Chapter 2
James is dreaming. He dreams of a soft, warm life. A brain void of the relentless negative thoughts about himself and everybody else that once plagued his mind. He drinks coffee on the back porch, watching the wildlife peak out of the forest surrounding him and venture into the yard. He sits in silence for a while, the sounds of soft paws pattering on the damp grass and the chirp of blue jays filling his mind. He doesn't stress about his day, or dread the visit his friends are going to make today. He's calm, and most importantly, genuinely happy. There's a soft buzzing in the back of his head, threatening him and urging him to do terrible things. But he doesn't. The buzz is simply just a buzz. A reminder of his past self. Motivation to keep going and let old habits die. The sliding glass door opens and two soft, warm hands fall onto his shoulders. A kiss is placed to the top of his curls and the hands are lost. A chair is pulled up next to him and a hand returns, interlocking their fingers together. James looks up to gaze into his lover's eyes. They're a cloudy blue, almost grey. The once sharp gaze he held is softer now, his pupils widening when he looks at James. A piece of his black, curly hair falls into his face. James takes a moment to admire his beauty before reaching up and fixing the piece of hair. He likes his hair perfect. He likes everything to be perfect. Everything but James. He loves James with all of his flaws and imperfections. James leans forward and softly kisses him. Regulus loves James like it's the easiest thing he's ever done.
James wakes up with fluorescent lights overpowering his eyes. His head throbs and every inch of his body aches. His stomach grumbles out of control, and he feels incredibly nauseous. He squints and lazily turns his head to the side, trying to escape the harsh hospital lights. When he does, he sees his dad, slouched against a chair that looks very uncomfortable. His hand is pressed up against his cheek, his neck bent. He's sleeping. James wonders how long he's been there for.
When James eventually musters up the strength to hoist himself to a sitting position, he starts to remember. The beer, the pills, the convulsing and choking on vomit. It wasn't pretty. He should send an "I'm sorry" card to whoever found his body. God, who did find his body? Was it his lovely neighbor, Minnie, who forced him to visit her three times a week and gave him more chocolate chip cookies than he could eat in a year? Was it his dad, who sits slouched against a chair despite his worsening back pains, just to make sure he's breathing? What about Remus? If Remus found him, then Sirius did too. He wonders where all of his friends are. The waiting room, the hospital cafeteria drinking watery coffee? Are they all at Remus and Sirius' flat, pacing and biting their nails and crying and comforting each other? How fast did they all find out? Were they surprised? Scared? Angry? They should all be angry. They should all hate him. It would be easier to survive if they despised him and left him alone for the rest of his life.
James stomach gurgles loudly. He winces, both at the noise and the feeling of starvation bubbling in his stomach. Unfortunately, his gut's complaint stirs his father awake. Fleamont immediately jumps out of his chair, quickly closing the small distance between the bed and the chair. When his father approaches him, James notices his puffy eyes and tear-streaked face.
"You're awake," Fleamont whispers, hesitantly reaching out to place his hands next to James' leg. "How are you feeling?
A ridiculous question. Does he expect an "I'm okay" response? "Like shit," James responds simply.
Fleamont nods and curls his hands into fists, bunching up the thin white sheets. "I'm going to get a nurse," he whispers, before turning and walking out.
James doesn't respond. He sighs and leans back into the bed, watching his dad through the window as he exits the room and takes a right. They were never good at communication. Not when James was younger, and especially not now. Euphemia was always the one to solve their issues for them. One day, she told them that when she's gone, they'll have to figure out how to solve their problems by actually talking to each other. They haven't had a meaningful conversation since she died. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the pain surging through his veins. The memories of last night start coming back stronger than they did earlier, and James wishes it had worked so he didn't have to think about anything anymore.
His father returns after a few minutes with a nice-looking young woman, probably his age. She's a successful doctor, and he tried to kill himself. That knowledge does great things to boost his ego. James zones out as the woman does her doctorly-duties, checking his vitals and whatnot. She looks incredibly calm and unaffected by the fact she's in the same room as someone who nearly died last night.
"We're glad you're alive, Mr. Potter," the woman tells him, snapping him back into reality. "Your friends are all very worried for you."
"Thanks," he whispers. Then, "How long has it been?"
Fleamont opens his mouth to speak, maybe to stop her from telling him. But it's too late.
"Around eighty-five hours, give or take."
"Fuck," is all James can say. He didn't try to kill himself last night, he tried to kill himself almost four days ago. He would be more upset if, in that moment, he didn't hunch over and vomit onto the ground, right beside the nurse's feet.
His father gasps and the nurse just calmly pushes him back into bed, reassures him that it's alright, and goes to clean the floor. James just sinks back into the scratchy bed and closes his eyes. It was barely vomit, just a lot of spit and a lot of dry-heaving. He feels even hungrier now.
After a few minutes of silence, with James eyes closed and trying to block out the world, his father speaks again.
"James," his father calls.
"Yeah?" He responds, not opening his eyes.
"I'm..." Fleamont clears his throat and shuffles his feet. "I'm sorry I failed you. I should've done more."
James slowly opens his eyes and looks at his father. A tear runs down Fleamont's cheek and he quickly wipes it away. "You didn't fail me," James tells him with a relative calmness. "If anybody failed anybody, I failed you."
"That's not true, James." His dad tells him. Fleamont walks over to the side of the hospital bed and slowly sits down. "You did not fail me."
"I did, though," James responds. "You don't have to lie and say I didn't to try and make me feel better. I knew I failed you a long time ago."
His dad makes a pained face, like it physically hurt to hear his son say that. James feels a twinge of guilt in his heart for saying it. James never did anything to purposefully upset his parents, but it seemed that his mere existence was enough to cause an argument between him and his father. James remembers when he would lock himself in his room after they got into a fight, laying on the ground, staring at the ceiling for hours. He started hating every fiber of his being. Even after his dad would quietly knock on his door and pull James into a tight hug, whispering how much he loved him, he didn't feel good enough. Every tiny criticism to the way he acted or the things he said or the mistakes he made in school made him spiral. By the time he graduated and moved out, he lost himself completely. His natural charm and genuine kindness and care for the people and world around him disappeared. Every kind gesture was fake. Everything he did, he did to make himself feel better about the rotting heart inside of his chest and the decaying brain in his skull.
"James, listen to me." His father tells him. He takes hold of James' hand and squeezes. "You have never failed me. Not once." He swallows hard. "And I am...so incredibly sorry I ever made you feel like a failure."
"Dad..." James starts.
Fleamont shakes his head and continues, his voice breaking. "You are the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Your mom and I...we tried so hard to have kids. But, for some horrible, unknown reason, we couldn't have the one thing we wanted the most." James has heard this story a million times. This is the first time he's ever heard it from his dad. "And then, nearly ten years after we lost hope, we found out she was pregnant," he smiles softly, reliving the memory inside his head. He tightens his grip on James' hand. "You saved us, James. You made the world feel bright again, you gave us hope. Nothing you ever did made us angry, or disappointed. We were so worried about you, son. Your mother..."
"Dad, you don't have to-"
"I need to. Your mother loved you more than anything in the entire world. You were her everything. Everything she did was for you, was because of you. God, when we had you, it was like suddenly we were back in our teen years. Her eyes lit up every time she saw you, or when someone asked about you. She was the kindest woman to ever live. And I see her in you. In your eyes."
James swallows, and feels a tear slide down his face. His dad hasn't spoke about his mom since she died. Three years and no mention of her. It was like she never existed at all. Like James randomly showed up on his dad's doorstep and raised him alone. It made James so angry. James hated his dad for a long time. Part of him still does for yelling at him whenever he asked about his mom. But, any progress is progress, no matter how small. And James feels a small warmth in his heart that he hasn't felt in a long, long time.
"You have her eyes, James." Fleamont tells him, softly smiling. "You have her heart, and her brain, and her unwavering kindness and hunger for knowledge." He pauses for a moment, like he's trying to figure out what to say next. "She loved you so much." The past tense makes James' heart sink. "I love you so much. More than you know."
James' breath hitches in his throat. The words 'I love you' were a foreign thing for his father to say to him. He remember the day he stopped saying those word to his dad, when he realized how many times he said it and his father never said it back.
"I love you, too, dad," James responds. After a moment, his dad leans forward and hugs James. He tries to hold back the tears as he wraps his arms around his dad, but he can't. He sobs into his father's arms for an unprecedented amount of time, before the rumbling in his stomach threatens him.
Fleamont pulls away and wipes a tear from his eye. "You hungry?"
"Very." James responds.
"I'll go get the nurse," Fleamont tells him with a small smile. He turns to walk away, takes a few steps, and turns back around. "I am so proud of you, James."
James gives his dad the best smile he can come up with. It's not a convincing one. "Thanks, dad."
Fleamont nods and steps out of the room, leaving James alone once again. Besides the normal furniture in the hospital room, it's empty. There are no flowers, or cards, or gifts. There's nothing. James realizes he doesn't have his phone, so even if he wanted to talk to anyone, he can't. Now that he's finally given time to be alone, he starts to really remember what he did. Usually, people who try and fail to kill themselves regret it, either the second they take the pills, or when they wake up in the morning with a pounding migraine. They regret what they did because they know people love them. They know that their presence would be greatly missed, that their friends would sob at the funeral and never be the same. James finds it hard to believe anybody would cry at his funeral. They would probably jump for joy and congratulate each other for putting up with him for so long. Maybe his dad would be a little sad, but only because he would be left alone. James can't shake the feeling that he really is a disappointment. His father's reassurance didn't do a great job at reassuring him. Even if James believes him now, he won't later.
The nurse returns with a tray of bland looking hospital breakfast. She informs him that he has to stay in the hospital in order to receive a psychiatric evaluation, and if they say he can leave, he will leave. If not, he stays in the hospital.
"A psychiatrist will talk to you tomorrow," she starts. "I urge you to be completely honest with her. You can't get better if you lie to the people that try to help you."
James bites his tongue. He doubts she understands how he feels, and he doubts a psychiatrist will be able to help him. He won't be allowed to be on any medication until they can be sure he won't down them all again, which means he is going to feel absolutely horrible. Worse than he already does. Fleamont takes over the speaking and converses with the nurse in the corner of the room. James sighs and lays back down, the scratchy material of the sheets irritating his skin and making his ears hurt as he rubs against them. James is going to lie, of course he is. He can't get better in a hospital, where the only reason people try to help him is because they have to, not because they genuinely care about him. He prepares himself for lectures from various people about how he's not alone, there are people who care about him and love him, and that asking for help isn't a bad thing. He's dreading the next few days, where he has to be polite to people he will never see again, who will forget about him in a week. All he wants to do is go home and sleep in his bed. Knowing his dad, he'll be forced to stay with him.
James thinks about Sirius. Where is he? Is he with Remus? What is he doing? He's probably pacing, chewing his thumbnail to shreds like he does when he's anxious. Sirius will probably punch him the moment he sees him. That would at least make him feel like a real person again. He doesn't people to walk on eggshells around him or treat him like he's fragile, like he could break at any moment. Because James isn't fragile. Not anymore. He broke a long time ago, and accepted the fact that he could never be put back together. He needs people to stop trying to fix him. James is unfixable, permanently broken, permanently damaged.