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“That old familiar body ache
The snaps from the same little breaks in your soul
You know when it’s time to go.”
it’s time to go, Taylor Swift
Regulus manages his dysphoria.
He has rules and coping mechanisms and a support system. His hair is perennially short; he has a collection of sports-safe binders; he hasn’t worn a skirt since the federation changed the rules for figure skating attire; he strains his voice to lower its pitch; all his loved ones call him by his true name; and he’s attended a shit-ton of therapy sessions. Most of all, he clings to the ephemerality of it.
Just a few more years, he thinks to himself when his skin crawls with a million little spiders of wrongness. This is your choice. You can handle it.
It works.
Usually.
Not today.
Regulus stands in front of the fogging mirror, still fully clothed. He should feel bad about wasting all the hot water in Effie and Monty’s overpriced hotel suite, but he can barely breathe with the weight of the medal around his neck. His fingertips run over the sterling surface, digging into the intertwining hoops engraved there.
It is only silver.
But,
Olympic silver.
This is the greatest achievement of his life. Regulus is an Olympic medalist at the age of twenty-two. No one believed he and James would get anywhere near the podium in their first Olympics, not with the long list of more experienced pairs ready to crush the newcomers.
They won anyway.
Regulus doesn’t care that it’s silver. He is used to it; he was born into an eternal second place. Perhaps that is why the color agrees so well with his complexion; Regulus is made for it.
Not James, though.
James was born for gold.
Regulus recalls the bright, bright, bright arena. It haunts him in brutal detail, the way the announcer’s voice had skittered across the ice, syllables theatrically stretched — their country first, then James’s name, and then… the other one.
It boomed through the enclosed space, ricocheted off steel rafters, rolled through ten thousand bodies packed into the stands. The crowd roared it back, chanting it in celebration, in adoration, in complete ignorance.
Regulus closes his eyes and sees the jumbotron cutting to his face, hair curling damply at his temples, professional make-up stubbornly in place. And beneath that enormous, inescapable image: that name in stark blocky letters. His stomach dropped even as his lips rose in a practiced smile. He remembers thinking he should look overwhelmed, that cameras — and sponsors — love humility after victories, at least from girls.
With his lifetime of acting experience, Regulus gave them exactly what they wanted. He could almost hear the sports commentators gushing about it while calling him she and her and that fucking name.
Every wrong word felt like a tiny incision until he was flayed and raw beneath sweat and sequins.
Then James squeezed his hand as they stood on the podium. Their gloves had been removed for the medal ceremony, and the skin-to-skin contact was as staggering as it was safe. James squeezed again, palm damp and trembling with adrenaline. With joy. Regulus could do nothing but intertwine their fingers and hold on for dear life.
The official smiled at him, cameras flashed in blinding succession, and Regulus bowed his head automatically, allowing the medal to be placed around his neck. It felt almost gentle before settling into its weight. The ribbon lay flat against his collarbones, brushing the sides of his throat in an unrelenting grip.
The roar of the crowd swelled again.
Beside him, James was incandescent. He laughed, unabashed tears trailing down flushed cheeks, eyes shining under artificial lights that weren’t half as bright as he was. Disregarding the cameras and protocol, James leaned closer and kissed Regulus’s temple. Then, all awe and warmth against his ear,
“We fucking did it, love.”
Regulus laughed and smiled wider because that is what you do when your partner looks at you with such pride; when you have just become an Olympic medalist; when the world is at your feet, chanting your name — even if it is the wrong one.
With James’s hand in his and Olympic silver against his sternum, Regulus lifted his chin, offering the cameras his best angle.
Now, in the steam-hazed quiet of an unfamiliar bathroom, the medal feels less like laurels and more like a leash. The mirror is fogged at the edges, his reflection blurring, but the metal still gleams with stubborn clarity. Regulus traces the engraved rings once more, trying to convince himself they belong to him, not to the girl whose name the announcer had called.
The girl splashed across headlines and chyron texts and social media feeds.
The girl in the carefully constructed costume with its illusion mesh and hand-sewn crystals, designed to flatter a body that has never once felt fully inhabited.
The girl Regulus can never bring himself to be.
The girl he pretends to be.
This medal is supposed to make it worth it.
That has always been the bargain — endure and earn something extraordinary enough to justify the endurance. The binders layered beneath competition costumes, sports-safe but always suffocating. The lowered pitch that strains his throat through interviews, only for producers to soften it in post-production because viewers respond better to sweetness. The endless negotiations with mirrors, with language, with his own body.
Just a few more years, Regulus repeats in his head. It started with Just until Juniors are over, then You can’t quit before going to Worlds, then You can give James the gold he deserves. Again and again, You chose this. You can handle it. It’s all worth it. He is worth it.
His hands abruptly move to the ribbon around his neck. The motion is clumsy with urgency, the very antithesis of the grace Regulus has practiced his entire life. He doesn’t stop until the medal slips free, heavier once it is no longer supported by his body, an unbearable weight in his palm.
Regulus sets it onto the marble counter with a metallic clang that echoes louder than it should in the tiled room.
He expects some relief the moment it leaves his skin, but he is met only with a hollow ache, as if he has removed not just the medal but the beacon of justification and purpose it was meant to be.
Mechanically, Regulus peels away each layer of clothing. Jacket, then shirt, then trousers, then boxers.
The binder is always last.
He hesitates before tugging it upward, the elastic clinging stubbornly to skin already tender from hours of compression through choreographed movements on and off the ice. When it finally slides free, it feels like stepping into frigid air despite the steam curling around him.
He does not look down.
Regulus turns the shower temperature up until scalding water crashes over his body; heat bites at his shoulders before settling into a steady burn. The steam thickens, suffocating. He braces his hands against the tile and bows his head, letting the water run over his face, into his mouth, down his spine.
He reaches blindly for soap, lathers it between his palms, and scrubs. Across his shoulders, down his arms, over his chest. His movements are frenzied, rougher than necessary, as if the echo of that name can be washed off with enough force.
The medal may be on the counter, but Regulus can still feel its indelible touch pressing into his bones.
Just a few more years.
Four, if they aim for a chance at Olympic gold.
Four more years of carefully tailored costumes and polite press conferences. Four more years of hearing that name called across arenas in cities that will never know him. Four more years of podiums where a phantom stands in his place.
Four years does not feel ephemeral.
Bile rises in his throat. Regulus forces it down. He scrubs until his skin burns pink beneath his hands.
Four years is a lifetime.
Water runs down his face, indistinguishable from the tears he refuses to acknowledge. He forces himself to think of the throws and lifts and spins and jumps he flawlessly executed, of James’s victorious roar when their score flashed higher than anyone predicted, of gloved hands bracketing his cheeks as they earned the kiss & cry its name.
It doesn’t help.
Regulus presses his pruned hands against his eyes and admits, silently and with a terror that eclipses every other thought—
He cannot do this again.
He has to do this again.
For James.
⋆✩⋆
When Regulus enters the living room, Effie is halfway to tears again, one hand pressed to her mouth as she scrolls through her phone. Monty is on a call, voice booming and delighted and slightly slurred from champagne. Empty flutes are scattered across the coffee table. On the television, highlights from the free skate replay on a loop, their lift suspended in endless slow motion.
James looks up first, as he always does, like some invisible force drags his gaze toward Regulus the second he steps into a room.
His grin is instant and incandescent. He crosses the distance in three long strides and pulls Regulus into a hug that smells like soap and cologne and home. Their medals knock lightly between them.
“We’re famous,” James murmurs into his hair, laughing. “We’ve gotten more screen time than the Canadians. They must be fuming.”
Regulus smiles against James’s shoulder because that is the correct response. Because this is the part of the story where they are young and invincible. “I’m sure their gold medals are a small consolation for the lack of screen time,” he quips.
Effie spots them and claps her hands. “Photos! Before we’re late!”
The rest of the evening blurs into flashes.
Champagne is refilled. Arms are thrown around forcibly relaxed shoulders.
Monty insists on pictures from every possible angle. Tears slip unabashedly down his cheeks, so alike his son. Effie adjusts their posture — “Chin up, back straight!” — every bit a rigorous coach as she is a fussing mother.
Regulus’s phone vibrates incessantly in his pocket. He diligently ignores it, choosing to focus instead on the people in the room calling him by his name. The name only half a dozen people know.
Both Effie and James have assured Regulus they would support him if he wanted to go public with it, that they would stand beside him against the inevitable pushback from the federation. Regulus refused. Even if he did not medically transition, he knew — knows — how professional sports treat people like him. Secrecy is easier.
Or it was supposed to be.
Regulus holds on to James’s hand as they are ushered from the apartment to a sleek SUV and then to a victory party. The venue is crawling with journalists, sponsor representatives, and members of their delegation. All eyes turn to them as they are paraded around the room like prized ponies with blue ribbons pinned to their chests. Regulus moves through it on muscle memory alone.
“All right there, love?” James asks, voice softer than it’s been all night, meant for Regulus alone.
He blinks up at his partner. “What?”
“Are you all right?” James repeats, guiding him farther away from the crowd to grant them some modicum of privacy. “You disappeared for a bit.”
“Oh.” Regulus swallows through the lump in his throat. Of course, James noticed. “Adrenaline crash. And a little too much champagne, I suppose.”
James studies him for half a second too long, eyes warm and infuriatingly perceptive, then bumps their shoulders together.
“Let’s feed you, then,” he declares. “Some unhealthy carbs might do you good. If there’s ever a day not to watch our diet, it’s this one.”
Regulus laughs on cue and allows James to steer him toward the buffet in the corner.
The restaurant-turned-party-venue is the sort of place that pretends to be understated and fails. Dark wood, low lighting, and waiters who pretend not to recognize any of the prominent guests. At least the kitchen knows what it’s doing, though Regulus barely tastes the selection of finger foods before an organizer ushers them toward the main dinner table.
This is when Sirius decides to grace them with his presence for the first time since the medal ceremony. Regulus notices the murmurs rippling through the room before he spots his brother, still wearing his delegation jacket despite the formal nature of the event. Sirius strides toward them, utterly unbothered by the attention.
“There you are,” James greets. “Thought you’d blow us off for your mystery man.”
Sirius barks a laugh that ricochets far too loudly off the polished walls. “I would never,” he says, wrapping an arm around Regulus’s shoulders. His next sentence is quieter. “How’s the life of an Olympic champion treating you, little brother?”
That single affirming word soothes some of Regulus’s disquiet, though he huffs in annoyance and disentangles himself from the hug. “You tell me,” he retorts.
“Can’t complain,” Sirius replies, flashing a smile as bright as the gold medal he earned last week. He isn’t wearing it — likely out of pitying respect for his brother’s silver. “Now come on. I’m famished.”
Regulus takes his place between his brother and his partner, half-listening to Effie lecturing Sirius for disappearing.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Sirius mutters, though he can’t muster believable remorse, too busy craning his neck for the incoming entrées. “I’ll stay for dinner, but then I have to go… meet someone.”
James and Effie roll their eyes with fond exasperation. Regulus only huffs. Sirius can get away with anything.
Dinner is punctuated by five courses and just as many toasts.
Effie stands first, raising her glass towards James and Regulus as she speaks about discipline and sacrifice and trust; about partnership; about the first time she saw them skate together as preteens and knew they were meant to be.
Monty cries again and reaches across the table to clasp both their hands, declaring he has never been prouder in his entire life.
Regulus smiles and nods and performs all the gratitude he should be feeling.
One of the sponsor representatives offers a shark-like smile and says, “Next time it’ll be gold, I’m sure.”
Effie, already flushed with champagne, agrees immediately. “Oh, I’m certain it will. We’ll spend the next four years training for exactly that.”
Four years.
Four years.
Four years.
Under the table, James’s hand finds his knee and squeezes once, just as he did with his hand on the podium.
Regulus inhales. Smiles.
He laughs when Monty jokes about needing a bigger mantelpiece. He teases Effie about forcing them to practice jumps before dawn. He accepts compliments with demure grace.
He plays his part.
His body, however, betrays him.
The binder beneath his shirt feels too loose even as it constrains his ribs. Eating becomes a Sisyphean task, each bite of food sitting heavy at the back of his throat before he forces himself to swallow. The medal’s ribbon digs into his collarbone every time he shifts, a persistent reminder of its presence.
In front of him, Effie talks about legacy. A word she earned a hundred times over, having dedicated her life to this sport despite the cards stacked against her — as a brown woman, as the daughter of immigrants. She made history with her own Olympic gold, won at her final games, when critics insisted she should have retired already.
And she didn’t stop there.
Effie used every ounce of her hard-earned influence to carve out space for other skaters. She fought for funding, for visibility, for fairness. Then she turned that same relentlessness toward coaching, becoming the best mentor James and Regulus and Sirius could have ever asked for.
Regulus cannot let her down. He cannot taint her legacy by quitting.
Beside him, James effortlessly charms the guests, hands moving as he recounts a moment from the short program. He looks exactly as he did on the ice — so alive, Regulus’s ribs ache to contain his heart.
Skating is James’s entire life. He loves it.
He learned to do it as soon as he learned to walk. There are photographs of him in tiny skates, grinning at the camera with crooked baby teeth and ice shavings clinging to his mittens. James Potter has never known a world without a rink.
Regulus swallows his food and his feelings. He cannot be the reason that ends. He won’t.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” James asks. It’s so gentle, it takes all of Regulus’s fortitude not to cry.
“Of course,” Regulus tells him. “I’m just tired, and all this food is not helping.”
James hums, unconvinced, but does not push. Not here. Not in front of his parents and Regulus’s brother and a dozen strangers. He only reaches for Regulus’s hand and holds on.
⋆✩⋆
Effie and Monty drop them off at the Olympic Village with lingering hugs and firm reminders about morning interviews. Monty kisses both their cheeks and calls them his champions again, tears welling anew. Effie offers that affable smile of hers and orders them to hydrate, ice anything that aches, and get a good night’s sleep — or else.
Sirius has long disappeared to meet his mystery man, so it’s just Regulus and James walking the labyrinthine corridors of their building. The whole place hums with energy, barely able to contain the crowd of athletes high on adrenaline and temporary immortality.
Regulus feels none of it. He is only exhausted as he waits for James to unlock their room.
It’s standard — two single beds, beige walls, a small table cluttered with accreditation passes and empty electrolyte bottles, piles of half-unpacked luggage, and scattered athletic gear. The second the door closes behind him, Regulus can barely breathe.
James shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over his bed. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, still buzzing faintly with victory. Regulus remains rooted near the threshold. He watches as James removes his medal, the ribbon sliding softly over golden skin, and places it on the bedside table.
Regulus averts his gaze as he pulls his own medal over his head. He sets it down beside James’s.
He doesn’t trust his legs to support his weight, so he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed without undressing.
James’s eyes are on him. Regulus can feel them like a physical touch.
“Oh, love,” James whispers, stepping closer until he’s standing directly in front of him. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Regulus stares at the scuffed toe of his left shoe. “I know that,” he mutters, sharper than intended.
“It was the name, wasn’t it?” James asks, softer still. “You hated hearing it announced.”
Oh, James — gentle, considerate, perceptive James.
Regulus presses his lips together. He wants to agree, to complain about the name that isn’t half as dead as it should be, to crawl into James’s lap and let himself be comforted.
He can’t lie to his partner.
“It’s not just that,” Regulus whispers. The words snag in his throat, wrapped in barbed wire, but James doesn’t push. “I can’t— I don’t think I can do this again.”
James hooks a finger under Regulus’s chin, softly coaxing him to meet his eyes. “What do you mean, love? Another Olympics? We don’t have to think about that tonight. We just won—”
“I won’t survive four more years like this.”
The sentence lands between them like an anvil.
Regulus didn’t mean to say it — least of all so bluntly — but he can’t bring himself to take it back.
Before James can respond, he repeats, quieter but stubborn, “I won’t survive four more years like this.”
James exhales. “Okay,” he says, eyes shining with something Regulus refuses to name. “That’s okay, love.”
“I won’t be able to skate,” Regulus adds, twisting his head to free himself from the gentle hand on his chin. “Not anymore.”
James blinks. “What? Why?”
Regulus lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” James replies. “Is T going to make your feet fall off?”
“No,” Regulus cuts in, standing abruptly. The room feels too tight to sit still. “But I won’t be allowed to compete.”
He starts pacing the narrow strip of carpet.
“Hormone therapy will be considered cheating. You know that. It’ll ruin our eligibility. The federation will pretend to be supportive and progressive, but it won’t matter — they’ll push us out.”
“Regulus—”
“And even if they didn’t,” he continues, heedless of the interruption. All his spiraling spilled at James’s feet. “My body will change, my weight distribution, my center of gravity. The lifts — we’d have to relearn everything.”
“Reg—”
“Not to mention all the sponsors will drop us the second we don’t fit their agenda. And do you know what the media will do? They’ll tear me apart. They’ll tear us apart.”
His hands are shaking now.
“They’ll say it’s unfair — that I ruined your career. They’ll ask why you don’t just skate with someone else.”
The words slip out before he can stop them,
“You should find another partner.”
Regulus hates the image that sprouts in his mind. He can see it so clearly, James twirling and throwing and spinning some faceless girl. His partner is a great skater — an Olympic medalist now — he will have his pick among the best. He’ll find someone who can give him gold.
Amid his despair, Regulus does not realize James has gone very, very still. Not until he crosses the room so they stand chest-to-chest.
“Do you actually think,” James asks slowly, each syllable carefully enunciated, “that I would choose skating over you?”
Regulus swallows, throat bobbing as he looks into those burning hazel eyes. “You’ve been skating your entire life,” he says, voice splintering at the edges. “Skating is your entire life.”
James cups Regulus’s face in both hands. The touch is gentle but firm.
“You—” James says, as determined as he is hurt. “—are my entire life, Regulus Black.”
Regulus flinches at the intensity. It feels like staring directly into the sun. He tries to turn his head away, but James’s grip is unrelenting.
“Look at me.”
Regulus does.
“If I tore my ACL during the gala next week,” James starts, stubborn and steady, “would you replace me?”
The idea is so absurd that it jolts Regulus out of his spiral.
“What? Of course not!” he says, genuinely offended. “I could never replace you. You’re my only partner.”
“And you’re mine.” James tenderly presses his thumbs under Regulus’s cheekbones. “I would rather never skate again than replace you.”
Regulus shakes his head as much as James’s hold allows. “But Effie—”
“Will still have Sirius.”
“But you’re her son.”
“And she only wants my happiness,” James insists. “That’s what you are for me, love. All my happiness.”
The sentences linger in the air.
They are not loud or dramatic — just certain. James makes it sound as indubitable as the sun rising in the east.
Still, Regulus searches his face for hesitation, only to find unbridled love.
That’s what breaks him.
All the fear Regulus has been clutching to his chest loosens. Its retreat invites something far more violent.
Hope.
Regulus reaches up, fists bunching in the fabric of James’s shirt, and pulls him down into a kiss.
It is messy and desperate and salted with their tears.
James exhales against his lips, hands sliding from Regulus’s face to his waist, holding him as if he might otherwise disappear. Regulus feels the tremor in his partner’s fingers and places his own above them.
“I love you, Regulus,” James murmurs when they part, foreheads pressed together.
Regulus inhales a stuttering breath. His fear hasn’t vanished, but this hope — James — is just as mighty.
“I love you,” he replies. “I love you so much.”
James brushes his thumb along Regulus’s jaw. “If you want to do ice shows, if you want to coach, if you want to never step on a rink again.” He leans closer. “Wherever you go, I go.”
More tears cascade down Regulus’s cheeks. He lets James guide them toward one of the beds.
The medals gleam faintly on the bedside table, silver catching the stray light. Regulus doesn’t look at them. He rests his head against James’s shoulder.
“I’m terrified,” Regulus admits in a murmur. “Not just of coming out or changing my body. I don’t— I don’t know what it looks like, not competing. I can’t remember who I am without it.”
James threads their fingers together.
“Then we figure it out,” he says simply. “Together.”
In this cramped, temporary room, Regulus can finally breathe.
“Together.”