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NOTE: Told from Chris's POV.
Jonny came back every few days; not usually with ice cream or the like, but always with a dirty joke and a smile. Guy and Will visited with him most of the time, but I think everything about the hospital scared them. Jonny was used to it. Sometimes I would wake up in the morning or in the middle of the night and he'd be sleeping peacefully in a little chair beside my bed. I can't imagine how stiff his back must have been.
After something close to three weeks in the hospital, I was anxious like hell to get out. I knew I wasn't completely healed yet. My ribs sometimes began to hurt so badly I'd be crying before I could stop. Or I'd think back on that night when they attacked us and then my fear would come back like a hand around my throat. But that didn't matter; I wanted to be home. I wanted to get out so I could romp the streets with Jonny again and sit around lazily on a Monday morning, picking out melodies on my guitar.
My dream still haunted me - the odd one I had about Jonny a while before everything started to go wrong. I had wondered before at its meaning, but it was unmistakable to me now.
I guess in the hospital, I have a lot of time to think. People send me lots of cards and my family has visited once or twice, but three weeks is a hell of a long time. Jonny's visits didn't use up more than an hour or two either, so that left me with something like eight hours left to entertain myself in. I had tried to write songs, but if I sat up too long my ribs started to hurt. Everything that came out was too depressing anyway. I couldn't find tunes for the words.
Every once in a while, I'd walk about, sometimes with a kindly nurse by my side. I was careful to keep my back straight and steps even so as not to jostle any healing injuries. Sometimes Jonny, Will or Guy would help me walk too, but it was embarrassing. Like I was some child who needed to be taught the basics of life. I didn't particularly want their help (even if, at times, I needed it) - I wanted to show them I could get well and be the old Chris again. In time, we'd all forget that the whole ordeal even happened. We could just go back to being Coldplay again.
The only problem was that Jonny kept getting in the way. I mean, sure, we could be Coldplay again. We could be perfectly normal guys playing good music. That was what we had started out to be.
Except these last few weeks, something inside me had been slowly changing. When Jonny came to visit me, our words were casual but the way we looked at each other said so much more. I couldn't lie to myself anymore. But now all I had to do was tell him.
But could I? Could I risk it? I mean, what if all that "something in the way he looks at me" was just bollocks and Jonny didn't feel anything at all? Wouldn't I be a right fool then.
I sighed and blinked. The clock said 5:43. Jonny and the other two stooges usually came to visit at around six or so. 17 minutes to kill.
I idly wondered what exactly had happened to my attackers. No one had ever told me what went on after I blacked out. They never told me the extent of my injuries either: the doctors said I was in a coma for two days in the ICU and that Jonny had sat by my side - in a fair amount of pain himself - for the whole forty-odd hours. For that I was grateful. My curly-haired guardian angel. I never told him that I knew, though. He'd die of embarrassment.
So for now I kept quiet, only smiling mysteriously when it was mentioned. Jonny certainly never brought it up. I think Will knew. Either way, it made me all the more grateful for our friendship.
Jonny came late, and without Guy or will. It was nearly dark when he showed up. I was fidgeting when he poked his head in.
"Mr. Martin?" he said in a deep voice. Then he swept into the room, smiling. He had a bunch of flowers in his hand. "I've got a gift for you, from your biggest fan."
I laughed and relieved him of the bouquet, breathing their scent in deeply. "Who would that be?"
He leaned forward and smiled wider. His eyes were dancing with laughter. "Me, of course."
I tackled him in a hug, careful not to crush the flowers. "So does that make you my groupie?"
"I'm like the best groupie around... I'm IN the band," he pointed out with a cheeky grin.
I laughed, then gestured to a vase over on the nightstand. "Fetch that and clean it out," I ordered. He took out the old, wilted flowers and dumped them in the trash and refilled it with clean water. He leaned over and held it out for me to put the new flowers in. I did so gently, straightening them out. "That's so cheesy," I said fondly, referring to the brightly-colored blossoms, as Jonny placed the vase back on the table. "Thank you."
Jonny snickered and saluted me, then took a seat at the edge of my bed. I kicked him softly and he grabbed my foot. "Temper, temper," he clucked his tongue and I tried to kick him with my other foot, laughing.
"Hey, I talked to the doctors again. They told me the names of some painkillers and whatnot, and they said they'll be kicking you out sometime in the near future."
I cheered, wiggling my feet. "Brilliant!"
"I know," he said, grinning. He flicked my toe and then pushed my feet away. "So how are you feeling?"
I shrugged and leaned back, crossing my legs. "I dunno. I'm okay. You know, earlier, I was wondering what happened to those guys."
Jonny made a disgusted face. "The bastards who hurt you?"
"Yeah."
"They got off easy," he spat. "I wanted to kill them."
I waited patiently for him to elaborate.
Jonny averted his eyes. "Well, they had witnesses there, but not the primary witness - you - and though it was our word against theirs..." He sighed, resting a hand on my knee. "The judge probably just thought we were trying to cause trouble. It didn't help that reporters followed us around everywhere, and Will nearly punched one out. So in the end, they got something like 200 hours of community service and probation."
I shook my head. "200 hours?"
"Well, you had been in a coma for two days. It was serious."
"No one ever told me that either," I said thoughtfully.
Jonny blinked. "Told you what?"
"You know... What exactly happened that night." I wasn't sure if I wanted to know, but I had to.
"Well... I mean..." Jonny swallowed visibly. "What do you want to know?"
"When did the cops get there?"
He made another face. "Not bloody soon enough. The wankers who messed with us were just about to run when the fuzz showed up."
I asked the one I had been wondering for a while now. "How bad was I hurt?"
Jonny took a deep, shaky breath, and then began to count off on his fingers. "Mild concussion, four broken ribs, minor internal hemorrhaging, fractured left cheekbone, arrhythmic breathing, several cuts and bruises including a seven inches long, nearly one inch deep gash across your chest. Oh, and a sprained wrist."
I couldn't say anything. No words could come.
"Guy's arm was broken, and Will's nose was too. His whole face was taped up." Jonny grinned, though a little sadly.
"What about you?" I choked.
He shrugged, not meeting my eyes. "My head was a little banged up and my shoulder was dislocated. I couldn't stop vomiting. That was it."
"Vomiting?" I blinked. "Why?"
"Hell if I know," he muttered. "Can we... you know... not talk about this?"
"Aw.... Bless your little heart, Jonny Buckland," I cooed.
"Piss off!" he laughed, slapping my leg. I toppled backwards on the bed and threw my arms out dramatically.
"I'm glad I'm getting out soon. I can't wait to get better. I challenge you to a match of football once I get well enough to kick your arse," I told him.
"Sounds good to me."
I held out my hand. "I bet you five quid I'll beat you in the first ten minutes."
"It's a deal." He nodded, shaking my hand. "I'm gonna take you down, Martin."
I rolled my eyes. "How come you visit me every day, huh?"
"Why do you change the subject so fast?"
I threw up my hands. "Because I want to! Who cares? Why do you ask so many stupid questions?"
"Because I want to," he told me, smirking. I kicked him.
- - -
It wasn't long - though it felt like an eternity - before I had taken down the cards from the walls of my room and thrown away the flowers and I was going back to Jonny's flat for an extra two-week recovery period. I went in his car with him, and he kept fussing over me like a mother hen.
"Are you cold? I can lend you my jacket. I think there's a blanket in the back seat."
"Nah, mate," I said, lowering myself carefully into the seat. Though I was glad to be with Jonny, my ribs ached terribly and I wasn't feeling very polite. I managed a "thank you," but was mostly silent after that.
We had been driving a while. I was watching the white dashes fly by, bored as hell. Jonny reached behind him and pulled a random CD from the pile in the backseat and slipped it into the player. The first few quiet licks of Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" soothed me, and I nestled lower in the seat.
"Are you hungry?" Jonny asked.
"Are you?"
He glanced over at me. "If I say yes, you will too, right?"
I snickered. "I'm not that hungry, but I could eat something. I mean, hell, I could ALWAYS eat something."
"Christopher Martin, gastrointestinal nightmare," he joked.
"Very funny, Buckland." I smiled out the window.
"Wanna stop?"
"All right." I propped my feet on the dashboard. "Where?"
"Get your bloody feet off the dash first," he barked, but I stuck my tongue out.
"Make me!"
He looked at me, mock angry, but suddenly something changed in his gaze. His smile turned serious. He slowed the car and pulled onto the shoulder. I shifted uncomfortably.
"Look, I took my feet off, mate," I said, laughing nervously. He seemed to not hear me, sitting still for a moment. "Pink Moon" was still playing softly like the soundtrack to a dramatic moment of a movie.
Then he turned to face me, his expression frightened and conflict in his eyes. He squeezed them shut, took a deep breath, and said slowly and clearly:
"Chris... I love you."