Pain woke him, the perfectly timed thudding of his temples marching alongside the nausea swelling in his middle. “Damn.” Eyes tightly closed, he stretched with a groan before he swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge, fighting the sparks of pain in his back. Straightening the T-shirt he’d slept in, he muttered, “I’m too old for this shit.” Too old for a lot of things. Fumbling around on the nightstand allowed him to find his phone by touch, and he brought it close to his face as he forced one bleary eye open just a sliver.
It took a few blinks to focus, but midmorning wasn’t too late, even if it was hours after he’d normally have been up and at whatever his goals were for the day.
Today he didn’t have any ambition, so sleeping in wasn’t a crime. Being at loose ends wasn’t something he enjoyed as a rule, but one day wouldn’t kill him.
He unlocked the device as he yawned, then thumbed through a couple of screens to the message icon where he had several notifications. Steeling himself, he tapped the app, surprised to see messages from Kirby, Oscar, and Brain. There hadn’t been any storms last night, and he would have expected they’d have a quiet night of it, so he frowned when Oscar’s messages were a list of what he’d done to help Brain through an episode. In response to the message apologizing for using his room because it was a better solution, whatever that meant, Clark tapped out a quick: No problem.
Moving to Kirby’s messages, he read the first, then paused, reading it a second time because it just didn’t make any sense: Know you like your privacy, old man, but you dropped a mess in my lap this time.
The next didn’t offer any clarity, muddying the waters even more: Not like you to run from something. I thought you were better than that.
“Boy, I half raised your ass. You need to watch that mouth before it trips you straight into trouble.” Clark decided the rest of the messages could wait until he had at least one cup of coffee in him. He snagged a pair of sweatpants from where they were draped across the foot of the bed and put them on, pulling them up as he stood. The nausea had receded, for which he was grateful, but the pain in his back persisted enough that he trailed a hand along the wall as he walked to the kitchen.
He thanked his foresight in preparing the pot as he turned the switch on, standing and staring until the first trickle of dark liquid filled the bottom of the carafe. Knowing the only thing in the refrigerator was the box of leftover pizza, he opened the pantry door and surveyed the meager offerings. “Oatmeal it is.” The instant packets tasted like salty cement, but it would put something in his belly to offset the acidity of the coffee he planned on drinking by the bucketful today.
Ten minutes later and he was seated on a padded chair on his back patio, bare feet propped on the rail as he alternated between the warm bowl of oatmeal and the hot mug of coffee. There was a concerning heaviness in the air, a dark line of clouds crawling along the western horizon that promised activity later in the day. He idly thumbed the button on the phone to unlock it, bowl cradled in his lap as he lifted the coffee in his other hand. The weather app had an exclamation mark next to it, which didn’t bode well for today. Inside, the news was even worse. With storm watches already in play and only a couple of counties to the west, they were under warnings for tornados, flooding, and storms.
He pushed the phone button, then dialed a number from memory, not bothering to go to his favorites. It rang twice, and Kirby answered with a muted, “Hello?”
Clark ignored the odd hush, getting straight to the business driving him to make this call. “Did you see the weather forecast? Brain’s going to need to take his meds now, and then the second dose midafternoon. I know he hates that shit, but it’s going to be bad, Kirb.”
“Yeah, I saw the alerts earlier. You just rollin’ out of bed, old man?” There was noise in the background, and Kirby muttered, “Oh, shit,” his voice getting fainter as if he had moved away from the phone.
“Where are you, Boots?” The shout took him by surprise. Brain was on the phone, and Clark let his lids drift closed, blocking out the view of his overgrown flowerbeds and yard to focus on Brain’s voice. “Where the hell did you go yesterday? I got back here to talk to you, and y-y-you weren’t here.” The vulnerable tone wasn’t something he’d heard from Brain before, and Clark’s shoulders dropped in guilt. “You weren’t here.”
“I came home.” He swallowed another sip of coffee and leaned sideways to place the mug on the floor. “I just needed—”
The oatmeal in his lap tipped, and he dropped the mug in a failed attempt to catch the bowl. Both smashed as they hit the floor—then a massive wave of pain locked his muscles, and he fell, sharp pain piercing his thigh as he landed on the broken crockery. Shaking his head, he stared at the wet and growing red patch on his leg. “Shit.” The pain in his back hit again, and he tipped backwards, not able to get his elbows underneath him in time, skull bouncing off the hard concrete with an oath-inducing thud. Something buzzed nearby, and he waved at it, hoping the day wouldn’t be made worse with a wasp sting.
“Damn.” He blinked up at the rafters as he lay back on the floor, waiting for the world to stop waving along the edges of his vision. It took a while, but eventually, he felt stable enough to push up on an elbow. The red now stained the concrete in a small puddle around his hip, and he stared at the white splinter protruding from the side of his leg. “Huh.” He scooted backwards until he could lean against the back wall of the house, then clamped one hand around where the shard had embedded itself, ignoring the pain as he yanked it out and tossed it to the side.
The buzzing noise was back, and his gaze landed on his phone vibrating sideways. Must have hung up when I fell. He felt bad for worrying them, but he had enough to deal with without Kirby or Oscar hovering and making things out to be a dozen times worse than they were. They’d been good kids who’d grown into great men, but they shared one trait with their grandfather—they were both worriers.
“Boots?” That shout came from the front yard and was followed by thudding that had to be fists trying to batter down his front door. How the hell does Brain know where I live? “Boots!”
“I’m back here, Brian.” Clark didn’t like how weak his voice sounded, so he tried again. “Around the back.”
Seconds later, Brain rounded the corner and was on the patio, landing on his knees next to Clark. “What happened?” He looked and sounded alarmed and out of breath, chest heaving as color rode high on his cheeks. “You cried out, and then the call disconnected. Shit, man, you’re bleeding.”
“Yeah, I see that.” Clark aimed at amused but suspected he’d missed the mark when Brain’s expression morphed from terrified to angry, the emotional volatility telling Clark a lot about how the man’s night had been. “Help me up and inside, would ya? Cut myself on a tiny piece of coffee mug. I’ll clean this mess up later.” He held out a hand and waited. Futilely, which was frustrating.
Gaze still on the redness saturating Clark’s sweatpants, Brain asked, “Shouldn’t we get a doc to look at you?”
“Boy,” he drawled slowly, putting as much authority in his voice as possible, “I’ve had worse places on my eyeball. Just get me up and inside, and I can take care of my own self. Don’t need no doctor for a tiny thing like this.”
“Boots?” The shout was followed by another round of assaults against his front door, and Clark groaned as Oscar continued to yell.
Brain shook himself like a dog, and his jaw tensed, muscles in his cheek and neck flexing. “Around back,” he called loudly, then picked up Clark’s phone when it started vibrating again. “Kirby, he’s hurt. I think he needs a doc.”
“I do not need a doc,” Clark said loudly. “What I need is someone to damn well help me off the floor so I can get cleaned up.” Oscar appeared at the steps leading up to the patio, and Clark sighed. “Finally, someone with some sense. Oscar, son, help me get up. I pulled the damn thing out but want to get a look at the damage so I can deal with it.”
“Don’t touch him.” Brain’s statement was flat, filled with an anxiety and anger Clark hadn’t heard from him before. “I don’t think I can deal if you touch him.”
“I won’t touch him, Brain. Promise you that. Hand me the phone. Let me talk to Kirby,” Oscar said, staring down at Clark. “Then you can help Boots.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.” Clark loosened the grip he had on his leg, surprised at the tiny spurt of blood that flooded out between his fingers. “Aw, shit.” He looked up, ready to accept assistance, but Brain had different ideas.
Hands gripped his upper arms and lifted, sliding his back up the wall. He struggled to get his feet underneath him, the position awkward to keep the pressure on the wound, but Clark wasn’t going to complain. At least he was off the floor. The world swayed, and he leaned forward, aching head and one shoulder pressed against Brain’s chest while arms circled around him as another spasm wracked the muscles alongside his low spine.
“Back hurts. That’s why I fell,” he admitted, keeping his voice low.
“You’re a damn stubborn man, Uncle Clark.” Oscar’s words meant Clark hadn’t been as quiet as intended, and he winced at the man pulling out an old mode of address. “Brain, now that you’re holding on to him, can I touch him? Let me just rip the opening a little more so I can see the wound. That’ll tell me what our next steps are.”
“Yeah.” The steady rise and fall of the chest under Clark’s cheek didn’t change, and he leaned in, giving Brain a little more of his weight. “It’s good now. Go for it, brother.”
Oscar crouched nearby, and Clark felt a tug at the fabric, followed by the distinct sound of threads separating. “Positioning isn’t bad, no likelihood of any arteries being involved, but with this much blood, it definitely punched through something. You’re going to need stitches, Uncle Clark. I can get our doc here, or we can go to the clinic.” Oscar snorted. “Or the ER. Your call on where, but not your call on the what. This needs professional management, hear me?”
“You’re a pain in my ass, boy.” Brain’s chest moved in shuddery jerks, and there were matching puffs of air against the top of his head. “Don’t think you’re immune to my ire, Brian. Don’t be an ass.”
“Yes, sir,” Brain strangled out, then laughed softly. “Want to sit down out here and wait for the doc?”
“Yeah.” He lifted his head, shocked at how close Brain’s face was. His lips were right there, a strained smile pulling them crooked. Brain also had dark circles under his eyes, proof that even though there hadn’t been storms, he’d still had a rough night. “You okay, Brian?”
“I wasn’t, but I am now.” The arms around him tightened, pulling him closer. “More right than I knew I could be.”
Clark stared, watching as the smile on Brain’s face turned into an honest one, sweet and filled with an emotion that frightened him. Lines of tension disappeared, and he could swear the boy looked a decade younger in that moment, handsome and effortlessly engaging. In an instant, Clark knew he’d do anything to get to know him better. Would follow him anywhere. Keep him. If only he were mine.
Clearing his throat, he pulled his gaze away with effort and looked down at the overturned chair. “Oscar, make yourself useful, straighten that up so I can sit, son.”
Instead of just putting the chair back in place, Oscar brought it over, and Brain helped Clark shuffle forward a step so it could fit behind him.
“Okay, go easy so I can keep hold of my leg.” Brain handled him delicately, as if Clark could break apart at any moment, and he tried to stuff down emotions the tenderness invoked, focusing on getting his ass into the seat without losing his balance again. “There we are, I’m good now.”
The arms didn’t release him, and instead of moving away, Brain crowded closer, his head going to Clark’s shoulder. When the man made a choked-off gasp, Clark instinctively gripped the back of his neck, fully aware of how it would look to anyone entering the back yard.
“It’s okay, Brian. I’m good now—” The word he wanted to say stuck in his throat, and he compensated by leaning his head against Brain’s. Mouth to his ear, Clark breathed out slowly, then told him what felt right, “I’m okay, sweetheart. Swear. I’ll be okay.”
“You sure, Clark? I don’t think I could manage if—” Brain’s voice hitched, and Clark tightened his fingers again, setting up a rhythm to his grip and release, making it more of a massage than holding this man to him. “I need you.” Lower, rougher, “I want you.”
Closing his eyes, Clark responded with the truth, as he’d promised Brain he would always do.
“I want you too.”