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  "No! Jesus, no. It's not that. I… Guy, please. Give me a break. I don't want to talk about it again. Okay?" He shoves his fingers through his hair, standing it at crazy angles. "I gotta get out of here."

  "Cameron, for God's sake. Would you come eat something, at least?"

  "I'm not hungry," Cameron says flatly, even as his stomach roars. If Guy had to translate he suspects the meaning of the noise would be: liar, liar, pants on fire.

  "Nope, sorry. I know you're starving, so sit your butt down and eat some stir-curry, or whatever you want to call it now." Guy pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and points in an order than will not be refused.

  Cameron hesitates, sighs, and pads barefooted back to the table. He whips a clean dishtowel off a rack hanging by the pantry, uses the cloth to pillow the plain wood seat of the chair, and straddles it backward, his chin propped on his loosely crossed forearms on the ladder-back.

  Guy pulls the wok over the heat and tentatively prods at the mess. It looks pre-regurgitated by now, but he suspects it might still taste okay, or at least take well to some TLC. "Cameron," he asks, not looking up at him. "Just tell me that whole kitchen attack wasn't about distracting me from re-popping the question."

  Cameron exhales more heavily the second time. "I don't know."

  Guy nods and stirs the curry. He waits for Cameron to speak up. Cameron will. He's like a bottle of champagne -- meant for the good times, but under huge pressure when he's corked up.

  It's not a short wait. Guy patiently tweaks and nudges the contents of the wok into something edible while Cameron starts an apparent, silent war between the salt and pepper shakers with occasional contributions from the ketchup bottle. He doesn't go so far as to splatter the ketchup around for gore, which he's done before while explaining a condiments battle with the cutest smile that Guy can't ever manage to stay mad at.

  Guy's surprised at how long Cameron's managed to keep the silence up by the time he reaches for plates and cutlery. He eyes Cameron in between taste tests and then careful scoops of soggy yet flavorful vegetables stewed in soy sauce, dividing the edible portions with care and ladling most of the decent pieces of chicken onto Cameron's plate.

  On a whim, Guy reaches into a high cupboard for Cameron's collection of tiny paper umbrellas saved from favorite drinks on special occasions, and sticks a bright purple number through an ear of baby corn. It lists and tilts, but looks festive as Guy carries the plates to the table and slides one in front of Cameron.

  No matter how heavy Cameron's thoughts are, his stomach growls at the sight of the gently steaming food placed in front of him. Grabbing his fork, he pokes at the uniformly brown sogginess. "You're serious about this?"

  "Give it a try. Tastes better than it looks."

  Cameron pokes around the base of the umbrella. He shakes his head at the steaming glop, but he lightly strokes the purple crepe paper shading it, a hint of his usual broad grin ghosting over his lips. "Only you. Nutcase."

  "Is that a bad thing? I think not. Dig in." Guy tries a bite. Not bad, if he does say so himself. He watches for Cameron's response, pleased when Cameron makes an impressed face and goes for a bigger forkful.

  Food works its magic on Cameron. When he's chewed and swallowed, he taps his fork against his plate in a rat-a-tat dance, mimicking the music on the still-playing radio. "This marriage proposal means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

  Guy's honest. "It does."

  Cameron glances up, forehead furrowed. "Why? We've got a good thing going already."

  Guy pats his lips with a napkin, though he doesn't need time to think about his answer. "Why? Because I want everyone to know what you mean to me. What I mean to you."

  "So, it's about what other people think."

  "No! Jeez."

  "Sounds like it to me."

  Guy lays his fork down with a clatter, exasperated, but trying to hold it together. Cameron's not being deliberately obtuse. "Cameron… why do straight couples ever get married?"

  "'Cause daddies own shotguns and know how to use them?"

  Guy snickers before he can catch himself. "Wise guy." He reaches to rumple Cameron's hair, tugging on one of the longer strands, gentling to brush Cameron's jaw with his knuckles. "It's not about getting their approval. It's… it's about us taking our own stand. Something loud and proud that says we're in this for the long haul. Showing everyone we can do this, and to hell with what they think about bed hopping fairies. Putting it out there in no uncertain terms that we do have a good thing going, and we're going to keep it up until the day we die."

  He's out of breath when he finishes that speech, winding it up with a big bite of stir-curry. The effect is somewhat spoiled by the inclusion of a tiny, deadly hot pepper that Cameron loves and Guy regards with fear and loathing, who camouflaged themselves far too well among the other vegetables. He coughs, wheezes and fumbles for a glass of water -- which doesn't work out, as he'd forgotten to pour either of them anything to drink in the first place.

  "Guy?" Cameron's up right away, crouched worriedly over him, pounding his back. "What happened? Something go down the wrong way?"

  Guy gags and shakes his head. Tears stream from the corners of his eyes. "Pep… pepper…" he rasps.

  "Oh, shit. I forgot about those." Cameron races for the sink. Water rushes from the spigot and seconds later there's a blessedly cool glass shoved in his hand. Guy tilts back and chugs for all he's worth.

  "Thanks," he gasps. "I'm wringing your neck the next time you cook with those and don't give me fair warning."

  For some bizarre reason, that brings Cameron's customary sunniness and good humor flooding back, illuminating his face.

  Guy glares at him. "What's so funny?"

  "You are." Cameron drops to a crouch beside Guy, gazing up at him with his head tilted to one side. "You love me, don't you?"

  Guy's confused. "I yelled at you, and that's what reassures you?"

  "Uh-huh," Cameron replies, cheerful as a cricket. "Also, it tells me you're you, your normal cranky self, and not some weird pod person."

  "Thanks a bunch."

  "Hey." Cameron pokes Guy's knee. He nibbles briefly on his lip and rolls his shoulders. "You really want to get married?"

  "I do," Guy says simply. "I want to give you the rest of my life. You're all I'm ever going to need. You know that."

  "Yeah. I do." Cameron sweeps his thumb over Guy's thigh. "Same for you." He laughs quietly. "Hey. Look at this. I'm the one down on my knee this time."

  "So you are." Guy covers Cameron's hand with his own. "What do you say, huh? You and me."

  "I say it's a bad idea," Cameron replies frankly. "It's dangerous, and if it goes south --"

  "It won't," Guy protests, stung. "How could you even think it might?"

  "Let me finish." Cameron pinches him. "How many straight couples have you heard those exact words from? What's the divorce rate in the country right now?"

  "That won't happen to us." Guy lifts his chin, stubborn. "I'm not going to let it."

  Cameron's jaw juts at Guy. "I don't want that either. But Guy, if anything goes wrong, then we're up that good old creek without a paddle."

  "You worry too much sometimes for a happy guy." Guy cradles the back of Cameron's head. "It'll be perfect. Know how I know? 'Cause it's us. Whatever we do, we make it golden."

  Cameron rolls his eyes. He kneels up for a kiss, sweeping his tongue lazily over Guy's lips. "Spicy," Cameron explains, considering Guy as if trying to read past his surface lines into his soul. The power behind that gaze unnerves Guy, but he sits still and takes what Cameron dishes out.

  "Okay," Cameron says at last, heaving a sigh. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but… if it'll make you as happy as you seem to think, then let's do it. Let's get married."

  Chapter Three

  Guy stands -- very patiently, he'd say -- or rather, hangs -- on the edge of the kitchen counter, his chin propped on the green-and-gold flecked Formica and his eyes fixed consistently, if blearily, on the t
oo-slowly rising level in their Mr. Coffee. His Mr. Coffee, actually, and his alone. Cameron wouldn't willingly drink coffee if Guy pushed a funnel down his throat and poured in the espresso shots.

  Not that he would. Guy's grouchy when forced get up early on weekend mornings, but he couldn't be that cruel. Besides, Mother Nature has already imbued Cameron with the energy of a caffeine fiend on their third triple cappuccino. The last thing Guy needs to enhance his foul mood is Cameron rampaging around at octuple speed.

  At least he's got high-quality scenery to enjoy, Guy reflects. He shuffles awkwardly sideways to better appreciate the fine eye candy presented in the form of Cameron, who -- after initial, brief grogginess -- wakes up so much faster than the norm on Saturdays, reminding Guy of a kid eager to slurp down five bowls of cereal while watching cartoons until he pukes.

  Guy considers that his metaphors might need a little work, but it's the weekend and he's up at seven a.m. He's entitled to some mental fuzziness.

  Cameron's already got his battered, about-to-die, pocket radio, never far from him, plugged in with the unit tucked in the left hip pocket of cut-off jeans, the un-hemmed edges hitting him mid-thigh -- and dear God, are those great thighs, defined with just enough muscle to make an impression of strength, but not so much that walking looks awkward-to-painful. The cut-off edges trail raveled strings in varying thicknesses, some almost down to Cameron's knees; several frayed-thin spots at intervals over interesting locations make Guy wonder whether or not he could pull off a strong-man act and rip those suckers right off Cameron's bubble butt.

  Now that'd be Instant Breakfast done right.

  Guy turns a sigh that he will not call dreamy or yearning into a cough as he clears his throat.

  Cameron smirks, and Guy knows he's been caught. Eh, what the hey. Guy clumsily swats Cameron's ass, too uncoordinated before coffee to cop a proper feel.

  Cameron wiggles his ass regardless and busts a move on his way to the refrigerator. Guy snorts quietly, amused. He loves Cameron, but ye gods, he'll be the first to tell his babe -- with love -- that he's living proof that white men cannot dance. Poor guy looks spastic. He can't sing, either. When he tried, it sounds like frogs in a blender. Shame, considering how Cameron lives and breathes music.

  He needs a real iPod, Guy determines, calculating budget restrictions for a moment and then deciding to screw 'em. He'll get Cameron a wedding present Cameron will treasure for the rest of his life. Knowing Cameron, even when a genuine iPod dies, he'll stick it in a memory box and keep it safe, the big sap.

  My big sap.

  Guy watches Cameron, content to play captive audience, as Cameron pulls open the refrigerator door and snags out a half-full carton of orange juice. The arch of Cameron's throat and the play of muscles in his arm when Cameron lifts the carton to his mouth and drinks is a thing of beauty, not to mention the elegant working of his throat and the sensuous caress of his lips on the carton's mouth as he takes too large a swig and spills some down the side of his face.

  Okay, so he's Guy's gross big sap.

  Cameron removes one earphone bud and turns to face Guy, propping himself sideways against the refrigerator. Once Guy's had his coffee and is capable of lubricating his mouth enough to speak, he'll wax poetic over the sight.

  Wait. Was Cameron saying something? "Mmf?" Guy queries, resting his cheek on one forearm.

  Cameron hoots. "I said, 'You're completely out of it, aren't you?'"

  "Nuh-uh."

  "Fine." Cameron swigs from the carton. "I said you look so damn cute I wanted you to roll over so I could pet your belly."

  "Uh?"

  "'Cause you're looking at me like a puppy looks at its master."

  "Mmm-hmm," Guy agrees, tuning out Cameron's cheerfulness in favor of ogling the man. He mentally votes in favor of Cameron in molded-on tank tops -- nothing new there, but always worth the time it takes to inspect the way the thin fabric clings to Cameron's chest.

  "-- your coffee's ready." Cameron points.

  "Huh?" Guy snaps his drunken, glazed stare away from Cameron and zooms in on the carafe, full to the top and good to the last drop. He thrusts his arm out blindly; Cameron, bless his heart, hooks Guy's coffee mug out of the dish drainer and slaps it into Guy’s palm.

  Guy guzzles with gusto. Ye gods, the ecstasy of the first cup, drunk straight, hot, and black, washing away the raspiness of a night's sleep and the soreness left from an admittedly over-enthusiastic blowjob that included deep-throating.

  Cameron watches him, snickering, not trying to hide how Guy-in-the-mornings tickles his funny bone. "Think you'll live?"

  "It's possible," Guy replies, feeling more and more human by the minute.

  "Good. I'd hate to come home from a shift to find you laid out cold and stiff on the floor."

  Guy makes a face. "Seriously not funny."

  Cameron rolls his shoulder back, insouciant. "Not even a little funny? Damn. So, I've got early shift this morning --"

  "Kyle didn't want it?"

  "Uh-uh. Senior water aerobics. He's coming around for second shift and the twenty-to-forty age group Tai Chi."

  "Kyle's a pig," Guy points out, not for the first time.

  "Yet he seems to find those who love bacon."

  "You love bacon."

  "I'd rather have orange juice and watch you drink coffee," Cameron explains as if that makes perfect sense, and heck, it actually sort of does.

  Guy's stomach rumbles. Bacon sounds good. No time, unfortunately. As soon as the coffee finishes spreading its warmth through the rest of his body, he's got work to do. He's already arranged three fresh ink pens, one spiral-bound notebook, and the slim beachfront phone directory on the kitchen table, all lined up next to his fully-charged cell.

  Cameron follows Guy's gaze and emits a question-mark noise.

  "Wedding plans," Guy explains, pouring himself a second cup. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes even though he knows you're not supposed to do that and declares himself wakeful enough to get started. "Going to start calling around about food, booze, flowers --"

  "Flowers?" Cameron stares at him. "Who's carrying the bouquet, you or me?"

  "Keep on talking, pretty boy, and I'll make you do exactly that."

  "Fair enough." Cameron carries his carton of orange juice to the table and sits opposite Guy's organized layout, straddling the chair backward. "Get your ass over here. I want to enjoy my own scenic overlook."

  Guy joins him, already reaching for the phone directory. "I told you I got vacation time off, right?"

  "No kidding? Awesome! When?"

  "Two weeks," Guy says absently, running his forefinger down a worryingly short list of florists in the area. "That's plenty of time to plan a wedding, right?"

  Cameron says nothing in reply, but he says nothing with such pointed emphasis that Guy automatically looks up to see what's wrong.

  Cameron stares at Guy as if he's not sure whether to laugh himself sick or start making some calls of his own, looking for a rubber room to stick Guy in.

  "What?"

  Amusement wins out, apparently, as Cameron out-and-out cackles.

  Guy bristles, irritated and not getting the joke. "What's so funny?"

  "Two weeks to plan a wedding?" Cameron stretches out and presses the back of his hand to Guy's forehead. "How high's your fever? You've got to be delirious."

  "No." Guy's not sure why Cameron thinks two weeks is funny. "What's the big joke?"

  "It takes months to plan a wedding, Guy, no matter how weird."

  "Our wedding isn't weird, it --"

  Cameron raises his hands in the universal "peace out, friend" sign language. He's still smirking.

  Guy looks at his small, neat list and still doesn't get how it can't all be accomplished within the given time frame. He's pulled off arranging similar work-related functions quicker than this. Food, music, a few daisy centerpieces, a venue and someone to officiate.

  "Weddings aren't anything like business shindigs," Cameron says, readi
ng Guy's mind with eerie ease and nudging Guy's ankle with his bare toes. "Trust me on this. You know I have sisters."

  "How long did it take them to plan their weddings?"

  "Hmm." Cameron crosses his arms behind his head, stretching in a lithe manner reminiscent of a cat pretending to be sleepy to fool the mouse. "Quickest was Leslie. She did a Justice of the Peace thing. That took, oh… six weeks to set up?"

  "Six weeks --" Guy cuts himself off, frustrated. "Okay. The next shortest time frame?"

  "Alison. Let's see… that one took… eight months? Wedding planner was half gray and half bald with stress by the time they walked down that aisle, let me tell you. Seriously, babe?" Cameron uncrosses and reaches to take Guy's hand, closing the phone book. "If you want a party, you're not going to get it in two weeks." He hesitates. "Does it really matter? I mean, as long as it's us?"