Chapter Text
From the moment he felt the bones snap, everything was a blur. First, blinding pain. In the ambulance, he registered an IV going into his arm, and the pain subsided slightly, but things became cloudy. His awareness drifted in and out as the EMTs swirled around him.
He couldn’t say how long the drive was, or how exactly he got from the ambulance into a bed in the ER, but he felt it when they counted down from three and snapped his thumbs back into place. He knew he screamed. He knew he was alone.
Daddy sure as heck wasn’t coming, Judy probably hated him right now for ruining BJ’s special day, and Jessie—well—the last thing Kelvin saw was him laughing his ass off, so that’s off the table.
Momma would’ve been there with him. Would’ve been there the whole time. Petting his hair, kissing his forehead, telling him it was all going to be okay.
He was aware of nurses coming and going, taking his vitals, x-ray machines being wheeled in then out again. He thinks someone asked his favorite color, but he could hardly respond before his hands were all-too-roughly being wrapped in gauze and then painted with plaster. Despite every effort to maintain his composure, his eyes and throat started to burn and he could feel hot teardrops begin to stream down his cheeks.
The nurses shuffled out, closing the curtains around him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to picture her there at his side.
She’d say a soft prayer, sing a hymn.
But when he opens his eyes, there’s no one there.
He lets his head fall back and fully succumbs to the tears. The pain, the humiliation, the fear.
He hears fast footsteps and then the curtain being yanked open.
“Kelvin.”
Keefe.
He looks panicked, out of breath, and rushes to the side of the bed, gently taking Kelvin’s face in his hands. He uses his thumbs to wipe the tears from his cheeks, which only makes Kelvin cry harder. He leans down, hugging him as best he can, pressing his cheek to Kelvin’s hair, and Kelvin’s face against his neck. He holds him like that for a moment.
“I came as fast as I could,” he says as he stands back up, “But when I got here no one could tell me where you were. I’m so sorry you were alone all this time. I should’ve been here.”
Kelvin shakes his head, sniffling, “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” Keefe pulls a chair next to the bed so he can sit close enough to keep a hand on Kelvin’s arm. “Keefe, what am I gonna do?” He holds up his bandaged hands. “How do I live like this?”
Keefe rubs his hands up and down Kelvin’s arms, then gently cradles his face once more. “Brother Kelvin, until you are healed, I will be your hands. For whatever you need.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly makes Kelvin cry again, and he looks up helplessly into Keefe’s big, brown, earnest eyes. He knows he means it. There’s not much, if anything, that Keefe wouldn’t do for him, and he knows deep down he doesn’t deserve it.
He doesn’t deserve the way Keefe gently guides him by the elbow out to the parking lot where he’s parked Kelvin’s Jeep. The way Keefe places his strong hands on his waist to help lift him into the passenger seat, and reaches across him to buckle his seatbelt. When they get home, Keefe comes back around and lowers him down out of the car. It’s late now, almost 11, and the motion-sensor porch light flicks on as they approach.
Neither of them had spoken.
Keefe opens the front door and, after kicking off his boots, kneels down to untie Kelvin’s shoes.
Finally they stand face-to-face in the entryway.
“Are you hungry, brother?” Keefe asks, “I’d gladly cook or order something, whatever you’d like.”
Kelvin pretends to think about it for a second, but he knows he has no appetite.
“I honestly just want to go to bed,” he states, flatly, matter-of-fact. Keefe nods and heads toward the stairs. He lets Kelvin go up first, following closely behind, hands hovering, ready to catch him in case of any slip or stumble.
When they get to the bedroom, Kelvin once again pauses, standing helplessly at the side of the bed.
“Do you want to shower?” Keefe asks. Kelvin just shakes his head and looks down at his feet.
He doesn’t need to say anything. Keefe hurries to his walk-in closet, picking out a pair of pajamas he knows he likes. He moves over to Kelvin and carefully loosens his tie until it can be lifted over his head. He then starts on the buttons of his dress shirt, working his way down. Keefe’s knuckles are warm where they brush against Kelvin’s chest and stomach, and the contact is comforting.
When Keefe moves behind him to pull the shirt off his shoulders, he suddenly stops.
“What’s wrong?” Kelvin asks, getting frustrated at the slow pace of it all, ready to be done with today and crawl into bed.
“Um, I’m really sorry about this, brother, but I don’t think these sleeves are gonna fit over your hand-casts. I think I have to cut it.”
Kelvin almost swears. Of course he had to be wearing one of his nicest dress shirts today.
He sighs, “Okay, fine, whatever. Just do it.”
Keefe is gone and back in a moment with a pair of scissors, and begins to carefully cut through the fabric of Kelvin’s sleeves, starting at the wrists and working up to the shoulders. The shirt falls, ruined, to the floor. Kelvin doesn't want to look at it.
“Okay,” Keefe says from behind him, “I’m going to take your slacks off now.”
Kelvin nods, beginning to get impatient as Keefe reaches around, unbuttoning and unzipping his fly before hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling down his pants and underwear in one motion.
Kelvin’s been naked in front of Keefe before, and it’s usually not a big deal, but he feels an urge to cover himself, to hide. He feels ashamed, pathetic. Keefe dresses him silently, taking care to stretch the sleeves wide over the casts so as to avoid any unwanted tugging or bumping on Kelvin’s sensitive hands.
Kelvin mumbles a quiet thanks, and turns to go to the bathroom. Once inside he pushes the door closed with his elbow and turns to look at himself in the mirror. The casts look ridiculous, like stupid bulky half-gloves. He doesn’t even respect himself like this, so how is supposed to be respected by anyone else? It’s a joke. He’s a joke.
He tries to pick up his toothbrush with his available fingers, and it clatters into the sink.
“Shoot,” he curses, trying and failing to pick it up.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
“Are you okay in there?” Keefe calls.
“Yeah, totally cool. Fantastic,” Kelvin lies. He gropes for the toothbrush a moment longer before admitting defeat. “Keefe? I think I need help.” Keefe is through the door immediately, and quickly takes in the situation.
“Let me get you a uh, new brush. That’s icky,” he gestures awkwardly at the toothbrush in the sink, bristles currently shoved against the drain. He takes it and drops it in the trash can then begins opening drawers until he finds a new brush, which he gingerly removes from its packaging. He takes the tube of toothpaste and squeezes some out onto the brush. He pauses, holding the brush in front of Kelvin’s face. “I’ve never done this before,” he says.
Kelvin rolls his eyes, “Yeah, no doy.” He appreciates Keefe’s help, he really does, but he’s itching to get this over with, and all this pausing and talking is really slowing things down.
Keefe awkwardly presses the brush against Kelvin’s teeth, his arm at an uncomfortable angle. They both quickly realize it’s not working.
“I have an idea,” Keefe announces. He takes Kelvin’s waist and turns him to face the mirror, positioning himself behind him and reaching around with the brush, his eyes watching their reflection in the mirror from over Kelvin’s shoulder. He tries again, and it works much better. When he’s done brushing, he takes one of the small cups by the sink, fills it with water and presses it to Kelvin’s lips. Kelvin sips, swishes, and spits, poorly. Keefe takes a washcloth and dabs at the spit-water dribbling down his chin.
“Thanks, bud,” Kelvin smiles for the first time in hours, Keefe’s tender caretaking finally getting to him.
He knows what’s next, and he’s not quite sure how to broach the subject. He looks at the toilet.
“I uh, I need to ask you something. And it’s okay if you’re not comfortable with it! I’ll just figure something out if not.” Keefe just nods solemnly, clearly willing to say yes to anything. Kelvin squeezes his eyes shut as he asks, his voice a little higher than usual, “I think I need help to pee.” He opens his eyes to find Keefe looking at him entirely expressionless. They stand there for a moment, Kelvin grimacing, the most pitiful he’s felt yet, but it only takes a second before Keefe nods.
“Of course, Brother Kelvin, I’d be happy to help you relieve yourself.” Kelvin doesn’t know if happiness is really the response he wanted, but he’s grateful for the astoundingly casual way Keefe follows him to the toilet and stands beside him, patiently waiting for him to do something, as if this were a completely normal thing that best guy-friends do.
“Okay,” Kelvin says, “Um, let’s do this, I guess.” He hooks his pinkies into the front of elastic waistband and pulls down to expose himself. He could scream. Keefe’s eyes are politely locked on some spot on the wall, as if the wallpaper were the most interesting thing in the world, as if he hadn’t seen it a thousand times. “Just, help me aim, I guess. I’m sorry.”
Kelvin is well aware that most of the time having someone else’s hands on your dick is very different; that it should be special, sexy. It’s certainly something he’s never experienced, and at this moment he can’t imagine why anyone would like it. This is easily the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened in his life.
“You’re gonna have to look, Keefe. The whole point is to aim.”
“Of course,” is all Keefe says. Kelvin closes his eyes and struggles to relax enough to actually pee. He’s glad Keefe is silent. He takes a deep breath and tries his hardest to empty his head. He considers just wearing diapers until this whole ordeal is over. The idea makes him chuckle just a little, and suddenly he feels the pressure on his bladder releasing. When he’s done, Keefe—practical, considerate, Keefe—gives him a little shake before quickly pulling his waistband back up.
Kelvin chokes out a “Thanks, bud,” and Keefe just smiles, turning on the sink to wash his hands. He’s thorough with it, and Kelvin watches and wonders if, despite his cool exterior, he’s disgusted right now. Probably. Most likely.
“Okay, friend,” Keefe announces, still smiling, drying his hands on a towel, “Let’s get you nice and tucked in for some much-needed shut-eye.” He waves toward the bathroom door like he’s Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune, and Kelvin leads the way back into the bedroom. Keefe hurries around him to the bed and ceremoniously pulls back the blankets, holding them up while Kelvin lays down, settling onto his side. “You get nice and comfy,” Keefe says, gently lowering the comforter over him. He lingers at the bedside for a moment. “I’ll go get you some water.” He’s out the door before Kelvin can protest or say thank you.
His room suddenly feels empty, darker and colder than before. He pulls his knees up and curls in on himself as best he can. He’s glad when he hears Keefe coming back up the stairs, his light footsteps accompanied by the tinkling of ice in a glass. Keefe appears in the doorway, a soft smile on his lips.
“I got you a straw.” He points at said straw in the glass. “So you don’t, you know, have to try and,” he takes the glass in both hands, holding his thumbs out to the sides to demonstrate, “hold it.”
Kelvin knows that Keefe isn’t trying to be funny, that he’s genuinely being thoughtful, but he can’t help but giggle a little at the sight.
“Thanks, Keefe,” he says, watching as he places the glass on a coaster on the nightstand.
“Of course.” Keefe wipes the condensation from the cold glass off onto the front of his shirt. “Guess I’ll go get myself to bed,” but he doesn’t leave. After a minute of silence he says, “You just holler if you need me, okay? I’m just down the hall.” Kelvin watches him turn and leave, and feels a tightness in his chest.
“Wait,” he calls out, probably a little more desperately than necessary, “Will you stay?” Keefe steps back into the room. Kelvin won’t say it, but he’s afraid to be alone, and he’s pretty sure Keefe knows that.
“You know I’ll do whatever you need me to,” is his soft response, and Kelvin feels a wave of relief wash over him. “Let me go wash myself up. I will be back momentarily.”
“You can wash up in here,” Kelvin nods toward his bathroom. “Like, if you want.”
Keefe looks toward the open bathroom door. “I’ll go get my things.” He’s only gone for a minute before he’s back, carrying sweatpants, his toothbrush, and a phone charger. He sets the charger on the nightstand and heads into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked just an inch. Kelvin listens as the shower turns on, smiling when he hears Keefe softly humming a tune he doesn’t recognize.
He didn’t realize he’d drifted off until he wakes up to the feeling of the mattress dipping. He opens his eyes to find Keefe climbing into the bed. He’s neatly laid a towel over the pillow for his wet hair. He pauses and smiles when he catches Kelvin’s eye, and he may or may not feel something akin to butterflies in his stomach. Keefe is shirtless, and his sweats sit low on his hips. It’s nothing Kelvin hasn’t seen before, but he finds himself struggling to peel his eyes away from the space of exposed skin between Keefe’s hip bone and belly button, just above the waistband. Keefe covers himself with the blankets, and their eyes meet. Looking at him like this, face pressed into Kelvin’s pillow, in Kelvin’s bed, smiling at him so sweetly, makes the butterflies flutter more aggressively.
Gratitude butterflies, Kelvin thinks to himself.
Keefe reaches out an gives a gentle boop to the tip of Kelvin’s nose. “You just kick me when you need me, brother. Night-night.” He rolls over, and the smell of Kelvin’s shampoo wafts over to him. Keefe reaches a hand behind his head, pushing the wet hair off of his skin, and Kelvin’s eyes trace the line of exposed skin from his earlobe to where his arm is covered by the blanket. Kelvin has a sudden urge to press his face against that spot where his neck and shoulder meet. No reason.