Chapter 8
Sam was starting to worm his way into Eric’s mind more and more often, even when he wasn’t there. When Eric stared at the clean floor of his bedroom he thought of the way Sam picked up his clothes many mornings, grumbling about whether Eric even knew what a hamper was for. When he entered his bathroom he thought of the way Sam would glance at him through the mirror with his little travel toothbrush in hand, and now even when he was alone and Eric looked in that mirror he could almost catch sight of what Sam seemed to see when he smiled at him.
He’d never really cared for his reflection before. He was relatively good-looking, he knew, but what he saw when he looked at himself was just a façade, a construction of what he thought he needed to be to live up to his parents’-and the worlds’-expectations. That put-on front had made it easy to keep people from ever working their way too deeply into his life. But with Sam it was different, because he could tell that Sam really saw him, perhaps even better than he saw himself, and the fact that whatever Sam saw caused him to smile made Eric almost unbearably happy.
The happiness he felt when he was with Sam started to make its way into the rest of his life as well. He dug out his weight equipment from the onslaught of once-used towels and started strength training again, even though he worried that he would look like some kind of strange lopsided freak when he finally got the cast off. More of the asshole-persona started wearing off, and he knew it, because he was becoming friendlier with the people whose paths he happened to cross, and he was treating Sam better-- sharing more meals, laughing with him more, kissing him more, and thanking him more. He even gave Sam a key to his place. But although he had to admit that all of the change was good, and could perhaps even be called progress, he would still have been perfectly content to keep any more change from taking place.
He already suspected, however, that Sam had other plans.
*
“Can I ask you a question?” Sam asked late one evening. They’d exchanged blowjobs on the couch and now were reclined on it, halfheartedly watching a TV murder mystery.
Eric’s first instinct was to give him a resounding “No,” because people didn’t usually ask if they could “ask” unless they had an inkling the other party wasn’t going to be comfortable with what they had to say.
But Sam continued on as if the silence was approval. “How come you acted like such an asshole when we first met? I don’t really think that’s who you are.”
Eric sighed. “I don’t know. I was just angry, I guess. Been angry for a while.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully.
“Let me ask you a question,” Eric interjected, eager to change the subject. “Why’d you say yes to my invitation if you thought I was such an ass?”
Sam grinned shyly. “I dunno. I guess maybe I was just horny, too.” He laughed. “It had been a while.”
Something about Sam’s laugh seemed strained, though, and uncharacteristically Eric felt the urge to delve into the matter. “How long?” he prompted.
“Eight months . . .”
Eric raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s pretty long. So why’s that? You’d think someone as together as you are wouldn’t have a problem finding someone.”
Sam’s body had tensed slightly and he started to pick at some non-existent dirt under his fingernails. “Well, that’s when I broke up with Mark . . . my ex. He was a lawyer . . .” he trailed off, his soft blue eyes flashing with distress as his chest heaved in a sigh.
Eric had to resist an urge to take hold of Sam’s hand. “He hurt you?”
Sam’s gaze flitted up to him for an instant and then drifted away. “Well I thought we were pretty serious, but I guess we weren’t. He cheated on me,” he said with a shrug.
Sam may have been trying to play it off, but Eric could still see the pain, possibly because he knew what pain looked like even under the deep cover of feigned apathy. Even more than before Eric wanted to reach out to him, stroke is cheek, and take that pain away. But he wasn’t ready to take care of anyone else’s heart. He still had his own to worry about.
“Well I’m pretty damn sure he didn’t deserve someone as great as you,” was all he could manage to say. Sam didn’t really smile but his eyes locked on him, glowing with a mixture of adoration and appreciation.
The phone rang and interrupted the solemn moment. “I’ll get it,” Sam said quickly.
“Don’t!” Eric shouted before he realized that Sam was only teasing. He lunged for the phone and landed half on top of Sam, knocking his shoulder in the process.
“Fuck!” he cried out as he answered it, and Sam covered his mouth to suppress the sound of his laughter.
“No, no, Joan, that wasn’t for you.” Even though he was still in pain, Eric felt laughter bubbling in his voice as well as he lay across Sam awkwardly, giving him a playful glare.
“Yeah, no, things are fine . . . really,” he continued into the phone. “Yeah, sure, come visit anytime . . . hey listen I’m kinda busy right now . . . right, yeah, I’ll call you later . . . okay, talk to you soon.”
He hung up the phone and tilted his body so he could punch Sam in the arm.
“Ow!” Sam cried out. “Who was that?”
“My sister,” Eric responded as he straightened himself out.
“Oh . . . ” Sam began in that invasive tone that Eric had come to know. “So . . . I’ve been wondering, how come you’ve never told your family? I mean, I get why you wanted to keep it private from the sports world, but your family . . .”
“Told them what?”
Sam gave him a reproachful roll of the eyes.
“My dad wouldn’t have liked it,” Eric replied, already planning his exit from the conversation as he stood up and stretched. “Being staunchly Irish-Catholic and all.”
“Not to be morbid, but he’s gone now . . . what about your sister? Why haven’t you told her?”
Eric shrugged. “Don’t really have a reason to,” he said.
Sam’s face fell and he blinked several times in rapid succession as he opened his mouth to give a retort, but before he could say anything Eric turned quickly and walked away. All the same he could feel Sam’s devastated eyes following him down the hallway, and he tried his best to cover his shame with anger. Damn him for trying to be so personal.
*******
Sam waited impatiently, making small talk with his co-worker Eleanor and scanning the crowd at the park for Eric’s well-muscled frame and cumbersome cast. Of course, he wasn’t entirely certain Eric would show up, but he hoped he’d made a convincing enough argument to get him to at least make an appearance.
It was the firm’s annual client appreciation barbeque, and he suspected the only way he’d been able to get Eric to even consider coming was because he felt guilty about continuing to keep their growing ‘association’ secret when it was clear-or, at least to Sam it was clear-they were becoming more than casual. Mainly he wanted to get Eric out of his place, as he rarely seemed to leave it for anything other than a beer run or a trip to the sandwich shop down the street. Eric had balked at the idea of such a trite social affair, but Sam’s winning argument had been that if he didn’t show up, someone was liable to think Sam wasn’t keeping his client happy, and he might get reassigned. That wasn’t actually true, but he knew Eric wanted to keep the excuse for their public relationship alive and didn’t think it was too wrong to play into that to get what he wanted.
He finally caught sight of him, trudging over from his cab, wearing a loose-fitting shirt and what was probably his best pair of jeans that hugged his backside perfectly. Eric had been working out again, and though Sam had thought he was in amazing shape before, those muscles were even more defined now. He couldn’t help but break into an ear to ear grin, and hoped Eleanor was too busy chatting about the big client she’d just hooked to catch his expression.
He had to hold his arms down at his sides to keep himself from waving or calling out, but he kept his eyes locked on Eric’s form so that when he did look up he could make eye contact and maybe motion for him to join them. Eric approached and shook hands with Mr. Sampson, then began politely chatting with his wife.
Eleanor interrupted Sam’s visual pursuit of Eric. “Oh, there’s McNally,” she said. “I’m surprised he came. Such a shame what happened to him. I heard he’s a pain, though, not real friendly . . . is that true?” she asked.
Sam turned back towards her but tried to keep his peripheral vision on Eric. “Nah, he’s not that bad. Pissed at the world, maybe, but who can blame him.”
“Really? I heard he was an ass even before the injury.”
Sam’s response was cut off as Eric finally turned and caught his eye. He smiled at him from across the field but the smile dissolved quickly when Eric returned his gaze with a cold stare and the barest of nods.
“Well, if he’s not that bad I suppose we should go schmooze,” Eleanor said, lightly taking hold of Sam’s arm. “Come on then.”
It was hard not to feel crushed by the look of fear and perhaps even anger than rushed across Eric’s eyes as he saw them approaching.
“Eric,” Sam said in what he hoped was a friendly and nonchalant tone.
Eric nodded at him but kept his hand in his pocket. “Hey, how are you,” he responded casually without meeting Sam in the eye.
Sam paused, uncertain of what to say next, but Eleanor filled the moment. “I’m Eleanor Windham, junior partner at the firm,” she smiled her charming smile. “You could say I’m one of Sam’s bosses,” she added with a wink.
“Right, right,” Eric said. “Well, I’m gonna hit up the grill for a hot dog,” he announced, and abruptly turned away.
“Oh, you were right,” Eleanor said with a droll laugh as Eric hunkered off. “He’s absolutely charming."
“Yeah,” Sam said quietly under his breath.
Sam did his best to socialize appropriately with the other clients and families that made their way to the gathering, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from searching for Eric. He watched him with a succession of beers in his hands as he mainly talked to Mr. Sampson’s petite trophy wife and his former lawyer. Eric had caught sight of Sam staring at him a few times, but as soon as eye contact was made he’d darted away with an almost sick expression on his face. Then when Sam looked around one last time he saw Eric’s back as he walked off towards the street. Without so much as a glance or a goodbye, he’d slipped off to return to his hole of an existence.
Sam excused himself shortly after, feeling like a deflated idiot for thinking he’d at least have gotten a smile out of Eric, or that they could have pretended like they were friends.
He got into his car and slammed the door, cursing his own ineptitude at falling for a closeted man, when he realized his cellphone was blinking with the tiny envelope indicating a text. He opened it up and was torn between laughing and yelling in anger when he read Eric’s message.
Are you coming over tonight?
He slapped his cellphone shut and decided he was not going to go over.
*
Sam got home and lounged around for a while, feeling sorry for himself. Around eight o’clock he made himself a ham sandwich for dinner since he rarely felt like cooking when he was in a funk, and was eating it while half-heartedly attempting to read a book when his cellphone rang. His first instinct was to ignore it, but the more forgiving part of his nature won out and he decided to answer it to see if Eric at least had some words of apology to give him.
“Hello,” he muttered into the phone.
“Sam, Sam, hey were you gon’ come?” Eric’s voice was distant and his words were slurred.
“What?”
“Gonna come. Were you gon’come,” Eric repeated, becoming even less distinguishable.
“Eric, are you drunk?” Sam asked, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
“Din drink tha' much.” Eric sighed against the phone. “But now that you mention it . . . yeah maybe drunk. Are you comin’?”
“Okay, I’m coming,” Sam said quickly. Eric may not have given a second thought to the fact that vicodin and alcohol were not meant to be mixed, but all Sam could think of was him banging around the house, injuring his broken body even further in the process.
He was glad he’d rushed over when he found Eric leaning over the kitchen sink, retching. He wanted to be pissed but instead found himself switching into caretaker mode almost immediately. “Eric, Eric,” he whispered soothingly. “What did you do?”
Eric didn’t respond because he was too busy emptying his stomach of the contents it had acquired at the barbeque. The sight of vomit was usually enough to send Sam running for a restroom as well, but somehow his need to take care for Eric overcame his own disgust. He’d known a classmate in law school who had died after asphyxiating on his vomit following a night of drinking. And with the way Eric was keeling from the obvious effects of the vicodin augmenting his alcoholic stupor, Sam couldn’t help but fear what would have happened had he decided not to answer the phone.
He cleaned out the sink, then wiped away the traces of the throw-up with a dampened dishtowel before he saw that some of it had dribbled down Eric’s bare chest. He cleaned that off as well but afterwards Eric pulled away and started stumbling down the hallway.
“Need a shower,” Eric muttered. “Feel gross.”
Eric started to slip down the wall before he even reached the bathroom, so Sam stepped in to help, silencing his mumbled apologies. A shower would have been quicker but he didn’t know about getting Eric’s cast wet, so he decided to draw a bath instead. He stripped Eric as the water filled.
“Sam, ‘m sorry,” Eric repeated for the third time, then rested his head against Sam’s chest. “You’re so good to me . . . you’re amazing . . . so warm,” he slurred, and if Sam hadn’t been so caught up in taking care of him he would have been honored by the admission.
He got Eric in the bath and rinsed him off with the tepid water, then washed out his hair with shampoo because Eric had told him once what a pain it was to scrub with one hand. Eric moaned slightly, then was mostly silent, his eyes closed as Sam helped him out and toweled him dry. He leaned heavily into Sam’s arms, clutching at him and trying to draw him in closer every time Sam moved away slightly, which made the process take longer than it should have. Eventually he began to fall asleep standing up, so Sam propped him against the bathroom counter, ignoring the whining noise Eric made at the transition from warm body to cold marble, and went to grab a pair of boxers. He’d tossed in a load of laundry the last time he was there, and, as suspected, it was still languishing in the dryer.
After dressing him Sam half-carried, half-dragged Eric’s near-sleeping form to the couch because it was closer than the bedroom. Eric stirred slightly when they arrived and lunged for the comfort of horizontality, nearly crashing front-first on his casted arm. Sam caught him and maneuvered him around slowly so that he could lie down on his back, then brought several pillows over to prop up his head in case he needed to vomit again. He pulled over a trash bin and placed a blanket over Eric who was breathing haggardly, and couldn’t help but stroke his forehead softly in a way he never would have done had Eric been sober. When Eric’s eyes finally closed and his breathing became somewhat even Sam curled up in a side chair to keep watch.
*******
Next Chapter 9
He’d never really cared for his reflection before. He was relatively good-looking, he knew, but what he saw when he looked at himself was just a façade, a construction of what he thought he needed to be to live up to his parents’-and the worlds’-expectations. That put-on front had made it easy to keep people from ever working their way too deeply into his life. But with Sam it was different, because he could tell that Sam really saw him, perhaps even better than he saw himself, and the fact that whatever Sam saw caused him to smile made Eric almost unbearably happy.
The happiness he felt when he was with Sam started to make its way into the rest of his life as well. He dug out his weight equipment from the onslaught of once-used towels and started strength training again, even though he worried that he would look like some kind of strange lopsided freak when he finally got the cast off. More of the asshole-persona started wearing off, and he knew it, because he was becoming friendlier with the people whose paths he happened to cross, and he was treating Sam better-- sharing more meals, laughing with him more, kissing him more, and thanking him more. He even gave Sam a key to his place. But although he had to admit that all of the change was good, and could perhaps even be called progress, he would still have been perfectly content to keep any more change from taking place.
He already suspected, however, that Sam had other plans.
*
“Can I ask you a question?” Sam asked late one evening. They’d exchanged blowjobs on the couch and now were reclined on it, halfheartedly watching a TV murder mystery.
Eric’s first instinct was to give him a resounding “No,” because people didn’t usually ask if they could “ask” unless they had an inkling the other party wasn’t going to be comfortable with what they had to say.
But Sam continued on as if the silence was approval. “How come you acted like such an asshole when we first met? I don’t really think that’s who you are.”
Eric sighed. “I don’t know. I was just angry, I guess. Been angry for a while.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully.
“Let me ask you a question,” Eric interjected, eager to change the subject. “Why’d you say yes to my invitation if you thought I was such an ass?”
Sam grinned shyly. “I dunno. I guess maybe I was just horny, too.” He laughed. “It had been a while.”
Something about Sam’s laugh seemed strained, though, and uncharacteristically Eric felt the urge to delve into the matter. “How long?” he prompted.
“Eight months . . .”
Eric raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s pretty long. So why’s that? You’d think someone as together as you are wouldn’t have a problem finding someone.”
Sam’s body had tensed slightly and he started to pick at some non-existent dirt under his fingernails. “Well, that’s when I broke up with Mark . . . my ex. He was a lawyer . . .” he trailed off, his soft blue eyes flashing with distress as his chest heaved in a sigh.
Eric had to resist an urge to take hold of Sam’s hand. “He hurt you?”
Sam’s gaze flitted up to him for an instant and then drifted away. “Well I thought we were pretty serious, but I guess we weren’t. He cheated on me,” he said with a shrug.
Sam may have been trying to play it off, but Eric could still see the pain, possibly because he knew what pain looked like even under the deep cover of feigned apathy. Even more than before Eric wanted to reach out to him, stroke is cheek, and take that pain away. But he wasn’t ready to take care of anyone else’s heart. He still had his own to worry about.
“Well I’m pretty damn sure he didn’t deserve someone as great as you,” was all he could manage to say. Sam didn’t really smile but his eyes locked on him, glowing with a mixture of adoration and appreciation.
The phone rang and interrupted the solemn moment. “I’ll get it,” Sam said quickly.
“Don’t!” Eric shouted before he realized that Sam was only teasing. He lunged for the phone and landed half on top of Sam, knocking his shoulder in the process.
“Fuck!” he cried out as he answered it, and Sam covered his mouth to suppress the sound of his laughter.
“No, no, Joan, that wasn’t for you.” Even though he was still in pain, Eric felt laughter bubbling in his voice as well as he lay across Sam awkwardly, giving him a playful glare.
“Yeah, no, things are fine . . . really,” he continued into the phone. “Yeah, sure, come visit anytime . . . hey listen I’m kinda busy right now . . . right, yeah, I’ll call you later . . . okay, talk to you soon.”
He hung up the phone and tilted his body so he could punch Sam in the arm.
“Ow!” Sam cried out. “Who was that?”
“My sister,” Eric responded as he straightened himself out.
“Oh . . . ” Sam began in that invasive tone that Eric had come to know. “So . . . I’ve been wondering, how come you’ve never told your family? I mean, I get why you wanted to keep it private from the sports world, but your family . . .”
“Told them what?”
Sam gave him a reproachful roll of the eyes.
“My dad wouldn’t have liked it,” Eric replied, already planning his exit from the conversation as he stood up and stretched. “Being staunchly Irish-Catholic and all.”
“Not to be morbid, but he’s gone now . . . what about your sister? Why haven’t you told her?”
Eric shrugged. “Don’t really have a reason to,” he said.
Sam’s face fell and he blinked several times in rapid succession as he opened his mouth to give a retort, but before he could say anything Eric turned quickly and walked away. All the same he could feel Sam’s devastated eyes following him down the hallway, and he tried his best to cover his shame with anger. Damn him for trying to be so personal.
*******
Sam waited impatiently, making small talk with his co-worker Eleanor and scanning the crowd at the park for Eric’s well-muscled frame and cumbersome cast. Of course, he wasn’t entirely certain Eric would show up, but he hoped he’d made a convincing enough argument to get him to at least make an appearance.
It was the firm’s annual client appreciation barbeque, and he suspected the only way he’d been able to get Eric to even consider coming was because he felt guilty about continuing to keep their growing ‘association’ secret when it was clear-or, at least to Sam it was clear-they were becoming more than casual. Mainly he wanted to get Eric out of his place, as he rarely seemed to leave it for anything other than a beer run or a trip to the sandwich shop down the street. Eric had balked at the idea of such a trite social affair, but Sam’s winning argument had been that if he didn’t show up, someone was liable to think Sam wasn’t keeping his client happy, and he might get reassigned. That wasn’t actually true, but he knew Eric wanted to keep the excuse for their public relationship alive and didn’t think it was too wrong to play into that to get what he wanted.
He finally caught sight of him, trudging over from his cab, wearing a loose-fitting shirt and what was probably his best pair of jeans that hugged his backside perfectly. Eric had been working out again, and though Sam had thought he was in amazing shape before, those muscles were even more defined now. He couldn’t help but break into an ear to ear grin, and hoped Eleanor was too busy chatting about the big client she’d just hooked to catch his expression.
He had to hold his arms down at his sides to keep himself from waving or calling out, but he kept his eyes locked on Eric’s form so that when he did look up he could make eye contact and maybe motion for him to join them. Eric approached and shook hands with Mr. Sampson, then began politely chatting with his wife.
Eleanor interrupted Sam’s visual pursuit of Eric. “Oh, there’s McNally,” she said. “I’m surprised he came. Such a shame what happened to him. I heard he’s a pain, though, not real friendly . . . is that true?” she asked.
Sam turned back towards her but tried to keep his peripheral vision on Eric. “Nah, he’s not that bad. Pissed at the world, maybe, but who can blame him.”
“Really? I heard he was an ass even before the injury.”
Sam’s response was cut off as Eric finally turned and caught his eye. He smiled at him from across the field but the smile dissolved quickly when Eric returned his gaze with a cold stare and the barest of nods.
“Well, if he’s not that bad I suppose we should go schmooze,” Eleanor said, lightly taking hold of Sam’s arm. “Come on then.”
It was hard not to feel crushed by the look of fear and perhaps even anger than rushed across Eric’s eyes as he saw them approaching.
“Eric,” Sam said in what he hoped was a friendly and nonchalant tone.
Eric nodded at him but kept his hand in his pocket. “Hey, how are you,” he responded casually without meeting Sam in the eye.
Sam paused, uncertain of what to say next, but Eleanor filled the moment. “I’m Eleanor Windham, junior partner at the firm,” she smiled her charming smile. “You could say I’m one of Sam’s bosses,” she added with a wink.
“Right, right,” Eric said. “Well, I’m gonna hit up the grill for a hot dog,” he announced, and abruptly turned away.
“Oh, you were right,” Eleanor said with a droll laugh as Eric hunkered off. “He’s absolutely charming."
“Yeah,” Sam said quietly under his breath.
Sam did his best to socialize appropriately with the other clients and families that made their way to the gathering, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from searching for Eric. He watched him with a succession of beers in his hands as he mainly talked to Mr. Sampson’s petite trophy wife and his former lawyer. Eric had caught sight of Sam staring at him a few times, but as soon as eye contact was made he’d darted away with an almost sick expression on his face. Then when Sam looked around one last time he saw Eric’s back as he walked off towards the street. Without so much as a glance or a goodbye, he’d slipped off to return to his hole of an existence.
Sam excused himself shortly after, feeling like a deflated idiot for thinking he’d at least have gotten a smile out of Eric, or that they could have pretended like they were friends.
He got into his car and slammed the door, cursing his own ineptitude at falling for a closeted man, when he realized his cellphone was blinking with the tiny envelope indicating a text. He opened it up and was torn between laughing and yelling in anger when he read Eric’s message.
Are you coming over tonight?
He slapped his cellphone shut and decided he was not going to go over.
*
Sam got home and lounged around for a while, feeling sorry for himself. Around eight o’clock he made himself a ham sandwich for dinner since he rarely felt like cooking when he was in a funk, and was eating it while half-heartedly attempting to read a book when his cellphone rang. His first instinct was to ignore it, but the more forgiving part of his nature won out and he decided to answer it to see if Eric at least had some words of apology to give him.
“Hello,” he muttered into the phone.
“Sam, Sam, hey were you gon’ come?” Eric’s voice was distant and his words were slurred.
“What?”
“Gonna come. Were you gon’come,” Eric repeated, becoming even less distinguishable.
“Eric, are you drunk?” Sam asked, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
“Din drink tha' much.” Eric sighed against the phone. “But now that you mention it . . . yeah maybe drunk. Are you comin’?”
“Okay, I’m coming,” Sam said quickly. Eric may not have given a second thought to the fact that vicodin and alcohol were not meant to be mixed, but all Sam could think of was him banging around the house, injuring his broken body even further in the process.
He was glad he’d rushed over when he found Eric leaning over the kitchen sink, retching. He wanted to be pissed but instead found himself switching into caretaker mode almost immediately. “Eric, Eric,” he whispered soothingly. “What did you do?”
Eric didn’t respond because he was too busy emptying his stomach of the contents it had acquired at the barbeque. The sight of vomit was usually enough to send Sam running for a restroom as well, but somehow his need to take care for Eric overcame his own disgust. He’d known a classmate in law school who had died after asphyxiating on his vomit following a night of drinking. And with the way Eric was keeling from the obvious effects of the vicodin augmenting his alcoholic stupor, Sam couldn’t help but fear what would have happened had he decided not to answer the phone.
He cleaned out the sink, then wiped away the traces of the throw-up with a dampened dishtowel before he saw that some of it had dribbled down Eric’s bare chest. He cleaned that off as well but afterwards Eric pulled away and started stumbling down the hallway.
“Need a shower,” Eric muttered. “Feel gross.”
Eric started to slip down the wall before he even reached the bathroom, so Sam stepped in to help, silencing his mumbled apologies. A shower would have been quicker but he didn’t know about getting Eric’s cast wet, so he decided to draw a bath instead. He stripped Eric as the water filled.
“Sam, ‘m sorry,” Eric repeated for the third time, then rested his head against Sam’s chest. “You’re so good to me . . . you’re amazing . . . so warm,” he slurred, and if Sam hadn’t been so caught up in taking care of him he would have been honored by the admission.
He got Eric in the bath and rinsed him off with the tepid water, then washed out his hair with shampoo because Eric had told him once what a pain it was to scrub with one hand. Eric moaned slightly, then was mostly silent, his eyes closed as Sam helped him out and toweled him dry. He leaned heavily into Sam’s arms, clutching at him and trying to draw him in closer every time Sam moved away slightly, which made the process take longer than it should have. Eventually he began to fall asleep standing up, so Sam propped him against the bathroom counter, ignoring the whining noise Eric made at the transition from warm body to cold marble, and went to grab a pair of boxers. He’d tossed in a load of laundry the last time he was there, and, as suspected, it was still languishing in the dryer.
After dressing him Sam half-carried, half-dragged Eric’s near-sleeping form to the couch because it was closer than the bedroom. Eric stirred slightly when they arrived and lunged for the comfort of horizontality, nearly crashing front-first on his casted arm. Sam caught him and maneuvered him around slowly so that he could lie down on his back, then brought several pillows over to prop up his head in case he needed to vomit again. He pulled over a trash bin and placed a blanket over Eric who was breathing haggardly, and couldn’t help but stroke his forehead softly in a way he never would have done had Eric been sober. When Eric’s eyes finally closed and his breathing became somewhat even Sam curled up in a side chair to keep watch.
*******
Next Chapter 9