Killing Me Softly With This Song - B/J one-shot, post-513
Prompt: prompt by lollies_b4j4b at promptmesomeqaf
Beta: sakesushimaki
Timeline: about 2 years post-513
Genre: Humor, Adventure, Romance
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When his surprise visit ends up with terrible timing, Brian must undergo a ruthless trial to find Justin and put his perfect plan for the weekend into action.
Word Count: ~3,300
Warning: Brian with a microphone and therefore some anguish and gruesome mental imagery.
A/N: 1)I do realize that IRL studying at Cooper Union and attempting an art career simultaneously are mutually exclusive. Suspension of disbelief is hereby recommended.
2) SingStar is a registered trademark of Sony.
3) Looks like I subconsciously plagiarized Justin's roommate's name. Huh. I'm sorry! I was *sure* it was canon. Can I consider it a tribute to severina2001?
Killing Me Softly With This Song
by rin
It was one of those trips where Brian arranged the meeting, had Cynthia book the flight and juggled hundred other tasks all in one day. He made minor last-minute corrections to the presentation (read: had the whole layout remade practically from scratch), deliberated between two glamorous restaurants to meet the potential client after they become a factual client, approved paychecks, read over newspaper ad contracts, studied target group research charts and made fun of Ted.
So, in the middle of all that flurry of work insanity, he forgot to call Justin and tell him that he’d be in NYC today, even though he already booked a hotel room for the whole weekend. He remembers about it in the morning when his plane is landing at LaGuardia. He decides to make it a surprise, figuring Justin would get a kick out of calling him romantic for the next week. Brian is very accommodating to his partner these days; he faces those small sacrifices bravely.
Reassuring the prospect that they want to become Kinnetik’s new million-dollar client is just a formality. After the morning pitch at the Rochelle Cosmetics headquarters on Madison Avenue, Brian calls Cynthia to have the contract faxed first thing on Monday and takes the head of the marketing department and the vice president for a long celebratory lunch.
After the lunch, he drops by the hotel suite, changes into casual clothes and goes shopping. Before he knows it, it’s 9pm and he begrudgingly leaves Prada’s autumn collection for tomorrow. He gets over the sadness that it caused him on the cab ride down to Brooklyn. He bites his lips as a smile threatens to appear on his face when he sees Justin’s building. He knocks on the door of Justin’s - still shared with Daphne’s friend, September - apartment. He can hear punk rock playing on the stereo, so he knows she’s home, since the only ‘indie’ music Justin is into is the kind released by major labels. But that’s not important, because Brian and Justin are going to fuck somewhere else - in a place where he won’t slip off the bed as he pounds into Justin’s ass and where they don’t have to hurry before September’s back from the movies.
“Brian!” she enthuses from the open door. She finally stopped calling him ‘Mister Kinney’ two months ago, after a night which the three of them spent smoking pot and playing pun scrabble without letter blocks or a game board. “What a surprise.”
“Indeed,” he agrees, coming inside and pecking her on the cheek, which makes her smile even wider. Brian thinks Justin has good taste in female friends. Or maybe it’s Daphne’s taste. “Justin home?”
“Oh. No, he went out to a party. You guys didn’t set anything up?”
“No, I just happened to be in the city… A party? Justin at a party?” That’s a first. Or a second. Well, single digits.
“I know, right? He said they finished some group project and they’re celebrating.”
“Huh.”
Brian is still getting used to the idea of Justin back in college. The idea of him actually participating in student life is even weirder. One day about a year and a half ago Justin told him he’s thinking of applying to Cooper Union. That was the last time Brian has heard of it until he got a call in April that Justin got in. Now he studies for free in one of the most exclusive and demanding fine arts programs on the east coast. Why hasn’t Brian thought earlier about sending the brat there, instead of spending a fortune on his tuition so he could drop out-- Oh right, because collecting interests was kind of worth the hassle. Never mind.
“So, did he say when he’d be home?”
“Naw. Probably in the morning.”
Fuck that. Brian is horny now.
“I’ll call him. I’ll leave stuff in his room.” He gestures with the shopping bags he’s carrying and fishes a cell phone out of his jeans.
After the seventh ring the phone is answered and some remixed techno reggae music blasts into Brian’s ear.
“Hello!” some strange voice greets.
“Uh, who is this?”
“Who is this?”
“This is the person who bought the phone you’re holding. Put Justin on.”
“Oh wow, look! it has a camera, wait, I’ll put y--” Brian hears just before the guy on the other end hangs up.
*
After asking September about the party place’s address - she didn’t know - and calling Justin’s cell three more frustrating times, after prying information out of some drunk, stoned asshole, and after half an hour of a cab ride, Brian arrives at a brownstone in the East Village, where college students (or so it appears) are making out on the sidewalk and some hip music can be heard from the fourth floor.
Brian thanks all that is holy that he changed out of his suit before heading out to shop. It is bad enough that he wants to roll his eyes every ten seconds, muttering grumpily “Kids…” and he hasn’t even entered the building yet. Of course, no word leaves his mouth, he remembers being their age… very clearly, like it was yesterday. Really.
He rings the intercom and is let in after three minutes. The door on the fourth floor is ajar and there’s another small group of twenty-something people and a thick billow of smoke surrounding the entrance. Brian’s eyes take a moment to get used to the foggy air as he trudges through the crowd, asking if anyone knows Justin Taylor. What he gathered so far is:
“No,” and “No, but uh… you got a condom?” And several lusty or simply blank looks.
At about the eleventh asked person, he stumbles upon some hot twenty-something (of course) guy, who’s not wearing disfiguring piercings in his face and who doesn’t look like he’s about to pass out, who answers his question with:
“No. Actually, if you wanna find someone, go ask Alice, I think he’ll know.”
“Uh, Alice?”
“He’s in the kitchen, the guy with the dreadlocks.” He points to the room down the hall, behind him.
“Thanks,” Brian says, making sure to brush against the guy on his way to the kitchen.
The kitchen is even foggier than the rest of the apartment, must be because of the hookah everyone is gathered around. In the middle of the small crowd is a dreadlocked guy sitting atop the kitchen table, preaching about the gender dominance in gladiator culture, in a tone of subtle authority and contents of pure bullshit. The three or four ki-- people listening are mesmerized.
“Are you Alice?” Brian addresses the guy, loud enough to be heard over the tirade, music and through hazy brain of the man.
“Yes.”
Is his name really ‘Alice?’
“Do you know Justin Taylor?”
“Sure I do.”
“You know where he is?”
“Yes.”
“Great,” Brian says with relief. He waits for the guy to answer, but he’s quiet. “Where is he?” Brian makes his speech very clear and slow.
“I can’t just tell anyone where my friends are. Who are you?”
“My name is Brian Kinney and I’m not a fucking axe murderer. There. Now tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know, man. You don’t look like a nice dude.”
This is ridiculous, Brian thinks. He can find Justin by himself. And if that doesn’t work, he definitely hasn’t missed Justin enough to deal with some inebriated morons. He can wait till tomorrow.
He just rolls his eyes and turns to leave. On second thought… that thing in the hookah smells kind of good.
He pulls the hose from some distracted guy’s hand and takes a long drag.
*
Half an hour later he has called September, looked into all rooms and inquired just about everyone. Why did Justin go to a party where he doesn’t know anyone? And did he pass out before he acquainted himself with someone other than the toilet? Now, that wasn’t a calming thought, at all. Unless he left with some trick. That’s a possibility, too.
Well… wouldn’t he take his cell phone then?
Brian drinks an unopened beer he found in a crate outside. By that time he starts suspecting that from outside he looks like some overbearing parent. But does he care?
Stupid Justin, can’t he do anything right? Like, sit at home and not move? Now Brian is frustrated and really horny. He actually is so horny that he could pick up any guy from this pool of young and wild. Then he’d go back to the hotel and call Justin very early in the morning to ridicule his inability to hold his liquor.
But then again, he’s already made an idiot out of himself - in front of himself - doing this wild goose chase instead of starting to fuck his way through this crowd. He’s not going to make it a failed chase. What use would be of this effort that borders on devotion, if he can’t rub it in Justin’s face right before he feeds it his cock? Tonight. If he doesn’t get to him now, he’ll have to wait till afternoon or have one-sided interactions with Justin’s sleeping, groaning, hung-over body. The efficiency freak in Brian protests at that thought.
So, swallowing his pride and summoning all calm and diplomacy in the universe, he comes up to the dreadlocked douchebag once again and says:
“Look, I have an urgent business with Justin. So why don’t you fucking tell me where he is and then I won’t call the cops so they confiscate all the drugs in here and find him?”
The douchebag blinks several times, face blank, processing the threat. Then finally, from the depths of his tripping, sadistic soul, he says slowly:
“There’s a faster way.”
*
“You gotta be kidding me.”
The Dreadlock looks many things, but “kidding” isn’t one of them.
Brian eyes the PS2 and the SingStar mic shoved in his face, with fright.
“Not at all. Come on, pick the disc.”
“I’m not going to have some kind of fucking sing-off with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a fifteen year old girl?” The girls they shoo-ed away from the game look sternly at him, crossing their arms.
“Neither am I.”
“How can you tell?”
“Well, if you want to be obstructive, I’m gonna pick the disc.” He bends down and switches the disc in the console to SingStar Pop. Brian gags mentally.
He looks around for signs of anyone watching him lose his humanity just to be able to whisk Justin away to the safety of the hotel bed. The two girls are standing aside and looking excitedly at the screen, drinking their vodka martinis or gin tonics, or spirit and fucking sulfuric acid. Two guys followed the Dreadlock from the kitchen to look at their match. Apparently nobody else is interested. Good. No, you hipster with the soul patch, get lost! Nothing to see here!
Brian takes a deep breath. Clears his throat.
If it turns out Justin took off with some trick, or this douche is playing him, someone’s blood will end up on this microphone’s cord before the sunrise.
“Okaay, here we gooo,” Dreadlock announces as the game starts shuffling songs. “Somewhere Only We Know!” He hoots. “I love this one!”
It could be worse. Truth be told, Brian may or may not be familiar with this song and a few others from the game. It’s not what you think! He and Justin bought a whole truck of these things for Molly’s 14th birthday. Brian agreed to bratsit a few times and he must’ve picked up a bit of the repertoire.
So the victory might be at his reach. The Dreadlock said ‘beat me once.’
The words appear on the screen and Brian takes a calming breath again.
Ok, this song is actually easy… a little higher here… good. Hold that note-- Oh for fuck’s sake!
“Oh simple thing, where have you gone? I’m getting old and I need something to rely on,” Dreadlock wails as Brian grinds his teeth. Is this some kind of cosmic joke? Who writes songs about getting old? Fuck.
He tries to hit the notes extra precisely the next few lines, and then that fucking part again. Stay calm, this is you getting a grateful-apologetic half-hour long blowjob very fucking soon. Na-na-na through this… Great!
“Oh man, you’re better than I thought. You were only 600 points behind me, nice going!” Dreadlock pats him on the back as the song ends.
Fuck!
“Oh my God, Alice, you beat my record! Hate you!” one of the watching girls whines as Dreadlock gloats and babbles something.
Brian’s eyes fix on the half-full glass the girl is holding. She looks tipsy, but not on the verge of having a seizure, so Brian asks, pointing to the drink,
“Can I have some of that?”
The girl looks at him suspiciously, so he forces himself to smile and she hands the glass over, mollified.
This is gonna be a long hour.
“Okay, Alice. Now I pick the disc.”
*
After “Survivor”, “Careless Whisper”, “Shut up” and some howling by Hoobastank, Brian finally beat the douchebag at “Wind of Change.” Thankfully, the guy decided that his singing skills were enough to consider him a good man and Brian was pumped up with the victory (and booze) and he was already on his way to the building’s roof where Justin was supposed to be, so he didn’t punch the Dreadlock’s face as he previously intended.
Walking out into the spring night, Brian pulls the leather jacket tighter around himself and squints in the dark, looking for any signs of life. To no avail.
“Fuck, this motherfucker is gonna be so sorry,” he mutters, taking a few steps from the exit to see around the quoin. And there, next to the defunct chimney, he sees a bundle of coats on a garden swing and something that looks like a head, sticking out of it. “Justin?”
The head turns away and slides lower under the makeshift cover. Brian walks closer and feels himself smile as he recognizes the tousled hair and the frown on Justin’s face.
“You little shit,” Brian greets as he leans on the bench backrest, making it tilt and swing back. He nuzzles Justin’s neck, burrows his nose under his ear.
“Go away,” Justin groans, fumbling one hand out from beneath the coats to push weakly at Brian’s face. “I told you to just leave me alone so I can die in peace, assholes.”
“Justin, wake up.” Brian chuckles, pulling the covers down from Justin’s face as he pouts and squirms. Brian cups Justin’s chin, turning his face and grinning as Justin opens his eyes to glare at whoever is disturbing him. “You have no idea what I had to go through to find you. You better not make me regret it.”
And then Justin’s face lights up.
“Brian? Oh my God!” And he throws his arms up to pull Brian down, with the exuberance of a five year old. He smashes his lips on Brian’s and moans, his tongue forcing its way inside.
“Look at you, little wuss, left alone on this cold, cold roof. Passed out before fucking eleven o’clock. Thanks for chewing gum after you puked, by the way, I appreciate the preparation.”
“Oh, yes, talk to me. Your voice is like a balm on my poor head.” He lets his lips linger on Brian’s throat, sighing, holding him as Brian shifts around to get on the swing seat and under the coats, balancing precariously. “I’m betting my ass that angels in heaven have your voice.”
“Then you better be right; I have important plans for that ass.” His tongue slips deep into Justin’s mouth, welcomed by pleased moans and hands that run across his scalp. Brian moves up Justin’s body a bit, trying to find a somewhat comfortable position, rubbing against Justin’s crotch. Justin arches up instinctively, sucking Brian’s tongue deeper. Brian moves again. He starts rutting against Justin, pulling away from his mouth. “Have we ever fucked on a garden swing?”
“Huh?” Justin breathes. His eyelids drop as he rubs up into Brian’s rocking hips, pressing fingers into his buttocks. “Uh… umm let me think.”
“Think, Justin, think!” Brian whispers urgently, nipping at the tendons in Justin’s neck and engraving the taste of his skin in memory, never stilling the movement.
“I think… the answer is no.” Justin nudges his face down, seeking contact with Brian’s lips. “But ask me again in half an hour.” He snickers against Brian’s mouth before kissing it.
“Roll over.”
Justin sighs, as if the last chance in his life to suck on Brian’s skin was just denied him. Grunting his way around to lie on his stomach, he pauses.
“Wait.”
“No.” Brian runs his hand around Justin’s body and unbuttons his fly.
“Wait, I’ll jizz all over the cushions if we do it like that.”
“Do I look like I care?” Brian tries to pull down the zipper.
Justin struggles to turn his head back.
“I don’t; don’t bother checking… Up on your knees… please?” Body pressed along Justin’s back raised on his knees, he pulls the zipper one final inch and pushes Justin’s pants down. The swing keeps swaying and shaking with a quiet creak as he wrestles with his own tight jeans.
“Brian, tell me this thing isn’t going to kill us,” Justin groans from down below, right ear pressed to the cushion on the armrest and left hand nudging his briefs down to his knees.
“What? You wanted to die just ten minutes ago.”
“But now it seems like kind of a tu-- mmh,” he stutters as Brian’s hard cock slides along his crack. “Turn-off. Changed my mind.” He pushes his hips back.
Brian opens the condom wrapper using one hand and his teeth, puts it on one-handedly, while the other hand forms a ring around Justin’s cock. He tugs at Justin’s left ear with his mouth, noting idly the clouds of breath rapidly escaping their mouths. The chilly air touches the skin of his lower back, exposed under one of the coats, but Brian rubs against Justin more and the needy, pleased sounds he elicits suffice to keep him warm.
“Lube me up.” He pushes the small tube into Justin’s hand, licking under his ear, lapping at the sharp angle of his jaw.
Justin covers Brian’s fingers with the watery gel. Brian tries to warm the liquid enough before he slicks his cock up, but he’s too impatient and a hiss escapes him on the touch. Justin’s hand goes back to give his hip a steadying hold and nudge him ahead.
“Fuck me before your dick shrinks in this cold.”
“Shut up, you’ll scare it,” Brian mutters and his thrust interrupts Justin’s rebuttal. All he gets out is a throaty moan as Brian’s dick pushes inside.
The first few thrusts swing the bench sideways in a way that seems dangerous, but then they work out a rhythm of movements in perfect symmetry. Although that fuck is far from perfect. Brian balances carefully so they don’t fall off and the weather is really ridiculous for this. Yet, when Justin guides his head down for a kiss and he’s so warm, so familiar, when the perimeter of their common world shrinks down to that ridiculous, uncomfortable garden swing on that shitty brownstone’s roof, Brian can’t think of anything more he could possibly need right now.
When Justin comes, he clenches his fingers in Brian’s hair and pulls him along into orgasm.
Afterwards, Brian ties the condom and throws it in a random direction, rationalizing that there is a 50% chance of a trashcan being there. Justin gratefully crawls off the wet spot on the swing, pulls up his pants and finds his jacket in the bunch of coats.
“There must be a better way of fucking on this thing,” Brian comments, buttoning up his jeans. “I’m getting one like this for the house.”
Justin stretches, smiling absently, then he frowns. “What house?”