Hush (2 page)

Nora huffed out a breath and ran her fingers through her hair. Bits of it stuck out when she mussed it; messy streaks of teal blue and pink showed through her naturally blonde hair.

“Wren—”

He could tell she was trying to hold back her temper. “Listen,” he inter­rupted, “this is not a negotiable thing. If we’re going to live together, you’re going to have to respect this, for me. There are some things I want to keep to myself and
can’t
around you, and that sucks because you are my best friend and I want to live here with you. But living with some­one is different than being friends. You’ll be able to see me night and day. Please try to respect this.”

“Ugh.” She thunked her head on the table.

“Look, if you’re going to be like that, I don’t—”

“Shut up!” she said. “I won’t be. It’s just hard. I’m gonna have to do a lot of thinking and practicing. Can we respect a learning curve, at least?”

“Of course.” Wren covered her hand with his. “We’ll make some rules and then a plan for how to implement them. And I’ll help you find a mentor, if you’ll consent to training.”

“Fine. God, you and your rules,” she had laughed.

“Shut up,” he’d said, nudging her foot with his under the table.

“Sweetie,” Nora says with a
smile, bringing him back to the pres­ent conversation. “It’s impossible not to read you. Your aura is huge. And bright—god it’s gorgeous: reddish purples and streaks and bursts of this really dynamic gold—”

“Nora,” he warns.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” she says, holding up her hands in a pla­cating gesture. “We’ll ignore the incredibly gigantic, sensual, hap­py aura in the room and do something fun.”

Wren rolls his eyes and lets her hip bump him. He feels too good to be annoyed right now. He’s surprised that his aura isn’t palpably sending waves through everyone within a hundred-foot radius. It’s been so long since he’s felt something like this connection to that boy; hot, sharp and immediate, and
god
is he looking forward to the game.

* * *

“Damn, Cam, you were gone
for a while,” Nate says when Cam stumbles into their room on half-dead legs. “How far did you run?”

“Really,
really
far,” Cam wheezes. Nate glances at him for anoth­er second before going back to the tangled mass of laundry strewn over his bed. He folds with a haphazard carelessness that makes Cam cringe.

“Feeling the need for speed?” Nate says. Cam can hear the smile in his voice even though his back is turned.

“No. Maybe.” Cam strips off his soaked shirt. “Something.” His stomach growls faintly through the cramping clench of muscles that—like the rest of his body—feel tremendously over­worked. He’d skipped his dinner and run far longer than usual, try­ing to pound the buzzing, shaking electricity under his skin out through his feet and into the pave­ment. His statistics classes had been… weird. Unsettling. His attention has been scattered—which wouldn’t be unusual in itself, considering how much he antici­pated hating this class. But it’s the draw, the way his focus is con­stantly pulled toward that boy. It’s as if, for the two hours they are in that room , gravity shifts; Cam’s body wakes up, his senses sharpen and his thoughts move helplessly, helplessly.

“Cam,” Nate says the next
day,
setting his tray down on the table, “this is Mic, he’s in my comp class.”

“Hey.” Cam looks up and half waves before looking back down.

“Hi.” Mic begins to organize his tray of food. “So, Nate tells me you aren’t from Chicago.”

“Not even a little,” Cam has to joke.

“You like it here though?”

“Love it,” Cam says.

Nate grunts; Cam thinks it’s an affirmative sound, but doesn’t ask. Nate is devouring his lunch as though it’s going out of style.

Cam continues, “Different. It’s a bit of an adjustment…”
Maybe too big
. He squirms his shoulders against that niggling itch that’s been plaguing him since yesterday.

“Have you been out much? The Teke’s are having a party to­night; the first party of the semester is always
wild
,” Mic says.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cam says, then picks up his fork. Puts it down. Clears his throat. “I’m not much of a partier.”

“Somehow Cam has managed to come to us the best-behaved boy in all of the Midwest,” Nate says. From anyone else that would sound cutting, but from Nate it’s clearly affectionate. “He’s not totally hopeless though,” he winks at Cam. “Last semester Julianne and I got him hammered right before Christmas break. It was amazing, he was actually singing carols. God, I wish I had film.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Cam says, covering his face and laughing. “I had forgotten about that!”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure you were sporting a three-day hangover, and we put you on a plane back home with it,” Nate says.

“Uhh no,” Cam says. “That was just a natural reaction to going home.”

“That bad, huh?” Mic butts in.

Cam shakes himself a little mentally and closes off a bit. Nate’s cool; he knows Cam well enough not to press and he’s okay with waiting for Cam to confide in him. “Maybe it was just the hangover after all,” he says, picking his fork back up.

Another kid from their hall, a transfer student whose name Cam doesn’t know, walks past. He’s slim and dark haired and reminiscent of that boy in Cam’s stats class who keeps looking at him, who is somehow brightly burning in Cam’s periphery even when they’re not in class. Every time Cam thinks he sees him he tightens in a way that’s unsettling but also feels… good.

They go to the party,
Cam dutifully tagging along when Nate begs for a wingman, though Cam points out that he has no idea what a wingman is really supposed to do.

But it’s all crushed bodies and spilled beer, fetid alcohol and smoke smell so heavy it feels like a wet blanket on his skin as soon as they manage to wedge through the door. Partygoers spill onto the lawn. They wrestle on the balcony above the front door until Cam wants to tell everyone to settle down before they end up with broken necks.

Thoughts like these must be exactly what Nate means when he tells Cam he needs to loosen up and act his age. No one here wants to be mothered, and, really, he has no desire
to
mother anyone. He’s only been back in Chicago for two weeks, and they’ve only just rounded out their first week of the semester and everything is too much. Nebraska is still in his bones, disconnecting him. A boy in an impossibly hard class is haunting him, drunk people shouting variations of the same Saturday night party script are surrounding him and he has a visceral desire to run, and run, and run away until the dust settles behind him.

It only takes one more
stats class for Wren to understand his role in this exchange; if ever there was a cat and mouse scenario, this is it. Everything radiating from this boy reads longing, hot desire unchecked. He is waiting to be led, wanting to be discov­ered. Wren feels new, newer than he has felt since… well, since Robert.

Wren shakes his head. Robert’s name is at the top of the list of things he doesn’t think about; thinking about him violates one of Wren’s primary rules:
Don’t give anyone the power to hurt you.

This, the somehow-instant tether that formed between him and the boy and tugs and tugs at Wren every second they’re in that amphi­theater,
means
something. Whoever this boy is, he’s pull­ing at Wren hard. If it weren’t for the rawness of the boy’s long­ing, Wren might think he wants to lead. No matter; it’s not as if he’ll ever put himself in such a vulnerable position again. Wren leads, and they follow.

* * *

Every day, Wren comes late
to class and leaves early. Some days, he unlocks a little, lets himself feel that hot, sweet course of desire and enjoys how it winds through him. On days when he feels espe­cially sexy and focused, or full of want, he’ll find the boy in the room and pull from him the need to seek Wren out, pull their gazes together. Leading this gorgeous creature is incredibly thrilling; it tests Wren’s willpower, but Wren drags it out because he’s learned that anticipation can be even better than fulfillment. Wren has discerned that the boy has light brown hair and is tall but obvi­ously fit. His eyes are a lovely almond shape—maybe brown, but Wren can’t really tell—and his skin is a wonderful café con leche. Wren can’t wait to get his hands on him.

“How are you today?”
Nora
asks over dinner.

He rolls his eyes. She’s always painfully obvious when she’s read­ing him, though careful to follow the rules he laid out. He supposes it’s the most he can expect, especially because, with her around, he’s learned to sense when he’s emoting most strongly. She can’t help but see that. Her first mentor had been a total wash­out, and they’ve been struggling to find a second; a good, trust-based rapport is vital for this sort of teaching, and is hard to come by based on want ads. And Carlina’s course offer­ings for the gifted aren’t focused enough for the individual training Nora needs since they’re intended as electives and not a part of a designated development program or degree track like some uni­versities offer.

“I am fucking fantastic,” he declares, then winks.

“Okay, Wren, I cannot take it anymore, you have
got
to tell me what’s going on.”

Rolling his eyes and biting back a smile, Wren pretends to sigh. “If you insist.”

“God, you’re adorable when you’re happy,” she says.

“Shut up,” he smiles. “Okay. Try,
really,
not to be judgmental.”

“Well that’s a winning start.”

Wren shrugs and fiddles with the plug in his ear, twisting it. Feeling whimsical that morning, he’d worn plugs he rarely breaks out, the ones shaped like elephants, for good luck. He’s been con­templating going up a size.

“So…” He takes a breath. “There’s a boy.”

“Ahhh,” she squeals happily, clapping her hands, “why didn’t you tell me sooner? Oh god, what’s his name? When do I get to meet him? When did you meet him? How—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on, Nora, it’s not like that.” He gives her a look. “You know it’s not going to be like that.”

“Wren—” she says, too sweetly, too concerned. “I know it was hard—”

“I swear to god,” he jumps in, “if you go there, I am leaving this room. It’s a rule.”

“Fuck,” she says under her breath, “I hate your rules. Can you just stop with that?”

“Dislike duly noted,” he responds, his voice rich with sarcasm. “I’ll put that motion before the board.”

Nora stares at him for so long he becomes a little uncomfort­able. Finally she takes a breath, shaking her head minutely. “So tell me about this boy.”

Wren closes his eyes. “I think his name is Cam—Profes­sor Gibbs was talking to him after class yesterday and that’s what I think I heard. He’s… beautiful.” Wren shrugs slightly and smiles. “There’s just something there. And I can’t wait for it to happen.”

Wren knows that Cam
is
seeking him; during every class, Wren senses Cam’s desire, the building force of attraction. Wren feels him pulling as soon as he nears the classroom. The feeling is heady, an exhilarating flush that envelops him the moment they connect. Sometimes it’s overwhelming.

He’ll not deny that one of his favorite aspects of his gifts is that he
can
gift. As much as he enjoys being pursued, and as much as he enjoys drawing it out, he loves giving those feelings back even more. His power to compel, he knows, is to be used with caution and respect. Many have used this ability in awful ways. Wren was raised to respect it—and also to enjoy it, to use it to compel pleasure, comfort or relaxation in others.

For every tug of longing and desire he feels from this boy Cam, he’s careful to pull something from him as well: a rise of sensuality, a surge of confidence. Wren wants Cam, wants to take him apart and touch him, have him until they’re both half blind. Wren wants to discover every secret space of Cam’s body, and
god
does Wren want to make it incredible for him. And he can. Compelling Cam to small bursts of pleasure from across the room leaves Wren on a high that lasts for hours.

* * *

“You’re gonna give yourself
shin
splints or something at this rate, man,” Nate says one day.

“What do you know about it?” Cam says, laughing and wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. “Have you run even once in your life?”

“Nope,” Nate says, making the “P” sound pop. “I prefer my low impact but incredibly healthy swim/lift/flex routine.”

“Flexing as a workout, huh?” Cam scrubs his hands through sweat-soaked hair. He’s
gross
.

“Well, not precisely,” Nate says, mischief all over his face. “It’s what the flexing
gets
me, if you know what I mean.” He waggles his eyebrows and Cam snorts with helpless laughter.

“You are ridiculous.”

“And lucky. Or a player. Irresistible.”

“All right, Casanova, I’m gonna shower. Feel free to flex,” Cam says, then pauses when Nate bursts into laughter, realizing a sec­ond too late what he’s implied. “I take that back; do not flex right now.”

“I’m not the one who needs it, anyway,” Nate says.

“What does that mean?” Cam asks.

“It means that I bet if you flexed a little more, you might not be killing yourself running.”

“Uh…” Cam folds his towel over his arm, not really sure where he’s supposed to go with this conversation. Is Nate implying that he needs to… take care of things more often? How would he know how much Cam does? If he did, he’d probably know that lately, things really have kind of… ramped up. Cam’s not precisely sure why, other than the fact that that itch—that something that’s been driving him to run more, to push himself, to work it out—has been getting worse lately.

“Get laid, dude,” Nate leans forward to spell it out. Cam feels his face heat up and looks away. While they’ve talked about how Cam’s never had a girlfriend before, he’s never admitted to Nate that he’s a virgin. He’s not ashamed of it, but neither is it something he’s ever wanted to talk to someone about.

“I have to shower,” is all Cam says, toeing on his shower shoes.

“Flex it, dude,” Nate shouts after him, laughing as Cam shuts the door with a little more force than is necessary.

* * *

“When are you going
to
talk to him?” Nora asks one night, curled next to Wren on the couch while they watch a rerun of
Law and Order: SVU
. She’s painting her nails a lovely peach color. Wren shrugs.

“I’ll probably wait until the end of the semester,” he muses. “I won’t have to worry about seeing him every day, then.”

“What is this going to be, another one-time thing?” Nora caps the bottle and sets it on the table carefully, propping her feet up so that the nail polish won’t smudge.

“You said you weren’t going to judge.”

“I’m not,” she says. “I’m just trying to understand why you’d spend months teasing each other for one night.”

“I don’t know.”

Nora sighs and squirms, and he can feel her irritation washing over him.

“Stop that,” he says sharply.

“I can’t help it. I’m feeling what I’m feeling,” she snaps.

“Well, feel it less strongly, please,” he says. He knows he’s being irrational and also knows—though he’s loath to acknowledge it—that her irritation stems from concern. What she wants for him are things he doesn’t need—a companion, love, something steady and affirming. Wren closes his eyes and breathes and tries to find a way, again, to explain why those things just aren’t on the list.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, and lays her hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean to judge. I just worry.”

“I know.” He leans his head against the couch and looks at the ceiling. His eyes feel tired and fuzzy; it’s late and they’ve been marathoning this show for a while now. Wren has work to do and, while he knows that watching “just one” episode of
SVU
somehow sucks them into watching a whole run of shows, he hasn’t wanted to leave the couch and the warmth of Nora’s familiar body next to him. “It’s not that I plan on it being a one-time thing, you know.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, it could be. We’ll see. I just want to be sure I have an out if things don’t go the way I want.”

Nora laughs a little. “Which rule is that?”

“Number two.” He smiles wryly.

“How many rules are on this list now, anyway? Wren’s ‘how not to get burned’ list, I mean.”

He pokes her. “That’s not what it’s called, and it’s none of your business.”

Nora picks up the remote and begins to flip mindlessly through channels. It’s late, and if one of them doesn’t find a way to break free, they’ll be stuck ‘til midnight. Finding nothing, she puts down the remote.

“I think I’m gonna go to bed, honey,” she says.

“All right.” He catches her hand as she stands and gives it a squeeze. It’s a small apology, but she understands him.

“I love you, Wren.” She puts her hand lightly on his head.

“You too.”

“Enjoy your chase,” she adds quietly in parting.

“Oh,” he says a moment later, to no one in the quiet room. “I am.”

* * *

Wren definitely dresses differently
on
stats class days now that he’s had three months of reading Cam’s reactions to his appear­ance. He dresses to look smaller. Exposes little bits of skin. His collarbone seems to be a particular enticement, which really works for Wren because it’s ridiculously sensitive.

He pairs Cam’s affinities with his own for soft fabrics against his arms and neck and structured pants or even tops, depending on his mood. Most of the things with which he surrounds himself make him feel good, maximize his sensual pleasure: the light and fabrics in his room and wardrobe; the incredible, lush give of his bed. Wren textures his life with small luxuries, and rarely, but intensely, indulges in bigger, more raw ones. Whoever this Cam is, Wren knows he’ll be incredible.

* * *

The closer they come
to
the end of April and the semester, the harder it is to hold off. Wren squirms in class; the tether between them is so taut and electric, it’s only through the incredible self control he’s rigorously practiced that he manages first to stay put and then to slip out of the room before Cam can find him.

“You are driving us
crazy
,”
Nora says one night.

“God,” Brokk adds, “please just fuck him and give us a break.”

“Fuck you,” Wren says, laughing. “What do you know about it?”

“Listen, I don’t have to have your abilities,” Brokk replies, using a fork to gesture between Wren and Nora, “to know you’re so horny you make
me
want to go out and get laid.”

“So go get laid, then,” Wren says placidly.

“I will if you will,” Brokk retorts.

Wren rolls his eyes, but Nora’s laughter is bright and contagious. Several patrons around the restaurant turn toward the sound.

“Just—” Wren twists the sweating glass of water on the table before him, “lay off. It’s hard enough.” He breaks off when Brokk laughs. “God, what are you, thirteen?”

“Young at heart.” Brokk winks at Nora.

“
Anyway
,” Wren continues. “I was saying it’s difficult enough, holding out. But we’re almost there.”

“Praise be.” Nora wiggles her fingers skyward dramatically.

“Just be careful,” Brokk says lightly, ignoring the displeased look Wren sends his way.

“Seriously?”

“Come on, Wren, you know he can’t help it,” Nora butts in. “He’s naturally protective; all people have proclivities, and when we care about each other, they come out, even in those who aren’t gifted. It’s not a terrible thing, having a friend looking out for you.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I can feel you guys, you know. We’re all way too turned on by my game,” he jokes. “Here, let me do what I was made to do.” He looks Nora in the eyes and quietly draws a calming peace from her. Then he looks at Brokk. It’s a little harder with him; he’s naturally guarded. Luckily, Brokk is both good-natured and comfortable with Wren. Wren’s friends trust him; and while he’s often irritable about Nora using her gift, he’s always gotten joy and comfort from using his to make the people he loves feel good.

“That’s lovely,” Nora smiles at him softly. She pushes a sweet calm at him, too. It’s not the same as being compelled; but there’s something nice about feeling other people when they’re like this.

They leave the restaurant, and Wren looks up at the sky. Nora threads her arm through his and shivers. It’s not really cold, but there’s a lingering chill in the air, an April night on the cusp of summer, leaving spring slowly behind. Above him, the sky is inky black. It had been a lovely crisp blue all day, hazy with cir­rus clouds and full of gentle breezes. He knows that in some places, the sky is carpeted with stars on nights like this; but not here. The lights from the city and suburbs pollute the sky. It’s no matter to Wren. Knowing that things like star-filled skies exist, beautiful and timeless things, grounds him. It is as it should be, and he is where he should be in this world. Every rule he’s made has brought him here to good food, good friends and a great life. The build­ings around him crowd like friends and family. He loves this, because so many small pleasures and great distractions mean he never needs to feel lonely.

* * *

Despite his strict rules
and
his need to have everything in its place, to plan ahead, Wren knows that spontaneity has its own plea­sure and that getting caught up in something provocative and impetuous can be a liberating experience, made hotter by its unexpectedness. Sometimes even he feels constrained by the structures he uses to protect himself from the world.

Wren hadn’t planned for this, but as soon as the elevator doors open to the basement level of the library, Wren knows Cam is there. He checks his call number. To find that section of books, he should follow the blue line, one of the colored trails taped to the floor to guide students. The blue line forks to the left, but Wren can sense that’s the wrong way if he wants to find Cam. He takes a shaking breath, tries to control the excitement that shivers up from his core and turns right instead of left.

In the dead quiet of
the library,
Cam is too aware of the silence; the grinding hum of the movable stacks being opened startles him. The sound of faraway footsteps draws his gaze up from his bewildering class notes, and a cough from the other side of the reference stacks, where other study tables are tucked away, distracts him easily.

He’s chosen this table in the basement because it’s quiet. He can’t study in his room, not stats. He can’t focus on notes from that class because all he sees is
him,
the boy who has been cease­lessly drawing his attention all semester. Now, everything he’s jotted down seems disjointed. In class, his hands take notes on auto-pilot; his ears are half tuned to the professor while his eyes stub­bornly stray to whichever corner of the room that boy is in.

Math has never been his thing, and attempting to learn in such a distracting environment isn’t working. Not only is he unable to pay attention, but what they’re learning is also far beyond what he thought it would be. He’s pretty sure that he’d be lost even without the added distraction.

Cam never struggled in school. Stubbornly, he wants to avoid having to admit defeat and go to the help lab. Dry-eyed and frus­trated, he puts his head down on the table and takes a deep breath. With the final exam looming, he’s beginning to feel a crest of panic. Cam doesn’t get poor grades. He’s steady, he works hard and he has faith in his intelligence. Well, that and a scholarship that demands his high performance.

Maybe it’s the anxiety stealing in, or maybe some inher­ent grace and lightness of tread keeps Cam from hearing foot­steps approach; Cam is startled by the sound of a voice.

“Rough day?”

Cam’s head pops up, and he barely manages to keep his mouth from dropping open: it’s
him.
There’s a long silence, crackling with energy, during which Cam stares stupidly. The boy is wearing an asymmetrical black cotton sweater that unzips diagonally from his neck to his shoulder and bright blue tunnel plugs in his pierced ears. Cam can see the exposed left side of his collarbone. His mouth is suddenly too dry, and his heart rate picks up until the hard, battering beat feels as if it’s shaking his ribs.

“Cat got your tongue?” the boy asks, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. Cam’s eyes follow the movement of his lips.

“N–no,” he stammers a beat too late. “I mean—”

“Yeah,” the boy says, eyes brightening. This close, Cam’s curi­osity is finally assuaged: the boy’s eyes are a startling green and mischievous, as if he knows something Cam doesn’t. His hair is a true jet black—not dyed, but rich, genuine and thick.

“I’m Cam,” Cam offers inanely, barely suppressing a wince.