Chapter Text
Kyle wasn’t even supposed to be awake.
It was Saturday, which meant he was supposed to be in bed until at least ten, preferably eleven, with his husband and absolutely nothing to do. Stan had gotten home late from practice the night before, and Kyle had been looking forward to having him to himself for once. They’d already discussed their plans, which involved ordering breakfast, ignoring their phones, and probably having sex before either of them bothered to shower. Kyle had even bought the good orange juice on Friday, the expensive kind that Stan drank straight out of the carton no matter how many times Kyle complained about it.
Instead, his phone had started ringing at seven fifteen.
Kyle had considered letting it go to voicemail. He’d actually watched it ring for several seconds, lying on his side with Stan’s arm draped heavily across his waist, before remembering that he was technically the only person in his department who could fix the problem they’d been having with their client database.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he’d said when his supervisor explained the situation.
Stan had stirred behind him, pressing his face into Kyle’s shoulder. Kyle had been trying to keep his voice down, but that had become impossible somewhere around the words emergency meeting, especially when it turned out that nobody had actually tried restarting the server.
By eight thirty, he was driving to work.
He’d left Stan in bed, half asleep and looking unfairly comfortable, with his hair sticking up on one side and his face still creased from the pillow. Stan had caught Kyle by the wrist when he leaned down to kiss him goodbye, pulling him close enough to mumble something about calling in sick.
“I already told them I’m coming,” Kyle had said.
“So tell them you changed your mind.”
“Yeah, well, apparently I’m the only person there who knows how to use a fucking computer.”
Stan had smiled against his cheek. “That’s why I married you.”
“You married me because I’m hot.”
“That too.”
Kyle had kissed him again, which had been a mistake, because Stan was warm and smelled like their laundry detergent, and Kyle had spent another five minutes standing beside the bed seriously considering unemployment.
Now he was sitting at a red light with the sun shining directly into his eyes, wondering whether it was too late to turn around.
His headache had started somewhere between the apartment and the freeway. He’d forgotten his sunglasses, there was construction on the road he usually took, and somebody had spilled coffee all over the radio controls at some point during the week. Stan, probably. Kyle had tried wiping it off with a napkin from the glove compartment, but the volume button was still sticky, and every time he touched it he remembered that his husband was probably back asleep.
He turned the air conditioning up and checked the clock.
8:47.
Great. He was going to be late to a job he hadn’t even been scheduled to work.
The light turned green, and Kyle started forward, already thinking about what he was going to say when he got to the office. He was going to fix their stupid database, tell his supervisor that this was the last time he’d be coming in on a weekend, and leave before anybody had a chance to ask him to look at something else. Maybe Stan would still be in bed when he got home. They could order breakfast from that diner down the street, the one with the enormous pancakes, and Kyle could spend the rest of the morning pretending he hadn’t wasted an hour of his life.
He was halfway through the intersection when he noticed the other car.
It was coming from the opposite direction, a dark blue sedan that had been traveling normally until it suddenly wasn’t. Kyle saw it jerk sideways, crossing the center line with its front wheels turned sharply toward him. For a second he thought the driver was making some kind of illegal turn, and he actually opened his mouth to complain.
Then he realized the car wasn’t slowing down.
“Oh, fuck.”
Kyle hit the brakes and pulled the wheel to the right. He heard his tires scream against the pavement, felt the seat belt tighten across his chest, and had just enough time to see the other driver’s face through the windshield before the sedan slammed into the front of his car.
The noise was unbelievable. There was glass everywhere, something hit him in the face, and the steering wheel seemed to come straight at him even though he knew that wasn’t possible. His legs were trapped under the dashboard, and he tried to move them, but there was something wrong with the way his knees were positioned. He couldn’t understand what he was looking at.
Somebody was screaming.
Kyle thought it might be him.
He tried to reach for his phone, which had been sitting in the cup holder, but he couldn’t find it. His left arm wasn’t cooperating very well, either, and there was a horrible burning sensation across his chest. He could smell something chemical, mixed with hot rubber and the dust from the airbag.
Stan was going to be so pissed about the car.
That was the last thing he remembered.
When Kyle woke up, somebody was crying.
It took him a while to figure out where he was. The ceiling was white, there was a television mounted on the wall, and something kept making a soft electronic noise beside his head. He could hear people talking somewhere outside the room, along with the squeaking wheels of what sounded like a cart being pushed down a hallway.
He tried to turn his head and immediately regretted it.
“Fuck.”
His throat felt terrible. He swallowed and discovered that his mouth was so dry his tongue seemed to be sticking to the roof of it.
“Kyle?”
Stan was sitting beside the bed.
For a moment Kyle couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. Stan looked awful, his eyes swollen and his nose red, wearing the same gray sweatpants he’d been sleeping in that morning. His hair was a mess, and there was a dark patch on the front of his shirt where he’d apparently spilled something. He had both hands wrapped around Kyle’s right hand, holding it so tightly that Kyle could feel his fingers beginning to ache.
“Jesus Christ,” Kyle said, or tried to. It came out sounding like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel. “What happened to you?”
Stan made a noise that Kyle had never heard him make before.
Then he was crying again.
“Dude,” Kyle said.
Stan leaned forward and pressed his forehead against their joined hands. His shoulders were shaking, and Kyle stared at him, increasingly alarmed. He’d seen Stan cry before, obviously. They’d been together for years, and Stan had always been the kind of person who cried at movies involving dogs. But this was different. Stan was trying to breathe and couldn’t seem to get enough air.
“Stan, what the fuck?”
“You scared the shit out of me,” Stan managed.
Kyle blinked at him. He was beginning to remember the intersection, the blue car, and the terrible noise, though everything after that was still missing.
“Oh,” he said. “Right.”
Stan lifted his head and stared at him.
“Right?”
“I got hit by a car.”
“Yeah, Kyle. You got hit by a fucking car.”
Kyle tried to sit up, mostly because he wanted to see what was happening below the blanket, and immediately discovered that this was a terrible idea. Pain shot through his lower body so violently that he gasped and fell back against the pillows.
“Ow! Fuck, fuck, what the hell?”
“Don’t move!” Stan was on his feet, one hand hovering uselessly over Kyle’s chest. “Jesus, Kyle, don’t try to get up. They said you’re not supposed to move your legs.”
“My legs?”
Stan looked at him like he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.
“Yeah, your legs.”
Kyle looked down.
Both of them were wrapped up in enormous white casts, with his right leg elevated on pillows and his left supported by some kind of foam contraption. There was a thick bandage around one knee, and he could see yellowish bruising beginning to appear above the edge of the cast. He stared for several seconds, trying to understand why his legs looked like something somebody had built out of plaster.
“Holy shit,” he said.
Stan sat back down, rubbing his hands over his face.
“Yeah.”
“Are they broken?”
Stan gave him a miserable look.
“Both of them. Your right femur and your left tibia and fibula. They had to operate on your right leg, and they’re keeping you here for a while because of the swelling. You have a concussion, too, and a bunch of bruised ribs. They said you were really lucky.”
Kyle looked at his legs again.
“Lucky?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Stan, I have two broken fucking legs.”
“I know, dude.”
“How is that lucky?”
Stan’s face crumpled again.
Kyle shut his mouth.
He hadn’t meant to make him cry. He was still trying to understand what had happened, and everything hurt, and the fact that both his legs were broken seemed like something that ought to be upsetting him considerably more than it currently was. But Stan was looking at him with such obvious relief that Kyle felt guilty for complaining.
“Hey,” he said, squeezing Stan’s fingers. “Come here.”
Stan leaned forward immediately, careful of the wires attached to Kyle’s chest. Kyle lifted his good arm around his shoulders and felt Stan press his face into the side of his neck. He was still crying, quietly now, his breath hot against Kyle’s skin.
“Jesus, dude,” Kyle murmured. “I’m okay.”
Stan shook his head.
“You’re not okay.”
“Well, I’m not dead.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
Kyle rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the familiar short hairs there. Stan had gotten a haircut on Thursday, and Kyle had complained that he’d gone too short around the ears. He remembered that now, for some reason, and it made him want to cry.
“What happened?” Kyle asked. “With the other driver?”
Stan sat back, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“Some guy had a medical emergency. He passed out while he was driving, I guess. The cops said he crossed into your lane and hit you almost head-on.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. He’s in the hospital too, but I think he’s okay. I don’t know, dude, I haven’t really been paying attention to him.”
Kyle considered this.
“Well, that’s good.”
Stan looked at him.
“What?”
“That he’s not dead.”
“Oh.” Stan rubbed his eyes again. “Yeah. I guess.”
Kyle shifted slightly against the pillows and winced. There was a sore spot on the back of his head, and his chest felt like somebody had spent the afternoon kicking him. He was beginning to notice smaller injuries now, including a cut on his chin and several painful scratches across his left hand.
“How long have I been here?”
“Since this morning. It’s almost seven.”
“Seven at night?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Stan nodded, looking exhausted.
“They called me around nine thirty. I thought it was you at first, because your number came up on my phone. Then this cop started talking, and I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He kept telling me you were being taken to the hospital, and I asked him if you were awake, and he wouldn’t answer me.”
Kyle watched him.
“I drove here in my fucking pajamas,” Stan continued. “I didn’t even put shoes on. I got halfway through the parking garage before I realized I was barefoot.”
Despite everything, Kyle laughed.
It hurt his ribs so badly that he immediately regretted it.
“Ow, fuck. Stan!”
“What?”
“You can’t tell me shit like that right now. It hurts to laugh.”
Stan gave him a watery smile.
“Sorry.”
“Did you really come here barefoot?”
“Yeah. Kenny brought me shoes later.”
Kyle looked down at Stan’s feet. He was wearing an old pair of black sneakers that Kyle recognized immediately, mostly because Kenny had owned them since college and refused to throw them away even though one of the soles was starting to come loose.
“Those are disgusting,” Kyle said.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly thinking about fashion.”
“Did Kenny come?”
“He was here for a while. He went to get us some food, but I told him you probably wouldn’t be eating anything tonight.”
Kyle thought about that.
“Why not?”
“Because you just had surgery.”
“So?”
Stan stared at him.
“Dude.”
“What? I’m hungry.”
Stan started laughing, which was a relief. He still looked terrible, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore.
“I’ll ask the nurse.”
“Thank you.”
Stan picked up the plastic cup of water sitting beside the bed and helped Kyle drink through the straw. Kyle managed three sips before deciding he’d had enough, though he was pretty sure he’d never tasted anything better in his life. Stan set the cup down and wiped a little water from Kyle’s chin with his thumb.
For a while they sat quietly.
Kyle could hear somebody laughing in the hallway, and a nurse came in to check his blood pressure and ask how bad his pain was. Kyle told her it was about an eight, which apparently concerned her enough to adjust something on the machine beside his bed. She explained that he’d be receiving medication through his IV and that he shouldn’t try to get up without assistance, even if he felt better.
“Trust me,” Kyle said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Stan didn’t laugh at that one.
After she left, Kyle looked over at him.
“So, how long until I can walk?”
Stan hesitated.
“They said it’s going to take a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“A few months, probably. They’re going to have you doing physical therapy, and you’ll need a wheelchair for a bit.”
Kyle stared at him.
“A wheelchair.”
“Yeah.”
“For months?”
“I don’t know exactly how long, Kyle. The doctor said he’ll come talk to you tomorrow.”
Kyle looked back down at his legs. He could already imagine the phone calls, the paperwork, the insurance company, and the endless emails from his supervisor asking when he expected to return. He’d have to explain everything to his parents, too, and his mother would probably be on a plane by Monday morning. She’d insist on staying with them until Kyle could walk again, and then Stan would have to deal with her reorganizing their kitchen cabinets.
He closed his eyes.
“Fuck my life.”
Stan reached for his hand again.
“We’ll figure it out.”
Kyle opened his eyes and looked at him.
“How much do you make?”
Stan blinked.
“What?”
“Your salary. How much do you make a year?”
“Kyle, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Just answer the question.”
Stan gave him a confused look.
“You know how much I make.”
“Yeah, but I’m on drugs right now, so humor me.”
Stan told him.
Kyle considered the number for a moment. Between Stan’s football contract, endorsements, and the money they’d saved over the last few years, they were doing pretty well. Kyle had always insisted on working anyway, partly because he liked having his own career and partly because he didn’t want anybody thinking he’d married Stan for his money.
He’d also never particularly enjoyed his job.
“Okay,” Kyle said.
Stan frowned.
“Okay, what?”
“I’m quitting.”
Stan stared at him.
“Your job?”
“No, Stan, our marriage. Yes, my fucking job.”
Stan looked at the casts, then at Kyle.
“Dude, you have a concussion.”
“I had a concussion because those assholes called me into work on a Saturday.”
“That’s not exactly why you have a concussion.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be outside today!”
Stan pressed his lips together.
Kyle pointed at him.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m really not.”
Stan was definitely laughing now, though he was trying very hard not to. Kyle could see his shoulders moving.
“I could’ve been in bed with you,” Kyle continued. “We had plans. We were going to have breakfast, and then we were going to have sex, and then maybe we were going to have more sex. Instead I got hit by a fucking Honda.”
“It was a Toyota.”
“I don’t give a shit what it was!”
Stan lost it.
He bent forward, laughing into his hands, and Kyle glared at him from his hospital bed. It was deeply unfair that Stan was allowed to laugh when Kyle couldn’t even breathe too hard without feeling like his ribs were going to break all over again.
“You’re such an asshole,” Kyle said.
Stan shook his head, still laughing.
“I’m sorry. Jesus Christ, Kyle.”
“I’m serious. I’m never going back there.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not even giving them two weeks.”
“Okay, dude.”
“They can figure out their own stupid database.”
Stan reached over and brushed Kyle’s hair away from his forehead.
“Quit, then.”
Kyle stopped.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Fuck that place. You hate it anyway.”
“I never said I hate it.”
Stan raised his eyebrows.
“Okay, you complain about it every single day.”
“That’s different.”
“Sure.”
Kyle thought about it for another moment.
“You’re really okay with me not working?”
Stan’s expression changed. He looked at Kyle for a long time, then glanced down at his legs.
“Dude, I thought you were dead this morning.”
Kyle swallowed.
Stan took his hand again.
“I don’t care if you ever work another day in your life. I just want you home.”
Kyle stared at him, feeling his eyes start to sting.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “That’s good, because I think I’m going to be home for a while.”
Stan smiled, though his eyes were wet again.
“Yeah. I think so.”
Kyle squeezed his hand.
“You’re gonna have to carry me everywhere.”
“I know.”
“Like, to the bathroom and shit.”
“Yeah, Kyle.”
“And you’re gonna have to help me shower.”
Stan nodded.
“I figured.”
Kyle considered this.
“Actually, that part might be kind of nice.”
Stan laughed softly.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m just saying.”
Stan leaned forward and kissed him, very gently, avoiding the cut on his chin. Kyle closed his eyes and kissed him back, feeling the familiar warmth of Stan’s hand against his cheek.
When Stan pulled away, Kyle looked at him.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you get my phone?”
Stan frowned.
“Why?”
“I’m emailing my boss.”
Stan stared at him for a moment, then started laughing again.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Stan, I’m serious.”
“I know you are.”
“Tell Kenny to bring me something good, too. I want a cheeseburger.”
Stan shook his head and reached for his own phone.
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’ve been resting all fucking day.”
“You’ve been unconscious all day.”
“Same difference.”
Stan laughed and began typing a message to Kenny. Kyle watched him for a moment, feeling the pain medication beginning to make everything pleasantly distant. His legs still hurt, and he knew the next few months were going to be absolutely miserable, but Stan was here, and he was alive, and he was never going to answer another work call on a Saturday for as long as he lived.
“Hey, Stan?”
Stan looked up.
“What?”
“Make sure Kenny gets fries.”
Stan smiled.
“Yeah, dude. I’ll make sure.”