Reverberations #19
See, here's the thing.
I've been battling with the last few chapters of Reverb. And I was going to put some of the angst into this one and some into the next, and that, I expected would be the end and then I could go on with Homecoming.
But for various reasons, that plan wasn't working (despite going through three versions of this chapter), so here is the next chapter, relatively angst free (although with a couple of anvils tap dancing in the background).
Usual warning - not an adult, you shouldn't be here.
Warnings: Content is suitable for adults only. If you click on the links you are signifying you are old enough to read such content.
If you want to remind yourself of Chapter 18
Click here for all chapters of Reverberations
Reverberations #19
Last time, Brian took Justin to the mansion he wanted to buy for them. They talk about why Brian suddenly wants to get married, and he explains that he thinks that they deserve it, that of all the couples they know, the two of them deserve to have their relationship recognized more than anyone. Justin's last doubts are swept away and they head off to Chicago for the weekend. Brian has meetings planned all day Monday with Brown Athletics, but they have the weekend to themselves. After booking into a sumptuous suite at the Four Seasons, Brian springs a surprise on Justin, hustling him out of the hotel to the theater to see Wicked.
Reverberations #19
Justin
Wicked is fantastic. The story is clever and the songs are okay and visually it’s just amazing. The costumes remind me of those Dickens sketches by Boz back in the 1800’s. I love them. The whole show kind of reminds me of Brian … well, the main character sort of does, anyway. It sounds pathetic if I say that they’re both “misunderstood”. But they’re both strong, and both doing what they see as the right thing even when everyone else around them condemns them for it, and really, they’re the ones who are living their lives ethically and with integrity while all the “good” characters are really kind of corrupt. Something like that, anyway.
And there’s one song that really speaks to me. It’s one the two main characters sing to each other about how their lives have totally changed because they’ve known each other. And that is so true of Brian and I. I mean, my life was always going to change in those years - finishing high school, starting college, all of that was always going to bring big changes. But knowing Brian has changed me - not just the external obvious things, but the deep down part of me. That deepest part of me has changed because meeting Brian, going home with him that first night, being treated the way he treated me, gave that inner core of me a sense of validation and confidence that nothing, not my father, not Chris Hobbs, not Ethan, not all the shit out in Hollywood, nothing, has really been able to shake. Because he treated me that night not like some silly kid, but like another gay man, a gay man he found attractive and wanted to fuck; and the whole experience of being with someone, being desired by someone, who was so confident about his sexuality somehow made it okay for me to be that way too. To the end of my life and maybe beyond I’ll be grateful to Brian for that alone.
Since then, of course, he’s always encouraged me to be that guy, the one who knows what he wants and goes for it, and generally tries to live life on his own terms. He’s always supported me doing that, even when it led to crap like the whole Ethan fiasco. And I don’t think many people get that sort of support in their lives. Which is really sad, because having that, having a friend who gave me that, was truly life-changing for me.
But he’s changed too because of me and I’d like to hope and think it was kind of for the same reason - that knowing me has validated something in him that he’d never had any confidence in before that. I mean, Michael used to pride himself on how well he knew Brian, and how they were ‘best friends’. But either that’s complete shit or he’s an even bigger prick than I think he is. Because he always treated Brian, always behaved, as if Brian really is the asshole they all kept calling him. I never once heard Michael tell anyone that Brian isn’t nearly as big an asshole as they all make out, and that most of them could give him a run for his money in that department any day. Michael didn’t even tell Brian that. Never. He made totally pathetic “excuses” for him maybe, perhaps even told Brian that he loved him anyway. But Mikey made it clear to everyone that he loved Brian despite him being an asshole (he’s perfected what I call the ‘martyr Mikey whine’). He never once told Brian or anyone else that that whole asshole persona thing is for shit, never reminded even his best friend, let alone anyone else, what a good person Brian is, how much he helps people, how lucky everyone is to have him around.
But with me … I try to. He won’t always let me, but except for that stupid time with Ethan and all that crap (that I like to put down to PTSD because otherwise I’d have to admit that I was completely fucking stupid and a total prick into the bargain), aside from all that … I’ve always tried to let Brian know that I was onto him. That I knew the goodness he liked to keep hidden away.
And I like to think that by doing that I’ve helped him feel like he’s okay, like he’s not a total asshole, that he’s as capable of love as anyone else, and that his friends’ lives are better because he’s in them. And that that’s especially true for his son. I know that he’s been spending more time with Gus over the last year and that’s great. It’s great for Brian, and it’s even more great for Gus. He needs to know his father, needs to know how much his father loves him. And whatever Brian might think of himself as a father, I know, I know that he’s a much better father than the one either of us grew up with. Brian would never raise a hand to Gus, or let anyone else for that matter, and he’d certainly never turn his back on him, no matter what. I think maybe Brian knows that now about himself. And that I’ve helped in that a little at least.
So I feel like maybe I’ve changed Brian “for good” as well. I hope so, anyway.
Anyway, the show is great and afterwards we take a cab to a restaurant called Red Light that the concierge had recommended. It’s an Asian restaurant and the décor is … well, different. All red and dramatic with lots of sinuous curved shapes. Really interesting. And the food is great. Even Brian actually eats with enjoyment. Although maybe that’s just because … well, because. Because we’re together, and we’re happy and there are no fucking dramas. Just us.
He lets me pick up the tab without even bitching about it which makes me feel even better about … everything. Like we really are partners, I mean equal partners. And I know that’s dumb considering how much he’s laid out for air fares, and the hotel and everything and all I do is pay for one meal, but it still does. Then we head back to the hotel to change and to drop off the program and stuff from the show. When I’d come back from the men’s room after the show he’d shoved this bag into my hand like he wouldn’t be seen dead with it. He’d bought me all sorts of Wicked souvenir stuff, even a “defy gravity” tee shirt. He said that was because he figures it’s what I do when we’re fucking in the shower sometimes, but really, he’d just bought it for me. I didn’t need it, or really even want it but I … it’s so amazing that he bought it that I feel like I’ll treasure it forever.
I can so totally imagine the look on his face if I ever said that to him that it makes me start laughing and then he wants to know what’s so funny, and that gets into … well, anyway, we have to have another shower before we get changed.
Then we head out for a taste of Chicago’s gay nightlife. This time, Brian doesn’t ask for a recommendation from anyone. I figure he’s been on enough business trips to Chicago not to need one. There’s something about that that makes me feel like I want to stop and think for a moment, but we’re pushing up to a crowded bar, and there’s lots of hot guys and Brian is slipping a tab of “E” towards me on his tongue and I figure there’ll be time to think later.
The whole club visit merges in my mind into lights and the feel of the individual beads of sweat rolling down my face and my back, and the heat in my groin. There’s a time when there’s darkness lit only by a dull red glow instead of the bright lights and the feel of Brian inside me and around me and I know we’re in the backroom; and then we’re back in the light and Brian is pushing more water at me, and then we’re dancing again and after that it’s even more blurred but it’s all good.
Eventually we stumble out of the club, or I stumble and Brian laughs and holds me up until we can find a cab. I try to suck his tongue in the cab, but he laughs some more and tells me to wait. I pout and look out the window instead and watch the lights refracting from the road so I realize it’s been raining. Then somehow we’re in the hotel lobby waiting for the lift and then finally, finally we’re in our room and I can find his mouth and try to devour him and climb inside him at the same time.
***
Brian
I’m not sure that either of us needed any drugs last night, we both seemed to be flying so fucking high. I guess we still are this morning. Part of me is waiting for the crash. But I have to admit that mainly I’m just enjoying the ride. I had no fucking idea it could feel like this, that I could feel like this.
I’m sitting here sipping coffee while he devours a room service breakfast big enough for at least three people. He’s sitting crossed legged on the bed wearing only that fucking tee shirt and grinning from ear to ear every time he catches my eye. Not that that happens all that often because at the same time he’s shoveling food in his face, he’s also got his sketch book balanced on his knee and trying to draw.
My main complaint about that is that the damned book is obstructing what should be a very nice view.
I’m tossing up whether to risk the wrath of artist interruptus by snatching it off him, or just to see if I can get him to toss it aside in favor of other activities when my cell rings. When I check the number it’s Jennifer, so I answer. I figure I might as well occupy myself while he refuels anyway.
She wants to know what we think about the house. I counter by asking her what she thinks the seller will accept for it.
It’s a fucking fortune, but I knew that. If the insurance money doesn’t come through quickly, I might even have to re-mortgage the loft to provide a big enough down payment. He realizes who I’m talking to and what we’re talking about because he starts making all these fucking faces at me. Twat. He must know that I’m not going to live in some tiny suburban nightmare like Mikey and Ben. This is a place that … well, that he can be proud of. Somewhere that if he wants to invite some agent or gallery owner to dinner or some shit that they’ll be fucking impressed.
He needs some kind of showcase. So it’s either find a decent studio for him as well as a house or just do the thing right in the first place.
Little twat might think it’s all about his Art, but that’s only part of it. He has to sell the whole package and all that starving artist stuff is crap. People who’ve got the right kind of money don’t want to pay huge amounts for a piece by some fucking failure who can’t even eat because no-one wants to buy their work; let alone the fucking heads up their asses gallery representatives. They all want a piece by the latest success story.
And that’s what they’ll know they’re getting when they walk into that house. Any passing thought that he’s just some kept boy will go out their fucking heads as soon as they see the place. Because his stuff - just a few of his best pieces, enough to whet their appetites and get them salivating for more - will be properly hung and lighted and as soon as they see them the pricks will be fucking blown away.
Galleries will be falling over themselves to hang his stuff once they see it in those circumstances. He’ll be able to pick and choose and make them feel fucking lucky if he condescends to let them show a piece.
But I can’t do that for him in some stupid fucking little suburban nest. So I’m getting this fucking house for him and then we’ll deal with all the shit that comes with it. Upkeep and all that crap. You pay people to look after all that shit for you.
But right now I’ve had enough of him sitting there feeding himself. We’ve got things to do today but before that he needs to work off some of those fucking calories. So I tell Ma Taylor to do whatever she needs to do to close the deal. Then I put the phone down right in his line of vision and stretch - slowly.
His eyes darken that way they do, and his lips go even redder and that’s it, boys and girls. Play time.
*****
Justin
I can feel Brian getting more and more antsy and I haven’t even finished breakfast before he pounces. He does this sort of come hither stretch thing which is the only warning I get. Next thing he’s dragging the tray off the bed. It hits the floor with a crash - fuck help the plates and stuff!, and then he snatches my sketch book and throws it across the room where it knocks over a lamp. I start laughing and then he’s on me and we’re both laughing and kissing and touching until the laughter turns into grunts and groans and eventually into soft sighs. Then we lay for a while in each other’s arms just sort of … well, cuddling. But God knows I’d never dare use that word for anything Brian Kinney does.
Finally he pulls away and slaps me on the ass.
“Get that fat ass into gear, Sunshine!” he says.
I laugh at him and tell him he likes my ass just fine.
“I fucking won’t if you keep eating the way you do,” he threatens, but then he’s pulling me up off the bed into his arms and his lips are nibbling mine and from the way his hands are caressing said ass I’d say there’s no immediate sign that it turns him off.
“What’s the rush?” I murmur, ready to slide down to my knees.
He lets me, but as his hand tangles in my hair he says briefly, “Appointment. Tailor. Need to get our tuxes.”
And for the first time in like forever, since I was a total no-nothing kid, I nearly choke on his cock.
*****
Brian
Stupid little twat nearly swallows my cock whole and not in a fucking good way. I manage to pull away before those perfect WASP teeth can do any damage, but Jesus!
By the time he stops coughing and spluttering, I’ve given up all thought of letting that lethal mouth anywhere near my cock for a while and have headed into the bathroom. He follows me all “when did you …?” and “why?” and “where?” and all these other stupid fucking questions.
Even to him it should be fucking obvious. Outside of New York, there’s nowhere in the country, not even LA, that is a better place to shop for clothes than Chicago. There’s serious money in this town and that naturally attracts serious ways to spend it. Including top designers, and exclusive tailors. We haven’t talked about a date for the wedding yet, but if we have time I’d seriously consider getting something custom made except that it would be a fucking pain in the ass to keep flying back and forth for fittings.
If we buy say, a couple of Armani tuxes - or maybe Armani or Prada for me and something like Calvin Klein for Justin - then we can have them fitted, agree the alterations, and come back in a couple of weeks for a final fitting.
The range of designer tuxedos here is sure as Hell going to be much wider than in fucking Pittsburgh, that’s for sure.
But if I explain all that too him he’ll get all fucking huffy and tell me not to patronize him, so I just shrug and concentrate on making sure that he forgets to be mad about me being such a so-called fucking control freak. It seems to work because after I show him how a blow job should be (and I thought I’d taught him that at least a long time ago) he’s relaxed and mellow and even a bit giddy about what to wear.
That’s okay. As long as he doesn’t wear any of his usual teenage mutant artist shit he’ll look just fine.
Better than fine.
*****
Justin
I suppose I should be pissed off that Brian’s gone into major control freak mode over this whole fucking wedding thing, but …
The thing is, he’s doing it for me. It’s all about making some huge fucking statement to show our friends how “committed” he is to me.
And although that’s really a crock of shit, because the only one he really needs to convince is me, and I don’t need convincing, not any more, it’s still amazing. And what’s even more amazing, what makes it even better is that he’s really getting off on all this. He’s enjoying it. He’s letting himself enjoy my enjoyment … if that makes sense.
I guess it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we’re more or less on the same page for once and I’m not going to wreck it by turning into some sort of drama princess just because Brian’s being Brian.
So I let him pick out my clothes and let him hustle us off to this exclusive men’s outfitters. I don’t scream when he takes forever to go through about fifty different tuxedos that all look the fucking same to me. I don’t even bitch when he makes me try on three of them. Because by the time he’s done, I’m standing in front of all these mirrors looking at myself and at him and … it’s totally amazing. I look … I look like I’m ready to be his fucking partner is what. And he … he is so … beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him.
He comes to stand behind me, all tall and impossibly elegant and his eyes meet mine in the mirror and … there’s this sort of shyness in his. He’s smiling, a really sweet sort of shy little smile and … I feel the room whirl around for a moment, and then that passes, and just like that I’ve got another piece of that night back. That night, the other time that we both wore tuxes and he looked at me with that same shy look. I hadn’t remembered that, but now I do. I remember being in the parking garage with him, and he went to kiss me, and then stopped, and looked at me exactly like that and …
Fuck!
I turn to him and pull his head down so I can kiss him and whisper against his lips, “I fucking love you, Brian Kinney. I really fucking do.”
He sticks his tongue into his cheek and doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t have to. His eyes say it for him.
Then he kisses me and everything that either of us might want to say just becomes redundant. Who the fuck needs words?
*****
Brian
My tux is mostly fine, his needs a little more work. It’s that bubble butt of his. They tell me they can have the alterations done by Tuesday - for a price of course. But that’s still going to be cheaper than return air fares to come back for it later, so I arrange a final fitting before we fly home and then while we’re on our way out I call the airline and change us to a later flight on Tuesday.
Then we have the rest of the day to play. I’d like to look for some more clothes, but I know he’s at his limit, so instead we head off to get some food and then I blow his mind completely by steering us down to the lakeshore and onto one of the damned tourist trap cruise boats.
I can tell that he thinks I’ve completely lost my mind, but the truth is that Chicago has some incredible architecture and every time I come here, people fall over themselves to tell me that the best way to see a lot of it is from the river. I was going to tell him to take the cruise tomorrow while I’m dazzling Leo Brown, but suddenly … I don’t want to. I don’t want to hear about it from him. I want to share it with him. And if that means sharing it with a hundred fucking losers, well … that’s just too fucking bad.
*****
Justin
No one will believe this. Even though I manage to catch Brian in a couple of the photos I take everyone will think I’ve faked them. There is no way that they are going to believe that he not only got on this boat, but that it was his own fucking idea.
He even keeps his bitching to a minimum - the only complaint he really makes is about the coffee from the snack bar on board. I guess it’s not really great but at least it’s warm. It’s not raining today, but even on the river the wind is cold. I hate to think what it would be like out on the lake. But we both have on warm coats and scarves, so as long as we stand close together, we pretty much keep warm.
And the tour is so totally worth it. Some of the buildings are just amazing; there are some by Mies van der Rohe that are so simple, such clean uncluttered lines that it’s hard to realize that at the time they were built they were practically revolutionary.
By the time we get off the boat, I feel … I feel totally swept off my feet by this guy I’m with. The one who looks like Brian. The one who smells like Brian, kisses like Brian, even tastes like Brian … but is a Brian I’d only ever had glimpses of before. Now he’s … he’s here. With me. Totally with me.
If I’d known that getting married was going to do this for us, I’d have …
But it’s probably not that. Well, not entirely that. I think a lot of it is because it’s just us. No one here knows either of us. No one gives a fuck what we do, how we behave towards each other. So we’re both free to just be us. Without everyone else’s ideas and expectations overshadowing every single thing we do, like it is at home.
That starts me thinking. I guess I sort of expected that if Brian ever proposed to me, seriously proposed to me, I’d be on the phone telling everyone just about as soon as the ‘yes’ was out of my mouth. But I realize that I haven’t even called my Mom. I mean, they’ve got a lot going on back there, with Michael in hospital and all that, but it isn’t just that. I just don’t want them all over it. In a way, I’m dreading going back and having to face them.
So right now I’m not going to think about that. Right now I’m with Brian and he’s doing everything he possibly can to make this a great time for me, for us.
The least I can do is concentrate on him and not think about all that stuff. It can wait till we get home.
*****
Brian
The gerbils were scurrying for a while, but now he’s back here with me. He grins up at me, and nudges my arm with his shoulder. I laugh and he slides his hand into mine. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder close so it’s not really obvious. If anyone wants to take exception they can get fucked. I squeeze his fingers and he smiles that smile up at me from under the blond hair that’s flying everywhere in this wind. Fucking Chicago.
We get off the boat and find somewhere to get a decent cup of coffee. It’s a small bar, dark and intimate, and I order mine with a shot of Irish Whiskey in it. He grins at that, but asks for Baileys in his. I pull a face and he laughs again.
It strikes me how relaxed he is, and that I’ve maybe never seen him so … happy. Simply happy.
And I’d like to believe that it’s because he’s looking forward to gloating about the fact that we’re getting fucking married, or that it’s because I’ve bought him a fucking mansion, or because we’re going back to that fancy-assed hotel suite because if it was then I could figure out a way to go on making those grand gestures and that would be sure to keep him this happy. But the truth is that I know it’s none of those things that’s put that look on his face - it’s this, sitting here with me while we try to defrost after just about freezing our asses off on that stupid damned boat.
It’s not the big things that make Justin happy, never was. It certainly isn’t the fucking things I can buy him. It’s the little things, always the little things. Like just spending time together, doing stuff like any other fucking couple. And that scares the shit out of me because I’m fine with the big gestures, but I suck at getting the little things right.
I shrug that thought away, though. Because today I did. And last night. He loved that fucking show. Well, at least, he loved me taking him to there. So right now I am getting the little things right.
While we’re here, at least; where I’m not looking over my shoulder worried about what everyone and his gay monkey will think about me doing anything as fucking hetero as going to the theater, or as hokey as going on that damned tourist trap boat. I’m such a chicken shit fake. Ranting on about ‘no apologies, no regrets’ like I fucking live my life without giving a shit what anybody thinks about what I do, when all the time I’m more fucking scared of other people’s opinion than the most pathetic closet case on the planet.
Most of the times that I’ve really fucked things up with Justin it’s been because I’ve been more worried about what some other fucker would think of me than about him. So being here with him, it’s easy to stop all that and just enjoy being with him. Just enjoy him enjoying being with me. Being back in the Pitts, where Mikey and Deb and all the rest of them just have to put in their two cents’ worth about what I’m doing and why … that will be another story.
Especially when they fucking hear that we’re getting married.
They’ll be all over it and I can hear the sniggers now.
Not that I mind that so much, let the fuckers laugh if they just leave us alone; but the thing is … I know that whenever I fuck up they’ll be all over me about that as well. I can just fucking hear them, ‘you’re married now, Brian, isn’t it time you learned to keep it in your pants’.
Fuck!
“Hey!”
Just as his voice cuts through Debbie’s whine in my head (no guesses for where Mikey learned that technique), I get a kick on the ankle.
“Where did you go?”
I shrug. Don’t want to get into that with him. He’ll think I’m having fucking second thoughts, and it isn’t that. I want him. I want a life with him. I even want him to know I want a life with him. Hell, for that matter, I guess I want everyone to know I want a life with him. I just don’t want all the shit that’s going to come with that from our so called friends.
His eyes look right into me for a moment and then they soften.
“Thanks for today,” he says. “I mean, I could have gone on that trip tomorrow, when you’re at work, but it was much better …”
“With my hot body keeping you warm,” I strive for my usual smart ass touch.
“Always,” he laughs.
I let my tongue slide over my lips then into my cheek.
“You still look to me as if you’re in severe need of warming up,” I tell him.
He grins, and nods. Then he shakes his head despondently. “I think it’s serious,” he says. “I just don’t think external applications are going to get the job done.”
“I see,” I say. “So … another cup of coffee, then?”
He gives one of those little giggles that should drive me nuts but don’t. (Which should have told me years ago how fucked I was by that bright eyed little twink who used to hang on my every word.)
“Oh, no,” he says, this hot and sexy man who is so fucking brave he’s willing to take me on. Again. “I think the medicine was right.”
He blinks at me slowly, and damn him I find myself getting hard just watching those long lashes sweep down over those blue blue eyes.
“I think a dose of your hot body is exactly what I need.”
Another slow blink, this time accompanied by just a peek at his dark pink tongue. Then he leans closer to me across the table and purrs, “But I think I need an internal dose of some kind.”
Fucker! I feel like a fucking teenager, trying to deal with popping a boner every time some hot guy flirts with me a little.
“Do you think you can think of something to help?”
I stand up, grab him by the wrist and push him before me out the door. He’s laughing his ass off as my cock jabs his ass through his overcoat, but he waves down a cab and we head back to the fucking hotel.
By the time we get there (it’s all of three blocks), I’ve had my revenge because after a few whispered suggestions about just how I think I can help warm him up from the inside he’s as hot and bothered as I am, and we practically shove people aside to get to the elevator and up to our floor.
on to the final chapter