Work Text:
01 - Prosaic
The strangest thing about Brian is how reasonable he looks, as though he suggests shit like this every day, which, come to think of it, is entirely possible, considering his former line of work and the events of the last few months. Yes, it's even probable that Brian has been completely insane all along and no one noticed, simply because he had outlets, or whatever they call it, and now that he's unemployed his whacked out version of reality is finally going public. It would be sad if it weren't so terribly, fantastically frightening.
Typically, it's Emmett who says what everyone is thinking. "Honey, sweetie, Brian: are you off your medication?"
Brian is saved from having to choose between answering Emmett and regally ignoring him by the loft door opening, rolling aside to reveal Justin and his mom chattering and excited from another successful bargain hunt, but the freaked-out vibes permeating the loft eventually draw their attention. Or maybe it's the way Lindsay's holding her hands over Gus's ears and staring at Brian like he's just confessed to being the Second Gunman. Convincingly.
"What's going on?" Justin looks from face to face, confirming that the whole family is there, even Hunter and Ben. "Brian?"
"We're planning a surprise birthday party for you, so get the fuck out, or you'll spoil it." Jennifer looks like she almost believes him for nearly half a second, but Justin lets it whiz by without a blink.
"No, really, what's up?" Brian and Gus are the only ones who don't seem extremely uncomfortable, and Jennifer gets her worried, "maybe I should leave, now," look.
"Honey, I should go." She's predictable, but she means well. She kisses Justin good-bye as she backs out of the loft, and the door rolling closed behind her sounds final, ominous, scored for low-budget horror movies. It's familiar enough to be almost funny.
Justin stares at Brian, waiting. Brian stares at the wall, determined not to be the first to speak. "Nothing. Nothing's up." Fuck. Fuck fuck fucker.
A snort comes from the piece of floor occupied by Emmett and Ted, and it sounds suspiciously like derision, which is uncalled for, especially from someone who still spends two hours every evening in a church basement announcing that he has a problem to 30 other crystal queens. "Your boyfriend has come up with a way to salvage his career, make us all rich and famous, and possibly solve world hunger, isn't that right Brian? All we have to do is quit our jobs, sell everything we own, and become his faithful minions." Ted's sarcastic diatribe ends with an audible snap, literally biting off the rest of his words.
"Okay. Again, I say 'Brian' and hope for an answer?" Justin's steady gaze coaxes Brian's attention, and he watches as Brian goes into pitch-mode, becomes Ad-guy, a persona that gets Justin way too hot; the first time he saw this side of Brian, the man was gloriously naked, and he can't help it if he now mentally strips Brian, throws him on the floor, and sucks him dry while Brian continues to drone on about developing a concept, marketing an idea, an intellectual property to build his own agency from the ground... what?
"What?" This is what he gets for daydreaming: now, Justin's not only turned on, he's turned on and worried. "How would that be possible?"
"All I need is starting capital and one account. That's it. I know I can make this work." Justin's still not sure why Brian is pitching this to him; he doesn't have any money, although that explains why the rest of the family is here, but he looks absolutely confident, and hell, okay, then.
He smiles and shrugs. "Of course you can." But oddly, the tension in the room doesn't dissipate at all. "So, what's the problem?"
Brian glares indiscriminately at the others as he answers. "No problem, if my potential investors would simply trust that I know how to sell a product, especially this product."
The conversation is getting old and confusing, and Justin is losing interest. "Whatever. You guys work it out, and let me know if I can help. I mean, I can't really contribute with the money thing, but I can do the art thing."
Brian smiles, pleased and predatory, and for the first time Justin feels nervous. "I'm glad you feel that way, Justin," he says, as Michael groans, Melanie moans, and Emmett offers a quiet, "ummm, Hon'?"
But Brian is quick, certain of his prey and of his pitch. "Remember what you said about peddling your ass or your art?” he smirks. “I can work with that."
And suddenly Justin can see it, the past three years of Brian and himself and the two of them, and Ethan and Stockwell, and just everything, stored in that brain, waiting and thinking, and Justin sees the inevitability bearing down on him like an avalanche, like a revelation or an epiphany, something momentous, an open window into Brian's head and oh no. Just no.
"No. You are not. You will not. You can't. Brian, no..." but he's being stalked by the panthery guy who always fucking gets his way and all he can do is back up into the kitchen, because this is the part where Brian fucks a yes out of him, and everyone knows it. They don't even bother to say good-bye.
The worst part is that he knows Brian can do it, can make him a little Twinkie star, an arty prodigy mass-marketed for public consumption. He just doesn't know what will be left of him when Brian is done selling him off, piece by piece.
02 - Kismet
"You have no food." He says it every time he stays over, and every time it's the same not-quite-surprised, yet-still-disappointed tone. Resigned. He can't seem to stop himself, doesn't really want to. It's fun, in a sort of deconstructed, surrealist way, and if Brian didn't enjoy it, too, Justin wouldn't be there, so he goes with it.
Brian doesn't respond, but his mouth is a relaxed curve, sated and smug, and he lazily changes course to retrieve his knife before swerving back towards the kitchen. Justin pushes the bowl of apples across the island and puts his head down on his arms in the vacated counter space, to watch Brian perform the Anal-Retentive Peeling Ritual of the Holy Apple, Orthodox.
There is nothing on the planet more annoying than Brian interacting with food. Brian has been known to spend an entire lunch hour removing the seeds from a pickle spear; how can he entertain clients over steak and baked potatoes with fixin's? It is simply not possible to picture Brian Kinney in any situation that requires him to eat publicly without outing himself as some sort of sociopath.
Justin said as much to Brian, once, risking dignity for curiosity's sake. "The client eats. I talk." Which also happens to explain why Brian returns (no, used to return, and will, again) home from these events a complete caveman, communicating primarily in grunts and rude gestures for three drinks, or two orgasms, whichever comes first. It varies, often in exciting ways.
Justin has done endless sketches of Brian's hands: the apple, a switchblade, clever, confident fingers. Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps him from screaming, "Just eat the damn apple, already!" but tonight the ritual is familiar and calming, if one ignores the fact that Brian is armed. Justin overlooks a lot of little things like that, in the interest of preserving his sanity. It's just easier.
"So." Brian's extremely lame version of a conversational serve, and Justin doesn't even bother to stir. He's drowsy and comfortable, draped bonelessly between stool and counter. Brian pauses, flickers a glance at him, and addresses the apple. Or, possibly, the knife; Justin's angle is a little weird. "What do you think?"
"About what?" And no, he hasn't forgotten, but that doesn't mean he's not going to make Brian work for it, no matter how transparent Justin's motives are and how inevitable the conclusion. They no longer have a TV, so he has to make his own fun.
"Justin..." Brian would never actually point the scary, sharp object at Justin, but he would and does handle it with a certain casual menace that kind of turns Justin on, and plays a large role in his fondness for rowdy post-apple sex.
"Bri-an..." Justin mocks quietly back. "Not tonight, okay? I don't want to think about this tonight."
Brian nods, but his smile has smoothed into a bland mask. Justin misses the smile, even with its self-satisfied, 'I'm the best you'll ever have' subtext, because really, false modesty is so not a virtue. "It's your choice, though. There's also Rage, and Brown Athletics, if I haven't already been fucked out of that one by the fucking lawyers."
"But?" Brian never plays a card without good reason, but Justin gets to decide if the reason is good enough. Like the man said, it's his decision.
The peeled apple is placed carefully on the counter, and the peel lowered into a perfect coil beside it. Brian takes a long moment to clean the switchblade and put it away, before replying. His voice is quiet and uninflected, as perfectly neutral as it is possible for a human to sound. "Rage and Brown aren't enough. They don't have a face; there is nothing unique about them."
Brian's gaze is frustrated, but certain, as he meets Justin's eyes. "God help us all, but you are unique, Justin."
Brian laughs lightly, then, breaking the mood. He reaches for Justin and pulls him close, sneers "Sun-shiiiiine is sooooo special," in an aggravating whine.
"You are such a geek," Justin huffs against Brian's neck, laughing at how randomly silly Brian can be. "I'm gonna tell everyone that the Queer Avenger is a whiny, little faggot."
"Et tu, Justin?" teases Brian, clutching Justin dramatically to his chest.
Justin relaxes against the long, naked length of illegally hot male pressed up against him, and smiles. "Hey, Brian?"
He has to wait for Brian to finish shredding the scenery with his death throes of agonized betrayal to get his attention. It's not really a hardship, what with the pressing of nakedness aspects, but Brian can be a ham sometimes, which reminds Justin why he's up in the first place. "Hey!"
"What?" No, Brian's not a ham, he's a huffy-ass drama queen, please call the Academy, Sir Brian Kinney will be unable to accept his award in person as he's been horribly mauled by his pet stalker.
Justin's stomach rumbles loudly. "You. Have. No. Food."
"So blow me." The expression on Brian's face is all sweet reason, but Justin didn't fall into Kinney's bed yesterday. He needs sustenance for the rowdy post-apple sex or he'll pass out from hunger before slippery post-rowdy-apple shower sex, and yes, it has occurred to Justin that he is currently living a late-adolescent, homosexual wet dream. Justin's been lucky, that way.
"Not on an empty stomach." Very, very lucky.
03 - Jeremiad
"Yes," he says in the morning, between brushing and shaving. He says it when it counts, when they're not rutting and straining and crying out to Jesus.
Brian crowds him, fits them back to front like homoerotic Lego’s, yet another thought Justin can never, ever share. Brian watches as Justin wipes the last traces of shaving gel from chin and cheek, takes the towel away to rub along Justin's jaw. Brian's attention has weight, is slightly creepy, but reassuring, and how fucked up does a person have to be to choose Brian Kinney as an anchor? It's like navigating by clouds: it only makes sense when you're high.
Their twinned gazes tangle through the mirror, stare back at him, patiently awaiting recognition. Justin somehow expects a different face to appear, wonders which of them will be replaced, himself or Brian?
“Don’t turn me into him,” he asks, uncertain of what or who or whom he’s asking. “Don’t let me turn into someone else.”
Chin digging into Justin’s shoulder, Brian nods. “I’ll try,” he says. The words grind into Justin’s collarbone, leave bruises. Not a promise, just a round red mark that will be blue tomorrow, and that has to be good enough for both of them.
Breakfast is leftover Chinese, or juice and coffee, depending on the height of the person breaking fast. Brian dresses to go out, drops a slim folder on the counter as he passes, a bright green island bobbing among broken waves of white paper cartons. Justin is not surprised, has lost all capacity for being surprised by anything that falls from Brian’s hands or mouth, anything that Brian does. Brian could join the cast of Survivor, and Justin would only shrug and let Deb know he’s available for night shifts.
He can be frightened, though; frightened is practically required, because Brian is fucking scary, as proved by the folder. A masterpiece of Kinney-branded bullshit, in glossy, full-color, nine-by-twelve life, the prospectus drives home his awareness that Brian has planned this, planned and tweaked and prepared, for years probably. There’s even a curt Post-It note telling him not to be a twat to “Lindsay Peterson, Creative Director,” and Justin has to wonder if the gang has any idea how thoroughly Brian plans to take over their lives. The managing partner directory of Brian’s completely fictional agency might as well be headed ‘King Kinney and his Round Table’ because Ted was so not wrong.
The Post-It is a moment of reassurance in a day of nervous terror. Justin is too freaked out to leave the loft, something that still happens occasionally, so he’s hugging his knees and re-watching the prospectus’ CD-Rom when Brian returns, smelling like the world outside Justin’s head. The CD defaults to the splash page while Brian awaits his verdict, drifting closer to the desk until he’s behind Justin, the stark white-against-green of ‘Liberty Avenue’ lighting their faces.
“Good name,” Justin croaks, nodding at the screen. It is a good name, a good design. It’s all so very good. Brian is good: good at sports and pool and marketing and pulling Justin onto the floor and fucking him real. He’s not that carefully cropped headshot, the young genius, budding artiste, that Brian is betting everything on, and he won’t go back in the closet, not again and not for anyone.
Brian laughs mid-fuck, fingers twined in hair, tells Justin, “I’m counting on it, Sunshine,” and Justin comes so hard he feels sick, dizzy with relief and need and dread. They spend the rest of the day in the loft, the first full day Justin has spent there since Brian took him back, since before, in over a year. It feels weird.
Domestic doesn’t work well for them, or so Justin believed until today, but today may be less about domesticity and more about Justin on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His stuff is scattered to four different winds and the only one that counts is the one that will not ask again, but his computer is here and so is Gus the Bear, which means something they don’t talk about.
Dinner is two birds, one stone. Brian shoves a few extra folders into Justin’s bag, makes him carry them to the diner, gives copies to Deb and Emmett, Michael and Ben. Justin had wondered if he was the last to see it, but no, Justin was the first, a typical Brian gesture: you choose, you decide, sink or swim, live or die, kill or comfort. Brian’s methods are not like other people’s.
Days and weeks and Justin is the only one with nothing to do, except wait and let Brian take his picture. The innocuous-yet-disturbing headshot is replaced without commentary by a semi-candid photo of Justin outside the loft after Michael asks about it and gets an answer that makes Mikey blush and Melanie frown, and Justin arrives at the loft one evening to find that Brian has purchased a shredder, the kind that turns naughty photographs of young artists into so much confetti. He nearly cries, and Brian is pale and tense as he feeds the machine.
Brian fucks him slow and hard and dirty that night, his gaze hot and angry. It’s the look Brian wears when he’s trying to prove something, prove that he’s worthy of what he needs and can’t ask for. Justin shudders and breathes, “yes.”
04 - Sobriquet
"What are you doing?" Brian pushes up against the back of Justin's chair, doing his (excellent) impression of an annoying brat.
Justin keeps his gaze on the screen, contemplates green. Sometimes, if one ignores Brian, he goes away.
"I'm bored." And sometimes he doesn't.
"You need a hobby." Greeny-blue, maybe, a wide swath of color, and with an effect or two, the end result might be a moody light-dark...
"I have a hobby, but he's not cooperating." A sly hand brushes against Justin's side, creeps around and down, heading inexorably for his crotch, and if Justin doesn't stop this right-fucking-now he will roll over like a bitch and beg for it. Being young, male, practically a walking hormone, and accustomed to sex at the drop of hat is not all it's cracked up to be.
Justin drops his free hand into his lap and rolls his head back to smile at Brian. "Not tonight, honey, I have a headache."
Brian laughs softly at him, amused by the housewife routine. Brian is so easy. "You know what the best cure for a headache is, don't you?" Brian's hand is more determined than Justin's is; the two battle it out for a second, until Justin realizes he's making tiny moaning sounds and pressing Brian's oh so very talented fingers against the hardening in his pants.
"Bri-aaaan," leaks out, and yup, Justin is about a half-second away from being good and distracted for the next two hours. Or more, depending on how bored a bored Brian is, say that three times fast, and oh, god, beam me up Scotty, there's no intelligent life down here.
"How's the headache?" whispered thickly into his ear and -fucking bastard- Justin jumps, rolls, slides out of the chair and away from the Hand of Doom and Many Orgasms.
He's panting, facing a now grinning Brian, they're both on their knees and okay, this could be fun, too. Justin raises a palm, tries not to smile, warns, "I really have to get some work done," as he scoots back, away from the purring, prowling sex god.
Who promptly drops to all fours and fucking prowls, shit, fuck, it was a metaphor, a freaking metaphor. "C'mon Sunshine, a little slap and tickle will loosen you up, get all those creative," smirk, "juices flowing."
"Oh, that was bad. Just for that, no sex for a week," Justin rolls to the side as Brian pounces. He pushes himself up, dives for the stairs, hears Brian laugh louder and surge to his feet, and the chase is on.
The really awesome thing about having next to no furniture is that there is nothing to run into when your boyfriend is chasing you around his apartment. The sucky thing is that there is nothing to put between aforementioned self and aforementioned boyfriend when he's chasing you around aforementioned apartment.
Justin feints left when he shouldn't have feinted, should've just committed to going left there, and Brian lunges, tackling him to the floor. Justin's palms hit the wood with a solid smack, but Brian is holding his legs, which makes for happy knees, and tugging at his pants with little aroused grunts, and the fact that Justin's ass is conveniently in the air is completely unintentional, really.
Brian's "I win," would be more convincing if it wasn't muffled by trying to talk and open a condom at the same time. Brian slides carefully into him, that first smooth stroke that makes Justin's eyes roll back and his heart skip, and Justin can't help but feel a teeny tiny bit smug, because sex is way better than dancing for getting those creative juices flowing, and Brian truly has no idea. But that's okay, sex gods don't need to be smart, they just need to be sexy as "oh, god, yeah, fuck, that's good." Yeah, like that.
05 - Superficies
Babylon is a beat, throbbing in the bloodstream. Babylon is escape, escapism, a sanctuary of last resort. Kind of like a monastery, only with disco and lots of drugs. Justin has his suspicions about the sex-in-backrooms thing, because, hey, Brian's Catholic-–in a manner of speaking--and look at him. And there is always the priest guy, who turned out to be pretty okay. So the metaphor totally works.
Justin isn't a prisoner, although he's felt like one for the past few weeks. Every question answered with a grunt or a blowjob, Brian twitching and switching past the spikes of Justin's curiosity. Going nowhere, doing nothing. It's frustrating, and makes him fear things that should be behind him, the inevitable, recurring conflict between Justin and everything else in Brian's life, but especially business.
Brian is working, is always working, so there is no reason Justin shouldn't be here, dancing the world away, getting out of the businessman's hair, but he'd thought he was over this. He wasn't supposed to be a teenager anymore, and it's not Brian doing it, it's him, just fucking grating against everything, again. Justin doesn't want to dance, he wants to fight, to scream and yell and throw shit, but that wouldn't be mature, so he dances, throws himself hard, harder, right up against the wall and through it. Somersaults into that space where there is only the beat.
Runners must feel like this, empty and pure and suspended in time. He thinks Brian gets this from sex, examines the thought, lets it trickle away. Each to his own, cobbler to his first, artist to his medium, ignoring the tiny voice that kind of wishes Brian was deeply into, oh, say, chess. Or that he himself wasn't self-actualized enough to know that dancing is sex with lots of people watching. He's used to people watching him, can't avoid it with Brian, and he likes it. Likes it when it's just him being watched, as well. Wouldn't have come back--over and over and over again--if he didn't.
During a drink break, he scopes the floor, looks for eyes that keep tracking him as he moves off the dance floor, plays to his audience. Justin's not planning to trick, per se, but options are things best left open, and you never know. His gaze sweeps bar, dance floor, balconies, eyes open and bold. He learned this from Brian, the long look that reels them in, hooks them with the promise of zero-fucking-inhibitions, not desperate, shopping. Turns his head to spot the last of his watchers, make another potential mark, and--to channel Deb for a minute--Holy Christ.
Michael.
Michael meets Justin's eyes and gives that smile like a shrug, looks away, pretends that he's not fucking baby-sitting. Brian has to have given them all pagers or something, because this is ridiculous. An extremely paranoid person might suspect his boyfriend of planting sub-dermal tracking devices, and Justin is so not paranoid, but on the other hand, Brian, so the first thing he's doing when he gets home is looking for unexplained scars.
Justin exchanges his empty and a five for another beer and weaves his way over to the pillar Mikey is holding up.
"So, after the bomb explodes and my nefarious scheme is revealed, we disappear in the smoke and confusion, right?" would be a really a cool thing to say, but it's loud and Justin's a little pissed off, so instead he smacks Michael across the stomach and glares.
"What?" He has to lip read it, but that's okay, because Michael has to lip read, "You fucking know what!" in return, and the conversation promises to turn into this whole "who's on first?" thing and Justin hates those guys. It's easier to grab Mike by the belt and just drag him outside.
"Hey!" Michael whines, but doesn't fight it, adjusting his pants when they hit the street. "You could've just said, Hey, Mike, let's talk outside, you know."
Justin glares at him from under his bangs and tries to light a cigarette without setting his hair on fire. Wishes Michael hadn't made him read all those comic books for research, because there is this whole Justice League thing the gang's got going on these days, and he really doesn't want to think in comic analogies.
"Everywhere I go, one of you is there." Michael tries to scoff dismissively, but Michael sucks at lying. No one lies worse than Michael Novotny, no one. Of course, it's impossible to lie to Debbie, anyway, so maybe he just gave it up as futile at an early age, and lacks practice. The end result remains that Michael is the worst liar on the planet; he can't even lie by omission. Twat. "It took me a while, but Daphne got in on it, and I know Daphne, so tell me why the hell I'm being followed around like a... a fucking, I don't even know what, someone who gets followed around."
Whoa, way to lose his cool; Justin was spoiling for a fight, and who shows up, but Mr. Make Justin Taylor Lose His Shit, himself.
Michael takes a sip of his beer, rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. "It's not like that. It's just, with the show opening up, and stuff in the paper, well, we just all decided that maybe it would be better if you didn't, you know, have to deal with stuff for a while."
"What the fuck does that mean?" Michael can't believe that was an answer, can he? That wasn't even a sentence. It was gibberish, some TV demon language, made up by an underpaid hack working on yet another WB original series. "What stuff? What is stuff? What stuff can't I deal with?"
"Not big stuff, just like, reporters and people like that. Some of them have been trying to get around Brian, and we just..." Michael's voice trails away under the look he's getting from the guy that everyone kind of forgets puts up with Brian, fucking handles Brian, and has since that first night. Justin has handled Brian's drugs, Brian's tricks, Brian's tantrums, fucking left Brian and Brian's shit, and then came back to all of it. That guy might very possibly be capable of handling Michael in a way that their relationship hadn't previously explored. A not good way.
Justin leans in towards Michael, smiles with his mouth, as his hand slips around the back of Mike's neck. Carefully, clearly, as threateningly as he can manage, Justin whispers, "Take me to your leader."
It's past time he had this conversation with Brian.
06 - Impugn
Art Beat
by Jennifer Schwartz
“agit/im/prop/er”
October 2, 2003 – October 30, 2003
The Futon Factory
Pittsburgh, PA, USA
A little gallery in Pittsburgh is making big news this month, following the opening of a modern Agitprop art show. Among the artists featured is one Justin Taylor, whose brutal gay-bashing at his Senior Prom by a fellow student made local and national headlines, last year. The reclusive Mr. Taylor’s bold composition and raw graphics have now drawn the notice of the art world; one piece, the only unsigned example of his work shown, is receiving exceptional attention. Lindsay Peterson, a representative of the gallery, confirms that collectors are offering five figure sums for the piece, which is heavily damaged. The anonymous collector who lent the piece, however, has refused all offers, reports Ms. Peterson.
Why all the fuss over a political poster about a forgotten candidate in a minor mayoral race? Well, rumor has it that the piece was actually damaged by the subject, in a fracas between himself and the artist. The poster was subsequently discarded, then retrieved by an admirer of Mr. Taylor’s, and restored for his private collection, where it will return when the show closes.
Interested art lovers on the West Coast can see examples of Mr. Taylor’s work in February, when his Comic art will be featured, alongside that of other young up-and-comers, at the Cohen Gallery in Los Angeles.
07 - Beaucoup
Michael's curious: less worried, more concerned. Justin is quiet, as if his anger has a switch, on-off-on-off. Ben's car hums through the streets in muted conspiracy, as if even the car likes Justin, is giving him room to think.
And Justin needs room to think. It's the weirdest thing, something no one talks about, but everyone kind of notices. Sometimes Justin is just not there, and gravity curves around him, making way for whatever might erupt when he's done. The kid makes space for himself, wherever he is.
Justin's space pushes against the confines of the car, slick and invisible, choking back the questions Michael would ask, should ask, if only out of concern for Brian's continued survival. But Justin is thinking. Loudly. Silently. Taking up all the space.
Brian thinks like that. Sometimes Ben does. Michael's type is not what people think it is. Michael is...whatever is the opposite of claustrophobic. Agoraphobic, maybe. Michael doesn't take up a lot of space.
He pulls up in front of the loft, leaves the engine running. "You want?" Something. A witness, back-up, or knife in the back? Michael and Justin have been so many things, they barely know each other.
"No, I'm good." Justin nods and smiles, a bobble-headed ghost of himself. His eyes are blank, as if he's already inside, upstairs, and he is. Justin's attention is gone and his body follows, out of the car, across the street, through the door. Michael watches, waiting by the curb for a change of light from Brian's windows.
He can almost hear the rumble when it comes, the slide of metal against metal, a slow, heavy 'thunk' as the world is once more shut out.
Ben's car sputters at him, and Michael curses, pulling away from the curb, gives the old lady a little gas. She coughs and recovers, takes them quietly home. It's late, and long past time they should both be home.
08 - Inflammable
Brian doesn't look up from the computer, his face weirdly lighted only by the screen, spooky and streaked with shadow. Justin waits inside the door for a second, watching, waiting for Brian's attention or not, maybe just looking. Perhaps a bit of both, before he drags himself towards the bathroom, suddenly tired.
Brian doesn't join him in the shower, but he's in bed when Justin comes out, eyes open in a face as immobile as stone. "Have a good time?" he asks, quiet and vaguely conciliatory.
Justin shrugs. Did he? Was it fun? He doesn't remember and it doesn't matter anyway. The damp towel puddles on the floor and Justin slides into bed, lets Brian drag him over and on top of his body. He spent the entire ride over having conversations with Brian, yelling at him, telling him how it's gonna be, demanding information. Has had the discussion so many times that he has nothing left to say, which is probably for the best.
Nuzzling into Brian's neck, Justin inhales, exhales, feels the moist heat of his own breath on his cheeks. "How much longer?"
"How much longer, what?" A valid question if one isn't psychic, but he's pretty sure Brian is, in fact, psychic, at least when it comes to what Justin is thinking, and is just making him spell it out. And no, Justin's not paranoid, at all, nope, not him, not the guy with the secret tracking device implanted somewhere on his body, despite the lack of visible scarring.
He lifts his head out of it's nice, warm spot, and looks down, searching Brian's face, setting himself up to interpret the slightest flicker of reaction. "How long am I going to have an entourage? I'm starting to feel like Princess Di."
Brian blinks at him, indecently long lashes over eyes that may actually be honest. "Dunno. Depends."
"On what?"
Another long, slow blink and it's hard to tell if Brian is thinking or stalling. His arms shift, following roaming hands, and Brian is either going to answer and then they'll fuck, or they'll skip the answer part and go straight to fucking. It's always Brian's call.
Brian rolls them over, reaches for a condom, and Justin is pretty sure that this is a sign that talking is no longer on the menu, except that Brian actually speaks. "I'm not sure."
Brian pauses to roll on the condom and lift Justin's knees. "But when I am, I'll tell you, okay?"
Open, exposed, already sizzling and prepared to beg, Justin just nods, but Brian waits, looking at him as if he expects more. "Okay, thanks. Now fuck me."
Brian grins and obeys, body in motion before the order is fully spoken, but that's the way it goes, the way they are. It took Justin longer than it should have to learn this language, but he's nearly fluent these days. He can meet Brian's force with his own, argue with the roll of his hips, accept Brian's defensiveness and conciliation, forgive with the tug and thunder of his orgasm, and this is them, this is them speaking and fighting and negotiating.
This is what Justin wanted back so badly that he learned to ask for it. This them.
09 - Scapegoat
Justin would like to forget that he's being baby-sat; watched over and guarded, day and night, by a slightly eccentric extended family. Eccentric in a dotty, cracked, and completely off their collective nut way, not in the fun Aunt that takes you shopping way.
Unfortunately, there is an Event at work, some random guy asking about the artwork, which wouldn't have gotten his attention a week ago, but Debbie's interception is a little too practiced to be her first. She answers the guy's questions, hands him a brochure from her apron pocket, and very politely boots Random Guy and his Styrofoam clamshell out the door.
Justin sees the entire exchange and has a moment of weird recognition. Not that he knows the guy: he doesn't, not at all. He knows the situation. It's like... Before he met Brian, Justin would've sworn there wasn't a single black Jeep in Pittsburgh, but afterward, they were everywhere, on every street, in every driveway. Suddenly, Justin could see black Jeeps all around him, where before there had been none. Eerie, because he knows it only means he wasn't paying attention to something that had been there all along.
He's had very bad luck when he doesn't pay attention. The back of his neck creeps and Justin can't help scanning the cafe' for people who look wrong, out of place. Threatening. He can hear himself starting to lose it a little and consciously smooths out his breathing. In. Out. Breathe, breathe.
Debbie doesn't notice, too busy doing her own check of the customers, and Justin can't believe he only started seeing this now. He knew he was never alone, but he hadn't realized that strangers were being shot down on sight, that no one without legitimate pre-opening business or long acquaintance had gotten within 15 feet of him since... wow. For at least a month.
He scans his tables and yells across the diner. "Deb? I'm gonna take a break, okay."
With the auto-response of the career waitress, Debbie double-checks, before nodding. "Ten minutes, kiddo, and don't make me come after you."
A quick wave as he pushes into the back, and Justin's lighting a cigarette before he's even in the alley, digging for his cell-phone with his free hand. He gets smoke in his eyes, and has to squint sideways at the display as he dials.
"I'm busy." Brian can be counted on to give a concise State of the Kinney report; one could judge pretty accurately by the word-count the amount of time one had before getting a warm and loving dial-tone in the ear. Two seconds is not a great deal of time to work up to a question.
"How bad is it?"
A faint whistling wheeze accompanies Brian's long exhale, but he doesn't hang up. Justin hears the click of his Zippo, and the peculiar, rhythmic, white noise of Brian smoking. Brian is a noisy smoker, holding in the smoke like it's pot, then huffing out a disappointed breath when he doesn't get high. Possibly, Brian has done too many drugs.
"Not too bad," his tone is qualified and tentative, the seamless continuation of a conversation they never actually had stretching between here and there, there to here. "You should do an interview, soon-- I've been holding out for something mainstream, with a good audience profile. One of the late-late shows, probably."
Justin's knees suddenly leave town, go to Grandma's for a little vacation, or that's what it feels like, because Justin folds. His ass is unexpectedly on the dirty, stinky, dumpster-adjacent pavement-- look Ma! No hands. "What?"
"Don't be retarded, Justin. You know how this works, you lived with it." Brian sounds angry, accusatory, like Justin is being deliberately difficult, but he's not, this is just. Or maybe... No, the truth is that Justin stuffed his big, old revelation right back into the dark closet it popped out of, and then started piling all his mental baggage in front of the door.
"This is bigger, Brian. Different." And it is, so he can be allowed a moment of shock and self-pity. He's entitled. Later, he'll extend that entitlement to cookies and a blow-job, and just thinking about it makes him feel better. Cookies.
"Of course it's bigger. I'm me."
"I'm not talking about your cock, Brian." Besides which, Brian's been trying to get Justin to say that he has a bigger dick than Ethan for over a year. Brian thinks he's funny.
On cue, Brian snickers, while Justin holds the phone away from his ear and enjoys the rest of his cigarette. When the laughing stops, he puts the phone back to his face and finishes the routine. "Goodbye, Brian."
A pause and the hum of the dial-tone answers him. Justin puts out his cigarette and levers himself to his feet, to go back to work. It's never a good idea to make Debbie come looking for him.
10 - Fulgent
"So, you're famous, now." The voice comes from the past and a little to the left, and Justin knows this story. In front, a hammer and a sickle. Behind, remorse and violin music.
"No," Justin laughs, or tries to, strangling on his own heart, and dear God, if there is mercy in the universe Brian will be in the restroom getting blown and not-
"If it isn't the young Mr. Gold." Here. "You're looking well-fed."
Turning slowly, Justin faces past and present, facing each other. Matched smiles, bland and incendiary. Match, meet tinder. Maybe Justin'll turn into a pillar of salt. Joy.
Somehow, between the two of them, Brian and Ethan can suck all of the oxygen out of a room, so Justin tries to look casual while suffocating and accepts Brian's proprietary hand on the back of his neck.
Brian's fingers squeeze briefly, and Justin is reminded that crocodiles like to play with their food, a bit of trivia that he'd never thought would be useful in Pittsburgh, much less an art gallery, but there you go. "Don't be rude, Sunshine. Say hi to your adoring fan."
Ethan flicks Brian a wary glance, because he really is a nice guy. Unfortunately, Brian isn't, and Justin cringes as Ethan tries to fill the void with small-talk.
"You're doing well." His voice is strained and complimentary, pulled taut around the things that can't be said, but Ethan is also brave and thoughtless. "Are you happy?"
The hand on his nape tenses, tightens, imperceptible to anyone but Justin, who wears Brian's attention like a good-luck charm, or a talisman against his own evil.
The question took Justin by surprise, and his thoughts tumble like pick-up-sticks, all the same color. "Yeah, I'm good. You?"
He'll pay for that hesitation, later. Brian will do or say something, something both sharp and painful enough to make Justin bleed, but it will be worth it. Justin is happy, and Justin still hesitates before saying so. He's not perfectly content; not in a palace and not in garret, not in a house and not with a mouse. Happy enough, though, and Ethan wouldn't believe any answer offered too easily. Ethan is an artist, perhaps the only thing they all have in common, and not a one of them trusts that which comes without effort.
"I'm glad. That's good. I'm good, traveling a lot." He's so fucking sincere; it makes Justin want to crawl into a hole and pull it closed after him. Ethan always meant it, whatever bullshit he spouted, he meant every word, and that is the one lie that Justin can't stand. Ethan looks good, sleek and considerate, earnest and expensively groomed. He looks like a short, Bohemian, Brian Kinney, and that's a scary, scary thought, even as he shifts in place and makes uncomfortable conversation. "I like your stuff, it's powerful."
Justin can't help glancing at what he thinks of as his wall: the Stockwell posters, white foam-core About The Artist statement discreetly to the side. Brian's hand-crafted tale of triumph over adversity, of survival--a reclusive young genius politicized too young by his brush with hate and death. Utter bullshit, all of it, and Justin locked himself in the gallery bathroom, heaved dryly into the toilet for a solid half-hour, the first time he saw it, Lindsay crooning apologies on the other side of the door while Brian threatened to "kick the fucking door down if he didn't quit acting like such a Princess right the fuck now," and he still can't go close enough to reread it.
But the words are making Justin modestly infamous, resurrecting enough attention to slide Brian into a small, exclusive world of highly discreet marketing, and the money, oh god, the piles of money. Gardner Vance would kill his mother and eat her left tit to pull in the kind of clients Brian is picking through these days.
"How long are you in town?" Courteous to a fault, as in a long fall off a short cliff, something Justin had once hated about Brian. Justin had wanted-–longed for--emotional scenes, with lots of yelling, cacophonies of angst and rebellion, but now he's grateful for the icy solidity. It grounds Justin, allows him to nod agreeably when Brian suggests that Ethan join them later at Babylon, "to celebrate," of course. Celebrate what is the question that turns like a knife and Ethan flinches.
"Sorry, my agent, I can't," uncomfortable as he scans the room, avoids meeting Justin's eyes. "You know."
He does know. He knows, Brian knows, Ethan knows. Brian set Ethan up and knocked him down, as if Justin needed a reminder that Ethan is pursuing a solo career in the closet, and Justin nearly joined him there, tucked in among the winter coats and high-school yearbooks. His discomfort falls away in a sudden slide of relief and he sags under Brian's hand, melts against his unconventional, uncompromising bastard of a not-quite-boyfriend.
"Too bad," he says, his smile feeling less false. "It was nice seeing you again. Take care of yourself."
And he can't help if it sounds like a dismissal, feels like the end, it is what it is, and maybe Justin is kind of a bastard, too. Maybe it takes one to love one.
11 - Archipelago
For his twenty-first birthday, Brian gets Justin an interview. He doesn't say, "Happy Birthday" or anything like that. He says, "pack your shit, we're going to Chicago," and Justin thinks "Chicago?" and fills a suitcase with sweaters.
Daphne is appropriately gracious, not-so-secretly looking forward to having company without calling to see if Justin is staying with her, first. For a straight girl, Daphne tricks a lot. Brian thoroughly approves, but Justin worries about her, aware in a secondhand way that it's at least partially his fault that Daphne has less in common with her so-called peer group than other girls her age. Daphne doesn't seem to mind, but that doesn't keep Justin from worrying about it, just a little.
To salve his conscience, he asks the gang to keep an eye on her, and if he had realized what that would mean before he did so, he probably wouldn't have, because Daphne kicks his ass when he and Brian get back. Without Justin to stalk and Brian to give them direction, Daphne spends the two weeks they are gone in enforced celibacy, confronted at every turn by bored and concerned fags, which inevitably spooks otherwise horny dates.
Chicago is worth it, though, Brian at his competitive best. The interview is short and well-scripted, the food is amazing, and the museums and galleries beyond amazing. Justin spends the two weeks with a 24/7 boner, and Brian is appropriately grateful, and doesn't mention work more than 400 times.
He's aware that some of the galleries are visited for purposes unrelated to Justin's artistic appreciation, that Brian is multitasking Justin and work and vacation and an oblique apology for things long over, but it's okay. He accepts the oblique apology by trailing along on shopping expeditions and letting Brian buy him over-priced articles of clothing that Justin will never wear, no matter what Brian thinks. Except maybe the pants that got him fucked in the handicapped dressing room in a toney men's store, because there is nothing wrong with pants that make Brian groan deep in his throat, grab Justin's ass, and bend him over something insufficiently padded. Justin might have a slight masochistic streak, yet another thing he tries not to dwell on too much.
Their return to Pittsburgh is greeted by an overabundance of ass-kicking. There's a righteously frustrated Daphne, an irate Michael, disappointed munchers, and a squalling new addition to the Liberty Avenue family named Rachel Michelle which makes Brian double over laughing until Lindsay hits him.
"Rachel Michelle? Michelle? Why didn't you just name her Rachel Sperm-Donation Marcus?" which makes Michael squawk and join in the hitting.
Justin feels kind of bad about missing the birth, even if Brian doesn't seem concerned. Mel and Lindsay smile at him when he says something, and Debbie pats Justin's cheek, like he's still seventeen and clueless.
It takes a few days, but he does eventually to work up to apologizing to Michael, which doesn't go at all like Justin had expected.
"What?" Michael says, sounding confused.
"I'm sorry we missed Rachel's birth. We would've come back if you guys had called." Justin feels earnest and guilty, and he kind of did really want to be there, no matter how amazing Chicago was.
"I did call, and it's fine. Ben and my mom were there; it was great." Michael gets that dreamy, besotted look he's been wearing on and off since they got back, and Justin doesn't know what to say.
"Brian didn't tell me," he mumbles awkwardly, trying not to be mad.
Michael does that smile and pat thing that everyone has been doing recently, that Justin's getting really sick of. "I told him not to. It's fine, Justin. This trip was important. Everyone understands that."
"Well, I wanted to be there," Justin snaps back, finally getting pissed. "You're Brian's best friend, and I thought we were friends, too, but I guess not." He stands, ready to huff out of the store, and let Michael stew over it, but Michael grabs his arm.
"Look, it's not that we're not friends, okay? It's just that you guys wouldn't have made it anyway, and it ended up being fine. Mel wouldn't have been comfortable with Brian there, and there is no way that Brian would have, and it turned out to be fine, better than fine, even." Michael glares at Justin for a minute, driving home his point with a look and a squeeze of fingers, before letting go and smiling. "So don't piss on my parade, alright?"
It's hard to stay mad at Michael when he's doing his puppy-eyes thing, and he's had a lifetime of being mad at Michael anyway, so Justin tries to let it go. "Whatever. Just don't ask me to baby-sit."
Michael laughs. "Fuck you, Justin. Like I'm letting you anywhere near Rachel before she's on solid food."
"Hey, that was one time!" and it's all better, because they are bickering, again, and that's normal. "Melanie is a total head-case: I can't believe she told you about that."
"Uh-huh, I'm sure." Michael just smirks, and then gestures at the drawings strewn across the counter. "Sit your ass down, Boy Wonder, and explain to me how the imminent destruction of Gayopolis requires three panels of Rage whacking off."
"Oh. Well..." Justin sits, and explains, and they're fine, and someday soon he'll do a whole series of Rachel pictures. Maybe then Michael will understand. Or maybe Michael will never understand, but he'll do it anyway, because they're family.
12 - Proselytize
There are certain physical laws that emerge only within the boundaries of your average grocery store. Similarly, natural laws held to be self-evident and universal elsewhere, such as momentum, inertia, and gravity, work only anecdotally in the marketplace. That is, one assumes gravity, and therefore doesn't float helplessly in midair, futilely trying to reach the produce section, although it is possible. On the other hand, the lesser known natural laws, the ones less well publicized, are flaunted regularly, and no one is the wiser.
Take, for example, two people shopping together on a quiet Sunday, around noon, let's say. These two people are actually at least four people, and could be a cast of thousands. There is the person with the list, the person with the legal tender, the sane person, the idiot, et cetera. Each of these people is convinced that he himself is the sane one, that his companion is the idiot, and he never agreed to this outing in the first place, so why are they here?
Then there is the list, a quantum anomaly, and its antithesis, the checkbook. The laws of Market Physics state that both the list and the checkbook will always be in the possession of whichever party insists that the other party has them; however, the list and the checkbook cannot both be in the possession of a single person at the same time, which causes the dimensional fold known among experts as No, You Have It.
Adding to the confusion among laymen, is the aisle that slips in and out of existence, temporal distortions, and the sucking vortex hidden behind the breakfast cereals from which the occasional, confused, Jehovah's Witness is spit out like inter-dimensional phlegm, and one has a zone that rational entities would avoid at all costs.
Fortunately for the alien scientists that design supermarkets (a.k.a. Human Studies Lab 101- Lecture held beforehand in the supply closet), Homo sapiens is not known for either reason or rationality.
Witness the pair currently in the bakery section, re-enacting the Pastry Chef War with less than perfect historical accuracy, the taller wielding a wicked baguette.
Or something.
"My name ees Inigo Montoya. You killed my fodder. Prepare to die." Swish. Thrust. Parry. The baguette has mortally wounded the patricidal sourdough! "Mwa-ha!"
The shorter of the two, Justin, observes from the other side of the display table, grateful that at least Brian isn't juggling, although the potential is there. I.e. Brian is stoned, and if he had known that before they left the loft, well, they wouldn't have left the loft. Hindsight, meet 20/20. Handling Brian requires endless patience and a degree in abnormal psychology. Too bad Justin has neither of those things.
"Brian," Justin says patiently, "Step away from the bread." He's actually trying hard not to laugh, to look firm and unamused. An appreciative audience only encourages Brian, which explains Michael, a pattern Justin is determined to avoid. Along with cult movies, but how could he have been expected to know about that?
There are volumes worth of Brian studies, and Justin has barely made a dent in the Cliff's Notes version, even after three years. Michael seems to take a certain vindictive pleasure in being absolutely no help at all. Briefly, Justin considers calling him, but abandons the idea; Michael would enjoy having all the answers far too much.
"Justin? Justin, um, Taylor, right? Ethan's friend?" The guy is a little taller than Justin, with shaggy hair and a vaguely familiar face, like everyone he met through Ethan, doing the Ethan thing, doing Ethan.
Brian raises his baguette menacingly, giving the guy a suspicious look. The baguette waggles from side to side, because Brian is tilting back and forth like a tweaked pirate, or a slightly embarrassing boyfriend.
He glares at Brian as the man weaves around the display, tucking the brutalized baguette and its sourdough victim into Justin's basket as if he actually intends to buy them, and faces the guy. "Ethan's fuck-buddy, actually. And you?" Brian asks, politely.
Justin allows himself to be upstaged, stepping back a pace. This guy isn't The Guy, but he might as well be. Liars lie, it's what they do, so there is no way to be certain how many guys Ethan actually fucked before Justin found out what exactly rings and promises are worth.
Random shaggy guy holds out his hand. "I'm Collier," clearly expecting civilized behavior. Brian stares at it like it's covered with rancid, green slime, until the hand drops and makes its way awkwardly into Shaggy's pocket.
"Of course you are," he replies, smoothly sliding his arm around Justin's shoulders. "Nice to meet you."
His fingers fiddle possessively with anything in their reach, hair, collar, snaps and buttons. "So... how is the prodigy, these days?"
"Ethan's fine." Collier fidgets, smiles, shifts his weight under Brian's rapidly sobering gaze. "I mean, I guess so. He's touring, you know."
Brian nods: he knows. He makes it his business to stay current on the life and times of Ethan Gold, chance meetings at art shows notwithstanding.
Justin is still trying to place this particular friend of Ethan. His hand clenches around the handle of the grocery basket, and he leans imperceptibly into the arm as he thinks, shrugs, gives up. "Sorry. You look familiar, but..."
"That's okay; it was just some lame party." Collier flushes. "You, uh, made an impression, that's all."
"Hmm." Justin turns his head to meet Brian's curious look. "Did you fuck him?"
"God, Brian, I think I'd remember that." Collier is probably startled to suddenly be relegated to the third person, talked about instead of to, when he's standing right there.
"You need to get out more, Justin," Brian responds, seriously, as only he could be in this situation. "You should fuck him."
Oddly synchronized, the pair favors Collier with twinned speculation. Collier responds by looking cornered while standing in the middle of the aisle.
"He's kinda... skinny," suggests Justin, noting the loose jeans and sweater.
"Yeah, but skinny guys always have the biggest cocks. Look at you." Justin nods, acknowledging the accuracy of the observation, but doesn't seem convinced.
"You could fuck him," he offers, hopefully.
Shaking his head, Brian declines, shuddering. "Not my type. Look at what he's wearing. Old Navy." Brian is the type of label queen that can actually manage to break out in psychosomatic hives to avoid prêt a porter, like one of those birds that pretends its wing is broken to distract predators from the nest, only Brian is preserving the sanctity of his wardrobe, not his offspring. Mel once commented that Brian would go into a burning building to save an Armani tux, but the theory hasn't been tested, although Justin has been tempted once or twice, usually when they're fighting.
"Uh," Collier waves a hand. "Thanks? But I'm straight. Just not, you know, narrow."
Brian rolls his eyes and removes his arm, giving Justin a little shove as he lets go. "Right. You're up, Sunshine." He points at the clock over the pastry case. "Half an hour. I'll be in the deli. Be there or I'm leaving you here," he orders and relieves Justin of the grocery basket.
Resigned, Justin bumps shoulders with Brian, as he reaches for Shaggy's waistband to drag him to the restroom. "Don't forget Captain Crunch," drifts back, past the stunned metrosexual being towed behind Justin. "And I want milk, real, whole milk, not that soy shit you drink."
Obviously ignoring him, Brian picks up Collier's abandoned basket and pokes through it, wrinkling his nose at the crap food in it. He picks out the lone apple and a brown wrapped magazine, crunching into the fruit as he strips the paper away to reveal rather nasty gay porn. "Um hmmm. Straight, my ass." Brian drops the magazine on top of Justin's basket, chewing thoughtfully, and heads for the organic foods section.
13 - Beguile (was Revolution #5)
November in Pittsburgh is fucking cold, sharp with the smell of snow. The wind plucks at Justin's hair, creeping under cap and scarf, coat and sweater. It's got to be twenty degrees colder at bus stops than any other place in the city, because Justin is never as cold as when he's waiting for the bus. Fucking Pittsburgh and its fucking shitty public transportation.
He should have let Brian buy him that cashmere number in Chicago. At the time, it seemed ridiculously expensive and kind of ugly, but endless waiting on windy sidewalks makes the promise of knee-length warmth and luxurious comfort beckon like a mirage. Fucking Brian, and his "you can't get this in the Pitts, Justin," warnings.
And yeah, maybe he's being a little irrational, and a lot foul, but damn it, it's cold, and Justin's nose has gone numb, and the bus is still not here. He tucks his face farther down into his scarf, trying to adjust the folds without taking his hands out of his pockets, and eyes the guy wearing a down parka enviously.
There's only the two of them waiting in the early dusk, so Justin entertains himself with a brief fantasy of jumping the guy and stealing his coat, or just coming on to him and burrowing under all that downy softness. He's thin enough, the parka looks roomy enough; Justin could totally fit.
The hood turns, and he flushes, looking away, embarrassed at being caught staring, practically drooling. What if the guy is straight? Justin pulls his shoulders back, stands a little taller. And why would it matter? It's not like Justin was slobbering over the guy's body, just his coat.
"Hey." Justin looks back up and gives a miniscule nod. The guy stamps his feet and drifts a little closer. "Looks like the bus is late."
"Yeah." It's always a little sketchy talking to people at the bus stop. You never know if they are normal or total loonies that'll follow you home. Not that anyone has ever followed Justin home, yelling at him to call his mother, or something, but he's heard stories, and better safe than sorry. Still, he's cold, and bored, and the parka is calling his name with the voices of a thousand slaughtered geese, begging him to care for their insulating feathers, to take them home and treat them with tender regard. "It's always late."
"Yeah," says the other guy. He shifts a little closer to Justin and offers a warmly mittened hand. "I'm Chad, by the way."
Justin stares at the hand and nearly cries. Reluctantly, he drags his own bare hand out of its hiding place, gives Chad's a quick squeeze, and then thrusts the frozen appendage back into his pocket, muttering, "Justin, hey."
Unfortunately, Chad noticed, and-–like any sane resident of the 'Burg--is appalled. "Dude, why don't you have gloves? Your fingers are gonna fall off."
"Um," Justin shrugs as nonchalantly as possible while trying not to move. Moving causes loss of body heat, and he can't afford to lose any, unless he intends a promising career as a Popsicle. "Lost 'em." That's a total lie, he just forgot. They are probably somewhere around the loft, but it's not the sort of thing Justin thinks about, so he always forgets. Yet another thing for Brian to bitch at him about; Brian never forgets his gloves, which sets off another round of 'fucking Brian, fucking Pitts, fucking fuckity fuck,' in Justin's head until he realizes that the guy, no, Chad, is holding out a pair of knitted gloves.
"Here, take 'em. My mom knits me thousands of them." The hood has slipped back a little, and soft gray fur frames an earnest face.
Cautiously, Justin takes the gloves and slips into them, as Chad zips his backpack and returns it to his shoulder. The pleasure of wool, warm, soft wool, is enough to make his eyes flutter closed and his dick get hard. He breathes a sincere, "Thank you," and concentrates on not having a spontaneous orgasm right then and there.
Chad nods and smiles. "Like I said, my mom makes them. I think half of Pittsburgh is now wearing Mrs. Kowalski originals."
Smiling back is easy with warm hands. "Well, thank your mom for me."
"Will do." He looks away for a moment, giving Justin the chance to study him. He's cute. Tall, dark, more typically Pittsburghian than Justin is, but very cute and about Justin's age. Justin feels the slight ache of attraction in his crotch and thinks, 'why not?' as Chad looks up, catching his gaze, and smiles. "Um. Do you want to get coffee or something?"
Justin's smile turns into a grin. "Something. Definitely something."
* * *
Chad ushers them off the bus at the end of Frat Row, a neighborhood that Justin has always passed through with wistful bitterness. The old stone and brick houses seem windows to a world that his father tried to give him, and Justin kind of regrets that it wasn't a gift he could accept. He envies the normalcy of it, the parties and beer bongs and avoidable perils. Guys in fraternities don't get hit with baseball bats at their proms, their dads don't try to kill their girlfriends; guys in fraternities get cars when they graduate from high school, not comas, and there is never a question about tuition.
It fucking sucks. It makes Justin hate, makes him understand Brian's cold rage, if not how he expresses it. It's a twist in the belly, a flash of red behind the eyes, the urge to break something, break all the leaded windows, splash paint on the well-groomed lawns.
But Chad, definitely gay Chad, lives in one of these venerable buildings: weird. There's an old sofa on the broad porch, a hideous brown velour thing, with an industrial ashtray at each end, like the ones outside the drugstore. A slender black guy and a vaguely Asian girl, in matching fatigue pants, are huddled on the floral upholstery, smoking and shivering. Justin nods in passing, and the pair exhale at him, the guy checking Justin out so automatically that it's as impersonal as an MRI and Justin should know.
They see random other young adults on their way to Chad's room, Justin's gaydar pinging so wildly he's got to ask. "Is everyone who lives here gay?"
Chad gives him a 'duh!' look, but Justin's too busy looking around to be embarrassed. "Well, yeah. I mean, this is Stonewall House a.k.a. the LGBT Student Residence. We're At Risk Youth, you know." Chad gives a significant and highly ironic nod. "We also house the crisis center, the Alice B. Toklas Memorial Library," he opens the door to what turns out to be a large closet lined with books and a recliner, "and meeting space for pretty much every gay group on campus."
The student sounds pissed off about it, but Justin is frankly impressed. It never occurred to him that gay students could have a whole building for themselves, even though it suddenly seems obvious. If things had been different, Justin could have lived here, would have. If, if, if and the twist in the belly, again.
"I have a roommate, but he's in Australia for the semester," Chad explains, waving Justin into the small space. One side is cluttered, but tidy, obviously unused. The other is a disaster. Posters overlap with fliers on the wall; piles of clothes on the floor have merged into a solid sea of laundry; and the bed is invisible under a wadded heap of mixed linens. Brian would freak out. Justin loves it.
There's a stripe of yellow tape dividing the room. Justin laughs, pointing, "Is that?..."
Following the gesture, Chad nods as he strips off his outerwear. "Yeah, Mike-–the roommate--did that. I came home from class one day and he'd split the room right in half. Anything that crosses the border gets tossed out the window."
"Wow. Harsh."
Shrugging, Chad helps Justin with his coat and scarf. "Naw, I'm pretty clueless. This works." He grins and tosses Justin's stuff on the other bed. "But he's not here now," he says, wrapping cool fingers around the back of Justin's neck and pulling him forward. "So," he breathes, "something?"
Justin inhales the sweet scent of warm boy as he leans into the kiss. "Yeah. Something."
* * *
The sex is good, but then again, sex is always good. One thing about being with Brian is that, unless you're a complete idiot, you learn how to make sure the sex is good. Justin is not an idiot.
Beside him, Chad is gasping for breath, huffing into the pillow, so Justin pats him on the ass and gets off the bed, stepping carefully through the crap on the floor to get to his jacket for his smokes and cell-phone. Lighting a cigarette, he settles himself on the empty bed and dials Brian.
"Where the fuck are you?" greets him after one ring.
"Well, hello to you, too, dear. Did you have a nice day at the office?" Justin drawls, attempting smoke rings.
"No, I had a crappy day at the fucking office, which you would know, if you'd been here, doing the fucking interview." Brian wheezes unattractively into the phone and Justin snickers, not his own most attractive noise.
"Sorry." Brian snorts, forcing Justin to defend himself. "Okay, not really, but the bus was late, I mean really, really late, and I was cold, so I let some guy from CMU pick me up." He smiles, and knows it shows in his voice. "I'm warm, now, though."
"You are such a fucking slut," Brian purrs at him. "Jesus, Justin, you're going to make everyone think the old man can't take care of you."
Brian's voice makes Justin's dick stand up and wave "hi!" and he groans, rolling onto his stomach. "Yeah, well, the people have a right to know."
"Mmmm." That would be the sound of Brian getting bored. "So, are you coming over tonight or not?"
The body on the other bed twitches slightly, and Justin gives it a speculative glance. "How about I meet you at Babylon in a couple of hours?" he offers.
A soft chuckle trickles over the line, and dear God almighty, who wouldn't love the man behind that sound. "Why don't you bring your new friend?" asks Brian, a slicker brand of evil than the devil himself can boast.
"I don't think so. I want to fuck him, not kill him." Another wicked laugh creeps down Justin's spine, tickling his libido, and Brian hangs up.
"Who was that?" Chad croaks.
Justin drops his cigarette into a dusty pop can on the desk, and wanders back to Chad's bed, lightly straddling his new friend.
"Hey," he says, leaning down for a quick kiss. "Roll over."
14 - Palpable
Brian is holding up the bar when Justin finally makes it to Babylon, Michael and Emmett chatting a few hunks away. The tableau is as familiar as his own name; Justin has drawn it from memory more times than he can count, with special attention to Brian's 'look but don't touch' pose.
Justin watches Brian scan the club, his gaze pulling Justin through the crowd. When their eyes meet, it's always the same, a lock, a key, the click of absolute rightness. The universe comes into alignment just for them and Justin only exists when he's close enough to see himself reflected in Brian's eyes.
It's pathetic and codependent and definitely unhealthy as shit, but it doesn't stop them from leading with their lips, coming together like a circuit closing, pumping out enough voltage to light up the city for a week, a year, for as long as it lasts, eternity in an hour.
"Get a room," intrudes Michael, his adenoidal voice cutting between them like a buzz saw.
Brian turns his head and smirks at Mike, lewdly licking his lips, but Michael is too well-trained, too accustomed to Brian, to react. It would be annoying, if Justin wasn't too busy rolling his groin against Brian's, grinding out 'hi, how's it goin', missed you, fuck me, now, okay?'
"Where's your friend?" Brian asks, turning back to breathe the words into Justin's hair.
Justin grins, smug. "Recovering," he jokes, although it isn't a joke, not really. He doesn't trick often, so when he does he likes to make it count. He's sated and happy, the fine edge of anxiety softened. "He gave me his number," Justin offers, feeling the faint memory of shame staining the back of his neck, a reminder so constant that he no longer notices it.
There is only one rule between them: "No violin music." Simple on the surface, but filled with implication. No lying, no bullshit, no meaningless gestures, no whining, no drama.
Brian gets drama from every direction, from Ted and Emmett and Deb and especially from Michael; he doesn't need it from Justin, too. Won't accept it, would let Justin go--again--before he'd take it, and the last thing Justin wants is to be set loose, so..no drama.
Occasionally, Justin misses the drama. There are few things in life as satisfying as queening out, and throwing a huge-ass tantrum, so Justin has found other outlets, namely Michael, who always enjoys hearing another diatribe about Brian. It gives Mike the chance to say, "I told you so," to point and laugh, so it works, and neither of them spares a thought for Ben's reaction, even though he's usually right there, doing mysterious Ben things, when Justin needs to vent.
Brian pushes away from the bar, backing Justin onto the dance floor, into the press of bodies, yet one more thing Justin owes Brian. Brian made this safe for him, so Justin shows his gratitude the only way Brian will allow, in the nasty flex of body to body, dick to dick, and tongue to tongue. Justin can't imagine a time when he'll be finished giving thanks, stop thanking his poisoned Jesus for the gift of life.
Two trips to the backroom, a hit of E, and numerous drinks and dances later, Brian hauls a giggling Justin to the bar to say goodbye to the guys.
"Say goodnight, Justin," directs Brian, one hand down Justin's pants, the other moving his jaw.
"Goodnight, Justin," he repeats, obediently, through his laughter. Brian has his finger in a naughty place, playing the puppet game, which cracks Justin up even when he's not high. Right now, it's fucking hysterical, and Michael and Emmett dismiss the pair with a wave.
Justin wishes, in a vague way, that he'd asked Chad to go to Babylon with him. He likes showing Brian off, likes being the one to go home with him, but such impulses always backfire. Either Justin would have felt bad about abandoning Chad as soon as they walked in the door, or he would have felt really, really bad when Brian fucked him.
It took him a while to figure out, but Justin has his own rules, and those include not sharing his tricks. He doesn't mind the occasional threesome, or Brian's endless parade of ass, but he doesn't like Brian fucking his own fucks. It's just weird, and makes him feel like he's being used to get to Brian, which has happened. Once. Unpredictably, Brian wasn't smug about it. More like ballistically pissed.
Brian can be sweet that way, a thought that warns Justin to be careful, that he's high and there is no lifeguard on duty. Extremely high.
Instead of talking, and possibly vomiting his possessiveness all over a slightly skittish boyfriend, Justin sucks Brian off on the way home. Brian has amazing control; hence Justin's purpose is to make Brian pull over, a feat he's accomplished all of once. Justin would be mowing down pedestrians, swerving onto the sidewalk and into lampposts, but Brian is perfectly calm, master of the turn signal, losing control only when they are at the loft. Once they're parked, Brian hits the seat lever, slamming backwards into a full recline as he shoves Justin's head down, fingers clenched in hair.
Brian jerks and grunts and it's so good, so fucking good, Brian in his throat, in his brain, in his gut and his dick and his life, in his sex-saturated out-of-body experience. The smell of Brian, the taste and feel of him, and if Justin had anything left to give he'd be shooting in his pants when Brian comes.
Brian, Brian, Brian, loops the obsessive tape in his head. It's partly the drug, partly the alcohol, but mostly, it's Justin and the deep-rooted ache he can't explain, that Brian can't acknowledge.
They fit, they just do, in a way that defies the laws of man and nature, and each has sacrificed all for this craving. Sacrificed and rebuilt by slow degrees, intertwined as ivy on a grave.
Justin tastes Brian on his tongue and dies a little, tastes the wine and is reborn. Brian, he sings, Brian, in excelsius Deo.
15 - Hegemony
Brian's day begins before the sun rises, before Justin's alarm. He rises because he burns to do something, anything, and he has to do it right fucking now. At some point, time stopped; every day is the same day, every moment the same moment, and he can't stop moving.
He dresses, puts on a pair of shoes that cost as much as the treadmill he never bothered to replace, and sets the alarm as he leaves. Down the stairs, through the glass doors, onto the street, soles crunching on remnants of salt and cinder from the last snow.
What started as a concession to future poverty has become defending his demesne. When Brian runs, he owns these streets, they are his: he took them, made them his own, and he must keep them safe.
It would be laughable, hubris, if they hadn't made him do it. Not some impersonal they, the they of Bob Dylan tunes and cafe anarchists, but the specific they that make Brian Kinney do things. That make him want to keep them safe.
Be safe. Take care of number one. Except for maybe some stupid kid and his crazy mom. Best friends, forever. Mikey's someone, his number one. I don't care, I love him. And on and on and on, until Brian knows the safe-keeping of every one of them, from Justin and Michael, to Hunter and his little hustler friends, to Vic's boyfriend's sister's new baby, for fuck's sake, and when did it all get so fucking complicated?
They. They. They. They made him a family man. They made him a superhero. They made him. They did it all, and it only got this complicated because Brian failed.
Brian runs in city-sized circles, up the streets and around the blocks, past the Diner, the hustlers and street queens coming in after their last tricks. Tuesdays and Thursdays, Hunter is there, behind the counter, and behind him the ghosts of all the boys who've stood behind that counter, smiling and pouring coffee, offering warmth and a place to sit.
He runs past the gym that canceled his membership. Sometimes he sees Ben through the window, fighting for an extra minute, and Brian wants to stop and tell him that it's all the same day, but he doesn't have the time.
Darkened clubs, newsstands rattling open, a woman in a robe walking a small dog. She blushes to see another person on the street, gives Brian a self-conscious wave. There are small patches of crunchy snow, crusted black with coal dust, on the sidewalks, and by the time Brian has run away home, his sweatpants are filthy and dripping from the knees down. His shoes are ruined, and he smiles grimly at them, at the thought of a dozen pair just like these, in his closet, waiting to be ruined.
It's all the same day. A faint beep-beep beep-beep from the alarm as he enters, then the coffee maker hissing and sputtering to itself, the loft barely lighted by streetlamps, mimicking dawn through the drapes. Another morning, like the one yesterday, and the one before that, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and he turns his gaze to a mound of tangled sheets wheezing in his bed. It's all the same day, man, it's all the same fucking day, and there's a reason he doesn't speak before coffee.
Pouring himself a cup of ambition, Brian grimaces into the cup: Dolly Parton, now, Christ on a crutch. He looks up at a noise from the bedroom, but Justin is only stealing the other pillow. Asleep, he's greedy and avaricious, an animal in a den, and Brian watches as he finishes off that first pot, cup after cup of liquid burn.
Another day older and deeper in shit, fuck, stop! Starting another pot of coffee, he changes his sweats for a pair of jeans, before his brain can produce more hits of the '80s to torture him. Brian believes in God because God made drugs so that people could forget the '80s, which reminds him that he's getting low on milk, juice and chronic, and it's time to send the houseboy shopping.
Cup in hand, he steps into the bedroom, onto the platform, the mattress, looms over a sprawled starfish of indigo linen, a painting, Boy in Blue. Brian works a toe under a fold of sheet until he finds skin, pokes and prods until he finds what he's seeking. The arch of his foot fits along the camber of Justin's ass and Brian presses down slowly, snickering at Justin's unconscious attempt to wriggle away from the effect of a morning boner and a full bladder in opposition. He puts a little more weight on that foot, smiling when Justin squeals and his hand emerges from the covers to thrash around for something to hit.
Peering down into the face now scowling back up at him, Brian bats his eyelashes and removes his foot. "Oh, I'm sorry, Sunshine. Did I wake you?" he coos, and takes a loud sip of coffee as he steps smoothly back and onto the floor.
Justin grunts something that could be creatively interpreted as "Bastard," and rolls off the bed, stomping into the bathroom: same as yesterday, same as tomorrow. Brian sets his cup down and follows.
After they shower, Lindsay will drop off Mel and the kids. Mike will stop by to talk comics with Justin. There will be phone calls and press releases, the endless hum of the fax. Lunch and dinner, an argument about the corkscrew, followed by a real screw, and Brian will never be grown up enough to not smile at that. Heh, you said screw, so he smiles. Shut up, Mikey.
Tomorrow he will wake into today and run towards it.
* Fin *