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 that was 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?”
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 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.”
“We’re just friends. I’m his friend. He’s not—I can’t—it’s just like you and Mike. We like each other and spend a lot of time together. We’re just 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.”
“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 said again, a flutter of panic in his chest when he even thought about it. “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,” he babbled, then thought he should clarify. “For the shopping, I mean. And, you know. For telling me about you guys. I know that’s a big deal.”
“Yes. And 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, 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 stood 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 it down on the bedside 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 g
rinned 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.
Tim couldn’t look away. When Chris glanced over at him, he quickly dropped his eyes to his plate and took a bite. It was pretty fucking good. “Thanks,” he said after swallowing, 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 put 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 to his feet. He stayed as close as he could until Chris shut the bathroom door in his face.
Which was fair. 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 sounded 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 bare hips. His pale face and bare chest were covered in a sheen of sweat.
Tim sniffed the air suspiciously. “What have you been doing in here?”
“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 shut him up. Tim could feel how the muscles beneath his hands 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.”
Tim frowned and checked to see how much color had come back to Chris’s face. Not enough. “Just take the good stuff tonight, so you can sleep, okay? Then switch in the morning.”
“Why do you even care?” Chris asked, clearly exasperated.
“Because I do,” Tim snapped, for lack of a better answer. He was still trying to figure out what the hell was going with all these weird feelings he was mostly trying to ignore.
Self-awareness: not his thing.
“Also,” he added, “you need to sleep so you can heal. So, whatever, shut up and take the drugs.”
Chris did, but not without a lot of disgruntled looks.
Tim waited until Chris was settled back again before switching off all but one dim light and turning the TV volume down. “I’m going to go clean up the kitchen. Shout if you need anything, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure,” Chris said, sounding defeated again.
Tim didn’t know how to fix that, but he seriously hated it. He squeezed Chris’s shoulder once before leaving him gazing vaguely at the TV. When he came back twenty minutes later, Chris was out cold, still sitting up in bed.
Tim shook Chris’s shoulder to rouse him only long enough to help him scoot down on the bed. As soon as his head hit the pillows, he was out. He was still way too fucking pale for Tim’s comfort, but hopefully sleep would help.
Sighing, Tim stripped out of his t-shirt and climbed in the other side of the bed, switching off the light and curling up facing away from Chris.
He didn’t consider going back to his room. If he did, he just knew Chris would try to get up in the middle of the night without asking for help. This way, he’d be close enough to know when Chris was awake and could step in before he tried to do anything stupid.
Really, Tim was a great fucking friend for being there, and he intended to point that out when Chris squawked about it in the morning.
He snuggled down into the bed further, enjoying the fresh, soft sheets already warmed by Chris’s body just a foot away. His grandmother’s quilt was familiar beneath his fingertips, as comforting as the soft sound of Chris’s breathing behind him.
Chapter Three
Chris woke up from a strange dream about being locked in a sauna to find himself pinned to the bed by Tim. Jesus Christ, the guy was a fucking blast furnace.
Maybe it was the drugs, or the exhaustion of the past few days, or his subconscious getting the
best of him, but for five minutes, he just lay there and enjoyed the hell out of it. Tim was curled around Chris, his breath tickling the back of Chris’s neck, his arm tight around Chris’s ribs, a wide palm pressed over his heart.
Chris had a vague memory of waking up sometime in the middle of the night, his back aching from having been flat out on it for most of the day. He’d carefully rolled over, trying and failing to find a way to sleep comfortably on his side until Tim had tucked a pillow between his knees. Chris couldn’t remember where he’d thought Tim had materialized from at that moment, but now it made sense. In hindsight, he was grateful for the help, but even more grateful for the good drugs, since he wouldn’t have been able to sleep another wink if he’d been aware that Tim was in bed with him.
Instead, he’d passed out and apparently rolled partially onto his front, his good leg bent onto the mattress, and Tim’s stretched along behind it, resting on his cast and the pillow.
Chris shifted carefully and reached behind him until his hand encountered a bare hip. For one hysterical moment, he thought Tim might be naked—he totally wouldn’t put it past him, the fucking nudist—but then his fingers brushed against Tim’s boxer briefs.
Tim grunted in his sleep, his hips shifting closer to Chris’s ass, his hold tightening. Chris held his breath and tucked his hand back onto the bed in front of him.
He really didn’t want Tim to wake up. Not yet. Not when the wriggle of Tim’s hips had sent a shot of arousal straight to Chris’s morning wood.
What the fuck was he supposed to do now?
If it wasn’t for the fucking cast, he could have rolled right out of the bed and gone straight to the bathroom, maybe using some careful hand placement to conceal whatever was going on in his pajama pants that shouldn’t be. But the cast, and the crutches, weren’t going to allow him to dash anywhere. And they sure as shit weren’t going to let him hide anything.
Chris attempted to very, very subtly shift his hips to ease the pressure against his dick.
Tim hummed, his lips pressing against Chris’s neck, and wriggled closer.
Chris closed his eyes and took a series of deep breaths. His erection needed to go away. Jerking off was definitely not an option, even if it would only take about a minute at this point. Instead, he thought about his next doctor’s appointment in a few days, then about his last family reunion and how awful his Aunt Debbie had been, pinching his cheeks and asking about a girlfriend. He even tried to picture the Vancouver winning the Stanley Cup.
Take a Shot Page 3