Games People Play: Go Fish Part 2

"Yeah," the woman said, confused.

"Well, good," he said. "Marcy here is gonna make sure we find everything we need, and you, my dear, can ring us up. " He leaned over the counter, suddenly aware that Cal hadn't stepped back an inch even as Ian's a.s.s b.u.mped into him. "Just, uh, do some finger warm-ups or something. I 17 wouldn't want you to strain yourself." Then, because he felt himself channeling his inner Kit DeLuca, he fogged up the counter gla.s.s with his mouth. He resisted drawing a heart in it, but only because he was going to be hard enough to draw with his d.i.c.k if he didn't straighten up pretty soon. Gay or not, Ian would dare any man to stand with Cal Jerome pressed against his a.s.s and not... respond.

He had no idea why he was thinking with dramatic pauses now. He just was.

At any rate, the look on the old bat's face was enough to make Ian feel more than a little generous. They walked out of the store, or rather, pushed, pulled, and dragged out of the store, with a fifty-gallon tank -- more than enough for three fish according Marcy, who had the brains to back up her charming geek exterior. That was the biggest tank they could take out of the store and set up themselves. Anything bigger came with delivery and setup, for which they'd have to wait until the next weekend. They were impatient.

Besides, they were two big, strong guys. They could handle setting up a fish tank. How hard could it be?

So, they got the aquarium, aquarium stand, ten bags of gla.s.s marbles and gravel, air pump, external filter, filter cartridges with activated charcoal (not the kind they already had for the barbecue grill), water purifying drops, siphon hoses, and one each of every single gaudy aquarium ornament on the shelf. Just because they could. And because that made about a hundred separate items for Attila the Fish Monger to add up without the aid of a scanner. From the way she glared at him, Ian thought it might just be the push she needed to step into the twenty-first century.

For good measure, he got a gift card for ten, no twenty, no fiftya seventy-fivea one hundred dollars' worth of fish. And yes, he changed his mind that many times -- after it'd already been punched in. He might even have winked at Marcy when he did it. But the icing was when Attila asked if they needed help carrying everything out to the car, which she was required by store policy to do, and Cal said he was under doctor's orders not to lift anything.

Oh, yeah, this was a hobby Ian could definitely get into.

As it turned out, they probably should've gone with the set up and delivery service. They got out the stand first, because that was the logical thing to do. It came out of the box looking like a few mismatched pieces of wood, or some sort of wood subst.i.tute that was supposed to be stronger because it was laminated, a few plastic baggies full of screws, and twenty pages of instructions that read like organic synthesis reactions. Don't ask how Ian knew about organic synthesis reactions. It had something to do with a hot tutor who'd thought he had... potential.

"Dude," Cal said with a huff. "These instructions are all in French."

"It's okay, boy. Let me shake that brain fart loose for ya there." Ian picked up the booklet, turned 18 it upside down, then flipped it right to left and plopped it back down on the floor between them.

"Voila!" he said, which was pretty much the only French world he actually knew, and roughed up Cal's hair like he was petting one of the dogs.

Cal was entirely too pa.s.sive, sitting with his eyes half-lidded in an expression of, 'I'm so glad you're amused at my expense.'

And Ian? Well, he wasn't so much amused as aroused, because Cal's hair was kind of soft, and Cal's lips were all pouty right then, and Cal's eyes were f.u.c.king... Suddenly self-conscious, Ian did a half-a.s.sed job of smoothing Cal's hair back into place and cleared his throat. "So, you wanna screw?"

"What?" No mistaking the cla.s.sic deer-in-headlights expression.

"Sorry, I meant, do you want to install the screws. With the, uh, the electric screwdriver."

Cal's jaw stayed slack, his mouth formed around a silent 'oh' for longer than a standard script beat, as if they needed a reminder that real life isn't scripted. He somehow managed to swallow, his Adam's apple bouncing up and down, without closing his mouth, and that wasn't helping matters. "Oh. Yeah, sure. I've been..." He s.n.a.t.c.hed the drill off the dresser and the first random screw out of the bag, then started driving the screw through a pre-drilled hole without lining it up with anything. "Been dying to try this thing out. Eighteen volts, you know? Biggest one they had in the store."

"You have some sort of fixation on always getting the biggest and the best," Ian said, not really thinking since he was too preoccupied watching Cal screw the side of the aquarium stand into the hardwood floor.

Cal flushed bright red, dropped the drill with a clunk, and started tugging at the board, his fingernails white as he bit his lower lip. "Well, I..." he grunted, tugged harder, "I don't like to settle."

Ian reached over, hit the reverse switch on the drill, raised it up so Cal could see him flip the switch back and forth, and turned it on. He laughed as Cal's eyes went crossed, trying to focus on the bit head. "Then it's a good thing I'm here," Ian smirked. "'Cause I'm the best of the best."

Cal s.n.a.t.c.hed the drill and lowered it to the offending screw like he was ready to go to town on some rusty screw a.s.s, but paused before turning it on. "Yeah, you are."

It was so quiet, Ian wasn't sure he'd heard it right. That didn't stop him grinning like a loon. With all four cheeks.

Ian tried. Really, he did. But the big, dorky smile Cal got on his face every time he put a couple pieces of wood together and they came out actually looking like the caveman sketches in the 19 instruction manual was downright distracting. Three separate times, Cal asked him to turn the page and ended up turning it himself, huffing at Ian in that way that made his bangs flop in front of his eyes. Ian didn't even have a good excuse. It wasn't like he could say, "Sorry, man, I was too busy looking at your dimples and wondering what they feel like on the inside. Mind if I stick my tongue in your mouth and find out for myself?"

Of course, that was just a hypothetical excuse. He wasn't actually thinking that. Not with his upstairs brain, anyway.

The last few steps in the a.s.sembly process required at least three arms to complete, or so said Cal, even though the instructions clearly said it was a one-man job. That was how they ended up with Ian holding two pieces of wood together, just like the C-clamp in the picture, the one they didn't have in their toolbox, because, well, they didn't have a toolbox. Cal was right behind him, his arms grappling with the slippery screw and the drill, which would have been a lot easier if the drill weren't so big and clunky. Twelve volts was probably way more than they needed for this project, but Ian was not about to interrupt Cal's Tim Taylor impersonation. Not so long as Cal kept bracing himself against Ian's back and leaning his chin on Ian's shoulder.

It took Ian a second after feeling a b.u.mp against each of his elbows to realize Cal's knees were doing the b.u.mping. All the oxygen was sucked from the room pulling Ian's skin tight over his skeleton. Holy f.u.c.k, he was between Cal's legs, actually between them, like, in the s.p.a.ce where Cal kept his... other leg.

And s.h.i.+t if he wasn't thinking with dramatic pauses again.

It was actually a pretty well known fact, well known even to Ian himself, that when Ian got nervous or anxious in any way, he started talking out of his a.s.s. Of course, knowing he had the problem didn't do a d.a.m.ned thing to help him get a handle on it. Since Cal was totally the one who had put him in that situation to begin with, he was completely to blame for what happened next.

"Wow, it's our first reach-around."

That's when Cal drilled him.

The drill slipped off the half-threaded screw and into the heel of Ian's hand. Ian jerked back, knocking Cal off balance, and Cal tightened his knees around Ian's rib cage to compensate. Ian was strung tighter than the cat gut in a tennis racket, and the pressure against Ian's sides was like the metal barrel of a rocket launcher. Ian stiffened with a squeak, board-straight between Cal's arms, and they both toppled onto the floor.

Cal must've thought Ian was having a seizure or something, because he wrapped his arms around Ian's whole chest and kicked one leg around Ian's thigh, pinning Ian to the floor.

"Ian! Ian, oh, G.o.d, I'm sorry! Lemme see..."

20 And the thing was, Ian's hand didn't hurt at all. But he was seriously going to bust something, or you know, die of asphyxiation --'cause that blue b.a.l.l.s thing was totally a myth -- if Cal didn't stop being f.u.c.king everywhere all at once.

That noise Ian was making? Totally a squeal. It was the love child of a dolphin and a sea monkey. And yes, Ian knew sea monkeys didn't make noise, but he couldn't figure out how a dolphin would get on land and mate with a regular monkey, and therefore, it had to have been a sea monkey. "Eeaagggaaghheee!" That was not a sound human vocal cords evolved to create.

And he couldn't manage anything more coherent. Squirming like a worm on hot blacktop was the kind of base reflex that overrode all higher functions.

His a.s.s b.u.mped into Cal's groin, and Cal groaned with a loud, extended exhale into Ian's neck.

His grip on Ian's wrist tightened enough to be painful. They both froze where they were. Ian, because he was being prodded in the back, and Cal, Ian imagined, because Ian had discovered Cal l wanted to drill more than Ian's hand.

Just like that, they launched in separate directions. Cal ended up pressed against the dresser, the nearest bag of aquarium rocks in his lap, and Ian leaned against the bed, cradling his hand to his chest.

Catching his breath, Ian chuckled. "You drilled me."

Cal slumped a little. "I'm sorry. Man, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." Ian waved him off. "It's just a bruise."

Cal drew his knees up to his chest, avoiding Ian's eyes as the bag of rocks plunked to the floor. "I guess you're a little ticklish," he ventured, peeking out from under his bangs.

"You, too," Ian said, the memory of Cal's third leg in the small of his back still fresh and...

aching.

When Cal blushed and ducked his eyes again, Ian couldn't stand it anymore. He scooched along the floor, dragging himself with his unbruised hand until he was leaning against Cal the way he had been leaning against the bed. He brushed the hair away from Cal's eyes with his bruised hand, held it out so Cal could see the little purple mark, and whispered, "This is where you kiss it and make it better."

Cal's head jerked up, apparently expecting there to be a punch line, possibly something like a cuff to the back of the head, but he met Ian's eyes, held the gaze for a second or two, then relaxed.

Ian was caught up in the moment, forgetting for a second that he was the one who'd taken the step to move things forward. He froze, nothing moving between them but breath.

He didn't feel his hand change positions until he actually saw it between them, the swollen flesh 21 pressed to Cal's lips. Ian s.h.i.+vered at the soft touch and his fingers tightened, threading along Cal's jaw. When Ian's thumb drifted up over Cal's mouth, and Cal didn't draw back, Ian pulled the lower lip down and leaned forward, tipping Cal's head with the slightest pressure so they lined up as though they'd done this a hundred times before.

They hadn't, but G.o.d, one touch of Cal's mouth to his and Ian wished they had. He couldn't imagine for the life him what had taken them so long, because this? This was right in all the ways it had been so, so wrong with everyone else. It was a gentle kiss, just lips on lips, slightly parted by Ian's thumb, but it jolted through him, something giddy, and happy, and perfect.

So perfect it ended on a laugh. A bubble of happy Ian vaguely remembered from childhood Christmases but thought had gone forever. He giggled. Actually giggled. And before Cal could take offense or misunderstand, Ian pressed his thumb in and followed it with his tongue. When they had fused together, lips and tongues and breath, he broke it off with a smile he could feel crinkling his eyes, patting Cal's knee.

"Glad we got that out of the way," he panted.

"Me, too," Cal rasped. Then, because neither of them really knew what to do with the rawness and aching in both their voices, Cal raised the drill off the floor and grunted, "More power,"

while gunning it to life.

Ian hit him with a bag of rocks.

In retrospect -- Ian sighed, because 'in retrospect' only ever preceded something that kinda sucked -- but yeah, in retrospect, maybe he should've spent at least a little time on his own, realizing he might have gay tendencies, before he up and decided he tended to be gay for Cal.

They lived together. It wasn't like he could take the guy's number and then angst over whether or not to call. Things kinda sucked a little with the kiss out of the way because it seemed they were both waiting for the other one to make the next move. The kiss wasn't planned. It just happened.

Ian had a foggy idea about what might 'just happen' next, but he'd never driven a stick before. He seemed to keep popping the clutch, expecting Cal to step on the gas. Instead, they lurched forward and shuddered to a halt.

Ian would've offered his hand to be drilled again if that would've moved things along.

Except his hand was otherwise occupied at the moment.

In Ian's mind, it was Cal who initiated the kiss, because h.e.l.lo, the whole reach-around thing, all pressed up behind Ian? That couldn't have been just accidental. Though Ian was pretty sure that if someone asked Cal, he'd say Ian made the first move by actually calling it a reach-around.

That first kiss, whoever initiated, had been amazing, perfect, the kind of kiss that got imprinted somewhere and used to measure every subsequent kiss.

22 Every kiss since then was made of total fail. It was like the first one was sitting at the top of a wall between them, waggling its fingers and blowing razz berries. Their lean-ins weren't timed right. One always leaned when the other wasn't expecting it, and they lined up wrong, or b.u.mped noses. There was that one time they clacked teeth, which Ian had heard was all kinds of hot, but really wasn't. It might have prompted him to buy some of that toothpaste for sensitive teeth.

They kissed with their mouths open, neither one sure who should go for tongue first, and ended up pecking each other on the cheek and going back to their own rooms, because nights were too short and days were too long to fumble around like a couple of virgins.

Actually, that was the worst part. They were not virgins. They'd had s.e.x. Lots and lots and LOTS of ball-busting, white-out, had-stomach-cramps-the-next-day-from-the-exertion s.e.x. They were good at it.

Too good. Because now? Well, who wanted to go back to the fumbling, really bad, over before it'd begun, virgin s.e.x? They were bads.e.xophobic, which meant, of course, they were set up to fail. Because, like it or not, Ian was a gay virgin and way too d.a.m.ned macho to let Cal 'teach'

him. It was bound to be awkward.

Actually, awkward didn't have nearly enough syllables to be fitting. Or diphthongs. It needed a diphthong. Ian wasn't entirely sure what a diphthong was, but awkward definitely needed one just to make it... awkwarder. Okay, so maybe it wasn't a diphthong it needed.

It wasn't that they weren't trying. There hadn't been some huge meltdown where they'd both kicked the dirt and scratched their heads, adjusted their belts, and said, "Boy, was that a mistake." Ian, for one, would never go down that path. He'd never been surer of anything in his life than he was about Cal and him and them. And if there had been any indication in the way Cal turned all red behind his ears and smiled under his eyelashes when Ian put a hand on the small of Cal's back as Ian reached across him at the sink, then Cal wouldn't call do-over either.

They just somehow managed to pa.s.s Go only to end up in the jail at the end of the block.

Floundering. Floundering was what they were doing. And a fish, which seemed highly appropriate .

Well, at least, there was still the fish.

They might still have been sleeping in separate rooms, but Ian still slept in, or pretended to, and Cal still sneaked in to check on the fish. There were a lot more fish to check on now, too. Ten goldfish. Nine different exotics and a Sc.r.a.ppy IV. Sc.r.a.ppy II and III had taught Ian that, one, they needed a deeper net, and two, it was a bad idea to leave the strainer off the end of the filter tube.

There was even a whole other tank with salt.w.a.ter, and coral, and five clown fish. Four named Nemo, and one named Cal. And yes, they could tell them all apart.

23 It was winter, now, too, so Cal didn't run as much as he used to. He usually just worked out in the garage, s.h.i.+rtless, which made for a whole lot more sweaty skin for Ian to ogle when Cal was checking on the fish -- no mental quotes, because it was starting to feel like that's all it was -- and as a result, a linen closet full of new sheets. Ian just couldn't seem to keep his clean.

Speaking of which, "Nnngh... oh s.h.i.+t." His eyes flew open, because there was no way Cal didn't hear that, and the only plausible way to deny what he was hiding under his sheets was to draw attention above them.

He coughed. It was a bad cough. His six-year-old self had been a better actor. His six-year-old self never had to worry about coming all over his sheets with the object of his affection standing a few feet away. When did he stop being cooler than his six-year-old self? Probably when he turned seven.

"Ian?" Cal turned around, his t-s.h.i.+rt wadded up in his fist. There was a definite note of concern in his voice.

Ian was going for surprised, amused, maybe flattered, but he could work with concerned. He coughed again, tugging the sheet up under his chin. His right hand was a little slippery, so he shoved it back inside the covers. "G'morning."

"You're up early. Are you okay?" Cal wiped his t-s.h.i.+rt over his face and down his chest, and okay, Ian was not too old to come in his shorts.

"Nna" He doubled over on himself, managing to fake a coughing fit to cover the moan. Holy h.e.l.l, how had they stayed friends for so long when Ian's body clearly had it bad for Cal's?

"Ian, hey." Cal sat on the edge of the bed gingerly, like he was trying not to shake it too hard. His hand hovered in the air for a few long seconds before he set it on Ian's hip and squeezed gently.

"You sound like s.h.i.+t, dude. And you don't look much better."

Surely he jested. Ian couldn't look that bad. He was only pretending to be sick.

On second thought, he did feel a little nauseated, and there was a cold sweat gluing his face to the pillow. That couldn't have been flattering. Getting caught with a hand on his d.i.c.k did that to a guy.

His c.o.c.k jumped as Cal squeezed his hip again, and Ian gasped around his bitten lips. Cal laid the back of his hand on Ian's forehead and down his cheek, drew it back with a grimace. "You look really sick, Ian. Hold still. You've got, like, snot or something on your chin."

Snot? On his chin? Right where his slippery right hand had b.u.mped when he pulled up the sheet?

It was official. This whole experience had traumatized Ian for life. He went slack with shock and let Cal wipe the sweat and 'snot' off with the dry side of his t-s.h.i.+rt. If he hadn't been sick before, he was then, because Cal was sitting right here, on his bed, half-naked and sweaty, and touching 24 Ian, and Ian couldn't even look at him. Ian turned his face into his pillow to keep from cursing out loud, s.h.i.+vering when Cal smoothed over his hair and cupped the back of his neck.

"It's all right," Cal whispered. "You go back to sleep. I'll call in sick for you. They'll understand."

Rubbing his hand down Ian's arm, Cal pulled the sheets up higher, rolled the edges down (because that was part of the whole tucking in process), and leaned forward, kissing Ian's cheek.

"I'll miss you. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

Ian knew he should come clean, get his a.s.s out of bed, and go to work, but for some reason even he didn't understand, he nodded and said, "I'll miss you, too." Then he listened to Cal going through their daily routine without him.

Ian spent his day staring at the fish, suddenly too tired to get out of bed. There was bound to be a moral to this story, but all he could come up with before he fell back to sleep was, love hurt.

Like whoa.

By five o'clock, Ian was feeling pretty s.h.i.+tty. Not just for, in effect, playing hooky for an entire day and leaving Cal to take up the slack, something he'd probably be doing until late if Ian knew anything about it, but also because the idea of Cal tucking him in was appealing enough that Ian actually considered lying there and hoping it'd happen again. He was a sick, sick puppy. There was no denying it. He'd just have to figure out a way to live with it, or, you know, get laid, so he could stop getting caught with his hand on his d.i.c.k in the first place.

For now, there was only one sure-fire way to get out of this funk.