Brendon started seeing doctors three months ago. The first two months, he was in and out of the ICU, staying maybe three days at a time until he was stable again. One day, though, he just... didn't. I honestly blame myself, sometimes. Most of the time. I had [i]seen[/i] the signs, I just had spent so long cracking down on Brendon's relapses and seeing him in huge depressive phases already... I couldn't put him through it when I wasn't sure. Whenever I asked, and whenever I investigated, I couldn't find bottles, and obviously never heard the truth - why would Brendon tell me when I'd always been so goddamn rough about it before? I didn't want to hurt him, thinking that he was falling back into a hole and then being wrong about it, but. When Brendon seemed to have a fifth 'cold' in two months, I had to string him along to the hospital, and I knew as soon as I saw his blood pressure during the check on vitals. Unbelievably high, even for someone in recovery, and then his [i]heartbeat[/i] - it killed me to know how slow it was. I felt like a fucking idiot letting it go on this long. I'm so close to him everyday and it just... it passed me by, because I [i]wanted[/i] to believe he was okay. I was selfish.

That was the worst part, really, knowing that I hadn't listened to my intuition just because I didn't want to hurt Brendon's feelings. If I could talk to my past self... it didn't matter if I upset Brendon so much that we didn't talk, or there was some strain on our relationship, it didn't matter - at least then Brendon would have a much higher likelihood of living through this. At the time I hadn't known the worst case scenario was losing the love of my goddamn life. Now, though, the doctors had said if he didn't get six months' sobriety for a transplant, he was going to die. I encouraged him all the time, we read every single fucking book on recovery and cleansing and detoxing, we had a collection of pamphlets floating around the hospital room and back at the apartment Brendon hadn't seen for a month straight, and... Brendon just couldn't do it. Maybe he could, but he didn't think so, and that's where the issue was. If he didn't try soon enough, at least make the first step, he'd be too far gone to help. It was fucking terrifying. As annoying as I knew I must be, I kept on bugging him, kept on making the push to convince him he could stay clean even if he was discharged from residential care.

Other times, though, I knew the entire reality of this situation had taken its toll on Brendon. At this point, Brendon was at least still recognizable; I had seen the consequences of this disease before and it was completely disfiguring. Brendon, though, he was jaundiced, and a little gaunt, and everything that was most lively about him was a bit intact still. We at least had that. He was thin, but not too desperately skeletal - he'd lost a good ten pounds, maybe a handful more, but he could still walk some days if no other health issue was inhibiting him. As thin and pale as his face was now, he still had that charming smile (when he was able to muster one up), and his eyes still glittered when I said just the right thing, still crinkled unevenly when he grinned too widely. And somehow, his personality was still there. He was obviously miserable, but when I was around, and not reminding him of the situation (with his best interests in mind, of course), he was almost all right. When I saw those tiny moments of him coming back to me, those tiny slivers of hope... fuck, it's like falling in love with him all over again.

I thought back to when he was okay all the time. On my nineteenth birthday, he took me to the sea, a beachfront stroll near Bristol. I barely remember the water, or the dusk sky, just him in the faint light, the light from the stars catching his gleaming smile, his contentedness contagious even though I hate birthdays and the whole charade. He was clean, then, had been for a while, and he was so healthy, probably the best he's ever been. Sitting by his bedside day after day, breaking the visiting hours restrictions because I needed to be there, I [i]needed[/i] to, I couldn't sleep without him at home and I knew he couldn't be alone - I just went back to those kinds of times, always, always stuck in memories, reaching for a time when he was better and when there was more hope than just these tiny crumbs to live off of and when I didn't have to try so, so hard to make him remember to be happy. I missed him when he was within arm's reach. Hell, I fucking missed him when I was lying right beside him, holding him in my arms, keeping him safe when I know I really do not have that capability anymore.

I've accepted that it's out of my hands and all I can do is encourage him through it, [i]pray[/i] he gets better when I've only ever prayed for one man before and those went unanswered. I know this place, this hospital that's way too bright and feels way too isolating, isn't good for him, so I ask. They give me two hours. Two hours, and that's probably all we'll have for a while. He's just well enough to leave, he was able to walk today during physical therapy, but there's no telling whether his health will degrade again and how quickly, so. We have to take advantage of this little piece of time where he's stable enough to go. I tell him I want to take him somewhere, and he's just weak enough not to jump at the idea of leaving, just strong enough to agree to come even though he's got no clue where.

[i]You missed your exit,[/i] he murmurs from the passenger seat when I bypass the normal route home - and I've only taken it maybe three times since he was placed in the facility indefinitely, but I know where I'm going, just smile and keep my hand on his knee while I continue en route to the coast. Every once in a while I take it off, turn on my blinker, turn and let the wheel slide back just before letting my hand rest on his thigh again, making sure he's with me. He looks fucking [i]beat,[/i] the seat at an easy recline, his head against the cushion and chin tilted up like he was close to falling asleep. I glance back occasionally - he's awake, watching the dimming sky out the passenger side window, eyelids at half mast and jaw set carefully. I have to remind myself that the nurses said he's all right for now, he's got time, he's with me, I don't have to turn around and take him back. He just looks so exhausted despite not having moved for days, and I'm so not used to this, I can't do this, I can't handle seeing him like this, I...

These thoughts have cut in so often that I'm used to stopping them myself, but the sight of the water ahead does that for me. I breathe out carefully, squeeze his thigh and take my eyes off the road for a second just to smile at him. [b]"We're here,"[/b] I say into the quiet, pulling into an empty lot until my front tires just graze the sand, give him less of a ways to walk. I turn off the ignition and get out, quickly round the car and open the passenger door, unbuckle his seatbelt and wrap an arm around his waist to help him out of the car. We have an hour and a half left, give or take. [b]"Thought you might like some fresh air."[/b] I stop before we start the trek, turn into him and use my free hand to smooth down his hair a few times before letting it come to rest along his temple, trace my thumb in a frame of his face. [b]"Remember my birthday, a few years back?"[/b] I smile again, reassuringly, search his gaze again before turning back to the shoreline and starting to lead us out. [b]"I guess I missed it."[/b] I missed him. I miss him, still. Out of my periphery, I still watch him carefully, hoping to catch a glimpse of normalcy for even a moment.