Chapter 7
“No fucking way,” Sirius says, his mouth completely agape. Even through the terrible quality of the video call they’re on, it doesn’t take a genius to tell that he is totally and utterly floored by this new development.
”I cannot make this up,” James replies, shaking his head. And really, he can’t.
”No way!” Sirius exclaims again, like James is now going to tell him the events of today didn’t actually happen and he was just crafting an elaborate joke. James doesn’t think he could’ve envisioned this in his wildest dreams.
He’s not sure what to say next—what is there to say? Regulus pretty much all but confirmed today James’s worst suspicions; he does, in fact, want to murder James Potter, and it doesn’t seem like that’ll change anytime soon. Finally, he settles on a statement that sounds more like a question.“I guess he couldn’t have avoided me forever?”
To his own credit, he’d been excellent about staying out of Regulus’s way. It had been two weeks since the initial confrontation, and James hadn’t so much as uttered a word to him (which is a commendable feat for him, as he’s incapable of shutting up and he knows this). Regulus is actually the one who ruined his streak for him—James has been coaching Learn to Skate for the past year! How the hell was he supposed to know that Regulus would be a coach for this session?
On top of that, Regulus is acting like this is entirely his fault. Like James knew this was going to happen, like he planned for this. James doesn’t think there is a single universe out there in which he would have. It’s not exactly like he’s keen to interact with Regulus, either.
(…Okay, so maybe that’s a lie, but no one needs to know that. Remus and Peter already think he’s fucking crazy for feeling sorry for Regulus, and Sirius isn’t all that fond of his baby brother either. Yet James can’t help it—he’s incredibly intrigued by this kid. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s a 15 year old seemingly filled with the rage of an old man, or the fact that he doesn’t seem to have any sense of identity outside of figure skating. He’s not sure. Either way, he doesn’t think he’s as much of a prick as Sirius makes him out to be—it’s just him specifically that Regulus hates.)
”I can’t believe he’s coaching in the first place,” Sirius admits, pursing his lips together. “I couldn’t imagine our lovely mother’s too happy about it.” Even though the mention of Walburga is brief, James still grimaces. There’s a member of the Black family that he actually, genuinely hates. He’s despised her since he was ten, and he doesn’t plan on stopping. The mention of her alone is enough to make his blood boil, but it’s Sirius’s use of words—the reminder that she’s actually his mother, and not just some crazy figure skating parent at the rink—that prompts his reaction.
“Probably not,” James admits. He lets that statement linger for a moment, and then, before he can stop himself, he blurts out a question. “Have you talked to him at all?”
He regrets the question the second he says it. It’s one thing for Sirius to just talk about his brother—it’s another to discuss their relationship, which is an entirely separate entity.
He goes to apologize, opening his mouth and getting out the first syllable. But to James’s surprise, Sirius sighs.. and then answers his question. “No,” he says, and James can tell by the way his brows are furrowed that he wishes he was giving James a different answer. “I texted him when my plane landed, and that’s been it. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’d say.”
”Fair enough,” James nods, though he could easily list off several ideas. Sirius likely could too—but he seems terrified to try and type any of them out. James doesn’t blame him.
Instead, James does what he can do the best—he makes a joke out of it. “You could send him the photo of your Yankee Doodle costume. Just to see if he remembers.”
”Nah, he’d get—wait a minute,” Sirius says once he hears the way James is trying to hold back his laughter (and failing miserably). “You’re fucking with me. Aren’t you?”
James grins, bobbing his head up and down to confirm it. And then, as though they’re a couple of girls in middle school, they both burst out into a fit of giggles.
“God,” Sirius wheezes out, “it’s been 12 years. When are you going to leave me alone?!”
”Oh, never,” James says, tears forming in his eyes. “As long as you live, I will never let that picture die.”
”You’re an asshole,” Sirius replies with a shake of his head. “You’re still showing that picture to everyone, aren’t you?”
James is quick to press both of his lips together, his eyes widening as he looks away from his camera. “Umm… only to Remus.”
It only occurs to James after he says the name that Sirius still has no idea who this is. ”Who?” Sirius questions. When James looks back at his phone screen, Sirius looks significantly less amused.
”Remus Lupin. New kid on the Marauders,” James responds in his best attempt to be casual about it. “He’s great, you’d love him.”
Sirius practically groans. “You showed the picture to someone I’ve never even met?!”
“It’s fine, Remus loved it!” James exclaims, though on the other end of the line he can see Sirius burying his head in his free hand. Probably should’ve held off about telling him that. Oh well—it’s too late now.
When Sirius finally removes his head from his hand, James has to refrain from bursting into laughter as he sees the red that decorates his friend’s cheeks. “You are going to be the death of me,” he says, sighing.
”I try,” replies James, suppressing a grin—or at least, attempting to. He doesn’t think it’s working.
”I hate you,” Sirius declares, which nearly causes James to flinch. Normally, he’d be laughing. But now, he’s remembering what went down just a few hours ago, when a boy with a very similar face and identical last name told him those exact three words.
He shouldn’t actually let it get to him, though. He knows that. So instead, James plays it off as funny. Just like before.
”You know, your brother told me the exact same thing today,” he says. “I’m not sure which one of you I believe.”
”Well, you’re not going around showing my brother’s embarrassing childhood photos to strangers!” Sirius exclaims.
”So it’s you, then?”
”Absolutely. I’m the number one hater of James Fleamont Potter.”
“Woah, full name,” James says, his eyes widening. “That’s how you know it’s bad.”
“Oh, I’m one thousand percent serious,” Sirius says, nodding grimly. Then, James watches as his expression changes, his entire face falling. “Wait—“
But it’s too late. “Yeah, I know your name. Why’re you telling it to me?” James responds, the same quip he’s made since they were 10. Immediately, Sirius’s mouth presses together in a tight line, though James doesn’t even care. He’s already cackling at himself too much to worry about Sirius’s reaction.
“This is exactly why I hate you more,” Sirius says, though the corners of his lips are turned upwards. And that’s enough for James to know that he isn’t ever going to truly mean it (that and the fact that they say “I love you” to each other every time they say goodbye. But that’s a given).
”You could never hate me,” James replies, to which Sirius just emits a sigh.
”…No,” he finally admits, “I couldn’t.”
Sirius couldn’t be any more different from his brother.
It’s quiet for a few seconds, and Sirius is the first to break the silence. “So,” he begins, “that new kid, Remus—“
“Yeah, what about him?” James asks, quick to change the subject so he doesn’t spend a moment more of his time thinking about Regulus Black. Why does he need to be wasting so much of his time bothered by someone who would rather pretend he doesn’t exist? It won’t change anything.
”Tell me more.”
James is happy to oblige.
❅ ❅ ❅
When Remus enters through the rink’s giant glass doors, the sun is still coming up on the horizon.
Technically, he doesn’t need to be at practice for another two hours. But the rink is having an early stick time, and Remus wants to get some practice in while he’s feeling up to it. He’s not sure the next time this will happen, nor the next time he’ll be able to do this without feeling like absolute death. With him, it’s always a complete toss up.
He’s long moved past the point of complaining about it, though—he’s been dealing with this since he was 8. This is how things have always been for him, and probably how they always will be. Over the years he’s undergone extensive therapy and done several types of treatment, and while it’s helped, the problem hasn’t disappeared completely. He still can’t just go to sleep like a normal person, no matter how he tries, let alone get eight hours of it at a time. He likely never will be able to. And that’s fine. It’s just another minor setback in his hockey career. Nothing he hasn’t faced before.
Which is why he has to make the most of this while he can. For the past few days, he’s felt the closest to normal that he probably ever will. Last night, he actually managed to fall asleep at 11–though he was awake at 3. Like his body knew he was usually up around that time, and wanted him to continue the cycle. After about an hour of unsuccessfully trying to go back to sleep, he eventually just gave up. So now it’s 5 in the morning, and he’s here at the rink. And honestly? On other days, he absolutely would not be up to this. But today, just for this moment, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
After he registers for the session at the front counter with the employee who looks very exhausted, he makes his way down to the locker rooms in Rink C. As he enters through the doors and is greeted with the freezing cold air stinging his face, he takes a glance at the ice. Freshly cut, and no one else is on it. He’s participating in the first activity of the day, with a smooth surface waiting just for him. His heart skips a beat.
He makes a point to change into his gear as quickly as he can, thinking that he could probably get away with hopping on the session a couple of minutes early. It isn’t supposed to start until 5:30, but he’s sure he’ll be fine. He practically throws on his shoulder protectors and elbow pads, and yanks the laces of his skates as tightly and quickly as he can. Before he knows it, he’s gotten everything on except for his jersey and a helmet.
His Marauders jerseys still haven’t come in yet; they’re supposed to receive them this morning, at his 7:30 practice. So now, he undergoes a familiar debacle—which jersey does he wear in lieu of it?
He begins to go through the several other jerseys in his bag, tossing them out as he goes deeper and deeper. He definitely does not remember his bag being so big, or it being capable of holding this much stuff.
No, not the bright pink practice jersey again.
Jesus, why is my jersey from when I helped coach Learn to Play in here?
Oh fuck, I need to wash this one.
Definitely fucking not the jersey from when I was on the Wolves…
As he tosses out his Wolves jersey, a bright flash of color at the bottom of his bag suddenly catches his eye. And he completely tenses up as he reaches out to it, turning the item over and examining it more closely.
He freezes as he sees the stripes of rainbow color rolled up together, the colors that confirm this is the same roll of tape he intended to get rid of last season. The same roll of tape that didn’t quite get him kicked off of the Wolves, but might as well have. The same roll of tape that subjected him to the worst few weeks of his life.
When Remus had decided to tape up his new stick with pride tape, he hadn’t thought it would be such a big deal. He’d seen some kids on other teams doing it, and had thought it would be a fun way to voice his own support.
His friends on the team didn’t think so. And before he knew it, he’d had to cut his entire season short for that reason. Never had he even said anything about his own sexuality, and yet they’d still figured him out and shunned him away all the same. Some teammates they turned out to be…
That was in January, and it had taken him four months to even glance at a hockey stick again. His parents had assured him that they’d do everything to make sure it didn’t happen again, that they’d murder anyone who even looked at their son in the wrong direction. When he’d at last picked up a stick again, it had been with shaky hands. He’d made sure to re-tape it before trying out for the Marauders, this time just in plain black, and had vowed never to use that stupid roll of rainbow tape ever again.
But now it’s here, right in front of him, and he doesn’t know what to do. All of the memories he’s tried so hard to erase have come flooding back, and they won’t stop.
For a second, he considers keeping the roll and just hiding it at the bottom of his bag. What the Marauders don’t know won’t kill them, right?
But then he thinks of his new friend, James, and of the little trio they and Peter are beginning to form. He thinks of Marlene, who absolutely terrifies him as a forward but seems like the coolest girl ever. He thinks of Coach Hooch, who is constantly emphasizing the fact that they must play and work with each other as a team. “No amount of talent or star forwards can replace cohesion,” she says. And she’s right.
This is his chance to start over, his chance to play with teammates and a coach who like and respect him. He’d had that with the Wolves, too. He’s not going to blow it again.
Standing up from the bench, he throws on his black practice jersey—and tosses the roll into the trash can that lies in the middle of the locker room. They don’t need to know that side of him. Not now, not ever.
He secures his helmet on his head, and steps out without looking back.
❅ ❅ ❅
DOINK!
The clang of the puck hitting the post is not a sound Remus isn’t used to, but it never gets any less infuriating to hear.
Not to mention that this is probably the 50th shot he’s taken this morning that has gone clattering off of the post, and by this point he’s beginning to go a little insane. He doesn’t usually miss this much, but today he can’t seem to bury his shots. It’s beginning to stress him out—part of the reason why he’s so good on defense is because he’s able to put the puck on net from pretty much anywhere in the offensive zone, no matter what kind of traffic lies in front of him. Without that, he’s not sure what he has.
There’s only one other kid out on the ice with him, and thankfully the two made a silent agreement the second they got on to each take one half of the ice and not to step onto the other half. Remus is grateful for it—he’ll get the opportunity to practice with others later. For now, it’s just him.
For the twentieth time today, he takes a lap around the offensive zone, grabbing a puck from the blue line as he skates towards the net. He takes in a deep breath, drawing his stick backwards, and prepares to take the shot…
He hammers his stick into the puck, sending it flying about ten feet into the air as the sound of the stick slapping on the ice reverberates throughout the empty rink. He watches its trajectory, watches as the puck rises and falls…
And watches as it flies completely over the net, slamming into the glass that surrounds the rink instead. He resists the urge to groan—this is probably the best-rested he’s been in weeks, and he still can’t seem to get a shot on goal. These days don’t happen often; why can’t his stupid brain seem to understand that?
There’s barely any pucks remaining at the blue line, so Remus begins to fetch the pucks from all around the net, sending them back as best as he can. Once he’s done that, he yet again circles around the offensive zone, skating harder and faster than he ever has before. He takes a puck from the line, drawing both of his arms back, and then fires it as rapidly as he can manage.
Apparently Remus is incapable of playing hockey today, because yet again the puck bangs off of the post and hits the boards instead. This time, he doesn’t hold back as he pounds his stick onto the ice, yelling out of pure frustration. “Shit!”
After that complete failure of a shot, he has to take a second just to catch his breath. And as he stands there, gasping for air with his hands on his knees, he takes note of the way that his breaths echo through the deserted bleachers…
And is reminded that no one else is watching. That right now, it is just him, and it likely will not be this way again for a while. No one else is here, so why should he care? Coach Hooch can tear him to absolute shreds later if she wishes—but right now, the ice is his and his alone. And he might as well make the most of it.
Yet again, he grabs a puck from the blue line. But this time, instead of just shooting it immediately, he takes a moment to truly just skate.
He takes a couple of strides forwards with the puck, bouncing it off of the boards and passing it to himself as he hustles up the ice. He lifts one foot and uses the other to turn himself so that he’s now skating backwards, wheeling the puck around with him. He takes a couple of backwards crossovers around the net, using every push to gain more speed as he bends further and further into his knees and lets the cold air whip across his face.
The ice has always been there for him, even when it feels like no one else has. The ice always welcomes him with open arms, whether he’s there at 10 PM or he’s here at 5 in the morning. And when he’s here by himself, where no one else can catch a glimpse of him, he is able to thrive.
He lifts up one of his feet and steps out of the circular path he is currently on, going forwards again with the puck. He uses his stick to scoop up the puck, tossing it into the air and batting it ahead of him. The puck flies forth a little further than he expected, so he quickly rushes to catch up to it.
After a couple of weeks, his teammates may think they’ve discovered everything about him. They don’t know the first thing. Not about his stupid sleep disorder, or why he switched teams to begin with. They’ve asked, but he won’t answer.
The ice doesn’t have to ask. The ice already knows, and the ice does not care. As long as he’s out here, and he’s skating, everything else fades away.
It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t gotten a proper rest since he was 5, or that he was tormented ruthlessly by his teammates all over a simple roll of tape to the point where he was terrified to even be in the locker room with them. It doesn’t matter the drama he’s gotten into, or the fact that he only slept for four hours last night.
And it especially doesn’t matter that he’s gay, devoting every second of his time to playing a sport that hates him just for existing.
He wheels around so that he’s facing the net now, and fires as hard of a shot as he can manage. This time, he doesn’t miss.
This time, he buries the puck in the back of the net, hitting the top corner so perfectly that he thinks even Wayne Gretzky would be impressed.
When the rest of his team shows up later, that’s when Remus will worry about keeping his secrets. But for now, it isn’t important. For now, everything is safe within the deep ridges and crevices of the ice.