Talker's Graduation

hair that wouldn‟t grow in, and Talker sucked
    him in again. He pulled up and released with a little pop, and smiled
    shyly into Brian‟s blue eyes.
    “Do you, uhm… want to… you know… orificially, uhm… do
    me?”
    Brian blinked and started to giggle. “Now?” he strangled.
    “You‟re asking me now? ”
    Tate tried not to laugh back, and gave another stroke-and-
    slurp, just to make sure the distraction hadn‟t ruined the moment.
    “Maybe later,” he murmured, thinking about later, and he lowered
    his head again, taking Brian into his mouth and pleasuring him
    again and again and again, until Brian grunted softly, arched his
    back, dug his hands into the covers, and came without inhibition,
    spurting solidly into the back of Talker‟s throat, knowing that Talker
    would swallow, and that what he couldn‟t swallow he would let slide
    into the covers, and they‟d do the laundry together.
    Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
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    When he was done, Tate pulled himself up again so they were
    even and wriggled his naked body next to Brian‟s, then pulled the
    cover up over them. He was lying on Brian‟s sound side, the side
    that wasn‟t injured, so he could put his head on Brian‟s shoulder
    and be that much closer. They lay there in silence for a moment,
    and Talker heard the strains of Death Cab For Cutie in his head,
    “Brothers on a Hotel Bed”, before even that faded and left him with
    just the sound of Brian‟s breathing as Brian stroked the longish hair
    that grew on the side of his skull that didn‟t have the tatt.
    Tate had stopped with the Mohawk entirely while Brian had
    been in the hospital—it just seemed so vain, so self-centered, such
    a transparent way to disguise himself. He didn‟t regret it now,
    because Brian‟s fingers against his scalp were soothing and kind,
    and just one more way for the two of them to touch, and that was
    always a good thing. He had to shave the other side—what grew
    out was scraggly and kind of icky at best, and it itched. It was better
    to keep that side shaved, and let what could grow out grow. He
    pulled it back into a ponytail most of the time, but the elastic had
    come out when Brian had been making love to him, and he wasn‟t
    going to put it back in now.
    “Someday,” Brian said softly, and Talker said, “Hmm?”
    “Someday, we‟ll do that other thing. We‟ll have lube, and we‟ll
    spend all night in bed getting it right, and I‟ll make you feel as good
    as you made me feel that one time. But not now. Now… god ,
    Talker—I‟m just so glad to be able to touch you like this, you
    know?”
    Talker looked up at him, that strong-jawed, open, honest face,
    relaxed and happy, and he had to reach out and touch him, run a
    thumb over a high, square cheekbone and cup the lean cheek.
    Brian looked back and dropped a kiss on the top of Talker‟s head
    for good measure.
    Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
    18

    “You know,” Tate whispered, “I‟m not sure if there‟s even a
    word for what‟s in my chest right now when I look at you.”
    “Sure there is,” Brian murmured. “But you use it when you‟re
    talking about Pearl Jam, too—it gets muddled.”
    Talker was falling asleep, but he‟d always remember that,
    because it was true. But even as he was falling asleep, he knew
    that not even a muddled word would let him ever confuse the way
    he felt about Brian with the way he felt about Pearl Jam.

    BRIAN was almost wide awake by the time their mouths met, and
    even though he hadn’t been getting as much sleep as he should
    have been, he was getting enough to make his hands on Tate’s
    hips powerful and demanding.
    Tate didn’t hesitate. His sleep shorts hit the floor in a wriggle
    and a shimmy, and he was hauling his shirt over his head to give
    Brian better access in half-a-heartbeat. His worry-stone, the first
    thing Brian had ever made him, hung at his throat, and it was the
    only thing he wore as he straddled Brian’s hips and ground himself
    against Brian’s skin.
    Brian’s stomach was taut and hard underneath Tate’s thighs
    and balls—he’d worked hard, damned hard, to get back a body that
    could do all of the things that Brian loved and that Tate loved doing
    with him, and it showed. Brian’s shoulder would always be weak—
    but it was sound enough now to lift Tate enough for Brian to reach
    behind him. Brian had opened a bottle of lube—they used the large
    size now, because they went through it damned