Page 51 of Walking Wounded

He doesn’t respond; pitches forward at the waist and rests his elbows on his thighs, stares down at his sneakers. He’s got a big black streak along the sole of the left one, where the treadmill scuffed it.

“Luke? Hey.” Hal comes around the corner and spots him, reaches him in just a few long strides, close enough for Luke to see the toes of his Nikes butting up against his own. “You okay? You hurt? That was a bad fall.”

“It was a fucking stupid fall,” Luke mutters.

“Are you okay?” Hal repeats, tone serious. His hand, warm and heavy, lands on the back of Luke’s neck. A move which strikes Luke as intimate and frightened all at once, the little ripple of tension that runs through Hal’s palm, the way he’s covering Luke’s exposed, vulnerable pulse points with the tips of his fingers. That note of stress in his voice, when he ought to be laughing at Luke’s stupidity. “Luke.”

He can’t bear to look at his friend, terrified of what he’ll find in his gaze. “I’m fine.”

Hal sits down beside him, close enough their elbows knock together, close enough their thighs touch. “Here, lemme see. Did you hit your head?”

With great effort, Luke lifts his head, sighing out through his mouth. He feels the wetness on his face the same moment Hal hisses.

“Ah, shit, you did.”

“I’m fine.” He probes his right eyebrow with a fingertip and feels the burn of torn skin, the wetness of blood.

But Hal isn’t taking “fine” as an answer. He gets down on his knees at Luke’s feet, hands hovering above Luke’s face, expression deeply concerned. “Damn, you’re probably gonna have a shiner.” With a thumb, he presses oh so gently at Luke’s brow,hmming worriedly to himself. “You seeing okay? You’re not nauseas, are you?”

“I don’t have a concussion.”

Hal makes a face and meets his gaze head-on, the picture of loving worry. It’s an expression Luke’s seen so many times on his mother, but never on Hal…not that he remembers. “How many fingers am I holding up?” He holds up three.

“How many amI?” Luke flips him the bird.

Hal cracks a thin, crooked smile. “Asshole.”

“Hmph.”

“There’s a kit at the desk. Lemme get it.” He starts to stand.

Luke snags the end of his shirt between thumb and forefinger, only a gentle tug, but it roots Hal to the spot. The fabric is tacky with sweat, and Luke can’t help but worry at a loose thread with his thumbnail, stupid and silent a moment. “No,” he finally protests. “Don’t bother.”

“You’re bleeding. Do you know what kinda germs they’ve got on a gym floor?” He shudders for dramatic effect and the shirt slips from Luke’s fingers. “I’ll be right back, okay? Just gonna grab some alcohol and a Band-Aid.”

“Hal…” Luke sighs, but Hal is already walking away.

“Right back!” The door hinges squeak as he leaves the locker room.

“Oh my God.” Luke buries his face in his hands, which sort of smell like a gym, which is…ew. But mortification trumpsewat the moment. A sick, masochistic part of him wishes Hal would just laugh at him, clap him on the back, and crack a tasteless joke. Because the part of him that’s pathetic cares way too much about the…the…tendernessHal is showing him. If he allows himself to fall into those worried looks and gentle touches, it’ll only hurt worse when the eventual rejection comes again.

A dark thought occurs. What if Hal’s just screwing with him? Playing up pretend sensitivity just to drop Luke on his ass later with a heartyha-ha.

No. No, that’s not Hal. He might be oblivious, or awkward, but he’s never intentionally cruel. Always the kid who stood up to the bully on the playground, and never the bully himself.

He’s still breathing through the gaps in his fingers when he hears Hal return, unsure just how pathetic it is that he knows the sound of Hal’s particular footfalls; that he recognizes the sound of his walk.

“Alright,” Hal says, sitting down beside him with a rustle of fabric and a crackle of bandage packaging.

It takes a supreme effort to straighten his spine, sit up and face Hal. Unrequited love is heavy like that.

Hal has two damp cotton balls in one hand, no less than five Band-Aids in the other.

Luke snorts. “Overkill, don’t you think?”

“Hey, I’m…I’m worried.” He catches his lower lip between his teeth, and his cheeks go a lovely shade of pale pink. He doesn’t make eye contact as he twists sideways on the bench and says, “Hold still,” begins to dab at Luke’s split eyebrow with the alcohol swabs.

“Shit,” Luke hisses. “Stings.”

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