[TM RDX] Sunrise
He could see the first rays coming through the window on the far side of the room, painting the city skyline in dusky shades of red and pink. Jet black sky melted into deep midnight blue...startling, endless, and absolutely beautiful as a backdrop for the glittering lights of Los Angeles on the last vestiges of nighttime.
Jim would paint something like this if he were awake...and if he had a canvas and some oils. He’d done it, once...painted. Mike had seen him. Something that looked like Picasso or some shit...that wacky experimental stuff...impressionist. Or cubist...he could never keep it straight.
Jim could. Jim kept everything straight.
But Jim couldn’t paint...not with tubes in his body and a machine making sure he could breathe.
He finally tore his eyes from the window and forced himself to look at Jim in his hospital bed...laying there with his eyes shut and his skin so pasty, and the automated click and wheeze of a machine running to pump his lungs because he couldn’t...
Mike finally looked away from Jim, feeling the hot tears spill down his cheeks as he shut his eyes tight and ran a hand back through his hair almost angrily. They were only nineteen. They were supposed to go to college together. Jim knew that Mike couldn’t survive without him.
Mike knew that he couldn’t survive without Jim...and yet it had been so easy to storm into that bar, to call Jim out, to get into a slugfest until Jim saw reason.
Reason...was freedom worth it? Was a clear conscience worth it? Because Mike knew he sure fucking wasn’t worth it.
Scooting his chair closer to Jim’s bed, Mike took his hand and clutched it between his own, pressing it to his forehead as he bowed his head. It had been nearly six months now since Jim had slipped into a coma...and the doctors said three months ago that hope was all but gone.
They said Jim would never wake up.
//If there is a God...my brother won’t die.//
He could only pray that God didn’t have a say in the matter...because if he didn’t, that would be typical Jim: never doing what he was told.
Even dying.
* * * * *
It was dark and warm. The world was dark gold just past his closed eyelids. Mike had fallen asleep.
And there were fingers in his hair.
Opening his eyes, he lifted his head slowly, eyes traveling up the length of Jim’s body until they clashed with an open, drowsy pair that matched perfectly. The respirator that had been breathing for him was hanging somewhere at his chest.
“Jimmy?...”
Jim just smiled, his chapped lips pale and ghostly as they turned upwards. “Mom says hi.”
The sun was up, the room was awash with light, and Jim was awake. He’d been strong for six months, a man s strong as Jim...but now he could cry, reach for his twin and weep without fear of looking weak or feeling stupid.
Because Jim was holding him...weakly, wheezing just a little, but warm and alive and awake as his shoulder caught Mike’s tears...and his voice in Mike’s ear, hoarse and alien and the only comfort he would ever need.
“There *is* a God, little brother. And he ain’t stupid enough to split us up.”
Muse: Michael Riley
Fandom: Stargate ATLANTIS
Words: 567
Jim would paint something like this if he were awake...and if he had a canvas and some oils. He’d done it, once...painted. Mike had seen him. Something that looked like Picasso or some shit...that wacky experimental stuff...impressionist. Or cubist...he could never keep it straight.
Jim could. Jim kept everything straight.
But Jim couldn’t paint...not with tubes in his body and a machine making sure he could breathe.
He finally tore his eyes from the window and forced himself to look at Jim in his hospital bed...laying there with his eyes shut and his skin so pasty, and the automated click and wheeze of a machine running to pump his lungs because he couldn’t...
Mike finally looked away from Jim, feeling the hot tears spill down his cheeks as he shut his eyes tight and ran a hand back through his hair almost angrily. They were only nineteen. They were supposed to go to college together. Jim knew that Mike couldn’t survive without him.
Mike knew that he couldn’t survive without Jim...and yet it had been so easy to storm into that bar, to call Jim out, to get into a slugfest until Jim saw reason.
Reason...was freedom worth it? Was a clear conscience worth it? Because Mike knew he sure fucking wasn’t worth it.
Scooting his chair closer to Jim’s bed, Mike took his hand and clutched it between his own, pressing it to his forehead as he bowed his head. It had been nearly six months now since Jim had slipped into a coma...and the doctors said three months ago that hope was all but gone.
They said Jim would never wake up.
//If there is a God...my brother won’t die.//
He could only pray that God didn’t have a say in the matter...because if he didn’t, that would be typical Jim: never doing what he was told.
Even dying.
* * * * *
It was dark and warm. The world was dark gold just past his closed eyelids. Mike had fallen asleep.
And there were fingers in his hair.
Opening his eyes, he lifted his head slowly, eyes traveling up the length of Jim’s body until they clashed with an open, drowsy pair that matched perfectly. The respirator that had been breathing for him was hanging somewhere at his chest.
“Jimmy?...”
Jim just smiled, his chapped lips pale and ghostly as they turned upwards. “Mom says hi.”
The sun was up, the room was awash with light, and Jim was awake. He’d been strong for six months, a man s strong as Jim...but now he could cry, reach for his twin and weep without fear of looking weak or feeling stupid.
Because Jim was holding him...weakly, wheezing just a little, but warm and alive and awake as his shoulder caught Mike’s tears...and his voice in Mike’s ear, hoarse and alien and the only comfort he would ever need.
“There *is* a God, little brother. And he ain’t stupid enough to split us up.”
Muse: Michael Riley
Fandom: Stargate ATLANTIS
Words: 567