for nearly two years. He heard
Brian’s groan and turned to watch as Brian rolled over and reached
out a hand to his empty, cooling pillow.
Most lovers would be grumpy or whiny. Talker imagined that
almost anyone else in the world would groan, “Baby, come back to
bed!” but not Brian. Instead he rolled over to his back and thrust his
face up to catch the sunshine, smiling as it sank into his skin and
eyelids.
“We going this morning?” he slurred, as game to go out this
morning into the cold of Northern California’s Pacific Ocean as he
used to be to go running with Tate along the bike trail in the heavy
heat of the Sacramento summer.
Tate walked back to the bed and threw himself across,
enjoying the way the box springs creaked on the mattress. Brian
had been working late a lot, and he hadn’t heard that sound as
much as he would have liked.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
7
“Yeah,” he said, answering Brian’s question. “We’re always
going, if you’re up for it.”
Brian smiled and put his two good hands on either side of
Tate’s chest, pushing them between the loose T-shirt and palming
Tate’s skin. It used to be that Tate could feel that touch defining
every one of his ribs, but not anymore.
“I’m up to it,” he murmured, pulling the T-shirt up and kissing
the tight muscle of Tate’s stomach. “But I’m up to something else
first.”
Tate groaned and lifted his arms, letting Brian pull off his sleep
shirt altogether. He didn’t care about the chill of morning or the way
his skin puckered. Brian would keep him warm. He hadn’t always
trusted in their bodies together in the light, but he did now.
“YOU didn‟t have to cook,” Tate said, coming home from his shift at
Gatsby‟s and looking guiltily at the mac and cheese still on the
stove. He was running late—he didn‟t like to do that. Every time he
looked at the clock and saw that it was late, he flashed to those two
weeks he‟d lived in the apartment while Brian had been in the
hospital and shuddered. He hated being alone, and he didn‟t want
Brian being alone, and now Brian was housebound without him. It‟s
true, Brian could make his way down the stairs and across the
street, but Tate was unused to thinking of Brian as vulnerable and
the thought scared him. He didn‟t like to be late. He wasn‟t fond of
walking outside under the streetlights (and he never did it alone)
but he was even less fond of the idea of Brian there without him.
So coming home for the third night in a row to find the
apartment spotless and dinner on the table was sort of a revelation,
really. He hadn‟t shopped, so Brian must have negotiated the stairs
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
8
and then come back up with a bag full of groceries. Neither of them
had money—how had Brian paid?
“I like to cook for you,” Brian said from his laptop, looking up
and smiling. Nearly four months after the attack, most of the bruises
had faded, but his eyes were still haunted by pain and
sleeplessness. Not right now, though. When Tate walked through
the door, they lightened, grew less weary, and warmed.
Tate walked over to him and nestled his chin in the curve of
Brian‟s neck. God, Brian was warm, and it was bitterly cold outside.
“Whatcha doin‟?”
Brian looked at him and smiled bitterly. “Selling my
schoolbooks.”
“ What?”
“Just my old ones. You can get money for them on
amazon.com—it‟s how I got groceries today. We didn‟t sell them at
the end of the semester because….” He trailed off. Neither of them
needed him to finish that sentence.
“But Brian—you‟re going to need those, right? I mean, I
remember you telling me that one of them was like a three-part
book for a three-part class.”
Brian grimaced. “I haven‟t sold that one yet,” he said quietly.
“But….” He bit his lip. “Talker, you‟re skinny as hell. I know you‟re
hungry—I sleep with you, remember?
Brian’s groan and turned to watch as Brian rolled over and reached
out a hand to his empty, cooling pillow.
Most lovers would be grumpy or whiny. Talker imagined that
almost anyone else in the world would groan, “Baby, come back to
bed!” but not Brian. Instead he rolled over to his back and thrust his
face up to catch the sunshine, smiling as it sank into his skin and
eyelids.
“We going this morning?” he slurred, as game to go out this
morning into the cold of Northern California’s Pacific Ocean as he
used to be to go running with Tate along the bike trail in the heavy
heat of the Sacramento summer.
Tate walked back to the bed and threw himself across,
enjoying the way the box springs creaked on the mattress. Brian
had been working late a lot, and he hadn’t heard that sound as
much as he would have liked.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
7
“Yeah,” he said, answering Brian’s question. “We’re always
going, if you’re up for it.”
Brian smiled and put his two good hands on either side of
Tate’s chest, pushing them between the loose T-shirt and palming
Tate’s skin. It used to be that Tate could feel that touch defining
every one of his ribs, but not anymore.
“I’m up to it,” he murmured, pulling the T-shirt up and kissing
the tight muscle of Tate’s stomach. “But I’m up to something else
first.”
Tate groaned and lifted his arms, letting Brian pull off his sleep
shirt altogether. He didn’t care about the chill of morning or the way
his skin puckered. Brian would keep him warm. He hadn’t always
trusted in their bodies together in the light, but he did now.
“YOU didn‟t have to cook,” Tate said, coming home from his shift at
Gatsby‟s and looking guiltily at the mac and cheese still on the
stove. He was running late—he didn‟t like to do that. Every time he
looked at the clock and saw that it was late, he flashed to those two
weeks he‟d lived in the apartment while Brian had been in the
hospital and shuddered. He hated being alone, and he didn‟t want
Brian being alone, and now Brian was housebound without him. It‟s
true, Brian could make his way down the stairs and across the
street, but Tate was unused to thinking of Brian as vulnerable and
the thought scared him. He didn‟t like to be late. He wasn‟t fond of
walking outside under the streetlights (and he never did it alone)
but he was even less fond of the idea of Brian there without him.
So coming home for the third night in a row to find the
apartment spotless and dinner on the table was sort of a revelation,
really. He hadn‟t shopped, so Brian must have negotiated the stairs
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
8
and then come back up with a bag full of groceries. Neither of them
had money—how had Brian paid?
“I like to cook for you,” Brian said from his laptop, looking up
and smiling. Nearly four months after the attack, most of the bruises
had faded, but his eyes were still haunted by pain and
sleeplessness. Not right now, though. When Tate walked through
the door, they lightened, grew less weary, and warmed.
Tate walked over to him and nestled his chin in the curve of
Brian‟s neck. God, Brian was warm, and it was bitterly cold outside.
“Whatcha doin‟?”
Brian looked at him and smiled bitterly. “Selling my
schoolbooks.”
“ What?”
“Just my old ones. You can get money for them on
amazon.com—it‟s how I got groceries today. We didn‟t sell them at
the end of the semester because….” He trailed off. Neither of them
needed him to finish that sentence.
“But Brian—you‟re going to need those, right? I mean, I
remember you telling me that one of them was like a three-part
book for a three-part class.”
Brian grimaced. “I haven‟t sold that one yet,” he said quietly.
“But….” He bit his lip. “Talker, you‟re skinny as hell. I know you‟re
hungry—I sleep with you, remember?
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