Chapter Fourteen

"Are you hungry?" I ask Chris. "Mark and I haven't eaten yet, so I was going to put on a pizza."

"That sounds good," Chris says. "I haven't had the chance to eat anything decent since the helicopter picked me up."

"Great, okay. That door there leads to the spare bedroom if you want to leave your bags in. And there's an en-suite, so if you need to shower or whatever, you can work away," I explain, and then usher him toward the bedroom myself when he makes no move toward it. Chris gives a certified older-brother-look over his shoulder. He doesn't have to say a word.

My cheeks flaming, I bite my lip. "Talk about it later, okay?"

"Fine," Chris agrees.

I return to the kitchen, my face still hot as I dig out a pizza from the freezer. Mark rubs my shoulder. "Do you want me to go?" he asks.

"You can if you want to."

"I'll go if you want me to," Mark says, turning it back on me.

"You can stay. If you're not too embarrassed," I add, because I certainly am feeling a dose of mortification. I can't believe of all the moments for Chris to walk in on—

"Why would I be embarrassed?" Mark asks in good humour. "Because your older brother's introduction to me involved a public hallway and my hand down your trousers?"

What I didn't need was a reminder that Mark had been feeling my cock—with a layer of fabric of separation—only moments ago. I feel flighty, and I focus on putting the pizza into the oven. Mark rubs the back of my neck and I groan. "Mark."

"I'd like to stay," Mark says, ignoring my complaint. "If I leave now, he'll think I'm just a hookup."

I gaze up at him, and Mark narrows his eyes at me.

"Which I am not, right?"

I nod quickly.

Mark hums, satisfied with my answer. His fingers stretch from my neck to my scalp, pressing pleasantly into my hair. It feels good. I lean into his hand.

Mark withdraws just as the door to the guest bedroom reopens and Chris emerges. He's changed into looser clothes. Mark flicks the switch on the kettle and then urges me to the kitchen island to sit.

"I'm Mark. Chris, right? Kyle talks about you all the time." Mark introduces himself with a charming smile. He sits next to me, while Chris pulls out the stool opposite us.

"Christopher," Chris corrects. "And Kyle has never mentioned you." He sits in his seat, leaning back slightly. "Kyle and I have a lot to catch up on. So…" he stares at Mark.

I stiffen, embarrassed by the coldness in Chris's demeanour. I open my mouth to scold him, but Mark's charming smile turns bladed. The look in his eyes shifting to match Chris's coldness. "I'm sure you do. I'll make tea for us then, shall I? Or do you prefer coffee, Chris?" Mark pronounces Chris slowly, rolling it around over his tongue.

My brain stalls out. I've seen Chris pull the cold act before. I've seen him step in, be the one in charge, and put everyone in their place. I have never, not once, seen someone challenge him when he gets like this. Not our siblings. Not our parents. Even the crazy dogs our parents adopted who never listened to anyone would submit to him.

Mark's hand is suddenly on my thigh, gently squeezing. He casts me a sidelong look. "You want me to leave, Kyle?"

"No," I answer immediately. Reflexively.

Victory shines in Mark's eyes. He winks at Chris as he stands, looking smug as fuck as if he's just won something. "I'll make the tea, then."

Chris's expression is blank and his eyes follow Mark's back as he walks to the kettle, and he's—Mark's humming. I don't know why, but my face is just on fire. I'm not even sure who I'm embarrassed for. Chris for acting like this and losing? Or Mark for being smug? I don't know.

"Chris," I murmur. "Stop."

Chris looks back at me. The coldness sinks away, and I hope it stays gone. "How are you feeling?" Chris asks.

"I'm doing good," I answer.

Chris casts a final glance at Mark's back before he sighs.

"What happened, exactly?" he asks. "I couldn't get any of the details about the insurance claim. They wanted photos of my passport to verify my identity before sending on copies, which, of course, I didn't have on the mountain."

I lean back in my seat, withdrawing into myself in discomfort. I lick my lips and rub the top of my leg. I can feel the liner and sleeve through the fabric.

"It was actually a while back, now," I say. For some reason, I can't meet Chris's eyes, so I swap my focus to Mark pouring out tea. "Two days after classes ended for the summer, I was heading to the bus stop to go home for a few weeks. A car jumped the curb and drove into a shop."

Mark's hand twitches. The hot water spills onto the counter, missing the cup entirely. His face jerks toward me, the colour draining from it.

"Supermacs?" Mark questions, his eyes wide.

"Yeah. You might have heard about it on the radio."

"I heard about it. Everyone did. Ten people died." Mark turns white as a ghost as he puts down the kettle.

"Puts my situation into perspective, doesn't it?" I say, lightly. Chris goes rigid. "People inside the shop died. They got stuck when the grease from the fryers spilled everywhere, and the car lit it all on fire." I vaguely recall the smoke; breathing in thick air that smelled of burning tar. Sometimes I dream that I saw the fire, too, as a flash of orange in the corner of my vision. But I had been in too much pain to pay anything much heed. I screamed when a group of older men hauled me away from the building. My memories of the ambulance ride are scattered at best; delusional at worst. "I was outside. I got hit by the car on its way in."

It's silent for tense seconds as they both absorb that. I just breathe and keep my calm. Mark abandons the tea and comes over to clasp his hand over mine. He rubs his mouth and I notice that the bruising around his eye really stands out now that he's gone pale.

"Your injuries?" Chris prompts after a long silence.

I open my mouth. And. Yeah, I worried that this would happen. No sound comes out. I lick my lips, but it just doesn't happen.

I lean forward on the counter, drumming my fingers against the marble countertop. Chris waits patiently for me, but his patience isn't a virtue in this moment. Mark wrung the truth out of me when he thought I broke my ankle, and with Tommy I accidentally let it slip rather than intentionally telling him. I struggle to get my mouth moving.

I think about all the climbs I've planned out with Chris, the weeks of depression and pain I went through alone. I breathe in a shaky breath and release a trembling one.

Mark's hands enfold my shoulders. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my ear. "You got this, Kyle. It wasn't bad with me, remember? Or with Tommy." Chris watches Mark's actions, but he doesn't object to them. Nor does the coldness return to his expression. He waits patiently.

"So," I begin, leaning into Mark's hands. "My ankle was run over by the car. The bones—they were crushed beyond repair. The doctors did a below the knee amputation." I gesture to my left leg. "I'm wearing a prosthetic. I've got a shoe on, and trousers pulled over it, so it looks like a real leg."

Chris stares at me, stunned.

Mark squeezes my shoulders hard once and releases me. "You take sugar, Chris?" he breaks the silence.

"No," Chris answers, distracted.

It's not what I'd expected the first question to be after my revelation, but I'm happy for the diversion. Chris isn't happy. I already knew he wouldn't be. I'm not thrilled about the whole losing a leg thing, either.

I'm about to ask about his climb to fill the silence, but I have a sneaking suspicion that right about now Chris is cursing the fact that he was gone and out of range for cell service for months. He was only days out of service when the accident happened.

"We were out at a small pub down shop-street," Mark says as he places three cups of tea down on the countertop. "Kyle entered us in the trivia-quiz championships."

"It didn't say anything on their Facebook page about how hard the quiz was," I object.

"Out of a hundred, we answered about ten correctly?" Mark glances at me for confirmation.

"More like five."

"Good to see the impact a college education is having, right?" Mark jokes. The timer I set for the oven pings and Mark urges me to stay sitting as he retrieves and cuts the pizza for us.

I reach for a slice. "There weren't questions about my course. If there was, I would have gotten them right."

"There was, actually," Mark says. "You got it wrong."

He looks amused when I shoot him a glare. "‘Who invented accounting' is not a question related to accounting. I learn how to account in class; we don't have history lessons about it. How was I supposed to know that?"

"The Babylonians, wasn't it?" Chris asks, still sounding distracted. He's touched neither tea nor pizza.

I glare at him, vexed. Especially when I see Mark grin.

"I entered the quiz with the wrong brother," Mark teases.

Despite my uncomfortable reveal, it's a pleasant dinner. And that is all thanks to Mark. He keeps it light. Keeps the silence at bay. Keeps me talking, and even prods a few reactions out of Chris, who looks absolutely wrecked.

"Chris," I say, as the last slice of pizza disappears into someone's mouth, "You need to turn in for the night. No offence, but you look ready to keel over."

Chris comes around the counter to me, rubbing my hair and planting a kiss on the crown of my head. "You're right. I'll see you in the morning." His gaze slips to Mark, and I tense, waiting for him to react. Mark returns his gaze without backing down.

"Mark," Chris says his name, acknowledging him, before going to his room.

As soon as the door shuts, I grin at Mark. "He likes you."

Mark exhales, clearly amused. "He most certainly does not."

"He does," I insist. "He would have kicked you out of the apartment otherwise. He's done that before, when I brought over friends he didn't like."

Mark is unconvinced and shrugs his answer.

"Thank you, by the way. You made it easier for me."

"I didn't do anything, Kyle."

"Yes, you did," I say. I stand up and stretch with a wince. "I've gotta take this off. It's sore."

"Do you want me to head home?" Mark asks.

I glance at him. While I'm sure nothing will happen now that my brother is in the apartment, I would like to spend more time with Mark. Even though our kiss by the front door was interrupted, I can't help but think that the date night was, overall, successful. That's my perspective, at least. Mark could very well have found it all boring and droll, with the part of the evening he'd been looking forward to getting interrupted.

"I'll put on a movie if you want to join me? Um, I can't continue from before with Chris around." Flames of heat warm my face as I add that part.

"I'm down for a movie," Mark says.

"Okay, so." I glance away from Mark. "I have to," I gesture to my prosthetic, "take it off for a bit. Or I can wait till after the movie, actually."

"You said it's sore," Mark points out. "We'll get a blanket so you can watch the movie comfortably with it covered up?"

I swallow down my awkwardness and nod. "I'll go take it off."

Mark makes an unhappy noise in his throat.

I glance and find his eyes boring into mine. "It's not bruised anymore, Mark. You don't need to check it."

"I'll do it," Mark says.

I squirm, because having to deal with the prosthetic—though I am definitely getting better about it—still makes me extremely uncomfortable. "This better not be because you have some weird disability kink."

Mark's eyes widen. "I do not !"

"You sound very defensive."

Rather than defensive, he actually sounds offended. "Kyle!"

I shrug. "I'm just checking." I don't enjoy looking at my stump, so I can't picture Mark feeling anything other than ugh when seeing my residual limb.

"You've made it clear you don't enjoy handling your prosthetic or taking it on and off. I'd prefer doing it rather than you doing it and being uncomfortable," Mark answers. He's staring at me, like he's trying to read my expression. "Does it bother you if I do it?"

I think back to the times he's taken it off. It hasn't bothered me. "So long as you're not getting off on it."

Mark hesitates.

"You are!"

"There have been times when we both have gotten turned on, haven't there? A certain strip tease comes to mind…"

I flounder.

Mark places his hands on my shoulders. "Point is, I'm not a sexual degenerate. Right?"

My agreement is begrudging; memories of my behaviour that day swarm my mind, and I struggle with the knowledge that Mark is also thinking about it.

"Right," I grumble.

"Okay. Let's get you blindfolded."

"Mark!"

Mark chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. "Come on." He slips his hand to mine and tugs me toward the couch. The grin he casts over his shoulder as I follow is downright devious.