IN WHICH BRIAN KINNEY DARES THE WORLD, PART 1
Title: In Which Brian Kinney Dares the World
Written By: knittedshadow
Timeline: Various Seasons
Rating: R
Warnings: Slight reference to child abuse.
Summary: When Brian is ten he’s quiet and lives in a silent household.
Author Notes: Cowlip owns all. Thanks to my lovely beta for all her help during writing, you shall get proper named glory when the anonymous-cahoots are over.
Part One:
I dare you to hate your own child.
When Brian is ten he’s quiet and lives in a silent household. When Brian’s ten his father’s drinking is still hidden behind a locked bedroom door and his mother still smiles. The happiness never reaches her eyes but at least it’s something.
When Brian’s ten he goes to school and says grace at mealtimes. When Brian is ten he still believes there’s someone up there listening and that his parents are there to catch him if he falls.
When Brian is thirteen he yells and the house is silent no longer. His mother’s prayers wail from the bedroom, his father lies passed out on the kitchen floor, and Brian stands in the hallway and yells.
When Brian is thirteen he realizes he has a talent for picking fights, his Mom, his sister, Mikey, anyone he can piss off enough to shout back. And there’s a sick satisfaction in knowing the precise words that will tip people over the edge, their hearts pounding with fury, and Brian makes it his duty to know those words.
His sister is his first target, an easy goal. He’s grown up knowing what makes her hurt and he uses it to full advantage, taunting and teasing until she finally swats at him. And every time he just dances out of her reach, laughing across the kitchen because he knows she’ll never touch him.
Next target, the dicks at school. Brian’s always been an outsider and now he purposely avoids the groups, sitting alone instead, or with Michael in the cafeteria. He gets himself a quick temper too, lashing out at anyone who looks at him twice.
And when it’s a bad day, a day where he has to sleep over at Mikey’s or wear sweaters in a heat-wave so that they won’t see the bruises, on those days Brian prowls the halls at recess, trying to catch someone’s eye, just waiting for a chance to take out his anger on anyone stupid enough to hold his gaze.
If a teacher comes to break up the fight, the plea is always “Kinney started it,” and Brian will laugh breathlessly, hair falling into his eyes as he’s hauled off to the principal’s office, the sharp sound bouncing off the walls so that everyone in the corridor knows that Brian Kinney doesn’t give a fuck.
And Brian Kinney doesn’t give a fuck about his mother either. He knows he’ll never be the perfect son so he sets his sights on being the worst possible one instead. And Brian Kinney always achieves his goals.
Like with his sister, he knows exactly how to hit where it hurts. A pious face, clasped hands in the sitting room, “Dear Lord, make me strong so that I can finally knock out that asshole Kenny James behind the locker room next week.” “Dear Lord, make me pretty ‘cause God knows it’s the only good thing I’ll get from my fucking parents.” “And dear Lord,” he turns to her, eyes like flint, “Make me successful, so that when I leave I never have to set foot in this house again.”
Yes, Brian has learned his words and his delivery is impeccable.
When Brian is thirteen he makes his parents hate him before they can do it of their own accord. He shouts and screams and yells but at least it’s on his terms. And when his father slurs drunken curses at the bottom of the stairs or his mother sneers cold words across the dinner table, Brian laughs and throws them right back because the worst thing you can do is let them see how much you hurt.
When Brian is thirteen he stops saying grace at mealtimes and forgets that your parents are supposed to catch you when you fall. When Brian’s thirteen he learns the only person you can count on is yourself.
When Brian is fourteen he’s quiet again. He adopts a sardonic politeness to his parents which will last him the rest of his life. Smirks and raised eyebrows barely concealing the fury bubbling beneath.
When Brian is fourteen he wears black to school and swaggers down the hallway telling anyone and everyone that his parents are fucking losers, but only Mikey hears his broken whisper, “I wish they were dead.”
When Brian is sixteen his father shoves him hard to the floor and yells “You’re nothing, fucking nothing, a nobody.” And when Brian staggers to his feet, he laughs in his father’s face, the sound forced through a busted lip and broken teeth. When Brian is sixteen he laughs in his father’s face and leaves without looking back.
-----
I dare you to tell me I don’t love my son.
One weekend, November, and the Munchers are away. Brian, to his amusement, is named Gus’s Responsible Adult.
“Make sure he goes to bed at a reasonable hour, and please try not to let him eat take-out for the entire weekend. Oh, and Brian-”
He cuts Lindsay off, “No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll before bedtime?”
Lindsay looks at him then laughs, “Yeah, something like that. Just take care of him, okay? Mel will kill me if he comes back with as much as a scratch.”
Brian smirks. “And we wouldn’t want to upset darling Melanie now, would we?”
Lindsay smiles ruefully then reaches up to kiss Gus who’s perched on Brian’s shoulders, “Bye, Gus, look after Daddy for me.”
Then she kisses Brian too, hands him Gus’s knapsack and walks to the door. The moment it clangs shut behind her Brian grins and swings Gus round off his shoulders to under his arm. Then he zooms him across the loft to the kitchen counter, settling him down on one of the tall stools.
“Well, now the Muncher Mommies are gone, we’re gonna have some real fun. What do you wanna do first, sonny boy?”
Gus fidgets in the chair, stretching up to rest his elbows on the counter top. He considers the question. “Juice,” he replies.
Justin, who’s sitting by the computer, looks up and grins. “You’ve taught him well Brian. Get a drink inside you then party.”
Brian smirks while he pulls the OJ from the fridge. “My boy’s gotta know the basics.”
--
While Gus is busy slurping at his sippy cup, Brian grabs the phone and a take out menu. He rattles of the dish numbers with practiced ease and tells them the delivery had better be quick, there’s a James Dean marathon starting at nine. All the same, he knows it will be at least a half an hour before the food arrives and he needs to find a way to keep Gus entertained until then.
Figuring the juice will occupy his son for a good five minutes, not to mention the state-of-the-art automatic pepper grinder next to him on the table, Brian decides to raid Justin’s art supplies.
“Hey! Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Justin says when he catches him.
Brian just keeps on rifling. “I’m looking for something for Gus to do. Don’t you have any crayons? All this artsy charcoal shit and you don’t even have fucking crayons.”
Justin gestures absentmindedly towards another pile. “There should be some felt-tips or something behind the Rage sketches.”
Brian retrieves the packet and a wad of colored paper and heads back over to the table. Where he sneezes. Five times. It seems Gus has found the pepper grinder.
Wiping his streaming nose, Brian asks wryly, “Having fun, sonny boy?”
Gus’s reply is another violent sneezing attack, blinking in surprise at each new outbreak and Brian has to put down the art things and hurriedly go in search of tissues, a muffled “Ew” coming from Justin’s side of the loft.
When Gus has finally been de-snotted and the pepper grinder is safely out of his reach, Brian hands over the paper and pens.
“Knock yourself out, sonny boy. Draw me a masterpiece.”
Justin looks up. “Hey.” He grins. “I thought I was the resident artiste.”
Brian snorts. “Haven’t I already taught you that there will always be someone younger and better looking ready to take your place?”
Justin just makes an outraged face and turns back to his work.
While Gus is happily scribbling away, a large majority of the pen getting on himself rather than the paper, Brian pulls up a stool and sits next to him. Propping up his head with his hand, Brian watches his son draw, listening to Gus’s cheerful chatter about nothing in particular.
This scarily domestic scene is not broken until Justin finishes his work ten minutes later and wanders over to see what they’re up to. Looking down at the paper-littered table, he starts a mock evaluation of Gus’s drawings.
“Excellent use of color to emphasize emotion” he says, pointing at a green scribble. “Advanced shading technique really accentuates the artist’s inner struggle.” A wonky rainbow. “The exploitation of strong lines clearly shows a Freudian complex.” A stickman and a dog.
Brian grins. “He’ll be putting you out of work soon, Sunshine.”
“And this,” Justin moves to peer at the drawing Gus is currently occupied with, “this is obviously a…” He stops suddenly, taking a closer look at the paper and a smug grin spreads across his face.
“Brian,” he says sweetly. “Have you seen what your son has drawn?”
Brian hasn’t. He peers down at the paper. Two stick figures, a scribble of brown and a scribble of yellow identifies them as Brian and Justin. They are standing in front of a house. They are holding hands.
Brian scowls. “What impressive imagination,” he mutters.
Justin just smirks again and moves to Brian’s side, leaning by him to point at the picture. “Look, there’s you, there’s me. That’s us holding hands… you know, I think I’ll stick it on the fridge.”
Justin is pretty fucking lucky that the food arrives two seconds later.
--
An hour passes and Brian and Justin are sprawled across the couch, take-out cartons littered around them.
“Why, Brian?” Justin moans. “Why did you let me eat that much?”
But Brian’s too busy feeling ill to answer him. Gus, on the other hand, now renamed the boy with the bottomless stomach, is happily munching his way through the second box of cookies. Brian watches him eat and turns a little green.
--
By eleven Brian’s regretting his generosity with sugar-coated snacks when, three whole hours after cookie consumption, Gus is still bouncing off the walls. Literally, as it turns out, when there’s the small thud of a three-year-old boy hitting a heavy object at high speed and then a loud wail from the kitchen area.
Brian peers over the top of the sofa to see Gus, on the floor, his face scrunched up and howling, a small graze on his left knee.
“All right,” Brian sighs. “That’s the last time I’m feeding you sugar. Bed time, sonny boy.”
He slides off the sofa and moves to scoop the sobbing Gus up and across the loft to the bedroom. Settling him down on the edge of the bed, he examines the injured knee carefully.
“Hmm, looks bad,” he says, his expression grave. “We may have to chop it off.”
Gus’s eyes grow wide and he stares at his leg in alarm. Justin’s startled head appears from over the sofa and he says, “Jesus Brian, give the boy fucking nightmares why don’t you?”
Brian taps his chin thoughtfully. “Well…” he concedes, “a Band-Aid might just suffice.”
Band-Aid found and applied, Brian helps Gus into his pajamas and puts him down on the blow-up mattress he borrowed from Mikey. Gus rolls himself over, presses his face into the pillow and is out like a light.
Brian watches him sleep for a minute thinking that maybe he should consider rearranging his perfectly designed loft in order to give Gus a small room, just maybe, you know, in case he ever wanted to crash here when he was older. Anyway, that blow-up mattress ruined the bedroom’s feng shui so it could hardly stay there forever.
Still thinking about which corner of the loft he was most willing to part with, Brian wanders back to the sofa and collapses beside Justin.
“Is he asleep?” Justin whispers.
“Yeah,” Brian nods, sinking exhausted into the cushions. “Just about.” He tilts his head against the back of the sofa and closes his eyes. “Remind me to never ever feed him that much sugar again.”
Justin nods fervently then looks at Brian with a grin. “So…” he says, voice low. “Kid’s asleep, we’re awake…”
Brian’s eyes open, interest quickly replacing exhaustion. He puts on a deceptively innocent expression. “Hmm,” he says. “What are we going to do?”
Justin’s answer is to lift himself so that his legs straddle Brian’s hips, mouths meeting in a kiss. Brian groans against him and his arms reach round to pull Justin closer. The kiss grows more urgent and Justin’s hand slides between them, tugging at Brian’s zipper.
When Brian feels the warm hand slip inside his pants, he has to choke back a moan. Justin hears it and covers Brian’s mouth with his own once more, lips catching any words that might wake Gus.
And when they pull away, both men’s breathing is labored, gasps heavy in the silent loft. And Brian presses their foreheads together as Justin’s hand speeds up, nerve endings tingling, eyes darkening as he coils closer and closer to-
“Daddy, I want some juice.”
Justin shuts his eyes and groans, pressing his head to the back of the sofa before resignedly removing his hand and sliding off Brian’s lap. Brian pinches the bridge of his nose and does up his zipper with the other hand. Trying to keep his voice neutral he asks, “What’s that, sonny boy?”
“I want juice.”
Five minutes later, Gus has finished his drink and been put back to bed. Brian sits back down with a grin. “Why don’t we pick up where we left off?”
“Daddy, I need the bathroom.”
Another five minutes.
“Daddy, there’s a monster in your shower.”
“Daddy, I want more juice.”
The third time Gus asks for a drink Brian doesn’t get up. He stays on the sofa and says through gritted teeth, “Sonny boy, if you drink any more juice, you’ll need to piss again and then the monster in my shower will get you.”
Gus scowls, a fairly good imitation of his father, “But I want more juice.”
Brian peers over at him, “Just go back to fucking bed, Gus.”
Gus’s mouth twists and his face crumples, a sulky wailing filling the loft.
“Fuck,” Brian mutters under his breath and goes to get up.
“Don’t.” Justin stops him. “Aren’t you meant to just ignore them and eventually they’ll give up? That’s what they do on Supernanny, right?”
Brian peers over at his sobbing son for a minute then sighs and nods. Unfortunately it’s at this moment that Gus throws himself on the floor and starts a full-scale tantrum, legs and arms kicking.
“Shit,” Justin groans but they stay where they are.
Another five minutes and Gus is still screaming.
“Maybe he’ll scream himself to sleep,” Justin says hopefully.
“Or choke.”
Justin grimaces. “Well, at least he’d be quiet.”
Brian just grits his teeth and nods, finger twitching on the remote control, pushing the TV’s volume higher and higher. But each time it inches up, Gus tops it, showing an almost super-human lung capacity and eventually Brian snaps.
Bringing his fist down against the arm of the sofa he gets angrily to his feet.
“That’s enough, sonny boy,” he says. His voice is harsh and irritated.
He half drags, half carries the still screaming Gus to the bedroom. Eyes screwed shut, Gus lashes out as he’s hauled on to the mattress. Kneeling above him, Brian has to physically pin him down in an effort to pull up the covers.
And the struggle and the piercing wail and the anger, red hot and threatening behind his eyes twists Brian back to another time, another darkened bedroom, another sobbing child, because there had been a time when Brian still cried.
And there’s a sudden bitter tang of whiskey stinging his nose and the words “Get up you little shit, fight back” filling his ears. His father towers above him, fist raised and Brian closes his eyes because he knows, he knows what’s coming.
“You’re nothing, fucking nothing. I wish you’d never been-”
“Brian!” Justin’s voice, sharp and concerned cuts through the memories, and Brian’s back in the loft, his son wailing beneath him.
As his head clears he shuts his mouth with a snap and swallows sharply. His raised hand drops to his side. He stares at Gus wide-eyed and pale and then he’s reaching down and scooping his son up, holding him fiercely tight as the boy’s sobs are muffled against his chest.
The two of them sit cradled in the dark and Brian presses his lips to Gus’s head and murmurs, “It’s all right, sonny boy. It’s all right.”
Part Two
Written By: knittedshadow
Timeline: Various Seasons
Rating: R
Warnings: Slight reference to child abuse.
Summary: When Brian is ten he’s quiet and lives in a silent household.
Author Notes: Cowlip owns all. Thanks to my lovely beta for all her help during writing, you shall get proper named glory when the anonymous-cahoots are over.
Part One:
I dare you to hate your own child.
When Brian is ten he’s quiet and lives in a silent household. When Brian’s ten his father’s drinking is still hidden behind a locked bedroom door and his mother still smiles. The happiness never reaches her eyes but at least it’s something.
When Brian’s ten he goes to school and says grace at mealtimes. When Brian is ten he still believes there’s someone up there listening and that his parents are there to catch him if he falls.
When Brian is thirteen he yells and the house is silent no longer. His mother’s prayers wail from the bedroom, his father lies passed out on the kitchen floor, and Brian stands in the hallway and yells.
When Brian is thirteen he realizes he has a talent for picking fights, his Mom, his sister, Mikey, anyone he can piss off enough to shout back. And there’s a sick satisfaction in knowing the precise words that will tip people over the edge, their hearts pounding with fury, and Brian makes it his duty to know those words.
His sister is his first target, an easy goal. He’s grown up knowing what makes her hurt and he uses it to full advantage, taunting and teasing until she finally swats at him. And every time he just dances out of her reach, laughing across the kitchen because he knows she’ll never touch him.
Next target, the dicks at school. Brian’s always been an outsider and now he purposely avoids the groups, sitting alone instead, or with Michael in the cafeteria. He gets himself a quick temper too, lashing out at anyone who looks at him twice.
And when it’s a bad day, a day where he has to sleep over at Mikey’s or wear sweaters in a heat-wave so that they won’t see the bruises, on those days Brian prowls the halls at recess, trying to catch someone’s eye, just waiting for a chance to take out his anger on anyone stupid enough to hold his gaze.
If a teacher comes to break up the fight, the plea is always “Kinney started it,” and Brian will laugh breathlessly, hair falling into his eyes as he’s hauled off to the principal’s office, the sharp sound bouncing off the walls so that everyone in the corridor knows that Brian Kinney doesn’t give a fuck.
And Brian Kinney doesn’t give a fuck about his mother either. He knows he’ll never be the perfect son so he sets his sights on being the worst possible one instead. And Brian Kinney always achieves his goals.
Like with his sister, he knows exactly how to hit where it hurts. A pious face, clasped hands in the sitting room, “Dear Lord, make me strong so that I can finally knock out that asshole Kenny James behind the locker room next week.” “Dear Lord, make me pretty ‘cause God knows it’s the only good thing I’ll get from my fucking parents.” “And dear Lord,” he turns to her, eyes like flint, “Make me successful, so that when I leave I never have to set foot in this house again.”
Yes, Brian has learned his words and his delivery is impeccable.
When Brian is thirteen he makes his parents hate him before they can do it of their own accord. He shouts and screams and yells but at least it’s on his terms. And when his father slurs drunken curses at the bottom of the stairs or his mother sneers cold words across the dinner table, Brian laughs and throws them right back because the worst thing you can do is let them see how much you hurt.
When Brian is thirteen he stops saying grace at mealtimes and forgets that your parents are supposed to catch you when you fall. When Brian’s thirteen he learns the only person you can count on is yourself.
When Brian is fourteen he’s quiet again. He adopts a sardonic politeness to his parents which will last him the rest of his life. Smirks and raised eyebrows barely concealing the fury bubbling beneath.
When Brian is fourteen he wears black to school and swaggers down the hallway telling anyone and everyone that his parents are fucking losers, but only Mikey hears his broken whisper, “I wish they were dead.”
When Brian is sixteen his father shoves him hard to the floor and yells “You’re nothing, fucking nothing, a nobody.” And when Brian staggers to his feet, he laughs in his father’s face, the sound forced through a busted lip and broken teeth. When Brian is sixteen he laughs in his father’s face and leaves without looking back.
-----
I dare you to tell me I don’t love my son.
One weekend, November, and the Munchers are away. Brian, to his amusement, is named Gus’s Responsible Adult.
“Make sure he goes to bed at a reasonable hour, and please try not to let him eat take-out for the entire weekend. Oh, and Brian-”
He cuts Lindsay off, “No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll before bedtime?”
Lindsay looks at him then laughs, “Yeah, something like that. Just take care of him, okay? Mel will kill me if he comes back with as much as a scratch.”
Brian smirks. “And we wouldn’t want to upset darling Melanie now, would we?”
Lindsay smiles ruefully then reaches up to kiss Gus who’s perched on Brian’s shoulders, “Bye, Gus, look after Daddy for me.”
Then she kisses Brian too, hands him Gus’s knapsack and walks to the door. The moment it clangs shut behind her Brian grins and swings Gus round off his shoulders to under his arm. Then he zooms him across the loft to the kitchen counter, settling him down on one of the tall stools.
“Well, now the Muncher Mommies are gone, we’re gonna have some real fun. What do you wanna do first, sonny boy?”
Gus fidgets in the chair, stretching up to rest his elbows on the counter top. He considers the question. “Juice,” he replies.
Justin, who’s sitting by the computer, looks up and grins. “You’ve taught him well Brian. Get a drink inside you then party.”
Brian smirks while he pulls the OJ from the fridge. “My boy’s gotta know the basics.”
--
While Gus is busy slurping at his sippy cup, Brian grabs the phone and a take out menu. He rattles of the dish numbers with practiced ease and tells them the delivery had better be quick, there’s a James Dean marathon starting at nine. All the same, he knows it will be at least a half an hour before the food arrives and he needs to find a way to keep Gus entertained until then.
Figuring the juice will occupy his son for a good five minutes, not to mention the state-of-the-art automatic pepper grinder next to him on the table, Brian decides to raid Justin’s art supplies.
“Hey! Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Justin says when he catches him.
Brian just keeps on rifling. “I’m looking for something for Gus to do. Don’t you have any crayons? All this artsy charcoal shit and you don’t even have fucking crayons.”
Justin gestures absentmindedly towards another pile. “There should be some felt-tips or something behind the Rage sketches.”
Brian retrieves the packet and a wad of colored paper and heads back over to the table. Where he sneezes. Five times. It seems Gus has found the pepper grinder.
Wiping his streaming nose, Brian asks wryly, “Having fun, sonny boy?”
Gus’s reply is another violent sneezing attack, blinking in surprise at each new outbreak and Brian has to put down the art things and hurriedly go in search of tissues, a muffled “Ew” coming from Justin’s side of the loft.
When Gus has finally been de-snotted and the pepper grinder is safely out of his reach, Brian hands over the paper and pens.
“Knock yourself out, sonny boy. Draw me a masterpiece.”
Justin looks up. “Hey.” He grins. “I thought I was the resident artiste.”
Brian snorts. “Haven’t I already taught you that there will always be someone younger and better looking ready to take your place?”
Justin just makes an outraged face and turns back to his work.
While Gus is happily scribbling away, a large majority of the pen getting on himself rather than the paper, Brian pulls up a stool and sits next to him. Propping up his head with his hand, Brian watches his son draw, listening to Gus’s cheerful chatter about nothing in particular.
This scarily domestic scene is not broken until Justin finishes his work ten minutes later and wanders over to see what they’re up to. Looking down at the paper-littered table, he starts a mock evaluation of Gus’s drawings.
“Excellent use of color to emphasize emotion” he says, pointing at a green scribble. “Advanced shading technique really accentuates the artist’s inner struggle.” A wonky rainbow. “The exploitation of strong lines clearly shows a Freudian complex.” A stickman and a dog.
Brian grins. “He’ll be putting you out of work soon, Sunshine.”
“And this,” Justin moves to peer at the drawing Gus is currently occupied with, “this is obviously a…” He stops suddenly, taking a closer look at the paper and a smug grin spreads across his face.
“Brian,” he says sweetly. “Have you seen what your son has drawn?”
Brian hasn’t. He peers down at the paper. Two stick figures, a scribble of brown and a scribble of yellow identifies them as Brian and Justin. They are standing in front of a house. They are holding hands.
Brian scowls. “What impressive imagination,” he mutters.
Justin just smirks again and moves to Brian’s side, leaning by him to point at the picture. “Look, there’s you, there’s me. That’s us holding hands… you know, I think I’ll stick it on the fridge.”
Justin is pretty fucking lucky that the food arrives two seconds later.
--
An hour passes and Brian and Justin are sprawled across the couch, take-out cartons littered around them.
“Why, Brian?” Justin moans. “Why did you let me eat that much?”
But Brian’s too busy feeling ill to answer him. Gus, on the other hand, now renamed the boy with the bottomless stomach, is happily munching his way through the second box of cookies. Brian watches him eat and turns a little green.
--
By eleven Brian’s regretting his generosity with sugar-coated snacks when, three whole hours after cookie consumption, Gus is still bouncing off the walls. Literally, as it turns out, when there’s the small thud of a three-year-old boy hitting a heavy object at high speed and then a loud wail from the kitchen area.
Brian peers over the top of the sofa to see Gus, on the floor, his face scrunched up and howling, a small graze on his left knee.
“All right,” Brian sighs. “That’s the last time I’m feeding you sugar. Bed time, sonny boy.”
He slides off the sofa and moves to scoop the sobbing Gus up and across the loft to the bedroom. Settling him down on the edge of the bed, he examines the injured knee carefully.
“Hmm, looks bad,” he says, his expression grave. “We may have to chop it off.”
Gus’s eyes grow wide and he stares at his leg in alarm. Justin’s startled head appears from over the sofa and he says, “Jesus Brian, give the boy fucking nightmares why don’t you?”
Brian taps his chin thoughtfully. “Well…” he concedes, “a Band-Aid might just suffice.”
Band-Aid found and applied, Brian helps Gus into his pajamas and puts him down on the blow-up mattress he borrowed from Mikey. Gus rolls himself over, presses his face into the pillow and is out like a light.
Brian watches him sleep for a minute thinking that maybe he should consider rearranging his perfectly designed loft in order to give Gus a small room, just maybe, you know, in case he ever wanted to crash here when he was older. Anyway, that blow-up mattress ruined the bedroom’s feng shui so it could hardly stay there forever.
Still thinking about which corner of the loft he was most willing to part with, Brian wanders back to the sofa and collapses beside Justin.
“Is he asleep?” Justin whispers.
“Yeah,” Brian nods, sinking exhausted into the cushions. “Just about.” He tilts his head against the back of the sofa and closes his eyes. “Remind me to never ever feed him that much sugar again.”
Justin nods fervently then looks at Brian with a grin. “So…” he says, voice low. “Kid’s asleep, we’re awake…”
Brian’s eyes open, interest quickly replacing exhaustion. He puts on a deceptively innocent expression. “Hmm,” he says. “What are we going to do?”
Justin’s answer is to lift himself so that his legs straddle Brian’s hips, mouths meeting in a kiss. Brian groans against him and his arms reach round to pull Justin closer. The kiss grows more urgent and Justin’s hand slides between them, tugging at Brian’s zipper.
When Brian feels the warm hand slip inside his pants, he has to choke back a moan. Justin hears it and covers Brian’s mouth with his own once more, lips catching any words that might wake Gus.
And when they pull away, both men’s breathing is labored, gasps heavy in the silent loft. And Brian presses their foreheads together as Justin’s hand speeds up, nerve endings tingling, eyes darkening as he coils closer and closer to-
“Daddy, I want some juice.”
Justin shuts his eyes and groans, pressing his head to the back of the sofa before resignedly removing his hand and sliding off Brian’s lap. Brian pinches the bridge of his nose and does up his zipper with the other hand. Trying to keep his voice neutral he asks, “What’s that, sonny boy?”
“I want juice.”
Five minutes later, Gus has finished his drink and been put back to bed. Brian sits back down with a grin. “Why don’t we pick up where we left off?”
“Daddy, I need the bathroom.”
Another five minutes.
“Daddy, there’s a monster in your shower.”
“Daddy, I want more juice.”
The third time Gus asks for a drink Brian doesn’t get up. He stays on the sofa and says through gritted teeth, “Sonny boy, if you drink any more juice, you’ll need to piss again and then the monster in my shower will get you.”
Gus scowls, a fairly good imitation of his father, “But I want more juice.”
Brian peers over at him, “Just go back to fucking bed, Gus.”
Gus’s mouth twists and his face crumples, a sulky wailing filling the loft.
“Fuck,” Brian mutters under his breath and goes to get up.
“Don’t.” Justin stops him. “Aren’t you meant to just ignore them and eventually they’ll give up? That’s what they do on Supernanny, right?”
Brian peers over at his sobbing son for a minute then sighs and nods. Unfortunately it’s at this moment that Gus throws himself on the floor and starts a full-scale tantrum, legs and arms kicking.
“Shit,” Justin groans but they stay where they are.
Another five minutes and Gus is still screaming.
“Maybe he’ll scream himself to sleep,” Justin says hopefully.
“Or choke.”
Justin grimaces. “Well, at least he’d be quiet.”
Brian just grits his teeth and nods, finger twitching on the remote control, pushing the TV’s volume higher and higher. But each time it inches up, Gus tops it, showing an almost super-human lung capacity and eventually Brian snaps.
Bringing his fist down against the arm of the sofa he gets angrily to his feet.
“That’s enough, sonny boy,” he says. His voice is harsh and irritated.
He half drags, half carries the still screaming Gus to the bedroom. Eyes screwed shut, Gus lashes out as he’s hauled on to the mattress. Kneeling above him, Brian has to physically pin him down in an effort to pull up the covers.
And the struggle and the piercing wail and the anger, red hot and threatening behind his eyes twists Brian back to another time, another darkened bedroom, another sobbing child, because there had been a time when Brian still cried.
And there’s a sudden bitter tang of whiskey stinging his nose and the words “Get up you little shit, fight back” filling his ears. His father towers above him, fist raised and Brian closes his eyes because he knows, he knows what’s coming.
“You’re nothing, fucking nothing. I wish you’d never been-”
“Brian!” Justin’s voice, sharp and concerned cuts through the memories, and Brian’s back in the loft, his son wailing beneath him.
As his head clears he shuts his mouth with a snap and swallows sharply. His raised hand drops to his side. He stares at Gus wide-eyed and pale and then he’s reaching down and scooping his son up, holding him fiercely tight as the boy’s sobs are muffled against his chest.
The two of them sit cradled in the dark and Brian presses his lips to Gus’s head and murmurs, “It’s all right, sonny boy. It’s all right.”
Part Two