Love Language

by Reese Morrison

  Three dots bubbled up, then disappeared. Then returned. Greg waited impatiently.

  Marco: You want hang out sometime? No pressure. Dinner?

  Greg felt like he shouldn’t want to, but then he couldn’t figure out why he shouldn’t want to. It was just dinner, right?

  And his need to start leaving the house hadn’t changed.

  Greg: Sure. I’d like that.

  Hopefully he could make it through a single meal without completely losing his shit like last time.

  ◆◆◆

  Greg looked down and found himself kneeling, naked on the living room floor, the position comforting in its familiarity.

  Richard leaned in closer to his face. “Filthy slut,” he whispered, his curses falling like a caress. “Maybe you don’t deserve to come.”

  Greg whimpered. “Please, Sir, I’ve been good.”

  Sir wrenched him up by his hair and threw him over the coffee table. A hot strike fell against his ass. “No, you’ve been taunting me all day. Trying to manipulate me. Trying to get me to punish you.”

  Sir’s hand fell heavy on his ass. Again, then again. Lightning shot through him.

  “Please, Sir!”

  “No, I don’t think you’re going to come today.”

  And then, suddenly but seamlessly, in the way of dreams, Sir was inside him.

  Sir’s arm wrapped around his neck, anchoring him in place. He wasn’t quite cutting off his oxygen, but letting him know that he could. The threat of it only sent him higher.

  Sir took him roughly. Hard. Owning him.

  “You’re not going to come, are you? Just mine, for me to use.”

  And then Sir was coming inside him, hot and perfect and possessive. “My dirty slut. All mine.”

  Greg sucked in a breath, then another. His dick was angry and hard, painful in his arousal and made more so by the knowledge that he could do nothing about it.

  “Good little slut. So good for me.”

  He felt so painfully, wretchedly, good. Like everything was meant to be.

  And then he woke up.

  “Fuck.” He murmured out loud. Then he screamed it into the empty air of his bedroom. The bedroom that wasn’t theirs anymore. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!”

  Because he was aroused and suffering now for a man who wasn’t even there. A man who he’d loved beyond everything. A man who’d left him.

  He let himself whimper into his pillow. “Sir. Sir. Richard.” It was all he could think of to say.

  He hadn’t cried at all in the last three years. Not really. Not since Sir made him cry.

  He wished he could.

  He wished Marco could make him cry.

  And then he felt horrible.

  God, Marco. They had a date tonight. Or a dinner thing. Not a date. Was it a date?

  Either way, he had to cancel.

  As soon as he… God, got up and had to do all the stupid things that people had to do in the morning. Brushing teeth and making coffee and all that other meaningless bullshit.

  Because it used to have a meaning with Richard, and now Richard wasn’t there.

  He didn’t have an erection anymore, at least.

  But when he did get up, and do all that morning stuff, exactly the way that Richard had liked him to, the pointlessness of it settled in. Setting out his clothing before he entered the shower. Lining up the coffee mug at exactly the correct angle, always on a saucer.

  His little morning rituals used to mean something.

  They used to earn him praise, that bubbly feeling that started in his chest and reached down to his toes.

  Now they felt empty. Worse than empty.

  And what was he going to tell Marco anyway? Sorry I can’t eat a meal with you because I had a sex dream about my dead lover?

  Part of him wanted to sit at home, sealed off from the rest of humanity, mourning his Sir.

  The other part felt like the cocoon was starting to chafe. Like he was outgrowing the remembered rituals and ready to transform into… well, not a butterfly. A moth, at least.

  He didn’t want to make new friends, but he suspected that he needed to.

  Or new… whatevers.

  So, he went to work, and got through most of his emails and politely harassed authors who were late and praised a proofreader who’d been particularly efficient.

  But all day he was thinking about the dream. And thinking about Marco.

  Maybe he wasn’t in a cocoon at all, but a spider’s trap. He felt caught, anyway. Tangled and sticky and unable to break free.

  God, he exhausted himself sometimes.

  He was nearly sick by the time he arrived at the restaurant that evening. Maybe he really would need to cancel.

  But no, there was Marco, striding toward him with a grin on his face, sending him a warm greeting before he’d even crossed the street.

  He looked different during the day, in relaxed-fit jeans and a burgundy polo shirt that highlighted the narrow column of his throat. More masculine, but more casual, too.

  He was shorter than Greg remembered, until he remembered this, too. So much power and command in such a small body. He felt a shiver race down his spine.

  But right now, it was a regular Thursday evening, and Marco was smiling at him in the fading rays of the sun. His teeth shone white, and the black hair on the backs of his muscular arms caught Greg’s eye as he signed.

  Greg supposed most people looked different outside the club. But he found that he missed that hint of eyeshadow.

  Marco was confident in a different way outside the club. Friendly and casual, working almost aggressively to make Greg feel comfortable.

  Marco just swept him up in a rush of conversation, launching into a funny story about his trouble with traffic, and then a customer he’d been working with.

  It sounded like he was doing a lot of work setting up his new company, and enjoying the entrepreneurial adventure of it. If he also had talent, which it sounded like he did, he should be on a good path.

  Greg felt vicariously excited for him.

  Judging by the way Marco was steering the conversation, he’d been forgiven for running out on him that morning and ghosting him in the days that followed. It was like it had never happened, and Greg was pathetically relieved that he didn’t have to talk about it.

  Before their appetizers had even arrived, Greg found himself relaxing. Actually having fun. He liked Marco. He was witty and sarcastic, but also insightful and knowledgeable. For someone who worked from home, he certainly kept involved with the world.

  He asked Greg about his work and he really listened. Greg whined for a while about one of the managers from the cross-departmental team he was sometimes on. And then he whined about Brett who kept bothering him at work. And then he realized he was whining a lot and said so, and Marco just laughed and placed his small, warm hand on his arm.

  Marco also complained about his clients, but when he did, he was funny. The things people seemed to want in their logos and ads could be outlandish.

  There was enough insider language that Greg didn’t quite understand everything, but he liked the way that Marco pulled him in. Like, was breaking the “rule of thirds” really a sin? And was Comic Sans actually the laughingstock of the font world? He didn’t know, but it didn’t really seem to matter.

  By the end of the evening, Greg would have thought they’d never been more than friends. Good friends, even.

  Except for the way that Marco had winked at him when he ordered two appetizers because Greg couldn’t choose.

  Except for the way that Marco had held a fork to Greg’s lips, demanding rather than suggesting that he taste a bite from Marco’s plate.

  Except for the way that Marco’s eyes flashed when Greg licked his lips after his first bite of dessert.

  Marco was muting the tension between them, but it was still there, smoldering beneath the surface.

  And now they were standing awkwardly outside the restaurant. Or at least Greg was feeling awkward.

&n
bsp; Marco was teasing him about refusing to see movies based on books, a preference which he seemed to find ridiculous.

  Greg enjoyed the teasing. It was gentle. Friendly.

  Not at all like the type of teasing he used to do with Richard.

  He both wished that Marco was more flirtatious and appreciated that he wasn’t.

  He was certain, though, that he wasn’t ready for the evening to end. The idea of going back to his sterile, empty house right now made him feel cold inside.

  Thanks for joining me tonight, Marco finally closed, with that delighted, easy smile on his face. I had a great time.

  Stay, Greg wanted to say. Don’t leave me. But instead, he just echoed the sentiment. Me, too.

  Maybe we could meet up again?

  When? He only realized after he signed it how pathetically eager he must look. Well, it was too late now.

  Next week?

  God, yes. I literally have no other plans, he replied. Marco already knew how pathetic he was, after all. I can be ready whenever you want me.

  Marco’s eyes shone, the dangerous air of dominance seeping through. Be careful when you tell me things like that.

  Greg drew in a sharp breath, confused again about whether he was feeling scared and nauseous, or aroused and excited. It was too soon. And he hated waiting. And…

  Actually, no, he wasn’t confused. He was just feeling the whole pile of heavy emotions at once.

  But Marco must have seen it in his face. How about next Thursday again? Since I’m new in town, maybe you can show me some more of your favorite restaurants. We could make a weekly thing of it.

  Sure, Greg agreed, relieved.

  He was still going back to his achingly empty house, but now he had something to look forward to.

  And that was how it went. Every Thursday. Dinner at all of Greg’s favorite restaurants.

  When they ran out of those, dinner at new places that Marco found for them.

  And then, when it started to get warmer, picnics in the park and long walks in new neighborhoods after their meals.

  Until Greg’s whole week was built around Thursdays.

  Chapter 7 Marco

  June

  Marco startled as his alarm flashed and buzzed. He’d just landed a contract with TechFlex, a new sportswear manufacturer who wanted him to do their entire marketing campaign, and he’d been fully engrossed in his work.

  The company seemed to be fun, and everyone was enthusiastic to get started. He’d gotten emails from several of the entrepreneurs and he liked the artistic style that they wanted. While he expected their business to have some hiccups as they got off the ground, they’d already given him an advance on his work.

  He was itching to just finish up the image he was working on—some cool chalk drawings overlaid on a cityscape with a skateboarder—but he was even more excited about his evening plans. He quickly saved everything and closed his laptop.

  After a quick shower and shuffle through his closet, he looked over himself one more time in the mirror and smoothed his tie. He’d chosen a pale pink shirt and a brighter pink tie which would be a nice splash of color under his navy blazer. He liked how it looked, and he hoped Greg would, too.

  He wanted Greg to notice him.

  He felt like a teenager getting dressed up for school because he’d see his crush during sixth period. Marco rolled his eyes at himself and headed out the door.

  Marco picked Greg up from work since they had a bit of a drive ahead of them. They were going to a play, which would be a nice treat for both of them. It was in a tiny theater and the show was written by some new playwright they’d never heard of, so he didn’t know what to expect.

  But the theater had ASL interpretation tonight, and that was rare enough to meet up on a Friday night instead of a Thursday. It was also rare enough to drive for over an hour, even if the play was only mediocre. At the worst, he’d be fully knowledgeable of what he was tearing apart when he panned it later.

  They talked while he was driving, Greg carrying most of the conversation since Marco was at the wheel. He explained a bit about the TechFlex project, and Greg was genuinely excited for him about his new contract. It was nice to have someone be excited for him.

  Then, Greg started reading reviews of the play on his phone and telling Marco about them. It sounded like it would be somewhere between mediocre and terrible.

  Let’s keep our expectations low, Marco suggested, and if we’re lucky we’ll be pleasantly surprised.

  That was kind of Marco’s advice to himself for Greg, too. As long as he didn’t have any expectations, he could just soak up Greg’s presence.

  As a friend, of course. They hadn’t hooked up or scened in the two months since Greg started talking to him again, not even a peck on the cheek.

  Maybe they never would.

  But there was still something just a little bit… more. Maybe?

  When they got to the theater, Greg was still messing around with his phone, which gave Marco the time to slip around the car and open his door.

  Greg smiled up at him and Marco, because he was a hopeless fool, gave in to his impulses and leaned over to unbuckle Greg’s seatbelt.

  Greg, surprisingly, let him. He took Greg’s hand and guided him out of the car, placing a hand at the small of his back to lead him inside.

  Sometimes, it mystified him that such a simple act could both get him so revved up and feeling all mushy inside.

  The theater was tiny, maybe thirty or forty seats, and a set that seemed far too large and complicated for such a small space. They squeezed into their seats in the middle of a row and chatted while they waited for the show to begin.

  Maybe a quarter of the audience seemed to be using ASL, which wasn’t surprising. Marco had found out about the show from a Deaf newsgroup, and whenever something like this was available word spread fast. They probably weren’t the only ones who’d driven over an hour to see a mediocre play.

  When it started, Greg was surprised and impressed that they hadn’t just hired an interpreter but were actually using a few different interpreting styles. The female lead signed and voiced simultaneously, which was probably the reason that the theater had an ASL night. Her grammar was English-y, as it always was when someone was using both languages simultaneously, but he liked her style overall.

  The male lead and his brother were played by hearing actors on the stage, while their interpreter stood off to the side. And the daughter, who only had a few lines, was played by a woman who only signed while another woman on the side voiced for her.

  So… the best part of the play was the ASL.

  The actual content was tedious. Long monologues. Pointless misunderstandings. A complete lack of narrative arc.

  Marco looked over to see what Greg thought of it, only to find Greg watching him. Marco twitched his lip and rolled his eyes slightly toward the stage and Greg gave an answering nod. The play was total crap.

  But there wasn’t an intermission, so they’d be stuck for a while. Marco stretched his shoulders subtly. He wasn’t the only one in the audience getting restless. And the chairs seemed unusually narrow.

  If they were on a date, he could swing one arm over Greg’s chair. Or hook his forearm around Greg’s where it rested on the armrest.

  Ugh. Now that he was trying to keep still, he was going a bit batty.

  Greg noticed and smirked at him. Then, he gave a little tilt of his head toward the back of his chair.

  Well, if that was alright…

  Marco put his arm around Greg, reveling in the heat of his skin through his collared shirt. God, he was pathetic, acting like the edge of Greg’s shoulder was some sort of illicit prize that he’d finally won.

  But then, Greg leaned his head back a bit and rested it on Marco’s arm.

  Was this like… a date?

  In some ways, of course it was a date. Because they hung out together every week and did date-y things.

  And he was pretty sure that Greg was feeling it, too.
When they hung out, Marco felt like he was Greg’s whole world.

  But as soon as he flirted a little too hard or let a little bit too much of his unconscious dominance seep out, he would see the look on Greg’s face.

  It was like Richard was always there in the room with them. A silent third party looking over his shoulder. Gone, but just close enough to bring that little flash of pain and loss to Greg’s eyes.

  Greg couldn’t seem to think about doing anything romantic, sexual, or kinky with Marco (and Marco would happily take any of the three) without thinking of Richard first.

  Cockblocked by a ghost.

  Marco looked over at Greg’s relaxed face. He’d mostly closed his eyes and was probably tuning out most of the play. Which meant that Marco could watch him for as long as he wanted to, soaking him in.

  Greg really was perfect. Exactly his type. Mature and confident in most of his life, but still eager to rest his burdens and let someone else take control. Masculine and strong, but not afraid to be dominated by someone smaller and a bit femme.

  Or at least he hadn’t been, that one night.

  And he continued not to be, when Marco made little moves like deciding what they would do together or buying little things that he thought Greg would like. Greg didn’t even look at menus anymore. When they wandered around a new neighborhood, Marco naturally chose where they would walk.

  And Greg reveled in it.

  But it was frustrating because that’s all it was. The tiniest little glimmer of submission that just teased at being everything that Marco wanted.

  Marco felt stupid, sometimes, with his unrequited crush.

  It didn’t help that Greg signed fluently, he mused. That he’d gotten excited about this crappy little play that they weren’t even watching. That he wore a faded PAH! sweatshirt when he’d gotten sick one week. Marco had stupidly fond memories of bringing him soup instead of taking him out and rubbing his back through that sweatshirt.

  It wasn’t just that the Deaf community was so small that his pool of potential kinky dates was miniscule. It was more that Greg grew up in the Deaf world, and intrinsically got all those cultural references and experiences that made him feel comfortable.