Fic #6
Note: This was posted in the now-defunct on_to_us journal. Thanks to Sam for sending it to me.
The thing was, the night had been pretty awesome, all in all. School had gone well, he’d managed to make Michael see reason and go with his idea for the cover of the next Rage, and he’d actually made Brian scream while he was going down on him. But the only thing Justin could think of as he made his way down a darkened street toward the bus was the very end of the night, and Brian’s smooth-tongued introduction.
The guy I fuck more than once . . . Justin mulled it, thinking it sounded almost hip, very 21st Century - a new, hip, term for “fuck buddy,” maybe. Brian was the partner of an advertising agency; he got paid to be ahead of the curve.
It sort of gnawed at him, and Justin wasn’t sure why it did. After all, it was almost a compliment, right? Almost like a term of endearment. Something that distinguished his place in Brian’s life, a place no one else in the world held.
Justin turned a corner, rushing when he saw the bus pull up to the stop. Stumbling on, he took a seat in the back and laid his head on the window, thinking. Brian’s breathless, “That was fucking hot,” echoed in his ear, and Justin wondered if Brian’s “appointment” was sucking him off with gusto, or maybe rimming him, or being fucked, or a combination of the three.
One thing Justin was pretty sure of was that whatever the guy was doing, he’d better be making it good. Trick du nuit only had one chance to get it right. There was only one man in Brian’s life that got repeat performances, and he wasn’t the one in Brian’s bed at that moment.
He’s the one on the bus, going home to sleep in his empty bed. Justin stared out the window, reflecting that if the “more than once” status Brian had conferred upon him that night was supposed to have some magical effect, he wasn’t feeling it yet.
-
Life kept Justin away from the loft for three days afterward. Tests and work at the diner kept him on the go, and he’d been given a huge assignment to do for Vanguard’s art department. Time just flew by without his noticing it, and by the time activities had subsided enough for Justin to surface and do some thinking, he came to a quiet realization.
It bothered him. What Brian had said - how he’d referred to him - bothered Justin. He could admit it to himself with no uneasiness. That was the easy part. The harder thing was pinpointing just why it would. When they’d gotten back together after the Ethan thing, there hadn’t been any discussion as to what was going to go on between them, except that tacit promise concerning violin music. Justin remembered how he’d said he knew what to expect from Brian and what was expected of him. Thing was, Justin knew he really didn’t know what to expect from Brian other than that they weren’t going to be marching down any aisles anytime soon and that a verbalized “I love you,” probably wasn’t forthcoming. Any and everything else, though, Justin figured they’d play by ear. No rules, no guidelines, no bullshit.
He hadn’t asked Brian to define their relationship, but in his heart of hearts, Justin had hoped they’d gotten past defining what they were to each other in terms of dick and ass. But even if they hadn’t, Justin wasn’t cool with the idea of being Brian’s “more than once.” It was like some sort of fucked-up queer mathematics: if a regular trick equaled a one-time fuck only, then since he was “the guy Brian fucks more than once,” did that make him a repeat trick? An encore trick? A revolving trick? A trick-plus?
Justin still couldn’t understand why Brian felt the need to say anything, much less that, to a guy who was only going to be around for a couple of hours tops. Why the fuck did Brian think he needed to explain anything to him?
The little shit and his contemptuous “Who’s he?” should have been answered by Brian with a “The fuck business is it of yours?” And then, Justin mused, Brian could’ve kissed him goodnight, given him one of those muted “laters” said forehead-to-forehead, and sent him on his way.
Or I could have just told the guy to fuck off. Justin chewed his lower lip. At the time, Brian’s declaration had seemed so cool, especially since it had taken some of the smarm out of the trick’s expression. Justin had even laughed at the time, but that, he admitted, had been before the full meaning of Brian’s words had sunk in and he began to realize that they had not really meant much at all, considering.
Brian had always been on about how words were bullshit, and actions were what counted, which sort of fed into Justin’s suspicions that the words were said not so much for the trick’s benefit than for his. Brian was telling him just where they stood with each other - they weren’t acquaintances, weren’t friends, weren’t lovers, weren’t boyfriends.
They fucked each other more than once, which in Brian parlance was something huge, something groundbreaking, a title that wasn’t conferred on just anybody.
In Justin parlance it was . . . just fucking. And he wasn’t sure if just fucking was going to be good enough - not this time around. He had a brief thought that he was being unfair. Brian was never going to be the conventional fag feeding his partner peach Danish and gazing rapturously into his eyes for the world to see. Justin understood that, and accepted it on some levels. But he didn’t have to like it, and he certainly didn’t have to let it define him in his own mind. In his conscious mind he was Justin Taylor, artist, busboy, PIFA student - not “Brian Kinney’s more-than-once fuck.” And the way Justin figured it, Brian would either come to realize it or he wouldn’t. Justin, though, wasn’t holding his breath either way.
-
Brian waltzed into the diner on the fourth day of Justin’s self-imposed exile. He strolled over to where Justin was artfully arranging a pile of foil-wrapped butter pats and asked if he was coming over. After a minute of thought in which Justin came to the slow realization that he wasn’t so much being asked as he was being “summoned,” he shocked the hell out of Brian and himself by politely declining. And shock was putting it mildly - he was 19, horny and had an open invitation to be fucked by the hottest queer in the city, but he also had a test on the Italian school of art, and needed to study his ass off in hopes of getting a decent grade.
“Studying?” Brian looked skeptical. “Is that where you’ve been the past few days, or have you started on another project?”
There was a catch in the last word that Justin didn’t miss, and he smiled, shaking his head “no,” and leaning in to kiss the older man’s cheek.
“Don’t worry about it,” Justin said with the same gentle smile. “There’s still half the year left. You’ll have plenty of time to fuck me, since I’m the only guy you do more than once. Go out, pick up some guy, and make his night. Make sure he’ll never forget you, because this’ll be his only shot.”
One of his big orders came up then, and Justin walked away, but not before seeing something intense and dark flicker in Brian’s eyes. Justin thought it was almost like surprise mixed with something else - a bitter-edged emotion, something like remorse, almost.
Remorse? Justin frowned a little, sure that wasn’t the word he was looking for, because Brian didn’t do contrition. But Justin stuck with remorse because it sounded better, and besides, he wasn’t able to think of a better way to describe it.
The thing was, the night had been pretty awesome, all in all. School had gone well, he’d managed to make Michael see reason and go with his idea for the cover of the next Rage, and he’d actually made Brian scream while he was going down on him. But the only thing Justin could think of as he made his way down a darkened street toward the bus was the very end of the night, and Brian’s smooth-tongued introduction.
The guy I fuck more than once . . . Justin mulled it, thinking it sounded almost hip, very 21st Century - a new, hip, term for “fuck buddy,” maybe. Brian was the partner of an advertising agency; he got paid to be ahead of the curve.
It sort of gnawed at him, and Justin wasn’t sure why it did. After all, it was almost a compliment, right? Almost like a term of endearment. Something that distinguished his place in Brian’s life, a place no one else in the world held.
Justin turned a corner, rushing when he saw the bus pull up to the stop. Stumbling on, he took a seat in the back and laid his head on the window, thinking. Brian’s breathless, “That was fucking hot,” echoed in his ear, and Justin wondered if Brian’s “appointment” was sucking him off with gusto, or maybe rimming him, or being fucked, or a combination of the three.
One thing Justin was pretty sure of was that whatever the guy was doing, he’d better be making it good. Trick du nuit only had one chance to get it right. There was only one man in Brian’s life that got repeat performances, and he wasn’t the one in Brian’s bed at that moment.
He’s the one on the bus, going home to sleep in his empty bed. Justin stared out the window, reflecting that if the “more than once” status Brian had conferred upon him that night was supposed to have some magical effect, he wasn’t feeling it yet.
-
Life kept Justin away from the loft for three days afterward. Tests and work at the diner kept him on the go, and he’d been given a huge assignment to do for Vanguard’s art department. Time just flew by without his noticing it, and by the time activities had subsided enough for Justin to surface and do some thinking, he came to a quiet realization.
It bothered him. What Brian had said - how he’d referred to him - bothered Justin. He could admit it to himself with no uneasiness. That was the easy part. The harder thing was pinpointing just why it would. When they’d gotten back together after the Ethan thing, there hadn’t been any discussion as to what was going to go on between them, except that tacit promise concerning violin music. Justin remembered how he’d said he knew what to expect from Brian and what was expected of him. Thing was, Justin knew he really didn’t know what to expect from Brian other than that they weren’t going to be marching down any aisles anytime soon and that a verbalized “I love you,” probably wasn’t forthcoming. Any and everything else, though, Justin figured they’d play by ear. No rules, no guidelines, no bullshit.
He hadn’t asked Brian to define their relationship, but in his heart of hearts, Justin had hoped they’d gotten past defining what they were to each other in terms of dick and ass. But even if they hadn’t, Justin wasn’t cool with the idea of being Brian’s “more than once.” It was like some sort of fucked-up queer mathematics: if a regular trick equaled a one-time fuck only, then since he was “the guy Brian fucks more than once,” did that make him a repeat trick? An encore trick? A revolving trick? A trick-plus?
Justin still couldn’t understand why Brian felt the need to say anything, much less that, to a guy who was only going to be around for a couple of hours tops. Why the fuck did Brian think he needed to explain anything to him?
The little shit and his contemptuous “Who’s he?” should have been answered by Brian with a “The fuck business is it of yours?” And then, Justin mused, Brian could’ve kissed him goodnight, given him one of those muted “laters” said forehead-to-forehead, and sent him on his way.
Or I could have just told the guy to fuck off. Justin chewed his lower lip. At the time, Brian’s declaration had seemed so cool, especially since it had taken some of the smarm out of the trick’s expression. Justin had even laughed at the time, but that, he admitted, had been before the full meaning of Brian’s words had sunk in and he began to realize that they had not really meant much at all, considering.
Brian had always been on about how words were bullshit, and actions were what counted, which sort of fed into Justin’s suspicions that the words were said not so much for the trick’s benefit than for his. Brian was telling him just where they stood with each other - they weren’t acquaintances, weren’t friends, weren’t lovers, weren’t boyfriends.
They fucked each other more than once, which in Brian parlance was something huge, something groundbreaking, a title that wasn’t conferred on just anybody.
In Justin parlance it was . . . just fucking. And he wasn’t sure if just fucking was going to be good enough - not this time around. He had a brief thought that he was being unfair. Brian was never going to be the conventional fag feeding his partner peach Danish and gazing rapturously into his eyes for the world to see. Justin understood that, and accepted it on some levels. But he didn’t have to like it, and he certainly didn’t have to let it define him in his own mind. In his conscious mind he was Justin Taylor, artist, busboy, PIFA student - not “Brian Kinney’s more-than-once fuck.” And the way Justin figured it, Brian would either come to realize it or he wouldn’t. Justin, though, wasn’t holding his breath either way.
-
Brian waltzed into the diner on the fourth day of Justin’s self-imposed exile. He strolled over to where Justin was artfully arranging a pile of foil-wrapped butter pats and asked if he was coming over. After a minute of thought in which Justin came to the slow realization that he wasn’t so much being asked as he was being “summoned,” he shocked the hell out of Brian and himself by politely declining. And shock was putting it mildly - he was 19, horny and had an open invitation to be fucked by the hottest queer in the city, but he also had a test on the Italian school of art, and needed to study his ass off in hopes of getting a decent grade.
“Studying?” Brian looked skeptical. “Is that where you’ve been the past few days, or have you started on another project?”
There was a catch in the last word that Justin didn’t miss, and he smiled, shaking his head “no,” and leaning in to kiss the older man’s cheek.
“Don’t worry about it,” Justin said with the same gentle smile. “There’s still half the year left. You’ll have plenty of time to fuck me, since I’m the only guy you do more than once. Go out, pick up some guy, and make his night. Make sure he’ll never forget you, because this’ll be his only shot.”
One of his big orders came up then, and Justin walked away, but not before seeing something intense and dark flicker in Brian’s eyes. Justin thought it was almost like surprise mixed with something else - a bitter-edged emotion, something like remorse, almost.
Remorse? Justin frowned a little, sure that wasn’t the word he was looking for, because Brian didn’t do contrition. But Justin stuck with remorse because it sounded better, and besides, he wasn’t able to think of a better way to describe it.