Love Language

by Reese Morrison

  Greg couldn’t classify him as either handsome or cute. His thick black hair framed his strong cheekbones and his dark eyes gleamed with expression beneath impossibly long lashes. His chin was round and slightly feminine under that alluring—and disconcerting—beard.

  His bronzed skin had a soft glow, suggesting Hispanic heritage. Greg found himself wondering if that skin looked as soft as he imagined and immediately pushed the thought away.

  He looked like he was barely out of his teens, twenty-five if Greg were being generous.

  Definitely not anyone who should be making Greg’s heart pound in his chest.

  He forced himself to pay attention to what the sexy stranger was signing. This asshole won’t look at me so I can speech-read.

  Sorry, Greg replied, even though it wasn’t his fault. Sometimes he felt like it was his responsibility to apologize every time a hearing person did something inconsiderate. I can interpret if you want.

  The stranger sighed, flicking his eyes toward the ceiling. He should have looked like an impatient asshole, but his low-grade aggression was still pushing Greg’s buttons for some reason.

  I just wanted to order some beers for my table. He gestured vaguely behind him. I think the bartender’s trying to count drinks or something for people who want to play, but he won’t look at me for long enough to explain it properly.

  Greg was glad that he could offer something useful to the conversation. There’s a one-drink limit for people who want to play, and the bartender has to stamp your wristband. So, if people at your table want to play later, they have to order a drink directly from a server.

  The stranger glared at a cluster of people who were presumably his friends. Why did they send me over here, then?

  Greg shrugged. They might have thought you were flagging down a server. And you can order drinks and then have him use the stamp when he brings them.

  The stranger’s shoulders fell. Well, that’s irritating. They probably thought I knew, and I didn’t think to ask.

  Yeah, Greg agreed lamely.

  It seemed like they were running out of things to talk about, and for some reason, Greg didn’t want to let the stranger go yet.

  He tried to tell himself that it was only because he hadn’t gotten to use ASL in a while, and he discovered that he missed it.

  Do any of them sign?

  The stranger shook his head. One friend uses cued speech.

  Ah. I’ve seen cued speech, but I never learned it.

  Why would you? You can sign.

  The stranger turned a hundred-watt smile on Greg, and he felt his chest fill with the praise. He knew what a gift it was to find a fluent signer in a hearing space, and he was glad he could be that for this smoldering stranger.

  He realized, suddenly, that what the stranger was, was pretty. He was completely the opposite of Greg’s imposing, masculine Sir, so it didn’t make the least bit of sense why he wanted to bask in his attention.

  He felt himself beaming back. The moment stretched on, neither breaking eye contact. It felt like something was bubbling under Greg’s skin. Some new life that he hadn’t been ready to acknowledge but was just waiting to break free.

  Unfortunately, the bartender chose that moment to come back. “What can I get for you?”

  Greg turned automatically at the sound, not even thinking about the fact that the stranger wouldn’t have heard it. He’d been out of the Deaf community for too long.

  By the time he looked back at the pretty man, the moment had broken. He nodded to let the stranger order first.

  He switched easily to voice but didn’t look happy about it. “I’d like to order three beers, one for each of my friends at the table over there.” He pointed clearly to the table. “Everyone will need a stamp, so we’d appreciate it if you could bring them over.”

  The bartender nodded, already turning toward Greg who hadn’t quite figured out his order.

  “And I’m paying for whatever he’s having,” the stranger continued.

  Greg startled, then felt himself blush. He knew it was just a gesture of appreciation, but no one had bought him a drink in a long time.

  No one since his Sir.

  He turned and thanked the stranger, but the sorrow that had been haunting him all day had returned.

  The stranger looked him over once, as though checking that he was OK. Greg wasn’t sure what he saw, but after a moment the stranger thanked him in return and turned away.

  The bartender looked at him expectantly, and he said the first thing that popped into his head. “Sprite, please.”

  It wasn’t what he’d been intending to order, but it was what Sir had always ordered for him.

  Shoulders hunched, he took the cold glass and returned to Brett’s table.

  ◆◆◆

  Greg sipped listlessly at his Sprite. The other couple had gone, and Brett’s partner was teasing him in a way that Greg definitely didn’t want to observe. He wasn’t entirely sure where the man’s hands were right now, and he hoped he would never find out.

  Not that he minded a bit of voyeurism, but he hadn’t consented to this, and it was frankly rude.

  The best part of his evening had been two minutes of conversation with a man he’d never see again about how the bartender was an asshole.

  Surely, he’d stayed long enough, right?

  He looked over at Brett, but… nope. He’d wait for them to come up for air and then say a quick goodbye. Or maybe he could just walk away, and Brett would never notice.

  He gazed around the room while he was waiting.

  And there was the sexy stranger, walking right towards him.

  No, not walking. Stalking. He was homing in on Greg without a single glance to the side or deviation from his path. Like Greg was the only person in the room.

  It had been a long time since Greg had felt like that. That thrill of fear at being prey to a dangerous predator, combined with the warm glow of someone’s undivided attention. His heart started racing.

  He tried to calm himself, recalling that the stranger was far too young for him. He was probably only coming over to chat because his friends couldn’t sign. Not to mention that Greg wasn’t looking for a hook-up or a date.

  Though his traitorous cock was trying to tell him something else.

  So, maybe he was more ready for being with someone than he thought. The idea of it was both refreshing and painful.

  He’d been thinking that a lot over the past few months. That he missed Richard, but maybe not with the same immediacy that he’d felt before. Like maybe he missed being in a relationship as much as he missed the man himself.

  He felt horrible thinking it.

  Even if he were ready to move on, though, that didn’t mean that he wanted to jump into anything. Maybe in a few years he could consider it.

  The beautiful stranger was almost in front of him now. Taking in his youth and his confidence, it was clear that he could only want to hang out with a boring, old man like Greg for his signing skills.

  It happened pretty much every time someone Deaf found someone else who could sign in a room full of hearing people. There was a comfort to having someone else who could speak your language even if you didn’t have much in common.

  Realizing that made Greg feel the teeniest tinge of disappointment, but mostly he felt relief.

  He could observe his, well, his attraction like a scientist. It was there, it was probably an indication that he was starting to get over Richard, and nothing would ever come of it, so he was completely safe.

  The other man would never have to know about it.

  You look like you’re just as miserable here as I am, the stranger opened.

  Greg found himself smiling. He liked how the pretty man spoke his thoughts. You’re right. My... acquaintance... made me come, and I’d rather be at home.

  Same here. Maybe I can snatch you away?

  Greg felt himself shiver. The stranger could have chosen dozens of signs to ask him to chat, but the one he�
�d used was literally making a grab for him, clutching him in his fists.

  He liked the imagery.

  He’d really missed ASL. It was such a visceral, visual language and he often felt like English was flat and one-dimensional in comparison. It felt like home.

  He rose, abandoning his watery Sprite, and followed the stranger.

  What’s your name? he finally asked.

  The man led them to a couch-like seat, long enough for them to face each other but still sit fairly close.

  I’m Marco. He fingerspelled his name and then gave his name sign, the letter M tapped twice over his heart. It was a name sign that seemed to convey both strength and feeling. It felt right for Marco.

  I’m Greg. He replied, both fingerspelling and tapping a G to his shoulder.

  Where’s your name sign from?

  Greg shrugged. My parents. I’m a CODA.

  I thought you might be. Are you part of the Deaf community here?

  After that, the conversation flowed. Greg had to admit that he mostly signed only with his parents, and even then, not often because they lived far enough away that they mostly texted. Marco coaxed stories out of him about his childhood that he hadn’t told in years.

  Then, Marco shared his own stories of growing up Deaf in a Spanish-speaking household and learning English and ASL at the same time. He’d just moved to the city and was starting to make friends while he continued building up his business in graphic design.

  Greg admitted that he should really know something about graphic design—since part of his job was signing off on book covers for the books that he ushered through the publishing process—but he honestly felt better leaving it to the experts.

  Marco asked if he liked to read, since he got to do it so much for his job. He had to sadly admit that he’d gotten into publishing because he loved to read, but now he mostly read emails and spot-checked final revisions.

  The best he could do was pick up old galleys that were floating around the office and read them over the weekend. Sometimes he even read the books he was responsible for publishing.

  It was a little sad, now that he’d thought of it, that he didn’t get to do as much of the thing that got him into the industry in the first place. But he liked his job. And, he thought with a pang, he’d had a lot more time to read in the past three years.

  The conversation segued from there to their favorite books. Then TV. The news. Whatever came into their heads.

  Marco turned out to be sarcastic and funny, knowledgeable and curious. Greg was enjoying their conversation in a way that he rarely did with anyone.

  Marco gave him a warm smile. I’m happy to see you smiling again.

  Greg blushed. He hadn’t realized that he was smiling, though of course he was. And the way Marco said it sounded almost like flirting.

  This was the most connected he’d felt to someone in a long time. It had been easy to forget Marco’s age or even that they were at a BDSM club, but now he realized it again.

  Which just made him remember why he’d been so miserable when Marco met him.

  Hey, I didn’t mean to make you sad.

  Now he was ruining everything. You’re not making me sad. I was just… remembering.

  Do you want to tell me about it?

  Greg closed his eyes. Since they were signing, it was a clear indication that he didn’t want to talk. He needed a moment to himself to think.

  If anyone else had asked, he would have immediately said no. But with Marco, he felt safe and comfortable.

  He felt like Marco could handle it, without judging or pitying him. And, as he’d been slowly realizing over the past few months, maybe it was time to talk about it. He was still grieving but it was… well, he wasn’t sure what it was.

  He wasn’t sure whether talking about Richard would be keeping his memory alive or letting him go.

  The uncertainty made him feel guilty. And the guilt reminded him that his Sir wouldn’t have wanted him to feel that way. All the mixed-up feelings had been cycling around in his head that way for months.

  He felt a warm hand on his knee. Not pressing, just offering comfort. Being there.

  It was nice to have someone be there for him. His Sir had been his whole world for so long and he’d pushed away their friends after he was gone. It had seemed easier than being around people who knew what he’d been through.

  Brett was a new quasi-friend who he didn’t know well, which was part of why the evening had been such a disaster.

  But it didn’t feel that way, now. Marco was still there, his warm hand resting patiently on Greg’s knee.

  He found that he actually wanted to talk about it.

  The chances were that he wouldn’t see Marco again, so if he totally lost it, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the ramifications later.

  He opened his eyes to meet Marco’s gaze. Once again, he felt like the center of his universe.

  My… And that was as far as he got. He didn’t know what word to use. He’d never tried to sign anything about his relationship with Richard to someone within the kink community and he was feeling a little too emotional to think it through.

  My husband, he finally signed. But he wasn’t happy with it. It was part of what his Sir had been to him, but not the most important part. He signed it again and fingerspelled “sir.” My sir.

  Your Dom, Marco suggested, fingerspelling and then locating one fist over another.

  My Dom, he agreed. He felt relieved. He needed a word for the person who had been his heart and soul for almost two decades of his life. He could take ownership of that sign. My Sir.

  God, how he missed his Sir. Kneeling with his face pressed to his thigh. Listening to his voice rumble through his chest. The way he smelled, though that memory was starting to slip away. The sex had been amazing, but what he missed the most now was drifting off to sleep at his side.

  He blinked up at Marco, who mentioned gently that he could sign sub with the inverse sign, with the first locational fist moving beneath the second.

  Greg tested out the sign. Yes, that felt good.

  Marco watched him, not judging or pressing him to hurry.

  My Sir—we were together for almost twenty years. He…

  Greg couldn’t make the next sign. He’d always hated the word for death, like a fish flopping around out of water, desperate to breathe and then rotting in the sun. It was such a visceral sign, too literal for how he wanted to remember his Sir.

  And then somehow, he was gulping in great, gasping breaths and Marco was holding him. He knew he was shaking, his eyes scratchy from the tears that he wanted to shed. He couldn’t stop himself.

  Heart attack he finally signed. Another too-literal sign. A soft touch representing Richard’s beautiful heart, and then a fist smashing painfully through it.

  He turned into Marco’s shoulder and let the feelings wrack through him. He wasn’t crying, not quite. It was something else, just on the knife’s edge before a good sob.

  He wished he could cry. Let it all out.

  And Marco, the fascinating, pretty man who was probably young enough to be his son, just held him. Marco ran light fingers through his hair and ran soothing hands down his back.

  It wasn’t Sir’s arms around him, but it was more touch than he’d had in three years. He’d forgotten how good it felt. It was just… nice. Safe.

  Gradually, his shudders began to ease and his breathing slowed. Marco dragged his thumb across his cheek, wiping away tears that weren’t there.

  He handed him a napkin, clean except for a circular indentation where a cup had once rested. Good enough. Greg wiped his face, though he didn’t need to.

  It felt unsatisfactory. A cry without crying. But still better to have let it out. To have someone else to carry the burden.

  When Marco began moving his arms, he turned willingly. It should have felt strange, Marco’s lithe hands guiding his greater bulk. But it felt right.

  He was too wrung out to think, and it felt too ni
ce to have someone taking care of him like this.

  They ended up with Greg’s back to Marco’s chest, sitting up with their legs stretched out along the couch. He leaned into Marco, hoping he wasn’t too heavy and needing to soak up the comfort he offered.

  Feeling better? Marco signed. But instead of signing on his own body, he signed on Greg’s, lightly touching Greg’s chest for FEEL and Greg’s chin for BETTER.

  No one had done that since Greg was a child, reading books with his parents. It was intimate in a way he’d never experienced before.

  He could only see Marco’s facial expressions out of the corner of his eye. Expressions were a huge part of ASL communication so he wouldn’t catch everything, but it felt right for the moment. Like they were in a little bubble away from the rest of the world.

  I feel…, he signed, using the same space in front of his body that Marco had. I don’t know if I feel better. He stopped to consider. I feel sad, but I think I needed to do that. It was time.

  Greg turned just enough to look Marco in the eye. Thank you, he said, putting all his gratitude into his eyes.

  Marco smiled at him, and it felt like a lighthouse in the storm. Things were rough, but there was a way through.

  Do you want to talk more about it?

  Greg gave himself a moment to just feel. I think I would like that. If you don’t mind.

  I’m happy to be here for you. Tell me about your Sir.

  It was strange and intimate having Marco sign the word for Dom in front of his chest. But not having to look at him while he signed, yet still being so close, made it easier for him to share.

  I met him when I was twenty-five. Probably your age.

  Marco snorted and he felt it through his body. I’m thirty-six. I just look young.

  No way!

  I’ll explain later. Right now, tell me about your Dom.

  Greg settled in. He told Marco the story of how they’d met when Richard was writing in his notebook at a coffee shop where he’d been a barista paying his way through grad school. They’d moved in together just months later and gotten married as soon as it was legal.

  They’d both worked full time, but when they were at home they were mostly in their roles. Not quite 24/7, but they slipped in and out of the dynamic easily. When his Sir was gone, he’d felt unmoored.