Fic: QAF "Back to the Beginning" (9/9)
Title: Back to the Beginning (9/9)
Rating: R
Summary: Justin tells Brian how things are going to be.
Disclaimer: The characters of QAF belong to CowLip and Showtime. Unfortunately.
Earlier installments: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight
The usual spread of food and booze was at Claire’s house after the funeral, Brian refusing to host any such gathering, and forcing his sister for once to do something, or else there would have been no wake at all. But to call the cluster of people gathered there a ‘wake’ was a lie, Brian insisted, because the food was horrible, nobody told off-color jokes about the deceased, and the only booze his sister had was Wild Turkey or some equally lame cheap bourbon. No self-respecting Irishman would be caught dead at such a wake, he joked. Brian preferred his drunks to at least be the result of downing high quality alcohol, and he decided they ought to go back to the loft to tie one on there. Besides, he knew that none of the Liberty Avenue gang would feel they could leave until he departed, so in a way, he was doing everyone a favor.
Brian and Justin stayed just long enough at Claire’s house to be in good taste, but they were the first ones to pick up their coats and head for the front door. The air between brother and sister was thick with many unsaid angry words, and Brian had no stomach for being around his sister’s two brats longer than necessary. As they left, he could see Reverend Butterfield huddled with his sister in a corner, doubtless doing all he could to comfort the blotchy-faced woman. Brian swore to himself that he’d give Theodore the paperwork on his mother’s estate first thing Monday morning and let him sort it out. After all, that’s what accountants were good for. Right?
++++++++++++
Once they were back at the loft, with a few glasses of alcohol to fortify them, Justin tried asking a few times about Brian’s mother. To offer Brian a chance to talk, if he wanted to, Justin reasoned, but Brian only gave him stunted answers that all but shouted ‘I don’t want to talk about her.’ Justin gave up, and the conversation turned away from biological families to those who mattered more. They talked about the diner, Debbie and her cop. Michael. Daphne. Anybody except Joan.
Several hours later, after they’d emptied the Chivas Regal and were working their way through a fifth of JB, Brian asked the question he’d been shying away from for the past three days.
“So, Sunshine, when’s your flight back to New York?” The words slurred gently, so that he almost said Shunshine. Brian was sprawled on the white fur rug, coat and tie discarded, shoes off and hair partly stuck up on one side. He raised his head to look over his shoulder at the blond man stretched out on the sectional sofa, who had long since abandoned his suit for a more comfortable pair of jeans and t-shirt. Brian hadn’t made it back to his closet before he’d started pouring drinks for the two of them, so he was still partly in funeral garb.
“Sunday night. I told the folks at work I’d be back on Monday,” he answered, taking another sip from the tumbler he was holding. Justin’s hand pushed down the hair sticking up awkwardly from Brian’s head, then he let his fingers stay there, rubbing the side of his lover’s head. Brian seemed to lean into the touch, which made Justin smile faintly.
“Okay.” The word came out flat, as if Brian had just heard a weather report for three more inches of snow, but he couldn’t fool Justin, anymore than he could fool himself. Justin knew that Brian would show up for work Monday morning bleary-eyed because he’d needed another few rounds of Scotch to get to sleep once the younger man left town. And I’m through with that shit. You shouldn't have to do that, because of me.
“I can think of a better question you should ask,” Justin offered, realizing that he’d now committed himself and couldn’t go back. When Brian asked, everything would change. And instead of being terrified, he knew it was the right decision.
Brian sensed that he ought to be looking at Justin when he asked, and he turned halfway around, seeming to sober up as he took in the look on Justin’s face. Too serious. Way too serious
“If you’re gonna make me give all my answers in the form of a question, I’m cutting you off from those game shows you’ve started watching. What question should I be asking?” Brian’s eyes had suddenly turned wary, and he was watching Justin’s every move.
Justin couldn’t help squirming on the couch, just a little. He gazed down into the now-empty glass he held, then looked up into hazel eyes that were going very dark. “When is my lease up in New York?”
Brian didn’t have to ask because he already knew. April 1, April Fool’s Day. It had been a big joke between them when Justin signed the lease two years ago, after he’d moved out of his first shithole apartment in Alphabet City for a slightly better one in Hell’s Kitchen. “Five weeks,” Brian answered, his brows knitting together and his eyes narrowing, pinning down Justin because he knew there was more to it than a simple date on a lease.
Justin nodded. “Five weeks.” But he couldn’t seem to look Brian in the eyes any longer, and he went back to memorizing the shape of his empty glass.
Brian took a breath and said, “Okay, what is it? Are your Pottery Barn-challenged neighbors complaining about the paint fumes? Did you get mugged again?” He’d been furious when Justin got mugged coming home from a club at three in the morning, but he’d be damned if he let the guy stay someplace where he was getting mugged on a regular basis, if that’s what this was all about. "You didn't tell me you got mugged again. Asshole."
“I didn’t get mugged, Brian. And the neighbors are fine. Too loud, but fine.” Justin couldn’t help smiling, seeing where Brian’s imagination had dragged him, so far off target that it was laughable.
Now the confusion was evident on Brian’s face. “So? So what’s up with your lease? Are they kicking you out so they can demolish the building? It would probably raise the property value,” he retorted.
He honestly doesn’t get it. Something about the whole situation made Justin’s smile even bigger. “I’ve made up my mind. I can’t paint there.”
“God help us. The twink’s made a decision. So whatthefuck, you’re moving again?” Brian was busy envisioning an entire weekend spent shifting paint cans and canvases from one fourth-floor walkup apartment to another. Probably in Harlem, just to freak his mother out even more. Brian could just imagine the long talk he’d have to have with Jennifer on the drive back to Pittsburgh; the last time, she’d nearly gone catatonic when they carried boxes into the building Justin proposed to call ‘home’ because she saw discarded needles in a trash bin next to the front stoop. Brian practically had to pick her up and strap her into the car to get her back to Pennsylvania.
“Yeah. I’m moving again. I’ve got most of the stuff in boxes already, and the three biggest canvases are going to the gallery until they sell. I gave the super my notice two weeks ago, and they’ve already got somebody lined up to take my place when I move.”
Brian didn’t say much for a moment, taking another swig from his glass before asking, “So, you’ve got a new place picked out? Or are you still looking?” He looked away from Justin so that he could reach for the silver box on the table, getting out rolling paper and some high quality weed for another joint.
“It’s picked out. But I have to negotiate with my new landlord some more. He’s…he can be difficult.” Justin was choosing his words carefully.
“What’s his problem? Doesn’t like artists? Or your seriously questionable taste in music?” Brian smirked, his tongue dabbing the edge of the rolling paper to put the finishing touches on the reefer before he stuck it between his lips and lit the end. He took a long drag, then turned to look back at Justin, the smoke slowly rolling upwards as he exhaled.
“He seems to tolerate artists and only rants occasionally about my music. The problem is one of …location.” With that, Justin looked directly at Brian, knowing that he wasn’t as drunk or as stoned as he appeared to be. He could work it out.
“Location.” Brian took another hit, passing the joint to Justin, their fingers meeting for the briefest touch as it moved from one man to the other. The considering look he gave Justin for a moment slowly turned into prolonged silence, as Justin’s eyes never left Brian’s. They both knew what he was talking about, even if Justin didn’t say the words.
Brian ran a few fingers through his hair, then he got up from the rug, gathered his discarded clothes, and walked a tad unsteadily towards the bedroom. The sounds of his closet door opening, followed by the rustle of hangers and clothing being shifted, were all that Justin could hear from the other room.
You’re not fucking giving me the silent treatment. Justin stood up from the sofa and followed Brian into the darkened bedroom, taking a seat on the bed while he watched Brian strip out of his shirt, slacks and socks. “Look. I’ve got to paint where my best ideas come from, where my heart is, and every other canvas I’ve painted for the past three years has been some variation on one theme: ’I miss Brian.’ I need new material or the galleries will stop hanging my stuff.” Justin stubbed out the joint in the ashtray next to the bed, bracing himself for the anger he was sure would come next.
Brian rounded on him, hazel eyes blazing with fury and his voice raised in anger. “So, you’re quitting. Coming back, tail between your legs like the whiny little faggot you are, because you're feeling sorry for yourself? Or sorry for me?" The indirect reference to the day’s events wasn’t lost on Justin, but the dark-haired man wasn’t finished yet. "You expect me to be here waiting with open arms? No fucking way.” The taller man had leaned in to emphasize his words as he yelled at Justin, but now he pulled back from the bed and turned away. He slammed through the door into the bathroom, which was followed almost immediately by sounds of Brian closing the shower door and water hissing through the pipes.
Justin set his jaw and marched into the bathroom, opening the shower door and walking in to the spray with all his clothes on. For an instant, surprise flared in Brian’s eyes, which widened as Justin took the soap out of his hand and then pushed him against the shower wall, pinning him there with his body. The blond man didn’t care: he’d made up his mind two weeks ago and now it was crunch time, the time for telling truths and to hell with what Brian-fucking-Kinney thought he should do.
“I’m telling you how it’s going to be, Brian. In three years, I’ve been in four group shows, and I got the one-man show last fall. But I’m repeating myself; all the work’s the same, and a gallery owner called me on it in January when he rejected my latest stuff. And you know what? He was right. I. Fucking. Miss. You. It bleeds out of every canvas I paint. You’ve seen it yourself.”
Brian’s eyes were riveted to Justin’s face, for once, silenced by the torrent of words flooding out of the younger man. He'd seen it, sure, but Brian had kept his thoughts to himself when it came to Justin’s work, certain that his lover would move on to painting new subjects, find some other inspiration eventually.
Apparently not.
While Brian wasn’t saying anything, Justin kept talking. “I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing this for me, you arrogant bastard. I want to paint something new for a change, and it isn’t going to happen if I stay in New York while you’re here. Coming back to Pittsburgh isn’t failure, Brian. Staying in New York and painting the same damned thing 300 times in a row would be.”
Then Justin laced his fingers behind Brian’s head and pulled him down for a lingering kiss, the one tried and true method for shutting Brian up when all others failed. Kissing Brian had been Justin’s final plan, when he’d played out this scene in his mind back in Manhattan.
As their lips slid over slippery skin, joining and rejoining in well-known patterns, Justin felt his wet shirt being tugged up by the hem, then Brian’s hands unbuttoning his jeans. They dropped to the floor of the shower stall with a soaked thud, as Brian muttered against his skin, “I can’t seem to get rid of you. Even when it’s for your own good.” Through their kiss, Justin could tell the taller man was smiling.
As he slid his hands around Brian’s waist to pull him close, the slide of cock against cock was making them both harden. Through the streaming water, Justin's tongue licked the side of the other man’s neck, which drew a breathy groan from Brian. Justin answered him with, “You may think we're back where we started, but we're not. Today’s the day we stop repeating ourselves.” Brian had the good sense not to contradict him.
-Fin-
Rating: R
Summary: Justin tells Brian how things are going to be.
Disclaimer: The characters of QAF belong to CowLip and Showtime. Unfortunately.
Earlier installments: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight
The usual spread of food and booze was at Claire’s house after the funeral, Brian refusing to host any such gathering, and forcing his sister for once to do something, or else there would have been no wake at all. But to call the cluster of people gathered there a ‘wake’ was a lie, Brian insisted, because the food was horrible, nobody told off-color jokes about the deceased, and the only booze his sister had was Wild Turkey or some equally lame cheap bourbon. No self-respecting Irishman would be caught dead at such a wake, he joked. Brian preferred his drunks to at least be the result of downing high quality alcohol, and he decided they ought to go back to the loft to tie one on there. Besides, he knew that none of the Liberty Avenue gang would feel they could leave until he departed, so in a way, he was doing everyone a favor.
Brian and Justin stayed just long enough at Claire’s house to be in good taste, but they were the first ones to pick up their coats and head for the front door. The air between brother and sister was thick with many unsaid angry words, and Brian had no stomach for being around his sister’s two brats longer than necessary. As they left, he could see Reverend Butterfield huddled with his sister in a corner, doubtless doing all he could to comfort the blotchy-faced woman. Brian swore to himself that he’d give Theodore the paperwork on his mother’s estate first thing Monday morning and let him sort it out. After all, that’s what accountants were good for. Right?
++++++++++++
Once they were back at the loft, with a few glasses of alcohol to fortify them, Justin tried asking a few times about Brian’s mother. To offer Brian a chance to talk, if he wanted to, Justin reasoned, but Brian only gave him stunted answers that all but shouted ‘I don’t want to talk about her.’ Justin gave up, and the conversation turned away from biological families to those who mattered more. They talked about the diner, Debbie and her cop. Michael. Daphne. Anybody except Joan.
Several hours later, after they’d emptied the Chivas Regal and were working their way through a fifth of JB, Brian asked the question he’d been shying away from for the past three days.
“So, Sunshine, when’s your flight back to New York?” The words slurred gently, so that he almost said Shunshine. Brian was sprawled on the white fur rug, coat and tie discarded, shoes off and hair partly stuck up on one side. He raised his head to look over his shoulder at the blond man stretched out on the sectional sofa, who had long since abandoned his suit for a more comfortable pair of jeans and t-shirt. Brian hadn’t made it back to his closet before he’d started pouring drinks for the two of them, so he was still partly in funeral garb.
“Sunday night. I told the folks at work I’d be back on Monday,” he answered, taking another sip from the tumbler he was holding. Justin’s hand pushed down the hair sticking up awkwardly from Brian’s head, then he let his fingers stay there, rubbing the side of his lover’s head. Brian seemed to lean into the touch, which made Justin smile faintly.
“Okay.” The word came out flat, as if Brian had just heard a weather report for three more inches of snow, but he couldn’t fool Justin, anymore than he could fool himself. Justin knew that Brian would show up for work Monday morning bleary-eyed because he’d needed another few rounds of Scotch to get to sleep once the younger man left town. And I’m through with that shit. You shouldn't have to do that, because of me.
“I can think of a better question you should ask,” Justin offered, realizing that he’d now committed himself and couldn’t go back. When Brian asked, everything would change. And instead of being terrified, he knew it was the right decision.
Brian sensed that he ought to be looking at Justin when he asked, and he turned halfway around, seeming to sober up as he took in the look on Justin’s face. Too serious. Way too serious
“If you’re gonna make me give all my answers in the form of a question, I’m cutting you off from those game shows you’ve started watching. What question should I be asking?” Brian’s eyes had suddenly turned wary, and he was watching Justin’s every move.
Justin couldn’t help squirming on the couch, just a little. He gazed down into the now-empty glass he held, then looked up into hazel eyes that were going very dark. “When is my lease up in New York?”
Brian didn’t have to ask because he already knew. April 1, April Fool’s Day. It had been a big joke between them when Justin signed the lease two years ago, after he’d moved out of his first shithole apartment in Alphabet City for a slightly better one in Hell’s Kitchen. “Five weeks,” Brian answered, his brows knitting together and his eyes narrowing, pinning down Justin because he knew there was more to it than a simple date on a lease.
Justin nodded. “Five weeks.” But he couldn’t seem to look Brian in the eyes any longer, and he went back to memorizing the shape of his empty glass.
Brian took a breath and said, “Okay, what is it? Are your Pottery Barn-challenged neighbors complaining about the paint fumes? Did you get mugged again?” He’d been furious when Justin got mugged coming home from a club at three in the morning, but he’d be damned if he let the guy stay someplace where he was getting mugged on a regular basis, if that’s what this was all about. "You didn't tell me you got mugged again. Asshole."
“I didn’t get mugged, Brian. And the neighbors are fine. Too loud, but fine.” Justin couldn’t help smiling, seeing where Brian’s imagination had dragged him, so far off target that it was laughable.
Now the confusion was evident on Brian’s face. “So? So what’s up with your lease? Are they kicking you out so they can demolish the building? It would probably raise the property value,” he retorted.
He honestly doesn’t get it. Something about the whole situation made Justin’s smile even bigger. “I’ve made up my mind. I can’t paint there.”
“God help us. The twink’s made a decision. So whatthefuck, you’re moving again?” Brian was busy envisioning an entire weekend spent shifting paint cans and canvases from one fourth-floor walkup apartment to another. Probably in Harlem, just to freak his mother out even more. Brian could just imagine the long talk he’d have to have with Jennifer on the drive back to Pittsburgh; the last time, she’d nearly gone catatonic when they carried boxes into the building Justin proposed to call ‘home’ because she saw discarded needles in a trash bin next to the front stoop. Brian practically had to pick her up and strap her into the car to get her back to Pennsylvania.
“Yeah. I’m moving again. I’ve got most of the stuff in boxes already, and the three biggest canvases are going to the gallery until they sell. I gave the super my notice two weeks ago, and they’ve already got somebody lined up to take my place when I move.”
Brian didn’t say much for a moment, taking another swig from his glass before asking, “So, you’ve got a new place picked out? Or are you still looking?” He looked away from Justin so that he could reach for the silver box on the table, getting out rolling paper and some high quality weed for another joint.
“It’s picked out. But I have to negotiate with my new landlord some more. He’s…he can be difficult.” Justin was choosing his words carefully.
“What’s his problem? Doesn’t like artists? Or your seriously questionable taste in music?” Brian smirked, his tongue dabbing the edge of the rolling paper to put the finishing touches on the reefer before he stuck it between his lips and lit the end. He took a long drag, then turned to look back at Justin, the smoke slowly rolling upwards as he exhaled.
“He seems to tolerate artists and only rants occasionally about my music. The problem is one of …location.” With that, Justin looked directly at Brian, knowing that he wasn’t as drunk or as stoned as he appeared to be. He could work it out.
“Location.” Brian took another hit, passing the joint to Justin, their fingers meeting for the briefest touch as it moved from one man to the other. The considering look he gave Justin for a moment slowly turned into prolonged silence, as Justin’s eyes never left Brian’s. They both knew what he was talking about, even if Justin didn’t say the words.
Brian ran a few fingers through his hair, then he got up from the rug, gathered his discarded clothes, and walked a tad unsteadily towards the bedroom. The sounds of his closet door opening, followed by the rustle of hangers and clothing being shifted, were all that Justin could hear from the other room.
You’re not fucking giving me the silent treatment. Justin stood up from the sofa and followed Brian into the darkened bedroom, taking a seat on the bed while he watched Brian strip out of his shirt, slacks and socks. “Look. I’ve got to paint where my best ideas come from, where my heart is, and every other canvas I’ve painted for the past three years has been some variation on one theme: ’I miss Brian.’ I need new material or the galleries will stop hanging my stuff.” Justin stubbed out the joint in the ashtray next to the bed, bracing himself for the anger he was sure would come next.
Brian rounded on him, hazel eyes blazing with fury and his voice raised in anger. “So, you’re quitting. Coming back, tail between your legs like the whiny little faggot you are, because you're feeling sorry for yourself? Or sorry for me?" The indirect reference to the day’s events wasn’t lost on Justin, but the dark-haired man wasn’t finished yet. "You expect me to be here waiting with open arms? No fucking way.” The taller man had leaned in to emphasize his words as he yelled at Justin, but now he pulled back from the bed and turned away. He slammed through the door into the bathroom, which was followed almost immediately by sounds of Brian closing the shower door and water hissing through the pipes.
Justin set his jaw and marched into the bathroom, opening the shower door and walking in to the spray with all his clothes on. For an instant, surprise flared in Brian’s eyes, which widened as Justin took the soap out of his hand and then pushed him against the shower wall, pinning him there with his body. The blond man didn’t care: he’d made up his mind two weeks ago and now it was crunch time, the time for telling truths and to hell with what Brian-fucking-Kinney thought he should do.
“I’m telling you how it’s going to be, Brian. In three years, I’ve been in four group shows, and I got the one-man show last fall. But I’m repeating myself; all the work’s the same, and a gallery owner called me on it in January when he rejected my latest stuff. And you know what? He was right. I. Fucking. Miss. You. It bleeds out of every canvas I paint. You’ve seen it yourself.”
Brian’s eyes were riveted to Justin’s face, for once, silenced by the torrent of words flooding out of the younger man. He'd seen it, sure, but Brian had kept his thoughts to himself when it came to Justin’s work, certain that his lover would move on to painting new subjects, find some other inspiration eventually.
Apparently not.
While Brian wasn’t saying anything, Justin kept talking. “I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing this for me, you arrogant bastard. I want to paint something new for a change, and it isn’t going to happen if I stay in New York while you’re here. Coming back to Pittsburgh isn’t failure, Brian. Staying in New York and painting the same damned thing 300 times in a row would be.”
Then Justin laced his fingers behind Brian’s head and pulled him down for a lingering kiss, the one tried and true method for shutting Brian up when all others failed. Kissing Brian had been Justin’s final plan, when he’d played out this scene in his mind back in Manhattan.
As their lips slid over slippery skin, joining and rejoining in well-known patterns, Justin felt his wet shirt being tugged up by the hem, then Brian’s hands unbuttoning his jeans. They dropped to the floor of the shower stall with a soaked thud, as Brian muttered against his skin, “I can’t seem to get rid of you. Even when it’s for your own good.” Through their kiss, Justin could tell the taller man was smiling.
As he slid his hands around Brian’s waist to pull him close, the slide of cock against cock was making them both harden. Through the streaming water, Justin's tongue licked the side of the other man’s neck, which drew a breathy groan from Brian. Justin answered him with, “You may think we're back where we started, but we're not. Today’s the day we stop repeating ourselves.” Brian had the good sense not to contradict him.
-Fin-