Wires.

Mason was crying, sat upon his boyfriend’s knee by his little brother’s hospital bed. Michael had his arms tight around Mason’s small waist, his head resting on his shoulder.

Mason never meant for it to end this way.

Mitchel lay comatose beside them in a standard green hospital gown, covered up to his waist by the grainy sheet. Tubes filled with fluid were connected to his veins via a network of complicated needles. This fluid was keeping Mitchel alive.

As if to make Mason feel worse, due to Mitchel’s wounds, his wrists were facing upwards. So that every time Mason dared to take a glance with his caramel-chocolate orbs, all he saw was the shredded state of his baby brother’s arms. Thick, bloodied gashes ran down each, from a deep gouge in his palm to a feeble trail near his shoulder. It was mainly covered by translucent gauze, trying to stop infection, but failing to stop Mason seeing.

They say seeing is believing.

Mason still couldn’t stand to believe.

He looked at Mitchel’s face and swallowed, the raw emotion making his throat tighten. His mouth was covered by a breathing mask, hooked up to an oxygen tank. His normally fluffy, dark brown hair lay limply on the pillow; parts of his fringe were caked in blood.

For the first time in his life, Mason was scared.

He was scared of losing his brother; of losing a best friend…

But most of all, he was scared of the cold, hard facts.

The doctor said he had a 40% chance of surviving.

Mason didn’t think of this as below half, he thought of it as just under half. He was trying to be positive.

He placed a gentle hand atop his brother’s gauze-covered one. He felt the dried blood crack under his touch and pulled away. He looked at his palm and saw the tiny burgundy flakes stuck to his skin. He whimpered, and Michael’s grip on his waist tightened. He reluctantly wiped his hand on his jeans, while his eyes followed the wire protruding from his brother’s wrist.

It leads to a plastic bag - the plastic bag that was Mitchel’s only hope.

A drip.

Mason closed his eyes and remembered; the nurse said Mitchel was in a coma, and may never wake up. He wanted to remember Mitchel the way he always was, not like this.

July 9th, 1991; Austin General Hospital, Texas.

The sound of a newborn child’s cry echoed through the room, and the two year old boy sat outside the ward perked up suddenly. He jumped up from the plastic hospital chair that was far taller than him and pushed open the huge heavy door with his small, somewhat podgy hands.

He walked across the linoleum floor, his shorts flapping around his knees and his wild, pale brown hair falling in his eyes. He clutched a teddy in his right hand, and his left thumb was in his mouth.

His father saw him from his mother’s beside, and walked over to pick his eldest child up. He sat back down on the white chair and perched the small boy on his knee.

The boy looked wide-eyed at his mother in the hospital bed, then at the baby cradled carefully in her right arm.

“Mason, say hello to Mitchel, your new baby brother.” His mom said tearfully. His father set Mason down on his mother’s other knee, beside his baby brother.

The two boys stared at each other; wide, caramel brown eyes meeting huge chocolate brown baby orbs.

The baby unexpectedly raised its tiny hand and the elder boy looked at it for a second, before reaching out a chubby left hand and touching the baby’s outstretched limb gently.

The baby gurgled happily; the sweetest sound to the proud parents ears; and Mason giggled behind his small right hand.

“I think he likes you.” His mother whispered proudly, kissing her eldest son on the forehead lightly.

Right there, at 3.39pm exactly, in that hospital room, in that hospital, Mason and Mitchel Musso first became best friends.

Mason began to sob; great jagged breaths shaking his whole, still fairly small frame. He buried his face in his hands, and Michael gently reached out and stroked his hair softly.

They were in the same hospital now, mere corridors from the very room that, seventeen long years ago, Mitchel Tate Musso was born.

And here he was.

Dying.

Mason closed his eyes again; tears clinging to his upper eyelashes departing to his cheeks and rolling down his face.

December 23rd, 1999; Westbrook Drive, Austin, TX

“Mason, be a dear and look after Mitch and Marc while we’re gone!” Mrs Musso hollered from the doorway as she and her husband headed out for some last minute festive shopping.

“Mom, I’m eight, I don’t need babysitting!” Mitchel whined from the top of the stairs.

“Yes, you do.” She replied, without thinking “Mason, there’s money for pizza in the kitchen and cake in the fridge if you get hungry!” Mitchel pouted and folded his arms.

“Now you guys be nice to each other while we’re out, okay?” She finished “Love you!”

The door shut behind her and Mitchel flopped down on the top stair in a huff. A few moments later, Mason appeared with Marc in tow.

“Come on you,” Mason giggled, grabbing Mitchel’s wrist and pulling him downstairs “I’ll order pizza and we’ll have us some fun, yea?” Mitchel looked up at him and grinned, allowing himself to be pulled downstairs by his brother.

After a quick phone call and half an hour of pizza-scarfing, the brothers were suitably fed.

Mason came tumbling down the stairs with two cardboard boxes filled to the brim with tinsel, fairy lights and other festive tie-in rubbish.

“Let’s make this place a little more… sparkly…” Mason said, setting down the boxes on the coffee table.

The three of them set about making the sitting room look a whole lot more inviting. Tinsel was draped over the TV, taped around the coffee table edge, around the TV unit, along the picture rail. Basically any available surface,

They were in the process of twisting fairy lights around the curtain rail. Mitchel and Marc were stood on dining room chairs, finishing with the wrapping while Mason stood by the plug beside Mitchel.

“Okay, go!” Marc said, as soon as he was done. Mason flicked the switch, inadvertently blinding Mitchel momentarily. He squealed and fell backwards; Mason stuck out his hands and caught his falling brother in his arms.

Mitchel giggled, and stared up at his handiwork from his brother’s arms. Mason smiled down at his brother.

He noticed the reflection of the tube of LED lights in his brother’s chocolate irises, and vowed to remember it for the rest of his days.

Mason wept some more; not only for Mitchel this time.

For he remembered having to take his brothers, aged seventeen, to their parents funeral. Mitchel had been fourteen. Marc was just ten.

It had been a car crash that killed them. Three years ago today. April 19th, 2006.

Mason began to sob uncontrollably. Michael cradled him gently; he knew just how to calm him down. So many nights had Mason woken him accidentally with his crying.

……

In the entrance of the hospital, Mitchel’s best friend, Emily Osment, and his boyfriend, Jason Earles, had just managed to bargain their way into the actual hospital.

They ran along the corridors at tremendous speed, tears skimming their cheeks as they rushed. The automated doors swung open for them as they progressed, ignoring the signs; they’d memorized the route in the car.

“Got to see him, got to get through this…” Jason kept repeating as they burst into the room.

Mason looked up bleary-eyed at the intruders, and his face crumpled and he shrank away into Michael’s shoulder.

Jason hiccupped as he began to sob, and he and Emily pulled up seats on Mitchel’s left side. She and Michael comforted their crying companions as best as they could.
To no avail.

……

In three whole days, neither Mason nor Jason ever left Mitchel’s side. They were there when the nurses had to change the gauze, when the drips needed filling, when the tank needed changing. Everything.

Most importantly, they were there when they decided Mitchel could breathe on his own; with no help.

They still cried, but tears of happiness. Relief. Joy.

They barely slept, except when it was absolutely necessary. It was Jason’s turn today, so he was slumped against Mason’s shoulder.

It was then that Mason noticed the flicker of life on his brother’s face. He shook Jason gently to wake him, as Mitchel’s eyes flickered open and he broke out into a yawn.

Jason looked at the boy and his lower lip wavered.

“Mas, I’m not seeing things, am I?” Jason asked nervously, tears brimming in his eyes as he pushed his blonde fringe away from his blue eyes.

“If you are, then I see them too…” Mason replied, his voice breaking slightly. A few stray tears rolled down his already stained cheeks. They burst into tears, hugging each other tightly. Mitchel raised an eyebrow in confusion.

The door swung open to reveal Michael and Emily.

“Mason, come on, it’s been three days… you haven’t been home once…” Michael informed him in his Australian drawl. He froze when he saw that Mitchel was awake. Emily leaned over his shoulder and gasped, pushing past him and running to hug her best friend.

“You’re okay!” She exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.

“Uh, yea, of course I am.” Mitchel replied, pulling a face “I’ve never felt better.” Emily looked at him quizzically.

“What’s wrong with them?” He asked, jerking a thumb in the direction of Jason and Mason, who now had Michael hugging them both.

“You seriously don’t know?” Emily asked, shocked. He shook his head.

“You were in a coma for nearly four days.” She explained “To begin with, you had a limited chance of survival.” She bit her lip hard.

“But you proved them wrong. And the guys never left your side, not for anything.” She finished “You should probably thank them later.” The pair of them watched the other three; Michael had managed to calm them down by now and they were sat, breathing slowly.

Mitchel looked at Jason and smiled weakly. He held out his arms and Jason looked up at him, tears still in his eyes.

“Oh, come here you.” Mitchel said, breaking out into a grin. Jason smiled and got up and hugged him gently. Mitchel closed his eyes to prevent the tears that would come.

Jason let go and perched on the side of the bed. Mitchel caught hold of his hand, and Jason looked at him and smiled.

He leant down and kissed Mitchel’s lips softly.

“We’ll be alright, I promise.” the younger male whispered “I promise…”

And, looking down into his chocolate orbs, Jason knew there and then that Mitchel wanted nothing else than for everything to be like it always used to be.