Ethan giggled. "You can't c-catch me!" he boasted, running around the coffee table. A beaming smile was plastered on his face and his bright blue eyes sparkled. "I'm f-faster than a… a hare!"

Caleb laughed as he chased him. "That makes me a tiger!"

The camera shook as Ethan ran past, almost knocking into his mother. "Be careful now, boys," she warned, though one could tell from her voice that she was just as joyful as her sons.

"You c-can't be a tiger!" countered Ethan. "If you are, then you're v-very slow!" he said, not letting his stutter bother him.

A deep man's voice was heard from the side of the camera. "Be careful, Ethan. Tigers eat hares."

Ethan stopped momentarily, laughing too hard to continue running. Caleb, being the big brother he was, stopped too — allowing time for Ethan to compose himself adequately enough.

When he'd calmed down enough to complete a full sentence, he finally said, "Well then I'm g-g-going to change history and eat you b-back!"

Caleb realised where it was going and started to run in the opposite direction, running from Ethan as he chased him. They ended up in the kitchen. The camera swiveled around to keep them in frame but their parents hung back.

"It's good to see them playing," Matilda whispered to her husband.

"Makes a change," he said. "Especially without that bloody nickname."

Matilda sighed. "Oh, shush, Michael. He's just having a bit of fun. You know what kids are like, and you know what our Caleb is like."

"It had Ethan in tears the other d —"

"Nibbles! I'm coming to get you now!" Caleb teased, returning to chase Ethan again.

"How was work?" she asked before her husband could make a mention of the nickname again.

"Normal. Oh, and before I forget, I had a chat to the speech therapist. Said she could see Ethan this Friday," he informed Matilda.

A thump disrupted their conversation and the camera shook as Matilda and Michael ran to their sons. Ethan started crying, clutching his knee in pain.

"Oh, Ethan. What happened, my boy?" Michael asked softly, prising Ethan's hands away from his knee as he started to examine it — only being in the corner of the screen as Matilda had put the camera down.

"I-I-I fell!" he screamed, tears rapidly falling down his face. "D-Dad, it hurts!"

"Come here, Ethan." Cal grabbed his brother in a hug forceful enough to break his ribs, squeezing him tightly as he comforted him. He ran fingers through Ethan's blonde hair and shushed him while their father examined his knee.

"That's going to be black and blue in a couple of hours, but it's not bad," Michael told Ethan after a few moments, though his voice was almost drowned out by the screams of pain.

"Come on, Ethan. Be brave for me," Cal comforted.

The video cut off and Cal watched the black screen. In the tape recording, Ethan was only six. That made Cal eight. He didn't remember that day very well, after all, he was just a child. But he knew it had been a happy day. His father was home from work (a rare occurrence as he'd always said 'Life in an emergency department is tough. I have to put unwell people's lives before my healthy family', his mother and father were getting along well with no arguments, he and Ethan were laughing and playing and having fun (up until Ethan tripped, but he was almost certain they still had fun afterwards) and it was a happy family.

That was how it was meant to be. He protected Ethan when they were children. He protected him when he was hurt, he protected him when their Dad left, he protected him from the school bullies (despite the fact that he was sometimes a bully to Ethan, but that didn't count as he was Ethan's brother) and he made sure Ethan slept peacefully by comforting him when he awoke from bad dreams.

Now, instead of protecting him, he was sitting at home in his boxer shorts drinking beer. But it wasn't having the desired effect and he couldn't get the release and bliss of alcohol he so desperately desired. The images of Ethan laying there, all manner of tubes and machines surrounding him and connecting him to things keeping him alive, were haunting him. The memory of him getting too worked up and losing hope and giving up and effectively trying to kill his brother was one of the worst. It sounded mad to him now. He thought Ethan was going to die and he's given up on his own brother.

He'd given up.

Cal vaguely registered his doorbell ringing but couldn't bring himself to answer it. It wasn't like he was dressed decently (though that wouldn't be a problem if there was a hot female outside, which was now just another thought worm that got inside his head like the thought he should get more beer) and whoever it was could come back another time. They couldn't be sure anyone was home, anyway.

It carried on and started to make Cal's head pound. Even though he knew it was impossible, it seemed to be getting louder and louder and louder. "Agh, go away!" he shouted, knowing whoever it was wouldn't be able to hear him but needing to vocalise what he was thinking anyway.

His phone started ringing. He ignored it. It was probably Dr McKay. Cal didn't bother to look at the time but he knew he'd promised Dr McKay he would be there and it had certainly been longer than he'd said.

It carried on ringing and Cal leaned forward to switch it off, nearly catching his hand on the smashed up bottle. He really should clean that up… but he couldn't be bothered. The phone stopped ringing and he sighed, leaning back again and taking another swig of the bottle.

The doorbell rang again and again and again and his phone started ringing for the second time. "For God's sake!"

He angrily picked up his phone, having a near miss with the glass again, and pressed the answer button. "What?" he shouted angrily down the phone, feeling even more annoyed at the ringing doorbell continued.

"You okay, mate?" Max's voice said, and Cal quickly apologised, sitting up straighter. "Let me in, yeah?"

Cal looked towards the door and realised then it was Max. He wasn't giving up easily and, no doubt, he wouldn't stop bothering him. He didn't care what Max wanted. He was going to go to the door, tell him to go away, and resume what he was doing. He sighed in frustration and put the phone down, throwing on his discarded t-shirt and letting Max in — not expecting Lofty to be behind him.

They were checking up on him, it was obvious. And he was stood in his boxer shorts and a creased t-shirt, holding half a bottle of beer with the remnants of another beer bottle smashed on the table, beside yet more bottles — most empty. His tired brain was working overtime to think of something to get himself out of this mess, but all his emotions came bubbling to the surface. The pain and the hurt and the pure guilt of hurting his brother started to rise up after he'd so desperately tried pushing it back down again.

He wanted, he needed, to get rid of his friends, but all he came out with was, "I'm sorry," before he fell onto his knees and starting sobbing into his hands, not caring about the bottle he was holding falling and smashing right beside him.