Games People Play: Go Fish Part 4

Ian changed the subject by licking his way up Cal's stomach and pushing him down on the floor, relishing the way he bucked and arched off the cold hardwood, barely touching with the points of his shoulder blades. Ian had never done this with a guy before, but Cal was solid, a continuous span of taut muscle, and every touch, every lick, nip, and breath rippled through him like a telegraph. It wasn't hard to figure out what he liked, not any harder than it was for his own d.i.c.k to find the groove of Cal's jutting hip bone.

"Ah!"

Ian thought it was a gasp of pleasure until Cal reached between them and rolled his own jeans down the rest of the way, the zipper of which had sc.r.a.ped a channel in his flesh.

"Sorry," Ian whispered, barely lifting his head as he snaked his tongue between ribs and teased along the leading edges with his lower teeth, just enough to make Cal wriggle and twist up into the contact. He was only a little self-conscious when he felt Cal's hand inside the waistband of his shorts, too busy finding out Cal's nipples were more sensitive than any girl's he'd ever been with. Lost in the sensation, Ian rutted against Cal's hip, pulling one nipple and then the other into his mouth just to hear Cal make that little grunting noise deep in his throat.

G.o.d, Cal's hands were huge, grabbing Ian's a.s.s and kneading each cheek, first simultaneously and then alternating. Sweat trickled down between them, and Ian became aware of the stashed playing card glued to the front of his stomach, just above the hairline, the corners poking and prodding with every grinding thrust he made.

He was about to move up a little higher, find out what that little divot under Cal's Adam's apple 33 tasted like, and surrept.i.tiously remove the card from his boxer briefs, when, "Ah!" He jerked straight up, the elastic of his underwear snapping against his flesh.

He wasn't a prude. He wasn't. He just, somehow, lost track of Cal's hands for a second there, and one of them, just a finger... at least, if felt like a finger went... Well, no one had ever touched him... there before.

Cal looked up at him, agape, chest still heaving, but now he had his hands splayed against the floor. "I'm sorry, I... I thought we were... I should've gone slower."

"Nooo, n-n-n-nooo," Ian waffled. "We were, I mean, I think we were going... uh, there, but I guess..." His stomach rolled, and he clamped his mouth shut.

Cal sat up, nearly dumping Ian off, but caught him with strong hands around his biceps before he hit the floor. "Look, Ian, we don't have to. There are other things we can do besides that. We can start with..."

"Oh, h.e.l.l no!" Ian's was not some woobie little schoolgirl. He was far from virginal, and he f.u.c.king liked s.e.x. This day was not going to end up as awkwardly as it had started. They were clearing this hurdle once and for all. "We are doing this. Now!"

He lunged forward, knocked Cal back to the floor, and started kissing anything he could get his mouth on, sucking and biting at collar bone, chin, and lips until Cal was back to gasping and unable to argue. Nipping up along Cal's jaw bone to his ear, he whispered, "I have everything we need. Just... how do you want to do it...?" A swirl of tongue around an ear lobe, a tender bite to Cal's pulse point. The tip of his nose nuzzled into the hair line. "Any way you want." He hoped he sounded more sure of himself than he felt. He swore he'd never been this nervous when he was a virgin the first time.

He thought he was hiding it pretty well. No way Cal heard the gurgle in his stomach over the heavy breathing, and if his...um... interest was flagging a little, he had no intention of letting it continue. Bracing himself on his elbows, he sagged so his forehead rested against Cal's collarbone and huffed into the little valley between the bulging pecs, hips flexing and grinding.

Ian's heart pounded. Sweat burned in his eyes when hands slid up off his a.s.s and along the dip in his back, up, up, and up, until Cal's thumbs hooked around Ian's jaw from behind and tilted his head up. "Hey..." Cal's voice was distant, lost in the pounding of blood in Ian's ears, somewhere miles away behind his closed eyelids, until Cal thrust up once, hard and throbbing, into the soft spot below Ian's navel and twined their ankles together, spreading Ian's legs until he lost his leverage. "Hey. Look at me."

Ian did, eyelids fluttering against the weight of sweat clinging to his lashes. When he did, Cal was there. Cal, the guy his mother used to give the extra cookie to when they came home from school. The kid who told him what it meant when his pants got too tight for no apparent reason, and what to do to fix it. The only one who believed he could make it as an actor and gave him a room in his own house when he wasn't so much making it as taking it. The friend who got him a 34 meeting with the producer on the show he was a production a.s.sistant on when the c.o.c.ky lead threw a tantrum and walked off. It was crazy how much Ian owed this guy, how well he knew him, and how much more he was about to know. Something like doubt crawled up his spine, because, f.u.c.k, what if he messed it up, and he coiled, ready to lurch up and make a run for it.

But Cal knew Ian as well as Ian knew Cal. He thrust up again, one hand reaching between them and tightening around Ian's c.o.c.k, his eyes open and soft the whole while, searching Ian's as he smiled. "G.o.d, what you do to me." He pulled Ian down, thumb stroking along his jaw and over the sh.e.l.l of his ear, until they kissed, both inhaling until their stomachs b.u.mped, trying to draw each other deeper from the inside out.

One flick of Cal's wrist, and Ian came with a shout, adding some sticky to the slick of sweat between them. He collapsed into Cal's neck, breathing through the tremors and waiting for his stomach to stop its clenching roil.

Only it didn't.

Ian's head was just starting to clear, the high-pitched white noise waning away like the tail end of a cicada song, when something became painfully obvious. He loved Cal, which was awesome, but that wasn't it. Well, it was, but unfortunately that was not the most urgent thought.

See, that thing he was thinking earlier? About having nothing left to lose? He was wrong. Ian still had something left to lose. Dinner and... dessert.

He barely managed to roll to the side and jerk his underwear back up before he avoided throwing up in Cal's lap by throwing up all over their discarded clothing instead.

As it turned out the most eventful thing that came of their trip to the local emergency room was that the nurse discovered the Queen of Hearts glued to the skin inside his boxer briefs, reminding him that he hadn't even managed to get fully naked before coming like a teenager. She almost concealed the smirk with a more professional expression when she tucked the card into his personal effects bag without a word, and then left him with an emesis basin and a call b.u.t.ton for the entirety of the three hours they had to wait while the couple dozen or so other people who were stupid enough to eat the chili dogs got treated first. After the humiliation of that and, well, the whole puking thing, the shot of anti-emetic and prescription for a good antidiarrheal were pretty... anticlimactic.

What the f.u.c.k was it with the dramatic pauses? His brother always did say he was a drama queen when he was sick.

Not that Ian was anywhere near the point of giving a d.a.m.n by then. He didn't even ask if he could take the shot in his arm, just rolled over and pulled down his pants, which was a whole lot easier when he wasn't hard enough to drive nails, and held onto the emesis basin for dear life. He had no pride left whatsoever.

35 He had really, really reached rock bottom, and he was determined to just stay there and wallow for a while.

For the next two days, there were lots of buckets and trips to the bathroom and bottles and bottles of Pedialyte, because Gatorade just wouldn't cut it, and Ian liked the grape-flavored Pedialyte better. Through it all there was Cal, bathed in the halo of light from the aquarium. He left it on twenty-four hours a day to avoid turning on anything harsher while still being able to see when checking on Ian. Not that there was much checking to do, considering he never really left, no matter how rank the room got or how many buckets of puke he had to hose out.

Aside from the whole being sick at both ends thing, Ian thought he could get used to the attention. It was nice to have Cal in his room without the pretense of checking on the fish, air 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.

f.u.c.k that. Ian didn't wax poetic when he was healthy. He sure the h.e.l.l 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-a.s.sed 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 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.

"f.u.c.k 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 p.i.s.sed 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 37 already out the door.

By the time Ian was showered and feeling mostly human again, the house was too d.a.m.ned 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 cla.s.sic '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 s.e.x. 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.

He hadn't planned to fall asleep, but after spending the afternoon with Marcy, he was more than a little exhausted. Sure, some of it was the lingering effects of the food poisoning, but he was also 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.

The next time he awoke, it was to lips on his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, along his jaw, 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 p.u.s.s.y.

Except, s.h.i.t 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."

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 embarra.s.sing 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 a.s.s 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.

f.u.c.k Me.

No, too forward.

Kiss Me.

No. Been there, done that.

Be Mine.

40 There were candy hearts for that.

I Love You.