Bipolar. A nasty disease.

Ian used to be so happy. So joyful. An optimist. He was the definition of the sun, that fiery ginger hair that mirrored your own, the constant pink flush upon his cheeks.

But now, as you lay beside your brother in his bed, face to face, you can't see an ounce of that beautiful boy.

He can feel gentle hands cradle his cheeks so gently, stroking soothing circles across the pale, peaky skin. He's in pain, he's hurting. And yet he doesn't seem to react, just laying there limply, eyes cast downwards and blank.

What is anyone supposed to do?

There's a heavy silence in the room, only occasionally broken by your gentle, reassuring whispers, attempts to get him to react to anything, or a creak of the doorframe from where Mickey watches on.

There's an unspoken trust between you and Ian, something completely untouchable. Siblings. Twins. You know each other. And you know that this isn't normal.

And still, deep in your gut, you know what it is.

There's a long stretch of silence, and it's clear that you've settled comfortably in the messy bed beside him, completely unfazed by the smell of BO, or the sweat on the sheets. He's your brother.

And then the silence is broken, and there's a gentle whisper. Hoarse, and scratched, but oh so welcome.

"I'm not Monica.., I'm not like her..., I.., I'm not, {{user}}, I promise..."