Talker's Graduation

and abstract things that were simply
    space, flowing lines with lovely, oceanic curves. Brian‟s Aunt Lyndie
    had brought him paints, the kind that made the clay waterproof, and
    Brian had worked on his muscle coordination and his strength and
    filled their apartment with small pieces of unusual beauty. Since the
    clay was polymer and withstood about anything, he‟d made Tate a
    worry-stone. Tate wore the stone around his neck, and it was
    painted a slick, night-sky blue. He used it, too—he held it in his
    hand and rubbed it with his thumb whenever he felt his brain-fish
    trying too hard to scatter, and they would usually come scattering
    back to school around in his head instead of outer space.
    They were trying to scatter now, but he clung desperately to
    that worry-stone and breathed evenly to keep his shoulders from
    twitching, because that would scatter his brain-fish again. He tried
    to find words.
    “You‟re all I‟ve got,” he muttered, standing at the counter with
    the bowl of congealed mac and cheese. “I know, something bad
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    happens to you, I won‟t be alone in the world—I‟ll have Lyndie and
    Craig, and even the Doc, but… but Brian—I was weak, and it
    almost got you killed, and when I think about that….”
    His hand started to tremble and Brian stood up, looking pained
    and upset. He swallowed and moved closer, closer, until he was
    standing right in front of Tate, and it was as close and as intimate
    as they‟d been since December. Brian had his casts and equipment
    taken off at the end of January, but the closest they‟d been to skin
    on skin had been when Tate had pressed up against Brian‟s back
    to show him how to work the clay.
    “You know what the problem is?” Brian had whispered
    hoarsely.
    Tate shook his head “No.”
    “The problem is, you haven‟t gotten laid in for-fuckin‟- ever! ”
    Tate laughed—he had to. Lying in bed at night, listening to the
    miracle of Brian‟s breathing—that had been heart-stopping, but it
    had also been hormone-stopping. Being afraid of touching your
    lover because you were afraid to hurt him—that put a wilt in a boner
    right the hell quick, didn‟t it?
    “You‟re not up to….”
    “Bullshit,” Brian said mildly. “You may be afraid to hurt me, but
    I‟ll tell you right now, that thing‟s working just fine, and he‟s damned
    hungry.”
    Tate blushed. “I‟m not,” he murmured, and Brian slid warm,
    dry hands up against his ribs. Even Tate felt the bump and slide of
    Brian‟s palms on each lump of bone under his flesh.
    “Tell you what,” Brian murmured, bending down to talk right in
    Tate‟s ear—the damaged one, which was sensitive to even the
    slightest whisper. “How about we go feed my thing, and once you
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    see I‟m all working, and we‟re alive, and it‟s all good, maybe you‟ll
    feel better about coming back here and feeding your thing.”
    Tate had been reluctant at first. But Brian—Brian was
    assertive. He wasn‟t aggressive or mean or frightening; he just set
    his quiet mind to it and then shouldered on through, moved solidly
    toward his goal, and his goal was getting Talker into the bedroom
    by whispering in his ear and cupping his face, kissing along his
    jawline, holding his hand. When they got there, he pulled Talker‟s
    shirt off, and because he‟d been home all day, the apartment didn‟t
    have that ache of cold that it used to when it was just the two of
    them gone all the time, so Talker didn‟t shiver. He shivered when
    Brian‟s big hands spanned his ribcage again though, yes he did,
    but that was a good kind of shiver. Brian kept up those kisses,
    those soft whispers of lips on skin, down Talker‟s throat, in the vee
    of his clavicles, down, down his skinny chest, his tattooed shoulder,
    down to the indent of his tummy. He spent a moment there, which
    was torture because the skin was soft, and Brian opened his mouth
    and pulled the taut, sensitized skin in, again and again, until it
    almost tickled, and Tate had to suppress a sound between a
    whimper and a giggle.
    Brian looked up, leaning on his good shoulder and keeping his
    injured one up and back. “Too skinny, baby,” he said soberly. “Give
    me more to kiss.” He went back then, and kept kissing down, down,
    fumbling with the button fly of Tate‟s jeans until Tate reached down
    and helped him.
    Brian pulled them off, and there was Tate, in what