Chapter 1

1

The world is an evil bastard for giving Quinn the love of his life.

Not that he isn’t grateful, because he is. He just wishes circumstances were different. Though that’s probably the general consensus amongst most hospital visitors.

The room is as plain and boring as it had been yesterday: white walls, cold tiled floor, minimalistic yet functional furniture. The steady beeps and hums of the heart monitor and ventilator reassure Quinn as he enters, though he knows that if there had been any change, the hospital would have notified him. Or Gwen. Someone would have told him.

“Hey Quinn,” Rhys greets from beside the bed as he pulls the fresh sheets into place around the patient.

“Morning Rhys.” Quinn tries for upbeat and friendly but he falls flat. He settles for giving his friend a wane smile instead. The past week and a half he felt enormously grateful that Rhys works at this hospital. He’s not entirely sure what he would have done without the kind-hearted nurse always there to offer support. Especially during those first few days of uncertainty.

But nothing has changed. The only movement from the bed is the slow, mechanical rise and fall of the occupant’s chest. His angular face is serene in slumber but for the large dark bruise painting the left cheek and side of his jaw, and the bandages around his head and dark unruly hair that disrupt the peaceful scene. Thin arms rest heavily atop the white fabric, hard white cast around his left forearm, hands wrapped in bandages and fingers splinted and taped. Just as he was last night. And every other day for the past week and a half.

Quinn makes his way over to his usual chair by the bed, the cushion sighing as he settles in. It’ll be another long day of waiting and hoping, but he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. This is where he is needed.

He extracts a novel from his bag, the cover worn and weathered by love, its curling pages smelling of adoration. A smile graces his lips.

“So, Skylar, do you remember where we left off?”

* * * *

One week, three days, and fourteen hours Skylar has been in a coma. Quinn will forever blame himself for not seeing the signs sooner. Now that he knows, he wonders how he ever missed them. The little habits and behaviors, the way he held himself and acted in public, subtle hints of what was really going on. But at the time, nothing had ever screamed out to Quinn that something was terribly wrong. Skylar just seemed, well, like Skylar.

Then again, he has no ‘Skylar before’ to compare it to. He’d only known Skylar for a little over a year.

He glances over at the young man in the bed, taking in the healing bruises on his face, the stark white bandages wrapped expertly around his head, his throat, his hands, and the cast around his left wrist. And those were only the injuries visible at that moment. There were more, many more inside and out, but Quinn didn’t want to think about what that bastard had done. He found it hard enough seeing the damage on the surface. It’s not Quinn’s fault, deep down he knows that, but he still can’t help but think things might have been different if he had just questioned things, poked at the unordinary a little more, or dared to peek behind the curtain. He might have spared Skylar a lot of pain. And himself.

Because it is tearing him up inside to think about what had been happening to Skylar all this time.

Nobody has a clue of course, and they won’t until Skylar actually wakes up. If he wakes up. The doctors are hopeful, but they don’t make promises. “There’s a good chance,” “The brain is a complex organ,” and “No way to know for sure” are Quinn’s least favorite phrases right about now. But the thing they all can agree upon without hesitation, Skylar is lucky to be alive. He is lucky Quinn found him when he did.

Quinn has to agree, even though he will forever be haunted by that night. He leans forward, trying to distract himself from the images springing forth in his mind, and picks up Skylar’s hand. The splints and tape cover most of Skylar’s fingers but Quinn holds the appendage in his own gently. He tells himself it’s so Skylar knows he is there, but honestly Quinn needs to feel some part of him, alive and—for the most part—whole. He takes a shaky breath and exhales a soft chuckle.

“God Sky, if you could only see me now. I’m sure you’d have some snarky comment or sarcastic response. I could really use one of those right now.” He knows there will be no response, but Quinn still finds himself searching Skylar’s slack face for any sign of a reaction. He’s still disappointed when there is none.