Talker's Graduation

“Sociology
    with a concentration in history and…” Brian trailed off and tried to
    think, and Tate didn‟t blame him.
    “And child psychology and chemistry and English literature
    and whateverthefuckelse you can think of! Jesus, Brian—remember
    when you brought me into the evaluator‟s office? She told me that
    at this rate, I was going to be the first person at the school to
    graduate with a doctorate in All-the-fuck-over-the-place. I don‟t
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    even know what my major is. Let‟s face it—it was a joke to even let
    me attend—”
    “That‟s bullshit!” Brian snapped. “You‟re way smarter than I
    am. You‟re just—”
    “Really fucking flaky,” Talker said wryly, and Brian interrupted
    with, “Interested in everything. There‟s no sin in that. You want to
    learn about everything—that‟s awesome! I don‟t have that sort of
    energy, you know? I get one thought, and I just sort of ride it out!
    You‟re….”
    “Not destined to get a degree,” Tate said gently. “Look, baby—
    let‟s face it. I can learn about „everything‟ over the internet. I can
    buy books on „everything‟. I can take community college courses for
    a shitload less money in „everything‟. But you can only do what
    makes you happy in a few places—and one of them just jumped
    into your lap. I wouldn‟t be a very good boyfriend if I fucked this up
    for you, would I?”
    “But….” Brian‟s expression was torn—honestly torn—and
    Talker forgave him for not even bringing this subject up. It would
    have sucked for him to have even suggested that Talker wasn‟t
    capable of reaching the sky if he so chose. But Talker knew the
    truth—he probably could reach the sky—but first he‟d have to
    decide which end was up.
    Talker scooted closer until he could rest his head on Brian‟s
    broad chest. “Please don‟t feel guilty, or bad, or like you‟re being
    selfish. It‟s time for me to put you first, Brian—you always put me
    first. It‟s time for me to let you go first. It‟s time for me to grow up
    and figure out what I want to do—and it hasn‟t happened in school,
    and the only clue I even have is that as long as I‟m with you, I‟ll be
    happy doing it, okay?”
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    Brian nodded and wrapped his arm around Talker‟s shoulders.
    “You know, if we get wetsuits, we can go surfing all year round,” he
    said.
    “Yeah? Did you look into that?” He looked at Brian carefully,
    and was horrified to see that his eyes were bright, and the
    brightness was spilling over.
    “Yeah,” Brian said gruffly. “I just kept thinking about you, and
    how still the ocean would make you feel, and the privacy and the
    sand—but I didn‟t want you to give up anything, you know?”
    Talker‟s own eyes were spilling over, and unlike Brian, he
    didn‟t try to trammel all that up in his chest. “God, Brian. I‟ve got
    you—how can you even say that‟s a sacrifice?”
    Brian didn‟t say anything else, he just kept holding Tate and
    dropping little kisses on the top of his head and rubbing his cheek
    in the long, straight fall of Tate‟s hair.
    “So?” Talker asked after a minute.
    “I‟ll call Mark after breakfast,” Brian told him, and Talker
    nodded, but neither of them moved for quite a while.
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    Living in the Present
    THEY had moved during the winter, right after New Year‟s, and
    Talker had been surprised at how many people were there to help
    them move.
    Doc Sutherland was there, with two knitted throws as a
    moving/Christmas gift—one from him, and one from his wife, whom
    they had never met, but apparently who had heard so much about
    them that she felt like they were family too. Aunt Lyndie, of course,
    and Craig, and Jed and his family from Talker‟s work, and Juan
    from Brian‟s job at the Olive Garden, and Brian‟s ex-girlfriend
    Virginia, and her husband Alex. It hadn‟t taken them long—the iron-
    framed bed was the biggest thing, and it went into Jed‟s pick-up
    truck, along with the couch and their one stuffed chair. Everything
    else had gone into various cars, and they had caravanned down to
    the cottage, following directions from Google maps.
    Mark had given Brian the keys to the small house and the
    business on the day Brian had signed the papers, about a week
    before Christmas. His ex-lover, the man responsible for all of this,
    had passed away before then. Brian had