(no subject)
Fic #07/50 for my fanfic50 table
Prompt: 025. Enough
Title: Wuthering Heights
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters: Brian/Justin
Timeframe: post-513
Genre: Angst, Romance, POV
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: Justin comes to mend.
Disclaimer: Cowlip owns, I don't. Title belongs to um, Emily Bronte, I guess. :D
Notes: This is a sequel to [ Your Average Byronic Hero ], please read that one before continuing here.
Wuthering Heights
by sakesushimaki
He really thinks you don’t know. Really thinks that you wouldn’t be able to see through his bullshit.
He’s an idiot.
He had your name put on a couple of the official papers, you’re - as ridiculous as it sounds - a co-proprietor. You’ve been checking up with the real estate agency.
He could’ve at least taken one of his suit bags with him if he wants to be believable. Business trip, yeah right. She’s gotten better over the years, but as far as personal matters go, Cynthia is still a terrible liar.
Maybe he wants to be found.
The GPS hasn’t instructed anything other than follow the course of the road for a while and as you look at the taximeter, you wonder if you really have that much cash on you. It would suck to have Brian fork over a hundred bucks to the driver first thing upon arrival.
For a moment you think he won’t answer the door. But he does.
Even Brian looks tiny in the giant entryway. He was crazy to buy this house.
You fight down all instincts, urges, and just stare him down. “You gonna let me in or what? There’s a rainstorm going on out here, if you haven’t noticed.”
He steps back mere millimetres, but it’s really all the invitation you need. You stand together in the dark entryway and it suddenly doesn’t feel so big anymore.
A few strands of hair have fallen across his forehead and you have to fight the itch in your fingers. He looks at you with eyes that scream misery and longing, and you can’t remember if you’ve ever seen these things this far on the surface.
You had a plan, you really did. And it was a great plan. But for Christ’s sake you can’t remember it.
He sighs. “Justi-”
“Remember when I said that I can’t go on this way?”
That something that flickers in his eyes rams itself painfully into your chest. For a moment you can’t breathe.
He nods.
“Remember when I said that you shouldn’t conclude?”
He blinks and you don’t know how to proceed.
You look down and try to make peace with the fact that that brilliant plan of yours won’t ever resurface.
“You want something to drink?” He turns away and rounds a corner before you can even process the action.
Panic slices through you. You follow, quickly sliding off your drenched jacket, not caring where it falls.
The room looks entirely different from how you have it memorized. There’s no fire crackling, there’s no warm light. Instead there’s coldness, and the suddenly flaring lightning outside makes you lose your last bit of aplomb.
“Brian, I…”
“This…” He gestures around the room, then between you two. “Is exactly why I told you not to come.” Two fingers are smoothed over his lips as he looks down on his feet. “We don’t want this.”
And then you remember what you want. Admittedly, over the years, there’ve been countless things you have wanted or at least thought you did. As ambitions changed and goals modified, so did your little game of wanting and wishing. But in that game, no matter at which stage, there has been one constant, one nonvariable thing since you were seventeen.
You suddenly feel old, wise, and your head feels clear. “This is not us bitching around the issue.” For once, it isn’t. Not at all. “This is me telling you what I want.”
“Which is?”
“I want you back.”
There, you’ve said it. And if he doesn’t want you back, then you’ll walk out of here, head held high. You’ll know that you tried, that you took a chance. And you’ll know for certain at least. Everything is better than this limbo you’ve been in for months now.
“I’m not…” He turns and looks out the window.
The storm is still going strong outside and for a quick moment you think about how long it feels since you’ve heard real trees wobbling and quaking in the wind.
“You haven’t lost me.”
::
As the rain continues to beat angrily against the windows, he moves into you.
You open up for him, and it hurts like every night you’ve spent wishing to be here. You’re open, you’re cracking.
But this time, you’re filled.
You close your eyes as you dig your fingers into his back, his ass, close your legs around him. You wind your arms through his, press him down and into you.
A huff, deep, tortured, and his body drops heavily on top of you. His forehead, damp and hot, is pressed against yours. His eyes are scrunched shut, his eyebrows furrowed, and you know that he’s been hurting even more.
You want to kiss him, but as you tilt your head up, he moves away. His mouth follows your jaw line instead, moist, hot, lingering on those spots on your neck that no one else every finds. You welcome the pull as his fingers move and clasp in your hair.
His hips start to move then, shallowly, slowly, and you feel it in every nerve.
He moans and breaks above you, and finally lets you kiss him when you both come.
You don’t stop for a long time.
::
You wake to aftermath, but all you feel is calm. It’s sticky and hot, and everything that is supposed to be uncomfortable, but you wouldn’t know.
After a while, Brian starts to move on top of you and gets up to take a piss. When he returns a minute later, he lies down again, nudging himself back into the exact same position as before - half on top of you, face pressed into your neck - and sleeps. You’re not sure if he ever really woke up.
As you lie there, battling sleep because you are not willing to miss any more seconds, you realize that you want this. All of it.
You realize that you want this ridiculous house that is so totally not you and him but that you will make it. You want what you have together, complete with stupid fights and dysfunctions, and you want to figure everything else out as you go.
You want him back. All of him.
He sighs and presses his mouth along your shoulder. You stroke his hip and breathe him in.
As you fill your senses with him, you finally start to look around the room. There’s a flask of your favorite cologne on a drawer, a couple of your favorite music albums stacked neatly by the CD-player. And throughout the room, random sketches and doodles, all formerly resident in the old sketch pads you’ve left behind so carelessly.
He’d kept you with him.
Slowly creeping up over the window sill, the sun starts warming your face, and you know that he really meant it.
You hadn’t lost him at all.
Prompt: 025. Enough
Title: Wuthering Heights
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters: Brian/Justin
Timeframe: post-513
Genre: Angst, Romance, POV
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1,000
Summary: Justin comes to mend.
Disclaimer: Cowlip owns, I don't. Title belongs to um, Emily Bronte, I guess. :D
Notes: This is a sequel to [ Your Average Byronic Hero ], please read that one before continuing here.
Wuthering Heights
by sakesushimaki
He really thinks you don’t know. Really thinks that you wouldn’t be able to see through his bullshit.
He’s an idiot.
He had your name put on a couple of the official papers, you’re - as ridiculous as it sounds - a co-proprietor. You’ve been checking up with the real estate agency.
He could’ve at least taken one of his suit bags with him if he wants to be believable. Business trip, yeah right. She’s gotten better over the years, but as far as personal matters go, Cynthia is still a terrible liar.
Maybe he wants to be found.
The GPS hasn’t instructed anything other than follow the course of the road for a while and as you look at the taximeter, you wonder if you really have that much cash on you. It would suck to have Brian fork over a hundred bucks to the driver first thing upon arrival.
For a moment you think he won’t answer the door. But he does.
Even Brian looks tiny in the giant entryway. He was crazy to buy this house.
You fight down all instincts, urges, and just stare him down. “You gonna let me in or what? There’s a rainstorm going on out here, if you haven’t noticed.”
He steps back mere millimetres, but it’s really all the invitation you need. You stand together in the dark entryway and it suddenly doesn’t feel so big anymore.
A few strands of hair have fallen across his forehead and you have to fight the itch in your fingers. He looks at you with eyes that scream misery and longing, and you can’t remember if you’ve ever seen these things this far on the surface.
You had a plan, you really did. And it was a great plan. But for Christ’s sake you can’t remember it.
He sighs. “Justi-”
“Remember when I said that I can’t go on this way?”
That something that flickers in his eyes rams itself painfully into your chest. For a moment you can’t breathe.
He nods.
“Remember when I said that you shouldn’t conclude?”
He blinks and you don’t know how to proceed.
You look down and try to make peace with the fact that that brilliant plan of yours won’t ever resurface.
“You want something to drink?” He turns away and rounds a corner before you can even process the action.
Panic slices through you. You follow, quickly sliding off your drenched jacket, not caring where it falls.
The room looks entirely different from how you have it memorized. There’s no fire crackling, there’s no warm light. Instead there’s coldness, and the suddenly flaring lightning outside makes you lose your last bit of aplomb.
“Brian, I…”
“This…” He gestures around the room, then between you two. “Is exactly why I told you not to come.” Two fingers are smoothed over his lips as he looks down on his feet. “We don’t want this.”
And then you remember what you want. Admittedly, over the years, there’ve been countless things you have wanted or at least thought you did. As ambitions changed and goals modified, so did your little game of wanting and wishing. But in that game, no matter at which stage, there has been one constant, one nonvariable thing since you were seventeen.
You suddenly feel old, wise, and your head feels clear. “This is not us bitching around the issue.” For once, it isn’t. Not at all. “This is me telling you what I want.”
“Which is?”
“I want you back.”
There, you’ve said it. And if he doesn’t want you back, then you’ll walk out of here, head held high. You’ll know that you tried, that you took a chance. And you’ll know for certain at least. Everything is better than this limbo you’ve been in for months now.
“I’m not…” He turns and looks out the window.
The storm is still going strong outside and for a quick moment you think about how long it feels since you’ve heard real trees wobbling and quaking in the wind.
“You haven’t lost me.”
::
As the rain continues to beat angrily against the windows, he moves into you.
You open up for him, and it hurts like every night you’ve spent wishing to be here. You’re open, you’re cracking.
But this time, you’re filled.
You close your eyes as you dig your fingers into his back, his ass, close your legs around him. You wind your arms through his, press him down and into you.
A huff, deep, tortured, and his body drops heavily on top of you. His forehead, damp and hot, is pressed against yours. His eyes are scrunched shut, his eyebrows furrowed, and you know that he’s been hurting even more.
You want to kiss him, but as you tilt your head up, he moves away. His mouth follows your jaw line instead, moist, hot, lingering on those spots on your neck that no one else every finds. You welcome the pull as his fingers move and clasp in your hair.
His hips start to move then, shallowly, slowly, and you feel it in every nerve.
He moans and breaks above you, and finally lets you kiss him when you both come.
You don’t stop for a long time.
::
You wake to aftermath, but all you feel is calm. It’s sticky and hot, and everything that is supposed to be uncomfortable, but you wouldn’t know.
After a while, Brian starts to move on top of you and gets up to take a piss. When he returns a minute later, he lies down again, nudging himself back into the exact same position as before - half on top of you, face pressed into your neck - and sleeps. You’re not sure if he ever really woke up.
As you lie there, battling sleep because you are not willing to miss any more seconds, you realize that you want this. All of it.
You realize that you want this ridiculous house that is so totally not you and him but that you will make it. You want what you have together, complete with stupid fights and dysfunctions, and you want to figure everything else out as you go.
You want him back. All of him.
He sighs and presses his mouth along your shoulder. You stroke his hip and breathe him in.
As you fill your senses with him, you finally start to look around the room. There’s a flask of your favorite cologne on a drawer, a couple of your favorite music albums stacked neatly by the CD-player. And throughout the room, random sketches and doodles, all formerly resident in the old sketch pads you’ve left behind so carelessly.
He’d kept you with him.
Slowly creeping up over the window sill, the sun starts warming your face, and you know that he really meant it.
You hadn’t lost him at all.