sweetheart."
"Fuck you." Cal laughed even as he said it, dry and exasperated, like the time Ian decided to ease his 'coming out' by taking him to IHOP and ordering him the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity
breakfast.
Not finding anything of substance to chuck at Ian's head, Cal hmmphed and said, "This place is
bleak. Somehow, when I invited you to move in, I thought you'd bring a few more permanent
fixtures than your wardrobe, stereo, and that ratty Dame poster. Hair bands have been out for
over a decade."
"Hey," Ian protested. "I'll have you know that's a limited edition."
"Because they couldn't give the nasty things away and burned the rest. What was Scott thinking
with the white leather pants? You can totally see the roll of quarters."
Ian laughed. "Some chick put him up to it."
He neglected to admit 'the chick' was Ian. Scott had been under the impression that Ian knew
about things like wardrobe. Ian probably never should have mentioned that he'd done some
modeling as a kid. (His mom's idea, not his.) He never got why people fawned over his plump
lips and long eyelashes, even less why his mother knew people would pay to use his face. But
there was a reason he gave it up -- one too many photo shoots in yuppy pink shirts and workout
gear made entirely of spandex that required the waxing of hair he was just starting to grow. Scott
never asked about the details of the great Ian Jeffries' modeling career before he asked for the
wardrobe advice.
Go Fish - 4
"Figures." Cal took the basket and started heading for the hall, stopped, and turned around again.
"But seriously, you should get some… stuff. You're making me feel like a slumlord, here."
After he left, Ian lowered the pillow and took a look around at his bare walls and surfaces. He
wasn't really sure what the big deal was with having "stuff." Just more you had to move the next time your roommate got married and left you unable to make the rent, or sold your house out
from under you. But if Cal wanted stuff, maybe Ian would get some. Maybe. After a few more
hours of sleep.
He rolled over and shoved the pillow tighter over his head.
***
"Um, is that what I think it is?" Cal was tending the dog dishes at the wash sink in the laundry
room, meticulously scrubbing each one before filling them with water and setting them down
beside the dry food. He didn't wash his own dishes that well, an irony Ian found all kinds of
amusing.
And Ian didn't have to be standing there waiting to get to the sink. The one in Ian's bathroom
would work just fine. But then, Cal wouldn't be giving him that what-the-fuck look, his eyes all
wide so his bangs fell into them and he had to blow them off his forehead with his mouth
because his hands were too wet. Ian wouldn't miss that expression for anything. The way Cal's
nose and upper lip kept twisting in an attempt to dislodge the few stringers of hair was priceless,
even if it made Ian's nose itch by power of suggestion.
"It's a fish bowl," Ian said, hoisting it up on the edge of the sink. He grinned with one cheek and both eyebrows, because that sounded like a punch line. He just couldn't remember the joke.
"You bought a fish?" Cal smirked. He straightened up with that little flinch that reminded Ian just what a pain in the ass it must be to be so damned tall. "That's awesome. What kind?"
Ian wanted to tell him he had one little stringer of hair glued to his forehead that hadn't come
dislodged with the gust of breath. But what would be the point? Cal's hands were still wet, his
sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Ian did his best to ignore it, shifting his glance and then his
entire posture from side to side before caving and reaching up to brush it away himself.
Of course, he cleared his throat with a manly grunt at the same time. He wouldn't want to give
the wrong impression.
"No fish. Just a bowl." He shrugged. "You told me to get stuff for my room. Now I have stuff."
He didn't mention that he'd actually
"Fuck you." Cal laughed even as he said it, dry and exasperated, like the time Ian decided to ease his 'coming out' by taking him to IHOP and ordering him the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity
breakfast.
Not finding anything of substance to chuck at Ian's head, Cal hmmphed and said, "This place is
bleak. Somehow, when I invited you to move in, I thought you'd bring a few more permanent
fixtures than your wardrobe, stereo, and that ratty Dame poster. Hair bands have been out for
over a decade."
"Hey," Ian protested. "I'll have you know that's a limited edition."
"Because they couldn't give the nasty things away and burned the rest. What was Scott thinking
with the white leather pants? You can totally see the roll of quarters."
Ian laughed. "Some chick put him up to it."
He neglected to admit 'the chick' was Ian. Scott had been under the impression that Ian knew
about things like wardrobe. Ian probably never should have mentioned that he'd done some
modeling as a kid. (His mom's idea, not his.) He never got why people fawned over his plump
lips and long eyelashes, even less why his mother knew people would pay to use his face. But
there was a reason he gave it up -- one too many photo shoots in yuppy pink shirts and workout
gear made entirely of spandex that required the waxing of hair he was just starting to grow. Scott
never asked about the details of the great Ian Jeffries' modeling career before he asked for the
wardrobe advice.
Go Fish - 4
"Figures." Cal took the basket and started heading for the hall, stopped, and turned around again.
"But seriously, you should get some… stuff. You're making me feel like a slumlord, here."
After he left, Ian lowered the pillow and took a look around at his bare walls and surfaces. He
wasn't really sure what the big deal was with having "stuff." Just more you had to move the next time your roommate got married and left you unable to make the rent, or sold your house out
from under you. But if Cal wanted stuff, maybe Ian would get some. Maybe. After a few more
hours of sleep.
He rolled over and shoved the pillow tighter over his head.
***
"Um, is that what I think it is?" Cal was tending the dog dishes at the wash sink in the laundry
room, meticulously scrubbing each one before filling them with water and setting them down
beside the dry food. He didn't wash his own dishes that well, an irony Ian found all kinds of
amusing.
And Ian didn't have to be standing there waiting to get to the sink. The one in Ian's bathroom
would work just fine. But then, Cal wouldn't be giving him that what-the-fuck look, his eyes all
wide so his bangs fell into them and he had to blow them off his forehead with his mouth
because his hands were too wet. Ian wouldn't miss that expression for anything. The way Cal's
nose and upper lip kept twisting in an attempt to dislodge the few stringers of hair was priceless,
even if it made Ian's nose itch by power of suggestion.
"It's a fish bowl," Ian said, hoisting it up on the edge of the sink. He grinned with one cheek and both eyebrows, because that sounded like a punch line. He just couldn't remember the joke.
"You bought a fish?" Cal smirked. He straightened up with that little flinch that reminded Ian just what a pain in the ass it must be to be so damned tall. "That's awesome. What kind?"
Ian wanted to tell him he had one little stringer of hair glued to his forehead that hadn't come
dislodged with the gust of breath. But what would be the point? Cal's hands were still wet, his
sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Ian did his best to ignore it, shifting his glance and then his
entire posture from side to side before caving and reaching up to brush it away himself.
Of course, he cleared his throat with a manly grunt at the same time. He wouldn't want to give
the wrong impression.
"No fish. Just a bowl." He shrugged. "You told me to get stuff for my room. Now I have stuff."
He didn't mention that he'd actually
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