Page 23 of Mystic Wonderful

“No pity,” he assured.

Francis sniffed hard, and, without much choice in the matter, hooked his remaining arm around Tris’s neck and let himself be hauled to his feet.

If not for the steadying arm around his waist, fingers fitted between his ribs, he would have fallen on the short, but perilous journey from the bed to the bathroom. He’d been lying down for a week, and his legs felt like jelly; even this short trip left him winded, his head spinning, which didn’t make any sense, because it was his arm he’d lost, and nothing else.

Nothing except his pride.

And his independence.

And his shame, apparently, as he let Tris keep a slow and steady pace alongside him the whole way, grip tightening when Francis’s legs threatened to go out, keeping him upright when he would have collapsed.

He was in a full-body sweat by the time they reached the en-suite. It was a small space, but the shower was big, and lipless, thankfully.

Tris moved him around so he was leaning back against the sink, high and solid enough to hold his weight. “You good for a second while I cut the water on?”

Resigned now that this was happening, Francis tested his balance, and managed to say, “Yeah.”

Tris’s hands lingered a moment on his waist, both of them, such big hands, his thumbs nearly touching over Francis’s navel, and, wow, was his waist really that small? Or were the hands justthatbig?

Before he could come to a conclusion – his head was spinning in earnest now, the morphine hangover and lack of solid food turning him woozy – Tris stepped back and leaned into the shower to crank on the water. He set it toward warm, tested it a moment, until he nodded and returned. Shrugged out of his jacket.

“What are you doing?” Francis asked.

The jacket went up on the hook on the wall, and those big hands were pulling the t-shirt from Tris’s waistband, lifting it off over his head. “Getting in with you so you don’t fall.”

“Oh. Right.” His chest fluttered.

Then there was Tris’s chest, which he’d seen before, but it was right there, emanating warmth, paler than his arms, the dark hair arrowing down the center of his muscled stomach to disappear into his tac pants – which were coming off, too.

Thankfully, the black boxer-briefs stayed on.

Francis closed his eyes when Tris reached around to pluck at the ties of his gown. They were pressed close, chest-to-chest. Francis felt his breath against his cheek, and the calluses on his fingertips against the bare skin of his back as the ties came loose one by one. He thought, for a moment, as the gown slid down his front to land on the floor, that he might swoon, nerves churning in his gut. It was the first time Tris had seen him naked, and it was after having been laid up a week, and down half an arm. Shame burned hot in his face; he didn’t want this – didn’t want to be vulnerable in this way in front of someone who’d rejected him.

But when he finally cracked his eyes open, it was to find that Tris wasn’t looking anywhere but at his face, his own etched with worry. “Okay to get in?”

He had a lump in his throat, and could only nod.

“Alright. Nice and slow. Gotta keep the bandages dry. His arm went around Francis’s waist again, and this time it was skin-to-skin, the heat and intimacy of the contact immediately, unexpectedly soothing. It became apparent, as Tris helped him across the tiles that, whether it was pity or guilt at play, this moment was only about help, and being naked, or nearly so, in front of each other didn’t play into it.

Francis relaxed, finally, and let Tris help him down to the cold, tile bench. Let him pull the handheld showerhead down and urge his head back; closed his eyes as warm water coursed across his scalp, and large fingers petted through his hair, wetting it thoroughly.

When Tris worked shampoo through his curls, he couldn’t keep from leaning into the touch, couldn’t bite back the soft, relieved noise of pleasure that slipped from his mouth. It felt unbearably wonderful, such a normal, everyday thing after being laid up; felt better to have someone else’s hands working carefully through the tangles in his hair.

Tris stilled, just a moment, then resumed.

Tris rinsed his hair, and Francis, weak from the walk to the bathroom, and the heat of the water, tipped his head back against the wall, eyes still closed, and felt the last of his tension bleed out as Tris washed him with great care, never once splashing the bandages on his stump.

When Francis cracked his eyes open, he found Tris kneeling on the tile between his knees, rinsing his feet clean with the wand, water beading and running down his shoulders, his arms; catching in his chest hair; slicking his dark hair back along his head. Half-delirious, Francis nearly laughed. How often had he imagined a scenario like this? But a willing one, one in which he had both his hands to stroke back through Tris’s hair, one in which Tris was here by choice.

He closed his eyes again when they started to sting – and not from water. “Why are you doing this?” he whispered.

He thought his words lost to the shush of the water, but then he felt a touch on his jaw.

His eyes snapped open, and Tris was right in front of him, filling his entire field of vision. He cupped Francis’s jaw more firmly, thumb tracing slowly back and forth along the point of his chin. His other hand landed on Francis’s waist, squeezed briefly. His eyes were wide, and not shielded, now; water droplets caught in his lashes, the brown of his irises eaten up by his pupils. He looked…

Awed.

“Why are you…” Francis tried again, breathless.

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