Love Language

by Reese Morrison

  Greg didn’t owe him anything.

  But a text back would have been nice.

  He turned back to his monitor, reasonably pleased with what he saw there. He was on final edits for this project, and usually he liked this part.

  The customer, the owner of a small gym in the neighborhood, had not only let him hang a flyer on her corkboard, but asked him to design the logo for her new business. She’d been awesome about enunciating clearly so that they could communicate, and he felt good about supporting another small business owner in the neighborhood.

  Once he finished the last draft of the logo, he planned on bringing her a copy in person and joining the gym.

  This was why he’d quit working for the wretched corporate conglomerate and started off on his own. He liked people, and he liked providing what they were looking for.

  At his old job, there had been too many layers of communication between him and his clients. Or maybe just one shitty layer of communication with his boss promising additional rounds of revision that surprisingly required Marco to spend time making them.

  But now he was a free man.

  After today, he could put this logo up on his website for advertising, bringing his satisfied clients up to a grand total of four.

  It was slow going, but he had a bit of savings, and he’d eventually build up a client base.

  He looked at his phone. No text.

  He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about last night.

  Yeah, right. Greg had just been so… open. So trusting. With his history and with his body. With his willingness to take a risk with Marco, and his confidence that Marco could give him what he needed.

  And watching him… golden skin crossed by dark ropes swept through Marco’s mind. Greg’s heaving chest. The way he’d let Marco arrange his limbs, peacefully and ecstatically.

  Just thinking about it was making it difficult to get any work done.

  Aaaaaaaand… Work. Right.

  He made the final two tweaks the gym owner had asked for, making one of the curves extend up a little higher and swapping out the font for one that was just slightly fuller. She had a good eye, actually.

  She’d also asked for a color change, from blue to more of a teal. He thought it would work, but with her logo he wondered if something that popped, like orange or yellow, would be better. He’d mentioned it and she hadn’t said no, but he wasn’t sure if she was appalled and being polite or wanted to see the options.

  He shrugged and saved three different versions. If she hated the other colors, it had only taken him a second, and he certainly wouldn’t be offended.

  He knew that he should get started on another project. He planned on both creating some mock-ups for fake businesses and also taking some jobs on one of those sites where you bid yourself out for projects.

  He’d heard that a lot of people did well that way. Some people just used it to get started and others made a whole career out of it. You had to be fast, though, and feel comfortable with work that was solid, but not excellent. He felt like he fell somewhere in between, so it would be a good adventure.

  Right now, though, he was having trouble sitting still.

  Was Greg alright? Was he regretting what they had done? Sitting at home alone, wallowing in guilt over his departed Dom? Feeling eaten by grief for betraying his memory?

  Greg clearly hadn’t wanted to stay, or he wouldn’t have snuck out on the excuse of using the restroom. But Marco had a feeling that their evening together had ripped open a lot of feelings, and he felt horrible for causing him pain like that.

  He knew that they’d agreed to an experiment. But he wanted to know that Greg was alright.

  And maybe snuggle him up and give him everything that he needed until he smiled again.

  Marco’s Daddy Dom instincts were not helping the situation.

  And still, no text.

  Alright, Marco couldn’t sit still any longer. It was time to leave the house.

  He followed up his email by printing off the three versions of the logo, glad to at least have an excuse. In fact, some exercise would be perfect right now.

  He headed to his room to pack a gym bag.

  He’d texted Greg and he hadn’t heard back. He needed to accept it for what it was. It sure sucked, though.

  Chapter 6 Greg

  April

  Greg hated the phrase “time heals all wounds.” Mostly because it was true.

  When Richard had died, it has been like a great, gaping laceration, hemorrhaging blood and leaving him close to death. Now, though, it had scarred over. It was still there, but it only hurt at odd and unpredictable times, like an old injury that ached when it rained or he strained it too much.

  Some days he felt like he was a mess of scars, like he should be able to show all his pain to the world like a physical disfiguration. And some days, in the way of scars, he just forgot about them and went on about his life.

  He wasn’t sure which type of days were worse.

  And now, he had a new abrasion. Smaller, but still raw.

  It was named Marco.

  It had been almost two months since he answered his last text, their conversation leaving everything unfinished.

  He thought about him. Maybe not all the time, but often enough. Like a skinned knee that you kept bumping into or a papercut that stung every time you washed the dishes.

  Marco had been… well, objectively, he’d been extraordinary. He’d been a fascinating conversationalist and a supportive listener. He’d handled Greg’s grief without pity, listening to him but not pressuring him. The chemistry between them had been intense, and he’d been honest in his attraction and his care.

  As a Dom, he’d been amazing. Greg had thought that he knew what he liked, but Marco had surprised him. He woke up sometimes, dreaming of that night.

  Greg’s relationship with Richard had been everything to him. But he realized now that the selection of kinks that they’d played with had been limited. His Sir had enjoyed rough sex and impact play, often in a role play. In recent years, they hadn’t played as much, but that was only to be expected.

  When they still did, it was always electric. Hot and dangerous and edgy. Greg lived for that fear and rapture, the torment intertwined with ecstasy.

  Their dynamic the rest of the time had been more about domestic discipline and, as they’d both gotten older, it had mellowed a bit into a set of required tasks and expectations. Greg liked doing what he was told, and they’d both gotten off on his Sir’s small routines and requirements.

  He’d privately thought that Richard might be a bit OCD, with the way that he wanted every item in the house arranged just so. But it had worked well for their dynamic, giving him some visible way of showing his commitment.

  Greg had still acted up sometimes, playing up a bratty persona because they’d both enjoyed it when he got in trouble and needed to be punished. With Sir’s rules so strict, it hadn’t taken much for him to receive a punishment when Richard thought he needed one. And sometimes he’d pushed it to the limit just to see what would happen.

  Usually when that happened, he hadn’t been able to sit down the next day. He’d loved it.

  Shibari with Marco, though, had been a revelation. It had been gentle, but somehow even more intense because of it.

  Marco had been a revelation, too.

  Greg realized that he’d been woolgathering, his thoughts all too often spiraling around the two men who seemed to endlessly inhabit his head.

  He only had a few minutes left of his lunch break and he really should be heading back to his desk. He picked up his sandwich wrapper and found one of the trash cans conveniently placed throughout the park.

  It was a cold April day, but he loved being outside, even in the gray light. Richard hadn’t much liked the outdoors.

  He wondered if Marco did.

  Greg pulled out his phone thoughtlessly, then very intentionally put it back in his pocket. He promised himself he wouldn’t open the text chain. Told hi
mself that he already knew what was inside.

  Then, he did it anyway.

  Of course, the words hadn’t changed, and Greg could almost see Marco signing them. His grammar was the typical mixture of English and ASL glosses, and he appreciated that Marco hadn’t switched to English to text him.

  Marco [Feb. 15, 5:03AM]: You still outside? Can stay.

  Marco [Feb. 15, 5:04AM]: Make breakfast?

  Marco [Feb. 15, 8:32AM]: I don’t want to bother you. Had good time. Text if you want meet again.

  Marco [Feb. 15, 8:32AM]: Even hang out.

  Marco [Feb. 16, 3:15PM]: Forgot I took this picture. If you want, I can delete from my phone. You were beautiful.

  Marco [Feb. 17, 4:52PM]: Didn’t hear from you, so picture delete. Don’t want keep without your permission.

  Marco [Feb. 17, 4:56PM]: Let me know you OK? Please?

  Greg [Feb. 17, 9:48PM]: I’m OK.

  Greg knew that he was being an asshole when he’d blown off Marco like that, but he’d felt trapped. He just hadn’t known what to do.

  Even now, when he clicked on the picture, he felt the phantom caresses of ropes against his skin.

  When he’d first seen it, he’d felt awash in arousal. It was… stunning. His body was wrapped in an elaborate web of ropes, blue and green on his chest, black on his legs, and red on his arms, bright splashes of color against his pale skin.

  He could see in his own face the deep satisfaction he’d felt, arousal and serenity mixed seamlessly together. The care that Marco took with him was evident in every line that stretched across his body.

  He’d never known he could look that way.

  It still made him get a little bit hard every time.

  But after clicking on that photo every day for nearly two months, he also took in the rumpled sheet on the bed, the cluttered dresser in the background, the coil of unused rope. The things that made the image real instead of perfect.

  He could imagine Marco holding his phone, looking at him with desiring eyes. Thinking protectively about consent even when Greg couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t have ever known that Marco had taken that picture, but instead of keeping it or just trashing it, Marco had told him about it and then deleted it.

  It was a level of consent-based communication that should be typical for everyone, but Greg knew that it often wasn’t, and he appreciated it. It was like Marco was still taking care of him even after he’d ghosted him.

  He kind of wished Marco had kept it.

  And that brought his swirling thoughts back to where he was really struggling.

  Marco had taken care of him. Not just for a few minutes in a scene, but in every way. He’d held him. He’d listened to him. He’d chosen a scene that would put him at ease. He’d taken him to unimagined heights. And then he’d slept beside him, clasped close all night.

  It was just too… big.

  Too sweet and gentle. Too perfect.

  Because if this was what he wanted, what had he been doing with Richard?

  Wasn’t that what he wanted? Who he wanted?

  Was it worse or better that this man, who wasn’t Richard, had given him something that his Sir never had?

  He clicked the photo closed, eyes lingering on the text one more time. “You were beautiful,” Marco had said.

  Richard had called him sexy. And hot. As well as a bunch of other names like dirty and slutty. Cockslut and cumdump.

  But he’d never been beautiful before.

  Did he want to be beautiful?

  He didn’t think that he was actually that attractive, especially with his added weight and the crow’s feet starting to pull at his eyes.

  But maybe in his submission, he was beautiful. At least to Marco

  It shouldn’t have pleased him so much, to be called beautiful by that beautiful man.

  Reluctantly, he put his phone away.

  It had been two months, and he couldn’t exactly text him now.

  No doubt, Marco had long since forgotten him. And he still wasn’t sure that he wanted to see him anyway. Did he?

  Back in the office, he walked mindlessly down the hallway and almost bumped into someone. No, not someone. Brett. Dammit.

  He had discovered, over the past couple months, that he and Brett had exactly two things in common: working at the same office, and going to the same club. Though they worked in different departments and Greg didn’t actually go to the club anymore. So basically, nothing in common.

  He also found Brett too outgoing and snarky in a way that exhausted him quickly.

  “Hey, Greg!”

  “Hey, Brett.” He plastered on a smile and hastened his steps.

  “Hang on, I just found out about an event you might want to know about.” He raised his eyebrows lasciviously.

  Good lord. Were they going to do this here? The hallway was just a row of fabric-lined partitions alongside a cubicle farm. Everyone could hear them.

  He debated telling Brett he was busy, but that would obviously be false since he didn’t know when the event was. And he wasn’t going to tell Brett anything even slightly more personal.

  He’d vaguely seen Brett around the club back when he’d attended with his Sir and couldn’t remember ever having a conversation with him. Even when Brett started working at his publishing house—in legal, maybe? marketing? —he hadn’t recognized him.

  Brett had recognized him, though, and somehow gotten it into his mind that they were friends.

  “Maybe you could email me the details?” he finally suggested.

  Brett dropped his voice to an obnoxiously loud whisper. “It’s a munch.”

  Yes, well, Greg had figured it was either a munch or an event at the club.

  “I went on Saturday and there were deaf people there. Because,” he waved his arms around vaguely, possibly in a sad mimicry of sign language, “you know.”

  No, Greg didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to get into the politics of Deaf culture, or even explain to Brett that using ASL didn’t mean that he automatically knew every Deaf person in the city or wanted to hang out with them.

  “Email me,” he said, tightly.

  “No problem! See you around! Maybe we can go together!”

  Greg mumbled something non-committal and then hurried back to his desk. The email came a few minutes later, directly from Brett’s work email to his work email. It wasn’t graphic or anything, but it certainly belonged on both of their personal accounts. Unbelievable.

  Greg was about to delete it, when he thought of something.

  Marco was new to the area and said that he was looking for Deaf community. And while Greg wasn’t about to drive out to the suburbs for a munch, Marco might appreciate it.

  It was at least an excuse to text him. As friends, of course.

  He slid out his phone. He could totally be professional and friendly about this.

  Greg: Hey Marco.

  Greg: I know that you’re looking for Deaf community in the city, and I just heard about a munch that apparently has some Deaf folks. I haven’t been so I can’t promise anything.

  Greg: Would you like the info?

  Marco: Hey Greg, glad you text. Info, yes.

  Greg felt his face warm. Marco was glad he’d texted. He quickly sent the information along, starting with the contact info of the person he could check in with about attending.

  Marco’s response bubbled up, then disappeared. Then bubbled again.

  Marco: Thank you. Want come with?

  Did he? Did he? It was just a munch. But all those new people. And Marco...

  Greg: I can’t make it. Tell me how it goes.

  Marco: I will give you report. =)

  There. That was better. Friendly. Like anyone else passing some useful information along to someone they’d met up with once, who just so happened to be a hookup.

  Greg tried not to examine why he felt the teensiest bit of longing to go to see Marco. Or why he was maybe the teensiest bit worried that Marco would find another sub, a D
eaf sub, at the event.

  He slipped the phone back into his pocket and reluctantly turned back to his work.

  ◆◆◆

  Marco: Hey Greg! Munch finish… ugh.

  Greg read Marco’s text twice. It was Saturday afternoon and he’d been working in the garden so when the text had come in a few hours ago, he'd missed it.

  Greg: Why? What happened?

  Marco: You right, few Deaf people there. One couple, one sub. Couple lots of drama. Sub hit on me whole time.

  Greg: Haha. You poor baby.

  Greg: No, I’m sorry. That sounds frustrating.

  Marco: Yeah. He not cute like you.

  Greg could feel his cheeks burning. He’d never been cute before, either. How could Marco think he was cute? He was almost fifteen years older and balding.

  Greg: I’m not cute.

  He realized as soon as he said it that he shouldn’t have taken the bait.

  Marco: Yeah. You cute you. Adorable. Hot.

  Marco: But I won’t hit on you unless it’s OK.

  The words sounded stilted over text, but Greg could imagine Marco’s signs. Not to mention his warm smile, the glint in his eye, his sincerity.

  That text perfectly encapsulated Marco’s personality. Confident and teasing. Full of compliments that warmed Greg from the inside out. But ready to stop at a word if Greg wasn’t interested because he respected his boundaries.

  Was it strange that he interpreted that as Greg being protective of him?

  Marco: Sorry. Really. I stop I.

  Greg: No, you’re OK.

  Greg: I mean, I’m not upset.

  Marco: Thank you. I worry. Feel better now.

  Marco was so honest, too. So free with sharing his emotions. Greg appreciated that when he was so emotionally vulnerable himself.