Lost | Van

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[attr="class","cbody"]Today had not been a good day. Not in the slightest.
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Michael had woken up in an unshakeable mood. It had cast a haze over the entirety of his day, and he hadn’t even wanted to leave the house. He hadn’t actually left the estate since he had woken up this morning. He knew that it would only make him feel worse. A part of him knew that he was letting himself spiral into a worse mood. By skipping out on all of the work that he had to do today, by lazing around and doing nothing, he would inevitably feel awful later. He would feel like he’d wasted his day, like he’d done nothing beneficial with his time, like he’d let everyone down when it came to the responsibilities that he had and what he should have been doing today.
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But he also had known from the moment that he’d woken up that it was not going to be a good day. He hadn’t left his bed for hours. He hadn’t eaten yet, and he had no concept of what time it was. He didn’t know if the sun was going to start to set within the hour or six hours from now. The entire day could have gone by in a blur. There was a chance that he’d been in the darkness of his bedroom for far longer than he even thought that he had. There was just no way to know.
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There had been a moment when he had thought that maybe he could turn this day around. He had thought that he could get up and get something to eat and had made it as far as the kitchen. A house-elf had made him coffee and something light for lunch, and then he had caught a glimpse of a headline in the Prophet and his stomach sank again. Usually, he kept up better on Quidditch. He always knew if the Falcons had won or lost—they’d won, obviously, and usually knew the particulars of what had happened during the match, because he was often in the stands. When it came to his ex-boyfriend’s team, he would not admit to keeping track, but if he were to glance at the scores or the standings, his eyes always eventually fell to Puddlemere to see how they were fairing—also good, unsurprisingly. They had not lost a game since the preseason in February, something that no other team could say, except for the Falcons, obviously.
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Until now, apparently, which was the cause of his stomach sinking to his feet. Jaxon had gotten injured in the match on Sunday. A ridiculous part of him was tempted to race straight to the hospital to see if he was all right. Of course, on this already awful day, he could read one sentence and it could make everything so much worse. It was funny how easy it was for something like that to happen. If he had not come downstairs, if he had not glanced down at the paper, if he had not caught a glimpse of that one sentence. But he had. And now, a part of him wanted to ignore how awful he had been feeling earlier to head immediately to the hospital.
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Just as quickly, those thoughts came crashing to the ground, as he reminded himself of reality. That was not his place anymore. Going to the hospital to check on Jaxon was what the man’s girlfriend, possibly plural, or boyfriend, also possibly plural, was for. And he was not his boyfriend. He was barely his friend, after everything that had happened.
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The urge to retreat back into the darkness of his room and his mind returned to him in time to hear footsteps coming down the hallway. While there were many people that he would have expected it to be, what he had not expected was his brother. “Oh. Van—hello,” he forced a smile on his lips as he pushed everything else that he was feeling down.
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