Love Language

by Reese Morrison

  He apologized to Greg, but he was starting to worry that they would pull out, leaving him short the thousands of dollars that he was counting on, and he felt like he had to play referee for their imminent implosion if he wanted this income.

  Greg was reading next to him on the couch, and he should have been snuggling up next to him, but he had too much energy. He stood up and began to pace.

  What’s wrong? Greg asked.

  It’s the same old… They just have too many people with too many different opinions, and they think that my time is free. They owe me almost five thousand dollars right now. I’m not even sure if they have it.

  Greg squinted at him. What are their titles? Like, is one of them the CEO?

  Maxwell’s the CEO. I honestly don’t remember what the rest of them are because, as far as I can tell, they don’t have actual jobs except for bickering about their logo. Like, their company doesn’t even really exist yet.

  Do any of them have titles like creative director? Something that would give them a reason to overrule the CEO on the logo?

  I don’t think so. I think they’re all friends who are going into this together, and they kind of handed out titles at random.

  Got it. Give me your phone.

  Marco took a moment to process the command. He’d never seen Greg like that, demanding and competent. He wasn’t being rude, necessarily, just taking charge. Obviously, he knew that Greg managed a whole team of people (unruly gremlins, he called his writers sometimes), but he’d never seen it firsthand.

  It was kind of hot. Not that he wanted Greg to act like that in the bedroom, but there was something that he liked about seeing Greg so powerful and confident, knowing that he would still submit to him later.

  Shrugging, he unlocked his phone, found Maxwell’s number, and handed it over. Greg couldn’t possibly make anything worse.

  Does he go by Maxwell?

  As far as I can tell.

  He watched Greg press the call button.

  After that, Greg voiced, but he turned so that Marco could speech read and enunciated clearly enough that Marco could fill in the blanks.

  “Hello, Mr. Barnes. No, this isn’t Marco. He’s Deaf, which is why he communicates through email and text.” He rolled his eyes, though the shape of his mouth suggested that his tone was still all business.

  “My name is Gregory Fines and I’m Mr. Steinem’s new project manager. Yes, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Maxwell.” He rolled his eyes again.

  “So, I’ve been asked to take charge of this project. I hear that Mr. Steinem is being asked for a lot of contradictory revisions. Yes. Yes, I’ve heard. And you know that you’re still being billed an hourly rate for this, and at this point you owe nearly five thousand dollars? Yes. I’m glad to hear it.

  “Before we get into the details of all that, can I offer you a bit of advice, as someone who’s been a successful entrepreneur and director?” There was a long pause. Marco was curious about where this was going.

  “It essentially boils down to this. You are the CEO. It is your job to decide things. Your people report to you, and they can give you advice, but ultimately you need to either make a decision yourself, or choose one person to make the decision and then stay out of that process. Who do you feel would best be equipped to make the decision about your company’s logo?”

  Holy shit. Marco was impressed. And it seemed like it was actually working.

  “Excellent. And who would be best equipped to make decisions about your company’s advertising materials? Yes, I see. Well, you need to appoint one of them. Yeah, you literally just say, ‘This is so-and-so’s project now. If anyone has input, please bring it to their attention.’”

  Marco wondered if he felt like he was talking to a two-year-old. It sure looked like it.

  “So, when can we expect your final verdict on the logo? Fantastic. I’ll tell Mr. Steinem to ignore all future emails from anyone else about the logo, and to look for emails from, who did you say, Jennifer, about the advertising campaign?”

  Thank God. Jennifer was the most sane one of the bunch.

  “Excellent. I apologize if this came on a bit strong, but this might be the most important lesson you learn as a businessman and it will certainly save you thousands of dollars on your graphic design. Have a lovely weekend. You too.”

  And then he hung up.

  Marco just sat there, stunned. How the hell had Greg gotten away with saying all that? He didn’t think it was just that Greg was hearing. It was his confidence, the way that he spoke from a place of expertise.

  Where had this aggressive, slightly patronizing, and pushy creature come from?

  Greg mimed bashing his head against the phone and then sank down onto the couch and handed it back to Marco.

  I hope that was OK. He looked contrite. I think I got a bit carried away.

  No, that was amazing, Marco enthused. You were amazing.

  Greg beamed.

  So, Maxwell is going to decide on the logo and Jennifer’s going to decide on everything else?

  That’s right. If anyone tries to do differently just copy-paste a standard, “please see Jennifer about this matter.”

  Marco threw his head back on the couch, his whole body limp in relief. Greg was a pro at this. Which shouldn’t be surprising given his almost thirty years of experience.

  Marco felt unreasonably proud of him, even though he knew he couldn’t take any credit for anything beyond meeting him at a club and hanging around with him. Greg was just amazing all on his own.

  And that sent an insidious little thought to the back of his head. Did Greg need him? It seemed like he did when he was grieving. But what if he didn’t anymore, now that he was swinging back into his life?

  Marco pushed the thought aside.

  Greg leaned into him, snuggling up against his side. It was an uncharacteristic move, as usually Marco initiated things like that. Was it because Greg was less interested, or because he thought that it was Marco’s job to decide things like that? And either way, what was different today?

  He gathered Greg up into his arms, planting a kiss on his head. He should have felt close, but instead he felt like there was a gulf between them that was widening beneath his feet.

  They were both quiet for the rest of the day. It was new to them, hanging out for longer periods without a real goal or destination. Greg put in a load of laundry. Marco made lunch. They went for a walk and ended up buying a few books from a street vendor.

  Down the block, another vendor was selling her paintings and one of them caught Marco’s eye. It showed a rainy day with a gray-blue cityscape alight with bright umbrellas. He pointed it out to Greg, who bought it on the spot, without even haggling, with a plan to hang it in the living room.

  Marco thought it would look out of place in Greg’s more austere home. But maybe all the design choices were Richard’s? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Had Richard not allowed him to decorate their home? And why hadn’t he made any changes in the past three years?

  Or had he bought it because Marco liked it? And if so, what did that mean?

  His ban on overthinking things was officially a disaster.

  But Greg seemed pleased with the picture and hung it as soon as he got home. It added a lot of life and movement to the room.

  Looking at the rich oil colors almost made Marco want to paint, which he hadn’t done in a long time.

  He said as much to Greg, who proclaimed immediately that he would be honored to display anything that Marco painted for him. That was sweet. And encouraging. And made Marco want to overthink everything again.

  Inspired, Marco pulled out his laptop and electronic drawing pad. He wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this. He’d spent so many years working on design that he hadn’t spent much time thinking of art.

  He doodled and played. The first picture was awash in yellow, abstract with curlicues and rich textures of subtle ridges. It struck him only toward the end that he was thinking of lemons.


  The second started out as vague shapes, but then he just ended up drawing Greg, not as he was now, but that sleepy way he looked in the mornings, peaceful and tousled and happy.

  It was clear where his mind was.

  He looked up and caught Greg staring at him, speculatively. He was pretty sure that Greg couldn’t see his screen, though he felt like maybe he should hide it.

  What? he asked.

  You do all sorts of design, right?

  Er… I can. I mean, it’s pretty common for graphic designers to do a range of work and I’ve been doing it for a while.

  Would you be interested in designing book covers?

  I never thought about it. But sure.

  If you can make me a portfolio of, say, two book covers from each of three genres, I can send it to our artistic director.

  There was Greg, solving all his problems again. He felt both gratitude and that dangling sense of worry.

  Isn’t that nepotism?

  Greg laughed. It’s only nepotism if you’re incompetent, or I hire you over more qualified candidates. If you’re any good, my artistic director will hire you on your own merit, and I’m just the guy who put you on the top of the pile for consideration. That’s called networking.

  Right. Of course.

  How much does it pay?

  There’s a range. Maybe five hundred to two thousand per cover, but the two thousand end is pretty rare. Depends on the genre. And if you’re doing it freelance, maybe less. I’m not sure. You have to really do your research, though, and know what’s trending in the market right now.

  That I can definitely do.

  That happy pursuit occupied Marco for the rest of the weekend, until Greg had to practically coerce him into bed.

  He loved new projects though, especially where he had to learn new skills. There was a whole world of fonts, models, and compositions that he was learning almost from scratch, and his brain was sucking in information like it was air.

  I think I can have a portfolio to you by Friday, he promised Greg as they fell asleep.

  It was the second night in a row where they’d just fallen asleep together, nothing more, but Greg seemed happy.

  On Sunday, he woke up early, his laptop open nearly before he’d used the toilet and brushed his teeth. He didn’t even bother putting on clothes, just tugged on a clean t-shirt for hanging around the house. Greg followed his lead and pulled on some sweatpants.

  Greg seemed supportive of his sudden activity and brought him snacks and encouraged stretch breaks throughout the day. Occasionally Marco would show him a cover design concept and Greg would applaud his work while heavily maintaining that he had no clue what sold in terms of covers. His job was entirely inside the books.

  Marco had started out working at Greg’s kitchen table, but after lunch Greg had pointedly set up a pair of tray tables in front of the couch. Bemused, Greg had moved his laptop and drawing pad to the new location.

  Greg immediately flopped down on the couch, head in Marco’s lap and crossword puzzle book in hand. Which meant that Marco got to alternate between using the keyboard and stroking Greg’s hair or caressing down his chest.

  If Marco could describe his perfect day, this might have been it.

  Just existing in each other’s company with Greg close at his side.

  By the time evening rolled around, though, he could tell that Greg was getting restless. And he knew himself well enough to recognize that taking a break would make him more productive in the morning.

  Let’s go out, he suggested. Dancing, maybe?

  He half expected Greg to decline—maybe because of some stereotype about older white men—but Greg was eager to go.

  Marco got the sense that Richard hadn’t been too keen on dancing and that Greg hadn’t gone out since. Man, if he had known that, they would have gone dancing every weekend.

  We’ll have to find you something cute to wear, he suggested.

  Greg followed him happily, and Marco’s heart surged with the prospect of another opportunity to dress him. Greg had seemed to find comfort in it during the week of the funeral, but he hadn’t had much opportunity to do it since then.

  This was the kind of caretaking that he loved. It wasn’t anything sexual, just the poignantly commonplace experience of Greg letting him take control of something that usually he would do on his own.

  He started by dragging down Greg’s sweatpants, nudging him to lift each foot to remove them.

  Then, feeling a bit more daring, he removed his boxers as well. Greg stood passively, letting him work, and not attempting to hide the arousal that the actions inspired.

  Marco pressed a kiss to his hip, completely ignoring his growing erection. Sexuality was involved in this, but it certainly wasn’t the most important part.

  Greg waited patiently as he explored his neatly folded top drawer, returning with a much more revealing pair of black briefs. Marco slid them up, then pressed another chaste kiss to his shoulder as he rose.

  He tried a couple more drawers and came up with a pair of dark jeans that he knew looked good. Greg seemed relaxed and happy as he pulled them on, gently easing the zipper over his tender, trapped flesh.

  Marco had promised himself that he wouldn’t over-analyze every action, but this felt like a good sign, something to balance out everything that had made him doubt himself yesterday.

  If Greg enjoyed this, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to ask Greg about making this more permanent.

  Marco turned to the closet to find a shirt. He flipped through the rack, seeing mostly boring work attire. No, there, on the far right, was the section he’d been looking for. Trendy cuts, some slinky fabrics, and even a leather harness.

  He definitely wasn’t going to pull out the harness tonight. Not only was it inappropriate for dancing, but it was likely to remind Greg of Richard. He wouldn’t mind getting Greg a new one, though.

  Marco finally narrowed his choices down to a navy-blue shirt with casually rolled up sleeves and a shiny, red shirt with diamond-like buttons. He wanted Greg to shine tonight, so he chose the red one.

  As soon as he caught sight of Greg’s face, he knew he’d done something wrong. Really wrong.

  He shoved the shirt back into the closet and slammed the door. He was pretty sure that the hanger hadn’t made it back onto the rod and the shirt now lay crumpled on the floor, but he didn’t really care.

  He held out his arms hesitantly, and Greg dove for them. At least he hadn’t fucked up so much that Greg turned away from him.

  But dammit. Why did Richard have to take everything away from him? He couldn’t compete with a ghost. It just wasn’t possible.

  Greg was doing that horrible shoulder-shaking thing that he did when he wanted to cry but couldn’t quite manage it.

  How had their evening turned around so quickly?

  He led Greg over to the bed, planning on having them both sit on the edge, but Greg immediately lay down and tugged at Marco’s hand until he arranged himself beside him.

  Marco held his boy, projecting calm and reassurance. But inside, every doubt that he’d had come rushing back, fourfold.

  He knew that grief didn’t have a timeline. And he knew that there was no one to be angry at. Richard was a pointless target and Greg was doing his best.

  He just wished it didn’t hurt so much.

  Greg’s shoulders had gradually relaxed, his breath now calmer against Marco’s neck.

  How are you doing?

  I… I think I’ll be fine, now. That just took me by surprise.

  Can you tell me what happened?

  Greg closed his eyes for a long time. The pause stretched on for so long that Marco finally assumed that he wasn’t going to get an answer.

  Then, Greg opened his eyes. Those shirts were… special. When Richard left one of the red shirts on the closet door for me to wear, it meant that he was going to do something to me that day.

  Do something like…

  Like a scene. But
it could happen any time. He might show up to work on my lunch break and drag me into a public restroom to do something dirty to me or attack me when I unlocked the door to the house. Sometimes, he’d just have me change from the red shirt that I wore to work into one of the red shirts for an evening out and take me to the club for a scene there.

  I’d spend all day waiting, he continued, and get all anxious and turned on because I didn’t know what was going to happen or when. He gave a crooked smile. I think that’s why he did it, though, to make me crazy all day.

  Marco gave himself a moment to process. Alright, it made a lot of sense that the shirt was triggering to Greg. It was designed to be triggering. And now that he knew about the trigger, he could avoid it. No more red shirts.

  That was the easy part.

  But the other part was harder to wrap his head around. Greg had always talked about his play with Richard in more clinical terms. Consensual non-consent. Role play. Impact play.

  This was the first time that he’d shared some of those story lines. Dragging him into public restrooms and attacking him at his front door sounded like intense scenes, both emotionally and physically.

  He wondered if Greg fought back when it happened. No, he didn’t wonder. It was clear that he must have. That was probably most of the thrill of the scene. Fighting off an attacker and then being subdued despite all his efforts.

  They both probably wore bruises and scratch marks after those scenes. If not, there was probably psychological terror involved—be quiet and submit, or else.

  Because that’s what CNC was. Marco knew this, but it just hadn’t seemed real before.

  That’s what Greg was missing though.

  And, dammit, if Greg needed it, Marco was going to try to provide it.

  Even if it killed him a little bit inside.

  He would need to really see Greg enjoying it to make it worthwhile. But he could do it. He would have to.

  With a will, he turned his attention back to the present moment. He gave Greg a kiss on his forehead, then immediately second-guessed himself. Did Greg want those gentle kisses? He’d never complained before.

  Not complaining and desiring something were a world apart, though.

  Greg turned to him with those sad, red eyes and Marco hoped he hadn’t been spacing out for too long.