"I don't know."
"S'not fair." But he was still smiling, that ridiculous open smile. "I had a plan. Did I tell you about my plan? Gonna tell Derek first. Then my dad, if he's having a good day. Then everyone. The whole world." His grip tightened on my hand. "Gonna hold your hand in public. Kiss you after games. All of it. I want everyone to know you're mine."
My chest ached. Sober Red never would have said any of that. “Red…”
"Is that crazy?" he asked. "That's probably crazy. But I had a plan, Joel. A really good plan. I was gonna be so brave."
"You're already brave."
"No, but like, really brave. The kind where everyone can see." His eyes were drifting, struggling to stay open, but the smile hadn't faded. "You make me want to be brave. You make me want to be a lot of things."
I leaned closer, my thumb tracing across his knuckles. "Tell me about it later. When you're not high."
"M'not high." He giggled, actually giggled, and I had to look away for a second. "Okay, maybe a little high. They gave me the good stuff. But I mean it. I mean all of it. I love you."
“You wouldn’t say that if you were sober.”
"Mean." But he was still smiling. "Stay?"
"I'll stay."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Good." His eyes closed, and his voice went fuzzy. "You're my favorite person. Don't tell Derek."
His breathing evened out and his grip went slack as he fell asleep holding my hand.
Derek came back eventually. He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at us, then crossed to the chair by the window and sat down without a word. He didn't ask me to leave. He didn't ask me anything.
We sat there together in the quiet, two men keeping watch over someone we loved, and the sky outside the window slowly turned from black to gray.
Joel came home with me after they discharged me and decided he was taking care of me.
I woke up on day three to the smell of something burning and Joel swearing in the kitchen. By the time I made it down the hall, he was standing at the stove, glaring at a pan of bacon like it had personally offended him.
"Why won't it lay flat?"
I leaned against the doorframe and didn't answer. He was wearing my sweatpants, tight across his thighs because I had six inches less leg than he did, and one of my old practice jerseys with PIPER stretched across his shoulders. He hadn't packed for more than one night. He'd bought a toothbrush at the CVS down the street and otherwise just borrowed, wore my clothes, slept in my bed, took up space in my apartment like he belonged there.
And it was driving me crazy. Seeing him in my clothes, having him in my bed, right there? Every moment of every day, it felt like I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t get my mouth on him.
This was it. This was the thing we'd talked about on the beach, the impossible math finally working out: Joel Coffey makingbreakfast in my kitchen with bedhead and bare feet, my name on his back. I'd wanted this for so long I'd stopped letting myself imagine it.
The bacon popped, and he flinched, then jabbed at it with a spatula. My dick worked fine, and Joel Coffey was standing in my kitchen half-naked and losing a fight to breakfast meat.
He turned around and caught me staring. His eyes dropped to where my boxers weren't doing much to hide my interest, and for a second heat flickered across his face. Then his gaze moved up to my bandaged hand, and the heat died.
"You should sit down," he said. "I'll bring it to you."
"I don't want to sit down."
"Red—"
"I've been sitting down for three days." I pushed off the doorframe and crossed the kitchen toward him. "I've been resting. I've been good. I've been so fucking patient, Joel."
He didn't move away, but he didn't move toward me either. "The doctor said—"