Pairing: Colin/Ephram
Rating: R
Summary: I'm not sure this is quite what Colin's physical therapist had in mind.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone, much less these wonderful characters (if you know where I could buy them, please let me know *g*). I refuse to make any money off them in any event, so please don't sue me.
Notes: Chelsea, thank you so very much once again for the quick and lovely beta. I've got nobody else to blame for this one but me, lack of sleep, and Depeche Mode's song "Rush".


Control
by Nicole D'Annais
Copyright 2003


--

I can't control my arm.

Sure, this is way better than before, when I couldn't even feel my arm, but still...I can't control my arm. I know, I know, progress is slow, any progress is good, don't rush it, things take time, one day at a time, take it easy--I've heard them all over and over.

Sometimes I wonder if the lack of control is really just to keep me from punching the next person who comes up with one of those clichés.

I'm not stupid. I know it takes time, that there's a progression. Progress, progress, progress. I'm so *sick* of progress. I want well, dammit. I don't know why they don't get that. Maybe they do. Maybe they're just doing the only things they know to try and fix it.

What they need to fix is my arm.

I never took anything slow before. I remember more now, and I know that I was always full-speed ahead, take no prisoners, no holds barred. It's one of the things that made me such a good athlete, that and my control.

Now I can't control anything.

The doctors want me to do my physical therapy exercises on my own. I'm all for anything that'll make this go away faster, so whatever they say. There's just one problem, though.

I can't control my arm.

Which means I need help--one guess how I feel about that one. I'm picky about who touches me. And I'm even pickier about who sees me at my weakest.

And I am completely and thoroughly sick of my parents. They mean well. But all of their...help, combined with that *look* they get when I can't do what I used to do, or can't remember things, or when I do something that the old Colin never would've done...I can't deal.

Like comics. For some reason it drives them nuts that I'm into comics. I think they wish the Browns would move back to New York. Then they wouldn't have to be reminded of what they went through after my crash, and Ephram wouldn't be here to expose me to things that I would have had no interest in before.

Don't get me wrong--they're grateful to Dr. Brown for saving me and all, but I think sometimes they wish he'd managed to flip some switch inside that would've saved me completely. It's like they think I'm some hard drive that crashed and there's this section of data that's lost forever, but they keep tinkering with it, hoping it'll suddenly come back.

Maybe they should've ordered a robot instead of having a kid.

Anyway, physical therapy. I've started working on it in the weight room after basketball practice, where I'm so *helpful*, as the coach puts it. Because it's not like any idiot can read a stopwatch, right?

I'm used to the weight room being full of the sounds of my teammates, or of squeaking shoes and loud voices from the gym just outside the door. But now, by the time I allow myself to work on the parts of therapy that required help, it's always quiet because everyone else had gone home.

Until today.

If anybody was going to put their hands on me, it was going to be Ephram. He'd seen me at my weakest, and at my most vulnerable--in good and bad ways--and he's the one person I have no problem letting touch me any way he wants, anywhere he wants. And the more he touched me, the better.

He'd given me one of those looks when I'd asked for his help. One of these days I'm going to actually figure out what the hell is going on in his mind when he looks at me like that. Maybe I'll ask him. It might be worth it just to watch him decide whether or not to tell me. Maybe if I ask him at just the right moment, he'll tell me without even thinking.

He'd agreed, of course, so now I'm sitting in the weight room, shirtless, waiting for him. I tried to do the arm exercises myself a couple of times, but my left arm can't reach far enough to manipulate my right one the way it's supposed to be done.

Too bad Dr. Brown couldn't have made me double jointed while he was messing around in my head.

I'm doing what little I can with my right arm when Ephram walks in. He drops his bag by the door and gives me a little smile as he joins me at the bench. "Are you sure you need my help? Because you look like you're doing fine there."

My left arm is at an awkward and painful angle trying to push my right, and it can't even get the right arm up a third of the way it needs to go. Even taking the shirt off didn't give me much more range of motion. "You're funny. Maybe you should skip this and just go practice your stand up routine instead."

He laughs. "Sorry, man. It's just...you should have waited for me. I was only a couple of minutes late."

"It's okay. I just wanted to see if I could do it on my own." Which is stupid. I can't control my arm. I know that.

"Does your left arm detach and work independently of the rest of your body?"

I glare at him. "No."

"Then you can't. Believe me, I have just been lectured on the art of physical rehabilitation for the arm."

"Your dad?"

Ephram nods. "That's why I was late. He asked where I was going and I made the mistake of telling him the truth."

"You should really stop doing that."

"I know. Bad habit." He grips my arm lightly, his hands cool from the wind outside. "But, as a bonus for you, you won't have to tell me what to do. In fact, if I'd been five minutes later, I'd have been able to bring full-scale drawings."

He begins the series of rotations to keep my muscles limber and to strengthen them, and I relax as much as I can. I've never really noticed how delicate his hands are. Strong, yes, God, yes--he has a grip like iron when he needs it, but given that he's never once hurt me with it, I guess the fact that he has delicate hands shouldn't be that surprising.

Not any more surprising than the fact that he *can* control my arm, even if I can't.

I should've asked for his help from the start. His hands gliding over my skin as he puts my arm through the exercises make any pain or discomfort a distant second to what his touch is doing to me. I have a feeling his dad lectured him enough that he'd actually try to stop me if I tried to distract him before he's done, dammit.

Good thing the exercises are quick.

"Okay, we're done," he says, resting one arm on my shoulder. "How does that feel?"

I put my hand on top of his. "Good. But we're not done yet."

His eyebrows crinkle, and I have this overwhelming urge to kiss him. "You have more exercises?"

"Oh yeah." I stand up, and we're close. So close that one step actually brings our bodies together. "Your dad doesn't know about these," I say, looking up at his eyes so close to mine.

"Oh really?" He's got that little smile now; he's caught on to the game. "Secret exercises?"

I nod, pushing him back with my body until we're stopped by a wall. "New regimen. Latest techniques. My doctors don't want me to tell anyone about it because it's not really FDA approved."

"The FDA doesn't approve physical therapy techniques, Colin."

I grin, my lips barely touching his as I mutter, "AMA, FCC, IRS--whatever," before I kiss him.

My left hand is already reaching for his waistband, flicking the button open and pushing the zipper down before he turns his head to free his mouth. "I thought you were supposed to be exercising your right arm."

"Manual dexterity issues. I'll get to the right in a minute." I cover his lips with my own again as I shove his jeans and underwear down far enough to grasp his dick with my right hand. My grip has improved more than I'd realized, because he breaks our kiss again to breathe in deep, and I hear his head hit the wall behind him.

Sometimes, just before I go to sleep, I hear those noises he makes when I'm jacking him, or sucking him off. They're like my own little lullaby, sweeter than any song--small noises, gasping breaths, words stuck in his throat like even in such total abandon he's too controlled to say things that he doesn't want to say.

He doesn't last long, which is probably a good thing, as my right hand and arm are tiring fast, but at the same time, I hate losing those sounds. I draw it out as long as I can, but he's sliding out of my grasp and down the wall to sit on the floor all too soon. I slump down beside him, rubbing at my own hardness with my left hand, but he quickly moves my hand out of the way, reaching into my jeans and jacking me as he leans over for a kiss.

I last even less time than he did, and my release drives away the last traces of pain from the exercise of my arm. We lean against each other and the wall for a few minutes before we get up and start straightening up our clothes.

When he's presentable again, Ephram grins at me. "Are you sure you still need physical therapy? Your arm seems really, really good to me."

"Tell that to my therapist."

"Uh...no thanks. That's one I don't really want to explain."

"Yeah, tell me about it." I steal one last kiss before heading to the door, knowing he's right behind me, even pausing when I know he has to pick up his bag. "So, interested in an anime fest this weekend?"

And there's the one pause I don't even have to see to know what he's thinking. "Sure. Who else is coming?"

"Just us." And more than once if I have anything to say about it. "My parents are going up to see Laynie again."

"Ah." We reach his bike. "Where's Amy?" he asks as he's undoing the lock he insists on using, even though there's probably never even been a bike theft in the history of Everwood.

But I don't need to see his face for that pause either. "Dance squad semi-finals in Denver."

"Ah." Now he looks up at me, that small grin back again. "Sounds cool. We can talk about what movies to watch tomorrow in class."

"Sure. See you tomorrow."

I walk away, refusing to look back, already looking forward to the weekend. Of course, I may need help with physical therapy tomorrow. I'd accomplished more than I'd realized on my recovery, but I still can't really control my arm.

But Ephram can.

----

END



Comments? ndannais@squidge.org