Max #2
I look down at his arms, one in a sling and a cast, the other with a brace around his wrist, and snort a groggy laugh. I find the morphine button hanging from a wire next to the bed and press it for him.
“Why do they give you so many goddamn pillows in these places?” he sighs, leaning back into his well-fluffed pillows with a grimace.
“I wish I had a fucking pillow,” I mumble, rubbing at a knot in my upper back.
“I’d throw one at you if I had the use of my limbs,” he deadpans. “How long’ve you been here?”
“Not sure. A few hours. I raced over here as soon as they called me, nearly had a heart attack on the way over.” I shake my head, trying to keep my voice casual, but it comes out strained. “You scared the fucking balls off me, man.”
Kyle gives me a faint, lopsided smirk, then winces when the movement pulls at the raw skin of his cheek. “Surprised I could pull you away from Duke’s.”
“You know, if you didn’t want to lose to me at pool for the hundredth week in a row, you could have just told me,” I shoot back. “No need to throw yourself off the nearest building.”
“Fuck you, give me two weeks and I’ll be back to beating your ass.”
“Two weeks?” I chuckle, leaning forward to brace my forearms on the edge of the bed, careful not to bump any of his injured limbs. “I’ll still be hand feeding you soup after two weeks. I don’t know how much they told you last night, but you’re gonna be out of action for a while.”
Kyle frowns, his scent taking on a sour edge. “They always overexaggerate in these places.”
“Hospitals?” I balk. “I don’t think they do, buddy. Look, it’s fine. I can sleep on your sofa, help out with bills if you need it while you’re off work—”
“The fuck you will,” he snaps. “I’m thirty-three years old, Ky, I’m not having you coming over and cooking my meals like I’m a fucking toddler.”
“Okay, cool, you’re just gonna open cans of soup with your feet and chew through them like a rabid gopher, are you?”
Kyle gives me a hard, frustrated stare, his scent flaring heavily.
If I were any other alpha it would get my hackles up, but I’ve put up with enough of Kyle’s hot-headedness over the years to be functionally immune to his alpha pheromones.
I knew he wouldn’t take the news that he needs looking after well; he’s my best friend in the world and I could wax poetic about his good qualities all day, but he can also turn into a hardheaded, stubborn knucklehead as soon as he thinks something is threatening his independence.
“Fuck,” he mumbles eventually.
I grin, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness in the room. “It’ll be like old times,” I say, going to slap him on the leg but thinking better of it at the last second. “I used to do most of the cooking anyway.”
“I don’t know if I’d call frozen pizza ‘cooking’,” he says.
“At least I can cook pizza without burning it.”
“I only did that a handful of times.”
“Yeah, because you stopped attempting to cook anything at all after you nearly burned our kitchen down with a pepperoni deep dish.”
Kyle rolls his eyes, but doesn’t have anything to bite back with.
We lived together for the entirety of our twenties, until we both turned thirty and Kyle decided that two fully grown alphas in their thirties should probably have their own space.
It made bringing omegas home a lot easier, but realistically we still spend almost all of our time together outside of sleeping.
And a lot more of our paychecks goes on rent and cabs between our apartments now.
He stares up at the chipped hospital ceiling tiles, his jaw tight, but I can see the fight leaving him already. He’s battered, and bruised, and he knows he doesn’t have a choice.
“I can move my shifts around so I can be at your apartment mornings and after work,” I say, keeping my tone light to stop him from spiraling. “Perks of being the boss. I’ll crash on your couch when I need to, go back to mine the rest of the time. No biggie.”
Kyle turns his head slightly to face me, a rare hint of vulnerability bleeding through his usual tough-guy front. “You’ve got a gym to run. Shit to do. Fights to go to. You can’t be running around after me.”
“Bold to assume you’re going to be moving any faster than a slow hobble,” I smirk, the knot in my chest loosening slightly when he flashes me a familiar, dangerous glare.
“Asshole.”
“Dumbass.” I flick the covers, not actually touching him. “The gym’s not going anywhere. There’s Marcus, and Jed, and I’ll still be going in during the day. You’re not talking me out of this, so start getting used to the idea.”
The room is quiet save for the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. Kyle lets out a defeatist sigh, and his hazelnut scent softens, his eyelids drooping as the morphine starts to kick in.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But only because it’s you.”
I frown, expecting a smartass comment back but putting his choice of words down to the drugs as his eyes slip closed, a rumble sounding from his chest.
“Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” I say softly, but his breathing has already evened out, his head tipped back against the mound of pillows.
I lean back in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to his bed and watch him sleep as the rain lashes against the windows, so fucking relieved that my best friend is still around to call me an asshole.