Into the Night Part II (finally) -- et quelques drabbles Harry Potter aussi
I'm back! :D With a fic in my backpack; it's the second part of Into the Night, and probably also its last.
Title: Into the Night II
Author: 0corona0
Warning: Angst
Drabble: #47 by xie_xie_xie (posted below the cut, leave her feedback!)
Notes: post S-5 so beware of spoilers if still necessary. By popular demand, this is the second part of Into the Night, but it is not absolutely necessary to read the first part in order to understand this (though you are of course very much welcome to read it! ;)) Written for qaf_challenges - go check out that community, it's a wonderful place filled with amazing fics!
Brian stared at Justin, hearing his own words hanging in the air. No apologies, no regrets? He had plenty of the second, but couldn't choke out the first. So he walked out of the room.
Justin followed Brian onto the terrace. "It doesn't matter."
Brian didn't look at him. "Of course it matters."
His hair needs cutting, Justin thought, trailing his fingers over the nape of Brian's neck, his other hand touching his shoulder. And then he stopped.
Brian's hair. Slipping through his fingers, brown and soft, glints of silver. Ragged ends.
"Brian," he said, slowly. "Are you sick again?"
The snow was glistening so beautifully in the late-afternoon sun that Justin almost could not discern the jump from the surrounding white masses. With barely a couple of feet left, he drilled his board into the snow for a swing to the right and kneeled low when he was lifted into the air, feeling excitement rush through him in a thrill as he rose, four feet, six feet, eight feet, his nerves were on edge, he turned his board, backside, 90 degrees, landed on the nose, turned another 90, continued sliding, hands almost buried in the orange-lit snow, then used the Fakie Noseslide’s surge to do a mini backside 180, putting his weight onto the frontside-edge, now don’t cant, and Justin was back in the right direction, swinging gracefully to the left and then uphill, dropping onto his knees to witness relatively comfortably what Brian had in store for this jump. His heart, which was still hammering blood and adrenaline through his veins, suddenly quickened even further:
Brian was approaching the jump backwards. For merely a second, Justin could see his face, screwed-up in concentration, then he was in the air, head thrown over his shoulder. His gloved hand reached for the tail of his ski, Brian pulled it into the skin, 90, 180, 270, 360, he’s going to fall, Jesus fucking Christ, don’t fucking fall!, 450, and just before he hit the ground, Brian turned the full 540 degrees, let go off his ski and landed on the tips, the tails following smoothly, and he did not miss to cover Justin in a shitload of snow with a nice, finishing swing into his direction.
The smirk on Brian’s face was bigger than that of the Cheshire Cat, but Justin did not even bother to swear on revenge because this. Had been the fucking hottest thing he’d seen in a very, very long time, and that meant something, considering that he lived with Brian Kinney. Brushing off the snow, he got up and jumped towards Brian, recognising how ridiculous it had to look, but Justin simply could not bring himself to care as took off first his own then Brian’s snowglasses and then wrapped both arms around his stupefied partner. He kissed him so ferociously that Brian needed a second to respond, but then he drew the blond closer to him, both hands on his ass, and let out a small but breathless laughter.
Oha, Justin thought, grinning, obviously someone in his forties isn’t quite young enough anymore to do a 540 and keep his breath. Instead of voicing this thought, which would have made his chance of a harmonious vacation suffer greatly, Justin separated to lick his lips and look at Brian meaningfully: “That was fucking hot...”
The glance did not stay unnoticed. “Well, sunshine, there’s plenty more where that came from”, Brian purred and grabbed Justin’s ass, squeezing both cheeks and pressing their crotches together. Never one for subtle behaviour, his Brian.
“You know...”, Justin leaned up to whisper into Brian’s ear, “...you really don’t need to risk your life just to make me want to fuck you. I’ve gotten attached enough to top you occasionally even if it’s not expected to be my last fuck.”
He had expected more teasing, maybe even a spanking or the growled threat of “we’ll see who tops who, little boy!”, but instead Brian literally pushed him away. Justin fell backwards into the snow and he would have slid down the slope had he not quick-wittedly rammed his board into the ground to stop his ascend. Instead of apologising or offering a helping hand, Brian put his snowglasses back on and murmured: “Meet you at the lift”, before he raced down the slope.
Justin could do no more than stare at his shrinking form, ‘confused’ not nearly covering his state of mind.
It must have been the ‘last fuck’-bit. He didn’t like that. The implication of monogamy, or even loyalty...
Neither the time it had taken him to reach the lift nor the walk back to the hotel had been satisfyingly long for Justin to figure Brian out who had acted as if nothing out of order had happened, making everything appear even stranger because thus he had not asked for sex, either. Brian not asking for sex was bad.
It seemed simply impossible to explain. Brian had taken him all the way to Vermont to go skiing together, as a surprise, even! It was an action that bore significance, no matter how much Justin tried to convince himself of the opposite in order to guard himself against potential disappointment; going skiing together was an apology in itself, at least for Brian Kinney, a cry of commitment louder than a wedding ring. Besides, Brian had been much more relaxed about commitment for the last few years now, so much that Justin had said what he had said without even paying it much attention.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Obviously, Brian had not designated that Justin should receive an answer any time soon. He did not talk to him, which was not nearly as worrying as the fact that he also did not touch him. When Justin had taken off his boots in the small ski-basement and put his snowboard away, Brian was still sitting on a bench, working on the straps of his boot. He did not even do so much as look at Justin when he said lightly: “Go ahead. No need to wait.”
“I’d rather stay, thanks”, Justin replied frostily. That got him a look, at least, even if it was taunting and condescending: “Like a good li’l wife?”
Justin turned and left without another word.
Brian did not come to their room.
Willing his worry away, Justin had dressed into a proper shirt and trousers (leave it up to Brian Kinney to choose a hotel so exclusive that they had a dress code) and gone to dinner, hoping against hope that Brian would be there, even though it was perfectly unimaginable that Mr. Kinney would attend any such an event in his sweaty skiing clothes and barefoot.
Sure enough, when he arrived, their table was empty.
Well, at least I know him that well, Justin thought ironically and sat down to enjoy dinner on his own. Fuck Brian, as far as he was concerned, he was going to eat escalope de veau avec les areilles rouges and goddamn love every fucking moment of it!
Albeit, when he had taken the last bite of the excellent dessert (crème brûlée), not even the sweet taste of hot caramel could make him forget his worry for any longer. Justin knew that he should not be worried; Brian would simply be upstairs, fucking some trick, deliberately omitting the shower afterwards to let Justin smell what he had done. As if I cared.
In spite of his knowing all that, he had to force himself not to run up the stairs by constantly running the image through his head of what it would look like if he entered their room out of breath from worry while Brian in turn was out of breath from his demonstration-fuck. No. Not going to happen.
When Justin opened the door, a half nervous, half hopeful twinge in his stomach, the first thing he heard was the shower running.
How thoughtful of him, Justin thought, but then saw that Brian was lounging on the bed, completely naked, still glistening with sweat, his body stretched out comfortably across the messed-up sheets, his hazel eyes fixed on the screen of the TV. The news were on, something about a deranged husband killing his wife. Justin couldn’t help but identify a little.
“Wow, you let them shower now?”, he remarked as he stepped inside and closed the door, “beware. He may fall in love with you.”
Brian did not answer, instead made a vague movement with his hand which was holding a cigarette and then took a deep drag.
Justin flared his nostrils. He had given up on smoking when he had lived in New York; not having enough money at the end of the month to buy food had really made him re-consider his way of living. But old habits die hard. He walked towards Brian and reached for the cigarette, but his very obnoxious partner pulled it out of reach. On his third grab, Justin managed to wrestle it from Brian, who looked as if he was about to say something but stayed silent. Only his eyes bore into Justin’s. The blond turned his head away and walked to the open glass doors which led to the terrace, but instead of smoking, he flipped it outside and watched it drop into the snow; its orange glimmer had been replaced by the gray glow of the night.
“You just wasted 10 cents, dear”, Brian murmured, but his voice did not sound so much teasing as relieved. Relieved because Justin had not given in to his obvious ploy, relieved because Justin would not contract lung cancer just because Brian was a manipulative, dumb asshole.
“Fuck off, Brian. What did I do? What could I have possibly done that would make you waste 150 fucking dollars and a tenderloin to die for?”
Before he had even finished shrugging, Brian knew that it would have Justin explode. He would shout, he would insult, being a drama queen he would maybe even leave. Please, make him leave.
Instead, the bathroom door opened, and his trick entered, as if they were all part of a very bad soap opera. He was stunningly handsome, the way Brian preferred them: tall, muscular, broad shoulders, dark hair, well-hung. Something flickered across Justin’s face, was it envy?, then his expression became rigid as the trick asked: “Who’s he?” After a second, he added: “Good choice, though a little young, wouldn’t you say?”
“Get out.”
Justin’s voice sounded sharp enough to kill. A grin spread out on the trick’s lips. “Boyfriend, huh?”, he asked into Brian’s general direction and wrapped himself into a bathrobe, before picking up his skiing-instructor-uniform from the floor where it had been mindlessly discarded. “Don’t know if that was such a good choice. On the other hand, when they’re young, they’re still willing, eh?”
Barely ever had Justin’s wish to be physically stronger, so strong in fact that he could grab this jerk’s hair and kick his ass right out, been more intense than as he held the door open in an unmistakable gesture for the skiing-instructor to leave, who threw over his shoulder before he did: “My number’s in the bathroom, if you’re ever interested in a diversion a little more... permanent.”
“See...”, Justin huffed angrily as he slammed the door shut, “...that’s what happens when they are permitted to take showers. They become attached.”
Brian flinched, but did not take the bait. He merely stood up and put on a bathrobe himself, turning off the TV. It looked as if he was going to make an escape for the terrace, but Justin’s next question stopped him: “What about pushing me into the snow and then running off?”
His head hurt. Brian rubbed his temples to soothe the pain with distraction the fuck had not been able to produce. “Don’t be a wimp”, he answered in a cold tone.
“I would if you weren’t, either...”, Justin replied heatedly, “...I can’t monitor my every word just to check if it might hurt your agenda of promiscuity and ‘fuck-commitment’! I don’t fucking care if you want to fuck a skiing instructor who’s at least ten years older than you, but I expect you to tell me when you decide it’s time for another teenage pout à la Brian Kinney!”
Brian spun around, his face so angry that Justin involuntarily took a step backwards:
“Shut up, Justin! I didn’t expect you to be so fucking stupid that you’d still not understand that I can’t fucking give you what you want!”
Justin opened his mouth, the only mouth Brian had kissed in years, the only mouth he ever wanted to kiss, and closed it again, obviously not knowing what to say. He looked taken-aback and profoundly hurt at the same time. This was not about commitment, after all, otherwise Brian had not reacted as intensely. But what then? What had he missed? What was wrong with Brian? A whole new kind of worry suddenly overwhelmed him and held him in a deadly grip.
Meanwhile, Brian stared at Justin, hearing his own words hanging in the air. No apologies, no regrets? He had plenty of the second, but couldn’t choke out the first. So he walked out of the room.
Justin followed Brian onto the terrace. “It doesn’t matter.”
Brian didn’t look at him. “Of course it matters.”
His hair needs cutting, Justin thought, trailing his fingers over the nape of Brian's neck, his other hand touching his shoulder. And then he stopped.
Brian’s hair. Slipping through his fingers, brown and soft, glints of silver. Ragged ends.
“Brian,” he said, slowly. “Are you sick again?”
It had clicked. Justin’s insides froze as Brian did not say anything - it was answer enough. Everything now fell into place: His words had upset Brian so much because of the attachment they had implied, not the monogamy. The ‘last fuck’ had been a trigger, reminding Brian of the deadly disease his body held, and of the fact that Justin would love him faithfully to the end, no matter how soon Brian’s may come as opposed to Justin’s. And he had done the only thing he knew to do in this situation: He had pushed Justin away.
Justin’s hand gripped Brian’s shoulder so hard that his knuckles turned white as he tried to remember how to breath; of all the questions that were on his mind, what did the doctors say?, how far into it are you?, when’s the next appointment?, he voiced one completely different: “And this is your way of telling me? Taking me snowboarding in Vermont?”
Brian shrugged once more, but Justin knew the answer: He thought it was his last chance.
Trying to regain composure, to appear strong and sure enough to be of help, Justin slid both of his arms around Brian’s waist and kissed his neck before he said: “This is not going to be our last vacation, Brian.”
Brian only stared into the night, absorbing the feel of Justin’s strong arms and loving lips, and then closed his eyes against the penetrating darkness, his body now held up entirely by Justin’s embrace:
“You don’t know that”, he whispered.
En français maintenant... j'ai encore écrit cinq drabbles pour hp_100_mots (une autre communauté fantastique!) lors du défi Univers Alterné: Qu'est-ce qui se passerait si Harry pouvait vivre avec Sirius?
Titre : La maison au toit rouge
Personnages/Pairing : Harry, Sirius
Disclaimer : tout à JKR
Rating : PG
Défi : Univers Alterné
Nombre de mots : 5x100
Note : Comme le français n'est pas ma langue maternelle, je suis reconnaissante pour tous les conseils que vous pourriez me donner. Mille fois merci à master_of_mad pour sa correction formidable! :)
La maison à la cime de la colline désertée était petite et presque délabrée. Les murs gris et le toit aux tuiles rouges et sales avaient l’air d’avoir souffert de trop d'écume de mer.
Pourtant, il y avait quelques fleurs roses, bleues et jaunes devant les fenêtres nettoyées qui étaient entouré par du lierre sauvage. La tante Petunia aurait détesté tout le bâtiment, en commençant par la gouttière rouillée jusqu’au jardin potager abandonné.
Mais Harry l’aima. Lorsque Sirius lui ouvrit la porte avec une rotation de sa baguette magique et un sourire brillant, Harry savait qu’il avait trouvé un chez-soi.
___________________________________________________________________________
Avant que son filleul aie levé son bras, Sirius s’écria : « Expelliarmus ! »
La baguette magique d’Harry cassa un verre restant sur la table depuis le déjeuner quand elle fut catapulté par toute la pièce. Sirius la ramena pendant qu’il parla d’une voix énervée : « Harry, tu dois te concentrer ! Encore un essai ! »
Cette fois, Harry était préparé. Son charme du Bouclier avait tant de force qu’il éleva son parrain quelques mètres dans l’air et lui jeta violemment contre le mur.
« Sirius ! »
Pétrifié, Harry courut à côté de Sirius - qui rit.
« Harry… tu deviendra le meilleur Auror que tout le monde a jamais vu. »
___________________________________________________________________________
« Qu’est-ce qu’il y a ? »
L’expression sur le visage d’Harry donna une réponse assez claire. Parrain et filleul regardèrent tous les deux le contenu maigre de leur cellier : Une boîte aux haricots verts et un paquet du toast moisi.
Au moins, Sirius avait l’air gêné. En gardant ses yeux ténèbres sur le sol, il murmura : « J’ai oublié… C’est la première fois que j’habite avec quelqu’un… que je dois… tu sais… »
Harry soupira, retroussa ses manches et prit la boîte aux haricots verts. Il avait faim.
___________________________________________________________________________
« NON! »
Harry se réveilla brusquement. La mer bruissait sereinement sous le claire de lune lorsque Sirius cria d’une voix terrifiée, comme dans toutes les nuits trop quiètes et trop lumineuses.
« Peter ne peut pas… il ne pourrait pas… ! »
Il y avait deux mois qu’ils y habitaient ensemble, mais Harry ne savait pas encore ce qu’il pouvait faire quand son parrain trouvait à nouveau les cadavres de ses meilleur amis dans ses cauchemars réguliers.
« Lily… Lily ! »
Premièrement sa mère… après…
« James ? »
La pause d’une connaissance horrible, ensuite…
« NON ! C’est pas vrai ! JAMES ! »
Longtemps après que le hurlement désespéré cessa, Harry restait éveillé.
___________________________________________________________________________
Entourés par plusieurs bouteilles de bièraubeurre, le reste de deux pizzas énormes et un gâteau d’anniversaire magnifique, deux formes dormaient sur le canapé rouge, enveloppés par la chaleur du feu dans la cheminée.
Le garçon s’était couché sur les genoux de l’homme qui était resté assis, une main caressant les cheveux sauvages de son filleul.
Deux baguettes magiques se trouvaient sur la table entre le dîner et quelques grands livres sur la défense contre les forces du Mal. Un album de photos relié en cuir était au-dessus, le page ouvert montrant un couple au jour de leur mariage.
Ils souriaient.
P.S.: Je voudrais bien voir Frost/Nixon... quelqu'un d'autre aussi? // I want to see Frost/Nixon so badly... anyone else?
Title: Into the Night II
Author: 0corona0
Warning: Angst
Drabble: #47 by xie_xie_xie (posted below the cut, leave her feedback!)
Notes: post S-5 so beware of spoilers if still necessary. By popular demand, this is the second part of Into the Night, but it is not absolutely necessary to read the first part in order to understand this (though you are of course very much welcome to read it! ;)) Written for qaf_challenges - go check out that community, it's a wonderful place filled with amazing fics!
Brian stared at Justin, hearing his own words hanging in the air. No apologies, no regrets? He had plenty of the second, but couldn't choke out the first. So he walked out of the room.
Justin followed Brian onto the terrace. "It doesn't matter."
Brian didn't look at him. "Of course it matters."
His hair needs cutting, Justin thought, trailing his fingers over the nape of Brian's neck, his other hand touching his shoulder. And then he stopped.
Brian's hair. Slipping through his fingers, brown and soft, glints of silver. Ragged ends.
"Brian," he said, slowly. "Are you sick again?"
The snow was glistening so beautifully in the late-afternoon sun that Justin almost could not discern the jump from the surrounding white masses. With barely a couple of feet left, he drilled his board into the snow for a swing to the right and kneeled low when he was lifted into the air, feeling excitement rush through him in a thrill as he rose, four feet, six feet, eight feet, his nerves were on edge, he turned his board, backside, 90 degrees, landed on the nose, turned another 90, continued sliding, hands almost buried in the orange-lit snow, then used the Fakie Noseslide’s surge to do a mini backside 180, putting his weight onto the frontside-edge, now don’t cant, and Justin was back in the right direction, swinging gracefully to the left and then uphill, dropping onto his knees to witness relatively comfortably what Brian had in store for this jump. His heart, which was still hammering blood and adrenaline through his veins, suddenly quickened even further:
Brian was approaching the jump backwards. For merely a second, Justin could see his face, screwed-up in concentration, then he was in the air, head thrown over his shoulder. His gloved hand reached for the tail of his ski, Brian pulled it into the skin, 90, 180, 270, 360, he’s going to fall, Jesus fucking Christ, don’t fucking fall!, 450, and just before he hit the ground, Brian turned the full 540 degrees, let go off his ski and landed on the tips, the tails following smoothly, and he did not miss to cover Justin in a shitload of snow with a nice, finishing swing into his direction.
The smirk on Brian’s face was bigger than that of the Cheshire Cat, but Justin did not even bother to swear on revenge because this. Had been the fucking hottest thing he’d seen in a very, very long time, and that meant something, considering that he lived with Brian Kinney. Brushing off the snow, he got up and jumped towards Brian, recognising how ridiculous it had to look, but Justin simply could not bring himself to care as took off first his own then Brian’s snowglasses and then wrapped both arms around his stupefied partner. He kissed him so ferociously that Brian needed a second to respond, but then he drew the blond closer to him, both hands on his ass, and let out a small but breathless laughter.
Oha, Justin thought, grinning, obviously someone in his forties isn’t quite young enough anymore to do a 540 and keep his breath. Instead of voicing this thought, which would have made his chance of a harmonious vacation suffer greatly, Justin separated to lick his lips and look at Brian meaningfully: “That was fucking hot...”
The glance did not stay unnoticed. “Well, sunshine, there’s plenty more where that came from”, Brian purred and grabbed Justin’s ass, squeezing both cheeks and pressing their crotches together. Never one for subtle behaviour, his Brian.
“You know...”, Justin leaned up to whisper into Brian’s ear, “...you really don’t need to risk your life just to make me want to fuck you. I’ve gotten attached enough to top you occasionally even if it’s not expected to be my last fuck.”
He had expected more teasing, maybe even a spanking or the growled threat of “we’ll see who tops who, little boy!”, but instead Brian literally pushed him away. Justin fell backwards into the snow and he would have slid down the slope had he not quick-wittedly rammed his board into the ground to stop his ascend. Instead of apologising or offering a helping hand, Brian put his snowglasses back on and murmured: “Meet you at the lift”, before he raced down the slope.
Justin could do no more than stare at his shrinking form, ‘confused’ not nearly covering his state of mind.
It must have been the ‘last fuck’-bit. He didn’t like that. The implication of monogamy, or even loyalty...
Neither the time it had taken him to reach the lift nor the walk back to the hotel had been satisfyingly long for Justin to figure Brian out who had acted as if nothing out of order had happened, making everything appear even stranger because thus he had not asked for sex, either. Brian not asking for sex was bad.
It seemed simply impossible to explain. Brian had taken him all the way to Vermont to go skiing together, as a surprise, even! It was an action that bore significance, no matter how much Justin tried to convince himself of the opposite in order to guard himself against potential disappointment; going skiing together was an apology in itself, at least for Brian Kinney, a cry of commitment louder than a wedding ring. Besides, Brian had been much more relaxed about commitment for the last few years now, so much that Justin had said what he had said without even paying it much attention.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Obviously, Brian had not designated that Justin should receive an answer any time soon. He did not talk to him, which was not nearly as worrying as the fact that he also did not touch him. When Justin had taken off his boots in the small ski-basement and put his snowboard away, Brian was still sitting on a bench, working on the straps of his boot. He did not even do so much as look at Justin when he said lightly: “Go ahead. No need to wait.”
“I’d rather stay, thanks”, Justin replied frostily. That got him a look, at least, even if it was taunting and condescending: “Like a good li’l wife?”
Justin turned and left without another word.
Brian did not come to their room.
Willing his worry away, Justin had dressed into a proper shirt and trousers (leave it up to Brian Kinney to choose a hotel so exclusive that they had a dress code) and gone to dinner, hoping against hope that Brian would be there, even though it was perfectly unimaginable that Mr. Kinney would attend any such an event in his sweaty skiing clothes and barefoot.
Sure enough, when he arrived, their table was empty.
Well, at least I know him that well, Justin thought ironically and sat down to enjoy dinner on his own. Fuck Brian, as far as he was concerned, he was going to eat escalope de veau avec les areilles rouges and goddamn love every fucking moment of it!
Albeit, when he had taken the last bite of the excellent dessert (crème brûlée), not even the sweet taste of hot caramel could make him forget his worry for any longer. Justin knew that he should not be worried; Brian would simply be upstairs, fucking some trick, deliberately omitting the shower afterwards to let Justin smell what he had done. As if I cared.
In spite of his knowing all that, he had to force himself not to run up the stairs by constantly running the image through his head of what it would look like if he entered their room out of breath from worry while Brian in turn was out of breath from his demonstration-fuck. No. Not going to happen.
When Justin opened the door, a half nervous, half hopeful twinge in his stomach, the first thing he heard was the shower running.
How thoughtful of him, Justin thought, but then saw that Brian was lounging on the bed, completely naked, still glistening with sweat, his body stretched out comfortably across the messed-up sheets, his hazel eyes fixed on the screen of the TV. The news were on, something about a deranged husband killing his wife. Justin couldn’t help but identify a little.
“Wow, you let them shower now?”, he remarked as he stepped inside and closed the door, “beware. He may fall in love with you.”
Brian did not answer, instead made a vague movement with his hand which was holding a cigarette and then took a deep drag.
Justin flared his nostrils. He had given up on smoking when he had lived in New York; not having enough money at the end of the month to buy food had really made him re-consider his way of living. But old habits die hard. He walked towards Brian and reached for the cigarette, but his very obnoxious partner pulled it out of reach. On his third grab, Justin managed to wrestle it from Brian, who looked as if he was about to say something but stayed silent. Only his eyes bore into Justin’s. The blond turned his head away and walked to the open glass doors which led to the terrace, but instead of smoking, he flipped it outside and watched it drop into the snow; its orange glimmer had been replaced by the gray glow of the night.
“You just wasted 10 cents, dear”, Brian murmured, but his voice did not sound so much teasing as relieved. Relieved because Justin had not given in to his obvious ploy, relieved because Justin would not contract lung cancer just because Brian was a manipulative, dumb asshole.
“Fuck off, Brian. What did I do? What could I have possibly done that would make you waste 150 fucking dollars and a tenderloin to die for?”
Before he had even finished shrugging, Brian knew that it would have Justin explode. He would shout, he would insult, being a drama queen he would maybe even leave. Please, make him leave.
Instead, the bathroom door opened, and his trick entered, as if they were all part of a very bad soap opera. He was stunningly handsome, the way Brian preferred them: tall, muscular, broad shoulders, dark hair, well-hung. Something flickered across Justin’s face, was it envy?, then his expression became rigid as the trick asked: “Who’s he?” After a second, he added: “Good choice, though a little young, wouldn’t you say?”
“Get out.”
Justin’s voice sounded sharp enough to kill. A grin spread out on the trick’s lips. “Boyfriend, huh?”, he asked into Brian’s general direction and wrapped himself into a bathrobe, before picking up his skiing-instructor-uniform from the floor where it had been mindlessly discarded. “Don’t know if that was such a good choice. On the other hand, when they’re young, they’re still willing, eh?”
Barely ever had Justin’s wish to be physically stronger, so strong in fact that he could grab this jerk’s hair and kick his ass right out, been more intense than as he held the door open in an unmistakable gesture for the skiing-instructor to leave, who threw over his shoulder before he did: “My number’s in the bathroom, if you’re ever interested in a diversion a little more... permanent.”
“See...”, Justin huffed angrily as he slammed the door shut, “...that’s what happens when they are permitted to take showers. They become attached.”
Brian flinched, but did not take the bait. He merely stood up and put on a bathrobe himself, turning off the TV. It looked as if he was going to make an escape for the terrace, but Justin’s next question stopped him: “What about pushing me into the snow and then running off?”
His head hurt. Brian rubbed his temples to soothe the pain with distraction the fuck had not been able to produce. “Don’t be a wimp”, he answered in a cold tone.
“I would if you weren’t, either...”, Justin replied heatedly, “...I can’t monitor my every word just to check if it might hurt your agenda of promiscuity and ‘fuck-commitment’! I don’t fucking care if you want to fuck a skiing instructor who’s at least ten years older than you, but I expect you to tell me when you decide it’s time for another teenage pout à la Brian Kinney!”
Brian spun around, his face so angry that Justin involuntarily took a step backwards:
“Shut up, Justin! I didn’t expect you to be so fucking stupid that you’d still not understand that I can’t fucking give you what you want!”
Justin opened his mouth, the only mouth Brian had kissed in years, the only mouth he ever wanted to kiss, and closed it again, obviously not knowing what to say. He looked taken-aback and profoundly hurt at the same time. This was not about commitment, after all, otherwise Brian had not reacted as intensely. But what then? What had he missed? What was wrong with Brian? A whole new kind of worry suddenly overwhelmed him and held him in a deadly grip.
Meanwhile, Brian stared at Justin, hearing his own words hanging in the air. No apologies, no regrets? He had plenty of the second, but couldn’t choke out the first. So he walked out of the room.
Justin followed Brian onto the terrace. “It doesn’t matter.”
Brian didn’t look at him. “Of course it matters.”
His hair needs cutting, Justin thought, trailing his fingers over the nape of Brian's neck, his other hand touching his shoulder. And then he stopped.
Brian’s hair. Slipping through his fingers, brown and soft, glints of silver. Ragged ends.
“Brian,” he said, slowly. “Are you sick again?”
It had clicked. Justin’s insides froze as Brian did not say anything - it was answer enough. Everything now fell into place: His words had upset Brian so much because of the attachment they had implied, not the monogamy. The ‘last fuck’ had been a trigger, reminding Brian of the deadly disease his body held, and of the fact that Justin would love him faithfully to the end, no matter how soon Brian’s may come as opposed to Justin’s. And he had done the only thing he knew to do in this situation: He had pushed Justin away.
Justin’s hand gripped Brian’s shoulder so hard that his knuckles turned white as he tried to remember how to breath; of all the questions that were on his mind, what did the doctors say?, how far into it are you?, when’s the next appointment?, he voiced one completely different: “And this is your way of telling me? Taking me snowboarding in Vermont?”
Brian shrugged once more, but Justin knew the answer: He thought it was his last chance.
Trying to regain composure, to appear strong and sure enough to be of help, Justin slid both of his arms around Brian’s waist and kissed his neck before he said: “This is not going to be our last vacation, Brian.”
Brian only stared into the night, absorbing the feel of Justin’s strong arms and loving lips, and then closed his eyes against the penetrating darkness, his body now held up entirely by Justin’s embrace:
“You don’t know that”, he whispered.
En français maintenant... j'ai encore écrit cinq drabbles pour hp_100_mots (une autre communauté fantastique!) lors du défi Univers Alterné: Qu'est-ce qui se passerait si Harry pouvait vivre avec Sirius?
Titre : La maison au toit rouge
Personnages/Pairing : Harry, Sirius
Disclaimer : tout à JKR
Rating : PG
Défi : Univers Alterné
Nombre de mots : 5x100
Note : Comme le français n'est pas ma langue maternelle, je suis reconnaissante pour tous les conseils que vous pourriez me donner. Mille fois merci à master_of_mad pour sa correction formidable! :)
La maison à la cime de la colline désertée était petite et presque délabrée. Les murs gris et le toit aux tuiles rouges et sales avaient l’air d’avoir souffert de trop d'écume de mer.
Pourtant, il y avait quelques fleurs roses, bleues et jaunes devant les fenêtres nettoyées qui étaient entouré par du lierre sauvage. La tante Petunia aurait détesté tout le bâtiment, en commençant par la gouttière rouillée jusqu’au jardin potager abandonné.
Mais Harry l’aima. Lorsque Sirius lui ouvrit la porte avec une rotation de sa baguette magique et un sourire brillant, Harry savait qu’il avait trouvé un chez-soi.
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Avant que son filleul aie levé son bras, Sirius s’écria : « Expelliarmus ! »
La baguette magique d’Harry cassa un verre restant sur la table depuis le déjeuner quand elle fut catapulté par toute la pièce. Sirius la ramena pendant qu’il parla d’une voix énervée : « Harry, tu dois te concentrer ! Encore un essai ! »
Cette fois, Harry était préparé. Son charme du Bouclier avait tant de force qu’il éleva son parrain quelques mètres dans l’air et lui jeta violemment contre le mur.
« Sirius ! »
Pétrifié, Harry courut à côté de Sirius - qui rit.
« Harry… tu deviendra le meilleur Auror que tout le monde a jamais vu. »
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« Qu’est-ce qu’il y a ? »
L’expression sur le visage d’Harry donna une réponse assez claire. Parrain et filleul regardèrent tous les deux le contenu maigre de leur cellier : Une boîte aux haricots verts et un paquet du toast moisi.
Au moins, Sirius avait l’air gêné. En gardant ses yeux ténèbres sur le sol, il murmura : « J’ai oublié… C’est la première fois que j’habite avec quelqu’un… que je dois… tu sais… »
Harry soupira, retroussa ses manches et prit la boîte aux haricots verts. Il avait faim.
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« NON! »
Harry se réveilla brusquement. La mer bruissait sereinement sous le claire de lune lorsque Sirius cria d’une voix terrifiée, comme dans toutes les nuits trop quiètes et trop lumineuses.
« Peter ne peut pas… il ne pourrait pas… ! »
Il y avait deux mois qu’ils y habitaient ensemble, mais Harry ne savait pas encore ce qu’il pouvait faire quand son parrain trouvait à nouveau les cadavres de ses meilleur amis dans ses cauchemars réguliers.
« Lily… Lily ! »
Premièrement sa mère… après…
« James ? »
La pause d’une connaissance horrible, ensuite…
« NON ! C’est pas vrai ! JAMES ! »
Longtemps après que le hurlement désespéré cessa, Harry restait éveillé.
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Entourés par plusieurs bouteilles de bièraubeurre, le reste de deux pizzas énormes et un gâteau d’anniversaire magnifique, deux formes dormaient sur le canapé rouge, enveloppés par la chaleur du feu dans la cheminée.
Le garçon s’était couché sur les genoux de l’homme qui était resté assis, une main caressant les cheveux sauvages de son filleul.
Deux baguettes magiques se trouvaient sur la table entre le dîner et quelques grands livres sur la défense contre les forces du Mal. Un album de photos relié en cuir était au-dessus, le page ouvert montrant un couple au jour de leur mariage.
Ils souriaient.
P.S.: Je voudrais bien voir Frost/Nixon... quelqu'un d'autre aussi? // I want to see Frost/Nixon so badly... anyone else?