down that path. He'd never been surer of anything in his
life than he was about Cal and him and them . And if there had been any indication in the way Cal turned all red behind his ears and smiled under his eyelashes when Ian put a hand on the small of
Cal's back as Ian reached across him at the sink, then Cal wouldn't call do-over either.
They just somehow managed to pass Go only to end up in the jail at the end of the block.
Floundering. Floundering was what they were doing. And a fish, which seemed highly
appropriate .
Well, at least, there was still the fish.
They might still have been sleeping in separate rooms, but Ian still slept in, or pretended to, and
Cal still sneaked in to check on the fish. There were a lot more fish to check on now, too. Ten
goldfish. Nine different exotics and a Scrappy IV. Scrappy II and III had taught Ian that, one,
they needed a deeper net, and two, it was a bad idea to leave the strainer off the end of the filter
tube.
There was even a whole other tank with saltwater, and coral, and five clown fish. Four named
Nemo, and one named Cal. And yes, they could tell them all apart.
Go Fish - 23
It was winter, now, too, so Cal didn't run as much as he used to. He usually just worked out in
the garage, shirtless, which made for a whole lot more sweaty skin for Ian to ogle when Cal was
checking on the fish -- no mental quotes, because it was starting to feel like that's all it was -- and
as a result, a linen closet full of new sheets. Ian just couldn't seem to keep his clean.
Speaking of which, "Nnngh... oh shit." His eyes flew open, because there was no way Cal didn't hear that, and the only plausible way to deny what he was hiding under his sheets was to draw
attention above them.
He coughed. It was a bad cough. His six-year-old self had been a better actor. His six-year-old
self never had to worry about coming all over his sheets with the object of his affection standing
a few feet away. When did he stop being cooler than his six-year-old self? Probably when he
turned seven.
"Ian?" Cal turned around, his t-shirt wadded up in his fist. There was a definite note of concern in his voice.
Ian was going for surprised, amused, maybe flattered, but he could work with concerned. He
coughed again, tugging the sheet up under his chin. His right hand was a little slippery, so he
shoved it back inside the covers. "G'morning."
"You're up early. Are you okay?" Cal wiped his t-shirt over his face and down his chest, and
okay, Ian was not too old to come in his shorts.
"Nn…" He doubled over on himself, managing to fake a coughing fit to cover the moan. Holy
hell, how had they stayed friends for so long when Ian's body clearly had it bad for Cal's?
"Ian, hey." Cal sat on the edge of the bed gingerly, like he was trying not to shake it too hard. His hand hovered in the air for a few long seconds before he set it on Ian's hip and squeezed gently.
"You sound like shit, dude. And you don't look much better."
Surely he jested. Ian couldn't look that bad. He was only pretending to be sick.
On second thought, he did feel a little nauseated, and there was a cold sweat gluing his face to
the pillow. That couldn't have been flattering. Getting caught with a hand on his dick did that to a
guy.
His cock jumped as Cal squeezed his hip again, and Ian gasped around his bitten lips. Cal laid
the back of his hand on Ian's forehead and down his cheek, drew it back with a grimace. "You
look really sick, Ian. Hold still. You've got, like, snot or something on your chin."
Snot? On his chin? Right where his slippery right hand had bumped when he pulled up the sheet?
It was official. This whole experience had traumatized Ian for life. He went slack with shock and
let Cal wipe the sweat and 'snot' off with the dry side of his t-shirt. If he hadn't been sick before,
he was then, because Cal was sitting right here, on his bed, half-naked and sweaty, and touching
Go Fish - 24
Ian, and Ian
Carol Wallace, Bill Wallance