Chapter Eight

I wake up groggy and dying of thirst. I groan, rolling to the edge of the bed and reach for my prosthetic. I fumble around and grunt in irritation when it eludes me. Dragging my face over the edge of the bed, I squint at the floor.

There's nothing there.

Frowning, I reach over and turn on the light, but even with the lamp's illumination, there's no sign of it. Oh, that's right . I'm on the—where are my crutches? They're not where they should be either. I sit up, dragging the blankets over the edge of the bed as I get vertical and drape them over my left leg to hide it. Panic zings through me as my gaze darts around the room and I can't find anything to support me.

Do I have to hop around, searching? I don't want to do that.

I'm swallowing back panic tears when the door inches open. Mark peeks in and startles.

"Kyle?" Mark rushes to me. "What's wrong?"

"My leg," I say, upset.

"Is it hurting?" Mark kneels in front of me and reaches for the blanket.

An electric current jolts through me. " Screw off ," I shove, catching him off balance.

Mark yelps and falls to the side, throwing out a hand to catch himself. His gaze jumps to my face as I clutch the blankets protectively to my leg. The surprise drains from his expression and he sinks into a comfortable position, lower down and out of arm's reach. "Okay, hands to myself," he says calmly.

"Where's my—the prosthetic, Mark? Or the crutches. I can't get out of bed without them." I sound unreasonably upset, even to my own ears. I never talked to any of my doctors like this.

Mark curses and springs up. "One second."

He's back in what I believe is one second, and he's pressing the crutches against my chest. "Here," he says. "You've got them. Prosthetic is here." He sets it down next to me on the bed. Mark retreats out of arm's length and crouches, one knee resting on the ground.

I calm down. And once I do, the pill-induced fog clears enough that I remember why the prosthetic and crutches weren't by the bed. I sniffle. "I'm sorry." My voice is thick.

Mark holds his hands up in submission. "No. That was my mistake, Kyle. I should have left them by the bed. I didn't even think about it." There's genuine regret in his voice, and I can tell from the way he grimaces that he feels bad.

"I shouldn't have cursed at you like that. Or pushed you. I'm sorry." I'm calm enough that tears don't fall, but I'm incredibly regretful of my actions. "Since the accident, I've always had something next to the bed so that I can get up. It was a wheelchair in the hospital, and then crutches, and it's been the prosthetic since I moved in here. When they were missing—I panicked. I'm so sorry, Mark. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

Mark leans in close enough to cover my hands with his. He gazes up at me, his eyes filled with compassion. "Kyle." He squeezes my fingers underneath his. "I understand why you snapped, and I know that you didn't mean it. Just like you know I didn't intentionally leave you without the crutches. Okay?"

After a long moment of eye contact, I nod.

Mark reaches up and brushes his thumb against my cheek. A few tears had fallen, and he gently erases the tracks they made. I lean into his warm palm. "I'm sorry," I murmur again, embarrassed.

"Enough," Mark says with a firmer tone. "I know you're sorry. I'll know for next time not to reach for your leg while you're upset."

We're both quiet for a minute. I'm pretty sure Mark is waiting for me to fully calm down. I only let myself feel a little embarrassed for my actions but spend more time mulling them over. I didn't need to panic. I hate the idea of hopping around, but it would have done the job.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"A little after seven," Mark tells me.

I glance at the closed blinds and see there's daylight peeking through the edges. "You waited?"

"I hope you don't mind," Mark says. "I cleared a spot and have been doing college work. Are you hungry? You didn't eat much earlier."

I'm not hungry, but I know the importance of eating. I burn a lot more calories compensating for the lost end of my leg than I ever did fuelling it. "I'll get myself something," I say. I look around myself, making Mark drop his hand from my face. "Do you mind passing me a pair of trousers?" I nod to the drawers. Usually, I have a clean pair set out for myself to change into in the morning. A lot of preparation goes into my morning routine being done in darkness.

Mark sifts through the clothes, eventually picking out a loose pair of sweatpants. He looks apprehensive as he hands them to me. "You're bruised and swollen. It'll probably be better to leave the prosthetic off for a few days…" He runs his hand through his hair, mussing up the dark strands. "If you can. I know you don't like that."

I accept the sweatpants, humming noncommittally.

Mark swallows. "Here." He reaches for the black scarf, folded neatly on the bedside table.

"No, I'll do it," I say. "I'll be out in a minute."

Mark nods and leaves the room.

I set the sweatpants down next to me and examine the tools at my disposal. Crutches…broken prosthetic. "Be realistic, idiot," I mutter to myself. With a show of willpower, I set the prosthetic aside. And because my willpower only goes so far, I switch off the light, so the room is dark. I pull on a fresh sleeve over my stump, happier since there's no danger of accidentally seeing it, and then tug on the sweatpants.

I need to give my leg time to heal. There's no getting around that. And that means not wearing the prosthetic for a few days while the swelling goes down. I switch on the light again and use the crutches to leave the room. Mark is waiting at the breakfast bar, a tablet in front of him. He glances at me, and I don't miss the relief in his expression when he sees I'm not wearing the prosthetic.

"You must be starving," I say.

Mark shrugs. "I had some of the lasagne you didn't finish."

I go to the fridge and survey the orderly tubs. "Any preference for dinner?" I glance over my shoulder. "Or do you prefer takeaway?"

"Whatever you feel like having," Mark says. "So long as you don't mind sharing your meals with me?"

"I don't," I say. I take out a tub of spaghetti bolognese and reheat two portions in the oven.

"Are you feeling any better?" Mark asks. "Pain-wise, I mean."

"Much better." I join him at the kitchen island, sitting opposite him. "It was just a jolt, earlier."

"‘ Just '?" Mark questions. "With that amount of pain, you can't use the word ‘just.'"

I shrug.

In the lapse of silence, I nod at Mark's tablet. "College work?"

"I'm not as prepared as you," Mark says, gaze darting to my coffee table of work, "But I'm getting a start on the midterms."

I huff. "My professors don't know what to make of me. I went from missing classes for sports clubs to submitting midterms weeks ahead of time."

Mark's eyebrows shoot up. "You've submitted the midterms already? Titles only went out two weeks ago."

"I used to spend so much time at sports clubs. I had to fill the time with something." I shrug. "Besides, I like the classes. The readings are interesting."

"You're doing accounting, right?"

"Yeah."

Mark stares at me, doubt written plainly across his face.

I grin, though I feel the stirrings of shyness creeping up. "You do architecture, right?"

"Architecture technologies."

"And you enjoy it?"

"Architecture is interesting ."

It's my turn to raise an eyebrow.

Mark clears his throat. "I don't mean this as an insult. You've just never struck me as the type to enjoy accounting, and I've never heard you talk about your classes, so I assumed it was a token choice."

"Really? You've never heard me talk about it? Not once during all our conversations over the past two years?"

Mark grins. "You know what I mean."

"I enjoy the classes. I haven't talked about them during club meets because people tend to say how much more interesting their course is."

Mark casts me a rueful smile. "So, why do you like them?" He seems genuinely interested in my answer.

"I'm good with numbers, for one. And the course is getting me where I want to be. Aside from that, I just do." I shrug.

"Where is that?"

The food timer beeps, and I go to the oven to retrieve dinner. "My brother has a hiking business. It's a decent sized company now, and I want to work with him. I wasn't interested in the admin side, and I didn't want to be a hiking leader—the climbs they do are intense, and that is too much pressure and responsibility for me—so, I figured out that I could take up an accounting role and join him on the odd hike." I set Mark's plate in front of him. "I can do the accounting, still. Even if I can't join him for climbs."

Mark waits until I've retrieved my plate and joined him before picking up his cutlery. "You could still do the hiking," he says, speaking carefully. "There's a lot of exercise prosthetics and running blades."

"Did your research?" I ask.

Mark clears his throat and looks embarrassed as he nods. "After the other night…I looked it up."

I've thought about it, too. But for the moment, walking normally is my focus. Down the line, I could try for more, once I'm more comfortable and able for it. "Chris does several month-long hikes through the tallest mountain ranges in the world, so I'll never be able to do those. But yeah, small climbs, maybe. I'll have to work up to it."

"Have you been on many climbs before?"

"Not the longer ones, but some of the week-long adventures, yeah. Actually, that's how I was able to afford this place." I gesture to the apartment. "Chris took out a decent insurance policy for me."

"That's…suspicious."

I laugh. "It's overprotective. He didn't want me to go at all, but I can always get my way with him. It drove everyone nuts because he always refused to take them."

"Who is ‘everyone?'"

I hesitate, a ball of unease tightening in my gut. "My siblings." I say, my voice coming out a little clipped. I disguise it by shovelling food into my mouth. "There's Timothy and Eric; they're twins. Ronan and Chris are twins, too. Chris is the eldest by a few minutes. He was always everybody's favourite."

"Let me guess. You're the youngest?"

I nod, and I can tell from the way his lips quirk up at the corners what he's getting at. "Before you say it, I wasn't spoiled. Chris was soft on me; the rest were not." The unease inside tightens further. I blink, pushing the ghost of any memories that hover in my peripheral far, far away. I think of Chris, and only Chris. "He'll probably have a heart attack when he finds out about my leg."

"He doesn't know?"

"He was on a long climb when it happened. No cell service. I talked to him for the first time in months a few days ago. He should be here within two weeks." I wince, thinking about the upcoming reveal. I'm under no illusions that Chris is going to put his entire life on hold to take care of me. He'll want to move in, I'm sure, and there is an extra bedroom. And I both want him around and don't. He'll make everything better, he always does. But I don't want to be a burden. I don't want him to have to change his entire life for me again .

"It wasn't bad when you told me," Mark says, drawing me out of my thoughts.

I look at him, meeting his eyes.

"I know you don't like talking about it, but it wasn't bad, right?"

Mark is right that the block in my head was more of a "me" issue than Mark knowing. Or anyone knowing, for that matter. I didn't even mention it to Tommy earlier when it had been the perfect time to show him. "I didn't set out to hide it," I say. Mark has clearly misunderstood my silence as me worrying about talking to my brother about my leg.

"I know. You don't like talking about it. Or thinking about it, it seems."

I shrug. "It's not exactly a happy subject. I'll come around, eventually. Get it all figured out."

"It seems to me you've got it nailed down pretty well already."

I hesitate, not sure how to answer. I certainly don't feel as though I have anything nailed down.

"You've already learned to walk with the prosthetic—and I did my research. That can take months and months to figure out—you've got your classes in order, know what you're working towards. You've even got that fridge packed with pre-made meals, which are very tasty, actually, and—"

I'm close to telling Mark to screw off; my face is burning. I wave at him to stop. "Those meals are from a service. And you were angry with me only yesterday for not taking care of my leg properly. The only reason I'm caught up on classes is because I have a lot of free time without all the clubs I used to be part of."

"I wouldn't have managed as well as you have," Mark says. "Not even close."

My face burns.

"I'm stopping, now. No need to cuss me out," Mark says casually. He stands up and picks his empty plate off the counter. He eyes my plate of half-eaten food. "You're not finished yet, are you?"

It takes me a minute to get past my embarrassment. Thankfully, my brain cooperates and I manage not to tell Mark to piss off. "Not yet."

Mark leans against the counter next to me instead of going back to his seat. "How do baths work?"

I eye him.

"Can I run you one?" he adds when I don't answer. "It'll help with the swelling. And it'll help you relax…or maybe it won't, since you don't like seeing your leg." He rubs the back of his neck, looking thoughtful. His gaze darts sideways to my face. "You take them in the dark, don't you?"

I nod, mouth full of food.

"Can I run you one?"

I consider it, then shake my head. "I'll take one later." If I take a bath with Mark in the next room, I'll have some issues.

"Alright," Mark doesn't question me. He's being very nice, actually. He hasn't brought up the fact that I told him to come on my stomach even once. I look away quickly, face catching fire again.

"What's your plan for tomorrow? I can pick you up in the morning."

I force myself not to think about all the craziness that had been coming out of my mouth not too long ago. It was as if my inner voice had possessed me, and all the things I usually thought just came out at once. It was very, very nice of Mark not to have mentioned any of it. He probably thinks I lost my mind on those pills.

"Kyle?"

"Oh—no, thanks. I'll stay home the rest of the week," I say. I could go to school without the prosthetic, but even if I surmounted that particular mental block, the fall earlier had given me a scare. I fell hundreds of times last semester, but one fall now and I'm left in genuine pain. I'm not eager to repeat the experience.

My answer satisfies Mark.

He leaves not long after without bringing up the whole come on my stomach thing.