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At the back of his locker, he finds the 2009 Chicago Fire Department Hot Firefighters Calendar!. Can’t help leafing through the pages to March and the sight of his own bare upper body, leaning against the truck, freshly shaved face smirking happily from underneath his helmet.
Jesus, when did he ever look that young? That . . . cocky? Maybe it was the lighting, the makeup. Or maybe he actually was that guy, once, before. He can’t relate, from where he’s standing right now, it’s like looking at a fantasy, so beyond unattainable he wouldn’t know where to start.
He turns the page to April – some guy from the Hazmat Unit -- to look at anything other than himself.
Casey was . . . what? Yeah, that’s right . . . June. A hose was involved! Enough said! It almost makes him laugh, even today.
- - - - -
On his way out, he catches sight of Casey in his quarters, drinking coffee by himself and doing paperwork. He had intended to do this alone, unnoticed, but for reasons he can’t explain finds himself clearing his throat by the partially open door to attract attention, skimming the calendar along the desk.
“Present for you.” He plasters on a grin. “Something to remember me by.”
Casey’s eyes scan the calendar, then search Kelly’s face, then come to a rest, focused and serious. “Don’t . . .” he says softly, shakes his head. “You’ll be back.”
Like Vargas? Fuck that. Out loud, he says, “You’d better believe it!” Something he thinks March 2009 Kelly might have said. Right now? Well, he wants to believe it. But maybe hope would be a better description, mixed in with a lot of fear.
Absently, Casey nods, pulls the calendar closer. Flicks the pages to March, lingers, bites his lip, then rapidly goes on until he finds himself, grimacing as he does. “I never liked that picture.” He snorts softly. “I mean . . . a fucking hose?!”
“I think that was the point,” Kelly says, grin resurrected briefly. “The fucking part.” Casey groans. “Guess they knew something the rest of us don’t!”
He’s grateful when Casey rolls his eyes and smiles dryly, appreciates the reciprocated effort at bravado. Then the attempted humor fades away, and they’re back to staring, awkward, at each other, until Casey places a hand, briefly, on Kelly’s left arm.
“Good luck for the surgery,” he says.
Kelly swallows, nods, looks down at his feet, suddenly not trusting himself to talk, except to mumble, “Thanks.”
- - - - -
It’s close to midnight. He doesn’t really sleep much, just dozes for a couple of hours at a time. He’s back on Toradol, legally this time, with a prescription. It takes the edge off the pain, but not enough, and the constant discomfort keeps him awake.
There’s a knock at the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and he considers not answering, pretending he’s not home or asleep, but when whoever it is knocks again, louder, more urgently, he hauls himself off the couch and opens the door.
It’s Casey.
Holding the calendar and a not quite full bottle of scotch. From the slightly dazed look on his face, it seems as though what’s not in the bottle is inside him.
“You know what time it is?” Kelly challenges.
“Don’t care,” Casey says bluntly, then pushes through the door and on into the living room.
“I guess you don’t,” Kelly wonders to himself, before closing the door and following him inside.
- - - - -
Five minutes pass, Casey sipping on scotch that he waves away the offer of a glass for. You could cut the atmosphere around him with a knife, and Kelly gets more and more uncomfortable, until he breaks the charged silence with,
“Did you want something, or,” he raises his eyebrows, trying to lighten things by teasing, “is my couch just a more comfortable place to park your ass than a stool at the bar?”
Casey eyes him in a way that, if he hadn’t volunteered to be here, uninvited, Kelly would call openly hostile, then reaches towards the coffee table for the calendar and picks it up.
“You remember this?” he demands tightly.
“Well, yeah . . .” Kelly says, still trying to steer the conversation into the comfort zone of banter. “I have a broken neck, not a traumatic brain injury, and any brain cells I killed off with the drugs were long gone before I found the calendar.” He laughs, slightly wryly, at his own humor, stalling when Casey continues to stare at him, continues to hold out the calendar, belligerently unamused.
“Not the calendar,” he says. “The day they took the photographs.”
“Yeah, I guess . . .” Kelly shrugs. He remembers, mostly, it being boring, too hot and, when he was the center of attention, kind of embarrassing. He had to keep reminding himself they were doing it for charity.
“You don’t remember banging the photographer’s assistant in the supply closet?”
“Oh, yeah!” Actually, he’d forgotten, more or less. But, yeah, now he comes to think of it – the redhead, tall, leggy. He grins at Casey. Casey resolutely doesn’t grin back, and Kelly demands, “What?”
“You remember what happened right before that?”
- - - - -
(“You want help with, uh . . . that?”
He indicates the hose with a slight nod of his head, and Casey rolls his eyes. “Lucky for you they didn’t have you use props.”
“Don’t need ‘em,” Kelly jokes.
“Except the helmet.” Casey’s eyes drift upwards to Kelly’s head. “They remember to get extra-extra-large to accommodate your ego?”
“Casey,” he shakes his head. “It’s only ego when you can’t back it up.”)
- - - - -
He shrugs. “We stood around for hours, made lame jokes and they took pictures." Casey’s jaw tightens more, and Kelly loses patience. “You know what? It’s late. My neck hurts. My life, if you haven’t noticed, is falling apart.” He stands up, in an effort to show Casey out. “Could you maybe work out your issues, whatever the hell they are, somewhere else?”
Casey swallows, nods once, stands up himself. “Got it,” he says curtly. By the front door, as he opens it, he turns back. “Why’d you give me the calendar?” he asks, and then he’s gone, leaving Kelly with the incomplete feeling that somehow, despite all the evidence against it, it was him, not Casey, who did the wrong thing here.
- - - - -
(The Hazmat guy is applying baby oil to his muscles. He’s been doing it all day and it’s kind of fascinating to witness the obsessive self-absorption. Kelly’s not entirely certain he’d like to fight fires with this guy.
He finds himself comparing: Casey looks way better, without all the fuss. Casey looks damn good, actually. And he realizes he’s staring. Realizes, in retrospect, he’s been staring for a while now. That the only reason he hasn’t walked out by now is the fact that Casey’s here too.
“Hey.” He wanders over while they're setting up the next picture, but this time he doesn’t have any jokes to make. Anything to say, at all, really, so he just uses any words, the first that occur, to make a connection. “How’re you doing?”
Casey raises an eyebrow. “You okay?” he asks.
Kelly nods. “I just . . .” There are words behind his tongue, now, aching to get past his lips. I just want to be close to you. But even if he dared, he wouldn’t know how to form them. His body feels alive, his mind clear. He knows this, he knows it intimately, the feeling of being permanently on the edge of a hard-on and, right along with it, comfort, peace, happiness. It’s the feeling of being with a girl he really likes. It’s just, this time, it’s for Casey, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.
Except.
His mouth goes dry, his heart rate triples, and his hand rests on Casey’s neck, softly cradling, feeling the warmth, the pulse, looking into his eyes like he’s never looked before.
“Kelly?” Casey questions, but he doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, there’s not even a shadow of a question in his eyes.)
- - - - -
Shit . . . Shit!
Ten minutes later, he was flirting with the redhead. An hour later, she was backed up against the supply closet shelving, gasping out pleasure, and he had his dick inside her.
He can remember telling himself not to wish she was Casey. He can remember telling himself to forget about it, put it down to the weirdness of the photo shoot. He can remember leaving without another word, coming back to the firehouse the next day as though nothing had ever happened.
He can remember fooling himself he forgot. Except some place inside him, the impulse today he couldn’t explain, never bought it.
Apparently, neither did Casey.
- - - - -
“It was over three years ago. It was nothing! What the fuck does it matter, anyway? I’m gonna be out of your life for good soon!”
On the other end of the call, Casey swallows. “What if I don’t want you to be?” he asks, very quietly, then waits during the heavy, slow-motion infinity of a minute it takes Kelly to pause, think, brace himself and, finally, give in.
2009 Kelly might have been fresh, and young and cocky – but, God, he was the biggest fucking idiot of all time. And yes, he’s made some mistakes since then, but this particular one? He’s damned if he’s making it again.
“Come back,” he says. “Please,” then hangs up the phone.
- - - - -
“Sorry, does that hurt?” Casey . . . Matt notices, as Kelly can’t help wincing at the body weight lowered against his shoulder
“Yeah,” he acknowledges softly, honestly. Then, “It’s okay.” His shoulder’s going to hurt anyway; this is a really good way to have it happen.
Matt plants a kiss on his neck, his shoulder, and Kelly takes in a shuddering breath, so moved, so turned on, so relieved, he can barely function through the intensity.
“I want this,” the words are more exhaled than spoken, the expression of a breath, a thought, a longing, held onto, overlooked, for years now.
“I know,” Matt says, and kisses him again.
- - - - -
Over coffee and cereal, after a wordless exchange of raised eyebrows and smiles with Shay, Kelly flips open the calendar to June.
“You were so hot,” he says. “You were . . .” He shakes his head, helpless, and it feels like all I ever wanted is the right thing to say, but that was impossible then, and too soon now, so, “I’m sorry, I was just . . . ”
“It’s okay,” Matt says. “And I probably shouldn’t . . . you gave me the calendar, and . . .” He shrugs, awkward now himself.
“You should,” Kelly reassures him. “You really fucking should.” He reaches over, cradles Matt’s neck, leans into him, forehead touching forehead. “Trust me.”
- - - - -
When he goes in for his surgery, Matt comes to the hospital with him. When he wakes up, groggy, sore, Matt’s sitting by his bed, reading, and the calendar is on the nightstand.
“That hose didn’t do you justice,” Kelly teases, his voice hoarse, startling Matt. They smile at teach other, he reaches out his hand, and Matt takes it.
“Good to see you back.” Matt says.
“Good to see you, too,” Kelly replies. He wonders if Matt knows how much he means it, and adds, “Remember when you asked me, what if you didn’t want me to be out of your life for good?”
Matt nods.
Kelly swallows, looks into his eyes as he says, clean, clear, open as he can make it, for Matt and for himself, “I don't want that either."