"It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness. Nothing more." Dumbledore

"Get out." Frank ordered, the words springing from his mouth as soon as he realized there was someone else in the room. He didn't care who it was. He needed to be alone.

The figure stood, wavered, took a step. Frank squinted, blinked. It couldn't be.

Frank smiled thinly at the illusion of Joe, then blinked again, willing logic to intervene. This jump from reality was wonderful but he knew he needed all his wits if he was going to survive another second, another minute. Joe. His brother, his companion, his best friend, reason for life. Dead, gone, forever.

Forever. Such a good word when speaking of love, of weddings and joy and happily-ever-afters, it brought only agony and loneliness when put in the context of death. Because death was, if nothing else, overwhelmingly permanent.

When Frank opened his eyes again it was to find Joe, a solid, real, living Joe, wrapped securely in his arms, bloody face buried in its familiar pace in the hollow of Frank's neck. He could hear Joe's gasps of pleasure, of joy and relief and could only pat him quietly on the back. This was not possible. It could not be happening.

The door was flung open by his parents who simply stood there, arms intertwined, faces still shining with tears, as Joe shook in Frank's arms. Coherent words finally made themselves heard from the younger boy, "I thought…you weren't there…crying…dead…" Blue eyes met brown, both wet with tears, "Frank." The word broke.

"Joey." How far gone Frank had to be to call Joe by the childish nickname he hadn't used in ten years. Joe had not been Joey for a very long time now. "You….you're dead."

"No." Faces met, one bloodied and bruised, one full of wonder, awe, something close to belief. "No."

Laughter. Minutes before, Frank had known he would never laugh again. He'd been planning his own death. Nothing had seemed worth laughing about. Now the feeling bubbled from some deep place within the older boy as he regarded his brother, amazed.

Just a few hours ago the world had suddenly been taken away from him. Now he had his life back in the simple form of his younger brother, his Joe.

"How?" His entire vocabulary seemed to have deserted him as he regarded the younger boy, hand passing lightly over bruises and cuts.

"Yes, tell us." This was Fenton from the doorway as he came in closer, near to Joe. Instinctively, illogically, Frank felt his hackles rise and regarded his father with such as gaze as to make the man step back. Frank drew Joe tighter to himself, breathing heavily, still attempting to reorganize reality. Again.

Joe squirmed in Frank's grip and the darker one realized he had accidently irritated a sore spot. He slackened his grip, briefly, allowing Joe to rub his chest in a circular motion. "Well, actually, I was kind of dreading this…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head a little, like a dog trying to rid itself of an itch.

"The…car…that's it. I picked up a hitch hiker." A group groan arose at this revelation and Frank raised his hand automatically to literally smack Joe upside the head, as he often did when Joe did something idiotic. He refrained himself in light of Joe's injuries and forced himself to loosen his grip further.

"Well, me and Frank….we hitch hike, sometimes, and I was remembering…standing…not being able to get…anyway…He was a lot bigger than me…don't know why he wanted the stupid car anyway." His sentences, his thoughts were disjointed and fragmented. The old protective urge rose in Frank. What had happened?

"We were on the…highway. I stopped to check the map…getting lost…hit me…threw me out…car jack…" Frank winced at the description and fingered the long cut on Joe's forehead. He'd been hit with a car jack before. It was painful, to say the very least.

Frank's hand passed absentmindedly over the back of Joe's head, thinking to himself that they would probably need to get Joe to a hospital after Frank had time to take in the miracle. This was Joe, his brother, disheveled and tan, blond hair slightly matted, familiar and comfortable. His hand came back slightly sticky, covered in blood, both new and dried.

"Joe." His voice was low, stern, no-nonsense, and Joe finally looked him in the eye. A quiet groan left him. A concussion, plain as day when he saw Joe's eyes. If there was a concussion, what other worse injuries could there be?

His concern must have reflected something in his eyes because in a flash both his parents were gone, off to call the hospital or an ambulance or the mayor, whoever might get their son checked out fastest. For a second, the brothers were alone.

Joe had been leaning against the bed post, regarding Frank with a critical gaze. "You look like hell."

A low chuckle. How easily that seemed to come now. How could it not? Joe was alive and kicking, I a bit battered. "Look who's talking, kiddo."

Joe's gaze was indirect, unfocused, his words unsteady. He leaned heavily against the wall and the bed post, making Frank's worry peak. Just how bad was this concussion, anyway? Still, his brother managed to be as alarmingly insightful as ever. "You were worried about me?"

"Of course." Frank frowned slightly. A low self-esteem Joe did not have. He knew Frank loved Joe to pieces (and often said so. He wasn't as afraid of the sentiment as the blond was). Why this uncertainty now?

"You were going to do something drastic." Joe glanced around the room, into the bathroom, at Frank, as if his thoughts had left a trail easily read by the brother. Maybe they had. "Frank…"

"Don't worry about it. It doesn't matter now." Joe didn't need to know about that horrible hour, the worst of Frank's life, between waking up and finding Joe when he had been logically, calmly, preparing for his suicide.

Joe opened his mouth to say something else and suddenly trembled. Frank bit his lip, watching his stubbornly independent brother waver, then crossed the gap between them in one large step. Wrapping his arms loosely around Joe's lower back, he held the boy as gently as he could, unwilling to cause further pain. "What's the matter, kiddo?" Tears dropped onto Frank's shoulder, coming thick and fast from Joe.

"Hurts." Pain was something that Joe didn't admit to often, and Frank started at this, alarmed. He tried not to show his panic as Joe continued. "Stay here, Frank, okay? Don't leave me."

Frank wondered, briefly, what had prompted this statement. It had been he, Frank, who had believed Joe dead, not the other way around. Right? "I'm right here, bro. I won't leave. I promise."

"Thanks." The death grip on Frank's back slackened, the sobs quieted, and the two continued to stand in the embrace until their parents came to bundle them off to the hospital.

In the car, Frank kept quietly prompting Joe to stay awake. Concussions 101 dictated never, under any circumstances, let the victim fall asleep until checked over completely. He felt horrible every time he brought Joe back from the brink of sleep, of relief from the pain. Joe would always moan quietly and look in his direction with feverish, pain-filled eyes.

"You're okay, Joey, stay with me." Joe would nod once, slowly, before his eyes started drifting closed again.

It was lucky the person responsible had died when the car exploded. Frank would have made it his life's purpose to kill him for taking away his brother.

How do you like it? Joe's in a bad way. Concussions aren't fun.

Review, please, and Merry Christmas.