something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
This shocks Regulus, who was fully expecting to hear something about how he’s not good enough and needs to retire from skating now before he embarrasses himself. For the first time since leaving the ice, he brings himself to glance over at Lucius, guessing what his coach might have in store. An exhibition show? A fundraiser? Sirius leaving?
To his relief, it isn’t the last subject. “The rink’s starting our next set of Learn to Skate classes soon, and we need another coach to teach Snowplow 1. That’s the introductory course for the really little kids, you’d basically just be teaching them to march in place—“
“No,” Regulus says immediately. “I’d be the worst coach ever.”
”It wouldn’t be just you,” Lucius replies. “You’d have help.”
“Trust me,” Regulus continues, firm on his answer, “You do not want me to be teaching them. I can barely stay upright on the ice still.”
”You don’t have to do it,” Lucius says, “I just thought I’d throw it out there. It does make you some money, and once you get the coaching certification it’s easy enough work.”
The mention of money is enough to make Regulus vastly more interested in the position than he was before. It would be nice to make a little bit for himself, some money that doesn't just go right towards his skating. “..Okay, so how often would I have to do it?”
Unfazed by Regulus’s sudden change of heart, Lucius shrugs. “Twice a week. Tuesdays and Saturdays. I can talk to Slughorn about it and get him to send you all of the information, if you want.”
And against his better judgment Regulus finds himself nodding, completely willing to give the whole coaching thing a try. “That’d be great,” he says.
Lucius’s lips turn upwards, which is the closest he ever gets to smiling. “I’ll text him tonight,” he says, standing up from the bench. “I’ve gotta go to my next lesson, but text me if you have any questions.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Lucius has already begun walking away, but he turns back around to give him a nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Regulus gives him a thumbs up, an acknowledgement that he will be there. “See you.”
Then Lucius is gone, and Regulus is left alone on the bench.
He takes a moment afterwards to just breathe and let himself sit in the cold, closing his eyes and reflecting back on his time spent skating today. Usually, he’d try to give himself three things to work on next time—one of his very first Learn to Skate coaches used to make him do this, and it’s stuck with him ever since. But today, his list is simply composed of:
1. Land a clean triple lutz
2. Land a clean triple lutz
3. Land a clean triple lutz
So instead, he thinks of the text he’s going to receive from Slughorn tonight. And he thinks ahead a few weeks, to when he might be teaching young children to take their first strides on the ice. These are the children that will grow up to fall in love with ice sports, the children that will eventually move on to private lessons and expensive travel tournaments, the future generation of NHL players and Olympians, and it would be on him to make them understand just how wonderful this world they’re stepping into is.
Sure, this world can be fucking hard sometimes. There’s rejection and injuries and competition anxiety and everything else under the sun, but they don’t need to know that. He just needs to focus on the things that make skating wonderful, the things about it that he loves.
How hard can that be?