cold feet

The sound that Remus’s helmet makes against the boards echoes throughout the entire rink, and rattles somewhere deep within his skull.

It happened so quickly that he couldn’t stop it. One second he was hustling to the puck, prepared to take it right to the net and shoot. He was skating so fast that it would be an easy breakaway, and he was already growing excited as he thought about what corner of the net he might pick. It isn’t often that he gets these chances as a defenseman; he has to make the most of it when the opportunity to score does rise up. He was moving as quickly as his feet could manage, one skate falling in front of the other in rapid succession, reaching out for the puck and preparing to swivel around. Everything was folding out so perfectly right in front of him, now all he had to do was finish on the opportunity.

He supposes that he got so excited, his eyes only focused on the black rubber disc ahead, that he’d neglected to keep his head up, neglected to keep watch for opposing players that would likely be eager to stop him. Because he hadn’t had a clue that there’d been a kid right behind him, so desperate to catch him, desperate to stop him before he even had the chance to set his plan into motion. He hadn’t seen the stick reaching out from behind, had barely even felt the blade hook right around his right leg. He hadn’t even realized that anything was wrong until he was sent flying head first into the ice, completely off balance and flailing around helplessly as though that might stop the complete and utter humiliation of eating it in front of his team’s entire bench. What Remus hadn’t realized in that moment was that his pride was the least of his problems… he’d failed to account for his trajectory, for where the ice was sending him. And the next thing he knew, he’d smacked into the boards, his helmet the first to fall victim.

Everything has been a blur since that moment. There’s a brief period in time where everything is completely black for Remus, where he can’t seem to will himself to do anything. It passed in just seconds, but a part of Remus wishes that he’d remained unconscious a little longer. The fluorescent lights overhead are far too bright, and the sharp throbbing in his head is now too intense to simply ignore. Whether his eyes tear up because of the intense brightness that surrounds him or because of the pain, he doesn’t know.

He’s too focused on the aching of his head that he barely notices the people talking above him, their voices fading in and out as he attempts to make any sense of what’s just happened. When he is able to concentrate on their words, he can only catch snippets of what they are saying.

”—gonna take him off the ice and check him out—“

”—he hit his head hard…”

“Remus, can you hear me?”

The recognition of his name in the last question is what gets Remus to look up above him, and he finds himself looking into the familiar eyes of his coach and mentor. Except… they lack the usual strictness that Remus will often encounter when he is talking to Coach McGonagall. No, instead her eyes are filled with terror, with worrying concern.

Remus despises seeing that expression on her face. He despises that he is the reason for it. He’s taken hard falls like this before, and he’s been fine. He shouldn’t be worried, and he doesn’t want to be—except for the fact that the pain has only seemed to worsen as time goes on. And that is something that hasn’t happened to him before.

Still, he nods to his coach, not wanting her to be upset on his behalf. But the second he begins to bob his head, he becomes acutely aware of the pain that is developing within, and he grits his teeth together as he rests his head back on the ice. He attempts to speak, attempts to communicate what is wrong… in the end, he only gets two words out.

”My head.”

That statement, brisk and short, seems to set off the fuse. He can hear Coach McGonagall talking furiously to the referees, to the coach on the other team, but all of the words seem to jumble together as he lies there, willing himself to move again. Yet the lights are still too fucking bright, and Remus doesn’t think he’d know down from up right now.

”We’re going to get you off the ice,” says Coach McGonagall at last, crouching down to his level and looking him in the eyes. “Understand?”

Considering the fact that he nearly killed himself just nodding his head a few seconds ago, Remus finds that statement to be improbable. But his back is so cold, the ice so blindingly and overwhelming white ahead of him, that he quickly decides getting out of here is a good idea. “Okay.”

It takes them a while. Even just getting off of the ground, one limb at a time, is difficult for Remus, and he loses his balance a couple of times as he tries. Once he’s up on his feet, he leans on Coach McGonagall for support, and they slowly glide over to the door. Which also takes a while, as Remus is having trouble staying totally upright. At least nothing feels gravely injured—just his head. His stupid fucking head.

When at last he gets off of the ice and back onto solid ground, he allows himself to collapse onto one of the benches near the door. Within seconds of him sitting, he can see his father hurriedly approaching him. As his dad reaches him and immediately grasps onto his shoulders, the question comes spilling out immediately.

”Remus, oh my god, are you okay?”

The frantic voice of his father, along with the pointless question, is what finally triggers it—Remus breaks down crying, and he can’t stop.

“Dad, it hurts,” he gets out, tears burning in his eyes.

His dad doesn’t miss a beat. “Where? Where does it hurt?”

Remus practically sputters out the answer, having to take in several quick breaths as he tries to stop sobbing. But it’s no use. The floodgates have opened, and it’s pointless to attempt to  close them off now. “My head.”

Again, his dad wastes no time once he has an answer. He’s quick in moving his hands to the straps on Remus’s helmet, unfastening them as he pulls it off. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, we’re gonna get you changed, and then we’ll take you to the doctor’s. We just have to get you changed. Alright? We’re gonna get you better. We’ll get your head better.”

We’ll get your head better, his dad’s just said. Like it’s that easy. The statement sounds absolutely impossible. But Remus can’t tell his dad that. He can’t let him know just how bad it actually feels—like he might not ever be able to play hockey again. Like today might be his last ever time in a sweater.

”You’ll get me better?” he asks instead.

His dad nods firmly. “The doctors will.”

Remus’s question comes out desperately, pleadingly. “You promise?”

He wants to believe his dad more than anything. He wants to think the pain is just temporary, that this is just a singular moment of weakness that will never show its nasty face again. He wants to believe this is the last time he will ever feel this, that he will get better and that he will be careful so that this never happens again. He wants it more than anything.

His dad nods once more, confident now, determined. “I promise, my boy.”

Remus foolishly believes him.

❅ ❅ ❅

The past few months with the Marauders have forced Remus Lupin to form an opinion on Sirius Black, a boy whom he still has yet to meet.

Well, that isn’t entirely true. He knew a little of Sirius before this. Playing in the same state as him, in the same high school division, it’s impossible not to. And what he knew of Sirius, he’d decided preemptively to despise. To him, Sirius seemed the kind of boy who would make others grow to hate the sport someday, maybe even make him hate the sport someday. The amount of time he spent in penalty boxes only served to prove this point. The rest of the state might have been fooled by Sirius Black, but Remus shrugged off the persona imposed upon him. He was dismissive, simply thinking that he was one of the rare few who saw Sirius for what he was: a cocky, arrogant bully, whose true colors came out on display every time a game became heated. And so he never spared Sirius a thought beyond that.

Not until coming to the team. He’d known exactly who James Potter was from the moment he’d stepped onto that practice ice his very first time, and had sworn he’d do his absolute best to avoid him. He and Sirius were painted like brothers by coaches, reporters, and teammates alike; there was no chance in hell that James would be any better than Sirius was. He wasn’t going to count on it, anyways.

Except that plan had lasted all of five seconds. Because then James had skated up to Remus and immediately struck up a conversation with him, and though Remus was still hesitant, he quickly learned that James was nothing like what he’d shaped him up to be in his mind. He’d even consider James a good friend now, which is something he wouldn’t have believed even half a year ago. And though he still has yet to meet Sirius Black, he’s determined that if James didn’t end up being awful, maybe there’s hope for Sirius yet.

That’s what he chooses to believe, at least. It doesn’t entirely feel like a lie now to say that he wishes he could meet Sirius, and with every ridiculous story about the boy Remus is inclined less and less to hate him like he once thought he should. He doesn’t know if he’d be friends with him, exactly… but his answer to that question isn’t a firm and definite “no” like it might have been before.

But it doesn’t matter now. What he thinks of the boy could not be more irrelevant as Remus watches him crumple up against the boards, collapsing onto the ground and unable to jump back onto his feet. Everyone in the room is talking; someone even screams. Remus doesn’t care about any of it anymore. He can’t hear or process a thing. All he can see on the television is an injured boy, hurt gravely by a sport that he loves more than anything in the world. And he can’t stop imagining himself on screen instead, shrinking Sirius’s figure down to that of a little 10-year old boy who just wants to feel better. A 10-year old boy, who later cried and cried when he was told by doctors that he might not ever feel better. Who was told that he should quit and find something different.

Remus never did. He still plays, even now, because he couldn’t imagine himself doing anything else. He couldn’t imagine finding anything else to care about as much as he does this, couldn’t imagine any other activity coming close to giving him the adrenaline rush that gliding down open ice at full speed does. And somehow, someway, he knows that Sirius feels the exact same way.

Sirius Black will not stop playing hockey. But he also never could have foreseen this happening. Remus knows he never did.

"Shit,” James is getting out, over and over again. At some point he moved from the couch to crouching down right in front of the television, level with the perspective of his best friend. “Shit, Sirius, get up! What the hell was that?”

It’s a redundant question, considering the fact that everyone in the room is painfully aware of what’s just transpired. But Remus can’t blame James. Sometimes, when everything feels completely helpless, one can do nothing except ask questions with answers they already know. And right now, they are all helpless to watch. 

Remus wishes he could do something. He wishes that he could assure James that it’s all going to be okay, that Sirius will receive help in the locker room and then resume playing as normal. But Remus knows this kind of injury all too well. And there’s no use in lying to his friend. Remus still hasn’t forgotten his dad’s promise, hasn’t forgotten how cruelly it was carefully broken.

Medical staff are on the ice now, bending over and attending to Sirius. Remus doesn’t think he can breathe. A part of him begs for Sirius to be okay, a foolish hope that he knows is naive. Another part just knows he isn’t, just knows the injury will linger. Again, it is something he can’t say.                              

After what feels like an eternity of stillness, Sirius finally stirs. He rolls over onto his back, no longer laying on his shoulder caught at an awkward angle, and immediately Remus knows from the way he is jerking his other arm, from the way that he sits up, that he cannot move it.

“Get up, Sirius!” James is yelling at the screen, like it’s Sirius’s fault that he’s unable to snap out of his daze. “Get the fuck up, what are you doing!” Something in Remus snaps.

”Hey!” he suddenly exclaims, storming over to James and grabbing onto his sleeve. He makes sure to yank it as hard as he can, and just for a second, he manages to peel James’s eyes away from the television. He uses every word to his advantage. “Listen to me, James. Sirius is injured. We all know it. There’s nothing we can do to change it, and you yelling at the screen isn’t going to help either. Okay?”

James opens his mouth to interject, but eventually secedes, simply nodding as he looks back at the screen. “Okay.”

”Look. He’s going to get back up, with or without help. From there, he’ll go to a hospital, and they’ll figure out what exactly went wrong. But until then, there is absolutely nothing we can do except wait. And you losing it won’t do anything except make it worse.” Remus is reminded of how his own father freaked out in the waiting room, reminded of how his mother broke down into hysterics upon him getting home after his major concussion diagnosis. “Just breathe, James. Please just breathe.”

 For a moment, James is completely frozen, and Remus wonders if he’s even heard his words at all. But then, slowly, he takes in a breath, his gaze returning to Remus. “He’s leaving now,” James says at last, gesturing to the television. “I think he’ll be fine.”

Remus recognizes the foolish optimism immediately, the same kind he once had for himself. And he prays, for both Sirius and James’s sake, that his optimism now will pay off, that it will not feel like a punishment if the opposite turns out to be true. 

As he opens his mouth to speak, maybe to tell James that he’s gone through this same thing, to assure him that Sirius is being taken care of, to say anything that could help him, he suddenly hears the sound of a door slamming aggressively off somewhere in the distance. James hears it too.

"What was tha—“ Remus begins to ask, though the question he shouldn’t be asking is what. Moreso who. He turns around to examine the crowd of teammates, looking for one who might be prominently missing from the bunch, but James answers his question before he can finish.

"Regulus,” James says. And when Remus looks back at the couch, where Regulus had stood up in alarm just a few minutes ago, he realizes that James is right. Regulus has vanished without a trace.

Remus doesn’t hesitate to smack James on the shoulder, shoving him in the direction that the sound came from. “Go talk to him,” Remus says. James’s skepticism is immediate.

"But—“

"Nope, go talk to him. If there’s anyone who knows how he’s feeling right now, it’s you.”

James still seems as though he wants to contradict that statement, to find a counter argument, but he slowly shuts his mouth and nods instead. He steps forward, one foot at a time, and before he’s disappeared out of the room completely he glances back to Remus. Remus doesn’t miss the small ‘thank you’ he mouths.

Then, James is gone, and Remus is left staring at the boy on the screen, who couldn’t be more unlike him. Until now.

Now, Sirius couldn’t be more like him.

❅ ❅ ❅

Sirius is supposed to always get up.

Since they were kids, that’s been the one thing that’s remained the same about him. No matter what changes, no matter how he and Regulus grow apart or grow back together, that has always been the constant. When Sirius is knocked down, he gets back up, and it’s enough to make anyone forget he ever lost his balance at all.

Regulus has grown up with injuries. He remembers vividly the freestyles he’s been on where another skater has taken a hard fall, and had to be helped off the ice by their coaches. Barty once broke his ankle, just a few yards away from where Regulus had been practicing spins. He’d gone for a triple loop, his most reliable and stable jump, and just hadn’t been able to land it properly. Regulus remembers being at sectionals last year, watching one of the senior girls go for a butterfly into a camel spin, and gasping as her feet had slipped out from underneath her and she’d smacked her head so hard on the ice that the sound vibrated throughout the rink. The stretcher had come quickly. Pandora Lovegood, the young prodigy, had her season cut short, and she hasn’t competed this season. He knows all too well how figure skating careers can be quickly derailed by unexpected injuries, how one slip the wrong way can end an entire career.

It was never going to happen to Sirius. Not his big brother. For every brutal fall Regulus watched him take, he knew Sirius would come back stronger. He was always quick to spring back up onto his feet, quick to try the failed element again until it was done properly. He was fearless, unafraid to put everything out on the line. Watching him play hockey has been quite different—but that fearlessness has always remained the same. Regulus has watched him take hit after hit, watched him make play after play after play, and never once doubt what he was doing. If a hit was enough to send him down onto the ice, he’d spring onto his feet and skate twice as hard to the puck. Like he’s always done, he’d get back up.

Today, for the first time, that isn’t what happened. His brother, his fearless big brother, fell to the ground, and did not get back up.

Regulus has no idea what to do now. All he knows is that he couldn’t handle being inside, couldn’t handle watching his brother hobble off the ice with the help of two trainers, for a second longer. He couldn’t handle James’s frantic hopefulness, the frenzied declaration that surely Sirius is going to be okay. And he couldn’t handle the thought of what might happen if Sirius isn’t.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He can’t tell where James’s backyard ends and where the woods begin, but the imaginary barrier doesn’t stop him as he runs and runs and runs, only stopping when his lungs are on fire and he collapses onto the ground. His back rests against a tree trunk as he gasps for air, closing his eyes and praying that maybe what’s just happened was a horrible nightmare. That maybe he’ll wake up and realize that the day hasn’t passed him by yet, that Sirius is perfectly fine.

The only sound echoing through the forest is of Regulus's breaths, and he realizes quickly that it was an incredibly stupid idea to run out here in the dark with no concept of location and completely unannounced. Jesus. Could he be any more dramatic?

He’s only just begun to think about what to do now when another sound joins in—the sound of branches snapping against each other, of leaves crumpling under footsteps. He buries his head in his hands and accepts his fate, accepts the idea that he very well might get murdered by a creature or a person here and he’s brought it all upon himself. He’d rather not look in the face of death.

As the footsteps grow closer, they soon stop completely. And then the person responsible for the noise speaks."You run really fucking fast, you know.”

Regulus tenses up as he hears the voice of James Potter, sounding winded and amused all at once. When he pulls his hands away from his face, the first thing he does is get a good look at James. James seems completely exhausted, his bright red cheeks visible even against the night sky and his already unkempt hair somehow more tangled than usual. Regulus looks away just as quickly as he looked towards James, guilt washing over him.

“You didn’t have to follow me,” he says, still quite tired from the little journey he’s just taken himself.

“Maybe,” James replies, “but I wanted to.”

Regulus is way past the point of asking James why. He’ll only get an answer that will confuse him even more. He still isn’t convinced that he deserves any of this, and he’s not sure he ever will be. “He didn’t get up,” Regulus says instead, not having to name who he’s referring to for James to understand.

”I know,” James responds, sounding regretful even though there’s nothing either of them can do. “I know he didn’t.”

”He should have,” Regulus continues, despite the fact that his words won’t change anything. “He should have gotten up.”

“Reg, he couldn’t,” James interjects, and though Regulus knows this is true, he can’t stop the anger from bubbling up inside of him. 

“He should’ve seen that hit coming!” Regulus is suddenly yelling, springing up to his feet and closing in on James. “He should’ve been looking! He was stupid not to, he should’ve known that someone would be coming at him, and now he’s fucking injured.” He doesn’t believe a single word that he’s saying. He doesn’t know why they’re coming out. He doesn’t know why he can’t stop it.

"Regulus, that hit was right to the head!” James yells back, stepping towards him. “He’s supposed to hit his shoulder, not his fucking head.”

“Does it matter? He fucking embarrassed himself out there!” Regulus screams now, and he fully closes the distance between him and James. “He’s clearly not fucking cut out to be playing in juniors. He embarrassed himself, and now his head’s injured, and his shoulder’s probably fucked up, and he—he should have—“ Regulus’s throat suddenly tightens, his words becoming increasingly difficult to get out the less and less true they become. Suddenly, it’s not him saying the insults—it’s his mother in front of him, spitting the words out like venom, as if stating ‘I told you so.’ His eyes well up, and he gasps out the end of his sentence. “He should have gotten up.”

He looks at James now, expecting him to be angry, expecting him to scream and scream and scream over the insults he’s just hurled at his own brother. Regulus would be incredibly deserving of it. But when he looks, the expression on his face is not that of fury. Instead, it is of understanding, of continual kindness that he hasn’t earned.

Regulus can’t stop the tears from flowing down his face now, can’t stop the ugly sobs that escape his throat. For the first time in years, he cries. He cries and cries and cries, and he allows it to happen.

When James reaches his arms out and wraps Regulus into a hug, he doesn’t hesitate this time to throw his own back around him, clinging onto James’s shirt as tightly as he can. For the second time now, they embrace. But now, it’s different.

“I didn’t mean that,” Regulus gets out against James’s chest, one of James’s hands finding the back of his head.

"I know,” James replies, yet again sympathetic in a way that is infuriating. “I know you didn’t.”

"I don’t know what to do,” he says, stumbling over his words. “He always gets up.”

”I know, Reg,” James repeats softly, a hand running through Regulus’s hair. Regulus should hate the contact. It’s never been more comforting. “Frank texted me. Sirius is getting checked out right now. We just have to wait. That’s all we can do.”

Regulus immediately takes note of the way that James says we. “Okay,” he says at last, taking in a deep breath. And though it kills him to do so, he finally pulls out of the hug, grieving as the cold air meets his skin again. “Okay. We’ll wait.” Then, he glances back up to James, his hands still on his shoulders. “Thank you,” he whispers. He hopes James knows just what he’s thanking him for.

James seems to understand perfectly as he pulls his own hands away from Regulus, nodding. “Of course.”

Then it falls quiet between them, the only sound coming from Regulus’s sniffling as he wipes his eyes and attempts to calm himself down.

Eventually, James speaks again. “Could we um, maybe wait inside though? It’s freezing out here.”

Regulus scoffs at this, though he also can hardly believe the words. “You’re always in an ice rink!” he points out, though the two start walking practically in sync, falling beside each other.

”Yeah, but I always have like, 20 pounds of gear on,” James counters. “I actually really hate the cold.”

”And yet, you’re out here,” Regulus says. Though he’s shaking his head, his lips still curl upwards.

“Yeah, because of you,” James responds almost instantly. Then, his mouth parts, and his head snaps over to Regulus quickly. “Wait, I mean like—“

“I know what you meant,” Regulus replies, wondering why James seems so panicked. It’s the exact opposite of what Regulus has come to expect from him.

”Okay,” James breathes out, looking back to the path ahead of them. “Okay, good.”

Regulus doesn’t know what will happen to Sirius. He doesn’t know if he’ll be okay to play again in a couple of weeks, or if his career’s just ended. It’s all up in the air, and it’s terrifying. But as they walk back to the house, still bantering about the cold and about how far Regulus ran to get out here, he finds that he’s never been more grateful to have a friend like James Potter to go through this with.