Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!
Mark was dying a slow, agonizing death. He sat on the table, gritted his teeth and thought as much as possible about baseball, but his poor stash of sports knowledge was exhausted in under a minute and Roger needed far more time than that.
Bracing Mark with one hand wrapped around his shoulder, Roger washed his friend's bruises with cold water. He spoke softly as he did, meaningless words, "You'll be okay… this isn't so bad… after a day or two, you'll hardly remember…" The words were meant as solace, but to Mark these were the cheap promises of sweet pillow talk. Both men silently acknowledged the falsity of the words, but neither wanted to discuss the pain Mark would face over the next few days, the soreness, the flaring hurt every time he awoke.
Roger bent his head to examine one of the bruises. His hair brushed against Mark's chest, the tiny contact eliciting a whimper.
Roger leapt back. "I'm sorry," he said. "Did I hurt you? I'm trying to be gentle, but it's been a while," he apologized. "Guess my hands are a little ungainlier than I'd thought," he laughed, spreading his long fingers in a hangdog plea for forgiveness.
Mark swallowed hard, wishing he could think of something, anything other than which particular swelling those fingers could ease. "It's not that bad," he managed. "Am I okay?"
"Yeah," Roger said. He stepped closer. As he leaned over to drench the cloth again with cold water, his breath against Mark's shoulder made Mark shiver. "You must be freezing. I'm sorry, Mark. I'll try to hurry."
"No rush," Mark squeaked, then gasped, this time at the cold as Roger pushed against his chest.
"I'm sorry… the cold helps the swelling," Roger explained. As he continued to bathe Mark's bruised abdomen with icy water, he continued, "Cold slows the flow of blood. No blood, no swelling, see? So this should help."
Mark nodded. What could he say? I'm getting hot from your touch. I can't stand it anymore. Please stop teasing me, Roger, it hurts! Yet he did not want the pain to stop. It was beautiful, glorious, pure and true. He wanted to push it to another level, indulge this ache. Keep going, Roger… Mark gasped again as Roger dragged the cloth over a particularly nasty bruise on Mark's left side, at the bottom of his ribcage.
"Okay." Roger twisted the cloth into a tight rope, draining the water back into the bowl, then he plunged the cloth into the salad bowl filled with warm, salty water. "This may hurt," he warned. "I'm going to clean your face. It's probably not bleeding anymore. Hold as still as you can. You might want to close your eyes."
Mark obeyed, shutting his eyes and trying not to squirm as warm water cleared the blood from his face. "This is my fault," Roger muttered. "I'm so sorry, Mark. This is all my fault."
"Why?" Mark asked. A dribble of salt water dove into his mouth, and he pulled a face. Ow. "You can't always be protecting me," he added.
"Not that," Roger said. He wrung out the cloth again, and Mark trembled as the cold water brushed over his face. "I should have been beating you up more."
Mark laughed incredulously. "You should have what?" he asked.
"Beat you up," Roger repeated. "I should've taught you how to take a punch. My little sister takes one better, and she's seven."
"Seven?"
Roger shrugged. "The last time I saw her, anyway," he offered in an offhand tone, as though he did not wonder what had become of her and all his sisters. There had been so many Davises they were considered a brood; why had Roger never gotten to know them better? The only sibling he had been truly close with was Sarah, and then only because she followed him wherever he went.
Slowly, Mark's eyes opened. By now Roger had finished freezing Mark's face, and had started once more on his abdomen, in particular a nasty bruise on Mark's sternum. The blow had left him winded. "Does this hurt?" Roger asked. "If it hurts, I'll stop. We can take you to a doctor."
"It's fine," Mark assured him. Please don't stop. He was painfully aware of his pulse, the snapping air, Roger's hand holding tightly to his shoulder.
"Are you sure?" Roger asked. When Mark nodded, Roger carefully dipped one corner of the cloth into the cold water. "This'll be hell," he warned, then brushed the frigid water over Mark's temple. As he did, Roger let his knuckle drop to brush gently against Mark's skin, a cool, medicinal touch.
Mark couldn't help himself: he moaned. Oh, shit. Already Mark felt himself blushing. Shit. No, it's okay, it's pain, I can salvage this. I can tell Roger it's the pain, pain making me dizzy maybe. Because, thick as Roger could be at times, Mark was fairly certain that by now he had noticed the activity in Mark's trousers. It's okay. This doesn't mean anything, it doesn't have to--
Mark grabbed Roger and kissed him.
TO BE CONTINUED!
Reviews are appreciated! Flames are bad, but constructive criticism is good!
There'll be a new chapter soon, but I'm being told not to do any more of this until I've done my music lesson.
