Archive of Our Own

The world came back in pieces.

First, there was white. Not the clean white of clouds or fresh snow, but the sterile, fluorescent white that only existed in hospitals and nightmares. Then came the beeping, steady, rhythmic, relentless. A metronome counting down to something Colt couldn't quite remember.

His mouth tasted like cotton and copper. His thoughts moved like syrup.

"—just need to check his vitals—"

Voices. Distant. Underwater.

Colt tried to move his head and the world tilted sideways. His stomach lurched, but nothing came up. Everything felt heavy. Wrong. Like his body belonged to someone else and he was just borrowing it, poorly.

"Colt?"

That voice he knew. Soft. Familiar. The kind of voice that had talked him through scraped knees and broken hearts and that one time he'd gotten spectacularly drunk after a stunt went sideways and he'd thought his career was over before Ryder picked him up and forcibly dusted him off.

Ryland.

Colt's eyes wouldn't focus. There was a shape beside the bed, blurry, backlit by that awful fluorescent glow. He tried to speak and managed something between a groan and a question mark.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Don't try to talk yet." Ryland's hand found his, finally something warm, solid, real. "You're in the hospital. You're safe. Just... just rest, okay?"

Hospital. The word bounced around Colt's skull like a pinball, refusing to connect to anything meaningful. Why was he in a hospital? What happened? He tried to chase the memory but it slipped away, dissolving like smoke.

"Wha..." His tongue felt three sizes too big. "What..."

"Shh. Later. We'll talk later." Ryland's thumb traced circles on the back of Colt's hand. "You're on a lot of pain medication right now. Just sleep."

Pain medication. That explained the fog, the heaviness, the way his thoughts kept sliding away from him. But pain medication for what?

Colt tried to ask, but the words wouldn't form. The beeping continued its steady rhythm. Ryland's hand stayed wrapped around his. And, inevitably, the fog rolled back in and pulled him under.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Time became meaningless.

Colt surfaced occasionally, brief moments of semi-consciousness where nurses checked machines and adjusted IVs and asked him questions he couldn't quite answer. Ryland was always there. Sometimes talking softly, sometimes just sitting in silence, sometimes reading aloud from a book Colt couldn't focus on enough to identify.

Once, Colt managed to keep his eyes open long enough to actually see his brother's face. Ryland looked tired. More than was usual even for him, exhausted in a way that went bone-deep. There were dark circles under his eyes and worry lines creasing his forehead and something in his expression that made Colt's chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't name through the medication haze.

"Ry?" His voice came out as a croak.

Ryland's head snapped up, and his face transformed, worry melting into relief so profound it was almost painful to witness. "Hey. Hey, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

How was he feeling? Colt took inventory. Heavy. Disconnected. Confused. And underneath it all, a distant ache that the medication was clearly working overtime to suppress.

"Like shit," he managed.

Ryland's laugh was wet and shaky. "Yeah. Yeah, I bet." He squeezed Colt's hand. "You want some water?"

Colt nodded, and Ryland helped him drink through a straw, a process that was far more complicated and exhausting than it had any right to be. When he was done, Colt let his head fall back against the pillow and tried to organise his thoughts into something resembling coherence.

"What happened?" he asked.

Something flickered across Ryland's face, there and gone too quickly for Colt to identify. "You don't remember?"

"I remember..." What did he remember? Fragments. Disconnected images. "I was working. There was a stunt... up high, I think. And then..." Nothing. Just white space where his memories should be.

"Don't worry about it right now," Ryland said, but his voice had gone careful. Gentle in the way it only got when he was trying not to upset Colt. "You need to rest. We can talk about everything later, when you're feeling better."

Colt wanted to argue, but the fog was already creeping back in, pulling at the edges of his consciousness. His eyelids felt like they had weights attached.

"Stay?" he mumbled.

"I'm not going anywhere," Ryland promised. "I'm right here."

The beeping continued. Ryland's hand stayed warm in his. Colt felt himself drift out of his own body against his will.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The third time Colt woke up—or maybe it was the fourth, or the tenth, time had lost all meaning—the fog was thinner. Not gone, but less oppressive. He could think almost clearly, could keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time.

He was definitely in a hospital room. The walls were that particular shade of beige that was supposed to be calming but just felt depressing. Machines surrounded his bed, monitoring things he didn't want to think about. An IV drip fed into his arm. Perhaps most importantly, Ryland was asleep in the chair beside him, head tilted at an angle that was going to give him a hell of a neck ache, still holding Colt's hand.

Colt studied his brother's face. The exhaustion was even more evident now, Ryland looked like he hadn't slept properly in days. Maybe he hadn't. How long had Colt been here?

As if sensing Colt's gaze, Ryland stirred. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused for a moment before sharpening with awareness. "Colt? You okay?"

"Yeah," Colt said, and was surprised to find his voice almost normal. Still rough, but functional, at least. "How long have I been out?"

Ryland sat up, wincing as his spine cracked. "About three days since the accident. You've been in and out, but this is the most alert you've been."

Three days. Jesus.

"What happened?" Colt asked again, and this time he put steel in his voice. No deflection, he needed to know.

Ryland's expression shuttered. "What do you remember?"

"Not much. I was on set. There was a stunt... a fall, I think? High fall?" The memory was there, just out of reach, like trying to grab smoke. "And then nothing."

"The rigging failed," Ryland said quietly. "You fell twelve stories. You should have died, Colt. The fact that you're alive is..." He stopped and swallowed hard, visibly fighting back tears. "It's a miracle."

Twelve stories. The words hit like a physical blow, and suddenly Colt could feel it, the memory slamming back into place with brutal clarity. The moment the rigging gave way. The sickening lurch of freefall. The ground rushing up to meet him. The impact that had felt like the world ending.

And then nothing.

"Fuck," Colt breathed.

"Yeah," Ryland agreed breathily.

Colt's mind raced, trying to process. Twelve stories. He should be dead. But he wasn't dead, he was here, in a hospital bed, which meant-

"How bad?" he asked, and hated how his voice shook.

Ryland's hand tightened around his. "You have a severe spinal injury. L1 vertebra. They had to do surgery to stabilize it. The doctors say..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "They say you're lucky. It could have been so much worse. You have feeling in your legs, you can move your toes. With physical therapy, they think you'll walk again."

Think. Not know. Think.

"But?" Colt pressed, because there was always a but.

"But it's going to be a long recovery. Months, maybe longer. And you'll probably never..." Ryland's voice cracked. "You'll probably never be able to do stunts again. Not like before."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and final.

Never do stunts again.

Stunts were his life. His identity. The thing that made him him. Without that, what was he?

"Colt—" Ryland started, but Colt cut him off.

"I need to sleep," he said, even though he'd just woken up. He just needed Ryland to stop looking at him like that, with all that pity and worry and grief for the life Colt had just lost.

"Okay," Ryland said softly. "Okay. I'll be right here."

Colt closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, and tried not to think about the fact that his entire world had just shattered into pieces he didn't know how to put back together.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The medication wore off in stages.

First went the pleasant floaty feeling that had kept everything at a comfortable distance. Then went the fog that had made thinking feel like wading through molasses. And finally, inevitably, went the buffer between Colt and the full weight of what had happened to him.

By the second day of relative clarity, Colt wanted the drugs back.

"Mr. Seavers, if you could just try to lift your leg for me—"

"I am trying," Colt snapped at the physical therapist, a perky woman named Amanda who seemed determined to remain cheerful in the face of his hostility. His leg trembled with effort, moved maybe an inch, and then gave up entirely. "Fuck."

"That's good! That's progress from yesterday—"

"It's not good," Colt bit out. "Good would be standing up and walking out of this fucking hospital. This is pathetic."

Amanda's smile didn't waver, which somehow made it worse. "Recovery takes time, Mr. Seavers. You're doing great for someone only a few days post-op."

"Yeah, well, 'great' feels pretty shitty from where I'm lying."

"Colt," Ryland said quietly from his position by the window. A warning. A reminder to be civil.

Colt ignored him. "Are we done here?"

Amanda glanced at her watch. "We still have twenty minutes—"

"I'm done." Colt let his head fall back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. "Come back tomorrow. Maybe I'll be less pathetic by then."

There was a pause. Then Amanda said, still in that aggressively cheerful voice, "Alright. We'll pick this up tomorrow. Remember to do the ankle rotations I showed you."

She left. The door clicked shut behind her. Silence filled the room, heavy and uncomfortable.

"You didn't have to be rude to her," Ryland said eventually. "She's just trying to help."

"I don't need help. I need my spine to work."

"Colt—"

"Don't." Colt's hands fisted in the thin hospital blanket. "Just... don't, okay? I don't want to hear about how I need to be patient, or how recovery takes time, or how I should be grateful I'm alive. I'm tired of everyone telling me how I should feel about this."

Ryland was quiet for a long moment. Then he moved from the window to the chair beside Colt's bed, the damned chair he'd basically lived in for the past few days. "Okay," he said simply. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Nothing. I don't want to talk about anything."

"Alright."

They sat in silence. Colt stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how his legs felt like dead weight, how the simple act of lifting them an inch had left him exhausted, how the doctors kept using words like "probably" and "hopefully" and "with time" instead of making any actual promises.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, the words scraping out of him like broken glass. "For being an asshole."

"You're not an asshole," Ryland said. "You're scared and angry and in pain. That's allowed."

"I'm still sorry."

"I know." Ryland's hand found his, warm and steady. "And I forgive you. I'll always forgive you, you know that."

Colt's throat tightened. "Yeah. I know."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The anger came in waves.

Sometimes Colt could keep it contained, could be civil to the nurses, could tolerate the physical therapy sessions, could even manage something approximating conversation with Ryland. But other times it burst out of him like a living thing, sharp and vicious and looking for something to hurt.

On day three of clarity, a nurse came in to check his vitals and accidentally jostled his IV.

"Jesus Christ, could you be more careful?" Colt snarled.

The nurse—an older woman named Patricia who'd been nothing but kind—stepped back, startled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Seavers. I didn't mean—"

"Yeah, well, you did. Maybe try paying attention to what you're doing instead of just going through the motions."

"Colt," Ryland said, sharper this time.

"What? I'm just saying she should be more careful. It's not like I can move out of the way if she fucks up."

Patricia's expression had gone carefully neutral, the look of someone who'd dealt with difficult patients before and knew better than to engage. "I'll be more careful," she said evenly. "I'm going to finish checking your vitals now, if that's alright."

She did her job quickly and efficiently, then left without another word. The door had barely closed before Ryland was on his feet.

"That was uncalled for," he said, and there was an edge to his voice Colt rarely heard. "She was doing her job. She barely touched you."

"She—"

"No. I get that you're angry. I get that this is hard. But you don't get to take it out on people who are trying to help you."

Colt's jaw clenched. "I didn't ask for their help."

"Too bad. You need it anyway." Ryland crossed his arms. "And you're going to apologise to Patricia next time you see her."

"I'm not a child, Ry. You can't tell me what to do."

"Then stop acting like one."

The words hit like a slap. Colt stared at his brother, at the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, at the worry that never quite left his eyes, at the way he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. He felt something crack in his chest.

"Fuck," he said quietly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. You're right. I'll apologise."

Ryland's expression softened. "Thank you."

"I just..." Colt's hands twisted in the blanket again. "I hate this. I hate feeling helpless. I hate that I can't even move without someone helping me. I hate that my entire life just got ripped away and everyone keeps telling me to be patient about it."

"I know," Ryland said, and came back to sit beside the bed. "I know it's hard. But you're not alone in this, okay? I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"You should," Colt said. "You have a life, Ry. A job. You can't just put everything on hold to babysit me."

"I'm not babysitting you. I'm taking care of my brother." Ryland's hand found his again. "And I already talked to the school. They're giving me family leave. So I'm here for as long as you need me."

Colt's throat went tight. "Ry..."

"Don't argue. It's done." Ryland squeezed his hand. "We're going to get through this. Together. Even if you're an asshole about it sometimes."

Despite everything, Colt felt his mouth twitch. "Only sometimes?"

"I'm being generous."

"Appreciate it."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Then Colt said, quieter, "I really am sorry. For being such a dick."

"I know," Ryland said. "And I really do forgive you. Just... try to remember that the people here are on your side, okay? Even when it doesn't feel like it."

"Okay," Colt agreed. And meant it. At least until the next wave of anger hit.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Patricia came back that evening to administer medication. Colt waited until she was done, then said, "Hey. I'm sorry. About earlier. I was out of line."

She paused, then her lips quirked up in a real smile this time, not the professional one. "Apology accepted, Mr. Seavers. I've been doing this a long time. I've seen worse."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No," she agreed. "But it makes it understandable. You're going through something traumatic. A little anger is normal."

"Doesn't feel normal. Feels like I'm losing my mind."

"That's normal too." She patted his shoulder gently. "It gets easier. Not quickly, and not in a straight line. But it does get easier."

"Yeah," Colt said, not really believing it. "Thanks."

After she left, Ryland crossed his arms all haughty-like, giving Colt a look, "See? That wasn't so hard."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying—"

"Ry. Shut up."

But Colt was smiling when he said it, and Ryland was smiling back, and for just a moment the weight on Colt's chest felt a little lighter.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Discharge day arrived with all the ceremony of a funeral.

Colt sat in the wheelchair—the fucking wheelchair—and tried not to think about how this was supposed to be temporary. How the doctors had said "with physical therapy" and "given time" and "most patients in your situation." How none of those phrases were actually promises.

"You ready?" Ryland asked, hovering nearby with a bag full of prescriptions and care instructions and equipment catalogs that Colt had refused to look at.

"No," Colt said honestly. "But I don't think that matters."

"We can wait a few more minutes if you need—"

"Let's just go."

The journey from the hospital room to Ryland's car was exhausting in ways Colt hadn't anticipated. Every bump in the hallway sent jolts of pain up his spine. Every person they passed seemed to stare—at the wheelchair, at the hospital bracelet still on his wrist, at the way he couldn't quite sit up straight without support. By the time Ryland was helping him transfer into the passenger seat, Colt was sweating and shaking and trying very hard not to snap at his brother for the fifth time.

"Easy," Ryland murmured, one hand supporting Colt's back while the other guided his legs. "I've got you."

"I know," Colt gritted out. "I know, just... fuck, this is humiliating."

"It's not humiliating. You're injured, Colt."

"Same thing."

Ryland didn't argue, just finished getting Colt settled and then folded the wheelchair into the trunk with practiced efficiency that suggested he'd been watching YouTube videos. Probably at three in the morning while Colt was sleeping. Because that's what Ryland did: he prepared, he planned, he made sure everything was as smooth as possible even when the situation was fundamentally fucked.

The drive to Ryland's house was quiet. Colt stared out the window and watched the world go by. People walking dogs, kids playing in yards, someone jogging past with earbuds in. Normal people doing normal things. People whose spines worked properly.

"Stop it," Ryland said, all faux-casual.

"Stop what?"

"Whatever you're thinking. I can hear you spiralling from here."

"I'm not spiralling."

"Colt."

"Fine. I'm spiralling. Happy?"

"Not particularly." Ryland's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "But I get it. This is a big transition. It's okay to be scared."

"I'm not scared," Colt lied. "I'm just... processing it."

"Uh-huh."

They pulled into Ryland's driveway, a modest house in a quiet neighborhood, the kind of place where people knew their neighbours and had block parties and probably judged you for not mowing your lawn often enough. Ryland had bought it two years ago with his teacher salary and a small inheritance from their grandmother, and he'd been so proud of it. His first real home after the shitty apartment he and Colt had shared for their early adulthood.

And now Colt was going to invade it with his broken body and his anger and his medical equipment.

"I can find somewhere else," Colt said abruptly. "You don't have to do this. I can hire a nurse or something, go to a rehab facility—"

"Colt." Ryland turned off the engine and twisted to face him. "You're staying here. With me. End of discussion."

"Ry—"

"No. I'm not arguing about this. You're my brother. You're hurt. And I'm going to take care of you until you're back on your feet. Literally." Ryland's expression softened. "Besides, I already moved all the furniture around to make room for your stuff. If you leave now, I'll have done all that work for nothing."

Despite himself, Colt felt his mouth twitch. "Can't have that."

"Exactly. So stop trying to be noble and let me help you inside."

Getting into the house was another exercise in humiliation. Ryland had installed a temporary ramp over the front steps—when had he done that? How much sleep had he actually gotten in the past week?—but Colt still needed help navigating it. His arms shook with effort by the time they made it through the front door.

The living room had been transformed. The coffee table was gone, replaced by a hospital bed that looked obscenely medical in the middle of Ryland's cozy space. There was a walker folded in the corner, a shower chair visible through the downstairs bathroom door, grab bars installed in places that hadn't had them before.

Colt's chest tightened. "Jesus, Ry. When did you do all this?"

"Had some help from the neighbours. And a very informative YouTube channel." Ryland wheeled him toward the bed. "I know it's not ideal, but the doctors said you shouldn't be doing stairs for a while, so downstairs made more sense. My bedroom's upstairs, so I'll be close if you need anything at night."

"You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to." Ryland engaged the wheelchair brake. "Now, let's get you into bed. You must be exhausted."

He was. The short trip from hospital to house had drained him completely. But as Ryland helped him transfer from wheelchair to bed—another humiliating process that required Ryland to basically lift him—Colt felt the weight of reality settling over him like a shroud.

This was his life now. This bed, this room, this dependence on his brother for every basic function. Not for a few days or weeks, but for months. Maybe longer. Maybe forever, if the physical therapy didn't work, if his spine didn't heal right, if he was one of the 'unlucky' ones the doctors had carefully not mentioned.

"Colt?" Ryland's voice was gentle. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Colt said, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Liar."

"Fuck off."

"There he is." Ryland adjusted the pillows behind Colt's back. "You want some water? Pain meds? The TV remote?"

"I want my life back."

The words came out harsher than intended. Ryland flinched, just slightly, and Colt immediately wanted to take them back.

"I know," Ryland said quietly. "I know you do. And we're going to work toward that. But right now, you need to rest. Doctor's orders."

"Doctor's orders can fuck off too."

"Noted. Water?"

"Yeah. Fine."

Ryland disappeared into the kitchen. Colt listened to the sound of cabinets opening, water running, the familiar domestic noises of his brother's life that he was now intruding on. When Ryland came back with a glass and a straw—a fucking straw, like Colt was a child—Colt managed to bite back his pride and mumble out a soft, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For being an asshole. For ruining your life. For—" He gestured vaguely at the hospital bed, the medical equipment, the way Ryland's entire living room had been sacrificed to accommodate him. "All of this."

"You didn't ruin my life," Ryland said firmly. "You had an accident. That's not your fault. And taking care of you isn't a burden, it's what family does." He held out the water. "Now drink. You're probably dehydrated."

Colt drank, hating the straw, hating that he needed it, hating everything about this situation. When he was done, he said, "I'm still sorry."

"I know," Ryland said. "And I still forgive you. Even though there's nothing to forgive." He set the glass on the bedside table. "Try to get some rest, okay? I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything."

"Ry?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For all of this. I know I'm not making it easy."

Ryland's expression softened. "You're my brother. You don't have to make it easy. You just have to let me help."

He left before Colt could respond. Colt lay in the hospital bed in the middle of his brother's living room and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how this was supposed to be temporary, how he was supposed to get better, how nothing about this felt like it was ever going to be okay again.

Outside, he could hear Ryland moving around in the kitchen. Making dinner, probably. Something easy to eat, something that wouldn't require Colt to sit up too much or use utensils he couldn't quite grip properly yet.

His brother. His twin. The person who'd always been there, who'd talked him through every crisis, who'd dropped everything to take care of him without a second thought.

Colt closed his eyes and tried to ignore the guilt that was rapidly becoming as familiar as the pain.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The first week at Ryland's house established a routine that Colt hated with every fibre of his being.

6 AM: Wake up to Ryland's gentle prodding and the smell of coffee he couldn't drink yet because his stomach was still adjusting to the pain medication.

6:30 AM: The humiliating process of getting to the bathroom, which required the walker and Ryland hovering nearby like Colt was going to collapse at any moment. (He might. He had, twice, which was why Ryland hovered.)

7 AM: Breakfast, which Colt could barely eat because the medication killed his appetite and everything tasted like cardboard anyway.

8 AM: Ryland left for work, after making sure Colt had everything he needed within reach and making Colt promise to call if anything went wrong.

8 AM - 3 PM: Colt stared at the ceiling, dozed fitfully, tried to do the exercises Amanda had prescribed, and generally contemplated how his life had become a prison of his own broken body.

3 PM: Ryland came home, usually with groceries or supplies or some new piece of equipment designed to make Colt's life "easier."

4 PM: Physical therapy, either at the clinic or at home with Amanda, depending on the day. An hour of torture disguised as healing.

5 PM: Dinner, conversation, Ryland's attempts to keep things normal while Colt tried not to snap at him.

8 PM: More medication, more exercises, more of Ryland's patient assistance with every basic function.

10 PM: Sleep, if Colt was lucky. More often, lying awake and listening to Ryland move around upstairs, knowing his brother was probably exhausted but unable to rest because he was worried about Colt.

By day five, Colt was ready to scream.

"Come on, Mr. Seavers," Amanda said, her relentless cheerfulness somehow still intact despite Colt's best efforts to crush it. "Five more reps. You can do this."

"I can't," Colt gritted out, his leg trembling with effort as he tried to lift it against the resistance band. "I'm done."

"You're not done. You're just tired. There's a difference."

"Feels the same from where I'm lying."

"Four more. You've got this."

Colt wanted to tell her exactly where she could shove her encouragement, but Ryland was watching from the corner with that expression that meant he was mentally cataloging every sign of progress, every small victory, like they actually mattered. So Colt gritted his teeth and did four more reps, each one feeling like his leg was going to tear off.

"Excellent!" Amanda said when he finally let his leg drop. "That's real progress, Mr. Seavers. Last week you could barely do three."

"Fantastic," Colt said flatly. "I'm basically ready for the Olympics."

"Colt," Ryland said, warning in his voice.

"What? I'm just being realistic. Three reps to seven reps is great, but it's not exactly walking, is it?"

Amanda's smile didn't waver. "Recovery isn't linear, Mr. Seavers. Some days you'll feel like you're making huge progress. Other days you'll feel like you're going backward. That's normal."

"Yeah, well, normal sucks."

"Can't argue with that." She started packing up her equipment. "Same time Thursday?"

"Can't wait," Colt said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

After she left, Ryland came over and sat on the edge of the bed. "You know, you could try being a little nicer to her."

"I could. But where's the fun in that?"

"Colt."

"What? She gets paid to put up with me. Might as well give her a challenge."

Ryland sighed in that long-suffering way that implied he was reaching the end of his tehter with Colt's temper. "You're impossible."

"Yeah, well. You're stuck with me anyway."

"Lucky me." But Ryland was smiling when he said it, and Colt felt some of the tension in his chest ease.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Ryland said, "You did good today. Seven reps is progress."

"It's pathetic."

"It's progress," Ryland repeated firmly. "Stop comparing yourself to where you were before the accident. Compare yourself to where you were yesterday. That's the only comparison that matters right now."

Colt wanted to argue, but he was too tired. The physical therapy sessions left him completely drained, every muscle aching, his spine throbbing despite the medication. "I'm going to nap," he said instead.

"Okay. I'll start dinner. You want anything specific?"

"Whatever's easy. I'm not hungry anyway."

"You need to eat, Colt. The medication works better with food."

"I know. I'll eat. Just... later."

Ryland looked like he wanted to argue, but he just nodded. "Okay. Yell if you need anything."

He left, and Colt closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But his mind wouldn't shut off, kept circling back to the same thoughts: seven reps wasn't enough, progress wasn't fast enough, what if this was as good as it got, what if he never walked properly again, what if—

"Stop spiraling," Ryland called from the kitchen, like he had some kind of sixth sense for Colt's anxiety. "I can hear you thinking from here."

"Fuck off," Colt called back, but there was no heat in it.

"Love you too."

Despite everything, Colt smiled at that.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By the second week, they'd fallen into a rhythm. Not a comfortable one—nothing about this situation was comfortable—but at least predictable. Colt knew when to expect Ryland's hovering, knew when to push himself and when to rest, knew how to apologise when his anger got the better of him.

Which was often.

"I don't need help with this," Colt snapped, trying to pull his shirt on by himself and failing spectacularly as his arms refused to cooperate.

"Clearly," Ryland said dryly, watching Colt struggle.

"I can do it. Just give me a minute."

"Colt, you've been trying for five minutes. Let me help."

"I said I can do it!"

Ryland held up his hands in surrender. "Okay. You can do it. I'll just wait here."

Colt glared at him, then went back to wrestling with the shirt. His shoulders screamed in protest. His spine sent sharp jolts of pain with every movement. And the damned shirt refused to cooperate, getting tangled around his arms in a way that would have been comical if it wasn't so humiliating.

After another two minutes of struggle, Colt finally gave up. "Fine. Help me."

"You sure? Because you seemed pretty confident—"

"Ryland. Help me with the fucking shirt."

"Since you asked so nicely." But Ryland was already moving, gently untangling the fabric and helping Colt get his arms through the sleeves. "There. See? Much easier with two people."

"I hate this," Colt said quietly.

"I know."

"I hate needing help with everything. I hate that I can't even put on a shirt by myself. I hate—" His voice cracked. "I hate being useless."

"You're not useless," Ryland said firmly. "You're recovering from a major injury There's a key difference there you know."

"Doesn't feel like it."

Ryland finished adjusting the shirt, then sat back. "You know what I think?"

"That I'm being dramatic?"

"Well, yes. But also that you're being too hard on yourself." Ryland's expression was gentle. "You had major spinal surgery two weeks ago. The fact that you can move at all is kind of amazing. But you're expecting yourself to be back to normal already, and that's not realistic."

"I know it's not realistic. That doesn't make it less frustrating."

"I know. But maybe try to give yourself some credit for how far you've come instead of focusing on how far you still have to go."

Colt wanted to argue, but he was too tired. "I'm sorry," he said instead. "For being an asshole. Again."

"Apology accepted. Again." Ryland stood. "Now, you want breakfast? I made pancakes."

"You made pancakes?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I'm a teacher. I know how to make pancakes."

"Your pancakes are usually terrible. Like hockey-puck levels of terrible."

"These ones are from a box. Even I can't fudge up box pancakes."

"Want to bet?"

"Shut up and eat your breakfast."

Despite himself, Colt laughed. And for just a moment, things felt almost normal.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The third week brought a new challenge: physical therapy at the clinic.

Colt hated the clinic. Hated the bright fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic and the way everyone there was dealing with their own traumas, their own broken bodies, their own shattered lives. It was like staring into a mirror that showed possible futures—the elderly woman learning to walk again after a stroke, the young guy with a prosthetic leg, the middle-aged man whose hands shook too much to hold a cup.

"Mr. Seavers?" Amanda appeared beside the parallel bars where Colt was attempting to stand. "You ready to try some steps?"

"No," Colt said honestly. "But I'm here anyway."

"That's the spirit." She positioned herself on one side while another therapist took the other. "Okay, we're going to support you. I want you to try to take three steps forward. Use the bars for balance."

Colt gripped the bars so hard his knuckles went white. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, distant, uncooperative, barely connected to his brain. He tried to shift his weight forward and his right leg buckled immediately.

"I've got you," Amanda said, her hands steady on his back. "Try again. Smaller movement this time."

Colt tried again. And again. And again. By the fourth attempt, he managed to move his right foot forward maybe six inches before his leg gave out again.

"Good!" Amanda said. "That's progress!"

"That's pathetic," Colt corrected weakly, breathing hard from the effort.

"That's progress," she repeated firmly. "Last week you couldn't shift your weight at all. Now you're moving your foot. That's huge."

It didn't feel huge. It felt like failure. But Colt was too exhausted to argue.

They worked for another forty-five minutes, an eternity of small movements and trembling muscles and Colt's body refusing to cooperate. By the end, he'd managed three actual steps, each one requiring so much effort that he was drenched in sweat and shaking.

"Excellent work today," Amanda said as they got him back into the wheelchair. "Same time next week?"

"Can't wait," Colt said flatly.

Ryland was waiting in the lobby, grading papers on his laptop. He looked up when Colt appeared and immediately closed the computer like nothing else in his life mattered more than Colt. "How'd it go?"

"Three steps," Colt said. "I'm basically Usain Bolt."

"Three steps is great!"

"Three steps is nothing."

"Three steps is three more than you could do last week." Ryland stood and grabbed his bag. "Come on. Let's get you home. You look exhausted."

They were halfway to the car when Colt said, "I'm sorry."

"For what this time?"

"For being negative. I know you're trying to be supportive. I just..." He gestured vaguely at himself, at the wheelchair, at everything. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

"I know," Ryland said quietly. "But you're doing it anyway, that's what matters."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. It is." Ryland helped him into the car, then folded the wheelchair with practiced ease. "You know what we need?"

"A time machine?"

"Pizza. We need pizza. And a terrible movie. Something with sci-fi battles and no plot."

"Ry—"

"No arguments. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a medical doctor."

"I'm still a Doctor, therefore they're doctor's orders." Ryland got into the driver's seat. "Pizza and explosions. It's happening."

And despite everything—despite the pain and the exhaustion and the three pathetic steps that had taken everything he had—Colt found himself smiling back at his brother and his seemingly endless optimism.

"Okay," he said. "Pizza and explosions then."

"That's the spirit."

They drove home in comfortable silence, and for the first time since the accident, Colt felt something that might have been hope.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The text came during week four, while Colt was in the middle of his home exercises and Ryland was making dinner.

Hey. I heard about the accident. I'm so sorry. How are you doing?

Colt stared at his phone, at Jody's name on the screen, and felt his chest constrict.

"Everything okay?" Ryland called from the kitchen.

"Yeah," Colt said, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "Fine."

He deleted the text without responding.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Ryland noticed immediately, of course. Ryland always noticed when it came to Colt. Permanently scatterbrained but nooo he just had to know every one of Colt's quirks and know exactly when something is up. Damn him.

"You've been quiet today," he said that evening, settling into the chair beside Colt's bed with his own dinner. "More than your usual surliness, I mean."

"Just tired."

"Uh-huh." Ryland took a bite of pasta, chewed thoughtfully. "You want to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about."

"Colt."

"What?"

"I've known you for thirty-two years. I know when something's bothering you." Ryland set his plate aside. "What's going on?"

Colt considered lying. Considered deflecting. Considered telling Ryland to mind his own business. But they were twins, they'd shared a womb, shared a childhood, shared everything. Lying to Ryland had never worked.

"Jody texted," he said finally.

Ryland's expression shifted rapidly through about twelve different expressions; surprise, then understanding, then something that looked like relief. "What did she say?"

"Just that she heard about the accident. Asked how I was doing."

"And you said...?"

"Nothing. I deleted it."

"Colt—"

"Don't." Colt's hands fisted in the blanket. "I know what you're going to say. That I should respond, that she deserves to know I'm okay, that I'm being an idiot. But I can't, Ry. I can't talk to her right now."

"Why not?"

"Because look at me!" The words burst out of him, sharp and bitter. "I'm a fucking mess. I can barely walk. I need help getting dressed. I'm living in your living room in a hospital bed. What am I supposed to say to her? 'Hey, remember how I used to be a stunt performer? Well, now I'm a cripple who can't even put on his own shirt'?"

"First of all, don't use that word," Ryland said firmly. "Second, Jody doesn't care about any of that. She cares about you."

"She cares about who I was. Not who I am now."

"That's baloney and you know it."

Colt looked away. "It doesn't matter anyway. She deserves the chance to move on without me dragging her down. There's no reason for her to be involved in this."

"You only haven't talked because you were too scared to let her in," Ryland said quietly. "Not because you stopped loving her. And I'm pretty sure she didn't stop loving you either."

"You don't know that."

"I know you, Colt. I know you're still in love with her. I can see it every time someone mentions her name. And I know you're pushing her away because you think you're protecting her, but really you're just protecting yourself."

The words hit too close to home. Colt's jaw clenched. "This conversation is over."

"Colt—"

"I said it's over. Drop it."

Ryland was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, picked up his plate, and stood. "Okay. I'll drop it. For now. But you should know that pushing away everyone who cares about you isn't going to make this easier. It's just going to make you more alone."

He left before Colt could respond. Colt lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about Jody's text, about the concern in her words, about how much he wanted to respond and how terrified he was of what would happen if he did.

His phone buzzed again.

I know you probably don't want to talk. But I'm here if you need anything. Always.

Colt read the message three times, then turned off his phone and closed his eyes.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Ryland brought it up again two days later, more gently this time.

They were in the middle of breakfast—Colt managing to eat about half of his eggs before his stomach rebelled—when Ryland said, "Have you thought any more about Jody?"

"No," Colt lied.

"Liar."

"Fuck off."

"Colt." Ryland set down his coffee. "I'm not trying to push you. But I think you should at least respond to her. Let her know you're okay."

"I'm not okay."

"You're alive. That's more okay than the alternative. Which is probably all she can think at the moment."

Colt pushed his eggs around his plate. "What am I supposed to say? 'Hey, thanks for checking in, I'm currently learning how to walk again and having a great time'?"

"You could start with 'thank you for the message.'" Ryland's voice was gentle yet somehow still firm. Damn teachers. "You don't have to tell her everything. Just... don't shut her out completely. She cares about you."

"She shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a mess, Ry. I'm angry all the time. I can barely take care of myself. I'm living in your house and ruining your life. Why would anyone want to be involved with this?"

"First of all, you're not ruining my life. Stop saying that." Ryland leaned forward, raising a second finger. "Second, people don't stop caring about you just because you're going through a hard time. That's not how love works."

"We're not together anymore. It's been too long, she should have moved on by now."

"That doesn't mean she stopped loving you. And it definitely doesn't mean you stopped loving her."

Colt's throat tightened. "It doesn't matter how I feel. She deserves better than this."

"Shouldn't she get to decide that?"

"No! Because she'll say she's fine with it, that she wants to help, and then six months from now she'll realise what she signed up for and leave anyway. Better to end it now."

"Or," Ryland said carefully, "she'll surprise you. Maybe she's stronger than you think. Maybe she wants to be there for you, and you're taking that choice away from her by shutting her out."

Colt wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come. Because Ryland was right, he was taking away Jody's choice, making decisions for her, assuming he knew what was best. Just like he always did when he was scared.

"I don't know what to say to her," he admitted finally.

"Start with the truth. Tell her you're recovering. Tell her it's hard. Tell her you're scared." Ryland's expression softened. "You don't have to have all the answers, Colt. You just have to be honest."

"What if she wants to see me?"

"Then you let her. Or you tell her you're not ready yet. But you don't just ignore her and hope she goes away."

Colt stared at his half-eaten breakfast. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

That night, after Ryland had gone to bed, Colt pulled out his phone and stared at Jody's messages. There were three now. The initial one, the follow-up, and one from earlier that day that just said Thinking of you.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was he supposed to say? How did you sum up a month of hell in a text message?

Finally, he typed: Hey. Sorry for not responding sooner. I'm okay. Well, not okay, but alive. Recovery is hard but I'm working on it. Thanks for checking in.

He stared at the message for five minutes before hitting send.

The response came almost immediately: I'm so glad you're okay. I've been worried. Do you want to talk? Or if you're not ready, that's okay too. No pressure.

Colt's chest tightened. God, he'd missed her. Missed her voice, her laugh, the way she always knew exactly what to say. Missed the way she'd made him feel like he could be himself, broken parts and all.

Not ready to talk yet, he typed. But maybe soon. I just need some time.

Take all the time you need. I'm here whenever you're ready.

Colt set the phone down and closed his eyes. He could hear Ryland moving around upstairs, probably getting ready for bed, probably exhausted from another day of teaching and caregiving and holding everything together.

His brother was right. Pushing Jody away wasn't protecting her. It was just making him more alone.

But knowing that and actually doing something about it were two very different things.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"You texted her," Ryland said the next morning, not even bothering to make it a question.

"How did you—"

"You look less miserable than usual. It was either that or you had a breakthrough in physical therapy, and since you're still scowling at the walker, I'm guessing it wasn't the therapy."

"I hate that you know me so well."

"No you don't." Ryland poured coffee with faux-casuality. "So? How'd it go?"

"Fine. I told her I needed time. She said okay."

"And?"

"And nothing. That's it."

"Colt."

"What?"

"You're allowed to be happy about this, you know. You're allowed to want her in your life." Ryland crossed one arm across his chest with a huff, the other cradling his coffee like a lifeline.

"I know that."

"Do you? Because you're acting like responding to her text was some kind of betrayal."

Colt sighed. "It's not a betrayal. It's just... complicated."

"Everything's complicated right now. That doesn't mean you have to face it alone." Ryland set a mug in front of him. "Just think about it, okay? Think about what you actually want, not what you think you should want."

"When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You just never listened."

"Fair point."

They drank their coffee in comfortable silence. And for the first time in weeks, Colt let himself imagine a future that included more than just pain and physical therapy and his brother's living room.

It was terrifying. But it was also, maybe, a little bit more real than it had been yesterday.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Three months into recovery, Colt could walk.

Not well. Not far. Not without the walker and frequent breaks and Ryland hovering nearby like a nervous parent. But he could walk actual steps, one foot in front of the other, his legs mostly cooperating with what his brain told them to do.

It should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt like a trap waiting to be triggered.

"You're doing great," Amanda said during their session, watching Colt make his way down the parallel bars. "Your strength has improved significantly. I think we can start reducing the walker use at home."

"Already?" Ryland asked from his usual spot in the corner.

"He's ready. He needs to start building confidence in his own mobility." Amanda made a note on her clipboard. "Start with short distances, just bathroom to bedroom, that kind of thing. Keep the walker nearby for safety, but encourage him to try without it."

Colt listened to them talk about him like he wasn't there and felt anger simmer in his gut. "I'm right here, you know. You can talk to me directly."

"Sorry," Amanda said, not sounding particularly sorry. "What do you think, Mr. Seavers? Ready to try some walker-free walking at home?"

"Sure. Why not. What's the worst that could happen?"

"You could fall and re-injure yourself," Amanda said bluntly. "Which is why we're going to be smart about this. Short distances. Someone nearby. No rushing."

"Sounds thrilling."

After the session, in the car, Ryland said, "You know, you could try being excited about this. You're walking, Colt. That's huge steps towards healing."

"I'm walking ten feet before I need to sit down. That's not 'huge steps'." He feels immediately bad for mimicking Ryland and returns to his own voice immediately. "That's pathetic."

"For the last time, it's progress."

"It's not enough."

Ryland's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "When is it going to be enough? When are you going to stop comparing yourself to who you were before and start appreciating how far you've come?"

"When I can actually function like a normal person."

"You are functioning. You're just functioning differently than before."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

They drove the rest of the way in tense silence. Colt stared out the window and tried to ignore the guilt gnawing at him. Ryland was right, as usual. He should be grateful for the progress, should be celebrating the fact that he could walk at all. But all he could think about was everything he still couldn't do. Couldn't run. Couldn't do stunts. Couldn't live independently. Couldn't be the person he used to be.

At home, Ryland helped him inside slowly in a process Colt insisted he didn't need help with anymore, even though they both knew he did. Once Colt was settled on the couch (he'd graduated from the hospital bed two weeks ago, another "victory" that felt hollow), Ryland quietly broke the awkward stalemate, "I need to go to the store. You going to be okay for an hour?"

"I'm not a child, Ry. I'll be fine."

"I know you're not a child. I'm just asking."

"And I'm just answering. Go. I'll be here when you get back."

Ryland looked like he wanted to argue, but he just grabbed his keys and left. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and suddenly Colt was alone in the house for the first time in months.

The silence was deafening.

Colt sat on the couch and looked around the living room—at the walker folded in the corner, at the grab bars installed on every wall, at the pill organizer on the coffee table that marked out his medication schedule like a prison sentence. This was his life now. This room, this routine, this careful existence where every movement had to be calculated and every risk assessed.

He hated it.

Without really thinking about it, Colt stood up. His legs wobbled but held. He took a step toward the kitchen, then another. No walker. No support. Just him and his barely-functional spine.

He made it five steps before his right leg buckled.

Colt went down hard, his knee cracking against the hardwood floor, his hands barely catching him before his face joined it. Pain shot up his spine—sharp and immediate and terrifying in its intensity.

"Fuck," he gasped, trying to push himself up. His arms shook. His legs refused to cooperate. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

He managed to roll onto his side, breathing hard, pain radiating from his knee and his spine and everywhere in between. His phone was on the coffee table. Might as well have been on the moon.

This was it. This was what happened when he tried to be independent. When he tried to prove he didn't need help. When he tried to be anything other than broken.

Colt closed his eyes and tried not to panic.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Ryland found him twenty minutes later, still on the floor, having managed to drag himself towards the couch but not actually onto it.

"Jesus Christ, Colt!" Ryland dropped the grocery bags and rushed over. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Colt said, even though he clearly wasn't.

"You're on the floor. You're not fine." Ryland's hands were already checking him over, gentle but thorough. "Did you fall? Did you try to walk without the walker?"

"I said I'm fine!"

"Colt—"

"I don't need a lecture, okay?! I fucked up! I know I fucked up. Can you just help me up?"

Ryland's jaw clenched, but he helped Colt onto the couch without comment. Once Colt was settled, Ryland sat back and bit out a surprisingly sharp, "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I'm tired of needing help with everything. I was thinking maybe I could walk ten feet without falling on my ass. I was wrong."

"You could have seriously hurt yourself."

"But I didn't."

"This time. What about next time? What if I hadn't come home when I did? What if you'd hit your head, or re-injured your spine, or—" Ryland stopped, and visibly took a breath to calm his shaking voice. "You can't do this, Colt. You can't just ignore the safety precautions because you're frustrated."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because it seems like you're more interested in proving you don't need help than actually recovering."

The words stung because they were true. Colt looked away. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. But sorry doesn't help if you end up back in the hospital." Ryland's voice softened. "I get that this is hard. I get that you hate needing help. But you have to be smart about this. You have to follow the plan."

"The plan is taking too long."

"Recovery takes as long as it takes. There's no shortcut."

"There should be."

"But there isn't." Ryland stood. "I'm going to get some ice for your knee. And then we're going to talk about this properly."

He left before Colt could argue. Colt sat on the couch and stared at the walker in the corner and tried to figure out when his life had become something he wanted to escape from.

"I can't keep doing this," Ryland said, sitting in the chair across from Colt with the ice pack balanced on Colt's knee. "I can't keep wondering if you're going to hurt yourself every time I leave the house."

"I said I was sorry."

"I know. But this isn't about being sorry. This is about you taking your recovery seriously." Ryland leaned forward carefully. "You're making progress, Colt. Real progress. But you're so focused on what you can't do yet that you're not appreciating what you can do. And that's dangerous."

"I know what I can do. I can walk barely ten feet before falling on my ass. Congratulations to me."

"You can walk, period. Three months ago, you couldn't move your legs. Now you're walking. That's not nothing."

"It feels like nothing."

"Then you're not looking at it right!" Ryland's voice was firm, though he still didn't shout. Ryland hated shouting. "I know this isn't the recovery you wanted. I know it's slower than you hoped. But it's happening. You're getting better. And if you keep pushing too hard, you're going to set yourself back."

Colt wanted to argue, but he was too tired. The fall had drained him completely, leaving him hollow and aching and so fucking frustrated he could scream.

"I hate this," he said quietly. "I hate being patient. I hate taking it slow. I hate that my body won't just cooperate and let me be normal again."

"I know," Ryland said calmly, a soft sheen in his eyes as sympathetic tears started to build. "But hating it doesn't change it. You still have to do the work."

"I am doing the work."

"You're doing the work and then sabotaging yourself by pushing too hard. That's not the same thing."

Colt closed his eyes. "What do you want from me, Ry?"

"I want you to be honest about your limitations. I want you to use the walker when you need it. I want you to ask for help instead of trying to prove you don't need it." Ryland's voice softened. "I want you to stop punishing yourself for being human."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You're punishing yourself for getting hurt, for needing help, for not recovering fast enough. And it's not fair to you, and it's not fair to me, because I have to watch you hurt yourself over and over again."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Colt opened his eyes and looked at his brother—really looked at him. Ryland looked exhausted. More than exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there a month ago. His face was thinner, his shoulders tense, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusted the ice pack.

"Ry," Colt said slowly. "When's the last time you slept?"

"I sleep."

"When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"

Ryland looked away. "I'm fine."

"You look like shit."

"Thanks. That's helpful."

"I'm serious. You look like you're about to collapse." Colt sat up straighter, ignoring the protest from his spine. "How long have you been running on empty?"

"I'm not—"

"Don't lie to me. How long?"

Ryland was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "A while. It's fine. I'm managing."

"You're not managing though, are you? You're burning yourself out." Guilt crashed over Colt in waves. "Jesus, Ry. Why didn't you say something?"

"Because you have enough to worry about. You don't need to worry about me too."

"You're my brother. Of course I worry about you." Colt leaned forward. "You need to take care of yourself. You can't keep doing this."

"I'm fine," Ryland repeated, but his voice cracked on the words.

"You're not fine. And I'm not fine. And this whole situation is fucked." Colt ran a hand through his hair. "We need to figure something out. Because this isn't sustainable."

"We'll figure it out," Ryland said. "Just... not today. Today you need to rest, and I need to put away the groceries, and we both need to stop having heavy conversations."

"Ry—"

"Please, Colt. I can't do this right now."

There was something in Ryland's voice, a fragility Colt had never heard before. It scared him more than the fall had.

"Okay," Colt said quietly. "Okay. We'll table it."

Ryland nodded and stood, taking the ice pack with him. "I'm going to start dinner. You want anything specific?"

"Whatever's easy."

"Everything's easy when you're too tired to care about quality."

"Ry—"

But Ryland was already gone, disappearing into the kitchen before Colt could finish the sentence.

Colt sat on the couch and listened to his brother move around in the other room and tried to figure out when he'd become so focused on his own recovery that he'd stopped noticing his brother falling apart.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The cough started small.

Just a tickle in Ryland's throat that he tried to suppress during dinner. Then a full cough that he waved off as "just dry air." By the next morning, it had evolved into a wet, rattling thing that made Colt's chest tighten with worry.

"You're sick," Colt said, watching Ryland try to hide another coughing fit behind his coffee mug and fail drastically.

"I'm fine. Just a cold, happens at the end of every term."

"You sound like you're dying."

"Dramatic much?" But Ryland's voice was hoarse, and there was a flush to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the steam from his coffee.

"You should stay home today. Rest."

"I can't. I have three booster classes and a parent-teacher conference."

"Ry—"

"I'm fine, Colt. It's just a cold. I'll take some DayQuil and power through." Ryland stood, swayed slightly, then steadied himself against the counter. "I'll be back by three."

"You're not fine."

"I'm fine enough." Ryland grabbed his bag. "There's lunch in the fridge. Don't forget your exercises. And please, please use the walker if you need to move around."

"I will. But Ry—"

"I have to go. I'm already late."

He left before Colt could argue further. The door closed, and Colt sat in the kitchen listening to Ryland's car pull out of the driveway and felt dread settle in his stomach like a stone.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Ryland came home at 3:15, which should have been normal except that he immediately went upstairs without saying hello. Colt heard the bathroom door close, heard water running, and caught the vague sound of what could only be Ryland being sick.

"Ry?" Colt called up the stairs. "You okay?"

No response.

Colt grabbed the walker and made his way to the bottom of the stairs, a journey that took longer than it should have and left him breathing hard. "Ryland? Answer me."

The bathroom door opened. Ryland appeared at the top of the stairs, looking worse than Colt had ever seen him. His face was pale except for two bright spots of fever on his cheeks. His eyes were glassy. He was shaking.

"I'm fine," Ryland said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just need to lie down for a minute."

"You need to see a doctor."

"It's just a cold."

"That's not just a cold. You have a fever."

"I'm fine." But even as he said it, Ryland swayed again, his hand gripping the banister for support.

"Ry, please. Let me call someone. Let me—"

"I said I'm fine!" The words came out sharp, almost angry. Then Ryland's expression crumpled. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just... I need to sleep. I'll be okay after I sleep."

He disappeared into his bedroom before Colt could respond. The door closed with a soft click.

Colt stood at the bottom of the stairs and felt completely, utterly helpless. He couldn't go up there unless he absolutely had to, the stairs were still too much for him to do more than once. He couldn't force Ryland to see a doctor. He couldn't do anything except stand here with his useless legs and his broken spine and watch his brother fall apart.

He pulled out his phone and texted Ryland: Please let me help. Please let me call someone.

The response came five minutes later: I'm okay. Just need rest. Don't worry.

But Colt was worrying. Because Ryland never got sick. Never took days off. Never admitted when he was struggling. And now he was all three, which meant things were worse than he was letting on.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By the next morning, Ryland couldn't get out of bed.

Colt knew because he'd been listening all night—to Ryland's coughing, to his restless movements, to the sound of him getting up to use the bathroom and barely making it back to bed. When 6 AM came and went without Ryland's usual appearance, Colt knew something was seriously wrong.

He made his way upstairs slowly, a process that took twenty minutes and left him sweating and shaking but determined. He knocked on Ryland's door.

"Ry? I'm coming in."

Ryland was in bed, buried under blankets despite the fact that his face was flushed with fever. He looked at Colt with unfocused eyes. "You shouldn't be up here. The stairs—"

"Fuck the stairs. You're sick."

"I'm fine."

"Stop saying that. You're clearly not fine." Colt made his way to the bed, using the wall for support. "I'm calling a doctor."

"No." Ryland's voice came out as a plaintive whine, and he visibly forced himself to act more natural before speaking again. "I just need rest, no need to cause a panic."

"You need antibiotics. This clearly isn't just a cold, Ry. This is... hell I don't know what it is, a fever or an infection or something."

"I can't afford to be sick right now. You need—"

"I need you to take care of yourself." Colt sat on the edge of the bed, his legs trembling from the effort of the stairs. "Please. Let me help you for once."

Ryland's eyes filled with tears almost instantly, his big blue eyes going glassy and red. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm supposed to be taking care of you, and I can't even—"

"Shhhh." Colt raised his hand to gently push Ryland's hair back out of his face, alarmed when his brother immediately pushed up into his palm like a cat, clearly chasing the cooler sensation. "You've been taking care of me for months. You're exhausted. Your immune system is shot. This isn't your fault."

"I should have been more careful. Should have taken better care of myself. Should have—"

"Should have what? Been superhuman?" Colt's voice was gentle. "You're allowed to get sick, Ry. You're allowed to need help. Just like I am."

"I don't know how to need help." Ryland closed his eyes and sniffled thickly, clearly fighting back the worst of his tears. It was a losing battle and they both knew it.

"Yeah, well. Join the club." Colt pulled out his phone. "I'm calling your doctor. And you're going to let them help you. No arguments."

"Okay," Ryland whispered, finally losing whatever vague energy he had mustered to argue with. Colt is not ashamed to admit it brings him a deep sense of relief when his brother just curls up sadly against the palm of his hand and mumbles another, softer, "Okay, Colt."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The doctor diagnosed Ryland with pneumonia and prescribed antibiotics, rest, and strict orders not to overdo it. Which would have been fine, except that Ryland's definition of "rest" apparently meant "continue doing everything but slower and with more coughing."

Colt watched his brother attempt to make breakfast the next morning with the kind of horrified fascination usually reserved for watching someone juggle fire. Ryland was moving like he'd been hit by a truck, his face pale and sweaty, but he was still cracking eggs into a pan with shaking hands.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Ryland didn't look up. Probably too scared to set off his vertigo, the damned fool. "Making breakfast."

"You have pneumonia."

"I'm aware."

"You're supposed to be resting."

"I am resting. I'm just also making eggs." Ryland coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made Colt's chest tighten. "You need to eat."

"I can make my own damn eggs."

"Since when?"

"Since my brother got pneumonia and needs to be in bed." Colt grabbed the spatula from Ryland's hand. "Go. Sit down. I've got this."

"You hate cooking."

"I hate watching you kill yourself more." Colt pointed toward the living room. "Couch. Now. I'll bring you food when it's done."

Ryland looked like he wanted to argue, but another coughing fit stole his breath. He shuffled to the couch, moving like every step hurt, and collapsed onto the cushions with a groan.

Colt turned back to the eggs, which were already starting to burn. "Shit."

"You're burning them," Ryland called casually from the couch.

"I'm aware."

"You need to turn the heat down."

"I know how to cook eggs, Ry."

"The smoke detector would beg to differ."

Despite everything, Colt smiled to himself. At least nothing could beat the sarcastic twat out of him. "Shut up and rest."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The antibiotics helped, but recovery was slow. Ryland spent most of the next week on the couch, sleeping fitfully and coughing until his ribs ached. Colt did his best to take care of him; bringing water, making food that was only occasionally inedible, reminding him to take his medication.

It was strange, being on the other side of caregiving. Colt had spent months being the one who needed help, the one who couldn't do basic tasks without assistance. Now he was the one checking temperatures and counting pills and trying to remember if Ryland had eaten lunch.

He was also, he realised with growing unease, falling behind on his own recovery schedule.

Physical therapy appointments were missed because he couldn't leave Ryland alone. Exercises went undone because he was too busy making sure his brother was comfortable. The progress he'd been making—slow, painful, hard-won progress—was starting to slip.

And Ryland noticed. Of course he did.

"You need to go to PT," Ryland said on day five, his voice hoarse from coughing.

"I'm fine."

"You've missed three appointments."

"You have pneumonia."

"And you have a recovery schedule." Ryland sat up, wincing. "You can't just stop because I'm sick."

"Watch me."

"Colt—"

"I'm not leaving you alone when you can barely stand up."

"I'm getting better."

"You're still sick."

"And you're still recovering from a spinal injury." Ryland's eyes were fever-bright but determined. "You can't afford to fall behind."

"Neither can you."

They stared at each other, stubborn and exhausted and both too worried about the other to back down.

"We're a mess," Ryland said finally. Colt snorted out an amused laugh, and winced in sympathy when Ryland's responding laughter brings on a fresh wave of hacking coughs. He gently rubs his brother's chest until the spluttering eases off, hating how damn helpless he feels at this all.

"Yeah. We really are."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

By day seven, Ryland was well enough to insist on getting out of bed for more than bathroom trips. Which would have been fine, except that his first order of business was trying to do laundry.

Colt found him in the hallway, leaning heavily against the wall, a basket of dirty clothes at his feet.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Laundry? Are you blind?"

"You can barely walk."

Ryland gives him a sharp look at that, which okay fair but that was beside the point.

"I can walk fine."

"You're literally using the wall to hold yourself up."

Ryland glared at him. The full effect was ruined by the dull circles under his eyes. "The laundry needs to be done."

"Then I'll do it."

"You hate doing laundry."

"I hate a lot of things. Doesn't mean I can't do them." Colt picked up the basket delicately, careful not to put any of the weight on his back. His arms burn almost immediately, but he'd sooner die than admit that to Ryland. "Go back to bed."

"I'm tired of being in bed."

"Then go to the couch. Watch TV. Read a book. Do literally anything that doesn't involve physical labor."

"I need to—"

"You 'need to' rest." Colt's voice was sharper than he intended. "That's what you need to do. Rest. Recover. Stop trying to take care of everything when you can barely take care of yourself."

Ryland's expression shuttered. Guarded, defensive. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You have pneumonia. You're exhausted. You need to let yourself heal."

"I don't have time to heal. You need—"

"I need you to stop." The words came out louder than Colt meant them to. "I need you to stop sacrificing yourself for me. I need you to stop pretending you're okay when you're not. I need you to just—" He broke off, breathing hard. "I need you to take care of yourself."

Ryland was quiet for a long moment.

"I don't know how to do that very well I don't think."

"Yeah, well. Maybe it's time we both learned before we burn the house down out of sheer stubbornness."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Day ten brought a new problem: Ryland's students.

Colt was helping Ryland back to the couch after a shower—a process that had taken twenty minutes and left them both exhausted—when Ryland's phone rang.

"Don't answer it," Colt said.

"It might be important."

"You're on medical leave. Nothing is that important."

But Ryland was already reaching for the phone. Insolent shit. "Y'ello, Ryland Grace speaking."

Colt watched his brother's face shift from tired to concerned to determined in the space of thirty seconds.

"No, it's fine. I can help. Just give me a few minutes to—" Ryland coughed, hard enough that he had to pull the phone away from his face. "Sorry. Yes. I'll call you back."

He hung up and immediately started trying to stand.

"Absolutely not."

"One of my students is struggling with the material I taught them last week because their supply teacher doesn't know it. I need to—"

"You need to rest."

"It'll just take a few minutes."

"Ry—"

"I can't just abandon them because I'm sick."

"You're not abandoning them. You're recovering from pneumonia."

"They need help."

"And you need to breathe without coughing up a lung." Colt gently pushed Ryland back down onto the couch. "I'll call them back. Tell them you're still sick and they need to contact the substitute. Or find a new one. Hell, I'll tell them to hire one, I don't care."

"But—"

"No buts. You're on medical leave for a reason."

Ryland looked miserable. There were tears back in his eyes and damn him if that didn't make it so much harder for Colt to stand his ground on this.

"I hate this."

"I know."

"I hate being useless."

"You're not useless. You're sick. There's a difference. Isn't that what you always say to me? That you're recovering and this is the best thing you could be doing?"

"Doesn't feel like it."

Colt sat down beside him, careful not to jostle his brother too much and trigger a fresh wave of nausea. "You know what you told me when I was in the hospital? When I said I felt useless?"

"That you weren't useless. That you were healing."

"Right. So maybe take your own advice, dipshit."

Ryland was quiet for a moment. Then: "I really hate it when you use my words against me."

"Yeah, well. You're a good teacher. I learned from the best."

Despite everything, Ryland gave him a weak little punch in the arm, and Colt gently shoved his hand off in the weakest possible imitation of their usual roughhousing. It got a thready laugh out of Ryland, though, so Colt tallies it as one of their rare wins.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The explosion came on day fourteen.

Ryland was feeling better, not well by any stretch of the imagination, but clearly better. The antibiotics were working, the fever had broken, and he could make it from the bedroom to the kitchen without needing to stop and catch his breath.

Which apparently meant, in Ryland's mind, that he was more than ready to resume his role as Colt's primary caregiver.

Colt woke up to find his brother in the kitchen, making breakfast, organising pill bottles and checking the physical therapy schedule that had been gathering dust for nearly two weeks.

"What are you doing?"

"Making breakfast. You have PT at ten, so we need to leave by nine-thirty to account for traffic. I'll drive."

Colt stared at him, dumbfounded. Hell, he knew his brother was self-sacrificial, but he didn't think he was an idiot.

"You're joking."

"Why would I be joking?"

"You had pneumonia."

"Had. Past tense. I'm feeling much better."

"You were diagnosed fourteen days ago."

"And I've been on antibiotics for thirteen days. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're still recovering."

"So are you. And you've missed two weeks of physical therapy." Ryland pulled out a pan, moving with the kind of careful deliberation that suggested he was still in pain but trying to hide it. "We need to get you back on schedule."

Something hot and sharp twisted in Colt's chest. "I'm not going."

"Colt—"

"I'm not going to physical therapy so you can drive me there and sit in a waiting room for an hour when you should be resting."

"I'm fine to drive."

"You're not fine. You're just better at pretending than I am."

Ryland's jaw tightened. "I can handle it."

"I don't care if you can handle it! I care that you're going to make yourself sick again trying to take care of me."

"That's my job."

"No, it's not." Colt's voice was rising even as he did his best to reign in his wayward temper. "Your job is to be my brother! Not my caretaker. Not my nurse. Not my—" He gestured helplessly. "Not whatever this is."

"This is me helping you."

"This is you killing yourself!"

"I'm not—"

"You are!" Colt stood up, his legs shaking but holding. "You've been killing yourself for months! Working full-time and taking care of me and never sleeping and never eating properly and never taking care of yourself. And now you have pneumonia because your immune system is shot, and you're still trying to do everything!"

"Because you need—"

"I need you to stop!" The words came out as a shout. He had to fight through gritted teeth to lower his voice, though he could feel it subconsciously raising again with every word. "I need you to stop sacrificing yourself for me. I need you to stop acting like you're the only one who can help me. I need you to stop being a goddamn martyr!"

Ryland flinched like he'd been slapped. "I'm not—"

"You are. You're acting like if you stop for even a second, everything will fall apart. Like I'll fall apart. Like I can't survive without you hovering over me every second of every day."

"That's not—"

"It is! And you know what? Maybe I can't. Maybe I do need help. But I don't need you to destroy yourself to give it to me."

"I'm not destroying myself."

"You have pneumonia, Ryland. You have pneumonia because you've been so busy taking care of me that you forgot to take care of yourself. Because you've been so focused on my recovery that you didn't notice you were falling apart."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" Colt was shouting in earnest now, months of guilt and fear and helpless rage pouring out. "You're exhausted and sick and you can barely stand up, but you're still trying to make me breakfast and drive me to appointments and organise my medication. You're still trying to fix everything when you're the one who's broken."

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and cruel.

Ryland's face had gone pale. There are tears in his eyes that wrench Colt's heart in two. His brother should never have to cry over raised voices again. Especially not because of him. After a long moment, Ryland sets his jaw and visibly steels himself.

"I'm not broken."

"Neither am I! But you keep acting like I am. Like I'm some fragile thing that needs constant supervision. Like I can't be trusted to take care of myself for five minutes."

"That's not—"

"It is! You won't let me do anything. You won't let me help. You won't let me take care of you even when you're sick. You just keep pushing and pushing and sacrificing and I'm so fucking tired of watching you hurt yourself for me."

"I'm not hurting myself! I'm helping you!"

"By making me watch you fall apart? By making me feel guilty every time you cough or stumble or look like you're about to collapse? That's not helping! That's just making everything worse!"

Ryland's hands were shaking now. "I don't know what else to do."

"You could try letting me help you! You could try accepting that you can't do everything alone. You could try—" Colt broke off, breathing hard. "You could try trusting me to take care of myself for once."

"I do trust you!"

"No, you don't! If you trusted me, you wouldn't be trying to drive me to physical therapy when you can barely 'drive' yourself to the bathroom. If you trusted me, you'd let me take care of you instead of pretending you're fine when you're not."

"I am fine!"

"Stop lying!" Colt slammed his hand on the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. Ryland's flinch is violent, a full body movement as he attempts to get away from the loud noise. So reminiscent of their father, of all the loud sounds he hated growing up—

God Colt's an asshole. But the words just keep coming.

"Stop lying to me! Stop lying to yourself! Just stop!"

Ryland was crying in earnest now, silent tears tracking down his face. "I don't know how!"

"Then figure it out! Because I can't do this anymore! I can't watch you kill yourself trying to save me! Your kids can't lose you because of me! I can't—" His voice cracked, finally losing its sharp edge. "I can't lose you too."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Ryland stood there, tears streaming down his face, looking small and broken and so tired. Colt stood across from him, shaking with anger and fear and guilt, his hands clenched into fists.

"I'm sorry," Ryland whispered finally. He sounded so small. Hell, he looked so small in that moment. Like they were ten again and these were scraped knees, not life threatening issues.

Colt wanted to say it was okay. Wanted to apologise for shouting, for being cruel, for throwing Ryland's sacrifices back in his face like weapons. Wanted to cross the kitchen and pull his brother into a hug and tell him they'd figure it out.

But he couldn't. The anger was still too hot, the fear still too sharp. He'd spent months apologising for every harsh word, every moment of anger, every time he pushed too hard. And he was so tired of apologising.

So instead, he turned and walked away.

He barely made it to what had become his room before his legs gave out. Collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about the look on Ryland's face.

Tried not to think about what he'd just done.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The silence lasted three hours.

Colt stayed in his room, listening to the sounds of Ryland moving around the house. Heard him in the kitchen, then the living room, then back to his bedroom. Heard the coughing fits that Ryland was trying to muffle. Heard the exhaustion in every footstep.

And felt the guilt settle in his chest like a stone.

He'd meant what he said. Ryland was killing himself trying to take care of Colt, and it needed to stop. But the way he'd said it—the cruelty in his words, the anger in his voice—that wasn't okay.

That was never okay.

Around noon, Colt's phone buzzed with a text from Amanda: Still available for today? Haven't heard from you.

He stared at the message for a long moment. Then typed back: Can we reschedule? Family emergency.

Her response came quickly: Of course. Hope everything's okay. Let me know when you want to get back on schedule. You better not try and avoid me Mr. Seavers.

Colt set the phone down and closed his eyes.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He found Ryland on the couch at two in the afternoon, wrapped in a blanket and staring at nothing. His face was still pale, his eyes red-rimmed from crying or coughing or both. He looked tiny in a way that made Colt's heart break all over again.

Colt sat down on the other end of the couch, leaving space between them.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Ryland didn't look at him. "You don't have to apologise."

"Yeah, I do. I was cruel. I said things I shouldn't have said. I know how much you hate yelling, and I shouldn't have done that to you. I…" He swallowed hard. "I hurt you. And I'm sorry."

"You weren't wrong."

"That doesn't make it okay."

Ryland was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I didn't realise I was doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Making you feel guilty. Making you watch me fall apart. I thought—" His voice cracked. "I thought I was helping."

"You were helping. You have been helping. For months. But Ry," Colt shifted closer. "You can't set yourself on fire to keep me warm."

"I don't know how else to do this."

"Neither do I. But we need to figure it out. Because this—" He gestured between them. "This isn't sustainable. For either of us."

Ryland finally looked at him, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "I'm scared, Colt."

"Of what?"

"That if I stop, you'll—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I don't know. Fall apart. Give up. Hurt yourself. I'm scared that if I'm not there every second, something bad will happen."

"Something bad has already happened. You got pneumonia."

"I know."

"And I'm still here. Still recovering. Still—" Colt took a breath. "Still trying. Even when you weren't hovering."

"I wasn't hovering."

"You were absolutely hovering."

Despite everything, Ryland's mouth twitched. "Maybe a little."

"A lot."

"Okay, a lot of hovering."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Colt said, "I need you to trust me."

"I do trust you."

"No, you don't. Not really. You trust me to try, but you don't trust me to succeed. You don't trust me to take care of myself. You don't trust me to know my own limits."

Ryland looked down at his hands. He didn't make any eye contact, but Colt knew he was listening.

"And I need you to let me help you. Not just when you're sick. All the time. I need you to let me be your brother, not just your patient."

Ryland gave a scared little humming sound, reminiscent of the sound he used to make whenever he saw wounded animals when they were kids.

"Dunno how to do that, Colt."

"Then we'll figure it out together." Colt reached over and took Ryland's hand. "But we have to actually do it together. Not you doing everything while I watch. Not me pushing you away because I'm angry. Together."

Ryland's fingers tightened around his, his hands trembling. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." Ryland took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry too. For not listening. For pushing too hard. For—" His voice broke. "For making you feel like you had to watch me fall apart."

"You didn't make me feel anything. I just—" Colt swallowed hard. "I care about you. And watching you hurt yourself to help me was killing me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

They sat there for a long moment, hands clasped, both of them exhausted and hurting and trying to figure out how to move forward.

Finally, Ryland said, "So what do we do now?"

"Now?" Colt thought about it. "Now we make a plan. A real plan. One that doesn't involve you working yourself to death or me falling behind on recovery just because I hate it."

"What kind of plan?"

"I don't know yet. But we'll figure it out." He squeezed Ryland's hand. "Together."

"Together," Ryland echoed, the shark shadow over his eyes finally shifting enough that he finally felt like he was looking at his brother properly again.

And for the first time in weeks, Colt felt like maybe they'd be okay.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The plan came together slowly, over the next few days.

First, they called Amanda and explained the situation. She was understanding, more than understanding, actually. She'd apparently been worried about Colt's support system for weeks.

"A lot of caregivers burn out," she said over the phone. "It's incredibly common. The fact that you're recognising it now and trying to address it is huge."

She helped them find resources: a home health aide who could come twice a week to help with basic tasks, a support group for caregivers, a list of community services that could provide meal delivery and transportation assistance.

"You don't have to do this alone," Amanda said. "Either of you."

It was a relief to both of them, though neither of them said it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Second, they sat down and actually talked about boundaries.

"I need you to let me do things on my own," Colt said. "Even if it takes me longer. Even if I struggle. I need to feel like I'm capable of something."

Ryland nodded. "Okay. But you need to tell me when you actually do need help. Not just push through until you hurt yourself."

"Deal. And you need to tell me when you're tired or sick or overwhelmed. Not just keep going until you collapse."

"That's harder."

"I know. But you have to try."

"Okay. I'll try."

They also agreed that Ryland would go back to work part-time instead of full-time, at least for the next few months. His principal was understanding, especially given the pneumonia diagnosis. The reduced schedule would give him time to recover while still maintaining some normalcy.

"I miss teaching," Ryland admitted. "I miss my students. But I miss sleeping more."

"Sleeping is underrated," Colt agreed, which finally earned him one of those Ryland Grace chuckles he had missed so much.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Third, they started actually using the resources Amanda had provided. The home health aide, Maria, started coming on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She was in her fifties, no-nonsense but kind, and she didn't take shit from either of them.

"You need to do your exercises," she told Colt on her first day.

"I know."

"Then why aren't you doing them?"

"I am doing them."

"Not according to your physical therapist."

Colt glared at Amanda, who'd apparently been sharing notes. "Traitor."

"I prefer 'concerned professional,'" Amanda said cheerfully, forever unaffected by his attitude problems. This is why he likes her.

Maria also took one look at Ryland and immediately sent him to bed. "You're still recovering from pneumonia. You should be resting, not trying to supervise your brother's care."

"But—"

"No buts. Bed. Now. I'll handle things here."

Ryland looked at Colt, who shrugged. "She's scarier than you are."

"I heard that," Maria called from the kitchen.

"You were supposed to!"

Despite everything, Ryland laughed again.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The support group was harder.

Ryland went to his first meeting three weeks after the fight, still moving carefully but no longer coughing every five minutes. He came home two hours later looking exhausted but lighter somehow.

"How was it?" Colt asked.

"Weird. Good. Weird and good." Ryland sat down on the couch. "There were like eight other people there. All taking care of family members with various injuries or illnesses. And they all—" He paused. "They all understood."

"Understood what?"

"The guilt. The exhaustion. The feeling like you're never doing enough even when you're doing everything." Ryland's voice was quiet. "I thought I was the only one who felt like that."

"You're not."

"I know that now."

Colt reached over and squeezed his brother's shoulder. "I'm glad you went."

"Me too."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Slowly, carefully, they found a new rhythm.

Colt went to physical therapy three times a week. Sometimes Ryland drove him, but sometimes Maria did, or sometimes Colt took a rideshare. It was strange at first, not having his brother there for every appointment, but it was also freeing. He could focus on his own recovery without worrying about Ryland sitting in the waiting room, exhausted and trying to hide it.

Ryland went back to teaching part-time and started actually taking care of himself. He slept more. Ate better. Went to his support group meetings. Slowly, the dark circles under his eyes faded, and the exhaustion in his movements eased.

They still had bad days. Days when Colt pushed too hard and hurt himself. Days when Ryland tried to do too much and ended up exhausted and had to spend three days in bed fighting off chronic fatigue. Days when they snapped at each other or fell back into old patterns.

But they also had good days. Days when they made dinner together, Colt chopped vegetables while Ryland supervised from a stool. Days when they watched movies and traded sarcastic commentary. Days when they just existed in the same space, comfortable and easy.

Days when they remembered how to be brothers instead of patient and caregiver.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Six months after the fight, Colt could walk without assistance.

Not far—a few blocks at most before his legs started shaking and his back started screaming. But he could walk. Could move through the world without a cane or a walker or someone hovering at his elbow ready to catch him if he fell.

It felt like a miracle.

"You're doing great," Amanda said during one of their sessions. "Seriously. The progress you've made in the last few months is incredible."

"It doesn't really feel incredible. It still feels slow."

"Recovery is slow. But you're doing it. That's what counts and you know that by now."

Colt thought about that as he walked home—actually walked, on his own two feet, without calling for a ride. It took him forty minutes to cover the distance that would have taken him ten minutes before the accident. His legs were shaking by the time he reached Ryland's front door, and he had to sit down immediately once he got inside.

But he'd done it.

He pulled out his phone and texted Ryland: Walked home from PT. Didn't die. Pretty sure that counts as a win.

The response came quickly: That's amazing! Also you're an idiot. What if you'd fallen?

Then I would have called you. But I didn't fall.

This time.

You're supposed to be supportive.

I am being supportive. Supportively worried.

That's not a thing.

It is now.

Colt smiled to himself and set the phone down, already looking forward to his next walk.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Ryland came home an hour later with groceries and a grin. "You walked home."

"I did."

"That's huge."

"It's a few blocks, Ry, don’t act like I've just completed a marathon."

"It's huge," Ryland repeated in a sing-song voice, clearly winding him up. "Six months ago, you couldn't walk to the bathroom without help. Now you're walking home from physical therapy."

"Six months ago, you had pneumonia. Now you're teaching full-time again and not collapsing every five minutes."

"Touché." Ryland started unpacking groceries. "We're both doing better."

"We are."

"We should celebrate."

"With what? Your terrible cooking?"

"Hey, my cooking has improved!"

"You made pasta last week that was somehow both undercooked and burnt."

"That was one time."

"It was three times."

"Okay, three times. But I'm getting better."

"You're getting less likely to poison us. That's not the same thing."

Ryland threw a dish towel at him. Colt caught it and threw it back. They grinned at each other, and for a moment, it felt like before. Like they were just brothers again, trading jabs and giving each other shit, without the weight of injury and recovery and months of exhaustion between them.

"I'm proud of you," Ryland said quietly.

"I'm proud of you too."

"We're both pretty great."

"We really are."

When they laughed this time, there was no strain to the sound, only the relief of finally being back at each other's side.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The text to Jody happened on a Tuesday.

Colt had been thinking about it for weeks—months, really. Ever since Ryland had first brought her up in the hospital. Ever since he'd realised that pushing her away hadn't protected her; it had just made him more alone. He'd drafted the message a dozen times. Deleted it a dozen times. Tried to find the right words to explain why he'd cut her off, why he'd been so angry, why he was reaching out now.

In the end, he kept it simple: Hey. I know it's been a while. I'm sorry for disappearing. If you're willing to talk, I'd like to explain. No pressure.

He stared at the message for five minutes before hitting send.

Then he set the phone down and tried not to panic.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

She responded three hours later: I'd like that.

Colt stared at the message, his heart pounding. Then he typed: Coffee sometime? I'm still in the city.

How about Thursday? 2pm at that place on Fifth?

Perfect. See you then.

He set the phone down and took a shaky breath.

"You okay?" Ryland asked from the kitchen. Faux-casual, like he wasn't a little snoop who always wanted to know what Colt was doing. He was damn lucky he loved him.

"I texted Jody."

Ryland appeared fully in the doorway with a speed that implied he was waiting nearby, eyes wide like those planets he was so damn fond of teaching about. "And?"

"And we're getting coffee on Thursday."

"Colt, that's amazing!"

"It's terrifying. I'm gonna shit my pants, Ry."

"It's both." Ryland crossed the room and pulled him into a hug. "But you're doing it anyway, because you’re you."

Colt hugged him back, tight and grateful. "Thanks for not giving up on me."

"Never. You're stuck with me for life. That's kinda the whole deal with being twins."

"Good."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Thursday came too quickly and not quickly enough.

Colt changed his shirt three times before settling on something casual but nicer than usual. Ryland watched from the doorway, amused as he inevitably pulled on his Miami Vice jacket, ruining the whole effect of putting on a nicer shirt.

"You look fine."

"I look like I'm trying too hard."

"You look like you care. That's not a bad thing."

"What if she hates me?"

"She won't hate you."

"What if she's moved on?"

"Then you'll deal with it. But you won't know unless you go."

Colt took a breath. "Right. Okay. I'm going."

"You're going." Ryland raised his eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. It took Colt another handful of moments to actually make any effort to move. He had to physically shake himself to convince himself to head out. 

"I'm going."

He made it to the front door before turning back. "What if—"

"Colt. Go. You've got this."

"Right. Okay. Going now."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Jody was already there when Colt arrived, sitting at a corner table with two cups of coffee. She looked the same—beautiful and familiar and a little nervous.

"Hi," Colt said, sliding into the seat across from her.

"Hi yourself." She pushed one of the cups toward him, something guarded in her eyes. "I got your usual. Hope that's okay."

"It's perfect. Thank you."

They sat in silence for a moment, both of them trying to figure out where to start.

Finally, Jody broke the almost stalemate, "You look good."

"I look like I got hit by a truck."

"No, you got hit by the floor, several blocks down."

"Same thing, really." Colt took a sip of coffee. "I'm sorry. For disappearing. For cutting you off. For—" He gestured helplessly. "For everything."

"I know why you did it."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No. But I understand." Jody's eyes were soft. "You were scared. And hurt." Jody gets a shifty look in her eye before continuing that Colt just knows Ryland has something to do with. "And you thought you were protecting me."

"I was protecting you."

"From what? From caring about you? From being there when you needed someone?" She shook her head. "That's not protection, Colt. That's just loneliness."

The words hit harder than they should have. "I didn't want you to see me like that. Broken and angry and—"

"Human?"

"Pathetic."

"You're not pathetic. You're recovering from a serious injury. That's not the same thing."

"It felt the same."

"I know." Jody reached across the table and took his hand. "But you're not alone anymore. Right?"

Colt thought about Ryland. About Maria and Amanda and the support systems they'd built. About the slow, painful progress he'd made over the last year. "No. I'm not alone."

"Good."

They talked for two hours. About the accident, about his recovery, about the months of anger and fear and slow healing. About her life, her work, the things she'd been doing while he'd been gone. It wasn't a reconciliation of everything they'd lost when he vanished, not yet. But it was a start.

"Can we do this again?" Colt asked as they stood to leave.

"I'd like that."

"Next week?"

"Next week."

Jody hugged him goodbye, careful of his still-healing body, and Colt felt something in his chest ease. Not hope, exactly. But something pretty damned close to it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He came home to find Ryland grading papers at the kitchen table. His usual mess was more contained than usual, like Ryland hadn't subconsciously left space for when Colt got home. His heart panged with something fond.

"How'd it go?"

"Good. Really good, actually."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're getting coffee again next week."

Ryland grinned. "I'm proud of you."

"You say that a lot."

"Because it's true a lot."

Colt sat down across from him. "Thank you. For pushing me to reach out. For not letting me give up."

"That's what brothers do."

"Still. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Ryland set down his pen. "You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"A year ago, I thought I had to do everything. Take care of you, manage your recovery, fix everything. And I was killing myself trying."

"And now?"

"Now I know I don't have to do it alone. And neither do you." Ryland smiled. "We're better together."

"We really are, huh?" Colt debated letting the affectionate moment sit before inevitably ruining it with a teasing, "your cooking certainly is."

Ryland punched him in the arm. Still worth it.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The year anniversary of the accident came and went quietly.

Colt marked it by walking to the physical therapy clinic and back—a round trip of almost two miles. His legs shook by the end, and he had to rest for an hour afterward, but he did it.

Ryland marked it by cooking a nice dinner without burning anything important. It was a smaller victory, but a victory nonetheless. They ate together, trading stories about their days and giving each other shit about nothing in particular. The easy rhythm of brothers who'd been through hell and come out the other side.

"You know what I realised?" Colt said over dessert, store-bought, because neither of them trusted Ryland's baking.

"What?"

"I spent so long being angry about what I lost. My career, my independence, my—" He gestured vaguely. "Everything. But I didn't think about what I gained."

"What did you gain?"

"Perspective. Patience. A better relationship with my ex." Colt smiled. "You."

"You always had me."

"I know. But I didn't appreciate it. Not like I should have."

Ryland's eyes were bright. "Well, you're stuck with me properly now."

"Good. I wouldn't want it any other way."

They finished dessert in comfortable silence, both of them thinking about the year behind them and the years ahead.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Three months later, Colt got cleared to start doing light stunt work again.

Not the big falls or the dangerous stunts—those were still off-limits, maybe forever. But small things. Background work. Coordinating. Teaching. Minor demonstrations. It wasn't what he'd had before. But it was something.

"You're going back to work," Ryland said when Colt told him.

"Light work. Very light work."

"Still. That's great, Colt."

"It's nothing compared to my old work... but yeah, yeah I suppose it's the right direction." Colt couldn't stand the proud fondness in his eyes and went to playfully swing at his brother, caught off guard when Ryland ducked his arm and tucked himself close to Colt's chest.

Ryland pulled him into a tight hug, his arms gentle but firm around Colt's middle. "I'm so damn proud of you for always getting back up. You're pretty good at that now, huh?"

"Yeah. I guess I am." Colt closed his arms tightly around his brother, keeping him tucked close to his chest. They stayed that way for a long time.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The first day back on set was overwhelming. The noise, the chaos, the constant movement—it was everything Colt had missed and everything that scared him. Seeing Jody work her magic behind the scenes fixing cameras and finally doing some directing like she had always dreamed filled his heart with something fuzzy he didn't dare to name.

But he made it through. Did his job. Came home exhausted but satisfied.

"How was it?" Ryland asked.

"Hard. Good. Weird." Colt collapsed onto the couch. "I missed it."

"I'm glad you're back."

"Me too man... me too."

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Jody came to dinner the following week. It was a casual thing, just the three of them, eating Ryland's slightly-improved cooking and trading stories.

"So you're the famous Ryland," Jody said, playing at casual. Colt knew her too well not to see the teasing glint in her eyes, and knew he was probably in for a world of trouble.

"Famous?" Ryland's voice has gone a little gleeful, surely picking up that he's about to learn information about Colt.

"Colt talks about you constantly. He's always telling me about his super awesome brother who is like... way cooler than him." At Colt's withering look, Jody laughed to herself and cut it out. "No but really, he talks about you a lot, Ryland."

"He does?"

"Don't sound so surprised," Colt said. "You're my brother. Of course I talk about you."

Ryland looked pleased. Softly flustered and yet self assured in a way that suited him. "Well, you're the famous Jody. Colt talks about you too."

"Does he?"

"Constantly. too much, in all honesty, I've heard far too much about his thoughts around you-"

Colt threw a napkin at him. "Shut up."

They all laughed, and for a moment, everything felt right. Not perfect, nothing was perfect. But right.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Later, after Jody had gone home and Ryland had gone to bed, Colt sat on the couch and thought about the last year and a half.

About waking up in the hospital, confused and angry. About the months of pain and frustration and slow progress. About pushing everyone away and then learning to let them back in.

About Ryland, who'd sacrificed everything and then learned to set boundaries. About the fight that had almost broken them and the reconciliation that had made them stronger. About Jody, who'd waited and forgiven and given him another chance. About the fact that he was still here. Still recovering. Still moving forward. It wasn't the life he'd planned. But it was a good life. A life worth living.

And he was damn grateful for it.

"You still up?" Ryland appeared in the doorway, rumpled and half-asleep. His voice was sleep-gruff but still strangely soft. Ryland Grace didn’t have a harsh bone in his body.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how far we've come."

Ryland sat down beside him, his limbs loose with sleep as he subconsciously curled up at Colt's side. It felt as natural as breathing for Colt to adjust to wrap an arm around him and pull him closer, knowing how badly Ryland craved touch when he was sleepy like this. It took a long time for Ryland to speak again, enough so that Colt very almost glanced down to check if he had fallen back asleep.

"We have come pretty far."

"Yeah. Wasn't easy, either, hm? We're pretty damn lucky."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while after that, two brothers who'd been through hell and came out the other side. When Colt felt Ryland's weight settle more heavily against his chest and knew he would probably be fast asleep soon, he broke the silence as gently as he could.

"Love you," Colt said quietly.

"Love you too." Ryland's voice was muffled in Colt's shirt, but he heard his brother loud and clear. He always would, even if they were galaxies apart. That much he knew for damn sure. And in that moment, everything else—the pain, the fear, the long road still ahead before their lives could be completely normal again—felt manageable.

Because they had each other. They always would.