Talker

“The Newsies were a ragged army, poor
    orphans and runaways without direction… until one day, al that
    Talker | Amy Lane
    11
    changed.” He said it with intonation, as though he was quoting
    something, and Brian felt thick and slow next to that quickness.
    He’d always been slow to speak around Talker, but Talker didn’t
    seem to mind.
    This time was no exception.
    “I don’t understand,” he apologized, and Tate turned to him,
    enthusiasm written on his face like crayon on a wall.
    “Newsies? You’ve never seen Newsies? It’s, like, the musical,
    before High School Musical, which was lame… man, you’ve got to
    see this movie—it’s awesome!”
    “Uhm, okay.” Brian was blinking, hard, wondering how their
    conversation had ended up down such an exotic hal way when he
    hadn’t seen the turn, but then that’s where Tate took conversation.
    If something got too close, he would take it in the opposite
    direction.
    “I could bring it by your dorm—if you’ve got a computer, we
    could see it. You’d like it….” It was the first time in that year and a
    half of semi-acquaintanceship that they’d progressed into actual
    friendship. Best moment of Brian’s life.
    “O kay.” Brian had a laptop—he and his aunt had put every
    spare penny they had into it. So far, he’d only used it to type papers
    and surf YouTube. He felt vaguely ashamed that he had no porn to
    speak of, but that didn’t seem to interest him right now.
    “Uhm, that is, if you don’t mind a fag in your dorm room.” Tate
    had turned away. He made a show out of using the smal mirror in
    his locker to careful y place brazen blue eyeliner around his eyes.
    Brian realized with some shock that Tate was talking about
    himself. He also realized that he was terrified Brian would agree
    with him.
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    12

    “Don’t have many friends,” he said honestly. “C an’t afford to
    be choosy.” He paused and watched as Tate’s shoulders
    straightened a little, the twitchy hunch to them gone with Brian’s
    open acceptance. “But I don’t like it when people call them names.”
    “Them?” Tate turned around with wide-open, decorated eyes,
    as though daring Brian to deny who he was.
    “My friends.”
    Tate nodded then, and flushed. “Right. O kay.” He smiled.
    Brian had come to know that smile with the prominent canines and
    crowded bottom bite very wel . But Tate’s smile was luminous—
    pure and shining, especial y now—and Brian realized with a lump in
    his throat that, for this moment at least, he was needed. Tate
    Walker needed him as a friend as no one else had perhaps needed
    Brian in his life.
    It was so easy after that.
    Brian’s shoulder had final y blown while practicing the shot put.
    He’d lost his scholarship and had to take a job to get through
    school, and they’d moved in together shortly after that.
    Hey, Brian—where you living if you can’t live in the dorms?
    Don’t know—gotta find an apartment.
    Here—my friend on X Street just gave up a second-floor
    dump. It’s a shitty neighborhood, but it’s got two bedrooms, and it’s
    right behind a Starbucks, so we can pirate their Wi-F i.
    We?
    Wel … if you don’t mind a roommate who likes guys.
    No—not at all.
    Although Tate never said so, he gave up his dorm because
    Brian was his best friend, and he didn’t want to lose the ability to
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    just wander down the hal and throw a movie in the laptop while
    Brian was trying to pound out a paper.
    Both of them got restaurant jobs: Tate as a bar-back at
    G atsby’s Nick, a flamboyant gay bar, and Brian waiting tables at
    O live G arden. Tate stil had his scholarship, but neither of them had
    much money. Their apartment was crappy, their furniture was
    second hand, and when they weren’t filching restaurant food, they
    lived on Top Ramen and fried potatoes.
    Brian couldn’t remember being happier.

    AND now, after two and a half years of friendship, Brian couldn’t
    believe he’d heard right.
    This was Tate’s new hobby?
    “You’re doing what?” he asked quietly, when the echo of his
    unexpected outburst had died down.
    Tate shook himself out and danced on his toes. The tile under
    his feet crackled and broke down into even smal er fragments
    before he answered.
    “It’s no big deal.”
    “It’s not stamp collecting! What is it you’re doing again?”
    “You know, I’m… I’m talking.”
    “Yeah, I heard that,” Brian growled. He was running with