Elucidation: Waltz - Part 1
Title: Elucidation: Waltz Part One
Author Name: randyandgale Thank you to Liz for her wonderful beta work.
Author Email:morgansrandy@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17 (To be safe for this series)
Warnings: Unsafe sex (sometimes) Spoilers, Cannon, Post 513
Notes: Elucidation means: to clarify or to throw light upon
This will be a collection of two part fics. Each with their own title, one part from Brian’s P.O.V. and one from Justin’s P.O.V. exploring the what if’s and giving substance to the many gaps in the Queer as Folk series related to events in Brian and Justin’s lives while trying to hold onto the characterization and original storyline. The only ones that will be without the precise cannon series will be listed as post 513
(Summary for Waltz- “You remembered.” I’m surprised I can get the words to pass my lips as I almost feel like I’m choking.)
Disclaimer: I own nothing but wish I did.
Elucidation
Waltz: Part One
Fuck. “Justin!” I toe off my boots by the door and try to avoid to the wet puddles as I make my way upstairs. I’m gonna kick that little shit's ass.
I just had the fucking rug on the stairs cleaned last week and now it’s sopping wet with dirty boot prints all over. I should have just had it torn up and had the wood on the stairs refinished. But noooo Justin whined that his poor widdle feet would get cold.
“Son of Bitch,” I grumble. Now I’m the one with cold feet. Oh, shut up. I know what you’re thinking. I had cold feet for the first five years I knew Justin. But now… well I don’t appreciate my brand new Armani socks being soaked in the remnants of snow and dirt. How hard is it to just take off your shoes at the door? How?
As I reach the top landing, my wet feet start to slide on the floor and I have to peel the socks off my feet before I go any further. And you know what? I’m not going to put them in the hamper in the bathroom. Nope. I’m going to leave them right here next to the landing for Justin’s enjoyment. Contrary to what you may think I do not take my socks to the dry cleaners. Justin does. Yes, Justin goes to the drycleaners, does the majority of grocery shopping and usually makes dinner. But it has nothing to do with him being a happy wifey homemaker or some imitation heterosexual.
I already pay our new housekeeper double than what I pay Marta to clean the loft. She was kind enough to pick up the dry cleaning when we lived in town and bring it over, but she doesn’t have the time to come out to West Virgina and clean Britin once a week. It is an all day job to keep up with this place weekly. So, I hired Penny, a woman who lives a few streets from us. There’s no way I’m gonna pay extra for her to go into Pittsburgh twice a month to get our dry cleaning. And I’m not going to change dry cleaners. Do you know how hard it is to find a good drycleaner these days? Especially one that not only can get lube and cum stains off your clothing but also never asks ‘how the stain got there’ as some have asked. It’s hard.
The place is only a block from PIFA. Now that Justin has decided to finish his education, he’s right by it three days a week. So Sunshine can just get over himself and his ‘I’m your husband not your wife’ attitude. Little twat has said that to me more than once when I’ve asked him simple questions. I usually just glare at him and tell him that just saying that to me makes him seem like more of a bitch. Seriously though, as if I would ever even compare his role in our fucking marriage to that of Mikey’s with him and Ben’s marriage? There is no comparison. So he can spend ten minutes of his day twice a month and pick our clothes…okay well they are mostly my clothes but if he actually owned clothes that could be dry cleaned or rather, looked clean, he’d be doing us both a favor.
The economies for shit and with owning Babylon, the loft, my vette, the jeep, paying for Justin’s tuition, running Kinnetik and paying the mortgage on this fucking manor, well I have save where I can. I’m certainly not going to cut back on my wardrobe or my nights out.
As for the cooking and grocery shopping, I’m sure any male chef would resent the implications that shopping in a grocery store and grilling chicken makes them into a housewife. Not that Justin is a five star chef, but he tries to make masterpieces of food and usually succeeds, even if at times there is far too much fat and carbs in the dish. And that brings me to my other point, I refuse to buy any of the unhealthy junk he wants to snack on and I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to shop the isles of Giant Eagle with a list of shit he needs for recipes and saver coupons in my back pocket. No. I’d just as soon as call and order a meal or pick something up on my way home from work, which I do about half of the week. Justin has always insisted that he enjoys cooking and likes homemade food. He’s a good cook, and most of the time he makes meals that I actually consider looking forward to digesting. I like his food, but I usually prefer to remain ignorant to the actual ingredients used to prepare it.
Instead of placing both of my wet socks in the same place, I get the brilliant idea to annoy Justin even more. I toss one onto the banister. I can’t help but grin as I know that the little shit will be walking down without noticing and he’ll get a hand full of wet, smell---no my feet don’t smell, he’ll just… oh fuck it. What am I doing? This is extremely childish behavior. You know, this is what living with a teenager will do to you. Fuck it, I’m not going to touch it again. I’ll just tell him I threw it and didn’t see where it landed. Yeah. Cause he’s in some serious shit. In fact, not only am I going to make him scrub the fucking carpet himself, I’m going to make him do it naked, while I watch sitting in the little chair in the foyer. This is going to be fun.
“Justin!” Why the fuck hasn’t he answered me?
Usually, he runs out from where ever he is and greets me at the door. Oh, fuck you. If you were me. You’d want to have a hot, little blond attack you as soon as you got home from work too you know. Especially because my mouth isn’t the only thing, he attacks with his own. And I don’t care if it’s become a routine. Tell me, who wouldn’t love to get in a routine of getting a blowjob practically before they can shut their front door? And Justin’s blowjobs… Christ, if getting angry didn’t already make me hard, thinking about his hot mouth wrapped around my dick, his harsh breathing from his nose against my pubes…
So the footprints lead into his studio. I suppose he must have got some inspiration while cooking. Wait a minute. I actually don’t think I smell anything cooking at all. I could’ve sworn he said he was making parmesan chicken tonight. Flighty, talented blond artists are by far the worst kind of people to live with and marry. I have to remind myself almost daily, why it is that I actually keep this ring on my finger.
I knock on the studio’s cracked door. “Justin?” I walk in but I don’t see him at first. I’m about to turn around to walk out of the room. But I don’t because my eye catches his movement. He’s sitting down on the floor in front of the couch, sketching madly into a large art pad, pages scattered all around him.
“Justin?” I say louder.
“Fuck!” He jumps as he turns to look at me and practically throws his sketchpad and pencil off his lap as he stands up. “When did you get home?”
Something is definitely up. His skin looks paler than normal and his eyes keep darting from the sketches and back.
“A few minutes ago,” I tell him walking around the couch, doing my best to step over all the papers. “What’s going on?” He’s wearing his big clunky boots, covered in half-dried mud and I notice that his gloves and coat are thrown carelessly amongst the art debris.
Looking down at his dirty shoes, he twists his fingers together and says in a gravely voice, “I remembered what I think I forgot… I think.”
“What?” You’d think a kid with country club manners and a 1500 SAT score would be a little more verbally inclined.
His blond head snaps up and his eyes meet mine, “I remembered…I think Brian. I think I remembered.”
He remembered to think? “What are you talking about?” Seriously, it’s been a long day. I lost an account and my head and nerves are shot. I don’t think I can even begin to decipher his drabbling.
He reaches down, grabs the pad of paper, and shoves it towards me, “Did I remember?”
“What?” I look down and see what he’s drawn. It’s a good fucking thing there’s a couch behind me because immediately my legs weaken and I find myself sitting down. I look around the floor and that’s when I really see what all the sketches are. Fuck.
I stare at all of them and I can’t bring myself to look back at Justin but then suddenly he’s sitting beside me. He chucks off his dirty boots, curls up against my side and begins placing small kisses on my neck. “I remembered, right?”
My ear seems to buzz from his whisper. The sensation traveling to brain and kick starting me out of the dark memories and feelings that were on the cusp of my nerve endings, aching to travel up my spine, through my brain and out of my eyes in painful tears. Thankfully, I am able to hold all of that back.
I turn towards him. I put my hands on the sides of his face and look into his eyes. I brush away the wetness seeping out onto his cheeks, “You remembered.” I’m surprised I can get the words to pass my lips as I almost feel like I’m choking.
“You looked at me like you’re looking at me now Brian.”
I bow my head and bite my lips. It doesn’t matter if he’s seen me at my best or my worst; although, its more often the latter of the two. I still find myself wanting to run away from him. But he keeps holding on, he always does. And I’m smart so I let him. I look at the ring on my hand that now rests on his hip; I guess I know why I don’t take it off.
“Look at me,” he says, his tone on the verge of begging.
“Hmm?” I mumble, raising my eyes to meet his again.
“You loved me then?”
I roll my eyes, “Justin…”
“You loved me then. You whispered to me. You said, ‘God you’re beautiful tonight’, and then when you stood back in front of me I knew you loved me.”
“You were always saying I loved you,” I tell him.
“I was always sure you did, in a way, but the way you looked at me, held me, danced with me, kissed me… fuck Brian,” he covers his face with his hands and wipes away his steadily falling tears. “I knew you were in love with me. You knew that too.”
I shrug, “You remembered everything then?”
“I did,” he smiles a little and launches himself at me, pushing me back against the end of the couch and throwing his body on top of mine in the same instant that his lips crash against mine.
I push myself up as I practically throw him onto the floor, the sketches crinkling and tearing as he wiggles. He sits up and starts to throw his clothes off of him. I kneel down in between his spread legs and help him pull his jeans and underwear down and off his legs, tossing them behind me. I tear off my coat, throwing it on the couch and I can’t help but laugh as Justin literally tears open my shirt. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
“Like you don’t have a hundred more in our closet,” he retorts, kissing the parts of my exposed chest and fumbling with my belt.
I nip at his ear and slide my tongue around his forehead. Not meaning to, I lick across his scar, making us both startle from the touch. We break away from each other, our breath still rapid, hearts still pounding with desire but this fumbled touch of my tongue somehow has dampened the urgency.
He stands and turns away from me, “I’m so...”
“Don’t,” he barks, cutting off my apology.
Fuck, he’s right. What do I have to apologize for? I wasn’t thinking and it’s not as though I’ve never touched it or kissed it before. It’s just that right now…
“Let‘s go in the bedroom,” he says, spinning back around to face me and holding his hand out to me.
Waltz will continue in Part Two