Chapter Five

I leave the library to find a party. I draw up short as I spot the guys gathered around the bench—the metal one Mark helped me to only a day ago. At a glance, I recognise everyone from the volleyball team, two of them as former friends that haven't spoken to me since the semester started—Tommy and Louis—and also Mark and Eddie.

Lovely.

Everyone looks at me. I give my best, ambiguously aimed nod, and burn with embarrassment as I walk by them on crutches. I shouldn't be embarrassed. Losing a leg wasn't a personal failing, or something that I could help. But feelings win the mind-over-matter battle, and my throat is tight.

"Kyle," Louis calls. "What happened?"

It's the first time any of my former friends have acknowledged my existence. Though, to be fair to Louis, I've seen him try to approach me several times only to be dragged away by Tommy. Despite wanting to get out of everyone's line-of-sight as fast as humanly possible, I pause to answer.

"Slipped on the ice yesterday," I tell him.

Tommy, the guy I was closest to the past two years, watches me silently from Louis's side. I avoid eye contact with him, focusing only on Louis. I'm aware of Mark's gaze.

"Ah, damn," Louis winces in sympathy. "You going to be healed for the tournament next week? We were talking about our positions. If we have Mark setting and you spiking, we'll for sure get to the finals."

I'm looking at Louis, and my throat tightens. A lot. It's tears, or a sob, or something trying to get out. The innocent question hits me way too hard. "Nah," I say, my voice gravelly. I turn away, blinking hard. "See you around."

"See you!" Louis calls after me.

A few steps and my back is to everyone, and I feel a little better now that my face isn't visible. Wishing the bus stop wasn't in view of the group, I stand with my back to them. Thankfully, the bus comes quickly and I get on. It's almost empty, and I snag a seat near the exit. I'm not about to cry anymore. I'm not upset by Louis. I'm upset because I want to play and I can't. And even if I can work up to it over the years, it'll never be here and now with the guys.

As we pull away, someone sits next to me. I manoeuvre to get my crutches out of the way, but he grabs them.

"They're fine there."

I look at Mark in surprise. Why is he…? Ah, yes. He's probably following up after that display. That's very nice of him. I employ strong mind-over-matter techniques not to get embarrassed. Mark's dark eyes focus on me.

"It's hard to talk about," I say. "Louis doesn't know. He wasn't being insensitive or anything."

Mark nods his understanding.

I don't ask why he's on the bus, since it's pretty obvious I'm the reason. He gets up at my stop and helps me get comfortable on the crutches. He then walks me to the elevator, hits the button, and walks me right to my door. He leans against the wall as I'm unlocking it, his hands buried in his pockets. The door clicks open and he straightens up.

"See you tomorrow," he says, walking back toward the elevator.

"Wait," I call.

Mark does, looking over his shoulder at me.

"I'll give you money for a taxi."

Mark waves me off, continues on his path, "No."

"How about some tea, then?" I say next. I figured he'd turn down the taxi.

This time, Mark stops and turns to me. He eyes me before nodding. "Okay. Tea."

Inside the apartment, he sets his hand against the small of my back. "Sit down. I'll make it."

I could very well have insisted I do it, but I think I have a good enough read on Mark's personality now to know he'll be happier doing it instead. So I let him walk me to the couch and make me sit. He has no questions as he enters the kitchen, knowing this time where everything is. I clear a small space on the textbook-filled coffee table so we can place our cups down on the wood and not papers today.

Mark does that thing I didn't like from yesterday, and sits at my left side. He sips his tea as I do, and his gaze darts down. He sees something that makes him frown. He sets the cup into the space I made and plucks what he was frowning at from the ground. He holds up the unopened bruising cream and fixes me with an accusatory glare.

"You didn't use it," Mark says, scowling. His tone reminds me of times that I've gone in for very rough, full-contact tackles that ended in both of us wiped out on the grass or court. He'd always say, you'll break something, while scowling. Now, I'm wondering was that a concerned scowl on my behalf rather than the self-concerned anger I'd taken it for at the time.

"I have my own cream that I used."

"Liar."

I bite the inside of my cheek. Mark is right and he knows it.

"You snapped at me at lunch," Mark says suddenly.

I cringe, remembering. "I'm sorry."

"If you're sorry, let me apply this." Mark follows up so quickly, so surely, and so promptly that he began his sentence before I finished mine. I blink in surprise, stunned, as I register his little trap.

"Don't be sneaky, Mark," I say.

Mark places his hand on my thigh. I don't tense up the same way I did yesterday. I guess I'm more used to his touch this time.

"You promised you'd put it on."

I did. And ultimately, I determined that would involve looking at my leg in the light to find the bruises, so I decided against it. I grunt when I see Mark waiting for an answer.

It's a mistake.

Mark is incensed. I listen to his unending arguments for a solid five minutes as I sip my tea before groaning in exasperation. "I don't like looking at it," I admit, finally.

"I'll blindfold you, then," Mark says, surely.

I blink. It takes me a second to formulate a response. "That's stupid," is what I manage.

"Is it?" Mark challenges. "You didn't mind me examining your prosthetic yesterday. And if I do it all while you're blindfolded, you won't have to see anything you don't want to. And I'll be able to ice down what's swollen and get bruising cream where it needs to be."

"Why did I invite you in again?"

Mark rubs my thigh as he leans in. "Come on, Kyle. You had a bad fall. You know you need treatment."

I don't like how persuasive he is. I swallow as I think about it. "It's all scarred, you know. It's not smooth skin."

"I figured," Mark says. "It doesn't bother me."

I think about it some more. Truly, I think the idea of Mark seeing my leg bothers me less than seeing it myself. His attitude about it put me at ease a little, and I know that he's not going to do anything bad. Even if he thinks something like, oh that's disgusting , he won't tell me.

"Where do you keep your scarves?" Mark asks. He sees that he's won the fight.

"I don't own any."

"I saw you wearing one a few weeks ago. The teal green one? The day of the storm?" Mark prompts.

"Oh, yes, Bethany lent it to me. It might be hanging up by the front door?"

Mark goes to check and I fidget. Am I really on board with this plan? It's good to get the cream on, but it's very exposing…

Mark returns with the teal scarf. As I brace myself, Mark touches the back of my hand. I look down, seeing the end of my hoodie bunched up in a fist. I slowly relax my grip under Mark's touch. He kneels on the floor between my legs, gazing up at my face. "I swear I'll be gentle, Kyle," he says seriously.

Our eyes hold for a long while before I can nod.

Mark's eyes soften. "Here," he offers me the pack of Advil from yesterday and a bottle of water. "Better to be prepared. I noticed you wincing at lunch. Where was it bothering you?" Mark rubs my thigh as he asks.

"Mainly where my leg sits into the prosthetic," I answer. I take the tablets and Mark sets the bottle on the coffee table. He brandishes the scarf next.

"If it gets overwhelming, tell me," Mark instructs me. "I'll cover your leg with the throw blanket and you can take off the blindfold without having to see anything you don't want to."

I nod.

"You understand?"

I nod again.

"Out loud, Kyle."

I stare right at him and don't answer out loud. Mark's eyes glitter, but he doesn't keep insisting. "Close your eyes," he instructs. I do, and then Mark ties the scarf around my head. He tugs the knot at the back until it's firm and then feels around to make sure it's lying flat. "Comfortable?"

"Yeah," I say. It's tight enough to stay in place, but not enough to restrict.

"Good."

I lean back on the couch as Mark folds up my jeans. They're a faux-jean fabric that has more give in them than real jeans, so Mark can fold the material up past my knee. He hesitates there, then slowly peels back the liner securing the prosthetic to my knee. Once that is out of the way, he grasps the prosthetic firmly, applying gentle pressure until the suction releases. I shudder in relief when the prosthetic comes free and the pressure is released from my stump.

Mark freezes. "Sore?"

"No, no. It's the pressure," I tell him.

Mark folds up the jeans on my other leg and slips his fingers into the heel of my sneakers. He tugs the shoe off and I hear it being set down behind him somewhere. His body moves closer to mine, and then his fingers are tugging at the button of my jeans.

"Whoa." I jolt, grabbing his hands. "What are you doing?"

"Taking off your trousers," Mark answers.

"Why?"

"They're in the way, Kyle," he says patiently. He waits a moment, then his fingers move underneath mine, undoing the button, tugging down the zip. Which underwear did I put on this morning? God knows, I changed in the dark.

"Can you lift up for me?"

I'm way too stimulated, but I do as he asks by setting my hands on the soft cushions either side of my thighs and raising my hips. Mark is very slow to move. I hear a heavy breath before he tugs my jeans down and gets them to my thighs. "Okay, lower down."

I do so, steaming.

"Now this feels kinky," I complain. Except my voice is low, and it's not a complaining tone that comes out.

Mark grunts. "Yeah. That was sexy."

I'm overheating. "You told me to!"

"Yes, I did. Now lie on your back."

"Mark!"

His hands are on my shoulders then, guiding me down so firmly I'm flat on the couch before I can bluster a defence.

"Work with me here," Mark requests.

I'm squirming, and he's keeping me in place with a single hand on my abdomen. "If you want me to work with you, don't manhandle me," I say, wryly. I stop squirming, wishing desperately I could see Mark's face. I know he's looking at me.

"I'm setting your leg on my lap," Mark informs me. He's keeping one hand on my stomach so I can't move. My good leg is at his back, and he's sitting on the couch in front of it, positioned so that the curve of my knee hooks comfortably over his thigh. I settle down as he carefully takes the protective sleeves off my leg, one at a time. I focus on that and not on how much my dick liked the sexy remark.

"Are you comfortable? Do you want another pillow?" Mark asks.

I hook my arm around the cushion under my head. "I'm comfortable."

The next sleeve to come off is the final layer. The air is cool against my bare skin. Mark tenses. He examines me, or at least I guess that's what he's doing, and then the hand on my stomach tightens to grip the hoodie.

"Kyle," Mark says, tone full of admonishment.

It must look bad.

"I told you it's all scarred."

"You're really bruised," Mark says, and there's a distinct upset edge in his voice. "And your knee is swollen. You shouldn't have been on your feet at all today, and you definitely shouldn't have been wearing the prosthetic."

I got that from how much it hurt today. "I don't like how it looks without it," I admit.

Mark mutters a curse under his breath. "Wait a second," he says. I hear him digging through the pharmacy bag from yesterday, and yelp in surprise at the icy touch against my stump. Mark arranges the soft throw blanket over my leg and then reaches over to tug at my blindfold.

I tense.

Mark hums. "It's okay, you're all covered."

With the scarf off, I have to blink a few times to get used to the light. As my vision adjusts, Mark's disapproving expression comes into focus.

"What?" I grumble.

"You know what," he says.

"I—"

I try to sit up, and his hand on my stomach exerts enough pressure keep me pinned down.

"We'll ice this for twenty minutes, then we'll do a heat compact for twenty, and then ice it once more before I apply the bruising cream," Mark explains.

"It's late," I say. The clock on the wall points to eleven.

Mark's dark eyes indicate he doesn't give a damn. I swallow as my dick twitches. I'm very glad that the throw blanket is over my underwear.

We fall into silence, Mark angry, me abashed, until I pluck up the courage to speak again. "How does it look?"

"Sore as shit, Kyle," Mark replies.

I'm surprised at the curse.

Mark's gaze darts back to me. "I'm not happy with you," he adds.

I laugh. "Oh, come on. I've done a lot worse to piss you off over the years than this ."

"You haven't," Mark answers, completely serious. And from the way his gaze fixes on mine and holds, I believe he's being completely sincere. He's genuinely upset that I didn't treat my leg properly yesterday. It sobers me a little.

"It was going to bruise no matter what I did," I tell him.

He doesn't say anything, but his eyes meet mine. We regard each other in silence. I could have broken it, suggested we turn the TV on, but I don't. I just stare at Mark, examining his face in detail, enjoying the way his thumb is stroking my thigh. My lids become heavy as my breaths grow deeper.

Mark breaks eye contact first, his gaze trailing slowly down to where his hand rests on my stomach. He withdraws it a few inches, and then slips his fingers underneath the hem of the hoodie. I let out a harsh breath as his warm hand skims across the bare skin of my navel. He strokes my skin, making me twitch—yes, down there, too—and my breathing alters as he skims his fingers against me in a teasing manner.

I grab his wrist.

"What are you doing?" I ask breathlessly.

Mark blinks, something dazed about his expression. He lifts his gaze to meet mine. "Do you want me to stop?"

"What are you doing?" I repeat.

"Massaging your stomach," he answers.

"But it's my leg that's sore," I say.

Mark looks disappointed as he withdraws his hand. I am, too. I'm also pretty stiff in my underwear. I try to sit up—

Mark pushes me down, hand back in place on my stomach, above the hoodie once more. "Stay down," he tells me, his voice gruff. "You'll dislodge the ice-pack."

I'm conscious of my heavy breathing. "Put on the TV, then," I tell him.

The rest of Mark's treatment is gentle, caring, and arousing. He puts the blindfold back on me when he applies the cream, puts on a fresh sleeve, and then helps me sit up.

Mark kneels between my legs. He adjusts the sleeve that's been in place for five minutes now.

"Can I have your number?" Mark asks, toying with the edge of the fabric.

I nod.

"Where's your phone?" he asks.

"Table, maybe?" Currently blindfolded, I can't see for myself.

Mark retrieves it and in seconds he'd added a new number and his phone is ringing. "That's my actual number on your phone. Don't bother with the ones from the group chats," he tells me. "Now then, you're okay to get to bed without the prosthetic, right? It's not carrying weight anyway."

I don't answer.

Mark's hand on my thigh tightens. "You need to give your leg a chance to heal."

"I won't put it on," I say.

His silence says he doesn't believe me, but short of demanding to spend the night in the apartment, there's nothing he can do about it. I run my palm over the couch until my fingers find the soft fleece of the throw blanket. I pull it onto my lap before snagging off the scarf blindfold.

"Goodnight, Mark," I say, before he suggests anything else that I might find convincing.

He eyes me at length and I stare back, not giving an inch.

Mark folds with a sigh. "I'll lock the door from the outside and put the key through the letterbox so you don't have to get up. I'd prefer if you didn't put the prosthetic back on, but I understand if you need to." He pauses. "I also understand that it's not up to me." He shares with me an abashed grin—one I instinctively mirror. "I'm sorry if I'm overbearing. And I'm sorry about lunch. I didn't mean for you to feel uncomfortable."

I wonder about Mark's attentiveness. Is this sympathy? Pity?

"Goodnight, Kyle." Mark stands. He goes, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I reach for the prosthetic and eye it. After a long few minutes, I decide. I snag the controller from the coffee table and hit the button that turns off the lights in the apartment.

And then I pause.

I swallow, and I hit the button again, turning them back on.

My stump on display, I go about my night routine with the crutches. And when I finally get into bed, I'm proud of myself.