Brennan leaned down to kiss his boo-boo. Cliff winced. It was more romantic than helpful.
Cliff glanced over his shoulder at the clock. “Did you pack?”
“It’s a work in progress,” Brennan said between kisses. He swirled a finger in a thicket of Cliff’s hair. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
Cliff looked up at the ceiling for a moment before nodding at Brennan. “I can do this.”
Brennan found his hand and gave it a supportive squeeze.
“What did your parents say when you told them?”
To help lessen the shock of springing a new sexuality and new boyfriend on them in person, Cliff called his parents last night.
“They were surprised. Very surprised. My dad asked me if I was quitting basketball. But they still want me to come home for the holidays, and they’re cool with you coming, too. So that’s a good sign.”
“They love you. They’ll come around. Just give them time. Are they cool with me crashing the Warner festivities?” Brennan tried to couch his genuine nerves in a joke.
“Definitely.” Cliff calmed him with a kiss. “My parents love you. I love you, too.”
“And I love you.” Brennan’s body lit up.
Cliff rubbed his forehead. “I can’t believe I came out to my parents.”
“Change is good.” Brennan kissed down his arm.
“Change is scary.”
“Change is definitely not vanilla.”
Soft pecks on the lips quickly turned into molten hot making out. Under the sheets, it was a lightsaber duel. Brennan groaned each time their cocks made contact.
His phone buzzed with a text message, breaking the moment. Brennan ignored it and reached under the covers. He palmed Cliff’s hard, slick cock, its heat burning up his arm.
He leaned in for another hungry kiss before his phone buzzed again to ruin the moment. It kept buzzing.
“Maybe you should answer it?”
Brennan groaned - not the sexy kind - when he saw Paul’s name on his phone.
“Hello?” Brennan hopped out of bed, his boner a distant memory.
“Merry Christmas.” Paul’s voice grated instantly.
“Yeah.” Brennan moved to the window. He didn’t want to subject Cliff to Paul’s sneering voice, perpetually soaked in sarcasm. Nobody needed that voice in their head.
“I haven’t spoken to you in a while. You disappeared so fast.”
“What do you want, Paul?”
“I saw a write-up on your piece at Browerton.”
“You did?” Brennan tried to connect the dots. The quarterly showcase wasn’t a big event outside Browerton. Maybe a local art critic who needed content blogged about it.
“I did. I thought you might like some constructive criticism.”
“Actually, I don’t.” Anger flooded his vision. Paul’s voice tried weaseling back into his head, and he had to force it out.
“Brennan, I’m trying to help you, give you some feedback. If you can’t take feedback, then you have no business being an artist.”
