by Laney Cairo
"And I'm sorry if I'm jumpy,” Shane said. “It's been a rough week."
"When you feel better, would you do an interview with Pink?” Connor asked. “We'd love to hear your side, and you can tell everyone how oppressively hetero-normative the Aussie Rules world is."
Dale said, “Connor, you're being a wanker. Leave Shane alone."
"Maybe later,” Shane said. “But I need to get better first."
Shane lasted an hour, sitting in the pale sunshine, watching sailboats glide past on the river and listening to Dale and Frank's friends talk, before Dale noticed Shane's gritted teeth.
"Are you in pain?” Dale asked quietly, his head close to Shane's and his fingers stroking the back of Shane's neck.
"A bit,” Shane admitted. “Would you mind if we went home?"
"Of course not,” Dale said.
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Chapter Fourteen
Even on the hardest journeys and the roughest one way streets, it's possible to glimpse the destination.
Alan, the rheumatologist, handed the printout to Shane as Shane sat on the examination table, and Dale peered over Shane's shoulder, reading the numbers.
"What does it mean?” Shane asked. It couldn't be bad news; Alan looked far too smug.
"See the highlighted numbers? That's your ESR, which gives an overall guide to the amount of inflammation in your body. It's actually dropped a little from last week. Let me see your knees."
Dale's hand squeezed Shane's shoulder, and Shane felt absurdly proud, considering he had no direct control over the ESR levels himself.
"How have you been feeling?” Alan asked, as Shane pulled up his sweatpants, exposing his legs.
"Tired,” Shane said. “The methotrexate still makes me throw up. My knees feel better, though."
Alan prodded Shane's knee, pushing fingers into the spongy tissue. “This one looks less swollen. So does the other one. This time, the draining is optional. Do you want me to take some fluid off, when I put the steroid in?"
Shane touched his knee, feeling the fluid sitting around the knee cap. “Will it make a difference to my recovery?"
Alan shrugged. “In the long term, no. It might protect the joints from further damage a little, though, and it should decrease your pain levels in the coming week."
"Do it then,” Shane said. “I want to stop taking analgesics."
Beside him, Dale said, “Don't push yourself so hard, you're sick and in pain."
Alan nodded. “I agree with your friend. There's no therapeutic benefit in you having joint pain. It might work against you, because I was about to recommend a return to some gentle exercise."
Shane shook his head. “It's been months and months since I've not had painkillers in my system. I don't care if my joints hurt, I'm used to that."
"Let me drain your knees first,” Alan said. “Then I'll have a better idea how your joints really are."
Alan put the small plastic tray of syringes, vials, and needles onto the examination table beside Shane and pulled gloves on.
The needle slid into Shane's knee joint, and Shane took a deep breath to steady himself. Alan screwed a syringe onto the needle as yellow fluid welled out of the needle, then pulled back on the syringe, dragging the thick fluid out of Shane's knee.
Once the fluid had gone the knee was no longer hot and swollen, then the cortisone stung the joint.
When the other knee had been done, Alan disposed of the syringes and needles, then peeled his gloves off.
"That was eighty millilitres from each knee,” Alan said. “Significantly down on last week's drain. I think you're winning."
Shane said, “That's great, isn't it?"
"You're supposed to have three millilitres in each knee,” Alan said. “The fact I drained more than fifty times that from each knee last week is an indication how advanced the disease is. Let's not get excited too soon."
"When you said gentle exercise, what did you mean?” Dale asked. “Because I suspect Shane is envisioning long distance marathons."
Shane pretended to glower at Dale, who just smiled smugly back at him.
"Walking is good,” Alan said. “Just ten minutes at a time to start with. Swimming, too."
"And when can I stop taking methotrexate?” Shane asked. “It's been four weeks."
Alan sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms as he thought. “I have to say, given how sick you were when I first saw you, and how long your condition had been untreated for, you're doing really well. I can only assume your excellent physical fitness has helped you recover."
Dale said, “Don't push it, Shane. There's no rush, don't drive yourself so hard."
Alan shook his head, smiling. “Another two weeks, as an absolute minimum,” he said. “Then you can negotiate with me."
In Dale's car, Shane leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.
"You're exhausted,” Dale said, his hand touching Shane's cheek.
"Rooted,” Shane said. “But I'm going stir crazy, not being able to do anything."
"Bouncing off the walls?” Dale asked, and when his fingers dragged down Shane's cheek, to the side of his neck, Shane's eyes opened wide.
"Boundless energy,” Shane said, though it was blatantly untrue.
"Do you want me to do something about that, when you're not so tired?” Dale asked, his voice husky.
"Yeah,” Shane said, because the way Dale's eyes had hooded made his blood burn. “As long as we're talking about not just going for a walk."
* * * *
The crutches made Shane slow, and he had to keep resting to catch his breath, but Dale didn't complain about waiting.
No one else was around, not with the clouds spitting rain and the wind blowing in cold from the south, but it was still a surprise when Shane pulled Dale closer, out of the rain, under the tree he was resting against.
Perry latched her teeth onto the end of one of Shane's crutches, but Dale ignored her. Shane's face was red-cheeked in the cold and he was laughing silently.
"I feel like I've woken up from the longest nightmare,” he said, tilting his head to rest against the tree so fragments of bark were trapped in his hair.
Dale pushed Perry's leash more securely around his wrist and used his other hand to loosen the scarf wound around Shane's neck, freeing the material.
A car slid past them, spraying water across the verge, but Shane didn't shift his gaze. Dale's fingers caressed Shane's throat, where he'd held Shane, and the skin was unmarked.
Shane was tall enough that he had to lean forward to press his lips against Dale's, just a brief brush of contact, but it was as significant as anything that had happened between them, because it was the first time Shane had ever kissed Dale in public.
Perry bellowed, and Shane laughed. “Let's walk,” he said. “I might be used to freezing my arse off in the rain at training, but you're a soft office worker and you might get cold."
Dale drew himself up so he was a mere ten centimetres shorter than Shane.
"I'll have you know that I played for two years with the Brentwood D Grade Reserve team,” he said indignantly. “The D Grade team used us to kick the dew off the grass before their matches."
Shane smiled widely. “I'd forgotten that,” he admitted. “Why'd you stop playing?"
Dale stopped trying to stand quite so tall. “Someone hit me during a game,” he said. “It really hurt. It was unsporting of them."
Shane burst out laughing, making Perry howl until Dale bent over to pick her up.
"See?” Dale asked Perry, holding the squirming dog up to Shane's face. “He's not hurt or anything."
Perry licked Shane's face, then Dale lowered her down again.
"The fact that the dog couldn't identify the sound you were making as positive is a worry,” Dale said. “Can we walk on, before you decide to mock me?"
"We can walk,” Shane said. “But I'm going to be making the most of your cowardly stature for a while."
They didn't make it far, just to the nearest corner and back again, but Shane looked like he'd run a marathon when Dale unlocked the front door again.
"Go back to bed,” Dale said.
Shane rested his crutches against the wall, hands braced against the plaster for balance. “You coming to bed, too?” he asked.
* * * *
Dale parked his car in the driveway beside Lindon's orange thing and retrieved his briefcase and laptop from the back seat.
It had taken a couple of weeks, but Frank had eventually moved from insisting Dale stay home with Shane, to demanding Dale return to work. “The footballers,” he'd groaned. “I can't deal with another fucking footballer. They're so fucking macho, with their broken limbs, tight jeans, and million dollar contracts."
The front door pushed open, and the smell of roasting meat hit Dale's senses, overlaid with wintergreen. It could only mean one thing: Lindon was not only massaging Shane, he was cooking dinner, too.
"I love you, Lindon,” Dale called out, ditching his briefcase and laptop on the couch, then throwing his suit jacket over a chair.
Lindon called out, “I'm still not returning your affections."
Lindon's massage table was set up in the dining room, beside the newly installed shelving. Dale's house was turning into a home, with remarkably little effort from him.
Shane looked up from the massage table and said, “You're a tart, Dale. One good home-cooked meal and you've ditched me for a man who operates a can opener."
Dale bent down and kissed Shane's cheek, then ducked out of the way of Lindon's elbow as Lindon lifted Shane's arm behind his back and held it in place with a knee.
"How do you feel?” Dale asked, touching Shane's cheek briefly.
"Right now? Like some bastard is trying to rip my arm out of its socket."
Lindon chuckled, and Shane winced.
"In general, when the bastard isn't torturing you?” Dale asked.
"I'm telling my mum you both called me a bastard,” Lindon threatened.
"I slept until lunch,” Shane said. “Then Lindon took me for a swim, which killed me. Now he's rearranging my corpse."
Lindon lifted his knee off the table, releasing Shane's arm and lowering it over the edge of the table.
"You're done,” Lindon said. “And I have to go to evening training, so enjoy the dinner."
"Evening training?” Shane asked, pushing himself upright carefully and shaking his arms, then sticking one elbow up in the air in a stretch.
"Not the Hammers,” Lindon said. “My mate, Evan, trains an amateur side, and I said I'd go help out tonight, see if I could pretend to be Gordon and scare them out of their losing streak."
"Is it a bad streak?” Shane asked, and Dale could see a gleam of interest in his eyes.
"No wins this season,” Lindon said. “Now get off the table so I can fold it up."
"Which team?” Dale asked.
"It's the Forrest C Grade squad,” Lindon said, steadying Shane with one hand as he clambered off the table. “Good natured losers, the bunch of them. Evan is fond of them, and he doesn't seem to be able to achieve the level of abuse that might inspire them to actually win."
"Good luck,” Shane said, as Dale bundled the towels from the table up, ready for the washing machine.
"They'll need it,” Lindon said. “I'll see you both again soon, and don't forget to check the dinner every ten minutes."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Fifteen
The only way forward is to get back behind the wheel again.
The kids with the footy shouted in the twilight, and seagulls swooped in the spotlights that shone on the oval. Dale sat on one of the park benches, and Perry fell in a heap at his feet, panting.
"The dog has no stamina,” Dale observed breathlessly, but Shane didn't look at him, he was too engrossed in watching the kids run around, kicking the ball.
"Yes!” one the kids shouted, getting a decent connection with the ball so it sailed off his sneaker and through the air toward Shane and Dale.
All the kids waved their arms in wild excitement, and Shane jumped up in the air, arms extended, and grabbed the ball.
"Mark! Mark!” the kids called, rushing toward Shane, across the oval.
Shane whistled, like an umpire's whistle, then took two steps and dropped the ball onto his own sneakered foot.
The ball was a lightweight imitation, not one of the heavy leather balls Shane was used to, but he still got some flight into it, and it shot through the air, well above the kids’ heads.
"Thanks, mister,” one of the kids called. “Come and have a kick around."
Dale laughed and waved his hand, when Shane glanced at him, so Shane trotted across the grassed oval carefully, being gentle on his joints.
His knees stung, but lacked the deep ache that meant the joint was severely inflamed, so Shane stretched out a little. Relief, and joy at being able to move his body again after so long, ran through him.
One of the kids, a girl who looked about ten, retrieved the ball and kicked it back toward Shane, so it dribbled across the grass toward him. Shane scooped the ball up, bounced it a couple of times, then hand-balled it back to the girl.
"You're Shane Davis, aren't you?” a red-headed boy called out. “I recognise you from the TV."
The ball barrelled back at Shane in a very competent handball, and Shane snatched it, balanced it on his palm, then thwacked it with his fist, handballing it to one of the other kids.
"I'm Shane. What're your names?"
"Tod,” the red-head said. “That's Suze, Fossie and Mick. When you going to play for the Hammers again?"
Suze kicked the ball back toward Tod, who grabbed it and kicked it toward Shane. Shane jumped up and marked the ball, then mentally measured the distance to the goal posts.
Only twenty metres, but the ball was too light to be sure of it carrying. Shane moved back a little, just a few paces, then ran at the goal, timing it right so the ball went from his hands directly onto his sneaker and it soared through the posts.
The kids cheered, and one of the boys bolted after the ball. Shane looked down at Tod and shrugged. “Don't think I'll ever play for the Hammers again,” he said. “But maybe I'll get to have a kick with another team soon."
Perry barked, and Shane looked across to where Dale was walking toward the kids. “My partner's here, so I'm going to go. Thanks for the kick. You tell Suze that she's got a great handball on her."
"Sure, Shane,” Tod said, and he bolted toward the other kids, calling out, “Suze! Suze! Guess what!"
Dale was smiling at Shane fondly. Shane slid his hand inside Dale's elbow and stepped over Perry's leash.
"Have fun?” Dale asked, as they walked back across the oval, the kids shouting in the distance behind them.
"I did,” Shane said. “You heard?"
"You telling someone they had a good handball? Or the bit where you want to play again?” Dale asked.
"Playing again,” Shane said. “What do you think?"
"You're not talking senior level competition, are you?” Dale asked. “Because you've only been off methotrexate a week, and I don't think your body is healed enough for that."
"Can't play senior football for ages, not until the steroids have washed out of my system. I was thinking of asking Lindon's mate, Evan, if I could get a kick and a run with his team."
Dale nodded, and Shane could see he was smiling. “Do you reckon they'd let me train with them, too?"
"Bet they would,” Shane said. “As long as you promise not to cry if someone hurts you."
They stopped on the edge of the oval while Perry peed, and Shane slid an arm around Dale's shoulders, pulling him close. “Can't think of anything I'd rather do in public with you than go to amateur footy training,” Dale said.
*
* * *
Evan was short and fat, making an unlikely footy coach despite the whistle around his neck and loudhailer in his hands.
"Bloody hell, I thought Lindon was joking,” he said, stuffing the loudhailer under one sweaty arm and holding out his puffy hand to Shane.
"You're Evan?” Shane asked.
"Could be,” Evan said. “Coach of this team and all."
"I'm Shane, and this is Dale,” Shane said. “Reckon we could get a run with your team?"
"Anything you want, anything at all,” Evan said. “We're just warming up. Lindon said you're coming back from injuries, so take it as easy as you need."
Dale exchanged glances with Shane. Dale shrugged and said, “Let's go see if you can outrun me without even breaking into a jog."
Shane grinned at Dale. “Weakling."
The oval was wet, and Shane could see a smattering of players toiling around the perimeter.
He dropped his water bottle onto a picnic table, along with his sweatshirt, and he could feel he was grinning. After endless weeks of inactivity, then the hellish swims with Lindon, it felt like he was actually getting somewhere at last.
Dale slapped him on his back. “One lap to warm up, then some stretches?” Dale asked.
Shane nodded and the two of them headed out onto the grass. Shane had to keep his pace slow so Dale could keep up, his legs were that much longer than Dale's. Halfway around the oval, Shane's heart rate and breathing had picked up and his knees were still completely pain free underneath the layers of tape strapping them.
"It's working!” he called to Dale, looking back at his lover, who had dropped behind.
Dale was breathing too hard to reply, but waved a hand at Shane, urging him on, so Shane stretched his stride out, really testing his newly healed body for the first time.
It felt like flying, to run again, the grass under his feet cushioning each stride. His fitness was poor, if a simple run pushed his heart and lungs so hard, but it was a beginning, and it felt fucking fantastic.
He slowed down again as he approached Evan and the rest of the squad, Dale pounding in behind him.