Dagen heaved out a sigh and rolled to his other side, punching the pillow under his head into a more comfortable lump. Only he wasn't comfortable. His room was cool and quiet, the only noise coming from the rain tapping lightly at the window beside his bed and that alone was usually enough to help him drift off, but not tonight. Guess it’s gonna be another night with no sleep.

It was strange having someone else in the apartment. Giving up fighting with his pillow, he flopped onto his back and rolled his eyes at himself for skirting the truth even in his own head. Having someone else in the apartment wasn't the problem. Rory and Harbor crashed there all the time. Having Oliver in the apartment was a problem.

Their conversation in the kitchen flashed through his mind. He’d been embarrassed when Oliver had caught him checking out his ass. While he was certainly attracted to his new roommate, it was more than an average case of lust. Dagen wanted to talk to him, wanted to know him. Wanted to know what had driven him from a tattoo shop in Las Vegas to a suburb of Cincinnati with barely a handful of boxes in a rusted old Jeep.

Jesus, I sound like a creeper.

Dagen sighed. The last thing he needed was to be lusting after the man. Or anyone really. The only thing that should be on his mind was lifting in his first competition since his injury and getting to the state lifting competition, so he could qualify for Nationals.

He'd finally been completely released by the doctor to train the way he needed to and had little time to get back up to speed. Getting to Nationals meant the chance to move from amateur lifting shows to professional ones. A pro card would give him the chance to land some sponsors, train full time, and finally pay Vidar back for everything his brother had done for him.

Dagen knew Vidar wouldn't accept money, not that he could put a sum on all the ways his family had supported him. Placing at state and getting to Nationals could bring not only sponsors and the chance to compete professionally, but exposure. For the gym. For the tattoo shop. More than anything, he wanted to be able to contribute, in a real way.

He took a deep breath and held it before blowing it out slowly. Despite his attempt to steer his thoughts in another direction, an image of Oliver from yesterday, sun-kissed and standing in the parking lot with something like hope in his dark eyes, flashed through Dagen's mind. He ran one hand down through the coarse hair on his chest and over his stomach to cup himself through his black boxer briefs, wondering if a jerk would help put him out.

His idea derailed slightly when he heard a grunt from the room down the hall. He stilled instantly, breath trapped in his chest, and listened for any other sounds. A quick glance at his bedside clock told him it was almost two in the morning. He'd have thought Oliver would be asleep by now.

Seconds ticked by before he heard another grunt and what sounded like a muffled curse. Heat swarmed his body, his mind conjuring up an image of what could have Oliver making those kinds of sounds. Dark hair thrashing against a white pillow. Teeth buried in a plump bottom lip. Long, slim fingers moving frantically beneath soft material. Dagen stifled a groan with his free hand while the other palmed his dick.

The sound of a door opening had him freezing in place again. Footsteps whispered down the hall, and he expected to hear the bathroom door open. Instead, a gasped whimper drifted into his room along with more steps headed in the direction of the kitchen. A moment later, dim light filtered in from under his closed door, and he knew it was from the light over the stove. The subtle sound of a chair scraping and another small gasp made him sit up in bed. Concern forced his erection to quickly wilt, and he slipped out of bed before pulling on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

He opened his door and walked through the dimly lit apartment. The light over the stove was turned to its low setting, casting a yellow glow over the dark kitchen.

The little table in the breakfast nook was shadowed enough that Dagen thought he'd misheard the sound of a chair scraping, but as he got closer, Oliver's huddled form became clearer. He'd pulled one of the chairs back from the table and was sitting hunched over with his head resting on his arms, like he was in grade school and the teacher had told him to put his head down.

When Oliver didn't move as he approached, Dagen shuffled his feet so he wouldn't startle the man. It didn't work. Oliver jerked up from his hunched position and immediately hissed through his teeth, his right hand reaching down to hold his side.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Dagen said, quickly and quietly, something about the darkness making him keep his voice low.

"Shit," Oliver gasped, just as quietly, pain evident in his voice. He blew out a shuddery breath, then looked over his shoulder to where Dagen was still standing at the edge of the kitchen. "It's alright. Sorry if I woke you."

"Oliver, what's going on? Are you sick?"

For some reason that punched a laugh out of him, even though there was no amusement in it. "No. Not sick." With another deep breath, he pushed himself up out of the chair and turned like he would head back to his room. "I'll get out of your hair."

"Oliver, stop, please." Oliver was still holding his side, and Dagen was getting seriously worried now so he stepped into his path. Dagen held his gaze and felt his heart clench at the pain and exhaustion radiating from him. Gently, he lifted his hand to Oliver's elbow and turned him so the light hit the side he was still holding. "Can I?"

Oliver's shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded.

Dagen reached for the hem of Oliver's shirt and lifted. Then immediately wished he hadn't. Ugly, dark bruises littered Oliver's skin from above his hip, over his kidney, to under his right pec. A million different things slammed through Dagen at the sight: questions, concern, rage.

When he found his voice, he was surprised at the low growl that came out of him. "What the hell? Oliver, who did this?" Oliver stepped back at the questions, forcing Dagen to release the shirt or tear it off him. Dagen refused to back down. He worked in a fight gym, he knew bruises made by fists and kicks when he saw them, and he saw them all the time. So, why were the ones discoloring Oliver's skin the only ones that had ever made him want to put his fist through a wall?

"It doesn't matter," Oliver shrugged. "I'm sorry I bothered you, but I can't get comfortable enough to sleep."

"It doesn't matter?" Dagen gaped at him incredulously. "Of course it matters! Oliver, you need to go to the hospi—"

"I already did," Oliver snapped, taking another step back. "I stopped on my way out of Vegas. Nothing is broken. Kinda hard to ice it on the road so time is the only thing that will help now." Oliver gusted out a breath and winced.

Dagen gritted his teeth until he thought his jaw might crack but forced himself to rein in his outrage. Three days Oliver had had these bruises, and whoever gave them to him had him running fast enough he didn't even take the time to treat them properly. Dagen realized if he pushed now, Oliver might close off completely, maybe even run. "Not the only thing. I can help if you'll let me."

Oliver stayed where he'd retreated, hand still cradling his side. His eyes tracked from Dagen's face down to his still-fisted hands, and Dagen forced himself to relax his fingers and his voice.

"Look, I know we don't know each other. Not really, but I would never—"

"I know," Oliver interrupted, causing Dagen to meet his eyes again. "That's not…" Oliver huffed out a deep breath. "It's just nobody's business. Okay? It's done."

He didn't like it, but Oliver was right, it wasn't anyone's business unless Oliver decided it needed to be or if there was more trouble to come. He tipped his head in acquiescence. "Okay, I understand. Can I go grab a couple of things for you?"

Oliver deflated. "Sure."

It only took Dagen a moment to grab what he needed from his first aid supplies. When he made it back to the kitchen, Oliver had resumed his spot at the table, only he'd turned the chair around so that he was straddling it with his folded arms leaning on the back. Wanting to keep the tentative peace they seemed to have forged, Dagen turned the light over the stove to its high setting and ignored the switch for the larger overhead light.

"Can you take off your shirt?"

Oliver hesitated for only a moment before reaching behind his head and gripping his collar to pull the white t-shirt covering his lean torso over his head. Dagen moved to stand behind him and winced all over again at the deep purple splotches. He laid his supplies on the table and went to the cabinet by the sink for a glass. Over his shoulder he inquired, "Have you taken any pain relievers recently?"

Oliver shook his head. "No, I took so much Tylenol that first day, I didn't want to keep taking it."

"Okay." Dagen filled the glass with water and set it in front of Oliver. He pointed to one of the bottles he'd set on the table. "Ibuprofen. Take two now. It'll help ease it enough for you to sleep. I'm going to put some of this salve on it and then wrap it up."

Oliver took the pills and drank his water while Dagen screwed off the lid to a mason jar filled halfway with a white substance. Oliver sniffed the air.

"What is that?"

Dagen smiled. "It's a homemade bruise remedy my mom makes for all of us. Don't ask me what's in it because I have no clue." He stepped behind Oliver again and squatted down before scooping some of the salve out of the jar with his fingers. "It's gonna be cold."

Even with the warning, Oliver tensed when Dagen made contact. He kept his touch light to not cause any more discomfort as he rubbed the ointment onto Oliver's abused skin.

"What's it do?"

Oliver's voice was low, and Dagen was struck with the intimacy that had wrapped around them in the quiet of the dim kitchen. "It, uh, is supposed to make bruises disappear faster, but Mom said it's good for any light abrasions or skin irritation. I honestly don't know if it really works, but it feels nice." Dagen chuckled and Oliver looked over his shoulder at him.

"What?"

"Rory swears by it, puts it on all the time. Vidar always gives him shit for having the softest hands in the gym. I think he's just trying to stay in my mom's good graces."

"Must be nice you're all so close." There was something painfully wistful in Oliver's quiet reply, and Dagen frowned to himself. Everywhere he stepped with Oliver, it seemed to land them on a sore subject.

He stood up and asked Oliver to do the same. Oliver pushed himself out of the chair with only a minor wince and turned to face Dagen. Stepping in close, he finished covering all the bruises. Quiet tension stretched between them with Oliver's face so close to his. He cleared his throat and set the jar on the table before reaching for the ace bandage.

"Let's try compression, if it's not comfortable, you can take it off." He unrolled the wrap and stepped back to Oliver who lifted his arms away from his sides. Dagen began to gently wrap the bandage around him and had to force himself to focus on his task instead of the lean contours of Oliver's body, or the way it brushed against his, or how he could imagine Oliver fitting so perfectly in his arms when he passed the bandage around his back.

It only got worse when Oliver rested his hands on Dagen's shoulders to keep his arms out of the way and let Dagen work. With Dagen's head bent down, their foreheads were scant centimeters apart. Dagen tried not to even breathe as he secured the bandage with the lightest possible touch.

"Thank you, Dagen." Oliver looked up at him, their faces nearly brushing, and gave Dagen's shoulders a tiny squeeze before lowering his hands back to his sides and taking a step back.

Dagen cleared his throat. "Anytime. Now come on, let's get you settled."