James rolled out his stiff back, hearing crack after crack in his spine as the lift climbed towards his apartment. Apparently the seats in the waiting room of St. Mungo’s weren’t meant to be slept in for a week. But how could he possibly be anywhere other than as close to his brother as possible? He’d swallowed his own pain, his anger - fury really - and he stayed posted up outside of Albus’ room, never too far away to answer so much as a shifting vial in the room. Nobody would hurt him again. He wouldn’t let it happen. They would have to go through him.
Except the problem was that everyone who loved him knew him too well. Could see how little he was holding onto his sanity. He wanted to tell them how little he cared about his sanity when it came to his brother’s safety. But somehow he’d been talked into going back home. As if he would be able to relax. As if he didn’t spend the entire time he was supposed to be soaking his sore muscles writhing in anger at the world. As if, while he was getting dressed, his brain was swimming, treading water trying to figure out what to do with the realization that it was Arlo’s father who put Albus in the hospital.
He came out into the living room, trying to put on a happy face before realizing his mask had been worn down by then. There was no point in trying. It was beyond saving. “Well,” he started, falling into the couch. “You can say you told me so. All of you can. I was wrong. I was stupid. I fucking... let everyone down. So go ahead. Tell me how right you were.”
@arlo-avery
