Title taken from 'Talk' by Coldplay.

It's all a blur, what happens after the crash, but he remembers the screams of his mother and a blazing heat and the sterile white light inside of the ambulance. And he remembers eyes, hazel eyes, looking down at him curiously, and they mix with those of the doctors and the nurses. The haziness disappears when he loses consciousness and it's replaced by absolute darkness.

Cooper awakens, what seems like minutes later, to an irritating beeping. He tries moving his arms to cover his ears but it's as if he's been submerged in Jell-O; his movements are sluggish and it takes an enormous effort to even open his eyes. When he does, the world is bleary and he has to blink several times before he can make out the figure at his immediate bedside. The first thing he discerns is a head of slick black hair. His mind fills in the blanks and it instantly identifies Blaine. His little brother is staring at him attentively, his eyes looking as big as ever with those impossibly long eyelashes framing them. That's something he got from their mother. Cooper's always been sour about it.

Cooper stops his train of thought to look around. The room he's in is a colorless white save for some turquoise accents along the walls. Thick curtains block out most of the light from outside. Cooper reaches out absentmindedly toward the window, suddenly craving sunlight. After a few moments he sees Blaine parting the curtains. Light bounces into the room and shines off numerous metal objects throughout. At once, Cooper becomes aware of where he is. He's in the hospital, but he doesn't know why. He looks down at himself and sees bandages over his hands, as well as an IV coming out from his right arm. He looks back up at Blaine and notices that he looks virtually unscathed. His sweater vest looks just-ironed and his hair is perfectly in place, painstakingly done by their mother using a great amount of gel. Blaine's dressed for church. Yet here Cooper sits, a needle sticking into his arm, donned in one of those embarrassing hospital dresses.

"What happened?" Cooper rasps. He coughs several times but the dryness lingers uncomfortably in his throat.

"Some guy crashed into us," Blaine answers in his clear voice, "I heard the doctor say that a bunch of glass cut you up."

Crash. Glass. Doctor. Cooper's mind works rapidly affixing images to words and his memory strains to produce any sort of vision. He is successful in conjuring up various snapshots of his father suddenly turning the wheel of their van, of one vehicle meeting another, of falling out onto the pavement as someone opened the door. Smoke. Glass. Red. Hazel. And then black.

Cooper stares emptily at his younger brother, allowing his recollections of the crash to overlap and mesh together. He's starting to have trouble picking apart separate events when Blaine speaks.

"Mom's not doing too good, I think," he remarks, "Dad's alright, though."

This both nauseates and relieves Cooper, which is a terrible mix of emotions to have when coupled with the stale taste in his mouth. He suppresses the urge to vomit since it doesn't look like he'll be able to reach the trash can anytime soon and he isn't too keen on having Blaine hold it up to him. Instead he focuses on Blaine's red sweater vest. It's just the color of... of apples. It's red. Like apples. Like blood.

Red. Window. Door. Cooper struggles to remember but he can't place why these words go together. He knows they do, he's sure of it, and he can't figure out why no matter how hard he tries. He looks into Blaine's eyes and the words immediately tie themselves to him. Cooper hardly understands it, this rapid assessment of the information he can pick out from his own memory, but he knows he's right about the connections he's making, and an inexplicable sense of dread begins to grow in him. But before he can ask Blaine about the strange things he's feeling, the door creaks open and a nurse in hospital scrubs enters.

"Glad to see you up at last!" she greets. Cooper picks up on the feigned cheer in her voice. She looks very tired and there are large dark circles under her eyes. "I bet you wanna get out of here already, huh? Your parents have been waiting a while for you, too."

Cooper stares blankly at her, hardly knowing how to respond. His brain still seems a bit lethargic and it doesn't provide him with anything to say. The nurse is unfazed, however, and simply checks a few monitors before directing herself back to Cooper. "I'm bringing the doctor in, alright? Try to stay awake, honey."

The only thing that statement does for Cooper is make him want to go back to sleep. His eyelids grow heavy as the nurse exits the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Blaine walk up to his bedside. A small hand rubs his arm and he's almost jolted awake by how cold it is. But then Blaine is whispering something, and it sounds like you should sleep, so Cooper surrenders to the clutches of slumber before he can ask Blaine why he feels like ice.

.

The next day, after a few checkups and tests, Cooper is allowed out of his room. He sees his father in the hallway, having a conversation with a doctor and a nurse. His legs somehow manage to walk him to his father despite how shaky they are. The doctor and nurse's faces light up when they see Cooper and they mention how fast he's been recuperating and how quickly some of the cuts have healed. Cooper barely hears what they're saying, because the look in his father's eyes is capturing all of his attention. It's the saddest thing he's ever seen, like a part of him has died. Like he doesn't even want to live. It spooks Cooper to the core; he's speechless and suddenly petrified. Mr. Anderson is not an expressive man by any means, and this is probably the most emotion he has ever seen on his father's face in his entire life. A panic overrides Cooper's fear and seizes his very being: he immediately has to know about his mother. Blaine had said she wasn't doing very well. Is she dying? Is she already dead?

"Mom," Cooper says before he even thinks of opening his mouth, "Mom, where's mom?"

"She's okay," his father replies evenly, exhaustedly. "Don't worry about her, kiddo."

"She'll probably be ready by today, hon," the nurse says.

Cooper expects that to ease the anxiety that pervades him, but it doesn't, and it doesn't erase that look from his father's lifeless eyes. He glances over at Blaine, who's leaning against the wall a few feet away from the group. He feels like calling out to him, but perhaps it's best that Blaine doesn't see the state their father is in. It would only worry him.

It's seven hours before his mother comes out. Cooper spends most of the time sleeping in various places; he takes turns in a chair, back in his room, and in his father's arms. During the time that he's awake, Cooper doesn't see Blaine do anything new. He stays up against the wall the entire time, watching people walk by. He wants to ask him what he's doing, but he's always too tired to form any words. Cooper's lips feel so heavy that he doesn't even bother.

Eventually, his mother emerges from her room, supported by a couple of nurses. Cooper's father automatically walks over and relieves the nurses of their task. His mother is trembling and her breathing is ragged. She too has that horribly desolate look in her eyes. Cooper wants so badly to ask why, and what happened, but his terror at the prospect of what his parents will answer quiets him. Already despair is clinging to his chest. Why, why? He feels, then, like asking Blaine, but he doesn't think that doing so will yield a better answer than the one his parents would give him. Cooper bites down on his lip and follows his parents to where the doctors are leading them, which turns out to be an indoor parking lot. There's a van waiting for them. They're going home. Cooper's euphoria knows no bounds when he realizes this. He's going to sleep in his own bed at last.

He stares out the window for the entirety of the trip home, vaguely watching cars speed by and halt at stop signs. He feels so far removed from the situation that it's as though he's looking at the cars from way up high, from the clouds even, and he's blurring the line between heaven and earth. Vertigo overcomes him and Cooper shuts his eyes tight. Evidently he's still a bit dizzy from whatever the doctors put into his system. He keeps his eyes closed until they get home at midnight and says nothing to his parents as he makes his way to his own bedroom. It's eerily quiet, as if no one has lived in the house for a long time. Cooper tries to copy Blaine's stealthy movements and not make any sound on his way up the stairs, but he's not nearly as successful. He doubts his parents are listening, anyway; they've moved into their bedroom and have closed the door behind them.

Cooper walks the way to his room and is surprised to see Blaine following. He turns around and Blaine instantly stops.

"Aren't you gonna go to your own room?" Cooper asks.

Blaine hesitates before saying, "Um, couldn't I come with you?"

"Why?"

Blaine shrugs, looking down at the floor. "I just don't wanna be alone."

This makes Cooper delay a bit at his door. In more normal circumstances he would probably tell Blaine to go to his room and take a nap but right now it doesn't feel right to do that. In the seconds that he stands there, deciding whether or not to allow Blaine in, he feels himself craving company, desiring someone else's presence. It's too lonely in this house. Like someone's died.

"Alright," Cooper concedes, "Alright, you can stay."

He opens the door and Blaine zips inside, immediately bounding toward the bed and burying himself under the thick covers. Cooper looks on, stripping himself of his shoes and his shirt before walking up to the bed.

"Hey kid, make some room," says Cooper before plopping down on the mattress.

Cooper stares blankly at the ceiling for a long while, hearing Blaine hum the tune to some 50's song beside him. He could easily fall asleep like this, Blaine's voice providing a provisional lullaby, but Cooper's plans are interrupted when Blaine suddenly says, "Hey, Coop?"

Rubbing his eyes, Cooper replies, "Yeah?"

"You... You can see me, right?"

The question throws Cooper completely off. "What?"

Blaine pauses, like he's afraid of saying something dangerous. "You don't just hear my voice, you can see me too, r-right?"

"What kind of question is that?" Cooper asks.

"Please, Coop. Just answer."

Cooper sits up, perturbed. "Is this one of those philosophical questions that your weird English teacher asks you because-"

"I just want to know," Blaine says, a hint of desperation audible. "You can, right?"

Cooper knits his eyebrows together and looks down at Blaine, who's doing a great job of looking like a terrified animal. What's going on? "Um, well yeah, of course I can. I mean, you're right here."

Blaine's face relaxes and it looks like he's going to cry. Cooper places his hand on his brother's cheek, grounds him. If he cries then Cooper will cry too. It's always worked that way.

He realizes belatedly that Blaine is very cold, just as he was in the hospital. Is he sick? Cooper wants to ask but something, something is holding him back and the sensation of dread he's been experiencing intermittently returns full force. He doesn't understand it, nor does he want to, and maybe this is all just a result of the crash. Maybe his brain chemistry has altered and now his emotions are out of order.

He gets up and searches his dresser for another blanket, which he promptly throws over Blaine's small body. Blaine looks thankful for the gesture, but almost a bit sad; Cooper has to swallow down the knot that develops in his throat. He crawls in next to Blaine and wraps his arms around him, trying to banish any nervous thoughts. Blaine snuggles obligingly into Cooper's body and breathes cool air against Cooper's bare chest. Cooper shivers in spite of the extra blanket. His little brother is freezing. Hopefully the transmission of his body heat does some good.

"Good night, Coop," Blaine says at length, voice thick from some repressed emotion. Cooper doesn't ask; he blocks it from his mind.

"Night, Blaine," he answers as heaviness descends on his eyelids.

That night, Cooper dreams of car crashes, of broken windows, of a little boy that falls into his arms and breathes no more.