Pulling into his driveway, the blond journalist folded himself out of his car, holding onto the door until the dizziness passed. He'd had to pull over to throw up twice on the way home and wanted nothing more than to pass out in a cool dark room. Praying that he had some of his old prescription pills still in his medicine cabinet, he groped his way into the house and down the hall. He hadn't even bothered to bring his briefcase and cell phone inside. There was no way he was getting any work done today.

Ten minutes later, dressed in nothing but boxers, David Carmichael ran a frustrated hand through his short blond hair, leaving it standing up at odd angles. Tearing open the bedside drawer, he plundered the contents, condoms and cigarettes falling to the floor. No medicine. "Fuck!" he swore. He could call the doctor and get some called in, but there was no way he could drive to the pharmacy. Collapsing on the bed, which was just too tempting to ignore, he reached for the phone. First he called his doctor's office. The nurse promised to call in a fresh set of refills for his prescription. Second, he phoned Trace. If you couldn't call on your best friend to bring you medicine, when could you call him?

Trace was driving down Seaside Drive with the top down when his phone rang. He hit the button on his Bluetooth. "Trace Jackson," he said.

"Trace," David rasped, rolling over so the phone was pressed between his ear and the pillow, too tired to hold it up. "I need your help."

"David? You sound like shit," Trace said, voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah." David shifted and swallowed down another wave of nausea. "I've got a migraine ... bad."

"Hell. Been a long time. You got your meds? Where are you?" Trace said as he turned into a parking lot to turn around and head back to town.

"No, no meds. Can't find them, or I threw them out. It's been so long. The nurse called some in. Walgreens on Eighth." David paused to catch his breath. Even his own voice in his head was too loud.

"David, man, go lay down. Put a wet washcloth over your eyes or something. I'll pick up the meds. Anything else? Gatorade?" Trace asked, turning off Seaside onto a busier street.

"Already lying down, but the fuckin' bed is spinning. Just get me drugs."

"All right. I'll be there soon," Trace said, hitting the button to end the call and focus on traffic. He wanted to get there as soon as possible. It had been a long time since David had last a migraine, but when he got one it was usually a doozy.

Half an hour later, he pulled in behind David's car and headed to the back door, prescription bag in hand. Using his key, he went straight into the kitchen, tossed the bag on the counter, and found a glass for cold water from the fridge. Trace tore open the bag and fumbled with the bottle, cussing the childproof top under his breath. Pills in hand, he grabbed the glass of water and headed back to David's room.

It was dim inside, the heavy drapes blocking out the light, and Trace could see his friend curled up on the bed. "David?" he said softly, walking over to perch on the side of the bed next to him.

David moaned as the bed rocked. Cracking one eye, he looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered brunet looking down at him, brows drawn together in worry. "I'm not dying," he croaked. "No matter how much I might wish it. Fuck!"

Trace winced at how sunken David's eyes looked. "Here," he said quietly. "I bring pain relief."

"My hero." David reached for the pills, lifting up on his elbow to be able to drink the water.

Nodding, Trace waited for David to hand back the glass. He set it on the nightstand and ran his hand lightly over David's forehead. "You're hot too," he said. He stood up and went to the bathroom, wet a cloth with cool water, and brought it back to gently lay it over David's eyes.

David hissed as the cold cloth hit his superheated skin. His entire body shuddered. "Covers," he said, struggling to get up so he could get under the blanket.

Frowning, Trace reached to pull up the blanket, tucking it around David's shoulders. "Sorry, man," he murmured. David looked really miserable.

"Thanks for playing errand boy. I'm sorry I interrupted your day. Go back to work. I'll live. I'm too ornery to die." The blond chuckled at his own joke, causing stabbing pain to shoot through his head until he was gasping. "Fuck," he panted, lying limp. "I think I'll stick around, just in case. I've not seen you hurting this bad in a long time," Trace murmured. "Humor me, okay?"

David would have glared at his friend if the muscles in his face hadn't hurt so badly. Instead he settled for a small frown and a complaint. "When was the last time you cut your hair, Jackson?" It was petty, but doing something as normal as picking on his friend's habit of wearing his hair so long it brushed below his shoulders made him feel just slightly better. He drifted to sleep with one corner of his mouth crooked up.

Trace's mouth quirked as David ribbed him. It was a longtime tease. He held the cool cloth against David's face for a while and then set it aside. Sitting there, he decided he might as well work on his story. He went out to the car and got his laptop and notes. Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and shed his jacket, pulled his tie loose and tossed it aside. Back in the bedroom, he climbed onto the opposite side of the huge bed from David, booted up the laptop, slid his glasses on, and settled in to work.

David was dreaming that he'd fallen asleep at work. His body was stiff from being laid back in his chair with his feet propped on his desk, and he could hear his assistant typing on her keyboard. He started to get up, but his feet were tangled in something. He started to fall.... Waking with a start that jarred his head, David cried out, attempting to sit up, his feet thrashing in the blanket wrapped around his legs.

As soon as David started moving, Trace dropped his pen and notebook and reached over, trying to calm him down. "David. Hey, you're okay," he said, trying to pull at the blanket so his friend wouldn't wrap it any further around himself. He held onto his laptop with his other hand, trying to keep it from sliding off his thighs.

Trace? What the fuck was Trace doing in his office? The two men had been friends for ages, but since they worked for rival newspapers, they never visited each other at work. "Trace? What? Why?"

"David," Trace said patiently. "C'mon; wake up. You're hopped up on pain meds, man." He shook his friend's shoulder gently.

David opened his eyes, the dark room swimming into focus. Trace was leaning over him. "Oh, wouldn't The Mirror just love to get a picture of this: 'Warring newspaper correspondents found in bed together.' I can see the headlines now. Katherine would have her panties in a serious twist. Fuck, I'm thirsty. I feel like a circus train has traveled though my mouth." His head fell forward, landing on Trace's firm thigh instead of the bed, and he yanked it back, causing a spike of pain and wave of dizziness.

"Careful," Trace cautioned, reaching out to help steady him. "You still look like hell, man. Hang on; I'll get you something to drink." He set the laptop down on the bed and stood up, trying not to jostle the mattress. "Stay put," he ordered with a pointed finger before leaving the room.

"Like I have a choice," David muttered, sinking back against the pillows gingerly. Glancing at the clock, he mentally calculated. He was at the peak of his medicine, and the headache was still there--better, but still there and strong. That didn't bode well. The prescription worked, but not for the full six hours before he could take another dose. If two and a half hours in, he still had symptoms this bad, it would be back with a vengeance in another two. He needed to try to eat while he might be able to keep food down, and it was foolish, but he really wanted a shower too.

Trace reentered the room carrying a tall glass of the decaffeinated iced tea David kept in the fridge. "Try this," he suggested, sitting on the edge near him. Over the past couple of hours his hair had come loose of the band he used to hold it back, and he was still wearing his glasses, something he hated doing around other people. But David had seen them before.

David had to grin at Trace's disheveled appearance. The swanky journalist had a fashion-plate reputation that he wasn't living up to at the moment. Reaching for the glass, David swallowed half of it in one gulp before his stomach lurched in protest. He set it carefully on the nightstand. "Thanks."

Nodding, Trace leaned on one arm on the mattress. "Pills not helping, huh?" Normally blond and hale and healthy, David's face had a gray tinge, and his eyes looked clouded. It was a big change.

David let his eyes close. "Oh, they're helping, but when I get one this bad, they just cut the pain. They don't kill it."

"Anything else help?" Trace asked, glancing at the floor as his sock foot slipped over something. He pushed up his glasses, seeing the mess scattered around the nightstand. "I see you rifled the drawers looking for your pills," he said, reaching down to pick up the magazine his foot had touched.

"Would I ever hear the end of it if I asked you to rub my shoulders and maybe my scalp?"

Glancing back to David before he turned over the magazine to see the front, Trace frowned slightly. "You're hurting, David. If I can help, it's no problem." He dropped the magazine in the drawer, pausing long enough to scoop up the rest of the mess as well, raising a brow a bit at some of the contents: pens and notebooks, of course; condoms and lubricant--he shouldn't be surprised at that; a half-empty bag of wintergreens; a lighter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Trace frowned. He thought David had quit. He dumped it all in the drawer before noticing something half under the bed, so he bent over to reach for it.

David rolled over and pushed the pillow out of the way so he could lie flat on the bed. "Thanks, Trace. At this point I'd even take the razzing. I owe you one."

Trace's fingers closed around something cool that felt like a gel pack, but it was rounded and--he blinked when he pulled a dildo out from under the mattress. His eyes shifted to David in surprise, but the other man was lying there with his eyes closed. He was tempted--really, really tempted--to start that razzing right now. He looked back down at it, heavy and thick and about eight inches long, and then he laid it in the drawer and pushed the drawer closed.

Turning some more on the bed, Trace slid his fingers into David's hair and started rubbing gently with one hand before adding the other for a soothing massage. Meanwhile, he thought about what he'd found. There were easy answers, sure. David could be fucking a woman and using the dildo on her too, or just using the dildo, or any number of playful things Trace himself had indulged in. But then there were more ... interesting ... answers. He laughed silently at his out-of-place musings.

David moaned, a sound of sublime pleasure instead of pain for the first time since this headache had hit. "God, that's good. Just a little harder."

Now that his mind was on things erotic, Trace couldn't help but interpret the tone of David's voice in that context. As he strengthened the rubbing, he stifled a chuckle. He knew David had a healthy sex life, but it was just one of those things they hadn't happened to talk about over the years. The noises coming from the other man sounded pretty good to him, not that he'd ever heard another man during sex with the exception of in a movie. He kept sliding his fingers over David's skull with one hand, sliding the other down to the base of his neck and lightly kneading with strong fingers.

David's shoulders rose into the touch, and he purred. Between the medicine and the light touch, he felt better than he had in hours. "You have fuckin' brilliant hands."

"So I've been told," Trace drawled, working more on David's neck.

David took a deep breath, relaxing into the touch, and the silence wrapped around him. A good friend was a rare find, and Trace was the best. As the massage relieved more and more of the pain, his body began reacting in a different way, his cock twitching where it lay trapped between his body and the mattress. David tensed, the pain returning slightly and dissuading his cock of its interest. He and Trace had been friends for years without the slightest hint of sexual attraction. They were buddies, and David was absolutely certain Trace was straight. They talked politics and sports, not sex, and his friend had quite the social reputation that spoke for itself. Either way, the blond had no interest in losing his best friend over a quick roll in the hay. "I think maybe I'll try to take a shower while I still feel halfway decent," he mumbled into the sheet.

Trace's hands paused in their rubbing. "What do you mean 'still'?" he asked, brow furrowing. "Is the migraine going to get worse?" he asked in concern, restarting the massage gently. It bothered him to see his best friend hurting so much.

"Yeah, if I can head them off in the first hour, sometimes one dose will make them go away, but when they get a good foothold like it did today, it is usually twenty-four hours. The problem is that I can only take a dose every six hours and the pain relief lasts four at best." David told himself he should move, but Trace's fingers felt so good that he couldn't bring himself to tell him to stop.

"What for-shit meds are those?" Trace asked, exasperated. "All right. Get a shower. Sure I can't fix you something to eat?" He slowly pulled his hands out of his friend's hair, not wanting to pull it and cause David any more pain. He brushed the fluffed bangs out of David's eyes.

"Yeah, I should try to eat. Check the pantry and see if I have any soup. Needs to be broth, not cream." David grimaced as he moved off the bed. "I'm gonna leave the door open. Between the headache and the meds, I might be a little unstable."

"Just be careful, David. You don't need a broken arm or something," Trace said, standing up and watching David cautiously to make sure he at least made it to the bathroom.

Stripping out of his clothes, David sat on the edge of the tub to keep from leaning over while he started the shower. Stepping into the warm spray, he braced his hands on the cool tile wall and let the water sluice over his body. Between the medicine, Trace's hands, and the shower, he was actually feeling pretty good. When he started to feel a little shaky, he got out and reached for a towel, blotting the skin of his upper body. It was amazing how sensitive a migraine made everything. Bending down to dry his legs, the room started to spin. "Fuck," was all he got out as the world tilted and went black.

Trace was in the kitchen stirring the soup when he heard a loud thump. His eyes widened and he dropped the spoon and ran, yanking himself around the corner and barreling down the hall into the bedroom and to the bathroom door. "Shit!" he swore, seeing David sprawled on the floor awkwardly. He knelt down and pulled him into more of a sitting position, feeling around the back of his head, relieved to find no blood. Heart still pounding from the scare, he cursed under his breath and held David against his lap. "David. David?" He lightly patted the other man's cheek, unsure what to do.

Pinpoints of light like the sparklers kids use on the Fourth of July played on the dark backdrop of David's eyelids. His head was throbbing again and so was his shoulder. He could hear Trace's voice, but it sounded far away. "Trace?"

"David? Come on, open your eyes. Please? You're scaring the hell outta me."

The voice was closer--clearer--and worried. Without opening his eyes, David spoke. "I'm okay. Head just hurts like hell. The last thing I remember was being in the shower."

"Yeah, well, now you're on the floor. Did you hurt anything? Did you hit your head?"

"I don't know." David opened his eyes and winced, immediately closing them again. "My shoulder hurts too."

The quick flutter of David's eyes wasn't enough for Trace to judge his condition one way or another. "Which shoulder? The one you were laying on?" He slid his arm up to it, squeezing the joint gently.

"Ow! Fuck, yeah, that'd be the one. Flip the lights off, will ya, so I can hobble my way back to bed."

"I'm helping you this time. Shit, David. You could have broken something or worse." Trace's voice was ragged with concern as he half-lifted David from the floor and helped him stay on his feet. It wasn't until he slid his arm around David's waist and his fingers touched a bare hip that he realized David was still nude. Well, he thought, it won't matter once he's between the sheets.

Grateful for the support, David leaned into Trace's strength, the friction of his friend's clothes highlighting his own lack of covering. "Fuck," he muttered, whispering a silent prayer that their friendship would survive this day.

"What?" Trace asked, voice sharp with worry as they limped to the bed. "You okay? Something hurting?"

"No, I just realized I was naked as a jaybird. You should be getting hazard pay for this visit." Sitting on the side of the bed, David nodded gingerly toward the dresser. "You want to get me some boxers so I don't offend your delicate sensibilities?"

Trace snorted. "David, I've got a set of the same gear myself. I think I'll survive the embarrassment." He reached up and pulled down the sheets, waiting for David to shift so he could get under the covers. Then he grabbed three of the four pillows and propped him up on them. "I'll get the soup, if it's not scorched by now. I sort of dropped the spoon and ran," he said as he left the bedroom.

David swallowed the lump in his throat, unsure if it was the thought of food or Trace's tender concern that had put it there. Florence Nightingale was not a role he'd have ever cast Trace in, but the hard-nosed reporter made a damn fine nurse.

The soup was, indeed, ruined, so Trace dumped it into the sink and started a new pot. It only took about ten minutes, and he headed back to the bedroom with two mugs and a sleeve of crackers. "Here you go. First-class service," he said drolly, setting the mug on the nightstand nearest David. He walked around the bed and sat on the other side, carefully opened the crackers and set them on the sheets between them.

"I can't believe your lovers let you get away with eating crackers in bed," David exclaimed, blowing the steam off the top of his soup.

Trace shrugged, munching on a crisp wafer. "Usually my bed, so I do what I want, right?" He sipped at the soup carefully before picking up a cracker and handing it to David. "Besides. You're not my lover."

David had a flash of sitting naked in bed with Trace for a reason other than illness, the easy camaraderie they shared spilling over into a more intimate relationship. He felt a momentary pang, but dismissed it as side effects from the migraine. His initial flippant retort died on his tongue and he said, "No.... No, I'm not."

Glancing sideways at David, Trace helped himself to another cracker. "So. Four hours until you can take another pill. You ought to try to sleep. I'll wake you up when it's time," he suggested, thinking about the progress he could make on his performance arts center impact report in the meantime.

Setting the mug aside, still more than half-full, David slid down in the bed, the cool sheets soft against his skin. "Yeah. I think I'll try to do that. Don't get crumbs in my bed, Jackson."

Trace watched him get comfortable, and then went back to his soup without comment. It wasn't long before David's breaths evened out, and once Trace set aside his empty mug, he watched the other man for a bit before pulling his laptop within reach and getting back to work.

A soft beeping woke Trace up slowly. First he frowned, trying to figure out what it was, then he tried to figure out why he was so uncomfortable. He pried open his eyes. His focus was off because his glasses were skewed half off his face. He straightened them and looked around.

"Oh. Yeah," he murmured. He was at David's--in David's bed actually--slumped against the headboard still fully dressed and now totally wrinkled. The lamp on the table next to him threw soft light into the room, and the beeping came from his laptop's low battery. It was tilted onto its side, having slid off Trace's legs. Then he looked down.

David was curled up next to him, and his blond head was pillowed on Trace's thigh. Trace's arm was curled behind him, practically holding him in place. Bemused, he drew a breath, trying to wake up, and he yawned largely. A glance at the laptop's clock showed it was mid-evening. He must have dropped off while working on the report. Slightly annoyed by the beeping, he shut the laptop down and carefully lifted it to set it on the nightstand. Then he looked back down at David.

He looked more relaxed, some of the warm color back in his face, most of the pained lines relieved. His usually sharp, defined features were softened in sleep, and without thinking about it, Trace slid his fingers into the roughed-up hair, petting gently. The reporter yawned again and thought about going back to sleep.

David woke into that warm, fuzzy half-asleep place and contemplated letting the meds pull him back down. He remembered waking several hours earlier when the pain returned. Trace had brought him another pill and supported him while he drank enough water to get it down. Thankfully, the second dose had knocked him back out quickly. Taking a brief inventory of his body, he discovered that his shoulder hurt more than his head. He'd shifted into a comfortable position to get the pressure off of it and.... Suddenly alert, David rubbed his cheek over. He opened his eyes cautiously. Shit. Trace's leg. He was trying to figure out how to gracefully extricate himself from his best friend's lap when he saw Trace staring down at him.

"Hey," Trace greeted softly, pulling his hand back from David's hair. "How are you feeling?" He was somewhat surprised by how David's head moving in his lap made his body take interest, but he dismissed it. He'd always been a really tactile person, and he carried on an active sex life. It was a great outlet for stress, and he enjoyed it. He'd made peace with his touchy-feely tendencies a long time ago.

"Ah, hey," David answered, his voice dry and raspy, one of the side effects of the medicine. "Seems like on top of everything else, I've used you as a pillow." He pushed himself up slowly.

Trace smiled. "It's okay," he said, not moving out of place. "You look like you feel better."

"I do. I think I might even be hungry," David admitted with a smile. "I'm sure as hell sick of being in this bed. If I can make it to the kitchen table, think you could heat up some more soup?"

"Sure," Trace agreed good-naturedly. He needed to plug his laptop in anyway. He could duck out to the car and get the power cord. "Any other requests, your majesty?" he poked as he slid off the bed to stand, reaching above his head to stretch.

David turned with a cocky retort that evaporated as he watched Trace. The tall brunet's lanky frame seemed to go on forever extended like that, wide shoulders tapering down to narrow hips. His shirt had come untucked, the bottom two buttons pulled loose, revealing a triangle of tan skin bisected by a strip of dark hair. David swallowed, his mouth all of a sudden dry for a completely different reason.

Trace yawned as he stretched and tilted his head side to side, groaning when his neck popped. He dropped his arms and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Sleeping sitting up sucks," he muttered before stepping on a sock's toe with one foot to pull his foot free, then working off the other sock before padding out of the bedroom barefoot.

Mute, David watched him leave. He needed to get Trace out of here. He couldn't imagine getting through the past eight hours without him, but the closeness was obviously messing with his head. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he let his legs stabilize before donning a pair of boxers and following Trace to the kitchen.

Trace washed out the pot first and set it back on the stove before stooping over and spinning the lazy Susan, looking for another can of soup or two. More chicken noodle. Tomato. Cheddar broccoli. Chunky vegetable beef. Yum. He pulled out the can and leaned over a little more to see the selection on the bottom shelf.

David stepped into the kitchen, feeling accomplished that he'd made it that far. "Trace." His words stuttered to a halt. Trace had an absolutely amazing ass. Bent over, one foot slightly raised for balance, his shirt sliding up the broad, muscular back--David would have to be a heterosexual saint to resist that image, and he was neither. His groin tightened, and he felt his cock twitch and swell. Fuck!

"Hmmm?" Trace answered before standing back up with another can of soup, reaching to tuck his hair behind one ear. "You want vegetable beef or golden mushroom?" he asked, spinning the lazy Susan closed.

Sliding into a chair, David let the table hide everything from his chest down. "Eww.... Yuck. I don't do mushrooms. That can has been in there since my mother came to visit three years ago. She uses it to make gravy. Vegetable beef, please." Trace's hand drew David's attention to the long dark hair that he enjoyed ribbing his friend about. For the first time, he wondered how it would feel. Was it soft or coarse? Apparently there were things he didn't know about the man he thought he knew quite well. "What do you like on your pizza?" he blurted.

"Not too fond of pizza, actually. Unless I can get something without tomato sauce. Angelo's does a spinach alfredo pizza and a barbecue chicken pizza," Trace said as he opened the can and poured it into the pot, not at all thrown by the non sequitur.

"Really? I don't like tomato sauce either--on pizza at least. There is a little Italian place up the north coast road that does a seafood pizza with a Parmesan cream sauce that is awesome. I don't like barbecue. Too sweet." David couldn't believe with all the ballgames they'd watched that they'd never discussed pizza. Beer, yes. Hot dogs and toppings, yes. Popcorn versus cotton candy, even. What else didn't he know?

"So. What happened with Annemarie a couple weekends ago. Is she still around?" he asked.

Trace turned to look at David. "It wasn't serious," he said. "She didn't ... I mean, I didn't stick around. I don't do sticky."

David chuckled. "A different girl every week. playboy," he teased.

Trace shrugged as he smiled. "Nothing wrong with that."

David tried to think of the last time he'd had sex and was having trouble remembering. "I think I'm getting old. The whole meeting and getting to know someone thing is just too much effort, and I'm not much of a casual-sex person."

Trace tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot and set it aside before turning around, giving David an incredulous look. "Old? David, you're what? Forty-two? Forty-three? That's nowhere near even approaching old. And there's nothing wrong with casual sex," he added, crossing his arms. "As long as both people know up front, anyway."

"I'm not against it, and I agree with you, but ... well.... "How did you tell your best friend that you were gay and, frankly, scared to death of AIDS? Pre-AIDS, David had been what some would call promiscuous, but after watching more than one lover waste away and die, he couldn't bring himself to take the risk. He was clean, but it was purely luck. In the past decade, he hadn't been a monk, but he used condoms religiously and found himself wanting to know more and more about his lovers before he'd sleep with them. He stared at Trace. What could he say?

Raising a brow when David trailed off, Trace just tilted his head and turned back to the soup. Sex wasn't a topic they ever talked about. Now he idly wondered why. Wasn't that something guys usually went on about, comparing experiences and women and what they liked and didn't? That was about how it was when Trace went out with the guys from work. But not with David. He mused about that while he stirred the soup slowly.

David felt the hollowness of the silence that hung between them. It felt different. Before they just hadn't talked about it. Now he felt like he was hiding something. "I'm gay," he blurted before he could back out. "I've seen too many friends become pale reflections of the men they once were because of AIDS. I guess it just makes me overly cautious." Keeping his eyes on Trace's back, he braced himself for the reaction.

Trace blinked, and his hand stilled the spoon for a moment. Gay? David? He'd known the man better than five years now. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

Holding his breath, David bit his tongue. He didn't have to defend his life to anyone. If Trace couldn't deal with him the way he was, he'd be sad and probably a little pissed, but it wouldn't be the first time that someone had judged him.

Trace started stirring again before he answered. "Makes you smart, in my opinion," he said thoughtfully. "Can't be too careful these days."

David released his breath with a sigh. "Thanks," he said softly.

Trace set down the spoon and picked up the pot, grabbing two bowls with his other hand as he turned to the table. "You're welcome," he said quietly as he poured out the soup.

Eating in silence, David felt something he hadn't felt in a really long time: completely comfortable.

Once he finished with his bowl, Trace got up and took it and the pot to the sink, washing them both out. Remembering the mugs in the bedroom, he headed back there to fetch them and clean it all up at once. He was still turning over this new information about David in his head, but for the most part, it didn't bother him. They were still best friends. It wouldn't change that. Even with the new information, he didn't feel uncomfortable around David. He'd never felt uncomfortable before, so there was no reason for it to change anything. Decided, Trace grabbed up the mugs and turned back to the kitchen.

David got up to help Trace with the dishes. He felt weak, but not the least bit dizzy. Running some water into the pot in the sink, he went to lift it to the counter to soak while he rinsed the bowls. "Ow! Fuck!" he swore, stabs of sharp pain radiating from his shoulder and his arm going numb. The pot fell back into the sink with a crash, and David leaned heavily against the counter for support.

Shocked by the loud, sudden noise, Trace hurried around the corner, a mug in each hand. "David? What's wrong?" He shoved the mugs onto the counter, not even noticing the cold chicken noodle slopping over as he raised his hands to help. He was almost afraid to touch David.

Head hanging forward, his eyes tightly closed, David took several deep breaths. "Fuck, that hurt!" he swore, making his way over to the kitchen chair with Trace hovering, apparently worried about where he could safely touch the blond to help without hurting him. "I went to pick up the pot full of water and my shoulder.... Damn! I'm afraid I may have really screwed something up when I fell. When it's just at my side, it aches, but that was a sharp, stabbing, bring tears to your eyes and steal your breath kind of pain."

"Damn it, I was afraid something like this would happen when you insisted on that damn shower. C'mon; we're getting you dressed, and I'm taking you to the emergency room," Trace insisted, urging David toward the bedroom. "You might have broken something." David sat with his head cradled in the palm of his good hand. "You know, with the way this day is going, I'm afraid to get in a car. We'll never make it to the hospital in one piece." He chuckled mirthlessly. He was only half-kidding. With a weary sigh, he pushed to his feet and shuffled miserably to the bedroom. Picking out a worn pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes was no problem, but actually getting into them was proving to be a feat of mechanical engineering. Giving up, he swallowed his pride and called for Trace.

"I should've thought of that. Sorry," Trace murmured as he walked into the bedroom. He took the jeans from him and knelt down, pooling the legs so David could step into them, and he pulled the denim up over firm thighs to settle the waistband, even zipping and buttoning him up carefully before reaching for the T-shirt.

Biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, David tried to control his body's reaction to Trace's innocent touches. Every place that the brunet's fingers brushed his skin prickled with awareness. When the back of his hand grazed a nipple while maneuvering the

T-shirt on without hurting his shoulder, David gasped, barely restraining a moan.

Trace grimaced. "Sorry, David," he murmured, figuring he'd pulled too hard. "You got any Birks or something to wear besides running shoes?" he asked, walking over to the closet and peering down at the floor.

David really wished that Trace would quit presenting him with images of his ass, trousers stretched tightly over hard muscle. His eyes closed on a sigh. "Yeah, there's a pair in the corner." Slipping his feet in the sandals, the blond rested a hand on Trace's back for balance. "Let's get this over with."

"Six hours. Six fuckin' hours. Good thing whatever was wrong with me wasn't life threatening," David complained, sliding out of Trace's car, which was finally back in David's driveway.

Trace just humored him with a "mmm hmmm," not even rolling his eyes. When he'd broken his arm a few years back, he'd sat in the ER for at least that long before seeing anyone. "I'll get those," he said, plucking the bags out of the car before David could lean over to get it. "No more bending over for you."

"And exactly how are you planning on pulling that one off?" David teased, leaning against the roof of the car as Trace locked the doors. "Living tends to involve at least a little bending over." David giggled at the double meaning of the words, punchy from the pain meds they'd given him at the hospital.

Grinning, Trace walked around the front of the car, shaking his head a little. "You're looped, man. Come on. Inside with you. You're on bed rest for a few days." He took David by the good arm and made sure he got up the stairs, unlocked the door, and nudged him toward his bedroom.

"Well, I must say it's refreshing to have a man trying to get me to bed who doesn't want me to bend over," David chuckled, kicking off his shoes and stretching out on the bed with a sigh. "Ahhh.... Tired...."

Trace smiled and pushed David's legs under the sheets, pulling the covers up over him. "Just try not to roll over on that shoulder, huh? I don't want to be awakened by a howling shriek," he teased.

David mumbled something unintelligible and was asleep before his friend left the room. Trace pulled the door shut and went to the kitchen to make a note to himself to call David's boss, telling him what happened. He'd ask his own boss about working half-days next week. He'd go in tomorrow--actually, today, since it was 3 a.m.--to finish up his big project piece for Sunday. Exhausted, Trace figured he could catch a few hours' sleep, so he turned off the lights, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants to be more comfortable, and laid down on the leather couch to sleep.

The second time he caught himself sliding off the slick leather, he got up with a muffled curse and walked back to the bedroom. He had to get some sleep or he'd be crap for brains. He pushed the door open to look in at David. He had that huge bed to himself. There was plenty of room for them both. Hell, Trace could lay out spread-eagle and still not touch David, it was so wide. "What the hell's he need a bed this big for, anyway?" he muttered as he walked into the bedroom.

He pulled his shirt and pants off before crawling under the sheets in briefs and a white undershirt. As he settled down to sleep, it occurred to him to wonder how many other men had slept in this bed. But the thought slipped away before he could form any sort of opinion on it.

David attempted to roll to his back and a twinge from his injured shoulder woke him fully. Fuck! The doctor had said six weeks to heal with at least a full week on bed rest. How was he going to get by? Shifting to move the weight cutting off circulation to his leg, he backed into something solid and warm. Glancing over his wrapped shoulder, he saw Trace, facing away from him, sound asleep. David told himself to pull away, but leaning back against the sleep-heavy weight was so comforting. Closing his eyes, he drifted back to sleep.

Trace slept harder than he had expected, and he jerked awake when his cell phone alarm went off under the pillow. He blinked open bleary eyes to see blond hair and for a long moment, and he was totally disoriented. Oh. Right. David. Trace sat up and pulled out the phone, thumbing off the alarm and looking down at the other man. Apparently they'd slid together as they slept, and Trace had rolled over right up against David's back. Well, at least it kept David off his shoulder, Trace thought with a shrug. He yawned and pushed down the covers to crawl out of the bed.

The first thing David noticed upon waking was Trace's absence. He'd woken several times during the night, Trace's warm presence helping him fall back to sleep. He could hear his friend's deep voice talking in the other room, but couldn't make out the words. Swinging his feet to the floor, David stood up slowly, hand gripping the nightstand for balance. Once he was steady, he headed toward the smell of coffee and Trace's deliberately hushed voice.

"Yeah, six weeks. The doctor's office said they'd fax over the FMLA paperwork. Sure. Yeah, he's got ... a friend to stay over. Help him around the house and all. Yeah, I'll tell him. Sure thing." Trace closed his phone with a snap and looked up to see David standing in the doorway. "Hey, handsome. How you feeling?" he asked with a warm smile.

Momentarily stunned by the smile and the endearment, it took a moment for all of Trace's conversation to sink in. Not wanting to assume that Trace was talking about himself, David asked a more mundane question. "Were you just talking to Lloyd?"

"Yes. He said to stay still and get better. If he sees you in the office before the six weeks are up he'll do something nasty and unprintable with your corpse," Trace said with a grin. "Sit down, David. You're not even supposed to be out of bed."

David shivered at the idea of Lloyd doing anything "unprintable." "Dirty old coot! It's just my shoulder. If I have to stay in bed for six weeks, I'll be certifiable."

"You're supposed to be in bed to keep your shoulder stabilized. That's why you're wrapped up like a Thanksgiving turkey, ya goof." Trace stood and went to pour David a cup of coffee, mixing it with cream and sugar the way he knew the other man liked. Turning back to the table, he surveyed David's pale face. "You want something to eat? You should have something in your stomach before you take more painkillers."

"Wonder what I could get for them on the street?" David mused. "I could use a new laptop." Trace laughed. Chuckling, David reached for the mug with his good hand, staring down at the pale tan liquid. Taking a tentative sip, he hummed his approval. Trace did a better job of fixing a good cup of coffee than he did. Watching as his friend opened the refrigerator and started pulling out sandwich fixings, David pondered the care Trace had shown him in the past twenty-four hours.

"David, why do you have Miracle Whip in your fridge when you don't like anything but real mayonnaise?" Trace asked as he set out jars of condiments and packages of cheese. "And tomatoes? Didn't you tell me you don't like tomatoes? Or was it tomato sauce?" His brow furrowed as he set the meat on the island with the bread.

The blond thought back to a reception at the Williston Hills Country Club after the regional tennis tournament. Snatching a small patch of shade under a giant oak tree, David had complained to Trace about the chicken salad being made with Miracle Whip, and apparently he'd remembered. "Don't you ever forget anything, Jackson?" he said, shaking his head. "The mayonnaise is in the door. The Miracle Whip was for--aw, hell--some guy I was seeing for a while. Should've known when he said he'd only eat Miracle Whip that he was a jerk. And I like tomatoes; just not on sandwiches. I slice 'em up on a plate with salt, pepper, and vinegar."

Trace shrugged, grabbed the jar of Miracle Whip and tossed it in the trash before he nabbed the mayo and a tomato. "Just stuck with me, I guess. You don't complain about much, usually," he said, distracted as he pulled a knife from the block and started slicing the tomato on the butcher block.

David laughed as the Miracle Whip went sailing into the trash. "Thanks. I should've had you over the night I threw him out too. You make it look so easy."

Both Trace's brows rose as he started building sandwiches. "That doesn't sound too good, having to throw him out," he observed. "But I would've helped."

"Yeah, I think you would've. I kind of like having a built-in valet, cook, and chauffeur. Think I could afford you?"

"I don't know.... "Trace drew out doubtfully. "Takes a lot to keep me in the lifestyle to which I'm accustomed," he said, winking as he pulled a few plates out of the cabinet.

"So what's for lunch?" David asked, reaching for the silverware and napkins in the caddy on the table and setting two places, one-handed.

"Turkey and Swiss," Trace said, pulling a bottle of vinegar out of the cabinet. He walked over and set it on the table along with the plate of sliced tomatoes, then moved the salt and pepper shakers within David's reach. "Drink?" he asked as he headed to the fridge. It struck him, all of a sudden, how comfortable this was. Of course, they'd hung out on free Saturdays quite a few times, cooking and talking and watching movies or something, so he supposed it wasn't any big change. David's comment about affording him was still amusing.

"What I really want is a beer, but probably not a good idea with the pain meds. Pepsi." Surprisingly hungry, David started eating, and three-quarters of his sandwich was gone before he realized it. Reaching for the tomatoes now that he had room on his plate, he looked at Trace. "So when do you need to leave? Hardin probably sees this as fraternizing with the enemy."

Trace glanced up from his sandwich, waiting to answer until he'd finished chewing. "Unless you've got someone else to call, I'm sticking around. You really need to be in bed, David," he said, concern marking his brow. "If you move that shoulder, even a little, and get it out of alignment, you might have to have surgery to put it back together."

"I'll make you a deal," David bargained. "I'll get back in bed. I'll even let you give me one of the pain pills that will knock me out for a few hours. You can go check in with your editor before he puts out an APB, and then pick us up a stack of movies and Huwan Cho's Chinese on the way back."

"Sounds good to me. Now finish your lunch." Trace grinned and poked the plate of tomatoes closer before sliding out of his chair to pry open one of the prescription bottles. "You want sesame beef or pork lo mein?" he asked, knowing David's usual preference. "I'll get some pot stickers too."

"How about both, and we'll share them?" David suggested, knowing Trace's propensity for snagging food off his plate. Finishing up the last of his sandwich and the tomatoes, he took the pills with the end of his soda. Standing, he shuffled, obviously stalling. He wanted to say something.

Trace rinsed the plates off in the sink and stacked them to wash later. When he turned, he saw David waiting. "Do you need something?" Trace asked in concern. David didn't look like he felt all that well, but he looked better than he had some hours ago. Trace tilted his head to one side, his hair tumbling off his shoulder and the wrinkled shirt he'd slept in.

"Could you.... That is, would you ... erm." David fidgeted. "Can you help me get my jeans off?" he blurted.

Smirking, Trace set his hands on his hips. "You know, I would have figured you for a more suave kind of man," he teased. "What kind of line is that?" he asked as he walked over and handily unfastened the button. "I wouldn't figure guys would be so easy," he said as he pulled down the zipper.

David watched as Trace's long, blunt fingers unfastened his jeans. His breath lodged in his throat, making his head spin, and he could feel his cock, only fractions of an inch from Trace's hand, twitch and swell. Fuck! Forcing air into his lungs, he glanced guiltily up at Trace's face. His friend was grinning at him, relaxed, teasing. Trace had no idea the effect he was having. Thank you, God. "Yeah, well, then you don't know men very well. We're an easy bunch when it comes to getting in our pants."

Trace laughed and slid two fingers through a belt loop on David's hip, tugging gently to get him moving toward the bedroom. "I'll keep that in mind should I ever decide to expand my horizons."

Something flip-flopped in David's gut. Trace teasing about becoming bi-curious was doing nothing to calm his libido. Hopefully the meds would kick in soon and knock him out. After following the brunet down the hall obediently, David pushed his jeans to the floor, walking out of them as he crossed the bedroom, and he crawled immediately into bed. He didn't open his mouth for fear his muddled brain would say something he couldn't take back.

Straightening the sheet out from under the bedspread, Trace pulled it up over David. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over David to snag another pillow, and pushed it up carefully under his friend's injured shoulder. "There you go," he murmured, squishing the pillow a little more before looking at David. "Think you'll be okay? I've got to go out for awhile."

Keeping his eyes closed, David felt Trace's warm breath on his face. "I'll be fine, Dad. Go. Before Hardin fires your sorry ass and you have to move in with me."

Trace chuckled quietly. "All right. I'm going. I've got my cell." He reached over and turned out the lamp before he walked over to the bathroom to turn on the light and pull the door partly closed. He paused at the threshold leading to the hall, looking back at his best friend and sighing softly. At least David would be okay. Seeing him hurt really bothered Trace. Mouth quirking fondly, he left to run his errands.

David shifted on the couch trying to get comfortable. After trying several positions, he had discovered that the corner of the couch seemed to work better than his favorite recliner. Unfortunately, on some days, no position was comfortable. David pressed the play button on the remote. Five days into his forced restriction, the two men had developed a routine. Trace left for a few hours in the morning and a few more in the afternoon to get his work done, making sure he was home to do all the cooking. In the evenings they were working their way through a tall stack of DVDs that Trace had brought back that first night. Almost two weeks later, David could barely remember what it was like without Trace around all the time.

David shifted again, his back aching from holding his shoulder still in the hated sling. "The popcorn almost ready or should I hit pause?" he called out, knowing Trace hated missing the beginning of a movie.

"Pause, please!" Trace said loud enough for David to hear as he blankly watched the microwave tick down the time. His mind was on work tonight, and he doubted he'd actually comprehend the movie although he'd sit and watch it to keep David company. David was trying hard not to be a bear, he could tell. It was kind of funny, really. Blinking when the microwave beeped, he realized he was grinning. Shrugging, he pulled out the hot and steamy bag, tossing it from hand to hand.

It had been different staying over at David's the past couple weeks. They got along really well in close quarters (so far anyway), like they'd been sharing the house for much longer. Trace had decided he liked having the company, even if it was quiet, somewhat-unlike-David company. And it beat going home to an empty apartment. He was a social creature and had always thought David was the same, but now he realized he really didn't know that for sure. Yeah, they got along fine, but there wasn't a circle of friends around the two of them. Trace had his--and in theory David had his. Trace wondered what else David did besides hang out with him. He hadn't had much at all in the way of visitors. Even if he wasn't into casual sex, surely he got in some companionship somehow.

Trace walked over to the fridge for cold drinks, pulling it open. Hmm. Grocery run needed. He added it to his list of things to do tomorrow. He needed to go home and wash clothes and feed the cat (who was really giving him hell over being gone so much), pick up his clothes at the cleaners, conduct a series of interviews at the Performing Arts Center, turn in the latest set of music reviews, make a list of pending restaurant reviews, pick up some more DVDs....

So he was distracted when he walked into the living room, carrying two drinks and the big bowl of popcorn.

David watched in horror as Trace tripped over the coffee table, popcorn and soda flying up into the air in slow-motion like a bad comedy. Without thinking, he reached out to help, cursing as pain knifed through his shoulder, his arm dropping limp to his side. "Fucking hell!" he cried out, dropping back to the couch.

Groaning, Trace rolled over to his back from where he had fallen on his knees. He stared up at the ceiling. "Ouch," he mentioned conversationally.

"Yeah," David agreed, his voice a little shaky. "Who are we going to get to move in and take care of us if both of us get hurt?"

Trace turned his chin to look up at David. "You okay?" he asked, his face lining with concern.

"No, actually it hurts like hell." David swallowed. He was getting tired of always whining. Extending his good hand to Trace, he shifted forward to help him up. "I think we need something stronger, don't you?"

"Yeah, I think so too," Trace said, wincing when David helped haul his butt up. He looked down at the scattered popcorn and was thankful he hadn't opened the soda cans. "Let me get this cleaned up, and I'm going to the liquor store. You'll have to switch Vicodin for Maker's Mark," he told David as he leaned over to pick up the bowl and scoop most of the popcorn off the carpet.

"I'll live, and you don't have to go to the liquor store. I've got a stocked cabinet under the CD player. My poker club doesn't do the cheap stuff." David pointed to a set of doors in the entertainment center. "Unless you really just need to get out for a bit, which I'd totally understand," he added.

Trace completely missed David's last comment as he scooped up popcorn. "Poker club?" he noted as he walked over to the CD player he'd used many times over the years. "I didn't know you played poker. Much less in a club." He crouched down and opened the cabinet. "Holy shit, David! What kind of poker is it, high stakes?" he asked in surprise. The lines of bottles inside weren't even of the not-cheap variety; they were of the damn-expensive variety. "Jesus," he muttered as he started shifting bottles around.

David shrugged the best he could with one shoulder. "It's a group of guys I grew up with. We play pretty high stakes, yeah, but over the years, I'd guess we're all pretty close to even. Jared's on a roll right now, but he needs it. His ex fleeced him last year."

Trace glanced over his shoulder, somehow both happy to know for sure that David had other friends, but a little jealous that he wasn't included. He held out a bottle. "What do you want? I've never even tried most of this stuff. Kentucky bourbon's about as good as it gets on my paycheck."

"Second one from the right with the black label," David instructed. "You should try it. Collecting rare and exclusive single malts has become sort of a hobby among the group. Whenever we travel, we bring something back. The rule is you bring a bottle for everyone in the group. We're playing this weekend. If you're still around.... "David's voice trailed off, not wanting to presume anything, but secretly looking forward to introducing Trace to his friends.

The younger man's brows were up in his hairline. "A bottle for everyone in the group?" he exclaimed as he pulled out the requested bottle. "Dear God. You better hope you win that night." He stood up after grabbing a couple of glasses from another shelf. "Ice?" he asked. Meanwhile, he was thinking about the hinted invitation. He'd vaguely thought about going out, but maybe he could hit a club some other night.

"Ice!" David barked, outraged. "Sacrilege! If you want to water down your scotch, there's a bottle of Jack Daniels from the corner liquor store in there somewhere."

"Geez, okay, okay!" Trace answered, thumping the bottle down on the coffee table in front of David. "Give the uneducated a break. I didn't play cards and drink hard liquor in school. I was poor." He unscrewed the cap and handed it over to the other man. "Hell, I'm still poor. Must be why I'm an arts reporter. I hit all the swank parties on my expense account."

"How do you think we got un-poor?" David laughed. "Every one of us paid our way through college playing poker and pool."

Trace grinned as David poured the glasses. "Somehow I never would have taken you for a shark, David. Isn't that interesting?" he drawled, sitting on the couch next to him and propping his feet up on the table. "I figure I'll be here this weekend unless you're miraculously healed, but I'll be a third wheel. I don't know anything about poker except how to make a full house." His brow furrowed. "Maybe."

Immensely pleased that Trace still planned on being around by the weekend, David grinned. He'd always felt like he valued his privacy too much to share his home, one of the reasons he'd never invited anyone to move in with him even when they'd been pretty serious, but having Trace around was easy, enjoyable, even a little addictive. "There's a deck of cards in the side table drawer. You'll have to shuffle, but I can teach you enough to get by," David offered.

Trace leaned over to dig into the drawer. "All right, but no laughing. I spent much more time flipping quarters and making out than playing cards," he warned. He scooted farther away from David and set the deck in between them, then reached for the glass and took a cautious sip. He immediately moaned and closed his eyes. "Aw, hell. I'm ruined for life."

David's mouth quirked. "Good scotch and a good lover will ruin you every time," he murmured, cutting the deck. His arm was still tingling from his earlier foolish move, but the pain had subsided to a low throb. "We'll start with five-card stud."

The dark-haired man grinned. He happened to agree, at least with the second part of the sentiment. "I'll shuffle and deal. Don't mess with that shoulder," Trace said, wiping his bottom lip with the back of his hand before taking up the cards. "I'm going out on a limb and guessing five cards each," he said drolly. "What are we going to bet with?"

"Popcorn?" David suggested, reaching for what had been salvaged back into the bowl and dumping even piles in front of them. Throwing three pieces in the center, he popped another five into his mouth. "Ante up. That's what you have to bet to play the hand."

Trace followed suit with three pieces and half a handful in his mouth. "Okay. Five-card stud. Heh." He tilted his head, eyes flashing in amusement, and prodded for information. "This group of yours ... enjoys standing stud?"

Chuckling, David fanned his cards, examining them. "Ha, maybe once upon a time. Most are married, until last year when Jared's wife left him, and he's still too torn up to even think about dating. Out to pasture might be a better description."

"Except you," Trace pointed out as he looked at his cards and moved a couple around.

"Yeah, well.... You've seen the hordes lining up at the bedroom door." David picked up four pieces of popcorn and tossed them in the center. "I'm in." He gave Trace a brief outline of the hierarchy of hands and how to bet.

"Actually, now that I think about it, I've noticed, sometimes," Trace pointed out as he frowned at his cards, but threw in some kernels anyway before taking a drink.

David tilted his head, looking at his friend speculatively. "You have?"

Trace looked up from his cards and shrugged a little. "Just sometimes when you were in a better mood than usual, I figured you'd found someone. When you passed on ballgames on the weekend, that sort of thing. Course, I thought it was a woman." Trace grinned. "But same result."

"Hmmm. So I guess that means those mornings that you couldn't sink a putt to save your soul, but grinned anyway, came after marathon sex sessions," David speculated, grinning.

"Could be," Trace said, eyes bright. "I'd already hit a hole in one," he added smugly as he sat back with his glass.

David took a sip of his scotch, choking at the bad pun. "Oh, God, Jackson, that's bad even for you. I call." David scraped in the pot, raising another handful of the salty kernels to his mouth. "We seem to be running out of currency," he commented after Trace dealt the next several hands.

Trace was still chuckling as he emptied his glass and looked down into the bowl. "Well, we could always play strip," he joked as he tossed another handful into his mouth, hair scattering over his shoulders.

Tipping his head back, David downed the rest of his scotch in one gulp, his pulse racing at the thought of Trace naked. Fuck, why not?, he thought, deciding to call the cocky bastard's bluff. "Works for me. We'll skip the ante and just play hands. Whoever loses the hand loses a piece of clothing. That work for you?"

Shrugging, Trace reached for the bottle and tipped a bit more into each glass. "Go for it, Romeo. You're the shark," he teased. He shuffled the cards and dealt, then looked at his hand after another drink. His cheeks were warm, like he'd had three or four good beers already. It felt good to just have fun again. He looked up at David with an honest smile as he waited.

Face blank, David looked at his cards seriously for the first time that night. He hadn't been letting Trace win, but he hadn't been taking his usual risks either--the risks that usually paid off. Flicking the edges of his cards, he folded them facedown on the table. "I'll stay."

Trace looked at his cards. Strip poker with David. What a crazy-ass thing to be doing. He chuckled and shrugged. "I'll stay."

David flipped over his cards, trying not to smile. "King high flush."

Wrinkling his nose, Trace looked at his cards and shook his head. "Two pair." He looked down at his clothes and shrugged, pulling off a black dress sock and dropping it to the floor.

"Oh no," David chided. "Anything that comes in pairs, goes in pairs. Take 'em both off."

Trace rolled his eyes and yanked off the other sock, exposing long toes that sank into the thick carpet. "Picky, are you? Fine. I'll remember that," he said after another sip of scotch. He shuffled and dealt. "I'm in."

David looked at Trace over the top of his cards, eyes narrowed. They'd played five hands since changing the stakes. Trace had lost his socks, his dress shirt, his belt, and his watch. The next thing to go would be the thin white T-shirt that was stretched across his muscular chest. David wasn't sure he could take it. Unfortunately, he'd started off with nothing but jeans and a T-shirt and he'd already lost the T-shirt. "Call."

"I'm in," Trace said, setting down the glass he'd emptied of scotch. "Full house," he crowed.

"Nice. Very nice," David agreed. Pressing his fanned cards to the table with a flourish, he smirked. "Just not quite good enough. Full house, aces over jacks."

Trace's face fell comically. "I thought I had you that time," he pouted, shaking his head so his hair flopped over his shoulders. He tossed down his cards and pulled the T-shirt out of his waistband and over his head, laying it over the back of the couch as he reached for the cards to shuffle again. It didn't occur to him to be uncomfortable; he wore shorts and tanks when he and David played racquetball. He'd even been in clinging, soaked swimming trunks when they'd gone to the water park.

David couldn't drag his eyes from Trace's smooth, tanned chest. It was obvious that he'd stepped up his workout routine. He hadn't been nearly this size last summer. The blond shifted on the couch, reaching for his scotch and finding it empty. He either needed to get drunk really quickly or get out of this room. Not wanting to waste exquisite scotch, he opted for the latter. "I think maybe it's time for bed. The meds mixed with alcohol are getting to me," he stammered, standing.

The younger man blinked and watched David get up. "Okay," he said, sounding a little concerned. "Are you all right?" he asked, seeing the other man's flushed face but easily attributing it to the scotch. After all, he was a bit red-faced himself, and certainly not embarrassed.

"Ah, yeah." David shook his head, still hesitating beside the couch. He needed help with his jeans unless he wanted to sleep in them, but Trace's hands anywhere near the vicinity of his crotch was just not a good idea right now. Making a silent vow to wear sweatpants the next day, he cleared his throat. "Uhm, if you'll just do the button, I think I can handle the rest," he said, motioning toward his jeans. He was half-hard, but hoped Trace just wouldn't notice. The man was straight, after all; he wasn't used to looking for signs of arousal from a man.

"Sure." Trace pushed away the niggle of concern. He'd probably been mother-henning David too much anyway. If the man was tired, he was tired. He reached up and slid his fingers into the waistband on both sides of the button as he pulled it open, and it did occur to him to glance over what he was doing. Some part of his head noticed "Hey, David's got some size on him," but as soon as he released the jeans and sat back, the thought was gone. "I'm gonna chill awhile, then I'll clean up." He smiled lazily. "Thanks for the scotch."

David swallowed, looking down at Trace. The brunet's eyes were closed, his mouth curving up into a satisfied smile. David was nearly overcome with a desire to lean down and kiss that smile. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to turn away from his friend and walk toward the bedroom, adjusting the growing tightness in his jeans once his back was turned. If his right arm had been functioning properly, he'd have locked himself in the bathroom and taken care of the developing problems, but he wasn't at all ambidextrous when it came to self-pleasure. Once safely hidden away in his bedroom, he shuffled his jeans to the floor, cursing softly as his hand brushed the bulge in his boxers, torturing himself by letting his fingers linger and flex over the stiff shaft. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." He stretched out on the bed.

Humming slightly as he enjoyed the buzz, Trace lay sprawled on the couch for some time before yawning and deciding he should move before he fell asleep right there. He stretched and yawned again, then knelt down on the floor and cleaned up the rest of the popcorn, secreted away the scotch, and scooped up his clothes. Turning off the light, he wandered down the hall, stopping to drop his clothes in the hamper in the hall closet. With a sigh he pushed the bedroom door open, peering in at the figure under the covers. David had taken to sleeping on his good shoulder, uncomfortable on his back, and the soft light from the bathroom fell on his blond hair.

Trace slid his hand into the bathroom and clicked off the light before walking around to the other side of the wide bed. He slid out of his pants, leaving them puddled on the floor, and crawled into bed in just his briefs. He sighed and stretched out on his belly and pulled the pillow under his chin.

David shifted as the bed dipped under Trace's weight, keeping his breathing even so that his friend would think he was already asleep. He'd been lying in the dark trying to make sense of his conflicting thoughts. He and Trace had been friends for years without the hint of something more and now suddenly he was assailed by erotic thoughts of stripping the handsome brunet bare and licking every inch of his body. Biting his lip, he moved his leg slightly forward to hide the evidence of his wayward thoughts.

Turning his cheek against the pillow as he drowsed, Trace curled his body toward David unconsciously, drawn by the heat of the other man's body. After a few long minutes, he shifted further in David's direction as he slept. Tensing as Trace threw an arm over him some minutes later, David bit back a yelp of surprise. Oh, great. Feed Trace decent scotch and the man became a cuddler. David attempted to inch sideways to put more space between them and the arm resting at his waist tightened, pulling him back into the curve of Trace's body. With a resigned sigh, David attempted to relax. It felt good to be held, and he was asleep before he knew it.