AN: This is a short piece only containing Conrad and Lamont. It's sweet, and it's not porn, and as nice as Lamont is being I'll go ahead and reveal that his thoughts are not nearly as considerate. This is Conrad's first unsupervised interaction with Lamont, and Lamont neglects to ever tell Luce it happened (just for the record). It takes place a bit after the third chapter. Anyway, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name still belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone. I am not making any money and mean no offense.

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PSYCHOLOGY OF A HUMMINGBIRD

-by: Lira-

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.004. - "Shounen-ai/Softcore" - .Stowed Security Blankets.

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Safe haven.

Conrad hadn't known what to do, at first, standing awkwardly when he realized it was only Lamont and Luce was nowhere in sight. He'd only been around Lamont a few times, and always in Luce's company. Luce's friend was suave, and cool, but it wasn't like Conrad ever spoke with him, not really.

Safe harbor.

Conrad hadn't been able to hold it together, he'd put so much into just getting here by himself, when he was young and couldn't drive and he had to take the bus because Luce wasn't there to drive him and this was supposed to be some sort of a surprise. He knew it was silly, and juvenile, but standing outside the apartment by himself be just wanted to cry, just wanted to curl up into a ball in front of Luce's door and hug himself.

Conrad hadn't expected Lamont to come along.

Conrad hadn't expected the key, either, hadn't expected Lamont to offer to let him inside, to wait with him until Luce got home from that surprise observation he was doing in the hospital that afternoon. The space was different without Luce there, and Conrad remembered Luce joking about how that squashy old armchair was Lamont's chair, and for a moment the room was pure Italian. He knew the dings in the wall were from when Luce and Lamont got into fights, and he knew which stain on the filthy carpet was from when Lamont had spilled the bourbon, Luce had told the story, and which was really blood and it was Lamont's and Luce had stitched him back up himself.

Conrad realized he knew so many details about Lamont, so many little facts that were peppered into the offhand yarns Luce would reel for him. In a way it made him feel closer to the man, but also so far away. How could he just wait here in the space that had been Luce's but also Lamont's since before Conrad had even met them? For years before, back when Conrad was a cringing middle schooler who wouldn't be any interest to either of them?

Lamont dropped down onto the couch, patting the space next to him for Conrad to join him. Conrad tried to forget all the things he'd done with Luce on that couch, just for the moment. He could also forget that Luce had implied he would be here, Luce really had, and it hadn't been so crazy for Conrad to think that he could presume to see him. It wasn't like Luce was some eminence. He was simply the center of Conrad's life, he wouldn't lie to himself about that now, and for one afternoon the center had just dropped out and left him.

Conrad realized he was crying, sitting next to Lamont on the couch, and Lamont's broad fingers were skating against his cheeks and wiping the tears away, one after another. Conrad sniffled and resisted that urge to wipe his nose on his hand, that was disgusting, pushing his glasses back up instead. Lamont reached forward again and plucked them off, one deft movement.

"I like your glasses, Conrad," Lamont told him, that warm low voice that pooled in the pit of his stomach and almost soothed him. "But here, come here."

Somehow, even after Luce, Conrad didn't realize what Lamont was doing. He didn't realize that he'd seen Lamont watching him, steadily, when they were all three in the room. Lamont's eyes would trail after him like steady searchlights, not shying away if Conrad lit on him so that Conrad didn't even realize it was watching. Lamont cupped his cheek with one broad, sure hand, tilted his face just so and looked into it with those earnest eyes.

Conrad didn't realize what Lamont was doing, but he wasn't surprised when Lamont kissed him. Lamont's mouth was a different shape than Luce's, Conrad realized first, so sheltered in that Luce was the only person before who had ever pressed his lips to Conrad's own. Or if not a different shape, moved differently, more ponderously and without Luce's insistent need to dominate and invade. Lamont led him forward, waiting to see if Conrad would kiss back before even doing anything. Conrad kissed back.

Lamont's tongue only brushed his. When it slipped into his mouth Conrad didn't realize anything was even different, like they were merging together slowly and he hadn't noticed. It was so easy. The warmth of Lamont was his warmth and Conrad found himself pressing closer, cuddling up against Lamont's chest and holding on. Lamont's arms were around his waist. And that was all. No fingers under the hem of his shirt, no insistent tugs and no harsh movements.

Safe. Just safe.

Conrad ended up right in Lamont's lap, knees to either side of the man so that they were pressed together tight. Lamont hadn't put him there. Conrad had climbed into that space about Lamont of his own will, fitting their bodies together snugly in search of nothing more than comfort. If he clutched Lamont tighter, Lamont clutched back, the arms still surrounding him as if to protect him from the world. When Conrad came up for air, Lamont waited, and Conrad chose when to dive back in again.

Safe waters.

It was all Conrad did that afternoon. Just kiss Lamont until his lips were bruised from usage if not force, his mind stimulated by nothing more than the pinwheels of his thoughts. Luce never came home while he was there. And by the end he was pure calm, the wounds to his mind, to his emotions, sealed over with balm. Lamont was no longer Luce's cool friend with the Italian looks and the attitude of a bruiser with a heart of gold.

He was a person who was genuinely safe, who would preserve the restive spaces in Conrad's mind that his heart could no longer care for.