Talker's Graduation

stroking him, then pulling on him, then
    yanking his fucking cock until he groaned, so long, so deep, so
    body-shattering that Tate felt the sound in the base of his balls as
    they both came. Brian shot all over Tate‟s hand, over his stomach,
    over his thighs, and Tate came deep, so deep, inside Brian‟s body
    that it was like little scattered pieces of him buried themselves
    inside, burrowing and making themselves at home, never planning
    to come out.
    Of course, as Tate pulled himself, dripping, from Brian‟s body
    and threw himself on the pillow, dragging Brian down with him into
    his arms, Tate couldn‟t help thinking that the proof that parts of
    Talker were already inside Brian had been out there on a pedestal
    for all the world to see.
    Sometimes after making love they whispered together, face-
    to-face, and gossiped like children. Not this time. This time, Tate
    threw an arm over Brian‟s shoulders and just held, until the
    aftershocks faded, and then a bout of shivering that Tate was pretty
    sure was the release of stress from just about everything.
    But they didn‟t talk. They‟d spent the evening talking to
    strangers. It seemed only right that at this moment they‟d share
    silence with each other, because they were the only ones who
    could fill that silence with meaning.
    The next morning was Sunday, and they were allowed to
    sleep in. Jed, the bouncer at Gatsby‟s Nick, had shown up late to
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    the show and told Talker that his shift for that night was covered.
    Jed had been there when Brian had been beaten, and had been a
    good friend since—apparently everyone at the club had been
    rooting for him all along.
    Tate woke up first, the narrow light of late autumn hitting the
    dusty blinds through the Sacramento haze that made the apartment
    look dingier than usual.
    Brian was sleeping with his right arm flung out, his left arm
    tucked in next to him, and his head turned toward Tate. Tate lay
    there quietly, looking at Brian‟s long lashes, dark at the base and
    almost transparent at the tips, at the small freckles on Brian‟s
    cheeks, and the five tiny moles that only Tate knew to count. He
    looked at the way Brian‟s wheat-colored hair fell across his
    forehead, and the extra squareness that adulthood had given his
    jaw. He saw the way that working out had filled out Brian‟s chest,
    and how the painful scarring had diminished in the last year and a
    half—but never would go completely away.
    He was aware of the exact moment Brian opened his eyes,
    and the exact moment they cleared enough to see that Talker was
    awake and waiting for him.
    “Mornin‟,” he slurred, and Talker rolled over to his stomach,
    which brought him just close enough to plant a gentle kiss on the
    corner of his mouth.
    “Morning,” he said soberly.
    “What‟s doin‟?” Brian asked, a sleepy smile on his face, and
    Tate responded baldly.
    “I think we should move to Petaluma.”
    Brian blinked, then frowned, and rolled over and sat up.
    “Goddamn Mark anyway! Jesus, I‟m going to….”
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    “To what, Brian? Go insult the guy who got you this far? Yeah,
    I hate him—I do. He made a move on you, and your ass is mine,
    and I‟m not happy about that. But….” Talker twitched a little,
    grabbed his worry-stone, and hung on. “But this is a chance to do
    something you really want to do—something you‟re wonderful at.
    It‟s a chance for us to get the hell out of the city and live
    somewhere we can have whatever pet we want. You and me…
    someplace where there‟s no haze in the autumn, somewhere we
    can breathe.” Sitting there in the quiet of the Sunday morning,
    Talker was aware of the thousand little sounds—the hum of the
    power lines they lived under, the clattering demands of the
    Starbucks downstairs, traffic noises, the far off rush of the
    freeway—all of it, contributing to the cluttered mess that was in his
    head.
    “Someplace we can have peace,” he finished quietly, and
    Brian scrubbed at his hair and then turned to him, obviously
    unhappy.
    “What about your school?” he said. “Seriously—I‟m going to
    graduate in December with a degree I‟ll barely use. Wouldn‟t it be
    nice if one of us got an education he loved?”
    Tate twisted his expression. “Baby, what‟s my major?”
    “Sociology,” Brian said promptly, making Talker feel bad. He
    seriously didn‟t know what Brian was graduating with.