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Grian was convinced the world was out to get him.
Not in the dramatic, lightning-struck-by-fate way people joked about when a coffee spilled or a train was late, but in the slow, grinding, methodical way that made you wake up every morning already tired. The kind that lodged itself behind your eyes and whispered “this is it, this is where it finally happens” every time your phone buzzed or a doctor cleared their throat.
For weeks it had been doctors’ offices. White rooms that smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Clipboards. Furrowed brows. Words spoken too carefully. We just want to rule some things out. It’s probably nothing, but— We’d like to run another test.
Cancer had hovered in the air like a bad smell no one wanted to name outright. It crept into his thoughts when he was brushing his teeth, when he lay awake at night counting the cracks in the ceiling, when he pulled on his riding jacket and felt absurdly grateful for the weight of it, the armour sewn into the elbows, spine and shoulders. As if padding could protect you from everything.
Then came the waiting. The limbo. The sense that his body had betrayed him in some quiet, invisible way, and now he was just killing time before the verdict dropped.
So when the doctors finally said things looked okay until he went for another checkup in the next few weeks, it didn’t feel like relief. It felt like the world inhaling sharply, preparing for something else.
That something else, apparently, was tonight.
Rain hammered down in sheets, slicking the road into a mirror of warped streetlights and smeared reflections. Grian rode his motorbike like he always did: alert, tense, alive. The engine’s vibration thrummed up through the frame and into his bones, grounding him in a way nothing else ever quite managed. The rain soaked into his gloves and crept up his sleeves, cold and insistent, but he welcomed it. Pain and discomfort were simple. They made sense.
The roads, though. The roads were trying to kill him.
Manhole covers gleamed like oil slicks, treacherous circles of metal just waiting for the wrong angle. He swerved around one, then another, heart thudding harder each time his tires hissed over wet asphalt. Earlier, his wheel had slipped just enough to make his handlebars jerk violently, snapping sideways like something possessed. For half a second, pure animal panic had surged through him as the bike threatened to throw him, the world tilting off its axis.
He’d wrestled it back under control, muscles screaming, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. By the time he steadied, his pulse was roaring in his ears. He’d laughed, sharp and breathless inside his helmet, because what else could you do? Laugh or scream. Sometimes they felt like the same thing.
He told himself to slow down. To be careful. He always did.
The corner was coming up, one he knew by heart. Gentle curve, slight downhill, nothing dramatic. He’d taken it a thousand times. Could do it blind. Muscle memory guided him as much as sight, leaning into the turn, trusting the tires, trusting himself.
And then it all went fucking wrong.
The moment stretched, elastic and cruel. His gloved hands curled around the brake levers, a movement so familiar he barely thought about it. Just enough pressure to ease him through the bend.
Instead of the expected resistance, there was a sickening give.
Metal screamed.
The brake snapped clean off under his fingers.
There was no time to process it. No space for thought, only sensation. The bike lurched violently as his weight shifted wrong, the rear wheel skidding out from under him like it had been kicked by an invisible force. The world tilted, spun, became noise and blur and panic all at once.
God, not like this.
The bike went down hard. So did he.
He hit the tarmac and slid.
The sound was deafening: fabric scraping against asphalt, armour grinding, the ugly, relentless hiss of momentum refusing to let go. Pain flared everywhere at once, a white-hot bloom that cut through the shock and stole his breath. Even with full gear; helmet, jacket, reinforced trousers, boots.. it hurt like a motherfucker. The kind of pain that rattled your teeth and made your vision spark.
Instinct took over. He curled in on himself, arms coming up to shield his head even as the helmet smacked against the road, jarring his neck and sending a dull, nauseating thud through his skull. His body bounced once, twice, then kept sliding, spinning him around so fast the world dissolved into streaks of grey and orange and rain-smeared light.
Every second felt like too long. Like his skin might burn straight through the gear, like his bones might grind themselves into powder.
Then, mercifully, physics won.
He slowed. Dragged. Finally came to a stop in the middle of the road, rain pattering down on him like an audience holding its breath.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
The world rang. A high-pitched whine filled his ears, drowning out the rain, the distant hum of traffic. His chest heaved as he sucked in air that tasted like wet rubber and adrenaline. Everything hurt, but nothing hurt enough to be immediately terrifying, and that alone felt like a small miracle.
“Still alive,” his brain supplied numbly. “Still here.”
That was when the panic really set in.
His bike.
He pushed himself up with a groan, joints protesting violently. His limbs felt heavy, sluggish, like they belonged to someone else. As soon as he was upright, he staggered toward where the bike lay crumpled on its side, a dark, pathetic shape against the shining road.
Fuck his body. He could deal with that later.
The rain blurred his vision, streaking across the visor of his helmet until everything beyond it warped and smeared. He wiped at it with the back of his glove, smearing water and grit uselessly, then crouched beside the bike.
“Come on,” he muttered, voice muffled and shaky inside the helmet. “Come on, come on…”
Up close, the damage looked worse.
The handlebars were twisted at an unnatural angle, one mirror shattered entirely, jagged glass clinging stubbornly to the stem. Scratches gouged deep into the paint, exposing raw metal beneath like torn skin. One indicator light hung by its wiring, blinking feebly, as if confused about whether it should still be alive.
His chest tightened painfully.
Carefully, gingerly, he tried to lift it. The weight resisted him, slick with rain, awkward and wrong. Pain shot up his arms and through his shoulders, sharp enough to make him hiss. He set it back down, breathing hard.
“Crap,” he whispered.
That was when the ache in his body began to assert itself, no longer content to be background noise.
His right leg throbbed, a deep, pulsing pain that made his stomach twist when he shifted his weight. His ribs felt bruised, every breath dragging uncomfortably against them. His hands trembled, adrenaline bleeding off and leaving him hollow and shaky.
Still, he forced himself to keep checking the bike. Fingers traced along the frame, searching for cracks, something catastrophic. The snapped brake lever stared back at him accusingly, metal sheared clean through.
His mind latched onto it with sudden, vicious clarity.
That shouldn’t have happened.
Not like that. Not so easily. He took care of his bike. Maintained it obsessively. Inspected it before every ride, because trusting a machine with your life demanded respect.
And yet.
A shaky laugh bubbled up in his throat, brittle and humourless. “Of course,” he murmured. “Of course it did.”
The world had been poking him for weeks, testing him. Needling him with waiting rooms and whispered maybes. And now, when he dared to believe he might be okay, it escalated.
Cancer scare not enough? Fine. Here’s a brake failure. Here’s rain-slicked roads. Here’s you sliding across asphalt, wondering if this is the moment everything finally snaps for good.
A car slowed nearby, headlights cutting through the rain. Someone shouted, words blurred by distance and the ringing in his ears. Grian barely registered it. His focus tunnelled inward, spiralling.
His heart hammered painfully against his ribs. With it came a sudden, irrational fear that he might be more hurt than he thought. That something inside him had cracked quietly, unnoticed, and would make itself known later in some horrible way.
Just like before.
He sat back on his heels, the rain soaking into his trousers, and finally allowed himself to take stock of his body. Hands trembling, he flexed his fingers. Pain, but movement. He rolled his shoulders carefully, winced. Prodded at his ribs through the jacket, breath catching.
Everything hurt. Nothing screamed.
He sagged with exhausted relief, head dropping forward. Water dripped from the edge of his helmet in steady ticks, counting out the seconds.
When he reached up and unclipped it, the cool air hit his face like a shock. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead. His cheeks ached where his jaw had been clenched too long. He scrubbed a hand down his face, smearing water and grime, then stared at the bike again.
“I just wanted to get home,” he said quietly, to no one. His voice cracked on the words.
The rain kept falling. Cars passed more cautiously now, giving him a wide berth. The city carried on, indifferent.
Grian exhaled shakily and pushed himself back to his feet. He hurt. He was shaken. His bike was damaged, and his nerves were frayed raw. But he was still standing.
The world hadn’t won tonight.
Not completely.
Grian managed to drag himself and the bike farther off the road, boots skidding on wet grit until he was tucked into what passed for safety: a narrow, miserable strip of verge swallowed by darkness. Traffic roared past anyway, headlights flaring briefly before vanishing, each car spraying water that splattered cold against his legs.
Once he was sure he wasn’t about to be clipped by a mirror or bumper, he let the bike drop with a hollow, metallic clatter that echoed far too loudly in the night.
“Sorry,” he muttered, the word automatic, useless.
He lowered himself down beside it with a careful, controlled collapse, muscles trembling as soon as the effort stopped. The rain soaked through him immediately, cold seeping in where adrenaline had been holding the door shut. His breathing sounded wrong in his own ears; thin, wheezing around pain he hadn’t let himself acknowledge yet.
Hands shaking, he reached for the kill switch. His fingers slipped on wet plastic, numb inside his gloves. It took him a second try, then a third, before the engine finally cut out. The sudden silence was brutal.
Without the engine’s low growl, the night felt enormous.
Rain hissed against the road. Tires tore through puddles. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed and faded. Otherwise, nothing. No voices. No footsteps. No sign that anyone had noticed a man go down hard in the dark.
He lifted a hand to his helmet and stabbed clumsily at the comm system. Music was still playing. Something upbeat, relentlessly cheerful, thudding straight into his skull. It made his stomach twist.
“Shut.. off,” he rasped, jabbing again until it finally cut out.
The ringing in his ears surged in its place, high and shrill. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed until it dulled to a tolerable buzz.
Phone. He needed his phone.
Carefully, he leaned back and reached for the thigh bag strapped to his leg. Pain flared immediately along his side, sharp enough to steal the breath straight from his lungs. He froze, half-bent, a strangled sound tearing out of him before he could stop it.
“Fuck—”
He stayed there for a second, panting, waiting for the pain to ebb from blinding to merely vicious. His ribs burned with every inhale, like something inside him had been cracked and shifted wrong.
Slowly. So carefully it felt ridiculous, he tried again, bracing his elbow on his knee. The zipper felt miles away from his fingers, but eventually he managed to get it open and fumbled inside.
His phone slid into his palm.
For a terrifying heartbeat, he didn’t press the button. Just stared at it, rain beading on the screen, bracing for the sight of shattered glass.
It lit up.
Not broken. Scratched, yes. But alive.
A shaky laugh burst out of him, raw and breathless. “You win,” he murmured to it. “You’re tougher than me.”
He wiped the screen uselessly with his thumb and unlocked it. His emergency contacts filled the display, bright and intrusive in the dark.
Scar.
His thumb hovered.
Guilt surged immediately, hot and sharp. Scar was at home. Scar was tired. Scar… Scar would panic, and then what? Grian knew exactly what would happen the moment he made this call.
But he was sitting in the dark, soaked, hurt, next to a wrecked bike, and he couldn’t even tell where the hell he was anymore. The streetlights were spaced too far apart here, the road dissolving into black beyond their weak halos. Everything looked the same; wet asphalt, trees bleeding into shadow, buildings reduced to vague, looming shapes.
He pressed call.
The ring sounded absurdly loud in the quiet. Once. Twice.
Grian leaned back against the curb, tipping his head up into the rain. It ran down his face and into his collar, cold enough to make him shiver hard.
He exhaled shakily, chest hitching as the pain finally started to settle into places he couldn’t ignore. His leg throbbed with a deep, insistent pulse that radiated down into his shin. His shoulders ached like they’d been slammed into concrete. His ribs—
He shifted slightly and immediately regretted it.
Pain speared through his side, bright and sharp, punching the air clean out of his lungs. He doubled forward with a strangled gasp, clutching at himself, phone clenched white-knuckle tight in his other hand.
The ringing stopped.
“Grian?” Scar’s voice came through the speaker, tinny but unmistakable. Immediate concern, no preamble. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
The sound of him cracked something open in Grian’s chest. His throat tightened painfully.
“I…” He swallowed. “I’m okay. I think. I.. Scar, I crashed.”
Silence. A sharp inhale.
“You what?”
“Bike,” Grian clarified weakly. “Brake snapped. I slid out.” He let out a short, humourless laugh. “I’m… sitting on the side of the road.”
Scar didn’t laugh.
“Where are you?” He asked, already tense, already bracing for action.
Grian looked around again, heart sinking. The darkness pressed close, swallowing details. The street sign he thought he’d seen earlier was gone now, lost beyond the reach of the nearest lamp.
“I.. I’m not sure,” he admitted. “It’s too dark. I can’t see the signs properly.”
Scar swore under his breath. “Okay. Okay. Are you off the road?”
“Yeah. Mostly.” A car roared past a little too close for comfort, spraying water over his boots. He flinched. “Bike’s off the road too.”
“Are you hurt?”
Grian hesitated.
Yes. Definitely yes. But saying it out loud felt heavier somehow, like it would make it real in a way he wasn’t ready for.
“I don’t know yet,” he said instead. “Nothing’s bleeding. I think. Adrenaline’s still… doing a lot.”
Scar breathed out slowly on the other end. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled, but Grian knew him too well not to hear the strain under it.
“I’m coming to get you.”
Grian winced. “Scar—”
“I’m coming to get you,” Scar repeated, firmer. “Don’t argue.”
“I’m not arguing,” Grian said quietly. “I’m just.. how?”
There it was. The thing neither of them had said yet.
Scar was in his wheelchair. He had a car, yes.. an automatic with modifications, but getting in and out wasn’t quick. Helping someone else into it alone, in the dark, in the rain, when that someone was injured?
Grian’s stomach twisted.
Scar was silent for a beat too long. “I’ll figure it out,” he said finally. “I always do.”
Grian squeezed his eyes shut. Guilt crashed over him, heavy and suffocating. “Scar, I don’t want you trying to haul me around in the dark. I can— I can call someone else. Or an ambulance.”
“Do not hang up,” Scar said immediately, voice sharp now. “You’re not alone out there.”
“I know, I just—”
“I know exactly how hard it is for me,” Scar cut in, softer but no less certain. “And I know exactly how hard it is for you to ask for help. So we’re not doing this dance tonight.”
Grian huffed weakly. “You’re stubborn.”
“Takes one to love one.”
There was movement on Scar’s end now: faint clatter, the soft sound of the wheels of his chair. Grian pictured it vividly, the practiced motions, the efficiency Scar had learned the hard way.
“I’m getting into the car,” Scar said. “I need you to stay awake and talk to me.”
“I am awake,” Grian protested faintly.
“Good. Stay that way.”
Rain soaked deeper into Grian’s clothes, cold gnawing at him now that shock was fading. His teeth chattered, jaw trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For making this harder,” Grian whispered. “You shouldn’t have to—”
“Stop,” Scar said firmly. “You got hurt. That’s the beginning and end of it.”
A car slowed as it passed, headlights washing over Grian for a brief, blinding second. He raised an arm reflexively, shielding his face, then watched as it sped off without hesitation.
No one stopped.
The dark closed back in.
“Scar,” Grian said, suddenly, fear spiking. “What if you can’t find me?”
“I will,” Scar said without hesitation. “You’re somewhere on your route home, right?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Then I’ll trace it. Worst case, I park somewhere safe and call emergency services to help us both.”
The us landed heavily in Grian’s chest.
His leg pulsed harder now, pain sharpening every time he shifted. His ribs burned constantly, a dull, grinding ache that made each breath careful and shallow.
“I thought I was done,” he admitted quietly, staring at the rain-slicked road. “With all the bad luck.”
Scar didn’t interrupt.
“Doctors finally stopped looking at me like I’m already dead,” Grian went on, voice thin. “And then this happens. It feels like the universe is lining things up.”
“That’s not how this works,” Scar said gently. “You didn’t cause this. You didn’t earn it. Machines fail. Roads are dangerous. None of that is fate.”
Grian knew that. But knowing didn’t stop the fear from curling tight in his gut.
“I’m five minutes out,” Scar said. “I need you to listen to me, okay?”
“Okay.”
“When I get there, I might not be able to get to you immediately. I need you to stay put. Don’t try to stand unless you absolutely have to.”
“I won’t,” Grian promised.
“And if I have to call for help to get you into the car, we will. I don’t care who sees.”
Grian swallowed. “Okay.”
They stayed on the line, the connection thin but steady, as rain battered down and cars continued to pass without slowing.
Time stopped behaving like a straight line somewhere between the phone call and the headlights.
Grian would not have been able to say how long he sat there if someone had put a gun to his head. Minutes, maybe. An hour. Long enough for the rain to soak him through to the bone, long enough for the ache in his body to blur into something distant and unreal, long enough for his thoughts to come apart at the seams.
He drifted.
Not asleep, he knew that much, but not fully awake either. The world came in fragments instead of wholes. The hiss of rain on asphalt. The low rush of passing cars, close enough that the air moved against him, far enough that none of them stopped. The cold leeching steadily into his limbs, turning shivers into something slow and violent.
His head felt wrong.
There was pressure behind his eyes, like someone had packed his skull with wet cotton. Sounds reached him half a second late, warped and hollow. Sometimes he blinked and forgot why he’d blinked. Sometimes he stared at his hands and it took a worrying amount of effort to remember they were his.
He thought about doctors’ offices. About fluorescent lights and the way they flickered if you stared too long. About Scar’s voice telling him to stay awake. About whether he was awake right now or just convincingly pretending.
At some point, his helmet came off. He wasn’t sure when. He vaguely remembered fumbling fingers, a strap biting into his jaw, the relief of cool air against sweat-soaked skin. After that, everything smeared together.
He might have been humming under his breath. Or counting raindrops. Or nothing at all.
The pain came and went in waves, distant and sharp by turns. His ribs hurt when he breathed too deeply, so he stopped trying. His leg throbbed with a steady, pulsing insistence that felt strangely disconnected from him, like it belonged to someone else sitting too close.
What didn’t hurt, what didn’t register at all, was his chest.
That should have worried him more.
The waiting was the worst part.
Not the pain, not yet, but the way time seemed to stretch and warp around him, pulling thin like taffy until seconds lost all meaning. Grian had stopped trying to count how long he’d been sitting there. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like nothing at all.
Something was wrong with his head.
That realisation drifted in slowly, like fog creeping under a door. His thoughts no longer connected cleanly; they slid past one another, half-formed and slippery. When he tried to focus on one thing. Scar’s voice, the rain, the ache in his leg.. it dissolved into something else before he could get a grip on it.
Cotton. That was the closest word for it.
His head felt stuffed full of cotton, thick and suffocating, muting everything. Sounds came through dull and warped, like he was underwater. The rain wasn’t sharp anymore; it was a distant hiss. The passing cars no longer roared.. they sighed, ghostlike, their headlights smearing into pale streaks that barely registered before vanishing again.
Scar was still talking to him. He knew that. The phone was still pressed to his ear, slick with rain and trembling fingers. Scar’s voice rose and fell, urgent, grounding, he could hear the tone of it, could recognise it as Scar, but the words themselves slipped away.
“…Grian. Hey, stay with me— can you hear me?”
“Yeah..” Grian tried to say.
What came out instead was a soft, slurred sound that didn’t feel like it belonged to him. He frowned faintly, confused by his own mouth.
His tongue felt thick. Heavy.
Pain was starting to assert itself now that the adrenaline had well and truly burned off.
It crept in slowly, insidiously, like a tide coming up around him. His leg throbbed in deep, nauseating pulses that made his stomach churn. His ribs ached constantly, a grinding soreness that sharpened every time he breathed too deeply. His shoulders burned. His hands tingled unpleasantly, pins and needles spreading into his fingers.
And beneath it all, under everything, was his head.
A dull pressure sat behind his eyes, growing heavier by the minute. Not a sharp pain, worse than that. A crushing weight, like someone had wrapped his skull in wet cloth and was slowly twisting. Every time he moved his head even slightly, the world lagged behind, catching up a fraction of a second too late.
Scar’s voice wavered, dipped, surged again. “…don’t close your eyes. Grian, talk to me. Tell me what hurts—”
Grian blinked hard, vision swimming. “Everything,” he tried to say. It came out as “Every…thing,” each syllable dragged through molasses.
The darkness pressed closer.
He hadn’t noticed it at first, how deep it had become. The streetlights were few and far between here, their weak yellow glow barely piercing the rain. One of them flickered erratically, buzzing faintly, plunging the road into darkness for long uncomfortable seconds before sputtering back to life.
Each time it went out, his chest tightened.
When it stayed on, the shadows still felt wrong. Too thick, too close. The trees lining the road loomed like warped silhouettes, their branches reaching inward. The verge behind him dissolved into a wall of black he couldn’t see into no matter how hard he tried.
He squinted, trying to orient himself, but the effort made his head spin. The world tilted unpleasantly, and he squeezed his eyes shut again with a soft groan.
Something crawled up his spine.
A sensation. Not sound, not sight, just a sudden, icy awareness.
He wasn’t alone.
The thought slipped into his mind fully formed, uninvited. His heart stuttered painfully in his chest, then began to pound harder, faster, as if trying to flee without him.
He forced himself to look.
The darkness stared back.
Nothing moved. Nothing obvious. Just rain, shadows, empty road.
And yet.
The feeling didn’t go away.
It intensified.
It was as if the dark itself had weight now, pressing in on him from all sides. From behind the trees. From the verge. From the road beyond the weak pool of light. From everywhere and nowhere at once.
Grian’s breath hitched.
He could feel it. Eyes on him. Not just one set. Many. Unblinking. Patient.
Watching.
Logic tried, weakly, to assert itself. It’s late. It’s raining. No one’s out here. His brain offered the facts like a flimsy shield. You crashed. You’re concussed. This is just..
But the feeling didn’t care about logic.
It crawled under his skin, made his muscles tense, his shoulders hunch instinctively inward as if trying to make himself smaller. His heart hammered so hard it hurt, each beat echoing in his skull.
The pain everywhere else seemed to sharpen in response, as if the darkness itself were feeding on it. Every ache screamed louder. Every throb intensified. His ribs burned. His leg felt like it was being crushed from the inside. His head pulsed viciously, pressure building until he thought he might be sick.
He couldn’t see his injuries. Couldn’t see much of anything beyond the immediate halo of flickering light. The rest of the world might as well not exist.
Scar said something; his name, maybe.. but it sounded far away, like it was coming through a long tunnel.
Grian swallowed hard. His mouth was dry despite the rain soaking him through.
“Scar,” he mumbled.
“I’m here,” Scar said immediately, sharper now. “I’m here. Talk to me.”
Grian’s fingers tightened convulsively around the phone. “I—” His voice shook. “I think… I think someone’s watching me.”
There it was. Saying it out loud made it worse.
Scar didn’t dismiss it. He didn’t laugh or brush it off. His response came quick, controlled, steady.
“Okay,” Scar said. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
Grian squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open again, scanning the darkness even though it made his head scream. “I—I can’t see anyone,” he slurred. “I know that. I know it doesn’t make sense. It’s too late. Too dark. But I—” His breath hitched. “I can feel it. Everywhere.”
His chest felt tight, like the air itself had thickened.
The shadows seemed closer now, crowding the edges of the light. The flickering streetlamp buzzed angrily, then dimmed again, plunging him into near-total darkness for a few terrifying seconds.
Grian whimpered softly before he could stop himself.
“I don’t like it,” he whispered. “I don’t like it, Scar.”
“I know,” Scar said gently. “You’re safe right now. You’re hurt, and your brain is playing tricks on you. That happens with head injuries.”
The words made sense. Rational. Calm.
They didn’t make the feeling go away.
If anything, it grew heavier, more suffocating. Like the dark was leaning in, curious. Studying him. Drinking in the way he trembled, the way his breath came too fast and shallow.
Another car passed, close enough that its headlights flared painfully bright in his eyes. For a split second, the world snapped into sharp relief: the wet road, the wrecked bike, his own knees drawn up awkwardly.
Then it was gone again.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
The eyes were back immediately.
Grian’s breathing grew erratic. He could hear it now, loud in his ears, rasping and uneven. His heart raced so fast it felt like it might burst.
“I can’t—” He swallowed. “I can’t tell where I am. I don’t know where I am.”
“That’s okay,” Scar said firmly. “I’m close. I promise. I’m still on the way.”
Time fractured again. Scar’s voice faded in and out, sometimes sharp, sometimes distant. Grian tried to cling to it like a lifeline, but his thoughts kept slipping sideways.
He became acutely aware of how still he was.
How vulnerable.
Sitting in the dark. Hurt. Unable to see. Unable to run. Unable to even stand without the world spinning violently out of control.
The feeling of being watched intensified until it was almost physical. He felt it on his skin, prickling along his arms and neck. His shoulders hunched instinctively, arms wrapping around himself despite the pain, as if he could shield his own body from unseen gazes.
His imagination, if that’s what it was, ran wild in the absence of clear sight. Shapes shifted at the edge of his vision. The trees seemed to lean. Shadows pooled unnaturally, stretching too far, holding too long.
Every instinct screamed at him to move.
To get out of the dark.
But moving hurt. Moving made his head spin violently. Moving felt dangerous in a different way, like it might tip him over some invisible edge he wouldn’t be able to come back from.
So he stayed still.
And the pain grew.
Each second amplified it, as if his body were finally tallying the damage now that he wasn’t distracting it with survival. His leg felt hot and wrong. His ribs burned constantly. His head throbbed so badly his vision blurred at the edges.
He couldn’t tell if he was fading.
That thought slid in unbidden, cold and terrifying.
He didn’t know what fading felt like. Didn’t know if this was it.. if this cotton-headed haze, this distance from his own body, was the beginning of something irreversible.
“Scar,” he whispered again, voice barely there. “I feel… weird.”
“I need you to stay with me,” Scar said, urgency sharpening his tone. “Don’t go quiet.”
Grian nodded faintly, even though it sent another wave of dizziness crashing through him. “I’m trying,” he murmured. “It’s just.. dark.”
The word felt inadequate. This wasn’t just darkness. It was oppressive. Alive. Pressing in on him from all sides, erasing the edges of the world until only fear and pain remained.
The streetlight flickered again, stuttered and went out completely.
Grian gasped, a sharp, panicked sound tearing out of him as true darkness swallowed him whole. No yellow glow. No weak halo. Just black.
The eyes felt closer than ever.
He whimpered, curling in on himself despite the pain, phone clutched to his ear like a talisman. “Scar.. Scar, I can’t see— I can’t see anything!”
“I’m here,” Scar said immediately, voice loud, grounding. “Listen to me. You’re not alone. The light going out doesn’t mean anything else is there.”
Grian shook his head weakly, tears mixing with rain and tracking down his face. “It feels like it is,” he whispered. “It feels like something’s waiting.”
Silence pressed in between Scar’s words, thick and heavy.
“I need you to trust me,” Scar said, steady and unwavering. “This is your brain misfiring. You hit your head. It’s terrifying, but it’s not real.”
Grian wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to believe him.
But the pain kept building. The darkness kept watching. And his thoughts kept slipping through his fingers like water. He didn’t know how much longer he could stay awake. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. All he knew was that the night felt endless, and he was very, very small inside it.
Grian’s head grew impossibly heavy.
It wasn’t just the pain anymore. Though that was still there, a constant, grinding presence, but the weight of it, like his skull had been packed full of wet sand. Holding his head upright took effort now. Keeping his eyes open felt like trying to pry apart magnets.
Scar was still talking.
He knew that in the same distant way he knew the rain was still falling, the cars still passing. Scar’s voice rose and fell through the phone pressed to his ear, but it no longer sounded like it was meant for him. The words blurred together, stretched and warped, syllables dissolving before they reached meaning.
“…Grian, listen to me, stay with me—”
The sound faded in and out, muffled, as if Scar were speaking from the bottom of a deep well.
Grian blinked slowly, eyelids dragging. Each blink lasted longer than the last. The darkness behind his eyes felt thicker than the night around him, warm and heavy and inviting in a way that terrified him only dimly, like fear remembered rather than felt.
Oh, he thought distantly. This is it.
The realisation came without drama. No spike of panic, no sudden clarity.. just a dull, sinking certainty that settled into his chest.
He was fading.
He was going to die like this: sitting on cold ground, soaked through, broken bike beside him, his boyfriend’s voice crackling uselessly through a phone line as he searched the dark for someone who was already slipping away.
The thought should have horrified him.
Instead, it made him tired.
So tired.
His grip on the phone loosened slightly. His head tipped forward, chin dropping toward his chest. The pain everywhere else dulled, edges softening, as if his body were slowly being wrapped in layers of cotton.
Scar’s voice spiked suddenly, louder, sharper, panic cutting through the haze for half a second.
“Grian! Hey! No, no, stay with me—”
Grian tried to respond. Tried to tell him he was still here. His mouth moved. No sound came out.
The darkness pressed closer, but it no longer felt hostile. It felt… patient. Like it had been waiting for him to stop fighting.
Then— A voice.
Not from the phone.
Not from the road.
From behind him.
Soft. Quiet. Close.
“Hey.”
The sound cut cleanly through the fog in his head, sharp in a way nothing else had been. Grian’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering open wider despite the ache.
The voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It carried warmth with it, a gentleness that wrapped around him like a blanket pulled up to his chin.
“You’re not alone,” the voice said.
Something in Grian’s chest loosened.
The suffocating pressure of being watched, of eyes in the dark, evaporated instantly. Like mist burned off by sunlight. The fear that had been clawing at him for so long simply… vanished.
In its place came an odd, bone-deep calm.
Grian swallowed thickly and, with immense effort, turned his head to the right.
Movement made the world swim, but he didn’t feel the sharp spike of panic that usually followed. The dizziness rolled through him gently and passed.
There. Perched on the fencing of the motorway bridge behind him, sat a person.
Not a shadow. Not a shape half-imagined in darkness.
A person.
They were lit impossibly clearly, as if the night simply didn’t apply to them. Full colour, crisp edges, no distortion. The rain didn’t seem to touch them at all.
Short blonde hair, slightly mussed. A blue washed denim jacket that Grian recognised instantly, worn at the cuffs. A white undershirt beneath it. Jeans, scuffed at the knees. Legs dangling casually over the edge of the fencing, boots swinging slowly back and forth.
And a smile.
Soft. Familiar. Achingly gentle.
The sight of it stole what little breath Grian had left. His heart stuttered, not with fear, but with something painfully close to relief.
“…Jimmy?” he breathed.
The name barely made it past his lips, but the figure’s smile widened just a fraction, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way Grian had seen a thousand times before.
“Hey, Grian,” Jimmy said, voice warm and fond. “Took you long enough.”
Grian’s vision blurred instantly. Tears welled, spilling over and mixing with the rain on his cheeks, but he didn’t feel embarrassed. Didn’t feel anything sharp or jagged at all.
Just… calm.
Jimmy hopped down from the fence with easy grace, landing lightly on the wet concrete as if gravity were optional. He crouched in front of Grian, close enough that Grian could see every familiar detail: the faint scar near his eyebrow, the dimple that appeared when he smiled like that, the exact shade of hazel in his eyes.
“You look like crap,” Jimmy said gently.
Grian let out a weak, broken laugh. “You’re—” He swallowed hard. “You’re dead.”
Jimmy’s smile softened. “Yeah… I know.”
The words didn’t hurt.
That alone should have terrified him.
Jimmy shifted, sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of him now, completely unbothered by the rain-soaked concrete. He rested his elbows on his knees, chin propped in his hands, studying Grian with open concern.
“I’m sorry,” He said quietly. “About… everything.”
Grian shook his head weakly, the motion small and sluggish. “You jumped,” he whispered. “You—” His voice broke. “You left.”
Jimmy’s gaze dropped for a moment, smile faltering. When he looked back up, his eyes were shining.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you alone.”
A lump rose in Grian’s throat, heavy and suffocating. “You did,” he said, tears spilling freely now. “I was alone.”
Jimmy leaned forward then, close enough that Grian could feel warmth radiating from him. Not physical, not quite, but comforting all the same.
“You’re not,” Jimmy said firmly. “You never were. And you’re not now.”
Grian’s body felt lighter the longer Jimmy spoke, the pain receding into something distant and unimportant. His head still ached, but it no longer mattered. The darkness no longer pressed in. The road, the cars, the rain.. all of it felt far away, irrelevant.
Jimmy glanced around, then chuckled softly. “Guess you figured it out, huh?”
Grian frowned faintly. “Figured what out?”
Jimmy nodded toward the fence, toward the yawning black space beyond it. “This bridge.”
The realisation slid into place slowly, horribly clear.
The motorway bridge.
This bridge.
The one they’d stood on months ago, flowers clutched in numb hands, staring at the place where Jimmy had jumped. The one that haunted Grian’s dreams, that he avoided whenever he could.
His stomach twisted weakly. “Oh.”
Jimmy’s expression gentled further. “I didn’t plan it,” he said quietly. “Not like that. I just… couldn’t see another way out. Everything felt dark. Heavy. Like it was crushing me.”
Grian’s chest ached, not physically this time, but deeper. “I know,” he whispered. “I wish you’d told me.”
Jimmy reached out then.
His hand passed through the rain without disturbing it and came to rest against Grian’s cheek.
The touch was warm. Solid.
Real. Undeniably real.
Grian sucked in a shaky breath. “I miss you,” he said.
“I know,” Jimmy replied softly. “I miss you too.”
They sat like that for a moment, time stretching and folding in on itself. Grian was dimly aware of Scar’s voice still murmuring from the phone pressed to his ear, but it sounded impossibly far away now, like a memory from another life.
Jimmy’s thumb brushed gently under Grian’s eye, wiping away a tear. “You don’t have to worry,” he said. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here.”
Something in Grian loosened completely.
The exhaustion crashed down on him all at once, heavy and absolute. His shoulders sagged. His head tipped toward Jimmy instinctively.
“We’re together again,” Jimmy murmured, smiling. “Just like when we were kids, yeah?”
Grian nodded faintly. “Yeah.”
A thought flickered through the haze, weak but persistent.
Scar.
The phone.
He was still there. Still searching. Still fighting for him.
Grian forced his heavy eyelids open, blinking slowly. “Scar,” he mumbled.
Jimmy glanced at the phone, then back at Grian. His smile didn’t fade, but something unreadable passed through his eyes.
“You should tell him where you are,” He said gently.
Grian frowned. “Why?”
“So he can find you,” Jimmy replied.
The words didn’t quite make sense, but they landed anyway.
Grian dragged the phone closer to his mouth, fingers trembling. Scar’s voice spiked immediately, sharp with relief and fear.
“Grian? Oh thank god! Where are you?”
Grian swallowed, the effort enormous. “I—I think,” he slurred, “I think I’m on… the motorway bridge. The one—” His thoughts tangled. “The one where..”
Scar went very still on the other end. “…Jimmy?” He said cautiously. “Grian, what do you mean?”
Grian turned his head slightly, looking back at his brother. Jimmy smiled at him, warm and encouraging, nodding faintly.
“Jimmy’s here,” Grian said softly. “He’s with me.”
There was a sharp, broken sound from Scar’s end of the line, something between a gasp and a sob.
“Grian,” Scar said carefully, voice trembling now. “Jimmy is— Jimmy can’t be there.”
Grian frowned, confused. “But he is,” he insisted weakly. “I can see him.”
Scar’s breathing grew ragged. “Grian, listen to me. You’re hurt. You hit your head. Jimmy died.”
The word slid off Grian’s mind without catching.
Jimmy’s hand rested reassuringly on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “He doesn’t understand yet.”
Grian’s eyelids fluttered again, heavier than ever. “I’m tired,” he whispered.
“I know,” Jimmy said. “You’ve been so strong.”
Scar’s voice rose urgently, panic bleeding through now. “Grian, I’m almost there, please.. please stay with me, don’t go to sleep—”
Jimmy leaned closer, forehead nearly touching Grian’s. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”
Grian’s body sagged, exhaustion claiming him fully. The pain was gone now. The fear was gone. All that remained was warmth and the familiar presence of his twin.
“I love you,” Grian murmured, not sure who he was saying it to.
“I love you too,” Jimmy replied immediately.
Somewhere far away, Scar shouted his name.
Grian’s eyes closed.
Jimmy’s voice never rose.
It stayed low and intimate threading carefully through the rain and the ringing in Grian’s ears, exactly the way it used to when they were kids and the house was dark and quiet and full of rules they were already breaking just by being awake.
“Hey,” Jimmy murmured, close enough that the word felt like it brushed Grian’s ear. “You remember how we used to do this?”
Grian’s eyelids fluttered. The world swayed gently, like it was rocking him. He didn’t answer, but Jimmy didn’t need him to.
“School nights,” Jimmy went on softly. “Lights out. Mum and Dad finally asleep. And we’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to laugh because everything felt funnier when we weren’t supposed to be awake.”
A faint, ghost of a smile tugged at Grian’s mouth.
“I’d whisper,” Jimmy said, lowering his voice even further, conspiratorial. “And you’d tell me to shut up because you were scared they’d hear us.”
Grian breathed out. A weak, huffing sound that might have been a laugh once. His chest barely moved with it.
“You were always the brave one,” Jimmy said fondly. “Even when you didn’t think you were.”
The rain kept falling, but it felt distant now, like it belonged to another world entirely. Grian’s pain had dulled into something abstract. His body was still heavy, still wrong.. but it no longer screamed at him. Everything felt slowed, softened at the edges.
Jimmy shifted closer, sitting beside him now, shoulder nearly brushing Grian’s. If he was touching him, Grian couldn’t quite tell, but the warmth was there all the same, steady and reassuring.
“You’re safe,” Jimmy whispered. “I’ve got you. Nothing’s going to hurt you right now.”
The words slid into Grian’s mind easily, settling there without resistance. Safe. With Jimmy. The idea felt… right. Familiar in a way nothing else had felt for months.
Scar’s voice crackled faintly from the phone, distant and frantic, like a radio left on in another room. Grian barely registered it.
Jimmy noticed.
“He’s still trying,” He said gently. No judgment. No bitterness. Just observation. “He loves you. You know that, right?”
Grian nodded faintly, the motion barely there. “I know,” he murmured. His tongue felt thick, the words heavy. “He’s… good.”
Jimmy smiled. “Yeah, he is.”
They sat in silence for a moment, broken only by the rain and Grian’s shallow breathing. Jimmy’s presence filled the space completely, pushing the darkness back, keeping it from closing in again.
“You don’t have to be scared,” Jimmy said after a while. “Not of dying. Not of living. Not of any of it.”
Grian swallowed. The act felt enormous. “It hurts,” he whispered. Not just his body. Everything. “I’m tired.”
“I know,” Jimmy said immediately. “God, I know. You’ve been tired for so long.”
The understanding in his voice cut deeper than any pain. Grian’s throat tightened, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and soaking into his hair.
“You didn’t deserve what I did to you,” Jimmy continued softly. “You didn’t deserve to lose me like that.”
Grian shook his head weakly. “I should’ve—”
“No,” Jimmy interrupted, still gentle but firm. “No ‘should have’. You loved me. That was never the problem.”
Jimmy leaned back slightly, looking up at the dark sky beyond the bridge. “I didn’t think I’d be able to come back,” he admitted quietly. “Didn’t think I’d be allowed to. But here I am.”
He turned back to Grian, eyes bright and kind. “And I’m not here to take you away unless you want to go.”
The words landed softly, but their weight was enormous.
Grian’s heart gave a slow, heavy thud.
“What… what do you mean?” he asked, voice barely audible.
Jimmy smiled, the same smile he’d worn when they were children and he was about to explain something serious but didn’t want to scare him.
“I mean,” Jimmy said, “this part’s up to you.”
He gestured vaguely at the darkness, the road, the phone still clutched in Grian’s hand.
“You can come with me,” Jimmy said simply. “Come home. I’m there. It’s warm. It’s quiet. No pain. No fear. Just… peace.”
The word wrapped around Grian like silk.
Peace.
“You wouldn’t be alone anymore,” Jimmy added. “Not ever. I’d be waiting for you. I always will be, no matter what you choose.”
Grian’s breath shuddered. The idea unfurled inside him, tempting and gentle and impossibly kind.
No more hospitals. No more tests. No more waiting rooms and whispered maybes. No more fear every time his body did something strange. No more nights lying awake wondering when the next bad thing would happen.
Just Jimmy. Warm arms. Familiar laughter. Shared silence that didn’t hurt.
“But,” Jimmy continued, voice still soft, “you can also stay.”
Grian frowned faintly.
“You can wait,” Jimmy said. “You can hold on. You can let Scar find you. Go home with him instead.”
Scar’s name cut through the fog a little sharper than anything else had.
Jimmy didn’t flinch from it.
“He needs you,” He said gently. “And you love him.”
Grian nodded again, tears sliding freely now. “I do.”
“I know,” Jimmy said. “And you don’t have to choose right now. There’s time.”
He glanced around them, the empty road, the darkness held at bay. “This moment’s kind of stretched out. Funny how that works.”
Jimmy shifted closer again, until his shoulder pressed fully against his. Grian leaned into it instinctively, a soft, broken sound leaving him as he did.
“I’ll stay with you while you decide,” Jimmy promised. “I won’t leave you alone. Not like before.”
The ache in Grian’s chest sharpened briefly at that, but it didn’t overwhelm him. Jimmy’s presence soothed it, smoothed the edges.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Jimmy said quietly. “Not your life. Not your death. Not forgiveness. I just… wanted to be here for you this time.”
Grian closed his eyes, resting his head slightly toward Jimmy. The world felt warm here. Safe. Balanced on the edge of something vast and quiet.
Scar’s voice grew louder suddenly, closer, panicked and desperate.
“Grian! Please, please talk to me—”
Grian flinched faintly at the sound, a crease forming between his brows.
Jimmy lifted a hand and rested it over Grian’s, where it still clutched the phone. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You don’t have to answer yet.”
The darkness beyond the bridge shimmered softly, no longer threatening.. just waiting. Patient.
“If you come with me,” Jimmy said, “there’s no more hurting. No more choosing. You can rest.”
The word echoed inside Grian’s skull.
Rest.
“And if you stay,” Jimmy continued, “it’ll hurt for a while longer. Healing always does. But there will be laughter again. Love. Stupid arguments over nothing. Mornings that don’t feel so heavy.”
Jimmy smiled faintly. “You were always better at living than you thought.”
Grian’s breathing wavered. His chest felt tight, not with fear, but with the weight of the decision settling in.
“I’m scared,” he whispered.
“I know,” Jimmy said. “That’s okay.”
They sat like that for a long time, or maybe only seconds. Time didn’t behave normally here.
Grian’s mind drifted between memories: Jimmy’s laugh echoing down hallways. Scar’s hands warm and steady. The sound of rain against windows. The smell of home.
He thought of Scar, alone in the dark, heart in his throat, refusing to give up on him.
He thought of Jimmy, waiting with open arms, asking nothing of him except honesty.
“I’ll be there either way,” Jimmy said softly, as if reading his thoughts. “That’s the one thing you don’t have to worry about.”
Grian opened his eyes slowly and looked at his brother.
“You promise?” he asked, voice fragile.
Jimmy smiled. Gentle and unwavering. “I promise.”
Scar’s voice broke through again, closer now, frantic and desperate and full of love.
“Grian, I can see the bridge. I’m here! Please—”
Grian’s grip on the phone tightened slightly.
He took a shaky breath.
The night waited. And Jimmy stayed beside him, patient and kind, as Grian gathered what little strength he had left to choose.
Grian made his choice quietly.
There was no thunderclap of certainty, no sudden rush of courage. Just a small, fragile realisation that surfaced through the fog in his head like a hand breaking the surface of deep water.
“I want to go back,” he whispered.
The words trembled as they left him, thin and weak, but they were real. Anchored. His own.
Jimmy didn’t look disappointed.
If anything, his smile softened further, pride and affection settling into it like something warm and familiar.
“I know,” Jimmy said gently. “You were always going to.”
Grian swallowed hard. His chest ached. Not the physical pain this time, but something deeper, rawer. “But I’ll come back,” he added hurriedly, like he was afraid the choice would be taken from him if he didn’t say it fast enough. “When I’m ready. I promise.”
Jimmy nodded, slow and sure. “I’ll be here.”
The darkness beyond the bridge shifted subtly, no longer looming, no longer hungry. Just… waiting. Patient in a way only eternity could be.
“I’ll be with you even while you’re living,” Jimmy went on softly. “You won’t see me like this. Not clearly. But I’ll be there. In the quiet moments. In the dreams you don’t remember properly. In the times you feel steadier than you should.”
Grian’s throat tightened. “I don’t want you to be lonely.”
Jimmy laughed quietly, fond and familiar. “I won’t be. Not anymore. You found me again, remember?”
He reached out, resting his forehead gently against Grian’s. The warmth was immediate, grounding, more real than anything else had felt in a long time.
“And when it is your time,” Jimmy whispered, “I’ll be waiting. We’ll go home together then. No rush. No pressure. Just… when you’re ready.”
Tears spilled freely down Grian’s face. He nodded, unable to speak around the ache in his chest.
“Okay,” Jimmy murmured. “Then it’s time to wake up.”
The world SNAPPED
Pain slammed back into Grian’s body with brutal force, ripping the breath from his lungs, or trying to. His chest felt crushed, heavy, unresponsive. The warmth vanished, replaced by cold air and rough hands and the unmistakable, horrifying awareness that his body was no longer doing what it was supposed to.
Pressure hit his sternum.
Hard.
Once. Twice.
Agony exploded through him, distant and overwhelming all at once.
“Come on, Grian,” someone was saying. A stranger’s voice. Urgent. Strained. “Breathe for me. Come back.”
His vision was nothing but blur and flashing light: red, blue, white, smearing across the dark like wet paint. Rain soaked through everything. His body jerked with each compression, ribs screaming as they were forced to move.
He was on his back.
He wasn’t sitting anymore.
He was dying.
No, he thought dimly. I chose.
Another compression. Pain bloomed. Something cracked or shifted horribly inside his chest.
“Stay with us,” the voice said again. “You’re not done yet.”
Air was forced into his lungs. His throat burned. His body convulsed weakly in protest.
Through the chaos, through the pain and noise and motion, Grian saw him.
Jimmy stood a few steps away, just beyond the frantic circle of light cast by the ambulance and the paramedics’ torches. Untouched by rain. Untouched by time.
Watching.
He smiled when Grian’s eyes found him.
Not sad. Not frightened.
Proud.
Grian’s vision wavered, but he kept looking, terrified that if he blinked Jimmy would be gone.
Jimmy lifted a hand and waved; small, gentle, the same way he used to when they were kids and Grian had to leave first, disappearing down the school bus steps or around a corner.
It’s okay, the gesture said. Go home.
Behind Jimmy, the edge of the bridge yawned wide and bottomless, a mouth of night that drank what little light the flickering streetlamps dared to spill. Rain slid along the concrete and vanished over the lip, carrying sound with it, every drop stretched into a hollow, endless fall.
For one awful, splitting second, time fractured.
Jimmy turned.
He moved with an ease that felt wrong, too light for a place so heavy with memory. His fingers curled around the cold metal of the fence, knuckles pale as he lifted himself up, denim creasing softly at his knees. The wind tugged at his jacket, worried at the hem like it wanted to pull him first, but Jimmy didn’t waver. He balanced there effortlessly, rain passing through him without consequence.
He looked back.
Not hurried. Not afraid.
His eyes found Grian’s with devastating clarity, blue steady and warm, full of a certainty that hurt worse than panic ever could. Love sat in his expression: quiet, unwavering and complete as if this moment was exactly what it was meant to be. As if he had already made peace with the fall.
Grian’s chest seized.
“Jimmy—” The name never made it past his lips.
Jimmy smiled.
It was the same smile he’d worn a thousand times before: soft at the edges, apologetic and fond all at once. The smile that used to mean it’s okay, I’ve got you. The smile that meant goodbye without ever saying the word.
Then Jimmy leaned back.
There was no struggle. No hesitation. He didn’t jump.
He let himself go.
Gravity claimed him gently at first, his shoulders tipping past the point of return, his body folding backward into the waiting dark. For a heartbeat too long, Grian could still see him. Upside down now, hair lifting, arms loose at his sides as if the night itself was reluctant to take him.
And then Jimmy was gone.
Swallowed whole.
The darkness closed where he’d been, seamless and indifferent, leaving nothing behind but the echo of the fall Grian had already lived through once before.
Grian’s chest spasmed violently.
A sound tore from his throat; ragged, broken and half a sob and half a gasp as his body finally remembered how to breathe.
“There!” the paramedic shouted. “He’s back! He’s back! Keep him with us!”
Pain crashed down in full, merciless clarity.
Grian choked, coughing violently as rain and saliva burned his throat. His lungs screamed as they dragged air back in, each breath sharp and jagged and wrong. His chest felt like it had been hit by a truck: on fire, splintered and barely holding together.
His eyes flew open.
Light stabbed into them, blinding. He groaned, sound raw and animal, and tried weakly to curl inward before firm hands stopped him.
“Easy, easy,” another voice said, calmer. “Don’t move. You’re safe. You’re okay.”
Safe.
The word felt fragile. So completely fragile.
“Grian— Grian, look at me, please look at me—”
That voice.
That voice cut through everything.
Scar.
Grian turned his head slightly, movement immediately punished by a wave of dizziness and nausea so intense his vision blackened at the edges. He whimpered softly, breath hitching.
Scar was right there.
Beside the paramedic, his wheelchair pulled up close despite the chaos, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. His eyes were wide and glassy, panic written across every inch of his face as he leaned forward as far as he could.
“Oh my god,” Scar rambled, voice breaking. “Oh my god, you scared me so bad! I’m here, I’m right here, okay? You’re not alone, you’re not—”
Grian tried to speak. Tried to say his name.
What came out was a hoarse, broken sound that tore at his throat.
Scar’s hands trembled as he reached out, stopping just short of touching Grian, unsure where it was safe. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to talk. Just.. just look at me. Please.”
Grian focused on Scar’s face with everything he had. The world swam, doubled, threatened to slip sideways again, but he clung to that familiar shape. That familiar voice.
The paramedics worked efficiently around him, voices overlapping.
“Neck brace on.”
“Careful, watch the ribs.”
“Possible head injury, loss of consciousness—”
Something firm was slid under his neck, cradling his head. Another wave of nausea rolled through him as they adjusted his position, hands careful but unyielding.
“Grian,” the paramedic said gently, close to his ear. “My name’s Doc. You were in an accident. You stopped breathing for a bit, but you’re back with us now, alright?”
Back.
Grian blinked slowly.
Jimmy was gone.
The bridge loomed overhead, solid and merciless, just concrete and steel now. No warmth. No glow. No brother perched on the railing.
The grief hit him all at once.
A strangled sob clawed its way out of his chest, immediately cut off by pain as his ribs protested violently. He cried anyway, tears streaming sideways into his hair and onto the pavement.
Scar made a broken sound. “Hey, hey.. it’s okay, it’s okay—”
“—I saw him,” Grian croaked, voice barely audible. “Jimmy.”
Scar froze.
The paramedic shot Scar a quick, knowing look, one that said head injury, shock, hallucinations before turning his focus back to Grian.
“That’s okay,” Doc said calmly. “You’re confused right now. That can happen.”
Scar swallowed hard, eyes never leaving Grian’s face. “I know,” he said quietly, voice trembling. “I know you did.”
Grian’s vision blurred again, tears and dizziness mixing dangerously. His body was shaking now, full-body tremors wracking him as shock set in.
“We’re going to move you onto a backboard now,” Doc explained. “I need you to stay as still as you can. Can you do that for me?”
Grian nodded faintly.
Hands slid beneath him: careful and coordinated lifting him just enough to slide the rigid board underneath. Every movement sent sharp, screaming pain through his torso, and he cried out despite himself, clutching at nothing.
“I’m sorry,” the paramedic murmured. “I know it hurts.”
Straps were pulled over his chest, his hips, his legs; tight but secure. The pressure was oddly grounding, keeping him from drifting again.
Scar leaned in close, rain dripping from his lashes. “I’m going to meet you at the hospital,” he said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “I’ll drive straight there, okay? I’ll be there when you wake up properly. You just— just hold on.”
Grian nodded weakly, tears still sliding down his temples. “Don’t.. don’t disappear,” he whispered.
Scar’s face crumpled. “Never,” he promised fiercely. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The stretcher appeared beside him, metal gleaming under harsh lights. With careful precision, they lifted the backboard and transferred him over. The movement made the world tilt violently again, nausea surging.
“Almost there,” Doc smiled patiently. “You’re doing great.”
Grian’s eyelids fluttered, exhaustion dragging him down again now that the crisis had passed. His chest ached with every shallow breath. His head throbbed dully, pressure building behind his eyes.
As they wheeled him toward the ambulance, rain spattering against the stretcher, Grian turned his head slightly, gaze drifting toward the bridge one last time.
For just a second, barely a heartbeat, he thought he saw Jimmy standing at the edge again. Hands in his jacket pockets, smiling that same soft, proud smile.
Then the ambulance doors slammed shut, cutting off the night.
The darkness inside was different.
Brighter. Safer.
The siren wailed to life as the vehicle began to move, and Grian let his eyes close at last. Not to fade, but to rest. Scar’s voice and Jimmy’s promise echoing together in his chest as he was carried back toward the living world.
