Chapter 6: A blowie while you sleep?
Hunter’s head swam, a nauseating carousel of pain and the phantom scent of Adam’s sweat. The short shuffle from the car to the front door was a marathon of grinding agony. Each step sent a shockwave up his leg that made his vision pulse white at the edges.
On the top step of the porch, he stopped, his breath coming in ragged hitches. “Wait, I—” he breathed out, eyes shutting tight against a fresh surge of fire in his knee. “—I need a break.”
Adam stopped instantly. He didn’t sigh or shift impatiently. He just stood, a solid pillar for Hunter to lean against, his own breathing measured. They stood there in the cool night, the only sound Hunter’s strained gasps.
Then Adam moved. He hooked one powerful arm under Hunter’s knees, careful to avoid the injured joint, and the other around his back. Before Hunter could protest, he was being lifted clean off the ground.
He adjusted his grip, taking the weight effortlessly, and pushed the front door open with his foot.
The darkness of the house swallowed them. Adam moved his steps sure on the creaky wooden floors. The climb up the stairs was a careful, sideways ascent, Adam’s muscles coiling with each step, holding Hunter firmly against the swell of his chest.
Hunter was achingly aware of every point of contact: the hard line of Adam’s bicept under his thighs, the heat of his torso, the steady, strong beat of his heart. He kept his face turned away, staring at the passing wall in the gloom, willing himself to be annoyed, not… this.
At the door to his bedroom, Adam paused. “Open it.”
Hunter reached out, fumbling for the knob, and pushed the door inward. Adam carried him to the bed and deposited him with a careful, almost reverential gentleness that contradicted everything about their history. Hunter sank into the familiar softness of his own mattress with a groan that was half-pain, half-relief.
For a moment, neither moved. Adam stood by the bed, a dark shape outlined by the faint streetlight filtering through the window. Hunter lay on his back, the adrenaline drain leaving him hollow and trembling.
Wordlessly, Hunter grabbed the hem of his sweat-soaked white tank and pulled it over his head, tossing it to the floor. The cool air was a relief on his skin. He let his head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.
Adam moved away. Hunter heard him rummaging in the hallway closet, returning with two pillows and a fresh ice pack from the kitchen freezer. He didn’t ask. He simply slid one pillow under Hunter’s elevated left knee, the support an immediate, minor relief from the throbbing. He placed the second pillow, cool and dry, under Hunter’s head.
Then he laid the ice pack over the swollen joint. The cold was a brutal, beautiful shock that made Hunter jerk. Adam’s hand, large and warm, pressed down lightly to hold it in place for a few seconds, ensuring contact. The heat of that hand against his skin, even through the wrap, felt more intense than the ice.
“Keep it there,” Adam said, finally stepping back. His voice was back to being impersonal, a medic’s tone.
Hunter listened to the quiet footsteps recede across the wooden floorboards, then pause at the door.
He didn’t open his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids was a welcome escape from the room, from the memory of being carried, from the confusing contradiction of Adam’s violence and his care. He concentrated on the rhythm of his own breathing, in and out, each exhale a feeble attempt to push the pain away.
Adam watched him from the doorway, a silent silhouette against the dim hall light. The quiet was a fragile thing, stretched thin between them. “If you need me,” Adam said, the words neutral, a simple statement of fact, “I’ll be in my room.”
Then he walked out, pulling the door closed until it clicked, leaving only a slender bar of yellow light at the bottom. The house settled into a deeper silence, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs.
Hunter kept his eyes closed, his body heavy with exhaustion and drugs his system had finally started churning out. The sharp edges of the pain blunted, fading into a deep, relentless ache that seemed to radiate from his very core.
Sleep pulled him under without ceremony.
He woke to a different kind of heat, a dry, internal burn that had soaked his sheets. Morning light sliced through the gap in his curtains, landing directly on his face like an accusation. The door opened, and the shape of Adam filled it, backlit and blurry.
“You look like hell,” Adam said, his voice gruff with sleep. He crossed the room with a glass of water in hand.
Hunter tried to speak, but his throat was a desert of cracked clay. A pathetic rasp was all he managed. Adam sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning softly under his weight. He reached out, his fingers surprisingly cool against Hunter’s damp forehead.
Adam’s touch lingered, his thumb brushing just above Hunter’s eyebrow. “Damn, you’re so hot,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.
Hunter stirred, his eyes struggling open to slits. The world was a bright, painful haze. Adam’s face came into focus, his sharp features softened by the morning light, concern etching a faint line between his brows.
“You are on fire,” Adam stated, withdrawing his hand.
Hunter closed his eyes again, too weary to hold them open. The bed dipped as Adam leaned closer. His breath was warm against Hunter’s ear, his whisper a low, intimate vibration that cut through the fog of sickness.
“Getting blown while you’ve got a fever,” Adam murmured, the words deliberate and hushed. “Wouldn’t that be even hotter?”
Hunter’s eyes flew open, shock acting like a shot of adrenaline. He stared at Adam, his blue eyes wide, searching the smug, knowing smile now playing on Adam’s lips.
Adam got up, still smiling that infuriating, captivating smile, and left the room. He returned a moment later with a pill bottle from the kitchen, shaking out a single white tablet into his palm. He handed it to Hunter, then the glass of water.
“Here. Before you short-circuit.”
Hunter fumbled the pill into his mouth and took a gulp, choking slightly as the water hit his arid throat. A coughing fit seized him, rattling his ribs.
Adam sat back down and patted his back, the gesture somehow both mocking and genuine. “Admit it,” he said, his voice lighter now. “You need me.”
“Never,” Hunter croaked out, the word barely audible but defiant.
Adam laughed, a soft, real sound. He got up again and returned from the bathroom with a washcloth dampened with cold water. He sat beside Hunter and began to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his temples, the line of his neck.
The coolness was a sublime relief. Hunter couldn’t stop a low sigh from escaping his trembling lips. “Just lie down,” Adam said, his tone shifting into something almost gentle. “I’ll make you something good."
Hunter managed a weak, delirious smile, his defenses utterly dismantled by the fever. He watched Adam leave the room, listened to his footsteps descending the stairs.
The sounds from the kitchen were clumsy and distant: a cabinet door closing too hard, the clink of a spoon against ceramic. Hunter drifted in and out, the pain in his knee a dull, distant throb beneath the more immediate scorch of his skin.
After what felt like both an instant and an hour, Adam reappeared. He carried a tray bearing a towering, haphazard sandwich and a large mug of steaming hot chocolate, a mountain of whipped cream spilling over the rim.
“It’s my first time,” Adam said, setting the tray carefully on Hunter’s lap. “Don’t complain.”
Hunter looked at the messy, generous offering. A feeling welled up in his chest, tight and foreign. “Thanks,” he said, his voice still rough but clear. Adam gave a short nod and disappeared into the hallway again.
He came back with a fresh bandage and a pair of scissors. “Gotta keep it supported,” he said, his earlier teasing edge gone, replaced by a focused efficiency. He peeled back the blanket.
With careful, deliberate movements, he began to wrap Hunter’s knee. His fingers were skilled, applying just the right amount of tension, his knuckles—still scraped raw from the fight—grazing Hunter’s skin with every pass of the bandage.
Hunter watched him. He watched the intense concentration on Adam’s face, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his tongue peeked out between his lips. He watched the strength in those hands, the same hands that had thrown a punch for him, now performing this act of meticulous care.
A treacherous, unbidden heat bloomed low in Hunter’s stomach, a warm curl of arousal that had nothing to do with fever. It spread, insistently, unmistakably. He felt himself hardening beneath the thin sheet, a raw and betrayal of his body.
He lay perfectly still, barely breathing, hoping the fabric would hide the telltale shift. Adam secured the bandage with a clip, his fingers resting for a final second on the inside of Hunter’s thigh. He looked up, his green eyes meeting Hunter’s.
A knowing flicker passed through them. He’d noticed. Of course he had.
Adam didn’t comment. He didn’t smirk. He simply held Hunter’s gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the air between them thickening with everything unsaid. Then he stood, gathered the empty tray and mug, and left the room without another word.
The silence he left behind was louder than any taunt. Hunter lay rigid, the evidence of his own body a humiliating echo in the quiet room. He focused on the steady, dull ache in his knee, using it as an anchor to pull himself back from the edge of that treacherous warmth.
Exhaustion, deeper than any he’d known from a game, dragged at his bones. The painkiller was a heavy weight in his veins. His eyelids grew leaden, the sharp lines of the room blurring into soft focus. The last thing he registered was the faint, clean scent of Adam’s soap lingering on the bandage.
He fell into a dense, dreamless sleep.
Hunter woke three hours later to the solid warmth of another body on the bed. The afternoon sun had shifted, painting the room in deep gold. Adam was stretched out beside him, asleep on top of the covers, one arm bent behind his head.
His other hand rested palm-up on the mattress, dangerously close to Hunter’s good leg. A digital thermometer was loosely clutched in his fingers.
Slowly, Hunter reached out. He ran his fingertips over the back of Adam’s hand, tracing the rough scabs on his knuckles, feeling the surprising softness of the skin between them. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental.
Adam shot upright, instantly awake. His green eyes cleared of sleep, focusing on Hunter. “You’re awake.” He leaned in, pressing his palm firmly to Hunter’s forehead. His hand was cool and dry. “Your fever down?”
Hunter just nodded, his throat still tight. The touch felt grounding, real.
“Great,” Adam said, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Fever’s gone.” He tossed the thermometer onto the nightstand.
Hunter pushed himself up on his elbows, the movement stiff. He swung his good leg over the side of the bed, planting his foot on the floor.
“Where are you going?” Adam asked, his voice alert. “I’ll do it.”
“No need,” Hunter grunted, bracing himself. “I can do it myself.”
He pushed off the bed, standing on his right leg, his left hovering. A wave of dizziness washed over him. He swayed, grabbing the bedpost.
“You sure you want to push yourself?” Adam questioned, already standing beside him, a steady presence not quite touching.
“You can’t help with this,” Hunter said, his jaw clenched.
He took a tentative, hobbling step, then another, a painful shuffle toward the bathroom. Adam followed silently, a shadow. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as Hunter navigated the final few feet.
Hunter braced one hand on the sink, the other fumbling with his sweatpants. He stood at the toilet, his balance precarious.
“I can still hold it for you,” Adam said, his voice flat.
Hunter glared at him over his shoulder. “Shut up.”
“I meant hold you up,” Adam corrected, a faint, undeniable thread of amusement in his tone. “Not hold it for you.”
“Close the door,” Hunter snapped, his face heating. “I’m not used to someone watching me pee.”
Adam pushed off the doorframe. The door swung shut with a soft click, sealing Hunter in the small, tiled space.
Alone, Hunter managed, relief mingling with a profound sense of frustration. He finished, flushed, and turned carefully toward the sink to wash his hands. He took one step, putting weight on his left leg to pivot.
The knee buckled instantly, a hot wire of pure failure snapping through the joint.
His balance vanished. He crashed into the side of the clawfoot tub, his hip and shoulder taking the brutal impact before he crumpled to the linoleum floor. The sound was hideously loud in the small room.
“Fuck!” he yelled, more rage than pain.
The door flew open instantly. Adam stood there, filling the space, his expression morphing from casual observation to sharp concern in the split second it took to survey the scene: Hunter on the floor, clenched in a ball of anger and shame, one hand gripping his throbbing knee.
Adam didn’t speak. He just moved.
He crossed the floor in two strides and knelt, his hands hovering, unsure where to grip. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"
"No," Hunter spat, squeezing his eyes shut against the fresh, nauseating wave of pain. "Just my pride. And my fucking knee. Again."
Adam let out a slow breath, a measured sound in the tense quiet. "Alright. Up you come."
He adjusted his grip, holding Hunter steady against him.
"Can you balance?" Adam asked.
Hunter gripped the sides of the shower, his knuckles white. "I think so."
Adam reached past him, his body a wall of heat at Hunter's back, and twisted the tap. Water roared out, steaming and loud.
Adam straightened and looked at him, his green eyes assessing. Without a word, he reached for the hem of his own shirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion.
Hunter stared. The defined lines of Adam’s torso, the same tan from days on the ice, a faint bruise blooming on one rib from last night’s game.
He stood there, droplets catching in his blonde lashes, “Guess we’re showering now,” Adam said, a simple declaration in the steam-filled space.
The warm water hit his back, shocking and immediate, cascading over his shoulders. He gasped. Adam, still holding him steady with one arm, reached with the other. He took the waistband of Hunter’s shorts and underwear and pushed them down in a single, efficient motion.
He helped Hunter step out of them, leaving them in a wet heap on the floor. The air, thick with steam, felt different on his skin. Exposed.
Then Adam pushed his own shorts and briefs down, kicking them aside.
The shower spray hit Adam’s back, deflecting in a mist that haloed his form. He stood close, not touching, the heat of his body a second source of warmth in the steam. “Balance on your good leg,” he instructed, his voice low and steady against the drumming water. “Use the wall.”
Hunter did, shifting his weight, his right thigh trembling with the effort. The tile was slick under his palm. Adam watched him for a prolonged second, his gaze tracing the lines of strain in Hunter’s neck, the protective hunch of his shoulders. Then he turned and grabbed the bottle of soap from the ledge.
He squeezed it into his palm, working up a thick lather. He moved closer, the spray now hitting them both. His lathered hands came up and began to scrub Hunter’s chest gently, in broad, slow circles.
Hunter rested his head against the shower wall, the cool tile a shock against his scalp. He breathed out a shuddering “Fuck,” the word lost in the steam and the water’s roar.
Adam’s hands moved with a pragmatic thoroughness, running across the tense plains of Hunter’s shoulders, working at the knotted muscle there. They slid down, over the defined ridges of his abs, the soap leaving slick trails. The touch was clinical and intimate all at once, a contradiction that short-circuited Hunter’s thoughts.
Hunter kept his eyes closed, surrendering to the sensation. The pain in his knee receded, replaced by a different, gathering heat. He felt his body respond, a simple, undeniable betrayal. His cock hardened against his thigh.
“Shit,” he breathed out, the word taut with a different kind of ache.
Adam went still for a heartbeat. Hunter could feel him looking. Then Adam took a step closer, the full length of his body now just a whisper away. His soapy hand slid down Hunter’s stomach, his fingers trailing through the coarse hair.
His hand wrapped around Hunter’s cock.
The touch was firm, knowing. It wasn't a question. A sharp, punched-out gasp escaped Hunter’s lips. His head snapped forward, his forehead pressing into Adam’s wet shoulder. His hands, which had been braced against the wall, came down and gripped Adam’s hips, fingers digging into the firm muscle there.
“Is this okay?” Adam murmured, his mouth close to Hunter’s ear. His hand began to move, a slow, maddening stroke.
“Don’t stop,” Hunter ground out, the plea raw and immediate. “Just don’t fucking stop.”
Adam’s hand worked him with a brutal, perfect efficiency that left no room for thought.
Hunters hands slid from Adam’s hips, one moving up to his shoulder to steady himself , the other traveled down, fingers skimming over his abs then he found him, hard straining, he wrapped his hand around him.
Adam shuddered against him, a full-body convulsion. “Shit,” he groaned, the sound ripped from deep in his chest. His forehead dropped against the tile next to Hunter’s head, his own rhythm stuttering for a beat.
He matched Adam’s pace, their movements syncing into a desperate, mirrored push and pull.
Hunter’s head swam, a dizzying cocktail of pain medication, fever-break, and this blinding, consuming need.
“Adam—” Hunter groaned, the name breaking in his throat. “—We can’t do this.” He didn’t stop though, still stroking him.
Adam groaned, “We’re technically not stepbrothers yet.” Adam choked out, his voice strained and raw.
Hunter kissed him. It was a sudden, forceful collision, all searing wet skin and pent-up frustration. He pulled his hand away from Adam, and Adam pulled his away as well. They broke apart, gasping into the steam between their mouths. They both groaned, still aching, hard, wanting release.
“Fuck,” Adam whispered, the word a hot puff against Hunter’s lips.
“Yeah,” Hunter agreed, his own voice unrecognizable.
With a rough, final sigh, Adam reached behind Hunter and turned off the water. The sudden silence was jarring, filled only by the drip from the showerhead and their uneven breathing. Adam moved first, stepping out onto the bath mat. He grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his hips.
He pulled a second towel down and held it open, a clear, wordless command. Hunter hobbled out, balancing on his good leg, and Adam enveloped him in it, rubbing briskly at his arms and back. “Chair,” Adam said, guiding him toward the wooden stool by the sink.
Hunter sat down heavily. Adam retrieved another towel, kneeling in front of him on the damp floor.
“I can do it myself,” Hunter said, his voice regaining some of its usual edge, thin as it was.
Adam didn’t pause, rubbing the towel firmly over Hunter’s calf. “I’m not letting you do anything on your own again.” Adam said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Hunter looked at him. Adam’s body was still wet with droplets, his hair plastered to his forehead. The towel around his hips did little to hide the proof of his own unresolved want. Hunter forced his eyes away, fixing them on the faded floral wallpaper behind the toilet. Adam kept drying him, working up to the left thigh, his touch becoming impossibly gentle as he neared the bandaged knee.
He dabbed around the edges where the bandage was damp, his fingers careful. The attention was clinical and intimate all over again, a restart of the maddening cycle. When he was done, he tossed the towel aside and stood, offering his hands.
“Back to bed. You need to ice it again.”
Hunter took his hands, letting Adam haul him up. They didn’t speak on the short journey back to the bedroom. Adam helped him settle against the propped-up pillows and retrieved a fresh ice pack. He placed it on the knee with the same focused care as before, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of Hunter’s inner thigh.