Duke's Brain

Duke's Brain (or: "A Layman's Defense of Cartesian Dualism")
Word Count: Approx. 6,100
Notes/Warnings: None.
Summary: Building the Emotion and Sensuality. Lesson 5: Duke and Jamie have problems communicating. They're rarely on the same wavelength, until . . . with one desperate, romantic gesture and help from Duke's brain . . . suddenly, they are. The part relevant to the lesson is in blue.


Jamie Gardner was, at last, on fire!

He sat on the roof outside his bedroom window—one leg tucked under him, the other hanging over the edge of the roof, his VAIO parked carefully between them—and tapped away at his laptop. He was about twenty-four painstaking pages into a final twenty-five-page research paper for Professor Mortimer’s class and—though he never bragged, even to himself—not only was the paper coherent and on-point, but it was, for a guy who’d only ever gotten fair-to-middling grades in English, pretty spiffily written, too.

Despite his week-long struggles to write the damn thing, the paper was finally writing itself, from thesis to conclusion. Jamie Gardner was, in the parlance of Melissa and many of their friends, killin’ it. Even his conclusion, which was usually too forceful and showed his hand way too much, managed to sound calm and objective, fair and final.

Professional, if you will.

Moonlight shone down on him in a silver spill as he worked out the last lines of his masterpiece. He subconsciously soaked it in and let it fuel his typing which was, for once, up to the task of keeping up with his thinking.

(He’d long since admitted to himself that he was now, whatever he’d once been, a night-owl. He thought better and wrote better at night, under the cool and ponderous light of moon and star than he did under the harsh, arid light of the sun.)

Yes, Jamie Randal Gardner was in the Zone. After toiling away at the research for this paper for the past three weeks and attempting to write it with no success for a solid week of trying; after sleepless nights spent in the library at school, at the main branch of the public library, or at various diners with various study-groups; after burying himself in anything else with the hopes that it’d inspire him; after ceaselessly bouncing ideas off an always-calm Becca Sturgeon (easily the smartest person in their year, and Jamie had no problem admitting that); after a week of nothing but school-work and work-work and his internship—after a week during which his boyfriend had been suspiciously and worryingly absent, with no word of warning—Jamie Gardner was at last one hundred percent, in the Zone-focused and putting the finishing touches on the toughest paper of his young life.

So he didn’t notice the lateness of the hour, nor did he notice the admiring eyes on him or the unstealthy approach of another into person in Gardner-territory. He didn’t hear the solid, motorcycle-booted footsteps coming up the porch steps or the throat that was cleared almost directly below him. And he certainly didn’t catch the slight shift of interrupted moonlight hitting the ground in the form of new shadows.

(Normally, this particular visitor could never sneak up on Jamie, though he occasionally tried, nonetheless.)

In fact, he didn’t notice anything other than the occasional mosquitos—ugh, spring . . . Jamie was very much a fall person—he had to wave away from his face, until his phone buzzed.

Humming distractedly, but fondly, Jamie dug his on-vibrate phone out of his pocket, half-thinking it was his mom texting him from her cruise—all the way to the Bahamas and back; the first vacation she’d allowed herself since Jamie’s father had passed, and certainly the first she’d ever taken alone—to remind him to lock up and to not leave the toaster or coffee maker plugged in overnight.

Entering his lock-pin with one thumb while his other hand hunted and pecked the final words of his paper—seriously . . . the neighbors were going to come running with CO2 extinguishers, he was on so much fire!—he glanced away from the laptop’s gently glowing screen and dipped into his messages.

There was a message, alright. But not from his mom.

From Duke.

Jamie stopped typing, literally three words away from done, paper mostly put aside for the moment—definitely not forgotten, though it was a near thing, because . . . Duke—as he gazed, wide-eyed and conflicted, at his phone.

Duke . . . who hadn’t stopped by to see, or even so much as IMed Jamie since Saturday.

Duke . . . who’d—without asking or informing Jamie—at their mutual place of employment, Armin’s Arcade, literally written his name down in every slot on the emergency schedule change sheet Jamie’d anxiously left in the employee lounge on Sunday. Duke had picked up all twenty-two hours Jamie’d had to drop because of school and everything else coming to a frantic head over the past week.

Duke . . . whom Jamie had missed terribly . . . then with whom he’d grown intensely angry. Then turned depressed over. Then wondered, with a numbness born of devastation, if the other man was mad at him, or . . . or simply tired of him.

Maybe, he’d thought morosely this morning, when he could barely get out of bed, and not because he was so tired—though, after another sleepless, unproductive night he was—but because he was so damned depressed. Everything, even school, had suddenly seemed fantastically pointless. Maybe, this is how they let ‘em down easy in Chicago, Illinois. Maybe this is my boyfriend handing me my walking papers after just six months. . . .

Frowning a bit, heart in his throat, Jamie drew in his first breath in nearly two minutes and, with wide, suddenly blurred eyes, opened the message just as a second one came in:

Duke Vincent : Hey hey baby

Duke Vincent : U me in ur bed 1 min

One minute? Jamie asked himself, glancing back at his laptop for just long enough to save his work. We’re usually in bed for a lot longer than that, even when we’re both pretty desperate. What does he mean by just one min—

Just then, Jamie heard the doorbell ring below him. Then, because Duke had all the patience of a five years old, it rang again, almost immediately after, as if Duke had been kept waiting for some inexcusable amount of time.

Never mind that he’d been the one who’d kept Jamie waiting on tenterhooks for almost eight days, now. Never mind that Jamie had spent so much time worrying if his lover was trying to leave him that he’d literally only been able to buckle-down and focus on the research paper the night before it was due—thank goodness for stress-induced inspiration and despair-deflecting distractions.

And now, Duke had the nerve—the absolute, unmitigated gall—to come around, horny as per usual, expecting Jamie to just drop everything and bend over?

Eyes narrowed almost to the point of being shut, Jamie closed his laptop with an angry click.

“Damnit, Duke!”

#

Demarest “Duke” Vincent, exhausted and pretty beat-up after a week of doubled and tripled shifts, took his finger off Jamie’s doorbell and leaned against the wall next to the door. He waited happily, though still with a dismaying amount of weariness and ache, for his baby-doll to hurry and let him in, so the Sex-lympics could begin.

After the night he’d had, and the all the shit he’d taken—nothing but rude, thankless kids, tweens, and teens, all clamoring to get their digital fix on, and spend their parents’ hard-earned bread on the same kinds of games they could play for free at home—all he wanted was Jamie’s loving arms, the desperate possessiveness of his overwhelming kisses, and the gentle, oranges-and-vanilla sweetness of his skin . . . the tight welcome of that deceptively slight body as it clenched around him and anchored him. The—

Suddenly Jamie’s front door slammed open and Duke automatically straightened up, shoulders squared and arms flexed as he turned to face the door and his sexy little sweetheart.

“Hey-hey, swee—um. . . .” Duke fell silent and blinked at the vision before him. Dressed in his usual forty-seven layers of clothing, which included a white Henley, a grey t-shirt over that, baggy blue jeans, and—unusually—bare feet, narrow and rather delicate, with long, pale, twiddling toes, Jamie was wearing a fuck of a lot more clothing than Duke had been expecting and hoping for. He was also carrying his laptop clutched in his arms like a Teddy bear.

Or maybe a chastity belt.

“Is it possible for you to be any less romantic, Demarest Vincent?” Duke’s precious, perfect bae demanded angrily, his pointy, pretty face set in a fierce scowl, his storm-grey eyes narrowed accusingly. His cheeks were flushed and his plush, pink mouth was set in a purse-lipped pout that Duke instantly wanted to kiss away, but sensed maybe he shouldn’t, considering that even Jamie’s shaggy, dark-brown hair—normally floppy—seemed to practically bristle, at the moment, with anger.

“Uh—whah?” Duke tried grinning his most sexy grin, then shrugged helplessly, temporarily at a loss, when Jamie merely glared and scowled all the more intensely. “What’s up, baby? Can’t stand my sexy, in-your-face charm?”

And Duke knew the moment those words came tripping from his slightly chapped lips that they were the absolute wrong thing to say at this, or any other moment. And not just because it was him who'd said them. But it was too late to un-say them.

His expression flickering rabbit-quick between surprise-hurt-upset-disappointment-weariness-anger, Jamie leaned in close, that final feeling radiating off him in waves as he glared up into Duke’s surprised eyes. And though Duke’s boy was, at five-foot-nine, five and a half inches shorter—not to mention fairly compact despite his surprising wiry strength—he certainly seemed to tower in this moment. “I mean, really?! U me in ur bed 1 min? Is that honestly the best way you could think of to tell your boyfriend, who’s been buried under a damn research paper and an internship with the biggest, slave-driving-est asshole since Rameses, that you . . . you maybe missed him and wanna touch him and make love to him after not seeing him for almost eight days?” Now Jamie’s eyes widened to the point that Duke could make out flecks of amber and green in toward Jamie’s contracted pupils. And boy, were those big, pretty eyes shiny and getting a bit red.

Allergies? Duke’s brain supplied with a shrug. It is that time of year. Ragweed and pollen are falling like Mother Nature’s trying to make it rain!

Duke had serious doubts, however that was what was bothering his sweetheart, who didn’t even have such mundane allergies. But what else could it be making Jamie’s eyes so watery and irritated-red?

“Hey, baby-doll, why’re your eyes all shiny?” Duke asked gently, reaching out to boop the tip of Jamie’s pointy little pixie-nose with his index finger. And for a moment, that angry expression faltered into something vulnerable and unhappy . . . something that made Duke’s chest hurt and his stomach churn, because . . . oh, sweetheart . . . you should never look like that while I’m around to do something about it. . . .

And then, while Duke was processing the fact that his boyfriend might be on the verge of . . . of tears, his stupid brain took control and spoke for him again. “Not to mention all red? You been hittin’ the ol’ peace-pipe without me, Jamie-baby? What else ya been doin’ solo, pretty-eyes?”

Waggling his eyebrows suggestively—never a smart idea unless Jamie was smiling—Duke only belatedly noticed the way Jamie’s brows drew in and his perfect mouth trembled for a moment. Just a moment, before Jamie was glaring and almost snarling.

“You . . . JERK!” Jamie jabbed Duke in the left pectoral, right above his nametag, with his index and middle fingers, and some serious strength . . . for a twink. Duke stepped back a bit, utterly confused and still clueless as to why his boyfriend was so angry. “You absolute . . . fucking . . . JERK!”

“Baby—” Duke began lowly, hands held out in supplication as he inwardly kicked himself for upsetting Jamie yet again.

“I haven’t slept in, like, four days! And—and—my supervisor at the internship from Hell has been on the warpath for the past five! None of the samples I take are good enough! And Melissa and Becca are on the outs again and they have me running passive-aggressive messages between them like I’m a freaking carrier pigeon! And I only just got a handle on my research paper after fighting with it all week—I am literally this close to being done with my final paper for my most demanding professor—and not only haven’t you called me once to ask me how I’ve been doing, or if I miss you, or if I’m okay, or if I’m losing my freaking mind—haven't even called to let me know how you are, and that you aren’t dead in a ditch or worse—but when you finally do choose to contact me, it’s because you’re horny! You . . . DICK!”

Duke blinked and flushed. In his head, his brain was suspiciously silent, offering nothing but the kind of static fuzz that ran on local access channels at four in the morning.

Jamie was still ranting, his eyes shinier than ever, huge and upset and avoiding Duke’s face. “And . . . Mom’s only been gone for a couple days, now, but the house feels big and empty without her in it! It’s just been me, by myself, the few hours I’ve actually been home! And it’s quiet and boring and makes me lonely and I missed you and I couldn’t sleep and I thought you were trying to end things between us and—and—” Jamie came to a sputtering stop, one shaking hand coming up to cover his eyes for a few moments as he inhaled a breath that stuttered. It really sounded like a sniffle. . . .

“End things between us? Never, Jamie. We—I—would never let you go unless you asked me to. You’ve got my heart, baby-doll. You are my heart. There’s no changing that, as far as I’m concerned. The only reason I stayed away was because you said you wished you had more time to work on . . . well, work. So, I . . . I figured I’d give you some time and space. I thought that was what you wanted. What you were too sweet to outright ask for,” Duke hurried to say while his speechless and guilt-riddled brain continued to offer up static. Then, for another minute, he was at a total loss for words again because of the pain that seemed to spread from high in his left chest, to the rest of him. It totally drowned out the weariness and aches of the day and evening.

Jamie’s hand dropped away from his face, to clutch at his laptop again. But he met Duke’s eyes warily, unblinking, wet lashes fluttering with impatience. Mentally crossing his fingers, Duke ignored his nonsensically stammering brain and let his gut take the reins. “I know I soak up a lotta your time, baby, and so does work, so I kept my distance for the past week and picked up your hours. Even been nice to the kids and to Francis, just like you are! No worries on that count!”

After a few long, tense moments, Jamie snorted, watery and quiet. “Oh, yeah . . . Francis’s been having a field-day sending me bitchy texts and emails about the way you’re ‘nice to the kids.’ But . . . at least you’re not telling the littler ones they’re adopted, anymore.” Sighing, his narrow shoulders sagging, Jamie ducked his head a bit before looking up again. The eyes that stared into Duke’s were still red, but a little less shiny. And very tired. “While I’m . . . grateful to you for picking up my slack while I’ve been trying to keep my head above water, Duke . . . you could’ve asked if you not being around for a while was what I wanted. If being abandoned for a week with no word and no idea why was a good idea, ‘cause . . . I coulda told you otherwise.”

Swallowing around something big and beat-y that felt like his heart, Duke reached out to brush his fingers down Jamie’s smooth cheek, but stopped himself at the last moment, his hand dropping impotently to his side once more. “I know ya can’t concentrate as well when I’m around distractin’ ya with my bullshit and wantin’ to touch ya and hug ya all the time. And you’re too damn sweet and kind to just tell me to take my sorry ass elsewhere.”

“No, I’m not. I’m neither sweet nor kind. I'm just . . . I’m happier when you’re around. So, of course, I wouldn’t tell you to take your fine ass elsewhere. Because I want that fine ass within grabbing-distance of me always.” Jamie almost smiled. Almost. “And I like being distracted by your bullshit and touches and hugs, Duke. Maybe they ground me. Maybe I don’t feel right in my own skin without them.”

Duke didn’t know what to say to that. Neither did his gut. And while they were both trying to figure out what Duke was feeling and how to speak around the throbbing lump of heart in his throat, his brain dared to come forward again, happy and carefree, once more. “GREAT, Jamie-baby . . . so . . . you and me? And your bed? One minute?” Duke grinned hopefully and made a circle with the index finger and thumb of his right hand and poked his left index finger through the circle repeated and pointedly, before nodding. “Tick-tock, sexy-pants, I’m harder’n titanium!”

All the color, softness, and fondness leached from Jamie’s face as his eyes somehow widened and narrowed at the same time, his coat-hanger shoulders squared, and his hands bunched into fists as he clutched his laptop even closer, like it was armor.

“That’s it!” he gritted out, turning to storm back into his aunt’s house, muttering angrily to himself. Duke automatically took a step after him, hands once more held out in supplication.

“Wait, Jamie-jam! Where ya goin’?” he pleaded, stopping at the threshold like the world’s most pathetic vampire, as Jamie turned to face him again, his eyes as hard and cold as stones left on winter-frozen ground.

“I don’t wanna see you, Demarest.”

Going cold, himself, at that icy tone and Jamie calling him Demarest in their off-hours, Duke turned to his gut in his confusion and once again, his normally facile instinct for saving a situation gone pear-shaped, had nothing to offer, seeming just as flustered as Duke. His brain, too, was confused and, as usual when he was confused on all his levels, Duke said the first stupid thing to pop out of his brain and roll down to his mouth.

“Oh, well, that’s fuckin’ great!” he barked and sneered, even as he winced inside: he wasn’t the best looking guy on the planet as it stood: all hatchet-y, cro-magnon features and muddy hazel eyes, long, stringy, dish-water blond hair and resting murder-face. But when he sneered, he was downright scary, and he knew it. Not that he’d ever frightened Jamie. Duke’s boyfriend had the heart of freaking lion. The only things Jamie Gardner feared were bad grades and being late for work. “If you didn’t wanna see me, why’d you say all that stuff about wantin’ me around, after all? Why’d you get all upset that I stayed away for a week? Fuck, why’d you even bother comin’ down here, offa your little perch, Jamie-babe?”

In the silence that immediately followed, Jamie’s wide-narrow eyes flickered again, with that painful combination of hurt and anger, and he shook his head ruefully, looking at Duke as if he was a stranger. And not a potentially welcome stranger, either.

“First thing, Demarest? Birds perch in nests. I ponder in my fortress.” Jamie gave Duke a measuring once-over that did not seem terribly impressed. His voice, when he went on, was superficially pleasant and brutally sarcastic, even though it trembled just a tiny bit. “Second? I came down here so I could slam this door in your face. Kinda like this.”

The next thing Duke knew, there was a wall of white wood about three millimeters away from his face and a loud BANG! reverberating throughout the neighborhood.

A few moments later, the light coming from around the edges of the slammed door and shining through the small windows to either side of it, went out.

Duke covered his face with his hands, fingers clenching till he had half-moon indentations all around his face. When he finally let go, cool air hit his hot, damp face on the back of a breeze redolent of green and maybe a hint of rain the next day.

Duke wiped his own shiny, red eyes and sniffled.

“Shit,” his ramskazzled instinct stepped forward to say. But it was also speaking for Duke and his stupid brain, too.

#

I think maybe our bae wants us to be more . . . romantic-like. . . .


This was the first thing Duke’s brain had supplied in almost twenty minutes, since Duke had sat down with his back against Jamie’s front door, arms dangling between his knees and head hanging, at a loss as to what to do.

Now, at the unhelpful organ’s attempt at being helpful, Duke snorted.

“Ya think, Johnny Obvious?”

Though Duke knew—his gut knew—it wasn’t that simple. Of course, Jamie probably did want more romance, but . . . Duke was forced to admit to himself that a part of Jaime . . . a large part . . . may have finally given up on that, after tonight. May have given up on them.

Take that back! Duke’s—frankly—childish brain blurted out angrily. Baby-doll would never give up on us! He loves us! More than anyone ever has! He’s an angel and angels never give up. Not even on devils like us!

“Perhaps this angel’s reached his saturation point,” Duke muttered sadly, then went on when both brain and gut were too horrified to reply. “I’ve never been good at communication. Talking, yes. Communication . . . not so much. And romantic stuff, like Jamie seems to want, means being able to communicate good. Like that self-help book said: ‘Interpersonal communication is the foundation of romance. After all, how can one be what one’s lover finds romantic, if one doesn’t know what one’s lover finds romantic?’”

Point, Duke’s brain admitted bitterly, then began to sputter and stammer.

But we are romantic! We’re romantic as balls! Whadda we have to do to prove it? the irascible grey matter demanded, but almost plaintively. Should we write a poem about how we feel? And the stars and the moon and . . . stuff? Would that make him take a chance on us again? Ooh! We remember how to write sonnets and sestinas and shit! From high school! We could write metric fuck-tons of poetry about Jamie-baby! And some of it might not even suck that hard!

“Really? You remember how to write sestinas?” Surprised, Duke blinked up at the sky, at the super moon and the washed-out stars sharing the heavens with it. “And are you seriously planning to text Jamie an entire sestina?

His brain hemmed and hawed, before finally spitting out a terse and grumpy: We totally could, you know? Because while you were staring at cute theater club boys and trying to will away persistent hard-ons, I was paying attention in junior year English with Mrs. Risley.

Smiling a little, Duke dug out his phone again and unlocked it with his pin-pattern. “Okay, then. Let’s dazzle Jamie with our mad, fresh flow. Just . . . not with a sestina. Not when message and data rates apply,” he said. Then he was opening his message center and selecting the most recent recipient: Bae . “Haiku, maybe? But with nature, too? Nature can be very romantic.”

A haiku is a poem about nature. The same poetry format regarding anything else, but especially the expression of emotion, is called a senryu, Duke’s brain offered snottily.

“Oh, calm your tits, Lord Byron.” Duke rolled his eyes. “A haiku-senryu, it is. About love and nature . . . but maybe not, like, Discovery Channel-nature.”

Of course, not! his brain huffed, sounding so offended, Duke chuckled to himself, his low, gravelly rumble drifting up into the night. He poked at his brain—at himself—with mischievous glee.

“Remember that time we saw that documentary where the Great White ate that bear, though? That was fucking classic! Shark Week is the BOMB-DIGGITY!”

Yeah, sure . . . it’s awesome. Sighing after such a unconvincing-agreement, Duke’s brain subsided for a few moments, likely rifling through its meager storehouse of off-rhymes. Then it was back with a grumble and empty hands. But Shark Week is not romantic.

“You’re not wrong,” Duke admitted, suddenly serious. “Yeah, even I can see where it wouldn’t be. We gotta come up with something short, sweet, and original. And we gotta do it fast.”


Yeah . . . but no pressure, right?


“None, whatsoever. Now, let’s focus. And no Discovery Channel-poems.” Duke’s finger hovered over the keypad. “Somethin’ . . . sweet. And in which no bears get eaten.”

The phone was about to go into rest-mode before his brain finally suggested the first line almost shyly. After a startled moment—it was good. Like, really good. Not that Duke was any judge of any poetry that didn’t start with: There once was a man from Nantucket—Duke’s finger was skating across the small keyboard.

#

Sitting against the front door, in the darkness, laptop forgotten on the hallway table with the mail and take-out menus, Jamie Gardner wiped at his eyes for the millionth time.

He’d always been impatient with his own tears, but never more so than he found himself to be at these particular moments. The moments after he . . . maybe . . . broke up with his first serious boyfriend.

Oh, don’t be so dramatic, James, he told himself irritably, in a voice that sounded like a combination of his mother’s and his best friend Melissa’s. You didn’t break up with Duke and he didn’t break up with you. It was just a stupid fight because you’re tired and overly-sensitive, and he’s tired and insensitive. It was bad timing on both your parts, and sometimes that happens in even the best, most stable relationships. You two have only known each other for a year and have been dating for half of that. It’ll take time before you’re both on the same page more than you’re not.

“But . . . he ditched me for a week, then only came around because he wanted to—to fuck me!” Jamie complained in a mumble to that voice, wiping at his eyes again. “There’s a difference between not being romantic and just not giving a shit about the guy you’re serial-boning.”

That Mom-Melissa voice snorted. And you really think that Duke’s the latter? That the guy who’s been pining after you admittedly since the day you met, who wept the first time you kissed him and after the first time he made love to you—who’s spent the past week wrangling snot-nosed brats in your name so you could focus on your paper and that damned internship . . . not to mention giving you time and space to concentrate on those things when he loves nothing more than being around you, and distracting you and just basking in you—you really think that that guy doesn’t give a shit about you? That he only wants to serial-bone you, as you so quaintly think of it?

“Well. . . .” Jamie sniffled pathetically. “He can’t even communicate with me to let me know that he’s trying to be helpful, as opposed to slow-motion kicking me to the curb! He’s a fucking disaster at being a considerate boyfriend! He tries, but . . . it always goes awry and I’m the one who winds up hurt!”


And is that so unforgivable a sin? Earnest, but clumsy attempts at being considerate and loving?


“No! But it’s—it’s painful! It hurts! I don’t know how much longer I can put up him being a tone-deaf clod all the time!” Jamie buried his face in his hands with a soft, sad moan. “I’m trying, too. I really am. But sometimes . . . sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who is. That maybe taking what we have—or what he thinks we have—for granted is just in Duke’s nature. Maybe it’s just who he is. Maybe . . . maybe there’s no changing him and no getting used to who he is,” he whispered into the darkness, even as his chest started to hurt and breathing became difficult. His stomach even started to churn. “Maybe we’re being cruel to each other: him expecting me to just get what he means and know what he feels for me, and me waiting for him to be this romantic, sweet, dream-guy that I apparently can’t stop wanting him to be. Maybe . . . maybe it’s time to admit that we’re chasing after people that we’ll never be for each other.”

And maybe you’re giving up too soon on the best thing that’s ever happened to you, that voice countered. Maybe you’re too willing to fold at the first spot of trouble, because working it out with Duke will be tough and painful. But it’ll be so worth it, if you do tough it out. He’s not your dream-guy, yet, but he’s got the potential to be that, and so much more, with just a bit of patience. You just have to help him realize that potential. If Duke does, indeed, take you for granted at all, it’s because he trusts you to love him and understand him in spite of who he is. Maybe because of who he is. In any event, the road to your happily ever after will either be a stroll through Heaven or a season in Hell, and you’re the only one who can pick your road. No matter which you choose, Duke will be waiting at the end of it. Even if you leave him, it won’t be over. You’ll just be delaying the inevitable and possibly causing you both unnecessary pain.

“That . . . that doesn’t make any sense!” Jamie exclaimed angrily, though a part of him understood that Mom-Melissa voice perfectly. Accepting what it said was another matter, entirely. “That’s just silly platitudes to—”

Just then, Jamie’s phone buzzed.

He instantly fumbled it back out of his pocket, telling himself that he had to check it STAT, just in case it was his mother and there was some sort of problem. But once he got to his messages, he saw that it definitely wasn’t from his mom.

Heaven or Hell . . . it’s your choice. The road is entirely of your making, that voice reminded him, then fell silent once more. After a moment of hesitation, Jamie touched his phone with a trembling finger, to open the text.

Duke Vincent : The stars remind me of

your eyes. The moonlight looks nice.

Can we please have sex?

Jamie could only gape for the better part of a minute. Then. . . .

. . . then he was burying his face in his hand and chuckling. Then laughing. Then guffawing.

#

At the laughter sounding from the other side of the door, Duke’s heart beat fast in tentative relief as he smiled.

“Duke Vincent, amateur poet: 1! The forces of entropy and despair: 0!”

That last line, especially, was gold, Duke’s brain noted, all but preening. I thought that please was a nice touch! Without my flair, we’d have maybe a line about some nice moonlight . . . and a lifetime of loneliness to follow. Admit it!

“For all the trouble you sometimes get me into, you’re still part of me. Part of the man Jamie still—hopefully—loves.” Duke’s smile widened.

Hopefully. And there was nothing more hopeful to Duke than a laughing Jamie Gardner.

“Couldn’t have done it without ya,” he murmured to his brain as he stood up and turned to face the door. A split second later it was yanked open and Jamie stood in the entryway, wide-eyed and flushed, still laughing as he gazed, eyes sparkling and fond, up at Duke.

“W-was that a haiku, Demarest Michael Vincent?”

“Technically, it was a senryu,” Duke informed him, shrugging, and still grinning haplessly as Jamie giggled and looked at Duke as if seeing him with new eyes. Duke could only hope those new eyes were rose-colored. He held his arms wide open. “C’mere, baby?”

Jamie snorted, covering his mouth for a moment, before rolling his eyes and reaching out to grab the front of Duke’s uniform. “You c’mere,” he murmured, and tugged Duke across the threshold and into the house. Into a long, hungry kiss that didn’t end even when Jamie had climbed Duke’s frame like a tree and latched onto him with both strength and desperation. Nor did it end when the kiss became more like sustained, open-mouthed panting as they tried to catch their breaths some unknowable time later. And it certainly didn’t end when Duke moaned and kicked the door shut behind them, then carried Jamie toward the staircase, one hand on that perfect ass, the other cupping the back of Jamie’s shaggy head.

And it didn’t end for a long time after they got to Jamie’s bedroom, either.

#

“Romantic bastard,” Jamie huffed out on a panting exhale some hours later, his chest heaving against Duke’s, his thighs still clamped tight around Duke’s hips.

The kiss—among some other delightful things—had, finally, ended. The moon had long since set, leaving the room in a near-total darkness that Duke’s eyes could barely pierce. Also panting, he nonetheless hummed contentedly before rolling his limp, sweaty, and heavy body off his boyfriend’s. When he settled next to Jamie in the narrow bed, the smaller man instantly cuddled up against Duke, throwing one long, possessive leg over Duke’s.

“Get used to the romancin’, Jamie-baby, ‘cause this joystick-jockey is turnin’ over a new leaf: that of rom-com hero . . . Ryan Gosling-style.” Duke smirked into the darkness, up at the ceiling, his wrung-out body still zinging tiredly from skin-to-skin contact with Jamie. He held his lover close, running one appreciative hand up and down his baby-doll’s lean, smooth flank, and his smirk turned into a doofy grin as Jamie snuggled even closer, one hand curled over Duke’s heart and his face tucked into Duke’s neck. “I’m done takin’ your sexy ass and amazing heart for granted, sweetheart. Finito-complete-o.”

“Mmm . . . sounds nice, but don’t worry about it. I’m . . . learning to adjust my thinking. And my feeling. Romance is as romance does, after all.” Jamie chuckled sleepily then sighed. “But that voice was kinda wrong, y’know? You’re already my dream-guy—no tweaking required, except to my dreams, maybe.”

Huh? Duke’s brain was worried. <Is Jamie hearing voices, now? Does he have a smart, but perhaps too-chatty brain guiding him through life, too?

Duke hummed, but decided that wasn’t likely to be the case. What were the odds, after all, that both he and his boyfriend were nuts in the same way?

So . . . is he . . . is he saying that even if we’re not exactly romantic, in a traditional sense, that it’s the thought and effort that counts? That he . . . that he loves us anyway, for trying?

Anything was possible, Duke supposed. But, no, thisneeded further clarification.

“Did you just call me . . . your dream-guy, James Randal Gardner?”

Jamie sat up just enough to buss Duke’s lips, lingering and murmuring against them. “You are my dream-guy, Duke Vincent. Even if you’re not the most romantic man in the world all the time, and even if we have to work on our communication skills . . . you’re still everything I’ve ever wanted, and then some. And I love you dearly.”

All of him rendered speechless, for once, even his chatty brain, Duke palmed the back of Jamie’s neck and nuzzled perpetually messy, dark hair. Then he kissed Jamie’s crown and inhaled that oranges-and-vanilla scent that meant everything good in the world to him . . . but most especially love. And home.

“And I love you, sweetheart. Forever,” he whispered as Jamie sighed and curled up with him again, his body weighty with contentment, half on top of Duke’s, and his breath slowing on Duke’s throat. In minutes, he was asleep, his body pliant and warm in Duke’s arms, as Duke stroked up and down Jamie’s back slowly and gently.

Finally, Duke closed his own eyes, feeling pretty worn-out, himself. It wasn’t long before he, too, was barely conscious. “F’rever an’ ever, my Jamie.”

#

Uh, WOW! That was even better than Shark Week! For-realsies! Duke whispered happily, silently, inside his skull. His brain chuckled, already wrapping itself up in the cloak of psychic darkness that was their subconscious.

You’re not wrong, it replied absently, already composing the first line of yet another poem . . . this one a sestina on the agonizing raptures of love . . . and Jamie Gardner’s eyes in the midst of ecstasy. Perhaps it might one day even let Duke recite this one to Jamie. Sweet dreams, my friend.

You know it. Duke yawned hugely and hugged Jamie closer. G’night, Brain. Happy sestina-ing. . . .

And sweet dreams, to you, Demarest.

Soon after, Duke Vincent dropped off into a deep, restful sleep.

The rest was silence.

END