Talker's Graduation

one fully functioning hand
    and some recently healed ribs.
    Brian had looked at him, his head cocked, and Tate found that
    for the first time in their relationship, he had trouble speaking. He
    started to unwrap the plastic and expose the polymer clay.
    “You can cook it in the oven, but I understand it smells like
    ass,” he said, and then, with a self-conscious look up at Brian, he
    pulled the black half-glove from his own crippled hand and nodded
    at Brian‟s arm. Brian swung his arm gingerly forward and Tate said,
    “C‟mere.”
    Brian‟s lips tilted—and they did that so rarely these days.
    When they‟d first met, Brian had been all eyes and quiet peace, but
    the corners of his mouth had tilted up more often than not. Since
    Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
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    he‟d been beaten almost to death by the same guy who‟d raped
    Talker six months earlier, his smile—or even that little lip tilt that
    said everything was okay—had been rare. But not now.
    Tate positioned Brian in front of the clay and stood behind him,
    pressing his chest firmly against Brian‟s back and taking Brian‟s
    injured arm in his own crippled hand. Still without speaking, he slid
    his hand to Brian‟s and then placed it on the clay.
    Brian said, “I‟m not that stupid, Talker….”
    “Shhh,” Tate whispered, placing a delicate, pained kiss on
    Brian‟s injured shoulder. “Shhh. Just try it. It‟s supposed to be good
    for your fine motor skills. I don‟t care what you make. Just make
    something. Just watch it get better. You‟re mad now, okay? You‟re
    mad because your body won‟t do what it should, and because it
    hurts, and because you can‟t work, and… and it hurts worse when
    you‟re mad, okay?”
    “I‟m not mad at you,” Brian said roughly, spreading his fingers
    with effort. Tate took the gesture for what it was meant to be and
    laced his own fingers—scarred and crippled from the childhood fire
    that had scarred his face and his body—in with Brian‟s sound, if
    battered, ones.
    “I know. But it hurts me watching you, okay? Just try this. Try
    this. If it doesn‟t work, we‟ll try something else. Lyndie can teach
    you to crochet. The Doc can teach you to knit. Something. But try
    this. It‟s not like you to just work out for vanity; I know it. You think
    that‟s a waste of time. This is making something. It‟ll be good.”
    He felt the iron in Brian‟s back soften, bend, become pliable.
    Brian‟s hand began to work the clay. It was cold and unyielding at
    first, but Tate braced Brian‟s shoulder with his own and used the
    little force his own hand could exert and together they warmed it up,
    kneaded it, made it soft and warm and as sweet as Brian‟s heart.
    Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
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    After a few minutes, Brian kept working and Tate slowly
    backed away. He walked quietly to the bathroom and washed his
    hands, humming “Defying Gravity” from Wicked.

    TALKER thought for a moment about sleeping in, but he couldn’t.
    High tide was in half an hour, and, well, since they’d moved out to
    Petaluma, his heart had beat to the tides.
    He tried to slide out of bed unnoticed—Brian had been up late
    the night before, working, and he needed his sleep for the day and
    evening to come—but it was no use. He walked to the window in
    sleep-shorts and a T-shirt, both of them worn soft and thin, and
    stood for a minute at the window. God, the sea hadn’t gotten any
    less pretty, for all they’d been there 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.
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    “Yeah,” he said, answering Brian’s question. “We’re always
    going, if