Talker's Graduation (3 page)

The aftershocks went on forever, long enough for Brian to pull

himself up even and fold Tate in against his still broad shoulder. He

reached over with a grunt of discomfort and dragged their top-quilt

over Tate"s shoulders, because the room wasn"t
that
warm, and

Tate shuddered in his embrace for a good long time.

Tate looked up and kissed the side of Brian"s neck, and then

pushed up some more and kissed his cheek, his ear, and the

corner of his mouth.

“What?” Brian asked, closing his eyes and giving himself into

the kiss.

“You didn"t come.”

“I did a little.” Brian smiled, and Tate shivered, kissing down

his neck. Yeah. Brian loved him that much.

“Help me take off your shirt,” Tate muttered, and Brian did,

careful not to move his shoulder too much. As it peeled over his

body, Talker saw the things that he"d tried hard not to see those

first months when he"d had to help Brian dress on a regular basis.

(It was a good thing they had more pairs of sweats than anything

else between the two of them, or Brian would have had to wander

around the apartment naked just to take a leak.) Brian"s shoulder

was… damaged. It would always be. It looked like it had been used

by a psychopath for pumpkin-carving practice. There were surgical

scars on top of surgical scars, and swelling and weakness. His

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15

muscle had deteriorated, in spite of his best efforts, and that side of

his body was noticeably smaller than the other side.

His ribs weren"t in their natural place. There were lumps on

them from healing and one of them had been dislocated—it had

been popped back, but it was still not at a normal angle in his

ribcage. There were three scars on his stomach, where they"d had

to go in and repair his internal organs and take out his spleen. His

nose had been broken too, and there were a couple of fading

surgical scars on his forehead, his cheek, above his eyebrow, and

on his temple.

And in spite of this—oh, God, in spite of everything—he was

still the most beautiful boy Talker had ever seen. The scars didn"t

matter—they didn"t even register. The asymmetry of his once-fit,

perfect body was not even a thing. Talker kissed down his neck,

down to his shoulder, and kissed every scar on the front, while

moving his hand to the back and rubbing those scars with his

thumb. He extended his tongue and dragged it down, down, down

to Brian"s nipple, suckling gently, while Brian “hmmd” and groaned

and gasped above him. He kept kissing, down to the soft skin of

Brian"s stomach, touching those scars with his lips. Brian was

wearing sweats, and Talker dragged those down too, finding that

familiar, impressive erection waiting for him.

It was beautiful, too—thick, long, curving ever-so-slightly

toward Brian"s belly button as it flexed there on Brian"s stomach.

Tate knew that Brian hadn"t spent his boyhood dreaming about a

man"s body—he hadn"t spent it dreaming about a woman"s either—

but Brian"s lack of awareness had no effect on his body. Tate had

seen enough photos to know that Brian"s equipment was… lush. A

bounty of riches. More manhood than any one boy should have. As

he stroked his crippled hand over it, Talker thought about the last

time he and Brian had made love, before the beating. (He could say

those words now. Brian had been beaten. Talker had been raped.

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16

They weren"t powerful anymore. Talker was stronger than those

words.) Brian had given himself—allowed himself to be penetrated,

because Tate was all freaked out over not having „the big A". His

fears, his complete denial over his trauma, all of it had made him

afraid, terrified of having his body invaded, hurt, discarded.

Talker had seen real fear since then, had lived his own

memories thrown back into his face like iced acid and watched as

Brian"s life had hung ever so precariously, and he had prayed. His

prayers had nothing to do with “Let me not be raped again,” and

everything to do with “Let Brian live.”

God, he wanted Brian to live, and live well, and have every

good thing in the world.

Talker dropped his head, lowering his lips to pull that

magnificent, tender, hard, velvet flesh into his mouth and pull in his

cheeks with suction. Brian stroked the side of his face, the one with

the tattoos and the hair that wouldn"t grow in, and Talker sucked

him in again. He pulled up and released with a little pop, and smiled

shyly into Brian"s blue eyes.

“Do you, uhm… want to… you know… orificially, uhm… do

me?”

Brian blinked and started to giggle. “Now?” he strangled.

“You"re asking me
now?
”

Tate tried not to laugh back, and gave another stroke-and-

slurp, just to make sure the distraction hadn"t ruined the moment.

“Maybe later,” he murmured, thinking about later, and he lowered

his head again, taking Brian into his mouth and pleasuring him

again and again and again, until Brian grunted softly, arched his

back, dug his hands into the covers, and came without inhibition,

spurting solidly into the back of Talker"s throat, knowing that Talker

would swallow, and that what he couldn"t swallow he would let slide

into the covers, and they"d do the laundry together.

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17

When he was done, Tate pulled himself up again so they were

even and wriggled his naked body next to Brian"s, then pulled the

cover up over them. He was lying on Brian"s sound side, the side

that wasn"t injured, so he could put his head on Brian"s shoulder

and be that much closer. They lay there in silence for a moment,

and Talker heard the strains of Death Cab For Cutie in his head,

“Brothers on a Hotel Bed”, before even that faded and left him with

just the sound of Brian"s breathing as Brian stroked the longish hair

that grew on the side of his skull that didn"t have the tatt.

Tate had stopped with the Mohawk entirely while Brian had

been in the hospital—it just seemed so vain, so self-centered, such

a transparent way to disguise himself. He didn"t regret it now,

because Brian"s fingers against his scalp were soothing and kind,

and just one more way for the two of them to touch, and that was

always a good thing. He had to shave the other side—what grew

out was scraggly and kind of icky at best, and it
itched.
It was better

to keep that side shaved, and let what could grow out grow. He

pulled it back into a ponytail most of the time, but the elastic had

come out when Brian had been making love to him, and he wasn"t

going to put it back in
now.

“Someday,” Brian said softly, and Talker said, “Hmm?”

“Someday, we"ll do that other thing. We"ll have lube, and we"ll

spend all night in bed getting it right, and I"ll make you feel as good

as you made me feel that one time. But not now. Now…
god
,

Talker—I"m just so glad to be able to touch you like this, you

know?”

Talker looked up at him, that strong-jawed, open, honest face,

relaxed and happy, and he had to reach out and touch him, run a

thumb over a high, square cheekbone and cup the lean cheek.

Brian looked back and dropped a kiss on the top of Talker"s head

for good measure.

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18

“You know,” Tate whispered, “I"m not sure if there"s even a

word for what"s in my chest right now when I look at you.”

“Sure there is,” Brian murmured. “But you use it when you"re

talking about Pearl Jam, too—it gets muddled.”

Talker was falling asleep, but he"d always remember that,

because it was true. But even as he was falling asleep, he knew

that not even a muddled word would let him
ever
confuse the way

he felt about Brian with the way he felt about Pearl Jam.

BRIAN was almost wide awake by the time their mouths met, and

even though he hadn’t been getting as much sleep as he should

have been, he was getting enough to make his hands on Tate’s

hips powerful and demanding.

Tate didn’t hesitate. His sleep shorts hit the floor in a wriggle

and a shimmy, and he was hauling his shirt over his head to give

Brian better access in half-a-heartbeat. His worry-stone, the first

thing Brian had ever made him, hung at his throat, and it was the

only thing he wore as he straddled Brian’s hips and ground himself

against Brian’s skin.

Brian’s stomach was taut and hard underneath Tate’s thighs

and balls—he’d worked hard, damned hard, to get back a body that

could do all of the things that Brian loved and that Tate loved doing

with him, and it showed. Brian’s shoulder would always be weak—

but it was sound enough now to lift Tate enough for Brian to reach

behind him. Brian had opened a bottle of lube—they used the large

size now, because they went through it damned fast—and was

sliding slippery fingers down Talker’s crease.

Talker spread his legs and leaned forward, giving Brian better

access. God, he had learned to love this in the past years. The first

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19

time had been awkward—it had burned a little, in spite of Brian’s

best preparation—and for a terrible, breathless moment, he’d been

afraid. But all of that growing up he’d done, all of that learning to

hold a still space in his head, that had paid off, because he’d been

able to breathe, breathe, breathe through the fear and the panic,

and he’d been able to open himself up, and look into Brian’s eyes,

and give Brian control, just for this, over his body.

Brian hadn’t let him down, and the burning had been…

interesting, at first, and then pleasurable, and then exquisite.

Now, as Tate allowed Brian’s fingers to penetrate him, to

stretch, to spread and invade him, his hips undulated expressively

and he all but purred.

“God, I love this part,” he said softly, and Brian smiled up into

his face.

“This part, or the part that comes next?” he asked, and his

smile was all wicked.

Tate rose up on his knees and backed up, until he was

hovering over Brian’s cock. Brian held himself up, and together they

met… ah… yes! Right there! Tate breathed, breathed, breathed…

slid down, stretched, and caught his breath. So big… so big and so

wide and so… ah, God… ahhhhh…. “Ohhhhhhh….” He moaned

and shuddered, and slid down and down until he was sitting on

Brian and Brian’s flesh, his beautiful, thick, wide erection, was

solidly wedged inside Tate’s body

“This part,” he murmured, smiling and throwing his head back.

He lifted his hips and Brian held him there, his own hips moving up

and down and fucking Tate slowly, while Tate sweated and

shuddered and groaned in response. “Stay still,” he muttered,

because Brian wasn’t going fast enough, and he wanted
fast,
and

he wanted
hard,
and he positioned himself with his knees under

him and started bouncing, up and down and impaling himself, trying

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20

hard to watch while Brian’s eyes closed and he began to groan. It

was hard. Tate’s eyes closed too, and when Brian moved one of his

hands to Tate’s cock, he
had
to keep them closed because
God!

Did that feel good!

Brian stroked and Tate rose and fell and their sounds, their

comfortable, passionate sex sounds, fell in the room like the

unfiltered light from the window. Inside Tate, everything was hard

and bright and perfect, so perfect, so perfect his body would

shatter, would fly apart, would disintegrate, and he wanted it,

wanted it, strove for climax, straining, grunting, and then, when

Brian grabbed Tate’s hand and put it on his cock so he could grab

Tate’s hips and start pistoning into him hard and fast and so so

good,
that"s
when the world exploded behind his eyes.