"Georgie, you excited?"

Paul looked over a bit to see George on his phone, snickering at God knows what he pulled up on Twitter.

"Why do you even call me Georgie? It makes me sound like I'm five and you're dropping me off at summer camp."

Finally, the young adult looked up from his phone. He still had a smirk on his face from what he saw on his phone, but it was aimed at Paul this time, so the driver felt pretty darn special with this kind of attention.

"I call you that because it's your nickname. Do you want me to call you Geo or something?"

"It sounds more grown up, so yeah!"

Paul lost it, laughing hysterically at the thought of George . . . being grown up. Drinking coffee that didn't have so much whipped cream and caramel in it that it'd kill a diabetic in seconds. Actually wearing a suit and not complaining about he felt like a corporate puppet. And maybe not playing Kingdom Hearts at ungodly times of the day, because no matter how entertaining the game is, hearing battle scenes at three in the morning isn't the definition of entertaining.

"You think I can't be grown up?"

Paul continued to laugh, not really hearing George's words. Not wearing shorts even though he didn't like the way jeans felt. Wearing his glasses for once even though they made him 'look dorky'.

"I am so grown up! You won't even believe how grown up I am!"

"I believe you, George! Don't worry your pretty head about it, I believe you!" Paul managed as he tried to calm his laughter. George started to pout in his seat as he watched Paul continue to loose it at the mere thought of a slightly older George.

"No, you don't! You think I'm tiny and young and whatever!" George grumbled back, sliding further into his seat and taking off his seat belt to find a book.

"You're taller than me! And I'm hardly even a year older than you!" Paul responded, a little frazzled with how angry George sounded and looked over at the other to see if he was okay. A face slightly contorted with frustration. Definitely not okay. "Why are you so upset by this anyroad? What did I do wrong?"

The younger sighed and shuffled around so he could grab something from the back.

"I don't even remember. But I will eventually, so you better watch out."

Paul rolled his eyes and looked back at the road.

Back on the road, but too late.

"George, look out!"

He didn't get a response, but the glass windows of the car filled the silence George would have.

Tires screeched.

Metal crumpled.

People flung in opposite directions.

Paul moved his arm, only to groan loudly as he raised it an inch off the ground. He settled with trying to open his eyes and even this was a challenge. But he opened them and was met with a bit of confusion. He was looking at a still scene, two cars practically moulded together, one that he recognised as his car and another he couldn't even remember seeing. Where did it come from? One moment he was looking over at George, worried. And then . . .

He moved his hand a little, feeling rubble and sand all around him.

So, he was flung out of the car.

He should have worn a seatbelt. George always told him—

George.

Paul's head snapped up from its musing of how rugged the ground was to everywhere around him. It hurt terribly to even move his neck, but he shoves these feelings deep down to find the person he was with just a second ago. Or, at least he thought it was a second ago.

His eyes settle on the cars once again, yet focused a bit more on it.

"George!" he croaked. He winced at the sound of his own, with it cracking and hardly even audible over the breeze in the area.

There his George was, lying across the hood of the car. He couldn't stop staring at the sight. It was so horrifying, but it was as if not looking at George, for just a second, would cause him to fall.

Even though he knew this wasn't true, the fact that George could be teetering between staying on flat ground and falling was. Or maybe that was his mind was playing tricks on him since Liverpool can have a hill here or there, but nothing that dangerous. 

Ignoring once again the pain in his body, he searched his pockets for his phone, a bit grateful for his odd habit of putting it in his back pocket as he drove around.

He slowly pulled it out and looked up to George. His eyes were still closed and his face still peaceful. He hoped that it would be that way until help arrived.

"999, what's the emergency?"

"Accident. Car accident. Really bad," Paul wheezed. He could hardly breathe as he tried to talk to the man over the phone and if he wasn't busy trying to make sure that he kept consciousness, he would hear the slight groaning of the cars.

"Do you know where you are?"

Paul looked around, hoping for just one road sign, even if he could hardly read it. But he didn't find one because, as luck would have it, he drove to a big field that practically didn't exist to map makers.

"No," Paul whispered into the phone. That probably wasn't enough information because the guy over the phone hummed a little as if to say, "Yeah, I can totally  find you right now with just one word. Continue to say two-word sentences to me and I'll find the solution to world peace, even!"

So he tried to be more articulate, starting off with a deep breath to give himself a moment to try and stop thinking about the pain. 

"We were going somewhere. Viola Beach concert—"

"Okay! I heard about that from a friend, so I'll send people down routes toward the venue. But to stop them from travelling everywhere, do you remember the last place you passed?" 

Wracking his brain, he looked around the open fields, trying to see anything distinguishable.

"Think we're in Barton . . . Saw a few houses . . . Gorsey . . . Think we're on Gorsey."

"That's excellent information," the man said and quick along with furious typing was heard in the background. "They're on their way now, but the best hospital is back around Anfield. You know where that is?"

Paul snickered, probably delirious from everything that happened. It was turning into something close to body shaking laughter, but his midsection hurt too much for that to happen.

"My dad practically lives at Anfield, my mum was part of the 96 so . . ." Paul didn't know how to finish off that statement. He didn't even know why he said it. Maybe the pain really was getting to him.

The man on the other line sucked in a shaky breath and continued to type away, saying his condolences and how sorry he was. Paul had heard it all before, so he wasn't too bothered by it and drowned it out as he tried to regulate his own breathing.

"They'll be coming soon, okay? I told them to hurry because we have no idea when it happened, so I'll stay on the line with you . . . to make sure nothing happens."

Paul nodded, at this point very tired and very much ready to close his eyes. He knew he shouldn't, but the thought was so tempting.

"Who were you going with? To the concert, I mean," the responder asked, trying to keep the conversation and Paul's consciousness.

George's eyes were still closed as he lay on top of the hood, glass all over him and around him. To Paul, it was a peaceful scene and the only thing keeping him from losing it.

"Going with my boyfriend. Was supposed to be the start of a good vacation. Now we're going to a hospital."

"It'll be a good one, Royal Liverpool University Hospital. I just need to tell them that at least three people are arriving."

Paul had heard of it. Really, there was no way not to. A big, high-tech hospital with a bunch of students running around and learning from pros. And they showed ads for it like they were trying to sell a bottle of Gatorade. Gatorade that could cost a lot of money to get you back to your best, but that's how it worked.

"Will the ambulance be good?"

"I've made sure they're good. Not sure where they are now, but I know for a fact that they're good."

For a minute they sat in silence. How did they start talking about hospitals and ambulances again? He didn't even notice the change in topic, his mind probably getting more and hazier as he looked for things to distract him from the pain. All he could see was grass and blue skies. Not very helpful . . .

Paul wasn't sure how to continue the conversation because all he wanted to ask was stuff about George.

If he would make it.

If he wasn't paralysed or severely injured by the crash.

He just wanted to know that.

"Hello?"

His head snapped up and he groaned at the pain of that quick motion. He should have remembered.

"I'm here to make sure you don't fall asleep on me. You weren't talking for a while, are you sure you're okay?"

He was tempted to say no, but his mouth felt heavy and his tongue many pounds heavier than it actually was. So he'd save energy for important stuff.

The responder sighed, something tapping continuously on his side. "They should be there. I'm looking at them right now on the map and they're pretty close . . . I told them to hurry. Do you hear them?"

"You never hung up, how'd you talk to them?"

There was a quick pause.

"I never hung up, that's right. But we talked to him, you and I. You . . . never mind. Just tell me when they come in because they should be here now . . . idiots."

Paul laughed a little, letting himself smile just a little as the pain continued to gnaw at him all over. A dull noise started to ring in his ears, a little irritating, but there nonetheless.

It got louder over time, continuing its irritating rounds of assault on the eardrums.

"It's there," the responder said, sounding elated to hear the ambulance's wails. "I'll be hanging up now, make sure that you don't die on those guys."

And with that, the line clicked and died within seconds.

Paul looked around with a tired look. All he wanted to do was get drunk just a little bit at a concert and listen to music with his number one guy.

Anything he thought was fun, the universe eventually came after. Not immediately, but eventually.

The noise finally ended and people rushed all over the "scene".

That's what they called it, apparently. The other driver died (From what he was told, it looked like it was instant impact, so he didn't suffer. Like that makes it any better.), George was covered in glass and here he was, flung toward a tree.

And all they could call it was a scene. It felt like an understatement or an insult to just call it a scene.

"Sir, are you okay?"

Paul scowled at him.

"I was thrown into a tree . . . What do you think?"

The person in front of him scowled back.

"We need to get you to the hospital quickly, but you have a large piece of metal in your abdomen and we're afraid it's keeping you pinned to the tree. So—"

"What?"

Paul looked down and sure enough, there was a large hunk of metal poking right out of him. No sound came out of his mouth but he felt a million things he wished he could get out of him in the quickest way possible.

Suddenly, the pain came in a roaring flood, making his consciousness slip so far from his grasp, but close enough that he could still feel the pain.

Through the water (Where did that come from? They were on the flat surface, far from the ocean and any lakes.), the guy that was talking to him responded. "We're advised not to pull anything out, but I made an executive decision. If I didn't . . ."

The man might have said something there, but Paul's body gave up, letting the pain win this battle. He slumped over, eyes glazed and blood staining his whole front.

He wasn't dead, just out of consciousness. But he sure as hell looked dead.

●

He regained consciousness a few times after that.

Once in the ambulance, long enough to feel the stabbing pain be replaced with no feeling at all. He looked around, bright lights causing him to squint and murmur a small complaint. A little yelling stirred up around him and he met darkness yet again.

Another time at the hospital.  They were transferring him from the ambulance's gurney to the hospital's own. Apparently, he lost a ton of blood and the wound be got on his abdomen was pretty serious, so he needed to go to surgery immediately.

"George," Paul croaked. He winced for the other people because his voice sounded like he used a bed of rocks to gargle his throat than mouthwash. "Where's 'e?  'Ow's 'e doin'?"

Now he just cringed. How about he just leave the talking to the doctors, because he clearly couldn't do that. 

"We're taking very good care of him," one of the doctors told him. She seemed serious about what she was doing if the worry lines didn't say that on their own. There was also a concerned and caring air about her, something he remembered his mum telling him the best of the best had. "He came in a little earlier than you did, so he's in surgery now."

Paul closed his eyes. He was pretty thankful the darkness came now, he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that in one moment they were talking and in the next, their lives hung in the balance. 

He finally was up after surgery. But his heart raced along with his mind.

Where was he?

Why weren't they at the concert?

Wait . . . where was George?

"George!"

"Hey, buddy!"

"Where's George?" Paul yelled again. He heard people run into the room but he couldn't see them. His vision was blurry and tunnelled, not focusing on anything or anyone.

He thrashed in the bed, trying to get the things that were restraining him to that spot, be it IV or anything else.

"Paul, you need to calm down!"

"Where's George?" His yell was much more desperate now as the nurses got to the room and started to pin him down.

"That's nothing for you to worry about now, just calm down, Paulie!"

Paul was now pinned by about three or so nurses, with the doctor on the case finally coming into the room. Still, he could tell how familiar that voice was and that it was not someone that worked at the hospital. The voice started up again, saying:

"No, doc. He hates needles; you're only going to make things worse! Isn't there another way? Like a pill?"

There was a pause of silence now because Paul heard the word needle and just shut up. It was true that he hated needles, big or small. But if this would get him to George, he'd take it.

"Your friend . . ." The doctor paused there, waiting for the name of the person that was with Paul.

"The name's Charles, but you can call me Buddy."

"Your friend, Charles, is very agitated. If we have him take a pill in the state he's in, he'd either spit it out or choke to death on it. This is the only choice we have before he opens his wounds up again and we need to take him to surgery."

Buddy looked at Paul with sad eyes but tilted his head after a moment of looking into Paul's terrified but not at all focused eyes.

"That's already happened, sir. No need to worry about it anymore. Just give it to him . . . If that'll make him better. Before you go back and sew him up again."

And the needle went in.