per aspera ad astra

That was the version they knew, and the only version he ever allowed them to see. To them, Jake Seresin didn’t do softness, didn’t do vulnerability, didn’t do feelings, and certainly didn’t do the kind of words that made people uncomfortable because they meant something.

Jake Seresin didn’t say I love you. In fact, he barely said anything remotely positive to anyone, no matter how much they deserved it. Not to Rooster when he nailed a landing he’d been struggling with for weeks, not to Phoenix when she carried half the squad through a mission briefing with her sharp, relentless clarity, and not even to Fanboy when he managed to fix that piece of equipment everyone else had already given up on.

And definitely not that one time he accidentally answered a call from his mother in the middle of the Hard Deck, phone pressed to his ear while the music roared and glasses clinked around him. They had watched him freeze for half a second, jaw tightening, eyes flickering with something they couldn’t quite name before he spoke.

“Yeah, Mom,” he had said, voice low, almost guarded, followed by a brief pause and a tone that softened despite his effort to keep it steady. Then, after a few seconds, came a clipped, almost defensive, “I’m busy. I’ll call you later.”

He had hung up before anyone could hear more, slid the phone back into his pocket, and just like that, Hangman was back—grinning, teasing, leaning against the bar like he hadn’t just been momentarily pulled out of character. To the Daggers, that was all he was: smirks, bravado, ego, and the kind of emotional distance that made him untouchable, unreachable, impossible to read.

They thought they knew him, but they didn’t know that somewhere between missions and late nights, between stolen glances and quiet moments, Jake Seresin had learned a new language. It was a language he never spoke out loud, never allowed to exist where they could hear it, and never let slip in front of anyone who might notice the cracks in his armor.

Not until you came along.

—

The music at the Hard Deck kept roaring, loud enough to blur into the background, but Jake barely registered it anymore.

He stood by the bar with his elbows resting against the worn wood, eyes flickering toward the entrance every time the door opened, not because he expected someone to walk in, but because he was waiting for the familiar vibration in his pocket. The Daggers had started noticing it weeks ago, the way his attention drifted elsewhere, the way his hand moved toward his phone almost instinctively, as if some invisible thread pulled him toward it every time it lit up.

Jake Seresin had never been the type to linger over messages. He was brief, careless, detached. Conversations with him were usually efficient, transactional, stripped of anything resembling emotional investment. But lately, something had shifted so subtly that it had taken them time to put it into words. He smiled more when he looked at his screen. Not the smug, taunting grin he wore like armor, but something softer, quieter, something that didn’t feel performative at all.

They had tried to catch glimpses of his phone when he wasn’t paying attention, leaning slightly over his shoulder under the pretense of grabbing a drink or checking the score on the TV mounted above the bar. But Jake had always noticed. He would lock the screen with a lazy flick of his thumb, glance sideways at them with a sarcastic roll of his eyes, and dismiss them with a muttered comment that didn’t quite mask his irritation.

At first, they had assumed it was his mother. Or one of his sisters. Maybe even one of his nieces, sending him blurry pictures of whatever toy they’d just discovered. But that theory didn’t last long. Jake loved his family, sure, but he had never been glued to his phone because of them. And it definitely wasn’t a hookup. Jake didn’t text hookups like that. He didn’t double-text, didn’t wait for replies, didn’t bother crafting messages that sounded thoughtful or warm.

He had never put that kind of effort into anyone.

That night, he was waiting for Penny to come back with a fresh beer, his gaze unfocused as he leaned against the bar, when his phone began to ring in his pocket. The vibration was soft, but his body reacted instantly; his hand moved before he consciously decided to reach for it. The moment he saw your name lighting up the screen, something in his chest eased, like a knot loosening after being tied too tight for too long.

He answered without hesitation.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, the edge of it smoothing out in a way it never did with anyone else. “Hi, sweetheart.”

The word came out so naturally it didn’t even register as something unusual to him. It just felt right.

You giggled on the other end of the line, and the sound of it did something to him that he refused to name. He shifted slightly, turning his back a little toward the squad without even realizing he was doing it, creating a small pocket of privacy in the middle of the crowded bar.

You told him you were just leaving your mom’s place, that you’d decided to stop by the supermarket before going home because you’d run out of milk and had a sudden craving for cereal at an unreasonable hour. Jake listened to every detail like it mattered, like the mundane pieces of your day were somehow important simply because they belonged to you.

“Don’t forget the cookies you like,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting. “The ones with the chocolate chunks. You always regret it when you don’t buy them.”

You protested weakly, accused him of stalking your grocery habits, and he let out a soft chuckle that didn’t sound like the loud, theatrical laugh he usually reserved for his friends. This one was quieter, almost private, like he didn’t need an audience for it.

The conversation lasted only a few minutes, but when you told him you were about to drive home, something in him tightened.

“Text me when you get home, yeah?” he said, voice dropping even lower, sincerity seeping through every syllable. Then, without thinking, without hesitation, without any trace of irony, he added, “I love you.”

The words left his mouth as easily as breathing.

For a second, he stayed still, listening. When you said it back, your voice warm and soft and completely certain, a smile slowly spread across his face, unguarded and genuine in a way no one at the Hard Deck had ever seen before. It wasn’t the smile of Hangman, the confident pilot who thrived on attention and competition. It was the smile of a man who felt safe, grounded, anchored to something real.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket, shoulders relaxing as if a quiet weight had been lifted from them, and turned slightly toward the bar again.

He didn’t notice the silence behind him at first.

Natasha stood a few steps away, her hands wrapped around her drink, brows furrowed, eyes fixed on him with a confusion she didn’t bother to hide. She had arrived just in time to hear everything, to witness the way his voice softened, the way his posture shifted, the way that single sentence had fallen from his lips as it belonged there.

Hangman.

In love.

The realization settled slowly in her mind, heavy and unbelievable, like trying to reconcile two versions of the same person that had never existed in the same universe before.

Hangman didn’t say I love you.

Except, apparently, he did.

Just not to them.

—

The next time they noticed the crack in Hangman’s armor was also the first time they caught a glimpse of you, though none of them realized yet how permanent that fracture would be. It was another night at the Hard Deck, the kind where the music was loud enough to blur the edges of conversation and the smell of beer clung stubbornly to the air. Jake had already lost count of how many bottles he’d emptied, his usual sharpness dulled by alcohol and laughter, his confidence heavier, slower, less calculated.

The Daggers were crowded around the table, locked in an unnecessarily intense rock-paper-scissors showdown to decide who would be responsible for getting him home.

“Absolutely not, I drove last time,” Fanboy protested, slapping his hand down on the table.

“You didn’t even drive, you made Rooster do it,” Payback shot back.

Jake barely registered their voices. He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, mind drifting somewhere far from the noise around him. He lifted his beer again, but then something shifted in his expression, subtle and immediate, as if the world had suddenly narrowed to a single point across the room.

Without warning, he pushed himself to his feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“I’m heading out,” he said, already stepping away before anyone could protest.

“Whoa, whoa, Hangman, where do you think you’re going?” Phoenix called, rising from her seat.

“I’m fine,” he tossed over his shoulder, not slowing down.

The Daggers moved almost instinctively, convinced he was about to do something reckless, something typically Hangman. Phoenix was halfway through grabbing his arm when they all froze, their attention snapping toward the direction he was heading.

Jake wasn’t walking toward the exit.

He was walking toward you.

You stood near the entrance, framed by neon lights and the restless movement of people passing behind you, looking impossibly calm in the middle of the chaos. The moment Jake reached you, he didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around your body with a familiarity that stunned them all, his tall frame swallowing yours as if he needed to anchor himself to you.

“There you are,” he murmured, his voice softer than any of them had ever heard it.

You laughed, the sound bright and warm. “You look like you’ve had too much fun.”

“Not until you got here,” he replied without thinking.

Your arms slid around his middle with effortless ease, as though this was something you’d done a hundred times before. The Daggers exchanged looks that hovered somewhere between disbelief and confusion as Jake leaned down, pressing messy, unapologetic kisses against your cheeks and the corner of your mouth, his usual swagger replaced by something dangerously sincere.

“Jake,” you scolded gently, smiling despite yourself. “Everyone’s watching.”

He shrugged, unfazed. “Let them.”

His hands found their way to the back pockets of your jeans, resting there with quiet confidence, not possessive, not showy, just natural, like he belonged there and had never questioned it.

You lifted your hands to his face, patting his cheeks gently, your fingers squeezing them in a playful, affectionate gesture that made his grin soften instead of sharpen.

“Can you stand, lieutenant?” you asked softly.

“Always,” he said, though he leaned into you just a little more than necessary.

Then you shifted closer, murmuring something they couldn’t hear, and began guiding him toward the doors with a patience that felt intimate, practiced, tender in a way none of them had ever associated with Jake Seresin.

“Text us when you get home,” Phoenix called after him, half-joking, half-serious.

Jake didn’t even turn around. He only lifted a hand lazily in response, his attention entirely on you.

They watched you disappear through the entrance, the doors swinging shut behind you, and for a brief moment, they caught the look on his face as he glanced down at you. It wasn’t cocky, it wasn’t sarcastic, it wasn’t the polished smirk he wore like armor. It was something quieter, something unguarded, something dangerously close to devotion.

He hadn’t said a single word this time, but they didn’t need him to.

One thing was painfully clear.

Jake Seresin was completely, irrevocably whipped.

—

The next time they experienced the newfound version of Jake Seresin was the first time they officially met you as his girlfriend, though none of them would’ve admitted that the word itself sounded strange when paired with his name. The afternoon had unfolded lazily at Penny’s place, sunlight spilling across the deck while the smell of grilled food drifted through the air, mixing with laughter, music, and the familiar chaos that always followed Maverick’s birthday celebrations.

The Daggers had arrived early, as usual, clustered around the grill with beers in hand, trading stories that grew more exaggerated with every retelling. Jake was the only one missing, which in itself wasn’t unusual. Hangman had never been the type to care much about punctuality, especially when he knew he could make an entrance without trying.

“Seresin’s late,” Fanboy observed casually, glancing at his watch.

Phoenix scoffed. “When is he not?”

Minutes later, the sound of an engine cutting off near the driveway caught their attention. None of them expected much of it at first—until they saw Jake step out of his truck.

And then they saw you.

You emerged from the passenger side with an aluminum foil pan balanced carefully in your hands, the sun catching in your hair as you adjusted your grip. Jake moved instinctively toward you, one hand lifting to steady the container while the other settled around your waist with a familiarity that felt too natural to be accidental.

“Careful,” he murmured softly. “I’ve got it.”

“I can handle it,” you replied with a faint laugh, though you didn’t pull away from his touch.

From the deck, the Daggers watched in stunned silence, their conversations dying mid-sentence.

“Is that—?” Rooster started.

“I think that’s—” Payback whispered.

Jake walked toward them with you at his side, his posture different from the usual loose swagger he carried. There was still confidence in the way he moved, but it felt grounded now, tethered to the warmth of your presence. His arm never left your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles against your side, as though he needed constant reassurance that you were really there.

“Hey,” he greeted casually, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

You smiled at them, a little shy but undeniably warm. “Hi. Um—happy birthday Captain Mitchell.”

Jake glanced down at you, his expression softening in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. For a split second, he forgot they were watching.

“This is… uh,” he began, then paused, as if suddenly aware that this moment mattered. “This is my girlfriend.”

The word landed heavier than anyone expected.

You looked up at him, surprised but pleased, your smile widening slightly. “Hi,” you repeated, this time with more confidence.

They had to physically force their mouths shut as you stepped closer, and Jake tightened his arm around you, almost possessively, almost proudly.

“I told you they weren’t that intimidating,” he murmured under his breath.

You tilted your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re the one who warned me about them.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. I was exaggerating.”

From that moment on, he barely left your side.

He guided you through the crowd with an ease that suggested he wanted everyone to see you, wanted them to understand something he’d never bothered explaining out loud. He introduced you one by one, his voice warm when he spoke your name, his cocky grin resurfacing every time he caught one of the Daggers staring a little too openly.

“This is Phoenix,” he said, hand resting lightly on your hip. “Don’t let her scare you.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “I should be offended.”

“She’s not,” Jake replied, glancing down at you.

You laughed softly. “I’m not.”

As the afternoon stretched on, they began to understand what they were seeing.

You weren’t just beautiful, though that was impossible to ignore. You were funny in a quiet, effortless way, slipping into conversations with ease, teasing Jake without fear, listening to the others with genuine interest. You laughed at Fanboy’s stories, challenged Rooster’s exaggerations, and somehow managed to make even Maverick smile when you handed him the dish you’d brought.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” you admitted gently. “So I made something simple.”

Maverick looked from you to Jake, then back again. “You did good, kid.”

Jake watched you the entire time, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, his expression unreadable to anyone but himself. He felt something unfamiliar tightening in his chest, something dangerously close to gratitude, to awe, to the terrifying realization that loving you felt easy in a way nothing else in his life ever had.

When you laughed again, tilting your head toward him, he leaned down slightly.

“You’re doing great,” he whispered.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered back, smiling.

He smiled too, but this time it wasn’t for show.

They watched as Jake pulled out a chair for you before you could even reach the table, his hand steady on the backrest as he waited for you to sit. It was such a simple gesture, so natural, that none of them realized how rare it was for him until it was already happening. He didn’t wait for anyone else, didn’t scan the table for reactions or commentary. He simply took the seat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, his presence angled toward you as if the rest of the world had quietly shifted out of focus.

Conversation flowed around the table — stories, laughter, arguments about missions and memories — but Jake barely registered any of it. His attention kept drifting back to you, to the way your fingers traced idle patterns on the rim of your glass, to the soft tilt of your head when you listened, to the way your eyes flickered with mischief when you leaned closer.

You turned toward him suddenly, lowering your voice as if sharing a secret meant only for him.

“Did you hear what Rooster just said?” you whispered, lips barely moving.

Jake raised a brow, glancing briefly toward the other end of the table. “Unfortunately.”

You smiled, trying to suppress a laugh. “If his story gets any more dramatic, I’m expecting background music and a slow-motion reenactment.”

For a second, he stared at you, caught off guard by how effortlessly you made him feel lighter. Then he threw his head back, laughter spilling out of him— real, unrestrained, nothing like the polished smirk he wore so often.

“God,” he murmured, his voice dropping as he turned back to you, “I love you.”

The words left his mouth with startling ease, like they had always belonged there.

You froze for a fraction of a second, then your smile softened, eyes warming in a way that made something twist painfully in his chest. You simply bumped your knee against his under the table, your fingers brushing his hand.

“I know,” you whispered back.

Across the table, the Daggers exchanged looks.

Later, when your glass emptied, Jake noticed before you did. He pushed his chair back quietly, brushing your shoulder as he stood.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured.

You nodded, already turning back to the conversation, unaware of the storm of disbelief you’d left behind in his wake.

The moment he was out of earshot, Javy leaned forward, lowering his voice dramatically.

“You’ve turned him into a puppy.”

You laughed softly, instinctively ducking your head as if embarrassed by the idea. “That’s not true.”

Phoenix scoffed. “It absolutely is.”

Fanboy joined in, resting his chin on his hand. “We’ve known him for years. He doesn’t do chairs. He doesn’t do drinks. He barely does basic human decency.”

You tried to defend him, but your smile gave you away. “He’s just being nice.”

“Nice?” Payback repeated, incredulous. “That man once refused to share fries because, and I quote, ‘team bonding is a myth.’”

Their teasing wasn’t cruel, but it carried disbelief, fascination, and something almost tender beneath it. Jake Seresin, the untouchable, arrogant Hangman, had been reduced to something dangerously close to devotion, and none of them knew what to do with that information.

Before anyone could say more, Jake returned with a fresh drink in his hand. He placed it carefully in front of you, his fingers brushing yours as he let go of the glass. Without thinking, he leaned down and pressed a quick, absent-minded kiss to the side of your head, his hand settling briefly at the back of your chair.

You glanced up at him, smiling.

He didn’t notice the silence until it was too late.

His gaze lifted slowly, scanning the table, irritation creeping into his expression as he registered the way everyone was staring.

“Whatever you have to say,” he drawled, settling back into his chair beside you, “spill it fast before you all spontaneously combust.”

You elbowed him lightly, a silent warning.

He only laughed, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer without hesitation, his thumb resting comfortably against your upper arm.

The Daggers seized the opportunity instantly.

“So,” Javy began innocently, “when were you planning to tell us you’d been replaced by a golden retriever in human form?”

Jake rolled his eyes, but he didn’t move away from you. If anything, his hold tightened slightly.

“You guys are dramatic,” he replied, though there was no bite in his tone.

Phoenix tilted her head. “You said ‘I love you.’ Out loud. In public.”

“So?”

“So,” Rooster echoed, “you’ve never even told us ‘good job.’”

Jake scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

You watched him quietly, your expression unreadable, and for a moment he felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the teasing. There was something terrifying about being seen so clearly—and something strangely comforting about knowing you were still there.

He pulled you closer, your shoulder fitting perfectly against his chest, as if it had always belonged there.

“Get over it,” he muttered, though his voice was softer now. “I’m still the same guy.”

But none of them believed him.

And neither did he.

Because as you leaned into him, laughing at something Javy said, Jake realized something he’d never dared to admit before.

The armor he’d spent years building around himself hadn’t cracked.

It had simply fallen away.

"... Watch you and your friends play basketball and fix cars," you say.

He rolls his eyes in all their hazel glory and punts the basketball into your hands. You receive it with an oof, jogging over to his driveway where there's a well loved metal hoop, sans net.

"Horse?"

"No, you always win with that stupid backwards shot,” you whine, dribbling the ball slowly at your feet.

"Hmm. Sounds like a skill issue, babydoll.”

You stick your tongue out in protest, bouncing the ball to him.

"Alright, let's scrimmage then,” Bradley says with a familiar spark in his tone.

"One on one? Not fair, you're like a million miles longer than me."

"Indulge me, sweetheart. I'll go easy,” he hums. Damn those Bradshaw genes and the charm that comes with them.

You scowl lovingly while grumbling: “Fine. But if you win, you owe me.”

"What exactly do I owe you?"

Oh, but it’s far too cheeky to stay between friends. The only thing less fair than a scrimmage is the way he smirks. Like he’s got a sweet secret he’s keeping from you.

"Dunno yet"—he chuckles at your annoyance—"A favor?"

"Too broad. How ‘bout a date?"

And suddenly you're kinda winded. Because, yeah, you've had this cute banter thing since you were young but it's never come to anything. Now you're adults and you miss him when he's deployed and he plays basketball with you because it feels like it’s all he has anymore. So before you can say anything, your brain is nodding for you. Sure this wager—a date— might be a bad idea down the line, but at least it'll be a hell of a lot of fun in the moment.

"Alright, hot shot. Let's see some ball,” you huff.

"First to 7. Go ahead and tip us off.”

He passes the ball to you and you immediately go for the three pointer, not expecting it to get anywhere near the hoop. Yet somehow you get it in one try. He turns to you with a ‘how the fuck’ expression painted on his face.

"I don't know! I don't know, I thought it would be funny!" you howl through your breathless laughter.

"Oh, it's funny alright, but don't go thinking that counts for three points,” he says, sweetly jabbing you in the side with the ball tucked under his arm.

"Aw, scared I'm gonna win?"

"Terrified,” he says. Maybe letting on a little more than he'd like to admit. Because the idea of taking you out and getting to show you off is just about making his blood sear like it's pressurized to high hell.

He tosses you the ball, you pass it to him, and you immediately go to body slam him. You feel young again, like there are no responsibilities except homework packets and curfew at sunset. He feels it too through a chuckle, grabbing his own sides when you keep missing layups.

"Stop laughing! 'S not funny, I can't even get—fuck! Just take it." And you sling the ball at him in defeat.

"Spoil sport. I'll show you how it's done."

Rest assured, Bradley jogs up to the basket while you skip after him, watching him sink the layup in one shot.

"Now we're even,” he coos, leaning in. Just to throw you off, you think.

"You sure? Cause I'm pretty sure I remember smoking your ass with a three pointer."

"One point. This is not real basketball. We're playing one basket one point,” he huffs, stepping back to dribble the ball proudly.

"Well, if I'd known, I wouldn't have put so much effort into—"

"Blah blah blah, c'mon, less talking more playing!"

You swat at the ball in vain, but he has it so strong in his grip he has to laugh, pivoting away from you and making yet another lay up. He’s smug, turning around and shrugging while you’re exasperated, hands on hips.

"Giving up so soon?" he teases.

"It's hard chasing after your long legs, Bradshaw!"

"No, I'm not buying it. Come on, take this one."

He hands the ball over and crouches face to face with you, giving you a wink. There’s a part of you that hesitates in his face like this, calm with a heart racing like a hummingbird. But you go for the fake out anyway, skirting around his other side when he whines about foul play.

But he stops you just before the basket, practically wrapping himself around your back. When you try to pivot or throw the ball, he grabs you around the middle and you squeal. He finally sets you free when you drop the ball.

"Hey! Speaking of foul play!" you shout, watching him beeline for the hoop.

"Don't hate the player!"

He swoops the ball coolly into the basket with a low whistle.

"Nothing but net, baby! Did you see that!"

"What is that, four?" you chuckle, seeing his face light up

"I'm racking 'em up. Careful, or you might actually have to go out with me."

And suddenly you remember the stakes, squinting at him wondering why he's playing so hard just for the bit. He snags the ball from you and sprints down the court, taking a weak shot that smacks the backboard and falls through the hoop easily. Bradley turns to you with a pinched brow.

"You didn't even try and stop me. Where's your head at?" he hums.

"Hmm? Oh, got distracted by... a bird,” you say, gesturing lazily at the sky.

"Oh, I see. You were thinking about our hot date, huh?"

"No.”

"Yeah, you were. Don't let me get in the way of your daydreams, sweetheart."

"I wasn't daydreaming! Just give me the ball."

He's laughing self-assuredly with a broad grin on his face, passing you the ball which you dribble around him, slowly making your way down the court. He lets you inch down the side, your back to him. One glance over your shoulder catches him staring at your ass with his lip caught snug between his teeth.

"Quit staring, Bradshaw!"

"Sorry, had to do some daydreaming of my own,” he says with a cool chuckle with a soft pink flush across his cheeks. You smile fondly at the way it creeps across his chest, too.

But you roll your eyes anyway and flit past him, finally tossing the ball in the basket.

"Feelin' the heat yet?" you tease, getting in his face like you want to fight. Though that’s far from the truth.

"Felt it a long time ago, doll. Let's get this show on the road."

You play mostly clean except for the occasional catcall. Or two. It only makes him laugh and flex his bravado under the attention of a pretty lady. You both score another point, putting you at four and six. He passes you the ball in a quick motion.

"One more and you know what that means,” he says. He’s date-minded, especially if it’s with you. His long time sweetheart and classic girl next door with the vocabulary of a sailor.

"I'd like to see you try,” you tease.

"Oh, you're about to."

You dribble it past him, but he's mighty fast, crossing the driveway in just a few strides. It’s just then you stop and think: win back the basketball champion title you never had and show Bradshaw who’s boss on his own turf. Or, let him win. Go on the date.

The thought swirls around in your mind for a second longer as a droplet of sweat kisses Bradley’s cheekbone. Then: fuck it.

You place the ball gingerly in his hands, and, on instinct, he goes for the immediate lay up. It’s only after the ball flies back through the hoop and lands squat in his grip that he turns to you with a puzzled look on his face.

"Did you just… give me the ball?"

You shrug with a cheeky smile

"It's all relative,” you coo.

"Bullshit. You gave it to me. You wanted me to score."

"Who knows why we do anything."

"Oh, you little—" He lets the ball fall from his palms and down the driveway, rolling into the gutter with a soft thud. Not a second longer, and his arms are outstretched, catching your waist and walking you backwards until you trip on the grass, tumbling back onto the lawn with a shriek of laughter.

“Celebrate what?” 

“There she is!” James catches your face as you round the corner, planting a kiss in the center of your forehead. “Celebrate the end of your first week, obviously.” 

You blink at him, then at Sirius, before your gaze lands on Remus. Where your other two flatmates seem already tipsy (despite the clearly full blender and empty glasses on the counter), you can always turn to him to be the rational one. “Really?” 

Remus half smiles. “Of course.” 

Your chest goes hot. “Oh. That’s so sweet, guys. You didn’t have to.” 

“It’s a big occasion,” says James, going for the blender. He pours a glass so full it spills onto the counter, and Remus takes the blender from him to do the rest. 

“It’s really not,” you laugh as James presses the sticky glass into your hand. 

“Is too!” 

You roll your eyes, though your lips curve as you sip. “All I did was manage to last the first week at my job.” 

“You worked hard to get that job,” Remus reminds you. 

Sirius grabs the next filled glass, humming emphatically. “Very hard. Remember that time you came home absolutely soaked through because you had to walk to and from an interview in the rain? And you didn’t even get that one!” 

“I remember,” you say drily. 

“That was pretty pathetic, babe. You’ve come a long way.” 

Remus makes a long-suffering face behind Sirius’ back, and you huff a laugh. “Thanks.” 

“Awe, you have come a long way.” James puts his arms around your neck, propping his chin on your shoulder and turning so you’re both facing the other boys. “Remember when she showed up here, and we had to teach her how to use the tube?” 

“When she still didn’t know not to smile at strange men,” Sirius teases. 

James sighs, wistful. “Or the difference between a tea and tea.” 

“That one still confuses me a bit,” you admit. 

He gives you a squeeze. “They grow up so fast.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, your face warm. Remus looks like he’s enjoying watching you be embarrassed. “Thanks for the margaritas.” 

“Thanks for acquiring an income,” says Sirius. He’s found some twirly straws in the pantry, and sticks one into your drink with a wink. “It would have been a shame to have to kick you out if you couldn’t pay rent.” 

“You wouldn’t be able to get rid of me,” you promise him. 

Remus makes a low sound of amusement. “He wouldn’t be able to live without your closet.” 

“You okay, mate?”

He nods his head, quickly enough to pass as real. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, shoving a hand into the kettlecorn bowl. “Just… you’re right, he shouldn’t have hesitated that jump.”

James nods, but doesn’t look convinced as he turns back to the screen. The boy finishes his routine with an emotional moment. When commercials start, he wordlessly reaches over to the screen to mute the broadcast. 

“What’s going on with you?”

Remus’ eyebrows lift in surprise. “Me?”

“Remus,” they both say in unison. 

Lily sends James a prompting look, subtly tilting her chin towards Remus.

“I can see you, you know,” he murmurs dryly, popping more kettlecorn into his mouth. They’re not salty or buttery enough to quell the sourness in his chest. “Does Sirius know you’re using him for an intervention?”

“Sirius isn’t on yet,” James says, completely missing the point. From his side, Lily drops her face to her hands in fond exasperation. 

She picks it up with resolve, sending her fiancé a sideways glance before searching for Remus’ diverting gaze. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head faintly, reaching for the iPad to unmute the broadcast. Sirius slides into the ice with that elegant cockiness he’s well known for. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he shrugs, setting the bowl aside to focus on the screen. 

“Remus, I literally just talked to you down at the gym and you were fine.”

“I am fine.”

Lily mutes the screen again, even as Sirius’ song begins playing for his short program. “Did something happen?”

His eyes flit up to the screen, where Sirius’ face morphs into raw emotion, pouring it into his routine as he glides elegantly around the ice.

I like you, Remus.

“Fuck,” he whispers, strangled as he presses his fingertips hard into his eyes. “Fuck–why did I do that?”

They share another look, seemingly picking up that something did happen sometime between the gym and his arrival to James’ dorm. But Remus only presses harder at his eyes. He doesn’t stop until he sees stars.

On the screen, Sirius does a fast entry into a flying camel spin. No one really pays attention as James and Lily stare at their friend’s hunched form. Slumped in both heartbreak and guilt.

“Remus–you’re scaring me,” James says, frowning. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I can’t believe I left her waiting,” he whispers into his knees, pressing hard at his forehead. 

“What?” Lily asks, but realization clouds James’ expression.

Remus shoots up to sit straight, lips parted as he goes to explain–but something catches his eye. On the screen, Sirius doesn’t hesitate, nor does he even think twice before jumping into a triple axel. 

It’s enough to snap some sense of realization into Remus. 

James and Lily blink in surprise when he nearly lunges himself out of the bed. The iPad goes flying across the coffee table as he scrambles to put on his trainers, not even stopping to explain as he flings the door open to exit the dorm. Not even when they call out for him in bafflement.

His heart thumps painfully inside his chest, rattling loudly when he marches across the hallway until he’s face to face with your door. Remus’ breath comes out in short puffs, each quicker and quicker as the adrenaline skyrockets in his veins. They increase in intensity as he knocks, hurried between pauses.

Movement shuffles from the other side. Then, very faintly but loud for his predisposed ears, a sniffle. 

“I’m not in the mood, Lily,” your voice calls out hoarsely. “I’ll check the rerun later.”

He looks down at his trainers, sucking in a breath that rattles his ribcage. “It’s me.”

There’s a pause. A very long pause of nothing but charged silence that Remus momentarily wonders if you’ll make him wait like he did to you.

But then the door opens, and Remus feels his chest caving in. His eyes immediately find your red-rimmed ones, but most importantly, your hand still pressing at the bruise on your hip. 

His fingers crackle by his sides, tapping anxiously as his lips part and close.

Your eyebrows twitch. “What now?” you ask, lowering your hand when you follow his gaze. 

It’s enough for his eyes to snap back up. Without hesitation.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, with more conviction. “I let my insecurities get the best of me–all those years ago. I walked away and left you waiting instead of facing my fears. Instead of getting potentially hurt. I hurt you the exact same way I thought you’d hurt me if I stayed–fuck, I’m sorry.”

You study him warily. 

His voice catches, adrenaline skyrocketing inside his chest the longer you stare back at him without saying a word. “I was cruel–and I kept poking at you, and I hid behind my anger instead of… of asking what went wrong–”

“Remus,” you close your eyes. “You know damn well what went wrong...” His mouth goes dry, but you only swallow thickly. As if channeling all your courage. Again. For him. 

He sucks in a breath, channeling all his courage for you. No hesitation.

“I like you–fuck, y/n… I think I love you.”

A beat. 

“You think?”

Remus shakes his head, throat bobbling with contained energy as you take a steadying breath. In the same moment you take a step closer.

He ducks his head, eyes desperately searching for yours. “All this time–all these years… I kept on lashing out at you, thinking it was wounded pride and anger for what I thought went wrong,” he whispers. “Turns out all this time it was love. After all this time. I love you, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I love you.”

You suck in a stuttering breath, eyes studying every inch of his face when he takes a step closer–head leaned down as the weight of his confession slowly dawns on you. As he strips his pride bare in front of you–breath trembling, pupils blown over with adrenaline.

“I don’t…” you whisper, wetting your lips nervously. When words get clogged up in your throat, all you do is take a step closer. “You can't just say that, Remus… You can’t just say you love me and turn around–”

“I won’t,” he says immediately. “I’m here–I won’t go anywhere–I love you. I love you, for fuck’ sake.”

His forehead drops to the crown of your head, feeling your breath fanning at his collarbone as you gather your feelings. He wonders if you can feel the way his heart rattles against his ribcage, how it’s one beat of silence away from leaping out his body.

Then, in the quiet stutter of breath, your voice breaks through the static. “I love you, too,” you whisper. “I think.”

“…you think?”

You only shrug one shoulder. 

Maybe it’s his predisposition–or the way he pulls back just enough to catch the sight of your own blown pupils, mischief glistening in your eyes–but Remus only has half a second to wonder if he’s overstepping before crashing his lips into yours. All his doubts quickly dissipate when you welcome it readily. Like you have been hoping for this outcome as much as him. 

You stumble backwards, and his hand flies to your jaw, pulling you impossibly closer for steadying. He kicks the door shut on his way in, smirking into your lips when it closes in a loud clatter. 

Your fingers travel to his nape, carding through his hair and pulling him closer to you–he accepts it readily, playfully pinching your jaw. And, like always, you’re not one to back down from a challenge–your teeth graze his lower lip, pulling out a sound that has you smirking against his open mouth.

Remus’ answer is simple, bringing you along with him–stumbling with his arms around your body as he feels around your dorm. Your nails scrape the skin at the base of his nape, dragging him with you to the right direction towards your bed. He follows along dutifully, hand finding your lower back and fisting at your jumper. 

You laugh knowingly into the kiss when he nudges your legs open, foot expertly hooking around your ankle to drop you into the bed. Remus swallows the sound, fingers pinching your jaw before they travel down in your body to your hips, curling around the skin where the jumper has bunched up in your hurried movements. 

He breaks apart just enough to search for your gaze, smirking into your skin as he leaves little kisses along your face, trailing down the path from your cheeks to your jaw and your chin until he finds your pulse point at your neck. Your hand at his nape pulls him deeper and closer to you, letting small stuttering puffs of air when his teeth playfully nip at your skin–your throat bobbles, and Remus’ lips follow the movement under his kisses. 

His hand, in his heated need to pull you impossibly closer to him, grips tighter at your hip. His knee digs deeper between your legs. 

You gasp, breath hitching under his mouth. Remus pulls away, panting as he searches for your eyes–but they’re screwed shut in a wince. He immediately loosens his hold around your hips, knee retreating just enough to give you time to breathe.

“Fuck–I forgot, I’m sorry,” he whispers, breathing hard.

You nod wordlessly. “It’s fine,” you pant, breath fanning his face as you swallow another wince. “It’s just… still sore.”

His thumb strokes your skin experimentally. “Yeah?” his eyebrows wrinkle, but his chest continues rattling against yours. Your hand doesn’t drop from his nape. If anything, your fingers dig deeper, carding at his hair as a reflex when his fingers find your bruise. “Here?”

“Hm,” you make a pitchy little sound in approval. Remus’ eyes flit up, his wet lips quirk up in that smug smirk of his. 

He drops a kiss to your jaw, letting you settle over your pillow before shifting his position over you. Your eyebrows crunch together in frustration when he pulls apart, but Remus only crawls lower in your body to your hip–his smirk widens when he places a small kiss to your bruise. Your breath stutters, and it’s enough motivation for him to move his kisses all around your bruised skin–your hip, your navel, your abdomen. 

“Remus,” you whisper, hands finding the front of his jumper to guide him back up. You kiss him harder this time, arms around his shoulders as he carefully settles over you. 

He allows you a moment of indulgence before breaking a part, just enough to catch his breath. Remus basks in your frustrated expression, and one of his hands travels up to pinch your chin. Prompting.

You crack one eye open. “Hm?”

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” he whispers carefully. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to continue if your hip is still hurting.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, tilting your head back to welcome another kiss. Remus drops a little one into your throat before tapping at your forehead to open your eyes. “It’ll be fine. Just–be careful.”

“y/n.”

“Remus.”

“Look at me,” he says, gentle but firm. At last, you relent. Remus is glad to get a glimpse of your blown pupils, just like his own. “I have a better idea.”

“Better than this?”

“Hm,” he nods. “It’s called resting.”

“No resting.”

He laughs. “And… diclofenac.”

“Wait,” you inhale deeply, trying to control your breathing. Remus’ lips tug faintly at your failed attempt. “You’re actually serious?”

A funny expression passes over his face, and you only pinch at his side admonishedly–smirking at his wounded reaction.

“If you dare say that joke, I’ll kill you,” you threaten. Weakly, really–especially when all that’s needed to placate you is a quick kiss to your chin.

When you close your eyes again, pulling him closer to you in the bed–he decides his little kisses won’t do anything to actually tend to the bruise. 

It takes an enormous amount of restraint to pull away, enough to sit back. His heart does a painful little twist when your eyes fly open in panic.

Remus is quick to put you at ease. “Do you have any?”

You blink, seemingly swallowing the panic that spiked at his sudden distance. Remus’ thumb finds your jaw, stroking gently. “Hm…” you hesitate. “Just in gel.”

“That’s perfect, actually,” he pushes himself to stand, looking around in his rumpled and disheveled state. “Uh… where is it?”

You swallow. “Um… in my training bag,” you shift over your elbows to point at the duffel under your dresser. 

He doesn’t mind your intense gaze as he crouches to search for the gel. He already knows where it is, anyway. You’ve always kept it in the same place. Not that he ever noticed–or well, he did. And now he’s not ashamed to admit it.

“Found it,” he perks up, raising to walk back to the bed. 

He toes off his trainers before slumping down next to you, careful of his movements as he crawls down to your hip. You watch him uncap the gel with expert movements, failing to swallow the jumble of feelings down your throat as he makes himself comfortable over your legs.

“Ready?”

“I mean,” your eyebrows snap up in amusement. “Sure.”

The funny tilt to your voice is enough to get his attention again, his eyes flicker from your bruise to your face. 

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” you rub your lips together. “It’s cold.”

A startled laugh puffs out of him, warming your bruised hip and bringing goosebumps to your skin. 

“I know that, yeah,” he takes a blotch of gel for punctuation, smirking at the amused look on your face. “Stop staring at me—you’re making me nervous.”

“You nearly had your tongue inside my throat and you're nervous about tending to my bruise?”

He hides his flustered reaction by spreading the cold gel into your skin. Remus, ever the bastard, smirks at your surprised gasp. He takes more gel from the bottle before turning back to your hip, hand at your side to steady you before you can flinch again. 

You watch his fingers stroke gently at your skin, methodically in his movements and cheeky in the little kisses he presses just shy of the bruise. A satisfied hum escapes his lips when your hand finds the back of his head again, fingers threading through his disheveled hair in a grounding gesture.

“Done,” he says, kissing just above your bellybutton before capping the gel again.

You don’t waste any time before yank him back up to you, leveling his face with yours before his eyes flicker back down to your lips. The gel goes flying at the sudden movement.

“Are we, though?” you whisper.

Remus lets you pull him down for a kiss, careful of the stickiness of your skin as he settles between your legs. 

“y/n,” he says into your kiss. You only hum in response. “You’ve got halfpipe training tomorrow.”

“So?” you ask. Then, as realization strikes you, your hands guide him away with a confused frown. “How do you know?”

“I just know.”

You search for his eyes, and Remus lets you, thumb stroking reverently at your navel. “Oh god,” you whisper, laughing. “You memorized my training schedule.”

He blushes, shifting to drop his head into the crook of your neck. “So what?” your throat vibrates as you continue laughing at him. 

Remus retaliates by nipping at the underside of your jaw. 

“If it makes you feel better,” your voice drops into a whisper, like you’re not sure about how he’ll react. He kisses the skin he bit for reassurance. “I know you’ve got a free day tomorrow.”

He laughs, leaning back just enough to meet your gaze. Playful but so, so openly lovely that he has no other choice but to kiss you senseless.

“Wait,” you say, his thumb stills over your hip. “Once the soreness is gone… can we pick up where we left off?”

“You okay, mate?”

He nods his head, quickly enough to pass as real. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, shoving a hand into the kettlecorn bowl. “Just… you’re right, he shouldn’t have hesitated that jump.”

James nods, but doesn’t look convinced as he turns back to the screen. The boy finishes his routine with an emotional moment. When commercials start, he wordlessly reaches over to the screen to mute the broadcast. 

“What’s going on with you?”

Remus’ eyebrows lift in surprise. “Me?”

“Remus,” they both say in unison. 

Lily sends James a prompting look, subtly tilting her chin towards Remus.

“I can see you, you know,” he murmurs dryly, popping more kettlecorn into his mouth. They’re not salty or buttery enough to quell the sourness in his chest. “Does Sirius know you’re using him for an intervention?”

“Sirius isn’t on yet,” James says, completely missing the point. From his side, Lily drops her face to her hands in fond exasperation. 

She picks it up with resolve, sending her fiancé a sideways glance before searching for Remus’ diverting gaze. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head faintly, reaching for the iPad to unmute the broadcast. Sirius slides into the ice with that elegant cockiness he’s well known for. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he shrugs, setting the bowl aside to focus on the screen. 

“Remus, I literally just talked to you down at the gym and you were fine.”

“I am fine.”

Lily mutes the screen again, even as Sirius’ song begins playing for his short program. “Did something happen?”

His eyes flit up to the screen, where Sirius’ face morphs into raw emotion, pouring it into his routine as he glides elegantly around the ice.

I like you, Remus.

“Fuck,” he whispers, strangled as he presses his fingertips hard into his eyes. “Fuck–why did I do that?”

They share another look, seemingly picking up that something did happen sometime between the gym and his arrival to James’ dorm. But Remus only presses harder at his eyes. He doesn’t stop until he sees stars.

On the screen, Sirius does a fast entry into a flying camel spin. No one really pays attention as James and Lily stare at their friend’s hunched form. Slumped in both heartbreak and guilt.

“Remus–you’re scaring me,” James says, frowning. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I can’t believe I left her waiting,” he whispers into his knees, pressing hard at his forehead. 

“What?” Lily asks, but realization clouds James’ expression.

Remus shoots up to sit straight, lips parted as he goes to explain–but something catches his eye. On the screen, Sirius doesn’t hesitate, nor does he even think twice before jumping into a triple axel. 

It’s enough to snap some sense of realization into Remus. 

James and Lily blink in surprise when he nearly lunges himself out of the bed. The iPad goes flying across the coffee table as he scrambles to put on his trainers, not even stopping to explain as he flings the door open to exit the dorm. Not even when they call out for him in bafflement.

His heart thumps painfully inside his chest, rattling loudly when he marches across the hallway until he’s face to face with your door. Remus’ breath comes out in short puffs, each quicker and quicker as the adrenaline skyrockets in his veins. They increase in intensity as he knocks, hurried between pauses.

Movement shuffles from the other side. Then, very faintly but loud for his predisposed ears, a sniffle. 

“I’m not in the mood, Lily,” your voice calls out hoarsely. “I’ll check the rerun later.”

He looks down at his trainers, sucking in a breath that rattles his ribcage. “It’s me.”

There’s a pause. A very long pause of nothing but charged silence that Remus momentarily wonders if you’ll make him wait like he did to you.

But then the door opens, and Remus feels his chest caving in. His eyes immediately find your red-rimmed ones, but most importantly, your hand still pressing at the bruise on your hip. 

His fingers crackle by his sides, tapping anxiously as his lips part and close.

Your eyebrows twitch. “What now?” you ask, lowering your hand when you follow his gaze. 

It’s enough for his eyes to snap back up. Without hesitation.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, with more conviction. “I let my insecurities get the best of me–all those years ago. I walked away and left you waiting instead of facing my fears. Instead of getting potentially hurt. I hurt you the exact same way I thought you’d hurt me if I stayed–fuck, I’m sorry.”

You study him warily. 

His voice catches, adrenaline skyrocketing inside his chest the longer you stare back at him without saying a word. “I was cruel–and I kept poking at you, and I hid behind my anger instead of… of asking what went wrong–”

“Remus,” you close your eyes. “You know damn well what went wrong...” His mouth goes dry, but you only swallow thickly. As if channeling all your courage. Again. For him. 

He sucks in a breath, channeling all his courage for you. No hesitation.

“I like you–fuck, y/n… I think I love you.”

A beat. 

“You think?”

Remus shakes his head, throat bobbling with contained energy as you take a steadying breath. In the same moment you take a step closer.

He ducks his head, eyes desperately searching for yours. “All this time–all these years… I kept on lashing out at you, thinking it was wounded pride and anger for what I thought went wrong,” he whispers. “Turns out all this time it was love. After all this time. I love you, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I love you.”

You suck in a stuttering breath, eyes studying every inch of his face when he takes a step closer–head leaned down as the weight of his confession slowly dawns on you. As he strips his pride bare in front of you–breath trembling, pupils blown over with adrenaline.

“I don’t…” you whisper, wetting your lips nervously. When words get clogged up in your throat, all you do is take a step closer. “You can't just say that, Remus… You can’t just say you love me and turn around–”

“I won’t,” he says immediately. “I’m here–I won’t go anywhere–I love you. I love you, for fuck’ sake.”

His forehead drops to the crown of your head, feeling your breath fanning at his collarbone as you gather your feelings. He wonders if you can feel the way his heart rattles against his ribcage, how it’s one beat of silence away from leaping out his body.

Then, in the quiet stutter of breath, your voice breaks through the static. “I love you, too,” you whisper. “I think.”

“…you think?”

You only shrug one shoulder. 

Maybe it’s his predisposition–or the way he pulls back just enough to catch the sight of your own blown pupils, mischief glistening in your eyes–but Remus only has half a second to wonder if he’s overstepping before crashing his lips into yours. All his doubts quickly dissipate when you welcome it readily. Like you have been hoping for this outcome as much as him. 

You stumble backwards, and his hand flies to your jaw, pulling you impossibly closer for steadying. He kicks the door shut on his way in, smirking into your lips when it closes in a loud clatter. 

Your fingers travel to his nape, carding through his hair and pulling him closer to you–he accepts it readily, playfully pinching your jaw. And, like always, you’re not one to back down from a challenge–your teeth graze his lower lip, pulling out a sound that has you smirking against his open mouth.

Remus’ answer is simple, bringing you along with him–stumbling with his arms around your body as he feels around your dorm. Your nails scrape the skin at the base of his nape, dragging him with you to the right direction towards your bed. He follows along dutifully, hand finding your lower back and fisting at your jumper. 

You laugh knowingly into the kiss when he nudges your legs open, foot expertly hooking around your ankle to drop you into the bed. Remus swallows the sound, fingers pinching your jaw before they travel down in your body to your hips, curling around the skin where the jumper has bunched up in your hurried movements. 

He breaks apart just enough to search for your gaze, smirking into your skin as he leaves little kisses along your face, trailing down the path from your cheeks to your jaw and your chin until he finds your pulse point at your neck. Your hand at his nape pulls him deeper and closer to you, letting small stuttering puffs of air when his teeth playfully nip at your skin–your throat bobbles, and Remus’ lips follow the movement under his kisses. 

His hand, in his heated need to pull you impossibly closer to him, grips tighter at your hip. His knee digs deeper between your legs. 

You gasp, breath hitching under his mouth. Remus pulls away, panting as he searches for your eyes–but they’re screwed shut in a wince. He immediately loosens his hold around your hips, knee retreating just enough to give you time to breathe.

“Fuck–I forgot, I’m sorry,” he whispers, breathing hard.

You nod wordlessly. “It’s fine,” you pant, breath fanning his face as you swallow another wince. “It’s just… still sore.”

His thumb strokes your skin experimentally. “Yeah?” his eyebrows wrinkle, but his chest continues rattling against yours. Your hand doesn’t drop from his nape. If anything, your fingers dig deeper, carding at his hair as a reflex when his fingers find your bruise. “Here?”

“Hm,” you make a pitchy little sound in approval. Remus’ eyes flit up, his wet lips quirk up in that smug smirk of his. 

He drops a kiss to your jaw, letting you settle over your pillow before shifting his position over you. Your eyebrows crunch together in frustration when he pulls apart, but Remus only crawls lower in your body to your hip–his smirk widens when he places a small kiss to your bruise. Your breath stutters, and it’s enough motivation for him to move his kisses all around your bruised skin–your hip, your navel, your entire abdomen. 

“Remus,” you whisper, hands finding the front of his jumper to guide him back up. You kiss him harder this time, arms around his shoulders as he carefully settles over you. 

He allows you a moment of indulgence before breaking a part, just enough to catch his breath. Remus basks in your frustrated expression, and one of his hands travels up to pinch your chin. Prompting.

You crack one eye open. “Hm?”

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” he whispers carefully. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to continue if your hip is still hurting.”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, tilting your head back to welcome another kiss. Remus drops a little one into your throat before tapping at your forehead to open your eyes. “It’ll be fine. Just–be careful.”

“y/n.”

“Remus.”

“Look at me,” he says, gentle but firm. At last, you relent. Remus is glad to get a glimpse of your blown pupils, just like his own. “I have a better idea.”

“Better than this?”

“Hm,” he nods. “It’s called resting.”

“No resting.”

He laughs. “And… diclofenac.”

“Wait,” you inhale deeply, trying to control your breathing. Remus’ lips tug faintly at your failed attempt. “You’re actually serious?”

A funny expression passes over his face, and you only pinch at his side admonishedly–smirking at his wounded reaction.

“If you dare say that joke, I’ll kill you,” you threaten. Weakly, really–especially when all that’s needed to placate you is a quick kiss to your chin.

When you close your eyes again, pulling him closer to you in the bed–he decides his little kisses won’t do anything to actually tend to the bruise. 

It takes an enormous amount of restraint to pull away, enough to sit back. His heart does a painful little twist when your eyes fly open in panic.

Remus is quick to put you at ease. “Do you have any?”

You blink, seemingly swallowing the panic that spiked at his sudden distance. Remus’ thumb finds your jaw, stroking gently. “Hm…” you hesitate. “Just in gel.”

“That’s perfect, actually,” he pushes himself to stand, looking around in his rumpled and disheveled state. “Uh… where is it?”

You swallow. “Um… in my training bag,” you shift over your elbows to point at the duffel under your dresser. 

He doesn’t mind your intense gaze as he crouches to search for the gel. He already knows where it is, anyway. You’ve always kept it in the same place. Not that he ever noticed–or well, he did. And now he’s not ashamed to admit it.

“Found it,” he perks up, raising to walk back to the bed. 

He toes off his trainers before slumping down next to you, careful of his movements as he crawls down to your hip. You watch him uncap the gel with expert movements, failing to swallow the jumble of feelings down your throat as he makes himself comfortable over your legs.

“Ready?”

“I mean,” your eyebrows snap up in amusement. “Sure.”

The funny tilt to your voice is enough to get his attention again, his eyes flicker from your bruise to your face. 

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” you rub your lips together. “It’s cold.”

A startled laugh puffs out of him, warming your bruised hip and bringing goosebumps to your skin. 

“I know that, yeah,” he takes a blotch of gel for punctuation, smirking at the amused look on your face. “Stop staring at me—you’re making me nervous.”

“You nearly had your tongue inside my throat and you're nervous about tending to my bruise?”

He hides his flustered reaction by spreading the cold gel into your skin. Remus, ever the bastard, smirks at your surprised gasp. He takes more gel from the bottle before turning back to your hip, hand at your side to steady you before you can flinch again. 

You watch his fingers stroke gently at your skin, methodically in his movements and cheeky in the little kisses he presses just shy of the bruise. A satisfied hum escapes his lips when your hand finds the back of his head again, fingers threading through his disheveled hair in a grounding gesture.

“Done,” he says, kissing just above your bellybutton before capping the gel again.

You don’t waste any time before pulling him back up to you, leveling his face with yours before his eyes flicker back down to your lips.

“Are we, though?” you whisper.

Remus lets you pull him down for a kiss, careful of the stickiness of your skin as he settles between your legs. 

“y/n,” he says into your kiss. You only hum in response. “You’ve got halfpipe training tomorrow.”

“So?” you ask. Then, as realization strikes you, your hands guide him away with a confused frown. “How do you know?”

“I just know.”

You search for his eyes, and Remus lets you, thumb stroking at your navel. “Oh god,” you whisper, laughing. “You memorized my training schedule.”

He blushes, shifting to drop his head into the crook of your neck. “So what?” your throat vibrates as you laugh at him. 

Remus retaliates by nipping at your skin. 

“If it makes you feel better,” your voice drops into a whisper, like you’re not sure about how he’ll react. He kisses the skin he bit for reassurance. “I know you’ve got a free day tomorrow.”

He laughs, leaning back just enough to meet your gaze. Playful but so, so openly lovely that he has no other choice but to kiss you senseless.

“Wait,” you say, his thumb stills over your hip. “Once the soreness is gone… can we pick up where we left off?”

“Just getting some cardio in before calling it a day,” Remus shrugs, throwing his towel over his shoulder. “I’m heading out soon, though.”

“You know, you’ve already qualified second place. You’re allowed rest.”

Remus’ lips twitch into a sheepish little smile. “I know.”

She beams, wide and proud that has him momentarily forgetting the weight in his chest. As Lily tends to do.

“Congrats, Moony,” Lily says softly, he bows his head in gratitude–all he allows himself in his guilt spiral. Her ever perceptive eyes seem to catch on this. “I’m… actually here to extend an invitation for the man of the hour.”

He hums. “I’m the man of the hour?”

“We’ll get together at James’ dorm to watch Sirius’ qualifiers. You in?” 

He pauses, visibly hesitating. For a split second, your face clouds his vision, tears glistening against your pink cheeks and glossy eyes–

“She’s not… she won’t be coming,” Lily says quietly, lips twisting from side to side. Remus feels the knot in his chest tightening at the troubled look on her face. “They’re still a little… um, upset.”

“Ah,” he nods. “Well, then… I’ll be there.”

Lily nods, sending him a funny little look at his quick decision–but she doesn’t pry. Remus doesn’t think she would, but he still tilts his head curiously when she doesn’t walk away, either. 

She sits on the bench instead, right by his duffel bag and blocking any form of escape he can come up with. “Are you…” she rubs her lips together, choosing her words carefully. “Remus, you know you can always talk to me, right? About anything?”

His eyebrows pinch, almost involuntarily as he looks down to search for his water bottle. “Yeah, I know,” he nods. Lily simply taps at it with the toe of her shoe under the bench. Remus puffs a laugh. “Thanks–it’s just… don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will,” she smiles, eyes holding an everlasting patience when he won’t meet her gaze. “But it’s okay to struggle a bit to get there.”

“I’m not struggling. I qualified with second place,” he’s quick to say. Facts. Those can never get complicated. “Really, Lils. I’m okay.”

“Remus.”

He drops his head, closing his eyes in resignation. 

Lily sighs, leaning back over the wall when he doesn’t offer an explanation, or at least an olive branch. “James is not angry with you,” she says softly, ducking to search for his wandering eyes. “He’s just… he’s going through a bit of a life changing process. But he didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Remus nods, throat bobbling as he fiddles with his gym towel. “I’ve fallen during qualifications–whatever’s said after that must be taken with a grain of salt.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s okay for him to just… throw both of you under the bus. And blame you for what happened.”

Remus sighs, making a point of sending her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Lily, really. That’s not what I’m upset about.”

“Ah,” she says, mimicking his knowing tone. “What were you upset about, then?”

A pause.

He looks back down at his gym towel, twisting it from side to side–something for his hands to do.

“I think it’s quite obvious.”

“I may have a hunch,” she wrinkles her nose at Remus’ startled laugh. “Does it… perhaps have anything to do with one half of—what was it?”

“Mighty duo of snowboarding?” Remus supplies bemusedly, corners of his mouth quirking into a little smile when Lily’s shoulders relax. He sucks in a breath, channeling all his courage. “And yes... you’re not wrong.”

She nods once, then another time with resolve before standing up. “I know I’ll have to Heilmich the story out of you. But, Remus… you can’t let it consume you this way. Both of you.”

“I know.”

“Yeah?” she searches for his gaze. 

“Heard, captain,” he nods, smiling at Lily’s sheepish reaction at the moniker. “I’ll see you in a bit. I just have to take a shower.” 

“Of course. Oh, and Remus?” He slings his bag over his shoulder, pausing with the bottle mid air when Lily turns back to him. “James isn’t by any means upset with you, okay? I promise you.”

“He’s not?”

“Actually,” she pauses, eyes flickering around the gym like James can materialize out of nowhere. “He’s the one that sent me here to check if you’re upset with him.”

This does get a laugh out of him, Remus feels the knot loosening just enough to let some fondness settle in his chest. “Of course he did,” he shakes his head. Lily only shrugs as she walks backwards out of the gym.

Remus looks down at his towel, a crinkled poor little thing that keeps being on the end of his anxious ticks. He shoves it deep inside his duffel bag before heading out the gym, not before stopping by the lockers to pick the rest of his gear on the way out. 

Except, the lockers aren’t empty.

He freezes when he manages to catch a glimpse of your silhouette before fully walking inside. It’s hard to ignore you. You’re quite literally taking up most of the space in front of the mirror, studying the bruising in your hip and navel with a certain detachment that Remus thinks isn’t normal.

For a second, all he can see is the corner of your mouth holding back the wince of your fall–how you tried to hide the way your palm pressed at the spot to relieve the soreness. I’m not stupid enough to fall for that again, your voice rings inside his head. So does the wounded look in your eyes. 

“Would you like a picture instead?”

Remus blinks, shaking his head very quickly to focus his gaze back on you, tapping at the hem of your shirt to hide the incriminating bruise of your fall.

He swallows the rebuttal that almost slips out of his lips, a pure muscle memory reflex as he turns the corner to walk to his locker. If you’re surprised by his lack of comeback, you don’t make a comment. But Remus feels your intense gaze following his every movement.

You hum, turning back to your own locker. “You qualify second, and suddenly no one’s worthy of your presence.”

“You should get that checked,” he says instead, tapping his code to open the locker. “It’s not normal to spread to your stomach.”

You pause, letting his clipped answer hang heavy in the air. Remus continues fiddling with his gear inside, meticulous in his movements as he puts everything inside his duffel bag. 

You clear your throat, turning to your own locker. “I’m fine.”

“Alright,” he nods his head, channeling all his leftover energy to appear casual. “Or at least–”

“I said I’m fine,” your voice catches, making Remus’ heart stutter as you slam your locker closed. “What is it to you, anyway? I thought you didn’t care?”

“No. You assumed it.”

“Um? No?” you frown, hands braced over your hips when he doesn’t meet your gaze. When his voice is controlled and clipped and devoid of any emotion–not even anger. You feel a hollowness in your chest at his lack of reaction. “You specifically said–”

“I lied, okay?” he snaps, cutting you off. He finally turns to face you. “I do care–and it’s driving me fucking mad because I know for a fact that you don’t.”

Your surprised expression is fleeting enough to make Remus wonder if it was all part of his imagination. But then you let out a startled, almost bitter laugh as you shake your head. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you manage to say, eyes looking everywhere but at him. Another angry laugh puffs out of you, fingers flying to press at your forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ—I can’t believe you.”

“Then explain it to me,” he says, casually. Like it doesn’t take him a lot to utter those words past the prideful feeling in his chest. “Stop running off and tell me to my face.”

You scoff. “There it is—why are you always accusing me of running off?” you cross your arms. “Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”

“Hypocritical?” he repeats, feeling the anger he had tried to press down igniting at your accusation. “You’re calling me a hypocrite after what you did? Running off to Junior when… when…”

You take a step closer.

“When what, Remus?” you say, searching for his gaze. A challenge. He parts his lips to speak, but you’re quicker. “When I waited hours for you? When I spent every fucking second tidying my dorm? When I set my pride aside to wait for you… when you didn’t even deign to let me know you changed your mind?”

Remus blinks, feeling his heart slowly and slowly creeping up his throat with each of your words—how each question is as charged as the previous one, twinged with pain and heartbreak that makes your eyes blaze. He tries, and fails, to swallow the ever consuming ire that had been trapped in his throat and chest. Replacing it with something worse… realization. 

You suck in a breath, dropping your arms. “When I waited for you, only to find out you were out… partying and snogging every breathing thing that crossed your path?” you say finally, your voice wavers with the weight of your question–throat bobbling like the heartbreak has managed to return despite the years that have passed. “So tell me, Remus… how can I be a hypocrite when you said you’d show up but ran off to someone else instead?”

He pokes at his cheek, looking away from your charged glare. “I saw you, y/n,” he almost whispers, feeling his own ire returning at your confused reaction. He takes a step closer. “I saw you with Junior–not even a second after I walked away. And then? I see you with him? Nearly on top of each other like you… like you were trying to shove it into my face?”

You scoff. “You’re telling me you went out because you saw me with Barty…? Talking? What the fuck, Remus?” your face falls. The anger in your eyes morphs into something worse, heartbreak. “Do you even hear what you’re saying? Barty doesn’t even like girls.”

He laughs, bitter. “It seems to me he likes them just fine–”

“God—I can’t even have a serious conversation with you.”

“Me?” he repeats. “You’re the one that keeps throwing barbs and fucking… fucking riddles at me and, expect me to understand you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What could I possibly have said to you? That I waited?” you send him a baffled look. Remus inhales deeply, watching as you take a step to walk away from him. And the conversation altogether. “I like you, Remus. But not enough to compromise my dignity.”

Your steps echo as you walk out the locker room. And it takes Remus an embarrassing beat to process what you’ve said.

I like you, Remus.

He lets his bag drop to the floor, turning to catch up with you.

Turns out you’re not very far. Remus nearly crashes into you as he rounds the corner, lips parting at your slumped form against the hallway. Your eyes are squeezed shut, hand pressing hard at your chest like you’re trying to tame your heart from leaping out.

He doesn’t announce himself, standing in front of you until you feel his presence. If you do, you remain eerily silent in your poor attempt to pull yourself back together.

“Say that again,” he says, voice barely a whisper.

“Remus,” you whisper back, brave enough to speak but not to meet his gaze. “Please, don’t.”

Remus shakes his head, fingers cracking with electricity–feeling a phantom sensation at his fingertips when he takes a step closer. They almost reach for your hip, a movement born out of reflexive memory.

“I thought…” he wets his lips, trying to speak through the clogged feelings in his throat. “I thought you were with him, that you chose him… all this time…?”

“I don’t want to go through this again,” you shake your head, fingers traveling to your collarbone, pressing down like it’s the only movement controlled enough to calm your anxious hands. “Just… forget it.”

“y/n,” he prompts, daring to take another step closer. “Look at me.”

His voice carries throughout the hallway in a quiet echo. 

“I…” he inhales deeply. “I don’t want to continue in this… this weird limbo.”

Your eyes do snap open at this, meeting his gaze in surprise. “You heard that?”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

Your breath hitches, very faintly to the untrained ear, but Remus only takes a step closer. Your eyes flit up very slowly to meet his gaze–a deja vu in his movements as your hand falls to your side. 

“Say it again.”

You swallow thickly. “Why?” you whisper. “So you can turn and reject me again?”

“I won’t.”

A small laugh escapes you, wavering and low as you force your gaze away from him. “I don’t know if I believe you, Remus.”

You bite the inner skin of your cheek, harder when he looks away–devoid of any emotion as he focuses on the big screen. James waves at the camera.

“And here comes the reigning champion–one half of the mighty duo of snowboarding… in the world!” the commentator nearly shouts into the microphone. “James Potter!”

James throws his fist into the air as he shuffles to the drop in. The camera follows him, and then–in a surprising turn of plans–you show up at the big screen. Caught in the act as you stare up at Remus, hand gripping the warmer tight against your chest. On the screen, Lily nudges you harshly to snap you out of your thoughts.

But the camera is already cutting to James, whose expression pinches very faintly at what the camera captures. His hops slow down. 

One of the volunteers speaks into the walkie talkie, signaling at James to prepare to drop in. Lily pulls you to her, sucking in a stuttering breath when James stands by the edge, waiting.

When he drops in, you three simultaneously hold your breaths in anticipation. So does the rest of the crowd. James drops into a smooth, clean line into the slopes–eyes focused on the first rail with casual confidence. But his shoulders remain tense, and Moody seems to pick up on this as he crosses his arms tightly.

He does his rail run flawlessly, finishing with the ace up his sleeve; a front blunt 630 out the rail. The crowd erupts into applause and cheering, and you let yourself breathe in relief when he finishes the first half of his routine without problems. Even if his stance indicates his head is not entirely on the slopes right now.

“He’s hesitating,” Lily says, voice twinged with anxiety as James speeds into the first jump. “Why is he hesitanting?”

“I don’t know,” you manage to speak over your clogged throat, feeling your heart about to leap out if you open your mouth again. You grip the hand warmer tighter, knuckles white as you clutch it to your chest. 

James eases into the ramp, twisting into a cab 1440 double cork–mute grab. His amplitude is high enough that all the judges, and crowd, gasp in surprise. You all break into loud cheering as he stomps clean.

“That’s a finals level jump,” a commentator says loudly.

Lily’s fingers dig into your arm, harsh and tight despite all the protective layers you’re wearing. From her side, Remus makes an approving sound.

“The 1620 is next,” you tell her, nibbling at your lower lip as James visibly pushes himself into more speed. 

He comes in slightly too hot into the second jump, rotating fine into his backside 1620 double cork–weddle grab. Your hand flies to your mouth when his shoulder opens rather uncomfortably into the landing, his board washes against the snow. Lily straight out digs her nails into your arm when he goes down on his right shoulder. Hard. He slides down, snow spraying much like you at your own training the day before. 

He takes his time to sit up, and your mouth goes dry with each passing second. You think Lily is one moment away from actually vaulting the fence to go check on him herself–but James sits up.

“You okay?” Moody calls out from deep in the fence in the coaches area. “Kid?”

James only rolls his shoulder once, corner of his lips twitching in a wince before nodding at him.

“James?” you call out, forcing some calmness into your tone. 

To your surprise, his head snaps to you. You’re smart enough to pick up on the way his shoulders tense all over again when he meets your gaze–your heart stutters inside your chest when his eyes, ever so slightly, move to Remus. Guilt gnaws at your insides as he gets up.

James only rides slowly out the slopes, stopping when the medical staff scurry to check on him and make sure his injury isn’t too serious. He waves them off with a pinch to his mouth. 

“What was that?” Lily whispers to you, voice twinged with dread now. It makes your guilt heavier, caving at your chest as your eyes follow James. Not once looking away as he listens to Moody. 

The hand warmer cools off in your palm when he takes the chairlift for his second run. He immediately tones it down in everything. For the third rail, he goes for a 450 out to reduce his shoulder rotation. In the jumps, his twists are calmer, too. Smoother. When he nears the second one, he does a backside 1440 double cork, a safer alternative that has Moody clapping in approval. 

He ends with a frontside 1440, perfect grab and dead center landing. The entire venue holds their breath when he flips in the air, only letting it out in relief when lands cleanly and rides away calmly. Too calm.

In the end, the judges assign him a 86.85 overall, placing him in the lead of the heat so far. But there are many snowboarders that are yet to do their runs. 

James wordlessly steps out the track–not at all stopping to linger to answer questions or talk to the press as he marches to the venue. You scramble behind him, pushing through the crowd to get to him. Lily drops her hold from you–and her own hand warmer–as she quite literally sprints to hold the door after James pushes it open, hand at his shoulder. 

“James,” Lily breathes out as she gets to him, giving him space as he rips his goggles off. “Are you okay?”

“It’s fine,” he nods, squeezing his eyes shut as he unclasps his helmet. You bite at the inner skin of your cheek when he takes off the Olympic vest–face scrunching into a wince. “It’ll be fine,” he corrects.

Moody catches up a tad later with a physio and medic at his heels, ready to check on James’ shoulder as soon as he sits down. 

“Let’s take a look,” he instructs, voice having a no-nonsense edge as he gestures at the medic to step in. James presses his fingertips into his eyes. 

“It’s fine.”

“Clearly,” Moody replies dryly, not at all buying it. He nods at the physio to step in. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.

It had been, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

James breaks into a puff of silent laughter, shaking his head as the medic starts testing his shoulder. 

“Some nerve of you to stand here asking me that,” he mutters, pausing to wince when the physio guides his arm to rotate it. To check the damage.

You frown. “What?”

Lily’s eyebrows pinch at the edge of his tone, but James won’t be deterred. “Have you not done enough?” he snaps, jumping when the medic places an ice pack against his shoulder. “You fell and now you have to make me fall, for what? Make yourself feel better?”

“James,” Moody scolds firmly, a warning in his tone.

“How is this my fault?” you frown, feeling guilty nausea burning at your throat. “You went in too hot for that 1620.”  

“Because you keep getting into my fucking head–this… this thing between you and Remus is driving me insane and look what it caused!”

Your eyes, to their own accord, flit up to Remus, standing behind James with crossed arms. His own eyebrows furrow in realization, gaze snapping down to your brother and his accusation. 

James sucks in a stuttering breath, letting the medic guide his hand to hold the ice pack. “This was supposed to be my perfect run–my last gold. And now I don’t even know if I’ll get the chance to qualify for finals!”

The air is sucked out of the room. And your lungs.

My last gold.

“…what?”

Moody sighs, pressing his face into his palms before dropping them to his sides. “Alright, that’s it–clear the room,” he gestures at Lily and Remus. 

James doesn’t argue, but his hand does linger around Lily’s before she’s walking out–a plea for her to wait. To not go too far. 

You look down at your own gloved hands when you feel an intense gaze on the side of your face. Remus guides Lily out the room with a lingering look over his shoulder. Eyebrows crunched together as he opens the door for her. 

Moody slumps on the bench by James’ side, far enough to let the medics and physios finish up with his shoulder. The room is filled with a thick silence, eventually broken with crinkling of medicines and ointments and cold patches before they’re packing up to retreat.

“Thank you,” you murmur under your breath as they step out in a line. Moody nods at them in thanks as the doors close behind them–making the tension thicker amidst the silence. 

James is quick to breach the silence. “I’m thinking about retiring after the games,” he says, clipped. Voice at odds with the calmness of his stance, but his white knuckles give him away. Gripping the cold pack like a lifeline. “It’s still a work in process, but it’s mostly a done deal.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “James…” you shake your head, pressing your lips in a line. “Why?”

“What do you mean why?” he asks with pure disbelief. “Have you forgotten that I’m getting married soon? I have to think about my future–unlike you, I’m not all about snowboarding and comps!”

“I know that but… but why didn’t you say–why…”

“Because it’s not your business, y/n,” he shakes his head, voice catching with the strain of his volume. “This is between me and Lily, I’m just letting you know.”

“Not my business?” you repeat, aghast. “James… we’re a team.”

He barks a bitter laugh. “Right, a team,” he nods. “Since when do you keep things from me? Secrets that I ought to know? Things that have also interfered with your training? If we’re the team you claim, why haven’t you said about what the fuck is going on with you?”

“Nothing’s going on,” you shake your head, feeling the defensiveness overpowering your guilt. “But this isn’t about me–this is about you quitting when you’re at the top of your game.”

“I’m not quitting.”

“Seems to me like you are.”

James’ throat constricts. “I’m retiring, y/n. I… I want a family, okay? I want to settle down, and this isn’t what I want the rest of my life to look like.”

Your shoulders slump. “I know that,” you reach for his hand. “But you can’t keep this sort of decision away from me.”

“Yes, I can.”

You inhale deeply, heart stuttering at the certainty of his retort. “No, because–”

“Because it’s my future!” he snaps, overwhelmed and with the adrenaline still overflowing his veins. You take a startled step back. “It’s not my fault you’re stuck in a limbo with Remus, you have no right to be mad at me for ensuring my future–with my future wife. I’m getting married, y/n. And I’m sorry if that pokes a bruise for you. Just... just fix your life before you come scolding me for mine, and my decisions,” he pauses, sucking in a stuttering breath. “Or next time it’ll be you stacking that jump.”

“James.” Moody says loudly, looming enough to make James blink in surprise. “That’s enough out of you.”

Your lips tremble, watching as your brother holds your gaze–his eyebrows pinch when his eyes track the tear sliding down your cheek. 

You wet your lips, letting out a shaky breath. “I don’t fucking care if you’re retiring, James. I just want you to tell me things–the important things… because, to me, we are a team,” you stand, hands rough as you clean your cheeks. “And it’s not my fault you like to stick your bloody nose in my life. And it’s certainly not my fault you got distracted and stacked that 1620. Maybe you’re just trying to blame me for being a fucking coward to keep this away from me–”

“y/n,” Moody says in a warning.

But it goes on deaf ears as you continue speaking, voice catching with the weight of your guilt and anger. “This is your fault and yours alone. So don’t come here and make me your punching bag when we both know what happened out there is the result of you trying to fix things that don’t concern you.”

James parts his lips to speak, eyebrows wrinkling together as he finds his words. But you only turn to walk away.

The door clatters as you accidentally hit someone on your way out, slinging it open in one swift motion. You only mutter a quiet sorry before turning to the exit–eyes clouded with unshed tears as they zero on the buses. 

“Hey, hey–you okay?”

“Don’t,” you shake your head, not once casting him a glance. Remus follows after you despite your straight out rejection, snow crunching under him with each step. “Go away, Remus.”

He clicks his tongue, sounding awfully guilty to equal yours inside your chest. “You don’t seem okay.”

You scoff, a muffled and watery sound as you cross your arms tight over your chest. From behind you, the crowd erupts in cheering as the qualifiers continue without any more incidents. Your eyes flicker to the big screen, where Barty drops in for his run–you had promised to stay and watch, but you fear you’d only be a buzzkill in this state.

Snow crunches when Remus takes a step closer, amber eyes scanning the way tears continue trailing down your cheeks without your knowledge–the biting cold in your skin must’ve numbed the sensation of your crying. He sucks in a breath when your head snaps back up to face him. You take a half step back.

“y/n,” he says, voice low and fog coming out of his lips. 

“Stop,” you shake your head. “I’m not in the mood for your antagonism.”

“Neither am I.”

Your eyes move back up to him, frowning. “Then why are you here?”

His lips part in surprise, eyebrows pinching together very, very faintly and unseen to the untrained eye. You study him warily, knuckles tight as you grip your elbows for warmth.

“I don’t know,” he says after a stretch of silence. Voice barely a whisper and full of sincerity.

It hangs in the air, heavy and thick with unsaid words between you. His hand freezes where he almost reached to clean your tears–heart twisting somewhere deep inside his chest at your vulnerable state.

“It’s just a grab,” you stand back up, sending him a funny look. Moody only shakes his head, waving you off as he scribbles down his notes. “C’mon–I thought I could play a little?” his head snaps up with a scowl, and you’re quick to add, “Your words.”

“Yeah, well, my other words were–” he points at James, prompting.

“To not try anything else. Stick to your bloody routine,” James recites, hands behind his back. “That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

You roll your eyes, tucking your board under your arm. Moody levels you with a look. “How do you feel, kid? Have you trained enough or would you like another run?”

You hum, turning to look back at the slopes as one of the girls from team Japan ducks in for her training run. The venue is filled to the brim with athletes, some come and go in preparation for their training and others hang around with their media teams to cover as much as possible before the men’s snowboarding qualifications tomorrow. 

When your eyes land on an ever familiar Monster helmet amongst the crowd, the decision is already made for you. 

You turn back to your coach, smiling. “Yeah, I’d like one last run,” you nod.

Him and James share a look, reaching to clasp your shoulder before you can head back to the lift. “Ah,” he tsks in disapproval. “Do you actually want another run or prove something?”

Your expression sours. 

You’re just angry you don’t get to prove something. The question here is… to who?

“I want to,” you say, sure and with a slight edge.

“You sure, Crash?” James asks, eyeing you curiously. “Just a moment ago you were ready to finish.”

“I'd like to try one last time before I go.”

Moody sighs, throwing a hand up. “Alright, then,” he waves you off, shaking his head as he looks down at his notes again. “And no improvisation this time. Stick to the bloody routine.”

James makes a face behind him, mostly to make you laugh before sending you off to the lift. From your peripheral, the girl from team Japan lands a clean switch Backside 1080 indy grab and the clapping erupts–Remus included. 

You bind your board again, nibbling at your lower lip as the chairlift moves closer. It’s empty, thankfully. While any other day you’d appreciate your fellow snowboarders and their cheerful conversation, you feel like in your predisposed irritability, it’d only end in a scandal. 

The cheering increases as the girl from New Zealand starts her last run, and you only bite back an eyeroll lest the volunteer thinks it’s aimed at him. Remus crosses his arms from the sidelines, nodding in approval at her run before she lands her last jump. You feel fire igniting your veins at his smirk, clapping loudly along the rest of the onlookers.

“…Are you ready?”

You blink. “Hm?”

The boy points at the drop-in, slightly amused at your blatant distraction. “Ready to go?”

“Right,” you nod, shifting to the edge. “I’m ready.”

He mutters something into his walkie-talkie before signaling you the go.

You force your gaze down to the snow, knees relaxed as you drop into a smooth line. From the sidelines, James claps loudly–cheering overlaps with the rest of the athletes as you build up the speed of your run to the first rail. Somewhere deep in the fences, Remus grips the metal tightly instead of clapping.   

You pop onto the first rail with a frontside boardslide, jumping into a controlled 270 out–pure muscle memory. James cheers at you, paused by a yelp as Moody nudges him for silence as you zero on the second rail. A slightly more complicated jump as you switch stances.

The question here is… to who?

It’s in the intrusiveness of his voice inside your head that makes you come in just slightly flat-based into the rail, not fully edged like in your first training runs. It takes you a millisecond to realize the board doesn’t lock clean, trembling against the slickness of the rail before it shoots out. You land on your side, snow spraying as you slide down. 

There’s a collective intake of air as you slow–hand at your side to check for any injury or soreness, but the only soreness you find is in your ego. Moody’s hands stills mid air where he stops James from calling out for you, but you’re already popping up fast. 

You hop back on, rushing into the next rail with more speed than necessary. You make the necessary corrections during the remaining jumps of your run, clearing it completely. But not cleanly, not smooth either. Just pure sheer wounded pride and muscle memory as you carve into the finish line. 

The athletes still clap for you, though it’s drowned out by the ringing in your ears. Even as Moody ducks to search for your eyes, you won’t give in. You’re too humiliated. 

“You okay?” he still asks, he has to. “Nothing hurts?”

“No,” you manage to say, hoarse with the weight of your anger. You rip off your goggles harder than usual. “I’m good.”

Moody eyes you intensely, arms crossed as you squat to unbind your board. “What was that?”

“I’m good,” you answer instead.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

You snap your head up, fuming. “What do you think that was?” you frown. “I stacked the easiest thing in the fucking routine. That’s what happened.”

“Which is why I’m asking you–what was that?” he repeats, voice gaining an edge to match yours. “Where’s your head at? You’ve been out of it since you arrived.”

“I’m good,” you repeat, tucking your board under your arm. “Can I go now?”

He stares you down, scanning your face and the way your eyes blaze with humiliation and wounded pride. Moody only waves you off after a beat of nothing but tense silence, and you only nod curtly before making your way out the track. 

You’re acutely aware of a pair of eyes–amber eyes–following your every move as you make your way through the athletes, nodding along and forcing a smile as they tell you motivating words to make you feel better. Easy mistake. Everyone falls at training. Are you okay–

“Don’t pretend you care,” you grit before Remus can finish his question.

Remus’ eyebrows twitch, a fleeting wounded look on his face as he looks down at you. It goes as quickly as it came, replacing it with a deadpan expression that only makes your ego sting even more.

“I don’t,” he shrugs. “But you’re dumbing down the competition and you know I don’t like easy wins.”

You hum. “Could’ve fooled me,” you snap, trying to sidestep him to walk into the venue. 

But he steps into your path. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean,” you look up to meet his glare, hard enough to make you smirk. “Or ask that figure skater of yours to spell it out for you.”

He parts his lips to speak, but you shove him to the side before he can get his rebuttal out. 

You push the door open with your shoulder, hand at your side as you press down at your hip–while it doesn’t hurt much, you’re sure it’ll surely bruise by tomorrow. The venue is just as filled as the training track, and it takes you a moment of sudden lucidity to realize someone is walking along behind you. 

Remus’ hand circles around your elbow. “We need to talk,” he says, clipped. 

“I have nothing to talk about with you,” you don’t turn, quite literally dragging him along with you through the crowd of athletes and coaches around the room. “Leave me alone.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, the sound makes your skin prickle. “Yes, you do,” he says, dropping his hand when you finally turn to face him. “If you don’t want to stack your runs again.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He looks around, eyes tracking possible onlookers and reporters before ducking his head down. “I’ll come find you as soon as my training ends.”

You laugh, turning to your duffel bag. You throw your goggles inside with enough force to make the snowboarder next to you snap her head to the source of the sound. 

“I’m not stupid enough to fall for that again,” you shake your head, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Get lost.”

Remus holds fast at your elbow again, stopping you from taking another step. “Bold of you to say when I’m not the only one with a history of unfulfilled promises, Crash.”

You bristle. “Don’t you ever call me that again.” 

He tilts his head. “Why not?” You swallow down the ire clogged in your throat. The bastard has the gall to smirk, “if I’m the one who gave you that little moniker?” 

You snatch your arm back, ignoring the tingling sensation of your skin where he touched you. “I hope you stack your routine.”

His eyes glisten with a challenge. “And I hope you stay to watch.”

You take your gear, turning to walk away instead of answering. Remus watches you go with a satisfied hum. 

“You don’t even like to compete Big Air!” James tries. It goes on deaf ears as you huff, pressing harder at your forehead. 

“So what?” you drop your hands to look at him. The look you send him is probably furious enough to make your brother scramble away. “Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I don’t want to be good at it,” you seethe, pacing around your little table to release the pent up anger in your body.

The dining hall is mostly empty, all the athletes that have arrived are seemingly at their own training or out sightseeing. Though there isn’t much to see that one can’t enjoy from the dorm windows–Remus secretly wonders if it’s too late to try and catch up with Lily and Sirius. Anything would be better than seeing you throwing a tantrum.

James inhales deeply. “Crash,” he says, voice twinged with immense patience. “There’s nothing left for you to do. Just focus on your actual disciplines, yeah?”

You scoff. “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say–your schedule is perfect!” you retort, the anger igniting once again inside your chest. “You don’t have to compromise your events for training, James–do you know how fucking unfair that is?”

“Well, it’s not my fault, either,” he frowns, crossing his arms. “Moody has already gone to talk to the organizers.”

Remus pulls a chair out with his foot, stretching his legs out in a relaxed manner as he watches you bristle in response to your brother’s placations.

He props his legs up on the chair. “Maybe,” he starts, smirking when your head snaps to him. And there it is, the fiery gaze he had been aiming for. “Had you checked your schedule beforehand, you would’ve made the proper arrangements.”

You laugh, bitter and loud as you shake your head. Remus takes another bite of tiramisu, eerily calm in the face of your wrath. “Of course you’re here,” you snap. “Always sticking your nose in matters that don’t concern you,” your voice lowers with the weight of your rage. 

Remus’ lips twitch as he holds your gaze, leaning back on his chair as you bristle more visibly this time, fists clenched by your sides. 

He was going to pick his battles with you today, he really was. But your jabs have been meaner as of lately, more personal… like you’re throwing them to hurt. Remus wants to think it’s because of the stress of the Games, but he and you know there’s a secret second thing making you prone to anger. 

And whatever… If you want to be mean, Remus can be mean, too. 

“Are you done?” he asks, tilting his chin up. A challenge. His smirk spreads as you bite the inner skin of your cheek, knuckles white as you clench your fists harder. “It seems to me you’re not really angry about the schedule,” he says lazily, crossing his ankles over the chair. 

“Don’t speak for me.”

He ignores you, tongue poked against his cheek. “Maybe… you’re just angry you don’t get to prove something. The question here is… to who?”

You scoff. “Don’t you dare think I want to prove myself to you, Remus.”

Remus.

His eyes flare in that dangerous way you still vividly remember from years ago. The phantom pressure at your back returns, warmer than before. 

Remus only shrugs, nonchalant. “I never implied myself, but sure… I’m amenable to being proven wrong.” 

James’ big eyes flicker between you, as if watching a ping pong match where neither competitor is willing to back down. He has half the mind to step in, deescalate before it can turn into a full argument–or worse, someone capturing the moment to upload it to their socials. 

“y/n,” he tries again, gentler.

But you won’t budge, your eyes remain zeroed on Remus, who continues poking at his cheek in that smug way of his–blatantly enjoying your rage.

“Not sure if you remember,” you start, pausing to gauge his reaction, the way his smirk slowly drops. “But I already proved something to you. You just didn’t care.”

Remus doesn’t speak at first, but his shoulders tense. He sits straight, chair scrapping the floors as he sets his feet down to stand.

His jaw clenches. “You don’t get to decide what I did or didn’t care about,” he says, amber eyes blazing as he looks down at you. You glare back at him. “If you want to hate me, then so be it… but at least be honest with yourself about the reason.”

It’s enough to make you waver, fire dimming behind your eyes instead of looking away. Remus doesn’t back down, not even when you shove him to the side to pass through and out of the cafeteria.

“Hey–woah!” Sirius steps back, holding the door open for you as you nearly bulldoze over him and Lily. “What the fuck was that?” 

There’s a thick silence. One where Remus almost hears his heart thumping loudly against his ribcage, loud enough to ring his ears and drown out the clatter of utensils and plates as the cafeteria begins filling in. Steps shuffle and movement picks up as he slumps down on his chair.

He’s acutely aware of a pair of hazel eyes following his every move. But Remus only presses his fingers into his eyes, harder and harder until he sees stars. Anything to replace the fleeting wounded look on your face before storming off.

“Remus,” James says, carefully low as he shifts closer to the table–he worldlessly makes space for Lily and Sirius. Remus doesn’t look up at them yet. “Remus, you need to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

He inhales deeply. “Nothing’s going on,” his breath fans the palm of his hand, still pressing hard at his eyes. “I just don’t think it’s fair she takes it out on you for the bloody Big Air event.”

James makes an incredulous sound, shaking his head as he sits straight. “That’s not new–and I can handle it,” he says, controlled. Even if Remus still can’t face him. “But don’t tell me that has anything to do with the event, or her schedule. I was willing to entertain this for a bit longer but it’s quite obvious to everyone that it’s only getting worse… So speak.”

It takes another moment of charged and tense silence before Remus drops his hand, skin pinkish because of the pressure as he finally looks up at his friends. Each of them stares back at him with varying degrees of worry and confusion–they morph into one of realization when his eyes flit up to the door. The path you walked on your way out. 

“She… um,” he clears his throat, where anger remains trapped. He pushes his tiramisu aside, appetite long gone. “Forget it.”

He tries to stand, but Sirius makes a sound. Awfully close to a knowing hum. “Is it about what happened at the last games?” he asks, lifting his chin in a challenge. Prodding. “Or… what didn’t happen?”

Remus levels him with a look, eyes narrowed and blaze again with the memories. “If you know, why ask?”

“I’m not the one who asked you, Moons,” he shrugs, casually shoving his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. 

“You might as well have, especially with that judging look on your face.” 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Sirius raises his hand in surrender. In Remus’ already predisposed mind, it feels like mockery. “I’m just passing through.” 

“Well, if you’re passing through, why are you still here? Poking your head into matters that aren’t your business?”

Sirius barks a laugh. “See, Moony–it is my business, ‘cause not only you’ve hurt my best friend but you also used my brother to do so,” he shrugs in mockery, eyes tinkling despite Lily swatting him to shut up. 

“Hurt?” Remus repeats, scowling. “She went on snogging someone… someone else and has the gall to say she's hurt?” They all share a look, and the fight visibly leaves Sirius’ body as Remus stands, pushing the chair back with the back of his legs. “What about me? What about me thinking she meant it, that I mustered all my fucking courage to do something… that I was okay about it being just sex even when I was very much not, and… and she goes and not only hugs but snogs Barty Fucking Crouch Junior?”

They all share a look amongst themselves, startled and confused at his outburst. But at the realization of his words—and the prying eyes looking at them that have managed to catch a glimpse of his angry confession—Remus only inhales deeply, picking up his dignity to walk out the cafeteria. All before any of them could get a word out to put him out of his displaced confusion.

Sirius watches him go with a troubled expression, one that mirrors Lily’s as their eyes follow Remus storm out–not at all turning to look at the athletes trying to stop him for a chat. James, on the other hand, deflates visibly as he drops his head to his hands.

“One fucking thing piling after the other,” he mutters into his hands. He leans over Lily when she pulls him to her, nimble fingers dutifully massaging his tense shoulders. 

She shakes her head. “Let them be,” she says, sounding more like her Lily Evans persona. Confident and steady. “I’m sure they’ll fix it soon–it’s just the stress.”

“Yeah, well,” James fixes his glasses, shifting to sit more comfortably. “Doesn’t certainly help that they keep poking at each other instead of just… talking.”

Sirius barks a laugh. “You do realize who you’re talking about, James?”

Laughter spills out of James, breathless and silent, and has both Sirius and Lily sharing a questioning look before turning to him. James hunches over his knees, puffing out chuckles against his uniform. It’s contagious enough that makes Sirius’ lips tug up involuntarily, small chuckles escaping his lips as he stands from his own chair.

“Arse,” he chides lightly, readily accepting James’ blind swat to his side. “I take it you won’t tell her about retirement any time soon?”

“Are you joking?” James shoots up to sit straight, big eyes wide enough to make Sirius laugh louder. “She’ll hang my head at the Big Air venue.”

“Right next to Remus’ head,” Lily adds, giggling.

Sirius shakes his head, smirking. “I’ll go make sure she’s not halfway doing that already,” he points at the door. “See you later before I leave?”

“Sure,” they reply in unison, an united front.

He shoves his hands inside the pockets of his jacket–eyes curiously wandering around the hallway and dorm doors they walk past. When the thought of wondering which one would be yours intrudes his mind, Remus only picks up his pace to try and catch up with the lovebirds’ conversation.

But his mind has already drifted off, and an electric shock crackles at his fingertips–same fingertips that touched your hip, held back before wandering more into your skin. His mouth goes dry, and as the thought crashes into his mind–so do the memories. Memories he’s been trying to suppress to focus on his own Olympic run. Junior’s lips against yours, breathing and tasting you like he had almost done–his arms around you as he hugged you in the same spot he did moments before. The promise that went unfulfilled, the desire that leaked sideways–

“…Remus?”

Remus blinks, shaking his head. He forces his face away from one of the doors to look at Lily’s bemused gaze. “Hm?” he asks, all he allows himself to utter at risk of revealing his clogged throat. 

Lily’s head tilts to the side, smile knowing as she stops walking. “We were just talking about the training schedule. Have you received yours?”

Training schedule. Something easy to think of. Something uncomplicated.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yes. When I got in.”

They share a look at his clipped answer. 

“…And?” James asks, a similar look in his eyes that equates Lily’s. 

“I start tomorrow,” he clarifies, voice more controlled now that he’s in a familiar mentality. Logistics. “They’ve lumped all skiers together, right?”

“Yeah,” Lily says, though her tone reveals she’s far from wanting to divulge into logistics. “Seems you can’t get rid of me yet.”

Remus scoffs lightly, smirking. “It’s going to take more than the Games to get rid of you… Both of you.”

James gawps in faux offense at this, stopping in his tracks as his hand flies to his chest. “Moons?!” he screws his eyes shut in mock wince. “You wound me.”

“Good,” his lips twitch into a smile, letting Lily nudge him with her hip as they walk out into the biting cold. 

The village is, unsurprisingly, filled with athletes. A diaspora of national colors as they walk around, greeting each other and celebrating their arrival to a new round of Olympics or for the first time. Either way, Remus feels just a tad nostalgic as he walks along with his friends. 

“And to think the next time you come here you’ll be married,” he notes, winking at them. He laughs at Lily’s pink cheeks. 

But James, of course, preens. “That’s right!” he all but shouts, and both Lily and Remus quickly shush him when athletes turn to look at them at the commotion.

Some immediately recognize them, and soon they’re stopped for photos and chatting as fellow skiers and snowboarders try to get a glimpse of the legends they’ve looked up to. It’s hard not to feel proud when he smiles at a couple of friends that keep firing him questions about his last X Games run–how he’d managed to beat his own record and–

“Oi, stop that, you wanker!” your voice rings out. “Delete that!”

He turns, almost unconsciously at your boisterous laugh. The sourness shoots up in his chest at the sight, you wrestling and play-fighting around with Junior. Your smile is blinding enough to tug painfully at something inside his chest.

The athletes scatter, all of them realizing in real time that they’re right in front of the Potter Twins as a package. You pose with a first attendee from Australia, letting her ask you questions and fangirl like Remus is sure isn’t the first time.

From behind you, Junior barks a laugh, arms crossed lazily as he tucks his chin to try and listen to the boy that’s whispering to him–their gazes too charged for it to be a first meeting. When the boy pinches Junior’s chin, Remus feels his gaze flickering very quickly to you. Completely unaware.

He tries to quell his confusion–but the indescribable indignation for you wins over. Remus has to ask the boy talking to him to repeat his question for the third time, and he’s sure his eyes are looking somewhere else in most of their selfies.

When the crowd disperses, he watches you turn back to Junior and the boy like nothing happened–smile still blinding and smug and not at all unmoved as they continue flirting between themselves with low whispers. 

Lily follows his gaze as she finishes talking with a fellow skier, and says goodbye with a strange expression that surely mirrors Remus’. But not James, who only points at the pair with a boisterous laugh before jogging to your huddled bunch.

“Rosier?” he laughs, delighted as he stops right before you. “What’re you doing here, you relentless pest?”

The boy, or Rosier–whoever that is–only winks at James rather knowingly. “Didn’t Moody tell you?” he asks instead of answering, smirking when James clasps his shoulder in greeting. “I came to give you a run for your money.”

“Yeah, right,” James laughs. “So Junior is just a standby?”

Remus feels his eyebrows crunching together at the exchange. He tries to send Lily a questioning look, but she’s already walking to catch up with you–Remus pauses behind, still puzzled and not at all in on the joke as you laugh along your brother and her.

“Junior has been a standby our entire relationship. Aren’t you, baby?” he asks, making a point of smooching a kiss into his cheek. Junior makes a poor attempt at pushing him away. You make a face at them. 

Relationship? Baby? 

“God–take that to the dorms,” you roll your eyes, shoving them away from you.

You look up then, and your eyes find his confused gaze from over Lily’s shoulder. 

Something passes over your face, a look Remus immediately recognizes. One that pulls him back into the memory he’s spent the entire day trying to suppress.

“Well, well, well…”

The hallways were filled with athletes, music pounded from an open door and in the air there was a feeling of celebration after a successful performance from the GB team.

Remus looked up, eyebrows raised as he forced his gaze from his medal–shiny and heavy as it hung around his neck. It found its match as he nearly crashed into you on his way to the ski wing. 

Your eyes snapped up to his face, pupils dilated enough to match Remus’. In his veins, the adrenaline coursed through and pumped at his heart. It almost leaped out of his chest as you flashed him a grin. You tapped at your own medal.

He tilted his head to the side, and you mimicked his movement–neither of you moved. If anything, Remus almost felt your medal gracing his as you pretended to pass through. Maybe it was the adrenaline rushing through him, or the pent up energy from the medaling ceremony or… the sudden look you sent his way–but he found himself taking a step sideways. Cornering you into the wall under the pretense of letting people through. 

“I suppose we both proved something, huh?” you stepped closer, voice low enough to be heard amongst the music and the cheering. 

Remus’ eyes roved over your face, pupils blown as he studied you intensely. “I suppose so, yeah,” he nodded. Another step closer. “You finally learned how to hold a 1440.”

You smirked, tilting your chin upwards to meet his gaze. Equally charged as yours. “And you finally stopped overthinking your 1620.” 

A beat. Long enough for your words to land.

“You watched my run,” he said, quieter. Another step closer. His lips twitched into a smirk as you leaned back against the wall, casual. 

“And you watched mine,” you shrugged. “It’s hard to miss when the whole bloody mountain is screaming your name.”

Remus’ mouth went dry, even more when you flashed him that knowing grin you’re famous for–one that kept secretly driving him mad. 

“Were you screaming too?”

Your breath stuttered, and so did his heart at your silence. But, in true fashion, you recovered quickly. Eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips, very fleetingly, but hard to miss. 

You scoffed, looking away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Remus took another step closer, smiling when his medal knocked against yours. The adrenaline pumped harder at his heart, it rang in his ears as you pressed your back against the wall–accepting his sudden closeness. 

He lowered his face, leveling to yours. “So what now?” he whispered. 

You tilted your head. “What now indeed,” you said, voice barely a whisper as his eyes flickered to your lips. 

“It’s been almost 12 years of trying to outdo each other.”

“You’re keeping count?” 

“Someone has to,” his eyes snapped up to yours, though it took an awful lot of strength. “Turns out it’s a great motivator.”

You hummed, smirking as he stepped closer–chest nearly pressed into yours. “Just that?” you whispered.

“Beating you is good, too.”

“It seems you’ve forgotten,” you bit the inner skin of your cheek, searching for his gaze. “That one doing all the beating here is me.”

Remus poked his tongue into his cheek, wiggling his fingers before they could move to their own accord–they crackled with electricity. 

“Bit anti-climatic, isn’t it?” you murmured, face tilting as he ducked his head closer. All under the pretense of trying to hear you better.

His breath tickled your cheek, and you only basked in his dilated pupils–blown enough that his amber irises were nearly nonexistent. You smirked. 

It was enough for Remus to take the leap. “Fancy a tie-breaker?” he whispered, hand slowly moving upwards. 

“For old-time’s sake?”

Remus shrugged one shoulder, smirking lightly. His eyes moved around the hallway, still filled with people. But it appeared you two were in a bubble in your small corner–charged and hot enough to make Remus’ nape prickle with sweat. 

He chuckled, raspy enough to make your eyes flicker back down to his lips. “I was thinking something less public, though,” he almost spoke into your skin. 

You shifted, tilting your chin upwards to knock it into his. Remus smiled at your raised eyebrow. “You’re finally branching into halfpipe?”

His smile dropped, eyebrows crunching together as his gaze found yours. Remus took yet another step closer, knees gracing yours. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

You swallowed, throat bobbling as you held his gaze. 

“Suppose I’ll allow you to spell it out for me. Just this once,” you whispered. In your gaze a challenge that made his heart thump louder, hand moving faster as it landed on your hip.

Remus’ eyes swirled with something dangerous as they met yours, smirking proudly at your startled expression. But you and him knew he was never one to back down from a challenge. 

“Should we keep pretending all this is just for sport, Potter?”

You laughed, very low. It fanned his face as he ducked lower and closer to your face, noses almost brushing. His finger tapped at your hip, wondering if he could travel upwards… perhaps under your jacket. 

“Seems to me you’re losing your competitive edge, Moons.”

His eyes darkened, finger paused mid tap as he looked back down at your lips before moving up to your eyes. His knee nudged your legs open, just a smidge… enough to make you suck in a breath.

“You think this is a game?” you whispered. 

“Isn’t it always with you?” he whispered back in question, enjoying the way you rolled your eyes at him. “Not everything’s a competition, you know.”

Recognition clouded your eyes. “Don’t repeat my own words at me, you prick.” 

Remus laughed, knee moving slightly closer–slotting perfectly between your legs. His finger tapped at your hip again, charged and charged with each passing second. 

“If I walked you to your dorm right now… would you slam the door to my face?”

His palm pressed against your hip, finger wiggling under the hem of your jacket–then under your protective layers. When it found your skin, he smirked at your parted lips. 

You forced them into a smirk. “Depends…” you hummed.

He studied you, your face. The way your eyebrows pinched. And most importantly, how you were just as ready as him to take the leap. 

“On?” he tilted his head to the side, breath fanning against your jaw. 

You shrugged one shoulder again, forcing your gaze back to his eyes. “On whether you’d actually plan on staying.”

Somewhere inside his chest, Remus felt his pride flaring… and another thing, too.

“I don’t drop in unless I’m committed,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing yours. 

“Then why are you hesitating?”

His fingers curl over your hip, pressing harder at it until you’re pinned against the wall–his knee deeper between your legs. Lingering. Remus’ eyes moved up to yours in challenge, and you only smirked, hand moving upwards and upwards to his medal–

“Lupin! Get your arse over here!” 

His head snaps to the voice, unconsciously stepping back as the bubble popped. The ski team nodded at him, gesturing to join them for the celebration. He only waved them away. 

When he turned back to you, your smirk had dropped, arm crossed as you stood straight against the wall. Legs pressed together, forcing his knee away. 

His throat bobbled. “I’ll find you later.”

You only shrugged. “If you can keep up.”

Neither of you clarified. Or set a time. Or committed cleanly.

So when he was being shepherded away by his teammates—voices overlapping with an overjoyed one behind him—it came as a shock when he looked over his shoulder to find you and Junior chatting animatedly in the hallway. In the same spot where he nearly kissed you, where you dangled over the edge of your shared tension… completely transformed into one of pure ire and jealousy as Junior pulled you into a tight hug. And worse… you never pulled away. 

Remus blinks quickly, shaking his head when his fingers crackle with a familiar electricity. 

Barty lets out a laugh. “Tosser,” he says with little to no heat. “He’s lucky my helmet looks better in silver or I’d be throwing a fit.”

“Oi, don’t say that,” you frown, nudging him with your hip. “And don’t give up already.”

Lily nods, forcing her gaze away from James. “Yeah. You could get bronze instead.”

You let out a startled laugh, it increases in volume at Barty’s baffled parted lips. He shakes his head to school his expression, sending you a mock offended scowl–you only wink knowingly before turning back to the slopes where Moody continues whispering and talking with James about his routine.

Snow scrunches somewhere far in the stands, and Remus only walks up to Lily in silence. Amber eyes, too, scanning James as he sets down his duffel bag. 

He sends you and Barty a curt nod before turning to Lily. “Ready to go?” he asks, casual. A bit breathless, too. Like he’s just finished his own training for the day.

“Yeah,” Lily nods, twisting to check her own bag and skis. “Can we wait a bit, though? I want to tell James something.”

“Sure,” he nods, sitting down. A couple of extra inches away from your huddled bunch. 

“What? Skis got your tongue, Lupin?” Barty leans over you to send him a smirk, it spreads at Remus’ eyeroll. “Are we invisible?”

“Hey, be nice,” Lily nudges him. 

“I’m being nice–it was just a question.”

Remus stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles instead of actively taking the bait. Barty only waves him off, bored at lack of attention. Clearly, Remus isn’t in the mood to talk at all. As he tends to be when he’s got a comp coming. 

You bite the inner skin of your cheek, tilting your chin ever so slightly to look away from him and his tense shoulders–despite his otherwise relaxed demeanor. When you look at Barty, he’s already eyeing you curiously. A tad smugly, too. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, leaning over his knees. He sends you a sideway look, smirking. “Are you still giving me a ride later?”

“That depends–what kind of ride?” you ask, a reflex of your years long friendship. 

From your side, a bit far away and without your knowledge, Remus tenses. 

Lily groans, dropping her face into her hands. “God–I can’t believe you,” her voice comes out muffled, and you let out a breathy laugh at her pink ears. “You’re insufferable–what was the bloke from Red Bull thinking by putting you together in the press run?”

“Hey,” you both frown.

“Be lucky you haven’t been kicked out,” Remus hums, too. Clipped.

Barty’s smirk spreads at his jab, finally receiving the answer he had been hoping for. “We can only be so lucky,” he makes a show of letting out a long sigh. “That way you can go with this one in my place.”

“Yeah, right–I think I’ll pass.”

You only roll your eyes, well used to their bickering.

Again, snow crunches somewhere at the entrance of the track. Then, a maniac laugh you know very well. Unfortunately. You pinch your forehead in tired anticipation, almost bracing. Next to you, Barty sucks in a breath as well.

“Bartemius,” Bellatrix says, smiling wide.

“Bellatrix,” he nods curtly at her. All the playfulness dissolves from his stance. “Here to study the competition?”

“What competition? She’s not even going to the Games,” you murmur down at your boots. 

Bellatrix’s expression sours, head whipping to you. She takes a step closer, almost menacingly. It takes you an immense amount of restraint to not take a step back, her eyes swirl dangerously as they zero on you. 

“I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you,” she says. “There’s still time to fill your spot.”

You laugh. “And that would be you?” you ask, smirking when hers wavers. Her expression morphs into a scowl as you cross your ankles. “Now who’s the smug one? Or… well, presumptuous.”

“Tragic,” Barty tsks, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “You haven’t changed at all.”

She pointedly ignores him, eyes focused on you. “Careful, Potter,” she raises her nose, arms crossed tightly as she takes another step closer. You bite your inner cheek in response, trying to swallow down any reaction to her taunting. Bellatrix seems to read right through you, anyway. “I’d hate for that pretty face to take another hit before the games.”

Your lips twist sideways, swallowing a flinch where you feel a phantom pain at the corner of your mouth. “If I take a hit, it’d be at the games,” your eyes flicker down, studying her before they move back up. “…where will you be?”

You’re so attuned to her tells, her micro expressions that snow crunching somewhere next to you goes unnoticed. Then the sound of gear and bags being set aside.

A hand lands at your shoulder, and Bellatrix’s expression twists in barely controlled anger.

“Closer than you think,” she snaps, taking another step closer. Barty tries to pull you back by the shoulder, but you won’t budge. She smirks, the same maniac smirk she’s known for. “It doesn’t take much, as you can see… one miscalculation… or one bad landing–” she shoves you. Hard.

It’s at record time—or maybe just coiled nerves that snap you off—in which you shove her back with the same amount of force. Her eyebrows twitch ever so faintly in surprise that you’ve reiterated this time. 

She laughs, holding fast at your jacket. Commotion rises when she steps into your personal space. “You’ve always been fragile, and you know that better than anyone.”

You try to shove her back, and Barty changes tactics, circling you to pull Bellatrix back. But as she holds fast at your jacket, you smirk at her. “And yet, I’m the one that keeps winning… taking medals from you,” you flick an eyebrow at her. Despite your heart thumping loudly inside your chest. “I even took your boy toy.”

It’s enough to set her off.

You feel the hit before you realize what’s happening. Her screech comes out estranged as Barty pulls her back with little to no effort, dragging her away as you sit back on the snow, hand rubbing at the shoulder you landed on. The stinging in your jaw stuns you into silence. 

Bellatrix’s screeches fade as Barty shouts at her, raging placations that go on deaf ears as she points at you with that twisted angered face. Moody somewhere behind her trying to calm her down with that looming voice of his after just noticing the reason everyone’s circling around you. 

“Don’t you dare touch her again, you hear me?” James shouts at her, pointedly ignoring Lily’s quiet placations to try and calm him down. 

You screw your eyes shut, rubbing at the sore spot on shoulder. 

A presence eclipses you, their fingers slow as they guide your hand away from your shoulder. It tests the spot carefully. Then, a voice, “Where does it hurt?” Remus asks, clipped tone at odds with the worried divot between his eyebrows.

In all the commotion of the moment, his sudden appearance at the scene went completely unnoticed by you. Even less the way he set everything aside when Bellatrix gripped your jacket. 

“It’s fine,” you grumble. 

He tries a higher spot, and you swallow a yelp. “Here?”

You flinch in surprise at his touch, and so does Remus as his eyes land on his hand at your shoulder. His unconscious reflex to touch you, to tend to the sore spot. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, all frayed nerves as you swat his hand away. “It’s fine.”

Remus raises to his feet, frowning. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need help,” you stand, movements slow with the stinging sensation in your back muscles. “And certainly not yours.”

He scoffs. “Don’t be stubborn. It clearly hurts and–”

“So what if it hurts?” you frown, twisting to take your bag. The shouts fade as Bellatrix is escorted out of the track. “What is it to you?”

His jaw clenches, and you channel your adrenaline crash into courage to glance up to meet his gaze. Just as troubled and confused as yours. 

“Are you okay?” 

You force your gaze away to meet James’ still reeling with leftover anger, panting as he scans you for any visible injuries. You suck in a breath as his eyes harden when they land on your jaw. Then, feeling the adrenaline slowly crashing down, you nod quickly at him. 

Lily jogs back to join you, hand at your shoulder where Remus touched. Your eyes involuntarily flicker up to him, where he’s still studying you with furrowed eyebrows, jaw still clenched.

“I told you,” James says again, shaking his head. “I told you to be careful and–”

“I know,” you say before he can start getting angry again. “I know, I’m sorry,” your voice quietens with shame as you turn to Moody.

Moody lets out a puff of air, hands braced over his hips as he considers you. “Does it hurt?” he tilts his chin at you. Your fingertips fly to your jaw, massaging the skin softly.

“No–just sore. It took me by surprise, that’s all,” you bite the inner skin of your cheek. “I’m fine.”

Remus looks away, lips twisted sideways as he pokes his tongue harder against his cheek. 

“Ice that when you get home,” your coach advises after a beat. His eyes flicker to James. “Go run a lap at the gym before heading home, calm that bloody anger. After that I want you two to go directly home–no reroutes, you hear me?”

You nod, James’ a tad slower, but it’s enough to appease Moody as he walks out the track to go check on Bellatrix’s pending expulsion from the training center.

A tense silence falls on the slope.

James is the first to walk away, huffing and muttering under his breath as he heads to the gym to burn off his leftover anger and adrenaline.

“Cheeky bastard,” Sirius laughs, shaking his head as he peers down at your phone. You jump, pressing it against your chest in response, caught in the act. “Woah!”

“Have you decided which swim trunks you’re taking?”

He raises an eyebrow at you, half sitting at the back of the couch. “I have, yeah,” his voice is twinged with amusement as he looks down at you. “I’ve been calling for you, though.”

“Sorry,” you look down at your phone, still pressed hard against your chest. You snap your head up before he can read too much into it. “Um, what did you need?”

His lips twitch. “Nothing too important,” his eyes flicker down to your phone before pushing himself off the couch. “You may continue your ogling.”

“I’m not!” you call out as he walks into his room. “I’m just–” he closes the door before you can get a word out. You try again. “Wanker!”

Sirius doesn’t answer, only continues moving around his room. You slowly uncover your phone, paused with Remus mid-sentence as he answers a question you also managed to not hear in your studying of his stance. Not ogling.

“These are your second Winter Games, and you return as a defending champion. What’s different about your mentality now? What did winning teach you?”

In the shot, Remus smiles faintly. Almost knowingly.

“Well… winning’s loud, for starters,” he says into the mic. Laughter echoes lightly inside the room. You roll your eyes. “Once you win, there’s a lot of noise. From the outside and the inside, too. There’s a lot of adrenaline as well–everything moves too quickly.”

Silence falls inside the room, occasionally interrupted by flashes going off. Remus doesn’t back down, if anything, his stance relaxes–lips tugging up in that smirk of his. You silently brace for the punchline as he sends the camera a look.

“I think the biggest lesson was clarity,” he adds. There’s a pause where he gathers his thoughts, tapping at the mic base before looking back to face the journalists. “Even when everything feels like revindication or a celebration, you still have to know exactly what line you’re committing to,” his eyes flicker very fleetingly to the camera again.

Somewhere in the flat, the door opens and closes–followed by a mix of curses. You only grip your phone tighter, feeling your eyebrows crunching together as Remus relaxes on his chair. Smug as he does a deliberate pause to scan the room.

Remus leans into the mic, eyes unconsciously finding the camera, “And,” he adds, smirking now. “you have to trust no one’s going to change it at the last second.”

And there it is. The dig–unheard to the journalists but crystal clear to your ears. Remus nods before turning to take another question, and the weight of his answer lingers in the room. Your chest, too. Where journalists whisper about his dedication to the sport and defending his title–you’re brought back to that night at the Olympic village. The charger looks and heavy touches.  

You throw the phone to the cushion. “Fucking hypocrite,” you mutter.

“That’s you not ogling, huh?”

You jump again. “Jesus fucking Christ!” you twist when Sirius breaks into a laughing fit, Marlene’s echoes somewhere inside her room. You swat at Sirius, a tad harder this time. “Stop doing that!”

Marlene barks a laugh as she steps out her room, now in her comfies after her own night training. “Well, had you not been too busy eye-fucking Remus…” she hums.

“I was not,” you bristle, hiding your phone deep between the cushions. “It just popped up!”

“Ah,” she nods, draping herself across the couch, legs at your lap tauntingly. “And you still watched?”

You shake your head, pinching the skin of her shin and masterfully dodging her attempt to hit you with the cushion. Your phone remains incriminating with the screen up and Remus still answering questions from journalists. 

Sirius rounds the couch, plopping himself over Marlene and pointedly ignoring your groan. “And why is he a hypocrite?”

Your eyes flicker to the screen, Remus’ voice is muffled under Sirius’ bum. “Ask him.”

He makes a sound awfully close to a disbelieving laugh. “You’re not serious,” you part your lips to speak, but he silences you immediately with a halfhearted glare. “Don’t you dare.”

Marlene shifts her weight on the couch, her knees dig into your thighs as she finds a comfortable position to fully engage in the conversation–one you’re sure she’s ready to chime in and add fuel to the fire. If her mischievous tinkling eyes are anything to go by.

“He said the exact same bloody thing–you two are infuriating.”

“Hm,” you say, looking away. His eyes land on the bruise at your jaw, near the tended little cut of your busted lip. All from the same person. “Hypocrite.”

Marlene mimics your hum, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “I’d have to agree–poking at you but fuming as soon as someone does the exact same thing.”

This does get both your attention. The way you and Sirius turn to look at her in the same beat is almost comical–Marlene successfully swallows down a snicker at your shared reaction. But, while Sirius’ is mostly confused, yours is bordering on anger. 

“What?” Sirius asks, seeing you won’t. His eyes move to look at you from his peripheral, biting at the inner skin of your cheek. 

“You heard me,” Marlene only nods at him before shifting to face you. “Remember those tossers at the training track?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they went on talking shit about you during your training run. Remus was there, too.”

“Of course he was,” you scoff, throwing your head back. “He can’t miss a chance to take a piss at my expense.”

“Hm, no?” Marlene has a funny expression in her eyes, scanning you with a lifted eyebrow. “It was completely different. In fact–I believe he called you a serious athlete, and a bloody good one, too.”

Sirius sends her a look, lifted eyebrow as he stares at her incredulously. Marlene sends him a warning look in response. Maybe she added the bit about Remus calling you a good athlete, but what you don’t know won’t hurt you.

Except, apparently… it does. 

Your expression sours visibly as you pick your head up again, biting harsher at the inner skin of your cheek. There’s a phantom iciness on your back, one that mirrors the feeling of the wall against your skin–his fingers curling around your hip under your jacket. Fancy a tie-breaker? Remus’ words echo inside your mind, your skull. Your chest. 

You screw your eyes shut, shaking your head ever so faintly it has the opposite effect. If you concentrate hard enough, you can almost remember his breath near yours–

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” 

They share a look, and Sirius worms his arm between you and Marlene to pinch softly at your side. Coaxing enough to make you crack a small, barely there smile. A troubled expression passes over your face.

“I think it’d help if you do,” he says quietly. “You’re heading to the Olympics and this sort of distraction can cost you the podium.”

Marlene drops her head to your shoulder, already picking up on the way you continue biting harsher at your skin—a tell between your friends that you’re nearing a complicated conversation. One that has been weighing you down for four years.

“He never said?” your voice quietens. 

“He didn’t need to–neither of you,” Sirius says, sending you a sorry smile. “It was quite obvious something shifted, babes.”

You look away. “That obvious, huh?”

He sends you a tight-lipped smile, almost in sympathy. It ignites your anger once again.

“It was so stupid,” you shake your head. “I was so bloody stupid–thinking he meant it.”

Marlene’s hand finds yours, squeezing gently. “Meant what?”

“That’s the thing–I don’t know,” you puff out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know if I’m the stupid one for reading too much into it or for actually believing he would show up.”

Sirius’ eyes flicker to Marlene, both beginning to match the pieces in their story. “Show up where?”

Your lips twist from side to side, weighing the words in your tongue. A tense silence falls in your otherwise lovely flat. “My dorm,” you finally say very quietly. But it hangs heavy in the air.

You don’t know how much this has been pressing down on you until you speak–feeling your heart twisting inside your chest. It hurts, and it has always hurt. But maybe somewhere along those lines you numbed yourself to it, putting it into your training instead.

“Next thing I see?” you suck in a breath. “Him nearly snogging the living daylights out of Mary MacDonald. And your brother, right after.”

Realization clouds their expression, hard to read as they turn to look at each other. You only bite at your cheek, letting your face drop to Marlene’s head in consolation. She answers readily by squeezing your wrist.

Sirius nods, humming. “So you went and did the same thing with Junior,” he says, knowing. 

“Not my best idea at the moment.”

Marlene laughs. “Now that’s an understatement,” she shakes her head. Her voice quietens as she sends you a sideways glance. “That explains a lot, though.”

She turns to Sirius, nudging him knowingly into the joke, but he’s deep in thought. His eyebrows have furrowed in that same way they do during his competitions–focused and intense eyes staring into nothing. 

“Sirius?” she asks, confused. 

Sirius shakes his head, blinking rapidly before turning to meet your face. “Have you talked about this with him?”

You scoff. “Yeah, as if–I would rather not even entertain that idea, thank you.” 

“I think…” he says, pausing to gauge your reaction. “It’s worth the shot, y/n. It seems to me that he has an entirely different opinion about this.”

“Well, of course he has,” you gripe, shifting to untangle yourself from your cuddling position. You stand, shoulders tense as you snatch your phone back. The interview is finished and Remus is no longer on the screen. “I just wish he had not been a bloody coward and told me to my face.”

James tries to level you with a look, but you only tilt your chin here and there, pretending to focus on trying to find your parking spot. He calls your name sternly when he realizes you simply won’t meet his gaze. 

“Forget it,” you shrug. 

“Uh…? No?” his voice tilts in a funny, incredulous way. “What does Remus have to do with any of this? What does he know?” 

You almost wave him off, but then you find your spot. Occupied. By Remus… Again. Who has the gall to wave at you when he meets your gaze. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you blurt out, voice twinged with frustration. “Not again–Jesus fucking christ.”

James leans back on the passenger seat, waving back at Remus where he sits at the edge of his trunk, munching on a chocolate protein bar. You maneuver the steering wheel and park across from him, scowling the whole time. Your brother sends you a bemused look from his peripheral, it’s soon accompanied by a little smile when you hunch over the wheel, resting your forehead with a huff.

“Right…” James says, fiddling with his little paper ball. “You were saying?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you were. About Remus, to be precise.”

You sit straight, twisting just enough to reach for your lunch bag from the backseat. “Whatever I have with Junior is none of your business, or Bellatrix’s,” you open the door, not before sending him a halfhearted glare. “And definitely not Remus’, okay?” 

“Alright,” James laughs, raising his hands in surrender as you slam the door closed. He shakes his head as you round your car to open the trunk. 

“What about me?” Remus calls out, dangling his leg over the trunk of his own car. He gives his protein bar a pointed bite when you look at him over your shoulder. “Already talking about me? It’s barely seven, aren’t you quite the overachiever?”

You pointedly ignore him. Just like James when he walks across the lot to chat with Remus. Their voices overlap as they greet each other, paper wrinkles as Remus continues munching on his protein bar and you sling your duffel bag over your shoulder with enough force to hit your own bum. 

“James, I’m not carrying your stuff,” you call out, tucking your helmet under your arm. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming–God,” he chuckles, jogging across the lot to take his gear. 

Remus hums, tipping his chin at you in greeting when you turn to lean back on the side of your car. You huff, looking away before he can get any ideas to try and needle you again. 

Turns out, he doesn’t need to.

A whistle comes, and you turn your head to find two boys walking up to you–carrying their own gear like it’s some sort of flow war. You push yourself off your car in greeting, already sending them your podium, award winning smile. 

“Nice board,” one of them tells James, pointing at your board and completely ignoring you. “Red Bull, huh?”

“You’re one of the big ones?”

James straightens from his fussing at his own gear, thumb under the sling of his duffel bag as he scans the boys. It’s fleeting enough for them to notice, but you bite back a smirk as you look down at the gravel.

“Nah,” James jokes, taking his board. “This is my board,” he pats it. Then points at yours with a little smug smile. “That one’s hers.”

They both follow his finger, and it’s almost comical the way they try to break out their own charming smiles when they notice you. A girl.

From across the lot, Remus feels his eyebrows wrinkling just a smidge–protein bar suspended midair as he studies the two boys.

“Hi,” you smile. “You’re going in or already done?”

“Just going in,” one of them says, setting down his board with enough confidence to make your smile widen. “Will I be seeing you there?”

“That depends, where exactly is ‘there’?” you ask, voice twinged with faux innocence. Or at least to someone that knows you well. The boys perk up at your question. “The green slope?”

The first one laughs, cockily. “Love, come on,” he shakes his head, nudging at his friend. “But we’re willing to go slow for you, eh? Maybe run the basics.”

James parts his lips to speak, but you only let out a laugh that can easily be mistaken as flirting. Remus looks away, tongue poking at his cheek. 

“Ah, the basics–of course, yeah,” you nod.

They perk up. “Yeah?”

“Of course. Why not?” you send your brother a sideways look. 

James presses his lips in a line, slinging his own bag over his shoulder. He closes the trunk with one swift motion, and you pretend to struggle picking up your board–one of the boys nearly scrambles to offer his help.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” you shake your head.

“Allow me, please. It’s no problem,” he sends you what you assume is his most charming smile.

You send him your own. “Thank you.” 

You send James another look over your shoulder, and he laughs loudly, nudging at Remus–whose furrowed eyebrows have deepened as he takes his own gear. He slings his skis over his shoulder to walk along, protein bar already shoved inside his pocket.

Except, the pair visibly slows down as you near the entrance–where there hangs two twin banners, James and you, celebrating your big win at the World Cup. Remus scoffs when he, once again, meets your gaze in banner form as you bite into one of your medals with a winning smirk. He sees your real smirk when he lowers his gaze from the banner to you as you savor the way the boys’ faces slacken at what they see. 

“So,” you say, taking your board back. “The green slope?”

“You…” one of them blinks.

“But you said you were a beginner,” the other adds.

“Ah, I didn’t. You assumed it,” you shake your head. “But it’s fine, I can spare a couple of minutes to meet you at the green slope. You know, run the basics?”

In a classic move of wounded pride, the first one snorts, crossing his arms. “Is this your humiliation ritual?” he asks. “Are you joking?”

“Yeah,” the other nods, scowling in camaraderie. “‘Sides, you can’t be that good–if you have to train here.”

At this, Remus scoffs. He can’t help it, and he also doesn’t know why he does it. It escapes him before he can reign it back. “Come on, mate. Do you not see the Red Bull on her board?”

There’s a beat of silence, and you do an awful good job to not react to his jab. 

James reacts first. “Are you lot in the habit of using condescending misogyny with girls you just met?” He crosses his ankles casually, but you know him well enough to know there’s nothing casual about his stance. “Get lost.”

They scoff, turning to walk away. You point your finger at the green slope sign with a little smirk. 

There’s a small stretch of silence where you only watch them actually head to the green slope, and you let out a laugh when they’re far enough to not hear your boisterous laughter. 

“You’re mean,” James shakes his head. “Asking them to carry your board? Actual violence.”

You shrug, looking awfully pleased with yourself as you smoothly tuck your board under your arm. “Hey, sometimes misogyny can do a lot for a girl.”

Your brother only chuckles, opening the door for you to walk inside. Though his smile quickly dissipates when he notices Moody across the lobby, and your otherwise charming brother quite literally scrambles to hide in the gym when your coach starts walking towards him. 

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Why is James running away from you now?”

“He can’t just skip night training because he's got a bloody wedding to plan,” Moody explains, walking past you with his eyes headset on the gym doors. “See you at the halfpipe in 15,” he tells you. 

”Copy that,” you take a step back in mockery, but your coach is too agitated to spot your taunting as he quite literally chases after James.

When it’s just you two, you pivot slowly to face Remus, who immediately feels your mischievous eyes and glances down at you. 

“What?”

“Subtle.”

He rolls his eyes, shifting into another foot to study you in disinterest. It almost works. “Just say it already–whatever you want to say. I haven’t got time.”

“Sponsor shoutout was brave of you,” you muse, enjoying the way he stands straight, bristling. “Especially with your history with Red Bull.”

“You could just say thank you.”

“Sure,” you say, cocking your head to the side. You walk backwards to the halfpipe exit. “And you could’ve just said I’m good.” 

Remus scoffs. “Just take the bloody compliment and go.”

This does make you stop in your tracks. “So it was a compliment?” 

You flash him a grin at his silence and he simply turns to walk away–even if he’s scheduled to train his halfpipe routine today as well. 

You’re quite literally glowing against the snow when he sees you at the deck a few hours later, retelling your story about the boys at the parking lot to anyone willing to listen. Marlene reacts accordingly, fusing and scowling like she had been the one looked down to, and Remus has to quell his simmering ire when you answer honestly that you indeed found them attractive–despite their blatant condescension. 

He waxes his skis absentmindedly, looking for all intents and purposes indifferent to Marlene’s probing and your even more joyful answers. 

“Quit wasting time and run that again!” Moody calls at you from the flat line. You make a show of groaning, expertly tucking your board under your arm to take the lift. “And don’t you dare add anything, you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” you salute him.

Remus presses his lips in a line, a futile attempt to keep his satisfied smirk at bay at your coach’s insistent scolding. There wouldn’t be any scolding to begin with if you stopped being so reckless.

“That’s the one, yeah,” a voice says.

“Which one? The one going up the lift?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” it answers, and Remus immediately recognizes the tone. “Bloody show-off.”

He sits straight, arms lazily over his skies as he considers the two boys huddling by the stands, another one by their side who’s probably just there for moral support. They all watch you take a lift with contempt, and mostly wounded pride–Remus would know, he’s spent many days watching you that way from the same spot. Since the last Olympics, to be precise.

He follows their gaze, and you’re nodding along as you strap in your board and prepare to duck in. Confidently. 

“Look at her,” one of the boys scoffs.

“Acting all mighty like she won’t stack the first run.”

Remus only hums, taking more wax from his container. “Do you always narrate your insecurities out loud, or is this just a special occasion?” he asks, not even looking up as he begins waxing his other ski.

From his other side, Marlene’ lips pinch. 

One of them scoffs. “Insecurities?” he asks, turning to him. When his eyes flicker to Remus’ skis, a some sort of conspiratorial smile tugs at his lips–like Remus could join in on the conversation if he plays the right cards. “We’re just pointing out what everyone’s thinking.”

Marlene parts her lips to speak, but Remus’ dry chuckle beats her to it. “Don’t speak for me, mate. I’m not insecure–at all.”

The other one takes a step. “What is it to you, anyway?”

Remus pauses, and looks back down at his skis when he feels the intensity of Marlene’s curious eyes all over him. 

He clears his throat, “Nothing,” he closes his wax container, voice twinged with detachment. “You’re just being very loud–there are serious athletes trying to concentrate here, you know.”

They part their lips to speak, but snow crunches at the halfpipe and they all turn to see you jump into a cab double cork 1080–indy grab. You land perfectly, without any trace of hesitation as you slide upwards into frontside 540. 

Remus feels his lips tugging into a smirk–eyes flickering from you at the halfpipe to the boys’ stunned reactions. An odd feeling spreads through his chest–but it quickly dissipates when he accidentally meets Marlene’s knowing gaze.

James swats lightly at your shoulder, and you’re forced to look away from Remus’ sour expression to meet your twin’s amused one.

“Be civil,” he reminds you. “Least you need is a scandal so close to the Games.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you shrug, smiling. Your mood has visibly improved at the prospect of taunting Remus. You almost feel giddy to set off more annoyed reactions from him. “It’s his fault for being a needling little shit.”

“Who? Me?” Sirius asks, slinging his arms around both your shoulders as he wiggles between you. “You know I can’t help it. It’s a chronic condition.”

“Oh, that we know,” you nod, flicking at his bicep. Sirius yelps in offense, fingertips pressing down at the offended patch of skin with a funny frown. You wave him off. “Don’t be dramatic, it hardly hurts.”

Sirius flicks your jaw in response and you yelp in the same manner he did. His lips tug sideways in a cheeky smirk. “You were saying?”

“Arse,” you mutter petulantly.

“Is your shoot done already?” James’ eyebrows wrinkle, he tilts his chin to try and get a glimpse of Lily from the sea of people. 

“It’s just me and Reg. They hardly need any more than a few shots,” he gestures at his face then, and you and James share a knowing, deadpan look in anticipation of his punchline. “But with this face? Babe, they’ll be begging me to stand back in front of the camera in no time.”

Moody shuffles around the lounge, standing when a journalist attempts to have a go to fire some questions at your huddled bunch. Neither of you pay any mind, too used to really care about the implications of being photographed or perceived like this. Everyone knows that, while you and James are usually referred to as the wonder twins of snowboarding, the three of you are also known as being a knit-tight trio in winter sports. 

The journalist perks up from where Moody is trying to shepherd them away when Remus walks towards you, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his own uniform.

Additionally to your well-known friendship with Sirius, the on-going rivalry between Remus is just as known to the sports world as it is to the training center.

Remus’ lips spread into a sideways smirk when he meets your gaze. “You made it,” he nods curly at you. 

“Relieved?” you fire back, tilting your head like he tends to do during your verbal sparrings. 

He scoffs, crossing his arms. “Hardly.”

It’s in this movement where your eyes, to their own accord, travel down to his uniform. The baggy jacket and trousers and the deep blue color matching with his tawny hair. It brings a hot flash of irritation to see him so confident wearing it. Like it’s what he’s always been destined to do. 

When you force your eyes back to his face, Remus has a look on his face that is hard to pinpoint. It tends to come and go as of lately, but it doesn’t go away when you meet his gaze. He tilts his chin, regaining his composure as he waves at a few journalists that call out to him as they walk past your little lounging area. 

“At least we won’t have to worry about you moping around Hogwarts,” he adds when he turns to look back at you. “It was sort of depressing.”

“Didn’t know you paid that much attention to me,” you brush a few of your curled strands of hair away from your face. “Or was it just you scouting the competition?”

Remus’ smirk spreads like you’ve walked directly into his trap. “It seems to me that the one paying that much attention is you.” 

“Yeah, as if,” you snort, biting the inner skin of your cheek.

“Throwing my words back at me? Watching my training runs?” he lists off, looking faraway. His eyes tinkle when he notices the way you bristle with each of his words. “Accosting me at the gym?” 

“Oh, fuck off,” you gripe, turning to walk away from him and your conversation altogether.

He pokes his tongue into his cheek, eyes roving over your uniform as you snatch your water bottle from your backpack. 

“Have you seen Lily?”

Remus forces his gaze away from you to James, who tilts his head in curiosity. And a little knowing, especially when his eyes flicker from him to you. 

“Hm? Oh, no,” he shakes his head. “Just got in, but I reckon she’s out here somewhere with the rest of the skiing team.”

James nods, dragging his sweaty palms over his uniform as he turns to look around. Remus takes the distraction in stride to tilt his chin slightly upwards, where he manages to get a glimpse of you over James’ head. You’re chatting away with a few of the team members, Barty Crouch Jr. specifically–another fellow snowboarder that keeps poking at Remus’ sore spots as of lately. 

Voices chatter around, and Remus pointedly looks down at the floor and toes at the corner of the rug to not give in to those memories. Though he sends you one last fleeting glance from his peripheral. Totally unintentional.

When he turns to offer help James to go search for Lily, he comes face to face with a smirking Sirius instead.

“What?”

Sirius only flicks an eyebrow at him. 

“Alright, time to hit the road,” Moody claps, shepherding James to the other side of the room, where official portraits and headshots are being taken. “Potter, quit chatting him up–come on,” he gestures at you, mid joke with Barty. 

Remus pokes his tongue into his cheek again, looking away as you say your goodbyes with the cantankerous snowboarder to follow your brother and coach around the room. 

Steps shuffle, and he screws his eyes shut as Sirius makes a bemused sound next to him. 

“What?”

“Hm?” Sirius has the gall to raise his eyebrows in disinterest. “I didn’t say anything.”

“But you want to,” Remus rolls his eyes, looking around the room.

He manages to catch a small glimpse of James and Lily at one of the photo calls. Both grinning as they pose with her ring at full display. You’re nowhere to be seen.

“Come on, out with it.”

“Do you want me to?” Sirius asks, crossing his ankles in that infuriatingly cocky manner of his. “‘Cause I have plenty of things to say.”

Remus laughs. “When don’t you?”

Someone calls you over, and flashes increase in volume and intensity as you hop on to join James for the photo call. Everyone begins cheering for the Potter twins, and–like always–you welcome the cameras and questions like a pro. Like it’s something you’ve always been destined to do.

“Look at them,” Sirius points.

Remus doesn’t take the bait. Or at least not at first, he simply forces his gaze away in search of his own coach. McGonagall continues chatting with a few assistants about pre approved questions for his own press release.

“They’ve always liked an audience,” he murmurs, tapping at his elbows as you and James stand back to back. Twin grins as you pose for the camera.

Remus rolls his eyes, shaking his head with barely contained irritation.

“That’s not what I meant,” Sirius nudges him with his hip, sending him a sideway glance. 

“What did you mean, then?” 

They both turn back to the ruckus, where you’re chatting up some photographers to get your good side, James somewhere off the side trying to needle you with a grin. You send him a subtle middle finger as you pretend to fuss with your hair and James’ answer is a boisterous laugh. The flashes increase in intensity at your cheeky laugh, all the photographers and journalists take your distraction in stride.

“She may not look like it right now,” Sirius starts, making a show of inspecting the tips of his hair. “But up until two days ago, she wasn’t sure she’d even be here today.”

Remus scoffs. “Don’t be daft. Everyone knew she’d make the team.”

“Not her. No,” Sirius shakes his head. “Doesn’t certainly help that she’s got insufferable tossers poking at her.”

“I’m one of the insufferable tossers, I assume?”

“If it fits,” he shrugs. Then, a pause. Remus can almost feel the question coming. It hangs in the air as Sirius shifts his weight from his toes to his heels, as if deliberately trying to irritate Remus with his silence. “What is it about the Games that makes you two so hotheaded?”

Remus doesn’t answer, but he does poke his tongue against his cheek–an answer in itself as he looks around the room. Squinting his eyes at the intense flashes pointing at every direction, occasionally at him. 

There’s an overlapping of voices and cheering as the crowd increases around the photocall section, where the rest of the snowboarding team climb up to pose for the official team shoot. He can almost imagine the headlines, Potter Twins lead Team GB Snowboard Squad for the Winter Olympics. 

He feels the ever consuming knot in his chest when Barty nods at you as he’s guided to pose right by your side–of all places. His lip piercing glistens against the flashes as he smirks down at you. Remus tries to suppress the hot irritation in his chest at the sight, even more when he gets a flashing memory of that night.

He turns to Sirius, arms crossed. “Ask her,” he tilts his chin at you before walking away. 

“He’s hardly competition.”

Sirius crunches his nose. “Humor me,” he nudges you again.

“I am humoring you. Why do you think I’m here?”

“You could wait for me at the lodge,” he hums, clapping loudly when Remus takes the lift for the drop-in. You simply roll your eyes, taking the cup from him before he can spill it all over. “You can do it, Moons!”

“He hardly needs you cheering him on. He’s well aware he can do it–he’s insufferable like that.”

“Cheering doesn’t hurt,” Sirius shrugs one shoulder, clapping loudly at Remus. “I know you’re bloody good and I still like to cheer for you–and I’d say you’re just as insufferable as Remus.” 

You scowl. “Don’t you dare compare me to him again,” Sirius has the gall to bark a laugh when you shove him sideways. 

“Oi, I’m just pointing out a fact. No need to get your knickers in a twist,” he loops his arm through yours, lest you try to walk away. You part your lips to speak, but Sirius is already dog whistling at Remus. “Let’s go, Moony!”

Despite your best efforts to appear uninterested, you still follow his gaze to catch the exact moment Remus tucks for a sharp drop-in. You roll your eyes as he rides a smooth fall line, knees soft and relaxed as he eases into the run. 

When he jumps in a cork 720, you feel your eyebrows raising in surprise at the recklessness of his decision. Very unusual for Remus. 

You tame your expression when Sirius sends you a sideway glance, and you simply give his cup a lengthy sip in distraction–looking away from the slope altogether. Snow crunches as he glides past, not at all casting a glance away from the routine and his new target in the first rail. Not even when Sirius claps at him, movements wonky as he continues looping his arm through yours. He jostles you because of it, cocoa swishing inside the paper cup.

You pretend to fiddle with the sleeve of your jacket when he does a fast entry to the rail, doing a clean slide and finishing with a 270. His landing is smooth, and you squint your eyes as you look around the park in boredom. But curiosity keeps poking at you as you send him a quick glance from your peripheral. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sirius sucks in a breath, his hand shoots up in obvious surprise. Your head whips to follow his gaze. “I thought he was going to stack that one.”

You snort. “We can only be so lucky.”

“Oi–quit that,” he gives your arm a cruel tug, frowning at you before turning back to the slopes.

You’d feel a tad guilty about your jab if you knew Remus stacking is about as likely as you eating it. 

In the training slope, Remus switches, easing into the run to gain speed. You bite the inner skin of your cheek when he hits an impressively and infuriatingly clean 1440 spin, mute grab and high enough to have Sirius holding his breath in anticipation. You feel the ever familiar irritation coursing through your veins all the way to your chest. 

“Fuck yeah!” Sirius shouts, cocooning his gloved hands to be heard all the way from where you’re standing. “Maniacs, the lot of you.”

You snort. “It’s not that scary once you get the hang of it,” you murmur. “At least we don’t have to wear pointy blades. Now that’s maniac.”

Athletes clap and cheer when he carves at the flat line, not at all making a show of noticing all the eyes on him as he raises his goggles. And there it is, that infuriating smirk again. 

You pretend to fiddle with the paper cup lid, carefully when Sirius claps loudly and jostles you in the process. Words muffle as Remus listens intently to his coach’s pointers–Minerva McGonagall, a retired freestyle skier that put the sport on the map. One of the very best. And of course, she’s Remus’ coach. 

“What could he possibly need to fix?” Sirius asks, leaning over you to get a glimpse of their whispered conversation. They’re too far you can’t even make out any of their words. “That was a perfect run.”

You scoff. “Hardly. Did you see the way he hesitated before the final 1440?” 

Sirius hums, nodding as he looks around, waving at people and acquaintances that recognize him. He sends you a prodding look.

“What?”

“Didn’t you say you’re not scouting the competition?”

“Didn’t I also say Remus Lupin is hardly competition?”

“Well, of course–why would I want to compete against you? I prefer a challenge.”

Remus smiles, it borders on smugness when you whip your head to scowl at him. He fixes his hold of the skies over his shoulder–cocking his head sideways to follow your gaze when you try to look away. He reads right through your attempt to appear indifferent.

Of course, he doesn’t miss the opportunity to provoke you. “Fancy seeing you here. Came to watch?”

You let out an incredulous laugh, it borders on bitterness as you squint your eyes to look up at him, shielding your eyes from the sun. “Don’t flatter yourself–I’m just here to give Sirius a ride,” you explain. Then, as if just realizing you’re explaining yourself to him, you add. “But it’s none of your business if I want to watch or not.”

Remus, ever the bastard, only crosses his ankles in a nonchalant manner. “Then by all means, you’re welcome to watch anytime. Or not.”

“Yeah, right,” you drop your hand, turning to loop your arm around Sirius’ again. He lets you pull him sideways towards the exit to the track. “Come on. We stayed, you watched, time to go.”

Sirius makes an amused sound, it overlaps with Remus as he watches you both walk away with something akin to confusing smugness–like he can’t quite grasp the fact that you willingly stayed to watch his practice. 

But again, it’s not like he’s put up as much effort when his own friends force him to watch yours.

“Congratulate James for me, yeah?” he calls out.

It’s enough to make you bristle. 

It’s still a bit of a sore subject for you, waiting for the confirmation that you’ve made it into the GB team. Remus qualified almost immediately when his own event was finished last month, but it’s been weeks since the World Cup and the only news you’ve received is James’ qualification. Despite getting silver in both his events. 

You, on the other hand–with double gold and maintaining your position as the world champion–are still pending to be determined as a member of the GB team. 

“Congratulate him yourself,” you gripe, not at all sending him a glance as you drag Sirius along with you. “I’m not your bloody messenger.”

“Or,” Remus smirks, resting his arms over his skis. “I can just personally tell him at the press photocall.”

Sirius turns back to look at you, lips pressed together in a line as you pretend to not have heard him. He waves at Remus in a hurry, careful of the snow and the small dents of beginners as you walk past the green slope to exit the slope training areas. 

Your eyebrows are pinched slightly, just enough to display the obvious thoughts that must be spiraling inside your head. His lips twitch, threatening into a smile as you snatch your bag from one of the lockers just by the lodge entrance–your movements sharp and mouth pinched in distaste as you dig inside to fish for your car keys. Sirius almost makes a comment that they’re in the pocket of your jacket.

“Fucking twat,” you mutter under your breath. “So what if I haven’t qualified yet? What is it to him?”

There’s a small beat where Sirius almost makes a joke–but your tone keeps getting sharper, just like your movements as you sling the bag over your shoulder. Clearly, Remus has pressed on a bruise harder than he intended.

“Hey,” he frowns, stepping into your way. His hands finger your shoulders. “Hey–he didn’t mean it. It’s just good rival camaraderie, you’re already in. You know it’s only a matter of time.”

“Of course he meant it,” you roll your eyes, but let him keep you in place. “And it’s easy for you to say–you’ve received your kit already.” 

“But after lots of waiting as well, not sure if you remember,” he tucks his chin, sending you a knowing look.

Sirius, despite popular opinion that he’s arguably one of the best skaters in the country, had to go through endless trials to ensure his spot in the GB team. And still, the confirmation didn’t come until weeks later when he brought home enough medals to be charged extra weight at the airport. You’d know, living with him around that time was a recipe for disaster with your own pre-comp nerves and his anxiety. 

You bite the inner skin of your cheek, looking away. “I gave him exactly the reaction he wanted, eh?”

“Maybe,” he concedes, dropping his arms to step back. He sends you a funny little smile. “But had you been the one to qualify first instead of him… you’d be far worse. God, you would be–will be bloody insufferable.”

“It’s the least he deserves.”

“Oh, you’d know, right?” 

You give him a light shove, and Sirius responds by holding your arm hostage–jostling you playfully as you try to walk out the lodge. But you pause as your phone rings, Moody’s name flashes on the screen.

“Yeah?” you ask, trying to wiggle your arm from Sirius’ hold. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been waiting for your confirmation email for hours,” his gravely voice crackles through the speaker. It’s loud enough that you hear him perfectly despite the ruckus in the lobby.

Your eyebrows furrow. “What confirmation email?”

Moody makes a show of exhaling deeply, like you’re causing a strain to his threshold of patience. You probably are. “About the team?” he pauses, almost deliberately. Your breathing does as well, and Sirius’ eyebrows wrinkle when he notices the sudden stillness of your movements. “The GB team?”

“What?”

“I reckon you haven’t seen it yet?” his tone drops into a knowing tone, you can almost imagine the smirk in his face. “Congratulations, kid. You’re going to Italy.”

“Oh, piss off–don’t do that,” you shake your head. As if he can see you.

He makes a sound. “You’re not interested, then?” he hums again. “Good, then let me send them–”

You scramble, and Sirius flinches at the way you jump, eyes wide. “No, no, no–sorry. Wait, fuck me–you’re not joking?”

He pointedly ignores your strong language. “Do I sound like I’m joking?”

Moody never jokes. Or at least not about the important stuff.

Your lips part and close in surprise.

“Send the email as soon as you get home. Do not waste any second, you hear me?” he says, and hangs up before you can answer.

Sirius’ raises an eyebrow in question, though his eyes tinkle when you turn slowly to meet his gaze. “And?”

You swallow thickly.

“I made the team.”

He cracks a smile, bending backwards with the bark of laughter he lets out at your shocked expression. You let him jostle you around, and it’s somewhere between his tight arms around you and the clattering of the room that it dawns on you that you’ve made it to the Olympic team again.

“Oh my god,” you breathe out, tightening your grip around your phone. Sirius laughs. “Oh my god–oh my–”

Sirius nearly stumbles with the force you lunge at him, jumping in joyful disbelief that you’ve qualified again. He accepts your hug readily, laughing along with you–and ignoring the onlookers passing by that catch on your moment. 

You let out a deep exhale, blinking back the tears at your lower lids. “So,” you sniffle. Sirius’ eyebrows pinch–always the empath when it comes to either you or James. “See you in Italy?”

He nods. “Of course,” he cocks his head to the side, pulling you along with him towards the exit. “And don’t be cheeky–we live together. I’ll be seeing you later tonight for dinner.”

This pulls an elated laugh out of you. 

“And,” he adds, smirking. “You can start being an insufferable little shit now. Especially with Remus.”

“He thinks he’s so above everything and everyone,” you grumble, nose crunching when you try to untangle your headphones. “So bloody condescending all the fucking time–my god.”

They share a look from the mirror, and Barty only bites at his lip piercing to contain the cackle that’s fighting to escape from his lips. Having just heard something similar from Remus on his way past the gym and out to the track. 

“What was it this time?” Barty asks, hunching over his legs to smirk at you. James groans from the machine at his goading on your already angered energy. 

You do catch the amusement in his tone, but you find yourself still very angry to simply not answer his question. “Took my parking spot,” you mutter. Barty laughs loudly at this. “Don’t laugh–it’s not about what he did, but how he did it. Kept smirking at me with that stupid little mouth of his.”

James’ shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Spend too much time staring at that stupid little mouth?”

You send him a middle finger. 

Lily steps in a moment later, calmer in her movements as she sets her duffel by yours on the bench. Her smirk widens when she catches a glimpse of your tense shoulders and even more tense scowling as you begin warming up. 

She presses her lips together, sending James a sideways glance from the mirror. 

“Sorry about the spot,” she nudges you playfully. You only crack one eye open at her. “If it helps, I told him it was reserved.”

You hum. “Condescending and with cloth ears,” you mutter. 

Lily lets out a startled laugh at this. “Condescending?” she repeats, hands braced over her hips as she turns to James. “What did I miss?”

Barty rests his elbows over his knees, enjoying the show as he smirks at you. “Something about Lupin’s stupid little mouth.”

“Fuck off.”

It had been, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Barty laughs at this, smiling in your direction when your head snaps at him in a warning glare. He only winks knowingly at you in response, it makes you bristle as flashing memories cross your mind. 

Barty shakes his head with a throaty laugh like he can see them as well. 

You push yourself up, pulling your arm over your head in warmup as you climb up the treadmill. The music nearly blasts at your eardrums as you start it in hurried movements–anything to distract your mind. You ignore his knowing gaze as you raise the volume of your headphones. 

According to everyone in the training resort–and the world–your real rivalry with Remus started after your first competition as a snowboarder. But also, that happened… And the real rivalry started.

It all boils down to the last Olympics. When you solidified your position as the reigning champion in halfpipe and slopestyle. Remus had taken the gold in his own disciplines for freestyle skiing, and in the midst of celebration and excitement… you almost took the leap. 

Almost being the keyword. 

You waited, and waited and waited hours for Remus to knock at your dorm–antsy as you paced around, rearranged your things, fixed your hair and ran through the conversation in your head to make sure you didn’t read too much into it. As it turned out, you did read too much into it. Because his knock never came. 

Instead, you received a video call from an unsuspecting Sirius asking you why you’d stay inside instead of celebrating, and in the back of the shot? Remus smirking and dancing with a well known figure skater, lips dangerously close to theirs. It had been enough to set off your anger, and in the midst of your wounded pride, you left your dorm after replying with a dry I’ll be there and set off to collect your dignity. And that you did, though in the most disastrous way possible. 

The thing is, you don’t remember much. Only the feeling of Barty—who was also out celebrating his own gold medal at the halfpipe event—snogging the living daylights out of you before getting dragged away. Loud shrieks overlapping with the music pounding at your head and dizzying images as chaos increased when Bellatrix walked into the party to see you snogging who, up until that moment, you had thought was her ex.

The one thing you do remember, and keep thinking of even as years have passed, is the look on Remus' face. His clenched jaw and burrowed eyebrows as James guided you out the party before the scene could escalate again.

The rest was–is history. 

You shake your head as the treadmill slows down, and it’s in the panting of your excessive warming up cardio that you realize you’re alone in the gym. 

Steps echo from down the hall, and the door opens in one swift motion as Remus steps in–gloves between his teeth as he struggles to pause the music in his headphones. He doesn’t notice your presence yet, but you’re already suppressing an irritated groan as you climb down the treadmill.  

When he looks up, there’s a split second where his eyes flare in surprise, all before sporting that usual irksome expression that tends to adorn his features in your presence. You don’t quell your own annoyance at his entrance, crouching down to collect your things. God knows you’re one comment away from properly throttling him.

Remus, apparently, won’t be deterred as he flashes you a smug smirk. “Why are you running off?” he tilts his head, bending sideways to set his bag down. His eyes follow you as you walk around the gym without so much as cutting a glance at him. “I promise I won’t try to steal your spot this time.”

“Take it. I’m already done,” you gripe, digging inside your bag for your protein bar. Anything to distract your hands with. “And I’m not running off.”

Remus hums, tapping at his phone. “It wouldn’t be the first time you do, hm?”

That does it. 

You straighten. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean.”

You hold his gaze. “I don’t,” you sling your bag over your shoulder. “I don’t speak in fucking riddles.”

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, fiddling with his phone. “And here I thought that was your forte–and the slopes, occasionally.”

“Don’t project your insecurities on me.”

“Oh, you don’t need me to do that. How’s Bellatrix? I heard she did an epic run earlier at the park.”

It almost works. Your lips tug to the side, as if mentally considering if you should follow along in his attempt to poke at you. “She was alright,” you cross your arms, shrugging. Remus tilts his head, smirk spreading. “Did you also hear she stacked on the 720?”

His smirk wavers just a smidge, but yours turns smug as he takes his time to come up with a witty comeback. But he does, and he thoroughly enjoys the way your smugness wavers. “I thought you didn't scout the competition?”

You scoff. “Bellatrix Black is hardly competition.” 

Remus shrugs, popping his headphones in his ears. “If she isn't, how are you so well versed in her practice runs?”

You bristle, fingers tightening around your forearms in restraint. 

Remus pokes his tongue against his cheek, nodding at the music blasting off his headphones as you walk past him to the exit. You send him a glare as you push it open with your shoulder. The door to the gym closes behind you, and it takes him approximately two seconds to realize he’s finally had the last laugh.

His victory is short lived, though.

When his gym session is long done for the day and he steps out of the gym in dire need of an icy cold shower, he feels the ever unexpecting (and oftentimes frustrating) feeling shooting up his chest when he sees you joking here and there with Barty Crouch Jr. just outside the cafeteria. 

The sour memories flash through his mind in that torturous yet familiar manner, and Remus does a complete turn to walk out the training park altogether.