Yay hugs! Here, have a piece of the next McFassy thing. Next (and at the moment last) of the Buddy Holly fic…
“I think I want to do the Soccer Aid match again,” James’d said.
“I’ll be fine,” James’d said.
“I’ll be careful,” James had said, eyes serious and determined and bright, meeting Michael’s across extra-spicy curry and naan and incongruous cheerfully steam-clouded Earl Grey tea. “My knee’s been good, I’m not doing any stunt-intensive films for a while, it’s a good cause, and it was fuckin’ brilliant last year.”
“I love you,” James had said, and Michael’d sighed and shoved the last piece of chicken his way in a futile attempt to offer his heart along with it and said, “I love you, too.”
Now, right now, he remembers this conversation like diamonds and claw-points. Like the sharp splintering of the next breath caught in his throat. He’s on his feet, sunlight hot on his head, body numb and cold.
James, out on the field, isn’t moving.
James five seconds before had been running, laughing, absolutely fierce and tiny and passionate; James had been having a marvelous time, waving up at the stands and Michael’s spot in the family-and-friends section, jumping on fellow teammates, supporting the world’s charities with joyful abandon, plunging into action with all the merry ferocity of a Scottish ale-drinking battle-pixie.
James had collided with another player. Both diving for the ball. A frenzy of excitable limbs. Green grass and dazzling spears of sunlight.
The other player’d gotten up. James hadn’t. Hasn’t yet.