cold feet

The Thursday evening practice that follows a tournament win never fails to put a smile on James’s face.

Honestly, he doesn’t think it can get much better than this. Even as Coach Hooch is making them do some of the most diabolical and grueling defensive drills in her arsenal (“9 goals in one game? You’ve all got to help out Peter more than that!”), he finds himself actually able to enjoy them. On top of that, Marlene has managed to get a hold of the aux cord, and it’s hard to be upset about the intense practice they’re having when she’s blasting Guns N’ Roses and Aerosmith as loud as the awful rink speakers can possibly handle. Not the choice James would’ve gone with, but he certainly isn’t complaining. And as he and Remus are each attempting to triumph in a vigorous battle for the puck against the boards, James thinks to himself that there is not a single sport he’d rather be doing. 

“Remus, come on, dude,” James is saying as he tries to lift Remus’s stick up with his own. “Just let me have the puck already.” He’s out of breath and gasping for air by this point, but it’s worth it when he hears Remus wheeze out a laugh.

”That is so not how this works,” Remus gets out as he continues to pin the puck against the boards, his resolve as strong as ever.

”What if I said please?”

”You’re kidding, right?”

”Nope,” James responds immediately. But to his avail, his strategy of softening up his opponent does not work—Remus’s grip on the puck does not budge, and James wonders how much longer this is going to go on for. They honestly might be here all day.

”Wrap it up, you two!” the voice of Coach Hooch suddenly calls out from the blue line. James wants to yell back that he’s trying.

After about ten seconds more of James hacking desperately at the puck, he finally gets it—the opening he’s been looking for. As he attempts yet again to lift up Remus’s stick, there is a singular moment where Remus’s grasp weakens. It might not even be a split second in time, but it doesn’t matter. A moment is all James needs. 

At last, he manages to scoop the puck up from beneath Remus, pushing it towards himself and then swiveling around so that he is now heading straight for the net. He can hear Remus desperately attempting to catch up to him in the distance, but his efforts are all but useless. Already James is closing the gap between himself and Peter, and just when he is about to shoot—

Well, he supposes he gets a little bit ahead of himself. He’s still overexcited from actually managing to beat Remus at the boards, and his feet are moving faster than his brain. Naturally, his feet end up slipping from underneath him, and before he knows what’s happening he is sliding across the ice at full speed. He doesn’t have any sort of time to process it before he suddenly crashes into a huge mass, one that lets out a massive yelp of surprise. 

When he looks up at what he’s just hit, he realizes that he’s somehow ended up with Peter right on top of him.

“Oh my god, Peter,” James says, immediately trying to scramble out of his space, “I am so sorry.” He watches as Peter’s shoulders start to shake, and his eyes widen—he is absolutely not prepared to deal with having made someone cry in practice today.  Jesus fuck, why did he have to slip like that?

But then he hears the noises coming from Peter, hears the manner in which he is wheezing for air, and it clicks for him. Peter’s laughing.

Thank god, James thinks as Peter rolls over to face him, and James can’t help it—he’s laughing now too. A few seconds later, someone skids to a stop nearby, and it isn’t long before the voice of Remus is speaking.

”That,” he begins, and it is clear from the breathiness of his tone that he is resisting his own temptation to laugh, “was legendary.”

”Couldn’t have done it without you,” James replies, grinning.

It is now that Peter chimes in for the first time, though he is still very much gasping for air as he does so. “No, that was all you,” Peter says. James purses his lips together, tossing his hands up into the air as he does so.

Right as he’s about to speak again, Coach Hooch blows the whistle. “Alright, that’s enough of that,” she says, gesturing at all of them. “Everyone get over here.”

James, Remus, and Peter all share a look, knowing that James’s little fumble was likely the cause of this. And then James finds himself holding back laughter all over again, having to glance away from them. He only spends one moment more on his ass before bringing himself up to his feet, skating over as slowly as he can. 

When at last he gets there, all it takes is one glance at the rest of his teammates’s faces to tell that they had the exact same reaction to his fall as he did. And as he meets Coach Hooch’s eyes, he realizes that even the corners of her mouth are curled upwards ever so slightly. 

“Okay, Saturday marks the first game of the regular season. You all feeling ready?”

Coach Hooch is immediately met with the sound of about 20 sticks tapping the ice as hard and as quickly as they can, James being one of them.

”Good,” she says. “Because you all are going to be skating ladders for all of next Thursday if you lose.”

In complete contrast, this statement is met with immediate groans. Being the captain, James attempts not to have any sort of discerning reaction—but he’s sure his face falls as well.

”I know, sorry. But come on. Can’t have you all getting too comfy just because you won the tournament.” James supposes she does have a point there. “Thankfully, we’ll be playing here Saturday. Which means you all get out of 7:30 practice, and you don’t have to be here until 10:30 for dry land.”

James’s eyes immediately widen at the mention of a 10:30 meetup . Shit. Is that really how close the game is going to be happening to his Learn to Skate classes? He supposes he didn’t really think about it when their regular season schedule was first released. 

“Yeah, I figured you guys would like that,” she says, smiling now. “I’m excited to see how you all play then.” 

In the distance, James hears the sound of a metal door retracting, and knows what that means—they’ve gone over their time on the ice, and the zamboni driver is now asking them as politely as possible to get the fuck out so they can stay on schedule. 

Coach Hooch glances over to the zamboni gate at the same exact time as the rest of them do, and when she turns back to face them her face has suddenly grown harsh and stern again. So much for that. “Okay,” she says, slamming her own stick onto the ice, “let’s get pucks!”

Everyone else immediately scatters, quick to skate around the rink and collect the pucks that have become dispersed all around the ice. But not James.

Instead, James stares at the ice for a solid minute, pulling his gloves off and then on again as he attempts to figure out how to approach Coach Hooch without dying. She’s never exactly been kind about when her kids miss dry land, and James doubts he’s the exception. 

Eventually, he works up the courage to skate over to her, though he doesn’t dare to look her in the eye as he speaks. “Hey, um, Coach?” he begins, tilting his head up but deciding that the wall behind her is far more interesting. “On Saturdays, I coach Learn to Skate at 10:30. I’m not gonna be done until 11.”

”Oh, yeah,” Coach Hooch responds, and in his peripheral vision James can catch her nodding her head. “Forgot about that. That’s a problem.”

”I could always just skip it,” James gets out, but before he can continue on Coach Hooch quickly denies him.

”Nah,” she says. “Just come late. The kids are gonna miss you if you don’t.”

”Yeah, but—wait, really?!” James asks, blinking. He’s almost shocked at how easy of an answer he’s been given. “You’re okay with that?”

“You’re coaching with…Regulus, aren’t you? ” she responds, to which James nods. He also has to fight back the urge to scoff. Could’ve used that information a month ago. Admittedly, he is still a little pissed that they were both thrown into that situation with no warning, but he supposes he should let it go. “He’ll probably tear his hair out if you leave him alone with them.” James can’t help the laugh that escapes his throat. 

“I think you’re right,” he agrees, finally bringing himself to look at her.

She offers him a smile, but it quickly drops as her voice lowers. “How’s he doing with the coaching, by the way?” she asks, her brow furrowing. “I meant to tell you before the session started, but we had that whole thing with Tom happen and things moved around so fast that it ended up just slipping my mind. Has he been—“

”He’s been fine,” James reassures her. Really, he has. Setting aside personal business between the two of them, Regulus has been an absolute sweetheart to the kids, and he always hears the parents raving about how good of a teacher he is after every session. Sure, maybe he cusses James out every once in a while, but that has no effect on everything else. And why should it? James would be stupid to deny that he makes for a good coach. “We’re good.”

That part is a lie, but Coach Hooch doesn’t need to know.

”Okay,” she says after a second, her hands slowly leaving her hips. “Okay, that’s good.”

“Right,” James nods. And before he can get grilled any more about this, he pivots around and begins to skate away. “Thank you!” he exclaims, headed straight for the doors.

”I’ll see you, James,” she calls out in response, and James smiles slightly. All things considered, that conversation could’ve gone so much worse.

 Somewhere behind him, the sharp electric guitar to “Welcome to the Jungle” ends, and James is suddenly reminded that Marlene’s phone is still plugged into the sound system. He quickly scans the ice for her, but to no avail—by now, everyone else has cleared out, and James and Coach Hooch are the only two remaining. Shit, he thinks. By now, the humming of the zamboni has turned to a loud whirring, and the driver could not be less subtle about wanting them off the ice. But it’s too late. James is already on a mission, practically sprinting for the boards. 

As he does, a newer sound rings throughout the rink—that of a softer acoustic guitar. James is surprised at how fast he recognizes the chords, how fast the song comes to him. And sure enough, the lyrics follow a few seconds later…

”We both lie silently still in the dead of the night…”

James should be bursting out laughing right now. Why the hell does Marlene have “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” by Poison in her playlist? He could swear she has the exact same music taste as his dad, though he supposes it explains why she gets on so well with him every time the Potters host their Christmas team party…

Instead, he finds himself drawn in by the lyrics, skating to the boards ever so slower than he was as he listens.

”Was it something I said or something I did? Did my words not come out right?

Though I tried not to hurt you, though I tried, but I guess that’s why they say…

Every rose has its thorn…”

He wonders for a moment if he should’ve just told Coach Hooch the truth about Regulus, if he should’ve come clean about how miserable he really is each session. But what reason does he have to do that besides his own selfishness? Regulus is doing a good job, and nobody would ever be able to guess the true nature of his contempt towards James unless they were told. Still, it’s not a good feeling to be absolutely loathed. And no matter how James tries to make it right, Regulus’s indignation only comes back twice as strong.

And to think that for a moment this past Saturday, James thought things could be different…

Foolish. He is so, so foolish, and now James is chastising himself yet again for sparing another thought on the boy that wants nothing to do with him. Since the weekend, he’s appeared in James’s mind an insurmountable amount of times, and James despises it. He shouldn’t regret what he has not done wrong, yet the guilt of his inaction overwhelms and consumes him whole. He can’t stand it.

They have five weeks left of this, and James doubts that anything will change at all.

“Just like every night has its dawn, just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song… every rose has its thorn.”

The honking of the zamboni finally brings James back to his senses, causing him to flinch in surprise. He holds up a hand, apologetic to the zamboni driver as he finally reaches the boards and unplugs Marlene’s phone. The sound disconnects immediately, and now the only noise filling the rink is that of the zamboni’s engine. Good, James thinks, suddenly far too embarrassed about what the hell he’s just been doing. If Sirius knew just how often James was thinking about his brother right now? He’d never let him hear the end of it.

James gets off the ice at a record speed, and makes a beeline for the locker room. As he enters through the door and is greeted with the humidity and stench, he actually finds that today he isn’t opposed to it. Today, he welcomes it.

He approaches Marlene first, who is in the midst of removing all of her equipment, and offers out her phone. “Believe this is yours,” he says, mustering as much of a grin as he can.

Her eyes widen almost immediately in realization, and soon she’s snatching the device from out of his hands. “Shit, yeah, thank you,” she breathes out, her face still bright red from practice. “Totally forgot I had it out there.”

“No problem,” James responds. He takes a couple of steps away from her, about to settle into his own spot and get changed, when he thinks of the perfect thing to say. Then, after a moment of internal debate… “‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn,’ Marls? Really?”

Somehow, her skin turns even more red. “Hey,” she spits out, “that song is incredible!”

”I mean, sure,” James says with a shrug, “but while playing hockey? Do you want us all to fall asleep?”

”I hate you,” she replies, though she’s very obviously trying to hold back laughter as her shoulders shake. “You just don’t get it.”

I actually got it better than ever today, James thinks, though he absolutely does not blurt that out. Even he knows better than to run his mouth right there. “I think I get that you have the exact same taste as my dad, yeah.”

And that’s what does it—immediately Marlene stands up and flings one of her long knit socks at him, the action accompanied by a very poignant “Fuck you, James!” He dodges out of the way, his heart racing as he grabs a roll of tape from his bag and flings it back at her.

”I’m right, you know!” he yells back, refusing to back down from the fight that has now begun.

He doesn’t know exactly how it happens, but not even a minute later the entire locker room has burst into absolute chaos. The sky is filled with various hockey objects being tossed around at each other, and as James tries to duck out of the way of each thing coming at him (Did someone just throw a puck ??) he finds that his ribs hurt from laughing so hard. Marlene is still yelling at him, but he can hardly hear anything anymore. He does have a few educated guesses as to what words might be spoken.

Though he continues to avoid the absolute disarray as much as he can, James finds that he doesn’t mind a single bit of it. It’s a good reminder of why he does all this in the first place—why he messes around with them, why he pushes himself so hard in practice, why he is so fiercely competitive even just doing drills against them. It’s for his team. Always for the team. Sure, the wins feel incredible, and being at the top of the standings helps a great deal—but he would take this any other day. If he could find a way to make a moment like now last forever, he thinks he would.

It might not always be like this. Teammates will come and go, there will be tension and friendships formed and even relationships ended over the course of the next several months. And that will change things. But for now, they are just the Marauders, nothing more and nothing less, and James couldn’t be more glad to captain them.

On Saturday, they might be miserable. He might be miserable. But tonight, he has this, and that is all that matters.

❅ ❅ ❅

The second Regulus’s phone begins to buzz, a pit of dread that forms in his stomach. Already he has a sense of what’s about to happen, and as he pulls out his phone from his pocket and checks the contact name it only grows worse.

He doesn’t want to pick up. Really, he knows what’s coming–what’s the point? Finally, reluctantly, he presses the green button on his screen and holds the device up to his ear.

“Hey, Reggie,” comes the voice of his dad, distorted and crackly as it rings through the speakers. He’s gotten used to hearing his dad like this; he’s probably heard him more over the phone than he ever has in person. And today is not the exception.

“You can’t make it, can you?” he asks, attempting to slip into the corner of the lobby as he speaks.

It’s quiet for a moment. Generally, Regulus would be more courteous, would take time to ask his dad about his day before letting him drop whatever update he needed to. But he’s tired of walking on eggshells, and just wants to get this over with.

Then his dad speaks. “Cygnus woke up sick today,” he begins, and Regulus has to resist the urge to throw his phone at the nearest wall. “And he didn’t want to cancel on his students. I figured that I could just fill in for him–”

“When were you gonna tell me?” Regulus interrupts. He doesn’t need to hear the full story; this has happened so many times it’s almost laughable by now. He shouldn’t have expected any less from his father, who prioritizes everyone else’s children over his own.

Once again, his dad doesn’t respond immediately. And then finally, it comes… “I meant to earlier, kid, honestly,” he says, which tells Regulus everything.

“So you forgot,” Regulus states. His dad says nothing. “When are you gonna be back?”

“Not for a couple hours,” he admits, and even through the grainy speaker sound Regulus wishes that he’d sound a little more sorry. “Can you just… hang around? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“What choice do I have?” Regulus says, and he honestly doesn’t mean to snap. But his words come out bitter and cold, and he doesn’t feel like making any attempt to retract them. After what seems like an eternity of silence, Regulus can only muster up two words. “Bye, Dad.”

He hangs up before his dad has a chance to respond, and then he buries his face in his hands as he attempts to catch his breath.

Of course this had to happen. It always seems to be right when everything is going well, and all things considered, today’s session of Learn to Skate actually went far better than last week’s.

Actually, he’d wanted to make a comment to James about how nice of a job they’d done after the session ended. He may absolutely despise him, but he’s got to admit that he makes for a good teacher if nothing else. And really, Regulus wouldn’t know how to handle the kids all on his own. It’s the one thing he’s grateful for having James Potter around for, though he will never say that part out loud. 

It didn’t end up mattering though, because the second the session ended James had completely taken off. Regulus had made an absolute idiot of himself trying to figure out where the hell he went, spending ten minutes walking around the rink in search of him. But to no avail; wherever James had gone, he had made his exit swiftly, and Regulus begins to wonder if all of the snide remarks he’s made, if his terrible attitude and his obvious discontempt have started to get to him. He tries to ignore the twinge of guilt that arises over it; he’s never been apologetic about his hatred towards James in the past, and he’s not about to get soft on him now. He fears it would be disastrous for both of them.

Still, as he’d finished unlacing his skates and shoving them into his bag he couldn’t help but wonder where he'd gone. He attempted to tell himself that it was just divine intervention, that it’s the universe telling him that talking to James is a horrible idea. He couldn’t think of any other explanation for it.

Then his dad had called, and he’d put a pin in the entire thing. And now, the only emotion coursing through his body is exhaustion. 

He’s so sick of this. Really, he is, even though he should’ve expected it by now. He can’t count on both hands the amount of times this has happened over the past few years, and yet it still throws him by surprise every single time. 

Between his mother’s harsh forcefulness and his father’s apathy, he’s not sure which is worse. All he’s left with is an unclear choice, and a wish that he was anyone but himself. 

He isn’t sure how long he remains curled up in his hands for, blocking out the world around him while he still can. But he doesn’t pull away until he is absolutely sure that his eyes will remain completely dry, and until he’s told himself this is just the hand he was dealt. No use in shedding tears over it.

Eventually, he brings himself to stand up. And then he begins to walk. 

He’s entirely unsure of where he’s going–but he knows it’s better than staying here. Regulus is somewhat of an expert when it comes to sulking in his own misery, and years of doing so have taught him that it’s far better to wander aimlessly with no destination than to sit and think too hard about what’s just transpired. So that is precisely what he does. 

His first stop is the stands above Rink A, climbing the stairs and standing right by the railing. By now, the zamboni has finished cutting the ice, and he’s quick to notice the nearly two dozen people in cruddy rental skates waiting in line to take to it. A public skate, then. Regulus quickly makes his decision to leave–he hasn’t been able to observe a Saturday morning public skate since he was five without being put in immense pain. He can only imagine what a nightmare the holiday season is going to be in a couple of months.

He makes his way down the connecting hallway between Rink A and Rink B in record time, stopping only when he makes it to the bottom of the bleachers. In here are a group of little kids, probably no older than 10, all dressed in ill fitting hockey equipment. They’re all kneeling on the ice as they look up at the coach currently speaking, though the degrees of attention they’re actually paying vary. Regulus almost smiles–despite the fact that he thinks these kids are in the wrong sport, he remembers being this little. When injuries didn’t hurt as badly, and when the instructions of coaches were the least of his worries. 

For a moment, he almost sits down to watch. He’s bending over, about to take a seat on the uncomfortable wooden bleachers–when he suddenly hears the noise of what must be hundreds of roaring screams coming from the next rink over.

Okay, he can’t ignore that, right? Whatever’s going on over there has to be riveting–so he does what anyone else with common sense would do. He stands up and leaves, headed for Rink C and its promise of more thrilling action.

Rink C doesn’t connect to Rink B, so Regulus has to spend a few seconds in the uncomfortable warmth of the lobby as he exits and then heads for the door with a giant “C” painted overhead. This is probably the rink that Regulus has spent the least amount of time in–with Rink A being sized like Olympic ice and Rink B being where local competitions are held, he’s never had a need to be in here. Rink C is smaller and perfectly sized for hockey, which means that skating in it feels like hell for Regulus. He’s too tiny in here, too contained, and it never seems that he can fly in here–he can only tumble. He despises that feeling.

As he enters Rink C, he nearly freezes at the sights all around him. He doesn’t know whether he’s in awe or terrified.\

Everywhere he looks, the rink is packed with people. The metal bleachers that surround the ice, the ones that Regulus has always hated sitting on because they’re so bitterly cold that they burn, are completely full, parents and children alike aligning them. Regulus thinks he might throw up as he notices just how many teenagers his age are sitting there too, and quickly concludes that he is not going to take a seat on the bleachers under any circumstance.

Even all around the boards there are people, countless people, and Regulus doesn’t recognize a single one. His heart twinges, his stomach twisting–even at nationals last year, he doesn’t think the crowd that came was half of this size. 

He’s so focused on the masses that surround the rink that when there is a sudden bang against the glass two feet away from him, it is completely unexpected. He has to fight not to flinch away, and when he glances at the glass and at the two individuals skating away like nothing had ever happened, he quickly realizes the source–without even knowing it was happening, he’s walked right into the middle of a Marauders hockey game. 

Suddenly, the large crowd and intense hits against the glass make a lot more sense. He’s always heard ever since he was a kid about how big these games are, even during the regular season, and yet he still wasn’t the least bit prepared.

Even two months ago, he would’ve left the rink the second he realized there was a hockey game occurring. He would’ve taken the public skate any day of the week. But Regulus figures there isn’t any harm in it–right? He’s constantly watching his brother’s games now anyways, he might as well go to a game in person in his neverending efforts to better understand how it works.

Regulus takes a deep breath, briefly questions who he’s turning into, and plants himself right by the glass. 

Then he begins to watch.

At first, he can hardly figure out what’s going on. The players are sprinting by him so fast that it’s hard for him to make out the name or number on their back, and the action is quick and unforgiving. But he tries his best to keep his eyes on the sand and maroon colored jerseys, even if he can’t differentiate the players.

Maybe if you’d gone earlier…

Regulus dismisses the thought nearly the second it appears. Eventually, he picks up that they’re trying to score in the net that is closer to him, and it makes focusing on the action a lot easier. A glance at the scoreboard tells him that the Marauders are currently winning by a goal, which must’ve been what caused that thunderous roar from the crowd earlier. Now, they’re attempting to get another goal so they can sit with their lead a little more comfortably, and focus on keeping shots out of their own net (at least, that’s what he thinks they’re going for). 

Currently, the Marauders are in their own defensive zone, each player covering someone of the opposing team (Regulus believes their jerseys say “Cobras?” He can’t quite tell, but that makes the most sense). They’re all passing the puck around, and when someone finally shoots it off of their stick it’s so fast Regulus nearly misses it. The Marauders goalie is quick to go down onto his knees, though, and the puck ricochets off of his chest and lands back down on the ice.

The second it lands, someone on the Marauders grabs it and begins to sprint down the ice.

The players on the opposing team are all quick to try and catch him, but he is faster by a mile, already at center ice before they’ve even broken out of the zone. And as he approaches the net, approaches Regulus’s side of the ice, his face comes into view. Regulus thinks he might have a heart attack.

He should’ve known. He should’ve known it the second he saw the tan skin, the second he saw the mess of tangled dark brown hair underneath the helmet. But somehow, it didn’t even occur to him that the team he’s watching is the very one that James Potter plays for, and now he’s been caught completely off-guard by something that he should’ve so painfully expected. 

He should run now, before he is spotted and before it makes things worse for them. That way he can pretend like this never happened, and James won’t know a thing. But his body just refuses to comply with his mind, and as James skates up to the opposing goalie with a look of pure intensity in his eyes Regulus can’t pull his own away. In spite of himself, he stays.

Time seems to slow as James comes up on the left side of the goalie, and the goalie moves over to the respective post in a desperate attempt to protect the net. For a second, it seems as though his attempt is going to work, and James will have no choice but to shoot right into his pads.

But then James pulls the puck backwards with his stick and swivels over to the right side, and he shoves the puck into the net before the goalie even knows what has just happened.

At first it is quiet. And then the crowd erupts.

James raises his stick into the air, dashing around the corner and sliding onto his knee as the scoreboard behind him changes from 1-0 to 2-0. He slides right past Regulus, just inches away from him, and Regulus’s entire body tenses up. But James’s smile is so wide, his excitement so profuse and palpable, that Regulus doubts he even notices from the other side of the glass.

Regulus would rather die than cheer along with the rest of the crowd. But it doesn’t stop the corners of his lips from turning upward as he stands there with his arms crossed over his stomach, an outsider observing an unfamiliar world. Being here is stupid; to not acknowledge that what James just did out there was incredibly impressive would be even more stupid. Regulus can respect his talent, even if he would never admit it out loud.

James quickly disappears from his view as he becomes absorbed in the middle of a group hug, his four teammates out on the ice wrapping him tightly within their arms. He throws his head back, laughing as he speaks to them, and soon they’ve all pulled away. Once they do, Regulus watches as he glances up at the crowd. Regulus looks too, and quickly finds what James is searching for: in the very front row of the bleachers are his parents, jumping up and down and clapping for him like it’s the first goal he’s ever scored. Something tells him that this is how they celebrate every time. His mind is fast to compare that to the image of his parents, staring him down cold and unimpressed even when he’s just had the best skate of his life. 

He has no choice but to turn away, suppressing the thought of how the absence of his own father is the only reason he’s here. James waves to his mom and dad before his eyes come back down to the ice. And then they begin to scan over the crowd that’s gathered by the glass.

His chest tightens. No, he thinks, watching as James’s eyes get closer to his own. No, no, no. He wants to run, but he knows that would only draw his attention more. So instead, he wills James to look away, to look right past him, to turn back around and line up for the faceoff already. 

But it’s too late. James has caught sight of him, and stops dead in his tracks as the recognition sets in.

Their eyes are locked onto each other, deep brown meeting unwavering gray against a backdrop of white, and Regulus refuses to be the first to look away. Not this time. He’s made his choice, he’s dug his grave, and now he will bury himself in it.

If James hears the crowd behind him, still cheering his name, he doesn’t pay any mind. Neither him nor Regulus move–they don’t have to. James’s eyes and the pure shock they display tell Regulus everything.

From behind, the sound of a brief whistle rings throughout the arena. And then the spell is broken.

James turns away as quickly as he caught sight of Regulus, dashing over to center ice as his team prepares for the next faceoff. And that’s it, that’s the end of it.

If James tries to catch sight of him again, Regulus doesn’t know a thing about it. He’s gone before the puck drops, and even in the freezing cold he can still discern the searing pain that is left on his skin by James’s incinerating stare.