pain
James doesn’t know how it happens.
One moment, Regulus is flying so fast, chest flat against his broom, that James can barely track him. He’s brilliant. A star that shoots from one side of the stadium to the other and back again, into the sky and down to the ground before he pulls up at the last second.
The Snitch is his. It always is. Regulus’ entire professional Quidditch career exists because the Snitch is never faster than him.
But this team is brutal, and their target is Regulus, and James screams from his VIP box for Regulus to watch out, Reg, the—, but it all happens too fast and the Bludger slams into Regulus’ side, whips him clear off his broom.
James sees the flash of pain in his eyes even from a distance, the panic, and he’s on his feet, scrambling, but Remus grabs him, keeps him from throwing himself off the stadium railing as Regulus—his Regulus—falls like a shooting star to the ground below.
“—several broken ribs, a concussion, fractures in both wrists, internal bleeding—”
James sits with his elbows on the hospital bed, chair pulled as close as it can be, hands over his mouth and eyes on a freckle-dusted nose and fluttering pale eyelids.
“—not sure how long he’ll need to be in stasis—”
James sits on Regulus’ left side, and he looks down at the stag antlers tattooed on his left finger. The J that sits below it, between his knuckles. A mirrored version inked on James’ own hand, because he is so wholly Regulus’ that a ring didn’t seem like enough.
“—understand that the pain would be so severe if we wake him that it would be crippling agony—”
I’m scared that if I focus on Quidditch I’ll lose you, but that I’ll lose myself if I don’t have Quidditch.
Oh, love. I’ll be there for every game. I’ll never miss a single one. You need to do what makes you happy.
“—he may never play again, if the concussion caused severe damage. There could be memory loss, permanent lesions on his brain—”
Sirius’ voice, distant. Remus’ soft murmur.
A hand on James’ shoulder. He’ll be alright. If he’s in stasis, he’s not in pain.
James leans forward, his hand in Regulus’—gently so as not to upset the spells holding him still—and presses his forehead to Regulus’ shoulder. He smells like him, of soft linen and pine, and James misses him. Aches.
“Mr. Potter, we can set up a sleeping area if you require it? Unless you would prefer to go home,” says the Healer.
“I’m not going anywhere,” James whispers. “I’m not leaving his side.”
It’s Sirius that says, “Thank you. That’d be great. James, we’ll bring clothes for you so you don’t have to leave.”
Another hand on his shoulder, a comforting squeeze.
James doesn’t move for hours, and Regulus doesn’t wake for days.