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ttylfedora · 1 year ago

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April Fools with the Lions: Best Bits

Omg. Hello? It’s so nice to be back! In honour of April Fools and the discord having a bit of fun with it, I bring you… April Fools with the Lions: Best bits!

All characters belong to @lumosinlove. Happy April Fools!!

Logan rubbed his eyes, waking up fully. Leo curled into his neck at the movement. He looked over to find Finn’s side completely empty. Leo stirred once again and looked up at Logan with a sleepy smile.

Logan squinted at Leo, wondering if he was seeing things.

“Leo, why do you have lion face paint on?” Leo’s face was fully painted, as though he had been to Katie’s birthday party and had been forced to sit down and have his face painted during it.

“Why do you look like a zebra?” Leo asked, just as confused as Logan.

Logan grabbed his phone off of the nightstand and opened up his camera. Sure enough, an intricately painted zebra looked back at him.

He messaged Finn, asking if he woke up the same.

All that was sent back was a smile emoji sent by Siri.

“You’re going to walk into the rink like that?” Nat asked Kasey, who was sporting a dolphin and a rainbow across the side of his face.

“I need to find Finn before Finn finds me.” Kasey called back. “I know Alex didn’t do this on his own. He has about as much artistic talent as I do in my little toe.”

Kasey and Nat never did find Finn before practice. They did, however, find a Lion stood dead centre of the locker room looking at the Goalies TPed stalls.

“If this was you, you need to do better next year.” Kasey laughed, clapping Leo on the shoulder. Leo laughed.

“No no no. This was Cole and Layla. They were round the corner watching me come in here thinking I didn’t see them.

“Time to recruit Nat, I think,” Kasey whispered to Leo and pulled out his phone.

“Layla I have no clue what to do. I can’t go out on the ice like this. I thought I was being nice by just TPing Kasey’s stall!”

Layla only covered her mouth to suppress a chuckle, watching Cole panic over his now upside down name and number on his jersey.

“All is fair in love and war, Rookie!” Kasey howled through the door, Nat howling after him.

Pascal let out a frustrated groan. Some the start of practice, not a single one of his shot found the back of the net. Timmy let out a similar sigh, taking his helmet off and wiping the perspiration off his head.

“It’s playoff season! We can’t be doing this,” he gridded out. He watched Finn line up a perfect shot, only to miss as well. Looking over to Coach Weasley, he wondered why he wasn’t angrier. He looked amused, even.

Pascal looked down at his hockey stick. Something felt… off. He held it out in front of him, Timmy and Kuny doing the same.

“It feels small.” Evgeni stated.

Pascal looked up at the rest of the team to find the Triple Threat of April Fools, Remus, Sirius and James, grinning back at them.

“You know, when I locked Remus and Sirius in my basement, I did not expect to be paid back like this.”

“Luke! Luke!”

Luke ran into the bathroom, only to burst out laughing upon finding Saint with bright red hair.

“Was this you?” Saint’s face like thunder, he pointed to his bright red hair. Luke fought to keep a straight face and shook his head.

“I promise it wasn’t. Now hurry up, I need to shower as well.”

Two hours later, Saint and Luke rocked up to practice, looking like Rangers biggest fans sporting bright red and bright blue hair. Logan was unable to make a shot that practice, for he was laughing so hard at the coloured sweat dripping down both their necks. He snapped a pic for Leo, his only partner in fools it would seem…

Remus and Sirius made a habit of turning up to practice early. Maybe it was the quiet before the storm, maybe it was the control of having the rink to themselves. One thing they did know, however, was that they liked the rink before anyone started playing the practice session joint playlist. ‘Game Day Vibes’ they called it. A playlist comprising of songs from everyone’s repertoire.

Once the rink was full, Coach allowed the playlist to be put on. Except all that rang through the rink was… a nursery rhyme?

Remus looked over at Finn who was in charge of the playlist. He pressed skip. Finn looked up in confusion as a musical rendition of ‘incy wincy spider’ played out.

“Who, in the ever loving fuck put this in the playlist?” Jackson called out, skating round next to Finn as he frantically scrolled through the playlist. “It’s just nursery rhymes…”

James was doubled over in the far corner, something akin to ‘don’t diss my son’s music taste’ coming out in amongst gasps of laughter.

James had his playlist privileges revoked for 6 weeks.

“So we did the ducks last year, what are we doing to Remus and Sirius this year, Dumo?” Julian asked, placing his cereal bowl in the dishwasher.

Pascal thought on it, scratching his head.

Katie bounded in with multiple chain links in Rangers colours.

“Look what I made for Logan, Papa!” She held them up with a big toothy smile. Well, almost toothy. She had a visit from the tooth fairy the previous night.

Jules’ eyes widened and looked over at Pascal, who responded with his own fully toothy grin.

“Go get your brothers and sister, Katie. We have work to do.”

Remus and Sirius returned from practice to find their entire front room decked out in Rangers merch, chain links hanging from each light and across the ceiling.

“I swear as soon as Logan and I meet on the ice again…” Sirius looked over at Remus, “it’s war.”

Remus chuckled and pulled out his phone to find a message from Dumo.

‘Thanks for the key, it’s under the flower pot’

Everyone was gathered in Sid’s for their monthly get together. Some of the Rangers had made the trip down as well. Thomas was sat at the bar, his arm hooked loosely around Noelle’s waist.

“So no one managed to get either of the brothers?” She whispered in his ear.

Thomas smiled back at her, eyes softened as he moved a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Not yet. Did you manage to get the video?”

Noelle pulled her phone out of her bag and showed it to Thomas.

“It’s hilarious, T. Me and Nat were in stitches.” Thomas smiled slyly, placed a kiss on Noelle’s forehead, and walked up the the little make shift entertainment stage.

“Can I please have everyone’s attention!” He called out, arms wide. Mutters of ‘speech!’ were called out across the bar, paired with smattering’s of applause.

“Now with the close of another successful year of April Fools, we have this years standings. At the bottom, with the most unoriginal prank I think any of us have ever seen, we have Cole and Layla, who took it upon themselves to TP Knutty and Blizz’s goals.”

A round of ‘boo’s’ swept across the bar.

“Yes, yes, thank you. Do better next year” Cole and Layla had their heads in their hands looking mortified.

“Before I reveal the winner, I have one last thing I would like to do. Who here has been personally victimised by a certain pair of red-headed brothers this year?” Hands went up, Logan the Zebra’s face like thunder as people turned around to chuckle at him.

“Yes, now. I set Christmas on a task a week ago. Big love, Noelle,” he held a glass up to her and winked. “A little birdy once told us that our very own Alexander and Finnigan have their own pregame ritual they started when they were kids. Their mom and dad were more than happy to share this video with us-“

“No no no- please Walker I’m begging you,” Finn called out, laughter clinging onto his every word. Alex’s jaw was on the floor.

“If you’d please turn your attention to the screen.”

An old video played. A young Alex was instructing their parent to sit on the couch whilst Finn was in the background rewinding the tv to the perfect moment. The pair did an almost perfect rendition of the handshake from the parent trap.

Thomas looked back at Finn and Alex who were doubled over in laughter.

#lumosinlove #leo knut #o’knutzy #logan tremblay #finn o'hara #Alex O’Hara #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #pascal dumais #kasey winter #sweater weather lumosinlove #vaincre lumosinlove #coast to coast lumosinlove

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livingforcoopsandoknutzy · 2 years ago

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o'knutzy week day 3: cookout

credit to @lumosinlove

@oknutzyweek2023 <3

team cookouts

remus, dumo (celeste), and leo are in charge of the main courses because they're voted best chefs

james and lily along with dorcas and marlene typically bring desserts

everyone else either brings drinks or snacks

sirius and regulus are always in charge of getting the alcohol (no one really knows why it just kinds happens)

there's lots of dancing and lots of karaoke

lily and james DEMOLISH dancing queen

leo and reg are reigning champions of karaoke night with their killer queen

logan and remus always end up having too many drinks even though they swear they aren't drinking

every cookout brings a new level of peace to everyone

a sense is family a majority of them have lacked

they're always held at dumo's house and more often than not most of the teams ends up sleeping over

either because they drank too much or simply because no one wants the night to end

they have these cookouts at the end of every month and for every holiday

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nikarie5 · 2 years ago

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Leo snippet

Just a little snippet with Leo and Pascal in the gym.

Rating: General audience, no ship even if squinting. Reference to an F-bomb.

General description: Leo looks up how to walk on slippery pavement. Pascal takes pity on a rookie.

Cast: Leo Knut, Pascal Dumais Thanks to @noots-fic-fests for organising, and @lumosinlove for sharing their sandbox.

-- “Grip with your toes, grip with your toes, yeah, yeah…”, Leo grumbled, hunched over his cellphone in the team gym. The tips of his ears were still burning red from the ribbing he’d received earlier from Cap when Finn and Remus (the traitors) showed him the video of his first attempt at walking on the frosty path out of their building. Cap had had the same response as Remus and Finn, complete with silly little dance.

On the one hand, Leo was embarrassed that the video existed, and that it would definitely be shared around the locker room not just today but for as long as he was on the Lions. On the other hand, it was fairly mild in terms of rookie initiation, and it was definitely warmed his heart that the teasing was so good-natured. He really felt welcomed by the team, and was relieved that Cap was much more approachable in person than his media persona indicated. Leo had heard a couple of whispers about Sirius having been a Capsicle during his first couple of seasons, and so was really pleased that he himself wasn’t being frozen out until he had proven his worth. The locker room generally exuded an air of friendliness and Leo gave thanks once again that he’d been drafted by the Lions instead of say, the Snakes, whose locker room morale was rumoured to be among the worst in professional sports.

“How to walk on frosty pavements”, he googled, opening up the WikiHow article. He scanned quickly through the article. “Candle wax? Seriously?”

A nearby snort had him raising his head from the screen. He had missed his teammates starting to filter in.

Pascal moved in beside him, throwing his arms over his shoulders. “Ah Nutty, no. Don’t bother with that, Kunzy can tell you that it will just F- up your trainers. Come to my place tonight, we will have a team movie night, you will learn to grip with your toes.”

Pots picks up the call, bellowing out to the now full gym, “Movie night at the Dumais house. Rookies bring popcorn!”

#sweater weather fanfic #fic fest #fic-o-ween #lumosinlove #hazelnoots #leo knut #pascal dumais

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awanderingdeal · 2 years ago

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This was supposed to be funny, but some how we got into Sirius parent trauma....

so yeah,

content warning for implied past parental abuse.

Character credit goes to @lumosinlove

Rating: G

"Leo! Pass it to me!" Harry called, banging his stick eagerly against the ice. Leo obliged, earning a toothless grin as Harry collected the puck.

With a slight wobble - he was still getting used to his recent growth spurt - Harry turned to make his way up to the other end of the ice. The turning issue aside, Sirius noticed he moved much more steadily than he did even six months ago.

Still, Pascal stole the puck from Harry with ease. "Got you," Pascal said. Small lines creased the skin around his eyes and mouth as laughter bubbled on his lips.

"Dumo," he spat. "Dumo. More like Dumbo."

"Harry James Potter!"

Sirius jerked his head upright. He'd almost forgotten James there; a mess of hair and hazel coloured eyes just visible over the wall which surrounded the rink. He must be kneeling now, but the last Sirius had seen he'd been sat colouring pictures with the youngest Weasley. He held his breath for a second, releasing it in a slow controlled manner just as his therapist had taught him. And another. This was James.

He let his eyes land on Harry again. His Godson was looking up at Pascal petulently, his small fist in a tight grip around his stick.

"Harry," James said again. "Come here please."

For a second, it seemed Harry was going to disobey his father. Then his shoulders dropped, he tore his gaze away from Pascal's gently raised eyebrow and started a slow skate over to James. Sirius felt his own muscles relax.

He leaned forward, resting his chin on the palm on his hand, hoping he appeared nochalent whilst he strained his ears. He was sure he could hear everything but James.

"And this is why not having children is good thing," Logan laughed. "They say terrible two's but it should be more like terrible tens."

"He's eight," Leo snorted.

"It keeps you on your toes. Keeps you young," Pascal said.

"Alright, old man." Logan shook his head fondly, taking the puck off the end of Pascal's stick. "Who's got who now?"

"Leo, how fond of this one are you?"

"Can't lie, I quite like him," Leo laughed.

Pascal grunted. "Shame."

Sirius made his lips curl up into the smile he knew would be expected, glancing over at James and Harry with every third breath. His mouth was dry and he needed water, but he wasn't sure if he stood his legs would bear his weight. And Remus had gone to get drinks. It'd be weird if he followed. Or would it? Yeah, Remus would know. Maybe he wanted him to know?

Just as he thought his the pulsing behind his eyes was going to get too much and his head would actually explode, James smiled. He reached out and ruffled Harry's hair, his lips forming familar words. "Love you kiddo."

As Harry skated back out onto the ice, Sirius took another breath. This time his body knew what to do with it. James met his eyes now, rolling his eyes in Harry's direction. The smile Sirius returned was more genuine.

"My dad says I have to apologise to you," Sirius heard Harry mutter some what in Pascal's direction.

"Okay," Pascal nodded.

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I shouldn't have called you Dumbo. It was rude.

Pascal nodded again and Harry straightened up a little. "Apology accepted. Thank you."

"Can we play again now? But can you let me keep the puck at least sometimes. It's not fun otherwise."

Sirius frowned, guilt replacing the fear that had just been. James was a good dad. James was not either one of his parents. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to scrub away the guilty feeling.

"Hey love," Remus sat down, handing Sirius a drink. Remus' weight against his side was familiar and warm, comforting in a way nothing else was.

"I'm fine," Sirius said.

"I didn't say you weren't," Remus said, fixing his eyes on Sirius. He stared and Sirius knew he was assessing the situation. They'd done this enough times. "Do you want to talk about it or leave it for Thursday?"

Thursday. Therapy day. God, he was going to have so much to talk about this week.

"Thursday," Sirius replied. "I just...I forgot who I was with for a bit. I'll tell you about it later."

Remus didn't reply, instead pressing his lips to Sirius' jaw and curling their fingers together. Sirius leaned into him, letting himself relax back into watch his friends. His good friends, who were good parents.

#leo knut #logan tremblay #pascal dumais #james potter #harry potter #sweater weather #lumosinlove #cw: parental abuse #James potter is a good dad

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lumosinlove · 10 months ago

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Here is my first day of O'Knutzy Week! @oknutzy-week-2024

I ADORE you all for treating these characters of mine to a week of fun. I can't even put into words how much it means to me. I'm so looking forward to reading your creations!

Please enjoy tennis boys...

(There is an extremely brief and not at all graphic description of injury in the beginning.)

Finn O’Hara’s career was ended too soon by a bad knee injury. Logan Tremblay has no coach and a wicked temper that’s hard to control on the court—that is, until O’Hara steps into the picture.

On The Line - Part One

Logan was on a massage table when he saw. He’d been feeling a little stupid. He had been meant to be watching Finn’s game, studying his flaws and his strengths. Instead his cheek was pressed to the towel beneath him while someone dug their knuckles into his calf, and he was watching a bead of sweat find the corner of Finn’s mouth in a close up shot.

“This feel all right?” Hands were on his ankle now.

No, Logan thought, eyes on Finn. This feels like I’m going insane.

“Yes,” Logan said faintly. “Merci.”

Finn had his usual blue Nike hat on, and when he took it off before he served to wipe his face, Logan could see the white, salty sweat stains inside. How long had he had that hat? Logan remembered seeing it in Juniors. How many brand deals had its necessity written into it? Client insists upon…

Logan wanted that hat. He wanted to hold it.

Finn served. A perfect bullet of a thing that sent goosebumps up Logan’s shoulders, but Lupin still returned. It was second set, Finn had won the first. He was set to win this one, too.

Logan’s hotel room door opened and Logan didn’t look up. People came and went every hour of every day. This time, it was, Luke, his closest friend on tour besides Finn, and a room service cart of grilled chicken and broccoli. Logan eyed the chocolate cake slice there, too. One benefit of not having a coach or any sort of team following him around like the others did. He could eat whatever he wanted.

Luke leaned over to see his eyes. “Pascal Dumais is in the lobby. Black’s coach? I was thinking—”

“Non.” Finn was sitting in his chair now, drinking water. He turned and said something to the young ball kid holding an umbrella over him. Logan bit back a smile watching the ball kid do the same. Finn let his own grin cross his face.

Stop it, Logan thought. Stopitstopitstopit.

“He might know someone who you’d like to work with.”

“Non.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Logan.”

“I don’t want a coach, Luke.” Logan tore his eyes away from Finn. “I’ve told you this one thousand times.”

Black served, and Finn returned, letting out a soft sound while doing it. Stop it. He’s your best friend.

“Don’t you think it could help you?” Luke asked. “Just talk to him, Tremz. Honestly, look, I certainly don’t want you getting any better. I have my own career to think about. But you’re my friend and your temper costs you thousands alone—”

There was a shout from the TV. A horrible, gut-wrenching sound that any athlete could identify. Someone had gone down.

“O’Hara runs for—” said a commentator. “Oh. Oh, oh, oh dear.”

Logan pushed himself up on his hands, dislodging the massage therapist from his back. Luke snapped towards the television, too.

“Shit,” Luke whispered.

Logan couldn’t have managed words if he tried.

Finn was on the ground, first on his back and then rolling helplessly onto his side, his hands locked around his knee. The cry had come from him. Lupin dropped his racket and ran across the court. Logan got one last look at Finn’s face before his view was blocked by the flock of medics surrounding him.

“That…does not look good,” said the therapist and began working again. Logan hardly felt the knuckles against his shoulders.

His heart was pounding. When another sound came from Finn, wrecked and in so, so much pain, Logan flinched.

The hands on his back disappeared in a flash. “Mr. Tremblay, I’m so sorry, did I—are you hurt?”

The camera caught every frantic rise and fall of Finn’s chest. Another close up. Sweat beaded on Finn’s forehead for an entirely different reason and the grimace of pain. His teeth were pressed together, eyebrows drawn. His fall had knocked the blue hat off and his dark red hair looked vivid and bright against the hard court.

Yes, Logan thought. Everything in him was on fire and begging to get that look off Finn’s face. Yes, I’m hurt.

Logan knew what the headline would be before he even saw it. Logan Tremblay fined $15,000 for skipping his mandatory press conference to go visit injured Finn O’Hara in hospital.

Finn knew it, too. No sooner had Logan made it through the door than was Finn throwing ice chips at him.

“What the fuck, Lo?”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars.”

“I think I can afford it.” Logan dragged a chair over from the wall, sat, and didn’t plan on getting up until he knew Finn was going to be all right.

Finn looked exhausted, but the worry on his face was worse. His countless freckles looked stark in the hospital room light. Logan tried to see past it, into the bright eyes that had looked at him for the first time when they were sixteen. This face…Finn. Finn, who Logan had been longing for ever since.

Finn smiled weakly at him. His hands were knotted up in his sweatshirt. His knee was bandaged and elevated on a pillow.

“You could have waited an hour,” Finn said.

Logan didn’t know how to tell him no. No, he couldn’t wait. An hour would have been torture.

Finn cracked a smile. “But I guess you would have cursed out a reporter and made it twenty thousand.”

Logan couldn’t help it. He smiled back. Where he was bad with words, Finn was understanding. Sometimes Logan thought Finn could read him with just one look.

“Remember Rome?” Finn asked. “Where we met?”

Logan closed his eyes. Finn read his mind with just one look. “Of course.”

“I was dreaming about it, I think, when they put me under.”

“What, me beating you?”

Finn laughed and Logan had to look away. He reached out and brushed light fingers against the bundle of bandages.

“No.” Finn sighed and leaned his head back against the pillows. “That pool. And that wine.”

The almost kiss, Logan thought. One look at Finn, who was smiling slightly, and he knew he’d been read again.

“It was a good night,” Logan said.

Finn nodded. “Hm.” He tilted some ice chips into his mouth and crunched them. “Ended a little soon for my taste.”

Logan smothered a smile with his hand over his mouth. He wasn’t sure why they danced around it. It wasn’t like it wasn’t allowed. Male players dated female players all the time. Only, they never had to play against each other.

They listened to the buzz of the lights. A nurse came and went with water and pain medication. On top of the sheets, their hands found each other. Finn’s was cold from holding the ice and Logan encased it in his own.

Quietly, Finn said, “I think it’s over.”

“It’s not over.”

“I think it is.” Finn’s eyes were on his knee. “It’s not good, Lo. It’s just…It’s not good.”

“How long?”

“I’ll heal up okay, but…But knees are fragile and this isn’t the first time I’ve had a problem. Well, this is more than a problem, but…”

“Give it time.”

“That’s not what they told me.”

“It’s not over. Your game is too beautiful to be over.” You’re too…

Finn’s lip trembled. “Thanks.”

Logan wanted to fix it. Now. Now.

But Finn was Finn and so he let out a slow breath and tilted his chin up. “Maybe it’s okay.”

“It’s…okay?”

He closed his eyes. “I’m alone in hotels. I mean, besides my coach, besides the trainers. But that’s what this life feels like sometimes. People telling you where to go and sleeping in strange beds.” Finn looked down, then carefully back at Logan. “I love the game. God, I do. But…maybe I want something different now. I mean, a family. A…a partner.”

Logan’s stomach tightened. Finn, off somewhere, with—with someone. With someone. Someone who didn’t know him. The possessiveness that burned through Logan’s chest ached.

“It takes a specific kind of person to want to live this kind of life,” Finn said.

“Why do you think I work alone?” Logan said.

Finn huffed out a laugh. “I mean someone who’s separate from tennis.”

It was a slap. It was a knife. “Do you…do you want them to be separate from tennis?”

Finn sighed. “I want them to love me. So many players have people who follow them, and are with them, but are they with them? It’s all about the player’s dreams. Tennis. What they want. I mean, I’m racing towards…titles. Yes. And I love it but, I want to make sure I can—you know. I want to make sure my person isn’t ignored. I want it to be equal.” He looked at his knee, seemed like he wanted to speak again, but didn’t.

Logan just held his hand and tried not to say anything stupid.

“Don’t you get lonely?” Finn asked softly. “With no coach, no team…”

“I have the game,” Logan replied. “The titles. And you.”

“Maybe me.”

“And you,” Logan said fiercely. “And Luke.” Finn rolled his eyes and Logan couldn’t help but laugh. “Why do you hate Luke so much?”

“I don’t. He’s just…always around.”

Logan laughed harder. “He’s on tour with us.”

Finn’s fingers tightened around his. “Maybe I like having you to myself.”

Logan was going to cry, suddenly and blubberingly. Finn not on tour. Please no.

Finn saw it and gave him a smile, even as his own eyes filled. “Maybe I will be your coach.”

Logan half laughed, half wiped his nose. “Think I’d listen to you?”

There was no hesitation and almost no sadness when Finn answered, “Yes.”

Over the next months, Logan was introduced to tour life without Finn. Luke was great, and they hit together, but he wasn’t Finn. He was too serious to be Finn, and Logan had enough seriousness all on his own. Finn, who’d dump the entire pitcher of ice water on Logan’s head just for fun. Finn, who made them take breaks to go find a nice lunch spot in a part of a city they hadn’t been before.

They spoke on the phone. For the first little while, Finn sounded miserable. In pain. But then he started to sound better. He started talking about how much time he had to read, to sleep. To actually watch the game he loved so much. He’d dissect all of Logan’s opponents for him and—and Logan was winning. A lot. It just made him miss Finn more. The money was good, but he had more than enough money. The trophies got sent back to his home in LA, but he was never home.

Logan distracted himself. He got himself up each morning and went through his routine. The hotel staff of whatever hotel he was in brought him a smoothie. He ran. He hit with Luke until Luke’s coach didn’t like how fast Logan could take apart Luke’s game. Then it was just Logan and a random hitter he’d been assigned. He ate room service and watched game tape. It only took him a week to realize he was always waiting for that knock on his door. That Finn knock. Bum-bum-ba-bum. Let’s go, Tremblay, get out of your head for a bit.

By the time four months had past, he thought he’d die if he didn’t hear it.

“I miss you,” Logan said quietly one night, eyes on his dark ceiling. It was so bad, this waiting for Finn, that sometimes that he had to pause and press a hand to his chest. He’d actually asked the physicians about it, just in case he was mistaking missing Finn for an actual problem. They had looked at him funny, told him everything looked and sounded perfectly normal.

What hurts? one had asked.

Nothing. Logan had said. I just wanted to make sure.

Now, in the cool hotel room, the rustle of Finn’s breath on the other end of the line made Logan close his eyes.

“I miss you, too,” Finn said. “A lot. Congrats against Knut, by the way. He a fucking rocket. And he’s only going to get better, what is he, twenty-two?”

“Something like that. I only barely beat him.”

“Sure, but you did.”

“Thanks to you,” Logan said. “I never play better than when we’ve talked about it.”

“Well.” Finn sounded proud. “Hey, you know, I’ll be cleared to travel soon. I might not be playing but I could—”

“Yes,” Logan said. “Please.”

Please, please, please.

Finn laughed. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Please come.”

More rustling. Finn lying down in bed?

“Okay,” Finn said. “Okay, I will.”

Logan rolled onto his side, cradling the phone close. “Hurry.”

“As fast as I can. I’ll look for hotels tonight.”

“No, don’t stay somewhere else.”

“Lo, I can afford your hotel with sponsors, but not like this. I’m not you.”

“No, I mean stay with me.”

This big, cold hotel suite. Logan wandered through the rooms, floated between the hot courts and this cold, cold marble.

Silence on the other line. Logan’s heart picked up, until he heard a breath that he was sure had a smile in it.

“All right.” Finn let out a laugh that sounded like it was covered by his hand. “Okay.”

Logan had to smother his smile in his pillow. “Okay.”

They stayed on the line for what felt like hours—probably minutes—breathing and listening to each other and nothing at all. Completely quiet, but it was the most not alone Logan had felt in weeks.

Finn arrived, suitcase and backpack and those massive headphones that used to be Logan’s. He knocked on Logan’s door. Bum-bum-ba-bum. He looked tired from the plane ride. He opened his mouth to say something, a grin on his face. It was probably going to be something sarcastic.

But Logan launched himself into his arms, clinging tightly around his neck.

Finn grunted out a laugh, but held him back. “Hey, hey.”

Finn rubbed a hand up and down his back once. When had Logan last been touched in a way that wasn’t medical? Finn’s hand cupped the back of his neck and Logan knew he went weak against him but he couldn’t help it. Finn didn’t seem to mind. He held Logan’s weight. It was the middle of the night anyway, Logan could blame it on that.

“Have you been up?” Finn asked. “You need your sleep.”

“I couldn’t miss your knock.”

Finn’s hands stilled. He pressed his fingers into Logan’s spine, right where he was always sore. “I would have…I would have banged the door down.”

Logan laughed and pulled back. He realized how long he had been holding onto him, that he was still holding on. He let go, suddenly bashful.

“I can call for food,” Logan said. “Are you hungry? I mean, come in first.” He laughed, stumbled a little as he stepped back. “Come in.”

He watched Finn drop his bags onto the floor and look around. The main living room was the size of three hotel rooms. The bedrooms were spacious and had a connecting master bath. There was a kitchenette that all of Logan’s sponsors had stocked with snacks and the various energy bars and drinks they represented. Logan hated energy bars. Grainy and chewy. He brought cups of fruit onto the court with him instead and didn’t care how unhappy it made anyone. Logan watched Finn walk around. He’d left his rooms sort of a mess. Finn avoided the various piles of sponsor clothing without comment. He touched the two Rolex watches Logan was expected to put on during post-game interviews and press conferences. Those were supposed to be in the closet safe. He brushed his fingers over Logan’s secret favorite sweatshirt which was draped over the back of the couch—it was Adidas, which he wasn’t allowed. If he ever got caught on camera in it, it would be horrible. He only wore it alone, inside. Or with Finn.

“Must be nice to be number two in the world,” Finn said.

Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s okay.”

I miss you. I miss youImissyou.

Finn smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

“Shut up,” Logan laughed. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” Finn said.

And, suddenly, Logan had new nights. The days were the same. He left Finn with his crutches and his ice packs and his rehabilitation routine to practice and prepare for his next match. But his nights. Card games with Finn on the balcony. Get out of your head, Tremblay. We’re relaxing now. You’re with me. Video games, side by side on the couch. Dinner in the hotel restaurant, or somewhere in a city that Finn had found. Laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. So happy that it became a blur of one day, I am going to kiss you. Please, let me kiss you one day.

That morning after he won Indian Wells, he sat poolside with Finn and everything was almost perfect.

“You know what I wish Nike would do for once?” Finn said.

“What?” Logan looked over his sunglasses at Finn.

“Dress you in your colors.”

Logan looked over at Finn and laughed. They were poolside, cooling off from a morning run back at the hotel. Well, Logan had run. Finn and his bad knee had rode beside Logan in a golf cart and shouted encouragement far too gleefully.

Now, Finn had a duffle bag in front of him and was ripping into the stuff Nike had sent over for the French Open. Red shirt. Blue shorts. White piping.

“French fucking flag.” Finn sighed. “Typical.”

“I’m French,” Logan replied. “It’s my home court, in Paris.”

“I know you are, but it’s typical.”

Logan smiled, popping another macadamia nut into his mouth. They were good. Spicy and salted. The guy that had brought them a pitcher of lemony ice water had set them down, too. “And what’s my color, then?”

Finn reached over the side table between them and pulled Logan’s sunglasses off his face. “Take a look in the fucking mirror.”

Logan snatched the glasses back. Green, he guessed. Logan rolled those eyes and Finn smiled at him.

For a moment, Logan imagined Finn bracing his hands on the sides of Logan’s hips. They’d dip into the mesh of the lounge chair and bring Finn even closer when he kissed him.

Everything was almost perfect.

Logan put his glasses back on. “Just wait until Paris,” Logan said. “It will be more red and blue than you’ve ever seen in your life.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I’m going to win.”

Clay surfaces were his home. What more did he need?

They flew together to Paris. Finn’s knee was healing, but Logan didn’t let him carry anything. Not his backpack, not their food for the plane.

“You’re worse than my mom was when she came to visit,” Finn said.

They were taken to a new hotel, a new grand suite. If the manager that personally showed them around gave them a particular sort of look, Logan didn’t care. Finn certainly didn’t seem to care. He spent a good part of the tour with his arm thrown around Logan’s shoulder. Forgot my crutch, he said. Need someone to take some of my weight.

Logan was still smiling about that as he made his way along the buffet station at breakfast the next morning. Finn had used the trick again. Knee’s sore, Lo, won’t you make my plate for me? Logan didn’t think he’d ever enjoyed anything more than picking out Finn’s favorites. He was so focused on finding the perfect burnt pieces of bacon that he didn’t even see the waffle flying out of tongs and towards him until it was on his plate.

“Shoot, I’m so sorry, oh my God, I didn’t…oh.”

Logan looked up and the voice—and up. Blond, was his first thought, quickly followed by blue.

It was Leo Knut. Six-foot-something, wicked serve, one-handed backhand, American. Younger than Logan. Rumored to be poised to break all the records. Logan’s, Black’s, anyone’s. And he’d be around longer to do it.

“I’m sorry,” Leo said, truly looking apologetic, and for a moment Logan thought he was talking about the records. Leo looked down at the waffle. “I don’t know if you want that, but…there you go.”

“It’s…fine,” Logan said uncertainly. “It’s fine.”

Leo smiled at him. “Okay… Hey, I don’t think we’ve officially met besides…” Me beating you, Logan thought. “I’m Leo.”

“Ouais, I know.”

Leo laughed. “Oh. Well, that’s a little dream come true for my younger self.”

Logan tilted his head. “Oh.” He was pretty used to that. And he guessed it was a compliment—even if he was technically being called old. Also, for some reason he was blushing.

“And you’re…” Leo raised his eyebrows.

“You know who I am, you just said.”

“All right…” Leo’s blue eyes looked him up and down. “Well. Enjoy the waffle. And good luck.”

“You too,” Logan said, and headed towards the orange juice.

When he got back to their table, Finn was looking at him with amused eyes.

“Quoi?” Logan asked. “Shut up, what?”

Finn laughed. “Nothing. Nothing, just…”

“Quoi?”

Finn laughed and held up his hands. “You’re a really nice person, but not many would think it upon meeting you.”

Logan blinked. He looked over at Knut, who was sitting with one of the Black brothers. “What? I was—I was nice. You don’t even know what I said, you were over here!”

“You had his statistics you were thinking about all over that pretty face of yours.”

“I…” Pretty face. “He gave you a waffle.”

“Oh-ho,” Finn picked up his fork. “Yeah, I saw what happened. Octopus limbs, that’s what that one has.” Finn cut himself some waffle. “It was kind of sweet.”

Logan stared at him. Sweet?

Blond. Blue. Sweet.

“What is his accent?”

“Louisiana,” Finn said around some bacon.

“Lou…ouais-ana.” Logan caught Finn smiling again. “What?”

“I just like the way you talk, that’s all.”

“Me again,” Finn said later that night, tossing down his cards with a grin.

Logan groaned. “This isn’t fun anymore.”

“Ha, why? Because you’re not winning? You gonna curse me out like you do on the court?”

Logan rolled his eyes. He offered Finn another pour of wine.

“Oo-way.”

Logan could hear the pop-pop of one of a game of table tennis from somewhere. Finn kept glancing towards the sound—even while winning.

“Do you miss it?” Logan asked quietly. He put his card down without really looking at it. He was too focused on this new, slightly unhappy set of Finn’s jaw.

“Yeah,” Finn replied. “I mean, of course. It’s my life. Was.”

Logan nodded.

“But.” He smiled slightly. “This has been…really good, Lo. Really good for me. Thanks for letting me…” Finn glanced around balcony, then over at their suite. “Be here. I’ll need to find some way to pay you back.”

“Non,” Logan said. “You don’t.”

“I do,” Finn said. “I do. I don’t mean—I mean, I pay for the stray dinner but I—”

Logan leaned forward and covered Finn’s hand with his. Their cards mingled and showed between them, but Logan didn’t care about the game.

“I don’t want your money,” Logan said. “I want you—here.”

Finn had his eyes on their hands.

Logan tried to think of a way to tell him that he’d been right. That he had been so unbearably lonely.

And then his phone started to ring.

Logan closed his eyes when he caught sight of the number. “Stupid sponsors.”

Finn cracked a smile and let Logan’s hands go. “Who?”

“My agent. Probably about…” Logan flashed the Rolex he was wearing. “I forgot to put it on last press conference.”

Finn hummed and raised his glass of wine to his lips. “Looks good on you, though.”

Logan took the call inside and blushed the entire time.

The crowd was on his side. It was his home crowd. France adored him. He couldn’t walk through the city without being cheered—even sometimes from passing bicycles.

Finn was in his box. Finn, who the commentators had started referring to as Logan’s unofficial coach. Over the last months, they practiced together, Finn shouting advice and commands—bolder and bolder. He ran Logan through drills that used muscles Logan hadn’t even thought of before. Logan was in better shape than he’d ever been in his life, that annoying twinge in his ankle was gone. Not better—gone.

And he was still losing this final somehow. He’d made it this far and Black was wiping the floor with him, literally. Twice Logan had stumbled and fallen into the clay. He was covered in the stuff. His back, his butt, his face. Usually, he loved that. The grit. The taste. But he couldn’t shake this humiliation. The somewhat quiet crowd. This sense that, after such perfection he’d experienced lately, it was just a fluke. That he wasn’t enough.

At one of change-overs, he used his bathroom break. His fists were clenched, his teeth grit. He knew the cameras were just waiting for him to lose it like he always did.

But Finn was watching, right next to his sisters and his parents. He needed to get to the locker room. Then he could throw something.

No sooner had he shoved the door open and stepped inside, than Finn was there. He slipped in silently. Logan didn’t know how he’d gotten in, but there he was. Wearing his old, blue Nike hat and one of Logan’s Nike shirts. He was flushed from the sun and so infuriatingly calm. Hands in his pockets. Logan was standing in a second, throwing his own hat aside.

“I’m losing it,” Logan shouted. “Every fucking shot Black takes—”

But he didn’t get farther than that.

Finn took Logan’s face in his hands, none too gently. He got close. His brown eyes were fierce. Familiar. Logan went slack and quiet in his hold. For a moment, it was just their breathing.

“Get out,” Finn whispered and Logan could feel his breath against his cheek. “of your fucking head.”

And then Finn kissed him.

His mouth was warm. There was the bitter hint of sunscreen. The sweetness of the cinnamon gum he always chewed. Sweat. Logan felt himself stumbled, surprised. As quickly as Finn caught him around the waist, Logan was clutching at his shoulders. Yes. The word sped through and made his ears ring. Finn’s hands swiped down against his neck and then gripped his shirt, pulling back.

Logan was too surprised to chase him. Finn looked down at him, breathing just as hard.

“You are going to win,” Finn said harshly. He took his hat off and put it on Logan’s head, backwards how he liked it. And he let go. He turned and walked out.

Logan stood there. He touched his lips. Finn.

Slowly, he adjusted Finn’s hat.

Finn.

He used the bathroom.

Finn.

He adjusted the sweatband on his wrist.

Finn.

He caught sight of himself in a locker room mirror. Where his cheek had hit the clay, Finn’s fingers had wiped streaks of red clay away. Like he was still touching Logan. Like he was all over him. People would probably expect him to wash his face while he was in here.

He didn’t.

The sun beat down on him as he walked back out onto the court. The crowd cheered, maybe for him, maybe that the game was picking up again. Logan didn’t care. All he knew was that he felt lighter. He could move easier, he could breathe. Even the sight of Black, waiting for him impatiently, didn’t phase him. Some killer, mentally crushing spell had been broken. Finn had broken him back into himself.

And when he won, Logan swore he heard Finn shout first, seconds before the stadium exploded. Like Finn had so much faith in him that he could see the perfect placement of the ball on Logan’s racket and sense its spin. He probably could. Logan fell down onto his back. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the stadium thunder for him.

Trem-blay, Trem-blay!

What a come back, what a bloody come back, the commentators were probably saying.

He shook Black’s hand. He threw his wrist bands into the crowd. He kept Finn’s hat. Finn was standing there in the players box with his arms raised, his hands fists and the widest smile on his face. His sisters beside him were jumping up and down, hugging each other.

Fucking yes! Logan saw Finn’s mouth move around the words, reading his lips. He held out one of those fists to Logan, the same one that had gripped his t-shirt not too long ago. Yes, Lo.

Without thinking, Logan started to climb towards his box. He knew they were supposed to use the stairs now, but there was no time. He had to get to Finn. He had been so tired a moment ago that his muscles shook, but he couldn’t feel that now. He needed to get to them, to reach them. His sisters. His parents. Finn, who had changed his world. His entire world. In two seconds.

He felt some of the crowd reach out and touch him, grasping his shoulders. They were still chanting his name. He swung himself over the railing, nearly stumbling once, and then he was in Finn’s arms. Finn thumped him hard on the back and then knotted his fingers into Logan’s sweaty hair.

“I knew it,” Finn whispered hoarsely against his neck. “I fucking knew it, I’m so proud of you, oh God, I’m so fucking proud of you. Lo, I can’t even breathe, you played so well. You did it, your game, oh my God, your game—”

Logan closed his eyes and let Finn wash over him.

“Thank you,” Logan whispered. “Thank you, thank you…”

Finn pulled back to look at him, palm on his cheek. He was smiling so wide Logan thought it must hurt—he also knew the same expression was on his own face. Finn, who deserved it all. This. Logan had the wild, overwhelming urge to give Finn the trophy, the prize money, all of it. It was his.

Logan was so unquestionably Finn’s.

“Lo,” Finn said. There were tears in his eyes. “Thank you.”

He thought about kissing Finn right then and there.

He was enveloped by his sisters. They screamed in his ears and he laughed, loud and delirious.

Even having to give a speech couldn’t bring him down. He thanks the people he was told to thank, and then he thanked the people he wanted to thank. The crowd, he praised in French. In English, his parents. His sisters. And then—

“And—and Finn. My—” My? So many words filtered through Logan’s mind. English, French, it didn’t matter. “Who’s supported me and—” He kissed me. He kissed me. “I couldn’t have done it without any of you. Merci.”

He met Finn in the tunnel, confetti still on his shoulders, still holding his trophy. Finn laughed, let out a long whoop that brought people’s eyes and smiles towards them.

Logan held out the trophy. “Yours, too.”

“It’s not mine.”

Kiss me, Logan thought. Kiss me again. Finn looked like he might.

Instead, Finn just kissed the trophy where Logan had and then raised it above his head with another shout. A few people actually started clapping and Finn turned towards the sound with a grin.

“Okay,” Finn said, cradling the trophy against his side. “Go get on the bike.”

Logan just stared at him. He was still breathing hard. He could feel sweat trailing through the clay on his neck.

Finn pushed the trophy back into his arms and slapped him on the side of his ass. “Hello, what’s wrong with you, get on the bike before you get stiff—”

“If you think I can do anything but be alone with you right now,” Logan said in a low voice. Finn’s brown eyes widened. “You’re insane.”

Finn’s pupils were vast and black. He wet his lips. Slowly, he smiled.

“Get on the bike,” Finn whispered. “Then, we have a party to go to. And you’re the guest of honor.”

#o'knutzy week 2024 #Logan tremblay #finn o'hara #Leo knut #lumosinlove #o'knutzy #sports au #tennis au

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avestigeofformerdays · 5 months ago

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rereading coast to coast by @lumosinlove and just remembering the glorious Pascal Dumais gaydar because there is truly no other straight man in the world who could absolutely clock so damn many gay hockey players and I just love and respect him so damn much

#lumosinlove #coast to coast #coast to coast lumosinlove #sweater weather #sweater weather lumosinlove #hockey #marauders #technically #but not really #o'knutzy #leo knut #logan tremblay #finn o'hara #finnlo #lelo #sunfish

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clickoly · 10 months ago

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O'Knutzy Week - Day 1

I saw the prompt Racing on the bingo card and I couldn't resist.

Me? Watching twenty cars go vroom vroom in a circle for sixty laps every other weekend? Absolutely not.

Here's the first of five parts of Starboys, a Cubs Formula One AU!

(Leo will arrive in style, fashionably late, tomorrow)

Characters belong to the amazing @lumosinlove. A big thank you to @oknutzy-week-2024 for organizing the fest.

A5: We lost

Link to Ao3 here

Monza, Italy

National Automobile Racetrack

The late August heat radiating from the pit lane was anything but a pleasant welcome. Sliding his sunglasses into messy hair, slightly sweaty from a short walk under the scorching sun, Logan took a quick look around.

The Silver garage was uncharacteristically quiet, with only a few mechanics loading tires onto trailers, probably setting them up for tomorrow's free practice sessions.

The weekend hadn't even started yet, and Logan already wished it were over. He ached to wash away the feeling of too many sleepless nights off his body, to get rid of the latent headache that had been haunting him for days—ever since he'd boarded that flight from Amsterdam alone.

What would happen if he refused to show up? Would they fire him? He actually considered hiding for a second, just as the back door to the offices opened.

"Logan?"

The unmistakable sound of Celeste's voice made him turn around.

"Oui, maman?"

"Don't maman me, Tremblay," she stepped closer. "You're late."

"I know," Logan risked an innocent grin. "Please tell me why I have to do this."

The threatening look he earned was more eloquent than any real answer. "Okay, okay," he held his hands up in a sign of truce. "Who's at the press conference?"

Celeste had a habit of memorizing every single detail of his schedule. "Olli, Thomas, Jackson and Finn," she recited. "Do I have to remind you to behave?"

"You know I hate those fucking-"

"Language," Celeste playfully pressed a finger to his chest, then tilted her head toward the door. "Go charm everyone with that sweet face of yours."

"Yeah," Logan huffed. "If anyone so much as breathes a word about last week, I swear to God–"

"You will kindly remind them it was a misunderstanding."

"Mais non," he tried to reason. Had it been a misunderstanding?

"Logan, they want to throw gasoline on this already raging fire. We won't let them."

"Fine," he gave up. There was no point in arguing with her. "But he better be on the same page."

Celeste Dumais wasn't just any manager. She was a friend, a steady presence at Logan's side. And she also happened to be the scariest human being he'd ever met in his life. At least when she wanted to be.

"Go," she insisted. The bossy yet extremely loving tone came out, capable of commanding an army and taking care of a wild household at once. "Behave, and be ready for dinner at six. Pascal is taking us to his favorite restaurant in town, and Katie wants to show you she's learned to eat spaghetti."

"All by herself?"

"And with a fork. Can you believe that?"

Logan's smile was genuine. "Merci, maman."

Down the hall in the Media Center, Logan could hear the loud chatter of people. He checked his watch and realized that they were probably waiting for him to start the conference.

Media day, real fun.

The same old faces welcomed him as he sat down at the end of a long red couch, right next to Thomas Walker, Racing Bull's first seat.

"Care to join the party?" Thomas whispered, muffling his words from the cameras.

"I'd rather not," Logan crossed his arms and leaned against the backrest. "But apparently I have no choice."

Thomas tried to stifle a laugh as the journalist spoke into his microphone, drawing everyone's attention.

"Welcome everybody to the drivers' press conference ahead of the FIA Formula One Italian Grand Prix," he said to the cameras. Years of interviews and conversations with this man, and still Logan found it tricky to understand his thick Scottish accent. "Here are our five drivers joining us today. Closest to me is the home hero for this weekend, Finn O'Hara."

Finn actually smiled for the audience and politely returned the greeting with a grateful nod.

"Then we have Olli Halla, Jackson Nadeau, Thomas Walker and Logan Tremblay. Welcome to you all."

Every other Thursday afternoon on race weekends, when his teammate James wasn't on call, Logan was forced to sit through the same boring go-to questions—usually asked by the same three people. What can you tell us about last week's results? What are your expectations for this weekend? And each time, he tried his best to hide his discomfort behind safely prepared answers, carefully tailored to avoid any kind of drama—the very thing reporters were always looking for.

"Why don't we start with you, Finn?" The man, Tom, asked. "How does it feel, as an American, to be able to race again in red in front of the Italian crowd?"

"Oh, man," Finn laughed, and the rapid clicking of camera shutters instantly filled the room.

Fucker.

"This is incredible," he went on. "Every year it feels like coming home. The fans are amazing, and their support means everything to me and, of course, to the team."

Not only was Finn an elite driver, but he also had an innate talent for winning people's hearts with the silliest of comments. Finn O'Hara was pure charm, and Logan hated to admit it, but he had always been a little jealous of his natural way with people—reporters, journalists, fans. Finn acted like he was born to be in the spotlight and, most importantly, on the top step of the podium. It came as no surprise to Logan when Finn received a multi-year contract offer from the most prestigious racing team in the world, the one people could name without thinking twice when asked about Formula One.

Ask a child to draw a car, and they will certainly draw it red—the same crimson as the Scuderia's vibrant and historic livery, the flagship of Made in Italy.

"Let's move on to Logan," Tom said eventually, his voice as calm and punctuated as usual. "Shall we go back to last weekend? I believe it was a tough one for you, but you still managed to finish the race."

Logan took his time answering. He grabbed the mic, untangled the long cable twisted at his feet, and slowly pulled it to his mouth, white knuckles clutching the metal casing. "It was," he said coldly. His free hand reached for his hair, feeling exposed by the absence of his snapback. "But there's not much to add, to be honest. As I said in the post-race interview, I got damaged by the contact and the car lost a little performance in terms of aerodynamics," he explained calmly.

"The safety car he..." Logan trailed off. "The safety car helped. The mechanics did a mega job during the pit stop and fixed the problem enough to let me cross the finish line."

But I still don't know why it happened.

"It was absolutely a fantastic team effort," agreed Tom. "What about your predictions for this Sunday?"

Logan's lips twitched on autopilot into a cocky smile. "Oh, I can totally see a win."

"Best of luck to you," the man smiled back. "Now I think we have time to take questions from the print media."

Logan tensed. This was the tough part, when sports journalists went on a merciless gossip hunt, looking for the best headline for their next article. And once again, Logan found himself in their crosshairs.

It didn't take long for Tom to give the floor to the most annoying of them all.

"Peter Jones, ESPN F1," the man said as he switched on the microphone. "Finn, the DNF at Zandvoort cost you important points in the battle for the championship," he paused. His greedy eyes flicked not so casually between Finn and Logan. "What are the consequences in the close fight between you and the current leader?"

A subtle question, because Logan knew exactly where this was going. He couldn't help but turn to look at Finn, who sat up straighter on the couch and inadvertently moved a hand to rub the back of his neck—as he always did when he was nervous.

"Like you said," he cleared his throat, "it's still a tight fight. I made a mistake and I apologized, because..." Logan heard the hesitation in his voice, a faint tremor. "We both lost something last week. The race, good points..." Finn's eyes went blurry for a fleeting moment. "But I have to focus more on the future if I want to close the gap between us. And that's still my goal, so I'd say nothing has really changed".

"So everything's okay between the two of you?"

Logan had watched the footage in his hotel room. He remembered storming out of his box. He had wanted to talk, to understand. And they just ended up yelling at each other in the middle of the paddock. Fifteen minutes later, the pictures were all over the Internet.

Sparks flying on and off the track. Tempers flare as Tremblay and O'Hara clash after today's collision, the official F1 account had captioned the post on Instagram.

"Of course," Finn nodded, a half smile on his lips, uncertain. "Yeah, good rivals and all."

Rivals. That's what they were these days. Faces of the rivalry between two legendary, antagonistic teams. Names in capital letters on magazine titles and website headlines.

One against the other.

As soon as they were dismissed, Logan bolted out of the room. It was four in the afternoon, and he still had to find a way to get out of the circuit unnoticed.

Logan wasn't being hostile. He loved his job and the life that came with it—or almost all of it. Even if it meant exposing himself more than he actually liked.

Just not today, not now, not when the constant pounding in his head kept his focus far away, trapped in a conversation he wished had turned out differently.

He was close to the exit door when he heard footsteps running after him.

"Logan, wait."

"Not in the mood," he said without looking back.

"Lo." a warm hand cupped his shoulder. "Please."

They hadn't talked in almost a week, a first for them. Finn had texted, but Logan had needed time to figure out why he was so upset. In the back of his mind, Logan replayed the scene for the thousandth time.

Lap fifty, one hour and forty minutes into the race. Logan was leading the Dutch Grand Prix, going through Sector 2 with a 0.286-second lead over Finn, who had his DRS open. At the entrance to Turn 11, they were neck-to-neck, fighting for the apex.

The contact between the two cars happened out of the blue. It felt like a punch in the gut.

Logan had watched the tape over and over, looking for a valid justification, an explanation. There had been plenty of room for both cars, and yet Finn had pushed him off the track, damaging Logan's front wing and knocking himself out of the race.

"You lied," Logan said firmly, still with his back to Finn.

"What?"

"You said you apologized. But you didn't."

Finn let out a heavy breath, a hint of disbelief in it. He stepped in front of him, tall and broad as he was, brown eyes unbearably sad.

"You think I did it on purpose?" he asked, his voice shaking with emotion.

Logan held Finn's gaze. He felt all the tension in his body release at the sight of the hurt on his face. "Finn, I could never. Merde, I just... I don't understand why you snapped at me like that."

You know what, Logan? Fuck you too. I don't have to explain anything to anyone. Just leave me alone.

"I didn't mean to," Finn ducked his head, shying away from him. "I was tired of people asking me what happened and..." he shrugged helplessly. "You were so angry and I was furious because I'm an asshole and that was a fucking rookie mistake." Finn finally looked back at him, "I'm so sorry, Lo. I should have told you right away. I'm sorry."

We both lost something last week. Something.

Logan closed his eyes.

Competitiveness was rooted in his DNA. He'd been racing for as long as he could remember, and he knew he would become a professional driver from the moment he sat in a kart for the first time at the tender age of five. The son of Marius Tremblay, a legend of the sport, following in his father's footsteps.

He'd come a long way, with ups and downs, blissful achievements, countless defeats and steady improvement. And yet he'd found his way to this, to be a two-time world champion at the pinnacle of motorsport. To compete for a third title against Finn, the best friend he could've ever asked for. The only thing he hadn't expected to find on this competitive journey, and yet the most precious.

Logan had lost a race. That was it, a mistake. He certainly wasn't going to make the one to let Finn go. He could barely stand the idea of fighting with him.

Still, he kept his face straight. He would never have given in that easily. "Listen," he said seriously, fighting the urge to hold Finn as he grew even paler, the freckles on his nose and cheekbones a stark contrast to his milky skin. "If you're not taking me out for a drink tonight, we're done."

A sparkle lit up those helplessly kind, soothing eyes. "We're not supposed to drink alcohol, Tremblay," Finn smiled shyly.

"D'accord," Logan rolled his eyes and bit back a smile of his own. "Alcohol free it is."

#o'knutzy #finn o'hara #logan tremblay #leo knut #lumosinlove

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noopienoopiernoopiest · 6 months ago

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Pascal Dumais - #9 - Cold Hands/Warm Heart

For Fic-O-Ween with @noots-fic-fests. Based on @lumosinlove's universe, and more specifically based on this little snippet she graced us with here.

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Celeste/Dumo

CW: food and alcohol

Description: What was Celeste and Dumo's first date like? Let's explore one possibility.

“He’s Canadian, too. French Canadian even. Trust me. You’ll like him.”

“That isn’t the only criteria, Kathrine,” Celeste had said. “It’s not even the most important one.”

But Kathrine had gotten wrapped up in an editor call, and they’d never picked up the conversation again until the day of.

“Look. He’s gorgeous and nice. And you should see him.”

“I don’t know him.”

“That’s what dates are for, Celeste. Put on your best fuck me dress and go see.”

Celeste snorted. “That’s jumping the gun, ouais?”

Kathrine shook her head. “Tell me that after you meet him.”

“What did you say he does for a living?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, what’s his name?!”

“Nope, not that either. Just trust me. You’re perfect for one another.”

So now, here she was, paying for a taxi into Midtown on a Saturday night, dress acquired, and pulling up to Lespinasse. At least from the reservation, he had money or taste. Or, maybe both. If it was awful, she was only about eight blocks from the office. She could always just make her way there and finish her copy for Monday.

Katherine would probably call her out for thinking about work on Saturday, even if the date was terrible, but Katherine had gotten her into this mess. She didn’t get to have an opinion.

She made her way to the bar and fought for the bartenders attention to order a Cosmo. She’d lived in New York for three years now and she still hadn’t adjusted to how fast everything was all the time. She missed Val-d’Or more and more these days. Sixteen-year-old Celeste had seen the sleepy streets and rolling countryside as stifling. Now, when she was drinking burnt coffee from the communal coffee pot and trying for the fourth time in four hours to get the words on the screen to play nicely, she missed the quiet pace of things, the fresh air and familiarity.

“Bonsoir.”

Wait.

She knew that voice.

‘You’ve got a beautiful voice.’

She turned around and sure enough, it was him. Pascal Dumais smiled warmly at her, but after seeing her surprise, his hazel eyes grew concerned. He looked gorgeous, like he always did—brown hair pushed back, stubble dusting his firm jaw. She realized, belatedly, that this was the first time she had seen him outside of hockey gear or gym clothes. Well, his game day suits, but those felt like just another part of the uniform. The soft, black cashmere sweater had certainly never made any appearances at the stadium, and that was probably a good thing if Celeste’s heartbeat was any indicator.

“She didn’t tell you it was me, did she?” he asked in French, shoulders slumping.

“No,” she replied. She had missed French. Now she only got to use it when she called her mother back home. “She definitely failed to mention it.”

Pascal offered a pained expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. She made it seem as though…”

As though Celeste wanted to drag him to bed and ride his face? Because that had been told to Kathrine in confidence over brunchy Eggs Benedict and one too many mimosas.

“It’s fine,” she said, brushing away the thought.

“Ms. Gagnon—”

“Celeste,” she said. “If we’re going to go to dinner, the very least you could do is call me by my name.”

“Celeste,” he started again, raising an eyebrow at her. He needed to stop doing things with his eyebrows. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. “We don’t have to if it’s going to make you uncomfortable. You didn’t know.”

“But now I do, and now I want dinner,” she said, sipping her drink and watching his disobedient eyebrows scrunch together slightly.

“With me?” He asked, something hopeful in his voice.

Celeste got up, fighting to keep the smirk off her face when she watched his pretty eyes rove over the dress, her in the dress. It was a good one, she had to admit. It was wine colored and cut to hug her hips and bust.

“Of course, Dumais. Who else is going to pay?” She asked smirking, walking past him to the host.

They were settled a few minutes later, drinks and starters ordered, and Celeste was ready to start asking questions. It was her job, after all.

“Tell me about home,” Pascal said.

“What?” she blurted.

“Tell me about where you’re from.”

“Val d’Or isn’t a place anyone wants to hear about,” Celeste said, quickly.

Pascal looked confused. “It’s where you’re from. Of course I want to hear about it.” He looked genuine, and it was his expression that got her talking. She told him about the fields, her family, her friends, and realized later that her plan had failed in the wake of Pascal Dumais’s charm.

She was sure she’d intended for him to be doing most of the talking, but instead he’d learned about her older sister, her childhood dog, why she loved writing and journalism the way that she did, and the very best place back home to get a cup of coffee and breakfast.

“You’re usually not such a talker when I’m trying to get quotes from you,” she said, taking a drink of wine.

Pascal smiled. “It’s easier in French. Easier without a camera, too,” he said.

“Do you miss it?” She blurted.

“What? Home?”

She nodded, a little embarrassed.

“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. I like what I do, and I always knew traveling was going to be part of it. I do get lonely sometimes, though.”

She snorted.

“What?!”

“No way you’re hurting for company, Pascal.”

“Not Dumais?” His eyes were twinkling again. Eyes shouldn’t twinkle.

“Mmhmm, for now anyway. As long as you’re good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, voice a little lower in a way that sat heavily on her stomach. “But, no. I’m sure I could get plenty of company the way you mean it.”

“But that isn’t what you want?”

“No. Not anymore. It gets old pretty fast. I don’t want someone to spend just an evening with anymore.”

“What do you want?” She asked.

“What does anyone want? A companion? Love?” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Lots of people said they wanted those things, but in general very few of them meant it.

She shouldn’t indulge in this. She should shut it down. Instead, she asked, “Well, what does that look like for you?”

“I want someone who wants to spend her life with me. I want to be able to lean on one another when things are hard, share the joy of when things are good. I want someone to know me, and I want to know her, too.”

“And if her whole life doesn’t revolve around supporting you?”

Pascal shook his head. “I don’t want that. I get it. Lots of the guys do. Lots of the women expect it, but I don’t want that for me. I want her to be able to be and do whatever she wants. I’m not interested in caging someone.”

“I don’t exactly fit the stereotype,” she said. “Literally or metaphorically.” She’d seen the wives. Lots of blonde, lots of tans, lots of slim waists and toned stomachs.

Pascal cocked his head. “I missed something.”

“I just…” She wasn’t sure how to say it. Maybe the best way was bluntly. “Look, I like my work, I can’t imagine quitting it, not now. And I’m not exactly trophy wife material by hockey player standards.”

Pascal’s mouth fell open like he was shocked, maybe was shocked. “Celeste. Do you know how long I’ve been begging Katherine to set me up with you? Months. If you’re worried about my interest, please, don’t be.” He sounded serious, almost stern. Like it was something not to be questioned.

Oh.

Well then. If he was serious…

“Do you want to get out of here?” she asked, making a split-second decision. He was a big boy, hockey player. Surely, he understood the importance of making a call on the fly.

“What? We just got here.”

She looked at the fancy table, the nice, crisp linens, the waiters in bowties and shook her head.

“Yeah, but what I really want is some poutine. C’mon. There’s a Québécois on 6th who makes the best in town,” she said getting up. If he wanted her, really wanted all of her, then the heels and the cosmos and the whole getup weren’t going to do it.

“You’re serious?” Pascal looked confused.

She snorted. “About poutine? Always. He’s got smoked meat sandwiches too, but he sells out. If we hurry, we might get some.”

She held out her hand to pull him up. He didn’t hesitate before taking it, pausing long enough to toss some money on the table.

“Think he has Tourtiere?” He asked.

“Only one way to find out, Pascal.”

“Dumo. My friends call me Dumo.”

“Yeah? What should I call you then?”

Pascal smiled at her. “I think the only right answer here is whatever you want.”

“Good boy,” she said.

Something lit up in his eyes. Huh. Well, plenty of time for that later.

They got their coats and scarves from the coat check and headed into the crisp, November night. Just as they stopped at the corner, a large hand encircled one of her own.

“Couldn’t help but notice. Your hands are cold. Are they always?” He asked, looking over at her and giving her a devastating little smirk. Maybe he could keep doing the sparkling eyes, eyebrows, face things. Maybe she liked it. Maybe she liked him.

“Most of the time, yeah.” His, on the other hand, was warm like a furnace.

“Good,” he said, nodding. “More for me.”

---

Dumo was petting her hair, feeding her ice chips that tasted better than anything she'd had since the last time she'd been in this spot.

"She's perfect, mon amour. I'm in love."

"You always are," she said, leaning on his shoulder. Dumo took her weight, lending her his strength. Just then the nurse brought her back to Celeste. Celeste soaked the moment up. They'd already decided this one would be their last.

"What do you think, then?" He asked. Celeste and Dumo always talked about names but nothing ever really solidified until they saw the baby. Marc had taken nearly a whole day to figure out. He looked over at her with a little smirk, same little twinkle in his eyes that made her want to throttle him and maybe follow him off a cliff. It had been like that from the very start.

It came to her all at once.

"Katherine," she said surely. Dumo's smile told her he knew, remembered, exactly what she was thinking of.

"Bonsoir, Katie," Dumo said, touching the baby's velvety skin with the pad of one finger. "We're so lucky to have you."

#lumosinlove #fic o ween #sweater weather

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a-suspicious-lack-of-bagel · 2 years ago

Text

rereading sweater weather and just. pascal dumais. madlad legend. you do Not have a choice you're being adopted into the found family. you live in my basement. im your dad.

(spoiler ish under the cut)

ALSO absolutely iconic of him orchestrating the only one bed. he is Sick! Of! Their! Pining! if they won't fix their shit he'll do it for them

#sweater weather #wolfstar #fuck you *finds u family*

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iluvchick3nz · 1 month ago

Note

Logan and dumo father son vibes hurt comfort? love your work!!

Just a quick little drabble on this lovely Monday! I hope you all are doing so so so well!

Credits to @lumosinlove

“Mon fil,” Pascal said. His smile was as warm as always when he saw Logan. “To what do I owe the surprise?”

Logan felt relieved to be able to speak his mother tongue. “Salut. I- can I come in?”

Pascal stepped to the side and let Logan enter. Immediately, he was grabbed around the waist in a hug. “Tremzy! What are you doing here?”

Logan smiled down at an excited Katie. She had grown now, almost up to his chest. “I’m here to talk with your dad.”

“Can we play Mario Kart after?”

“Of course, just give me a few minutes.”

She ran down the stairway to their basement to set up the XBox. Pascal was looking at Logan knowingly and beckoned with his hand. “Come. I’ll make us some tea.”

Five minutes later, they were sat at the counter together, Logan knocking his heels against the stool like he’d never left. He loved his life now more than he could say, but he did sometimes yearn to be back here, shoulder to shoulder with the kids, speaking French and cooking with Celeste. Pascal looked at Logan like he knew that. He probably did.

“Everything okay?”

Logan nodded. “Ouais. Actually, it’s- it’s really good.” Logan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black velvet box, flicking it open with his thumb. Pascal’s eyes widened, but he waited for Logan to say something. Logan laughed nervously and looked him in the eye. “They’re rings.”

“I see that.”

“For Finn and Leo.”

“I assumed that.”

Logan felt like he was vibrating. “I’m going to ask them to marry me.”

Pascal’s smile was the widest Logan had ever seen it. “Mon fil. Of course you are.” At Logan’s still nervous expression, he furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?”

Logan took a shaky breath in. “I just- I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t feel I deserve this, I don’t know.”

Pascal rubbed a hand on his back. “What do you mean?”

Logan closed his eyes against the tears he could feel at the back of his eyes. “I hurt Finn. A lot. And we’ve talked about it before, and we still talk about it now, but… it’s still painful to think about.” He opened his eyes and looked into Pascal’s. They were worried, and a bit sad, but always gentle. “I hurt Finn, but I still get him, and I get Leo. It feels…”

“Too lucky?”

“Ouais.” Logan let his head fall back a little. “I just want to be a good husband to them.”

“Logan.” Pascal’s voice was softer now as he pulled Logan into a hug. “You will. You’ll be such a good husband to them, mon fil.” He squeezed Logan tightly. “You love each other, and you treat each other well. And you being nervous just shows how much you care, how dedicated you are to them.”

Logan nodded. “Ouais. Ouais, you’re right.”

“And you and Finn hurting each other doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be happy now, d’accord? You had a few rough years together, but you’ll have many more beautiful ones, and this time with Leo, too.” Pascal went silent for a few moments before speaking more carefully. “Are you also nervous because- the distance?”

Logan sighed. “Non, not- a little, ouais, but not really. We said we wanted to get married regardless. It won’t be easy, but I want to marry them.” He saw their eyes so clearly in the forefront of his mind. “I want to marry them more than anything.”

Pascal’s laugh shook their bodies. “Then what is all the worrying for?”

Logan smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know.” He hugged Pascal tightly. “Merci.”

“Any time, you know that.” They pulled apart and each took a sip of their tea. “Now, there is a girl downstairs who’s waiting for her favorite person to play with her. Why don’t you go join her, d’accord?”

Logan nodded and picked up his mug. “Ouais, I’ll go join her.” He caught Pascal’s eye once more. “I’m going to be happy. With them.”

Pascal’s laugh lines stretched as he smiled. “Oh, mon fil. You already are.”

#lumosinlove #logan tremblay #o'knutzy #lgbtqia #love #sweater weather #vaincre #coast to coast #pascal dumais #katie dumis #leo knut #finn o'hara #cubs are all *ALMOST ENGAGED* angels yaaaay!!!!!!!#logan wants nothing more than to be a good husband he's so tragically romantic I CAN'T-

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fruitcoops · 2 years ago

Note

a prompt:

sirius and regulus argument. probably something which has been manifesting for a while, like it starts with short sly comments and then builds up to create tension within the family (cuz i consider them part of the dumais family) so dumo tries to comfort one or both of them in the end? kinda long prompt, it’s just something that i’ve not seen and would like to see how it would work?

Gnaw at the Bone, because I just can't leave these two alone. Character credit goes to @lumosinlove <3

TW** (please be gentle with yourselves!): canon shit childhoods (no graphic abuse), Walburga and Orion's A+ parenting, sibling parentification, panic attack, bad coping mechanisms (skating), and past minor injuries from said coping mechanisms

“Sirius.”

“Reg.”

His stomach twisted. His head throbbed. His mouth tacked over, lips sticky, chapped, too much, not enough. Years of it. Stars in orbit, on a collision course with anything that came too close—their gravity was inescapable and destructive to the nth degree. They ruined everything but each other. That gravity would rub and chafe and grind at their rough surfaces and it made him sick to think about it.

Oh, it made him sick to think about it.

“Sirius.”

“Reg.”

And that was it—a clipped acknowledgment from scowling lips, then resignation. Regulus disappeared down the hall with his pasta. Sirius watched him go, shook his head, and headed in the opposite direction with a white-knuckled grip on his cup.

Alright then.

“Everything okay?” Pascal ventured.

Sirius jumped, his glower lifting for a moment in surprise, as if Pascal hadn’t been sitting there for over an hour. “What?”

Pascal tilted his head toward the empty doorway and set aside the broken toaster. “Everything okay?”

His mouth dipped in a grimace; his brow wrinkled like he was trying to find the weak link in a failing play, but something simmered beneath. “We’ll figure it out,” Sirius finally answered. “We’ll—it’s Reg, you know?”

Pascal didn’t know, actually, but Sirius was gone before he could ask for an elaboration. In fact, the only thing he knew for sure was that Regulus had gone through a period of rapid character development over the past nine months and that Sirius didn’t stop loving him for a single second of it, even through the snappish attitude, even through those horrible interviews that Regulus clearly regretted. They were two sides of the same coin with the unfortunate ability to be as evasive as greased weasels.

Celeste would say he was being nosy. Pascal preferred to think of it as a natural desire to engage with his kids as a loving, supportive parent.

He looked down at the toaster, then back up at the opposing doorways and sighed. It seemed some detective work was in order.

“Remus! How are you, mon ami?”

“I’m…good?” To his credit, Remus recovered quickly and offered a light fist bump in greeting. “What’s up?”

Pascal waved a vague hand. “The usual. House is good? Dog is healthy? Boyfriend is happy?”

Bingo. A shadow flickered over Remus’ face before it smoothed out into his usual neutral friendliness. “Yeah, we’re doing great. We were thinking of repainting the living room soon, so if there’s a day you want to borrow the dog, I’m all ears.”

“Parfait, I’ll let you know. And Regulus?”

There it was again—the tension, the twitch, the passive smile. “I think Sirius is just glad to have him home. It’s really been great getting to know him. He’s a sweet kid.”

He might be, but he’s been getting on your nerves, too. If Pascal knew anything, that would piss Sirius off more than any insult Regulus hurled his way. “I’m so glad to hear it. It’s good for them to be near each other right now.”

He clapped Remus on the shoulder and stood before the younger man could respond. It wasn’t just a one-time problem, then; whatever the seething, festering thing between Sirius and Regulus was, it had seeped into their everyday function. Enough that it had even begun annoying Remus ‘Patient’ Lupin. Pascal might not be able to fix their issue, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give them a nudge in the right direction.

Sirius was right where he left him, hunched on the bench with a whiteboard in hand, though his pen served more as a drumstick than a writing instrument as Pascal approached. The tip-tapping stopped when he ruffled Sirius’ hair and took the seat next to him. “Defense,” Sirius muttered by way of explanation. “There’s a gap. Tremzy’s a killer when he goes in for a shot, but we need to close his spot when he moves.”

Pascal hummed in agreement and propped his skates up on the boards, letting the battered wood take his weight and ease the ache. “Good eyes.”

“ ‘s what I get paid for.”

“You seem tense, mon fils.”

“Hmm?” Sirius blinked. His eye contact was pristine, but his attention was lightyears away. “Sorry, just thinking. Did you need something?”

Pascal offered a wry smile. “What, you’re too old to let me sit with you?”

The deep crease between Sirius’ brows smoothed out; he smiled softly. He blinked again; this time, a bit of him returned. Not beyond all hope of intervention, then. “Non. Desolé. I’m…I’m in my head today.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

A few seconds passed before Sirius nodded. Pascal watched his gaze go distant again and his cheek dimpled as he bit the flesh inside. Guilt. Perhaps frustration. A twisted mystery to solve, if Pascal had not been watching him so closely since he first blessed their threshold. It was Regulus, it was Remus and Regulus—

It was something from a time Sirius had been trying to lock down. Ghosts were hard to trap behind hasty boards, nailed haphazard and half-panicked. Sirius was better, not healed. He was safe, not exorcised. He was so goddamn brave it hurt to watch, but Pascal wasn’t foolish enough to miss the way he spooked. And Regulus was a good kid, but a fucking mess all the same.

(Privately, he questioned the decision to go headlong into university right after escaping 18 years of living hell. That was not his place to challenge and not his problem to solve.)

(But still. University? Really?)

Sirius made another note on his board. A canine tooth poked out as he worried at his lower lip. Pascal watched him fidget, hands up and over and under and between, and steadied himself with a slow exhale when Sirius began twirling his pen over his knuckles with a dull, rippling noise.

“Regulus is angry with me.”

Pascal made an impassive noise. It was Regulus.

“I think. Probably.” Sirius’ knee bounced for a five-count before going still. “He’s working through a lot. Finals were hard. It took him off-guard. He got snappy at Remus.”

Remus and Regulus. “Oh?”

“Something about changing his sheets. He didn’t like that we went in his room to clean while he was away.”

Something from a time you’ve been trying to lock down. Not mutually exclusive events, but a progression. Sirius was fixed on a far point, no longer tracking the movement of players. His hands had gone quiet.

“I think I—I think they—” Space hung between them like a bear trap. It was horrible to be right. Sirius exhaled hard and shook his head. “C’est pas grave.”

Pascal bit back his disappointment. He knew better than to think it would spill out so easily. He scooted closer on the bench, and when Sirius didn’t flinch, leaned over to bump him with a gentle shoulder. “Don’t let it eat you up, ouais? Regulus is grown. So are you. It will come in time.”

A halfhearted nod was the best he would get, it seemed. Pascal risked a soft squeeze to the back of Sirius’ neck and—there he was. The loosening of his tense shoulders, the careful lean into the contact. “We’ll talk,” Sirius said.

“Take it slow,” Pascal advised, and prayed to any god that Sirius would at least listen to that. Those who shoved their hands in the cage of a feral animal only came away bitten and rabid. For all his growth, Sirius was plenty feral without the influence of Regulus Black ripping him open again.

They watched the drills together in silence for forty-five minutes. When they were done, Sirius’ clipboard held only blank paper.

“Tuney and I were really close. As kids, I mean.”

A light, fluffy cloud passed overhead on the rushing breeze.

“We did everything together. Like, literally everything. Mom used to joke that we should’ve been twins.”

The pain in her voice was one he knew well.

“We started drifting when I hit junior high, I think.” A controlled, even breath followed the gentle sound of a dandelion being picked. A few bits of fluff floated in and out of view. “And then high school came around, and she hated my fucking guts. Shredded all my tights with a fork. Refused to look at me in the lunchroom. Mom and Dad didn’t tell her it was okay, but they didn’t stop her, either. They just kind of sat there and looked sympathetic.”

Quiet fell over them again. A strand of hair billowed over his vision for a half-second. Time for a haircut.

“I still don’t know what I did,” Lily confessed to the afternoon sun. “I still don’t think she’s forgiven me.”

Looking at Regulus now, Sirius thought he might finally understand what she meant.

The corner of Regulus’ mouth was turned down; not more than usual, but enough to be a scowl to anyone who knew where to look. Quietly, he hoped Regulus’ school friends could tell the difference. He deserved to have people like that. Sirius wasn’t sure he had explained that very well before sending him off. Or ever.

“It’s a good book,” he said.

Regulus made a noncommittal noise. He hadn’t turned a page since Sirius paused in the doorway.

Another try. Pull back to the midline, find an open corridor. “One of my favorites.”

“Je sais.”

“Why are you angry with me?”

Once upon a time, he would not have been so bold as to ask. Once upon a time, Regulus would have sunk further into his cocoon. One pale finger traced the edge of the worn paperback. “I’m not angry with you.”

You’re always a little angry with me. “You won’t look at me.”

“God forbid I’m busy.”

“You’re reading.”

“And I’m busy,” Regulus said waspishly. “Go get Remus to take you for a walk, or something.”

Maybe this was where Lily had failed. In one way or another, she and Petunia had missed each other in the middle. He could recall those six terrible, lonely years with too much clarity to let Regulus push him away. Losing him would never be worth an argument won. “I want to spend time with you.”

“Then get your own book.” Regulus muttered something else under his breath that Sirius didn’t care to look into.

He swallowed down a sigh and picked one at random off the shelf, then settled down on the couch opposite Regulus’ armchair. The words could have been in Portuguese, for all they registered in his mind. The edges were soft from many hands. It might have been Remus’, or from the secondhand bookstore in town. God, it could have been one of Sirius’ own favorites for all he knew. He was working on knowing more of those.

The color blue, but a specific shade.

Tater-tot casserole, preferably with meat, acceptable with just cheese.

Books with adventures, books he could run away in.

Poutine with extra gravy.

Henley shirts that stopped at his elbow.

Hoodies—not the zip-fronts—made of heavier fabric. The ones where Remus had fussed with the cuffs.

“What’s your book—”

The sudden snap of cover on page made him wince; an irritated grumble-sigh hung on its coattails as Regulus swept out of the room without a backward glance. Sirius’ stomach turned, and turned, and turned. He always fucked it up. He always tried too hard. He shut his book in silence and set it on the floor, and went to get his skates.

I’m not an infant. Bared teeth and clenched fists. A charge in the air, a snake ready to strike. And you are not my fucking mother.

Remus wrinkled his nose and scrubbed harder at the grout.

Nightmarish, is what it was. The summer had been sun-soaked and semi-charmed with only the awkwardness of getting-to-know-you’s to taint it. But that was Remus’ perfect wheelhouse—polite conversation, buttering up, small talk to ease Regulus into a world that wasn’t actively trying to shred him. It had all worked so well.

He didn’t know what went wrong. Worse, he didn’t know how to fix any of it. Regulus was constantly boiling with silent fury like a kettle about to blow and it was terrible. Every second Sirius and Regulus existed within each others’ eyeline was hell. And they were living together. For twelve more days.

If they all survived this, Remus was going to take himself out for a little treat. One that did not involve scrubbing the kitchen grout just to avoid running into either of the ticking time bombs.

Regulus’ hissing colliding with the low, furious timbre of Sirius’ voice was not something Remus wanted to experience again, in this life or the next. Nobody won. Everybody lost in one way or another. Sirius got angry and Regulus got angry and Sirius got defensive and Regulus got mean, flat-out and full-send. Sirius snapped back, Regulus stormed off, and Remus spent the better part of his night assuring Sirius he was not turning into his parents. Rinse, repeat, wish for death.

Commotion kicked up in the living room and went quiet in the same breath—Remus paused to watch Regulus stomp off with a book in one white-knuckled hand and listened carefully for the aftershocks.

The house inhaled with him. The office door closed hard. Sirius’ footsteps were rhythmic as a metronome all the way up the stairs and back down again—Remus bit his tongue when he saw the skates clenched in one hand—and remained that way until the basement door shut him out.

Then, and only then, did Remus let a quiet, “shit” slip through his teeth.

Pull back to the midline. Pull back to the midline. Watch, pull back, find your corridor, strike.

The puck skated past the goal without so much as a whisper of net. Sirius hardly heard it hit the boards.

Remus looked faintly ill when they arrived at practice; Pascal was grateful for the early warning to prepare himself for Sirius’ perma-scowl and overall vibe of ultimate distress. The change in the atmosphere nearly made his ears pop. Leo made a hasty retreat from the locker room after Kasey, looking as if he had taken psychic damage, and several others watched him leave with unbridled longing.

“On-ice in five,” Sirius said. Ordered. Everything about him looked incorrectly articulated. “We’re running drills, then doing dry lands.”

Not a soul dared to try the usual bitching and moaning. All cheerful conversation had met its abrupt end.

Cole lowered his head and slunk out the door like a stray bit of shadow. The rest of them followed suit within a minute or two, save for James, who steered Sirius into the ice room with a firm hand on his back.

Plastic buckles clinked softly in the empty space left. “They’re worse?”

Remus slumped forward and muffled a groan in both hands. “They’re going to fucking kill each other.”

“Any idea what happened?”

Remus spread his hands with a lost expression.

“Did this start when Regulus came home?”

“It’s just been the past three days.” Remus shook his head, leaning his elbows heavily on his knees with his pads half-done. “I can’t—Reg was fine when he got here. He was fine through Christmas. Sirius mentions we changed his sheets before he came home, and now he wants my head on a pike and my boyfriend to explode.”

Pascal picked at the peeling logo of his shorts. Sheets. What was so special about the sheets? “Were they new sheets?”

“Same ones he used all summer. I literally just washed them and put them back.”

“So…he didn’t like that you were in his space?” Remus half-shrugged, clearly frazzled by the mere memory. “You know, Adele hates it when we go into her room. Even to drop laundry off, or help her clean.”

“No, yeah, Jules is the same. That’s what started it.”

“Started…?” Understanding crept up his throat like battery acid. “He didn’t.”

“It was bad,” Remus said weakly.

“How bad?”

The laces of Remus’ skates dragged on the ground while he shuffled in his stall. The lines of his arms were rigid and upset; he scratched at the back of his wrist, curled over like he was trying to shield his middle. “His feet bled again.”

Pascal closed his eyes. He should have pushed harder against the basement rink eight years ago. He shouldn’t have let Sirius leave so soon.

He forgot, sometimes, how very alone Sirius had been.

“I fixed it,” Remus said after a minute. Of course you did. He sniffed, shaking his head like he could hear Pascal’s thoughts. “It wasn’t too bad. Blisters, mostly, some hotspots. Made him keep the bandaids on for practice. I hate—Dumo, I hate this. I hate living in it, I hate seeing them tear each other apart. It’s so quiet.”

“They need to stop,” Pascal agreed. Remus kept looking at him for—a solution, he realized. Terrible hope. Something desperate and fragile, a young man coming to a mentor for help he just…couldn’t give.

He looked away first. Remus’ exhale felt like a knife.

“It’s me, it’s me, it’s me, it’s me—”

“No, no, no,” Remus soothed somewhere in the catastrophe of the world.

Sirius spit, again, and pressed his hands over his eyes, again, and willed the bathroom floor to stop digging into his knees and just swallow him up already. His skin crawled and he wanted to scratch but he couldn’t take his hands away or the room would spin and tip him into nothingness.

Maybe he belonged there. But he had managed to hurt Regulus when he was a country away, so perhaps he wouldn’t even be safe in the ether.

Remus’ hand was cool on the small of his back as he frantically tried to keep his dinner down. He didn’t rub. He didn’t tap. He didn’t so much as twitch. Sirius listed to the side and flashed a hand out to steady himself. The pain of his wrist hitting the cabinet didn’t even register until Remus hissed in sympathy and took his weight in the bend of his arm.

“I am treating him just like they did,” Sirius rasped through the smoke pouring from inside him.

“No.” Remus was begging now. He sounded so tired. He was begging. The room swam in the kaleidoscope of suffering that he really should be used to by now, and Sirius pressed his elbows harder into the toilet seat as his ears began to ring.

You are not my mother.

Sirius gasped in a too-hot breath. It had been directed at Remus, not him. But.

But he was.

It was so sick and twisted and his stomach made sure to tell him that with a real-world example of both those words.

You are not my mother.

She wasn’t, either. Their nannies had come close. Sirius missed them sometimes (often) (aching) (with the hurt of a child).

Remus was not Regulus’ mother but he had been, in the same scream-worthy way he had been his father, too, and his brother. He couldn’t think too hard about how he had been the only one to cuddle Regulus without crying and fuck, there he went, Sirius the drama queen making the whole damn world about him.

“Okay, okay.” Arms came around him, easing the slicing pain of the sobs that caught him in fishhooks. The back of his hand hit the floor. His knees hurt like a bruise. His face was smushed against Remus’ chest and it really should have been uncomfortable. Remus made a noise of sympathy and gathered all the gross, slimy, bits of a Sirius-puddle into his arms because he was a saint. The patron saint of fucking messes, and Sirius was the messiest sinner of them all.

“I’m so horrible to him,” he sobbed, hitching and sticky. Probably incoherent. He mumbled. She hated it when he mumbled. “I’m so horrible.”

You are not my mother.

“It was me.” He gulped for air. Remus’ dizzying words fell quiet at the interruption. He added another note to his list of penance. “It was me, it was, I tried.”

“What did you try?” Remus’ fingertips brushed away a loose, sweaty lock and the sobs came harder after that, wracking him down to his organs, past the precious cradle of his ribs. A warm palm cupped the back of his head and Sirius heard a strangled noise interrupt his own endless babbling. He didn’t know he could make that sound. With the way his throat and body were angled against the unmovable pillar of Remus, though, it shouldn’t have surprised him.

“I was—I was his mother.” It was so hard to breathe through the gasping. “I didn’t know what I was doing but I was his mother but I won’t be her.”

“Oh, god.” Remus sounded weak for a saint. There went another beautiful thing, ruined in Sirius’ messy clumsy hands. And somehow, in the darkness, in the Blackness, a kiss nestled just near his temple.

He couldn’t help but go still, then limp, as all the fight and fear siphoned from his flooded lungs.

Remus breathed like he was going to speak several times before he did. “There are other ways.” His voice was heartbreak. Sirius closed his burning eyes. “Sirius—baby, you know my mom. You know Effie, and Celeste, and you know Lily.”

Lily. He knew Lily. Her green eyes, so much pain and regret. Don’t be like me, Pads. Her green eyes, the way she looked at Harry, the way they matched. Sirius had his mother’s eyes. Had she ever looked at him like that?

“There are other ways to be someone’s mother. And…” His hands stuttered, then began to move again, scritching the back of Sirius’ head. That feeling usually made him go comatose in their bed. “Regulus was trying to hurt me when he said that. You know that, right?”

I am not an infant. And you are not my fucking mother.

Remus kissed him again. The shell of his ear, this time. “It wasn’t about you. I promise.”

But it was. There on the bathroom floor, it was.

The woman was watching him with infuriating patience. Sometimes—more often than he cared to count—she would even look away to her clipboard or her phone, and that was even worse. Regulus knew how to be ignored. He fucking hated her nonchalant attention.

Either look at me and pay attention or ignore me properly, he thought with enough force that it should have beamed into her brain directly.

Heather chewed at the corner of her lip and checked her texts again.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask questions?” he finally muttered.

She looked up, milk-mild. “Are you ready to answer them?”

You can’t trick me that easily. “Are they worth my time?”

“I certainly think so.” She tilted her head back and forth for a moment. “But it’s not up to me to decide. That’s your choice.”

“So I can just walk out right now?”

“Sure.”

Regulus only let himself pause for a second before regaining his composure. “I’m pretty sure my brother would murder me if I did that.”

“Your brother didn’t set up this appointment.” A smile made her face even kinder, like a storybook bear. “And I’m not allowed to discuss my other patients’ homicidal tendencies. But yes, Mr. Black—”

“Don’t call me that or I’ll puke, I promise.”

“—yes, Regulus, you are welcome to leave whenever you feel like it. I can’t legally force you into therapy and I don’t particularly want to. If you would prefer to sit here quietly, we’ve still got twenty minutes left.”

He bit the inside of his cheek.

“I have a spare crossword,” she offered.

Gifts. Of course. What an awful woman. He plucked absently at the threads of the armrest and slouched into the too-squishy cushions.

Silence reigned supreme for another five minutes and twenty-four seconds before Heather stretched her wrists and smiled at him again. “It’s good to see you, Regulus.”

“You don’t have to say that,” he snorted.

“I know.”

“So don’t.”

“Alright.” She tapped the side of her thumb on her clipboard. “I’m glad you came back. Is that better?”

“Will you stop with the mind games, please?”

Heather’s eyes softened. His skin crawled. “Regulus, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable in my office. I would vastly prefer it if you did something you enjoy with this time, rather than forcing yourself to come and sit there and be miserable. I’ll sit with you if you’d like, but it seems like that’s not helping.”

His lip curled against his will. “So Sirius told you I’m miserable?”

“I haven’t spoken to Sirius lately.”

“You should. He’s a disaster.” Ignore that I’m a screaming teenage trainwreck.

“If he gets in touch with me, I’ll happily make time.”

“He won’t,” Regulus informed her. He wondered if she would stop him. Was there a point where he was no longer allowed to talk about her other patients? He already felt pathetic enough for refusing to use any therapist except the one Sirius had vouched for.

Heather hummed. “Guess that’s for him to know, and for me to find out.”

Push push push push push— “He’s been a mess. He’s doing that implosion thing he does when I’m mean to him. It’s like he thinks everyone in the whole world depends on him to be happy, and the second they’re not, it’s his fault.”

“And have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Been mean to him?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve been terrible.” Regulus frowned slightly and sat up. “You know I’m not a nice person, don’t you? You should know that before we start anything.”

Heather seemed interested, but not confused. Infuriating. “Okay.”

“Sirius is the nice one.”

“Okay.” She nodded for a moment. “Why is Sirius nice, but you’re not?”

“You’re not—” He bit his tongue. Being mean to Heather was not what he came here to do. Wasting his time with someone who didn’t understand was not the point of this. “Sirius would have been much happier as a suburban family’s well-loved dog. He’s good like that.”

“Okay.”

“I was ignored for three-quarters of my childhood and have half a dozen complexes and attachment issues because of it. I am not a nice person at all, and so I take it out on Sirius because—I don’t know, I think it’s supposed to feel good, since he had everything and then he left me.” She was still looking at him. Mild and kind. Was everyone in Gryffindor obtuse enough to think he was kidding? “Heather, I am telling you that I’m petty and mean and use my older brother as an emotional punching bag because our parents fucked us up. There is nothing you can say to help me.”

“Supposed to feel good?”

Regulus blinked. “Pardon?”

“You said it was ‘supposed to feel good’ when you’re mean to your brother.” Heather rested her head on her hand. He wasn’t sure when she had put her clipboard aside. “Does it feel good?”

“Oh my god, no,” Regulus laughed hoarsely. “No, it feels like I’m the worst person alive. Why does that change anything?”

I just wanted them to like me.

It hadn’t even been about love, in the end. He had given up on that. Forget about pride—that was a lost cause. But he had yearned to be liked, to have a smile turned on him like the ones he only remembered in blurry dreams between sleep and wakefulness. Their father had light crow’s feet by his eyes. They were probably deeper by now. Their love was never going to happen but it really would have been enough to simply be liked. Regulus had been bright enough to stop hanging on to them far sooner; oh, yes, he had always been the smart one.

Heather had seemed sad when he said that. Sirius hated making her sad.

Pascal thought he knew where the precipice was. He thought they had more time to reel that celestial disaster back from the brink before they tipped over it, clawing at each other for grip and for hurt. Looking back, he felt like an utter fool for thinking he could have stopped them.

“You fucking liar!”

“I wouldn’t lie to you!”

“Yes you would, you always do that!”

“I—” Sirius’ mouth snapped closed; his jaw ticked with tension. “I wouldn’t—”

“You do,” Regulus insisted angrily. “Our whole childhood, and now this. I won’t fall for it anymore.”

“I told you, I didn’t go through your things—”

“Stop it.”

“It was just changing the goddamn sheets—”

“Stop it.”

“God forbid I want you to sleep on something clean!” Sirius shouted back.

Regulus flushed red, bright against his dark hair. “Don’t yell at me!”

“Are you—you started yelling first, you pain in the ass!”

“Oh, I’m just a pain in the ass now?”

Sirius threw his hands in the air with a furious noise and folded them at his nape, shaking his head. His stomach hurt and trembled. His throat was tight, and every swallow had to fight its way around an iron fist. The inside of his cheek was raw and tender from his teeth. “You’re fucking delusional.”

Remus straightened fast. “Woah—”

“I’m delusional?” Regulus laughed humorlessly, hysterically, all dry bonfire wit. “I’m delusional? I’m not the one that tried to start a brand-new family when the old one failed!”

The insides of his ribs were scorched black. “Don’t bring Remus into this—”

“I’m talking about him!” Regulus’ arm shot out. One pale, skeletal finger hovered in midair, an executioner’s axe. A hairline tremor shivered over his skin; his eyes gleamed.

Dumo had both hands on Sirius’ broken toaster, and both eyes locked on Regulus’ hand in shock.

“You had it all planned out, didn’t you?” Regulus’ face contorted. “From the second they called your name on the television. You were going to billet and you were going to go to him and fuck the rest of us, is that it?”

Sirius couldn’t feel his hands. I still don’t know what I did. I still don’t think she’s forgiven me. “Regulus, no.”

But Regulus just nodded, tears welling up despite the guillotine edge of his voice. “You did. And thank fuck for that, because then Logan came along and a brand-new brother just dropped himself in your lap without any effort at all. Your perfect parents, your perfect brother, your perfect, perfect life. How convenient.”

He shook his head. “No. No, it’s not like that.”

But.

But it was. A little bit, it was. Dumo wasn’t his choice but he was Sirius’ escape. And Logan…Logan had been so alone, so afraid, so young, hiding under his baseball caps like Regulus used to hide under his toques. Sirius had caught too many sidelong glances of dark curls and bitten back the wrong name those first few months.

Regulus could smell it on him. Could read Sirius’ guilt like a child’s book. His eye twitched. “I told you not to lie.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Sirius said hoarsely.

“I don’t care.”

“It was not my intent—”

“Fuck your intent.”

Lightning spit up inside him and he choked it down, tasting iron as it went. “Will you let me speak? Or are you going to stand there and yell until you feel better?”

Regulus’ face turned blotchy with rage. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Then stop acting like a child,” he snapped back.

“You sound like—”

“Do not.”

Something burnt coated his tongue as the lightning licked off it in a whipcrack and sparked between them. Regulus looked away, fists balled tight against his sides.

Sirius let the burning out on a controlled breath. “Do not bring them into this,” he continued carefully, even as a scream built under his lungs, kicking its feet and howling. “Do not bring her into this. I am telling you right now that you will not like how it goes for you.”

Regulus’ mouth twisted, petulant and bitter. “You’re really going to threaten me? Now?”

“I don’t threaten, Regulus. I win.”

“Because everything is a competition,” he sneered.

“Because you know better than to start that fight.” Sirius caught his gaze and held it with clenched, snarling teeth. Regulus knew better. Always the smart one, always levelheaded. Regulus, the wordsmith, and Sirius, blowing up the ground he stood on as long as he didn’t come out on the bottom. Locked jaw or locked antlers, dragging them both over the canyon edge before any thought of retreat. He had shouted himself voiceless before bending to their father. A simple locked door couldn’t block the endless screaming matches from Regulus’ memory.

“This isn’t a tantrum,” Regulus said at last.

The slavering dog in Sirius’ head sat back and eased its hold. He jerked his chin. “Then get to the point.”

“You left.”

“I was always going to leave.”

Regulus flinched, but to his credit, kept going. “You replaced us. Me.”

“Logan was never you.” Logan, young and scared, but not Regulus. Never Regulus. It had only ever taken a moment for Sirius to right himself, and less than that to be buried alive in guilt.

Regulus stared at the kitchen table. His nailbeds were white where he clutched the back of a chair. They’d have to get more iron into him while he was home; Sirius didn’t trust the university food. “You never came back.”

“For holidays—”

“You never came back,” Regulus repeated, louder. He blinked fast a few times, inhaling sharply. “You were never there for more than a day or two. You’d go dead the second we sat down together. You never—you never came back.”

“Regulus, that house was going to kill me.”

It came out too soft for the weight of it in the room. Regulus closed his eyes and leaned forward, stretching his arms with an unsteady exhale. Sirius kept his focus despite the building sting in his eyes but he could feel Dumo’s gaze on his neck, could hear Remus’ short inhale. There was no coming back from this. Ever onward, clawing his way out of the depths.

“One way or another, it was,” he continued quietly. “So, no. I didn’t go back. I won’t.”

The blur of Regulus tilted his face toward the ceiling with another shaky breath, still blinking fruitlessly as drops of mirrored light slipped down his cheeks. “Then how—?” He broke off and cleared his throat hard enough to make Sirius wince. “How could you leave me there?”

“I didn’t want to.”

It meant nothing; they both knew that. It still felt right to get it out there.

“I thought you’d come back,” Regulus said. “I thought you’d try. Once—once you had your first paycheck, or something.”

It hurt so much more to hear old, broken hope than anger. “They knew where I lived.”

“Then we’d move.” We. A child’s daydream. They made me hate you, but I never did. A phone number memorized for six and a half years. “We’d go somewhere else.” Regulus ran his sleeve under his nose and shook his head. “I was so alone. I don’t—” He looked up and immediately, his lip curled in disgust. “Oh, god, don’t look at me like that.”

“Reg—”

“Like a fucking puppy, merde.” He yanked his sleeves down over his hands and scrubbed viciously at his face, lingering over his eyes a second longer before letting them dangle at his sides again. He sniffled, then did a double-take when he saw Remus and Dumo on the other side of the room. “Why are you still here?”

“Um.” Remus glanced over at Sirius, but he had nothing to offer. “It…felt wrong to leave.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, though the effect was dampened by his red cheeks and slight pout. “You are all so codependent.”

“Don’t be mean,” Sirius chided instinctively.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Regulus gave him a quick up-and-down look. “We’re both ugly criers. Shit. Yell at me again.”

“…no?”

“Just do it, it’ll make me feel better.”

“I’m not going to yell at you.”

“Don’t make me insult you more. My throat hurts.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“No.” They stood in silence for another fifteen seconds. Wool socks scuffed on the floor. Regulus gnawed at the inside of his lip, then stepped around the side of the table an inch. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

He was over six feet tall, now. His hockey muscle had yet to fade. He felt—

Small. He felt safe. A shudder ran down his aching back. It had been so long since he felt safe.

“Desolé.” Sirius’ voice vibrated in the burrow of his chest and Regulus pressed his face to it as hard as he could. “Desolé, mon etoile.”

Tears snuck up on him in bursts; he pushed closer, closer, tucking his arms between them and shuffling forward until he could stand on the front of Sirius’ stupid slippers and let the cold floor fall away. He was tired of drowning, but it was hard to remember how to let the water out.

Sirius sniffed above him. The kiss to the top of his head was more of a hard bump than anything else. His arms were tight and warm around Regulus’ back, one palm cupping the back of his head. “I never forgot you.”

“Je sais,” Regulus croaked back.

“I never forgot you.”

Don’t, don’t, don’t. He coughed to clear the brackish muck from his lungs. He wasn’t pretty like this, and he knew it. But neither was Sirius, so maybe that was okay. Just this once. He could be held like a child, just this once. It was a long time before they spoke again.

“I don’t want to see Heather anymore.” He breathed in Sirius’ laundry soap and the same deodorant they had both been wearing for years. The rushing flood in his head had become a stream, had become a trickle. His heartbeat pulsed behind his eye. “I want—I want to see someone else.”

Sirius’ shoulders relaxed enough that he could feel each muscle release. “Good.”

“I still haven’t told my friends about—the everything.” He felt Sirius nod and gathered two fistfuls of his hoodie. “I want to stay at school.”

“D’accord.”

“What if they find out?” He held on tighter, pressed his face to Sirius’ calm heart. “What happens when they find out how horrible I am?”

Sirius huffed. “You’re not horrible.”

“I am.” That was the deal. He was the villain so Sirius could be the hero. He was the junkyard. Spare parts to be hosed off and trotted out when they needed him.

“Regulus, you’re nineteen.”

He frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everyone’s horrible at nineteen.”

“What if I’m…” He wracked his brain for something smart. It blew a raspberry at him and fucked off back to sleep. “…extra horrible?”

Sirius sighed, scratching lightly behind his ears. Regulus felt his eyelids droop against his will. “If you turn out to be extra horrible by—I don’t know, 21, we’ll talk.”

“What if they fucked us both up too bad?”

He winced—Sirius’ steady motions stuttered briefly. He hadn’t meant to let that one slither out from its careful cage. That was a thought for sleepless nights in a cold hotel bed and watching the sun rise in a strange city through dry, tired eyes. When his hands were blistered and bleeding, he’d wonder whether that Black blood could ever really be gone from him.

Sirius’ head was a gentle pressure on his own. “Then it’s us against the world, isn’t it?”

Gryffindor airport was quiet at 7 in the morning. Dumo stifled a yawn in the back of his hand as he passed the rolling suitcase to a boy that was far too awake for the early hour, in his opinion. Youths.

“You have everything?” Sirius checked. “You’ll be safe?”

“I’m literally fine.” Regulus arched a brow. “And less than four hours away, if you speed.”

“You’ll call when you land.”

“I’ll text.”

Sirius wrinkled his nose. “If you don’t, I’m filing a missing person report.”

Regulus turned to Remus. “Can you keep him on a leash? Or just sedate him?”

“You think I haven’t tried?” Remus laughed.

Sirius fixed them both with a weak scowl. “Will you just get on the plane?”

“I thought you wanted me to stay.”

“I want you—” Sirius took Regulus by the shoulders and turned him around with a firm grip. “—to have fun and live life and not die. The bar is on the ground. Do not dig under it.”

“Killjoy.”

“Pest.” Sirius kissed the top of his head. “Fly safe. Text.”

“Wait until I’m on the place before you start crying. I don’t want your gross emotions all over me.”

“Well, we can’t disturb your delicate sensibilities.”

“Sirius?”

“Reg.”

Regulus paused, laden with his duffel and rolling bag, and kicked the toe of Sirius’ sneaker lightly. “Love you.”

Sirius’ smile was close-lipped and small and brighter than the rising sun outside the massive bay windows. He kicked him back, even more gently. “Get on your plane.”

#sirius black #regulus black #pascal dumais #remus lupin #sweater weather #vaincre #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #coops #hurt/ comfort #angst with a happy ending #black brothers #parentification #panic attack #sibling problems #therapy #look they're working on it okay

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