Queer as Folk: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor
Title: Gold and Silver Shines
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Characters: Brian/Justin, Michael, Ben, Debbie
CD and Song: Journey's Greatest Hits, "Open Arms"
Rating: R
Authors Notes: Chapter Twelve in the series.
All caught up now. Three more chapters to go.
Gold and Silver Shines
By Severina
Chapter Twelve:
Open Arms
Saturday
8:17am
Justin flops down on the kitchen chair.
“Sleep well?” Michael asks.
Justin scrubs his hand over his face, and stares dully at the wall. He remembers helping to paint that wall. When he’d just been chewed up and spit out by Hollywood, and when he’d returned to Pittsburgh with his tail between his legs, and when he’d thought that he and Brian would never have what Ben and Michael have.
He was right. He and Brian have something unique. And Justin has discovered that he doesn’t want a white picket fence and two point five kids and a puppy. He wants what he has with Brian.
He just wishes he didn’t have to work at it so fucking hard all the time.
And he might want a puppy.
“Justin?”
Justin starts when Michael slides a bowl of cereal in front of him. He glances up sheepishly. “Hey.”
“Sleep well?” Michael repeats.
“Oh.” Justin stretches and yawns. His back feels like it spent the night on a wire baking rack. He knows that’s not so much the fault of the bed -- originally Hunter’s, briefly his, back to being Hunter’s, and now relegated to the guest bedroom -- as much as the fact that he spent most of the night tossing and turning. “Not so much,” he admits.
Michael straddles the chair opposite, his own bowl of cereal in front of him. “Eat up,” Michael indicates the bowl with his spoon, “before Ben gets down here. Or he’ll take one look at those bags under your eyes and mix you up a tofu shake. Trust me, you want to avoid the tofu at all costs.”
Justin picks up his spoon, listlessly stirring the cornflakes around in the milk. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and they both know he doesn’t mean for the warning about the tofu.
“Anytime,” Michael says.
They eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the distant murmur of Ben’s voice upstairs, cajoling Hunter to get his lazy ass out of bed, and the muted thump as Hunter’s feet hit the floor.
“What are you going to do?” Michael finally asks.
Justin looks up from his half-empty bowl. “Talk to him.”
“Well sure, but--” Michael hesitates, puts his own spoon down. “Listen--”
“Oh my God Michael, if you’re going to give that ‘he’s my best friend’ speech--”
“I wasn’t!” Michael protests, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms at his chest.
“Good.”
They listen to the clang of the old pipes as Hunter starts the upstairs shower.
“But he is my best friend!” Michael bursts out. “Since we were fourteen. And in some things, I know him better than you.”
“Not in this,” Justin says dryly.
“Look. When Brian’s feeling boxed in, or like he’s not in control, he tends to act out.”
“I know that.”
“So it’s only natural that, if he’s suddenly feeling the pressure of being in a ‘relationship’,” Michael air-quotes the word, “he’s going to act out with some big gesture to prove that he’s still Brian Kinney, king stud of the fucking universe.”
“Michael’s right,” Ben agrees as he sweeps into the room. “Morning, Justin.” He pulls open the fridge door, takes out the carton of orange juice. “It’s a typical fight or flight response. He can’t choose flight. Leaving the relationship is a weakness that he won’t allow himself. And he clearly loves you, so he doesn’t really want to leave.”
Ben strides to the cupboard, grabs down a glass and pours himself a glass of juice. “But… he can fight. He’s been caught up in a whirlwind -- you coming back from New York, moving in together, travelling together. Now things are settling down and he’s seeing his life for what it has become… what it will be for the next fifty years. A house, a mortgage, a partner… and monogamy, something that Brian has never considered before this. He’s scared, but he can’t leave, so he’s going to do whatever he can to convince you that you made the wrong choice.”
Michael nods earnestly. “So the important thing is to reassure him that you’re not going anywhere.”
Justin looks from Michael to Ben. Back to Michael. And laughs. “Are you two smoking crack?”
“Uhh…” Ben squints. “Pardon?”
“Monogamy? Where the fuck did you get the idea that Brian and I were monogamous?”
“Well,” Michael slides his eyes to Ben, shrugs. “I haven’t really seen him in the backroom much…”
“And the two of you moving in to the big house and -- wait. So you’re saying you’re not monogamous?”
“Fuck no.”
“So…” Michael stands, ignoring Ben’s scowl when he dumps the remainder of his cereal down the sink. He turns back to Justin with a quizzical expression. “What’s the problem?”
Justin boggles. “He brought a trick to our house. To our bed.”
“Yeah.” Michael shrugs again. “He brought tricks to the loft all the time. To your bed.”
“This is different,” Justin mutters.
“Does Brian know that?” Ben asks.
Justin finds the edge of his place mat infinitely interesting.
“I think you two are going to have a lot to talk about,” Michael says.
*~*~*
Saturday
2:23pm
Brian pulls the pillow over his head and thinks that if he ignores the ringing doorbell long enough, it’ll eventually stop.
He’s wrong.
After five minutes -- that seem like an eternity -- of listening to the gaudy tones of the bell that Justin kept promising he’d replace, Brian drags himself out of bed and slides into an old pair of track pants. He waits for the room to stop spinning before making his way down the staircase, leaning heavily on the banister as he goes.
He wonders whose idea it was to do tequila shots, and makes plans to destroy whatever is left of the shit that Anita gave him as well. He plans to have Anita killed while he’s at it.
Brian pauses at the bottom of the stairs. Takes a deep breath. Then he pulls the door open, and immediately flings up an arm to shield his eyes from the brilliant sunlight. “Fuck,” he mutters.
“No thanks, you’re not my type!” Debbie says as she bustles by him. She stops in the foyer to begin unbuttoning her coat, shoves a plastic bag into his hand, and laughs raucously. “Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? You’re completely my type.”
“I’m everybody’s type,” Brian says as he shuts the door.
“Here you go,” Deb says, taking back the bag and handing Brian her coat. Brian looks at it curiously for a moment before tossing it on the stairs. The colours on Deb’s coat hurt his eyes more than the sunlight did.
“Now the last time we had a little visit you weren’t very appreciative of my tuna casserole, even though I know it’s your favourite,” Debbie is saying. She’s already headed off down the hall, heels clacking on the hardwood floor and setting off a matching pounding rhythm in his brain. “So this time,” she says, “I brought ice cream!”
“How far do I have to move to get the fuck away from you?” Brian complains.
“I dunno. The moon?” She disappears into the kitchen, and he hears the clatter of dishware. “Where the fuck do you keep the ice cream bowls?” she screeches.
Brian hangs his head and resigns himself to an afternoon spent with Debbie Novotny.
When he gets to the kitchen, he finds her at the kitchen island, using a soup ladle to scoop thick mounds of ice cream into cereal bowls.
She looks up from her task when he enters. “I couldn’t find your ice cream scoop.”
“We don’t have one,” Brian mutters. He walks past the island without a second look and heads straight for the coffee maker, grateful beyond words for the automatic timer. Fresh brewed coffee, that’s what he needs. That will ease the ache in his head.
Other aches will take care of themselves.
“Banana chocolate chunk,” Debbie says with a flourish. “Your favourite.”
Brian can’t remember ever eating banana chocolate chunk ice cream in his life. He does, however, remember Mikey loving it.
He drops several heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “No thanks,” he tells her.
“Brian, honey, coffee is really not good for you after a night of drinking. The caffeine--”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Debbie leans her elbows on the counter. “It’s going to be like that, is it? All right then. I’m here because you are somehow determined to sabotage your relationship with Sunshine, and I’m not about to let you do it.”
Brian shakes his head. “I’m not determined to do anything, except get you out of my house.”
“You don’t fool me, Brian Kinney. I’ve known you for far too long.”
Brian sets his coffee mug down on the counter. He feels better already -- fuck Deb and her cautionary advice about caffeine. He presses his lips together and wishes for a smoke. But his cigarettes are upstairs on the bureau -- he vaguely remembers putting them there, out of reach, vaguely remembers a warning about being too drunk to smoke -- and leaving the room would be sign of a retreat. He heads to the fridge instead, pulls out bread and cheese and lettuce. Snatches a knife from the rack on the island. He moves. He keeps busy.
And Debbie waits him out in the silence.
“And what do you think you know?” Brian finally bites out, when the silence spins out and out and the pounding in his head gets worse.
“I know that you’re scared, of what you have with Justin,” Debbie says. “And I know that you never learn from your mistakes.”
Brian laughs, a high mocking sound. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Deb squawks out.
“Who was it,” Brian says, “that tied herself up in knots over Vic’s death? That wallowed in guilt and shame because her last words to the brother she loved were ‘Fuck you’?”
“You’ve got no right to bring that up.”
“And who is it that does the exact same thing to every single person she supposedly cares about? Loves, unconditionally? Well,” Brian slams the knife down on the counter, “there is no unconditional love here. You love us when we act the way you want us to act, behave the way you want us to behave. Step across the line and I’m an asshole again. A little shit. A fuck-up.”
“Brian, honey--”
“And I never liked that ice cream,” Brian rails. “That was Mikey. It was always Mikey.”
Debbie draws her hands up to her collar, and Brian sees that they are shaking. And a tiny shard of guilt worms its way into his heart, and he feels the anger drain out of him.
“I’m sorry, honey, I really thought that it was you--”
“It was never me.”
Deb nods. “I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
Brian slumps down against the counter. “So did I.”
And the silence spins out and out.
“Well, they say that this existence is just a circle of life that moves us all,” Debbie finally says into the quiet. “Somebody famous said that. Voltaire or… Elton John.”
Brian snorts. “I need a cigarette.”
“You should quit that, it’s bad for--” Deb cuts herself off, shaking her head. “What I’m saying is, we all go through various stages in our lives, various steps in our journeys, and I guess we never stop learning. About ourselves, and the people we love.”
She crosses to the counter where Brian is slouched, and her hand comes up to smooth his cheek. Her rings are cold against his skin. “And I do love you, Brian Kinney, even when you’re being a little shit. Especially then.” She pats his cheek affectionately before stepping back. “Now, do you want to talk? Because if you do,” she says softly, “I swear I’ll listen.”
Brian straightens. “I want to try that ice cream,” he says.
“You’ll love it,” Debbie smiles. “I promise.”
*~*~*
Saturday
7:52pm
Justin finds the house in darkness.
He heads first to the bedroom, where he finds that the linens have been changed and Brian has clearly aired out the room. He peeks and discovers that the ornate chest where Brian stores his drugs has also been substantially depleted. After seeing the glassy look in Brian’s eyes last night, he hopes this means they’re in the toilet and not swimming in Brian’s system at Babylon or the baths.
Justin tosses his dirty clothes in the hamper and puts the carry-on bag carefully back on the shelf where it belongs.
Then he makes his way to the sitting room. Lights a fire in the hearth, and warms his hands on the flames. And waits.
He doesn’t wait long.
By the time the fire is blazing steadily, he hears the scrape of the key in the lock.
“Hey,” he says when Brian enters the room.
Brian falters in the archway, half in the act of taking off his coat, before recovering smoothly and sliding his jacket off, tossing it on the chair. But Justin wonders at the look in his eyes, and hopes it isn’t surprise.
Brian inclines his head before crossing to the fire. He rubs his hands together and stares into the flames, and Justin hates that he can‘t see the look in Brian‘s eyes anymore. Hates it.
“Cold,” Justin says.
“I had to drive Deb home,” Brian says, even though Justin didn’t ask for an explanation. He laughs, a cheerless sound. “She came to offer her patented Novotny advice.”
“I hope you told her where to stick it.”
“I ate ice cream,” Brian says blandly. He turns then, lips pressed together, and Justin thinks he looks brittle and cold. And afraid. Fucking terrified. “So,” Brian continues. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” Justin agrees. He rises from the chair, takes a step toward the hearth… only to have Brian take a step back just as he moves. Justin stays where he is. “I couldn’t stay last night. You were wasted--”
Brian snorts.
“--and I knew I wouldn’t be able to talk to you like that,” Justin finishes.
“Uh huh.”
“And I was pissed off,” Justin admits. “I couldn’t have talked rationally either.”
Brian spreads his arms wide. “So is that what we’re going to do now? Talk?”
Justin takes a deep breath. “I don’t have a problem with you tricking.”
“Clearly, since you were balls deep yourself in a German tourist less than two weeks ago.”
“In a bathhouse,” Justin clarifies.
Brian’s chin comes up defiantly. “I’m not going to change who I am.”
“I don’t expect you to. Or want you to.”
“I’m queer. I fuck men.” Brian lips turn up in a sardonic smile. “Lots of men.”
“Hello?” Justin says. “I don’t think I’ve suddenly grown a pussy.”
“Then what the fuck is this about?”
“You brought him to Britin. You fucked him in our bed.”
Brian lifts a shoulder. “And?”
“And that’s wrong!” Justin suddenly explodes. “Jesus, why am I the only one that sees this?”
“Because you’re smoking crack?”
“No, that’s Michael,” Justin mutters. “Do you know that he and Ben thought we were monogamous?”
“That’s Mikey,” Brian sneers. “Always the romantic.”
“This is our home,” Justin says, trying to bring the conversation back on track. “Our first home together. The first time that we’ve been together not because of circumstance, but because we want to be. Because we love each other and are committed to each other.”
“And?” Brian says again.
“And you’re being deliberately obtuse,” Justin snaps out in frustration. “I want it to be ours. No one else’s.”
“That’s Justin,” Brian mocks. “Always the romantic.”
“Fuck you,” Justin bites out. “We need to know where we stand. We need to have… boundaries.”
“More rules? We know how well those worked out.”
Justin sets his jaw. “It’s not fair of you to keep bringing that up.”
“Like I give a shit about fair? When I have to curtail every aspect of my life and you get to just go blithely on your way, fucking with your own goddamn rules at every opportunity?”
“I’m sorry, okay? How many times can I--”
“The virgin, the fiddler, Sap’s party--”
Justin’s eyes narrow. “That’s the second time you’ve brought that up.”
Brian stalks across the room to his jacket, flings out his smokes. And Justin recognizes a diversionary tactic when he sees one.
“What do you know about Sap’s party?” Justin asks quietly.
Brian takes a long drag on the smoke. “I know that you were fucked up.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Right,” Brian snorts. “Getting slipped a roofie and almost getting raped. Excellent job you did there.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Justin says. And he doesn’t even want to know who Brian heard the story from. Prays it wasn’t from the Sap himself. “And I took care of it.”
Brian stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray after only a couple of drags. “You should have told me,” he says softly.
“Probably,” Justin agrees. “I would, if it happened today. I was a lot different then. So were you.” He takes a deep breath, then another. “And this isn’t about The Many Fuck-Ups of Justin Taylor, because if we’re going down that road I’ve got several dozen gripes about you that I can fling into the mix.”
“What the fuck is this about?” Brian asks again.
Justin pauses, cocks his head. Feels the flames of the fire at his back, and doesn‘t even remember walking to the hearth.
“It’s about… security, I guess,” he says. “It’s about knowing that I can walk into my house -- the house you bought for me, our fucking home -- and know that this is the one place that I’m safe… and loved.”
“You’re always loved,” Brian says softly, so softly that Justin can barely hear him above the crackle of the flames.
“It didn’t feel like it last night.”
“It was just a fuck.”
“I know that,” Justin says. “Rationally, I know that it meant nothing. Emotionally, it felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest.”
Brian lifts a shoulder, and Justin can see him fighting it. Not fighting them, the inevitability of them was something he didn’t fight anymore, didn’t feel the need to fight anymore. Fighting… what? Loss of independence, like Ben said? Loss of the ability to fuck whenever and wherever he chose? For Brian, it might come down to something that simple. That black and white.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Brian says defiantly.
“Yes, you do.” Justin crosses to stand in front of Brian, and this time Brian doesn’t back away. “You’ll tell me that you love me. You’ll tell me that you behaved like a heartless insensitive prick who thought only of himself and his own selfish needs.” Justin steps back to look into Brian’s eyes. “You’ll tell me that it’ll never happen again.”
“Will I?”
“You will.”
Brian nods. “I will.”
Justin smoothes a hand down Brian‘s chest. “You were crazy when you bought this house.”
“Crazy in love,” Brian says, watching Justin from under long lashes, and Justin feels his lips quirk despite his best intentions.
“Don’t try to weasel out of this,” Justin warns. “Throw in a ‘my prince’ and I swear to fuck I walk out that door.”
Brian presses his lips together.
“But it means something to me,” Justin says. “I’m not going to say it’s symbolic of our love or any shit like that because that would be too lesbianic even for me. But it means something. It’s a harbour, a safe zone where--”
“I get it,” Brian says. “I was a heartless insensitive prick. And it’ll never happen again.”
“You forgot one,” Justin points out.
Brian sticks his tongue in his cheek. “I love you,” he says.
“Madly, profoundly, tremendously.”
“I don’t recall superfluous adjectives being part of the agreement.”
Justin crosses his arms and raises a brow.
“Madly, profoundly, tremendously,” Brian sighs. “Better?”
“Getting there,” Justin says. “Getting there.”
*~*~*
Later, in the warm confines of their bed, with the sweet musky scent of sex still hanging in the air, Brian shifts to his side and searches out Justin’s profile in the dark. Justin’s chest rises and falls, rises and falls, as he sleeps. Brian has lost track of how many times he has lain in this same position, watching the steady rise and fall of Justin’s chest and the flutter of Justin’s lashes and wondering just what he’s going to do next to fuck them up and why on earth the kid sticks around.
Love chews you up and spits you out, makes you sick and angry and scared and sometimes, Brian hates it.
“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” he says.
“I know.”
Justin’s voice out of the dark startles him.
“It’s done,” Justin says. “We can move past it. Smarter. Stronger.” Justin shifts a little on the bed, but his eyes stay closed. “We’ve got to stop rehashing all this shit from the past. It’s all done.”
Brian lets his head fall back on the pillow. Thinks about the fiddler -- thinks about the ache that he lived with for months, the sweet ache that made him seek out Justin at the diner, at Lindsay’s party, for the GLC job. Thinks about Justin, helpless at Sap’s party. Thinks about the nameless, faceless tricks that passed through his bedroom while Justin snowboarded in Vermont. Thinks about letting it all go.
Thinks about the little virgin that Justin deflowered so long ago, and --
“I don’t kiss anyone else,” Brian says into the dark. He senses more than sees Justin’s head turn toward him. “Not since--”
And then Justin’s lips are pressed to his, lightly, and Justin’s hand is cool on his warm cheek, and he remembers why he doesn’t kiss anyone else.
Justin leans back on his own pillow and closes his eyes. “Do you talk to me often when you think I’m asleep?”
Brian ducks his head. “All the time.”
“You can talk to me when I’m awake, you know.”
“I’m getting there,” Brian says softly. He reaches out to entwine their fingers, breathes easier when Justin‘s strong hand grips his own. “I’m getting there.”
*~*~*
And now that you’ve come back
Turned night into day
I need you to stay…
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Characters: Brian/Justin, Michael, Ben, Debbie
CD and Song: Journey's Greatest Hits, "Open Arms"
Rating: R
Authors Notes: Chapter Twelve in the series.
All caught up now. Three more chapters to go.
Gold and Silver Shines
By Severina
Chapter Twelve:
Open Arms
Saturday
8:17am
Justin flops down on the kitchen chair.
“Sleep well?” Michael asks.
Justin scrubs his hand over his face, and stares dully at the wall. He remembers helping to paint that wall. When he’d just been chewed up and spit out by Hollywood, and when he’d returned to Pittsburgh with his tail between his legs, and when he’d thought that he and Brian would never have what Ben and Michael have.
He was right. He and Brian have something unique. And Justin has discovered that he doesn’t want a white picket fence and two point five kids and a puppy. He wants what he has with Brian.
He just wishes he didn’t have to work at it so fucking hard all the time.
And he might want a puppy.
“Justin?”
Justin starts when Michael slides a bowl of cereal in front of him. He glances up sheepishly. “Hey.”
“Sleep well?” Michael repeats.
“Oh.” Justin stretches and yawns. His back feels like it spent the night on a wire baking rack. He knows that’s not so much the fault of the bed -- originally Hunter’s, briefly his, back to being Hunter’s, and now relegated to the guest bedroom -- as much as the fact that he spent most of the night tossing and turning. “Not so much,” he admits.
Michael straddles the chair opposite, his own bowl of cereal in front of him. “Eat up,” Michael indicates the bowl with his spoon, “before Ben gets down here. Or he’ll take one look at those bags under your eyes and mix you up a tofu shake. Trust me, you want to avoid the tofu at all costs.”
Justin picks up his spoon, listlessly stirring the cornflakes around in the milk. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and they both know he doesn’t mean for the warning about the tofu.
“Anytime,” Michael says.
They eat in silence for a while, the only sounds the distant murmur of Ben’s voice upstairs, cajoling Hunter to get his lazy ass out of bed, and the muted thump as Hunter’s feet hit the floor.
“What are you going to do?” Michael finally asks.
Justin looks up from his half-empty bowl. “Talk to him.”
“Well sure, but--” Michael hesitates, puts his own spoon down. “Listen--”
“Oh my God Michael, if you’re going to give that ‘he’s my best friend’ speech--”
“I wasn’t!” Michael protests, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms at his chest.
“Good.”
They listen to the clang of the old pipes as Hunter starts the upstairs shower.
“But he is my best friend!” Michael bursts out. “Since we were fourteen. And in some things, I know him better than you.”
“Not in this,” Justin says dryly.
“Look. When Brian’s feeling boxed in, or like he’s not in control, he tends to act out.”
“I know that.”
“So it’s only natural that, if he’s suddenly feeling the pressure of being in a ‘relationship’,” Michael air-quotes the word, “he’s going to act out with some big gesture to prove that he’s still Brian Kinney, king stud of the fucking universe.”
“Michael’s right,” Ben agrees as he sweeps into the room. “Morning, Justin.” He pulls open the fridge door, takes out the carton of orange juice. “It’s a typical fight or flight response. He can’t choose flight. Leaving the relationship is a weakness that he won’t allow himself. And he clearly loves you, so he doesn’t really want to leave.”
Ben strides to the cupboard, grabs down a glass and pours himself a glass of juice. “But… he can fight. He’s been caught up in a whirlwind -- you coming back from New York, moving in together, travelling together. Now things are settling down and he’s seeing his life for what it has become… what it will be for the next fifty years. A house, a mortgage, a partner… and monogamy, something that Brian has never considered before this. He’s scared, but he can’t leave, so he’s going to do whatever he can to convince you that you made the wrong choice.”
Michael nods earnestly. “So the important thing is to reassure him that you’re not going anywhere.”
Justin looks from Michael to Ben. Back to Michael. And laughs. “Are you two smoking crack?”
“Uhh…” Ben squints. “Pardon?”
“Monogamy? Where the fuck did you get the idea that Brian and I were monogamous?”
“Well,” Michael slides his eyes to Ben, shrugs. “I haven’t really seen him in the backroom much…”
“And the two of you moving in to the big house and -- wait. So you’re saying you’re not monogamous?”
“Fuck no.”
“So…” Michael stands, ignoring Ben’s scowl when he dumps the remainder of his cereal down the sink. He turns back to Justin with a quizzical expression. “What’s the problem?”
Justin boggles. “He brought a trick to our house. To our bed.”
“Yeah.” Michael shrugs again. “He brought tricks to the loft all the time. To your bed.”
“This is different,” Justin mutters.
“Does Brian know that?” Ben asks.
Justin finds the edge of his place mat infinitely interesting.
“I think you two are going to have a lot to talk about,” Michael says.
*~*~*
Saturday
2:23pm
Brian pulls the pillow over his head and thinks that if he ignores the ringing doorbell long enough, it’ll eventually stop.
He’s wrong.
After five minutes -- that seem like an eternity -- of listening to the gaudy tones of the bell that Justin kept promising he’d replace, Brian drags himself out of bed and slides into an old pair of track pants. He waits for the room to stop spinning before making his way down the staircase, leaning heavily on the banister as he goes.
He wonders whose idea it was to do tequila shots, and makes plans to destroy whatever is left of the shit that Anita gave him as well. He plans to have Anita killed while he’s at it.
Brian pauses at the bottom of the stairs. Takes a deep breath. Then he pulls the door open, and immediately flings up an arm to shield his eyes from the brilliant sunlight. “Fuck,” he mutters.
“No thanks, you’re not my type!” Debbie says as she bustles by him. She stops in the foyer to begin unbuttoning her coat, shoves a plastic bag into his hand, and laughs raucously. “Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? You’re completely my type.”
“I’m everybody’s type,” Brian says as he shuts the door.
“Here you go,” Deb says, taking back the bag and handing Brian her coat. Brian looks at it curiously for a moment before tossing it on the stairs. The colours on Deb’s coat hurt his eyes more than the sunlight did.
“Now the last time we had a little visit you weren’t very appreciative of my tuna casserole, even though I know it’s your favourite,” Debbie is saying. She’s already headed off down the hall, heels clacking on the hardwood floor and setting off a matching pounding rhythm in his brain. “So this time,” she says, “I brought ice cream!”
“How far do I have to move to get the fuck away from you?” Brian complains.
“I dunno. The moon?” She disappears into the kitchen, and he hears the clatter of dishware. “Where the fuck do you keep the ice cream bowls?” she screeches.
Brian hangs his head and resigns himself to an afternoon spent with Debbie Novotny.
When he gets to the kitchen, he finds her at the kitchen island, using a soup ladle to scoop thick mounds of ice cream into cereal bowls.
She looks up from her task when he enters. “I couldn’t find your ice cream scoop.”
“We don’t have one,” Brian mutters. He walks past the island without a second look and heads straight for the coffee maker, grateful beyond words for the automatic timer. Fresh brewed coffee, that’s what he needs. That will ease the ache in his head.
Other aches will take care of themselves.
“Banana chocolate chunk,” Debbie says with a flourish. “Your favourite.”
Brian can’t remember ever eating banana chocolate chunk ice cream in his life. He does, however, remember Mikey loving it.
He drops several heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “No thanks,” he tells her.
“Brian, honey, coffee is really not good for you after a night of drinking. The caffeine--”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Debbie leans her elbows on the counter. “It’s going to be like that, is it? All right then. I’m here because you are somehow determined to sabotage your relationship with Sunshine, and I’m not about to let you do it.”
Brian shakes his head. “I’m not determined to do anything, except get you out of my house.”
“You don’t fool me, Brian Kinney. I’ve known you for far too long.”
Brian sets his coffee mug down on the counter. He feels better already -- fuck Deb and her cautionary advice about caffeine. He presses his lips together and wishes for a smoke. But his cigarettes are upstairs on the bureau -- he vaguely remembers putting them there, out of reach, vaguely remembers a warning about being too drunk to smoke -- and leaving the room would be sign of a retreat. He heads to the fridge instead, pulls out bread and cheese and lettuce. Snatches a knife from the rack on the island. He moves. He keeps busy.
And Debbie waits him out in the silence.
“And what do you think you know?” Brian finally bites out, when the silence spins out and out and the pounding in his head gets worse.
“I know that you’re scared, of what you have with Justin,” Debbie says. “And I know that you never learn from your mistakes.”
Brian laughs, a high mocking sound. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Deb squawks out.
“Who was it,” Brian says, “that tied herself up in knots over Vic’s death? That wallowed in guilt and shame because her last words to the brother she loved were ‘Fuck you’?”
“You’ve got no right to bring that up.”
“And who is it that does the exact same thing to every single person she supposedly cares about? Loves, unconditionally? Well,” Brian slams the knife down on the counter, “there is no unconditional love here. You love us when we act the way you want us to act, behave the way you want us to behave. Step across the line and I’m an asshole again. A little shit. A fuck-up.”
“Brian, honey--”
“And I never liked that ice cream,” Brian rails. “That was Mikey. It was always Mikey.”
Debbie draws her hands up to her collar, and Brian sees that they are shaking. And a tiny shard of guilt worms its way into his heart, and he feels the anger drain out of him.
“I’m sorry, honey, I really thought that it was you--”
“It was never me.”
Deb nods. “I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
Brian slumps down against the counter. “So did I.”
And the silence spins out and out.
“Well, they say that this existence is just a circle of life that moves us all,” Debbie finally says into the quiet. “Somebody famous said that. Voltaire or… Elton John.”
Brian snorts. “I need a cigarette.”
“You should quit that, it’s bad for--” Deb cuts herself off, shaking her head. “What I’m saying is, we all go through various stages in our lives, various steps in our journeys, and I guess we never stop learning. About ourselves, and the people we love.”
She crosses to the counter where Brian is slouched, and her hand comes up to smooth his cheek. Her rings are cold against his skin. “And I do love you, Brian Kinney, even when you’re being a little shit. Especially then.” She pats his cheek affectionately before stepping back. “Now, do you want to talk? Because if you do,” she says softly, “I swear I’ll listen.”
Brian straightens. “I want to try that ice cream,” he says.
“You’ll love it,” Debbie smiles. “I promise.”
*~*~*
Saturday
7:52pm
Justin finds the house in darkness.
He heads first to the bedroom, where he finds that the linens have been changed and Brian has clearly aired out the room. He peeks and discovers that the ornate chest where Brian stores his drugs has also been substantially depleted. After seeing the glassy look in Brian’s eyes last night, he hopes this means they’re in the toilet and not swimming in Brian’s system at Babylon or the baths.
Justin tosses his dirty clothes in the hamper and puts the carry-on bag carefully back on the shelf where it belongs.
Then he makes his way to the sitting room. Lights a fire in the hearth, and warms his hands on the flames. And waits.
He doesn’t wait long.
By the time the fire is blazing steadily, he hears the scrape of the key in the lock.
“Hey,” he says when Brian enters the room.
Brian falters in the archway, half in the act of taking off his coat, before recovering smoothly and sliding his jacket off, tossing it on the chair. But Justin wonders at the look in his eyes, and hopes it isn’t surprise.
Brian inclines his head before crossing to the fire. He rubs his hands together and stares into the flames, and Justin hates that he can‘t see the look in Brian‘s eyes anymore. Hates it.
“Cold,” Justin says.
“I had to drive Deb home,” Brian says, even though Justin didn’t ask for an explanation. He laughs, a cheerless sound. “She came to offer her patented Novotny advice.”
“I hope you told her where to stick it.”
“I ate ice cream,” Brian says blandly. He turns then, lips pressed together, and Justin thinks he looks brittle and cold. And afraid. Fucking terrified. “So,” Brian continues. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” Justin agrees. He rises from the chair, takes a step toward the hearth… only to have Brian take a step back just as he moves. Justin stays where he is. “I couldn’t stay last night. You were wasted--”
Brian snorts.
“--and I knew I wouldn’t be able to talk to you like that,” Justin finishes.
“Uh huh.”
“And I was pissed off,” Justin admits. “I couldn’t have talked rationally either.”
Brian spreads his arms wide. “So is that what we’re going to do now? Talk?”
Justin takes a deep breath. “I don’t have a problem with you tricking.”
“Clearly, since you were balls deep yourself in a German tourist less than two weeks ago.”
“In a bathhouse,” Justin clarifies.
Brian’s chin comes up defiantly. “I’m not going to change who I am.”
“I don’t expect you to. Or want you to.”
“I’m queer. I fuck men.” Brian lips turn up in a sardonic smile. “Lots of men.”
“Hello?” Justin says. “I don’t think I’ve suddenly grown a pussy.”
“Then what the fuck is this about?”
“You brought him to Britin. You fucked him in our bed.”
Brian lifts a shoulder. “And?”
“And that’s wrong!” Justin suddenly explodes. “Jesus, why am I the only one that sees this?”
“Because you’re smoking crack?”
“No, that’s Michael,” Justin mutters. “Do you know that he and Ben thought we were monogamous?”
“That’s Mikey,” Brian sneers. “Always the romantic.”
“This is our home,” Justin says, trying to bring the conversation back on track. “Our first home together. The first time that we’ve been together not because of circumstance, but because we want to be. Because we love each other and are committed to each other.”
“And?” Brian says again.
“And you’re being deliberately obtuse,” Justin snaps out in frustration. “I want it to be ours. No one else’s.”
“That’s Justin,” Brian mocks. “Always the romantic.”
“Fuck you,” Justin bites out. “We need to know where we stand. We need to have… boundaries.”
“More rules? We know how well those worked out.”
Justin sets his jaw. “It’s not fair of you to keep bringing that up.”
“Like I give a shit about fair? When I have to curtail every aspect of my life and you get to just go blithely on your way, fucking with your own goddamn rules at every opportunity?”
“I’m sorry, okay? How many times can I--”
“The virgin, the fiddler, Sap’s party--”
Justin’s eyes narrow. “That’s the second time you’ve brought that up.”
Brian stalks across the room to his jacket, flings out his smokes. And Justin recognizes a diversionary tactic when he sees one.
“What do you know about Sap’s party?” Justin asks quietly.
Brian takes a long drag on the smoke. “I know that you were fucked up.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Right,” Brian snorts. “Getting slipped a roofie and almost getting raped. Excellent job you did there.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Justin says. And he doesn’t even want to know who Brian heard the story from. Prays it wasn’t from the Sap himself. “And I took care of it.”
Brian stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray after only a couple of drags. “You should have told me,” he says softly.
“Probably,” Justin agrees. “I would, if it happened today. I was a lot different then. So were you.” He takes a deep breath, then another. “And this isn’t about The Many Fuck-Ups of Justin Taylor, because if we’re going down that road I’ve got several dozen gripes about you that I can fling into the mix.”
“What the fuck is this about?” Brian asks again.
Justin pauses, cocks his head. Feels the flames of the fire at his back, and doesn‘t even remember walking to the hearth.
“It’s about… security, I guess,” he says. “It’s about knowing that I can walk into my house -- the house you bought for me, our fucking home -- and know that this is the one place that I’m safe… and loved.”
“You’re always loved,” Brian says softly, so softly that Justin can barely hear him above the crackle of the flames.
“It didn’t feel like it last night.”
“It was just a fuck.”
“I know that,” Justin says. “Rationally, I know that it meant nothing. Emotionally, it felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest.”
Brian lifts a shoulder, and Justin can see him fighting it. Not fighting them, the inevitability of them was something he didn’t fight anymore, didn’t feel the need to fight anymore. Fighting… what? Loss of independence, like Ben said? Loss of the ability to fuck whenever and wherever he chose? For Brian, it might come down to something that simple. That black and white.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Brian says defiantly.
“Yes, you do.” Justin crosses to stand in front of Brian, and this time Brian doesn’t back away. “You’ll tell me that you love me. You’ll tell me that you behaved like a heartless insensitive prick who thought only of himself and his own selfish needs.” Justin steps back to look into Brian’s eyes. “You’ll tell me that it’ll never happen again.”
“Will I?”
“You will.”
Brian nods. “I will.”
Justin smoothes a hand down Brian‘s chest. “You were crazy when you bought this house.”
“Crazy in love,” Brian says, watching Justin from under long lashes, and Justin feels his lips quirk despite his best intentions.
“Don’t try to weasel out of this,” Justin warns. “Throw in a ‘my prince’ and I swear to fuck I walk out that door.”
Brian presses his lips together.
“But it means something to me,” Justin says. “I’m not going to say it’s symbolic of our love or any shit like that because that would be too lesbianic even for me. But it means something. It’s a harbour, a safe zone where--”
“I get it,” Brian says. “I was a heartless insensitive prick. And it’ll never happen again.”
“You forgot one,” Justin points out.
Brian sticks his tongue in his cheek. “I love you,” he says.
“Madly, profoundly, tremendously.”
“I don’t recall superfluous adjectives being part of the agreement.”
Justin crosses his arms and raises a brow.
“Madly, profoundly, tremendously,” Brian sighs. “Better?”
“Getting there,” Justin says. “Getting there.”
*~*~*
Later, in the warm confines of their bed, with the sweet musky scent of sex still hanging in the air, Brian shifts to his side and searches out Justin’s profile in the dark. Justin’s chest rises and falls, rises and falls, as he sleeps. Brian has lost track of how many times he has lain in this same position, watching the steady rise and fall of Justin’s chest and the flutter of Justin’s lashes and wondering just what he’s going to do next to fuck them up and why on earth the kid sticks around.
Love chews you up and spits you out, makes you sick and angry and scared and sometimes, Brian hates it.
“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” he says.
“I know.”
Justin’s voice out of the dark startles him.
“It’s done,” Justin says. “We can move past it. Smarter. Stronger.” Justin shifts a little on the bed, but his eyes stay closed. “We’ve got to stop rehashing all this shit from the past. It’s all done.”
Brian lets his head fall back on the pillow. Thinks about the fiddler -- thinks about the ache that he lived with for months, the sweet ache that made him seek out Justin at the diner, at Lindsay’s party, for the GLC job. Thinks about Justin, helpless at Sap’s party. Thinks about the nameless, faceless tricks that passed through his bedroom while Justin snowboarded in Vermont. Thinks about letting it all go.
Thinks about the little virgin that Justin deflowered so long ago, and --
“I don’t kiss anyone else,” Brian says into the dark. He senses more than sees Justin’s head turn toward him. “Not since--”
And then Justin’s lips are pressed to his, lightly, and Justin’s hand is cool on his warm cheek, and he remembers why he doesn’t kiss anyone else.
Justin leans back on his own pillow and closes his eyes. “Do you talk to me often when you think I’m asleep?”
Brian ducks his head. “All the time.”
“You can talk to me when I’m awake, you know.”
“I’m getting there,” Brian says softly. He reaches out to entwine their fingers, breathes easier when Justin‘s strong hand grips his own. “I’m getting there.”
*~*~*
And now that you’ve come back
Turned night into day
I need you to stay…