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“Is he going to be okay?” Po keeps his voice to a murmur, shooting a look at where Thame sits on the hospital bed, staring at the cast covering his arm like its personally offended him.
“He’ll be fine,” the doctor answers, sighing as she makes a note on Thame’s chart. “He can go home as soon as we’re done here. Make sure he takes it easy. He doesn’t have a concussion, but that arm is going to be sore for a couple days, even with the cast. Don’t let him do anything that might aggravate it and hinder the healing process.”
Po is sure he imagines the knowing look she shoots at him, but he blushes all the same. “Of course, doctor. Thank you so much.”
She hums, glancing between Po and Thame before leaving, muttering something about foolhardy kids as the door shuts behind her.
“Alright, daredevil. Ready to get out of here?” Po crosses his arms, trying and failing not to smile at the way Thame’s face lights up at the prospect of finally leaving the hospital.
“So ready, Phi. Can we stop for sandwiches on the way? I’m starving. The food here is gross,” he shudders, hopping down from the bed and rushing towards the door.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Po says, shaking his head. If he hadn’t been there holding his hand the whole time, he’d never know Thame had been in the back of an ambulance not three hours prior with the way he’s chattering away.
He only stops talking while he eats, which turns into a whole production, since he only has one good hand with which to do so. Po watches with barely suppressed amusement as his boyfriend struggles to get a good grip on his sandwich, most of the fillings falling out when he goes to take a bite.
“Don’t laugh, P’Po,” Thame whines, pouting as he looks down at the now deconstructed sandwich on his plate.
“I’m not laughing!” Po insists, grinning at the way Thame pokes at the sad pieces of bread and meat scattered on his plate. “Come on, I can make you something easier to eat at home.”
“Fine,” Thame mumbles, despondent in a way Po absolutely does not find endearing or funny.
They make it back to the condo without any further mishaps, although more than once Thame has to stop himself from reaching for Po’s hand with his immobile one. Every time, he glares at his arm and mutters curse words under his breath. Po moves to the other side of him without comment and takes his hand, which seems to help lessen the scowl on Thame’s face.
When they get back to the condo, Po gently pushes Thame in the direction of the bathroom. A hot shower is always the proper remedy for a rough day, especially one that ended with a broken arm.
“Take a bath,” he says, moving towards the kitchen. “I’ll make something you can eat with one hand. Don’t get your cast wet!” he adds, not trusting Thame to have been listening when the doctor was giving her instructions.
Satisfied with Thame’s yeah, yeah wave, Po gets to work, humming the latest MARS single under his breath. The rice is cooking and he’s chopping some veggies when he hears a thud and Thame’s frustrated yell.
“Thame?” Po rushes in the direction of the bathroom, worry spiking. “Thame, are you—?”
Thame is standing in the middle of the bathroom, clothes still on, with tears in his eyes. He looks up at Po and his lip quivers; he looks like a little kid and the sight tugs at Po’s heartstrings.
“What happened?” Po looks around for evidence of Thame having fallen or something, but the only thing he sees is a hairbrush on the floor.
“I can’t…” The rest of Thame’s words are lost behind his hand as he swipes at his face.
“Can’t what?”
“I can’t take my clothes off,” Thame says, voice tight with unshed tears. “My stupid arm is in this stupid cast, and I can’t do anything.”
“Hey,” Po soothes, stepping into Thame’s space. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, yeah?”
He gets to work working Thame’s t-shirt up and over his head. Thame emerges, hair askew, and Po plants a quick kiss on the end of his nose. Next, Po unbuckles Thame’s belt and lets it drop to the floor with a clatter. He unbuttons Thame’s jeans and pulls them down, holding his steady as Thame steps out of them. Thame’s boxers follow suit, and Thame shivers in the cool air of the bathroom.
“Wait a sec, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” Thame mumbles, rubbing his cast absentmindedly.
Po runs back out to the kitchen, grabbing the box of plastic wrap. He brings it back to the bathroom and Thame watches impassively as Po wraps his cast in layers of the clear wrap. He gets the water running, making sure it’s at Thame’s preferred temperature before turning back to him.
“Alright, give me your hand.” Po helps Thame into the shower, making sure he doesn’t lose his balance.
Thame stands under the spray while Po strips down, and Po sees the way his shoulders are up around his ears as he fidgets with a loose strip of plastic wrap.
Po sighs and steps into the shower with him. “I can hear you thinking,” he says, pouring Thame’s favourite body wash onto a washcloth. “This isn’t you being a burden, Thame. You know that, right?”
Thame shrugs.
“I don’t mind helping you, baby. We’re partners, remember?” Po runs his hands over Thame’s shoulders, massaging them until they relax under his touch. Pleased, he runs the washcloth over Thame’s back and arm before gently turning him to wash his chest.
Thame watches silently as Po cleans him, no sound leaving his mouth even as Po crouches down to wash his lower half. When Po stands again, Thame’s eyes are shiny with more tears.
“Why?” Po asks, thumbing at the corner of Thame’s eye.
“I’m just thinking about how lucky I am to have you, P’Po,” Thame says, voice shaky.
“If you’re lucky, so am I,” Po whispers, pinching Thame’s cheek. “Let me take care of you, okay? You don’t have to do anything for the next little bit, except let me dote on you. Think you can handle that?”
Thame nods, the beginnings of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
“On second thought,” Po says, narrowing his eyes. “There is one thing you can do.”
“Anything.”
“You can promise me you’ll never attempt a back flip off the stage ever again. Deal?”
Thame grimaces, an embarrassed flush rising in his cheeks. “Deal, Phi.”