Fanfic: Something Like Normal
Title: Something Like Normal
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Timeline: 311 gapfiller
Summary: "As we walk down the street, I decide that it's not so bad, being mostly unemployed-I've always got the diner-and probably in deep shit with the school. After all, I could be back listening to violin music, or consuming two packs a day in depression, or any of the other equally horrible possibilities from the past six months or so."
The alarm clock is going off in the bedroom, and I feel Brian shift next to me, then pull himself off the futon mattress. After Stockwell's visit the night before-and we finished what we started-I lay with an arm across Brian's stomach and my chin resting on his chest. There was a heavy silence, although not uncomfortable. We were both thinking the same thing. We're fucked.
Eventually I got up and retrieved a cloth to clean us up, as well as a couple pillows and the duvet from his bed. I half-expected him to comment, a grumpy What the fuck are you doing? Instead, he took the offered pillow, and I settled back down against him and pulled the duvet over us. It ended up being a very comfortable place to sleep, in the opposite way of his bed; while the mattress in his bedroom was nice and firm, this one was squashy, allowing for us to sink into it. There was something nice, too, about waking up in the main part of the loft, a refreshing change.
The sense of doom I was feeling has passed, to be replaced with a strange feeling of satisfaction. The loft is scattered with my posters, and a trail of clothes leads across the floor from the support beam where we started, the whole scene a testament to how much we turn each other on when we defy authority. The embarrassment that I initially felt has transformed into a malicious pleasure at Stockwell's disgust upon finding out that the head of his advertising campaign likes to fuck pretty little blonde boys.
I've decided that I love this mattress. I'm sure we'll have a deep, meaningful relationship.
Brian pushes against my shoulder with his foot.
“Hey, Sunshine, time to get up.”
“Why?” I ask, rolling over to look up at him. “It's not like I have to go into work. I don't need to in order to know that I'm fired.”
“Well I do,” he says. “And I want a shower and a fuck, but I don't have time to do them separately. So get your ass up.”
Grumbling more for show than from actual annoyance I follow him through the bedroom and bathroom to the shower, all of which I also have deep and meaningful relationships with. It's a damn good thing they all belong to Brian, or I might be really torn. As usual the shower's hot, made hotter by the sex, and I'm in good enough of a mood afterward to admit that I don't need to shave.
Brian doesn't spend nearly as much time picking out his clothes this morning as he normally does. I sit on the bed, not bothering to put anything on yet, watching as he pulls on his Armani and Gucci and Prada.
“Call me when you find out what's going on,” I say. He doesn't need to ask what I mean.
“What're you doing today?”
I shrug, even though he's not looking. “See if Daphne's home, walk around Liberty Avenue. Wait for the school to call me.”
He looks around at me. “The school?”
“I'm sure they'll want to chew me a new asshole for being the most delinquent intern in PIFA's history.”
“Ah.” He nods. There's no arguing with it.
He leaves without eating, and a simple brush of his hand across the back of my head.
~ ~ ~
The call comes within an hour. Brian asks if I'm at the loft, and I respond no. I ask what he's going to do.
“Get stoned,” is his response.
“Alright,” I say. “Tell me if you want some company.”
“Sure.”
We hang up without saying goodbye. There never seems much point in doing so.
I end up at the diner, and I move to get my own coffee before sitting at the bar. Debbie moves to stand behind the bar and look pointedly down at me, and I give her a half-smile.
“Shouldn't you be at work?” she asks.
“We got fired,” I say.
“We? We as in who?”
“'We' as in 'Brian and I.' We were caught fucking with Stockwell's campaign.”
The look on her face is that strange mix of I can't believe it and I knew it, which isn't surprising; for a long time it seemed that Brian was going to choose New York over everything else. I see her cross herself, and I know that she's thanking God that he hadn't completely lost his mind. There's been a bit too much of that in the last year, first with my romantic escapade, then Brian going off and helping a homophobic mayoral candidate, Michael and Ben chasing after a teenage hustler, and now Ted's absence and Emmett's obvious excuses to Lindsey and Mel. At least Brian and I seem to be back to something like normal, despite our lack of employment.
“What happened?”
“I was making posters and holding protests at the Gay and Lesbian Center-“
“With Brian,” she says.
I smile. “You don't think he could possibly miss what I was doing, do you? He is completely incapable of not getting his hands in it in some way, and he obviously wasn't stopping me. Anyway, between the copy room blow jobs and the closing of every sex club on Liberty Avenue, it was bound to happen.”
Suddenly I'm dying for a smoke, perhaps because of a sudden wave of guilt that I'm in a good mood despite the mess my partner's currently in. Debbie seems to see this-it's amazing how much she sees, really-because she assures me that everything is going to be alright, and I don't have to worry about paying for the coffee today, then offers me an entire meal on the house. I'm reminded that, despite all she sees, she still hasn't quite figured out that I don't need fattening up just because I'm upset.
I end up wandering up and down Liberty Avenue for the rest of the day, because I feel I should be in a more appropriate mood when I go back to the loft, Daphne's in class, and the school still hasn't called me. I see no reason to rush the inevitable.
When I finally return to the loft, I'm almost knocked over by the smell of Brian's expensive marijuana. I'm a little disappointed that I wasn't around to share it-Brian always has the best drugs-but figure it's probably better. It's not like he smoked his entire box, that would be ridiculous. Brian himself is laying on the sofa, flipping through some magazine, and he doesn't look up when I enter.
“Debbie brought some tuna and macaroni,” he says. “Apparently it was my favourite when I was a kid.”
I move to the counter and open the lid to the casserole dish, wondering if I should take some. I haven't eaten since the diner, and Debbie's cooking is usually pretty good. I decide that it's worth it, and retrieve a plate so I can stick it in the microwave.
“You want some?” I ask.
He gives a grunt, and I'm glad I have a working knowledge of the language of Brian Kinney. Not many people would realize that it means no. I shrug and warm up enough for both of us anyway, knowing that he won't turn it down in the end. When I hold out a plate to him, he gives me a the what did I say look, but when I don't yield he takes it. I indulge myself by thinking that he wouldn't ever eat if it weren't for me, even though I know that this isn't true.
We eat in silence, which doesn't bother me as much as it should. There's nothing to say, and Brian always prefers nothing to mindless chatter. It's something to appreciate about him. The food isn't bad, and when I finish I take his empty plate and put both on the counter, and the dish in the ever-empty fridge.
“Let's go out,” I say, although I'm not entirely sure where.
For a moment I think he'll refuse, but he gets up. “Yeah.”
As we walk down the street, I decide that it's not so bad, being mostly unemployed-I've always got the diner-and probably in deep shit with the school. After all, I could be back listening to violin music, or consuming two packs a day in depression, or any of the other equally horrible possibilities from the past six months or so.
Besides, we always seem to manage.
Notes: Alright, so I always feel like such a fucking virgin when I write for a fandom the first time around. I guess I start to get worried about...well...everything.
Anyway, I've decided that Brian's loft is one of those places in the universe that you just don't question. Like where he keeps the treadmill. Or that mattress. Or the orange light in 310 that's where the closet should be....(meaning, if someone has an explanation, it'd actually be nice to know.)
---
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Timeline: 311 gapfiller
Summary: "As we walk down the street, I decide that it's not so bad, being mostly unemployed-I've always got the diner-and probably in deep shit with the school. After all, I could be back listening to violin music, or consuming two packs a day in depression, or any of the other equally horrible possibilities from the past six months or so."
The alarm clock is going off in the bedroom, and I feel Brian shift next to me, then pull himself off the futon mattress. After Stockwell's visit the night before-and we finished what we started-I lay with an arm across Brian's stomach and my chin resting on his chest. There was a heavy silence, although not uncomfortable. We were both thinking the same thing. We're fucked.
Eventually I got up and retrieved a cloth to clean us up, as well as a couple pillows and the duvet from his bed. I half-expected him to comment, a grumpy What the fuck are you doing? Instead, he took the offered pillow, and I settled back down against him and pulled the duvet over us. It ended up being a very comfortable place to sleep, in the opposite way of his bed; while the mattress in his bedroom was nice and firm, this one was squashy, allowing for us to sink into it. There was something nice, too, about waking up in the main part of the loft, a refreshing change.
The sense of doom I was feeling has passed, to be replaced with a strange feeling of satisfaction. The loft is scattered with my posters, and a trail of clothes leads across the floor from the support beam where we started, the whole scene a testament to how much we turn each other on when we defy authority. The embarrassment that I initially felt has transformed into a malicious pleasure at Stockwell's disgust upon finding out that the head of his advertising campaign likes to fuck pretty little blonde boys.
I've decided that I love this mattress. I'm sure we'll have a deep, meaningful relationship.
Brian pushes against my shoulder with his foot.
“Hey, Sunshine, time to get up.”
“Why?” I ask, rolling over to look up at him. “It's not like I have to go into work. I don't need to in order to know that I'm fired.”
“Well I do,” he says. “And I want a shower and a fuck, but I don't have time to do them separately. So get your ass up.”
Grumbling more for show than from actual annoyance I follow him through the bedroom and bathroom to the shower, all of which I also have deep and meaningful relationships with. It's a damn good thing they all belong to Brian, or I might be really torn. As usual the shower's hot, made hotter by the sex, and I'm in good enough of a mood afterward to admit that I don't need to shave.
Brian doesn't spend nearly as much time picking out his clothes this morning as he normally does. I sit on the bed, not bothering to put anything on yet, watching as he pulls on his Armani and Gucci and Prada.
“Call me when you find out what's going on,” I say. He doesn't need to ask what I mean.
“What're you doing today?”
I shrug, even though he's not looking. “See if Daphne's home, walk around Liberty Avenue. Wait for the school to call me.”
He looks around at me. “The school?”
“I'm sure they'll want to chew me a new asshole for being the most delinquent intern in PIFA's history.”
“Ah.” He nods. There's no arguing with it.
He leaves without eating, and a simple brush of his hand across the back of my head.
~ ~ ~
The call comes within an hour. Brian asks if I'm at the loft, and I respond no. I ask what he's going to do.
“Get stoned,” is his response.
“Alright,” I say. “Tell me if you want some company.”
“Sure.”
We hang up without saying goodbye. There never seems much point in doing so.
I end up at the diner, and I move to get my own coffee before sitting at the bar. Debbie moves to stand behind the bar and look pointedly down at me, and I give her a half-smile.
“Shouldn't you be at work?” she asks.
“We got fired,” I say.
“We? We as in who?”
“'We' as in 'Brian and I.' We were caught fucking with Stockwell's campaign.”
The look on her face is that strange mix of I can't believe it and I knew it, which isn't surprising; for a long time it seemed that Brian was going to choose New York over everything else. I see her cross herself, and I know that she's thanking God that he hadn't completely lost his mind. There's been a bit too much of that in the last year, first with my romantic escapade, then Brian going off and helping a homophobic mayoral candidate, Michael and Ben chasing after a teenage hustler, and now Ted's absence and Emmett's obvious excuses to Lindsey and Mel. At least Brian and I seem to be back to something like normal, despite our lack of employment.
“What happened?”
“I was making posters and holding protests at the Gay and Lesbian Center-“
“With Brian,” she says.
I smile. “You don't think he could possibly miss what I was doing, do you? He is completely incapable of not getting his hands in it in some way, and he obviously wasn't stopping me. Anyway, between the copy room blow jobs and the closing of every sex club on Liberty Avenue, it was bound to happen.”
Suddenly I'm dying for a smoke, perhaps because of a sudden wave of guilt that I'm in a good mood despite the mess my partner's currently in. Debbie seems to see this-it's amazing how much she sees, really-because she assures me that everything is going to be alright, and I don't have to worry about paying for the coffee today, then offers me an entire meal on the house. I'm reminded that, despite all she sees, she still hasn't quite figured out that I don't need fattening up just because I'm upset.
I end up wandering up and down Liberty Avenue for the rest of the day, because I feel I should be in a more appropriate mood when I go back to the loft, Daphne's in class, and the school still hasn't called me. I see no reason to rush the inevitable.
When I finally return to the loft, I'm almost knocked over by the smell of Brian's expensive marijuana. I'm a little disappointed that I wasn't around to share it-Brian always has the best drugs-but figure it's probably better. It's not like he smoked his entire box, that would be ridiculous. Brian himself is laying on the sofa, flipping through some magazine, and he doesn't look up when I enter.
“Debbie brought some tuna and macaroni,” he says. “Apparently it was my favourite when I was a kid.”
I move to the counter and open the lid to the casserole dish, wondering if I should take some. I haven't eaten since the diner, and Debbie's cooking is usually pretty good. I decide that it's worth it, and retrieve a plate so I can stick it in the microwave.
“You want some?” I ask.
He gives a grunt, and I'm glad I have a working knowledge of the language of Brian Kinney. Not many people would realize that it means no. I shrug and warm up enough for both of us anyway, knowing that he won't turn it down in the end. When I hold out a plate to him, he gives me a the what did I say look, but when I don't yield he takes it. I indulge myself by thinking that he wouldn't ever eat if it weren't for me, even though I know that this isn't true.
We eat in silence, which doesn't bother me as much as it should. There's nothing to say, and Brian always prefers nothing to mindless chatter. It's something to appreciate about him. The food isn't bad, and when I finish I take his empty plate and put both on the counter, and the dish in the ever-empty fridge.
“Let's go out,” I say, although I'm not entirely sure where.
For a moment I think he'll refuse, but he gets up. “Yeah.”
As we walk down the street, I decide that it's not so bad, being mostly unemployed-I've always got the diner-and probably in deep shit with the school. After all, I could be back listening to violin music, or consuming two packs a day in depression, or any of the other equally horrible possibilities from the past six months or so.
Besides, we always seem to manage.
Notes: Alright, so I always feel like such a fucking virgin when I write for a fandom the first time around. I guess I start to get worried about...well...everything.
Anyway, I've decided that Brian's loft is one of those places in the universe that you just don't question. Like where he keeps the treadmill. Or that mattress. Or the orange light in 310 that's where the closet should be....(meaning, if someone has an explanation, it'd actually be nice to know.)
---