Queer as Folk: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor
Title: Gold and Silver Shines
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Characters: Brian/Justin, Michael, Ben, Lindsay, Melanie, Gus, Debbie
CD and Song: Journey's Greatest Hits, "Be Good To Yourself"
Rating: R to NC-17?
Authors Notes: Final chapter in the series. This completes my claim. BOOYAH!
Gold and Silver Shines
By Severina
Chapter Fifteen:
Be Good To Yourself
In the still of the night, Brian loves him best.
When there is nothing to break the silence of the dark but whispered moans and the slap of flesh on flesh.
Justin wraps his leg more firmly around Brian’s thigh. Pulls him deeper inside. Loves the pull, the stretch. Covered by Brian’s body. Submerged in Brian’s will.
He needs more.
He tugs sharply on Brian’s ear. Hooded eyes, mouth open, panting. And then Brian’s mouth takes his, Brian’s tongue plunges inside, and he rises off the bed, off the pillow, rises to meet the attack with one of his own.
Slick with spit and sweat. Sloppy and sticky. Brian pulls away, grunts, breathless, brow pressed to his, warm wet breath on his skin.
Brian’s strong fingers grip his hips, tight. Tighter. Justin arches his back. He needs more. More.
Brian’s teeth find his skin.
Justin gasps. His fingers scrabble for purchase on Brian’s back.
More.
Brian’s hips snap. Faster.
Justin hand snakes to his cock. Brian slaps it away.
And when Brian’s hand wraps around his dick, tugs, slides, Justin moans low in his throat and thrusts, once, twice, and then he is coming, coming into Brian’s hand, and he keeps his eyes open. Keeps his eyes open wide and watches Brian’s jaw clench, watches Brian’s arms stiffen and his back arch, watches Brian’s eyes lose focus, watches as Brian follows him over the edge.
Lets his legs splay wide and wraps his arms around Brian’s back as Brian collapses on top of him.
In the silence, there is only the sound of their laboured breathing as their heartbeats struggle to return to normal.
Brian pulls away, out, ties off the condom. And Justin feels the loss like a cold winter wind.
And then Brian is back, thigh pressed against his hip, warm weight, breath cooling the sweat on his skin. His fingers trail lazily in the come coating Justin’s stomach.
They don’t move, don’t speak, and Justin feels his eyes grow heavy. He lets them close. Listens to Brian’s breathing in the silence.
In the still of the night, Justin sleeps.
*~*~*
“Did you talk to her?” Justin asks. He moves smoothly to the stove, checking the state of the eggs for the omelette before crossing to the island to finish chopping the vegetables. He lowers the heat on the second skillet as he passes by, letting the bacon simmer for the moment.
Brian watches it all with amusement. “I hope you don’t think I’m actually going to eat that.”
“So you did,” Justin says. He slides back to the stove to drop the vegetables into the omelette and flip, then to the fridge, absently adjusting the magnet that holds up one of Gus’s many drawings before pulling out the orange juice. Outside the window, the snow comes down in white sheets, blanketing the earth, shining like diamonds on the ground. “What did she say?”
“She said that Mel’s being a bitch.”
“She didn’t say that.”
“Why the fuck do you ask me if you’re not going to believe the answer?”
Justin flashes him a put-upon look. “What did she say?”
Brian slouches against the counter. “Mel’s threatening to take her to court. As one of Gus’s legal guardians, she’s demanding joint custody.”
Justin stops what he’s doing. “She lives in fucking Canada!”
“Lindsay’s worried,” Brian says. “Your eggs are burning.”
“Shit!” Justin whirls to rescue the frying pan, placing it down on a trivet before turning to face Brian again. “What about you? Are you worried?”
“I told her that any lawyer we hire will eat Mel alive and use her bones to clean his teeth,” Brian says.
“Yes,” Justin says. “But are you worried?”
Brian slides a strip of bacon out of the skillet and regards it for a moment before ignoring Justin’s warning glare and tossing it to the dog. “I’m going with her to the lawyers office tomorrow afternoon. We’ll see what our options are.”
Justin’s eyes grow wide. “Are you going to petition for custody of Gus?”
“We’ll see what our options are,” Brian repeats evenly.
*~*~*
Brian is in a morning meeting with Murphy and Rodriguez, going over the final layout for the General Mills national rollout, when the door to his office bursts open.
“You fucking piece of shit,” Michael shouts.
“I’m sorry, Brian,” Cynthia says quickly, trailing at his back, high heels clicking on the polished floor. “He rushed past me--”
“It’s all right, Cynthia.” Brian rises fluidly from his desk, smoothing down the front of his suit. He nods to the art department heads. “Gentlemen, we’ll continue this later.”
And he waits, smiling placidly until Cynthia escorts his two senior employees out the door. Then he rounds on Michael, eyes flashing. “Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” he grits out.
Michael is undeterred. “You knew Lindsay left Mel.”
Brian shrugs.
“And when the fuck did you intend to tell me?”
“I didn’t.”
“This is just like the last time,” Michael rants, “with the lawyers. You knew what was going on--”
“And just like the last time,” Brian interrupts smoothly, “it wasn’t my place to tell you.”
“When the fuck does that ever stop you?”
“I’m not telling you that you’re acting like a whiny fucking cunt right now,” Brian smiles grimly, “am I?”
Michael deflates like a stuck balloon, dropping onto the sofa. “I just can’t go through this again. It was bad enough losing my daughter, but at least I knew she was going to be in a happy home with two loving parents. Even if that home was a thousand miles away.”
“More like three hundred.”
“Whatever,” Michael mutters. “I don’t want Jenny Rebecca going through a messy custody battle. Christ, Brian, I promised them that I wouldn’t fight for joint custody, but if they go through with this then I’m going to have to.”
“Lindsay doesn’t intend to ask for joint custody of JR.”
“She doesn’t?” Michael brightens, then his eyes narrow. “Why the fuck not?”
“You can’t just be happy?”
“Sure, but…” Michael fidgets in the chair.
“For the same reasons you both chose not to go through with it before,” Brian says. “Because that’s not what’s best for JR.”
“Oh.” Michael breathes a visible sigh of relief. “I feel a little better. Not much, but a little.“ He sights. “Do you ever wish that you’d never gotten involved with these goddamn lesbians?”
“All the fucking time,” Brian lies.
*~*~*
“You stormed into his office, interrupted a business meeting, and screamed obscenities at him,” Ben repeats incredulously.
“It sounds worse when you say it,” Michael says.
Justin leans back in the chair and crosses his arms at his chest, ignoring the Rage sketches and dialogue notes spread out on the dining room table. What began as a brainstorming session at Michael’s place for the latest issue has changed abruptly with the revelation of Michael’s morning visit to Kinnetik.
Michael’s behaviour -- and Brian’s response to it -- used to frustrate him. Then anger him. Now he mostly just accepts it as part and parcel of the unbalanced and highly dysfunctional Kinney/Novotny dynamic.
He doesn’t have to like it, but there it is.
“Michael--” Ben begins.
“I was upset, okay? This is my daughter we’re talking about!”
“And Brian’s son,” Ben points out. “There’s a lot more at stake here for him than there is for you.”
Michael scowls. “How do you figure?”
“Michael,” Ben huffs out in exasperation. “Regardless of Mel and Lindsay’s marital situation, regardless of whether they’re still together as a committed couple or not, Mel will still be living in Toronto. You and I will still be making regular visits to see Jenny Rebecca. Your situation doesn’t change.”
“Well.” Michael squirms in his chair. “I just hate that they’re doing this.”
Ben shakes his head. “So you took it out on Brian.”
“I said I was sorry,” Michael mutters.
“No you didn’t,” Justin puts in. He knows he should keep his mouth shut, but he’s never been very good at that. Sometimes to Brian’s dismay and often to Brian’s great pleasure.
“How do you know?” Michael snaps. “You weren’t there.”
“Because you never apologize,” Justin says calmly. “You just act like an idiot and then expect Brian to forgive you.”
“Justin--” Ben warns.
“I didn’t act like an idiot!” Michael protests, cutting him off. He eyes Justin and Ben in turn, then, and hangs his head. “Okay, I did act like an idiot. But Brian knows I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Probably,” Justin concedes. “But it would be nice if you actually told him so.”
“’Sorry’’s bullshit,” Michael parrots.
And Justin wishes fervently that Brian hadn’t drilled so many pithy little phrases into both their stupid heads.
“Brian’s not a drugged-out club boy making ridiculous pronouncements like ‘I don’t believe in love’ or ‘I don’t do boyfriends’ or ‘Sorry’s bullshit’ anymore, Michael,” Justin says. “Things change. Things are supposed to change.”
“I know that,” Michael claims. He spreads his arms wide, looks around the room, his gaze taking in the afghan splayed on the sofa, the photos of Jenny Rebecca and Hunter that litter the end tables. “I’m not a drugged-out club kid anymore either. I have a husband and a house and a mortgage. I own a business. I have kids!”
“Then don’t expect Brian to stay twenty-five while you totter off into old age,” Justin says. He rises from the table and gathers up the sketches and papers, stuffing them haphazardly into his messenger bag. This brainstorming session is done.
“I don’t!”
“Apologize,” Justin says. “Or not.” He drags the strap of the bag over his head, and smiles grimly. “It’s your call.”
*~*~*
Brian is amazed at the way sound carries in the big house.
From his seat on the sofa he can clearly hear the rapid click of Georgie’s nails on the upstairs hallway floor -- and if the fucking dog gouges the hardwood, he’ll take it out of Justin’s hide -- and Justin’s responding murmur to the mutt. There is a tap dripping somewhere at the back of the house. Gus’s excited whoops and hollers drift easily down the stairs. And the wind whipping around the corner of the house, driving snow and ice pellets into the windows, is the counterpoint to it all.
Brian has set aside his book to probe the fire in the hearth when the doorbell rings.
“Pizza!” Gus yells eagerly from the second floor.
Brian snatches his wallet from the mantel, shaking his head as he crosses through the room to the front door. He needs to have a long talk with Lindsay about fast food and its detrimental effects on the body, even when that body belongs to a four year old. He is still trying to figure out how to bring up the subject without having to endure Justin’s rebuttals every five seconds as he opens the door.
And stops cold.
“I just endured an ten hour drive in a goddamn snowstorm with a screaming baby. Are you going to invite me in?”
“Mel.” Brian seriously considers shutting the door in her face and pretending he never saw her. Then he pictures the look on Lindsay’s face when she finds out. He reluctantly holds open the door.
“Thank you,” she grunts out as she sweeps past him. Brian cringes when she bangs her boots on the floor to relieve them of the snow. She shifts Jenny Rebecca to her other arm and pulls off the baby‘s hat before beginning to undo her coat. “I can’t believe how bad the fucking roads are. It’s a nightmare out there.”
“Then you should have stayed in Toronto,” Brian says coolly.
Mel opens her mouth, but whatever she was going to say is lost in Gus’s delighted squeal of “Mommy!” Brian looks up in time to see Gus launch himself from the bottom stair and tear down the hallway, legs pumping hard, to fling himself at Melanie’s legs. She carefully lowers Jenny Rebecca to the floor where the little girl wavers for a moment uncertainly before flopping down on her ass, a wide grin on her face. And then Melanie gathers Gus up in her arms.
“I missed you, Mommy!”
“I missed you too, baby,” Mel says, and Brian thinks he sees her hands shake as she smoothes Gus’s fine hair from his brow. The boy smells of scented soap and talcum powder, a fine sheen of which coats the expensive leather of Melanie’s coat as she hugs him to her. She pulls back to look into his eyes. “Were you a good boy for Mama?”
“Yes. Justin’s going to buy me a pony,” he says confidently. He looks over his shoulder. “Right, Mama?”
Mel’s eyes flick to Justin’s, halfway down the stairs, before settling on Lindsay’s, where she stands uncertainly at the end of the long hall. “We’ll talk about that later, Gus,” Lindsay says.
“Okay,” Gus nods happily. He reaches around Mel to pat JR on the top of the head. “Hi, Jenny.” The baby gurgles happily in response. And Mel rises stiffly to her feet as Brian realizes that, suddenly, the only sound he can hear in the big old house is the nonsense talk between Gus and JR.
“Well,” Lindsay says.
Mel takes a breath. “I’d like to talk. If that’s alright.”
“Of course. We can use the sitting room. You don‘t mind, do you, Brian?”
“We’ll take the kids,” Justin swoops in before Brian can protest. The best he can do is shoot Justin a dirty look that promises payback later. Justin snatches up Gus’s hand and begins to lead him away. “Come on, Gus. We’ll make a nice salad to go with the pizza.”
“Pizza!” Gus cries.
“Brian, you take JR,” Justin instructs. Brian scratches his palm across his mouth and stoops to the baby, who smiles and gurgles and says a couple of words that sound like ’doctor choo’. He wonders if she just has a cold. He tucks her in the crook of his arm and easily catches up with Justin.
“I think JR needs to be changed,” Mel calls out.
Brian frantically shoves the baby into Justin’s arms. “Payback’s a bitch,” he whispers.
* * *
“So,” Lindsay says.
Mel clasps her hands on her lap. To keep from fidgeting, Lindsay knows. Lindsay knows all the signs. Ten years with a person will do that to you.
“I imagine you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“I’ll admit to more than a little curiosity, yes,” Lindsay says calmly.
“Have you been to a lawyer yet?”
Lindsay raises her chin. “I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon.”
“Mine was for Friday.”
“Was?”
“I cancelled it.”
And Lindsay refuses to feel relief. Refuses to feel anything at all. “Why?” she asks.
In response, Melanie pulls a tattered newspaper clipping from her jacket pocket. The wrinkles and smears make it clear that it’s been well perused. She holds out her hand and Lindsay takes it, but she makes sure their fingers don’t touch.
“Martin Lewiston,” Mel says. “He owns the restaurant on the corner by the old hospital. He was out having a few drinks at a local bar after work. At a straight bar. Just chewing the shit with some of his friends. He left at about two in the morning to wait outside for his taxi.” Mel takes a deep breath. “They figure about five guys set on him. Called him a dirty faggot. His friends heard the commotion and ran out, chased them off. He’s still recovering in the hospital. The same one that’s right next door to his restaurant.”
Lindsay scans the article quickly before looking up to meet Mel’s eyes, her own sorrowful. “I’m so sorry, Mel. I’ve only been into that restaurant a couple of times, but he’s a sweet man. I didn’t know you were close.”
Mel shakes her head. “Never heard of him before I read that piece in the paper.”
Lindsay’s eyes widen. “Then--”
“You were right,” Mel says, and Lindsay hears her voice catch before she reels in the pain and stuffs it back inside. “Toronto is no different than anywhere else. It’s a cesspool, just like the fucking Pitts.”
And Lindsay does touch her then, laying a hand lightly on her arm. She can feel Mel trembling beneath her touch.
“It’s not a cesspool,” Lindsay says softly. “It’s a city filled with hundreds of thousands of wonderful people… and a few who are so frightened of what they don’t understand that they lash out. In frustration. In anger. To stomp out what they fear, so they don’t have to fear it anymore.”
“I wanted it to be different,” Mel bites out. “I wanted it to be a place where we could be safe. Where I could take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself,” Lindsay says. She smiles then, gently. “Better yet, we can take care of each other.”
*~*~*
“You two are fucking lucky you came to your senses before I had to knock your heads together,” Debbie declares. She sticks a bowl between Mel and Lindsay. “Have some ziti.”
Lindsay laughs. “I couldn’t eat another thing!”
“Jesus, Deb, you’d think we were going away forever,” Mel protests. “As soon as we sell the house, we’ll be back.”
“Yeah well, you’d better be,” Debbie grumps. “Because I don’t intend to lose a single moment with my precious granddaughter.” She pauses, glances to where Gus is huddled on the floor with Justin, heads bent together as they use Justin’s ridiculously expensive pastels to draw in Gus’s colouring book. “Or my handsome grandson,” she adds softly.
“I guess everything worked out,” Michael says quietly to Brian, who is nursing a beer in the kitchen.
Brian lifts a shoulder. “I guess.”
“I probably shouldn’t have lost my temper the other day.”
“Probably not.”
“So.” Michael takes a deep breath. “So. I’m sorry.”
Brian’s eyes slide to his before returning to the scene in the living room. “I know,” he says.
“Yeah. I figured.” Michael leans against the counter. “But somebody kind of mentioned that maybe apologies aren’t as overrated as we always thought they were.”
“Would that somebody have blond hair and a faaabulous ass?” Brian smirks.
Michael’s eyes narrow, but he smiles. “Maybe.”
“You wish you had an ass that fabulous.”
“Uhhh… no,” Michael says. “I wish I had an ass as fabulous as Dean Cain.”
“Who the fuck is Dean Cain?” Brian asks. “Wait. Is that the new bartender at Woody’s? Great ass,” he admits, then wrinkles his nose. “Tiny dick.”
“Who the fuck is…” Michael repeats incredulously. “Okay, that’s it. We are sooo having a Lois and Clark marathon.”
“Jesus, superheroes again, Mikey?”
“What’s wrong with superheroes?” Michael sputters out.
“Nothing,” Brian says. He wraps his arm around Michael and hugs him close. “Absolutely nothing.”
And as Michael beams, Brian pushes off from the counter and strides purposefully to the living room. “Come along, Sunshine, we’re going to be late to the gym.”
“The gym?” Debbie squacks. “You can go to the gym any day! How many days can you spend in the loving arms of your family?”
“With the way that you plan these things, every other weekend,” Brian deadpans.
“He’s got that right,” Deb admits with a raucous laugh.
Brian rests his hand lightly on Gus’s head while Justin slips into his shoes and coat. And he admits, if only to himself, that he really won’t mind attending the bi-weekly dinners. He won’t mind at all.
*~*~*
“You’re such a fuckhead,” Justin rails. He slams his gym bag down onto the counter and throws open the freezer door to start rummaging through the contents. “You have no right to throw out my food.”
“Pizza pops,” Brian says dryly, “are not food.”
“Fuck you.”
“In your dreams.”
“That’s not what you said last week,” Justin bites out. “I seem to recall it went something like ‘more Justin, harder’.”
“You’re hallucinating again,” Brian says evenly.
“I don’t throw out your shit. You don’t see me tossing out your motherfucking guava juice.”
“Speaking of,” Brian says, “pass me the bottle.”
Justin ignores him, as he’s discovered is usually best in these situations, and continues searching. And discovers that Brian is right -- the pizza pops are gone. And he doesn’t give a shit that they were -- supposedly -- covered in freezer burn. They were his. And the perfect snack for after a work-out at the gym.
But he’s pretty sure he has some of those McCain’s pizzas tucked at the very back of the freezer. Flat, boring, taste like cardboard. He wants them.
He digs deeper, and frowns when his questing hand hits soft plastic. He tugs, sending a couple of frozen steaks tumbling to the floor, and pulls out a gift box.
He turns to face Brian with the box in his hand, and watches Brian‘s eyes go wide with surprise… and something else. Something darker. Apprehension. Or fear.
“Put it back,” Brian says shortly.
“Why?” Justin asks, half laughing. “Why do you do things like this? Just when I’m working up a good sized snit and ready to vilify you as the biggest shit on the planet, you go and do something that proves you’re the best boyfriend ever.”
Brian lifts a shoulder. “Just lucky?”
Justin sets the box down on the kitchen island, and lets his hand rest on the cold plastic. “I didn’t know… I didn’t think you’d find them. And then, we cancelled, and…”
Brian’s eyes light on the refrigerator, the bright canisters on the counter, the oven. Anywhere but on Justin.
“Do you think they still work?” Justin says softly.
Brian looks at Justin then, and squares his shoulders. “Only one way to find out.”
Justin tugs at the lid, the crack of protesting plastic long frozen loud and harsh in the room. And when he can’t seem to make his hands stop shaking, Brian smoothly takes the box from his hands and neatly unfastens the seal.
And the flower may be stiff and frozen, but the gold petals are still bright and vibrant, the thick green stalk still solid and full. And he imagines that he can still smell the sweet scent of gardenia filling the room.
Justin’s eyes meet Brian’s. “They still work,” he says.
“You think?”
Justin nods. “You’re mine now.”
And Brian presses his lips together and lowers his eyes to regard him from under thick lashes. “As if there was any doubt,” Brian murmurs.
Justin wants to go to him. Pull him down to the floor and kiss those eyes, those lips. Strip off his clothes and worship his body with his hands and his mouth. Let Brian fill him, drive him over the edge.
Instead, he crosses to his gym bag. He fumbles with the straps, inwardly cursing the inventor of tiny metal buckles. And he draws out the box, the box that he’s been carrying around for two weeks, the box that holds everything he wants, the box that he’s had no idea how to show to Brian.
He takes a deep breath before turning back to Brian and holding it up, the tiny red box, and watches Brian‘s shoulders go stiff.
“Where did you find them?” Brian asks softly.
“In the back of your underwear drawer.”
Brian’s lips quirk in a small smile. “I thought the days of you stealing my jock straps were long over.”
Justin’s mouth drops open. “You knew about that?”
Brian sticks his tongue in his cheek, and Justin flushes. He hates that Brian can still make him blush. But he loves that Brian loves it.
He closes the distance between them, and presses his palm lightly on Brian’s chest. “You told me once that you would be anything for me. Do anything.”
“I was high,” Brian drawls.
Justin slaps at his chest lightly. “And I told you that we didn’t need ceremonies or vows or rings to know that we love each other. I meant it.”
“I know.”
“We don’t need vows,” Justin repeats. “But I want the rings.” He takes another step closer, and presses his lips gently to Brian’s. Soft and warm. “I want to wear your ring.”
And Brian’s eyes search his, and his hand comes up to smooth along the fine hairs at the nape of Justin’s neck. And his fingers drop away to deftly pluck the velvet box from Justin’s hand.
He cracks open the lid, and the gold shines in the light.
He plucks the ring from its nesting place, and it looks so small in his hand.
He looks at it for a moment, and Justin holds his breath. And then Brian is lifting his hand, warm flesh pressed to warm flesh, and sliding the smooth gold circle onto his finger.
It’s a perfect fit.
“With this ring--” Brian starts, but he can’t finish. He doesn’t have to. He takes a deep shuddering breath and when he smiles, his lips quiver and his eyes are damp.
And Justin takes the second ring and places it gently on Brian’s finger. Lifts his hand and presses a kiss to his palm. And thinks that Brian has never looked so beautiful as he looks under harsh fluorescent light with an open freezer door at his back.
He knows that Brian didn’t look closely at the rings. He didn’t check the inner band. Didn’t see the inscription there. And Justin doesn’t point it out.
He knows someday Brian will have to remove the ring. In order to work on a repair or just to clean it or, God forbid, for a hospital visit. And he’ll see the inscription then. And he’ll smile, and his eyes will go soft and dark.
And Justin knows that Brian will find him, then, and love him best.
THE END
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Characters: Brian/Justin, Michael, Ben, Lindsay, Melanie, Gus, Debbie
CD and Song: Journey's Greatest Hits, "Be Good To Yourself"
Rating: R to NC-17?
Authors Notes: Final chapter in the series. This completes my claim. BOOYAH!
Gold and Silver Shines
By Severina
Chapter Fifteen:
Be Good To Yourself
In the still of the night, Brian loves him best.
When there is nothing to break the silence of the dark but whispered moans and the slap of flesh on flesh.
Justin wraps his leg more firmly around Brian’s thigh. Pulls him deeper inside. Loves the pull, the stretch. Covered by Brian’s body. Submerged in Brian’s will.
He needs more.
He tugs sharply on Brian’s ear. Hooded eyes, mouth open, panting. And then Brian’s mouth takes his, Brian’s tongue plunges inside, and he rises off the bed, off the pillow, rises to meet the attack with one of his own.
Slick with spit and sweat. Sloppy and sticky. Brian pulls away, grunts, breathless, brow pressed to his, warm wet breath on his skin.
Brian’s strong fingers grip his hips, tight. Tighter. Justin arches his back. He needs more. More.
Brian’s teeth find his skin.
Justin gasps. His fingers scrabble for purchase on Brian’s back.
More.
Brian’s hips snap. Faster.
Justin hand snakes to his cock. Brian slaps it away.
And when Brian’s hand wraps around his dick, tugs, slides, Justin moans low in his throat and thrusts, once, twice, and then he is coming, coming into Brian’s hand, and he keeps his eyes open. Keeps his eyes open wide and watches Brian’s jaw clench, watches Brian’s arms stiffen and his back arch, watches Brian’s eyes lose focus, watches as Brian follows him over the edge.
Lets his legs splay wide and wraps his arms around Brian’s back as Brian collapses on top of him.
In the silence, there is only the sound of their laboured breathing as their heartbeats struggle to return to normal.
Brian pulls away, out, ties off the condom. And Justin feels the loss like a cold winter wind.
And then Brian is back, thigh pressed against his hip, warm weight, breath cooling the sweat on his skin. His fingers trail lazily in the come coating Justin’s stomach.
They don’t move, don’t speak, and Justin feels his eyes grow heavy. He lets them close. Listens to Brian’s breathing in the silence.
In the still of the night, Justin sleeps.
*~*~*
“Did you talk to her?” Justin asks. He moves smoothly to the stove, checking the state of the eggs for the omelette before crossing to the island to finish chopping the vegetables. He lowers the heat on the second skillet as he passes by, letting the bacon simmer for the moment.
Brian watches it all with amusement. “I hope you don’t think I’m actually going to eat that.”
“So you did,” Justin says. He slides back to the stove to drop the vegetables into the omelette and flip, then to the fridge, absently adjusting the magnet that holds up one of Gus’s many drawings before pulling out the orange juice. Outside the window, the snow comes down in white sheets, blanketing the earth, shining like diamonds on the ground. “What did she say?”
“She said that Mel’s being a bitch.”
“She didn’t say that.”
“Why the fuck do you ask me if you’re not going to believe the answer?”
Justin flashes him a put-upon look. “What did she say?”
Brian slouches against the counter. “Mel’s threatening to take her to court. As one of Gus’s legal guardians, she’s demanding joint custody.”
Justin stops what he’s doing. “She lives in fucking Canada!”
“Lindsay’s worried,” Brian says. “Your eggs are burning.”
“Shit!” Justin whirls to rescue the frying pan, placing it down on a trivet before turning to face Brian again. “What about you? Are you worried?”
“I told her that any lawyer we hire will eat Mel alive and use her bones to clean his teeth,” Brian says.
“Yes,” Justin says. “But are you worried?”
Brian slides a strip of bacon out of the skillet and regards it for a moment before ignoring Justin’s warning glare and tossing it to the dog. “I’m going with her to the lawyers office tomorrow afternoon. We’ll see what our options are.”
Justin’s eyes grow wide. “Are you going to petition for custody of Gus?”
“We’ll see what our options are,” Brian repeats evenly.
*~*~*
Brian is in a morning meeting with Murphy and Rodriguez, going over the final layout for the General Mills national rollout, when the door to his office bursts open.
“You fucking piece of shit,” Michael shouts.
“I’m sorry, Brian,” Cynthia says quickly, trailing at his back, high heels clicking on the polished floor. “He rushed past me--”
“It’s all right, Cynthia.” Brian rises fluidly from his desk, smoothing down the front of his suit. He nods to the art department heads. “Gentlemen, we’ll continue this later.”
And he waits, smiling placidly until Cynthia escorts his two senior employees out the door. Then he rounds on Michael, eyes flashing. “Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” he grits out.
Michael is undeterred. “You knew Lindsay left Mel.”
Brian shrugs.
“And when the fuck did you intend to tell me?”
“I didn’t.”
“This is just like the last time,” Michael rants, “with the lawyers. You knew what was going on--”
“And just like the last time,” Brian interrupts smoothly, “it wasn’t my place to tell you.”
“When the fuck does that ever stop you?”
“I’m not telling you that you’re acting like a whiny fucking cunt right now,” Brian smiles grimly, “am I?”
Michael deflates like a stuck balloon, dropping onto the sofa. “I just can’t go through this again. It was bad enough losing my daughter, but at least I knew she was going to be in a happy home with two loving parents. Even if that home was a thousand miles away.”
“More like three hundred.”
“Whatever,” Michael mutters. “I don’t want Jenny Rebecca going through a messy custody battle. Christ, Brian, I promised them that I wouldn’t fight for joint custody, but if they go through with this then I’m going to have to.”
“Lindsay doesn’t intend to ask for joint custody of JR.”
“She doesn’t?” Michael brightens, then his eyes narrow. “Why the fuck not?”
“You can’t just be happy?”
“Sure, but…” Michael fidgets in the chair.
“For the same reasons you both chose not to go through with it before,” Brian says. “Because that’s not what’s best for JR.”
“Oh.” Michael breathes a visible sigh of relief. “I feel a little better. Not much, but a little.“ He sights. “Do you ever wish that you’d never gotten involved with these goddamn lesbians?”
“All the fucking time,” Brian lies.
*~*~*
“You stormed into his office, interrupted a business meeting, and screamed obscenities at him,” Ben repeats incredulously.
“It sounds worse when you say it,” Michael says.
Justin leans back in the chair and crosses his arms at his chest, ignoring the Rage sketches and dialogue notes spread out on the dining room table. What began as a brainstorming session at Michael’s place for the latest issue has changed abruptly with the revelation of Michael’s morning visit to Kinnetik.
Michael’s behaviour -- and Brian’s response to it -- used to frustrate him. Then anger him. Now he mostly just accepts it as part and parcel of the unbalanced and highly dysfunctional Kinney/Novotny dynamic.
He doesn’t have to like it, but there it is.
“Michael--” Ben begins.
“I was upset, okay? This is my daughter we’re talking about!”
“And Brian’s son,” Ben points out. “There’s a lot more at stake here for him than there is for you.”
Michael scowls. “How do you figure?”
“Michael,” Ben huffs out in exasperation. “Regardless of Mel and Lindsay’s marital situation, regardless of whether they’re still together as a committed couple or not, Mel will still be living in Toronto. You and I will still be making regular visits to see Jenny Rebecca. Your situation doesn’t change.”
“Well.” Michael squirms in his chair. “I just hate that they’re doing this.”
Ben shakes his head. “So you took it out on Brian.”
“I said I was sorry,” Michael mutters.
“No you didn’t,” Justin puts in. He knows he should keep his mouth shut, but he’s never been very good at that. Sometimes to Brian’s dismay and often to Brian’s great pleasure.
“How do you know?” Michael snaps. “You weren’t there.”
“Because you never apologize,” Justin says calmly. “You just act like an idiot and then expect Brian to forgive you.”
“Justin--” Ben warns.
“I didn’t act like an idiot!” Michael protests, cutting him off. He eyes Justin and Ben in turn, then, and hangs his head. “Okay, I did act like an idiot. But Brian knows I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Probably,” Justin concedes. “But it would be nice if you actually told him so.”
“’Sorry’’s bullshit,” Michael parrots.
And Justin wishes fervently that Brian hadn’t drilled so many pithy little phrases into both their stupid heads.
“Brian’s not a drugged-out club boy making ridiculous pronouncements like ‘I don’t believe in love’ or ‘I don’t do boyfriends’ or ‘Sorry’s bullshit’ anymore, Michael,” Justin says. “Things change. Things are supposed to change.”
“I know that,” Michael claims. He spreads his arms wide, looks around the room, his gaze taking in the afghan splayed on the sofa, the photos of Jenny Rebecca and Hunter that litter the end tables. “I’m not a drugged-out club kid anymore either. I have a husband and a house and a mortgage. I own a business. I have kids!”
“Then don’t expect Brian to stay twenty-five while you totter off into old age,” Justin says. He rises from the table and gathers up the sketches and papers, stuffing them haphazardly into his messenger bag. This brainstorming session is done.
“I don’t!”
“Apologize,” Justin says. “Or not.” He drags the strap of the bag over his head, and smiles grimly. “It’s your call.”
*~*~*
Brian is amazed at the way sound carries in the big house.
From his seat on the sofa he can clearly hear the rapid click of Georgie’s nails on the upstairs hallway floor -- and if the fucking dog gouges the hardwood, he’ll take it out of Justin’s hide -- and Justin’s responding murmur to the mutt. There is a tap dripping somewhere at the back of the house. Gus’s excited whoops and hollers drift easily down the stairs. And the wind whipping around the corner of the house, driving snow and ice pellets into the windows, is the counterpoint to it all.
Brian has set aside his book to probe the fire in the hearth when the doorbell rings.
“Pizza!” Gus yells eagerly from the second floor.
Brian snatches his wallet from the mantel, shaking his head as he crosses through the room to the front door. He needs to have a long talk with Lindsay about fast food and its detrimental effects on the body, even when that body belongs to a four year old. He is still trying to figure out how to bring up the subject without having to endure Justin’s rebuttals every five seconds as he opens the door.
And stops cold.
“I just endured an ten hour drive in a goddamn snowstorm with a screaming baby. Are you going to invite me in?”
“Mel.” Brian seriously considers shutting the door in her face and pretending he never saw her. Then he pictures the look on Lindsay’s face when she finds out. He reluctantly holds open the door.
“Thank you,” she grunts out as she sweeps past him. Brian cringes when she bangs her boots on the floor to relieve them of the snow. She shifts Jenny Rebecca to her other arm and pulls off the baby‘s hat before beginning to undo her coat. “I can’t believe how bad the fucking roads are. It’s a nightmare out there.”
“Then you should have stayed in Toronto,” Brian says coolly.
Mel opens her mouth, but whatever she was going to say is lost in Gus’s delighted squeal of “Mommy!” Brian looks up in time to see Gus launch himself from the bottom stair and tear down the hallway, legs pumping hard, to fling himself at Melanie’s legs. She carefully lowers Jenny Rebecca to the floor where the little girl wavers for a moment uncertainly before flopping down on her ass, a wide grin on her face. And then Melanie gathers Gus up in her arms.
“I missed you, Mommy!”
“I missed you too, baby,” Mel says, and Brian thinks he sees her hands shake as she smoothes Gus’s fine hair from his brow. The boy smells of scented soap and talcum powder, a fine sheen of which coats the expensive leather of Melanie’s coat as she hugs him to her. She pulls back to look into his eyes. “Were you a good boy for Mama?”
“Yes. Justin’s going to buy me a pony,” he says confidently. He looks over his shoulder. “Right, Mama?”
Mel’s eyes flick to Justin’s, halfway down the stairs, before settling on Lindsay’s, where she stands uncertainly at the end of the long hall. “We’ll talk about that later, Gus,” Lindsay says.
“Okay,” Gus nods happily. He reaches around Mel to pat JR on the top of the head. “Hi, Jenny.” The baby gurgles happily in response. And Mel rises stiffly to her feet as Brian realizes that, suddenly, the only sound he can hear in the big old house is the nonsense talk between Gus and JR.
“Well,” Lindsay says.
Mel takes a breath. “I’d like to talk. If that’s alright.”
“Of course. We can use the sitting room. You don‘t mind, do you, Brian?”
“We’ll take the kids,” Justin swoops in before Brian can protest. The best he can do is shoot Justin a dirty look that promises payback later. Justin snatches up Gus’s hand and begins to lead him away. “Come on, Gus. We’ll make a nice salad to go with the pizza.”
“Pizza!” Gus cries.
“Brian, you take JR,” Justin instructs. Brian scratches his palm across his mouth and stoops to the baby, who smiles and gurgles and says a couple of words that sound like ’doctor choo’. He wonders if she just has a cold. He tucks her in the crook of his arm and easily catches up with Justin.
“I think JR needs to be changed,” Mel calls out.
Brian frantically shoves the baby into Justin’s arms. “Payback’s a bitch,” he whispers.
* * *
“So,” Lindsay says.
Mel clasps her hands on her lap. To keep from fidgeting, Lindsay knows. Lindsay knows all the signs. Ten years with a person will do that to you.
“I imagine you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“I’ll admit to more than a little curiosity, yes,” Lindsay says calmly.
“Have you been to a lawyer yet?”
Lindsay raises her chin. “I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon.”
“Mine was for Friday.”
“Was?”
“I cancelled it.”
And Lindsay refuses to feel relief. Refuses to feel anything at all. “Why?” she asks.
In response, Melanie pulls a tattered newspaper clipping from her jacket pocket. The wrinkles and smears make it clear that it’s been well perused. She holds out her hand and Lindsay takes it, but she makes sure their fingers don’t touch.
“Martin Lewiston,” Mel says. “He owns the restaurant on the corner by the old hospital. He was out having a few drinks at a local bar after work. At a straight bar. Just chewing the shit with some of his friends. He left at about two in the morning to wait outside for his taxi.” Mel takes a deep breath. “They figure about five guys set on him. Called him a dirty faggot. His friends heard the commotion and ran out, chased them off. He’s still recovering in the hospital. The same one that’s right next door to his restaurant.”
Lindsay scans the article quickly before looking up to meet Mel’s eyes, her own sorrowful. “I’m so sorry, Mel. I’ve only been into that restaurant a couple of times, but he’s a sweet man. I didn’t know you were close.”
Mel shakes her head. “Never heard of him before I read that piece in the paper.”
Lindsay’s eyes widen. “Then--”
“You were right,” Mel says, and Lindsay hears her voice catch before she reels in the pain and stuffs it back inside. “Toronto is no different than anywhere else. It’s a cesspool, just like the fucking Pitts.”
And Lindsay does touch her then, laying a hand lightly on her arm. She can feel Mel trembling beneath her touch.
“It’s not a cesspool,” Lindsay says softly. “It’s a city filled with hundreds of thousands of wonderful people… and a few who are so frightened of what they don’t understand that they lash out. In frustration. In anger. To stomp out what they fear, so they don’t have to fear it anymore.”
“I wanted it to be different,” Mel bites out. “I wanted it to be a place where we could be safe. Where I could take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself,” Lindsay says. She smiles then, gently. “Better yet, we can take care of each other.”
*~*~*
“You two are fucking lucky you came to your senses before I had to knock your heads together,” Debbie declares. She sticks a bowl between Mel and Lindsay. “Have some ziti.”
Lindsay laughs. “I couldn’t eat another thing!”
“Jesus, Deb, you’d think we were going away forever,” Mel protests. “As soon as we sell the house, we’ll be back.”
“Yeah well, you’d better be,” Debbie grumps. “Because I don’t intend to lose a single moment with my precious granddaughter.” She pauses, glances to where Gus is huddled on the floor with Justin, heads bent together as they use Justin’s ridiculously expensive pastels to draw in Gus’s colouring book. “Or my handsome grandson,” she adds softly.
“I guess everything worked out,” Michael says quietly to Brian, who is nursing a beer in the kitchen.
Brian lifts a shoulder. “I guess.”
“I probably shouldn’t have lost my temper the other day.”
“Probably not.”
“So.” Michael takes a deep breath. “So. I’m sorry.”
Brian’s eyes slide to his before returning to the scene in the living room. “I know,” he says.
“Yeah. I figured.” Michael leans against the counter. “But somebody kind of mentioned that maybe apologies aren’t as overrated as we always thought they were.”
“Would that somebody have blond hair and a faaabulous ass?” Brian smirks.
Michael’s eyes narrow, but he smiles. “Maybe.”
“You wish you had an ass that fabulous.”
“Uhhh… no,” Michael says. “I wish I had an ass as fabulous as Dean Cain.”
“Who the fuck is Dean Cain?” Brian asks. “Wait. Is that the new bartender at Woody’s? Great ass,” he admits, then wrinkles his nose. “Tiny dick.”
“Who the fuck is…” Michael repeats incredulously. “Okay, that’s it. We are sooo having a Lois and Clark marathon.”
“Jesus, superheroes again, Mikey?”
“What’s wrong with superheroes?” Michael sputters out.
“Nothing,” Brian says. He wraps his arm around Michael and hugs him close. “Absolutely nothing.”
And as Michael beams, Brian pushes off from the counter and strides purposefully to the living room. “Come along, Sunshine, we’re going to be late to the gym.”
“The gym?” Debbie squacks. “You can go to the gym any day! How many days can you spend in the loving arms of your family?”
“With the way that you plan these things, every other weekend,” Brian deadpans.
“He’s got that right,” Deb admits with a raucous laugh.
Brian rests his hand lightly on Gus’s head while Justin slips into his shoes and coat. And he admits, if only to himself, that he really won’t mind attending the bi-weekly dinners. He won’t mind at all.
*~*~*
“You’re such a fuckhead,” Justin rails. He slams his gym bag down onto the counter and throws open the freezer door to start rummaging through the contents. “You have no right to throw out my food.”
“Pizza pops,” Brian says dryly, “are not food.”
“Fuck you.”
“In your dreams.”
“That’s not what you said last week,” Justin bites out. “I seem to recall it went something like ‘more Justin, harder’.”
“You’re hallucinating again,” Brian says evenly.
“I don’t throw out your shit. You don’t see me tossing out your motherfucking guava juice.”
“Speaking of,” Brian says, “pass me the bottle.”
Justin ignores him, as he’s discovered is usually best in these situations, and continues searching. And discovers that Brian is right -- the pizza pops are gone. And he doesn’t give a shit that they were -- supposedly -- covered in freezer burn. They were his. And the perfect snack for after a work-out at the gym.
But he’s pretty sure he has some of those McCain’s pizzas tucked at the very back of the freezer. Flat, boring, taste like cardboard. He wants them.
He digs deeper, and frowns when his questing hand hits soft plastic. He tugs, sending a couple of frozen steaks tumbling to the floor, and pulls out a gift box.
He turns to face Brian with the box in his hand, and watches Brian‘s eyes go wide with surprise… and something else. Something darker. Apprehension. Or fear.
“Put it back,” Brian says shortly.
“Why?” Justin asks, half laughing. “Why do you do things like this? Just when I’m working up a good sized snit and ready to vilify you as the biggest shit on the planet, you go and do something that proves you’re the best boyfriend ever.”
Brian lifts a shoulder. “Just lucky?”
Justin sets the box down on the kitchen island, and lets his hand rest on the cold plastic. “I didn’t know… I didn’t think you’d find them. And then, we cancelled, and…”
Brian’s eyes light on the refrigerator, the bright canisters on the counter, the oven. Anywhere but on Justin.
“Do you think they still work?” Justin says softly.
Brian looks at Justin then, and squares his shoulders. “Only one way to find out.”
Justin tugs at the lid, the crack of protesting plastic long frozen loud and harsh in the room. And when he can’t seem to make his hands stop shaking, Brian smoothly takes the box from his hands and neatly unfastens the seal.
And the flower may be stiff and frozen, but the gold petals are still bright and vibrant, the thick green stalk still solid and full. And he imagines that he can still smell the sweet scent of gardenia filling the room.
Justin’s eyes meet Brian’s. “They still work,” he says.
“You think?”
Justin nods. “You’re mine now.”
And Brian presses his lips together and lowers his eyes to regard him from under thick lashes. “As if there was any doubt,” Brian murmurs.
Justin wants to go to him. Pull him down to the floor and kiss those eyes, those lips. Strip off his clothes and worship his body with his hands and his mouth. Let Brian fill him, drive him over the edge.
Instead, he crosses to his gym bag. He fumbles with the straps, inwardly cursing the inventor of tiny metal buckles. And he draws out the box, the box that he’s been carrying around for two weeks, the box that holds everything he wants, the box that he’s had no idea how to show to Brian.
He takes a deep breath before turning back to Brian and holding it up, the tiny red box, and watches Brian‘s shoulders go stiff.
“Where did you find them?” Brian asks softly.
“In the back of your underwear drawer.”
Brian’s lips quirk in a small smile. “I thought the days of you stealing my jock straps were long over.”
Justin’s mouth drops open. “You knew about that?”
Brian sticks his tongue in his cheek, and Justin flushes. He hates that Brian can still make him blush. But he loves that Brian loves it.
He closes the distance between them, and presses his palm lightly on Brian’s chest. “You told me once that you would be anything for me. Do anything.”
“I was high,” Brian drawls.
Justin slaps at his chest lightly. “And I told you that we didn’t need ceremonies or vows or rings to know that we love each other. I meant it.”
“I know.”
“We don’t need vows,” Justin repeats. “But I want the rings.” He takes another step closer, and presses his lips gently to Brian’s. Soft and warm. “I want to wear your ring.”
And Brian’s eyes search his, and his hand comes up to smooth along the fine hairs at the nape of Justin’s neck. And his fingers drop away to deftly pluck the velvet box from Justin’s hand.
He cracks open the lid, and the gold shines in the light.
He plucks the ring from its nesting place, and it looks so small in his hand.
He looks at it for a moment, and Justin holds his breath. And then Brian is lifting his hand, warm flesh pressed to warm flesh, and sliding the smooth gold circle onto his finger.
It’s a perfect fit.
“With this ring--” Brian starts, but he can’t finish. He doesn’t have to. He takes a deep shuddering breath and when he smiles, his lips quiver and his eyes are damp.
And Justin takes the second ring and places it gently on Brian’s finger. Lifts his hand and presses a kiss to his palm. And thinks that Brian has never looked so beautiful as he looks under harsh fluorescent light with an open freezer door at his back.
He knows that Brian didn’t look closely at the rings. He didn’t check the inner band. Didn’t see the inscription there. And Justin doesn’t point it out.
He knows someday Brian will have to remove the ring. In order to work on a repair or just to clean it or, God forbid, for a hospital visit. And he’ll see the inscription then. And he’ll smile, and his eyes will go soft and dark.
And Justin knows that Brian will find him, then, and love him best.
THE END