i 7faa2455551cb7b9 (8 page)

quotes or none.

He didn't feel like he got more than five or ten minutes of sleep at a time during the whole

ordeal, but whether he was just falling asleep or barely awake, Cal was there, his hands on Ian,

the only things soft and soothing in the midst of stabbing pain, chills, intense cramping, and

bitterness. Cal's hands were huge. Ian had teased him about them at least once a day since they

discovered he could palm a basketball in the seventh grade. But now they weren't big enough,

two little oases in the desert of sickness.

Fuck that. Ian didn't wax poetic when he was healthy. He sure the hell wasn't doing it now.

He liked Cal's hands. He liked them a lot. And what he knew from the whole being sick thing

was they felt good on his forehead, brushing his hair back, on his jaw, turning his head so he

wouldn't soil the sheets when he started to gag. They were better than a salve, smoothing out the

tightness in his back and shoulders, warmer than the sheets Cal tucked up around him when he

was done convulsing and was trying to sleep before the next attack.

Best yet, they were attached to those huge-assed arms and shoulders that sloped into a bulging

chest. And when taking care of Ian was too much for either of them to take, Cal's hands, his

arms, his shoulders, his chest, all of him, curled up around Ian so they were close enough that

Cal's drool spot was on the collar of Ian's t-shirt.

Ian didn't have to do or say anything to keep Cal from leaving. But he didn't want to keep Cal

from living his life. Two days of catching and mopping up various bodily fluids... that was more

of Cal than Ian had the right to ask for.

"Cal," he whispered, barely turning his head because Cal was tucked into the crook of his neck,

"I'm okay. You don't have to stay."

"I want to."

"Dude, no one's that desperate." He was sore and grimy, rank enough to peel paint, and not

stupid enough to believe Cal was enjoying himself. Ian wriggled out of Cal's reach and all the

Go Fish - 36

way to the edge of the bed, hunched in on himself like he could get small enough to disappear.

For some reason, Cal didn't get that Ian was just looking out for his best interests.

"Fuck you." Cal extricated himself from the bed and stalked over to the fish tank, making a show of feeding them like he could force the awkward out of the situation with a dose of normalcy.

The dude had just spent the last couple of days cleaning up all the wrong bodily fluids, and Ian

had basically given him a 'thank you, Jeeves,' and pointed him toward the guest quarters.

Yeah, awkward.

Ian bit his lip and huffed into his pillow, but when his tongue got forked like it was then, there

was no keeping it in check. "Yeah, that went well." He wasn't sure what he meant by that. True, it didn't go well, 'it' being anything that equated to him and Cal being anything more than just

really good friends, but he wasn't sure if the blame in his voice was meant for himself or for Cal.

He didn't know how he had ever expected he could suddenly realize he was gay for his best

friend, and then just go about pursuing him the way he would have any of the girls he'd ever

dated, and have that work out. Because those relationships had always ended so well.

Cal dropped the lid on the fish tank abruptly enough that the fish all darted to the bottom. "Look.

I know things haven't exactly gone smoothly."

"Your powers of deduction... they astound me," Ian sniped, curling tighter around himself to

make up for the lack of Cal to keep him warm.

Cal turned around, hands on his hips, his head tilted defiantly to the side. "I'm not going to do

this with you."

"Do what?"

"You know what. Let you prod me into an argument until we're both so pissed we can't see

straight and give you an opening to run away."

"That's not what I was doing." He lied. He was a lying liar who lied. He knew that. But it wasn't fair that Cal knew him better than he knew himself. It was his hang-up, and he'd pout if he

wanted to.

"Dude, I've been in shouting distance for at least three of your breakups. I know how you work.

And you can just forget it. I'm not breaking up with you." Cal uncrossed his arms and then made

a face, because apparently he didn't smell much better than Ian. "But I will give you some time to

yourself. It's Sunday. I've got that standing lunch date with Mom and Dad." He started grabbing

dirty laundry off the floor and tossing it into a waiting basket. "You take the afternoon to get

your head screwed on straight, and, hopefully, shower, and we'll have this discussion when I get

home."

There was something that felt suspiciously like 'don't go' on the tip of Ian's tongue, but Cal was

Go Fish - 37

already out the door.

By the time Ian was showered and feeling mostly human again, the house was too damned big

and empty, and changing the sheets on the bed just made it too inviting to ignore. Lucky for him,

Marcy had his back. He knew it was her before he even answered the phone, lunging and

catching it as it vibrated off the bed stand.

"So, how did it go?"

"Before or after I threw up on his favorite jeans?"

"Oh, that well."

"Yeah, and then I think I kinda freaked out on him this morning." He smacked the bed with the

flat of his hand, sprawled out in classic 'Calgon, take me away' fashion. "I suck at this."

"Lucky for you, that's a useful talent where Cal's concerned."

He chuckled. "Was your mind ever not in the gutter?"

"Ian, the two hottest guys I know are hooking up, and I have the details hotline on speed dial. I

hate to tell you this, but I'm using you for sex. So, spill it."

"You're not getting details." He couldn't believe he was saying that. He'd never had any issue chronicling his exploits for anyone who cared to listen. But this was Marcy, and that was Cal,

and somehow nothing was the way it used to be. "But listen. Your little idea about the card

game? That was gold. You wouldn't happen to have another trick or two up your sleeve? Turns

out, I suck at romance."

The line was silent for a few seconds, and Ian was pretty sure he could hear a fingernail file

scritch-scratching away. The phone crackled in his ear as she blew away the filings. "Is he there

now?"

"No. He went to his mom's. Sunday supper. It's kind of a tradition. Afterward, they watch

Murder She Wrote
and
Walker, Texas Ranger
on cable. He won't be back until late."

"Good. I'll be right over."

Ian wasn't sure what it was with people leaving him hanging without a goodbye, but it was

starting to get annoying. He stared at the dead phone for second, then turned it off and chucked it

to the foot of the bed. He was a little afraid to imagine what she had up her sleeve.

***

little exhausted. Sure, some of it was the lingering effects of the food poisoning, but he was also

Go Fish - 38

convinced the girl could wear the second hand off a digital clock. The end result was, even

though he had every intention of waiting for Cal to come home so he could spring his little

surprise, he was sound asleep five minutes after Marcy left.

He woke to Cal spooned up behind him, chin resting on Ian's shoulder, lips against his neck.

"Mmm," Ian grinned. "Welcome home. You smell better than I remember."

Cal tightened his grip around Ian's chest, careful of the tender stomach muscles as he nuzzled in

closer. "I'm just checking on the fish," he whispered, burying his nose in Ian's hair to show he also appreciated the less rancid version.

"Dude, I'm offended. You're using me for my fish."

"And you love me for it." Cal smirked against the side of Ian's neck, both of them stubbly and a little ticklish.

"Yeah," Ian agreed, "I guess I do."

He didn't mean to fall asleep again, but he did.

***

everywhere.

Cal was standing beside the bed, bent over to Ian's eye level so those long, dark bangs tickled

over Ian's forehead and into his eyes as he fluttered into wakefulness. Everything was still hazy

and fuzzy at the edges. Ian wasn't sure if the haziness was confusion or just contentment, didn't

really care so long as it stayed soft and quiet. He grinned and lifted his eyes as Cal's hands

cupped his face, thumbs stroking over Ian's cheekbones.

He'd never seen Cal's eyes quite as soft as that, all lit up from inside without the usual crinkles of

laughter like there was a punch line bubbling to the surface. He looked a little like he was going

to cry.

Giant pussy.

Except, shit if there wasn't some kind of lump in Ian's throat, too, either happiness or fear, some

weird combination of everything awesome and terrible all mushed together like something he

might throw up if he didn't already know he'd completely purged his system.

Purged except for the one thing he couldn't ever get enough of. Cal kissed him again. On the

mouth, just gently over his dry lips.

Ian sighed into it, laughed weakly. "Cal, I'm not dying, for Pete's sake."

Go Fish - 39

"Nope, but you're going to sleep like the dead after I'm finished with you." And he slid over Ian, spooning up behind him, which was nothing new until his hand skated down Ian's stomach and

into his shorts without any preamble whatsoever. It was a little embarrassing how quickly he

responded, even exhausted and dehydrated. He hissed and thrust into Cal's grip.

It didn't take long. Months of awkward longing and disjointed embraces washed away in one

white wave of ecstasy that quivered in long, ebbing aftershocks down his limbs until he was lax

against Cal's chest, all his angles in Cal's hollows, a perfect fit.

"Wow," Ian panted, teetering on the edge of his best sleep in weeks, "what brought that on?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. Not. At. All. But I thought you wanted to talk."

"You," Cal whispered, as though Ian hadn't been there the whole time, wasn't the one who had

faked being sick and then got himself actually sick in the process, hadn't spent the better part of

the last week puking all over and sweating through the sheets.

"And?"

"Your fish." Cal snickered.

"Oh." He grinned. "That." He threaded his fingers through Cal's, not caring if they were still sticky with come, and cracked his eyes open just enough to see the fish tank in the corner.

That Marcy was one smart chick. She not only had the awesomest plans and boundless amounts

of useless information and energy, but a super-secret stash of glow-in-the-dark aquarium rocks

and helpful hints on how to "spell things out" if nothing else worked.

Ian had already forgotten about the side trip to the Toys 'R Us store and the stupid, curious looks

the clerks had given him when he bought five sets of magnetic refrigerator letters. And he'd

nearly forgotten the pain in the ass it had been to empty half the water out of the fish tank, fill the

letters with glow-in-the-dark stones, and wedge his message in the gravel between the fiber optic

skull and the ceramic driftwood.

For the message itself, he'd considered a lot of options.

Fuck Me.

No, too forward.

Kiss Me.

No. Been there, done that.

Be Mine.

Go Fish - 40

There were candy hearts for that.

I Love You.

Um. No.

There was no doubt in his mind that he'd made the right choice when he squinted through his

eyes at the glow reflecting through the water and off the glass lid of the tank, shimmery and

ephemeral in the otherwise pitch dark. Darkness made welcome and comforting by the weight of

Cal's arms around him, their fingers laced together.

BOTTOMS UP.

Yeah, that was it. Maybe blunt, but he was done with oblique. Didn't want to leave anything

open to interpretation.

"Do you mean it?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Good." That might just have been a growl in Cal's voice. Ian wondered if he should be afraid.

He was feeling no pain now, though, nuzzled into Cal's shoulder, lower legs wound together

under the sheets, and he couldn't have been less afraid if he tried. "Sorry, I didn't wait up for

you," he whispered.

"Don't be." Cal's hand drifted up Ian's stomach to the space over his sternum. Soft brush of

fingertips on sweat-damp skin, over the most ticklish places along his obliques and in the

intercostal spaces. Ian barely twitched, still loose and heavy with sleep. "How do you feel now?"

"Fine... mmm." His hips gave a little hitch as Cal's thigh slid over his, and his stomach didn't protest, no cramps or surges of nausea. It was almost like he'd never been sick. "Better than fine, actually. Must be your magic touch." He was too tired to waggle his eyebrows, but inside, they

were waggling like whoa, 'cause that magic touch was... awesome.

"Was hoping you'd say that." Cal hummed and slid closer until his hips met Ian's, dip and roll, dip and roll, more stroke than grind. He kissed along Ian's jaw bone to his mouth, inching along

in tiny, prickling increments. His chin tipped low, each follicle of stubble like the first pinpricks

of sensation in a sleep-deadened limb, would-be caresses ahead of teasing tongue and stinging

teeth. He licked over Ian's lips until Ian opened to him and rocked up against the thick muscle of