Chapter Text
Ryland had been in the middle of teaching the kids about the nervous system when the call came.
A chorus of ooooohs filled the room, totally derailing him from the point he was about to make about axon terminals. He let out an exhausted sigh, setting down the dry-erase marker and grabbing his phone from his pocket to turn it off. It was just a spam call—some unknown area code—probably trying to trick him into giving up his credit card number.
“No phones allowed, Mr. Grace!” chided Kevin. Lovely, disruptive Kevin, who always had something to say about literally everything.
“Okay, okay, guys!” He put his hands out like he was conducting an orchestra pit, trying to settle the class before he lost them completely. “I apologize, but let’s get back to the lesson, please. So, the axon terminal is this little nub here, and remember how—”
His phone, now silent, buzzed loudly from the desk. Another round of snickers erupted from his kids. Ryland massaged his temples, doing his best to not lose what little was left of his patience. He loved them with his whole heart, but it was eighth period and they still had forty-five minutes left that needed to be spent on learning dendrites and myelin sheaths, not howling like a pack of hungry little wolves.
This time, the second he declined the call, it vibrated again immediately, and with it, more heckling. Whoever this person was, they clearly were not aware that the quiz was on Wednesday and Grover Cleveland had a very strict No Phones In The Classroom policy.
“Alright, alright,” he spoke firmly, passing out the worksheets with the nerve diagrams almost illegibly xeroxed onto them, “team up with the person next to you and fill these out. Full sentences,” a loud groan, “in silence, thank you. I’ll be right back, guys.”
Ryland shut the door behind him, before finally picking up the fifth call. “Grace speaking.”
“Hello,” crackled the voice at the other end of the line.
An awkward beat of silence passed. Ryland was beginning to wonder if he should just hang up, when:
“Um, I’m calling on behalf of Brightedge Productions. This was the phone number listed on the contact sheet– sorry, I’m new.”
Ryland recognized that name. It was one of the companies that Tom Ryder frequently worked with, which meant they also often hired Colt alongside him. Why they were calling him at 2:15 on a Tuesday, he had absolutely no idea.
“Is this a prank?” he blurted out, “Did Colt put you up to this? I swear to– He knows not to call me when I’m–”
“N-no, no. That’s actually what I’m calling about. You’re his emergency contact, at least according to this list. You’re his…his brother, Ryland?”
He unhooked one end of his glasses so he could pinch away the headache already forming at the bridge of his nose. “Oh my– what did he do this time? Look, if it’s another concussion, he’ll be okay.”
This would be, what? Like, his eighth since he started working as a stuntman? Calls like these were common—if a bit annoying—but Colt was a grown-up, and no stranger to the occasional work-related injury. Ryland knew that the crew had a legal responsibility to call him when they happened, but his brother could handle himself—and, honestly, wouldn’t it be smarter to put down someone who was nearby him instead? Like his buddy Dan, or that kinda-maybe girlfriend he wouldn’t stop gushing about.
“It’s not a concussion. Look, um, I don’t know if—” The voice cut off and there was a sound of shuffling coming through the speakers.
Then a different voice appeared, female and vaguely British. “Hello? Is this Ryland Grace?”
“Yup,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. He could hear the noises of his students not doing any of the work from this side of the door. “Still here.”
“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident.”
And just like that, he was paying attention again. “What?”
“Your brother, he…we were reshooting a drop stunt, about twelve stories. The rigging failed.”
Immediately, Ryland was picturing the worst possible scenario: Colt lying flat on pavement, the back of his skull caved in, brain matter and blood pooling around him as he lay still. Oh, God. No no no no—
“Mr. Grace? Are you still there?”
Ryland felt his legs give out beneath him, back scraping brick as he sank to the floor. Colt is dead. My little brother is gone. I’m– I’m not a twin anymore. Oh, God, this can’t be real, this can’t be happening—
“He’s alive! Sorry, I’m so sorry, fuck, I should have led with that. He’s alive, Mr. Grace. From what I understand, they took him to Mount Sinai Medical.”
“He’s– he’s okay?” Ryland whispered, desperately wanting it to be true.
“He’s getting taken in for surgery right now.” The voice caught on the last word, hesitating like this was hard for her to get through. “Mr. Grace, you need to be here. Now. It’s– he’s critical.”
That, apparently, seemed to be the right moment to hang up the call, and replace it with another. The receptionist that picked up didn’t know who he was talking about for five excruciating minutes, and Ryland wished he could reach through the phone and strangle him. Eventually they figured out that Colt had just gotten there—so new he wasn’t even in the system yet—which also meant that they had no updates to provide him with, anyway.
He walked back into the classroom, grabbed his valise, and walked out without a single word. “Family emergency,” was the only thing he told the front desk, before all composure disappeared and he was bolting to the bike rack.
Hours that felt like centuries that felt like seconds passed by. Brightedge were kind enough to get him a seat on the next available flight from San Francisco to Miami in the very back of the plane, where he sat nauseous from turbulence and terror for the whole trip. He didn’t even stop at the hotel he’d booked in midair—just went straight to the ER, suitcase in hand.
Ryland was expecting to be rushed right to his brother’s side when he arrived. This was not what happened. Instead, he was forced to wait in a cramped room with about twenty other nervous people, all bouncing their knees in the same way he was. He watched them wait for a scrap of news about their loved ones, wondering in agony whether he’d be feeling relief or grief when his turn came.
Colt had been in surgery for five hours. It took another two before someone retrieved him from the plastic chair digging into his back. This did not a family reunion make, however, because then he was led to a grim-looking conference room and stationed in front of a baby-faced surgeon. He calmly explained the situation: how Colt had fractured his L1 and L2 vertebrae, how his spleen had ruptured from the impact, how much blood he’d lost. How—in this moment—they were still unsure as to whether he would regain feeling from the waist down.
Baby-doctor was speaking to him in a carefully clinical tone, which just made Ryland want to tune him out completely. “We’ve inserted metal plating to stabilize the fracture—”
“You– What?! You fused his spine!” Ryland balked. It wasn’t a question. “You can’t– he won’t– he’s a stuntman.”
“Sir, I need you to understand the gravity of the situation. Your brother is lucky to be alive.”
Ryland didn’t bother telling him that Colt would probably rather have died than lose his career.
Well, I guess it’s just another thing we have in common now. Truthfully, if given the choice between doing stuntwork and his brother living, the answer was obvious. He just had to hope that Colt would see it that way, if he woke up.
Then he was getting taken back to the waiting room. Another hour passed before a nurse in light blue scrubs led him through a series of hallways to the door labeled ‘Seavers, C.’
Ryland white-knuckled the handle, ready to barge in, but she stopped him with a gentle touch on the shoulder. “Mr. Grace, before you go in there, you need to be aware that things look worse than they are. Just remember that he’s stable, but heavily sedated.”
She wasn’t kidding. Colt was laying deathly still in the bed, smaller than Ryland could ever recall seeing him. He was tethered to IV lines, monitors, a catheter. His skin was unnaturally gray. His hair was mussed back in sweat. There was a tube disappearing down his throat that was forcing his lungs to take in air. His lower torso was girdled in a padded brace.
Once upon a time, Ryland had told his brother that he would never set foot in a hospital again if he could help it. Too many bad memories, he’d said, too much pain to carry after what Dad had done to them. It was part of the reason he had tried to steer Colt away from the path he’d chosen. The image of his brother laid up in a medical cot was something that never quite left him with any complete success. Colt had told him he felt the same way, and he was sorry for it, but this job was not something he was willing to let go of.
Ryland wished he could go back in time and smack that Colt.
The only good thing about his experience with medical settings was that he knew what he was supposed to do. He pulled the thin blankets over Colt’s shoulders. He dimmed the light so it wouldn’t agitate his head. He dragged the stupid chair next to the bed and he sat in it and waited, hand slotting perfectly into Colt’s.
The waiting went on for two sleepless nights before his brother’s eyes finally fluttered open. Ryland watched as they fought for focus on the ceiling, clouded and hazy from the morphine cocktail the doctors fed him through the IV line. He bit his lip anxiously as he saw them close, then struggle open once more, slightly clearer.
“Hey,” he gave his brother’s hand a gentle squeeze, “Hey, Colt.”
Colt lagged about ten seconds behind the impulse, gaze sliding over and blearily landing in Ryland’s general vicinity.
He beamed at him, something loosening in his chest. “There you are.”
Colt opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, like he was trying to remember how it worked. “…hnnngg…”
“Shh. It’s okay. Don’t try to talk just yet.” He reached over to the table and grabbed the cup of water. It had been cold back when he’d poured it. It was room temperature now. He brought the straw to Colt’s lips. “Think you could drink something for me?”
Colt blinked, like the question was taking its sweet time getting to his brain, before he complied and opened his mouth. Ryland had to pull the straw away quickly, though, because as soon as he took his first sip, he was desperately chugging it down faster than his stomach would be able to tolerate. The whine that left his throat when he took it away broke his already shattered heart into microscopic pieces.
“Ry…” he rasped, consonants blurring together, “...wha’...y’doin’...here…?”
Ryland brushed his fingers through Colt’s matted mop of hair. “I’m taking care of you,” he said simply.
This only seemed to confuse him more. “…why?”
Ryland kept his answer short and vague: “You’re in the hospital, bud.” He thought it best to leave it at that for now.
But even through the dull high of morphine, something in Colt’s eyes flashed in recognition. Then they began to spill over with tears.
“Hey, hey,” he soothed, voice gentle like he was talking to one of his seventh graders, “It’s okay. You’re okay, Colt. I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
It was wrong: seeing Colt break open like this. Ryland had always been the crybaby out of the two of them, where Colt had been the strong one. He sometimes teared up when he was overwhelmed, but it must have been years since the last time Ryland had witnessed it, and it was never like this. Fat droplets crawled down his face, mouth twisted in ugly shame. His fingers clawed weakly at the bedsheets, Ryland’s hand forgotten.
It was more than Ryland could stand. Soon, his own sympathy tears were welling up at the corners of his eyes. He slid his arms around his little brother with careful tenderness, and held his face against his chest. Colt’s sniffles turned to gasping sobs that wet the front of his shirt. He couldn’t quite reach his arms up to return the embrace, instead settling for twisting his fingers into the fabric as his emotions came crashing down on him.
Ryland couldn’t give less of a darn about it. He cradled Colt and hushed at him until he could breathe without hiccuping, fingers carding up and down the back of his hair in a steady rhythm. “It’s alright. You’re okay. It’s all okay.”
He didn’t let go until Colt did, laying him back down on the pillow slowly. His brother’s face was puffy; all red-rimmed eyes and swollen bags beneath them. He looked absolutely exhausted from the effort, but he still managed to catch Ryland’s wrist when he began to pull away.
“Y’can’–” he slurred, “Don’ let ‘em see me.” His face was twisted with pleading, panic seeping into his voice as he stared directly into his brother’s eyes.
Ryland wasn’t completely sure who ‘they’ were, but he nodded anyway. If privacy was what Colt wanted, then he was going to get it. Already, he was concocting a plan to get Colt back to his apartment in California, budgeting out what they would need for his recovery. Mobility aids, pills, physical therapists. Whatever it cost, Ryland would pay.
“It’s gonna be okay, bud.”
Colt swallowed, a single tear sliding out from the corner of his eye. “M’legs…m’life’s over…”
“No, it’s not,” he whispered, trying to find that scrap of authority that would make Colt believe it. “You’re gonna get through this.”
His brother’s eyelids were drooping, but his terror was still clenched tight in his jaw. “Ry?”
He leaned in, ready to meet whatever request Colt could make of him. “What do you need?”
Colt closed his eyes, head sinking into the pillow. When he spoke again, it was almost inaudible:
“Don’ leave me…please…”
Ryland cupped his hand over the side of his brother’s cheek and planted a small kiss in the center of his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, bub.” He resettled the blankets until they reached under Colt’s chin, then returned his fingers to those messy golden-brown locks. “Try and sleep for me, okay? You need to rest. I’ll still be here when you wake up, I promise.”
Ryland watched him lose his battle to the morphine, brows relaxed and mouth just barely parted. He looked unnaturally peaceful given how much anguish he’d woken up in. If he were able, Ryland would keep him that way forever: safe and comfortable and sealed off from all the danger in the world.
He sat back, opening his laptop to formally request a leave of absence from the school for the rest of the semester. Right as he clicked send, a knock came from the door. “He just woke up. Pretty disoriented, but relatively coherent given the medication—”
He shut his laptop and his mouth when he clocked the woman standing in the doorway. She couldn’t have been a doctor or nurse: he didn’t recognize her as one of Colt’s caretakers, and she was dressed in pedestrian clothes. Under different circumstances, Ryland thought she might be the kind of pretty that would interest his brother, though currently she seemed unsteady and very upset as she hesitated at the threshold. Her blonde hair had fallen out of a messy bun, eyes puffy as though she’d been crying recently.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. She spoke in a British accent, but it was different to the one he’d heard over the phone. “Oh, God, he’s…Colt.”
Ryland flicked his gaze back to where Colt lay. Still sleeping, but his brow ticked slightly at the sound of her voice. He stood.
“Who are you?” It wasn’t meant to be accusatory, but he really didn’t want this woman to wake up his brother when he desperately needed to be resting.
“I’m–” she stuttered, eyes still locked on his twin, “I’m, um…I work with him. Is he…is he alright?”
Ah. This must be the ‘them’. Ryland crossed the room in quick strides, placing himself in between Colt and whoever this woman was. “He’s fine. He’s really not in any condition to have visitors right now.”
She opened her mouth to say something else, but froze when she registered the stern expression on his face. It was the same one Ryland might use when Kevin was chewing gum in class and being a nuisance about spitting it out. “O-okay. Sorry, I’ll just…I’ll come back later, then.”
She stole one last look over his shoulder before walking away.
Ryland sighed as he shut the door. He would need to talk to the staff about getting Colt’s name changed on the door from his stage one and back to Grace, maybe even ask if they could move him to another room. He wasn’t sure why Colt had been so adamant on not being seen, but it wasn’t Ryland’s place to question it or deny him the request.
He settled back in the chair, just watching his brother’s chest rise and fall. He hated how much it reminded him of their childhood—of being six years old and wondering if this was all their life was going to be. How many nights had one or both of them lost sleep because every creak of the house sounded like danger? How many bloody noses or black eyes had they lied about because admitting the truth would only make it worse? How many hits had Colt taken on his behalf because Ryland was always too scared to fight back?
He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. Thinking about their father meant thinking about his death—about the way he died—and Ryland had no more bandwidth to handle that pain right now.
He was older, now. Bigger. Maybe he couldn’t be brave like Colt, but he could be there, just like always. And Colt was going to have to buckle up, because as soon as they got back to San Francisco, Ryland was going to spoil him like never before. This, he knew, he could make happen.
Ryland would do anything to protect him. He would gladly die if it meant that Colt would never be in pain again.