Page 58 of Two for Roughing

“My hero.”

Kilian snickered. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The sight of his pale skin and the corded muscle of his arms made Damir envision biting until he left a mark. The impulse came on so suddenly that he had to stare down at the rolling pin until it passed.

What was wrong with him?

Was this some delayed wanting-what-he-couldn’t-have reaction? Under normal circumstances, Damir was fairly good at ignoring the sting of longing. As a closeted athlete, he had to be. From the corner of his eye, he observed as Kilian got iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, and bell peppers from the fridge. Damir dug out the second cutting board (the plastic one he never used since no one ever helped him cook), as well as the second-best knife, and handed them both to Kilian.

He couldn’t keep watching as Kilian began to chop. For one, his fingers were so long and elegant that Damir ached to feel them on his skin. Kilian had barely touched him the two times they’d fucked. For another, Kilian was terrible at cutting vegetables, too slow and with the knife at an awkward angle.

So, Damir busied himself filling and shaping the chebureki. The edges came out sloppy, nowhere near as neatly crimped as his mother’s. His fingers were too big, and he always had more important things to do than practice this skill.

Kilian stared at him all the same, eyes wide and wondering. “You’re so good at that.”

Damir shrugged. “I’m slow.”

In the most hypocritical move since the NHL’s commitment to inclusivity, Kilian advised, “Learn to take a compliment, bro.”

Damir couldn’t let it stand. He could handle being platonic roommates. He could handle being friends. He could handle Kilian’s pouty lips and elegant fingers and honest interest in Damir’s heritage. But he couldn’t handle bro.

“I am not your bro,” he said too intensely by far.

“Oh? What are you, then?”

Your teammate, he ought to say. Your friend. Your roommate. But he opted for nothing, caught in the crossfire of Kilian’s wide blue eyes.

“Want me to call you ‘sir’ after all, eh?” Kilian teased.

Heat shot through Damir, a raging burst of it, leaving him leaning against the counter with his heart in his throat. “I don’t want you to call me ‘sir.’ I want you to call me by my name, and I want you to say it like you’re dying of hunger and I’m the only thing that can sate you.”

Kilian stared at him, wide-eyed. The knife in his hand thunked down against the board, scraping along the skin of his middle finger.

“Oh, fuck!”

Damir propelled into action. He gripped Kilian roughly by the wrist, elevating the affected finger and pulling Kilian toward the sink at the same time. He turned the water on hot and thrust Kilian’s hand beneath it.

His hand tingled where he touched Kilian.

He didn’t dwell.

He pulled a fresh rag from the cupboard that held cleaning supplies and dumped it by the blood pooling across the cutting board. Then, Damir made for the bathroom with long strides, hoping his first aid kit was up to date.

A first glance revealed gauze at the top of the kit as well as tape and a wad of cotton. Damir grabbed all of it. He turned to leave the bathroom, thought it over, and grabbed the whole kit.

In the kitchen, Kilian awkwardly mopped up the blood on the countertop with his left hand, his right still elevated and the blood running down in rivulets.

“What are you doing?” Damir snarled. He snatched Kilian’s hand and inspected the damage. It needed cleaning again.

“Stop pulling me around,” Kilian said, but he let himself be maneuvered back to the sink.

“Stop making it worse,” Damir told him.

“It’s a cut, Damir. I’ll be fine.”

“If you can’t play because I made you chop salad—”

“I offered, and I can play. All I need is a bandage.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”