If I could shut out any sense but the feel of his skin on mine I would say he was sleeping. If I was able to drown out everything but the way the softness of his lithe fingers allowed themselves to be wrapped so perfectly within mine, I could say we were at home, the chair positioned for my watching, and he in our bed, beautifully dreaming. I could tell myself his face, small smiling and peaceful, was squashed resting into the ordinariness of his pillow, or my chest, if I let my disturbed eyes cope with the ache by convincing themselves he is laying, asleep on me. That my skin is warming him, and that that is all he needs to make him okay.

I foolishly shift my stare from the safe constant of his lips and my breath shakes, re-finding the balking sight of blood, the miniscule yet anything but insignificant cuts that mark his precious face. He isn't sleeping, he isn't okay. Dragging my hand down my wavering mouth, I realise the obvious truth that I've never seen him harmed before, no physical markings of pain or hurt. He's been harmed of course, he's had more cuts and wounds than anyone should ever feel, not someone I love more than anything anyway. He's been cut, several times by me, countless times by them; some I've seen, some he's confided quietly in the late of dark, and many others I'm sure he can't bring himself to say. A new addition tonight, I think, even before the visible ones disturbed his skin, an intended wounding by those bastards, a slash to the centre of him.

I breathe, sending the bile down and the anger, telling myself to forget that for now, that they aren't anything, that looking after him means forcing calm.

He'll be okay. They said he'd just need to rest, that consciousness would come when his body was ready to fight and wake. They said it and you trust them with their non-committal smile, the uniform tells you to and it makes you follow it like a child. I've sat here since, crouched by his side, my thumb stroking in comforting repetition along the groove of his palm. I can't help but think it's time for him to wake up now though, that he needs to be back with me.

"Hey sleepy head…" I whisper, pausing abruptly to try to ease away the break from my voice, forcing some sort of smile, as if he can hear the tone or even see. "This sleeping beauty thing is really effective and everything, but maybe you could wake up now, just for a little bit hmm. Thing is I really like it when you're awake too, and I'd really appreciate it."

A tear threatens to fall and I quickly add, "Not that I don't normally, in case you didn't know. I do. I don't think I say it enough and I know I can be really annoying and I probably take you for granted sometimes but I do, appreciate you." The words fall quietly. "So much."

"I love you," I say clearer. "You know that, don't you? I don't think I told you today did I, I don't know why, I should have done. I should have told you when you were getting ready but I didn't have the clean shirt I wanted and we were in a hurry, I was distracted. I should have said it. I'm sorry."

I move a hand to stroke my touch along the hair fallen softly on his face, finding myself desperately searching my mind for the last time I said it, the last time I told him something vaguely comforting, loving, something that could be filtering through his thoughts now, swamping the bad things, the last terrible things that he heard. The beach. I calm my breath slightly as the answer floods back to me, as I recall what feels like forever ago, when I held him in the dark. I can see his smile behind my eyes, the laughter and the gorgeousness of him as he leant into my arms to the whispers of the sea.

"Brighton was perfect wasn't it, even the dodgy hotel. I wish we'd just stayed, I wish we'd…"

I shake my head, refusing the insanity that comes with those tempting thoughts.

"When you're better, we'll go away again," I promise resolutely, forcing out the certainty of it. "Or while you're getting better, recuperate on the beach, like something out of Austen. You'd look good on a lounger, sipping ice tea as I fan you. I'll take you anywhere you like. You can choose, I won't even moan if it's quiet."

I attempt to tell myself we're there now, that all of this is done and we're in a hotel room, breathing in the balcony gaped scent of dusky warmth, of freshness that clears anything away. It can't be done though, not with the hospital reek filtering through my lungs; that disinfectant stench that smells like fear, clawing at the back of your throat as if it has to consume you, as if you need be aware of what it's trying to warn. A shiver runs through me and I lean over to pull his sheet up instinctively, worrying pointlessly that he might be cold.

I pause as I stand, suddenly stilled at the sight of him, how young he looks, how the little marks show that secret fragility, tempering under the determination there even now.

"You know I was so proud of you tonight," I tell him. "I mean I always am, and I meant it when I said you really didn't have to do it, and God now I wish I'd stopped you, but… I was so proud of you."

I shake at the taste of him as my lips place a kiss on his brow, aching in its familiarity and the clearness of how it couldn't be lived without. I whisper into his skin.

"My beautiful brave thing."

The weariness of my body finds itself back into the chair and I re-take his hand, threading long fingers to fit with mine.

"You just sleep okay," I say, almost in apology. "Whatever you need to do, I'll be here. I'll always be here."

Just a little thing I wrote this afternoon, a product of a sick day and some angst - I hope you liked xxxxx