"Winter - Duet" -- Fic 55 of 100 for fanfic100
All right, let's see if I can get back on track with this writing thing.
Post-513.
Prompt 019 - White.
Winter - Duet
by Severina
***
Justin hates New York winters.
He tugs his scarf tighter around his throat and tries to ignore the mounds of sludge-coloured mush that line the streets, the early season snowfall already tinged brownish-greyish-yellowish from the endless stream of smog spewing cars, the tramp of hundreds of pairs of boots. The snow is still slanting down, hard, relentless, pinged with ice pellets, and he crouches to adjust the scarf at Gus’s neck -- only the child’s eyes and the tip of his nose escaping from the mountain of fabric -- and then clutches Gus’s mittened hand and tries to ignore the angry bleat of car horns and the slither of wet tires on pavement. Tries not to envision one of the cars sliding on slick cement, driver frantically tugging at the wheel, the glimpse of panicked eyes and mouth open wide O he’d get before the tires bridged the pavement and Gus was hit, thrown…
Justin also hates having an active imagination.
Gus laughs and points at something -- someone -- across the street, and Justin feels his mouth twitch into something that feels like a grimace but he hopes looks like a smile. The wind picks up, enough to rock Gus back on his feet, and discarded flyers, newspapers, candy wrappers whirl around their legs. The light finally turns green and he sees a burgundy Chevy slip-slide to a stop in his peripheral vision and fuck it, he tugs Gus into his arms. The boy is far too old to carry and Justin’s back will be killing him tomorrow and he can barely navigate the slush filled streets with a jabbering five year old around his neck, but he really can’t take much more.
When he gets to the café, three blocks and eight imagined snow-instigated accidents later, Justin shifts Gus to Brian’s arms and breathes deep, his breath frosting in the cold and Brian’s arm warm around his neck, scent of cigarettes and wet wool. Brian wisely doesn’t say a word. They take their seats and Gus, de-mummified from his winter apparel, rambles on about the subway and the crazy man and maybe they can make snowmen later and Justin squints out the window, smudged with winter city grime that not even the most meticulous cleansing can completely erase, and watches the snow come down.
* * *
Justin’s show closes a week early. He knows that he should probably be upset about this, or depressed, or something other than mind-numbingly elated, but as soon as the words have escaped his agent’s lips he’s already mentally planning what he needs to pack for home. Harvey says disappointing sales and Justin hears might be able to get there in time for dinner. Harvey says worried about your standing in the marketplace and Justin hears pack charcoals for that sketch of the back barn.
Justin crams necessities into a battered suitcase, a smile on his face the whole time, and the smile doesn’t falter through plane delays at Kennedy or airport peanuts as “dinner” or a taxi driver who manages to get lost not once but twice on the way to the house.
He doesn’t bother to call -- Justin has learned that his unannounced visits make Brian hot, hard, and reunion sex doesn’t get old even when it occurs every six weeks. He slides his coat to the foyer floor and slips out of his shoes; steals up the staircase and into their room and awakens Brian with a warm wet tongue on his spine and a firm hand wrapped around his dick.
Neither of them get much sleep that night, so Justin is surprised to awaken to an empty bed. He yawns and stretches and stands naked at the window, the little boy in him still awestruck at the mantle of white that blankets the yard, the fields, the freshly fallen snow pristine and pure and beautiful. He doesn’t think he can capture that beauty, isn’t sure that he has the talent to do it, but he intends to try.
He slides into well worn jeans and heavy sweater and follows his nose to the kitchen and the freshly brewed coffee, and dark wooden chairs heavy with age, and early morning light filtering through the frosted glass of the French doors. And Brian, hair still rumpled from sleep, tiny crows-feet at the corners of his eyes, and he has never looked sexier. Justin sets his mug on the counter and wants to crawl inside him, taste him from the inside out, but he settles for swiping his tongue into Brian’s mouth, Peruvian blend and mint toothpaste and Brian.
And Gus.
Gus, who is visiting for the week, and who is a bouncing ball of energy at seven twenty three in the morning. Who claps when he sees the freshly fallen snow, and wants to play, wants to run, wants to make snowmen and snow angels and have a snowball fight. Whose exuberance is contagious.
Justin searches for and bundles himself in his old pea coat while Brian layers Gus in snowsuit, hat, scarf, mittens. Brian puts on a parka that Justin has never seen. Gus’s squeals proceed them out the door, and Justin begins to mentally orchestrate a combined Justin-Gus snowball sneak attack that Brian Kinney will never forget.
Justin loves winter in Pittsburgh.
Post-513.
Prompt 019 - White.
Winter - Duet
by Severina
***
Justin hates New York winters.
He tugs his scarf tighter around his throat and tries to ignore the mounds of sludge-coloured mush that line the streets, the early season snowfall already tinged brownish-greyish-yellowish from the endless stream of smog spewing cars, the tramp of hundreds of pairs of boots. The snow is still slanting down, hard, relentless, pinged with ice pellets, and he crouches to adjust the scarf at Gus’s neck -- only the child’s eyes and the tip of his nose escaping from the mountain of fabric -- and then clutches Gus’s mittened hand and tries to ignore the angry bleat of car horns and the slither of wet tires on pavement. Tries not to envision one of the cars sliding on slick cement, driver frantically tugging at the wheel, the glimpse of panicked eyes and mouth open wide O he’d get before the tires bridged the pavement and Gus was hit, thrown…
Justin also hates having an active imagination.
Gus laughs and points at something -- someone -- across the street, and Justin feels his mouth twitch into something that feels like a grimace but he hopes looks like a smile. The wind picks up, enough to rock Gus back on his feet, and discarded flyers, newspapers, candy wrappers whirl around their legs. The light finally turns green and he sees a burgundy Chevy slip-slide to a stop in his peripheral vision and fuck it, he tugs Gus into his arms. The boy is far too old to carry and Justin’s back will be killing him tomorrow and he can barely navigate the slush filled streets with a jabbering five year old around his neck, but he really can’t take much more.
When he gets to the café, three blocks and eight imagined snow-instigated accidents later, Justin shifts Gus to Brian’s arms and breathes deep, his breath frosting in the cold and Brian’s arm warm around his neck, scent of cigarettes and wet wool. Brian wisely doesn’t say a word. They take their seats and Gus, de-mummified from his winter apparel, rambles on about the subway and the crazy man and maybe they can make snowmen later and Justin squints out the window, smudged with winter city grime that not even the most meticulous cleansing can completely erase, and watches the snow come down.
* * *
Justin’s show closes a week early. He knows that he should probably be upset about this, or depressed, or something other than mind-numbingly elated, but as soon as the words have escaped his agent’s lips he’s already mentally planning what he needs to pack for home. Harvey says disappointing sales and Justin hears might be able to get there in time for dinner. Harvey says worried about your standing in the marketplace and Justin hears pack charcoals for that sketch of the back barn.
Justin crams necessities into a battered suitcase, a smile on his face the whole time, and the smile doesn’t falter through plane delays at Kennedy or airport peanuts as “dinner” or a taxi driver who manages to get lost not once but twice on the way to the house.
He doesn’t bother to call -- Justin has learned that his unannounced visits make Brian hot, hard, and reunion sex doesn’t get old even when it occurs every six weeks. He slides his coat to the foyer floor and slips out of his shoes; steals up the staircase and into their room and awakens Brian with a warm wet tongue on his spine and a firm hand wrapped around his dick.
Neither of them get much sleep that night, so Justin is surprised to awaken to an empty bed. He yawns and stretches and stands naked at the window, the little boy in him still awestruck at the mantle of white that blankets the yard, the fields, the freshly fallen snow pristine and pure and beautiful. He doesn’t think he can capture that beauty, isn’t sure that he has the talent to do it, but he intends to try.
He slides into well worn jeans and heavy sweater and follows his nose to the kitchen and the freshly brewed coffee, and dark wooden chairs heavy with age, and early morning light filtering through the frosted glass of the French doors. And Brian, hair still rumpled from sleep, tiny crows-feet at the corners of his eyes, and he has never looked sexier. Justin sets his mug on the counter and wants to crawl inside him, taste him from the inside out, but he settles for swiping his tongue into Brian’s mouth, Peruvian blend and mint toothpaste and Brian.
And Gus.
Gus, who is visiting for the week, and who is a bouncing ball of energy at seven twenty three in the morning. Who claps when he sees the freshly fallen snow, and wants to play, wants to run, wants to make snowmen and snow angels and have a snowball fight. Whose exuberance is contagious.
Justin searches for and bundles himself in his old pea coat while Brian layers Gus in snowsuit, hat, scarf, mittens. Brian puts on a parka that Justin has never seen. Gus’s squeals proceed them out the door, and Justin begins to mentally orchestrate a combined Justin-Gus snowball sneak attack that Brian Kinney will never forget.
Justin loves winter in Pittsburgh.