Changing on the Fly

by Cherylanne Corneille

“I’ll be fine.”

  Tim narrowed his eyes and glared. “Promise.”

  “Okay, fine, I promise. Now go.”

  Tim nodded, trying not to let his relief show, and darted into the hallway, running to grab his bag. He wasn’t late, but he was pretty sure that if he didn’t get his ass out of the door in the next few seconds, he was never going to leave at all.

  And that was just fucked up. Chris was a grown man. He’d be fine. And Tim could call and check on him when he got to the rink. And between drills, too, if he had any concerns.

  Maybe at some point in all that, he’d figure out what the fuck was wrong with him.

  CHRIS WOKE UP a few hours later, glad that he’d taken the time to eat the macaroni and cheese and drink his entire smoothie before he’d passed out again. As it was, he was hungry, had a terrible taste in his mouth again, and his leg was aching. He checked the time and was relieved to find he could take more of his drugs, wishing they’d kick in faster than he knew they would.

  Because while he could ignore his hunger for a while yet, and his need to drink something, the call of nature wasn’t going to be put off for very much longer.

  He should have asked Tim to help him before he’d left, but he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Tim had already done so much. Dragging Chris’s sorry ass to the toilet seemed above-and-beyond the call of duty. And requesting he be left snacks at his bedside was just pathetic.

  His cast was huge and heavy, covering his leg from his toes to mid-thigh. But he was a professional athlete, damn it. He could fucking crutch wherever he needed.

  Pride was a bitch.

  So was falling on his ass in the living room.

  He’d done so well getting up by himself and getting in and out of the bathroom, he’d figured he could handle a little change in scenery. He’d been tired, though, by the time he’d gotten to the living room, and when he tried to lower himself onto the couch, he missed the damn thing entirely. He managed to catch himself with his hands and not totally twist up his bad leg, but now he was stuck between the heavy couch and the even heavier coffee table he and Tim had filled with books.

  He lay there in nothing but his huge fucking cast and his Curious George pajama pants—which Tim had brought to him in the hospital before gleefully cutting off one leg—and wondered what he’d done to deserve this.

  Then Tim got home from practice.

  “What the fuck!”

  Chris jerked with surprise, then hissed as the quick movement jostled his leg. He didn’t have time to recover, or explain, before two hands were thrust beneath his armpits.

  He should have objected, loudly, but instead blinked stupidly, momentarily in awe as Tim’s biceps flexed and he lifted Chris right off the floor and planted his ass on the sturdy coffee table.

  “I just wanted to sit on the couch,” Chris said, for lack of anything better to say while his heartrate returned to normal.

  “You just wanted to sit on the couch,” Tim repeated flatly, clearly unimpressed. “And you couldn’t have waited for me to get home?”

  Chris shrugged. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here,” he explained, though it was sort of a lie since he hadn’t even considered it. “You might have gone out after practice.”

  “I might have gone out after practice,” Tim repeated, now epically unimpressed, if his tone was anything to go by. “If you’d looked at your fucking phone, you moron, you would have known I was coming straight here after you didn’t answer it three times.”

  “Oh, uh, sorry. I was asleep.”

  Tim’s shoulders dropped from around his ears. “I figured, but you still scared the shit out of me.”

  Before Chris could come up with any response to that, Alexei and Mike appeared in their doorway, which Tim had apparently left open in his rush to save Chris’s sorry ass.

  “Everybody okay in here?” Mike asked.

  “Hey guys,” Chris said brightly, hoping even a shred of his dignity was still intact but seriously doubting it. “What are you doing here?”

  “They wouldn’t let me drive home,” Tim muttered.

  Chris’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Alexei explained, “He was freaking out, but still so tired he almost nodded off in the showers anyway. So we brought him home.”

  Apparently, Chris wasn’t the only one with little dignity left.

  Perfect.

  “Thanks, guys,” he said, planting his hand and getting ready to stand. He tried not to let his arm shake, but failed. The surgeon had warned him that the trauma of both the accident and the surgery would throw him off in more ways than just the leg, and he was starting to get the picture. He felt as weak as a baby, goddamn it.

  Before he could ask, two sets of hands were lifting him and setting him on his good foot. “Thanks,” he repeated, nodding at Tim and Alexei.

  He took his crutches from Mike and made his way slowly back toward his bedroom. Fuck, he was tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. Tim darted through the door ahead of him while Alexei and Mike hovered by Chris’s side, obviously ready to catch him if he wiped out again.

  When he entered his room, Tim was bent over, scooping up the dirty laundry scattered across his floor. The moment Chris’s ass landed on the mattress, two things happened: His stomach growled loudly, and Tim stood with his arms full of clothing and marched out of the room. A moment later, the sound of the laundry closet doors opening reached them.

  “Hungry?” Alexei asked, a small smile on his face while they all listened to Tim muttering about living with slobs who were going to kill themselves by tripping over their own mess.

  “Uh, yeah. I’ll have to order something, I guess,” he said. “There’s not much in the house right now.”

  “I would have stopped at the grocery store on the way home if I hadn’t been convinced you were dead!” came Tim’s muffled shout.

  Mike grinned. “He was very worried.”

  “He’s ridiculous,” Chris said loudly enough to be heard down the hall.

  Tim stomped past the bedroom door, and the sounds of cabinets being opened and slammed closed again echoed from the kitchen.

  “We will go do your shopping,” Alexei announced.

  “No, I can’t ask you to do that. I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Tim asked as he stormed back into the room. “Go shopping? Maybe go down the stairs on your face this time?”

  He seemed genuinely upset, so Chris swallowed back the instinct to defend his ability to use his crutches. It would have been a lie anyway.

  Instead, he watched Tim gather up abandoned shoes and line them up neatly in the closet. He wanted to tell Tim to knock it off, but felt like it wasn’t something he should say in front of other people, even good friends.

  “We’ll be back in an hour,” Mike said with another smile. “Do you have a list for the store?” he asked Tim.

  Tim stood suddenly. “I do. I’ll go get it.”

  Then he was gone again. Chris stared at the empty door. Tim was being weird, even by Tim’s standards.

  Alexei leaned into his line of sight. “You okay?”

  Chris shook his head to clear it. “I’m fine. I have no idea why he’s so worked up.”

  “Maybe, while we’re gone,” Alexei began, smiling encouragingly, “you two can talk about things?”

  “What things?” Chris asked, bewildered.

  Mike wandered casually out of the room, and a moment later, Chris could hear him talking to Tim in the kitchen.

  Alexei perched on the edge of the bed by Chris’s hip. Suddenly, this felt like an orchestrated attack.

  “Your feelings, maybe?” Alexei suggested gently.

  Chris’s heart twisted in his chest. “What feelings? There are no feelings. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He frowned. “Anyway, he’s straight.”

  Alexei pursed his lips as though he was trying not to laugh. “And you’re…?”

  Chris cringed. “Uh…less than straight? No. Wait.
More than just straight, I guess.”

  Now Alexei did laugh, a loud, joyous sound. “Okay, Chris. Maybe that’s what you should tell him, then.”

  “What would be the point? All it would do is make him uncomfortable,” Chris said, his heart pounding. He’d never even considered telling Tim. Ever. How would that even go down?

  “Maybe he would like to know.”

  Chris’s racing thoughts jerked to a halt. “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, I’m not joking,” Alexei said.

  “We’re just friends. I’m his friend. He’s not—I can’t—we’re just like you and Mike. We like each other and spend a lot of time together. Like you and Mike. There’s nothing more to it,” he said, maybe a little desperately.

  An alarming sparkle lit Alexei’s eyes. “You should probably know that Mike and I are in love, live together, plan to marry, and have a lot of really fucking amazing sex,” he said in a calm, steady voice.

  “Oh. That’s...” Holy shit. That was a lot to process, and not just the images that were popping into Chris’s head. “Uh. Wow. Okay, that’s awesome. And ummm…congratulations. On the marriage thing?”

  Alexei dipped his chin to acknowledge Chris’s lame but genuine response. At some point, Chris would have to do a better job of showing his support, because it was cool his friends had found each other and all that. But none of that was the point right now.

  “I’m not going to talk to him,” Chris reiterated firmly. “I’m happy for you and Mike, but that’s just not…us.”

  “Hmmm.” Alexei stood, as if thoughtful and possibly patronizing humming noises were any kind of answer. “Well, then I will be going. We will be back soon.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Thank you. For the shopping. And, you know. For telling me.”

  “You can tell Tim, but please, let us decide who else knows.”

  “No. Of course. I would never—”

  “Chill out.”

  “Right.”

  Then Alexei was gone, and Chris collapsed back against his headboard and the pillows piled behind him.

  He didn’t know how to deal with what Alexei had told him. Let alone what he’d suggested. That was crazy talk. Impossible. Tim wouldn’t want to know.

  Would he?

  Chris took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The trip to the bathroom, the fall in the living room, and Tim’s weird behavior had drained Chris’s pathetic energy reserves, and now his head throbbed dully while he tried to shut off his whirling brain.

  Sleep seemed like a much better option than thinking anyway.

  TIM HOVERED BY Chris’s bed, trying to decide if he should wake him up or just let him sleep. He still looked pale, which was a mark for letting him rest. He also looked deceptively sweet and young when he was asleep, which Tim should have been taking a picture of to tease him with later, but instead just sort of felt itchy about.

  He slid the plates of food onto the bedside table and turned on the light. Chris didn’t so much as flinch.

  There was no reason Tim couldn’t eat his own dinner, at least, but he figured Chris would want company, and eating alone at the kitchen table sounded crappy right now. He would just give Chris a few more minutes to rest before the food got cold.

  “What are you doing?” Chris asked in a low, rough voice a few minutes later.

  Tim paused in the act of sniffing one of the bottles of cologne on Chris’s dresser. “Cleaning?” He quickly lined up the bottle with all the others.

  “You’re so weird,” Chris muttered, running a hand through his hair, which was standing up in all directions. It wasn’t charming. Really.

  “You’re just mad because you like living in squalor,” Tim said in a superior tone, resorting to an old argument rather than saying anything stupid.

  “I hardly think failing to dust and perfectly align the shit on top of my dresser qualifies as squalor, you douchebag.”

  Tim kept his back to Chris and smiled. “So you say.”

  There was no response except for the clink of silverware against a plate. “What is this?”

  “My mom’s Bolognese recipe,” Tim said, as if it weren’t a big deal.

  “You made it?”

  “No, I flew my mom in from Toronto.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You fuck off.”

  Chris sighed, but it sounded more amused than anything else. “Come eat, asshole.”

  Tim grabbed his plate, scooted around to the other side of the bed, and put his dinner down on the other table. Then he stripped off his sweatpants.

  “What are you doing?” Chris asked, his voice high.

  “What? It’s weird to get into bed with clothes on.”

  Chris looked pointedly down at his pajama pants and t-shirt.

  Tim grinned and climbed on the bed. “Yeah, well, you’re a prude. Not all of us want to wear more clothes than a nun in church at all times.”

  “No, I’m normal. You, on the other hand, can’t seem to keep your clothes on.”

  That was actually true. Tim preferred to wear as little as possible at any time. But he wasn’t going to agree with Chris. That would just be wrong.

  “I left my shirt on, didn’t I?” Tim pointed out.

  But Chris wasn’t listening. Instead, he was paused, mid-chew, his mouth full of the dinner Tim had made. “Oh wow, this is amazing,” Chris said with his mouth full, because he was gross. He swallowed and hummed, a sound unlike any Tim had ever heard him make, and promptly shoved another forkful in his mouth.

  For a long moment, Tim couldn’t look away. When Chris glanced over at him, Tim dropped his eyes to his plate and took a bite. It was pretty fucking good. “Thanks,” he said, feeling oddly shy about it, for some damn reason.

  Chris studied him for a second, and Tim appreciated what a creeper move it had been when he’d done the same thing to Chris.

  In a bid to distract them both, Tim reached for the remote and turned on the hockey highlights. Montreal had gone down in a ball of flames, again, last night. This made Tim unreasonably happy. It wasn’t easy being a Toronto fan, so he took his joy where he could find it.

  They ate in companionable silence, except to argue about whatever was on the TV. Slowly, the nerves that had been grinding at Tim all day started to dissipate.

  When they’d finished eating, Tim cleared the plates back out to the kitchen, waving off Chris’s objection. “It’s not like you would have done it, even if you weren’t in a cast.”

  “Hey!” Chris objected, but it was half-hearted. It was hard to argue with the truth.

  When Tim came back, Chris had pulled himself to the edge of the bed, his crutches in hand, and was preparing to stand.

  “Dude, what are you doing?”

  Chris glared at him balefully. “I have to go to the bathroom. Is that okay with you?”

  “No need to be bitchy,” Tim said mildly, then helped Chris get to his feet, staying close by until Chris shut the bathroom door in his face.

  Which was fair enough. Still, he knocked on the door. “If you fall, you better fucking call me for help!”

  He couldn’t hear Chris’s muttered response, but it didn’t sound very nice. Tim grinned.

  It took about fifteen seconds for Chris to yell through the door. “Go away! I can’t go when I know you’re hovering outside the door!”

  Tim laughed. “Fine, dickface! I’m going to change your sheets, since I’m pretty sure you haven’t done it since your mother visited last year.”

  “Fuck you! And don’t change my fucking sheets. They’re fine.”

  Tim ignored him and dug into Chris’s closet for his spare sheets, which he eventually found balled up in the back corner. He wondered if they were even clean. Sighing, he went to his own room and got the spare flannel sheets from his closet. And his grandmother’s quilt, because he fucking wanted to, okay?

  He’d already made the bed and was throwing his quilt over top of the comforter when Chris called for him.

  “Tim?” He so
unded unsure. And maybe a little worried.

  Tim was at the bathroom door in an instant. “Can I open this?” he asked, his hand on the knob.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” Chris said. Now he sounded defeated.

  Tim opened the door slowly and found Chris leaning against the sink, his shirt off, his pajama pants barely clinging to his hips. His pale face and bare chest were covered in a sheen of sweat.

  “What have you been doing in here?” Tim asked. He sniffed the air suspiciously.

  Chris’s tired gaze met his. “I wasn’t jerking off, you idiot. I was trying to give myself a sponge bath.”

  Tim grimaced. “Dude, why didn’t you just ask for help? You’re so fucking stubborn.” He grabbed the damp, warm washcloth from the edge of the sink.

  “Help? You can’t—”

  Tim ran the cloth over Chris’s shoulders, which seemed to shut him up. He could feel how the muscles trembled and knew he had to be quick. He wiped over the worst of the sweat on Chris’s neck and chest, then wet the washcloth again before gently wiping Chris’s face.

  He didn’t like how dazed Chris looked by the time he was done.

  “There, that’s going to have to do for now. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

  Chris’s eyes focused into a glare. “This fucking cast is heavy, and I’m not supposed to let it touch the floor, let alone put any weight on it.”

  “I know, which is why you’re meant to ask for help.”

  Rather than argue, Chris straightened and hopped toward his crutches.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake,” Tim said, handing them to him. “Can you even make it back to bed?”

  Chris took a deep breath and nodded, which wasn’t very convincing, but Tim held his tongue and stayed close while Chris made slow progress. As soon as he turned his back to the bed, Tim grabbed Chris’s arm to help him sit on the bed without collapsing.

  Chris ran a hand over his pillow. “Are these your sheets?”

  “Yes, Pigpen. I thought the flannel might be nice.”

  Chris looked at him oddly. “Thanks.”

  Tim shrugged and mumbled, “You’re welcome,” while he helped Chris get settled back on the bed.

  When he reached for Chris’s pain meds, Chris stopped him. “Can you get the ibuprofen from the bathroom? I don’t want to take that stuff anymore. I’m tired of feeling so out of it.”