Talker's Graduation (7 page)

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

Talker’s Graduation |
Amy Lane

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.

Talker’s Graduation |
Amy Lane

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….

Talker’s Graduation |
Amy Lane

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

Talker’s Graduation |
Amy Lane

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….”

Talker’s Graduation |
Amy Lane

45

“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

Talker’s Graduation |
Amy Lane

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