cold feet

The silence that ensues the second that Regulus steps off of the ice is unbearable.

For a moment, all Evan can do is stare at the space that was just occupied by Regulus, the space where he fucked up and said something he shouldn’t have and it all went wrong. 

Regulus had stormed off faster than Evan could even catch onto his departure, before he even had a chance to reflect on his wrongdoing. By the time he’s realized it, Regulus is already out in the lobby, and he clearly wants nothing to do with either Barty or Evan. 

See, the thing is that Barty and Evan try their absolute damndest when it comes to Regulus. He’s never shy about letting his emotions show when something is wrong, and naturally they will ask him. It’s not like the two don’t share everything with him, and Regulus is actually quite good about listening and about helping. When Barty came out to them over the summer, tearful and terrified, Regulus had hugged onto him for a solid minute and didn’t let go until Barty did so first. Last year, when Evan’s parents split up and Evan had no one else to go to about it, Regulus sat with him on the benches in the lobby until he was finally ready to tell someone what was going on. Regulus is far less of a dick than he likes to believe he is, than anybody else would believe him to be.

So Evan can’t quite make sense of why the hell Regulus refuses to let them do the same for him. Why he refuses to talk about anything related to his family, why he will look at the two as though they’re insane when they so much as suggest that they’re here if he’s going through a rough time. And right now, clearly he is. Who wouldn’t be in his position? His brother is estranged from him and hundreds of miles away in a different country, and though Evan doesn’t fully understand Regulus’s relationship with his parents he witnesses what occurs every time Walburga is in this godforsaken rink. If it’s this bad here, then Evan is unable to imagine what it’s like back home where no one else can see.

And he wants to help Regulus. More than anything, he does. But Regulus doesn’t want to be helped, and when Evan has tried to do so in the past he’s only fucked things over further. Out of options, all Evan can do is resign himself to doing nothing and feeling awful about it every second of every day.

He isn’t sure how long it remains silent for, how long he and Barty remain right where Regulus left them. But Barty is the first to move, and when he moves, he moves swiftly—he’s sprinting down the ice as though his life depends on it, skating to the other end and coming to a sudden stop as quickly as he took off. Evan follows behind, more lethargic and unable to escape the pit of dread that’s formed in his stomach. He notices every detail on Barty’s face as he focuses on something in the distance—the way his eyes go from curious and wondering to widening in shock in an instant. 

If one looks past the glass that lines the boards, they can see right through the giant doors that lead into the lobby. Evan and Barty have used that trick countless times to spy on people without them knowing, to chart the arrival of every single person that comes into the rink. And Evan has no doubt about who Barty is looking out at right now, that he’s got his eyes fixed on Regulus as though his life depends on it. He really, really doesn’t want to be proven right.

Yet as he reaches the other end of the ice, where the door to the lobby lies as well as where Barty stands, all it takes is one glance in the direction where Barty’s head is turned to know his judgement was correct.

Evan tries to ignore the pang in his chest as he skates up behind Barty, wishing that he could bring something else up that could distract him from this. But he knows Barty too well—he knows that Barty won’t pull his eyes away until Regulus is out of sight. So Evan chooses the next best thing, and talks to him about Regulus.

”He gonna be okay?” Evan asks, gliding to Barty’s side as he does so.

Barty doesn’t even spare one glance at Evan, nodding curtly. “Ask James that.”

Evan lets out a laugh, though he doesn’t quite understand Barty’s joke at first. “Oh yeah,” he begins, “that’s an obvious James—”

But when he finally looks back out into the lobby, actually processing the figures that stand there, he is stopped dead in his tracks. Barty wasn’t joking. 

James Potter is standing right in front of Regulus, talking to him as though they’ve known each other all of their lives and they are simply old friends catching up. Evan can’t quite make out Regulus’s reactions, nor his facial expressions from here—but Regulus is replying to James all the same, and not running for the hills like Evan would have expected him to be doing.

”Oh,” Evan finally gets out, abruptly at a loss for words. “That’s a new one.”

”Sure is,” Barty says, a sting to that phrase that Evan doesn’t know how to—or doesn’t attempt to, more like—decipher. “Should’ve known the James Potter charm would get him eventually.”

It’s meant to be a joke, Evan thinks, but Barty says it as though he is reading out a eulogy at a funeral. And Jesus, Evan has no idea what he’s supposed to do right now.

”Well, it gets everyone, doesn’t it?” Evan attempts, elbowing Barty in the side as he does so. “Even got you, once upon a time,” he adds, his first time acknowledging Barty’s crush on James in middle school since he was informed of it. He attempts to keep his tone as light as possible, attempts to flash him a foolish and lighthearted grin, but it’s as though Evan were talking to a wall.

”I guess so.”

Barty shakes his head as he says that, like Regulus is supposed to just be immune to it or something. That’s not what gets Evan, though—what gets him is the actual hurt that decorates every single one of Barty’s features, downturning his lips and creasing his forehead. And no, Evan doesn’t want to believe that this is happening. There’s got to be another explanation, because he will not accept this.

It’s just a theory, Evan tells himself, desperate. You don’t know if there’s a bit of truth to it. You could just be going crazy.

God, he would really like to believe it’s the third one.

Except it isn’t, is it? Evan’s been paying too much attention over the past few months, far more than he’d care to admit, and he’d be blind not to catch onto what’s unfolding in front of him. He notices the way that Barty watches Regulus while he skates, his eyes full of admiration and never daring to break away even for a second. He sees how hard Barty laughs at the jokes Regulus makes, whether they’re actually hilarious or the unfunniest thing he’s ever said. And when Walburga is at the rink, screaming her head off at Regulus, Evan takes note of how Barty always follows closely behind him, with a look on his face that screams that he would give the world up if it meant saving Regulus from her. He notices it all. And he wishes he didn’t. 

Before this summer, Evan had never dared to dream of telling Barty what he’s wanted to say since they were kids. Barty’s always been quite the looker, and for years he’s practically had to fight the girls here off of him. Being one of maybe seven male skaters at this rink in comparison to the dozens of girls tends to have that effect, especially considering the fact that he is objectively gorgeous. Admittedly, Barty had never been interested in any of them, but Evan assumed that as they went into high school he would take his pick and then it would all be over.

Yet freshman year came and went, and Barty remained as indifferent as ever. Then the beginning of July happened—when Barty told Regulus and Evan that he actually wasn't interested in girls at all, and more importantly, that he liked boys. 

Evan could’ve said something then. He could’ve told Barty that it was the same for him, that he’d known it since he was a kid. He could’ve—there was nothing holding him back from it, really. But he didn’t. He was supportive of it, of course he was. But he said nothing about himself, and now he supposes it’s too late to do so.

Honestly though, it’s probably a blessing in disguise that he didn’t. Because then he started observing Barty’s every single interaction with Regulus, and nearly instantaneously put two and two together. It wasn’t that Barty didn’t have his pick of any girl he desired—it was that he’d rather use his pick elsewhere, that he’d rather use it on Regulus.  He wonders how long Barty has been acting this way around Regulus for, how long he’s been this far gone and Evan was too caught up in his worries about what girl Barty would someday choose to notice.

He thinks it’s been like this for a long time. But he doesn’t ask; his worst fear is that he’d be correct. Barty has told Evan before that Regulus is a mystery—Evan suspects he was attempting to convince himself of that above all else. 

As he watches Barty watch someone else, he racks his brain for something, anything, to say. He doesn’t have to ask Barty about his feelings—he already knows. The last thing he needs to hear is those words out loud, the confirmation that Barty is never going to feel the same and that the years Evan has spent in complete delusion were in fact for nothing. No. He couldn’t bear it.

On the other side of the door, James tosses something to Regulus and then walks away, not sparing a glance back towards the other boy. Regulus, on the other hand, whips his head around to watch him leave, and his eyes linger on where James has just been for a good minute. They remain there, and Evan doesn’t think Regulus even breathes.

Then, finally, he turns back around. He loosens his grip on whatever James has just thrown to him, his grip far too tight in the first place, and looks downward at whatever is in his lap.

And then he lets out a dramatic sigh, propping his elbows up on his knees and burying his face in his hands.

That’s when Barty turns away from the glass, and begins to skate away. “I’m gonna warm up,” he mumbles as he passes by Evan, and that’s the end of it. As Barty begins to glide around the rink, drilling skills that they’ve practiced for years, he does so with a newfound energy, and soon he is zooming around faster than Evan can keep track of him. Yet, through it all, he doesn’t look in Evan’s direction once. 

As Evan follows behind him, slowly getting into the same exercises, he tries to ignore the pain in his chest. Evan knows what it feels like to pine for someone who does not reciprocate. As a matter of fact, he knows better than anyone else. He’s felt this way since before he even found out what a crush was, before he learned about boyfriends and girlfriends and marriage and breakups and all the punishments that come with being in love. Before he could even put it into words, he’d known. 

Evan first heard the word heartbreak in second grade, when his mother was watching one of her dozens of soap operas she kept up with and Evan had come into the room right as the main character had promptly burst into tears on the television. And naturally, he’d asked his mom why she was crying so hard.

”Because she’s heartbroken, sweetie,” his mother had responded, her eyes questionably wet as well.

”What is that?” Evan asked.

Her answer was simple, straight to the point. “It’s when you’re so, so sad that you feel like your heart has been ripped in two.”

At the time, Evan had thought it stupid, had laughed, even. The feeling was made up, it had to be. Who could ever get that sad?

Eight years went by, and Evan now thinks he knows exactly the feeling his mother is talking about. He thinks he is heartbroken right now. 

He is heartbroken because Barty is heartbroken, and more specifically, because he’s heartbroken over Regulus. Regulus Black, who is oblivious, who hasn’t so much as caught a single hint that Barty has dropped over the past few months. Regulus Black, who is not here, who does not feel the same.

I’m right here, Evan wishes he could tell him as he watches Barty fly ahead of him, not paying him any mind as usual. I’m here, and I know I’m not him, but I’m here. And I’ll be yours if you’ll take me. 

Evan doesn’t give a voice to those thoughts—he knows better. But even if he did, he doesn’t think it would make much of a difference. Barty wouldn’t be paying enough attention to notice, let alone care.

Not to say he wouldn’t care at all—they are best friends, above all else. And Barty would care if Evan told him.

It just wouldn’t be in the way Evan wants him to.

❅ ❅ ❅

Remus really did try to ignore the terrible headache that was plaguing him as he got up this morning, but it’s only gotten worse and worse. And as he enters the rink, he quickly realizes he can no longer attempt to tolerate the pain. His head is throbbing, and the overhead lights above are far too bright for him to make sense of anything. He can’t remember if they’re supposed to be spinning or not. He takes that as a bad sign.

Maybe if he just waits this out for a bit, he’ll be okay enough to play. Sure, he has his appointment to see Dr. Pomfrey on Wednesday, and she’s definitely going to give him the news that he already knows he will despise hearing. But what she doesn’t know won’t kill her, right? Technically, she’s told his mom that he needs to be sitting out of games if his head even acts up in the slightest. But Remus says to hell with that—he’s lasted this long, hasn’t he? And yeah, this migraine is probably the worst he’s had yet, but that means nothing. He’s got well over an hour until game time still, he’s confident he can get it to go away.

Without looking, he collapses onto the bench closest to him, and squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can. And that is where he stays for a solid several minutes, just trying his best to block out all of the light.

It’s possible that all of this is a nightmare he’ll soon wake up from, relief washing over him when he realizes that none of this actually happened. Maybe he’ll wake up ten years old still, on the day of that semifinal game, and he won’t have to go through any of this. As he keeps his eyes closed, he begs for that to be the case. He just wants to feel normal again, even though he’s always been far from it. He just wants to play the sport he loves without worrying about the possibility that every time he steps out on the ice may be his last. He just wants everything to be okay. He knows it never will be.

As a voice speaks from somewhere next to him, his hopes that he might be stuck in a nightmare are quickly diminished. “Isn’t your team supposed to be starting dry land right now?”

At last Remus opens his eyes, unfamiliar with the voice that has just addressed him. When he turns his head to identify the source, he quickly freezes in his tracks.

His vision must still be fucked—why else would he be seeing Regulus Black next to him, glancing at him intently? Was that who was asking him?

It has to be, because there is no one else in this lobby right now except for him and the boy at the other end of the bench. Remus is starting to think his little rest was probably far more than a few mere minutes.

Regulus is still staring at him, waiting for an answer, and Remus realizes he hasn’t given one. To be fair, he is a bit too shocked to do so—and he’s sure his open mouth and wide eyes give that away. 

He takes a moment to look Regulus up and down, wondering if he is plotting his downfall simply because Remus is friends with James Potter. Based off everything James has said, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. He doesn’t find anything in his demeanor to be untrustworthy, but he supposes one never knows. He also catches a thick, white bandage wrapped around Regulus’s right ankle—but he decides to pay no mind to that for now.  Finally, he’s able to utter out a response, letting out a sharp exhale. “Yeah,” he says, looking ahead. “Yeah, we are.”

”Then why are you still out here?”

His tone is so sharp that Remus feels like he’s been cut with a knife, the message that Regulus is trying to convey all too clear; why haven’t you gotten the hell out of my face yet?  He supposes this is where that whole hatred-for-hockey-players thing James was mentioning comes in. He was wondering when he’d encounter that.

Remus figures he has nothing to lose by telling the truth. It’s not like Regulus is going to go blabbing to Coach Hooch himself, is he? “My head was killing me,” he replies, staring off at a vague point in the distance. “Just needed to rest for a few minutes.”

Regulus scoffs next to him. “Hate to break it to you,” he states blatantly, “but it’s been a lot longer than that.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m aware,” Remus throws his hands up, trying his absolute best not to let his eyes roll to the back of his head as he does so. 

“Assume that headache hasn’t gone away yet, then?” Regulus asks, and Jesus, does he ever drop that tone? He sounds as though he is a second away from lashing out at Remus, though Remus has no idea what he’s done to deserve it.

He shakes his head. “No, not yet,” he says, and he attempts as best as he can to keep his own tone steady and unwavering. 

“And you still plan on playing in the game in less than an hour?”

”Yep.” Remus nods as he says it, his answer firm.

”Wow,” Regulus breathes out. “That’s fucking stupid.”

Remus can’t help the words that come tumbling out of his mouth next. “Are you always this much of an asshole?”

Immediately, his hand comes flying to his mouth. Shit, he thinks, because he absolutely did not mean to give a voice to that. He doesn’t know what covering his lips will do now, though—it’s not like he can take it back.

When he looks back over at Regulus, though, his face remains completely expressionless. He snorts a little. “Only on Sundays,” he replies, which Remus hopes is meant to be a joke. He cannot quite tell. All he knows is that he wants this boy to leave him alone already.

It falls silent between the two. Remus is scrambling for something to say, admittedly more curious about Regulus than he’d ever say out loud. And finally, he finds ammunition.

”Well, what about you?” Remus asks, which causes Regulus to turn to him with a puzzled expression.

”What—“ Regulus starts, but he’s too late. Remus is already wildly gesturing downwards towards his ankle, where he spotted the problem but decided to ignore it.

”Your ankle’s all fucked up, and you’re still skating.” 

Regulus sighs, pursing his lips together. “That’s different,” he begins, rightfully earning an eyebrow raise from Remus.

”Is it really?”

“Yes!” Regulus exclaims, but he turns away from Remus all the same. His curls fall in front of his face in such a way that Remus cannot see a single bit of his reaction, and Remus wonders if that is why he lets his hair stay so long. “It’s not even that bad.”

”Huh, funny,” Remus replies, “I said the same thing about my headache before I came in, and now here we are. Should probably quit while you’re ahead.”

Regulus doesn’t look at Remus for a long while, nor does he speak. And when he does, it’s clear he’s out for blood. “No wonder James likes you,” Regulus says, as though it’s supposed to be an insult. “You’re every bit as insufferable.”

He doesn’t feel like pointing out the fact that Regulus was the one who decided to engage with him first, and that this little discovery is all his fault. He does, however, want this torture festival to end already. So he settles on the statement that he thinks is the most likely to get him to shut up and storm away, as James so often describes him doing. “Yeah, you know,” he begins, “I don’t get why he defends you so hard.” 

That gets Regulus to freeze, even if it’s only for a moment. And then he shrugs, like he’s indifferent one way or another. “That makes two of us.” Regulus doesn’t fool Remus, though—just that tiny moment of vulnerability is enough for Remus to know that he’s touched on something deeper than he can understand, something more complex than it seems. He hangs onto that.

Regulus speaks again after a second. “You’re still here.”

Remus chooses to ignore his comment, throwing a question at Regulus almost at the exact same time as Regulus makes his remark. “Why do you hate him so much?”

Regulus blinks rapidly, staring at Remus like he has five heads. “Is that a serious question?”

”Yes,” Remus nods without hesitation. It falls silent between them as Remus attempts to figure out the best way to word this without getting killed. “I mean, I know there’s a lot going on that I’m never going to understand, I get that. But James… he’s a good person.”

Regulus purses his lips together, his head tilting down towards the floor. His eyes land on his feet and stay there for a second before he looks back up, still never glancing towards Remus. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I know.” He says the words like they are something that he accepted a long time ago, like what Remus has just said is a part of the problem.

He doesn’t go on.

Remus has no idea why he feels so inclined to speak to this kid who clearly doesn’t want to do anything except usher him out of here. Maybe it’s because he’s seen the way that James’s entire mood immediately shifts the second Regulus is anywhere within his vicinity, maybe it’s because he’s tired of watching James sulk about this during practices when he should be focused on captaining the team. But regardless of the reason, Remus finds himself spitting out words faster than he can think of them.

”Look,” Remus says, “I’m not saying you have to be his best friend—shit, you don’t even have to like him. If you could just realize that he’s trying to help you..”

”I don’t need help,” Regulus shakes his head.

”Maybe not,” Remus responds simply, shrugging. “But if you ever end up changing your mind, he’s there. Don’t push him away so quickly.”

Regulus doesn’t have a response to that.

At last with his point being made, Remus begins to stand up from the bench. “I’ve gotta go,” he announces, though he knows Regulus doesn’t care one way or another. 

“Yeah, you do,” Regulus agrees.

Before Remus leaves the lobby, he turns back towards Regulus. “Well, good talk.” He hopes that his tone, dripping with sarcasm and annoyance, informs Regulus that he does not actually think that.

Then he turns around, making his way to Rink B.

To his own regret, his head doesn’t feel any better, and he’s realizing that maybe he does need to sit out of this game after all. He decides that he’ll head towards the dry land area and let Coach Hooch know that he’s feeling sick—no need for elaborating beyond that.

It’s just one game, he tells himself. Maybe Dr. Pomfrey can help him on Wednesday, can give him some sort of miracle ibuprofen that will ensure that he never has to do this again.

Or maybe it’ll go the opposite way, and she’ll tell him that there’s no solution, no cure. But he won’t let himself even imagine that.

It’s just one game, he repeats, again and again, and then maybe this will all be over.

Just one game.

❅ ❅ ❅

As the sun sets outside, James is just beginning to settle down on the couch with the TV remote in hand.

Turning the TV on, he starts to scroll through the overwhelming menu, too embarrassed to ask his dad how to find Sirius’s game. He tells himself that he’ll figure it out.

Then the doorbell rings, echoing throughout the entire house, and the remote nearly slips out of James’s hand.

Is that…? He wonders, getting up to his feet nearly instantly and sprinting towards the door. “Coming!” he calls out. He tells himself not to get his hopes up, that it could just be some Mormons or someone trying to sell him real estate or something and then he’ll only end up disappointed.

He reaches the door in record time, and attempts to open it as calmly and casually as possible.

When he opens it, he freezes completely. His expectations, for once, have turned out correct.

Because he’s at the front door to his house, and he’s standing face to face with Regulus Black.

Regulus is the first to speak. “Don’t say a word about this.”

After he gets over the initial shock, determining that this is not in fact a dream, he finally processes what’s just been said. And James grins, never so grateful that someone has demanded he shut up in his life. “Not one.”

Regulus steps through the door, and James is quick to close it behind him.