regulus was obnoxiously good at what he did.

the venerable house of his father had long been known to produce a lineage of prodigies, offspring who took to the arts with effortless finesse—ballet, painting, poetry, and most notably, figure skating. regu;us was no different, save that his talents had been diverted toward the rather plebeian affairs of university regionals and hockey halftimes.

not that it tempered his ego, that is.

the academy rink was subpar at best, however with the human equivalents to peacocks slicing across the fresh ice, the architectural aesthetics were not of the upmost importance.

after an enlightening performance on the ice from regulus himself, edgar shephard, emma vale and a few other nameless snobs, the skaters scattered to make way for the hockey team, headed by james, obnoxiously merry. regulus slid over to the edge of the rink gracefully to take his seat beside you, who he had begrudgingly blackmailed into attending as his date to dissuade the affections of a few vicious freshmen.

“yes, i am aware i was marvellous, my companions were acceptable, i suppose.” regulus drawled, only to be met with averted eyes. your gaze was conspicuously elsewhere, and upon following your line of vision, he realised why.

sirius, bloody sirius, his older brother, had apparently deemed it appropriate to attire himself in a debauched rally ensemble, reminiscent of a sordid parody of a cheerleader—his unruly black hair askew, and the tattoos on his lean stomach in full view. it was nauseating.

“do not ogle at my brother.” regulus admonished, visibly affronted by the notion that your attention had been so entirely commandeered by sirius when he, regulus, was right there in the sleek black attire he donned for his performance.

he nudged the underside of your chin, peeved, dark brows furrowed, and the alabaster pallor of his cheeks still flushed pink from the applause. “you are already in bad taste with my admirers, you do not wish me to regret your company."