by Nora Phoenix
"I forgot to ask, but are you sleeping in the master bedroom now? In your dad's room, I mean?"
For the first time, Rhys looked insecure as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "No. It feels sacrilegious, you know? That room, it smells like him, even now. I don't want to lose that last connection to him."
A wave of grief barreled through Cornell, and he leaned his hand against the wall for support. "Yeah," he said when he trusted himself to speak again, when that hard chokehold on his throat had relented. "I understand."
Something else occurred to him. "Did you go through your dad's things already?"
Jonas's will had been straightforward, as he'd left everything to Rhys. He'd only asked Rhys to duplicate personal pictures for those who wanted them, like Cornell. Cornell was well aware of Jonas's will, since he'd been the one to craft it for him years ago. God, neither of them had even figured they’d need it anytime soon, but after the divorce, Jonas had wanted to make sure Rhys would be taken care of. So they’d spent a good day setting it up, going over all the options, and then they’d stuck it in a drawer, so to speak. Yet here they were, much too soon.
Rhys shook his head. "No. I left everything as it was and moved back into my old room. Mom offered to help me go through Dad's stuff, but that felt wrong to me. I was hoping you might help me when you got better."
Relief filled Cornell that all of his friend’s things were still there. So many memories were stuffed into this house, into Jonas's furniture and his clothes, his personal effects. Oh god, his very personal effects...
"I'd be happy to help," he said quickly. "Also because I'm sure there are some things your father would rather keep private."
Rhys gestured at him to move it into the bedroom, and Cornell took the last few steps—with effort. He was tight from exertion and pain when he reached his bed. Before he could collapse on top of it, Rhys grabbed his arm.
"Night routine first," he said with a hint of a smile.
"Night routine? What am I, six?" Cornell protested.
"Dude, that's what you always called it," Rhys said, laughing now. "Even when I was a teen and I would stay with you when Dad was traveling and Mom was out, you still told me to do my night routine."
Cornell couldn't help but smile. "You're enjoying this way too much," he told Rhys.
Rhys wiggled his eyebrows. "You have no idea. Now, get a move on. It's time for bed."
The smile wouldn't leave Cornell's face as he used the toilet, washed his hands, then brushed his teeth.
"Don't forget your meds," Rhys called out from the bedroom, and Cornell dutifully took the painkillers and sleeping aids he'd been prescribed. When he shuffled back into the bedroom, Rhys held out his hands. "I'll help you undress."
Cornell stopped in his tracks. "Erm, thank you, but I can manage that myself."
Rhys didn't move an inch. "I'm sure you can, or rather, that you think you can, but that's not the point. You're staying here so I can help, so I can make things easier for you."
Cornell swallowed. "With some things, yes. Things I can't manage on my own. But this, I can do myself."
Rhys slowly shook his head, and the disappointed look on his face did funny things to Cornell's belly. Like he had failed somehow.
"Are you gonna fight me on everything?" Rhys asked, and his tone stirred uncomfortably in Cornell’s stomach.
He felt himself slink, his shoulders dropping. "I’m sorry."
Now why on earth had he almost tacked on Sir to that statement? Probably because he was responding to Rhys's tone like he would to a Dom. The kid had no idea what that quiet, authoritative tone did to him, but Cornell felt himself react to it. He'd better cut that shit out right fucking now. That part of his life was over, and he'd do well to remember. And even if it wasn’t, that was not a side of him Rhys needed to know about. It would lead to too many embarrassing questions about his dad that Cornell would never answer.
"I'll try to be more cooperative," he said. "Just... It's hard, okay? It's hard to ask for help, to acknowledge I need it. I'm a grown-ass man, and it's infuriating to have to ask you for help."
Rhys cocked his head. "Me specifically? Or help in general?"
Cornell hesitated. This was getting a lot more personal than he'd intended it to. Still, he didn't want to lie to Rhys either. "It was a struggle in the rehabilitation center as well, but it's even harder with you."
"Why? Am I making you feel bad about it?"
Cornell felt small now for making Rhys feel like he'd done something wrong after everything the kid had done for him. "No, this is not on you. This is me being proud and a little stubborn, maybe."
The corner of Rhys's mouth curved. "You, stubborn?"
Cornell sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. It's hard, Rhys. I've known you forever, and I've always been the one to take care of you. Asking you for help, it..." He gestured, unable to find the right words for his frustration.
"It makes you feel like the roles have been reversed, and that makes you feel dependent and old."
Rhys's words were calm, carrying no judgment, and Cornell let out a breath. "Yes. I wasn't ready for this yet. For any of it..."
Much to his dismay, his voice broke. He fought back the sadness that threatened to overtake him. "I wasn't ready to lose my best friend. We were supposed to grow old together and terrorize nursing homes until we'd get kicked out."
He lost the fight, tears streaming down his face. Rhys's hand landed on his shoulder, gentle but strong, and for some reason that broke the last hold Cornell had on himself. He wasn't sure if he'd stepped forward or if Rhys had, but Rhys was holding him, pulling him tight against him, and Cornell surrendered to the grief.
It felt so good to be held. God, he had missed that these past months. He put his head against Rhys's shoulder, inching even closer to him, and closed his eyes. He let it come, the tears and the aching sadness, the gaping emptiness inside him where Jonas had been. And Rhys held him, those strong, young arms surrounding him like a sea wall that protected him from the battering waves in king tide.
Minutes passed, but it could've been hours, and Cornell just let go. Rhys had him, and right, now, it was the best feeling in the world. He'd go back to feeling old and guilty tomorrow.
Rhys didn't say a word until Cornell had calmed down and was about to step out of his embrace. "Are you ready to let me help you now?"
Cornell sniffed inelegantly. "Yes."
He held back the honorific that had almost followed. Again. What the fuck was wrong with him?
"Okay. Let's get you into your pajamas."
And as Cornell finally brought himself to let go of those sheltering arms, he realized that there were a lot of things wrong with that statement, but what was most wrong was how much he loved it. Rhys crouched as Cornell untied the thin laces of his sweatpants, then gently worked them down. Even before Cornell could tell him to be careful, Rhys used his hands to spread the pant legs wide as he eased them down, not once touching the many scars on his legs.
Cornell could've cried all over again at the sweet care Rhys showed, gesturing Cornell to lean on his shoulders with both hands as he stepped out of the pants. He'd already put out a pair of pajamas, Cornell saw, and his heart did a little skip. How he had missed this.
He stepped into the pajama pants, then stood still as Rhys pulled them up with the same care as before.
"Raise your arms," came the quiet order, and up went Cornell's arms.
"I can't raise this one farther than this," he said, almost apologizing.
"Hmm. That was your torn rotator cuff, right? We'll work on that."
"Do you think you can improve my range of mobility?" Cornell asked.
"We haven't even gotten started…"
Rhys's intonation was off, as if he'd wanted to say more but then changed his mind. Cornell waited for him to continue, but he stayed silent as he helped Cornell out of his hoodie and into his pajamas. Together they walked to the bed, Cornell's exhausted body leaning heavily on Rhys's. He tu
rned when Rhys gestured, allowing him to guide him down onto the bed, where Rhys gently lifted his legs and positioned them. Once Rhys pulled the covers over him, he realized how intimate this was.
"Are you comfortable?" Rhys asked.
"As comfortable as I'm gonna get."
“We'll settle for that for now, but the goal is to get you truly comfortable again,” Rhys said, his voice brimming with promise.
Cornell closed his eyes, too tired to keep them open. "Thank you," he mumbled, feeling himself drift off. The meds were kicking in.
“You're welcome," Rhys said, his voice soft and tender as a whisper, a feather that danced over Cornell's skin, "...sweetheart.”
Surely he was asleep and dreaming already?
3
Rhys slept like crap that night, too excited about the notion of Cornell in the house, sleeping down the hallway from him. He shouldn't be this pumped about it. It was a little embarrassing, and it made him appear young, which was exactly what he didn't want. Cornell was already way too aware of Rhys’s age, or at least the age difference between them.
Rhys could see it in his eyes, his face. A kid, that's what he still considered Rhys. Well, he'd prove him wrong. He'd show Cornell he wasn't a child anymore, that he was all grown up. In which case, it would help if he got over that giddy joy inside him he always had when Cornell was near him and manned the fuck up. He was on a mission, after all.
He woke up still tired but jumped out of bed anyway, eager for the day to start. He took a quick shower and dressed in dark-blue chinos and a polo shirt—comfortable and yet mature, he figured. His usual attire of his funny T-shirt with ripped jeans wouldn't cut it, since Cornell was always dressed to a T. The rather casual clothes the man was wearing now looked somewhat out of place on him. Too sloppy.
He listened at Cornell's door, a soft snoring rhythm telling him his guest was still asleep. Good. That would provide Rhys with the opportunity to prepare breakfast. Cornell had lost too much weight and muscle definition. Time to get him healthy again.
Rhys cut fresh strawberries in chunks, then a banana. He put them in a little bowl, then added some almonds and hazelnuts. Next, he measured out full-fat Greek yogurt and put it in another bowl. There, that looked picture perfect, right? Meanwhile, the Nespresso machine was done making Cornell's favorite morning blend: a smooth, mild coffee. Rhys added a drop of milk, then put everything on a tray and headed for Cornell's bedroom.
He knocked, surprised when Cornell actually answered. He must've woken up in the meantime. "Come in."
“Good morning," Rhys said, smiling when he saw Cornell's adorable bed hair sticking in every direction. His right cheek still showed the creases of his pillow, and Rhys wanted to hug him something fierce. "I come bearing gifts."
Cornell's eyes lit up. "Coffee. You sure know the way to my heart, kid."
I'm not a kid, Rhys wanted to tell him, but he bit it back and kept smiling. It was only their first full day. He had time.
“It’s not that hard, Cornell," he said. "Your addiction is well known."
"I prefer the term ‘strong affinity,’" Cornell said. "Now shut up and give me my fix."
Rhys, who had held out the cup to him, pulled it back slightly. "You getting bossy on me now? Say the magic word."
It might all be joking and jesting, but he wouldn't tolerate Cornell giving him orders. That, at least, had to be clear from the start, even if Cornell wasn't aware yet of their dynamic.
Cornell laughed. "May I please have my coffee, oh great, almighty king Rhys?"
“You may.''
Rhys handed him the coffee. The little sound Cornell made as he took the first sip shot straight to his cock. He watched him as he emptied the little coffee cup, the size tailored to the Nespresso lungo he'd prepared.
Cornell licked his lips as he handed the cup back. "I wouldn't mind another cup."
"You'll get it when you've finished your breakfast," Rhys said.
"You getting bossy on me now?" Cornell joked, using Rhys’s own words against him.
He had no idea, Rhys thought, but he didn't say that, of course. "I prefer to think of it as encouragement," he said instead. "If you finish this lovely, healthy breakfast I prepared for you, you'll get another cup of coffee."
Cornell studied him, his eyes narrowing. "That sounds an awful lot like blackmail to me."
Rhys sent him a beaming smile. "Blackmail is such a big, ugly word. As I said, think of it as encouragement, me wanting to take care of you and help you get healthy again."
He almost held his breath as he awaited Cornell's answer. Had he picked up on Rhys's subtle reference? Was his deep desire to be taken care of strong enough to overcome his stubbornness and inner resistance to Rhys?
"Okay," Cornell said finally. "But I need to use the bathroom first."
Right. Rhys should've thought of that. "Do you need a hand?" he asked.
Cornell raised an eyebrow as he lifted back the covers. "I’ve been peeing on my own since I was three years old, kid. Pretty sure I can manage it."
"Don't get smart with me," Rhys snapped. "The vast majority of accidents with recovering patients at home happen either in the morning when people are stiff from sleeping and their muscles aren't warmed up yet, or at night when they're tired."
Cornell's eyes widened. Rhys knew his reaction had been a bit abrupt and harsh, but Cornell's disrespectful tone was grating on him. It was as if the man wanted to use every opportunity to make it clear he didn't need help. That needed to stop right now.
"It... it was a joke, Rhys," Cornell said. "I meant no disrespect."
"Well, it is disrespectful. You're mocking my sincere offers to help. And stop calling me a kid, for fuck’s sake. I'm twenty-three, not some child."
Cornell's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Sorry. I'm truly grateful for your help, Rhys. I'm sorry for being difficult."
Sweet relief rushed through Rhys's veins. This was more than he'd counted on, this sincere apology. "Okay," he said, making sure his voice was warm and affirming. "I appreciate you saying that. Now, do you need help?"
Cornell's cheeks colored. "Just to get up and to the bathroom. I can do the rest myself."
You don't want me to watch you while you pee? It was on the tip of Rhys's tongue to say, but he couldn't. It was much too fast, too soon. But when he looked at Cornell, it was as if his thoughts had followed a similar path, as the blush on his cheeks intensified and his pupils were dilated. Oh, interesting, Rhys thought. Cornell liked that, the idea of someone watching him do his business. The man definitely liked a little humiliation. Rhys filed that information away.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "Whatever you need.”
And someday soon, he’d help Cornell with his other needs as well. The man didn’t realize it yet, how much he needed Rhys, but he would.
He helped Cornell get up, steadying him until his body had adapted and he was ready to walk. It didn't take long, bringing him to the bathroom and back. Cornell wanted to head back to bed, but Rhys pointed at the desk where he'd put down the breakfast.
"No eating in bed," he said.
"Oh, okay," Cornell said and allowed Rhys to guide him to sit at the desk, where Rhys set up everything for breakfast, including the Washington Post Cornell liked to read in the morning.
"Enjoy your breakfast. Call out when you're done. I'll leave the door open, so I should hear you."
"Don't you have to work?" Cornell asked.
Rhys shook his head. "I took two weeks off from work."
"For me?" Cornell's voice held a mix of awe and disbelief.
"Yes," Rhys said, meeting his eyes.
"But... but that's too much," Cornell protested, his hands moving in agitated gestures.
"No, it's not," Rhys said. "I wanted to make sure you're okay, and I wasn't comfortable leaving you by yourself right now for such long stretches.”
"I can't believe you did that," Cornell mumbled, still fidgeting.
Rhys put a hand on hi
s shoulder—his good one—and noticed Cornell stilled instantly. He wasn't tensing up, more calming under Rhys's hand. He was very sensitive to touch, apparently. Rhys filed that, too, away for later.
"Stop worrying about it. It wasn't your decision to make anyway. Now, eat your breakfast."
Cornell held his eyes for a few seconds, a flash of surprise visible before it disappeared again. Rhys wondered if he would say anything, would comment on the subtle commands Rhys was giving him. Was he even picking up on them consciously? But Cornell stayed silent, though his eyes were alert.
Rhys left him to it, retreating to his dad's study—he couldn't think of it as his own yet—to work on his business plan for his private practice. He worked part time for a large practice that offered a broad range of physical therapy. It was a great opportunity for a young guy like him, but after working there for a year, he knew it wasn't where his heart was. He'd already thought about starting his own practice before his father had died, but the costs involved had made it a long-term goal.
Now everything had changed, and while he'd a million times rather have his dad back, the money he'd left Rhys from his life insurance and savings would allow him to realize his dream. It wasn’t how he had planned it, but at least something positive would come from losing his dad. And so he opened his spreadsheets—the bane of his existence right now—and started analyzing the latest numbers he’d come up with.
“That deep thinking frown is gonna give you wrinkles,” Cornell spoke, and Rhys’s head jerked up from his screen.
Cornell leaned against the doorway, his pajamas replaced by a fresh pair of sweats and a Patriots hoodie Rhys had bought for him as a joke years ago. The man knew diddly squat about football, but Rhys was a fan, and he’d bought the hoodie for him as a Christmas gift.
“Must be some serious stuff you’re working on,” Cornell said.