Way Enough

Regulus

Regulus Black did not sleep through alarms.

His body was trained to wake up before the shrill beeping even started, moving on instinct before his brain fully caught up. But today, when his eyes finally snapped open, his phone screen glared back at him with the worst sight imaginable:

5:02 AM.

Shit.

He bolted upright, heart pounding, sheets twisted around his legs. He was never late. Not for practice, not for anything. But he’d barely slept last night—his mind a chaotic swirl of anxiety and resentment, all centered on the one person he thought he’d left behind.

Because when he walked into practice today, James Potter would be there.

It wasn’t enough that James was effortlessly charming, the kind of guy who made friends just by breathing. Regulus knew how the team would respond to him. He could still remember from their years in youth hockey—how everyone had been drawn to James, like moths to a flame. The way they’d laughed at his jokes, hung onto his every word.

And now, James was going to waltz into Regulus’ sport, his safe place, and immediately become everyone’s favorite.

It was different for lightweights and openweights, anyway. Almost like different sports. The openweight guys were massive—built for power and dominance, moving boats with brute force. The lightweights? They had to be strategic, efficient, always on the edge of losing their place if they didn’t hit weight. And half the time, the openweights barely treated them as teammates, dismissing them like they weren’t even part of the same crew.

Regulus wasn’t about to let James Potter join his team and immediately have the upper hand, looking down on him from his newfound throne.

Especially since he had quit hockey to get away from him.

Regulus had known he was gay for as long as he could remember. He knew it when his friends and Sirius would talk about girls they liked, and he’d have to invent a crush just to fit in. He knew it when he found himself lingering too long on James’ smile, on the way his laugh echoed through the rink, never directed at Regulus but always commanding his attention.

And he knew that hockey—at any level—wasn’t a safe place for someone like him. Every day in the locker room felt like walking a tightrope, pretending he didn’t hear the crude jokes, the slurs tossed around like nothing. Pretending that it didn’t hurt when he caught James laughing along, even if his eyes never held any real malice.

But there was one day he couldn’t forget.

It was after a brutal game—everyone was high on adrenaline and testosterone, the usual post-win chaos of shouting, laughter, and backslapping echoing through the locker room. Regulus kept to his corner, peeling off his gear, trying to ignore the conversation around him.

“Did you see the way number 15 on the other team skated?” someone jeered. “Looked like a fucking fairy out there.”

Laughter. Regulus clenched his jaw, focusing on untying his skates.

“Bet he likes taking it up the ass—explains why he was so soft on the boards,” another voice chimed in.

More laughter, louder this time. Regulus' stomach churned.

And then, James' voice, casual and careless, floated over the noise. “Yeah, maybe we should send him some flowers, thank him for being our bitch tonight.”

The room erupted into hysterics, and Regulus felt something in him crack. He kept his head down, but the humiliation, the fury, the hurt boiled beneath his skin.

He knew James was just playing along, going with the flow, being one of the guys. But hearing those words—hearing them come from James—made Regulus feel more alien, more despised, more unseen than ever. Even if James did know it, that guy could’ve been him.

It was the final push he needed.

And so he quit.

He left hockey, left that world behind, and threw himself into rowing. Built himself up again in a sport where he could keep his head down, control his body, and control what he let slip through the cracks.

And now James was here, crashing into his new world, threatening to upend the balance Regulus had fought so hard to find.

He yanked on his uni with sharp, efficient movements, his fingers trembling with the anger he hadn’t let himself feel for years. James Potter would not waltz into rowing and overshadow him. He wouldn’t get to look down on Regulus, not here, not now.

Regulus refused.

When he stormed into the boathouse, 15 minutes late, his entire body was thrumming with irritation. At himself. At James. At the whole damn morning.

When he looked at the whiteboard, his stomach twisted.

Right there, under the boat assignments, was a short, infuriatingly blunt note from McGonagall:

"Black—strike one."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face. Fantastic. He had no one to blame but himself, and he knew it.

Below the warning were his marching orders—since all the boats had already launched, he was stuck doing a solo land workout:

15,000 meters on the erg
30-minute core circuit

Regulus cursed under his breath. He’d dug himself into this hole, so he had no choice but to climb out. And if there was one thing he could rely on, it was the fact that he could get through anything if he just put his head down and did the work.

At least on the erg, he could forget—let his thoughts dissolve into the consistency of numbers and the steady rhythm of the stroke. No distractions. No emotions. Just meters.

He grabbed his phone, heading upstairs to the erg room, already queuing up his playlist.

He stopped dead in the doorway.

James was there, just him.

Seated on one of the ergs, working through pause drills, clearly trying to clean up his technique.

Regulus stood frozen for just a second before rolling his eyes and forcing himself to move forward. He refused to let James’ presence deter him from playing his music.

James looked up and grinned immediately. “Oh hey, Black. You sleep in this morning? That’s unlike you.”

Regulus’ fingers twitched. He was so annoying.

“You don’t know anything about me.” His tone was clipped, but it rang false—because James was right. This was unlike him.

James didn’t seem fazed. He just leaned back on the erg handle, still grinning. “Coach said I need to completely fix my erg technique before I get to go on the water, so I’ve been working on some drills she taught me.”

He looked weirdly proud of that fact.

Regulus folded his arms, unimpressed. “Well, keep working. Your form looks like shit.”

James just laughed, like Regulus had said something funny, and went right back to his drills.

Regulus huffed and turned to the aux cord, smirking slightly. Fine. If James was going to be here, he was going to suffer.

Regulus’ music taste hadn’t changed much since middle school—pop punk, emo, anything intense. Perfect for drowning out thoughts. And hopefully something James would hate.

He scrolled through his playlist, deliberately picking his favorites: Pierce the Veil, My Chemical Romance, Silverstein, Green Day, etc.

He queued up a full hour of pure nostalgia-fueled rage, plugged in the aux, and sat down at the erg as far from James as possible.

Then he started.

The hum of the flywheel filled the room, the steady rhythm immediately soothing. He let the music consume him, let the numbers take over. 500 meters. 1,000. 5,000. He was alone in his mind, just the stroke and the monitor in front of him.

But then, at 10K, he got distracted.

Because James had started singing along.

Regulus turned his head, fully expecting to see James being a smartass about it—mocking the music choice, maybe making a joke about his teenage angst.

But no.

James was grinning, fully engaged, and actually singing.

"Do you have the time… to listen to me whine… about nothing and everything all at once?"

Regulus’ brain short-circuited.

James caught his eye and beamed, nodding toward the speaker. “Great choice.”

For half a second, Regulus almost smiled back.

But then he ripped his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on his monitor. The feeling curling in his chest was unacceptable, so he shoved it down, buried it under the steady rhythm of his strokes.

By the time he finally finished his 15K, his head was clear. The workout had done what it needed to do.

He stood, stretching out his arms, and grabbed his phone. But just as he was about to leave, his gaze drifted back to James.

And James was still butchering that damn pause drill.

Regulus should have walked away. Should have let him struggle. Should have let it be his problem.

Instead, before he could stop himself, he walked to the erg next to James and sat down.

James blinked at him in surprise.

Regulus exhaled sharply, refusing to look at him. “You’re doing that all wrong.”

James' eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t say anything, just watched as Regulus demonstrated.

“Arms out first,” Regulus said, his voice clipped but steady. “Then your upper body follows. Keep your core tight, hinge over from your hips—not your back.”

James was staring at him.

Not in an obnoxious way, not like he was planning some smug remark. Just... watching, listening, something that looked suspiciously like admiration flickering in his expression.

It made Regulus feel too warm, and definitely too exposed.

So the second he finished demonstrating, he bolted—stood up like the erg was physically burning him, grabbed his phone, and practically ran out of the room.

As he left, he heard James' voice call after him, a little breathless and confused.

“… Thanks?”

Regulus didn’t stop.

He headed straight to the weight room, determined to work hard enough to forget everything but the burn in his abs.

That was the only feeling he wanted right now.