cold feet

The night before Sirius’s surgery is set to happen, Regulus gets a text.

He gets it as he’s setting his alarm for the next morning, the time on his screen flashing before his eyes: 7. It’s actually later than he gets up most days, and he’s glad for it. Then, his phone buzzes, and he freezes completely as he reads the notification that’s just popped up.

james: hey do you wanna maybe do something after my mom and i drop sirius off? might make the time go by faster haha

It does relieve Regulus, just for a moment, to know that he’s not alone in worrying about the outcome of tomorrow. Though the procedure should be swift and easy, Regulus knows all too well how one wrong movement, one millimeter too far to the right, might mess someone up for life. It’s one of the reasons his mother never got back to the ice—she was never quite the same after her own shoulder surgery happened. And to think that Sirius is getting his nearly in the same exact place…

Regulus doesn’t want to think about it. To put it simply, he’s terrified out of his goddamn mind. And it makes him all the more inclined to take James up on his offer. Maybe having something to do will distract him.

A few days ago, he would have said yes without question. But his helicopter mother, who has gone with him to nearly every single training since the weekend, poses a problem. A problem that’s incredibly intimidating, and not easily solvable.

He’s supposed to be training tomorrow. Just because Christmas happened a couple of days ago—a holiday that was quite a lonely affair for Regulus—doesn’t mean that he gets to go on break too. In fact, he needs to be going harder than ever right now, burning off those extra calories so he doesn’t need to jump with extra weight. “I can see your dinner from last night!” his mom had yelled as he was skating yesterday, even though he’d barely touched his plate. He’d felt too sick to have anything, thinking about the events that had happened just a couple of days prior. He feels sick right now just thinking about her. Being around his mother, it’s always been a lot. And it only ever gets worse. It never is easier, and she never eases up, he just learns to tolerate it better.

And learning to tolerate it means doing as she wants, when she wants it. Regulus has already gone directly against her will once, and it’s been enough for his lifetime. He refuses to do it again. He’s terrified of the fallout if he does.

regulus: sorry, can’t. i’m practicing all day tomorrow

Regulus hates this. He hates blowing James off, hates turning a cold shoulder to the boy who helped him when he needed it most. But he sees no other option. Not if he wants to make it out of this mess alive.

After he sends the message, he tosses his phone aside and wraps himself in his blanket, hoping he can sleep this all away.

Sleep doesn’t come so easily anymore.

❅ ❅ ❅

Something’s happened with Regulus.

Evan doesn’t know what exactly it is, but he’s not a fool. He sees it in Regulus’s defeated demeanor as he walks into the rink, sees it in the way that he lethargically laces up his skates, sees it in the way that he half-heartedly greets Evan and Barty as they all make their way onto the ice. And his skating—it especially shows in his skating.

“Come on!” Coach Lucius is yelling, his frustration palpable as Regulus tumbles to the ice once again. He’s nearing the end of his free skate, and this final jumping pass—the triple lutz—has sealed it. He’s officially gone seven for seven on unclean jumping passes, and he doesn’t seem to care. The thud is so loud that it echoes across the ice, and Evan hears it even as he stands by the boards, waiting for Regulus to pass by so that he can continue practicing his jumps. The fall looks even worse—Regulus didn’t quite get enough height to make the three full rotations, which resulted in him hitting his heel as he went down and his right foot slipping from underneath him. As a result, he lands right on his ass, and his arms flail around all over the ice as he attempts to roll back around and scramble up to his feet. And as he gets up, he gives up nearly entirely on the choreography. He simply skates forward, looking entirely despondent.

Evan doesn’t know what to do. His eyes dart around the ice in an attempt to find Barty. Are you seeing this? he wonders desperately, praying that he’s watching —maybe he’ll have an idea of what’s going on, of how they can help their friend. They’re only a couple of weeks out from nationals at this point, and Evan doubts that Barty wants to win against Regulus this easily. 

But Barty is in his own world at the other end of the ice, and if he notices what’s going on right in front of him, he shows no sign of it. He simply waits for Regulus to pass by before skating out to the center of the ice, pulling himself right into another combination spin. 

Evan is helpless.

He tries to bring it up to Barty after the session’s over, away from Regulus and away from everything else.

He has to wait until he’s caught his breath again to do so. And then, when he’s recollected himself, when his voice is steady enough that Barty won’t know that he’s tearing him apart, he blurts out the question. “What do you think is going on with Regulus?”

It’s hard to discern Barty’s facial expression in the near pitch blackness, the two tucked away in the back of the club closet. It’s ended up becoming their regular spot, during the weird off-times when there’s no sessions to skate on and nothing to do except wait around for the next freestyle. None of the other skaters are going to come in here to cry if they don’t have any skating to cry about. Still, Evan tries to read the shift in his eyes, the way that his lips purse together. He tries not to stare at them too long. He still isn’t entirely sure what he’s allowed to do in all this– where the line is.

Barty’s tone, completely nonchalant and unbothered, only serves to confuse Evan more. “No idea. Why would I know?” He asks the question irritably, and Evan’s face heats up.

“I don’t know,” he gets out. “I just… I mean, you saw him in practice today. He was all over the place.” And I thought you’d care more, Evan wants to add, but he bites his tongue. Barty and Regulus have been skating to beat each other since they were young—they’ve always competed together, one never finishing on the podium without the other. Their scores have often been neck and neck, and through it all, they’ve been each other’s biggest rivals and supporters. While Evan does compete at the same level, it just feels like a race to catch up to the both of them. He can’t jump like they do, which makes it hard to win anything. For the most part, he sits back and enjoys the show. He can’t imagine that there will be much fun in Barty beating Regulus at nationals if Regulus just fucking sucks. 

“Yeah,” Barty admits after a moment, a hint of emotion finally poking through. “Something’s wrong with him.” But if Barty’s disturbed by any of it, he attempts to shrug it off. “If he wanted us to know, he’d tell us,” he says, sounding so casual that it makes Evan want to scream. 

Instead, he attempts to laugh. “When has he ever told us anything?” he asks, the question genuine. “He goes weeks without saying a thing and then suddenly out of nowhere he’ll just fucking scream at us.”

Barty flinches at this, and Evan finds that he’s relieved to catch some sort of a reaction from him. It’s true—they both know it. Sooner or later, Regulus will blow up about this, and the longer it goes unaddressed the worse it will be. He regains his composure soon after though, straightening up as he looks over to Evan. “Well,” he says after a moment, “maybe this time he’ll scream at James.”

Evan has to bite back the words that form in his throat. Seriously? he wants to ask. Their friend is obviously going through something that neither of them know about, something worrying and scary, and all Barty has it in him to be is jealous? 

He wants to scream at him. He wants to tell Barty to use his fucking head, to get over himself, to stop being so goddamn immature.

He doesn’t. Instead, he swallows down the sour taste in his mouth, and nods. “Yeah, maybe,” he says. It’s better to be agreeable than to fight a pointless battle, one that will only end in tears and hatred. It’s better to move on from this conversation and forget it ever happened than to think back on the fact that Barty still can’t get over his feelings for Regulus, that he’s still lingering on the thought of Regulus and James while Evan is right here.

I’m still here, Evan thinks as he looks over to Barty, pleading with him in every way except out loud. I’m still here, and I’m yours, even if you aren’t mine. Even if you don’t want to be mine. That’s okay. Just don’t let it end, please don’t let it end.

As if he can hear Evan’s thoughts, Barty turns to face him. He approaches him slowly, cautiously, and Evan hates that his heart still skips a beat as Barty closes the gap between them and takes both of his hands. He hates that he still finds a thrill in this, hates how willing he is to take it just because it’s Barty.

”Hey,” Barty says to him, talking softly into his ear, “We’ll talk about this later, okay? I promise. Just… kiss me?”

The question startles Evan—it’s the first time that Barty’s asked him to initiate, the first time he’s acknowledged what’s happening.  He freezes up completely, their hands still intertwined as he reels in the request.

He wastes no time on responding, one hand wrapping around the back of Barty’s neck as he gladly obliges. Barty eagerly responds to the kiss and they stumble backwards together, Evan’s back hitting the many costumes lying on the rack behind the two as they become lost in a mess of fabric and bodies and heat.  

Why is he doing this to me? Evan wonders as Barty deepens the kiss, as his hand finds the side of Evan’s face and holds it like this is the last time they’ll ever get to touch. Why is he doing this if I’m not the one he wants? …Why am I letting him do it to me?

Well, it’s simple. Barty wants a distraction from everything else, and Evan is willing to provide it. He doesn’t have an answer for himself yet, Barty running his hands through Evan’s hair as Evan’s back presses further and further into the wall. He just knows it’s hard to say no to something he’s always wanted, even if it’s not in the way he thought he’d get it.

This drives him insane, the entire situation drives Evan insane—ever since this thing started, it’s like Barty’s afraid to let Evan in on anything. His feelings, his thoughts, his emotions; they’re all behind some sort of curtain that Evan can’t see past. It didn’t used to be like this. They used to understand each other. Now, Barty seems to only be interested in talking with his lips and not his voice.

Evan should stop this. It’ll only end badly and he’ll only break his own heart over the entire situation, despite the fact that it was never going to work in the first place.

But he can’t bring himself to stop it as he lets his free hand roam down Barty’s chest, his touch growing more and more desperate as he realizes that Barty isn’t stopping him. His hand only goes lower and lower until finally, he gets a gasp out of Barty, his hips bucking forward as he tells Evan breathlessly to keep going, not to stop now.

So Evan doesn’t stop .

It’s funny, he thinks. They have never been closer together as they succumb to the heat, as everything except this freezes in time, and yet they couldn’t be further apart. 

❅ ❅ ❅

The morning of Sirius’s surgery, he’s scared shitless.

It’s not too different a feeling from before his first game with the Blazers, except this time, the outcome is entirely out of his control. He’s not going to emerge from the other side of this a brilliant new prospect to keep one’s eye on—he’s not even going to know how long it’ll be until he can take to the ice again. When he’s out there playing with his team, there’s only two possible outcomes; they can win or lose. This is something else entirely. And he has no idea how it’ll go.

You wouldn’t have to question it if you hadn’t taken that hit at all, a voice in the back of his mind tells him, causing him to grimace. He hasn’t slept the whole night; every time he closes his eyes, he relives the moment where he was crushed against the boards, the pain so excruciating that he can recall exactly what it felt like, exactly what ached as medical staff came onto the ice and helped him off. But beyond that, he keeps trying to imagine an outcome in which it happened differently. He imagines what might’ve happened if he’d dodged the hit, or if—like everyone had been telling him to do—he’d just fucking hit back. He’s seen the comments all over the internet, what reporters and media had been saying about his playing style for months. That he was speedy and determined and virtually unstoppable, except for the fact that he never seemed to use his body. That his lack of physical play would one day backfire, that he needed to learn to throw a hit. He can only imagine what everyone is saying now.

When he turns over to face his alarm and sees that the clock reads 6:30, he isn’t surprised to see that the entire night’s slipped away from him. It’s not unlike every single night since the accident happened, since that very first night that he spent in the hospital getting his shoulder looked at. He knows that by this point, trying to get any sort of sleep before the surgery would be useless. So, he tries to think of what he can do until then, what might distract him from what’s about to happen.

And, like the answer has been since he was little, he can only come up with one solution, one possible idea that might provide some comfort: to go to the rink.

That’s how he finds himself driving over to Hogwarts Ice Palace before the clock has even struck 7, the sunrise accompanying him as he tries to figure out the most comfortable position for his hand on the wheel that won’t aggravate his shoulder. Regulus wasn’t up yet when he got out the door; Sirius debated waking him and offering to drive him as well, before quickly thinking better of it. It’s incredibly obvious that something awful happened with him a few days ago, and Sirius doesn’t have to look very far to guess who did it. He can see it in the annoyance on their mother’s face as the two get back from a long day at the rink, can see it in the flat tone that she uses with his little brother, can see it in the way that she suddenly doesn’t have as much to say to Sirius as she used to. Sirius hates it. He hates that Regulus won’t just talk to him about it, that he’d rather wallow in his own misery and separate himself from everything and everyone else he loves. He’s never been one to fight back against their mother, but Sirius is. He would do it, if only Regulus asked. But he knows it will never happen. He knows Regulus is convinced that deep down their mother truly does love them. It’s one of her many tricks and lies that she’s pulled on him over the years, the ones that Sirius sees right through, the ones that they used to get into arguments about. And Sirius doesn’t blame him for falling for it—but he wishes he knew how to break the illusion, how to make him see that what she does for him isn’t out of the love in her heart.

He hasn’t figured it out yet. And besides, this trip is one he’d rather make by himself.

Once he gets through the lobby doors, he glances at the schedule posted for the day and immediately knows which rink he’s going to. Without hesitation, he makes his way through the doors that sit underneath the giant letter A, painted in bright red.

The open sticktime is mostly empty when he makes his way in. He tries not to be bitter about the fact that if circumstances were different, he might be out there, an entire sheet of ice to himself. This was the type of session he and James used to love, the early mornings on weekends where no one wanted to get up. It was at times like these that they’d chase each other around the ice, messing around until the zamboni was out and they realized they’d just wasted an entire hour doing nothing at all. Sirius misses it. He didn’t know until he’d lost it what a privilege it was to be out there in the freezing cold, letting the wind whip across his face.

Taking a seat in the bleachers, he takes comfort in the sound of blades scraping across the ice, of the pucks smacking against the glass, in the satisfying noise that they make as they ring against the metal posts of the nets. He tells himself that soon enough, if everything goes right, he’ll experience this again.

It’s the only thought that brings him comfort, and, as he watches the players out on the ice, he finds that his bitterness slowly begins to cease.

There’s one in particular that keeps catching his eye, who speeds across the ice with such a freedom that Sirius yearns to have. He’s never seen someone move so fluidly, like he doesn’t even have to think about his next step before he’s made it there. He wonders if he feels the same way that Sirius does when he’s out on the ice, like nothing matters except the present moment, except for putting one foot in front of the other. He wonders if he also considers the ice as his home, the one place where he feels safe, where everything else going wrong in his life is frozen in time.

Then the stranger turns his head. Sirius is quick to try and look away, to act like he wasn’t laser focused on him and his every action, but it’s too late. Their eyes have met, and Sirius completely freezes as he realizes that he’s looking right at Remus Lupin, watching him like his life is at stake.

For a moment, they’re both still like that, studying each other like they’re trying to figure out the other’s intentions. Sirius wonders if Remus wants him to leave. He wonders if he’s just intruded on something incredibly personal to him, and if Remus will hate him for it. He doesn’t know if Remus has enough fight in him to hate anyone.

Sirius brings himself to nod at Remus, attempting to offer him a slight smile. Remus’s eyes don’t change, staring into the back of his brain.

Eventually, Remus’s head moves the tiniest bit downwards, before he tilts his chin back up.

He turns around and resumes his skating like nothing’s happened at all, and Sirius is left to wonder what Remus must think of him. He probably sees Sirius as a fucking creep now.

In his defense, how was he supposed to know? Remus isn’t wearing his usual Marauders sweater out there; he’s wearing the practice jersey for a completely different team, with the number 20 instead of his usual 76. Sirius would attempt to make out the logo on the front of the jersey, but he already feels that he’s stared too long.

Still, he can’t help but wonder…

Before he can make things any worse by watching even longer, before this can get any more awkward, the buzzer rings throughout the rink that indicates that the session has come to an end. And not long after, he hears at the other end of the rink the humming of the zamboni, ready to cut the ice to a glassy, smooth perfection yet again.

As much as Sirius wants to stay here all day, he knows he can’t be here for much longer. He’s supposed to be at the Potters’ in an hour, so that they can drive him into the city and to the hospital. So, he slowly stands up and makes his way down the stairs, trying to think about anything else but the hours to come.

It turns out not to be a very difficult task—once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Remus is there, waiting for him. 

After the initial panic that sets in, Sirius clears his throat and attempts to play it cool. It proves to be more difficult than he thought. “Morning,” he gets out. He’s unsure of whether or not he should apologize for the fact that he’s just spent the last half hour watching only Remus, but he keeps that part quiet for now.

If Remus is at all bothered, he doesn’t show it. “Morning,” he responds. Then, the question… “You forget that there’s no team practices on Saturdays for the next couple of weeks, or something?” He sounds more intrigued than anything else.

Sirius is quick to reply. “Nah, I knew that,” he answers. But before he gives his actual reason as to why he’s here, he hesitates. “I just—um, my surgery’s today, for my shoulder, and. I wanted to come here before it happened. Just so, y’know..” His words come out quickly, jumbled. “No, it sounds stupid.” He doesn’t want Remus to know he’s fucking terrified.

But when Remus’s expression shifts, Sirius knows that he’s done a shit job at concealing that fact. He wonders if Remus is feeling pity towards him. He hopes not. “Doesn’t sound stupid to me,” Remus remarks, like it’s that simple.

”It doesn’t?” Sirius questions before he can stop himself.

Remus just shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I mean, you’ve been skating since you were like, what, four?”

”Three,” Sirius interjects.

Remus gestures affirmatively. “ Exactly. So it makes sense. The ice is your second home ( More like my first, Sirius thinks), and you’re probably nervous, so therefore you’d come here. Right?”

It takes Sirius a moment, but eventually,  he agrees. “Yeah,” he says.  “I guess.” Then, before he can stop himself, he looks back out to the ice. He speaks before he can stop himself. “God, I miss it.”

Remus sighs. “I know the feeling,” he replies quietly. “There’s nothing like being out there on the ice, huh?”

”Not even close,” Sirius replies. “Especially on days like today where it’s quiet, and it’s just you, and you feel unstoppable. You feel…” He stops himself there, unsure of how to articulate it properly. He finds the word after a second—at the exact same time Remus does.

"Free.”

Their eyes meet again, and this time, it doesn’t take them as long to offer each other a smile. A smile of understanding, of empathy, of knowing.

”You’ll be back out there soon,” Remus tells him, once the moment’s passed.

“Yeah, but it’s not gonna be the same,” Sirius replies, sounding far more bitter than he means to. Because now everyone will know that I’m weak, that I’m fragile, that I don’t really have what it takes—

“Oh, come on,” Remus snaps, so suddenly harsh that Sirius flinches. Yeah, Sirius thinks, moment of understanding is definitely over. It’s quiet for a moment, and Sirius debates whether or not to ask what he’s said that’s wrong. Remus beats him to the talking. “Look, I’ll say this. You got injured, and you can’t play for some time, and yeah, that fucking sucks. But if I—“ he cuts himself off, and Sirius watches as his chest rises and falls, as he sucks in a deep breath before continuing. “My head’s been fucked up for years, and there’s no easy solution. And if I could just—get a surgery that could fix all of my problems, I’d take it in a heartbeat.”

Sirius has no idea what to say to that. He begins to respond in the only way that he thinks he can. “I’m sorry.”

Remus looks over to him, and Sirius expects him to look angry, to look bitter, to look frustrated. But instead, he just looks sad. “No, I’m done with people being sorry for me,” he responds. “Just… don’t take it for granted, okay? That’s all.”

Sirius is quick to nod, quick to affirm that he won’t. “Got it,” he says.

This time when their eyes meet, the moment doesn’t last long. Remus is quick to turn away. “Right,” he says, “I have to—um, get out of all of this equipment—“

”Oh shit, yeah,” Sirius says, having completely forgotten that Remus is still soaked head to toe in the sweat from his gear. “Yeah, go do that.”

”Yeah, okay,” Remus says. “Well, um, good seeing you.” He doesn’t allow Sirius any time to respond before he’s already brushing past him, headed for the locker rooms.

He’s gone before Sirius can say anything at all.

❅ ❅ ❅

As Sirius and the Potters turn into the sight of the hospital, Sirius receives a text.

He doesn’t look at it immediately as he feels the phone buzz in his pocket, too busy being sick to his stomach to notice anything else. James and his parents have been trying to make small talk to him the entire ride here, but it’s all gone over his head. All he can hear is the pounding of his heart, the ringing in his ears, as he realizes what is about to happen.

When he hears the clicking of the Potters’ car powering down, it becomes all the more real. “We’re here, kid,” says Fleamont in the front, turning around to face Sirius and James in the backseat. “You, uh, need a minute?”

”No,” Sirius insists quickly. “No, I think I’ll be okay.”

”Okay,” Fleamont replies, “just let us know if you need anything.”

Sirius wonders what it would’ve been like to be born a Potter, how different his life could’ve been. He tries not to think about the fact that his own mother wasn’t even willing to drive him here. But as Effie and Fleamont exit the car, their eyes never leaving him even as they close the front doors, a twinge of pain tugs at him in a place completely different than his shoulder.

Once Sirius and James are alone in the backseat, James leans over and punches him lightly. “Well, I’ll say this,” James starts. “I think the bionic shoulder’s gonna look fucking great.”

Sirius laughs at this, and he realizes it’s the first time that he’s laughed all day. “Oh, hell yeah,” he says, leaning over and high-fiving him. What would I do without you? he wonders as he glances over to James, though he doesn’t give a voice to these thoughts. 

His phone buzzes again, and this time, Sirius takes it out of his pocket and reads them. He’s greeted with two texts.

Reg: good luck today :)

Unknown: hey, it’s remus. james gave me your number. just wanted to say good luck, and i hope everything goes well!!

”You ready?” James asks him after a second, sounding hesitant.

As Sirius glances up from his phone, he smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”

For the first time, it doesn’t feel like a lie.