A/N: Rewatching this marvelous show.
There's too many words rattling around in his brain, he's not getting up and Jason's paralyzed and never, never again. Too many scenes to play over and over in his mind, like the reel of game tape that loops failure again and again before his eyes.
School matters even less than usual, and football isn't the same even though the same sun shines bright and blinding on the field, even though Coach calls the familiar plays and the dirt tastes just as it always does between his teeth.
The whispers go on at school for a day or so, and then almost everyone moves on with their petty little lives. Except for Lyla, maybe, with her peppy steps and the exhaustion behind her eyes.
When he can, Tim thinks of nothing at all so he won't have to think of Jay, always larger than life and probably so, so small in the stark unfriendly efficiency of the hospital.
He should visit. He really, really should. Instead, he goes home and drinks. Nothing new about that, but he finds himself thinking of his mother. How she used to sit, pretty mouth and half-shut eyes, not moving a muscle. Hours and hours. Towards the end, it was like she wasn't even there.
He gets it now. Easier to shut off, shut out, shut down. Gingerly. That's the word. Holding still and tight and quiet. Cracked ribs and pulled muscles, twinges and aches—it only hurts when you breathe.