Talker

swallowed hard, almost completely lost in Tate’s oak-gall-
    dark eyes. Tate blinked, and Brian noticed the vestiges of his
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    makeup, stil smeared over his cheekbones, and he managed to be
    practical. “But you shower first,” he said, his breath coming quickly
    in his chest. “I’l make you some dinner. Lyndie sent food.”
    “Lyndie?” With obvious reluctance, Tate straightened and they
    broke their physical connection.
    “Who do you think did the hair and the piercings?”
    Tate blinked at that, and Brian stepped out of the shower. His
    towel was pretty sodden, so, with a blushing glance at Tate, he
    hung it over the curtain rod and took one of the dry ones from the
    towel rack.
    “Why?” Tate asked, and Brian was glad his back was turned
    as he wrapped the dry towel around his waist.
    “Because I told her I loved you, and I was worried, and I’d told
    you repeatedly, but you weren’t seeing me. I had to find a way to
    make you see me.”
    He turned back around and Tate had moved closer. “I see you
    now.”
    “Loving you is about al I got in the way of interest,” Brian told
    him, to make sure he’d know. Because being roommates for almost
    a year might not have clued Tate in to how basical y boring his
    roommate was, right?
    Tate nodded, never breaking his gaze, and put out a tentative
    hand to the middle of Brian’s chest. Brian’s skin felt like it rippled, shivering, and his groin and nipples tingled, and he was forced to
    close his eyes.
    “I do that to you?” Tate asked, and he held himself very stil ,
    like he doubted the answer.
    “O h G od, yes,” Brian mumbled, and then managed to pull
    away. “Shower,” he begged. “Shower. G et the crap out of your hair.
    Let me feed you. Let me take care of you. Please, Tate—I….” His
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    cock gave a vicious throb and he remembered that whimpering
    sound he’d made in the bathroom at the club and contemplated
    making it again. “I want you so bad—but I want to talk, too, and I
    want… oh G od.” Tate was moving that hand in little circles, and his
    palm grazed Brian’s nipple and Brian reached out a steadying hand
    to Tate’s shoulder.
    Tate laughed a little, breathlessly. It was a happy laugh, and
    Brian could tel he was impressed with his own power. G ood. That
    hand made another pass, and Tate’s thumb got brave around
    Brian’s nipple, and then Brian was impressed with Tate’s power
    too.
    Which was why he grasped Tate’s wrist gently, and brought
    his scarred palm (Tate had taken off his glove to help Brian get the
    glue out of his hair) up to his mouth and gently kissed the palm.
    Tate whimpered, just like Brian had.
    “Tate?”
    “Yeah?”
    “All that shit I said in the club? About taking care of you?”
    “Yeah?”
    “I meant every word of that. Take a shower, and I’m going to
    make you some food, and then I’m going to touch you with my
    whole body. But I’m not going to do that now, okay?”
    Tate nodded, a sort of wonder on his face, and Brian lowered
    his mouth, thinking once again that Tate’s lips were surprisingly
    soft. “I promise. I’m going to take such good care of you.”
    The kiss was brief, and Brian forced himself to go put on a pair
    of sleep shorts and a T-shirt. As he walked out of the bathroom,
    though, he heard Tate start to sing “And our love would have
    soared, over treetops over rooftops.…” to himself, and Brian
    wanted to turn around and hug him just for that alone.
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    O h G od, he’d missed hearing Talker sing.
    He restrained himself, and got the food from his trunk and
    made them omelets (which he was real y good at), and by the time
    Tate came down the hal , wearing brightly colored Iron Man boxer
    shorts (he had a collection—he seemed to favor superheroes and
    Scooby-Doo) and nothing else, there was food on the table, and the
    last of their milk in two glasses, and a bunch of pinks and daffodils
    and buttercups that had been growing up around Lyndie’s little
    cabin that she’d cut and sent with Brian in a wet paper towel.
    Brian had put them in a Big G ulp cup, because it was what
    they had, but they made the kitchen smel good, at least, and they
    made Tate smile.
    Brian smiled back and ducked his head, shyly, and turned
    around to dry his hands on a kitchen towel that had once been a
    tapestry calendar. Without warning, he felt Tate’s arms creeping
    around his waist, and Tate’s bare chest pressed