Homecoming #5: Just When You Thought ...
Usual warnings. All my fics are intended for Adults Only. By clicking on the links provided you are asserting that you fall into that category.
To start the New Year off on the right (?) foot, a new chapter of Homecoming. Well, I hope it does, anyway.
It's already New Year here, btw. Just thought I'd mention that. lol
Homecoming: Index to all chapters
Homecoming #5: Just When You Thought ...
Justin
We’re both really mellow after dinner and neither of us wants to move. We just sit tangled together, talking about everything and nothing. About how long the painting will take to finish (I tell him it depends on how co-operative the model is), about whether we should have dessert (something a little sweeter than the high protein kind he suggests), about where we should look for a house. Neither of us have any firm views on that, but we agree that a view of one of the rivers would be nice.
It doesn’t matter what we talk about, it’s all good. We’re relaxed and happy and together and what’s even better is that no one knows we’re here, and no one has a key, and no one can interrupt us.
We’re so relaxed and content we might have fallen asleep right there, but then, like somehow I’d jinxed us by even thinking about how good it was to be there alone and undisturbed, the fucking phone rings.
We both sit and look at it a while in disbelief, and by the time Brian gets up to answer it, it’s gone to voice mail.
It’s Mom.
*****
Brian
I can not fucking believe that anyone would fucking track us down here. Least of all Jennifer. I’m so pissed off that at first I don’t take in what she’s saying. Then, after all the apologies for disturbing me, and the stuff about all the fucking phone numbers she tried first, she finally gets to what she actually called for, and it registers that it’s about the offer on the house. Apparently the prospective buyers are getting antsy.
I’m about to walk away, and just let it go, when she says, “Brian, they’re willing to add another twenty thousand if we can get the deal signed off on the weekend.”
I hear a soft gasp from the couch and turn to grin at him. I raise an eyebrow in question and he breathes, “Fuck yes!”
I pick up the phone.
She’s in the middle of something about “Well, I’ve left messages everywhere I can think of. Even on Justin’s phones. I can’t get him either, so …”
When I answer, she gives a sort of cough and then says, all astonished, like I’ve called her out of the blue, instead of her fucking tracking me down, “Brian! Oh … oh, I didn’t think you’d be there.”
I grin at her baby boy, sitting all bright eyed and eager on the couch. A man after my own heart, he knows when it’s the right time to take care of business.
“Well,” I say, “here I am …”
“Yes, yes, well, I don’t know if you …”
“An extra twenty thou,” I cut in. “They’re more anxious than I thought.”
“Well,” she says, “I’ve been asking around, just running it by a few people I thought might know …”
Sometimes I forget that she must have a few connections of her own, even if her and dear Craig are no longer a nice country club couple.
“It seems that they have the finances all lined up, but they’ve already had one property fall through, and they’re worried that if they don’t sign this one quickly their major investor could get cold feet and move his money on to something else.”
There’s a pause and then she says, “I think you could probably push it up a little further, if you don’t mind taking the risk that you’ll scare them off.”
I give a chuff of laughter. Looks like Sunshine isn’t the only one with a brain in the family. Well, he had to get it from somewhere, and it sure as fuck wasn’t his dickwad of a father.
I nod, and then, since she can’t see that, I say, “Tell them to make it fifty grand, and they’ve got a deal.”
Justin’s eyes go very wide at that, and then he gives me that fucking wicked grin of his.
She hesitates. “Brian, they would need all the papers signed this weekend. I don’t know if …”
She stops and takes a breath, and then says, “I don’t know if you need to discuss it with Justin.”
Her voice sounds shaky, now, and I say quickly, to stop any big emotional thing, “That won’t be a problem.”
Instead of stopping the hissy fit, it seems to send her into tears. I can hear them in her voice when she says, “So … so, we’ll need to get the papers to him for his signature. I guess I could fly …”
Then she gulps and says, very soft and sad and teary, “Brian, I am so … I wish …”
And she breaks off then and I can hear the real pain in her voice while she tries to stop crying. Who the fuck would have thought? I ask her to hang on, and flip the phone onto mute. “She’s having a meltdown … I guess she figures this is “The End”.”
I try to trivialize it, but he knows damned well that it means something to me that Jennifer wants this, wants it to work, wants me to be The One for her precious baby boy. It fucking shouldn’t. But it does.
He grins and gives a little shrug, both hands towards me palm out, raising his own eyebrow.
I stifle a sigh. We’d have to break cover anyway, to get the fucking papers signed. The thought that we could both fly up to New York, and then I could pay for his mother to come up to get his signature does cross my mind, but it’s fucking ludicrous, so even though I don’t want to give up this time alone, I realize there isn’t a lot of choice.
I switch the mute button off, and say, “Jenn, I think that you need to …”
And then I just hand the phone to Justin and walk away to open another bottle of wine. There should be some Veuve here somewhere. I’d bought it to christen the house with him, and we never got the chance. Seems a fitting drink to say ‘farewell’ to it.
*****
Justin
I take the phone and hear my Mom saying something about, “I don’t want to interfere …”
Yeah, right. And Bush doesn’t want be a bigoted dickhead with a mania for power and a Daddy complex thrown in for bad measure. He just is. She’s just going to.
I can hear that she’s genuinely upset here, though, and for once it’s for Brian, not with him. So I just say “Hi Mom” instead of some of the other things I’m thinking.
She gives a gasp, and then says, like she totally can’t believe it, “Justin?!”
“Well, do I sound like Molly?”
“Justin,” she says and now she really sounds like she’s going to cry. “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t know you were there. I would never have …”
“Mom, it’s okay. It’s good that you called. We were going to call you next week to tell you about the house, anyway.”
“Oh, Justin!” she says, like it’s the saddest thing she’s ever heard.
“Mom, it’s okay. I mean it. We’re fine. And please don’t tell anyone I’m here. Please. I mean it. Brian and I need some time to ourselves.”
I try to sound really serious, because I want her to get the message. She’s caused us problems before by letting other people in on our business. I don’t want that to happen this time.
“Oh, no. Well … of course not, if you …”
I can hear the wheels turning, and I know that we won’t really get any peace until she gets the message clear and unmistakable.
“Mom, Brian and I are fine. We’re working some things out. The thing with the house is just … it’s good timing, that’s all. But we need some time to ourselves. We’ll let everyone know I’m here when we’re ready.”
Brian comes up behind me then, and hands me a glass that is already frosting over from its icy cold contents - contents that fizz with a golden glow.
His arms are around me, and he clinks his own glass against mine. “Tell her the fifty grand will go to a down payment on our next place,” he says into my ear. “So she should start looking for something with a river view.”
I twist to meet his eyes and he tilts his glass to me. “Sláinte.”
I grin at him, clink my glass against his, and say, “To a river view.”
“Justin!” I hear squeaking at me from the phone.
“Sorry, Mom, I got distracted.”
She gives a nervous little giggle, like she has some idea of what form the distraction might take, and doesn’t really want to know the details. So I put her mommy mind at rest.
“Brian just poured some champagne to toast the deal … and our new place.”
She’s silent for a moment and then says, sounding both hurt and anxious, “You have a new place?”
I realize she’s afraid this means that we’re moving to New York or something.
Brian has had his ear close to the phone though, while he’s been licking my neck, and now he takes it from me.
“We’re relying on you to find us something, Mom,” he says grinning outrageously. “Sunshine here wants something with a river view.”
I’m too busy kissing his throat to hear her response, but he cuts her off, saying, “Mother Taylor, much as I’d love to chat all night, I have some important business to take care of here.”
I laugh. That will get her off the phone quickly, in case he starts giving her details on what that “business” might be. He arranges for her to call his cell and leave a message about their response to the price increase, and tells her that if they agree we can go in tomorrow to sign off on the paperwork, and we’ll get all of our stuff moved out of the house by Monday.
I sigh and lean against him. I don’t want to live in this house, not really. But I thought that we’d get to share time here for longer than this.
He kisses my head and says good-bye to her.
Then he puts his hand under my chin to make me look at him.
He doesn’t say anything, just looks into my eyes for a long time, and eventually we both start to smile.
“So,” he says, “That will make a nice little profit of two hundred kay.”
I get worried then that they might not go for it, but Brian tells me what Mom said about them needing to seal a deal quickly or risk losing their backers.
I nod. “Seems mean,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s business. If they’re investing this much, they expect to make big bucks. I wouldn’t worry about it, Sunshine.”
I grin. “I’m not,” I say. “I’m thinking that maybe … I mean, I know that the rent you were getting here meant you didn’t have to sell the loft ... and maybe with the extra money …”
He sucks his lips in like he does when he’s working out exactly how to say something, and then comes out with, “I’ve been thinking about that.”
I look at him expectantly. Maybe we could rent the loft out. I know people would change it, and it wouldn’t be like we still lived there, but at least … Before I can say any of that, though, he gives a little shrug, and opens his mouth to speak again.
“You’re going to need some studio space …” he starts.
My face falls, and then I say, “Brian, I have some money. I’ve sold a couple of things, and if this show goes well …”
“The loft’s got those big windows,” he says. “I thought maybe if we installed better lighting, you could use that.”
I can only stare at him.
*****
Brian
He just gawps at me. Then, like the fucking twat he can be sometimes, he says, “But, Brian, the loft’s yours.”
I give him a look and he blushes and says, “Well, you know what I mean.”
I hook an arm round his neck and kiss him till he gets the fucking message that if we’re going to do this right, then the whole yours/mine thing becomes …
It doesn’t fucking matter. It can’t matter. If we’re really going to do this, then it can’t be like that.
I feel his arms tighten around me and he presses even closer to me, and when we finally break the kiss I can see from the tears spilling all down his face that he’s got the message loud and clear. I pull away from him, and go to find some tissues.
I love the little twat, but I still don’t want his snot all over me.
*****
Justin
He walks off, the bastard, and I know he’s going to get tissues. For someone who likes down and dirty sex as much as he does, he has a ridiculous aversion to other bodily fluids.
But I guess he also wants to give me some time to pull myself together.
I wouldn’t normally melt down like that, but suddenly, it all hit me. We’re going to do this. We’re going to really be together. We’re going to own things together, and share things and … really build a life together. This is so new … so overwhelming. Not just that we’re going to do it, but that …
It’s what he wants.
It really is what he wants.
The fucker brings me the box of tissues then so I mop myself up, blowing my nose ostentatiously, just to gross him out. Then I can’t resist shoving the dirty tissues down his pants. He yelps like they’re red hot, or he’s going to catch weepy cooties or something and spends the next couple of minutes hopping around till he’s got rid of them into the waste bin in the kitchen. I hear him washing his hands loudly, muttering curses and threats the whole time.
By the time he comes back, I’ve topped up our champagne and after giving me an evil look, he grins suddenly, and we settle back onto the couch.
“What do you think?” he says.
I try to imagine it. He’s clearly way ahead of me though, because he goes on.
“I thought we could use the area in front of the big window for your actual studio space. Leave the kitchen as it is so you don’t die of starvation. Make the part at the end, at the back, into a small office, and set up your computer stuff there. Then you could use the dining area as a sort of reception space if you have any clients, or agents or whatever that you need to meet and greet with.”
I feel myself blushing when he says that. It feels so weird and at the same time so fucking good to have him taking me, my career, so seriously. I find myself creeping my hand into his. He doesn’t really acknowledge it, but I feel his fingers tighten around mine slightly, as he keeps going.
“That way, you could keep the bedroom area as private space. You could keep the panels closed. Even leave the bed there, if you wanted …”
I smile at him. This plan is sounding better and better.
“We could install some really kick ass lighting, and use the place as a gallery. Mount and light your stuff properly, so you can show it off.”
I stare at him.
This is … it’s fucking brilliant. The loft would be the best, the coolest, place to have as my home base. And it means we get to keep it. Even if it does get all changed, and isn't really “Brian’s loft” anymore. On that thought I feel my eyes stinging again, and he tilts my face to his once more.
“We can’t live there,” he says. “I mean … we will, till we find somewhere else. But …”
He shrugs. “You know we can’t live there,” he says again.
“I know,” I agree. “It’s just …”
“It’ll be great,” he says, more enthusiastic than I’ve heard him in a long while. Maybe ever. “You’ll be great there. It will make a statement.”
I nod. It will.
It will tell everyone who's ever been there, every other man who’s ever shared that bed with him, that things are irrevocably different now.
He might never be monogamous. So what? I’m not sure I want him to be. Or that I want to be either.
But he’s mine, nonetheless. That’s the statement that he’s prepared to make.
And by agreeing to this, I’m telling him that I’m his - in all the ways that count. I’m telling him that this time I’m not going anywhere. This time, we are going to do this and do it right, and fuck anyone who gets in our way.
I reach up and hug him. “There’s just one condition,” I say.
He gives me a look. I laugh.
“I want the blue lights back. I want you to promise that every now and again you’ll fuck me on that bed under the blue lights.”
He sticks his tongue in his cheek and grins at me. “For old time’s sake?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“For my sake,” I tell him as I stretch to kiss him.
“For our sake,” I mumble against his lips.
“Because you love me,” I whisper as he begins to pull my pants down.
“Because I love you,” I sigh as I reach for his cock.
“Because it’s our past,” I say as he fumbles around to find the condoms and the lube we left down here earlier.
“And our future,” I gasp as his fingers push into me.
“Our forever,” I groan as his cock takes their place.
“Will you shut the fuck up!” he snaps as he grabs my dick.
I giggle. “I wondered how long you’d let me …”
Then with a feral growl he kisses me, and pushes into me in earnest, and I stop saying anything coherent. Stop thinking. Stop doing anything but feeling. Feeling right and happy and loved. His eyes are on mine and in them I see those same things mirrored; see that he feels the same; see that he knows what I know.
We can sell this place, get another. Sell the loft, keep it, change it. None of it matters. Not really.
This is home. This.
Happy New Year, everyone.
Homecoming #6: Moving On