Glory Be, Another One!
I'm taking all of my hysterical, out-of-control angst-fest fics and turning them into itty bitty Domesticity fics!
Domesticity 5
It was close to 7:30 when Brian finally staggered home. It didn't seem like he used to get this beat up on a daily basis, even after he made partner at Vanguard. Striking out on his own was proving to be a decision whose merits fluctuated more than Deb's weight.
Today had brought the high of securing another client-The Benton Group of Restaurants, which was a major coup. But then the rest of the day had been spent haggling over advertising fees he'd thought were spelled in the proposal. The way they ended it, Brian was practically fucking paying them for the honor of working his ass off on their account. Fuckers.
But the name was going to look awfully beautiful on his client list. The prestige of landing that big fish would probably bring him five or six lemmings in the next two weeks. Oh yeah, bring it on, Brian thought.
He'd missed lunch that afternoon, and fuck if he was going to treat Alan Benton to dinner after having the life sucked out of him all day. He was tired and starving; pissed and triumphant all at once. And fuck if he didn't have to do it all again tomorrow. He groaned theatrically as he stepped into the elevator and slumped against the wall.
Brian almost longed for the days of yesteryear when his arriving home to Justin was met with all the excitement of a soldier returning from the front. An ass in the air and dinner on the stove-Brian understood what it must have been like to be a husband circa 1952.
Alas, that was then. The elevator door opened to reveal no pleasing aromas--no garlic and basil, no poaching fish or baking chicken. If not for the trail of jacket, hat, scarf, bag that led from the front door to Justin's desk, it was hard to tell Justin was even there.
"Hey," Brian called, but Justin didn't look up from the computer. He was leaning in close, bracing his right arm with the left, intently concentrating on something. He had a laptop from the office, so it was obviously work related.
Irritated at being ignored, Brian stalked to the kitchen to rifle through take-out menus. "Why, hello Brian," he said in a mocking falsetto. "How delightful to see you. And how was your day?"
Justin slowly turned to look at him as if he were the star attraction at the carnival freak show. "Sorry, Nancy, I didn't hear you come in," he said.
Brian flipped him off, but he'd gone back to his computer so quickly he might have missed it. "You want to order Thai?" Brian asked, loosening his tie. "I'm sick of that organic deli."
"I already ate," said Justin.
Brian smirked at the back of his head. "How neighborly of you to save me some."
"Christ, you're on the fuckin' rag today."
"Fuck you. If you're goin' to the fuckin' trouble of making dinner, it wouldn't kill you to make enough for me."
Justin stomped into the kitchen. He flung open the cupboard and retrieved a bowl, then snatched a spoon from the drawer. He grabbed a box of Wheat Chex and slammed it all down on the counter. "Knock yourself out!" he said.
Brian rolled his eyes and headed to the bedroom to change. He passed behind Justin and glanced at the work on the screen. "They're letting you use three different colors now? Alert the media."
"Fuck off."
Brian took his suit off and hung it up. He stuck his head further in the closet before stepping back and turning to Justin. "Where'd you put my suit?" he asked.
Justin's wince was all Brian really needed to see, but he also put his stylus down and rolled the chair back from the table. "Yeah, about that..."
"Justin, Jesus Christ, I asked you this morning if you'd have time to pick it up!" Brian said. "All you had to do was fucking say no. You always fuckin' do this! You don't want to say no so you say you'll do something then you just blow it off. I have a huge meeting tomorrow with a client and whether or not you buy into the psychology of it, shit like that makes a difference!"
"Now wait a minute!" Justin started to say.
"No!" Brian barked. "You fucking wait a minute! If you didn't have time to pick the shit up, you should have told me so or fucking called me! God damn it, you are so fucking inconsiderate sometimes!"
"This is bullshit!" Justin said, and began packing up his laptop. "For the first time since I started this lousy, fucking job, they've given me something to do where I'm not just the guy in Row 2, Cubicle 6, so excuse fucking me if I don't do some fucking victory dance to welcome you home!"
"Fuck you, this has nothing to do with that! It has to do with you following through with something for once in your God damned fucking life!"
"Screw you!" Justin shouted. He headed for the door, but after sliding the door open, he stopped and turned around to face Brian. "And for your information, you fucking asshole, Mel called and said Lindsay was stuck in traffic and for every five minutes after 5:30 that you don't pick up your kid, that fucking preschool charges 25 dollars. So between springing Gus or picking up your fucking suit, astonishingly enough, Gus won out! Asshole!" And with that, Justin stormed out the door and down the stairs.
Brian stood there in the bedroom for a second before slowly walking over and closing the door. Fuck, he should have known better. Justin only engaged when he had the moral high ground. When he legitimately fucked up, the little shit moped around like a puppy with its tale between its legs.
Still, he could've fucking called and said he wasn't going to make it to the cleaners. Brian would've swung by on his way home. Maybe. Or at least mentally prepared another ensemble for tomorrow's meeting. A little early notification wasn't too much to ask.
Fuck it, Brian thought. Brooding about it wasn't going to change anything. Might as well take advantage of a free night and enjoy a little extracurricular activity.
=====================================================
Brian awoke the next morning fifteen minutes before the alarm sounded. That was irritating. Though marginally less irritating than the half-assed blow jobs he'd encountered at Babylon. What the fuck is happening to this town? he wondered. Used to be a man could get his rocks off--maybe not always in stellar fashion--but certainly with enough skill for the encounter to be passable. Last night's offerings were disappointingly sub-par.
Brian groaned and rolled over onto his back, staring morosely up at the ceiling. Fuck starting up some lame-ass, far-superior-to-all-the-others ad agency. He should have taken that capital and opened The Brian Kinney College of Sexual Proficiency. Sure there'd be some resistance, some public outrage, but when graduates of his patented program spread out across the country, sharing the orgasmic joy begat from his prowess, they'd be erecting statues in his honor, declaring a national holiday on his birthday and celebrating him as the avant-garde genius he was. A grateful nation would offer tearful testimonials to the miraculous changes in their lives after leaving his school or at the very least hooking up with an esteemed graduate. Fame, fortune, and the certainty of a decent blow job would be his.
Fuck. Or he could just make nice with Justin. Hmm. Choices, choices.
Brian showered and dressed, glaring at himself in the bathroom mirror when he was finished. Sure, he looked incredible. That was never in question. It was about attitude; and he fucking rocked when he wore Prada. He was born to it, and that showed in the way he walked into a room and owned it. Owned it, mother fucker.
The Armani was classic, though. Not as edgy as Prada. A little safer than Brian had wanted to play it, based on what he'd read about Thomas Sinjahni, but he could work it. A lesser man would be lost. But then, he wasn't a lesser man.
His meeting wasn't until ten, but Brian had read several articles about working out of the home, and all of them suggested a noticeable break to transform "home" into "office." Most mornings, Brian either met the guys at the diner for breakfast or headed to the Starbucks on Rockport for a latte. When he arrived back at the loft, he was at the office.
It was well before seven when Brian walked into the Starbucks, and he glared at the unexpected line of people before him, mentally calculating how many customers would order a simple black coffee and how many would want some fucking fifty-step coffee experience. His latte didn't count because it was a God damned coffee shop for fuck's sake, they could make him a fucking latte.
Brian's internal grumbling was interrupted by a group of kids, undoubtedly Carnegie Mellon students, who were sitting at a large table, laughing raucously with one another. Brian tried not to spare them an annoyed glance, but as his eyes raked over the table, he still ran an unconscious inventory: straight, straight, straight, straight, straight. Figures.
"I'm so pissed at my dad," whined one of the girls. "He said he'd give me $500 for spring break and not a penny more, and I'm like, 'Great Dad, six weeks before is a good time to tell me!' If I'd known that I would've been pocketing my allowance all along. Granted, it's only fifty bucks a week, but still."
"God, that is lame," said another, who then started to laugh. "Oh my God, I just got the mental picture of you saving gas money by riding the bus to campus every morning!"
Horrified shrieks went up from all around the table.
"Oh right, like I'd sit my sorry ass down on some skanky piece of public transportation? I don't think so!" sniffed the girl. "I'd rather shop online than submit myself to that indignity!"
Brian gave her another once over and thought, However you shop, it ain't workin', Bitch.
Another student joined the crowd, asking, "Where's Darrell? I thought he was meeting us here."
"Probably moping around his room. He's such a fuckin' buzzkill right now."
"Come on, give him a break! He's facing, like, a totally impossible choice right now. I mean, he got accepted to the Harvard MBA program, not to mention the Wharton School. But get this, Carla told me that if he started today at his grandfather's company, he'd get mid-six figures. Mid-six figures! I mean, how do you pick from all that!"
"I guess he's entitled to be a little preoccupied," the guy grudgingly agreed. "But if you ask me, he's just pissed because he was so drunk at Loomfield's party he puked in the backyard, and Karen Richards ditched him for Matt Carlson."
Once again, gales of scandalous laughter rang forth.
Jesus Christ.
Brian looked away and shuffled forward in line and thought of Justin, whose father had dropped him from his insurance and, at least temporarily, forced him out of school and into a dreary job he didn't want; Justin, who dragged himself out of bed at 5:30 every morning so he could sit his sorry ass down on a bus that took him to that fucking job, whose "impossible choice" was between picking up the dry cleaning or picking up a three-year old at preschool.
Brian made a sour face and shook his head. As much as their fucking prattle revolted him, he still sort of wished Justin was sitting there with those over privileged brats. Sort of.
Not that I'd get an occasional fucking dinner out it if he was, he thought.
Fortified with a venti latte and a large black coffee for later, Brian returned to the loft in full "office" mode. He booted up his laptop and checked his e-mail, then refined his schedule for the day. Setting the calendar to notify him a half-hour before his ten o'clock appointment, he then picked up his cell phone, scrolled through the list of programmed numbers and selected Justin's office number.
Justin answered before the second ring. "Justin Taylor, Color Department."
"Finish your project?" Brian asked.
"Yeah. Turned it in a couple of minutes ago."
"Parker like it?"
"Like's a pretty strong word. He grabbed it and said, "Well for once I get something that doesn't suck the first time through!" then he stomped into his office and slammed the door."
"You're good."
Justin chuckled. "Yeah, it's a shame no one else is here yet. They're not going to believe Parker was so complimentary."
"Yeah, too bad," Brian said. The silence stretched between them for a minute or two before Brian started speaking again. "So, uh, I know you're not gonna be able to concentrate all day so I just thought I'd call and tell you not to worry about yesterday." Brian grinned in spite of himself, and he knew it was there in his voice. "I don't expect you to apologize. In fact, I don't even want you to."
Justin burst out laughing, and it was a good thing it was still early or he would have disturbed his fellow dungeon-mates. "Your selflessness never ceases to amaze me."
"I know how it works with you," Brian magnanimously explained. "You'd try frantically to reach me all day, leaving long, drawn out messages on my voice mail about how you're wracked with guilt, and you'll never forgive yourself if I don't realize how terribly sorry you are and how I'm all that matters to you in the whole world, and you couldn't live with yourself if I didn't accept your apology. Sometimes there won't even be words, just the sound of you sobbing into the answering machine."
"Wow," said Justin, in the tone of someone having an epiphany. "I'm a flaming queer, aren't I?"
"Well, I would never say anything like that myself but..."
"Right. 'Cause you're so selfless."
"Yeah!" Brian sounded pleased that Justin understood so clearly.
"It's almost shocking how none of that has rubbed off on me," Justin said. "Three years now, you'd think I'd pick up a little something."
"I know," Brian sounded scandalized as well. "It's almost like you're willfully refusing to follow my example of always doing unto others."
"And usually you do unto in a really nice way."
"Usually," Brian agreed. "So... since I've forgiven you for everything, does that mean I can do unto you tonight?"
Justin thought this over for a moment. "I guess I owe you, don't I?"
"You really do." Brian was almost apologetic to have to tell him so, but he was an honest man if nothing else.
"Fine. You want me to pick up a box of Frosted Flakes? The least I can do is spring for dinner."
Brian laughed. "I was thinking something more along the lines of Martine's. Just as a change of pace."
"It is good to mix things up once in awhile."
"Yeah, it is," Brian softly agreed. It was quiet for a moment, then he heaved a resigned sigh. "So, if you feel like you have to go on and on about how much you love me or whatever, you can."
Justin snickered and said, "No, I'm good."
"I'm just saying, if that's something you need to do, go ahead, 'cause, you know, I'm okay with it, this once."
"No, really, I'm fine," Justin assured him.
"It's just if you don't, later today you'll start the calling again, and I'll be with Sinjahni, so it just seems like now would be a good time, you know, if that was something you had to do. Or whatever."
Brian could picture the look on Justin's face as he mulled over Brian's more than generous offer. Finally, he spoke, in a low voice that suggested some dungeon-mates had arrived. "Brian, I love you, madly, passionately, deeply. You're my world, my whole life. You're all I think of and dream of; you're everything I'll ever want or need. I love you. I'll always love you. Always."
"Wow," said Brian. "You are a flaming queer."
"Click," said Justin and set the phone down on its cradle.
Brian laughed and turned off his own phone. With a satisfied sigh, he grabbed his latte and leaned back in his chair, content to sip slowly and wait for his next brilliant idea to hit.
Domesticity 5
It was close to 7:30 when Brian finally staggered home. It didn't seem like he used to get this beat up on a daily basis, even after he made partner at Vanguard. Striking out on his own was proving to be a decision whose merits fluctuated more than Deb's weight.
Today had brought the high of securing another client-The Benton Group of Restaurants, which was a major coup. But then the rest of the day had been spent haggling over advertising fees he'd thought were spelled in the proposal. The way they ended it, Brian was practically fucking paying them for the honor of working his ass off on their account. Fuckers.
But the name was going to look awfully beautiful on his client list. The prestige of landing that big fish would probably bring him five or six lemmings in the next two weeks. Oh yeah, bring it on, Brian thought.
He'd missed lunch that afternoon, and fuck if he was going to treat Alan Benton to dinner after having the life sucked out of him all day. He was tired and starving; pissed and triumphant all at once. And fuck if he didn't have to do it all again tomorrow. He groaned theatrically as he stepped into the elevator and slumped against the wall.
Brian almost longed for the days of yesteryear when his arriving home to Justin was met with all the excitement of a soldier returning from the front. An ass in the air and dinner on the stove-Brian understood what it must have been like to be a husband circa 1952.
Alas, that was then. The elevator door opened to reveal no pleasing aromas--no garlic and basil, no poaching fish or baking chicken. If not for the trail of jacket, hat, scarf, bag that led from the front door to Justin's desk, it was hard to tell Justin was even there.
"Hey," Brian called, but Justin didn't look up from the computer. He was leaning in close, bracing his right arm with the left, intently concentrating on something. He had a laptop from the office, so it was obviously work related.
Irritated at being ignored, Brian stalked to the kitchen to rifle through take-out menus. "Why, hello Brian," he said in a mocking falsetto. "How delightful to see you. And how was your day?"
Justin slowly turned to look at him as if he were the star attraction at the carnival freak show. "Sorry, Nancy, I didn't hear you come in," he said.
Brian flipped him off, but he'd gone back to his computer so quickly he might have missed it. "You want to order Thai?" Brian asked, loosening his tie. "I'm sick of that organic deli."
"I already ate," said Justin.
Brian smirked at the back of his head. "How neighborly of you to save me some."
"Christ, you're on the fuckin' rag today."
"Fuck you. If you're goin' to the fuckin' trouble of making dinner, it wouldn't kill you to make enough for me."
Justin stomped into the kitchen. He flung open the cupboard and retrieved a bowl, then snatched a spoon from the drawer. He grabbed a box of Wheat Chex and slammed it all down on the counter. "Knock yourself out!" he said.
Brian rolled his eyes and headed to the bedroom to change. He passed behind Justin and glanced at the work on the screen. "They're letting you use three different colors now? Alert the media."
"Fuck off."
Brian took his suit off and hung it up. He stuck his head further in the closet before stepping back and turning to Justin. "Where'd you put my suit?" he asked.
Justin's wince was all Brian really needed to see, but he also put his stylus down and rolled the chair back from the table. "Yeah, about that..."
"Justin, Jesus Christ, I asked you this morning if you'd have time to pick it up!" Brian said. "All you had to do was fucking say no. You always fuckin' do this! You don't want to say no so you say you'll do something then you just blow it off. I have a huge meeting tomorrow with a client and whether or not you buy into the psychology of it, shit like that makes a difference!"
"Now wait a minute!" Justin started to say.
"No!" Brian barked. "You fucking wait a minute! If you didn't have time to pick the shit up, you should have told me so or fucking called me! God damn it, you are so fucking inconsiderate sometimes!"
"This is bullshit!" Justin said, and began packing up his laptop. "For the first time since I started this lousy, fucking job, they've given me something to do where I'm not just the guy in Row 2, Cubicle 6, so excuse fucking me if I don't do some fucking victory dance to welcome you home!"
"Fuck you, this has nothing to do with that! It has to do with you following through with something for once in your God damned fucking life!"
"Screw you!" Justin shouted. He headed for the door, but after sliding the door open, he stopped and turned around to face Brian. "And for your information, you fucking asshole, Mel called and said Lindsay was stuck in traffic and for every five minutes after 5:30 that you don't pick up your kid, that fucking preschool charges 25 dollars. So between springing Gus or picking up your fucking suit, astonishingly enough, Gus won out! Asshole!" And with that, Justin stormed out the door and down the stairs.
Brian stood there in the bedroom for a second before slowly walking over and closing the door. Fuck, he should have known better. Justin only engaged when he had the moral high ground. When he legitimately fucked up, the little shit moped around like a puppy with its tale between its legs.
Still, he could've fucking called and said he wasn't going to make it to the cleaners. Brian would've swung by on his way home. Maybe. Or at least mentally prepared another ensemble for tomorrow's meeting. A little early notification wasn't too much to ask.
Fuck it, Brian thought. Brooding about it wasn't going to change anything. Might as well take advantage of a free night and enjoy a little extracurricular activity.
=====================================================
Brian awoke the next morning fifteen minutes before the alarm sounded. That was irritating. Though marginally less irritating than the half-assed blow jobs he'd encountered at Babylon. What the fuck is happening to this town? he wondered. Used to be a man could get his rocks off--maybe not always in stellar fashion--but certainly with enough skill for the encounter to be passable. Last night's offerings were disappointingly sub-par.
Brian groaned and rolled over onto his back, staring morosely up at the ceiling. Fuck starting up some lame-ass, far-superior-to-all-the-others ad agency. He should have taken that capital and opened The Brian Kinney College of Sexual Proficiency. Sure there'd be some resistance, some public outrage, but when graduates of his patented program spread out across the country, sharing the orgasmic joy begat from his prowess, they'd be erecting statues in his honor, declaring a national holiday on his birthday and celebrating him as the avant-garde genius he was. A grateful nation would offer tearful testimonials to the miraculous changes in their lives after leaving his school or at the very least hooking up with an esteemed graduate. Fame, fortune, and the certainty of a decent blow job would be his.
Fuck. Or he could just make nice with Justin. Hmm. Choices, choices.
Brian showered and dressed, glaring at himself in the bathroom mirror when he was finished. Sure, he looked incredible. That was never in question. It was about attitude; and he fucking rocked when he wore Prada. He was born to it, and that showed in the way he walked into a room and owned it. Owned it, mother fucker.
The Armani was classic, though. Not as edgy as Prada. A little safer than Brian had wanted to play it, based on what he'd read about Thomas Sinjahni, but he could work it. A lesser man would be lost. But then, he wasn't a lesser man.
His meeting wasn't until ten, but Brian had read several articles about working out of the home, and all of them suggested a noticeable break to transform "home" into "office." Most mornings, Brian either met the guys at the diner for breakfast or headed to the Starbucks on Rockport for a latte. When he arrived back at the loft, he was at the office.
It was well before seven when Brian walked into the Starbucks, and he glared at the unexpected line of people before him, mentally calculating how many customers would order a simple black coffee and how many would want some fucking fifty-step coffee experience. His latte didn't count because it was a God damned coffee shop for fuck's sake, they could make him a fucking latte.
Brian's internal grumbling was interrupted by a group of kids, undoubtedly Carnegie Mellon students, who were sitting at a large table, laughing raucously with one another. Brian tried not to spare them an annoyed glance, but as his eyes raked over the table, he still ran an unconscious inventory: straight, straight, straight, straight, straight. Figures.
"I'm so pissed at my dad," whined one of the girls. "He said he'd give me $500 for spring break and not a penny more, and I'm like, 'Great Dad, six weeks before is a good time to tell me!' If I'd known that I would've been pocketing my allowance all along. Granted, it's only fifty bucks a week, but still."
"God, that is lame," said another, who then started to laugh. "Oh my God, I just got the mental picture of you saving gas money by riding the bus to campus every morning!"
Horrified shrieks went up from all around the table.
"Oh right, like I'd sit my sorry ass down on some skanky piece of public transportation? I don't think so!" sniffed the girl. "I'd rather shop online than submit myself to that indignity!"
Brian gave her another once over and thought, However you shop, it ain't workin', Bitch.
Another student joined the crowd, asking, "Where's Darrell? I thought he was meeting us here."
"Probably moping around his room. He's such a fuckin' buzzkill right now."
"Come on, give him a break! He's facing, like, a totally impossible choice right now. I mean, he got accepted to the Harvard MBA program, not to mention the Wharton School. But get this, Carla told me that if he started today at his grandfather's company, he'd get mid-six figures. Mid-six figures! I mean, how do you pick from all that!"
"I guess he's entitled to be a little preoccupied," the guy grudgingly agreed. "But if you ask me, he's just pissed because he was so drunk at Loomfield's party he puked in the backyard, and Karen Richards ditched him for Matt Carlson."
Once again, gales of scandalous laughter rang forth.
Jesus Christ.
Brian looked away and shuffled forward in line and thought of Justin, whose father had dropped him from his insurance and, at least temporarily, forced him out of school and into a dreary job he didn't want; Justin, who dragged himself out of bed at 5:30 every morning so he could sit his sorry ass down on a bus that took him to that fucking job, whose "impossible choice" was between picking up the dry cleaning or picking up a three-year old at preschool.
Brian made a sour face and shook his head. As much as their fucking prattle revolted him, he still sort of wished Justin was sitting there with those over privileged brats. Sort of.
Not that I'd get an occasional fucking dinner out it if he was, he thought.
Fortified with a venti latte and a large black coffee for later, Brian returned to the loft in full "office" mode. He booted up his laptop and checked his e-mail, then refined his schedule for the day. Setting the calendar to notify him a half-hour before his ten o'clock appointment, he then picked up his cell phone, scrolled through the list of programmed numbers and selected Justin's office number.
Justin answered before the second ring. "Justin Taylor, Color Department."
"Finish your project?" Brian asked.
"Yeah. Turned it in a couple of minutes ago."
"Parker like it?"
"Like's a pretty strong word. He grabbed it and said, "Well for once I get something that doesn't suck the first time through!" then he stomped into his office and slammed the door."
"You're good."
Justin chuckled. "Yeah, it's a shame no one else is here yet. They're not going to believe Parker was so complimentary."
"Yeah, too bad," Brian said. The silence stretched between them for a minute or two before Brian started speaking again. "So, uh, I know you're not gonna be able to concentrate all day so I just thought I'd call and tell you not to worry about yesterday." Brian grinned in spite of himself, and he knew it was there in his voice. "I don't expect you to apologize. In fact, I don't even want you to."
Justin burst out laughing, and it was a good thing it was still early or he would have disturbed his fellow dungeon-mates. "Your selflessness never ceases to amaze me."
"I know how it works with you," Brian magnanimously explained. "You'd try frantically to reach me all day, leaving long, drawn out messages on my voice mail about how you're wracked with guilt, and you'll never forgive yourself if I don't realize how terribly sorry you are and how I'm all that matters to you in the whole world, and you couldn't live with yourself if I didn't accept your apology. Sometimes there won't even be words, just the sound of you sobbing into the answering machine."
"Wow," said Justin, in the tone of someone having an epiphany. "I'm a flaming queer, aren't I?"
"Well, I would never say anything like that myself but..."
"Right. 'Cause you're so selfless."
"Yeah!" Brian sounded pleased that Justin understood so clearly.
"It's almost shocking how none of that has rubbed off on me," Justin said. "Three years now, you'd think I'd pick up a little something."
"I know," Brian sounded scandalized as well. "It's almost like you're willfully refusing to follow my example of always doing unto others."
"And usually you do unto in a really nice way."
"Usually," Brian agreed. "So... since I've forgiven you for everything, does that mean I can do unto you tonight?"
Justin thought this over for a moment. "I guess I owe you, don't I?"
"You really do." Brian was almost apologetic to have to tell him so, but he was an honest man if nothing else.
"Fine. You want me to pick up a box of Frosted Flakes? The least I can do is spring for dinner."
Brian laughed. "I was thinking something more along the lines of Martine's. Just as a change of pace."
"It is good to mix things up once in awhile."
"Yeah, it is," Brian softly agreed. It was quiet for a moment, then he heaved a resigned sigh. "So, if you feel like you have to go on and on about how much you love me or whatever, you can."
Justin snickered and said, "No, I'm good."
"I'm just saying, if that's something you need to do, go ahead, 'cause, you know, I'm okay with it, this once."
"No, really, I'm fine," Justin assured him.
"It's just if you don't, later today you'll start the calling again, and I'll be with Sinjahni, so it just seems like now would be a good time, you know, if that was something you had to do. Or whatever."
Brian could picture the look on Justin's face as he mulled over Brian's more than generous offer. Finally, he spoke, in a low voice that suggested some dungeon-mates had arrived. "Brian, I love you, madly, passionately, deeply. You're my world, my whole life. You're all I think of and dream of; you're everything I'll ever want or need. I love you. I'll always love you. Always."
"Wow," said Brian. "You are a flaming queer."
"Click," said Justin and set the phone down on its cradle.
Brian laughed and turned off his own phone. With a satisfied sigh, he grabbed his latte and leaned back in his chair, content to sip slowly and wait for his next brilliant idea to hit.