The hospital walls are the starkest white, repugnant against closed eyes. Dispensed through out the room, held in by the colourless curtains. The jail cell windows with those wretched bars, and then, the interruptive neon clipboard stationed at the post of his bed.

A nurse walked inside 26B. Donning the hospital white, she eyed him a moment before briskly turning around. Making her rounds out of necessity, and not care, she continued until she reached the end of the hall. Outside she went, an escapee of the apathetic castle, to smoke a stoge and drink some coffee. Two sugars, and cream, thank you.

In the room, rested a single bed, and on the bed, a young man. His arms were on either sides of him, a feeding tube connected through his nose. The rise and fall of his chest was troubled, as though oxygen came warbled. The hitch in his throat was noticeable, the stale heart monitor taking note, keeping watch of what the nurse didn't want to.

It's was an odd sort of feeling, waking up. Some part of him was still anchored to the innate sleeping world, floating into the light quality of the subconscious. Mostly, it was a feeling of unsettlement. The lack of familiarity panicked him. Lids, first refusing to raise, shot up, the chlorine white pouring into them like a comfort poison.

Attempting to breathe, he found he couldn't. A strangled sound issued from his lips, discomfort only increasing as his vague memory pieced together the past events, and then, led to the thought that the tubes stuck into his arms might be feeding tubes.

And that was when Blaine truly began to panic.

The most unpleasant sensation struck him, and he could imagine every calorie, voracious, attacking his insides. The purity he had almost achieved, and then swept out of his palm. The mangled scream stuck in his throat came out, as he began to tear at them, pulling out whatever he could, needles scraping, skin tearing. His alarm led the small rolling table next to him crashing. His legs felt leaden as he tried to sit up, wrestling with the doctor's punishment order.

The commotion attracted a nearby attendant, and then a doctor. He could hear somebody saying the word 'sedation,' and then, hands pressing him down. Asphyxiation. From the corner of his eye he could see a droplet of blood shaped like a pearl drip to the ground, a doctor telling something to the nurse, his brother rushing into the room, blonde hair a mess, and such a contrast to Blaine's.

"Trent," his croak was weak and unintelligible. He could feel a weakness like disease sweeping over him. He wanted saving and to be held again, eyes speaking what the tightness in his chest wouldn't allow. He shook his head as a nurse put her fingers to his lip, attempting to press in a pill. Orange in color, it was jarring to the eyes.

His brother could only watch, shaking his head. Even as he wanted to make Blaine happy, he couldn't. The boy was obviously weak of judgment and health. His glazed eyes, scraggly hair, misery to see. And his body so fragile, like a little boy ragdoll's.

The older brother slid out of the room quietly, watching as Blaine was pushed into bed. He could see him flinch, the accusation dancing unprotected in his eyes as he looked away from Trent. As much as Blaine struggled, even he was aware of how futile it would be.

So, the hurting angel acquiesced, sinking into his forgiving dream land.