cold feet

As Barty and Evan take their seats in the bleachers in preparation to watch the senior women skate, Evan shouldn’t be surprised by the first words out of his friend’s mouth. But there’s still a slight sting to them nonetheless.

“Did you see Regulus after the short?”

Of course, Evan thinks, and he has to fight to keep his expression neutral. I’m right here, and he only wants to see Regulus. After a moment, though, he realizes his attempts are for nothing—Barty isn’t even glancing in his direction. Instead, his eyes are scanning the area down below, searching for the boy he really wishes were beside him right now.

Evan shakes his head. “I haven’t,” he replies. I wasn’t even there. Not that you noticed.

Barty sighs, leaning back on the bench. “Really?” he says. “He took off before I even finished my program. I thought maybe he was talking to you.” Then… “Are you sure—“

Evan is unable to contain his annoyance any longer. ”Yeah, well, I was a little bit busy getting yelled at by my coach for eating shit on my double axel,” he says, turning his head over to look at Barty. “So forgive me for not seeing him. I’ll do my best next time, if I even make it to sectionals.”

Barty winces, and Evan suddenly finds that he feels just a little bit better. “Sorry,” he says after a second, his voice quiet.

Evan can’t stay mad at him, no matter how pissed he might be at himself. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m just… it’s frustrating, you know?” He doesn’t have to specify what “it” is for Barty to know. Anyone who has ever known Evan is aware of the battle he fights every time he is on the ice. Skating clean has been his constant struggle since he was a kid, and it’s only seemed to become worse the older he’s gotten. When he starts competing senior, his technical content will be far behind what everyone else is doing. The infuriating thing is that he skates perfectly in practice; yet when it comes to competitions, he can’t seem to shake that fall deduction off of his scoresheet. Every jump counts—if he continues to mess them up like this for no good reason, he might as well hang up his skates and retire now. And it’s especially frustrating watching his friends do what he cannot; for Christ’s sake, Regulus landed a goddamn triple axel out there, and Evan can’t even do a double properly. He tries not to let it get to him, tries to just focus on what he excels at—skating skills, artistry, and spins—but it’s difficult when the boys he’s trained with his entire life are beginning to stick quads.

”Yeah, I get it,” Barty says after a second. Evan nearly scoffs, because no, he doesn’t. He doesn’t reply. But then a moment passes, and suddenly—

Barty’s hand clasps onto Evan’s shoulder, and Evan nearly loses his breath at the unexpected touch. He hopes he manages to keep his expression somewhat calm, and desperately hopes Barty thinks nothing of the way he suddenly stiffens. The thin mesh on the sleeves of his costume ensure that Barty’s touch passes through to his skin, so bitterly cold that it could burn. Evan doesn’t mind. “Hey,” Barty says, looking him right in the eye. “You were fucking brilliant out there.” He glances back and forth for a second before leaning in closer. “And between you and me, the judges scored you like absolute dicks.” Evan can’t help the loud laugh that escapes his mouth at that—Barty looks around like he is going to be shot at any second as he says it, his voice lowering three octaves. “If they’d scored your components properly, you’d be beating me right now. I don’t give a shit that you fell—everything else was amazing. You’re amazing. And you can rebound in the free. Okay?”

You’re amazing. Those words ring over and over again in Evan’s head, and he hates that they do. He hates that he will be repeating it to himself for the rest of the week, the month, maybe even the rest of the year, knowing that Barty means exactly what he says. Knowing that he will never mean anything more. Evan’s amazing. And that’s not enough for him.

Maybe some day, he’ll learn to make peace with it. Otherwise, it will kill him. This will kill him. But for now, it will have to be enough.

Evan forces a smile onto his face. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Um, thank you, Barty. I mean it.”

”Yeah, I mean it too,” Barty nods, never taking his eyes off of Evan’s. “Of course.” 

Everything almost comes spilling out of Evan’s mouth right then and there. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop it. Barty’s hand is still on his shoulder, his dagger-like touch only stinging further and further by the second, and the way he is looking at him, with so much care in his eyes—this is it, Barty needs to know and Evan cannot go on in silence. He tells himself he’ll say it, just to get the words out, so that at least he can have his answer and be at peace with it—

But then Barty turns to face the ice again, pulling his searing hand away from Evan’s shoulder, and the moment is over. Evan’s missed his chance, and he certainly can’t say it now that he’s reminded by the air that hits his shoulder of Barty’s heartbreaking indifference. 

He would’ve rejected you anyways, Evan reminds himself, still embarrassingly staring at the spot where Barty’s eyes were just locked with his. It wouldn’t have ended the way you thought. It’s a good thing that he turned away, really.

Thankful that the torture has ended, Evan shifts himself so that now he is looking at the ice again as well. And suddenly, right on cue, as if he was waiting for Barty to torment Evan’s feelings before joining them…

”Hey, guys,” Regulus says, gasping for air as he clambers to take a seat next to them. He opts to sit next to Evan, and Evan twistedly finds a bit of pleasure in that. He doesn’t think he could have put up with Barty acting like a lovesick puppy for the next hour and a half. “Sorry, I’m here.”

”Regulus fucking Black,” Barty suddenly proclaims, turning again to face him. Evan shrinks backwards—he knows that ultimately, he’s invisible right now. “You do a triple axel in your short program without even telling us you had it in there, and then you disappear before we get the chance to talk to you after?”

At least a smile seems to form on Regulus’s face now as he processes Barty’s question. He glances down at the ground before looking over to both of them. “Sorry, I needed to get my eyeliner off. It was killing me.”

”Aw, I liked the eyeliner,” Barty complains, which makes Evan’s stomach twist. “You looked good.” Nevermind the fact that Evan wore a blue glittery eyeshadow all over his lids for his short, and he didn’t take his makeup off—who cares about that? 

Oblivious as usual, Regulus just shrugs. “I couldn’t stand the feeling another second,” he responds honestly, as an announcement comes over the loudspeakers.

”The senior women’s event will now begin. Will the following skaters please take to the ice?”

”Tragic,” Barty replies with a sigh. Evan is about to get up and find another spot entirely. He wonders if Barty would even care.

As the first group of skaters takes to the ice, Regulus suddenly speaks up again. He’s quieter now, and Evan has a feeling that he has debated whether or not to even bring this up to them. That this is what was on his mind as he took his seat, and why his expression was so grim.  “Tom Riddle talked to me in the locker room.”

Evan cannot help how quickly his head snaps over to look at Regulus, and next to him, he can feel the wind from Barty’s head snapping over as well. He can’t blame him for that one. “Seriously? What did he want?”

”No way. Really?”

Regulus answers Evan whilst nodding. “I don’t know what he wanted,” he says honestly, but Evan already has a feeling. His next words confirm this. “He complimented what I did in the short. Said it was a gutsy move.” He’s seen the way that Tom used to stare down other skaters on the ice, studying their every move, constantly calculating. At Hogwarts Ice Castle, it didn’t matter who your coach was, how long you had worked with them for—once someone was good enough, once the potential was spotted, they inevitably went to Tom every time. Evan used to despise this, used to despise the fact that Tom never paid him any mind. It only confirmed his worst fears; he wasn’t good enough at the sport for Tom to spare a second glance, which meant he might as well quit. Never mind the fact that Slughorn is probably the best coach that Evan could ask for, and as it turned out, he shouldn’t have wanted to work with Tom in the first place—the fact that he’d never had the talent for Tom to even consider putting him through his various trials had consumed his confidence in himself entirely.  Now that Tom’s gone, it should feel better. But for Evan, the damage has already been done.

That’s not what’s important right now, though, Evan tells himself. What matters more; he’s trying to take Regulus under his wing. After everything that’s happened, he’s still allowed to coach, still allowed to put students through the horrific abuse that they willingly take for the sake of being a better athlete. Evan already worries about Regulus enough—his incessant training, his drive and concentration to win, the way that he practically limps off the ice at the end of the day. He can’t imagine how much worse Tom would make everything.

”Yeah, well, it’s a gutsy move to try and recruit you to his little posse in the middle of your competition,” Barty gives a voice to the quiet part of it all, snorting. “He can fuck right off.” Evan nods eagerly, backing up his friend’s statement.

Regulus glances over at them, blinking. “You think that’s what he was trying to do?”

“Probably,” Evan says with a shrug, though he already knows the truth. “You should stay away from him.”

”Yeah,” Regulus says after a second, not quite looking at either of his friends. He’s gazing off at some point vacantly in the distance, one that Evan isn’t sure is even in this ice rink. Then, snapping out of his trance, he looks back towards them. “Yeah, you guys are right.”

It isn’t Regulus’s words that concern Evan, that tell him that a part of him deep down might want the attention that he’s received from Tom; it’s the expression on his face. The expression he constantly wears, of hunger and dissatisfaction and of wanting more. It tells him that if Tom ever opened the door for Regulus, Regulus might be so desperate that he’d want to enter.

”Oh, um, Barty,” Regulus continues eventually, glancing towards him as though he’s a second thought. “Good job on the short.”

Barty takes the compliment as though it is a ray of sunlight on his skin in the dead of winter, a singular flower amongst a barren wasteland. “Thanks,” he grins. Evan keeps looking ahead, pretends that the thrilled expression in his peripheral doesn't wound him worse than a knife. Evan had congratulated him right away, had told him just how brilliant his triple lutz-triple toe combination was. He’s learning very quickly just how little meaning his words have to Barty.

”Yeah, of course. Sorry I didn’t really get to watch, but I heard you nailed everything.”

Evan swears to God that Barty visibly deflates beside him. “Oh,” Barty simply replies. But then a moment passes, and the grin on his face returns. “Well, I tried,” he jokes. “Hopefully I can do it in the free tomorrow too.”

”You and me both,” Regulus replies with an airy laugh, one that tells Evan he is nervous as hell. Evan wants to scream, to run into something. What reason does Regulus have to be nervous? He’s not in fifth place going into the free skate, with so many lost points to make up for. Instead, he’s getting recruited by goddamn Tom Riddle, with a ten point lead over everyone else here. And Evan gets that Barty likes Regulus, he does, he’s accepted a long time ago that he never even had a chance. But does he really have to worship the ground Regulus walks on at every given moment?

Evan wonders how much more of all this he can take before it kills him.

❅ ❅ ❅

Remus honestly has no idea why he’s even bothering to show up to practices at this point, but here he is anyways, at the rink on a Saturday morning. At 7 AM, no less. Watching his team from the stands, despite the fact that he can’t be on the ice with them right now. 

Well, “watching” is a generous way to put it. After getting diagnosed with chronic migraines by Doctor Pomfrey—likely related to his lack of sleep—the problem only seems to have worsened. She’s prescribed him triptans in an attempt to help, but cautioned him to take a couple of weeks off of hockey as a measure of safety. Though he despises the fact that he cannot be on the ice right now, Remus secretly is appreciative of the decision. It was a head injury that got him into this mess in the first place, after all. The last thing he needs is another one as a result of his recklessness.

So here he is, watching practice and praying to the gods above that he’ll last the day without his head hurting or a piercing pain picking up in the back of his eye. They’re nearing the end of practice, and so far, Remus has been totally fine. I could’ve gone this morning, he thinks bitterly, the music of David Bowie blasting through his headphones as the team skates ladders back and forth. I could’ve skated with the team and been totally fine.   

Instead, he’s sat on the bleachers and done virtually nothing at all. He would’ve brought a book, except for the fact that he doesn’t want Coach Hooch to think that he’s faking all of this and he’s only using his migraines as an excuse to sit out and read. He did that enough at the beginning of this year, when things turned sour on the Wolves, and broke his personal record for the amount of books read in a month—he won’t be doing it again. He can read when he’s home, he tells himself. 

Besides, he’s still not entirely convinced that his teammates don’t think of him as a total weirdo. Hockey players aren’t exactly known for their spitting intelligence; what would it look like to them if they caught a glimpse of him in the bleachers, burying his nose in a copy of Pride and Prejudice? He nearly shudders at the thought. 

No, he’s decided, doing nothing is better. It’s safer, at least.

Coach Hooch blows the whistle for a long while, which can only signify the conclusion of on-ice practice. As the team stops skating at the red line and rushes up to Coach Hooch, huddling all around her, Remus’s suspicions are confirmed.

He wishes he was close enough to know what she was saying. He wishes he was out there, more than anything in the world. It’s too cold up here, and he misses the feeling of adrenaline warming his body, coursing through him as he rushes from end to end. He hates this shit.

Eventually, the team disperses, no doubt getting ready for dry land. Remus will still not be among them. Angry and bitter over all of this, Remus waits for his friends to reach the locker room, and then he proceeds to bury his face in his hands and squeeze his eyes shut.

A new song comes on now, as Space Oddity comes to an end on his never ending playlist of older music that he connects with more than anything else that is out today. And Remus almost laughs at the choice that shuffle has picked for him—“Boys Don’t Cry”  by The Cure. In a twisted way, he feels as though he is being mocked as the guitar starts up, and Robbie Smith begins to sing.

Boys do cry, though, he thinks to himself, long before the chorus to the song has kicked up. They absolutely fucking do. He would know. He would know better than anyone.

Remus pulls his hands away from his face, closing his eyes and trying to think about anything but the worryingly relatable lyrics being sung. ”I try to laugh about it, cover it all up with lies, I try to laugh about it, hiding the tears in my eyes cause boys don’t cry…”

”Is this seat taken?” a voice suddenly says, snapping Remus out of his trance. When he looks up, he is greeted with the sight of an exhausted, still-glistening-with-sweat-from-practice James Potter, pushing his glasses up the rim of his nose.

Remus blinks once or twice. “Um, no,” he says, glancing back down towards the locker rooms. “Don’t you have to be at dry land right now?”

James shakes his head, though he wastes no time in taking a seat right next to Remus as he talks. “I’m not doing it today,” he says. “Hooch is making me sit out.”

This immediately raises alarm bells in Remus’s head—James has yet to miss a single Marauders practice thus far, and now Hooch is having him sit out? What for? “Why?” Remus blurts out, his brow furrowing. “Is everything okay?”

”Oh, everything’s fine,” James says assuredly, almost too aggressively for Remus to believe it. “I just, um, was a bit tired, and Coach Hooch noticed. And since I’m coaching Learn to Skate right after this, she said it was best that I just take it off.”

Okay, there is definitely more to this story than James is letting on. He seems a little upset about it, and it’s clear he didn’t want to sit out at all. But Remus fears he doesn’t know James well enough yet to pry on the subject. “Ah,” Remus nods. “I’m sorry.”

”Oh, it’s fine,” James responds again, in a way that tells Remus it is not. Then, after a moment, he glances over. “What about you?”

Remus’s head quickly snaps over, the question expected but still coming as a surprise. “What about me?”

”Well, you’ve been sitting out of practices left and right lately,” James observes, before pausing. His voice gets quieter, like Remus is about to let him in on the coolest secret ever. Remus has a feeling he’ll be gravely disappointed. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on if you don’t want to, but… you’ve been really good out there. We miss you.”

We miss you.

Those words ring over and over again in Remus’s head—a compliment he wasn’t ever expecting to receive, now or in the future. He thought surely he would disappear into the background, that no one would notice his absence because he’s done everything in his power to try and keep it quiet. “Thanks,” he says eventually, realizing that James is still awaiting his response. James nods, and Remus tries to figure out how to word it.

He eventually settles on just telling the truth. “I… don’t sleep well, at night. I haven’t slept well for years.” He doesn’t tell James the name of his condition, or the fact that it is directly linked to concussions. He doesn’t need him looking at Remus like a kicked dog, like he’s someone worth giving all the pity in the world to.  “I’ve tried my best not to let it affect my hockey, but then I got diagnosed with chronic migraines,” he says. “Likely related to the lack of sleep. So, that’s that.”

James doesn’t seem to know how to reply. “Oh.”

”Yeah,” Remus says, choosing to focus his attention on his untied shoe instead of the surely sympathetic glance he is receiving right now. “I’m taking triptans, and we’re trying to figure out a solution. But for now, that means no hockey.”

“Jeez,” James says, after what feels like forever. “That’s shit luck.”

No kidding, Remus thinks. “Yeah,” he states again, not knowing what else there is to say. He shrugs. “Nothing I can do about it, though.”

”I’m sorry,” James says, to which Remus shakes his head.

”It’s not your fault,” Remus responds, at last looking over at James. As expected, James is looking at him with pity. But there’s something else there, too… like, somehow, James understands.

He probably does, Remus realizes. Talk to any high school hockey player, and chances are that they’ve experienced some sort of devastating injury. It wouldn’t surprise Remus if James has experienced one. But it doesn’t mean James gets it entirely. His injury, whatever it was, probably healed within a matter of weeks—this disorder is Remus’s life. It will continue to be his life. It was present yesterday, it’s affecting him today, and he will wake up with it tomorrow. It isn’t the same.

Still, Remus appreciates the attempt at empathy. “Well,” James says after a moment, “I know the answer’s probably no, but if there’s anything I can do… let me know.”

Remus offers him a smile, as much of one as he can give when having a conversation that he’s tired of discussing. “Aye aye, captain,” he jokes. It’s not entirely funny—but they both laugh at that.

Soon after the laughter dies down, Remus takes a moment to study James—and immediately, he is plagued with concern. The dark purple circles under James’s eyes are prominent, like he hasn’t slept all night, and the exhaustion Coach Hooch noticed is written all over his demeanor. No wonder she made him sit out, he thinks. “You sure you shouldn’t skip the Learn to Skate?” Remus asks. “You look like you didn’t sleep all night.”

James is quick to shake his head, his eyes widening. “No, no,” he says, “I have to go.”

“I mean, Regulus coaches it with you, right?” Remus starts. “Leave him on his own. You said he always talks about how he doesn’t need you, I’m sure—“

James doesn’t let Remus finish his spiteful comment. “He’s not here today,” he says. “He’s at regionals.”

"Oh, shit,” Remus replies, though not without taking note of the manner in which James replied. He responded like it was obvious, like Remus should know.  “Well… that’s good, right? You don’t have to deal with him being a total dick, or anything.”

For the second time in a matter of moments, James cuts him off. “He’s not that bad, Remus.”

"Ah,” Remus says, still raising an eyebrow. “See, you said that last time—“

"And I meant it then,” James says firmly, clear that it is not up to debate. “I meant it then, and I mean it now.” He shoots him a glare that Remus did not know James was capable of producing. 

“Woah, okay,” Remus says, raising both hands up in the air. He’s very curious as to when this development happened. And furthermore, he’s very curious to know why James is so defensive about the entire thing. It’s not like Remus has just accused him of a crime.

After too many uncomfortable seconds spent in silence, Remus decides to just bite the bullet and ask. “So, is he still a jerk to you during classes? Or—“

"No,” James shakes his head, glancing away from Remus for a second. Remus is having a hard time trying to figure out if his cheeks were already red from the bitter cold air, or if they’ve just now changed colors. “No, he isn’t. He’s, um, come around.”

"Come around?” Remus repeats, practically in disbelief about what he is hearing. “You’re kidding.”

"I’m not,” James says, at last looking back over. “I mean, he absolutely did despise me at first, yeah. But I don’t blame him. Sirius left, and he had to find someone to take it out on. And I’m closest to Sirius, so he chose me.”

Remus still doesn’t understand how James sees nothing wrong with this logic, but he lets him continue.

”And then… I don’t know. I just kept trying to talk to him, trying to help him, and eventually he let me.”

Remus thinks back to that one Sunday morning in the rink, his run-in with Regulus that was less than pleasant. He wonders if any of his words stuck enough with Regulus for him to soften up to James. He doubts it, but it’s a nice thought.

”It sounds stupid,” James says, shaking his head. “But he’s been… really nice, actually. It’s nice having a friend. I don’t know.”

A friend, Remus repeats back to himself, shocked at the sudden turnover. He still tries to nod along, and pretend like he is not stunned to his core right now. “That’s good,” he says at last. “Sucks that you can’t skip Learn to Skate, though.”

James shrugs. “I’ll survive,” he replies, seemingly dazed. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”

Amen to that, Remus thinks, chuckling at the remark. He thinks about ordering James to tell Regulus good luck for him, but then he thinks he’d freak Regulus out. It would be stupid.

Then, in sync with each other, they turn their heads out to look at the freshly cut, empty ice.

Remus wants nothing more than to get out there and skate all over it. He wonders what James is thinking right now. Remus can tell that James still isn’t done pondering on what they’ve just discussed, and questions what he could possibly be lingering on. When did Regulus begin to affect him this much? … Why is he letting Regulus affect him this much?

Remus decides to put a rain check on that for now. He’ll get the answers one way or another, even if it isn’t today.  “Well, welcome to the cool kids club,” he jokes, in an effort to make both him and James feel better.

James laughs a little at that. “Oh, yeah, our teammates wish they were us.”

”Absolutely,” Remus responds affirmatively, scoffing. But even as he says it, he can’t help but feel his heart sinking. 

Yeah, his teammates definitely want to struggle with chronic migraines and a circadian rhythm sleep disorder that makes it too risky to lace up his skates and fly out there. Isn’t that every hockey player’s dream?

Maybe they wish they were you, he thinks to himsel f, but they definitely don’t want to be me.

❅ ❅ ❅

“Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in…”

It’s the second half of the program now, and Regulus can definitely feel the strain on every bone in his body as he skates through his choreography. He wonders, if the music were turned off, just how loud his breaths would sound right now, how his rapid heartbeat might echo through the rink.

Two more jumping passes, he tells himself, over and over, like a mantra. His legs and arms treat the program like second nature, the motions so practiced that he’s able to keep a clear mind. A mind that only repeats that phrase . Two more. 

Two more, and he’ll have skated two clean programs at his first competition of the season. Two more, and he’ll be able to beat everybody. Barty managed to have the skate of his life just minutes ago, which included the only quadruple toe loop of the competition—but if Regulus stays on his feet, he can easily beat him out for first. I can do this, he thinks, not daring to question for a second whether or not he will land the triple lutz. His success rate on the jump has been improving in practice, and he decides to focus on that. He knows he can. He just has to pull it off in front of a panel of judges.

First up is the triple flip-double axel sequence. Regulus turns into it with ease, tapping his right foot on the ice and drawing himself up into as tight of an air position as he can manage.

He lands the jump without difficulty, then steps onto his left foot and kicks up right into a double axel. Yet again, he comes down with ease, and as the applause from the crowd picks up he uses it as motivation.

That was nothing, he thinks as he takes his crossovers down the ice. Now, it’s just the triple lutz. One more jump, and you’re set.

One more jump.

One more jump, and it’s the one he’s landed the least in practice.

One more jump, and his success rate is still barely above sixty percent.

One more jump, and if he falls, his mother will be furious. Lucius will blame it on him nearly killing himself in the short program yesterday, and Regulus won’t be able to deny it.

One more jump, and it’s a clean skate.

He sets up for it now, gliding backwards and picking his right leg up off the ice. He breathes in deeply, drops it behind him, and pulls his left leg onto the outside edge.

”The power of the music of the night…”

Regulus launches himself up into the air, raising his hands above his head as he rotates. Quickly, he begins to count.

One, two, three…

He returns back down to the ground now, and for a moment, for one blissful moment, he stays on one foot. He’s in disbelief, his eyes going to the ice just to double check that he’s actually stayed upright—

But the force of the landing is too much for him to control, and his leg slips out from underneath him.

He lands on the side of his hip instead, gritting his teeth together and trying to ignore the applause that has come to a surprised halt. Get up, he thinks, you still have a program to finish.

So he wipes the pained expression off of his face and springs up to his feet, his choreo sequence up next. His first move in the sequence is a spider lunge, so he finds himself touching the ice yet again, lunging backwards and letting his hair and fingers scrape against the ice.

As he gets out of it, he presses both of his skates as forward as he can, bending down into a low cantilever. He ignores the small pain in his back that has formed from the move and slides himself forward, spinning across the ice on his knees now. He can at least hear some clapping for the cantilever, but he can’t convince himself now that it isn’t out of pity for his pathetic fall.

Don’t get in your head about it, he tells himself as he stands back all the way up. You have to see this through to the end. He still has a spin left, and he is not out of the clear yet. He can hardly hear the crescendo of the music in the back now, which is a shame considering that this is his favorite part of the song. It seems all too irrelevant as he skates into his final spin—a flying combination spin, beginning in a forward sit. 

“Help me make the music of the night…”

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, he counts as he spins around and around. Once he’s reached his eighth revolution, he changes onto his back leg, tucking his left leg behind him as he reaches three revolutions. Now, he swings his left leg forward, one hand reaching for his calf and the other reaching for his blade, as he pulls up into his final position—the I-spin that he’s done ever since he was a kid, a sense of familiarity and comfort amongst the mistakes.

Finally when he’s determined that he’s been spinning long enough, he drops his leg and exits the spin, reaching out to the judges with both of his hands. Just like he’s been his entire life. Reaching, reaching, reaching, wanting more in this sport even when he thinks it might kill him. Always disappointed, coming so close and falling just short.

The crowd claps, but to Regulus the applause might as well fall on deaf ears. He drops both of his arms and they immediately clench into fists by his side, and the exhaustion he feels almost seems secondary to the regret that is eating at him.

I almosthad it, Regulus thinks, knowing that his technical score will not be enough to take first here. Just like it wasn’t at US Nationals against the other novices, or sectionals last year, or regionals the year before.

He should be good. He is good. But it’s never good enough. 

He wonders if this is what it will feel like for the rest of his career, wonders why he puts himself through it if that’s the case. All of his time spent training, all of the money spent on new skates and ice time and private lessons, the countless hours of sleep lost, the bruises that decorate his body… what is it for, if he can’t even walk away with a gold medal at regionals?

It takes everything within him to keep his composure as he takes a deep breath and bows to the judges. This is stupid, he thinks, knowing that as he thanks them they are actively marking him down for his mistakes. Knowing that this is all just for show, that this won’t make any difference. He turns around and bows to the crowd next, not bothering to even glance in their direction as he does so. Already he knows what his mom is going to say on the drive back to the hotel, then on the drive home, and already he knows what she is about to obsess over for the next few weeks until sectionals. He’d rather wait to find out.

Once he is certain that he’s been courteous enough to both the judges and the crowd, he skates off of the ice, stopping at the door as Lucius hands him his guards. “Thanks,” he mumbles. The second he has his hard guards on and steps onto the rubber mat, Lucius claps a hand on his back.

“Hey, Regulus,” he says, “you did well. Forget about the fall on the triple lutz, we’ll fix that. Everything else was great—“

”It’s not going to be enough,” Regulus snaps, refusing to look up from the floor. 

”Reg, it’s your first competition of the season,” Lucius points out, which nearly makes Regulus roll his eyes. He was expecting a lecture from Lucius, but somehow, this is worse. Like an awful pity party where he’s the subject. “Of course it’s going to be messy, you’ll fix it.”

Regulus scoffs. “Will I?” he asks. “Because that’s what I’ve been trying to do for the past three months, and it hasn’t worked.”

”So what, you’re gonna give up?” Lucius asks, and he places a hand on Regulus’s shoulder. Regulus wishes he’d cut this out already. ”Listen to me. You fell one time. It happens, even to the best of us.”

Regulus doesn’t need to listen to the rest of what Lucius is going to say, because his words right now aren’t true. “I can’t remember the last competition I had where I didn’t make a mistake,” he spits out, still breathless from the intensity of his free program. He doesn’t let it stop him. “I’m so tired of it.”

”I know you are,” Lucius responds, “but that’s a part of skating. So either you can mope about it and be miserable forever, or you can try to collect yourself, regroup, and correct your mistakes.”

Regulus opens his mouth to retort something, but finds himself entirely short of any sort of answer. Maybe it’s because he’s aware of his irrationality right now, or maybe it’s because he’s tired of the fight. Eventually, he looks up at Lucius, still not having wiped the scowl off of his face. “I guess so.”

Lucius is about to reply, but before he can, his eyes travel back down to his phone. “Your score’s in,” he says.

Regulus doesn’t want to look. He knows he’ll have to. ”Can I see?”

Lucius flips the phone over to show him, and Regulus lets his eyes fall over the results.

Place

1. Barty Crouch Jr., Salazar FSC | Short Program | Free Skate | Total Score

60.84 | 134.87 | 195.71

2. Regulus Black, Salazar FSC | Short Program | Free Skate | Total Score

71.43 | 123.54 | 194.97

One point short, he realizes. Without the one point fall deduction, he would have had enough to beat Barty, and enough to stay in first place. Anyone else would tell him second place is a great spot to be in—but to him, second place is an indication that he was first to lose.

He looks at third and fourth place now.

3. Anthony Brooks, Midwest FSC

4. Evan Rosier, Salazar FSC

He qualified, then, he realizes about Evan. And even if he’s pissed at himself right now, he allows himself to be glad for his friend, who was so worried about not making it to sectionals.

And then he looks back up at Lucius, nodding. “Okay,” he says grimly, attempting to keep his frustration in check.

”We’ll have a lot to work on before sectionals,” Lucius simply responds. Always thinking ahead, never lingering on the failures. Regulus can admire that about his cousin.

Regulus envisions the next couple of weeks in his head, envisions what they will look like and what he will have to do. He supposes the work never ends.

Finally, he answers. “I’m ready.”