Talker's Graduation

had never been Brian‟s strong suit.
    “It‟s perfect,” Tate said, meaning it. He wouldn‟t have tattooed
    his face with those whorls that Brian had recreated so perfectly in
    clay, or worn the piercings or the Mohawk or the makeup, if he
    hadn‟t been trying to tell the world something. Brian had effectively
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    seen past all that and then gone and told the world the truth, and
    the truth? The truth was fucking beautiful.
    The truth was him.

    TALKER didn‟t bring up the house and Petaluma until the next day.
    First, they had to make it home, and that part was sort of a
    blur to Talker. All he wanted to do was be alone with Brian, but he
    couldn‟t do that—not on Brian‟s night. There were people to greet
    and people to shake hands with and a good public face to put on.
    Two and a half years before, Talker wouldn‟t have been able
    to do it. Eighteen months earlier, Talker wouldn‟t have been able to
    do it. But since then, Brian had picked him up and stitched him
    back together and loved him when he‟d despaired of ever being
    loved. After that, Talker had fought every pain in his heart to stand
    up and defend Brian in return. Brian had struggled in that aftermath
    and found peace and a calling and all the while kept that vision of
    Talker, and of that first, pure love, alive in his heart.
    People? Celebration? Joy? Small things to live through.
    Exhausting, but Talker and Brian could do it. They could smile, they
    could shake hands, they could accept praise and congratulations
    and then Talker could step back and watch Brian blush and, for
    once, be the center of attention as he accepted what was his due.
    Talker could hardly remember the drive home or their giddy,
    loud noises as they fell into the small apartment. The door had
    hardly closed behind them when Brian turned in the darkness and
    kissed Tate like he‟d devour him. Tate met that warm, open mouth
    with equal passion and they‟d backed each other, breathless,
    tense, needy, into the bedroom, leaving clothes in their wake.
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    The last thing to go was Brian‟s tie, and they‟d almost left it on
    his neck, they‟d been so urgent.
    Urgent, yes, but not rushed. They‟d lost all of their clothes
    before they tangled their legs and lost themselves in one long,
    panting, all-consuming kiss. They didn‟t separate from it— couldn’t
    separate from it—it just kept going and going and going. Their
    groins were locked together, their erect cocks rubbing on each
    other, but what they were doing, what they were feeling, was too
    intense, too vital, for that alone to do it.
    Brian was the one who took charge—even when he was the
    one bottoming, he was the one who read the mood, who gave the
    orders, who took the lead. But this night, he was making breathless,
    whimpering cries, needing so far beyond what he usually did, that
    Tate found himself taking a moment, a breath, to remember that
    this night had been building for months, that Brian had been a key
    organizer, and that, on top of all of that, he‟d been making terrible
    decisions, painful ones, all on his own.
    “Turn over,” Tate whispered in his ear, and Brian complied
    without question. As Tate scrabbled for the end table, for the
    lubricant, the sight of Brian, on his knees and elbows, his ass in the
    air, shaking with desire in the dark made Tate‟s heart practically
    explode in his chest.
    Brian needed. Brian needed him.
    They‟d gotten better— so much better—at sex since their first
    times. Even though Brian usually topped, Tate knew what to do. He
    knew how to prepare Brian‟s opening, as well as the swelling, dark
    excitement that came when you watched your fingers disappear
    inside your lover‟s body, all the way to the base, and then two
    thumbs, while your lover whimpered and begged, and finally, oh
    God finally, your cock, past the ring of muscle, into the lubricated
    heat and the friction and the….
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    “Auughh!” Tate screamed, thrusting his hips forward until he
    was buried all the way to his balls in Brian‟s ass. Brian screamed
    too, and then buried his head in the covers and babbled, begging,
    pleading, howling, for Talker to just fuck him harder, oh God,
    please, Talker, just fuck him harder, just fucking bury yourself in his
    ass and fuck him harder!
    Tate did, thrusting inside his lover again and again and again,
    reaching around him and