Coming Home - Chapter Five: Thursday
Yup, another chapter. Saturdays are good writing days for me. :)
Title: Coming Home
Chapter: 05 - Thursday
Timeframe: Post Season Five
Word Count: 993
Coming Home
By Severina
Chapter Five:
Thursday
Promise you the bluest summer sky,
It'll shine just for you...
Breakfast is toast and coffee, plus cereal and eggs sunny-side-up for Justin, and Brian has long ago learned not to say a damn thing about that. Brian scans the financial section and surreptitiously watches Justin over the top of his paper. Justin, still sleepy-eyed and slow-moving despite his earlier energy in the shower, munches lazily on his toast.
“I have something to show you,” Brian says into the silence.
Justin’s lips twitch around a mouthful of bread.
“Not that,” Brian scolds.
“Then what?”
But Brian merely rises from the table and inclines his head toward the back door. And Justin ignores the warning bells -- because really, what now? A hummer? A heli-pad? -- and follows him.
He’s sure he’ll always follow him.
He catches up to Brian on the grass at the edge of the deck. Perfectly green grass, the kind that he has seen in travel photos of Ireland, the kind that he has never seen in Pittsburgh. The only kind, he surmises, that Brian Kinney would find acceptable for his fairytale house.
Justin glances around. Lots of grass, the stables tucked toward the rear of the property just before the clump of trees that constitutes their “three graceful acres of woodland”, according to the specs that Justin found in the desk about a year after the purchase. A moth-eaten patio chair that he doesn’t remember ever seeing before slants half-heartedly against the ground.
“Okay,” he says.
“This,” Brian says grandly, arms wide, “is where the pool is going to be.”
“The pool.”
“The contractor is coming out to take the measurements this afternoon.”
“The pool,” Justin repeats. He thinks back to that day several years ago. Country manor, yes. Stables, yes. Tennis courts, possibly. Pool, definite no.
“In-ground, of course,” Brian says.
“Actually, I’m very certain I didn’t say anything about a pool.”
Brian frowns. “We need a pool.”
And Justin suddenly realizes that he has never seen Brian in a speedo, and there is definitely something wrong with the world when a person has been with his partner for seven years and never had the opportunity to drool over him in a speedo.
Justin smiles brightly. “We soooo need a pool.”
“Yes?” Brian asks. Which is, of course, the first time that Justin understands that the whole thing is actually not a fait-accompli. He wraps his arms around Brian‘s waist. Feels the stutter-start of Brian‘s heart against his chest, and remembers that he can‘t be perfect on his reads of Brian every single time.
“I am completely down with a pool.”
Brian squints. “You’re ‘down’ with it.”
“Or up with it. Whichever you prefer.“ And Justin shifts so that Brian can feel just how up he is.
“You’re sure you’re not allergic to chlorine?”
“Fuck o--,” Justin manages to get out, but then Brian has swooped down, and his world narrows down to Brian’s lips on his, Brian’s hand stroking across his back. It’s only when he feels that lush green grass against his stomach that he realizes that somehow they’ve tumbled to the ground, somehow his t-shirt is bunched around his shoulders and his jeans are tangled around his ankles, somehow Brian has produced lube and a condom and is preparing to fuck him in the middle of their very wide-open and certainly-not-privacy-fenced back yard.
“Brian,” he mumbles, and it’s part complaint and part plea, and Justin would be hard-pressed to tell which is the most urgent.
Brian slides a finger inside, crooks it in a way that makes Justin arch and yelp and definitely decide that begging is not beneath him.
“Backroom, backyard,” Brian breathes into his ear. “What’s the difference?”
And when Brian slides smoothly inside him, Justin discovers he can find absolutely no fault with that logic.
After all, it’s not like they’re rutting in the middle of the front yard, in full view of passing cars on the road. The only way to reach the back is through the house itself… or down the little gravel path that cuts along the side of the house. It’s not like they’re accessible.
He lets go. Bows his head, pushes back into Brian’s thrusts. Feels the sun baking on his back and Brian’s tongue at his neck, licking at the beads of sweat that glisten on his skin. Huffs out a breath and lets go of that perfect green grass to fumble a hand at Brian’s flank, to urge him deeper.
Hears the crunch of gravel above their joined panting breaths and--
“Maybe they’re-- Oh, Jesus Christ. Can’t you two ever keep it in your pants?”
Justin tries to scrabble away, but Brian’s grip is firm on his hips and Brian’s rhythm doesn’t falter, and Justin is mortified and breathless and horny and sooo close, every sense heightened. Brian’s hair scrapes along his back when he turns his head. Brian’s lips sear his skin when he feels them turn up in a sardonic smile. Brian’s breath burns a smoky line across his spine when he speaks.
“Go away, Mikey,” Brian says mildly.
“Uh, we’ll just--” Ben starts, and Justin can imagine him looking everywhere but at the Brian and Justin in mid-fuck exhibition. Can equally imagine Michael drinking it in.
“Be far far away?” Brian says.
“-- go wait out front,” Ben finishes.
Justin closes his eyes, ignores the rustle of the gravel and Michael’s indistinct muttering. Focuses instead on the way Brian’s hand is smoothing gently along his side. The soft press of Brian’s full lips on his shoulder blades. The slow, even strokes as Brian brings his attention back to where it belongs… on them. The two of them. This thing they have. This ridiculous, unshakable, indescribable thing.
He moans low in his throat when Brian nips at the nape of his neck; arches his back when Brian’s hand finds his cock.
Backroom, backyard. What’s the difference?
.
Title: Coming Home
Chapter: 05 - Thursday
Timeframe: Post Season Five
Word Count: 993
Coming Home
By Severina
Chapter Five:
Thursday
Promise you the bluest summer sky,
It'll shine just for you...
Breakfast is toast and coffee, plus cereal and eggs sunny-side-up for Justin, and Brian has long ago learned not to say a damn thing about that. Brian scans the financial section and surreptitiously watches Justin over the top of his paper. Justin, still sleepy-eyed and slow-moving despite his earlier energy in the shower, munches lazily on his toast.
“I have something to show you,” Brian says into the silence.
Justin’s lips twitch around a mouthful of bread.
“Not that,” Brian scolds.
“Then what?”
But Brian merely rises from the table and inclines his head toward the back door. And Justin ignores the warning bells -- because really, what now? A hummer? A heli-pad? -- and follows him.
He’s sure he’ll always follow him.
He catches up to Brian on the grass at the edge of the deck. Perfectly green grass, the kind that he has seen in travel photos of Ireland, the kind that he has never seen in Pittsburgh. The only kind, he surmises, that Brian Kinney would find acceptable for his fairytale house.
Justin glances around. Lots of grass, the stables tucked toward the rear of the property just before the clump of trees that constitutes their “three graceful acres of woodland”, according to the specs that Justin found in the desk about a year after the purchase. A moth-eaten patio chair that he doesn’t remember ever seeing before slants half-heartedly against the ground.
“Okay,” he says.
“This,” Brian says grandly, arms wide, “is where the pool is going to be.”
“The pool.”
“The contractor is coming out to take the measurements this afternoon.”
“The pool,” Justin repeats. He thinks back to that day several years ago. Country manor, yes. Stables, yes. Tennis courts, possibly. Pool, definite no.
“In-ground, of course,” Brian says.
“Actually, I’m very certain I didn’t say anything about a pool.”
Brian frowns. “We need a pool.”
And Justin suddenly realizes that he has never seen Brian in a speedo, and there is definitely something wrong with the world when a person has been with his partner for seven years and never had the opportunity to drool over him in a speedo.
Justin smiles brightly. “We soooo need a pool.”
“Yes?” Brian asks. Which is, of course, the first time that Justin understands that the whole thing is actually not a fait-accompli. He wraps his arms around Brian‘s waist. Feels the stutter-start of Brian‘s heart against his chest, and remembers that he can‘t be perfect on his reads of Brian every single time.
“I am completely down with a pool.”
Brian squints. “You’re ‘down’ with it.”
“Or up with it. Whichever you prefer.“ And Justin shifts so that Brian can feel just how up he is.
“You’re sure you’re not allergic to chlorine?”
“Fuck o--,” Justin manages to get out, but then Brian has swooped down, and his world narrows down to Brian’s lips on his, Brian’s hand stroking across his back. It’s only when he feels that lush green grass against his stomach that he realizes that somehow they’ve tumbled to the ground, somehow his t-shirt is bunched around his shoulders and his jeans are tangled around his ankles, somehow Brian has produced lube and a condom and is preparing to fuck him in the middle of their very wide-open and certainly-not-privacy-fenced back yard.
“Brian,” he mumbles, and it’s part complaint and part plea, and Justin would be hard-pressed to tell which is the most urgent.
Brian slides a finger inside, crooks it in a way that makes Justin arch and yelp and definitely decide that begging is not beneath him.
“Backroom, backyard,” Brian breathes into his ear. “What’s the difference?”
And when Brian slides smoothly inside him, Justin discovers he can find absolutely no fault with that logic.
After all, it’s not like they’re rutting in the middle of the front yard, in full view of passing cars on the road. The only way to reach the back is through the house itself… or down the little gravel path that cuts along the side of the house. It’s not like they’re accessible.
He lets go. Bows his head, pushes back into Brian’s thrusts. Feels the sun baking on his back and Brian’s tongue at his neck, licking at the beads of sweat that glisten on his skin. Huffs out a breath and lets go of that perfect green grass to fumble a hand at Brian’s flank, to urge him deeper.
Hears the crunch of gravel above their joined panting breaths and--
“Maybe they’re-- Oh, Jesus Christ. Can’t you two ever keep it in your pants?”
Justin tries to scrabble away, but Brian’s grip is firm on his hips and Brian’s rhythm doesn’t falter, and Justin is mortified and breathless and horny and sooo close, every sense heightened. Brian’s hair scrapes along his back when he turns his head. Brian’s lips sear his skin when he feels them turn up in a sardonic smile. Brian’s breath burns a smoky line across his spine when he speaks.
“Go away, Mikey,” Brian says mildly.
“Uh, we’ll just--” Ben starts, and Justin can imagine him looking everywhere but at the Brian and Justin in mid-fuck exhibition. Can equally imagine Michael drinking it in.
“Be far far away?” Brian says.
“-- go wait out front,” Ben finishes.
Justin closes his eyes, ignores the rustle of the gravel and Michael’s indistinct muttering. Focuses instead on the way Brian’s hand is smoothing gently along his side. The soft press of Brian’s full lips on his shoulder blades. The slow, even strokes as Brian brings his attention back to where it belongs… on them. The two of them. This thing they have. This ridiculous, unshakable, indescribable thing.
He moans low in his throat when Brian nips at the nape of his neck; arches his back when Brian’s hand finds his cock.
Backroom, backyard. What’s the difference?
.