I'm back to spelling it 'Stephen', because screw the rules, I prefer it that way. Also – HAPPY CHRISMTAS! Quite a short chapter now but hope to get the next one out very quickly.

OXOXOXO

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Brendan was in a daze; half-conscious as he rested to the hypnotic noise of Stephen's heartbeat… the same noise that had kept him in his drowsy trance for the last four days. The leather chair beside Stephens' hospital bed had become where Brendan spent every hour of every day, sleeping, waiting, watching, thinking. He'd only ever leave to use the bathroom, otherwise would sit there forever; only ever being fed when Amy or Cheryl bought food in with them. He wanted to be there when Stephen woke up. He wanted Stephen to know that despite everything; despite Brendan not being there when it happened, despite Brendan's harsh rejection of him the day before it happened, despite every piece of shit that had happened between them for the last year… Brendan was here now. And he wasn't going anywhere. Not ever.

But Stephen remained unconscious. His black bruised eyes stayed lidded shut, and frozen cold hands lay limp to his sides, never squeezing back even when Brendan grasped tight. This is what he wanted isn't it? He always loved it when he got to hold Brendan's hand; in the dark warmth of the bedroom when nobody else was around; just a secret safe haven when Brendan indulged him.

Five days he'd been here now. And Stephen had eventually been taken off life-support, able to breathe for himself, but it only made the situation more stressful; Brendan could hardly sleep anymore for fear something would go wrong.

In those five days he hadn't heard from his father once. Not since that first day in the carpark. There was no explaining this, Brendan realised. Yes, it happened in his club, but that would never justify a five-day non-sleeping non-eating sit-in. Cheryl had mentioned something, somewhere the in the blur of merging days… something about their Dad being "worried sick" and, "he's asking questions, Brendan. What should I tell him?"

"Don't tell him anything." Brendan sighed. "'s none of his business."

"Not sure how much longer I can hold him off for, Bren. I mean what's he supposed to think? He said he'd come down here himself."

"No. He's not comin' here. Don't let him come here." Brendan spoke fiercely. If there was anybody he didn't want lurking about, it was him. It wasn't exactly clear why… but Brendan felt a resistance that went deeper than wanting to hide the true extent of his and Stephen's relationship. That didn't even seem significant right now, truth be told. He hadn't even cared when the nurse asked him yesterday whether he was Ste's boyfriend, and he'd answered honestly "no", but it hadn't even occurred to him until afterwards to feel embarrassed or angry about the insinuation.

No, he didn't want his father to find out, ever. But that wasn't the main problem. He couldn't put his finger on the main problem… he just knew he didn't want his Dad seeing Stephen in this state.

"When's he goin' back to Ireland anyway?"

Cheryl scoffed, "Anyone would think you were tryin' to get rid of him."

"Yeah, well."

"I don't know. I asked him, but he said he has some business to finish up here."

"Right." Brendan grunted, clenching the bridge of his nose.

"You look shattered, love." Cheryl sighed, perching on the edge of the leather seat and wrapping her arm tight around her brother. She looked at Ste softly. "When does Amy get back? Maybe you can have a quick rest when she does?"

"No." Brendan spoke firmly. Then sighed, feeling the familiar thud of heart in stomach as he remembered what he was dealing with here. "Brain damage. Fucking… brain damage."

"Yeah, but that could mean anything."

"It means his brains fucked Chez."

"But they said it could be minor. We can't think the worst!" Cheryl leant forward and took Ste's hand in her own for a moment, stroking his fingers gently. "He's a fighter, is Ste. You know that."

Brendan bit his lip and tried to ignore all those times he'd seen Stephen cry… defeated, overpowered. He hadn't been a fighter those times. He'd been a young lad destroyed by too many people not giving him a chance. And yes, he tried to give off the façade of self-confidence and arrogance – and it worked well sometimes. But Brendan knew him better. He knew the crushed and insecure soul beneath all the bravado.

"Yeah." He mumbled half-heartedly. "Yeah, right."

XOXOX

It all happened so fast. Like a dream. Like some hallucination experienced in the middle of a blackout. Brendan was half-asleep, like he always was these days, eyes lolling open and shut and a cold cup of coffee held limply in his right hand. And then he heard a stir. The ever-so-slight sound of the sheets rustling beside him… the small breath of a body stirring into consciousness.

Brendan sat bolt upright, heart jolting uncomfortably into his throat.

"Stephen?"

He waited with baited breath… eyes wavering side-to-side nervously… fists clenched tensely to the bed-sheets as he WILLED those bruised eyes to open… for him to see life in them… for him to see the lad he'd been torn from this last week and a half.

Ste moved gently, with almost ghostlike elegance, his hand flinching sideways slightly, and then a gentle tongue reaching out and stroking his own bottom lip. Brendan's heart hammered in disbelief. Finally. FINALLY signs of movement. And Stephen's body would be stiff and probably in pain, but if it was he didn't show it. His adams apple bounced gently as he swallowed down air… and then… miraculously… his eyelids flickered. With a peacefulness, they began to peel open.

And for a moment Brendan was short of breath, not even realising himself how much he'd LONGED to see those blue pupils until they were here now, open in front of him. And now here they were.

Stephen's eyes were glazed. They didn't rest on anything in particular; he didn't even seem to take notice of Brendan leaned over him. Those eyes were faint and watery… looking shell-shocked as they lingered hazily onto the ceiling. But they were open. Stephen was awake. Finally.

"St…Stephen." Brendan whispered huskily, with the limited voice he had left. "Hey…"

He touched Stephen's shoulder gently… with shaky, hesitant fingers. Time seemed to linger for an eternity, with Stephen unreacting – just staring numbly into space. Until eventually Stephen's eye-line lingered sideways… resting at last upon the anxious eyes of an old lover.

Brendan swallowed, hard. He couldn't say anything… could hardly breathe. He just STARED into those misted-eyes with a fierce and desperate intensity. Speak to me, he prayed. Recognise me, please. Please say something.

The whole room lay silent and still and crackling in uncertainty.

Stephen's eyes just rested there, unmoving, fixated upon Brendan's face. They showed no feeling, no thought-process or emotion. They just gazed emptily… and yet soulfully too. He recognised Brendan. Brendan knew he did.

"Stephen, talk to me." He pleaded quietly. "Say somethin'."

Slowly, Ste's lips peeled open. They were shaking slightly, Brendan noticed, trembling and unvocal. He seemed not to know how to speak. Like he was stuck halfway between a dream and a reality; confused and disorientated, as one would expect, and yet strangely at peace. Strangely tranquil.

Something stirred in Brendan as he remembered where they were. With shaky fingers he reached for the buzzer, hit down on it twice… three times… calling for the doctor, alerting them. He didn't take his eyes off Stephen's the whole time, and nor vice versa.

It seemed like seconds… and also like an eternity… that the two of them sat together, unspeaking… just staring. Stephen's eyes pressed upon Brendan's hauntingly. Alive, and yet ghost-like.

And then the doors burst open, and doctors rushed in, and everything changed. Brendan was pulled to his feet by fast-moving hands, and people instructed him to get out, as the masked-men crowded round his Stephen… shining lights on him, speaking to him in loud, oppressive, obtrusive voices. Brendan could no longer see him. And before he knew it, Brendan was pushed from the room where he'd spent his last week… and the door was slammed on him… and the cold nothingness of the outside corridor pushed down onto his shoulders.

"Brendan!" Amy cried, rushing down the corridor towards him, "Brendan, what happened?"

"He… he woke up…"

"No!"

"I think so…"

"Oh thank… thank GOD!" Amy gasped – and then let out a laugh; one filled with pure and intense relief. Of course, she hadn't seen the glazed eyes and surreal distance in his stare, had she? She didn't have to stand here, spooked and haunted the way Brendan was now doing.

"So what's going on?" She asked, "Can we see him?"

"I dunno.. the doctors came in…"

"Did he say anything to you?"

"No."

"Well did he seem… was he…" Amy's expression flickered suddenly with anxiety, noticing Brendan's distinct lack of shared excitement. "Brendan… was he alright? Please tell me -"

"I dunno Amy, he's just woken up from a coma, hasn't he?" Brendan snapped, "Whas' he supposed to be like?"

Amy fell silent, eyes glossed in worry. Brendan didn't even have it in him to feel sorry for her. His hand fidgeted agitatedly inside his pockets, fingers wringing nervously around his keys and palms sweating. He felt his body pacing back and forth, his breathing quicken with nerves. He was stunned… dazed. What had been wrong with Stephen then? Why had he looked at him like that – in that surreal spaced-out way? It wasn't normal. It was like some sick hallucinogenic dream. Making him feel sick… dizzy…

"Brendan…" Amy muttered nervously, "Are you alright? You don't look good."

"Yeah… yeah…" Brendan muttered, but his own voice sounded distant. His head was too busy reeling and spinning in grief. Grief at seeing the lights faded from Stephen's eyes like that… his brain…damaged…at the hands of some bloke who was still out there now… living his life. Kill him. His brain told him. Kill him, kill him, kill him. But the 'him' didn't have a face or a name. Did it?

So why did Brendan feel sick with the fear that he'd known all along?