a terrible wonder. He turned into Brian"s embrace and shuddered,
laying his cheek on that broad, strong shoulder that could carry all
of his pain, all of his bullshit, and still see the person even
he
didn"t
know was inside.
“You like?” Brian whispered, and Talker"s shoulders shook,
hard, in his embrace. Brian sounded doubtful.
“Brian… man… you fucking humble me,” Talker whispered.
He wasn"t going to sob, he realized. He"d leak a little, but he
wouldn"t totally crack, because Brian"s arms shored him up and
gave him strength.
“Is that good?”
Talker had to laugh, and he came away, wiping his face with
the back of his hand. “It"s amazing, man. It"s just fucking amazing. I
can"t believe you see me like this. I can"t believe… I can"t believe
you just showed me like this to the world.”
Brian"s brow puckered. “Is that bad?” he asked, almost
agonized. “I… I almost just took it home, you know? Just showed
you. But….” He was trying to grapple for words, and it was hard to
watch. Words had never been Brian"s strong suit.
“It"s perfect,” Tate said, meaning it. He wouldn"t have tattooed
his face with those whorls that Brian had recreated so perfectly in
clay, or worn the piercings or the Mohawk or the makeup, if he
hadn"t been trying to tell the world something. Brian had effectively
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41
seen past all that and then gone and told the world the truth, and
the truth? The truth was fucking beautiful.
The truth was him.
TALKER didn"t bring up the house and Petaluma until the next day.
First, they had to make it home, and that part was sort of a
blur to Talker. All he wanted to do was be alone with Brian, but he
couldn"t do that—not on Brian"s night. There were people to greet
and people to shake hands with and a good public face to put on.
Two and a half years before, Talker wouldn"t have been able
to do it. Eighteen months earlier, Talker wouldn"t have been able to
do it. But since then, Brian had picked him up and stitched him
back together and loved him when he"d despaired of ever being
loved. After that, Talker had fought every pain in his heart to stand
up and defend Brian in return. Brian had struggled in that aftermath
and found peace and a calling and all the while kept that vision of
Talker, and of that first, pure love, alive in his heart.
People? Celebration? Joy? Small things to live through.
Exhausting, but Talker and Brian could do it. They could smile, they
could shake hands, they could accept praise and congratulations
and then Talker could step back and watch Brian blush and, for
once, be the center of attention as he accepted what was his due.
Talker could hardly remember the drive home or their giddy,
loud noises as they fell into the small apartment. The door had
hardly closed behind them when Brian turned in the darkness and
kissed Tate like he"d devour him. Tate met that warm, open mouth
with equal passion and they"d backed each other, breathless,
tense, needy, into the bedroom, leaving clothes in their wake.
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42
The last thing to go was Brian"s tie, and they"d almost left it on
his neck, they"d been so urgent.
Urgent, yes, but not rushed. They"d lost
all
of their clothes
before they tangled their legs and lost themselves in one long,
panting, all-consuming kiss. They didn"t separate from it—
couldn’t
separate from it—it just kept going and going and going. Their
groins were locked together, their erect cocks rubbing on each
other, but what they were doing, what they were feeling, was too
intense, too
vital,
for that alone to do it.
Brian was the one who took charge—even when he was the
one bottoming, he was the one who read the mood, who gave the
orders, who took the lead. But this night, he was making breathless,
whimpering cries, needing so far beyond what he usually did, that
Tate found himself taking a moment, a breath, to remember that
this night had been building for months, that Brian had been a key
organizer, and that, on top of all of that, he"d been making terrible
decisions, painful ones, all on his own.
“Turn over,” Tate whispered in his ear, and Brian complied
without question. As Tate scrabbled for the end table, for the
lubricant, the sight of Brian, on his knees and elbows, his ass in the
air,
shaking
with desire in the dark made Tate"s heart practically
explode in his chest.
Brian needed. Brian needed
him.
They"d gotten better—
so
much better—at sex since their first
times. Even though Brian usually topped, Tate knew what to do. He
knew how to prepare Brian"s opening, as well as the swelling, dark
excitement that came when you watched your fingers disappear
inside your lover"s body, all the way to the base, and then two
thumbs, while your lover whimpered and begged, and finally, oh
God
finally,
your cock, past the ring of muscle, into the lubricated
heat and the friction and the….
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43
“Auughh!”
Tate screamed, thrusting his hips forward until he
was buried all the way to his balls in Brian"s ass. Brian screamed
too, and then buried his head in the covers and babbled, begging,
pleading,
howling,
for Talker to just fuck him harder, oh God,
please, Talker, just fuck him harder, just fucking bury yourself in his
ass and
fuck him harder!
Tate did, thrusting inside his lover again and again and again,
reaching around him and stroking him, then pulling on him, then
yanking his fucking cock
until he groaned, so long, so deep, so
body-shattering that Tate felt the sound in the base of his balls as
they both came. Brian shot all over Tate"s hand, over his stomach,
over his thighs, and Tate came deep, so deep, inside Brian"s body
that it was like little scattered pieces of him buried themselves
inside, burrowing and making themselves at home, never planning
to come out.
Of course, as Tate pulled himself, dripping, from Brian"s body
and threw himself on the pillow, dragging Brian down with him into
his arms, Tate couldn"t help thinking that the proof that parts of
Talker were already inside Brian had been out there on a pedestal
for all the world to see.
Sometimes after making love they whispered together, face-
to-face, and gossiped like children. Not this time. This time, Tate
threw an arm over Brian"s shoulders and just held, until the
aftershocks faded, and then a bout of shivering that Tate was pretty
sure was the release of stress from just about everything.
But they didn"t talk. They"d spent the evening talking to
strangers. It seemed only right that at this moment they"d share
silence with each other, because they were the only ones who
could fill that silence with meaning.
The next morning was Sunday, and they were allowed to
sleep in. Jed, the bouncer at Gatsby"s Nick, had shown up late to
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44
the show and told Talker that his shift for that night was covered.
Jed had been there when Brian had been beaten, and had been a
good friend since—apparently everyone at the club had been
rooting for him all along.
Tate woke up first, the narrow light of late autumn hitting the
dusty blinds through the Sacramento haze that made the apartment
look dingier than usual.
Brian was sleeping with his right arm flung out, his left arm
tucked in next to him, and his head turned toward Tate. Tate lay
there quietly, looking at Brian"s long lashes, dark at the base and
almost transparent at the tips, at the small freckles on Brian"s
cheeks, and the five tiny moles that only Tate knew to count. He
looked at the way Brian"s wheat-colored hair fell across his
forehead, and the extra squareness that adulthood had given his
jaw. He saw the way that working out had filled out Brian"s chest,
and how the painful scarring had diminished in the last year and a
half—but never would go completely away.
He was aware of the exact moment Brian opened his eyes,
and the exact moment they cleared enough to see that Talker was
awake and waiting for him.
“Mornin",” he slurred, and Talker rolled over to his stomach,
which brought him just close enough to plant a gentle kiss on the
corner of his mouth.
“Morning,” he said soberly.
“What"s doin"?” Brian asked, a sleepy smile on his face, and
Tate responded baldly.
“I think we should move to Petaluma.”
Brian blinked, then frowned, and rolled over and sat up.
“Goddamn Mark anyway! Jesus, I"m going to….”
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“To what, Brian? Go insult the guy who got you this far? Yeah,
I hate him—I do. He made a move on you, and your ass is mine,
and I"m not happy about that. But….” Talker twitched a little,
grabbed his worry-stone, and hung on. “But this is a chance to do
something you really want to do—something you"re wonderful at.
It"s a chance for us to get the hell out of the city and live
somewhere we can have whatever pet we want. You and me…
someplace where there"s no haze in the autumn, somewhere we
can breathe.” Sitting there in the quiet of the Sunday morning,
Talker was aware of the thousand little sounds—the hum of the
power lines they lived under, the clattering demands of the
Starbucks downstairs, traffic noises, the far off rush of the
freeway—all of it, contributing to the cluttered mess that was in his
head.
“Someplace we can have peace,” he finished quietly, and
Brian scrubbed at his hair and then turned to him, obviously
unhappy.
“What about your school?” he said. “Seriously—I"m going to
graduate in December with a degree I"ll barely use. Wouldn"t it be
nice if one of us got an education he loved?”
Tate twisted his expression. “Baby, what"s my major?”
“Sociology,” Brian said promptly, making Talker feel bad. He
seriously didn"t know what Brian was graduating with. “Sociology
with a concentration in history and…” Brian trailed off and tried to
think, and Tate didn"t blame him.
“And child psychology and chemistry and English literature
and whateverthefuckelse you can think of! Jesus, Brian—remember
when you brought me into the evaluator"s office? She told me that
at this rate, I was going to be the first person at the school to
graduate with a doctorate in All-the-fuck-over-the-place.
I
don"t
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46
even know what my major is. Let"s face it—it was a joke to even let
me attend—”
“That"s
bullshit!”
Brian snapped. “You"re way smarter than I
am. You"re just—”
“Really fucking flaky,” Talker said wryly, and Brian interrupted
with, “Interested in
everything.
There"s no sin in that. You want to
learn about everything—that"s
awesome!
I don"t have that sort of
energy, you know? I get one thought, and I just sort of ride it out!
You"re….”
“Not destined to get a degree,” Tate said gently. “Look, baby—
let"s face it. I can learn about „everything" over the internet. I can
buy books on „everything". I can take community college courses for
a shitload less money in „everything". But you can only do what
makes you happy in a few places—and one of them just jumped
into your lap. I wouldn"t be a very good boyfriend if I fucked this up
for you, would I?”
“But….” Brian"s expression was torn—honestly torn—and
Talker forgave him for not even bringing this subject up. It would
have sucked for him to have even suggested that Talker wasn"t
capable of reaching the sky if he so chose. But Talker knew the
truth—he probably
could
reach the sky—but first he"d have to
decide which end was up.
Talker scooted closer until he could rest his head on Brian"s
broad chest. “Please don"t feel guilty, or bad, or like you"re being
selfish. It"s time for me to put you first, Brian—you always put me
first. It"s time for me to let you go first. It"s time for me to grow up