13. 13

13

T hey were sitting in the waiting area at Fiona Stanley Hospital, first to arrive for the afternoon session of appointments, Jack antsy beside him. Sean had told him not to take the afternoon off training, said he’d get Ben’s missus, Lara, to take him, but Jack had been adamant he come along. It was a big day, he’d said, he wanted to make sure everything went right. Sean wasn’t sure what could go wrong getting a cast off, but he’d discovered Jack wasn’t easily dissuaded and knowing him, he’d already organised the afternoon off.

Sean mentioned he had a pretty fucking important game that weekend in Adelaide and so far this season the team sucked, and Jack should be focused on that. But Jack had shrugged and muttered about doing his own thing later and so here he was, leaning against the wall with Sean, the doctors and nurses slowly making their way back down the corridor, into the long rooms on either side, after, Sean assumed, their lunch break.

More people trickled in—a kid with a cast on his arm, an old lady in a wheelchair with a boot on her foot—and did a double take when they saw them. Jack was signing an autograph and patiently listening as the kid’s dad told him what he thought about their chances against Adelaide—not great with “this one out”, a grin and wink for Sean—when a nurse stepped into the corridor.

“Sean Hiller?” he called, but he was already looking at Sean, the announcement a formality he probably couldn’t shake.

“Nice to meet you,” Jack said to the man and stood with Sean’s crutches, helped him up. “Fingers crossed,” he leaned down and said quietly to Sean, the words whispering over the shell of his ear.

They did the X-ray. Waited again. Got called in to the plaster removal area.

Harris was already there with the team’s orthopaedic surgeon, grinning widely.

It didn’t take long to get the cast off, the saw unsettling as it skirted the inside of his groin, and then his leg was revealed—a skinny, glossy mass with flaking skin and patchy hair protruding from his body.

“Let’s see how the walk looks,” the ortho said.

Sean swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pressed his feet to the cold floor. He stood.

He listened to Harris talking, the ortho murmuring about how the gait looked good, always a worry with a femur fracture, discussed leaving the plate in, and then Sean and Jack were sent on their way with a boot the length of his leg and the physio plan that’d involve sessions at the club and some home sessions with Jorge.

“How’s it feel?” Jack asked as Sean hobbled into the wide thoroughfare of the hospital, people still doing double takes as they passed.

“Dunno, weird, like I haven’t used my leg for six months,” Sean replied.

“That’ll pass, quicker than you think.”

“Hmm,” Sean said and didn’t bother to sit while Jack went and got the car. He wanted to stand. He never wanted to miss the opportunity to stand again.

As he watched the people coming and going in the drop off zone, the autumn sunshine penetrating the wide walkway like it was still summer sunshine, he thought about how he’d lived without two years of his life for six months. He got regular brain scans, had regular appointments, and Harris had pretty much said this was it—they’d monitor for any symptoms of post-concussion syndrome, but his memory was a lost cause. There were still no guarantees he’d play again. New concussion protocol was seeing some players never play a league game after sustaining a serious concussion in preseason. But there was no protocol for memory loss. For a perfectly healthy brain—they kept saying it, “A perfectly healthy brain”, nothing to see, time to move on.

The Range Rover pulled to a stop and Jack leaned over the console to push the door open as Sean hobbled over.

“All good?” Jack asked as he got in, smiling like he had since the cast came off, smiling like Sean was that much closer to being back; but not without that guard, never without the flicker of hesitation. Because his Sean was never coming back.

“Yeah,” Sean breathed out and got in, shutting the door with a soft click.

Sean fucked Jack for the first time after the game in Adelaide. He travelled with the team, watched from the interchange bench as they got absolutely destroyed, the black and yellow and blue jumpers leaping for hugs around the dejected figures in white and purple, the flight home right after the game subdued. Jack stared out the window at the pitch blackness, the thick clouds below perceptible only if you pressed your face against the fibreglass, his reflection a haunted picture of blonde hair and hollow eyes.

“You actually played alright,” Sean said once they were home, Jack taking his time cuddling Lola on the floor.

Jack snorted. “Thanks.”

“Seriously,” Sean said, “not a space cadet moment in sight.”

Jack laughed, buried his face in Lola’s fur. “You hear how he talks to me?”

“She knows ya deserve it,” Sean replied and continued his break down of the game as he puttered around the house turning it down for the night the way he’d been watching Jack doing for months. He took extraordinary pleasure in it, being able to do it without huffing around on a pair of crutches and dragging a dead leg behind him. He hobbled with the boot, but he could walk and so he was going to walk whenever he could, even when it twinged, even when it hurt, and Jorge had told him to rest.

“And I reckon, and ya know this,” he went on as Jack extricated himself from Lola on the floor and Sean came back into the room, his voice dropping from the volume he’d given it when he was in the other room, “you gotta work on using your body more, actually gun for it, tear through ‘em. Where’s the energy for the ball?”

Jack ran a hand through his hair, smiled indulgently down at him. “Haven’t we been saying that for years?”

Sean balked and Jack realised his mistake in the same moment. Before he could apologise, Sean said, “It wouldn’t surprise me,” his tone clipped but not enough to hide the hurt at the reminder.

“Shit, that’s not what I meant to say, I mean—”

“Don’t,” Sean stepped back, looked away. “Don’t fuckin’ pander me, alright?” He was embarrassed. It always humiliated him when he said something and Jack, the guys, looked awkward, looked like they didn’t know what to say because he’d said something he should just know.

Sometimes it was funny, like forgetting a terrible game Jack had played and the way Sean had, playfully according to the rendition, mocked Jack for it the whole flight back to Perth. Other times it wasn’t, like when he snapped at Jack that he couldn’t possibly understand how hard it was to rehab his leg, to feel his body failing him. Even Ben had flinched at that one, and it’d been Ben who took him aside and explained, haltingly, that Jack’s career had almost ended with his ruptured anterior cruciate ligament—a reinjury on the ACL tear he’d gotten first season back with the team. That he’d had multiple surgeries, contracted osteomyelitis in hospital and been subjected to a terrifying few months where they didn’t think they’d be able to turn it around. That it’d been Sean who’d got him through the multiple rounds of IV antibiotics and another surgery to clean up the mess from the first surgery.

“I’m not,” Jack said softly, chastised. And here they fell into the same chasm, the space between them they couldn’t cross, Jack on one side looking stricken, Sean on the other trying not to fume at Jack when he was angry with himself.

“I should go to bed,” Jack said, resigned, a hand rubbing over his face, exhausted. It was two in the morning and he’d played a full game of football in the wet, of course he was exhausted. But as his hand fell away from his face, it wasn’t just the lines of the game, and the flight, tracking down his skin. It was this too, it was Sean—his patient, his charge for the past six months, a roommate he had to tiptoe around like a ticking time bomb while Sean watched him carefully manage, and bury under fake cheer, his grief at losing some guy who’d apparently been his best mate. A guy he kept vigil for, kept waiting for him to come back, when everyone else, including Sean, had given up.

“Night,” Jack said and turned away with a tired smile, eyes flicking up to Sean’s hesitantly before he made for the hallway.

Sean followed him, his boot loud on the floorboard. Jack’s shoulders tensed, propelling Sean forward until he was on him, pushing him against the wall outside Jack’s room. Jack let out a whoosh of breath, but didn’t try to shake him off. He dropped his head against the wall and went still except for his breathing and a fine tremble under his taut muscles.

Instinct took over as Sean pushed him harder against the plaster, moulded his body against Jack’s back. He panted, the sound mingling with Jack’s breaths between the wall and his mouth. Certain Jack wasn’t going to move, Sean slid his hands down to Jack’s hips, lined up and tugged him back as he thrust against his ass.

Jack gasped, tension loosening in his body. Sean did it again, leaned up to press his lips to Jack’s throat, caressed the delicate skin at his pulse. He rocked against him until he was fully hard, his dick straining against the confines of his pants. He slid his hands around Jack’s waist and unfastened his belt, unhooked his button, got his zipper down, slipped his hand inside and found Jack’s cock hard.

He let him go to shove his pants down just enough to expose Jack’s glutes, the material bunching at the crease of his ass. Sean spread both palms over each globe and squeezed; his touch was rough, bordering on cruel, but Jack rocked back into it, his breaths sounding wet where they were trapped against the wall.

Sean went for his fly, got himself free and pressed himself between Jack’s crack. Jack made a broken sound and rocked back into the motion, hips rolling down like he was trying to get Sean inside him. Sean gripped his hips to make him still.

“I fuck you bare?” Sean asked roughly.

“Yes,” Jack’s voice cracked.

Sean angled his dick down with his hand and pressed in, teased Jack’s entrance. Jack went rigid, but pushed back for it.

He wanted to shove in just to hear Jack cry out, but he didn’t. It’d hurt him.

“Ya got lube?” he asked and Jack made a sound like a laugh but it was wet. He was unravelling in front of Sean’s eyes—shaking, letting himself go like he wanted to let go, was used to letting go, but was scrambling to hold on as well, like he wasn’t allowed to do it but needed to do it.

Sean pressed his knees against the back of Jack’s legs to get him moving. He held him close and only let go once they were at the bed. Jack toppled down face first, ass exposed, his big chest rising and falling as he sucked in a lungful of air against the sheets.

The lamp cast the room with a soft glow when Sean flicked it on, lighting up the muscles in Jack’s ass where he bunched and released, grinding into the bed.

Sean took his shirt off, dealt with the brace, the sound of ripping Velcro drowning out Jack’s laboured breathing. He shoved his pants down and stood naked over Jack, stroking his dick as he watched him. Jack spread his shaking legs as he waited. Sean fished lube out of the top drawer, straddled Jack’s thighs and ignored the twinge in his thigh.

He tugged Jack’s pants down to mid-thigh, pushed his shirt up until it was bunched under his armpits, pushed further until Jack reached up and Sean tugged it over his head but not off, his arms and hands trapped above his head. Sean breathed out, the feeling heady as he looked at Jack splayed and pinned beneath him.

Jack hissed but stayed where he was when Sean dribbled lube over his crack, spread it down and teased his balls with it, rubbed over his taint, gripped his hip with his other hand to hold him down. When he pushed in with a finger, Jack gasped and tried to get more and to get away at the same time. Sean slid in and out, watched his digit disappearing inside. He pushed in deep, searching, and Jack arched, cried out when Sean found it. Sean laughed, a huff of breath.

As he massaged the spot, watched Jack wriggle under him, he marvelled at how Jack was letting him do it, how easily Jack let himself go into his hands, how he arched for more when Sean added another finger.

He pulled his fingers out. Jack mumbled, “No, Sean, please,” against the sheets, as if he thought Sean was going to leave it at that. As if he could.

Sean slicked his dick up, pressed his hand against Jack’s lower back as he lined himself up with his other hand.

He leaned down and whispered against Jack’s ear, “Gonna fuck you now.”

Jack tried to spread his legs wider.

Sean had enough left in him to chuckle softly before he pushed his cockhead inside. He let go of his dick, gripped Jack’s hip and thrust all the way in. Jack was a tight clench around him and Sean groaned at how good it felt. He looked down, his cock buried to the hilt, Jack’s hole stretched around him, the soft glow from the lamp casting the dip of Jack’s spine and the space under Sean’s cock in shadow. The planes of Jack’s back moved desperately as he breathed and moaned. Sean dragged himself out, leaving only the head inside, and slid back inside slowly, riveted by the sight—he was fucking a man, something he’d only gotten to do twice before, fumbling hook-ups in the dark, men whose names he didn’t care to remember—and now here he was, stroking inside a gorgeous man, a man who was trying to open himself up more for it, trying to press down for more.

But Sean was going to take a minute to fuck him slowly first. To really enjoy this. He felt it when Jack realised this too, gave up and sank into the mattress and let Sean take what he needed.

He looked up and moved in the same motion, planting his hands on either side of Jack’s head; he bracketed himself there as he slid out, rocked back in, listened to the sounds punching out of Jack on each down stroke, the sucking of breath as Sean dragged out again.

He leaned down, some other instinct taking over as he kissed Jack’s shoulder. Jack shuddered beneath him and turned his head to the side. Sean nuzzled against his cheek as his hips sped up.

It was Jack who found him, pressed a kiss that was more of a breath against his lips, a kiss that couldn’t hold with the way Sean was pounding into him, and it was Jack who pulled away, gasped and went taut, ass clenching around Sean’s dick, muscles so tight it stole Sean’s breath.

“Did you just…” he whispered.

Jack muffled his response in the sheets, not a word but a noise, high-pitched.

“Oh, fuck,” Sean said, hips driving in with force, overwhelmed by how hot that was.

His orgasm felt like it started in the soles of his feet and surged through his legs to his balls, tightening before releasing, his come driving into Jack with shoves of his hips.

His arms were shaking as he came back to himself. He hung his head between his shoulders, his panting breaths fanning the blonde hair at Jack’s nape. Jack’s laboured breathing moved through him, the pulse inside him squeezing and releasing on Sean’s cock. Sean shuddered before pulling back and out.

He rocked back onto his heels, caught his breath and looked at Jack sprawled beneath him. He took a moment to just look—the sheen of sweat on Jack’s shoulder blades, his arms still trapped above his head, his biceps bunching and releasing but not moving, not trying to get free.

Jack made a broken noise when Sean got off the bed and it hit Sean with an ache in his chest. It was a noise he knew Jack didn’t want to make; he stroked his flank.

“Just gettin’ some water.” He watched as Jack tried to relax, tried to hide that reaction.

Sean slipped out of the room, thigh hurting, head unsure.

When he came back, Jack had rolled onto his back, his arms still tangled above his head. His eyes were closed and his chest heaved.

“Here,” Sean said and held up a glass of water.

Jack opened his eyes and looked up at him. There was a careful blankness in his gaze; Sean got the distinct feeling he was trying to make what’d just happened less than it was. His body was taut, like he was trying to hold himself rigid when what he wanted to do, needed to do, was collapse into the mattress and let Sean take care of him.

It was all a bit much for Sean after the best sex of his life, but there was nothing he could do to break the tension descending around them. He placed the water on the bedside table and went for the shirt tangled around Jack’s arms, careful not to meet his eyes. Jack let him, even though he could’ve done it himself, but it felt right as Sean pulled the material away and dropped the shirt on the floor, rubbed Jack’s wrists, worked the muscles of his forearms with a deep rolling motion of his thumbs, his fingers, watched the skin turn pink as the blood rushed up. Jack’s breath fanned over his cheek and Sean glanced down his chest, saw the pectoral muscle pulsing in the glow of the lamp.

“You’re okay,” Sean murmured and wondered where the words came from.

He let Jack’s arms go, levered himself down to sit on the edge of the bed, felt Jack moving behind him.

“Here,” he said and handed the glass over.

“Thanks,” Jack said, his voice rough as he took it.

Sean sat naked and listened to Jack’s throat work as he drained the water. He could feel the warmth of him at his back. The glass appeared in his periphery and Sean placed it back on the bedside table.

When Sean glanced back, Jack was staring at the ceiling, still giving Sean nothing. Sean rubbed his eyes with his palms, wired but tired, terrified he was going to do the wrong thing here.

Jack’s palm on his spine was a balm he didn’t know he was waiting for. Without looking at him, he reached forward and hit the lamp. In the dark he turned, pushed into Jack’s space and made him move to his side, pushed him until Sean was out of the wet spot. He wrapped his arms around his thick torso and held him.

It wasn’t until he heard Lola’s nails on the floorboards, felt her land softly at their feet, the bottom of where their legs were tangled together, that he felt something inside him unclench.

Jack was warm in his arms and Sean pressed a kiss to his shoulder that made him shudder, relax, and let go into the hold. Sean tightened his arms and kissed him again, felt Jack go lax and drift into sleep.

And this was just mates helping each other out?